I shoot people.
It’s what I do for a living. I can’t say I’m proud of it, but I am good at my work and I like it. At least, I enjoy the technical side of it, and the fact that I know what I’m doing. I have ten years of experience in this field, and every move, every element of planning, setting up a shot and execution is meticulously thought through and skilfully executed. It’s a calming feeling, having something you know well. My papa always encouraged me that, no matter what I ended up doing in life, I should always make sure I know a practical trade. I do, papa, I shoot people.
It’s the “people” part of the job that I sometimes have trouble with.
My jobs are pretty diverse and multifaceted. Some come spontaneously, with a distraught housewife bursting into my office wanting revenge on a cheating husband. These are my easy contracts, they pay my grocery bills. Women usually want me to take care of the man and his mistress — mostly, the wife is happy if I burst in on the couple while they’re in the act, if I can see the fear and shock in their eyes before I do the deed so they both know, this is it. And yet, she’s not really happy, because she knows, she knows both what she’s done and that he really was guilty. Deep-down, they always seem to hope the guy is innocent. Men don’t do things this way, for some reason. They either handle the lover themselves or just walk away. I don’t ask questions.
Sometimes, there’s an innocent explanation, like the husband sneaking out for his weekly poker night. Then I just line up the shot, walk away and return the money. I don’t do innocent targets. It sounds perverse to subscribe to any kind of ethic in my line of work, but having rules is what sets me apart from the amateurs, the Puerto Rican kids with their cheap snub-nose “Canones.” These guys sometimes get lucky, mostly they just get in the way. Few things bother me more than setting up a long-range ambush for hours at a restaurant or club exit, only to have some idiot run between me and the target, hammering away like crazy. They normally miss. More often than not the bodyguards get them, and my mark scurries for cover. Amateurs.
Walter, on the other hand, is a bit of an oddity in the community, if you can call it that. There aren’t many of us who do this professionally, at least not who manage to survive for more than a few years. He’s as close to a friend as I have, not that either of us would hesitate for a second to target the other if we were ever competing for the same job. Not that this would be of any interest to our clients. They just pay us to do a task, and to get it done as quickly, cleanly and unspectacularly as possible. They wouldn’t hire a pro if they thought it would take more than one of us to deliver.
I think Walter’s a Serb, or Ukrainian or Slobovian or of some similarly undefinable Eastern European origin. A lot of my colleagues are; they take like fish to water with mechanical devices and stalking. I don’t ask where Walter learned his skills, probably working high-value targets for propaganda purposes with the Soviets in Afghanistan. He has a bit of an idiosyncratic way of going about things, relying on a WWII-era German antique. Reloads must be hell to come by, but somehow he always manages to do with a single shot where lesser men “spray and pray.” The man has admirable technique, I’ll give him that.
I’m careful with the tools of my trade. My favorite is a German automatic for close-in work, with silenced barrel and flash suppressor. The thing has to work without exception. If I ever had a malfunction on the job, not only would I look stupid and land in no end of hot water with my client, but targets tend to get understandably flustered. Best to avoid having to finish a contract with a secondary, it’s either too heavy to lug around or makes for sloppy results.
Some of my targets hire me themselves. Maybe they’re desperate for money for their families, I won’t guess at their motivations. They’re usually very quiet and civil when I arrive. I try to put them at ease by listening to them. They always have a story to tell before they’re ready. I promised myself that if anyone were ever to express any doubt as to what they were about to have me do, I would leave without complaint and refund 75%…no, 50% of their money. A man has to live somehow.
I won’t do kids, ever. They haven’t lived the kinds of lives that make them deserve being splashed gruesomely all over the front page of some third-rate tabloid. Even the bratty ones. I recently had a celebrity couple offer to pay me to take care of their adopted Somali kid. Maybe their latest film bombed and they wanted the publicity boost. I don’t judge people for their motivations, but that was the worst, made me seriously doubt the fundamental decency of human beings.
If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for work. Today I’m shooting a beautiful young Czech woman, and I have to check some additional lenses before I leave. Lingerie shoots are my favorite.
I shoot people.
Smile!
