I am a huge fan of The Twilight Zone and all the shows, films and stories too numerous to count that it has inspired. It was fun and challenging to tackle that TZ formula, a tale that hinges around some sort of secret and then trying to find the right spot in the story for “the reveal.” I hope you enjoy this attempt.
Even though the excitable tailor was annoying as hell, Lars had to admit Hymie was creating one damn fine suit. It was almost worth listening to this shriveled up dwarf of a man prattle on and scurry about with the energy of a fly high on sugar.
“Very good, sir. Yes. Excellent,” Hymie said, not waiting for a response after each praise of his own work, checking all the measurements, making sure all the final alterations were in order.
“It’s great just as it is, Gramps,” muttered Lars. He was getting tired of the old man fussing over him, circling him like he was a mannequin with all the time in the world.
Hymie fluttered his eyes in genteel agreement, but did not stop working. Frayed cloth measuring tape wrapped around his neck, he sized up the suit one last time, but then, seeing the anger building up in his client, finally resolved to proclaim the job done.
Lars deeply resented being held up in this small, lame city. He had arrived here at the appointed time but that time was apparently based on bad information and now it seemed he was a couple weeks early. When he returned to his home base in Vegas, he would track down that rat bastard Alfonso and show him what he thought of bad information. That information was not cheap, but now he would get it for free and could toss in a little violence against its purveyor while he was at it, just for kicks.
Since this job was supposed to be over in a day or two, Lars had only packed one good suit, and he was tired of wearing it. He had to ensure he was not marked during his stay in this lousy town as well, so a change of clothes was in order, and buying off the rack was not an option. Having no addictions other than smoking a few cigarettes a day, no women in his life, and never able to invest any funds since anonymity was crucial to his trade, Lars allowed himself few luxuries. Dressing well was one of those few, and it helped him get good work as well. Everyone respects a well dressed man.
“Well, sir, perhaps you are correct after all,” Hymie said. “A perfect fit.”
Lars nodded and admired Hymie’s handiwork in the three mirrors before them. Almond colored Italian silk, a perfect neutral color that could be coordinated with all the clothes he brought; it was almost like a second skin with just enough slack to remain comfortable when he was on the move. Lars had chosen the fabric himself from dozens of swatches and the whole affair had ran just as smoothly as when he used guys twice as expensive in Vegas. This guy was awesome—too bad he lived here.
Lars knew that quality tailoring, like any decent craftsmanship, was hard to find in today’s world of bargain hunting and disposable goods. If there were only a couple decent tailors in all of Vegas, he doubted there could possibly be one in this armpit of the world. Certainly the only reason his target was interested in this crummy dump was that one of his many girlfriends insisted on living here. It was dull, going nowhere fast and on its way to a ghost town as far as Lars was concerned.
So it was certainly shocking to find Hymie here. It was a good thing he spoke up at the convenience store a few days ago, though he still did not know what had possessed him to ask that Arab at the counter if he knew any tailors.
Lars had stood before the clerk, astonished, and then realized the gag. The “tailor” this business card heralded was probably some guy knocking off men’s clothing stores and passing the goods off as his own. “No offense, bub,” he said, smiling politely. “But I know a knock-off when I see it. I want a suit that will fit and look good on me. I need to start at the beginning. Choose the fabric. The works. Money is no object. Is this—“ He squinted at the card. “Hymie London on the up and up?”
“Oh, yes!” the clerk interjected, excitedly. “Quite so, sir. I am Kumar.” He extended his hand.
Lars exchanged a firm handshake but did not introduce himself. Kumar waited a few moments, then realized Lars was remaining silent. Seeming a bit offended by the other man’s rudeness, Kumar stated flatly: “That’ll be fifty seven ten, sir.”
“What’s that? Oh, of course.” Lars had almost forgotten why he was there. “Change a hundred?”
“Officially, no. But I can manage.” As he handed Lars the change, he returned to the subject at hand. “Hymie is an old friend and an outstanding tailor, sir. It would be just as you say, my friend.” Lars grimaced. Why did these guys always call you “a friend” so easily? Cultural thing, I guess, he thought, shrugging it off. “You’ll start from scratch. Choose the finest fabrics.”
“No kidding. Who would of thought? Here in Nowheresville, USA. I wasn’t even going to ask—“
“Yes, sir, I understand. I own this little place and a couple other businesses. I am not a rich man, but one does need a nice suit or two, you know, for weddings, funerals. Trust me, my friend. Hymie will make you the best suit you have ever owned. It will be perfect.”
So Lars called upon Hymie the master Jewish tailor promised by Kumar the Arabian convenience store owner. Of course, Hymie was not really Jewish and Kumar was born and raised in Pakistan and had no desire to even visit Saudi Arabia, but stereotyping was all Lars knew, and it amused him that a Muslim (once more, an incorrect assumption) had recommended him a Jew tailor. None of this mattered much—he only befriended men out of necessity and would kill anyone for money regardless of gender, race, creed or sexual orientation. His profession was the least discriminating of all—money for a kill—a target was merely a target.
“I’ll wear it out,” Lars told Hymie.
“An honor, sir. Shall I wrap the other suit for you?”
“Sure. Whatever, old man.” Lars picked up his wallet from the pile of belongings he had emptied from the old suit and handed a banded stack of hundreds to the tailor. “Count it if you like.”
“No need, sir.”
“There’s two hundred extra for getting it done so quick.”
“Many thanks.”
As he carefully wrapped Lars’ old suit, Hymie kept prattling on about how much he was glad for the work, how nobody appreciates a good tailor anymore, on and on and so forth. After a while, Lars just nodded and stopped listening, filling his new suit with his wallet, pocket watch, and then he paused when he picked up his pistol. Had Hymie even noticed there was a gun in the pile, or was he really that discreet? When the tailor returned with the bundle, Lars decided to throw him a couple more hundreds.
“You’ve done awesome work, old man, and you seem smart. Add that to your tip, but remember. You don’t know me.”
“Of course, sir.” Hymie smiled. “I never got your name anyway. So I guess I don’t know you, do I, sir?”
“Right. But beyond that. I was never here. If you see a snapshot or sketch of me. I’m a ghost, get it?”
“Perfectly clearly, sir. As it has been from the start. If anyone comes around, I will tell them that which was true before you knocked on my door. Tailoring is a lost art. I have not had a client in months.” He smiled a large toothy grin. Lars thought the mouthful looked real enough—he’d popped enough guys in the mouth to know real teeth from dentures—but it was quite an amazing set of teeth for a guy who appeared almost eighty.
“Sounds good, Hymie,” he said, surprising himself by using the guy’s real name for once.
“Pleasure doing business with you,” Hymie replied, opening the door. Lars left and Hymie closed the door. He waited a few seconds, then smiled and whispered: “Yes, a pleasure, Lars Strickland.”
Lars was not sure why, but a few steps down the hallway from Hymie’s apartment he suddenly stopped for a moment. He felt an itch at the nape of his neck. The cool air from the AC vent perhaps, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up? No, something more. Lars knew what it felt like when someone was spying on you and it felt more like that. Turning around, however, he found the hallway was still empty. Darndest thing, he thought, I could have sworn someone called me by name.
He walked outside, shaking his head at his own stupidity. I’m getting edgy, he thought, waiting for this new mark to show up. He was never at the scene of a hit for more than a few days. The sun was oppressive after spending all that time inside with Hymie, the perfectionist. That was why Lars hated air conditioning; it gave one a false sense of the weather. It was insincere.
Lars found a trash can and threw away his old suit. Traveling light was important and he wanted to be rid of the clothes he had worn here so far to further enhance his anonymity. Besides, he had plenty more suits back home, though he had to admit they would look cheap compared to Hymie’s creation. After his work was done here perhaps he could pay the tailor one last visit before leaving this town behind forever.
Heading back to his car and adjusted to the heat, Lars was once more alert and aware of his surroundings. With all the work accomplished in the last twelve years he had made plenty of enemies, but had never been cornered or even close to being placed in a compromising situation. He was one of the best and his fee had skyrocketed accordingly over the years. Greed and the growing thrill of danger and the kill itself brought him here, ten years longer than he once thought he could possibly continue on the job.
Hymie’s neighborhood was nowhere near the site of his current assignment so Lars knew he was safe, and that any precautionary measures he was taking were merely instinct, but it was better to stay in alert mode all the time than trying to switch in and out. Even at the old man’s apartment, as the tailor worked on him, his mind was alert and planning the best escape route, which items in the room could be used as weapons if he could not reach his gun, and so forth.
So it was not extraordinary that he instinctively reached in his coat pocket to reassure himself his gun was there. The shock came when he realized it was gone.
Panicked, he whirled around. Three men were closing in on him suddenly. “Thompson!” one of them yelled at him.
Another man pulled a gun and yelled: “Horace Thompson! Freeze!”
“You have the wrong man!” Lars cried out. He reached in his pocket again, and then cursed himself. It’s gone, you fool, remember? A hole in the pocket of this perfect suit? I would have noticed that, he thought. And why does that name they are calling me sound so familiar?
One of the gunmen took a shot at him. “No chance, Thompson. Stop where you are.” They obviously had not realized their mistake.
Lars turned around and initially raised his arms, then did something he had not done in years—he fled.
A couple more shots rang out as he ran around the corner and into an alley, trying the doors of the buildings on either side of him. One was unlocked and he entered an old business long since closed down. Dusty deserted merchandise cluttered the room. Lars hid in a storeroom, deep back behind a bunch of heaped up clothing. He stood there, trying to calm down, breathe normally, and get a grip. When the room remained silent long enough, he realized he had eluded his pursuers.
Confused, he made his way back toward the alley door. Horace Thompson, he thought, trying to place the name. Just as he was about to open the door, he caught sight of himself in a mirror. “What in the name of God?” he whispered as he stared wide-eyed at his own reflection—but that was the crazy thing—it wasn’t him!
He was looking at the face of a much younger man, hair jet black instead of gray, and the figure in the mirror wore a pin-striped navy suit that looked like a Macy’s clearance rack special. It fit like shit, hanging off of him. As he approached the mirror, the memory finally clicked. Horace Thompson was his first hit, marked, killed and delivered on the doorstep of his first employer for a mere five hundred clams.
“What the fuck!” he screamed and punched the mirror with his fist.
Then Thompson’s image was gone, and Lars stared at his own reflection again in the distortion of the shattered glass.
Lars shook his head and buried it in his hands. Massaging his eyeballs he muttered. “I’m off my nut.”
Reentering the alley, he found his way back to the busy street and there was no sight of the gunmen. He felt a familiar weight in his coat pocket—his own weapon was there again. Had he only imagined it was gone earlier or was some lousy pickpocket having fun with him? He entered a bar figuring a few belts of whiskey couldn’t hurt. He ordered three shots and drank them down in seconds, left a twenty on the bar and walked away.
Looking around the room, he suddenly realized the bar seemed quite foreign. The patrons were speaking two or three languages, mostly French, but he did not hear a word of English.
“Hey, you!” the bartender shouted in a thick French accent. “This look like a bank to you?”
Lars turned around and gave the bartender a confused look.
“This is an American dollar, sir.”
Another man snatched the twenty from the bartender’s hand and threw some bills on the bar. He turned to Lars and said: “What’s a few francs between old friends, eh Jacques?”
Out of nowhere, two henchmen grabbed Lars’ shoulders and dragged him outside into another alley. Outside, there were five men all over him, punching, kicking, laughing at him and obviously quite pissed off. Blood gushed from his mouth and splattered onto his coat sleeve. Great, Lars thought, my new su—but he didn’t even finish that thought, as he stared, in astonishment, at the sleeve. The damn thing had changed again. He wore a polyester beige jacket. How abhorrent!
The man who had paid his bill walked out of the bar and grinned widely as he produced a huge knife he had taken from the kitchen. “Now, friends, we carve him up real nice. Like a Thanksgiving turkey. The infamous Jacques Auden.”
The knife was at his throat and an instant later he was alone, leaping to his feet and punching at the air. He felt no pain. It was as though he had imagined the whole event. The alley where he stood was the same one he had entered when running away from his first group of pursuers. Back in Dumbfuck, USA.
“I killed that shit Jacques Auden myself six years ago,” he said aloud, hoping it would make more sense if he heard himself say it. “He slept with the wrong bitch and so her husband wanted me to slice him up. I did it! With a knife just like the one--what the hell is happening to me?”
He checked for his gun and found it was still in his pocket. Looking at his coat sleeves again, he saw that he was wearing the new suit again. Then it hit him—the suit! This horseshit all started happening once he left that old bastard’s house. Someone was trying to make him lose it, or was playing some kind of gag, and that old Jew fuck was in on it somehow!
Retracing his steps, he found Hymie’s apartment and started pounding on his door. “Old man! Open up! I want all my money back, you shit!”
After several minutes of Lars pounding, screaming, and telling the curious neighbors to “fuck off,” the door opened, just a crack, secured by a chain lock. A young man looked at Lars, scared shitless, and told him to go away.
“Don’t give me that. I have the right place. I’ve been here twice before. Where’s the old man?”
“Old man?” He sniffed at the air. “You high or something?”
“Hymie. The tailor! He made me this suit. I just left here. You his grandson or something?”
“Never heard of him.”
In his anger, Lars pulled his gun and kicked the door open. Scanning the room, he noted it had the same layout as Hymie’s apartment, but the furniture was sparse and cheap, like a bachelor’s dive. The TV was blasting and the smell of burnt chili came from the kitchen. The place had been completely transformed.
“See?” said the young man. “I told you. I live here alone.” He raised his arms. “I don’t own much. Take it all, just don’t shoot. No cops, I swear.”
Lars looked at him, confused, and then realized his gun was still drawn. He lowered it, put it away, and scratched his head. “Sorry, kid. I’m losing my mind.” Lars shuffled out of the apartment, in a daze. Once he broke the plane of the doorframe, the scared young man slammed the door shut behind him. Then, feeling braver, he shouted verbal abuse through the closed door.
An hour ago, Lars thought, that little prick would be dead meat by now, but much had changed since he left Hymie’s apartment. There was no mistake. He had the right apartment, but it wasn’t this kid’s fault. The other two players in this charade must have paid him off for his part in it. But why were they going to such elaborate lengths and who did they work for? They may have made the apartment appear differently, he thought, as he finally reached his car, but now I’m going back to the source of this whole fucked up mess. Kumar’s dump would still be there and he was going to get some answers out of that son of a bitch.
Pulling away from the curb, Lars felt the need to check himself out in the rear view mirror, and he was relieved to see his own reflection again. “You look like shit,” he said aloud. “But at least you’re you.”
Then he laughed loudly for the first time all afternoon. That’s the spirit, he thought. Time for a kill, or at least a good session of ass kicking. That’d cheer him up and get him back on track.
He parked about a block away. He hadn’t seen the store’s sign again yet, but he knew this was the right place. His hotel was just down the street. He stormed down the sidewalk, filled with rage, ready to take control. He couldn’t explain the afternoon’s events, rationalize how they managed it all, but somehow he knew Hymie and Kumar must be the culprits.
He spent the better half of an hour walking up and down that same block, growing more pissed off by the second, trying to find that black skinned bastard and his stupid little store. He recognized every business up and down the block, but the convenience store just seemed to have vanished into thin air!
“Kumar!” Lars called out to the sky. “What do you people want?”
People began to stare, keep their distance, whisper, give every nonverbal response that all amounted to the same thing—watch out! Steer clear of this nutcase! His brain grew fuzzy again. He was definitely losing it. Then he realized he was surrounded by cops. Jesus! There must have been a dozen of them. He saw the lights flashing on four or five black and whites.
“Freeze!” he heard them say. More cries to stop! Put the gun down! He didn’t even remember drawing a gun! What are they talking about?
“Holy shit!” one of the cops yelled. “Captain! This is no loony! That’s Aaron Limon!”
“Not again!” he shouted, dropping the gun.
“That’s it. Good. Now hands up!”
“You people are the crazy ones!” Lars exclaimed. “I killed him.” He looked at his arms and nodded in understanding. “You see! He wore a black suit. But I can’t be Limon! I killed him myself!”
“Of course you did,” came a voice he had not heard that day, though it sounded familiar. Lars blinked and saw the cops were gone. “That’s why I’m here, dumbass.” No time to react. His gun lay on the ground below. Phut! Phut! Phut! Three shots from a silencer and it was all over.
The gunman was a seasoned criminal like Lars and always up to a challenge. As he approached his victim, kicking him to be sure he was dead, he was disgusted that the supposedly adept mark had gone down so easily. He thought Lars Strickland would be the toughest assignment of his career, given the man’s reputation. And then the stupid ass just walks around in the open like this on a deserted street?
But as he looked down at Lars, he realized one thing he always heard about the guy was true. He was one well dressed son of a bitch. One could only hope to look so good on the night they went to meet their Maker.
“I wonder who your tailor is,” he whispered to the dead man as he slung the corpse over his shoulder. A business card fell out of Lars’ suit pocket and landed on the ground before him. He picked it up.
It read: Hymie London. Tailor for Gentlemen. The Perfect Fit.
“How do you like that?” the gunman said and laughed. “Maybe I’ll pay the guy a visit.”
About a block down the street, Kumar watches the gunman carry away the Late Great Lars Strickland, smiles and gets into the passenger side of a black sedan. “Well done, old man,” he says, turning toward the driver. “It was another perfect fit,” the driver answers, then starts up the engine.
Hymie and Kumar drive out of town toward their next destination, and once more certain citizens among the realm of the dead are a little less restless.
Anyone who has assisted me with editing my stories will agree that “flash fiction” is not a natural format for me. Generally speaking, I am nothing if not verbose.
The following are a couple of my attempts at this difficult format.
Certainly, the poor creature who serves as narrator of the first one is another character on the verge of madness.
The second one is in homage to EC comics.
Both were submitted to spinetinglers.co.uk’s monthly contest and placed, respectively, third and fourth for the month submitted. Thanks to all those who provided feedback on the website.