Frostbite by Eric Pete Page B

my soul. While I wore a sun visor, T-shirt, and cargo shorts, he was in jeans and a button down with Ray-Bans shielding his eyes. Had a folded newspaper under his arm that I hoped didn’t contain a gun.
    Something unusual happened as he approached. The pictures on two of the TVs above the bar developed static when he walked by. Then a guy who’d come from the ballpark across the street began experiencing problems with his phone, even losing a call, when he passed as well. My guest had some sort of jamming device on him. Afraid of being recorded or my having a wire on me.
    And I thought I was the paranoid one.
    “You don’t follow instructions very well,” he said as he sat down opposite me. From behind the false smile, he kept his voice to a barely audible murmur.
    “Was hungry,” I retorted. “So what should I call you?”
    “Mr. Smith,” he replied, dead serious.
    “Let me guess. First name John, huh?” I joked as I continue to eat. Annoyed the fuck out of him. “You got me here. What’s the job?”
    He looked around at the full bar.
    “They’re not paying attention. Relax. It’s OKC. Ignoring the McVeigh bombing, how much clandestine shit happens here?”
    “You’d be surprised,” he offered.
    “Want something to drink? You must be thirsty waiting around by the canal for me. Have some water,” I suggested, motioning to the extra glass of water before him. Our eyes met.
    “You take me for a fool?” he asked, avoiding touching it. Wasn’t going to leave a fingerprint for me.
    “Speaking of being a fool, whatever this job is, I’m not a hero. And despite what it looked like from behind your little spy cameras, that job down in Florida wasn’t on that level. For real. I don’t fuck with terrorists, so don’t expect me to suddenly become patriotic. Don’t operate like that.”
    “Relax. It’s something more intimate. Discrete. Admire the way you were able to get inside Prince Abdel Al-Bin Sada’s compound and get out with your life. And with the body count of trained pros you’ve racked up, it’s the perfect balance of stealth and ruthlessness.” He unfolded the newspaper and slid a single photo into view. This time, it wasn’t of me. “I need this man reassigned to another position,” he said. Dude was used to ordering the reassignment of people.
    “I’m no hit man. Don’t rock like that. Get someone else.”
    “Still proclaiming your innocence. I know what I’ve seen with my own two eyes,” Mr. Smith pushed back. “Now ... if he is accidentally reassigned like the rest of the unlucky people in your life, or even if you want somebody else to get their hands dirty, you’ll get the job done.”
    A woman who’d entered walked by. Tall, blond, and confident in a black party dress. Most conversations in the restaurant, including ours, ceased. Should’ve had her own theme music. As she strolled down the side of the bar nearest us, one of the bar patrons was a little overzealous. In trying to discretely get her attention, he accidentally bumped into her arm. The black clutch she carried in her hand popped free, falling forward next to our booth.
    “I got it, miss,” Mr. Smith said as he leaned down, snatching up her clutch in a smooth manner I wouldn’t have expected from him. I guess we were both used to wearing different faces depending on the scenario.
    “Thank you so much, sir,” she said as Mr. Smith returned the clutch to her. She smiled at both of us before joining her companions who were seated in the leather chairs along the back wall.
    “Who is he?” I asked, removing my hand from over the photo as we got back down to business.
    “DA,” he answered, his eyes still lustfully on the woman who made a favorable impression. “Down in Orleans Parish.”
    “In Louisiana? New Orleans?” I asked, my eyes narrowing as I looked at the photo again. He didn’t know who I really was, so a job in New Orleans was a coincidence. Still, it was as if the fates were conspiring