An assassin's notebook

An Assassin's Notebook

An Assassin’s Notebook by Ian Timothy

Copyright ~ Ian Timothy ~ June 2014 The book is the intellectual property of Ian Timothy.

No part of this book can be reproduced or copied.

Do not steal my work - It may not be a masterpiece, it has taken me time to write it, if you wish to write a book, film or play use your own ideas. To steal someones art causes the same pain as the adulterer’s acts.

www.iantimothy.com

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Night I cannot sleep‌

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Worm Should I write about this? Is this a good way to exorcise my inner demons? I hope so, I worry about my lack of conscience, it conflicts with my faith in Jesus, who I know forgives and protects me, the people I am contracted to work with are bad people who have broken the rules of society, friendship, business, matrimonial vows, agreements. I am executioner not criminal.

Although this IS true, there is a worm in my mind which does not seem to sleep… I cannot sleep tonight, these few notes may help me to rest, help me to reason with my inner self. Where do I begin? Anywhere, any time, without order or correct sequence of events. Am I writing to a friend, stranger or myself? Who would know? There are few cares left.

A Smith & Wesson Model 36 - 2 inch barrelled revolver is a work of art.

There is one in the desk draw, its cylinder holds five rounds, when I’m out and about I carry five extra in a speed loader clip (at 12 dollars its a life saving investment). There is a certain security keeping one under a pillow, in the event a stranger should visit, someone should want to do me harm. Who though? Who knows about me? The Chief knows, someone else must know of me and my ‘other’ work, am I free? I will kill anyone who attempts to take my freedom away.

The main blade of my Swiss Army knife is sharp, before going on a trip it is re-honed with a fine diamond sharpening tool, the pocket knife is an innocent and effective killer, its advantage is, if one is searched, very few ‘public servants’ would consider it to be nothing more than innocent. I find I am becoming paranoid about being searched, its in control at the moment, its another ‘worm’ in the head, sometimes I think I should retire and concentrate upon my writing.

The Model 36 does not have the same advantage as the knife. If a ‘servant’ discovered a concealed fire arm, there is no way to avoid difficult questions, the servant could be in real trouble, if he went too far, killing a servant is the last part of the interaction, once there was one who had to be ‘calmed’ it was 3

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fortunate I was a long way from home. Keep a safe distance from the police, Fed’s, government officials (servant’s) your transport must be legal (I prefer the pick up truck) taxes and bills should all be paid up to date, for example, when the revenue knock on the door, they are like vultures around the dying corpse, they will pick your bones and begin to ask difficult questions. Become 99% invisible all of the time, be normal, ordinary clothes small apartment, ordinary food, believe in your country and put money in the dead soldiers collection box.

I have no concern for authority, everyone knows for certain their work is difficult, unrewarding and dangerous, solving crime is their work, to do this well, they learn to have no sympathy or compassion, all begin their careers which the highest of intention, most end with a pension and contempt for the human race. Consider it worthwhile to respect them, maybe they are a danger to me, my only enemy, maybe they are watching me now. I remind myself, a worn tire, speeding fine, unpaid taxes are all forms of bait which will attract the bastards to me. I’m not the fool who believe the ‘servants’ can be beaten, avoiding contact, avoids awaiting a visit from them.

My ’36’ was purchased for $170 + tax from a shooting range in the desert, the original choice was the heavy barrelled Model 10. Kevin the owner said ‘The 36 has the same killing power boy, a’n you can conceal it better than a 10’ - he was right, I have never regretted his influence over my choice. There are still a few pawn shops that will sell gun under the counter, its difficult to weigh the owner up, ask, sometimes the Good Lord provides.

I’ve often reflected, that if I owned a gun shop and my name was Kevin I would change it, Kevin does not sound right for a gun dealer does it? He should be called, Al, Sam, Kip, a name which inspires the customer to buy a tool of death - When you read the name ‘King Herod’ you know he’s a bastard and a killer, you know he is out to hunt down the baby Jesus, he kills all the new born boys… Herod’s Gun Store…now there’s a name.

Will I buy a model 10? There’s always one to be found in a pawn shop, $400, 4

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the going rate. If you’ve got an itch, it’s got to be scratched - Why does this worm not want to settle tonight?

I trust S&W revolvers, I have two 36’s, which are surprisingly accurate for a short barrel, this was proven when the running man was hit in the lower spine at 80 yards. Once I considered changing to the Colt Python, it’s a fine weapon, unfortunately it has a reputation for misalignment so I dismissed the idea, a man with brand loyalty is to be respected, loyalty is rare among the human, I cannot think of anyone I would trust.

The things you love should be looked after… Use a gun oil which does not smell, the heavy oils are a give away to dogs and attract grit, gun oil for storage, and, when I’m working, the gun is cleaned with a solvent, then the slightest amount of sewing machine oil is applied to the moving parts.

The best quality ammunition inspires confidence. Nothing to beat a Hornady .38 Special round, 158 grain slug - $1.00 each, it’s the ‘servant’s’ choice, designed for one purpose. Don’t skimp on your ammo. Its kinder to the client, the running man was hit with this make of bullet, it ‘pushed’ him forward at the moment of penetration, some of the fragments must have ruptured his abdominal aorta, when I got to his body, he seemed to be dead, still, a second shot to the cortex of the brain made sure it was over. He was the ‘servant’ who made the mistake asking me some questions. Why does everyone have to ask questions? The second question is an indication that someone believes you are lying, he said ‘Where are you going to at this time of night’ I answered ‘I cannot sleep, I am hoping the walk will help me to sleep’ he asked ‘Where do you live’ I stabbed him in the throat with my Swiss army knife, he turned and ran. Why did he have to ask the question? No questions he would be alive, it was the questions which killed him. I feel sure he was a bad or evil man, I had to do the Good Lords work.

Use professional tools, the ‘servants’ used the Model 10 for many years without problems, they use auto’s now - I have never been one to change for changes sake, I’ll stay with the revolver. A tradesman buy’s the best 5

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equipment, looks after it. Jesus was a carpenter, I’m sure he looked after his tools, he should have stayed a joiner, crucifixion is a painful way to go. He protects me, I never go anywhere without his symbol around my neck. His daddy sacrificed him for me, the assassin’s who killed him, did the Lord’s work, its a blessing to be an assassin.

Respect, a word to learn to understand and meditate upon. The Aboriginal’s, Red Indian, Amazonian hunters they all respect their kills, so must I. It’s no use getting upset, if a job is going to be done, it must be done properly. In my time with the Army, I watched many evil men who had no respect for the enemy, the soldier who tortures, and aims for stomach shots indicates his insanity, the officers who see it, ignore it, they know a crazy bastard is a good soldier in war, a bad soldier in peace, the fucked up military man will always be fighting some where, when his time runs out he becomes a hero, and everyones relieved they will not have to explain his actions or re-build his life later. When shooting my enemy, I took pride in a quick dispatch. Less than 75 yards a head shot, more than, the heart is the target.

If I have to travel to visit a ‘client’ I use the train, in the comfortable seats you can reflect upon life. The locomotive eliminates the possibility of contact with authority, you can be stopped by a servant at any time in a automobile, if they don’t like the look of your face, or the story you tell them, you risk being searched. I usually ask my editor for or find an article to write about in the city or town where my hit is to take place.

The rail trip takes my mind of the hit and allows me to write for the news paper or magazine, the fellow passengers see me tapping away and all looks innocent, who would think a well known writer has a sideline as a killer?

There is also the view from the carriage window. In America there’s never a shortage of things to look at, the hobos sleeping by the track are a good example, there is a certain envy for the freedom they possess. I wish I was on a train now, the movement and a client awaiting. I would be at ease in my carriage, an angel of death.

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Deep down all humans are Nomad’s. I know I am, it is fortunate that My Lord gave me the ability to rest anywhere and move on without regret. Why has the Good Lord forsaken me tonight? I need to rest, the walk ended abruptly, its good I am out of town.

Keep away from full time relationships, being a good looking and fit 50 year old draws in the ladies. That’s fine as far as it goes, trouble is, they always want to settle down. I tell them ‘I’m a traveller in a desert, no one can own me, I own no one’ When its time for the relationship to end, I take them for a farewell dinner, they wake up the next day to an empty bed, the three thousand dollar bills left by their purse keep’s them sweet. Another heart break, she’ll get over me, some day. My life is a desert, am I wandering in my solitude, to discover myself?

Phones are an important to consider, I like them to be separators - one for daily life and one for a relationship (when I am given an assignment it always comes with a phone) Buy the relationship phone from a pawn shop, it reminds you that your lover is used goods, make sure its a busy day, pick your phone, buy it cash. Get an AT&T sim card from anywhere $20 to buy and $150 credit, one purchase its finished, when the credit runs out buy a new phone, new card, new number, new relationship - I reason the life of a relationship should be no more than $150’s worth of call’s - if you cannot afford the phone, you cannot afford the relationship. Yes, phones are great separators.

My life is uncomplicated, many would envy my reputation, the street fighter talks his crap, the school kid dreamer, the beaten wife, the cuckold spouse who wants to kill, kill, kill, they would all want to be me. Born 196o’s School 7o’s ~ Army 8o’s - Los Angeles Police Department 9o’s - Early retirement from the ‘servants’ - shot in the line of duty - Good pay out from the pension and compensation dudes. Money’s never been a problem. Always had the same bank account, the army, ‘servants’ pensions will keep it sweet, my journalist job pays my bills. All other work is paid cash, which is converted into Art, which is my happiness, its also my job. I’m the art critic 7

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for a well known news paper. Journalism is the perfect cover for my more profitable occupation.

Art is a good investment Dorothy and Herbert Vogel, librarian and postal worker purchased many cheap works of the Emerging Minimalists in the 60’s - These pictures are worth 100’s of millions - I prefer to buy contemporary art. I can pay a good cash price and say I paid much less for it. Many movies show this as a real way to hide money and return a good investment later.

Someone in Hollywood knows the way to guide the masses.

When I worked for the ‘servants’ there were call out’s to celebrity mansions.

The works on their walls were often insurance fakes (the originals safe in their bank vaults). I worked out who was painting them and paid the artist to mock me up a few small pictures in the style of the new upward artists, I reckoned on the probability they would not be able to remember all of their early work, I was right. Some pictures in my collection could buy large houses. I’m no fool this is for certain, without my additional income I would never have been able to piece together such a wonderful collection, I may not be able to see it very often, I know I have it for when I retire.

There’s a lock up in L.A with the rare and beautiful pictures in it. My child is in for a shock when it goes to the estate auction, he’ll be rich, no dirty work for my boy and there is a separation, he does not know of me, no one can touch my gift to him. I watch him sometimes with my grandchildren. Its a glorious thing, a happy family.

I am respected by my readers, my articles are read by many art experts, last week I received a nice email from a gallery owner saying how much my review of the Sam Davis collection resonated with her own appraisal. Nice to read - truth to tell, face to face they think I love them, in my mind there is nothing other than contempt - I cannot stand the arrogant bastards, they bleed the artists, the commissions are far too great.

I am finding it difficult to write in this way, I will write the rest of these note 8

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as if I am writing a book, perhaps I need to exorcise my demons or need to confess to Jesus? I confessed to a priest once, I walked out of the church, and considered the fact I was not of the Roman Church. The priest would realise this and was under no obligation to keep my confession a secret. I turned around and waited to sit in the confessional again. The priest’s eyes, he knew, I opened his door, covered his mouth, and the blade entered his neck, I wrapped his vestments around his throat to arrest the blood flow. Later I discovered he would have kept my confession a secret. The ignorance of religion costs so many lives.

To succeed in the disposal business you need an agent. Mine’s called “The Chief” Believe me they are difficult to find. You cannot go up to a Mafia Boss and say ‘Hi, my names Jack, I’m a fuck off brilliant killer’ You're going to get yourself killed doing that. The Mafioso is going to say to his buddies, who’s he? He’s winding me up!…Dig a hole over there, shoot him in the head, bury him’ No, anyone can buy a gun, box of .38’s, and start in my profession, problem is where do you get the contracts? A advertisement in the back of the New York Times would work, the ‘servants’ would be on to you and they’d close you down for a 25 years holiday in the Penn.

There is a way - You will not read it today - maybe when you find another one of my journals will you discover how to find an employer - In any case do you not think I would be foolish to have you as my competition? No, think it out for yourself. I can give you a hint. Get yourself into prison, you will meet many customers in there.

I met a few killers in my time, a hit, some money, spend it, broke. A few bank jobs, a shop heist. In the old days, it was easy to supplement your income with banks - Today its very difficult, cameras everywhere, video security and identification equipment make life difficult. Worse of all is the economy and the Russians, the economy means the disposer wants to save money, and takes the job on himself, he or she regretting the decision moments before the ‘chair’ is switched on or the chemicals are pumped into their artery.

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The Russians work for peanuts and they can disappear without too much difficulty. In this country there are still plenty of gentlemen who are loyal to their employee’s. My agent is one of these gent’s, mind you, I worked for him on many jobs, he knows a good worker when he see’s one.

Three months after I was shot, a man from the F.B.I came to see me, asked how I was recovering, I said ‘Tell me why you are here, you don't give a Jack’s Cat about my health’ He didn't care for any more easy talk ‘The guy who shot you, will walk. If something happened to him, no one in the Agency would care - here is his file, do what you like with it’. My suspicions were right - I thought Holy (sorry My Lord) Crap! The Fed’s really do remove the slime balls they cannot legally fish out of society.

Twelve weeks later, I had ‘the name on the file’ wrapped up in a carpet in the back of a old GMC pick up, out of L.A toward Vegas, his journey would end in the desert. Its a mistake to think they're buried deep, the rats, snakes and critters do a good job of disposing of the evidence, the wind blows the tracks of the truck. If you do not hear a knock on the door within a week, you never will.

I gave him three good jolts of the cattle prod, untied the rolled up carpet and wait until he comes out of the electrocution coma, there’s nothing worse than a grown man whimpering, its was a sure sign he was in the wrong job, I forgive him his fear, he knows its the end and he is in considerable discomfort, I tied his wrists, ankles and knees with six wraps of 1/8th inch copper wire, nice figure of eight bindings, tight too, Russians used this technique in the Balkans, I saw it many times, no one broke free when bound with this method. I see the flies are pestering his cuts and he’s been stung on his eye lid by a insect.

The day was hot, I have to respect a fellow killer, I was not going to expire this man with out him being awake, so I wait. It’s a matter of professional etiquette. You don't need to know his name, it would incriminate me and the Fed’s. I pushed him forward so he could sit up. No cigarettes like you see in 10

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the movies.

‘Lets do a deal’ it’s sure he will say this. I answer ‘Tell me who wanted me dead, I’ll will free you, there is no negotiation, a name and its over’ - He has no intention of telling me the truth, he does not respect me, this lack of respect became a half hour of Eastern European torture technique.

He whimpered the name of the employer, I was surprised to discover who it was, I asked why did he want me killed? He answered ‘Wrong identity, the Fed agent was the target, I read the licence plate number wrong , your car’s came from the car pool, the numbers were one digit different’ - I shot him in the top of the head, down toward the spine. Well! I did say it was a name and its over, he did give me a name, then it was over.

The interstate joined the dust track, I turned right toward Vegas, a fifteen buck motel, show girl, beer, bourbon and time to think.

The assassin now asleep in his desert cemetery. The FED had deceived me into believing I was avenging an attempt on my life, not his. I had discovered the name of “The Chief” and where was this going to take me? Was I in danger? Would the ‘Fed’ know or realise he was the original target? For the moment Vegas was the right place to be, it’s easy to get lost in this town. I waited for a phone call, nothing. A week passed. I decided to drive back to L.A. I needed some cash, in the bank I picked up a counter check, asked the clerk for a balance with the $300 requested, she counted the money, wrote a figure on the receipt, as it was passed to me, she glanced over to the guard, for a second I felt something was wrong, my hand was ready to grab my 36, no one was going to arrest me today. The feeling of danger passed. Fuck him, I turned around and walked out.

Sitting in the truck, I lit a Camel cigarette, put the money into my billfold and read the balance slip. No wonder, the clerk looked at me, my account was 11

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$100 thousand fatter than it was a week ago. No bastard is going to put 100 thou in my account and take me out. I realised someone in the ‘servants’ must have provided the account information. It was either thin ice or party, party.

Time and possibly a visit to “The Chief” would provide the answers and settle my many concerns.

On the journey back to L.A I stopped at a GMC showroom where I purchased a two year old four door pickup. The old one was taken to the breakers the following day. The grab operator said the carpet needed to be taken out of the back, a large bill exchanged hands and it stayed - crushed, fragmentised, burned. As I watched go through the crusher, I realised my life was changing, there was no remorse for the actions of the last weeks, no worries, concerns, guilt. I had the power over the life and death of strangers.

The following week I flew over to new York for an interview as a west coast art critic for a small magazine. I was given the appointment the same day. For the next year I was building a new career, learning about recording interviews, using a camera, securing appointments. The articles were popular, and as already mentioned, the art world was taking notice of my articles.

I went over to Burbank to talk to a popular TV host about his art collection.

He was a nice guy, very open about the prices he paid and profits to be made, he asked me if I would be interested in a series about modern art. This appealed to me, I said I would be honoured to be considered. Philip is a genuine guy. He showed me the collection and some paintings he had in a store room over his garage.

In the garage was a red and white two door pick up.

‘Is it for sale’? I asked.

‘Why do you like it’ ‘Yes I have wanted one for some time’ ‘Have it, its yours, I was going to have it collected, you'll save me the trouble, it starts and runs ok’

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Philip and I had become instant friends, he sealed the friendship with a red and white truck. We drank, smoked and talked for the rest of the evening.

He's an amazing, he's helped my career beyond measure. Philip is as pink as Fisherman’s Wharf lobster. He knows I’m straight, would never cross the line with me. He likes me to be in his company, being shy and concerned about his image makes yours truly a good companion.

That first evening was tainted in only one aspect. Blacky the dog. A small terrier which tried to fuck my leg. ‘Oh! Don't mind Blacky, he’s just showing you how much he loves you’ Yeah, like, I believed that. During the first summer I was invited to many parties, late one evening, when most of the guests were in alcoholic or chemical heaven, I grabbed the little bastard and forced a 2 inch ball bearing which had a steel cable attached to it into its wind pipe, truth to tell the little runt fought like a demon, five minutes later after pulling the ‘choker’ out, I threw it over the fence into the neighbours pool Timing is essential, Maxine the maid had told me the house would be empty for the whole of August.

‘Should I get another dog?’ cried Philip ‘Not at the moment my good friend, should I stay with you for a fews days?’ ‘You’re so kind to me, stay as long as you wish’ that was a few years ago, his home has been a safe refuge for many years, I have a key and I can come and go as I please.

You have a right to know who I will ‘expire’ - Women and children?

Children never, what do you think I am a murderer? Woman with a child never. Single or married woman, yes. You have met some real bitches in your life, why should they be exempt because of their sex? I took the mind and disposed of the woman who betrayed me, no, the woman is no exempt. The reasons for the ‘termination’ does not usually concern me. Although it is fair to say, many of the wives I have disposed of have done nothing other than become boring to their husbands. Remember, I’m 100 big ones a hit. If ‘The Chief’ contacts me with a job, his employer has to be rich. By the way, it’s rare for a poor person to be professionally terminated, the rich, criminally active, political nuisances or big business trouble makers are the usual victims 13

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of my accidents.

Around two years after the first ‘agreement’ I walked out of Wal-Mart, opened the drivers door, and on the passenger seat was a large A2 size grey postage bag, the type the ‘servants’ use. Inside were 500 fresh hundred dollar bills, a file, a telephone number and a note - the words - Mondays 16.00. I noticed the package had a slight smell of bleach, bills, file, bag. These were the early days of DNA testing, bleach is an excellent DNA destroyer, the FED’s developed a far better and odourless chemical in the 9o’s, its expensive, available, it works.

The name on the “file” was a well known Film Director, it must have been a Organised Crime deal. I needed to find out about him, as I research his life I found out he had had a series of box office failures with suspect funding. If my hunch was right, the Mob had funded him and couldn't get their money back and this ‘removal’ was a warning to other producers and directors, even if the film does not pay, they have to pay the debt back. Many top directors, film studios have failures, eventually they have a hit which covers all the debts, the mob must realise this, its the trouble with criminals, they are greedy and impatient, never think you can get one over organised crime.

Recently I had to kill a boxer who failed to pay the piper, he believed his fame was his protection, in my work no one is safe once I am given a file with their name on it. Looking for a reason for the hit, has become a bad and dangerous habit, I must remind myself not to look for the reason why and always focus upon the how.

Driving past his home I slowed down, a sign read “Trespassers Will Be Shot” The next recognisance was his film studio, I enjoyed the tour, learned nothing which could be used. Many days are spent learning about your client (he is my client - “The Chief” is my employer) This guy was personally rich, well liked, respected, I was honoured to be his Angel of Death.

Just to shoot, cut, poison or choke this guy was unfair to his art. I’m an artist and I understand how difficult, success in our world can be, to “snuff” him 14

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out like a common criminal would not show the respect this great man deserved. After all he had given so much happiness to millions of people. It would be unforgivable of me to allow his death to become a scandal, people speculating, who and why. There would be all types of degradation to his reputation. No, this was not going to be allowed to happen.

Can you remember the grey bag had a note with a number, day and time. I can call the number - any Monday at 16:00 - The receiver was lifted after the second ring. ‘Yes?’ ‘I will finish the repair within a month’ ‘You have three months - this number cannot be used again’ the call ended, a fews days later, an envelope with a card containing a new number, day and time was left in my truck.

Kismet (the Arabic word for fate) was my first thought when I read in the L.A. Times, our friend was to go to West Indies to the wedding of the actress Cherry Lane (made up name) I booked my flight and arrived there two weeks before his arrival. Within a week I knew the geography, the roads, beach house, nice observation area. He arrived on the Sunday. Died on the Thursday.

The headlines ‘Simon Jane’ dies in freak accident. The news was all over the worlds press. ‘Simon Jane (it read) has drowned during his daily morning swim, well know for his physical fitness, it is sad he should lose his life in this way’.

I had watched him for three days, on the Wednesday evening there was a huge beach party most of the guests drunk including Simon Jane. He was a man of habit, the following morning he entered the sea for his morning swim, hung over and tired from the evenings entertainment, and probably weak from lack in sleep. I entered the water wearing a diving set, mask, fins and an two weight belts, so as to be over- weighted. The buoyancy compensator prevented me from sinking from the excess weight, I approached Simon from the hidden side of the cove, my dive depth was 30 feet. The water is very deep off this coast only fifty yards out from the shore there was a 150 depth.

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He was treading water as I began to surface below his feet. The fisherman's gaff went straight through his calf, I vented the buoyancy compensator and we went down like the Titanic. He was in excruciating pain, in his panic he inhaled water and was limp before 100 ft. I unhooked the gaff, added some air to my compensator and ascended to 50 feet and watched him drown, after a full ten minutes of stillness, its certain it was over, I ditched the extra belt, readjusted the buoyancy and continued with my solo dive to the far side of the bay.

Search parties, helicopters, coast guard patrolled for a few days his body was never found. The headlines went over to the war in Middle East. A week after returning home, a grey bag with another 500 - hundred dollar bills was left in the truck.

I returned to stay with Philip, who was not his usual self. I thought he had worked through the evening of Blacky’s ‘accident’ - this was fortunately not the reason - ‘Philip I’ve known you for many years, you are my greatest friend and I do love you’ I lied.‘What is wrong my dear friend’? Philip began to cry, his tears almost made me feel sad. ‘There’s a bitch making my life difficult, she’s the station owner’s daughter, she want’s my job’ ‘Fuck her’ I said ‘Philip do not worry, I’ll ask around, see what I can find out about her, there’s sure to be something one of my fellow reporters knows about her lifestyle or past which can be used to guide her in a different direction’ It made no odds if there was scandal or not. I had decided to kill her if blackmail was not an option.

The girl was ok, few bad habits, steady boyfriend, liked a glass of wine, smoked some dope, on the whole she was far better than most of her type, this is not to say that I would go back on my decision, she was a power hungry monster. Her name was Vivienne, if you know your movie history, her name was apt, she would be “Gone With The Wind” when I had decided upon the modus operandi.

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Philip’s love of parties became part of the plan. He was so happy when I attended more than usual, weekend after weekend, I was by his side ‘Here’s my straight friend’ he would say ‘Always here for me when times are difficult, I love him so much’ There is no doubt Philip cares for me, he is a great friend.

He believed I was supporting him at a time when he felt so fragile. During the parties I stole the guests cocaine, speed, and on occasions heroin. The bastards did not buy crap, their dealers supplied the best there was, the king of the celebrity dealers was Kim London, he was as you imagine a top dealer would be, two thousand dollar suits, diamond watches and Italian super cars.

Vivienne proved to be difficult to get into close proximity. Like Simon, patience would be needed, although Philip was beginning to feel the strain. If the basic idea of a drug overdose was not going to happen, the 36, Swiss knife or the choker ball would. One evening I learned something which was extraordinary, Vivienne’s boyfriend (he was 7 years her junior) was Kim London (the drug baron’s) brother, his name was Tyler London, how the fuck could I have missed it?

Tyler came out of the bar at one thirty, I followed him along the sidewalk (there were no cameras) until he got to his car. I had parked my truck a 20 yards away. I confess to being surprised as he opened the door, started the engine and drove out of the city, on to the interstate, mile after mile went by, I had a full tank of gas, provided he continued to drive carefully I could stay with him.

He turned off the interstate onto a small road which eight miles later had him parking at a small town brothel. No wonder he had travelled so far, he did not want to be caught playing games with whores when he was involved with a multi-millionaires daughter. It was now three thirty. I parked the truck across the street in the grocery store parking lot. Walked across the road and got under the sports car, a suitable brake line was easy to find, I attached one end of a heavy cord around it and the other to a steel pin which I drove into the ground. I located the brake fluid reservoir and hot wired the warning 17

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wire to another circuit, its an old trick and very effective.

He left at five twenty four exactly, I walked across the street and picked up the broken pipe, cord and metal pin. My GMC was hitting over a 100 as I passed him, a cloud of dust billowed behind, I turned off my lights waited for a few seconds then hit my brake pedal hard. Too late for Tyler, he swerved left to avoid me, off the road, the car turned over.

He was still breathing, gasping for breath, I opened the large polythene bag full of mixed drugs and poured the powder into his mouth and nostrils. He coughed, gasped for breath, died, the rest of the powder went over his face and chest, bag into his hand. I put the broken pipe near to the wreck and left the scene, the pipe could be blamed as a reason for the accident, an investigator may decide it had caught on debris in the road. This method has many drawbacks, break warning lights, fluid stains on the highway, its like the stage magicians trick, the routine is hidden in plain sight.

The T.V. and newspapers press desk’s received anonymous calls, they were informed Vivienne’s partner had been killed in a car wreck. It was clear that he had been on a heavy drinking session, driven to a out of town brothel and been killed whilst taking drugs on the ride home. The police also took the same line, he was the brother of a notorious drug dealer, who really cared about him? No one except his brother and Vivienne.

Vivienne’s father was questioned about his daughters involvement with Tyler London. Publicly he denied all knowledge, privately he was insanely angry, six weeks after the incident her bruise’s had faded enough for her to travel to San Francisco, where she was to work as a 25 thousand a year disk jockey at a small radio station he owned. She stayed there for three years before she was allowed to return to the family. The wealthy have their own rules and punishments, its why they are rich beyond your imagination.

Sometimes the best plans go wrong, they certainly did this time. Philip was heart broken and angry. Vivienne’s father told him that he was about to give 18

An Assassin's Notebook

his job to his daughter and he looked upon Philip as a son, if she had not gotten into this crap, he said, she would have got the TV show and Philip would have become Vice President of the Corporation.

Three months later (August) there was a grey bag on the passenger seat. 500 hundred dollar bills, a ‘file’, a phone, the piece of paper with a mobile number and the words - Thursday’s 16:00 only - I opened the file at the top of the page the name ‘Kim London’.

I assumed Vivienne’s father wanted the episode closing - if it had been drug related, the dealers would have done their own work.

I remember thinking - Every cloud has a 100 thousand dollar lining.

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