The Caller

Eighty-Six

With his silenced Sig Sauer in hand, Mr. J crossed the empty kitchen and paused by the door that led into the living room. No lights were on. He listened for an instant, but the only sound polluting the air around him was the incessant low humming of the old refrigerator pushed up against one of the corners in the kitchen. He peeked around the door, studying his next move.

The living room was small and uncluttered, which made things easier, because he needed to get to the short corridor on the other side of it. Five quick and silent steps got him there. Still no signs of Cory Russo.

Mr. J regarded the hallway before him. It offered four doors — two on the right, one on the left, and one at the far end of it. The one at the far end was wide open, with the lights switched off, as was the first door on the right. The other two were shut, but a sliver of bright light escaped from under the door on the left.

Mr. J stepped into the hallway and flattened his back against the left wall, before sidestepping four paces until he reached the door. He held his breath, placed his ear against it and listened carefully. Someone was definitely in there.

Mr. J stepped forward, away from the wall, and positioned himself directly in front of the door. Out of habit, he looked left, then right, before taking a deep breath and holding it in his lungs for a couple of seconds. With his left leg firmly grounded, he sent a kick to the door’s handle so powerful, the entire frame cracked.

Cory Russo, who was sitting on the toilet, flipping through a porn magazine, jumped back from the fright so hard, he smashed his head against the wall behind him, almost knocking himself out. The magazine fell to the floor. Russo came crashing back down against the toilet seat with a horrified look on his face.

‘Hey, big guy,’ Mr. J said, his gun pointed directly at Russo’s forehead. ‘So what do you say, want to try that kick to my chest again?’

Mr. J was wearing the exact same disguise he’d worn earlier when he’d knocked at Russo’s door.

Russo looked back at Mr. J, still a little groggy from the head slam. ‘Fuck, man.’ His eyes moved down to his bare legs for a quick second. ‘This is undignifying.’

‘You think?’ Only then did Mr. J catch a whiff of the smell in the room. His face screwed up. ‘Goddamn, man, did you just crap a rotten animal carcass?’

‘What?’ Russo couldn’t see the moment as a time for jokes.

‘I told you I would find you, didn’t I?’ Mr. J said.

Russo frowned at him.

‘Not that tough without that fucking mask, are you?’

The look inside Russo’s eyes hardened. He still hadn’t recognized him over his disguise, but he finally knew what Mr. J was talking about.