The Executioner

Thirty-One

Hunter lived alone. He’d never been married, and the relationships he had never really worked out. They’d always start well. The women he dated, at first, seemed very understanding of the pressures of his job and the commitment it demanded. But soon they wanted more. A lot more than he was prepared to give. And although he felt lonely sometimes, long-term relationships simply didn’t fit into his lifestyle. Hunter’s sexual life consisted exclusively of one-night encounters or short-term, no-strings-attached affairs.

He enjoyed spending time by himself. He felt comfortable in his sparsely decorated one-bedroom apartment. A good book and a double dose of one of the many single-malt Scotch whiskeys from a very well-accomplished collection always made him relax. But not tonight. This was only the second night since they’d found Father Fabian’s body, but the pressure was building up fast. He felt the need to go out and see other people talking, laughing and living life. The world of the dead had a habit of getting under his skin.

Los Angeles has one of the liveliest and most exciting nightlifes in the world. From luxurious and trendy clubs where A-list celebrities hang out, to dingy and sleazy underground venues. There are themed bars and lounges scattered all over the city. You can have a drink in a hospital ward where cocktail waitresses run around in skin-tight black nurses’ uniforms, or in the most traditional of Irish pubs, where the barman leaves the Guinness to settle before topping up the glass and drawing a shamrock in the froth.

Hunter wasn’t looking for anything crazy or loud, so live music venues and bars with dance DJs were out. He also decided to stay in Downtown Los Angeles instead of taking a drive to any of the many beach bars. He settled on the Golden Gopher on West Eighth Street. Its low-key and relaxed atmosphere was just what Hunter had in mind.

He got there at about 9:00 p.m. The place was busy but not crowded. He took a seat at the end of the old-West saloon-looking bar and ordered a single dose of single malt. The barman, a tall, short-haired Puerto Rican with a goatee trimmed to perfection, dropped two cubes of ice into the glass and Hunter stared at them as they cracked. His mind methodically going over the case. Two days and they had nothing so far.

He finished his Scotch and his stare fell on a small group huddled around an old Space Invaders game machine.

Without him noticing it, the barman poured another dose and slid the glass towards Hunter.

‘Wow, you’re quick,’ he said with a nod.

‘This one’s paid for, sir.’

Hunter frowned.

‘The lady at the far table to your right,’ the barman said with a slight head tilt.

Hunter turned to face the table the barman had indicated. A tall, attractive brunette was sitting by herself. Streaked hair fell in ringlets over her shoulders. She had olive-tanned skin and seductive brown eyes. The top two buttons of her cream blouse were strategically undone, revealing a jaw-dropping cleavage.

Hunter lifted his glass and accepted the drink with the most subtle of smiles.

She held his gaze, blinked and then smiled back, gesturing for him to join her.

‘You’re in luck,’ the barman said.

‘Does she do this often?’

‘I’ve never seen her in here before,’ he replied, running a hand over his goatee.

‘She looks like a maneater to me,’ Hunter said without breaking eye contact with the brunette.

The barman grabbed a glass and started polishing it. ‘She could eat me any time.’

Hunter gave the barman a friendly wink. ‘OK, here goes nothing.’ He made his way towards the brunette’s table.