Unforeseen Circumstances

'Do you believe in fate, Leroy?' Colette asked scanning the horoscope to see what was in store for Pisceans.

'Silly girl,' he thought and shook his head. As if a single astrological prediction could determine events in the lives of millions of people who happened to share a birth sign!

'No,' he replied, 'It is my belief that Man makes his own destiny.'

'Mmmm..,' she still sounded unconvinced but did not want to start an argument by laughing at his pomposity.

He left the flat slightly irritated. He knew that he was right and would prove it somehow. After all it wasn't fate that had decreed that he embark on a life of crime: it was his own rational decision.

Leroy "Baby Doc" Duvalier considered himself a modern Robin Hood: robbing the rich and giving to the poor, but as no one, in his estimation, was poorer than him these donations tended to remain in his pockets.

It had started in a small way; picking the pockets of the punters assembled round the baccarat tables or the roulette. Then he had noticed a guy winning big money night after night and watched the cashier filling a leather attaché case, night after night, with bundles of bank notes. And, more intriguing, the man would disappear through the fire exit at the side of the building. He resolved that he was going to have a piece of the action.

***

As Leroy emerged into the main street from the dark alley behind him, clutching a leather case in his hand, he pondered on the charmed life that he led and his pink lips parted to reveal a perfect set of pearly-white teeth, a wide grin spreading over his face.

Five minutes earlier his latest victim was having similar thoughts, thankful for the good fortunes that life had accorded him so far. Now as he lay dazed on the ground, relieved of the money, hat and overcoat, he wondered if luck had finally deserted him.

Eddie Stefanski had a thriving business, a loyal wife - although she seemed more interested in golf than in her husband - and a devoted secretary to whose devotions he was turning more and more in his quest for affection. His wife did not know or, if she did, was inured to his infidelities.

And there had been quite a few. His only vices were women and gambling. He knew what deprivation meant - having been brought up in a poor family - and now that money was no problem, he was determined to enjoy the trappings of wealth. 

His thriving business could, and did, run without his continual presence. Thus he was able to pursue other challenging activities such as breaking the bank at the Casino. Although this objective had not yet been achieved, he was well on the way: every night for the last month he had more or less cleaned the tables. 

Like all inveterate gamblers, Eddie was superstitious. He entered the gaming club from the front entrance but exited from a side door on the alleyway. He attributed his lucky streak to this curious ritual. Had he acted more rationally, he would have noticed that his odd behaviour had attracted the attention of two people; the mugger who, having duffed him up, had walked away with his ill-gotten gains and another one with lethal intentions on his mind.

Eddie rued the loss of his winnings and was struggling to come to terms with his misfortune, but little did he know that Lady Luck was still at his side.

***

People in the know had a lot of respect for Harry Maguire. He was the best in his line of business and had gained a reputation as a perfectionist. Very meticulous in his planning and in the execution of those plans. Always immaculately attired he could have been mistaken for a City gent.

'Dressed to kill,' they'd say without realising the implication. To the society in which he mingled old Harry was a closed book. Nothing was known about his background. He frequented garden parties and had an air of affluence which suggested a healthy bank balance but he was regarded as a nouveau riche, a parvenu, who lacked social graces. 

He was also seen at country shoots but his poor skills in this art were evident and he was looked upon with benign hauteur. Nobody owned up to having invited him. Speculations about his work were rife: 'Something to do with arms,' some said. And they were not far from the truth as Harry Maguire had a darker side. He ran a profitable, if somewhat shady, sideline. His clients crossed the social divide but he always made a point of never mixing business with pleasure: they were two very distinct worlds.

Whenever he had an assignment he started the painstaking procedure of piecing together all the information at his disposal. His thorough research enabled him to assess the weaknesses and idiosyncrasies of his subjects. Their lives were under his intense scrutiny and every minute detail was stored in his memory. When all the pieces of the jigsaw were in place he was able to formulate a plan of action. Then came the choice of the location.

Tonight he is on the flat roof of the building opposite the Casino waiting for the quarry, watching millions of stars paling into insignificance against the brilliant illumination of the city lights. He has time on his hands; he knows the routine by heart, the chronological sequence to the last second. He does not need to examine the gun with the well-oiled barrel: everything is as ever functional. He has no worry. The deposit has already been paid into his account and the balance will follow on completion of the job. 

An aggrieved wife wants her husband out of the way. What for? Revenge? Jealousy? Or merely an insurance scam? He never asks about the motive. There must be detachment in order to carry out the required tasks in a professional manner. He has to remain focused at all times even to the extent of eschewing romantic liaisons.

He leans against the ledge and looks through the perfectly calibrated telescopic sight; his target is lined up in the crosshairs of his weapon. The familiar silhouette wearing a fedora hat and a camel overcoat with an astrakhan collar. He won't shoot him. Not yet; not while his back is turned. 

He watches Eddie bounce up the steps of the Casino and into the edifice. The countdown begins as he visualises the interior of the gaming club: a throng of gamblers, some elated by their success, some in deep depression and cursing their luck. Eddie will have ignored all the frenetic activities in the room; he will have placed a large single bet, won - as he usually did - cashed his chips and be on his way out with a spring in his step. Any minute now he'll appear in sight. Harry frowns: he is late. No, there he is, looking pleased with himself.

A gentle squeeze of the trigger and the victim buckles at the knees and slumps to the ground. Mission accomplished. Harry prepares to make his getaway unaware that fate, so derisively dismissed by Leroy, has already unleashed a chain of events that not even the best-laid plan could have anticipated.

***

As she sat at the dressing table going through the motions of combing her hair but without actually touching it, anxiety showed on Gloria Stefanski's strained face. She looked with vacant eyes at her reflection in the mirror.

She was ambivalent about her imminent widowhood, looking forward to it yet apprehensive. She hoped that she wasn't being premature. Complications might arise. There would be questions asked. By the insurance company; the police perhaps. 

But she brushed aside the thought that anything could go wrong; she had hired a professional killer for the deed and established a cast iron alibi for herself: until ten minutes ago a man had kept her company and could vouch that they had been intimate all this time in her isolated country cottage, far from the city.

She kept looking at the telephone as if urging it to ring. But the call never came.

***

Harry smiled with anticipation at the thought that his next call would enhance his retirement fund by a cool million. He could see the red telephone box at the corner of the street from his vantage point. As he started to climb down the vertical fire escape, he lost his foothold and plunged headlong onto the pavement below.
He had often read that at the moment of death, one's life flashes in front of his eyes and was surprised that this wasn't the case. The last thought that occurred to him was that he hadn't allowed any leeway in his plans to account for the vagaries of fortune. Although his pride was hurt by the lack of foresight, his regret would have been greater had he known that he had shot the wrong target.

***

Leroy was well pleased with himself. He had achieved what he set out to do without much exertion. The newly acquired overcoat felt snug and warm but it was the thought of all that money in his possession that gave him a warmer feeling. He hugged the attaché case with affection. He knew that speed was essential; footsteps in the alley behind him indicated that the victim had regained consciousness and was coming after him.

Temporarily blinded by the street lights he hesitated then turned right into the main street. He felt a thud on his chest and looked in amazement at a reddish patch that appeared on the left lapel of his coat. His knees buckled and he sagged to the ground. A grey fog enveloped him and the final words he mouthed sounded like: 'Do you believe in fate, Leroy?'

© Luigi Pagano 2024