Requiem for the Future
Part 5 A New Reality
“I used to solve murders.”
“Now I’m planning them.”
You know those women who, upon discovering their husband’s infidelities, rush to his defense or blame themselves? Mrs. Barnes and Mrs. Thompson weren’t those women. Answering the door to news your husbands allegedly raped a woman and slept with each other must’ve been a special kind of hell. Watching their husband’s superiors scramble to cover their asses was priceless. The DA had no choice—both men arrested by day's end.
It wouldn’t be long before they’d learn the true price of loyalty inside was a pack of cigarettes.
Aria lacked my twisted sense of humor. She was all business—copied Dolly’s notebook digitally, replaced it under the birdcage liner, asked a few procedural questions I answered without hesitation. I told her to slip the apartment manager a few Benjamins to keep quiet and stall for a week or two before demanding rent if we were late.
“Benjamins?”
You know—C-notes.
“What are you talking about?”
Hundred-dollar bills. He’ll hold mail if we’re away, watch the apartment. Tell him you’re taking over Dolly’s lease.
The Aria who returned was different. She was all business. Sure, I'd been along when she paid the manager; an extra three bills bought his silence, at least for now. But I didn’t really notice her transformation until catching our reflection. She looked like what I call a velvet hammer. Smooth, controlled, but when she hits, you feel it. Seemed unfair—she could read my thoughts, but hers were locked up tight.
“It must stay that way, Matt. Constant calculations. Boring stuff. But I need a gun.”
Got a 38 Special back at my place. Might still be there.
“How quaint. Your blackmail stunt worked once—but now they’ll behave. I need something quiet, silenced.”
Without going into nitty-gritty details, the closest option: a 22 pistol with CB caps or heavy rounds for a suppressed 9mm can also work. Rifles? Different story. I know a friend of a friend.
“Where is this friend of a friend?”
Aria reached out to my contact, who provided a name and a location. We were meeting someone named Silas—in a rundown warehouse, shady side of town. Of course.
I warned her: These guys don’t play. No haggling—you pay the price or walk away. And don’t expect to meet Silas first time out; could even be a setup. These people would drop you before dinner without losing their appetite.
“Point taken, Matt. Stay sharp. If something looks off, tell me.”
We stepped into the warehouse, stinking like last week’s garbage. Four shooters in the rafters—a good sign, ironically. If they wanted us dead, we'd already be bleeding out. A European woman emerged from the shadows.
“You must be Dolly,” she said. “Not many female customers.”
“You’re not Silas,” Aria replied smoothly, shaking her hand.
“I’m Kathy. Silas never shows his face first time out. Heard you want a clean 9mm, subsonic modification, plus a rifle with suppressor—got both here. You got the cash?”
“Yep, in my purse.”
Kathy sighed. “First lesson, hon—never say you have cash until you’ve heard the price. Those boys up top would kill you for lunch money. I name the price; you pay it. No arguments. Usually, we’d arrange another meet, but I brought what you need. Guido, the goods.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“I like you, Dolly—bit naïve, though. If you’re shooting someone, you’ll need clean guns often. Repeat business is good. Next time, gloves.”
“Gloves?”
“Fingerprints. Cash, guns—everything carries your prints. Reject a weapon. Someone might love leaving it at a crime scene.”
Guido opened the case. Kathy smiled, presenting the guns professionally. “Heckler & Koch P30L, subsonic modification, two extra 17-round clips.”
Aria handled it confidently. “Perfect.”
“And here is a bolt-action rifle, 30-06, synthetic stock, scope, suppressor, bipod. Like in John Wick. Two boxes—100 rounds subsonic 9mm; two boxes—40 rounds subsonic .30-06.”
“Price?”
“Clean weapons, no papers. Seventy-five hundred total. I forget ‘Dolly’ after tonight.”
“Can I cry now?” Aria counted seventy-five hundred in crisp hundreds, handing them over.
“How do I contact you again, Kathy?”
“Hold on. Guido, count and run a check. Dolly, take my card. Leave a message next time.”
A moment later, Guido’s face twisted in shock. Kathy raised her arm sharply, and instantly, the four shooters above trained their weapons on us.
She glanced at Guido's phone, then burst out laughing, waving off the shooters with an amused nod. “Whoever you really are, Dolly, next time clue me in.”
Kathy turned the screen toward Aria.
A fingerprint image appeared, captioned clearly:
Fingerprint match: Silas
And the reluctant writer continues to grow.