Who is Mr. Big?

Minister Jones refocused his attention on Inspector Murphy. “So what do you think of SS as a hitman?”

“I’ve seen some of his work, or should I say some of the work accredited to him. Good stuff, clean, no mess. Delivers on time. He’s good, I think. That’s why I recommended him.”

“How many kills has he done?”

Murphy shrugged. “Who knows? But I know a coupla big names he personally deleted from the telephone book, if you know what I mean.”

“I wonder if he uses any kinda special trademark? You know, like leaving behind some mysterious clue at the crime scene, like a playing card. The Ace of Spades or the Queen of Hearts, something like that, or maybe pieces from a jigsaw puzzle.”

Murphy shook his head. “Jones, you think—”

“Maybe a little rhyme, something like, now you see me, now you don’t.”

“Jones, I can’t—”

“Ah, maybe even, photos of past kills. Can you imagine if—”

“JONES!” Murphy shot his hardened cop-look at Jones, and then quickly lowered his voice. “What de ass! Forget all that movie and CSI bullshit. This is the real world. Nobody leaves little clues and shit hanging around. I mean come on, don’t we have enough friggin’ drama to deal with? Is Trinidad, we talking ‘bout, the land of drama and decease.”

“It’s deceit you mean, right?”

“Yeah,” Murphy shrugged. “Whatever.”

Jones gave a thoughtful nod. “So how come he hasn’t done any work in a while?”

“Maybe he has, maybe he hasn’t,” Murphy shrugged again. “He might have done some jobs we don’t know about. Who knows, he might be that friggin’ good.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.”

“Yeah, sometimes, but the problem with luck is, it always runs out.”