Jenna’s Eyes
Rob Holden

We welcome Rob Holden to
Blue Murder Magazine
with this hard-hitting tale,
Jenna’s Eyes.
©Copyright 2001
Rob Holden
Elias was having a little trouble breathing. Well, that can happen
when you take two slugs in the chest.
"I got him, huh, Jimmy?" T.C.’s voice was as maniacal as his eyes.
"I got him good, right?"
"You got him," I agreed, looking around the empty warehouse
for the sixth time in half as many minutes. There are plenty of
abandoned warehouses down on Philadelphia’s docks, and they are
a good place to do the kind of work I do. The clock and the rats
take care of most of it. Usually by the time someone stumbles on
the body, they have to identify it by the dental records.
"Neeeeeeeeeee…" Elias’ mouth was trying to form a word, and his
eyes had a look I’d seen before. He was done, and he knew it, but
he had one more thing he wanted to say and his body just wasn’t
cooperating.
T.C. leaned down and put his ear next to Elias’ mouth. There was
a huge grin on his face. " Whatcha tryin’ to say? Huh? Tell your old
pal T.C., pardner."
I sighed. T.C. was 23, and I doubted there was much chance of
him making it to 25, but he was connected. His uncle was some
gongo in Chicago who’d sent him to Philly to learn the ropes - kind
of like an exchange student. This was his first hit, and he was
loving it. He was dressed in a black silk shirt, tight bluejeans and
cowboy boots - he saw himself as T.C. the kid, gunning them down
on the streets of old El Paso. All I could see was a gurney in the
lethal injection chamber if we didn’t make this march.
"He’s done," I said, " grab the case and let’s go."
"Naw, he ain’t done, man," said T.C. "You still got somethin’ to
say, don’t ya, pard?"
"Neeeeeee…" Elias started again. T.C. put the palm of his hand on
Elias’ stomach - careful not to get any of the spreading blood on it
- and pushed. He chuckled at the way the sound Elias was making
changed with the different pressures he exerted.
T.C. was mean - I’d seen that right off - and that’s not good in
this business. To be successful, you need to remember the three
"get" rule - Get in, Get it done, Get out. T.C. wanted to linger a
while - enjoy the fruits of his labor. It was stupid and
unprofessional, but I wasn’t going to push it quite yet. Idiot or not,
T.C. was connected and at 41 years old, I wasn’t interested in
changing professions.
Elias hadn’t been a bad guy really - just greedy. The Big Boys
knew he’d been skimming off the top for years, but they’d ignored
it because he ran his rackets better than most guys. The problem,
though, is that after you get used to skimming a little it gets to be
easy, so you skim a little more, and then a little more until finally
the word gets around. Whacking Elias hadn’t been so much a
punishment for him as it had been a cautionary note for other
people at his level.
T.C. had actually done the hit - I was just there in case anything
went wrong. Elias had been waiting at the warehouse with a
briefcase containing that week’s payment, and he hadn’t been
surprised to see me once he saw the kid. It was known that I was
taking T.C. around, showing him the ropes. T.C. smiled when I
introduced them, did a quick-draw on his .38, and pumped two into
Elias’ chest - one in his left breast, and one in almost exactly the
same place on his right. Stupid and mean, for sure - but the kid
could shoot. When I asked him why he didn’t do a headshot, he
just grinned at me.
Now I knew why.
"Neeeee…" Elias started again, and that was when I heard
something fall to my left. I pulled my automatic and started over in
that direction. Either T.C. didn’t hear it, or was too fascinated
watching Elias die to care, because he didn’t move, and his grin
never faltered.
The warehouse was empty with the exception of one corner at
the far end from the entrance we’d gone in. There were crates,
containers and general crap stacked up in that corner, and that’s
where the sound I’d heard came from. I considered having T.C.
come with me to investigate, but decided against it. I only needed
one ass to watch at the moment.
I approached the pile of crap with my automatic in the standard
two-handed grip - arms bent just slightly, hammer back, index
finger exerting about two pounds of pressure on the four pound
pull of the trigger. As I closed to within ten feet I heard a soft noise 
I couldn’t identify. Something was there all right - maybe a cat or a
stray dog, most likely a rat - but I wasn’t taking any chances. I
moved quickly and quietly around to the nearest wall, and moved
into the opening between it and the pile, gun barrel first.
What came next was an instant that you just can’t afford to have
too often in my line of work. I froze - and not from fear, but from
understanding. " Jesus," I said softly. " Oh, fuck me."
She was maybe eight years old - four foot nothing with long
brown hair held away from her face with a couple of barrettes -
dressed in a pair of jeans and a WHERE'S WALDO tee-shirt, holding
on to a Barbie doll. Her eyes were big and brown, and so wide that
they seemed to take up half her face. She didn’t look scared, not
exactly, and she wasn’t looking at the gun. She was looking at me.
I lowered the automatic, and stepped back. " Come on out kid," I
said. She stepped out slowly, her eyes never leaving my face.
"Hey Jimmy!" T.C. called across the warehouse. "He’s had it. He’s
just as dead as … hey now, will ya lookie there? Whatcha find,
Jimmy?" He trotted across the thirty feet separating us. "Well, hey
there little missy!"
"What are you doing here, kid?" I asked her, although I already
had an idea.
"Uncle Carl brought me," she said softly. "I’m Jenna."
Elias, that stupid bastard, had been trying to say niece.
"Well now, Jenna," said T.C., "that’s a right pretty name, darlin’. A
right purty name for a right purty girlie."
"You wanna knock off the cowboy shit, T.C.?" I said. "You’ve
never been further West than Milwaukee in your life."
"Hey, Jimmy man, I was just…"
"Would you shut the fuck up and let me think?" I looked down at
Jenna. "How long have you been back there, kid?" I asked, more to
have something to say than out of curiosity.
"Since we got here," she said. "Uncle Carl told me to hide back
here and be quiet as a mouse. He said I could watch through a
peephole, if I could find one."
"Now, what would you know about peepholes at your age, little
lady?" asked T.C.
She looked over at T.C. "I saw you shoot Uncle Carl with your
gun," she said. She sounded as if she might have been telling him
what she’d had for breakfast that morning. She turned her big
brown eyes back to me. "He’s dead, right?"
"That’s right," said T.C., grinning. "I gunned him down, just like in
the movies."
It would have been easier to figure what to do if T.C. and Jenna’s
positions had been reversed. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind
who was the smarter of the two. "You’re an idiot, pal," I said,
looking over at T.C. "I don’t care who your uncle is - you’re just a 
moron."
The grin left his face. "Hey, lighten up, man. I don’t like people
talking to me like that. It ain’t like she’s gonna be around to say
nothing."
"I won’t say nothing," Jenna said to me. The calm in her voice
was eerie. I found myself wondering what kind of a childhood
she’d had to be able to see what she’d already seen without
reacting the way most adults might have, and then stopped
wondering about it. Those were dangerous thoughts - too personal.
This was business.
"Oh, missy, we can’t take a chance like that, can we Jimmy?" T.C’s
grin had returned.
"Shut up, T.C.," I said softly. " I mean it, man. I have to think."
"Nothin’ to think about," said T.C., and then he chuckled. "Unless,
you know, you wanna have some fun with her first. I mean, an
opportunity like this don’t come along every…"
I leaned over and slugged him then, the barrel of my automatic
connecting squarely with his cheekbone. He fell backwards, and his
right hand started for his gun, but by that time I had my finger on
the trigger. I shook my head. "Don’t, T.C. I don’t care who your
uncle is. Don’t."
He held his hands up in front of him. The grin returned, but his
eyes weren’t smiling. "No problem, Jimmy. I had it comin’. It’s all
good, pardner. But, you know … we gotta take care of this, right?"
I nodded. "Right," I said. I looked down at the kid. "Let’s walk
over to your uncle, Jenna."
As the three of us walked, T.C. said in a low, dangerous voice
that I guessed he wanted to sound friendly: "You seem a little tense,
Jimmy. You want me to do her? I mean, I don’t mind."
"My fuck-up," I said. "I should have checked the place out. I’ll do
it."
"Whatever you say, Jimmy. You’re the boss."
We made it back over to Elias, but Jenna never looked at him.
She kept her eyes on me. T.C. stood a little back, to the left, his
expression one half hatred for me, one half anticipation for what
was about to happen. I’d only known him for a few days, but I’d
known guys like him all my life. For guys like him, it wasn’t just
business. For guys like him what they did - who they killed -
weren’t real. At least they weren’t real after they were finished
dying. Me - I remember every face. I always have. I always will.
Most of the time, it didn’t bother me.
"Turn around, Jenna," I said softly. She looked at me, her big
brown eyes showing no fear, and slowly turned until her back was
to me.
"You gonna make it a headshot, Jimmy?" asked T.C. The grin was
back. 
I nodded. "You betcha," I said. I raised the automatic in one quick
fluid motion, and pulled the trigger. The left side of T.C.’s face
disappeared in a spray of blood, bone and hair. He crumpled to the
ground in a heap. "Got him good, didn’t I, pardner." I said softly.
I worked quickly. I secured the safety on my automatic, and
rubbed it down using the tail of my shirt. When I finished, I spit on
it, then rubbed it down again.
"Can I turn around now?" asked Jenna.
"No. You stay just like you are, okay?"
"Okay."
I put the automatic into Elias’ hand, making sure not to touch it
with anything other than my shirttail, then carefully wrapped his
fingers around it. I considered putting his index finger inside the
trigger guard, but decided against it. There was maybe ten minutes
difference between when he and T.C. had died - not nearly enough
time for even the most painstaking coroner to notice. And T.C.
hadn’t gone for a headshot - plenty of time for a dying man to
loosen his grip on a gun.
At least, I hoped it was.
When I was finished, I knelt down behind Jenna, and put my
hands gently on her small shoulders. I expected her to flinch, or to
stiffen up, but she didn’t. "Listen to me," I said softly. "I want you to
close your eyes and count to 100, slowly. Can you do that for me?"
"Sure."
"And while you’re counting, I want you to remember something. I
want you to remember that the bad man…"
"T.C.?" she asked.
I sighed. "Yeah. I want you to remember that T.C. shot your
uncle, and that right after that, your uncle shot T.C. Can you do
that?"
"Sure," she said again.
"And I was never here."
She paused, then nodded once. "Okay, Jimmy."
I sighed again, but decided that it really didn’t matter much. I
leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "Start counting,
Jenna," I whispered softly.
Sixty-two thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money in the over all
scheme of things, but it’s a comforting amount just the same. I
cleared out of Philadelphia that night and took only what I could
pack in the largest suitcase I could find at Vinnie’s Pawn Shop on
Shunk street, and the briefcase Elias’d had with him. Thirty-five
stops at thirty-five different ATM machines during the next three
days has pretty well closed out my bank account and maxed out the
limit on my credit cards, but I haven’t had to touch the 62 G’s yet.
Almost three months, and I still have a nest egg. Those $1.99 
breakfast specials are heaven, and God bless the minimum wage.
Two weeks was the most I’d given any one place until just
recently. Part of it is paranoia, of course - although I’ve always
known how to listen, and the word is that there is a certain family
in Chicago who is willing to be VERY generous to anyone with
certain information about a certain yutz by the name of Jimmy
Crane. Wish I could cash in on it myself, actually. But a guy named
Dave Bowers, like me, never runs into the Jimmy Crane’s of the
world, darn the luck.
I’ve been in a Texas border town for the last month or so,
working in a car wash on the fake ID’s I picked up outside of DC,
and happily paying the 9% check cashing fee down at Manny’s Bail
Bonds. Nice place - good people - gonna miss them when I have
to go.
I drink at a bar called the El Dorado. I stay mostly to myself but
there’s a priest who comes in fairly often - Father Antoine. He’s
lonely, and depressed, and thinking about leaving the priesthood
because they moved him out of his native Brazil and stuck him in a
dipshit little Texas border town. He misses Brazil - and he misses
speaking his native language - Portuguese. He’s been teaching it to
me, and he’s amazed at how fast I’m picking it up. Another couple
of weeks, he says, and I’ll talk like a native.
Another couple of weeks, and I’ll have to - because a new man,
in a new country with a new name has just got to speak the
language if he wants to get anywhere. Even if he’s got about sixtytwo
thousand dollars to give him a stake.
I’ve kept up with news, of course - used the Internet at the
libraries in the towns I’ve stayed in, watched CNN. There was a
double homicide in a Philadelphia warehouse a few months back.
No big deal, except that it was witnessed by an 8-year-old girl.
Because of her age, they never showed her face, but the story goes
that she was there with her Uncle when a guy came in and shot
him. Her uncle then pulled a gun and shot him. Two dead men,
one little girl, that’s all she knows, end of story.
Me? I still see the faces of all the people I’ve killed. I always will.
But at the same time, I can see Jenna’s eyes - big and brown, and
still alive.
Maybe it won’t be so bad if I can keep on seeing them.