A Hitman Walks Into a Bar ...: Book Two of The Castle Chronicles

By Michael S. Vassel

Sometimes a simple question can lead to the darkest of places.

After announcing his retirement to his friends at a local bar, Mike is unexpectedly left to celebrate alone. As boredom sets in, he notices the bar's only other patron – a man in a grey suit sitting at the other end of the room.

Taking a seat next to the stranger, Mike introduces himself in hopes of striking up a conversation. As their dialog ensues, Mike asks a seemingly harmless question.

"So, my friend, what do you do for a living?"

Mark Castle, the dark figure beside him, gives a hint of a smile as he replies, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Intrigued by this answer, Mike persists. Eventually Mark gives in. "Well, if you must know, I'm a hitman … and for the price of a beer or two, I'll tell you my story."

Fascinated and wanting to know more, Mike agrees to this deal. The question is, will the story be worth it … or will the telling of the tale be more than he's bargained for?

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It's now 1983, more than three years after the fateful night in which Mark lost his friends … and most of the powers he called his gift.

Having graduated from high school the year before, Mark knows he wants to go on to college. But he also knows he can't afford it.

"Join the Army," a friend suggests. "They're giving me enough for a four-year degree! I'm sure you can get a similar deal!"

With lack of a better answer, Mark acquiesces, and is soon on his way to becoming an infantryman. But, upon reaching the halfway point of his training, he's approached by an officer bearing an unusual offer.

"How would you like to come work for me?" the Lieutenant Colonel asks.

A wide-eyed Mark thinks for a moment before he responds, "What would the job entail?"

"Unfortunately, because of the nature of the assignment, I can't tell you about it unless you agree to take it," the Colonel states. "The only thing I can tell you is that, with your skills, you are uniquely qualified."

Should Mark take this enigmatic job? What assignment could he be uniquely suited for? And, more importantly, if he agrees to the Colonel's offer, where will this mysterious job lead him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098300265

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© 2020 by Michael S. Vassel. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover art and design: Dan Pimental

ISBN: 978-1-09830-025-8 (Print)

ISBN: 978-1-09830-026-5 (eBook)

For all my friends and extended family … you know who you are.

Special thanks to The Dark Room, their staff, and clientele.

It’s been a wild ride so far! Can’t wait to see what the next hill brings.

Cheers, all!!

Contents

Prologue 2011

Chapter 1 1983

Chapter 2 2011

Chapter 3 1984 Part I

Chapter 4 2011

Chapter 5 1984 Part II

Chapter 6 2011

Chapter 7 1985 Part I

Chapter 8 2011

Chapter 9 1985 Part II

Chapter 10 2011

Chapter 11 1985 Part III

Chapter 12 2011

Chapter 13 1986 Part I

Chapter 14 2011

Chapter 15 1986 Part II

Chapter 16 2011

Chapter 17 1986 Part III

Chapter 18 2011

Chapter 19 1986 Part IV

Chapter 20 2011

Chapter 21 1986 Part V

Chapter 22 2011

Chapter 23 1986 Part VI

Chapter 24 2011

Chapter 25 2011 – The Day After

Epilogue 2011

Prologue

2011

Drinks are on ME! I announce as I walk through the doorway of my favorite bar.

Andie, the afternoon bartender, sees me. Her face instantly alights.

Mike! she calls out, making the others turn. There’s a cascade of greetings as the bar’s other patrons drunkenly recognize me.

As I walk by my fellow drinkers, I give each of them a hug, high five, or nod.

How’s it going? Mike B. asks as I land in the seat next to him.

Not bad! I say, grinning. Not bad in the very least!

He notices my enthusiasm. Oh yeah? Anything new?

Yes, as a matter of fact! I say, turning to him. As it happens, I just came into some money.

I see Andie’s delivering a drink to Dan, one of the other frequent fliers. When she finishes, I wave her over. She walks towards me, then leans over the bar to give me a hug. How are you doing today, lovely? Shouldn’t you be at work?

Nah! I just quit my job, I say, flashing my famous shit-eating grin.

No kidding? Did you get a new one?

Nope. I am o-fficially retired! I proclaim, loud enough for the entire bar to hear.

Andie looks at me and narrows her eyes. Wait … I thought you told me a couple weeks ago that you had a few years to go. Like, maybe twelve, if memory serves?

I did. Then Vegas happened.

Seriously? Mike B. chimes in looking at me wide-eyed.

Yep. I now have enough money to call it quits for good.

They both look at me, astonished. I smile at Andie. So, how about them drinks?

Oh, you were serious about that?

I was, I say.

She shrugs then turns to get drink orders from my fellow patrons. She’s no more than two steps away when she turns back. "Does that go for everyone in the bar?"

I give her a nod. She raises her eyebrows, then nonchalantly gestures to a guy at the end of the bar. I look around her and see a gentleman in a gray suit sitting about a dozen bar stools away.

After contemplating for a few seconds, I shrug. Eh, why the hell not.

Andie gives me a smile then leaves to collect drink orders.

A few minutes later, when all my fellow patrons have drinks in their hands, I rise and hold up my beverage. Cheers all!

Cheers! echoes through the bar as they return my salute.

I watch on as the other seat-warmers down their drinks. The current attendees are Dan and Mike B. who are sitting to my right and left, and Rick and Dave just a few stools away. Lastly there’s the guy in the gray suit who, upon seeing my gesture, gives me a nod and downs his shot.

When all have finished with their glasses, Andie walks down the length of the bar and collects all the empties. After dropping them at the sink, she walks over and asks, What else can I get you?

I’ll take my usual … Vodka and diet, please.

No sooner do these words leave my mouth, Mike B. barks, Oh shit! We better go!

Why? What’s up? I ask, turning towards him.

"The four of us have tickets to the Indians game … and it starts in half an hour!"

He downs his beer then pushes his glass and a $20 bill forward. Dan, Rick, and Dave all do the same. In unison they stand and make towards the exit.

I raise an eyebrow at the four. Seriously? It’s only 12:30! You guys can’t stay for at least one more?

Can’t, man! It’s a one o’clock game. We gotta fly if we want to see the first pitch, Dan says as he waves to Andie. A moment later he’s scooted out the door.

After all four are gone, I turn toward Andie and purse my lips. Well, fuck.

She just looks at me and shrugs.

Sorry, love, she utters, then walks towards the opposite end of the bar.

Disappointed, I grab my drink, take a swig, and turn my attention toward the television mounted above the bar. A horror flick I’ve never seen before is playing, so I shrug to myself and start getting engrossed.

The minute I start really getting into the drama, Andie walks in front of me and turns the channel, putting on a baseball game.

Andie, what gives? I say, looking at her stunned.

Turning, she unfolds her arms and shows me her shirt. It’s an Indians tee. Then, if that wasn’t enough, she cocks her head and looks at me with disapproval.

Alright, alright. I get the hint, I say, throwing up my hands in surrender. She gives me a smirk, then walks to one of the other TVs to change it.

Although the Indians are doing much better this year – at least better than the last two – I still can’t bring myself to really care about the sport. But, being a Clevelander through and through, one must do their part to support the home teams, I guess.

I watch for a moment or two, then decide to see what my cell phone has to offer. Activating it, I open a news app. As the page loads, I look up and notice that the only other customer in the bar is mirroring me. The gray-suited man is hunting and pecking on his phone, as if searching for something.

He must feel my eyes on him because, within a second or two, he places his phone down on the counter and looks directly at me. Making involuntary eye contact, I instantly feel awkward. Not knowing what else to do, I pick up my glass and gesture to him.

Gray-suit, upon seeing this, reaches down, grabs his own and politely returns my salute. After both taking a drink, we look away and pretend to mind our own business.

Over the next five to ten minutes, I pretend to watch the baseball game as I watch the stranger out of the corner of my eye. Every thirty seconds or so he picks up his phone, briefly glances at the screen, then puts it back down in front of him.

Seeing this happen maybe ten times, I figure he must be bored. So, being the social type – and a little bored myself – I decide to strike up a conversation with the man.

Waiting on a call?

The stranger, suddenly realizing I’m talking to him, looks over at me and blinks. How’s that?

Waiting on a call? I repeat. This time I hold up my own phone and waggle it.

Oh, the stranger says, and then pauses for a moment as if he’s trying to finish a thought running through his mind. Finally, he returns, Yeah. Sort of.

Sort of?

He waggles his phone at me. I’m waiting on a text.

I smirk. Must be an important text for the number of times you’ve looked at your it.

Eh. Not really, he returns. Just something work related.

I look at Andie. She’s diligently cleaning the beer cooler and ignoring our conversation. Shrugging, I pick up my drink, stand, and walk towards the stranger. As I approach, I give him the old once-over to see what I’m getting myself into.

Gray-suit looks to be in his late forties – roughly the same age as me – with dark brown hair and glasses. Although his suit is well fitted, it doesn’t appear to be an expensive one. The same goes for the shoes – nice, but not too expensive, if you know what I mean.

I know all this inspection might seem a little weird, but there’s actually a method to my madness. It all comes down to understanding someone. Are they a neat and tidy person? Are they a slob? Do they have money? What kind of job do they have?

All this goes into being able to read a person so you can converse with them on their level. And – not to pat myself on the back too hard – I’ve always considered myself an expert in this field.

When I’m within ten feet of the stranger, he notices my approach and looks up at me. I continue over and stop at the chair two seats from his. Placing my free hand on the seat, I give him a questioning look. Mind if I sit?

The gentleman shrugs and, in a welcoming gesture, picks up his cell phone and moves it to give me room. Placing my Vodka and diet on the bar, I pull out the chair and sit.

We both sit there silent for a minute or two later, both watching the game and our phones. Eventually I decide to be the ice breaker. Leaning over, I stick out my hand and introduce myself. My name’s Mike Shaeffer.

The gentleman, who’s been focusing on the television, looks towards me and briefly takes my hand. Mine’s Mark.

It’s nice to meet you, Mark, I say as the stranger turns back to look at his cell phone. I wait until he places it back down before I announce, I’m ready for another round … how about you?

Mark looks at his glass, which is almost empty, then back to me. Why, are you buying?

I am, I say with a smile.

After considering my offer Mark shrugs his shoulders. Oh sure … why not.

I wave to Andie to get her attention. The moment she sees me I hold up two fingers. Less than a minute later she drops off drinks for us.

Thank you, my dear, I say, batting my lashes.

Sure thing, love, she replies, then retreats to add the two drinks to my tab.

Mark and I hold up our glasses in salutations, then both take healthy swigs of the fresh liquids. I wait a minute for the inebriating solution to make its way down my gullet before I ask, So, is this your first time here?

Mark, having swapped his glass for cellphone, gives me a casual, Yes.

I stare at him for a moment, but it seems like he doesn’t want to engage. Figuring he’s not much of a talker, I decide to look at my own phone.

I spend a couple minutes looking at Facebook, checking out what my sister and the nieces are up to before I look back toward Mark. Mark has since put down his phone and is now watching the Indians game again.

So, what do you think of the bar? I ask, breaking the silence.

As if awoken from a daze, he looks at me. What’s that?

What do you think of the bar? I repeat as I motion toward the walls.

Oh, he says, then seriously looks around the room for what appears to be the first time.

The Dark Room is what one would call a theme bar. As the name suggests, the venue is a salute to the movies. The bar is dimly lit with black lights to give it a movie theater feel and is filled with Horror movie posters and memorabilia – a tribute to the bygone era. In addition, horror and sci-fi movies play on the three screens mounted above the bar, as heavy metal blares on the jukebox.

Although it has the aspects of a house of horror, it is anything but that to me. To me, it’s the representation of my ideal man-cave, a man-cave filled with entertainment, alcohol, and friendly people that I consider family.

Mark returns his eyes to me and nods. It’s interesting.

"Yeah, it’s kind of like a heavy metal Cheers … or at least that’s what I’ve always called it," I say, referencing the eighties sit-com.

I can see that, Mark says, then turns his attention back to his phone.

I wait a few seconds for Mark to finish and look up before I ask, So, are you from around here?

Mark returns a simple, but polite, No.

Oh, no?

No, he repeats.

I wait a moment, hoping he’ll offer up more. Feeling he’s not going to, I prod, Well, can I ask where you’re from?

Mark glares at me as if pondering what to say. His face then changes, and he gives me a smirk. From out of town.

Although he’s trying to be funny, I can sense he feels uneasy about my question. It’s like he’s embarrassed to tell me where he’s from, or something. Seeing this, I give a light laugh and say, I guessed that. Well, if I might ask, what brings you to this neck of the woods?

Mark picks up his drink and, after taking a swig, replies, Just seeing the sights, I guess.

Oh, is it your first time in Cleveland?

No. I used to live here years ago, actually.

I brighten at this. Oh yeah? Where abouts?

Westlake.

Oh, Westsider huh?

I used to be.

Me too, I say, taking the last gulp from my pint glass. Putting the empty down, I say, I grew up in Lakewood.

Mark nods at this trivia but then turns back to his phone. I don’t let that dissuade me.

Did you graduate from Westlake, then?

Eh … I’d rather not talk about my childhood, he utters. I know I’ve touched on a sensitive subject.

Oh, sorry, I say apologetically.

No need to be, Mark gives me a nod.

I stare at him for a moment or two as he scrolls. Eventually he places his phone back on the bar and turns slightly towards me. I can tell he wants to talk, but there’s something holding him back. I decide to press on.

So, are you on vacation?

Sort of … He starts but then trails off.

Well, can I ask? On vacation from what?

Mark finishes his drink as he’s thinking of a response. I know, of course, some people just don’t like to talk about what they do to earn a buck. Some may not like to say Hey, I’m a garbage man or I’m a mortician, but I try to never judge. To me, a buck is a buck is a buck. That, and I always love a good work-related story.

I finally see a notion and a small smirk appear on Mark’s face. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

I narrow my eyes and cock my head a little, knowing I’ve heard of some pretty interesting jobs in my time. To me, this sounds like it’s an invitation to a doozy.

Smiling I say, Try me.

His face changes again, and I see what I think is a devilish look in his eye.

Ah, what the hell. I’m always a little sentimental when I come back to Cleveland. So, I’ll tell you on one condition.

This is a new approach for me. It almost has the feel of a knight throwing down his gauntlet on the field. I ponder this concept for a bit, wondering what such a game entails, and – more importantly – what the rules could be. Regardless, at this point, I know I have to find out.

Dropping my hands to my knees, I lean forward and grin. Okay, what condition?

Suddenly, Mark’s smile drops, and his face turns serious as he lays out the rules. If you buy me another round … maybe two … I’ll tell you my story.

I raise an eyebrow. Your occupation comes with a story?

It does, he admits.

After thinking about this for a minute. Knowing I have money to spare and curiosity well seated in my mind, I accept the offer.

Deal, I say, then wave to Andie to bring another round. After confirming that these, too, will be on my tab, she fills my request. A minute later she’s back placing glasses in front of us.

Looking from the beer to Mark, I say, Okay … spill.

He waits for Andie to make her way to the cash register before he looks at me and offers up, Well, if you must know, I’m a hitman.

Thinking I must’ve heard him wrong, I lean in. Come again?

I’m a hitman, Mark repeats then looks at me coldly.

Ordinarily I’d laugh at a confession like this, thinking it was a false statement or a lead-in to a job he didn’t really want to talk about. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s a ruse to get me to buy him yet another beer. Yet there’s something in his eyes that tells me this isn’t a joke. Something about his demeanor is telling me he wholeheartedly, one-hundred percent, believes the statement he made is the truth.

I sit back and ponder this declaration for a moment. After all, hitman can mean so many things. He could be an Exterminator. Technically, they are hitmen. People hired to kill undesired rodents. Or, maybe he could mean he’s someone that euthanizes animals. Hell, one of my high school friends did that for a living for a while, so I know it’s possible. He could also mean he works for a firm hired to fire employees. I think there’ve been several movies dedicated to this premise – Office Space being the most prominent in my mind. Whichever of those this might be, though, I believe it is certainly worth his price for admission.

Pursing my lips, I ask, What do you mean by hitman?

I mean exactly what I said, he states. I am the person one hires to take life. A person that removes problems of the corporeal kind, you might say.

"So, what you’re saying is, you murder people … for money?" I ask, trying to wrap my head around this.

I wouldn’t quite say murder, Mark says. "After all, the Bible says ‘You shall not murder.’ No, a better way of saying it is I kill people who have murdered."

Is there a difference?

He nods.

I only kill those who have killed others out of malice. An eye for an eye, and all that, Mark says as he stares deep into my eyes.

His statement – his declaration – gives me an uneasy feeling. I suddenly feel like this has now become a game of poker. Is he bluffing me? Are the cards he’s holding face cards, or are they deuces?

Part of me – the sensible part of me – knows this is all hogwash. I mean, a hitman just doesn’t walk into a bar like some normal guy. But another part of me – something from my deepest dreams – wants to believe him. I want to take him at his word.

So, are you saying you work for the mafia, or maybe the government?

Not anymore, Mark confesses and then pauses to take a swig of his beer. At the moment, I work for … let’s say … private investors.

"What do you mean by private investors?"

Well, people sometimes contact me. Or, other times, work just finds its way to me, he replies. "I try to help those who can’t help themselves legally."

So, you’re kind of like a vigilante then?

Mark sits back and smirks as he pondered this label. Yeah, I guess you could say that. I’ve never really thought of myself in that context before. I’m just a guy that likes to do the right thing.

Hear hear, I say as I raise my glass to the admitted assassin. He in turn raises his, and this time we clink them together before drinking.

We momentarily turn our attention toward the door when a new patron walks into the bar. As the door closes, and the bright light of the day’s sun fades behind it, I see it’s Phil, another one of the bar’s regulars. After a nod in my direction, he walks to the middle of the counter, talks to Andie briefly, and then sits to start the assault on his liver.

Turning my attention back to Mark, a thought dawns on me. Okay, so … say I believe you, and I take you at your word. How exactly does one come to be a hitman?

He sits back and purses his lips, contemplating before he answers. Well, I guess it depends, really. Some people come into it through family ties. Some people come into it by sheer chance. And then there are those that come into it purely by destiny. I’d guess I’d say I’m the latter.

I look at him questioning. Destiny? You’re saying your destiny was to be a hitman?

Mark tilts his head, then nods. I believe so … yes.

I think about this for a moment, then say, I’m not sure I’m a believer in destiny. I believe a man makes his own fate. A man chooses and takes his future.

Mark grins, almost as if I’ve said something funny. He reflects on this for a minute, long enough to take another healthy gulp of his beer. He then says, Well, how about I tell you my tale, and you can be the judge?

I tilt my head, then nod. Alright. I’m game.

Alright then, Mark says as he presents an evil grin. He then points to his glass. Round two, then I start the tale.

Fair enough, I say, ready for another myself. Placing my glass on the bar, I push it forward and signal for Andie to bring us two more. A minute later, fresh drinks sit in front of us as I anxiously wait for his story to unfold.

Mark takes a drink, sets down his glass, then starts by saying, Well, it actually began right here in Cleveland, many years ago …

Chapter 1

1983

… and it all started with my dad.

After graduating from Westlake High, I tried to decide what I should do with my life. I knew, from classes I’d taken in high school, I loved math and drawing. But, like most kids at the age of eighteen, I didn’t know which career was the best suited for me. So, at the end of my senior year, I took some time off to consider my options.

I spent a good portion of the year that followed just hanging out with friends, playing video games, and dating different women while I considered my future. Besides having fun – a shit ton of fun, I might add – I worked full time at a fast food restaurant so I could pay for my indulgences. It also allowed me to throw a few bucks my mom’s way so I didn’t feel like a complete freeloader.

It wasn’t until late in 1983 that I finally made a decision about my future. A decision that started with a metaphorical itch in my feet; my insides telling me I needed to move on and do something with my life. One day, near the end of fall, I approached Mom with the idea of higher learning.

Well, you could always try community college, she said as we sat watching the new lineup on NBC. If you attend a local school, you’d get a feel for college, and it would cost a lot less.

I could sense right away what she really meant. Since buying the house, Mom was strapped for cash and didn’t have a dime to spare to float my way. Even without considering tuition, it would take a sizable chunk of what I was putting toward bills to even manage books and all the other things I’d have to pay for.

Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. Mom, any chance Dad would help me pay for it?

I don’t know, Honey. But you could always ask him, she remarked. I could tell there was some apprehension in saying this. Even without her tone as a clue, I knew it’d be a longshot. After my parents got divorced, there were many months that Dad delayed paying the court ordered child support because he said he couldn’t afford it.

Then again, I also knew Mom was being straight up with me. If she didn’t think I had a shot at getting money from Dad, she would’ve told me upfront. So, having what I figured was a nod of approval from her, I called my dad the next day to see if he could lend a hand.

"I would if I could, Mark, but I’m barely making ends