This story is a part of my U Pick the Story, I Write It contest. 
I was three steps out of the door of the Downtown Deli when I realized something wasn't right. It might have been the heft, or the wear on the handle, but the case in my hand, was not mine and I knew. Damn. I looked at my watch, 12:37.
The case looked the same,but there, on the top, in brass letters were the initials J D. Not mine. I sighed and turned back, catching my look in the glass. At forty, I was prematurely bald, short and my nose was nothing short of a monument. I sighed again.
The deli was empty. Great. Worse than that, whoever this case belonged to had apparently, taken mine. Well, my day was a waste without my tablet and the documents in my briefcase, there was nothing to do but sort this out.
I went to the counter.
"Hey, Saul, recognize this case?" There were certain advantages to living in the same neighborhood all your life. Everyone here knew who I was.
"Yeah, but who are you?" Saul said.
"Morty, Morty Simon, you were at my bar mitzah Saul, we known each other since dayschool," I smiled.
Not a hint of recognition. I sighed again.
"Right, you got shorter or something? Anyway, that case belongs to a real prick, refuses to pay about twice a week, but he brings in his customers and buys a truckload of salami at Christmas, so what are you gonna do, right?" Saul said.
"Uh, right," I said. "So, the case? You want to just hold it for him? Sounds like he's a regular."
"Heh, yeah, right," Saul said. "No thanks, but his number's in the fishbowl."
I looked to the end of the counter where a huge fishbowl stood, filled to the brim with slips of paper with names and phone numbers.
"Leave your number, win free lunch on us," the sign on the bowl read, but I knew for a fact there were business cards in there from 1996, mine.
"Uh, so..." I looked at Saul.
"Dump 'em out, names Hickman or somethin. What? I gotta hold your hand? I got roast beef to finish," Saul said. He disappeared into the kitchen.
I thought about it. There was no way around it. I needed my case back, and I couldn't trust that would happen, unless I did this. So, I tipped the bowl and started digging.
"Yeah, I found a briefcase at the Downtown deli, might be yours?" click.
Seventy-two calls later.
"Nope, wasn't there today, oh wait, what did you say Pauly?" the voice on the other end said.
A voice from the room at the other end said, "Got brass initials?"
"Hey, pal, that case, brass initials?" the guy on the phone asked.
"Uh, yeah, JD," I said.
"He says yeah, JD," the phone guy said.
"Oh, yeah, that's the Hitman's case," the guy in the room said.
"What?" I said. My throat closed.
For most people this might be absurd. Most people wouldn't think twice about a nickname like this, but here's the thing.
Seventh grade, Mabel Reesus was going through a "psychic" phase. She'd guessed 9 out of 10 outcomes at tetherball on the same day, and predicted the day of Mrs. Robert's pop quiz. Anything she said was pretty much a lock. So she took to holding court at lunch time.
"What do you want?" she asked me.
"Uh, people say you see the future," I said.
She rolled her eyes,"You were there Mort, you know I can."
"Right, well, so how about mine?" I asked.
I was hoping to get some intel on the Spring dance, or maybe if Lydia Kramer would be interested in a summer romance.
"Lunch money, or candy, that's my price," she said.
I handed over two bags of Reese's Pieces, her all time favorite. She smiled.
"Oh, for this, Mort, I'll tell you the one thing everyone wants to know," she said.
I couldn't wait. "Yeah, great, what is it?"
"I can see how you're going to die, Mort," she said.
I swallowed hard. I'd been expecting something a little on the lighter side, and I told her so. "Look, Mabel, I appreciate it, but I'd rather just know about my luck with girls this year, maybe?"
Mabel laughed cruelly. Then just sighed happily. She was enjoying this. She closed her eyes, then her face got serious. When she opened them, her eyes narrowed. I could hardly breathe.
"Oh, Mort, this is bad," she said.
I waited.
"Did you see something? What was it? Is it soon?"
"No, but it's weird, Mort. You're going to be killed by a hitman," she said. She picked up her candy and left.
Out of our seventh grade class, Mabel had predicted half of the first careers, and over a dozen marriages, before she moved on to her avant garde artist phase. I swallowed hard.
"Did you just say hitman?" I asked.
The guy on the phone laughed, "Yeah, don't worry about it, just get that case here and everything's fine. But, it's got to be today. The data in that case is essential to us fulfilling our contracts for this week. I cannot stress this enough, the targets in that case have got to be hit this week. So, can you get it here?"
"Uh, sure, where is here?" I asked.
"Hey, Pauly, what's the address here?" the guy on the phone asked.
"2345 West Valley Blvd. Tell him to park at the corner and honk his horn, the parking lot's all torn up," the guy in the room said.
"Got that?" the guy on the phone asked.
"Uh, yeah, did he say 2345 West Valley?" I said.
The guy hung up.
I looked at the address. It wasn't too far.
Saul hadn't come back from the kitchen yet. I put the numbers back in the fishbowl, except the one I'd written the address on, and picked up the case. I turned for the door.
"Hey, that the hitman's case?" a guy in a corner booth, wearing dark glasses asked.
I nodded.
He scoffed. "Good luck buddy," he said.
Great. Apparently everybody knew this guy but me.
I crossed the tracks and drove south toward the warehouse district the address was in. It took a minute to find the address, finally, I saw a small red awning, "Magical Moonlight 2345" it said in silver, glittery letters.
I drove past, to the corner, parked my car and honked.
Nothing.
I checked my watch, waited five minutes, then honked again, this time I held it down for a good five seconds. A head poked out of the door under the awning. The guy was huge, and bald, in a black suit. Perfect.
He glared at me then went back in. I waited. Finally, I decided to take my chances, grabbed the case and walked up to the door.
I knocked, the door was pulled violently open, the large man in the suit grabbed my arm and dragged me in.
"You're the idiot on the corner honking." he said.
"Uh, yeah, guilty as charged," I said.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
I looked around. Even with my limited experience, it took about three seconds to realize I'd walked into a strip club.
"Nobody, I came to deliver this case," I said.
"Boss doesn't like to be disturbed after hours, you can leave it on the bar," the man said.
I smiled, "Well, there's been a bit of a mixup, actually, this case belongs to uh, "the hitman" and I think he's got mine."
A short thin man appeared from behind a velvet curtain near the door, blocking my exit.
"Who sent you?" the big man repeated the question.
"Look, if you can just get this hitman, or JD, or whatever, I'm sure we can straighten this out," I said.
When I came too, I couldn't see a thing. I tried to move, but my wrists were tied down. My ankles too. When I breathed in, fabric gathered against my nose and I could feel something shoved into my mouth and tied at the back of my neck.
I let it sink in, I was gagged and tied to a chair, in some seedy dive, by a guy who called himself the hitman. Mabel Reesus had missed her calling when she went into real estate.
A catalog of facts from every action movie I'd ever seen played through my head. There was no point in screaming, there never was. If I struggled, I'd probably only hurt myself. Then I hit upon one that gave me a little hope.
They never put a bag or blindfold on the guy, if they were going to kill him. Maybe Mabel didn't know everything.
"So, you're awake?" This voice was different than the big guy, but no less threatening."Tell me what's in the case?"
A big hand pulled the bag over my head up far enough to remove the gag. I coughed.
"I don't know," I said.
I heard a throat clear, then the new voice was back. "Think carefully, Mr. Simon, you met my little friend Creeper out front. He likes to break fingers, and if you can't tell me, I'll be forced to let him."
I felt a big hand take my right pinky and lift it painfully.
"No! Wait, wait, contracts, they said contracts, hit targets, for this week," I said. "That's all I know!"
"I hope you're telling the truth, because my friend here is going to open that case, and I would hate for it to be anything that might hurt him," the new voice said.
I heard footsteps. It sounded like the smaller guy had left the room. Then I heard the case dragged along the floor, and the catches clicking. Creeper grunted, thoughtfully.
"Boss, what is this crap?" He asked.
The footsteps returned. I heard papers shuffling.
"Is this a joke? What is this stuff? I thought you said you were with the hitman? What are these, insurance contracts?"
The hood came off and I was face to face with the smaller guy. He was swarthy and smelled like tequilla. There was a bead of sweat on his upper lip.
"If he wants to toy with me, friend, you tell him we're ready!" the man said.
"Look, I don't understand any of this, I just called down here to return this case and get mine, they were switched at the deli. I called this morning, someone gave me this address, said park at the corner, it was urgent. That's all I know, man!" I said.
The little man looked confused.
"Did you get any calls Jamie?" he asked the big man. His voice had gone up a full octave. A slight lisp came into his voice and he put one hand on his hip.
"No, phone hasn't rung all morning. I thought you knew who he was," Creeper, or Jamie, whoever he was said, shrugging.
"Oh, dear, sweetie, there's been a mistake. I thought a business associate of mine had sent you to kill us," the little man said. "Jamie, untie him. I'm so sorry. Here, drink this."
The man offered a shot glass. I slugged it down, and coughed. Jamie untied my feet.
"So, you're not going to kill me?" I said. My hand trembled as I handed the shot glass back.
"What number did you call darling? You're kind of cute, by the way," the man said. "I'm Armando, and this is my nightclub. A little dancing, a little drag, you should stop by when we're open some time. You'd be very popular."
"Oh, uh, thanks," I said, searching my pockets. "I had the number with the address."
"This it?" Jamie produced the paper.
"Yeah," I said.
Armando took the slip.
"Oh, well, there's your mistake, wrong number, how did you end up here, though?" he asked.
"They gave me the address," I said.
Armando punched the number into his phone. He turned on the speakerphone.
"You've reached Hoffkiller Insurance, all associates are busy helping other customers. Please stay on the line for the next available associate, or press two to leave a callback number, or three for the company directory. If you know your party's extension, you can enter it at any time. Office hours are Monday through Friday, 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. and 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturdays, our offices are closed on Sundays. Rather conduct your business in person? Walk-ins are welcome. Come to our offices at 2345 East Valley Boulevard. Thank you for calling."
Armando smiled.
I laughed. Hysterically. And had three more shots with my new friends.
The Uber driver pulled up to Hoffkiller insurance and I asked him to wait. Armando had insisted on paying for the car and delivering mine to my office that afternoon, after a full detail, for my trouble.
Hoffkiller insurance smelled like desperation and sweat. The lobby was surrounded by little glass boxes, behind which, balding men paced, speaking in salesy tones into telephone headsets.
JD turned out to be a skinny, poor man's Tom Cruise, with a ridiculously square jaw and a million dollar smile. He didn't seem so bad to me.
"Oh, wow, thanks! Without this, we'd have blown our sales targets for this week. I cannot believe I left it. Thanks for bringing it, here's yours. I can't believe that happened, I'm so sorry," he said. "When you've got time, stop by and let me make it up to you, go over your current insurance and see where we can make you some money, huh?"
And with that, he was gone.
I walked out into the sunlight, to the sound of jackhammers. The parking lot along the side of the building was getting resurfaced, and there, parked neatly at the curb in front of my Uber was a sky blue Prius. The license plate had been customized to read "HITMAN".
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