Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All Read Free Page B

guest was required to pay a week up front. At the regular price.
    â€œUp front? But that’s the last of my money.”
    â€œThen it’s extra important it doesn’t go astray. I could whip up a prayer for you, absolutely free of charge, and maybe it will all work out,” said the receptionist.
    At that instant, a man with a leather jacket, sunglasses, and stubble appeared. He looked like a parody of the gangster he presumably was, and skipped the greeting to ask where he could find Johan Andersson.
    The receptionist stood up straighter and replied that who was or was not staying at the Sea Point Hotel was not information he could share with just anyone. Here it was considered a duty of honor to protect the guests’ identities.
    â€œAnswer the question before I shoot your dick off,” said the man in the leather jacket. “Where’s Hitman Anders?”
    â€œRoom seven,” said Per Persson.
    The menace vanished into the hallway. The priest watched him go and wondered if there was about to be trouble. Did the receptionist think there was anything she could do to help, as a priest?
    Per Persson thought nothing of the sort, but he didn’t have time to say so before the man in the leather jacket was back.
    â€œThe hitman is out cold on his bed. I know how he can be—it’s best if he’s allowed to stay like that for the time being. Take this envelope and give it to him when he wakes up. Tell him the count says hello.”
    â€œThat’s it?” said Per Persson.
    â€œYes. No, tell him there’s five thousand in the envelope, not ten thousand, since he only did half the job.”
    The man in the leather jacket went on his way. Five thousand? Five thousand that apparently ought to have been ten. And now it was up to the receptionist to explain the deficit to Sweden’s potentially most dangerous person. Unless he delegated the task to the priest, who had just offered her services.
    â€œHitman Anders,” she said. “So he really exists. That wasn’t just something you made up?”
    â€œA lost soul,” said the receptionist. “Extremely lost, in fact.”
    To his surprise, the priest inquired whether this extremely lost soul was so lost that it would be morally sound for a priest and a receptionist to borrow a thousand kronor from him in order to eat their fill at some pleasant establishment nearby.
    Per Persson asked what kind of priest she was if she was capable of coming up with such a suggestion, but he admitted that the idea was tempting. Though there was, of course, a reason Hitman Anders was called Hitman Anders. Or three, if the receptionist remembered correctly: an axe in a back, shotgun pellets to a face, and a cut throat.
    The question of whether or not it was a good idea to borrow money secretly from a hitman was interrupted: the hitman in question had awakened and was now shuffling down the hallway towards them, his hair mussed.
    â€œI’m thirsty,” he said. “I’m getting a payment delivered today, but it hasn’t arrived yet and I have no money for beer. Or food. Can I borrow two hundred kronor from your till?”
    This was a question, and yet it wasn’t. Hitman Anders was counting on getting his hands on two hundred-krona bills at once.
    But the priest took half a step forward. “Good afternoon,” she said. “My name is Johanna Kjellander and I am a former parish priest, now just a priest at large.”
    â€œPriests are all a bunch of crap,” said Hitman Anders, without glancing at her. The art of conversation was in no way his forte. He continued to address the receptionist. “So, can I have some money?”
    â€œI can’t quite agree with you on that,” said Johanna Kjellander. “Certainly there are a few strays here and there, even in our line of work, and unfortunately I happen to be one of them. I would be happy to discuss that sort of thing with you, Mr. .