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Herschel Cozine has published extensively in the children’s field. His stories and poems have appeared in many of the national children’s magazines. Work by Herschel has also appeared in Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazines and Woman’s World. Additionally, he has had many stories appear in Orchard Press Mysteries, as well as Shots, HandHeldCrime, Great Mystery and Suspense, and others. Retired from a career in electronics, he has resumed his writing career after an extended hiatus. Herschel lives with his wife, Sue, in Santa Rosa, California, close to his children and grandchildren.

On The House by Herschel Cozine

The door of Room 201 slammed hard, waking Joe from a semi-sleep. He swore softly, turned over in the hard bed and fluffed the pillow. He had purposely chosen an upscale motel in order to have a quiet place to stay. He needed a good night's sleep; it was essential if he were to do the job he was here to do.

Maybe the slamming door would be the end of it. Even in the best of motels the doors aren't designed to shut noiselessly. He hated this part of his job. The hassles and inconveniences of travel. Strange beds in strange rooms. Time zone changes and meals at all hours of the day and night. And, of course, the isolation. He worked alone. It was essential. But he knew when he went into this line of work that it wouldn't be a walk in the park. And it had its perks. He settled into the pillow and closed his eyes.

He had just started to drift off when voices, loud and frenzied, reached him through the thin walls. Joe swore again, sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Noisy neighbors, the bane of a traveler's existence. Something had to be done to nip this in the bud. And, Joe knew, management could not be relied upon to help. They would come up, talk to the offenders in civilized tones, then leave. Nothing would change. Besides, Joe did not want to call attention to himself. He preferred anonymity. In fact, it was a requirement. He would have to handle this himself.

Dressed only in briefs and a tee shirt, his usual nighttime attire, Joe was in no condition to go into the hall. He walked over to the wall and pounded on it.

"Keep it down in there!" he shouted.

They probably couldn't hear him over their own noise. And, if Joe was any judge of character, they wouldn't pay any attention to him even if they could hear him.

He went back to the bed and sat down. Listening carefully, he could distinguish three voices. Two male and one female.

Joe took his pants from the chair by the bed and drew them on. He didn't bother with shirt or shoes. He brushed the hair from his eyes, opened the door and stepped out into the hall.

The corridor was deserted. It was 11:30 and most of the guests were sleeping or, in his case, trying to sleep.

He knocked on the door of room 201. The voices, still loud, did not stop. No one came to the door.

Joe knocked again, louder.

Still no answer. Joe balled his hand into a fist and beat on the door with his knuckles. There was no doubt that they heard it. Joe stood back and waited.

The voices stopped. A few seconds later the door opened to reveal the head and shoulders of a young man with long stringy hair and several pieces of jewelry protruding from his nose and ears. He smiled brightly when he saw Joe.

"I'm in room 203," Joe said. "It's 11:30 and I'm trying to sleep. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep the noise down."

The young man's smile broadened. "I'm so sorry," he said in a voice that showed no trace of apology. He turned away from Joe and shouted into the room. "This gentleman is trying to sleep. We have to be quiet."

Turning back to Joe, his smile still in evidence, he gave a quick wink. "Sorry to have disturbed you. Good night."

Before Joe could say anything the door closed. He stood in front of it for a few seconds, waiting. Except for the low murmur of voices that wouldn't be heard from his room, it was quiet. For the moment.

Joe returned to his room and sat on the bed. He waited, still clothed, for the noise to start up in the next room. He was certain it would. A polite request would have no effect. Inconsiderate people seem to enjoy annoying others. It must give them a feeling of power or something. And, of course, they get attention.

A clatter, like a dish falling on the floor, reached him through the walls. This was followed closely by the sound of laughter, growing louder. Someone shouted, but Joe couldn't make out what was said.

Sighing, Joe stood up and returned to the door of Room 201. He pounded on the door with his fist.

The same man who had answered before opened the door a crack and peered out. Joe shoved his face against the crack. "I asked you politely to keep the noise down. Now I'm telling you. Keep it quiet or I'll make you wish you did."

Another head, lacking the jewelry, but more menacing looking, appeared over the first man's shoulder.

"What's the problem here?" he asked.

Joe returned the man's glare. "I'm telling you to keep the noise down."

"Telling us?" The man laughed. "Hey, man, nobody tells me what to do. If you don't like the noise, find another room." He made an obscene gesture with his hand and turned away. Joe started into the room, but the first man blocked his way by placing his foot against the door.

"I apologize for my friend," he said in a voice that offered no apology whatsoever. "He never had a lot of social graces." He winked conspiratorially. "I'll handle him. Don't worry, friend. We'll be quiet."

Joe glared at the man. "Don't fuck with me, kid," he said. "I'm warning you."

The young man winked again. "No problem, man. We don't want trouble."

Without waiting for Joe to respond, he closed the door. Joe stood in front of the door trying to decide whether or not to knock again. The room was silent, except for the soft hum of the TV. He returned to his room.

He closed the door behind him, sat on the bed, and waited. For several minutes, the room was quiet. Joe started to relax, but remained dressed. There was no way his threat would make a bit of difference to the people in Room 201. And he was the only one affected. Room 201 was next to the elevator, so there would be no other neighbors to complain. Perhaps that was just as well. He would rather not have anyone else involved.

A muffled shout, followed by laughter, drifted through the walls. The sound of rap music became louder until Joe could make out a few of the words. Again he swore, stood up and went to the closet.

He took out a leather bag and opened it. He dug into the bag, reaching under socks and tee shirts, and extracted a small handgun. He turned it over in his hand, laid it on the bed and dug into the bag again. Taking a box of shells and a silencer from the bag, he laid them on the bed next to the gun.

Joe sat down on the bed heavily, picked up the box of ammunition and counted out six shells. He loaded them into the gun, screwed the silencer to the muzzle and tucked it into the back of his waistband.

The noise from 201 became louder. Furniture scraped along the floor. A lot of the noise was meant for him. He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and sighed. He was certain they had done this before. And he was equally certain they would never do it again. Hadn't he tried to warn them?

He crossed to the door, opened it slowly and stepped into the hall. He took two strides to Room 201, balled his hand into a fist and pounded loudly on the door.

After several moments, the door was finally opened by the first man. Before he could react, Joe forced the door open and stepped into the room. The girl was sitting on the bed, a sheet pulled up around her naked shoulders. The second man sat on the edge of the bed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He started to stand, saw the gun in Joe's hand and sat back down.

"You first," Joe said, squeezing the trigger. The man slumped to the floor as the girl screamed. Her cries died in her throat as Joe squeezed off a second round. Then, turning to the man behind him, he pointed the gun at his head.

"Wait," the young man said raising his hands in panicked surrender. "For Chrissake, don't shoot!"

A slight pop as the gun fired for a third time, and the man fell at Joe's feet.

Joe looked at the three bodies, satisfied that they were all dead. He walked over to the blaring television set, hit the "off" button, and opened the door. Taking the "Do Not Disturb" sign from the doorknob, he placed it on the outer knob and went back to his room.

Joe put the gun back in the bag, stuffed it in the closet and slowly undressed. The .22 was not Joe's first choice for a weapon. He preferred more powerful handguns and rifles, such as the one in the bag with the gun he had just used. But here in a public motel, it was the only weapon that could be used without arousing the other tenants and officials. He was certain no one had heard it over the blare of the television.

He needed a good night's rest, and had no regrets about what he had just done. The assignment he was on was costing his boss five thousand dollars. That was the going rate these days for a typical hit. The bigger the target, and of course, the bigger the risk, the more the fee. This target was "middle of the road," and the element of risk was minimal. Five thousand for couple of hours work seemed adequate compensation.

As for the people in the next room—three of them—well, that was another matter. He had to kill them for free. No one had ordered them killed. It was one of the little annoyances of his profession. They stood between him and his mission. He couldn't afford to fail because of a lack of sleep. Besides, they were inconsiderate slobs, taking up space in this world and giving nothing back in return. Who would miss them?

Now they were dead. And it had cost nothing. Their deaths were on the house—courtesy killings, if you will. Not a problem. More importantly, Room 201 was now quiet. Deathly quiet. Joe smiled at the thought.

He crawled into bed, turned off the light and was asleep in a matter of minutes.

THE END