Hitman Anders and the Meaning of It All by Jonas Jonasson Page B

grasped that, in the name of Jesus, he could down half a bottle of wine with his cheese sandwich. Which would be fantastic, because something along those lines happened to be just what his insides were screaming for. Leaving all the drinking behind had been a hasty decision. “Well, no one’s perfect,” he said, “least of all those of us who are new to our faith. I realize I have no choice now that I walk with Jesus. But he and I actually met each other last night—doesn’t that mean I’m half a bottle behind?”
    There it was. A small success amid all the misery. By now, Hitman Anders was convinced that he who truly walked with Jesus had better start with morning and afternoon communion and proceed with a more substantial evening communion before it was time for a free-for-all night-time communion starting sometime after nine p.m. He kept the thirty-two thousand kronor he’d been planning to donate to the Red Cross so he could invest it in the blood of Jesus.
    But his refusal to work still stood. Four orders lay waiting, all accepted just before Hitman Anders and Jesus had run into each other. After that, the receptionist had been rather vague when contacted by potential clients. He’d said, “We’re fully booked at the moment,” or “We’re experiencing a temporary disruption in service.” But he couldn’t keep it up indefinitely. Was it time to give up the business? There was quite a bit of money in the shoeboxes, after all—not for that striking hitman, but enough for the receptionist and his fairly beloved priest.
    Yes, the fairly beloved agreed. There were no signs of improvement—that is, worsening—in Hitman Anders’s belief in God. So the priest saw no reason for herself and the receptionist to keep dealing with him. For all she cared, the hitman and Jesus could continue to walk side by side, preferably off a cliff if one happened to get in their way.
    She could also live without the Sea Point Hotel, she said, but she added that she had become awfully used to Per Jansson’s company. It was like it was the two of them against everything else, and shewould be happy to share both the shoeboxes and her life with him for all eternity, if he saw fit.
    There was something special about a woman who, like himself, didn’t fully understand the purpose of fighting life’s battles. Yet they fought well alongside each other against everyone and everything. So Per Persson was also keen to continue along the path upon which they were already walking, on the condition she eventually remember his name.

CHAPTER 15
    T he shoeboxes in the room behind the reception desk contained nearly six hundred thousand kronor for the priest and the receptionist to share. This was their joint savings. In addition, there was a hundred thousand kronor in advance payments for work not yet completed; they would be forced to return those, since there were no indications that Hitman Anders and Jesus would have a falling-out.
    The repayment of thirty thousand plus thirty thousand plus forty thousand to three of Greater Stockholm’s half- or full-blown gangsters was not something the receptionist was looking forward to. Partly because it meant a hundred thousand kronor less in the kitty, and partly because the clients had obviously been expecting results for their money, not money back with no interest. The general character of their clientele, broadly speaking, was not the most accommodating, the most flexible or understanding. There was a good chance the receptionist and the priest would encounter unpleasantness when they explained that Hitman Anders had stopped beating people up.
    â€œIt might be best to mail the money back with an explanation, then skip town,” the receptionist mused. “No one knows our names, we won’t be leaving a lot of clues behind—we’d hardly be able to find ourselves if we started looking.”
    The priest