I flicked on the light switch with my free hand and got a look at the guy. He, too, was dressed in black; he wore a quilted thermal jacket instead of a sweater, but basically we were dressed the same, and stood there facing each other like a reflection.

He was smaller than me, at least an inch or two shorter, though by weight he was a little heavier, I’d imagine, but not softer. His brown hair was thin on top, trimmed close on the sides, and he had the friendly face of a bartender who can be your buddy all night long, then the second you step out of line, whip a sash weight from under the bar and split your head open.

“The jacket,” I said.

He made a shrugging smile and unzipped the jacket and got out of it slowly and let it drop. He watched my eyes to see if they followed the jacket. They didn’t.

He wore a red, black, and white plaid shirt, a hunter’s shirt. There was no holster, shoulder or otherwise. His silenced automatic, the nine-millimeter’s twin, which I’d already kicked over in the corner, was more than a holster could handle, except for perhaps something special made. But then a hitman usually has little need to constantly carry a gun, would only carry a gun those few minutes it takes to get a job done, so the lack of a holster was no surprise.

“The wall,” I said.

He nodded and slowly turned to the side wall, leaned against it in the space between the closet and the door, hands behind his head, legs spread.

I patted him-down. I felt a hard narrow shaft as my hand traveled over his left trouser pocket, which either meant he was horny or he had a knife in there. I ripped the pocket open and a stiletto hit the floor.

“Cute,” I said.

“Some people don’t like knives,” he said pleasantly, glancing back over his shoulder at me. “Me, I don’t mind ’em. I’m not squeamish.”

His voice was medium-pitched, well-modulated. It went well with his friendly bartender face.