Not like he needed to, but he thought that’s what hitmen do. They keep their shades on. It didn’t even occur to him that it looked strange until a friendly ophthalmologist in the next row asked him if his eyes were bothering him. Baxter was trying to look inconspicuous, like the guys in the movies. He glared at the ophthalmologist and tried to think of something tough and funny to say. But nothing came to mind, and after an uncomfortable pause the ophthalmologist went back to reading his in-flight magazine. Movie depictions of contract killers were the only point of reference he had, and he’d seen every movie on the subject ever made. There were a lot of them, from samurai epics, to Westerns, to movies about La Cosa Nostra, to the Hong Kong gun-battle ballets, to the new breed of postmodern Derrida-influenced deconstructions of the hitman genre—he devoured them all and had built up an impressive DVD library. His favorites were the new ones. The supercool team of hipster killers dressed in black, their hair slicked with product, driving vintage muscle cars, hanging out with icy-beautiful women and talking about cheeseburgers.
