No, I didn't write this in one sitting

This will be a bit long.
Lars Blackpool is my favorite fictional character ever. He is an assassin, mildly psychotic, but yet maintains an air of professionality even he admittedly doesn't understand. He exists in multiple timelines, being both my invention for my works of fiction, and a main antagonist in two of my Cyberpunk 2020 campaigns. I can't use him in roleplaying games anymore, because I simply will not allow him to die. This story, about to be shared, is Lars as a person, how I envision him.
Lars in Cyberpunk was slightly younger, though due to the breadth of his experience, this was an inconsistency due to the game system.
This is the beginning of a master work, a bit autobiographical, a bit odd, and one of the only stories I've written that I was able to return to, and like enough to continue writing.
Now here's the disclaimer. This was actually three different vignettes about Lars, connected. Only about half a page of this is new material, the rest being written between February and August of 2005. I connected the three, and am considering continuing with the plotline to whatever conclusion it may be. As an additional disclaimer, Cruz Rollert is based entirely off of myself, and several other characters are very unflattering caricatures of people I knew in high school. Lars is, though with a few bits of autobiography, unique. He is my action hero, like Ian Fleming had James Bond, like Tom Clancy had Jack Ryan.
I'm posting this for two reasons: one, I enjoy sharing my work, and two, I want some technical feedback before I continue. A select few people have seen this before, including a high school English teacher. My desire to continue this stems out of her comments about character development...I have what I want here to develop Lars into my vision, into what he felt like to me when I turned into him while running Cyberpunk. I want that vision realized. But, for one thing, the vignettes, at least the third one, were designed to be separate pieces. So, requests:
1. The first break is obvious, it's the switch from the coffee shop to the bar. If you can tell where the second one is, tell me so I can make it flow better.
2. Tell me what you think of Lars. Tell me so I can help figure him out. This is a mellower character than the one in Cyberpunk, so if you were one of my victims...err...players, keep that in mind.
3. If you can figure out who the other supporting characters are, tell me. I may want to tone down the obviousness.
OK, that's it. Enjoy.

He walked up to the counter, and looked straight in the eyes of the smallish woman who was pouring out a large beverage from a metal cup.

“Give me a double shot of espresso, black. I need to be on the top of my game.” He smiled, and the woman reluctantly called to the other barista for a black double shot. The man took off his sunglasses, produced a small chamois cloth from his pocket, and began to wipe down the glasses as he looked around the room idly. It was some commercial coffeehouse somewhere, with the usual dark lighting, walls covered with chintzy art nouveau. The woman handed him his coffee, and he paid and sat down. There weren’t too many people in the little shop, but the few office workers and stay-at-home moms in line for coffee were still enough to put him on edge. He groped his side for his wallet, and felt the comforting weight of his Glock right above his hip. He knew he was the only one in the room armed, but more importantly, he was also the only one in the place who knew he was armed. He smiled in relief, and returned to his coffee. The paper that morning was depressing, with headlines about car bombs overseas and normal bombs overseas, and murders overseas, as well as murders here. Apparently three men running a prostitution ring out of a local high school were arrested, and three Columbian immigrants were deported after being charged with drug smuggling. Even in his line of work, this was a particularly dreary way to start the day. The coffee was still for the most part in the cup when his client walked in. He commanded a high fee, so this type of person wouldn’t be someone he’d expect, save for the phone call the night before. A portly kid, probably 18 or 19, he thought. Greasy hair, leather jacket, and a dark countenance to match his dark clothing. Definitely not one of the popular kids. He saw the man sitting at the table, looked around anxiously, and then sat down. He took out a manila envelope, and slid it over to the man.

“Here’s the portfolio you wanted. And the first thousand is in there too,” the boy said nervously. The man opened the envelope carefully, and took out the top document, a photograph. The kid in the photo was also around 18, skinny, smiling, ebullient, almost. This was a senior photo, and the man didn’t really want to know why the boy had it. He looked over the other documents, a few carbon copies and some license information. He raised his eyebrow, and then looked back at the boy sitting across from him.

“So, you meet some strange man in a coffee shop because you want something done.” The boy nodded. “I’m looking over this, and I see this kid you’re showing me as an honor student, a kid with a future…someone likable. You know, the kind of kid who holds the door for old ladies at Sears.” The boy looked puzzled. “Never mind. My point is, why? You’re putting 10% down on a huge investment to get someone capped. You could go and buy yourself a car…most kids like those. I mean, I’m confused.” The boy stammered nervously, and then went on.

“He screwed with me. You know what I mean? Betrayal, serious backstabbing shit. He completely exploited me, and left me to suffer for it. I want him gone.” The expression in the boy’s face was so serious the man had to keep himself from laughing.

“Easy, tiger,” the man chortled. “You do realize that I’m more accustomed to things that…well, things that matter. You know, key witnesses, ambassadors, important people. I am a professional. It isn’t exactly easy, and this isn’t exactly what I had in mind.” The boy looked at him with dangerous eyes.

“He ruined me. Emotionally, destroyed me. He took the one thing in my life that was important to me. You couldn’t possibly understand how he made me feel.” The man looked back at him, and raised his eyebrow again.

“What did he do, steal your girlfriend?” The man started to laugh, but saw from this kid that it was not particularly funny.

“You’re kidding me, right? That’s why you want me to cap him? Because of some stupid romantic bullshit? I mean, as you were talking, I at least thought he may have burned down your house. But this, this is utterly ridiculous.” The boy looked hurt, almost divinely insulted, if those were words to describe shamefaced anger. The man looked askance at the boy, and continued.

“You have to understand, some things are too serious to screw with ordinarily. You think that relationship means everything? Well, it doesn’t. I feel like you should have heard this from your parents or something…you friends maybe, I don’t know.” The man lowered his voice and ducked close to the boy.

“It may not have been your wisest decision to hear an assassin tell it to you.” He got back up, smiled politely, and sipped his coffee again.

“Keep your money. Do something to get your mind off of this whole thing. Maybe get some therapy, you know. Something productive. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” He paused. “Want a coffee?” The boy shook his head, sheepishly gathered up the manila envelope, and headed out the door. The man smiled to himself, and continued drinking his coffee.

He finished his coffee, and ordered another. By now, it was around 10 AM, and the usual crowd of early morning neurotics had cleared out. The sun had come up over the building across the street, and the darkly lit coffeehouse had actually taken on an air of near pleasantness. A small Toyota drove up and parallel parked outside of the establishment. Out walked a young man, long coat and baggy pants, with short and unkempt blonde hair. He walked into the shop, ordered cocoa, and sat down with the man after picking up his drink.

“I brought you some nice classifieds. You know, anarcho-syndicalist radicals, a couple of corporate jobs…cheeky stuff, but the pay’s good.”

“Excellent. I’ve got three status reports if you could shuttle them this afternoon.” The young man nodded. The other man sipped his coffee.

“You packing?” The young man reached for the Walther under his jacket.

“Good. Someone wants you out.”

“Really? Old client?” The man chuckled.

“You are something else. Can’t believe I’d find you so early.” The man smiled. “No, actually, some lovelorn sap came in and wanted me to waste you. Stealing girlfriends again?” The young man smiled.

“Yeah, you could call it that. But this is an emotional connection. You know, we click. That kind of thing.”

“Why was she with him? He seems like one of those school shooter types. You know, obsessive, dangerous…” The young man laughed.

“Funny we’re saying that.” Both men laughed. The man sipped his coffee; the young man sipped his cocoa.

“You should be careful about that shit. Dangerous stuff. Especially with someone who has such a fragile grip on reality.”

“I know. I mean, she said pity, I said, quite a pity, we laughed, and that was that.” The man raised his eyebrow.

“You high school types are really cruel kids. It makes me laugh, and I swear, sometimes I feel guilty for that. You need to stay away from that, man. You have a future. I’ve put you up a year of school, you got into some real high class joint, and both of us will go on living lives searching for whatever the hell it is we’re searching for.”

“Kind of ironic we got into the job of killing people.”

“You’re telling me. I’m just glad you’re only transporting. It’d be a shame to see someone else grow so numb to it. Damn scary, not only for yourself but also for everyone you know.” The young man nodded.

“I’m serious,” The man insisted. “Don’t waste your life for sex, especially at the hands of someone like that. He needs a headshrinker bad.” The young man chuckled, and finished off his cocoa.

“Class is back in about fifteen, so I’m heading off. I’ll shuttle after class gets out.”

“Great. Call if someone wants a referral. And kid?” The young man turned.

“Tell your ‘friend’ that Mr. Blackpool sends his regards and deepest sympathies.” The man grinned evilly, and the young man laughed as he walked out the door. The Toyota sped away, and Mr. Blackpool was the only man in the shop. He looked at his watch. It was about 11 AM. He ordered one more coffee and began to read the Wall Street Journal. He was expected in the office around one, so he had time. He started reading the stocks, and sighed. He was an investment banker, but having fought in the Gulf War, he found an interesting way to make some green on the side.
It worked out very well. He was meeting a high-profile CEO today, who was said to want a “second” referral. It was a nice arrangement. He put the paper down, and left the shop. The sun was high overhead, and the lunch crowd had just come out of hiding. He squinted at the bright sky, and then walked to his car. He and his protégé were doing well at an odd business. Maybe that’s why they realized more than others what actually made a difference in the world. He turned back and looked at the coffeehouse. It’s a really sick world that allows the murderers to understand what’s really important faster than others. He smirked. May as well take advantage of it. He got in his car and turned the key. A new day had begun.

Sam was seated at a booth in the corner of the dark pub. It was about six o’clock, and fortunately, the typical clientele of this type of establishment had not yet declared a mass intent to get drunk and rowdy. Sam looked at his watch, and sipped quietly on a Boston beer of his namesake. 6:10 rolled around, and Lars walked in, precisely ten minutes late.

“If he’s always so precise in his tardiness,” Sam thought, “Why bother being late at all?” Lars noticed Sam, and walked over to the booth. Lars had worn his hat today, Sam noticed, because Lars was letting his hair grow out again. An elliptical swath of short hair stuck straight out from the center of his otherwise bald head. Back in his mercenary days, Sam recalled, Lars would wear a nine inch tall Mohawk. But, for a corporate manager, this was a bit unseemly.

“So, Stub, how’s life?” The nickname came from a long way back. It had something to do with the whole pop culture business of ‘Sam Spade, Private Eye’, but Sam himself was too young to remember it.

“You know,” Sam replied, “Getting paid to get even. Mostly irate divorcees these days. Really sick people that want lots of money that never belonged to them. This business was never like what they made it out to be.” Sam put his small .38 on the table.

“You know I still have never used this?” Lars nodded.

“Well, I had a bit of an interesting incident in a coffeeshop this morning, so that may change sooner than you’d like. I had Cruz run you a dossier this afternoon. Did you take a look at it?”

“Yeah. Seems like it’s about Cruz himself.”

“Indeed. The kid ran into some sort of trouble with some girl. Of course, my immediate reaction is that if you have a kid who has an ego issue and ten thousand dollars with which to hire an assassin, there’s trouble.” Sam nodded, and then quickly scanned the dark pub.

“Okay. Here’s what I found out for you. Do you know Regan Van Ross?”

“The congressman? Of course.”

“Well, Mr. Van Ross has a son, Michael. And Michael has the typical problem that manifests itself in politician’s sons, which is that they are used to getting everything. So he dates this girl, for some reason, beyond me, I really don’t care. Then comes along your protégé, Cruz Rollert. Cruz knows he’s a sensitive, attractive, and cunning young man. He’s also a bit headstrong and doesn’t tend to case people before stepping in their way. So, he does what he tends to do, as I’ve seen, very well, and this girl falls for him. Happily ever after, except for the kid who’s left wounded like never before, angry, and loaded with money and friends.

“And, to make it worse,” Lars butted in, “I blatantly shooed him away and called him a little boy. How old is he?”

“Like Cruz, he’s 19. A freshman at BU, though judging from this,” Sam handed Lars a threefold piece of paper, “that may not last.” The paper contained a grade report from the college, and though it was not very consistent, Sam could tell right away there were no vowels. No Bs, either. Sam looked back at Lars.

“I don’t know what to say about this kid, besides that he could be dangerous. Who knows…I have doubts as to how he viewed this relationship, but however it was, Cruz is probably not looked upon in the best light right now.” Lars winced.

“The kid brought it up over the talk this morning. He made a really big deal about it. I mean, like, high school suicidal angst big. As in, my life is over big.” Sam frowned.

“He’s one of those kids…damn. And who knows, with his track record, his daddy may have already tried to arrange something. God if I know what that is.”

“I’m not even sure how this whole thing happened…I mean, Cruz attends Brandeis, so clearly, there’s no way for the two to have ever met, and I don’t even know who this girl is.”

“Well, that’s a little interesting tidbit I wanted to share with you.” Sam cleared his throat slightly, and took another sip of his beer. “I looked up the name of the girl which, like you, I didn’t recognize. But someone did. Remember Arthur St. Cloud?”

“The other PI? Yeah…was he the one that I was hired to kill a while back?” Sam nodded.

“Anyway, he was hired to case the girl’s apartment, and I’m pretty sure that it wasn’t by either of us, or Cruz. And this could be bad, considering that the one real mark on St. Cloud’s record was when we had our falling out a few years back.” Lars nodded.

“Did you get an address?”

“Yeah. She lives in Cambridge. Near Harvard, but not in University property.”

“Well, that gives us something to do tonight. When do you think Arthur will case the joint?”

“Knowing him? Probably eleven. He likes his sleep.” Sam shook his head. “What kind of a name is St. Cloud anyway? I don’t particularly remember a saint named Cloud, at least not outside of a video game.” Lars chuckled.

“It isn’t a given name. I think his name is Irving or something. Whatever.” The two men laughed, and ordered another round of drinks. The conversation turned to more frivoulous matters, and by eight, they had left the bar.

Lars met up again with Sam walking outside of Harvard Square. At 11 pm, the square was still abuzz with activity, so the two men quietly moved off to find the address of this mystery woman, and hopefully, a hapless detective somewhere in the immediate vicinity. Sam turned onto a quiet Cambridge side street, and Lars followed lockstep behind him. The townhouses on the street were large and inviting, but the darkness made the entire scene seem a bit more dangerous than Sam would have liked. As the two men ensured that everything was quiet, they walked toward the house. Sam started to sneak down along the side of the building, but Lars froze as he saw two people walking down the street, straight for the house. Lars lunged for a pair of big bushes in front, but Sam pulled him back down the side of the house. They both laid down quietly, and watched the people approach. The taller one was recognizable as the male, and not surprisingly, Lars recognized him as Cruz. The girl was not someone either of the men had seen before, but she fit the description given, and assumedly, was the girl in question. The two stopped at the door and had a brief conversation, but then went inside. Lars looked up toward what was most likely a bedroom window, but saw something completely different. Hanging from the gutter was a man, bedecked in a trench coat. Lars and Sam looked at each other. It was definitely Arthur. Sam waited until he heard the creaking of an interior door, then, carefully timed with the slamming of the door, he kicked the vertical section of the gutter as hard as he could. The man lost his grip and fell right into a pair of metal trash cans, making a huge racket. Sam and Lars dove on the man to keep him from moving. Cruz looked out the bedroom window. Sam could hear a voice from inside.

“Cruz, what was it?”

“Probably just some stray dogs, maybe a raccoon. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Cruz withdrew his head, and Arthur started thrashing and struggling. Both Lars and Sam drew their guns and pointed them at Arthur’s head. Arthur quieted down considerably.

“Okay,” Sam hissed, “What’s going on here?”

“It was…it was…it’s just a job,” Arthur panted. “I was just asked to…to…to case the house, and trail the guy. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“The ‘guy’ you were hired to trail is my wheelman, and let’s just say that no trailing will be done.”

“You don’t get it,” Arthur continued. “Regan Van Ross put me up to this, and he is big here. Real big.”

“Regan Van Ross?” Sam piped up. “Just what we wanted to know.” Arthur was dumbstruck. Just then, sirens were heard. Apparently a worried neighbor had seen something.

“Be sure to mention Van Ross to the police when they arrest you for trespassing,” Lars snickered. He and Sam hauled themselves up, and jumped over a chain link fence at the back of the yard. Arthur was left supine among the knocked-down trash cans, waiting ashamedly as the squad car pulled up.

Lars had gotten back to his place later than he would have liked that night, especially since his referral from midday had come through, and he had a mark somewhere in the back bay the next day. Sleep was overrated, he usually thought, and a solid 6 hours could be easily fortified with another doubleshot before taking his vantage. For his age and everything else, he was quite accustomed to early rises, early shots, both coffee and hollowpoint. It was peculiar that way, but even for later, when he decided to get out, he had a protégé, and a hobby if he wanted to be a liability to himself. The thoughts were still swimming when he finally collapsed onto the mattress on the floor. More than anything else, the thought of Cruz dating stuck there. The only thing left in his head as he faded was remembering just how long it had been.

The morning was clear and cold, and Lars stood in a crowd, holding a Wall Street Journal and a small tube filled with explosives. It would fire one large round and then disintegrate, leaving no evidence. He already had put thought into preserving the paper, as bulletholes are suspicious, and the Journal had become somewhat of a calling card for him, something any agent like himself would not want.

He had it planned out, and if this worked as advertised, he’d pull it Jack Ruby style, and then bolt quickly before being ID’ed. A bit headstrong to assume this would work, but he had done it before, with fair results. The mark was in a fairly conspicuous position, being a senator and all. He reflected with some humor the irony in the close call with Van Ross he had had yesterday, but it hardly mattered. This guy was wanted because of corruption charges. He had been acquitted, and to the chagrin of everyone, refused to resign even after a PR nightmare. So, Lars resigns him. Permanently.

He lined up the shot relatively easily, and waited until there were people clouding the path of fire, just to give him an extra ten seconds or so. The park was crowded, but he was good at making this easy. He followed the crowd as the de facto conference moved towards the edge of the Common, so he had street access. In one brief flash of exposure, he pegged the catch, and a muffled pop emitted from the Journal. Seeing the man fall, he quickly made his way to the nearest gate, holding the paper casually under his elbow. It did not take him very long to realize that two cops were trailing him very poorly as he departed. Well, shit. The fire escape across the way seemed suitably dramatic, and he fell into an apartment building’s third floor corridor as the cops started screaming. By the time they managed to clamber through the window, he had made it to the emergency stairway, exiting on the other side of the block. This little fuckup was a lot more exciting than he had anticipated it to be.

He jumped down the stairs, and broke back into a run at the foot of the stairs. Getting way too old for this, he thought. The footsteps behind him grew louder, and he bounded down the crowded sidewalk. Pushing through a crowd of unsuspecting bystanders, he looked back and saw the two cops gaining on him. Not only was he doing the crowd work for them, but it appeared that the two fresh-faced kids in blue had a good ten years on him a piece. Finally, he gave up, and fired his weapon, downing one of the punk cops. The other one broke stride, and, surprisingly, the crowd had thinned out significantly. He continued running, pleasantly surprised at his maintained endurance. He saw the remaining cop catch up on him a bit more, and turned coat into an alleyway. The surprise was tinged with annoyance as he heard a bullet discharge. The ricochet on the brick wall three centimeters from his face turned the annoyance into panic. He popped a poorly aimed shot off in the cop’s general direction, and to his chagrin, hit nothing. The alleyway was a bit longer than expected, so instead of hoping to outrun the cop, which he couldn’t, he dove into a pile of garbage bags. It always seemed that one of these was conveniently available in back alleyways. The cop looked around, and finally got a hold of Lars’ smiling face, and the slightly less pleasant grin of a 9mm Heckler and Koch. Lars had a horrendous record with point-blank shots, but the garbage bags muffled the recoil as well as they muffled the sound of the body hitting the pavement. He stuffed the H&K back into his jacket pocket, and sauntered down the alleyway, removing a coffee filter from his lapel.

He walked his normal mix of side streets and “interior passageways” until he was around 3 miles away from the location of the murders. His handlers would make the evidence “disappear” within the week, and with a few nice little bribes, he wouldn’t even face trial. He wasn’t even sure who his handlers were any more with the mélange of assignments. He had learned to trust his gun a while back, but no one else. At 37, he was well within retiring age for his career. Despite his advancing age, his record was among the best, and the impressive fee that feat commanded was secreted away in a Swiss bank account hundreds of times over. So, as he considered ruefully, he had millions to his name, but still lived in a one-room apartment where his most valuable possessions were a new mattress and several illegal firearms. Most of his time was spent outside of his apartment, so he didn’t even see it fit to be equipped with a TV. Not that it mattered, most of the stuff on was shit except for the news, and he carried a Wall Street Journal with him everywhere anyway. Inconspicuous, could conceal a small handgun, and he loved reading the Personal Journal. More interesting than the stock quotes, to say the least.

Lars walked up the steps of the brownstone that served as the safehouse, all coffee grinds smoothed off his lapel. The guard at the door recognized him, and ushered him into the dark hallway. Walking up the three staircases, the Heckler and Koch was pushed slightly forward in his jacket pocket. Lars always took this precaution, even though it was largely unnecessary. A second guard was standing outside of the oak door, and opened for him with a menacing smile. Mr. Denton was sitting at the desk. As far as Lars knew, Mr. Denton was the only one in the organization older than he, and with his conservative hairline, he looked it. Admittedly, Lars had a barer scalp than Mr. Denton, but his remaining stubby hair ran parallel to the bridge of his nose, Mohawk style. Mr. Denton spoke up.

“Lars, you’ve been here quite a while, but you’re past retirement age. We saw you this morning, and though you took your mark admirably, your escape from the police had us worried. Unfortunately, you’re becoming a liability.” Lars grinned.

“No problem there,” he smiled. “I’ve got enough cash secreted away to go retire. I’ll just go walk down to the bank, if you don’t mind.” Mr. Denton put up a hand. Lars was surprised, and slid the pistol into his Wall Street Journal.

“If you hang around here, we can help you collect your life insurance as well.” Lars fired the pistol before Mr. Denton finished, and wheeled around to see the door guard right behind him. He had been very quiet, and Lars was almost caught off guard. The large man wrenched the pistol out of Lars’ hand, and Lars responded with a quick punch to the face. The man staggered, blood streaming from his nose. Instead of staying around for the second round, Lars snatched the MAC10 that Mr. Denton had drawn in his lap, and jumped out the window and onto the fire escape. My, what a day for fire escapes. The two guards followed him up, and he attempted to discourage them with a spray of bullets. He clambered up onto the roof, and dashed across to the other side. Instead of risking it at street level, he bounded across the alley below, and rolled with the impact as he hit the other roof. He turned back and unleashed another volley of fire. One guard was down, but the other wasn’t slowing down. He saw an apartment complex down at the end of the row of brownstones, and started sprinting. His second leap ended more smoothly than his first, and he barely broke stride around the various antennae and chimneys sprouting from the asphalt under foot. The guard was having a tougher time with the jumps, having shorter legs than Lars, and a little more “momentum” to deal with. Lars reached the end of the brownstones, and saw a single open window at his eye level. Anyone who took high school physics would have known this was a bad idea, but Lars had no real choice. He leaped, and regretted it as soon as he saw the open window pass above him.

He staggered painfully around on ground level, having hit the wall about 7 feet above ground level, and falling flat on his back. He gathered himself quickly, but still had little bearing on where he was, or that two large men with guns wanted him dead. A bullet shattered the concrete behind him, which sufficiently roused Lars from his stupor. He was looking around for options, and on this busy commercial street, saw very few. A red Toyota careened around the corner, and squealed to a stop in front of him. He jumped into the passenger door before even fully parsing that Cruz was driving the car. Without hesitation, the coupe sped away.