After nine hours, the station wagon can pass a white glove inspection. Maybe even a UV light bar inspection. As promised, he pays me again, with actual money. And I’ve already got it spent in my head—I could use a decent set of fresh clothes for Thursday.
But before I clean up for our date tonight, I write down the bald guy’s plate number. I’ve saved a few hairs and other samples in marked plastic bags. I log the date and description. I have enough to execute the prick. I put it into my safe.
The Barnaby envelope is thick—I may have to start a second one if he comes in again.
* * * *
We sit at dinner, stuffed peppers with a mango salsa. I’m no cook, but I cleared the docket today and my third attempt at the meal was perfect. She puts her hand on my wrist while we sip some wine. The tenderness shocks me.
“Can you believe this?” she asks, squeezing my wrist.
I can only shake my head slowly.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she says.
I know already.
“I hope one day, you can forget the circumstances that brought us together.”
What circumstances? All I did was clean her car. Our conversation is awkward. I’m clumsy with words, as usual. It was a total disaster.
She asks to see me again and kisses me goodbye on the mouth.
* * * *
Two weeks ago, I was cleaning her Hummer. Now I’m driving her Hummer, getting a hummer. She tells me exactly where to go for her own discreet service, weaving through country roads until the city behind us is just a faint glow, a background to a perfect painting.
Two weeks ago, I was scraping semen off her backseat. She’s wearing her dress as a waistband, top down and bottom up, her breasts heaving, her hair thrashing against my chest. Her heels clop against the window, then the headliner, then the door.
I’m making love to her, thinking, “I’m going to have to clean that later.”
I push into her as she pulls me into her. The collision is violent, sexy, lovely, perfect.
But still my head is wondering who else was pumping her just like this, and what makes me different from them. We sit in the dark, cornstalks all around us, moonlight above us like teenagers. Mr. Marcus Xavier Taylor is like the dad we’re getting away from. He’s a tyrant, she says. I notice a bruise on her upper arm and don’t ask about it. Just file away the detail.
I hear the stories of him screaming, berating her. His dinosaur walk that rattles the windows of the house. The way he cuts and carves companies apart, even his own employees.
“He’s dangerous,” she says. “He would hurt you if he knew.”
This turns me on like you wouldn’t believe, a feeling I haven’t had since I could carry a gun.
* * * *
This week, regular business is slow. Folks don’t want premium car cleaning. They think it’s a waste of money. But one car a day is what a detailer shoots for. It’s what I shot for when I was sixteen. One car a day at fifty bucks a pop.
Now, due to my exemplary product line, I charge a hundred per car for standard detailing. Not a whole lot of hundred dollar jobs in a week for me. They don’t want the hassle of dropping off their car this far out in the country, where my garage is at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by woods, a kind of empty where no one could hear you scream.
This week, an alcoholic named Benny fell off the wagon and pissed his pants. He sobered up and needed his car cleaned quick. The yellow pages had an express detailer, but that word discreet got his attention. So I clean up the dried out whiskey and piss and save his marriage—for now. Wait until his wife sees that three hundred dollar dent in the old joint checking. But I tell him to make it out to Jasper Investments. He can explain it to the missus and even write it off on his taxes if he wants.
And I also get a ghost car this week.
The car is dropped off by a friend. The customer comes in a taxi.
She’s young, probably mid-twenties. Hefty. Unhealthy. Her face could draw social security.
I don’t think she can afford me.
“All I have is twenty bucks,” she says. “Please. Make it go away.”
A bit curious now, I open the door to the Grand Prix. Gray upholstery. Blood in the passenger seat. But a strong smell. Cologne. Not unpleasant.
“Not to forget him,” she says. “But I can’t afford a different car and I can’t be reminded— ”
Now she’s right in my garage, crying. Breaking down. I fuckin’ hate ghost cars.
She gathers up and pushes on. “I could’ve gotten to the hospital faster. He said to take the expressway and I didn’t know that way. I just didn’t want to get lost if he passed out.”
She sits on her fat rump and cries, the twenty falling from her hand.
The twenty has tears on it. Sweat from her palms. All she can afford.
I clean the car while she sits in my kitchen drinking coffee. I don’t know who he was, but he was important and now he’s dead. So I make him go away and I leave the twenty in the center console so she can find it later.
The cologne is gone. The blood is gone. But he’ll never be gone, not for her.
This is the first freebie I’ve done in about two years and I wonder if I can get Annie out of Mr. Marcus Xavier Taylor’s clutches.
Weeks blow by in a fury. Annie and I see each other when we can. So far, we’ve covered religion, sports, hobbies, music, movies, pets, and how she likes to grind her pubic bone to achieve orgasm. That last part we experiment with a little, and lay together after, our sweat mixing, and the force seems a million light years away. New details are popping up. I notice that when a car’s clean, it catches sunshine and eyeballs and this is basically art.
Summer shows up, sun and sweat and all that good crap. Annie comes by for dinner. I inspect her Hummer when I get the chance, and she’s been true to me.
But I notice that her shirt is awfully concealing—for her, anyway. Tummy and cleavage are usually on full display.
Tonight, I’m going to tell her I love her. I’m going to ask her to leave him. But when she hugs me, I feel the bulge.
“I love you,” she says. “And yes it’s yours. You can tell, I know. I know you of all people, I can’t hide anything from.”
I ask her how she knows for sure.
“Because a woman knows, and I’ve fucked you more than Marcus.”
This touches and disturbs me in unknown ways.
“Christ, he’s got to be in a bad mood.”
“The worst,” she says. “I struggled with this for a while, but I can’t hide it from him anymore. He’s going to see this and beat the kid right out of me—our kid.”
I take a deep breath.
“I only rent this place, and I’ve got a savings. We can scram.”
It’s automatic, right?
“Are you crazy?” she says. “He’ll come after us.”
That dazes me a little.
“I can’t leave him,” she says.
“I’ll tell him the child is his,” she says.
The haymakers just keep coming.
I ask her if this is the end.
“Things can stay the same, but I don’t know what’s going to happen. Especially with this baby. I just—I hope you’ll trust me to make the right choice. Marcus … he’ll …”
And she doesn’t say anything, but cries and hugs me. We try out her little pubic bone game and I’m fascinated by her stomach, but queasy when the sex is over.
I tell her I love her before she leaves. She smiles and gets in her Hummer without looking back.
I’m so careful with it. I plan things out.
I read Mr. Taylor’s tendencies. I take into account all I’ve learned, and all she’s told me.
So I clean the few scuffs that are left. No semen spots. Not anymore. She doesn’t waste one drop, not anymore.
But there’s always enough evidence. Always enough for someone who’s looking. I pull out the envelope dated about five months ago marked “Taylor.” Th
e hair in this envelope isn’t mine, but it’s enough for what I have planned. I’ll leave the hair that isn’t his, and I’ll send him a little note. Let him know that she’s foolin’ around. He’ll convince her to come with me; convince her with his fists.
I told the landlord I wouldn’t be coming back, and he’s free to sell off the furnishings. I’ve got a couple bags packed, enough to get to a fresh start without wearing the same shirt everyday. My bank accounts are liquefied and I’m ready to roll on a moment’s notice.
I pray all night that when he hits her, he leaves her stomach alone.
The Hummer pulls up and my future flashes before my eyes. I hope she doesn’t know that I was pulling these strings—and like a crime scene coming to life as the details fall into their little slots, I realize how wrong I was to try and manipulate her and how everything is over, dead, stillborn.
The first clue is that the license plates are missing, and before the door opens, I realize that she isn’t going to jump out of the vehicle and run into my arms, beaten into sense, the final beating until she’s in my arms where nothing can ever hurt her again.
The door pops open. Mr. Taylor gets out.
First time I’ve seen the guy, and he’s what you would expect. Neat suit. Stationary hair. No stubble. A watch that catches glimmers of daylight and throws them in your face.
He walks to me, a businessman walk full of purpose. This guy’s finishing a deal.
“I hear you’re a man who is discreet about things, eh?”
He reaches inside of his jacket and I close my eyes so he can’t see the truth, and so I can’t see the gun.
Mr. Taylor hands me an envelope instead of my demise.
“I don’t know what your yellow pages ad means by discreet service, but if you can clean a car and shut the fuck up about it, I can make you rich. Here’s five thousand dollars.”
And before he says anything else, the details emerge.
“I’m gonna walk my ass to the payphone at the service station, snag a cab. A long walk, but this job will take a while, as you’ll see. I’ll be back tomorrow night. If it’s done, I’ll have another ten-grand. Cash.”
What if I don’t nod yes? So I do.
“Good. And just so you know, I’m not a bad person. She was cheating on me.” Points to the Hummer. “In that very vehicle. Found hairs underneath the passenger seat. So if you’re discreet, and you’re as good as Frank says you are, do your job.”
“Frank?” I say, because I can’t think of shit to say.
“Seems to think you’re quite a craftsman. But don’t get the wrong idea—he doesn’t know what’s inside. I just wanted to bounce your name off someone. I like what I heard. I especially like what I heard between the lines.”
Mr. Taylor walks away. I don’t know if he knows. It would be ironic, or maybe just coincidental, if he did. But judging by the condition of the Hummer, I doubt he knows or I would’ve joined her instead of this punishment.
She didn’t get out of the Hummer bruised and falling into my arms, begging me to take her away, be her savior forever.
By initial inspection, I believe he did most of this by hand, with a hatchet. The angles and pieces support my hypothesis.
Dried blood is actually easy to clean, emulsified by 303 Intense Stain Remover with a total stain shampoo applied by machine extractor. The secret? Mix in hydrogen peroxide, one part per two parts of cleaner.
Pieces of brain dry hard, like semen. Have to chisel them off with a detailing spade. Then you have to recondition the synthetic leather from scratch.
Disposal, I am prepared for. This wasn’t my first client who requested special service. The best way to remove a body is to meticulously cut it into pieces, dissolve the pieces in acid, and bury the liquefied remains in a place that gets a lot of exposure to precipitation, say, the bottoms in the woods adjacent to my garage.
As for her … our … well I wonder if he was shocked when he chopped that particular part out of her. I prayed. I prayed for both of them over the makeshift grave.
Dark was creeping up, but I was done on time. I’m experienced. I’m always done on time.
Marcus Xavier Taylor shows up and I show off the Hummer.
“Un-fuckin-believable,” he says. “I can’t believe it. This—are you Moses? Is this some kind of miracle?”
I just stare at the guy. My psychological training makes me adept at anger control, and funneling it into productive tasks.
Initially, I wanted to kill him. That’s easy enough. Bash him in the head, bury him with his wife and my kid and poof, he’s gone like a scuff mark. But he deserves a special piece of hell before he goes.
So I plan things out.
He hands me an envelope with ten grand. Looks closer at the vehicle.
“What the fuck is this?” he says. “What’s with the window back here—”
And before he can finish, I knock him out with the chloroform.
From my selection of envelopes, I can make a pretty compelling case. I don’t use anything from Barnaby’s envelope, though. Not yet.
I call up Frank and tell him that I’m moving on. He’s kind of shocked that I called and listens without saying a word, just interjects some “yeahs” where they sound alright.
Marcus Taylor. You know him? I had him in. I had an attack of consciousness. You know that eight year old with the psychological trauma? The one who got raped and can’t talk? Well Christ, it was this guy, and he brought in his Hummer for a second cleanup, a second victim. It’s all here. And off the record, I knocked him out so you can catch him as he’s driving out of my driveway.
I can hear Frank scribbling away, so I feed him details of Mr. Taylor’s transgressions. The worst part of it all was milking Mr. Taylor—Jesus, giving a murderer a wet dream with my greased up hand isn’t a party, but it’ll be worth it.
I ask Frank what they do to child molestors in prison. We both know, so he doesn’t answer, I just wanted that image in my head. Those hard cons don’t like kiddie molestors—no sir. Lots of assault and rape and torture and violence in his future.
I’m still liquid, still out the door. I hang up with Frank so he can get busy and take one long, final look at my garage. Nothing speaks to me. The details are quiet.
Before I leave, I get the manilla envelope from the safe—the one with an instant case to destroy child molestor Chet Barnaby. I write his name on the front in big, red letters. With an asterisk and underlining to boot. I set it conspicuously right in the front section of the safe, face out, so no one could ever miss it, ever.
I drop off a number ten envelope with no return address, double postage, with Frank’s address typed on the front. Nothing inside but a piece of paper with a typewritten series of numbers, and the words “Dear Frank. Combination to safe—this one’s on me.”
* * * *
I haven’t detailed a car in a long time, even my own daily driver. My apartment is small enough to cook, shit and watch TV at the same time. Ten grand has been commissioned to a variety of respected charities. I’ve worked the same factory job for about six months now. Keeps the mind quiet.
A girl named Rhonda likes me, but I wouldn’t call it serious. She hates stuffed peppers and actually has the nerve to prefer Sprite over Seven-Up. I spend my spare time doing puzzles, and when I work midnights, I sleep on the couch all afternoon with a baseball game on the television.
The five grand left over made a pretty nice down payment on a new Hummer. A red one. I drive to work almost every day with the rear-view mirror turned down, afraid to look at myself sometimes. Afraid of which direction my eyes might flicker when I ask the really tough questions.
Parental Guidance
Simon Wood
* * *
Preston’s long, loping, rhythmic strides beat an impressive tattoo on the sidewalk. Each elegant footfall connected effortlessly with the concrete. Although he was tall and his gait was long, he floated a couple of feet beyond his stride. A sheen of sweat clung to his lean, b
lack skin. He exuded strength, confidence and grace. He seemed to glide when he jogged, riding on a wave of self-belief. It was a sight to behold, unlike my lumbering attempts.
Preston and I were night and day. My footfalls slapped the sidewalk, sounding like wet meat tossed against a wall, sending lightning bolts of pain through my bones and into my groin. My corroded knees popped every other step and air struggled to make it into my lungs. Hell, Preston made me feel old.
The key to Preston’s superior form had little to do with better diet, a good night’s sleep, protein formulas or the elixir for eternal youth. No, he was riding a tidal wave of good fortune. Life, private and professional, was going his way. I don’t begrudge him, though. If ever a guy deserved good luck and good fortune, it was Preston. He was a stand up guy and not many of those find themselves ahead of the game these days.
We used to be the perfect running partners, just two guys trying to fight off the effects of middle age, kidding ourselves that we could beat the effects of time. That was cool with me. I didn’t run to keep in shape, to keep my wife interested or even to attract the eye of other women. I ran with Preston because he was my neighbor and my buddy. We were the same age, we liked the same things and it was a mark of our relationship—a guy thing, if you will. An unsaid bond between men.
But Preston and I hadn’t been on the same page—hell, the same chapter—for quite some while. In the last eighteen months, I watched my friend grow in stature, leaving me behind to stagnate in my own pond. But the disparity in our performances hadn’t all been one way. As Preston stretched out in front, I slid back. I’m definitely not the man I was six months ago or the six months before that, for that matter.
Time hasn’t been the only thing that has caught up with me, even the general day-to-day has trampled over me. My checkbook doesn’t balance. My expenses get higher as my income gets smaller. The kids demand more. My wife seeks and receives more gratification from television than she does from me. It’s sad, but no different than many American lives, I’m sure. Preston has a secret to his success. I just wish I knew what it was.
The Death Panel Page 14
