by C. D. Payne
I retreated across the hallway to a men’s room, where I removed my gloves to perform some emergency leakage due to extreme nervous agitation. I zipped up, put on my Easter Bunny mask, and re-donned the gloves. I then took out Sheeni’s gun and switched off the safety. I spent several minutes more composing myself—thinking of married life with Sheeni and reminding François he was one tough hombre who didn’t shrink from a little gunplay. Finally, I took a deep breath, opened the door, and walked across the hallway.
Mr. Saunders looked up startled from his desk when I pushed open the inner door to his office and stepped silently into the room.
“Hands up!” I said in a quavering falsetto as I pointed the none-too-steady gun at his head.
“Is this some kind of joke?” he demanded, not raising his hands.
“Hands up or I’ll blast you!” snarled François.
That threat got some action. He raised his hands and eyed my weapon. “Where did you get that gun? Did you steal it from my house? My God, be careful with it! The trigger has a very light action. What is it you want?”
“Open the safe,” I snarled.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Don’t ask questions. Just open it.”
He didn’t move. “I know who you are. You needn’t try to disguise your voice. Do you actually imagine I’ll let you take my daughter away from me?”
“Open the safe!”
“My wife chooses to believe that Trent is the father of Sheeni’s baby, but you and I know otherwise, don’t we, Nick? Can’t you see it’s your own child we’re trying to protect?”
“Sheeni doesn’t want it. And I want her. If you don’t open the safe, I’m going to shoot you in the right knee. Then in the left knee. Then in your …”
“All right! I get the picture. The safe’s in that cabinet behind my desk. I’m going to get up now and walk over to it.”
“OK, but no sudden moves.”
Mr. Saunders took three steps back and kneeled beside what looked like a two-drawer oak filing cabinet. He unlocked the top drawer with a key, and the entire front panel swung open on concealed hinges, revealing a gray metal safe. He quickly dialed the combination, pushed down on the handle, swung open the heavy door, and reached inside. His hand came out holding a black automatic. I was already ducking behind his desk when the room exploded with gunshots. Something impacted my mask, knocking it back so I couldn’t see. I heard a cry of pain and a thud. My ears rang from the deafening noise and I smelled an acrid odor I guessed was gunpowder. No pain except a sharp stab in my sore testicles, pinched uncomfortably in my crouch. Or had I been shot? I tore off my mask and looked down. No sign of blood.
I listened intently. No sounds except normal traffic noise outside. Finally, I worked up the nerve to peer around the corner of the desk. Sheeni’s father was lying on the beige carpet, now staining red under his right shoulder. A frightening smear of purplish blood also was discoloring his torn white shirt. He was unconscious but appeared to be breathing. Red bubbles gurgled from his nostrils. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Had he shot himself? I looked down at my gun. My finger was still frozen on the trigger, now squeezed all the way back.
I struggled to remain calm. I flipped on the safety and placed the gun on his desk blotter. The mask with one ear shot off I returned to my Flampert’s shopping bag. I stepped over Sheeni’s fallen father and searched through the safe. I quickly found Sheeni’s passport and also a large white envelope stuffed with cash. Slipping both into my bag, I returned to the desk, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. “Come quick!” I croaked, when the operator answered. “There’s been a shooting!”
I left the phone off the hook in case the automatically retrieved address had not yet appeared on the 911 operator’s computer. I left quickly with my bag and darted down the back stairs. I was barely a block away when I heard the first sirens.
My Love had heard the now multiplying sirens as well. She was alarmed when I ducked, ashen-faced, through my apartment door.
“Rick, what happened?” she demanded.
“Quick, Sheeni, we have to go!”
“Rick, you shot my father!”
“It was an accident, Sheeni. He was shooting at me and my gun must have gone off when I ducked.”
“He was shooting at you!” she exclaimed.
“He had a gun in his safe. Let’s go, darling! We haven’t a second to spare.”
“Rick, you killed my father!” she gasped.
“Well, he was alive when I left. He might be OK.” I looked out the window. “Sheeni, Trent’s here. Let’s go!”
“I can’t go anywhere, Rick. My father’s been shot. Don’t you see? I have to go to him.”
“But, Sheeni, I got your passport. We can go away now. We can get married!”
“It’s no good, Rick,” she said, pushing me away. “You keep the passport. I’ll get Trent to take me to the hospital. Oh, God, I can’t believe you shot him.”
“Sheeni, you won’t tell anyone it was me, will you?”
“Of course not, darling. I’ll deny any knowledge of the crime. If worse comes to worst, I’ll say it was Nick. You stay here and don’t go anywhere. I’ll try to call you as soon as I find out anything.”
We embraced and kissed. And then she was gone.
11:45 p.m. No call yet from Sheeni. I’ve burned the mask and gloves in the sink and flushed the ashes down the toilet. The rope I’m saving in case I have to hang myself. I hid the envelope of cash—uncounted—in my sofa. I thought of calling the hospital to check on Mr. Saunders’s condition, but decided I couldn’t risk it. If he dies, I’ve decided to give myself up, commit suicide, or flee to Mexico. So far the last alternative sounds the most appealing, even if it means renouncing forever the woman I love. Perhaps I could live with lovely Angel after Dr. Rudolpho burns off my fingerprints with acid. Then I would be free of Nick Twisp for good, except for his incriminating DNA, and I’m not sure I’ve left any of that around for the cops to analyze.
To make amends for my missteps Rick S. Hunter could live a quiet, exemplary life as a law-abiding Mexican citizen. I could go on a spiritual quest like Paul and write virtuous books aimed at the moral uplift of troubled youth. I could acquire wisdom and probity and dignity. I would watch my smart mouth. I would be nice!
FRIDAY, April 23 — 1:52 a.m. No call. Sheeni must be too grief-stricken to phone me. That can only mean I am now officially a murderer. Considering my criminal record, they’ll probably opt to try me as an adult. I could be destined for San Quentin and those last two choices they give you on Death Row: the menu for your final meal and the gas chamber or lethal injection. How prophetic that as a little kid I hated getting inoculations and was always thinking I smelled gas.
3:20 a.m. Sheeni finally called. Needless to say, I wasn’t asleep. Her father is out of surgery. He has a collapsed lung and is weak from loss of blood, but is expected to recover. Though he was still somewhat groggy, the doctors let him speak briefly with family members and two Ukiah police detectives. He told the cops his guns went off accidentally while he was putting them away in his safe! The investigators were pretty skeptical, but the doctor wouldn’t let them ask any more questions. My Love speculates that her father is covering up the truth to prevent her being charged as an accessory to attempted murder.
“I never thought I’d say this, Rick,” she confided, “but it’s a good thing I’m pregnant. I’m sure my father wouldn’t be nearly so understanding and forgiving otherwise. I’ve learned one thing though.”
“What’s that, darling?”
“My father is braver than I thought. Even if he is a lawyer.”
“He tried to kill me, Sheeni. Your father is a homicidal maniac!”
“He was only defending himself, Rick. The situation is not at all comparable to Nick’s bloodthirsty mother. It’s the Twisp family that carries the bad seed, not mine.”
That could be, but given their genetic heritage we might want to keep our gifted children away from fir
earms. Even François can see the wisdom in that. Me, I’m going to bed.
3:40 p.m. I am trying to convince myself that yesterday was just a terrible dream. I dragged myself out of bed this morning feeling much the worse for wear and made it to school almost on time. No sign of Sheeni, of course. Though I was feeling none too clean and a long showerless weekend loomed ahead, I cut gym to take my customary morning break at the Beaver Lodge.
The shooting of a prominent Ukiah attorney merited a brief story at the bottom of page one of the local paper. You could tell the reporter was frustrated by a paucity of facts. Elwyn Saunders, 53, was reported to be in serious but stable condition. Police were investigating the “mysterious circumstances” of the incident, but would say no more. They declined to speculate whether Mr. Saunders had been attacked by a “disgruntled client.” That sounds like a good possibility to me. Lawyers always have plenty of dissatisfied clients, especially after they send out those onerous bills.
I was rereading the newspaper story for the fifth time when vile Vijay Joshi walked in the door and limped straight for my booth.
“What lies have you been telling Sheeni Saunders about me?” he demanded.
“Are you addressing me?” I inquired with a simulacrum of politeness.
“I want to know what slanders against me you have been spreading!” he shouted.
“Sounds to me like you have some sort of personal problem,” I replied calmly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do!” he insisted. “You have been plotting to turn her against me!”
“If any injury has been committed, it is by you against me. You have been spying on me. Don’t try to deny it. You better just leave us alone.”
“No, it is you who had better leave Sheeni alone!” the foaming Indian raved.
“I can hardly do that, Vijay. We’re engaged to be married.”
“Engaged! That is a lie! She just met you. You barely know each other.”
“I don’t choose to discuss my personal affairs with obnoxious strangers. Go away and leave me alone.”
My red-faced adversary flexed his unintimidating fists. “Let us go outside and settle this like gentlemen.”
I looked at him in disbelief. The twit was threatening me with violence. “Go away, Vijay. I don’t pick on guys who are smaller than me.”
The brute grabbed me by my shirt and knocked over my latte. I saw red, lashed out, and to my surprise landed a hard kick square on his population center. He doubled over in pain and went down—raking his nails along my bare arm in the process. The guy fights like a girl. So we both got ejected by the cafe manager, and now I’m banned from the Beaver Lodge for life. But it was worth it. François had been itching to boot Vijay in the goolies practically since the day I met him. The deed was long overdue!
Nurse Filmore swabbed disinfectant on my bleeding arm and told me I shouldn’t play basketball so rough. I assured her I would take it easy in gym from now on. At noon I split for home and crashed on my bed for three solid hours. I feel better now, though I smell like something the cat barfed up.
6:05 p.m. Sheeni just checked in by clandestine cellular phone from the laundry room. She and her mother had spent most of the day at the hospital. Her father was doing very well. He even got out of bed and circumnavigated the corridor twice.
“I was in his room, Rick, when the detectives returned to question him. My father insisted that I be permitted to remain.”
“What did he say, Sheeni?” I asked eagerly.
“He stuck to his story, thank God. Of course, the cops had some very pointed questions for him. They wanted to know how it happened that he managed to discharge both guns accidentally. They also pointed out that his wound was not consistent with a gun having been fired at very close range, as such accidents usually entail. And they wondered why the weapon that delivered the bullet had no fingerprints on it, even though he wasn’t wearing gloves.”
“Tough questions,” I admitted. “What did he say?”
“He was very lawyerly in his replies, Rick. He just kept repeating that he couldn’t remember any details from last night. Finally, the cops got disgusted and left.”
“That’s great, Sheeni!” I exclaimed.
“I have even better news, Rick. As I was assisting my father on his walk, he confided that he’s changed his mind about forcing me to have the baby. And he promised to get my mother off my back. So now I don’t have to run away!”
My genes didn’t like the implications of that news and neither did I.
“But, Sheeni,” I protested, “what about our getting married?”
“Oh, Rick, I love you, but we’re really much too young.”
“But, darling, you promised to marry me if I got your passport.”
“You’re right, Rick, I did. But I didn’t know you were planning on practically murdering my father. That changes everything. And what’s this I hear about your attacking poor Vijay?”
I straightened her out on that score, then hung up. Connie’s right. I should never have told Sheeni I love her. Things were going fine until I decided to open up and share my feelings. What a chump!
SATURDAY, April 24 — The sponge baths weren’t doing it, so I broke down and actually climbed into that dank bathtub. No hot water, of course. I hope my still-healing balls don’t get infected and fall off. Part of my gross scrotum scab did come loose in the towel. Looks like the joke’s on me. The damn mole was still there.
The whole bathing experience was so disgusting I came back and counted the money I swiped from Sheeni’s father. It came to $16,500, nearly doubling my net worth! With a chunk of change like that, maybe I can look for a decent apartment. All that cash on hand was making me inordinately paranoid, so I headed straight to my bank and stashed it (plus the wad from my money belt) in my safe-deposit box.
François’s unsolved crime got a brief mention on page three of today’s paper. It reported that the hospital had upgraded Mr. Saunders’s condition to satisfactory, and noted that the police were “stymied” in their investigations by “alleged inconsistencies” in the victim’s statements. It’s not just the police who are suspicious.
If you ask me, $16,500 is a lot of cash for a lawyer to have stashed in his safe. Back in business math class we learned about the “time value” of money. Say you have $20 that’s not earning interest. One week later it may be worth only $19.99. And you’ve missed out on several cents of interest too. All those penny losses can add up fast. That’s why astute people don’t keep around big wads of cash, unless they’re fugitives like me or crooked in some major way. So maybe Mr. Saunders isn’t clamming up from a noble desire to protect his daughter, but to cover his own sleazy bribe-taking or tax-cheating ass. That lawyer could be even more of a hypocrite than his daughter supposes.
4:20 p.m. Fuzzy invited me over for another swim in his pool. Too bad he didn’t call earlier to spare me that revolting bathtub wallow. Pools are great for the shower-deprived because the heavy chlorine dose cuts down radically on your b.o. worries—at least for a day or two. On the ride over I swung by the hospital on the off chance I might run into My Love. No such luck.
Fuzzy’s scary Italian dad and oversexed mother (who once tried to seduce me and shoot my father) were both in the house, so we cut out fast for the pool bubble. My pal was excited because he thinks Nick Twisp may be back in town.
“Er, what makes you say that?” I asked, attempting to float on my back.
“Well, Rick, you know Sheeni’s dad got blasted?”
“Yeah, I hear it was an accident.”
“It was no accident, Rick. I’ll bet you anything it was Nick.”
“Do you have any proof, Frank?” I asked, flailing for the pool edge. No way 20 pounds of meat on a skeleton can float.
“Not exactly. But it’s pretty suspicious that a guy could accidentally shoot himself with two guns. Sonya thinks Nick is back in town and on the warpath. She thinks he’s pissed off and gunning for everybody who e
ver crossed him. I just hope he has his facts straight and doesn’t think I ratted on him to the cops.”
“Well, I doubt he suspects you, Frank.”
“I hope not, Rick. I just thought I should warn you. And your fight with Vijay might not have been such a smart idea, even though the creep deserved the pounding.”
“Why not?”
“Because if Vijay turns up dead, you’ll be a prime suspect. And it would be just like Nick to kill two birds with one stone.”
That was such a good idea François almost wished he’d thought of it.
7:48 p.m. No check-in call from Sheeni. I hope My Love is OK and not taking me for granted because I once foolishly called her darling. I did, however, get an irate call from Connie.
“Rick, why exactly are you trying to kill my mother’s new boyfriend?” she demanded.
“How do you know I was involved, Connie?”
“Let’s not be coy, Rick. Are you trying to sabotage my carefully laid plans?”
Sighing, I filled her in on my armed quest for Sheeni’s passport, her father’s homicidal response, and my tragic near-miss in the marriage market. Connie was flabbergasted.
“Rick, do you mean to tell me that you actually got a Saunders sibling to agree to marry you?”
“Uh-huh. We were officially engaged for not quite 56 hours. She even told me she loved me.”
“Rick, this is a tremendous breakthrough. Sheeni impressed me as even more averse to marriage than Paulo. This could be a very hopeful sign for us both. Mind you, your girlfriend is pregnant. The prospect of a husband may be slightly less oppressive to her in that condition. I wish Paulo could get pregnant. I don’t see why all the burden has to fall on us women. Did I tell you Lacey dumped him?”
“Really, Connie? I’m amazed.”
“I had to write the letter for her, of course, but she signed it. I convinced her it wasn’t fair to string him along. I gave it to Paulo this morning.”
“How did he take it?”
