Relic of Death

by David Bernstein

  Each apartment had at least three cameras, most had four—one for the bathroom, kitchen, living room, and bedroom. At anytime, he was able to have multiple views of various apartments. He could watch the hooker give blowjobs in 2C while eyeing the hottie playing with herself in 3A, or he could watch Sandra Braverman walk from her kitchen to the living room naked, as she apparently liked to be in the buff whenever she was in her apartment at night.

  Now, it was the afternoon. Most tenants were out or simply lazing around. Old Mrs. Keller was sitting in her recliner watching television. Kyle Brookens was taking a dump. None of the hotties were home, save the hooker, who would be sleeping until about six p.m., at which time she would awake and get ready to go to work.

  Evening was when the fun usually began, like last night. Beth Lovelace and her boyfriend ran around the apartment naked, sucking and fucking each other, the guy blowing his load numerous times on her face and ass, as if he was some kind of supernatural coming machine. Max had blown his own load twice, which was phenomenal for him, the goo-soaked tissues now crusted into flowerlike shapes under his desk.

  Bored and ready to search the Internet for porn, Max saw Sandra enter her apartment.

  He loved watching Sandra; the hot little half–Puerto Rican half-Polish bitch had one hell of a body. Lately, she’d been looking a little haggard, not her usual well-kept self. Clothes weren’t washed as often, bras and panties strewn around her bedroom. He guessed it was her unemployed status and the fear of living on the street. If she only knew why he was letting her stay; ugly or old, and he’d have kicked her ass out already. And little did she know, she was supplying him with hours of whack-off material.

  Seeing her made his member stir. He reached over to his special drawer—the place he kept stolen articles of clothing—and grabbed the used panties he’d taken from her apartment. He sniffed the crotch, wanting her scent to envelop him before he whipped out his goods, but the intoxicating vaginal smell had faded, disappointing him. Tomorrow he would pay a visit to her place and steal another pair.

  Inhaling, trying to get a decent whiff, he pulled the panties away. Sandra was holding a briefcase. He’d never seen her with it before, and he was aware of all Sandra’s things.

  Interest captivated—for why he did not fully understand—he watched the woman sit at her kitchen table and place the case in front of her. Her side profile was facing the camera, leaving the briefcase visible.

  Max placed the panties on the desk, shoving two empty soda cans aside. He leaned forward, wanting to see what the case held.

  Sandra lifted the lid.

  Max’s mouth fell open. He blinked, and the bitch slammed the briefcase closed.

  Impossible, he thought, slowly shaking his head. There was no way he’d seen what he’d just seen.

  Sandra opened the case again. Max’s eyes bulged at the sight. The case was full of money. His mouth went dry. Sandra prodded the cash, and then picked up a bundle and appeared to smell it. She examined a few bills.

  Max knew then that the money wasn’t hers; at least it hadn’t been intended for her. She was excited, shaking. Clearly this was a find of some kind.

  He wondered where a bottom-of-the-scrapheap cunt like her got so much cash. Even if she’d been hooking, there was no way she could accumulate that amount in such a short time. So where had it come from?

  Max watched as Sandra took two one-hundred-dollar bills and stuffed them into her pants pocket. Then she closed the briefcase, went to her room, and stashed it under her bed.

  He watched her move swiftly to her apartment door and hesitate upon leaving.

  “Oh, c’mon, bitch. Do it. Leave.”

  And she did.

  A huge smile spread across Max’s chubby face. He pushed back from his desk and went to his bedroom where he pulled on a white T-shirt and pair of sweatpants. He grabbed his ring of copied keys and hurried out of his apartment, not bothering to lock the door.

  He hated climbing the stairs, and hardly did so, but in this case, he had no choice—Sandra lived on the fourth floor of the walkup apartment building.

  He headed up the first flight, his corns barking with each footfall. He grunted through the pain. By the time he reached the third floor, he was bent over, gasping for breath. He couldn’t afford to stop, and pushed on, having no idea when Sandra was coming home.

  He reached her apartment, his hair slick with sweat, T-shirt plastered to his body. Heat radiated within him as if he’d been cooking in a microwave, making him wish he’d put on shorts instead of the thick sweatpants.

  Jingling the ring of keys, he found Sandra’s apartment key and stuck the illegally made copy into the dead bolt lock and opened it. He did the same with the doorknob lock and was inside the apartment in seconds.

  Max didn’t give a shit what people thought of him, and almost never worried about anything, except when he was illegally inside someone’s apartment. Sure, he was the super, but only permitted in a residence when the renter was present. If Sandra came home when he was in her place, he’d most likely be able to bullshit his way out of any trouble, saying there was a leak in the building and he was checking all the apartments.

  Explaining the key situation would be more difficult, but he’d inform Sandra that the building’s owner had copies and came by with one for her apartment, as well as others. Water damage was expensive, and if caught early, could save the owner a lot of money, not to mention the inconvenience the tenant would have if their stuff got ruined.

  There was still the possibility the bitch would make a fuss, alert the owner if she didn’t believe him, or even call the cops. The building’s owner—who didn’t give a damn about his tenants, but would give a damn if any kind of negative attention was put on his slum—would fire Max in a heartbeat.

  Max hurried to the bedroom, got on his hands and knees and reached under Sandra’s bed. He grabbed the briefcase, got to his feet, and was back in the hallway wiping sweat from his forehead in seconds. He locked the door and headed down the four flights of stairs, his knees crackling and aching with each step.

  By the time he reached his apartment, his lower back felt like it had been stabbed. His legs were shaky and his feet throbbed. Sweat glistened across his exposed flesh as if he’d just come in from a downpour.

  Max threw the briefcase into his safe he hid behind a painting of the Empire State Building hanging on the wall in his living room. There was no way Sandra would know he had the case, but for now it was best to keep it hidden.

  Max grabbed two cans of soda from his fridge and sat at his desk. He put his ring of illegally copied apartment keys in the desk drawer. Sweat continued to pour out of him so he picked up the air-conditioning remote control and turned the machine on high. He guzzled the first can of soda in a few gulps, then tossed the can behind him.

  2

  Max cooled off while he stared at the monitor showing Sandra’s kitchen. He felt better, but still not quite right—slightly nauseous, achy and light-headed. But the discomfort was worth it. He had a shitload of cash and was about to enjoy a great show—The Torment and Anguish of Sandra Braverman. Butterflies tickled his stomach, reminding him of the first time he kissed a girl. He was going to enjoy this. Sandra was a total bitch, her facial expressions and tone revealing her hostility toward him. He couldn’t wait to see the look on her face—to know she was rich one moment, and then back to the poor house the next.

  Max chuckled, and then like an itch at the back of his mind, he thought of the briefcase, as if it were calling to him. He glanced over his shoulder at the painting of the Empire State Building. Maybe he could count the money and see how wealthy he had become while he waited for Sandra to arrive home. Any problem with her—if she came down to his place—and he’d simply put the money back inside his safe. Let her have a look around, though there was no reason she’d think he’d taken the briefcase. And as far as her calling the cops, she wouldn’t; the money clearly wasn’t hers.

  Deciding to retrieve the
case and count the cash, Max saw Sandra enter her kitchen. The bitch was home. He immediately switched on the other three cameras in her apartment, and had views of each room.

  Sandra disappeared off the first screen and appeared on the second screen, entering the living room. She didn’t remain there long, making a beeline for the bedroom, the third screen.

  Max felt his fingers tingle with excitement. He hadn’t felt this giddy in a long time.

  Sandra got on her hands and knees. She reached under the bed. Her motions grew frantic, her arm moving wildly back and forth. The overhanging comforter was flung up and onto the mattress. On her knees, she grabbed the sides of her head and screamed. Then she pounded the floor with both fists. Standing, she heaved the mattress up against the wall for a better look.

  “You won’t find it, my little cockroach,” he said, laughing uncontrollably. His chest ached, but he continued. He wondered what she was thinking: Had someone stolen it, or did I imagine the whole thing?

  Sandra pulled the mattress back down. She sat, crying into her hands.

  Max couldn’t believe it. The bitch had given up looking already. He’d expected her to tear the entire place apart. He picked up his soda can, finished its contents, and then tossed it over his shoulder where it clattered against others.

  Sandra pulled her hands from her face and looked straight ahead. She didn’t move. Her back was straight, eyes seeming to stare at nothing. The tears had stopped. She remained like this for a few minutes, and then stood and walked over to the window. She unlocked it and slid it open. A gust of wind blew her hair back. She placed a knee on the windowsill and climbed onto it, and then crouched in the small open space.

  Max watched in disbelief as Sandra leapt out of view.

  “Holy shit!” he said, sitting up. The bitch jumped. He reached for his cell phone and stopped himself. His heart was racing, but he smiled, feeling better. The sudden shock of what he’d witnessed was wearing off. The woman’s actions were beneficial to him. His problem was solved.

  The bitch had swan-dived into the alley below. Someone from the building across the way might’ve seen her jump and were on the phone with 911 now. Or maybe no one had seen a thing, and it would take a homeless person looking for bottles or kids wandering back there for a place to get high before she was discovered. Either way, he didn’t give a shit. He was in the clear. The biggest problem that would arise for him would be when he had to clean and fix up the apartment, getting it ready for a new tenant.

  Then again, maybe he wouldn’t need to. In fact, maybe he wouldn’t need to clean or repair a fucking thing again, at least not in this dump. He had a suitcase full of cash. He could leave his shitty job and find a nicer place to live, though he loved his setup. He’d count the cash and then decide what to do.

  Max retrieved the briefcase from the safe and opened it at his desk. The breath was knocked from his lungs as if he’d been squeezed by a giant hand. His eyes focused, trying to make out what he was seeing. The money was gone, replaced by a bloody heart. He cringed at the disgusting sight.

  “What the hell…?” he muttered.

  He poked the muscle, feeling its rubbery-like texture. A spot of red was on the tip of his finger when he pulled it away. “That fucking bitch,” he shouted and pounded the desktop.

  What the hell was she doing with a heart?

  Then it dawned on him. She was selling organs for cash, involved in some sort of illegal organ-selling operation. That must be it. The cash was still somewhere in her apartment. He must have grabbed the wrong briefcase, for there was no way she had time to switch out the cash. He’d been watching her.

  Panic seized him like the grip of death. The cops might be here soon. They’d be all over her apartment, find the cash and it would be gone forever.

  Max was glad he’d been too lazy to undress. He jumped out of his chair, threw the case into the safe—not wanting to be found with it should the police wish to see him— and rushed out of the apartment, again not bothering to lock the door.

  He charged up the stairs, working hard. His blubber jiggled wildly. Sweat flew from his face. By the time he reached the third floor, he could hardly catch his breath. He needed to rest, but there was no time for it. He had to grab the cash and be back in his apartment before the police arrived.

  Head swimming in a fog, needing to vomit, legs feeling as if they were going to buckle, Max crested the fourth floor. He used the wall for support and made his way to Sandra’s door. He reached for his key ring and realized he’d forgotten it in his apartment, having put the keys in the desk drawer.

  “Shit,” he said and turned, heading back down the stairs.

  Each step was a struggle, his legs wanting to give out. He used the banister to support himself and soon his arms grew weary. An elephant was on his back, weighing him down. Sweat trickled from his pores like a faucet not completely turned off. His clothes were heavier too, soaked with perspiration. His eyes stung as the salty liquid fell into them. Breathing was becoming harder, as if his chest was being compressed.

  He made it to his apartment and managed to shut and lock the door, the process automatic. Two steps into the living room and he collapsed to the floor.

  He couldn’t breathe, feeling as if the elephant that had been on his back was now on his chest. His left arm was numb.

  He didn’t want to believe it, but for some reason he knew the heart in the briefcase had been for him.

  The Husband

  1

  Gus Van Dekker glanced at his wristwatch. His father was over thirty minutes late. He’d already called him twice, the phone ringing until voice mail picked up. It wasn’t surprising that his father wasn’t on time, but it was surprising that the man hadn’t answered his calls or phoned ahead.

  Max had canceled on his son before, but had always called. Gus hoped this wasn’t the case. Today, Gus had something important to discuss with the man. Usually, their conversations were about the New York Yankees, Gus’s work and how he hated it, or whatever else was on either man’s mind.

  Gus’s marriage was on the rocks, teetering on a full-on landslide. Blair had become even more hostile and mean recently, causing him to do something he never thought he’d ever have to do. He broke into her cell phone and email accounts. Blair was cheating on him with a man named Ken. He found messages with explicit sexual content—can’t wait to taste your sweetness and I long for you to fill me. He also found messages revealing that their tryst was more than just sexual—I miss you and my heart aches for when we can be together. Some of the messages contained just the name of a hotel and a time. It looked like the affair had been going on for months.

  Gus couldn’t believe it. His wife was not only cheating on him, but appeared to be going in the direction of leaving him. Then one day last week, Gus came home early and found the toilet seat lid in the up position. When he finally confronted his wife, she simply said she wanted a divorce, that their marriage was going nowhere.

  Gus cried, begging his wife for a second chance. He should’ve been angry with her, but as usual she was the one angry with him. Just before they were married, Max told Gus he needed to toughen up and stop being a pussy or Blair would see him as weak and walk all over him. He’d be nothing more than a pathetic piece of shit to her. Someone to boss around and take out her anger on.

  It turned out his father’s outlook on women, at least a woman like Blair, was correct. Now he wished he’d taken his father’s advice, instead of thinking the man old-fashioned and crude.

  Gus was finally ready to listen, and wanted to discuss the matter with his father. Sure, the man was a pig, to put it kindly, but when it came to his son’s well being, Max was genuine. And Gus’s father was the only person he knew who would keep his family troubles a secret. The man had no friends and spent almost all of his time in his apartment.

  Gus looked at his watch again. Ten more minutes had gone by, making his total wait time an hour. His father wasn’t coming. A sinking feeling crept into
his gut. He thought about his dad’s terrible diet, how the man was extremely overweight, and always idle, getting almost no exercise. He wished he had the nerve to tell his father to shape up, do something to improve his health, but the last time he tried, the man stopped talking to him for a year. Gus couldn’t have that again, especially now.

  Gus called his father one more time, getting the voice mail again. Sitting here was a waste of time. He went to the register, paid for his soda and left.

  2

  Gus took a cab to his father’s place. He tried the front door to the building, but it was locked. For the past few months the lock had been broken, allowing tenants and anyone else easy entrance. He rang the buzzer for apartment 1A, his dad’s apartment. When he wasn’t buzzed in, the foreboding feeling that had settled over him earlier was back. Reinforced. Something wasn’t right.

  Gus shook the thought from his mind. His dad was fine. He had probably gotten a call from a tenant about a problem, something serious like a gushing pipe, gas odor or something equally dangerous, even costly. Something the landlord would be pissed about if Max didn’t take care of it.

  Yeah, that was it.

  He hit the buzzer again, just to be sure, and when the front door wasn’t unlocked, he decided to wait for someone to enter or leave the building.

  Antsy, he kept glancing at his watch, time crawling. Someone had to be coming home or leaving soon.

  Another few minutes went by and he’d had enough. He was ready to start pressing random buzzers until someone let him in when a young woman with high heels and an extremely short, ass-cheek-revealing skirt came out.

  “Hi there, sweetie,” she said, winked and walked on.

  Gus caught the door before it closed and watched her leave. When she disappeared from view, her delicious-looking ass gone from sight, he went inside.