Relic of Death

by David Bernstein

  He rang his dad’s doorbell, hearing the chime within. No one came to the door. For some stupid reason, he’d thought his dad would’ve answered. Hope was a cruel thing.

  Pulling out his set of keys, he found the ones to his father’s apartment, having made them illegally in the event he had to get into the place and check on his dad, and unlocked the door. His dad would be extremely pissed at him if he found out about the keys. Gus had asked for copies, but Max said no. When Gus said it was for his dad’s well-being, Max said that Gus was the one who would need assistance in life, not him, and if the subject was brought up again, he would be indefinitely uninvited to visit him.

  With his hand on the doorknob, Gus took a shaky breath and went in.

  He closed the door quietly behind him. He hadn’t been by in a few weeks. The place was usually a mess, but even more so now. And there was a horrendous odor of mildew and old Chinese food.

  “Dad?” he called out, cringing, expecting his father to ask him what the hell he was doing in his apartment. He stepped into the living room and saw the large man facedown on the floor.

  “Dad!”

  Gus knelt next to him and felt for a pulse. When he didn’t find one, he attempted to turn the man over onto his back, but saw his lifeless eyes and flinched backward.

  Regaining his composure, he rolled his dad over. The man was ghost-white, abnormally so. “You stupid fuck,” Gus whispered. Tears blurred his vision. He placed his head on his dad’s chest and cried.

  Sirens sounded from outside, breaking him from his sorrow. He looked around, confused, wondering if someone had called an ambulance. Maybe his father had done so just before he died. He looked around for a cell phone, but didn’t see one. He checked the man’s pockets. Nothing.

  Gus went over to the apartment door and opened it. He peeked down the hall and saw police officers heading up the stairs. They weren’t here for his dad. Something must’ve happened in the building.

  He thought about stopping them, but instead, went back inside and closed the door. He returned to the living room and stared at his father’s corpse. A chill ran through him. The man was only fifty-six years old. Seeing no signs of trouble, he guessed his father had died from a coronary. Of course it was only a guess. The autopsy would reveal the cause, but it was only a matter of time. No one could live his lifestyle for long.

  Gus took his eyes from the body and focused on the closed door across the room, and the reason he didn’t alert the authorities. There would be plenty of time for that. But for now, he had a chance to see what in the hell made the room so damn special. His father always kept it locked whenever he came over. Gus had tried the knob numerous times on various occasions to no avail. The door had three locks on it, was made of solid steel, as well as the door frame. His father had told him he didn’t need the room for anything so he turned it into a giant safe, and kept people’s items secure for a fee.

  Gus had never believed him.

  He went over to the door, and to his incredible surprise, the knob turned. He pushed the door open.

  3

  Gus stepped into the room, amazed. The place was in the same condition as every other room—soda cans lying about, food containers, etc.—except it was like walking into a secret agent’s lair or some villain from a spy movie.

  A huge desk with ten monitors was positioned against the left wall. A few computer towers sat on a small table next to the desk. The window was covered over with black felt. There were no pictures on the walls or furniture, save the chair and desk. One wall was lined with shelves containing hundreds of DVD cases, each case labeled with an apartment number and a date.

  Gus approached the monitors, his mouth dropping open at the views. He saw Mrs. Teller sitting in her apartment. Another tenant was cooking in his kitchen. But the alarming view was of the officers. Four of the monitors were obviously of the same place, police officers walking from one room to the next.

  His dad was a cyber peeping Tom.

  Gus’s heart sped up. He focused on the cops. Would they think it a coincidence his father had died the same time something else was going on? They might search the apartment. Even break into the locked room. See what was going on. His dad’s name would be all over the news. This was sure to be a top story. Gus couldn’t have that type of embarrassment, especially with what was going on in his marriage.

  He couldn’t report anything. Not yet. First, he needed to get rid of the surveillance equipment and clean the place up. There was no way he was going to let people know what his father had been doing. The man’s reputation was sour enough, and rightly so, due to his own actions and the way he presented himself, but Max was his father, and he would protect his name and the stink of what it might do to his own.

  4

  That night, Gus went to work and dismantled the surveillance system. He filled the bathtub with water, added salt and soaked the computer towers. The hard drives, if they had anything on them, would be ruined. Next, he stuffed the monitors into garbage bags and left them in the bedroom, hoping they looked like clothes. He cut all the cables and wires running into the wall and sealed the holes with plaster he purchased at the hardware store a few blocks away.

  It was late by the time he finished. He hadn’t touched his dad’s body. He sat on the couch and drank a cold soda, wishing it was a beer, and toasted his dad.

  “To the man I never really knew.”

  He searched the rest of the apartment, looking under the bed, in drawers, through closets, finding nothing interesting until he looked behind the painting of the Empire State Building, and found a safe.

  Gus looked everywhere for the combination, but didn’t find it, and resigned himself that he’d need a locksmith. He put the painting back, feeling confident the safe wouldn’t be found.

  Finishing his soda, he tossed the can on the floor and called 911. The police arrived, asked him questions, and then the body was taken away. No foul play was indicated.

  After the police left, he called his wife and told her what happened. She said how sorry she was, and that it might be better if he stayed there.

  “What? Why?” he said.

  “You’ve been sleeping on the couch. It’s pathetic. Now you have a place of your own.”

  “Baby,” he cried. “I need you.”

  His wife moaned, the annoyance clear in her voice.

  “I want to see our daughter,” he said.

  “I know you’re hurting,” she said. “But this is best. Your father’s passing gives us the space we need.”

  “I’m coming home,” he said.

  “You do that and I’ll call the police.” Her tone was sharp. Mean.

  “But—” he began, but she’d hung up on him. He thought about going home, but what was the point? She’d only make him feel worse.

  Gus walked down to the corner mart and purchased a six-pack of beer. Back in the apartment, he drank them all, one right after another. He stumbled into bed and cried himself to sleep.

  5

  The next morning he felt like shit. He was a bit of a lightweight when it came to drinking alcohol, the six pack having done him in. He guzzled water from the tap and then called his friend Larry who happened to be a locksmith.

  Larry came over that night and worked on the safe, getting it open in little under an hour. Gus offered to pay him, but Larry refused. The two friends sat in the kitchen and had a few beers, talking about Gus’s situation.

  “Damn,” Larry said. “That bitch is cold. I’d kill her. Fuck her getting the kid and my money. You know they always get both.”

  “You would?” Gus asked.

  “What?”

  “Kill her?”

  Larry looked taken aback. “Um, no, man. I was joking. I’d get a good lawyer. You said she was cheating. Get proof and you’ll make the bitch pay.”

  They talked some more, Gus’s mood darkened with every passing second. Before Larry left, he asked Gus if he was going to be okay.

  “I’ll be fine.”


  “Okay, man. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call, okay?”

  Gus nodded and thanked him again, a thought tickling his mind.

  6

  He stood in front of the safe, the door slightly ajar. He was a little frightened by what he might find and pulled open the door.

  A briefcase took up most of the space. He pulled it out and went to set it down to see what else was in the safe, but found himself unable to, wanting to open the case immediately. He sat on the couch, unlatched the locks, and opened the lid.

  Gus’s eyebrows came together, a look of confusion on his face. He was staring at a handgun, attached with straps to the center of the case. His insides went cold. What the hell was his father doing with a gun?

  He pulled the weapon free and admired it. The light glinted off the barrel and he was filled with a feeling of power.

  Gus was familiar with firearms. Nothing crazy like some gun nut, but he knew enough from Internet research and from firing them at the shooting range.

  The gun in his hand was a .45 Kimber 1911. It was his favorite choice for handguns, the sidearm chosen by the LAPD S.W.A.T. for best 1911 models. U.S. Marines used the weapon, as well as Special Ops units. These were nice things to read about, but it wasn’t anything comparable to the look and feel it gave him. His wife would never allow him to own such a weapon, let alone a hunting knife.

  Gus popped the magazine out and saw that it was loaded. He racked the slide and a bullet popped out, landing next to him on the couch. The gun had been ready to fire.

  He reached over and picked up the slug. Using his thumb, he pushed the bullet into the magazine, bringing the total number of bullets to seven. He slid the magazine back in and racked the slide.

  The gun was ready to fire.

  It had been a long time since he’d experienced such a powerful feeling. If he owned a gun, his fuck-of-a-wife might respect him, or fear him.

  Nah, she’d never believe he would use it. But she really didn’t know him, at least not the him with a gun. When he was at the range, he was no longer ordinary, meek Gus. He was different. Confident. Strong. Guns did that to people. They evened the odds.

  He shoved the .45 into his pants at the small of his back, but for some reason it didn’t feel right, and he returned it to the briefcase.

  With the gun back inside the case, Gus felt less dominant. The weight of the world was back on his shoulders along with the sadness of losing his father. He missed his wife, but even more so, his daughter, Jezebel.

  Resigned to self-medication, Gus headed down to the corner store and purchased more beer. The entire time he was gone from the apartment, he kept thinking about the briefcase. He didn’t like being without it.

  7

  “My wife’s been nothing but a nasty bitch,” he said to the empty living room as he held the .45. “Treating me like a piece of total garbage.” He upended his beer, guzzling the contents, then threw the empty can against the wall, hoping to do some damage. He needed to hurt something. The can clanged harmlessly and plunked to the ground.

  “FUCK!” he screamed, pointed the gun at the can and fired. The shot was loud, shaking him to his core, and the can was obliterated.

  He felt better.

  He was drunk and realized he shouldn’t have fired the gun inside. Someone might be calling the cops. Gus grabbed a few beers, stuffing the cans into a shopping bag. He snatched up the briefcase after tossing the gun inside, and rushed out of the apartment.

  When he was two blocks away, he pulled out his cell phone and called Easy Ride Car Service. A black Lincoln Town car arrived within ten minutes. Gus hopped into the back and placed a twenty-dollar bill into the little drawer built into the Plexiglas window.

  “For allowing me to drink my beer during the ride, okay?” he said.

  “No problem. Just make sure you don’t puke, or I’m going to charge your ass too.”

  “Not even close to that point.”

  “Good. Where to?”

  Gus gave his home address.

  8

  Gus paid the driver his fare, plus tip.

  With the door open and one foot on the pavement, Gus said, “I left a few empties on the floor back here.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Damn right, Gus thought. Fucking twenty plus the fair and a tip ought to cover a few measly cans. He exited the vehicle and shut the door.

  Gus made his way up the steps and to the front door. He took a moment to settle himself, his drunken state causing him to sway a bit. But standing there only caused his anger level to rise. This was his house and he shouldn’t feel awkward about entering it. Who the hell did his wife think she was?—telling him to stay away from his house, the house he was paying for. And on top of all that, she was screwing somebody else, and probably in Gus’s bed.

  He squeezed the briefcase’s handle. He ached to hold the gun, to shove it in his wife’s face and watch her beg for her life.

  Gus tried the door, but it wouldn’t open. He pulled out his set of keys, found the correct one, and inserted it into the lock. The key didn’t turn. He checked the key, making sure it was the right one.

  Bitch had changed the locks on him.

  Rage boiled within Gus, heating his core, causing his head to feel as if it was going to burst. Red outlined his peripheral vision. He thought about the gun. About how he could use it to blast open the lock and make the entrance of all entrances.

  “Hey, Gus,” a male voice said from his left.

  Gus turned and saw his neighbor, Mike Daugherty.

  “How’s it going?” Mike said.

  Gus didn’t answer and continued to stare. He never liked Mike. The guy was always ogling his wife, staring at her ass, flirting with her. Hell, maybe he was fucking her. Maybe his nickname was Ken, his wife pretending to be Barbie.

  “You okay, Gus?”

  “You fucking my wife, Mike?” Gus asked, thinking about the gun again. It could sure solve a lot of his problems. Putting a bullet into Mike’s head would be nice. Show his wife that he wasn’t a pussy.

  “Excuse me?” Mike said.

  “Daddy!” a high-pitched voice squealed.

  Gus turned back to the door and saw his five-year-old daughter. He hadn’t heard the door open. His anger dwindled, the love for his little girl filling the space. Mike was a distant memory.

  “Jezebel,” he said, smiling.

  “Gus?” he heard his wife say just before she appeared behind the girl.

  Gus ignored her, focusing on his daughter. “Give Daddy a hug,” he said and held out his arms. Jezebel went to move forward but was yanked into the house by her mother.

  “Ouch, Mommy,” she cried.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Blair said, holding out her arm to prevent Jezebel from moving past her.

  “This is my house,” he answered. “I live here.” He stepped inside and shoved past his wife.

  “Hey, where do you think you’re going?” she shouted and put a hand on his shoulder. Gus batted it away and entered the kitchen.

  “I smell the liquor on you,” she said, following.

  “It’s beer. Not liquor.”

  “I don’t give a damn what it is. You reek and you’re drunk.”

  “Ding, ding, ding. Give the woman a prize.”

  “Get out,” she said, pointing toward the exit.

  Gus hated seeing her like this, and despised her for it. He wanted to love her. No, he did love her, which was why this hurt so badly. It was she that no longer wanted him, and she was being cruel about it.

  Gus needed to show her another side of him. The side she never saw, let her know who was boss, but Jezebel was glued to her mother’s side, clearly afraid.

  “Sweetie,” Gus said, speaking kindly to Jezebel. “Mommy and Daddy need to have a little talk, okay? So could you please go to your room?”

  “No,” Blair barked. “She isn’t going anywhere. It’s you who is leaving.”

  “This is my house, you
cold bitch, and I’m not going anywhere.” Jezebel flinched at his harsh words. She was used to her mother yelling and cursing, but not her father. Gus felt a pang of stabbing pain in his heart. He didn’t want his little girl witnessing his behavior.

  Blair took a step forward, pointing at him, her face screwed into a scowl. “Get out. Get the fuck out. Now.”

  Gus glanced at the briefcase in his hand. He could use the gun. Whether he used it to scare or kill, he wasn’t sure yet. But not in front of Jezebel. He looked up and his daughter was gone. He felt better, now that she had listened to him and left the adults to themselves. This was usually the case whenever he and his wife fought. Gus would find her in her room crying, drawing, or coloring. He’d have to explain that mommies and daddies sometimes argued, but that’s all it was, an argument—they still loved each other.

  This clearly wasn’t the case anymore, at least not for Blair. What would he tell Jezebel now?

  “I’m warning you,” Blair said. “Get out.”

  “Or what?”

  “Get a little alcohol into you and you’re a real tough guy, huh? Finally showing a little backbone?”

  “No, I’m just sick and tired of you and your shit. My father passes away and you don’t even have the decency to be civil, telling me to stay away, as if I had lost a fucking toy?”

  “He was an obese piece of shit who didn’t give a damn about anyone,” she said. “Trust me, the world won’t miss him.”

  Something clicked inside Gus’s head, as if a part of him had broken. He stepped up to his wife, fist raised to strike.

  Blair didn’t move. Instead, she held up her chin, daring him.

  “Go ahead, tough guy,” she said, laughing. “Do it.”

  Gus fought against his desire and lowered his arm. He took a few steps back, thinking about the gun. Would she be so daring if he’d come at her with it?