***
“I don’t care what you say. Lindsay would never do anything to hurt Mother.”
“Mr. Earle,” the detective said with one of those patient tones parents use on children, “the only way it would work is with humidity.”
Creases filled his brow. “David painted the room,” he said. “And he just wanted to do something nice for Mother.”
“But we have statements. Your sister was constantly harping on you to keep the humidifier on and running, to shut the door...”
Scott sighed. “It was hard for Mother to breathe with the air so dry. And there was no point running the humidifier if all the moisture floated out into the hallway.”
“Sure, that’s what she told you.”
He stared across the table. “You really think they did this?”
***
“Look, if you had enough intelligence to ask the right questions, you’d know that I had Scott running that humidifier for months before David ever talked about painting the room. I most certainly had nothing to do with any convoluted plot to kill my own mother.”
“Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
Lindsay blinked as she looked up at the detective towering over her. “He’s the one who was having an affair. Why would I conspire with a good-for-nothing cheat like that? You think I’d kill my mother with him? Why would I be so foolish?”
“You could have cut your husband out of your mother’s will with a simple nod. The lawyer was standing right there, asking you if that’s what you wanted.”
“And you think I should have just said the word and filed for divorce.”
“If I were you, I would’ve.”
“Well, you aren’t me, are you?”
“We have statements, Mrs. Powell. The lawyer, the doctor. The mailman.”
She stared at the detective. The mailman? Lindsay groaned. This is ridiculous. But she could tell from the face of the detective that he didn’t think it was a simple misunderstanding. I’ve got to stop this before it gets out of control.
“I want a lawyer.”
***
“Here’s what we know. A long time ago a substance called Paris Green was used to tint paint. It did the job, but it had an unfortunate side effect. Do you know what that was?” The detective didn’t give him a chance to respond. “It contained arsenic. And when the paint was exposed to humidity the poison got into the air and people breathed it in. They died.”
David started to shake his head. “I had no…”
The detective held up his hand. “The medical examiner’s report concluded Mildred Earle died from poisoning. She died from ingesting poison. Not through her food. She breathed it in.”
“I never…”
The detective put his hands on the table. “It’s over. We went through the garbage. An empty box of Paris Green. Paint cans with trace amounts of the poison. Under normal circumstances, it would implicate your brother-in-law, but we corroborated his statement. You were routinely bringing garbage to his house for him to put out.
“It was a nice attempt at a frame-up, really. Scott had access to the paint. It was, technically, his garbage. But it was your fingerprints that were on the box of Paris Green.”
“But we found that when we were…”
“Save it. You see, we also have statements. The doctor, the lawyer. Your wife was constantly riding her brother, keeping after him to have the humidifier full and running, to keep the door closed.”
“You can’t seriously believe…” David started and then shook his head, “I want a lawyer.”
***
“So, they were in it together.”
Scott stared back at the detective, listening to the tick-tick-tick of the clock, the muffled hum of activity from outside the room.
“Why?”
“Why, Mr. Earle? Shouldn’t that be obvious? Money. It costs a lot of money to restore those old houses your brother-in-law buys. And the market isn’t as strong now as it was six months ago. I suspect they were anxious for a big pay-off. Your mother’s house would fetch a good price without much work at all.”
“But why frame me?”
“So they could take you out of the will. Nothing for you, more for them. It’s called greed, Mr. Earle.”
He sat there shaking his head as the detective walked out of the room.
Once he was alone he covered his mouth with his hand and allowed himself a small smile.
***
Mildred’s will was successfully challenged. The deed for the house was transferred to Scott alone. David and Lindsay were awaiting trial.
Scott led the woman up the stairs, into the master bedroom.
“Oh, this room is fabulous. Refinished hardwood with that beautiful area rug.”
The rug he’d shampooed there, over a sheet of plastic so that when Mother died, he could move it into another room and mop up the floor. The wet carpet, the steaming bath with the fan circulating moisture into the air. Can’t believe the cops thought the humidifier was enough on its own.
The realtor nodded approvingly. “This house has been restored perfectly.”
Scott smiled. You don’t know how right you are.
What Every Guy Wants
I’m not special. I want what every guy wants. Just to have a piece of tail when I’m in the mood for it, and the rest of the time to have some peace and quiet.
Is that too much to ask for? I don’t think so, but she disagreed. Of course she disagreed. She argued about everything. No matter how many times I said I didn’t want to talk she just kept harping. Women. Nattering until you tune them out and then they unload some heavy shit with a big sigh and a dramatic announcement about needing to talk. About our feelings.
Christ.
You see all these men, going store to store, even holding the damn bags while their women shop. I always saw the ones who looked happy. Bought the delusion that it might actually be possible to find the right one, but deep down I knew better. That book, SLEEPYHEAD? Guy who wrote that, he knew. All a man wants is a woman who won’t say no or talk back, just lies there and takes it. None of this crap about being in the mood or whining about a cold start, saying it’s over before she’s even thinking about getting interested.
She doesn’t like what I watch, hates my music. Wants to know how much effort it takes to do something thoughtful, to surprise her. Jesus, it takes too much energy just to endure the nagging. I’m so busy tuning it out I haven’t got time to think of anything else.
More trouble than they’re worth. Same conclusion, every time. You’d think I would’ve learnt by now but I always think I’ll try. Must be some lingering misguided idea stuck in my head from all those pussy-whipped shopping boys with the artificial smiles.
But I tell myself you never know unless you try, so when I bring them home I make an effort. Really. And at first, they want to. They’re grateful, and it isn’t bad, as long as they aren’t a screamer. I don’t like that. I like it nice and quiet. For a while, it’s me walking store to store with a smile plastered on my face. I think this is it, things will are different this time. That I might not need the back-up plan after all.
Sooner or later, though, it’s all about socks on the floor and the cap left off the toothpaste and leaving the toilet seat up. How much effort does it take for me to put it down? If she doesn’t think it’s so hard, why doesn’t she put it down herself? You don’t see me griping about her not leaving it up for me, do you?
When it gets to there, I know. I still don’t want to admit it, but it’s coming. The moment of truth, when I do find the energy to surprise her. I always do it differently. Depends on what they’ve got that’s worth keeping. This one, it’s the feet. Her toes aren’t hairy, for one thing.
I want what every guy wants. A piece of tail when I’m in the mood for it, and the rest of the time, some peace and quiet. If you can’t find the real deal, you get a substitute. Not one of those plastic inflatable things but something with the touch of real skin. Okay, so it
’s a bit leathery, but not completely artificial.
And it can’t talk back.
Bull’s Eye
Ain’t nothing that makes my heart pump faster than the feel of cold steel against my skin as I line a target up in the crosshairs and rest my finger against the trigger. It’s what I live for. I crouch down into position on the edge of the rooftop, a good ten minutes early.
If there was snow on the ground it’d be a goddamn Christmas card picture. You know, the kind o’ scene they’d shoot for some fuckin’ Hallmark card, some sappy photo triggerin’ sentimental bullshit feelings about family, love, turkey dinners an’ all that.
If there was snow, that’s what I’d be thinkin’ ‘bout. But there ain’t.
Nope. Just me here, in the pre-dawn hush. Monday morning’s are always like this, things takin’ longer to get goin’, nobody wantin’ to drag their sorry ass out of bed to start another work week.
‘Cept me. A job’s a job, and for what I make I’d be out here at 3 in the fucking morning in the middle of a hurricane if that’s what the boss wanted.
Yeah, the boss, he treats me right. Knows it ain’t easy, getting guys who’re solid, ready to go 24-7, and who don’t mind this kind of work. I mean, it ain’t for just anybody, right? What is? Some guys, they want their 9 to 5 life.
Me, I’m just a man with a talent. My dad, he was always sayin’, “Why try bein’ what you ain’t? You find one thing you’re good at, an’ learn to like it.” Still, I thought for a while I’d maybe try settlin’ a bit. Went army, did the drill, but it didn’t take.
Nope. One big clusterfuck and I’m out the door. And where’s a guy like me gonna go when the head doctor says I ain’t fit? Train ya to kill and then kick you out on your ass with nothin’.
Dad would be damn proud to see me now, though, him bein’ the one who first put a gun in my hands and taught me to shoot.
Been doing this almost ten years. Other guys talk ‘bout winnin’ the lottery and stickin’ it to the man, but the only job fantasy I e’er had was to have one of them look up, just before it happened, so I could put a bullet right between their eyes.
I musta played it out in my mind a thousand times. Always looked just like it does today. A day crisp and cold enough so you see a white puff when you blow your breath out. Like smokin’ ice air. I’d be in position, like I am right now, waitin’.
Waitin’ for the moment when they come down the street or through the park or step off a bus or whatever. Just waitin’ for the moment they don’t see comin’.
‘Cept the last one. Fuck. It wasn’t like I’d dreamed it, but there she was, walkin’ across the square. Those fuckin’ long legs in the high boots that zipped up the side and the short black leather skirt.
God damn waste of a woman, that’s what I was thinkin’ when I drew a bead on ‘er. The legs, a firm chest filling out the tight, white shirt her open jacket showed off and long black hair. It was one of those times I had to tell myself that if she looked up she’d have a face like a basset hound so that I could do ‘er. I mean, I’m good at doin’ this shit and all but I don’t have to feel good about poppin’ off a totally fuckable broad.
I’d checked my watch, made sure everythin’ was right, just waitin’ for her to get into position when she looked up. Looked right up at me. Like she knew. I swear I was lookin’ her in the Goddamn eye and she smiled. Not like some kind of radiant smile, not like I knew she was capable of. I mean, she wasn’t no mutt. One look at ‘er and she wasn’t just fuckable. She was fuckworthy. An absofuckinlute tragedy not to do her before I did her in.
And there she was, just lookin’ at me. Didn’t even slow her step. The smile was, you know, that kind of small smile. Like when someone knows things aren’t gonna go the way they’d like but there isn’t a damn thing they can do to change it. I just knew that she knew that I was there for her. Sounds crazy, but I’d’ve sworn on a stack, and no fuckin’ way I’d call myself religious. Not doin’ this for a livin’. If there’s a God, I’m on the seriously fucked list.
Anyway, I told the boss later a pigeon flew at me, which wasn’t complete shit, but in all these years on the job I ain’t ever shot wide before. Took three shots to get her, and then it was right in the chest, the blood seeping out over her perfect, round breasts. Didn’t need no scope to see that, even from where I was.
Wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. They’d wanted the head.
I sighed, squeezing my eyes shut for a second to push the image of her out and then glanced at my watch as I ran the back of my hand across my nose. Since I had those gloves on, the kind with the fingers cut off, the snot streaked across the black wool.
Fuck is wrong with you, Teevo? Get your shit together, out here gettin’ all choked up over some dead bitch.
I couldn’t afford to screw this up. Not after how mad the boss was about the last one. Other jobs, you fuck it up, it’s like whatever. Like they don’t really give a shit about it. But this work, it gotta get done right. The boss don’t like mistakes.
Gotta be wonderin’ what the hell is wrong with me though, getting’ all bent outta shape over a job. She ain’t a fuckin’ woman, Teevo, just a job. Just what you do to get paid.
Just a job. Yeah man, you keep tellin’ yourself that.
I glanced at my watch again. Fuck, this one’s late. By now I should see ‘im coming down the sidewalk.
Breathe in, blow out, breathe in, blow out the icy white cloud, breathe in…
I do that until the cold is burning my lungs, then look at my watch again. Fuck, this one is really late. Like they called in for a sickie or some shit. Don’t matter what the reason, my boss will have my balls if I don’t check in when I’m s’posed to.
I mean, other jobs, you fuck it up and it’s maybe some paper in a file reprimanding your ass formally but nothing comes of it. Government job fuckin’ up usually means a promotion. But it ain’t like that with this. You screw it up and you’re in serious shit. You got some mad ass motherfucker raggin’ on you because he wants someone to get killed and you didn’t deliver. And if he’s all pissed enough to kill someone, it ain’t like he’s a forgivin’ type, is it? No fuckin’ way. He’d just as soon cap you himself and keep his money.
That’s why you gotta work for a boss. Someone who’s gonna keep the customer happy and keep you from gettin’ your ass kicked, ‘cos it’s true it’s hard to find guys who can do this, who’re good at it, who want to do it but it’s also true it’s risky. Lotsa guys don’t have the balls for it, but then they don’t wanna pay up. When that happens, the boss takes care of ‘em, and I still get my money.
I look at my watch again. Ten seconds until I’m supposed to put one in this guy’s Johnson. Second shot to the stomach.
This one, I bet he was foolin’ around. Sounds like some bitch takin’ him out for sure, wantin’ him to get it in the gonads first.
I roll my head from side to side, workin’ the kinks outta my neck, then pull the gun back into position, lookin’ through the scope.
Nothin’.
Fuck.
I scan the faces one by one, but I already know he ain’t there. All these years doin’ this job I learn my target.
Fuck me. I lower the gun, lift my hand and check the watch, then look up, across the square to check the time against the clock tower.
And then I know. The truth hits me a split second before the bullet splits the skin and knocks me back on my ass, my last breaths nothing but puffs of white smoke rising up into the sky.
***
“Damn Phoenix. I mean, I liked him and all, but when you fuck it up, your boss don’t take no shit, right? And that shot was on. You see that motherfucker fall? Bam, lights out Teevo.”
Phoenix cracked a grin as he lowered his rifle. “Sweet.”
He’d always wanted to get one right between the eyes>
Fucked Again
I’ve been fucked before, but never quite like this.
It all started the day that Angus Campbell knoc
ked my door open with enough force to snap the doorstop and put the handle through the wall and stomped into my office. He slapped his meaty hands down on my desk and leaned towards me until I could see his five-o’clock shadow’s shadow. “You’re gonna take someone out for me,” he said.
“If he looks like you, I doubt he’s my type.” I wanted to kick myself as soon as I said that. What the hell was wrong with me? Twice my width, with several inches on me in height, Angus Campbell could’ve passed for the red-headed, freckle-faced version of the Jolly Green Giant.
He laughed in my face.
“Geez, ever heard of mouthwash?” I could feel my nose twitching, an annoying habit stemming from an unfortunate sensitivity to smell that had earned me a few nicknames over the years.
Here I was, nose to nose with a guy that looked like his mom had shown love through portion sizes, with a cracked front tooth and a three-inch ragged scar etched on his cheek that complimented the nick off the lobe of his left ear.
And I was being smartass.
I should’ve known better. After all, I knew who Angus Campbell was the minute he busted my door. Angus had a reputation.
He leered as he let his gaze drift down to my chest and then snorted.
“And I like women with tits. I’ve seen zits that were bigger.”
Yeah, when you were looking at your ass in a mirror. Thankfully, I kept that one from slipping out of my mouth.
“What I’m sayin’ is, you’re gonna whack somebody. And I’m not talkin’ about a slap and a tickle.” He snickered, seeming impressed by his own wit. “I’m talking about doin’ somebody in.”
I leaned back in my chair, in part to get away from the stench. The moldy bits between his jagged teeth, where something undigested was fermenting, were too much for my nose. And my eyes. And my stomach, which was starting to churn like a washing machine.
TO DIE FOR Page 4
