AHMM, November 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I'm going home to my folks for a while,” she had said in her calm, gentle voice. “I need to decide what I want to do with my life.” And she had gone.

  Every day he had checked the online want ads, sent out a billion resumés, and waited for the job offers to come. Surely someone would want to snap up a dot-com exec with savvy and experience. But they didn't. Too many dot-com execs were floating around with similar savvy and similar experience, some of them willing to work for pennies. Ted had not been willing to compromise.

  "Take a job, take any job,” Sandy had urged. “It's always easier to find a job if you are working."

  "You want me to work at McDonald's or Target, is that what you're saying?” he snapped.

  "No, but you could take a lesser job within your industry. Work your way up again."

  But he wasn't willing to do that either. He who had parked his gold Mercedes in a marked parking space was not going to be anyone's office boy. He was known in the industry. He couldn't stand the thought of the whispers and the looks. “Would you see what Ted Prescott has become?"

  They had been living well, he and Sandy. He had been making six figures, and they had been spending those six figures with gay abandon as they came in: the fabulous home in the Los Gatos hills, the leased luxury cars, the weekends at the spa, vacations all over the globe. Savings? Who needed savings?

  When Sandy had gone, he could no longer afford the rent. Sandy had urged him to buy a place, but he hadn't liked the thought of being weighed down by a mortgage or tied down. Tied down, that was it—he hadn't wanted to be tied down.

  By the time he realized he'd have to move, he no longer had the credit nor the first and last month's rent required to move into a halfway decent place. He took a crummy apartment and then swallowed his pride and decided he'd take any job. But by then he had the desperate look of those who have been unemployed for a while, the look that makes employers think that this particular person might not be quite stable and reliable. He was only days away from considering McDonald's or Burger King when the last blow fell.

  His car was involved in an accident. He was crossing on the last of a yellow when a big vehicle came barreling through on the red. He was in the hospital for two weeks. The driver of the other car happened to be a South Bay politician—with good connections and lots of lawyer friends. Ted was cited for running a red light. What's more, he couldn't stand long enough to work anymore. That's when the rest of his stuff went, when he sold his gold cufflinks, his art work on eBay. He might have swallowed his pride and driven cross country to Sandy if his car had not been written off in the crash. And the amount of money the insurance gave him only bought him this old banger that smoked and hiccupped and threatened to die on him. No way to escape then. Unemployment ran out. Hope ran out.

  * * * *

  Ted sighed. He reached into the paper bag beside him and drew out the remains of a sandwich he had picked up the night before from a trash bin. He had heard that the Missionaries of Charity drove around handing out food, but he was still too proud to line up with those sorry losers. That was why he kept to the area around Golden Gate Park and Ocean Beach. There were shelters and food handouts downtown, but he wasn't yet ready to identify himself as a homeless person, a failure. Every now and then he went to an Internet cafe and searched to see if anyone had found his resumé and was finally offering him the job he deserved. But there were no e-mails anymore.

  * * * *

  He'd better be moving soon. The park police started touring and ticketing around eight. He took out a comb and made a halfhearted attempt to restore some order to his unruly curls that were in sorry need of trimming. Then he walked over the wet grass to a men's room, washed his face in cold water, and cleaned his teeth. There were still certain standards to be maintained. He wasn't going to sink to the level where personal hygiene no longer mattered. He attempted to shave, but his electric razor had run out of charge. The cold water and dime-store razor only managed to yank out the worst of the stubble. He considered changing his shirt, but a quick check of the suitcase revealed no clean clothes at all. Somehow he'd have to come up with the money for a laundromat. What would happen if he got a job interview right now, with no suit pressed and clean, no white shirt? He made up his mind. Today he would do what had been repugnant to him until now. Today he would beg.

  * * * *

  He went back into the car and made a crude sign. HOMELESS. HUNGRY. WILL WORK FOR FOOD. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS.

  He'd seen the signs often enough and the suckers who rolled down their windows with the odd dollar. He decided to try his luck in one of the parking lots along the Great Highway. This was a popular spot on the tourist route. They'd come to see the view at Cliff House and then drop down to the beach below.

  The car refused to start for some minutes but finally spluttered to life. He drove to the parking lot and sat waiting for the day to start. Maybe by tonight he'd have a hot meal and some clean clothes. The seeds of hope sprang up in his brain. If this worked well enough, he might have enough to fix the car and to drive himself east. He pictured Sandy coming out of her parents’ house in Pennsylvania, her face lighting up when she saw him, as she rushed to enfold him in his arms. And he would apologize for being such an arrogant bastard and promise never, ever to yell at her again.

  Cars started arriving. He stood at the highway turnoff, sign in his hands, resigned look of saintly suffering on his face. Most drivers looked the other way as they drove past. One wound down the window and yelled, “Get a job, you lazy bum."

  "I've been trying, sir,” he yelled back. “I'm willing to take anything. Do you have a job for me?"

  Then the man had turned red and drove on, rather too fast.

  By the end of the morning he had made a dollar. This was not a good spot then, he decided. He'd probably have to catch the bus and go downtown like the rest of them. And then he'd have to find some turf that was not already taken. He didn't relish a run-in with a crazed homeless person.

  Around two o'clock a Lexus drove past him, turned at the end of the parking lot, and then drove back. A man in an expensive-looking suit got out. Everything about him said “executive"—immaculate hair, graying at the temples, striped tie, well-polished shoes. He beckoned to Ted. Ted came.

  "Here,” he said. “I had to take my lunch to go, but I'm not really hungry. You have it."

  He handed Ted a take-out box. Ted had the dignity not to open it to see what goodies it contained.

  "Thank you, sir,” he said. “Much appreciated."

  The man eyed him. “You look familiar,” he said.

  Ted had been thinking the same thing. In his past life they had run into each other. But he wasn't about to admit to it.

  "I don't think we move in the same circles,” he said.

  The man continued to eye him critically. “So you need a job, do you?"

  "I do. Desperately. I can't go on living like this."

  "I may have something for you,” the man said. “Do you know the vista point above the Crystal Springs Dam on 280?"

  Ted nodded.

  "And do you have transportation?"

  "I have a car that just about goes."

  "Will it make it that far?"

  "I hope so."

  "Then meet me there at eight tonight. I may have something that might interest you."

  "All right. Thanks. I'll be there."

  The man nodded and got back into the Lexus. Ted watched him drive away. Eight tonight at a vista point. This wasn't a run-of-the-mill job then. Not “I'd like you to clear some brush in my garden.” Possibly something illegal. But the man hadn't looked like a criminal type. There was definitely something familiar about him. He looked solid, respectable, not at all sleazy. Besides, a job was a job. If this man was part of Ted's old world, then maybe this was the first rung back on the ladder to normal life. He would do the job well, the man would be impressed. He would offer Ted a real job, a salary, his old life back.

  Ted went to the neare
st bench and opened the lunch box. It contained a grilled salmon steak on polenta, baby greens, mango salsa. And it was still warm. Ted ate with relish, savoring the subtle flavors he had missed for so long. Just as he was finishing up he heard a parent yelling, “Leave that and get back in the car. We have to go.” And to his delight he saw a child reluctantly put down a half finished McDonald's soda. A crisp pinot grigio would have gone better with the salmon, but the Coke came a close second. This is it, he told himself. Finally his luck had changed.

  That evening he went back to the washroom in the park, attempted to slick down his hair, found his cleanest shirt and a tie, and then prayed the car would start. During the day he had collected three more dollars, and he put these into a gallon of gas to make sure he could get there and back. Then at seven he drove south down 280, out of the city to where the highway skirts a long ribbon of lake, nestled in a valley with soaring hills to the west. It is, in fact, the main reservoir for the city of San Francisco, but the setting is spectacular. It was almost dark now, of course, but the sky still glowed beyond the western mountains, etching the black outline of their crests against the pink of the sunset.

  He saw the turnoff for the vista point. Closed from sunset to sunrise, the sign said. He hoped there was no one there to check. There wasn't. He parked and got out, listening to the hum of the freeway beneath him and watching the first fingers of fog creeping over the mountains from the ocean.

  On the dot of eight he saw the lights of a car swing up the slope toward him. Before the car reached him the headlights were extinguished and the big, black shape glided into the parking space beside him. A tall shadow got out.

  "You came. Good.” The man came to join him at the railing. “Nice view up here, isn't it? I sometime stop off here on my way home, just to collect my thoughts."

  Ted couldn't think of anything to say, so he remained silent.

  "You still want the job?” the man asked.

  "Of course. That's why I'm here."

  "Do you have a steady nerve?” the man asked. “It's not exactly a run-of-the-mill assignment."

  "I didn't think it would be, meeting in a deserted parking lot in the middle of the night."

  The man chuckled. “A sense of humor. I like that.” There was a long pause and then he said, “I want you to kill my wife."

  Ted leaped away as if he had been burned. “Kill your wife? Hey, wait a minute."

  "I said it wasn't a run-of-the-mill assignment."

  "But I didn't expect...” Ted stammered, “...I mean, I'm not the man you want for something like that. I don't care how badly I need the money...” He started to walk away.

  "There will be fifty thousand in it for you,” the man called softly after him. “Fifty thousand. Think of it. A new start, somewhere far away. Isn't that what you want?"

  "Yeah, but...” Ted was sweating. He could feel the cold beads on his forehead. “Killing your wife? I mean, if you want out of the marriage why don't you just walk away? Get a divorce? This isn't the Dark Ages."

  "Listen, buddy,” the man said, “you'd be doing the world a favor. This woman is a manipulative schemer. She delights in making people miserable, especially me. You see, it was her daddy's money that set me up in business. She's never let me forget it. And it's her house. I'm jerked around like a puppet—it has to be what she wants, what she likes. Her life, not mine. She's told me many times that if I try to walk out, she'll ruin me. And she will. Her father is still a powerful man. I'm trapped, buddy. Trapped in a loveless marriage with no way out. You're my only hope."

  "Why me?” Ted said. “Why don't you do it yourself, if that's what you want?"

  "Don't you see? I'd be the obvious suspect. That's why I need a watertight alibi. When she's being shot, I'll be at a meeting in L.A."

  "And how am I supposed to carry this out without getting caught?"

  "It's all thought out, down to the last meticulous detail,” the man said. “Believe me, I've been over and over it on all those sleepless nights. It's a perfectly simple plan—one that can't fail and has virtually no risk to yourself."

  "How so?"

  "I'm not going to reveal any details until I know that you're in. I don't want this conversation to come back to haunt me later.” He paused again. “So do you want the job, or should I find someone else?"

  "Fifty thousand dollars. That's a lot of money."

  "It is. It would mean the difference between life and death for you, wouldn't it?"

  Ted nodded. “How would I get paid?"

  "In hundred dollar bills. When you'd done the job."

  "Just a minute. What guarantee do I have that you'd pay up and not double-cross me? I want the money in advance."

  "And have you catch the next plane to God knows where? I haven't built up a successful business by being stupid, you know. But I have become a good judge of character. I knew when I saw you begging on the street that you weren't the usual homeless bum. I saw that you'd been somebody, that you wanted to be somebody again. I'm offering you that chance, buddy. And if you do right by me, if you free me from this nightmare, then I swear to God I'll do right by you."

  Ted shifted uneasily, his feet crunching on dry grass at the edge of the parking lot.

  "I'll want a token payment so that I can have an air ticket already booked to get away."

  "Fair enough. I'll give you five thousand. You'll get it with the final details."

  "And the rest?"

  "You'll find the rest in the note that tells you where to dispose of the gun."

  Ted's heart was hammering so loudly that he was sure the man could hear it in the stillness of the clear night air.

  "Might I know your name?” he asked.

  "No names. I don't want to know your name. You don't know mine. Easier that way all around."

  Ted tried to collect his racing thoughts. “You said there would be no risk in it for me."

  "I live in Woodside,” the man said. “Do you know it?"

  "Yes,” Ted said. He started to add, “I used to live in the Los Gatos Hills myself,” but then thought better of it.

  "My property backs up to open space. There's a walking trail that passes close to our garden. Every morning at seven my wife goes out walking on that trail. She goes through the little gate in the side wall. You'd be in the garden, waiting in the bushes by the gate. As she pauses to punch in the security number, you shoot her in the back. She'll never know what hit her. You'll make your exit. The housekeeper doesn't arrive until nine, and we'll be lucky if anyone finds her that day. By then she'll be long dead and you'll be far away. So will I."

  "What if someone hears the shot?"

  "That trail is very little used during the week, and there are no houses close to us. It's a perfect situation."

  "You want me to shoot her from inside your yard, right? How do I get in?"

  "The security code for the front gate will be with the gun."

  "Which will be where?"

  The man chuckled. “Too much info at once. I need to put all my own plans into place. Stick around that parking lot on Ocean Beach every morning. When you see me, don't do anything. I'll drop off the information into the trashcan nearest you. Don't pick it up until I've driven away."

  "It's like a spy thriller, isn't it?” Ted had to laugh. Then he shook his head. “Look, I've never shot anybody before."

  "I should hope not. Ever used a gun?"

  "Yeah. I did go target shooting with a friend a couple of times when I was younger."

  "And were you any good?"

  "Not bad."

  "You'll be fine. You'll be completely hidden."

  "What about dogs?” Ted asked suddenly.

  "No dogs. Bernice doesn't like mess. Everything has to look perfect all the time. It's like living in a furniture catalog."

  There was a long silence while the two men stared out at the first stars.

  "I could take this information straight to the police,” Ted said.

  "You could, but what would
that achieve? You'd get nothing out of it. It wouldn't hurt me either. There would be no crime to prosecute, and I'd just have to put my plans on hold and find another way to kill Bernice. And I promise you, buddy—you try to screw me and you'll be sorry. I don't play nice with people who try to double-cross me.” He turned away from the rail. “All up to you, buddy."

  Without saying another word he opened his car door and got in. Ted watched as the big car backed away.

  Every day that week he parked at Ocean Beach, but the car didn't come. He had just decided that the man had lost his nerve when he saw it. He watched the bag tossed idly into the trashcan and the car accelerating once more. It was all he could do to stroll nonchalantly to the trashcan and pick up the bag.

  "Poor thing,” he heard a woman say. “Look, he has to scavenge in trashcans for something to eat. Give him a dollar, Herb."

  "The guy's a bum, Martha. Let him get a job like everyone else."

  And the voices drifted away. Ted hardly noticed. He saw that the bag contained an envelope—a fat, bulging envelope. He put it into his trouser pocket, then got back in his car. When nobody was around he opened it and gazed upon the hundred dollar bills. Five thousand. The first installment, enough for an air ticket to Philadelphia, new clothes, a new identity. And after the deed was done, enough money to get started in a new life with Sandy. His eyes started to tear up at the thought of seeing her.

  The envelope also contained a single piece of paper on which was typed an address, directions, and the numbers that had to be a security code. And at the bottom of the page “Thursday, August 2nd."

  That gave him one week to prepare. During that time he got the car tuned up so that it wouldn't let him down; he bought new clothes and luggage and a one-way plane ticket to Philadelphia. He checked into a nearby motel and luxuriated in a hot shower and shave for the first time in weeks.