“Don’t tell me what I should drink!” he barked.
The basement door opened. He flicked on the light. He descended the first step. It wasn’t like he was walking down the stairs. More like he was dropping. Then he took the second. I braced myself for what was about to happen on the third by pressing my back up against the concrete wall that ran perpendicular to the wooden staircase.
Finally, he landed hard on the third step. That’s when the stair tread collapsed.
It was a sight to see. His body dropped like a stone through the staircase, his chin catching the fourth stair tread as he went down so that his head reared backward violently. If that wasn’t enough, he landed flat on his back, dead weight, the rear portion of his skull bouncing off the concrete floor. I could actually hear the hollowness of the skull against the concrete. It sounded like a water melon being smashed with a rock. It made my back teeth hurt to hear it, to see it. It was the kind of detail that I would have to remember for my story.
A puddle of crimson blood began to form beneath his head. It formed quicker than I would have imagined had I been making this up in my brain. It was another real-life detail that I would need to recall later when I revised Obsessive Compulsive when I began my new novel, Savage Sins.
His hands were trembling, and his right leg was shaking while his left leg was as dead as a branch that had fallen from a dead tree. I make a mental note of it. His lips were separated, but his mouth was far from wide open. There was foam forming in the corners of his mouth, and the tip of his tongue was now protruding from between the lips. The tongue was not flesh colored and alive. It was purple, still and dead.
. . . Make a note of that, Vic . . . Make note of everything . . .
The blood pool grew larger and larger. It looked like a crimson pond. His leg was no longer trembling. Neither was his hand. His face looked suddenly sunken and his chest concave, like there was no more air in his lungs. Like his soul had left his body entirely. I believed in a soul. I also believed in heaven and hell. It was too easy to not believe in something. It took effort to believe in something larger and more profound than yourself. I couldn’t help but wonder now . . . now that I had helped kill a man . . . which awaited me. Heaven or hell?
Or maybe I should have been completely honest with myself.
I had killed a man. I had done it all on my own.
I killed Tara’s husband, and somehow, I would be a better writer for it. But would I be a better man?
Footsteps from above.
Slow, almost timid footstep.
The basement door opened, the hinges squeaking.
“Is it done, Vic?” Her trembling voice sounded like it was coming at me through a hollow tube.
I took one more long look at Stan. Dead Stan.
“He’s gone.” Inhaling, exhaling. Suddenly I felt somewhat queasy. “You’d better call 911. You’d better play this one up like you’re trying for an Oscar.”
“I can handle it,” she said.
I pulled the hanky from my back pocket and wiped down everything I might have touched, including the screwdriver and hammer. Then, I carried the tools back upstairs with me.
Tara was standing in the middle of the kitchen floor, her cell phone in hand.
“I want you to go,” she said. “What I need to do next, I need to do alone.”
“I understand,” I said, gently setting the tools onto the kitchen counter, then returning the hanky to my back pocket.
I made my way into the vestibule while she pressed three digits on her phone pad, placed the phone to her ear. I opened the front door, stepped outside, closed the door behind me.
“Hello! Hello!” she screamed, so loud her voice pierced the wood, glass, and plastic front door. “Something’s happened to my husband. He fell down the basement stairs. Or he fell through them. Oh, sweet Jesus, I think he’s dead. Come quick! Do you hear me? Come! Quick! Come now!”
I walked home, knowing that the words I was about to pound out on my typewriter were the real deal. Hemingway would have nothing on me.
The next morning, Tara arrived at my front door. She was dressed all in black. I was a little tired because Stella and I had been up much of the late evening and night, watching the tragedy unfold at our next-door neighbor’s home.
“Do you think we should take Tara and Stan’s kids for a while, Stel?” I’d asked, a glass of fresh whiskey in my hand.
She glanced at my whiskey glass.
“I don’t think the atmosphere here is conducive to little children. Do you, Vic?”
Immediately I was transported back to a time when Stella was carrying our child. Her belly looked beautiful by the ninth month. I was so happy to become a daddy. The child was a boy, and he was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. It was one of those things that only happens in the modern age maybe once out of every one hundred thousand births. But years later, I still recalled his face. So blue, so painful looking, so very dead. He had a head full of black hair and blue eyes. I loved him, even if I never had the chance to meet him.
She put her hand on my hand as if to say, It’s all right. I miss him too.
How was it possible to miss someone you never knew? Perhaps the answer lies in the fact that he had been a part of her. A part of me.
I was a far cry from the father figure I might have been back then if given a chance. I’d done something bad, for the good of my work. For the good of my pocketbook, for the personal good of Tara and her family. And to be perfectly honest, already, in the few hours since Stan’s “accident,” I was writing and rewriting with renewed confidence. The confidence of an expert who’d not only witnessed a significant event but who’d played a major role in it. An expert who saw it all happen first hand. An expert who heard the sound a man makes when he falls to his death, listened to the hollow melon sound a skull makes when it comes into violent contact with a concrete slab. I smelled the iron aroma of freshly spilled blood, felt the cold clamminess of the dead skin, witnessed the eyes roll back into his head. It had all become a part of who I was now. No longer would my work be considered emotionless and dull. I guess you could say that because of Stan’s death, it would come alive.
Backed up in the driveway was an EMT van. The uniformed medics carted Stan out on a portable gurney, stuffed him into the back of the van, and closed the doors. A white latex sheet was draped over his face. There was blood on the sheet. Little droplets of it. From where I stood in my driveway, I could make out the outline of his face even with the sheet covering it. The nose, slightly open mouth, sunken eye sockets, and flat forehead. It was like one of those eerie death masks you see in museums.
“I can’t believe he’s dead,” Stella said. “What the hell is Tara going to do?”
I couldn’t help but laugh on the inside. I knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to collect his pension and the insurance money, and she was going to live again. As the EMT van took off, I focused on the cop cruiser that had been parked on the front lawn beside the van. There were two cops patrolling the scene, but there wasn’t a whole lot to patrol.
One of the cops was holding a clipboard and a pen. He was questioning a distraught Tara on the front lawn. She spoke to him while illuminated in bright halogen headlamps, her arms crossed over her chest. I knew she was telling him it was an accident. That they loved one another and always got along. That he’d had maybe one drink after work, per usual. That he’d never shown violence toward she and the kids. That she’d never shown it to him or the kids either. He was a loving, devoted husband and right now, she was positively in shock.
The cop tipped his lid to her and offered his condolences once more then got back into the cruiser along with his partner. They hung around a few minutes more but soon left the scene, leaving Tara alone with members of her immediate family—her mother and sister.
“Show’s over,” I said to Stella.
We went to bed that night without touching one another.
Tara was standing
in my doorway in her black mourning outfit. The skirt fit perfectly against her hips, and her black blouse was unbuttoned enough to reveal that beautiful skin and cleavage.
“May I come in, Vic?”
“Stella’s at work. I’m writing,” I said it with renewed enthusiasm. With piss and vinegar even, instead of the usual dread.
It was early morning, so I didn’t bother to ask her if she wanted a drink. But she reached out for me, gently took hold of my forearm.
“He’s gone,” she said. “And I’m forever grateful.” Her eyes drifted to the dining room table. The pages stacked to the side of the typewriter, a fresh page inserted into the machine, half of it covered in black Times New Roman style lettering, double-spaced. “And you’re writing up a storm, I see.”
I couldn’t help but smile. But then, heaven and hell came to mind again. Where I’d end up when the inevitable happened. One had to wonder, had I performed a good and decent service for Tara? Or had I turned into a cold-blooded murderer just for the sake of a writing a good story?
Time would tell. Best to not continually dwell on it. What was done was irreversibly done.
She leaned into me, kissed me on the mouth. I kissed her back, ran my hand up her skirt, cupped her perfect, bare ass cheek, slid my fingers under her silky thong panties, felt her naked heat. But she took hold of my hand and slowly removed it.
“It wouldn’t be right,” she said. She exhaled. “No matter what he did to me. Give me some time.”
“No means no,” I said. “I respect that.”
She blushed. I could tell she wanted me, and she knew how much I desired her. That is, judging by the erection I was pressing against her.
“You’re my handyman,” she said.
“I’m at your service, madam.”
“Speaking of which,” she said, “I just might have another job for you, Vic. Assuming you’re willing to take it on.”
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, went to the photos app. She showed me a picture of her seated beside a lovely Asian brunette with big brown eyes. A brunette whose look and style weren't all that different from Stella’s. Only the eyes were different. They were exotic and alluring. The two were seated at a bar by the looks of it. They were holding up their cocktails for the camera. Pink cocktails. My pulse kicked up a notch because I was well acquainted with this Asian woman. Asian-American to be specific.
“Allison,” I said. “She’s friends with Stella.”
“Allison, that’s right. She’s going through a terrible divorce. Problem is, her husband won’t leave the house, even though he’s got a girlfriend or two.”
“Complicated,” I said. “Stella has let me in on much of it.”
“But you find her attractive, don’t you, Vic?”
That’s when she slid her hand down to my midsection, felt my hardness. I couldn’t help but recall more than a few fantasies I’d entertained over the past couple of years, pretending to watch a naked Stella making love to an equally naked Allison while I slipped in between them, fucked them both.
“Does that answer your question?” I asked.
“She’d like to have a meeting. Not with you,” she said, “but The Handyman.”
I felt a cold shock run down my spine.
“You didn’t tell her—”
“No worries, darling,” Tara said. “I merely suggested to her that I know a man who is really good at fixing things. He’s a handyman.”
I thought about the possibilities. The experience, the first-hand knowledge, the stunning opportunity. I could write not just one story or book, but a series of books, all of them based on the . . . How should I put it? . . . the fixing of a problem that has become all too impossible.
Okay, some of that was pure bullshit.
The truth of the matter was that something had opened up in me when I killed Stan. Something had been set free. I knew killing was wrong, that it was evil. But then, why had it felt so good? So, liberating? It was fun to play god. It was, even more fun to transfer what I had learned in the killing process to my fiction. For the first time in years, I felt young again, optimistic about the future. I wanted more of that.
“When would she like to meet?” I asked, my pulse elevated, blood speeding through my veins.
“In a couple of days. After the funeral. Soon as Stella leaves for the day, you can join us.”
“And you’ll have coffee?”
“And something stronger, of course. I should know the drill by now, Vic.” She pinched my cock gently before removing her hand. Then, “I’d better get back home to my mourning and my grieving wife routine. People might get suspicious.”
She went to the door, opened it, and stepped out. I stepped into the door opening and called out for her.
“What is it?” she asked, over her shoulder.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I said.
“No, you’re not.” She laughed.
Then she blew me a kiss.
I made my way back inside, poured myself an early shot of Jameson, downed it in one swift pull. The liquor felt warm and inviting inside my body. Like a warm blanket on a cold winter’s day. I sat down before my typewriter, read the words I’d been working on all morning before Tara made an unannounced visit. It was the opening to my new novel. My first full-length novel. Savage Sins.
“I can do better,” I whispered to myself. “I’ve seen this shit with my own eyes. I’m The Handyman. Details, Vic. Kill them with details.”
Pulling the sheet of paper from the roller, I crumpled it up into a ball and tossed it onto the dining room floor. Then, I fed the typewriter with a brand new, clean white sheet and positioned my fingers on the keys.
I typed:
Sex.
It was always on my mind back then.
(To be continued . . .)
We hope you enjoyed the first episode in the Handyman romantic noir series. To find out more about Vincent Zandri’s novels and to catch the next episode in the series, go to WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
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Winner of the 2015 PWA Shamus Award and the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Original Paperback Novel, Vincent Zandri is the NEW YORK TIMES, USA TODAY, and AMAZON NO. 1 Overall Bestselling author of more than 25 novels including THE REMAINS, MOONLIGHT WEEPS, EVERYTHING BURNS, and ORCHARD GROVE. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, Zandri's work is translated in the Dutch, Russian, French, Italian, and Japanese. Recently, Zandri was the subject of a major feature by the New York Times. He has also made appearances on Bloomberg TV and FOX news. In December 2014, Suspense Magazine named Zandri's, THE SHROUD KEY, as one of the Best Books of 2014. Recently, Suspense Magazine voted WHEN SHADOWS COME as one of the Best Books of 2016. A freelance photo-journalist and the author of the popular "lit blog," The Vincent Zandri Vox, Zandri has written for Living Ready Magazine, RT, New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, The Times Union (Albany), Game & Fish Magazine, and many more. He lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more go to WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Vincent Zandri © copyright 2017
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Bear Noir 2017
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Table of Contents
Intro
Chapter One
Join the list
About the Author
Lust and Letters: The Handyman, Episode I Page 6
