by Jonas Saul
She nodded and used her right hand to say carry on.
What they don’t understand is that I’m a Master Closer. Nobody gets it. No one understands me. I’m not a traditional salesman. I’m a Master Closer. Everything I do is to close the sale. Getting in the door is step one. Show the dirt is step two. Step three and four get convoluted, because in each house it’s different, but eventually I get the shoes. Then I leave.
No one denies me the shoes. Ever.
I began vacuuming. Mrs. Gavin sat in the middle of her couch watching, her eyes brimming with suspicion.
The black cloth filled with dirt immediately. I stopped, unclipped the lid and laid it out flat in the corner of her carpet. I placed a new one in the glass, clipped it in place and started vacuuming again. I repeated this process ten times and then stopped and looked at her.
Mrs. Gavin’s eyes were wide. “That’s a lot of dirt,” was all she could say.
I nodded. “Yeah, sorry about that. When did you say this carpet was vacuumed last?”
“Yesterday.” She was in a daze, stunned.
“And when was it cleaned by your son’s company?”
“A few weeks ago.”
“Let me ask you one more question. What kind of a vacuum do you own?”
She looked at me. This is where the sale turns my way. Crucial moment. Time stopper. Egg popper. Head cracker, kill her and stack her. Here we go.
“Electrolux. I use an Electrolux, why?”
“That’s why you have all this dirt.”
I turned away and flipped the Kirby on. After a moment, I stopped to change the black cloth again.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What’s wrong with my vacuum?”
I turned to her. “You see this unit. It’s an upright. No suction lost in hoses. The mouth where all the dirt comes in is right beside the powerful engine. The filter is in front of the engine. Not a single micro fiber gets near the Kirby’s engine. In the Electrolux, the engine isn’t filtered properly, so performance is jeopardized, and it’s not an upright. You have a long hose. Think of it like this: a fire will destroy a home better than ten men outside trying to blow it down.”
She frowned.
“The fire is the Kirby. Your Electrolux is just blowing wind. Which brings me to my next point.” I turned and started vacuuming again. “Do you have fire insurance on your home?” I yelled over the sound of the Kirby.
I turned the unit off and unclipped the black cloth, placing it near the others.
“Of course I do. Why do you ask?”
I stopped and turned to her. “Really?” I sounded so surprised. “Well, have you ever collected? I mean, have you ever had a house burn down?”
She looked away obviously having no idea where I was going with this. They never do.
“So you pay a monthly or a yearly charge for insurance against a fire, and yet you’ve never had one. If you added up all the money you’ve spent insuring against fire, I’d be surprised if it wasn’t in the thousands over the years.”
Mrs. Gavin looked back up, biting on her index finger. Something was troubling her and it wasn’t where I was going with this. Maybe it was my right eye twitching. It gets like that when I’m about to steal a pair of shoes. Or perhaps it was my voice. In the moments of closing, I can get like a preacher on a tirade.
“My point is this. You’re spending so much money on something that has never happened, and probably never will happen, but yet dirt happens. It’s right there.” I pointed at the fifteen square black cloths. “And yet you’re not paying for the right equipment. You own an Electrolux and get deals on carpet shampooing.”
I turned away to let her think about it and started my last bit of vacuuming.
“How much does a Kirby cost?” she asked.
And that was the last question out of Mrs. Gavin.
I turned back to her. “I have a question for you,” I said, my finger raised for emphasis. “If you received a check in the mail for three dollars every day, would you be rich? Could you go out and buy a Benz or a new Porsche?”
She shook her head, biting away at her middle finger now. The sun shone through her living room window at an odd angle casting an ugly light on her wrinkles.
“Let’s flip it. If you got a bill in the mail for three dollars a day, would you be poor? Would you have to declare bankruptcy? Would it all be over?”
She shook her head and started in on the other hand biting at her fingernails like they were enemies worthy of her teeth alone.
“That’s what a Kirby costs. Three dollars a day. On our plan they’re only $90 a month.”
Really, they’re $1899.00, but when you reduce it to the ridiculous, the numbers say that more people buy.
The proof is in the numbers.
She seemed stunned. Something was wrong. I could feel it. Now was the time to deal with the rest of my business.
“Ma’am, with all this dirt, could I go and wash my hands?”
She nodded and I stepped into the kitchen. She was quite the decorator. Everything in this room had colorful items placed on it. The fridge was a mirage of pictures and drawings from her grandchildren, no doubt. Knickknacks littered the top of the microwave and parts of the countertop. I pay close attention to kitchens. They say a lot about the people I vacuum for.
Beside the stove I saw what I was looking for. A pottery like container that held cooking utensils. I found a nice chopping blade, a whisk and two wooden spoons in it along with many other items. Who knew the meat tenderizer would be used in such a horrible manner in such a short time from then?
I turned on the kitchen sink to mask the sound of the drawers I was about to open.
I write this freely in the knowledge that any law enforcement officer reading it could only charge me with theft and snooping.
(Drop the first degree murder charge, please. I’m innocent.)
The second drawer down contained baking tools. The rolling pin lay there, innocent and not very threatening by itself.
I pulled it out. Then I touched other things along with the meat tenderizer. (That’s why they have my fingerprints. Is there any law against touching things? Fuck!)
I washed my hands and stepped back into the living room. Mrs. Gavin was compliant. She didn’t ask any more questions. She sat on the couch and stared at me. I finished masturbating and then cleaned up the carpet with the shampoo attachment on the vacuum.
After that I took the Kirby to the door and began packing things away.
“Mrs. Gavin, I wanted to thank you for allowing me to demonstrate the Kirby’s power to you today. It’s been a pleasure to show you its prowess.”
I always talk to the client when I’m in their hallway, so as to judge how far they are from me as I’m slipping their shoes into my Kirby box. The nice pair of Jimmy Choos fit comfortably around the neck of the vacuum. The lid went on and I was ready to leave.
“You have a nice day now, Mrs. Gavin.”
I could smell something was off. Something coming from the living room. Maybe she ate beans yesterday. How could I know?
I opened her front door slowly and peeked out at the street. No one was around. I took a moment to step back and look at Mrs. Gavin before leaving her home. She hadn’t been too talkative during the last part of my demonstration.
She still sat on the couch although she was leaning to the right a lot more now. Must’ve been her bad hip. The sun was higher. It touched her below the knees, showing off her varicose veins nicely. They were so prominent that it almost looked like the blood was on the outside of her body.
I shook my head. Maybe I had a premonition of her death? Maybe I was looking at death?
I turned away not caring for the smell coming from her.
The street remained empty. I stepped out and shut the door behind me. I was clean as I’d washed my hands in the bathroom after masturbating on her carpet in front of her. No one could tell what went on in that house. There were no witnesses whatsoever.
I offered her a carpet shampoo for free. She took it. I gave her a bottle of Carpet Fresh. She allowed me in. I did everything right. I did steal her shoes, but is that a crime worthy of a death sentence?
I put the Kirby in the trunk of my car and drove home.
It was later that night, about 3:15am when someone knocked incessantly on my apartment door. I remember it was exactly 3:15am because that’s when that guy kept waking up in the Amittyville Horror movie.
“What the fuck?” I yelled through the door. “Who the hell’s out there?”
“Police. Open up.”
My heart sank, my stomach dropped. How’s that? Why would they be here? What could I have done?
Realizing I had no choice, I opened the door, even though I was still in my underwear.
Four police officers stood behind two men in business suits. One of the suits looked just like David Caruso on that television police show. The other cop looked like an asshole with his goatee perfectly trimmed and his earring dangling down like a faggot. I would later find out he was. An asshole and a faggot.
“Trevor Ashton?” asshole asked.
“Yeah, that’s me. What’s up?”
Asshole motioned with his hands to the four uniforms behind him and they rushed me, grabbing my arms and handcuffing me.
“Hey.”
“You’re under arrest for the murder of Eleanor Gavin. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”
“I know my Miranda rights. Shut the fuck up and tell me why you’re arresting me. What do I have to do with this woman?”
They pushed me against a wall so hard that I lost my balance and fell to the carpeted hallway of my apartment building. I could tell the superintendent wasn’t using a Kirby.
Asshole leaned down to me and whispered his evidence in my ear like he was asking to fuck me.
“We found her body bludgeoned with a meat tenderizer and a rolling pin. She was torn apart on her living room couch. It was so bad that her abdomen was literally shredded, evacuating her bowels on the carpet. One of her neighbors spotted your car out front. It took us over a dozen hours to track you down through your license plate number, but we did. And guess what?”
He stopped and smiled at me. My heart was pounding so fast I thought he could hear its drum roll as well as I could.
“We found the killer’s DNA all over the house. Hairs in the bathroom and kitchen sink. Fingerprints are still being lifted in her kitchen but you wanna know what the best part is? The killer’s semen is still in her carpet, and some dripped on her corpse. We retrieved a fresh sample from her right breast an hour after she was killed. Well, what was left of her breast. My guess is, we’ll find out that semen is yours.”
I panicked. Of course I panicked. Some of the demonstrations I do can turn kinky. As I said previously, I stole her shoes. For me, it’s all about the shoes. Sure I masturbate, but is that against the law? I asked her. She nodded her head yes. She even allowed me to finish anywhere I wanted. Now, tell me, with that kind of consent where does a courtroom get the right to question mature adults?
I waited until they got me to my feet and then I flipped out.
“You got the wrong guy!” I screamed. I turned to the wall and pulled the fire alarm with my front teeth.
“I didn’t do anything—”
It was probably getting close to four in the morning. The cops were super pissed that I had caused so much of a raucous. They jumped on me and threw a couple punches in too. Then suddenly I felt their combined weight leave my back.
Something poked me in the ass cheek. I have never felt anything in my life quite as horrifying and exhilarating as being tased. I flopped and bounced on the floor like a dying cockroach. I pissed myself and begged for it to stop.
They hit me again.
My neighbor opened their door at the sound of the fire alarm and the cop turned his lightning rod off.
Within minutes they had me on my feet and were escorting me, carrying me to the waiting prisoner van.
I felt special. A whole van just for me.
Assholes.
I was booked and placed in a holding cell. The next morning they brought me in front of a judge who felt, based on what they had already found at the crime scene, that I was a flight risk. I was ordered held until trial.
That was eight months ago. Since then, I have festered in this rat hole. I can’t sell anymore Kirby’s and I can’t collect anymore shoes.
I’ve often seen a prison guard with a great pair of Reebok’s, but the bars hold me back. I still masturbate, but it’s not as much fun.
In my eight months waiting for trial, I’ve written to shoe companies to receive their mail order catalogs, but my mail is inspected before it gets to me. I asked what harm there was in perusing picture catalogs. I went so far as to explain that they were my form of pornography. But still, the guards won’t let me have them.
There’s one more part that I have to cover before I leave this note for whoever finds it.
They gave me legal aid. I got a lawyer to talk to me two days after being incarcerated. His name was Delroy Conrad. He said he could get me off. I remember saying some half-assed comment like, “Oh really”. He didn’t like my attitude.
Another asshole.
Anyway, he’s arriving here in ten minutes so I’m going to sum this up.
I didn’t kill Mrs. Gavin. I touched her rolling pin and meat tenderizer. I touched her kitchen and bathroom. I even touched her, but that was because she offered consent. I stole her shoes. I have broken the law. But I didn’t kill her.
Someone was either in the house with me at the time and murdered her moments after my departure, or someone entered the house as soon as I left.
It wasn’t me.
I love shoes. They’re my religion. They’re what drive me. But not any shoes. They can’t be store bought. They have to have been worn by a woman. I love men’s shoes, but not in the same way.
That is what it’s all about.
Shoes.
#
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About Jonas Saul
Jonas Saul is the author of the Sarah Roberts and The Kill series. Visit his website, www.jonassaul.com for upcoming release dates. Jonas lives in Europe with his wife, author Kate Cornwell.
Contact Jonas Saul
Website: http://www.jonassaul.com
Twitter: @jonassaul
Email: [email protected]
Table of Contents
Beginning
Bound
The Numbers Game - A Preview
About the Author
