Fatal Moon

by L. E. Perry

  During the rest of the hour, they discussed what they'd done since high school, sticking to safe topics such as exercise and weather. Aside from Jordan’s email address, no personal information was exchanged, particularly on Jordan's part. Jordan had no intention of making his terms acceptable to Carl. Every time he looked at the guy, he remembered his life when he was younger, and with it everything he’d lost in one afternoon. He compared his current meager existence working in an outdated theme park and living in the space under someone’s stairs with the college degree and professional career he could have had. Should have had. It wasn’t Carl’s fault, but still, he didn’t want to be reminded of that.

  * * *

  Jordan finished his morning workout and was just stepping out of the shower Saturday morning when his cell phone rang. The email from Carl had been simple enough: Carl had raised his offer to $100,000 a year plus benefits, as well as room and board, which was quite substantial. In return, Jordan would be squire/maid/cook/personal trainer and a few other titles to boot, but mostly physical trainer and assistant dietician. To all appearances, Carl wanted a single servant to cater to all his needs, on-call twenty-four hours a day. Jordan was sure there was more to it, but the letter hadn't said anything about bodyguard duties. What was Jordan missing?

  He briskly toweled himself dry and threw on a short, thick robe his mother had made for him, then redialed the last number.

  “I thought you'd run out on me!" Carl’s voice sounded panicky.

  "If I hadn't planned to talk to you, I wouldn't have given you the number,” Jordan replied, logically. “Did you get my email?"

  "Yes, I’m looking at it now,” Carl replied.

  Jordan paused. He had raised his counteroffer to $140,000 to force Carl into turning it down. "And you're still willing to talk?"

  "I don't think you understand; I haven't got a choice. Have you eaten?"

  "Not a full meal. I was working out,” Jordan responded.

  "Why don't I come by then, and we can talk? If you give me an address, I'll pick you up in, say, half an hour?" Carl’s voice sounded strained.

  "Right." Puzzled, Jordan reluctantly decided to give him the address and hung up the phone.

  Carl's father was a self-made man, and Carl had always been careful with money, after a few indulgences like the car. If Carl accepted the terms Jordan had counter-offered, he would be throwing a lot of that money away, wouldn’t he? Jordan began to wonder whether it was still billions or into the trillions that the Sanders were worth by now, and how many more hospitals they'd bought or built to get there. More than that, he wondered what could make Carl so insistent. He didn’t want to make this decision between the money he could use to take care of his mom, and the fear that he’d lose what little control he had over his own life. Shit, he thought, now what do I do?

  * * *

  Carl's car was waiting in the loading zone when Jordan walked out of the apartment building carrying a notebook with a copy of the terms inside. Jordan checked his watch. He was early. So much for being fashionable. He opened the car door and slid down into the leather bucket seat.

  "Which way?" Carl asked, looking at the traffic in the rearview mirror.

  "Breakfast or lunch?" Jordan asked.

  "Lunch, I suppose,” Carl replied slowly.

  Jordan thought for a moment. "Take a left at the next light," he said turning to Carl.

  Carl looked at him and shook his head, pulling out onto the one-way. "Not likely. Changing four lanes in less than half a block is a bit much. I can go a block past and circle right, can't I?"

  Jordan grinned. "So, you do have limits."

  "Bloody bastard," Carl said, only half joking, then stopped at the light. Carl put his head down on the steering wheel.

  "Tired?" Jordan asked.

  Carl nodded, not lifting his head. "I couldn't sleep. You're driving a hard bargain."

  "Didn't think 'no' would be such a hard answer," Jordan said.

  Carl lifted his head. "'No' would be the easy one. It's 'yes' that I find difficult to swallow."

  In a minute, the light turned green, and several people blew their horns at them. Jordan glanced irritably at Carl, who jumped at the cacophony. "Want me to drive?" Jordan asked impatiently.

  Carl pulled the car around the corner and nodded, pulling into another loading zone. Jordan walked around to the driver's side and lowered himself into the seat. It was like sinking into a cloud. The stick-shift was right where his hand wanted it to be after he adjusted the seat forward several inches. Carl was one inch taller than Jordan, at six feet, but much of the difference was in Carl's long legs. The clutch was high. Carl's head lolled back against the neck-rest as Jordan pulled out and nearly had to slam on the breaks, not prepared for the surge of power. Carl glanced at him, then closed his eyes. It didn't take Jordan long to get used to how responsive car was. It was like an addiction. He began to think he'd been had, that access to the high-performance car was a ploy to get him hired, but looking at Carl he could see Carl was beyond the point of plots. He was asleep.

  After an extended jaunt on the freeways and a winding path through several back streets, Jordan saw the forest of bamboo that cloaked the parking lot, as he’d expected, and pulled in slowly, then parked in the back corner. Carl finally rolled over and mumbled, "Sorry."

  "For what?" Jordan asked, puzzled.

  "Falling asleep,” Carl answered, yawning.

  Jordan grabbed the notebook and stepped out. Carl yawned, stepped out, stretched languorously, then followed Jordan into the restaurant.

  Foreign music filled their ears as they looked at lacquered screens and gold cloisonné baubles. A six-armed gold statue of a woman sat cross-legged in front of the hostess station. The windows were curtained so heavily it was impossible to tell whether it was day or night outside. The essence of garlic, lemongrass, and chili wafted through the air and Jordan heard Carl’s stomach growl. He’d heard this little Thai restaurant had great food, and the smell was intoxicating.

  Jordan asked for a table in the back, and the dark-eyed hostess nodded, motioning them to follow. There was a dancer on a stage they passed, swaying to the music. Jordan had to assume it was Thai dancing, to Thai music. He'd only heard of this place; that it was expensive, served excellent food, and that “business” deals could be cemented in privacy. It was the type of place Jordan avoided, but today, the ability to talk without being seen or heard was his highest priority. Something was off about this whole interaction with Carl, and he wanted to get to the bottom of it.

  The hostess guided them to a small table next to a huge mural of a tropical rainforest. The lights were low, and the small lamps at every table burned, glowing with both light and a hint of jasmine fragrance as well.

  They sat down as the girl left, and a waitress arrived immediately. "Anything to drink?" she asked with a mild accent.

  "Tea, no caffeine," Jordan answered.

  "Is mint okay?" She asked, and Jordan nodded in assent.

  "I'd like a coffee," Carl said. "Black, please."

  She nodded and walked away. Carl and Jordan were left staring at each other in the dim lamp-glow. Carl's face still looked harsh, even in this light. It had been six years since they’d graduated and Carl had been accepted to college. Jordan was grudgingly jealous of Carl for that. For having to work hard, himself, full-time in summers and part-time during the school year, still studying several hours a day. And for all that work, he had nothing after paying his mother’s hospital bills, while Carl had breezed into college without a single worry.

  The coffee and tea came as the two young men continued to study each other, sifting through memories for some essence of camaraderie. Jordan perused the menu quickly, canceling out the curries, the beefs, the porks, the high-fat sauces. After checking with the waitress to assure it wasn't prepared with a sauce, he ordered a chicken, mint, and lime dish with red onions and cashews, and went for four out of five stars on the s
piciness scale. Carl's eyebrows lifted, surprised that Jordan cared for food that fiery.

  "I suggest it, if you can take it." Jordan said. "Would wake you up."

  Carl grimaced and ordered a three-star green curry. As the waitress left with their orders, Carl said, "I wouldn't be falling asleep if you were being a tad more reasonable."

  "You're bitchy when you're tired," Jordan replied.

  Carl gave him a disgusted look. "Well, where do we start?" he asked. "Your terms are rather broad in scope."

  Jordan grunted. "I'm still not sure I know why you want me."

  Carl put his head in his hands. "I don't cook, I've never shopped for groceries, I don't know a dust-mop from a dishrag, and I need to put on weight. I’m going into isolation, where I can’t pick up take-out on the way home every evening. If I were to hire one person for each task, there would be too many sources of leaks. I need one man, one that I can trust. Aside from needing someone to help me get my muscle mass back, I've known you long enough and well enough to know you keep other people's business to yourself. You've always kept everything to yourself."

  Jordan could just hear Carl's voice over the music. The restaurant was sparsely populated, but even someone at the next booth would be hard put to realize they were speaking at all. He leaned over. "That's what gets me. Why do you need someone who can keep secrets? What's your secret? What's the real story?"

  "I... I lose my memory, three nights in a row, once a month." Carl’s brows drew together in apparent discomfort.

  "What does that mean?" Jordan asked. It still didn't sound like an illness.

  Carl looked out the window before answering. "It's nothing I understand, by any means. A couple nights a month I feel excruciating pain in the evening, then I wake up the next morning…in the nearest forest or field, stark naked."

  Jordan’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed down to their usual slitted awareness again. "A couple nights a month?"

  Carl nodded.

  "Predictably?"

  The waitress filled their mugs again, giving Carl time to look down and gather himself. After the waitress left, he looked up. "Three evenings in a row, then nothing at all for twenty-five days. Aside from the weight problem, of course."

  Jordan looked out the window. This was a better story than he'd heard in a long time. Collecting himself, he promised himself he would keep a straight face through the rest of the conversation. It was still a good offer, though he didn't want it. He'd learned not to burn his bridges, either forward or backward.

  "Jordan, please don't mention this to anyone,” Carl said anxiously. “I've already had to deal with questions from a crazed journalist over checking into a hospital recently. I can't afford to have them find me up at the cabin. So far, we've kept the place's existence a secret. According to the books, it's owned by someone else."

  Jordan was hardly paying attention to his words. "Are you eating right?"

  "Better than ever, and more protein than before," Carl's blue eyes concentrated steadily on Jordan’s face.

  "Tired?" Jordan asked.

  "Not really. I suppose I had more energy than usual at the beginning."

  Jordan started chewing a fingernail. "Anything else?"

  "I'm losing weight."

  Jordan looked at him and frowned. "You said that."

  "But that's the key reason I need you, and no one else. I need to start a weight-gaining program. I know that I can do it with your help. Nothing I've tried myself works."

  Jordan chewed on the edge of his thumbnail. "Just a matter of balancing input and outgo. Shouldn't be a problem."

  "Is that a yes?" Carl asked, hopefully.

  "No,” Jordan growled, then, “I don't know enough yet."

  Carl began to tap his fingers against the salt shaker in his right hand.

  Jordan took a sip of tea. "Isn't there anyone in your life? No friends? No family?" He paused. "No…woman?"

  Carl turned away, then looked back. "I'd rather not drag my friends into this – no offense. My family is back in England. My mother wanted to be near my grandmother when grandfather died. And as for a woman..." Carl stopped and his eyes creased with pain. "She's gone."

  "Gone?" Jordan prodded.

  "We were engaged to get married." He looked up at Jordan. "If you were a woman, what would you think if your future husband started calling you a couple of mornings in a row, asking to be picked up miles from home? And naked, with no reasonable explanation?"

  Jordan's eyes narrowed. "She thinks you were fooling around."

  "She probably thinks I'm insane! For all I know, I may very well be."

  "If so, I expect severance pay when you go into a hospital."

  Carl gave him a disapproving frown.

  "Hey, buddy, you said yourself you're not trying to hire a friend."

  "It could also be a plot," Carl said, after taking a sip of coffee. "That's another reason I'd like to hire you. People don't mess with you."

  Jordan nodded matter-of-factly. "That wasn't on the list."

  Carl looked up from his coffee. "Certainly it was!"

  "Where?"

  "Do you have the list with you?"

  Jordan picked the notebook up from the seat next to him and pulled a piece of paper out of it. Carl scanned it quickly. "I'm terribly sorry! I thought I had worded that in a different manner. Here," he took the paper, crossed off a few words and wrote above them, then handed it back.

  Jordan looked at the corrected line, and looked up. "No," he said, and handed the paper back.

  Carl looked up from the paper in alarm. "Jordan, you have to... what will it take?"

  "More than that. I was a bodyguard, once." Jordan stared coolly. “I didn’t care for it.”

  Carl drummed his fingers on the table. "Equipment?"

  Jordan frowned questioningly.

  "Any piece – every piece of exercise equipment you ask for, and you can take it with you when the job is over."

  Jordan gripped his chin in his hand. The food came, steaming. The waitress left.

  "That was a mighty shallow offer," Jordan finally responded. Actually, it sounded quite good. Jordan had frequently considered formally starting his own personal training service, with his own equipment.

  Carl released the breath he'd been holding in a huff of air, then asked, "What … do… I… have… to… do?"

  Jordan smiled slowly. "Up the offer by fifty thousand. Give me a lock on my bedroom and stay out of it… The kitchen will be mine. I want an hour and a half a day to myself; no interruptions under any circumstances, except death or dismemberment. Before I'm disturbed. Music – any that I request. And that equipment, as a matter of fact, and a room big enough to set it up in. A masseuse, as needed. Five weeks per year vacation. Retirement plan, same terms I have now but better rates. Use of your vehicle. Friday evenings and the following Saturday up to three times a month, as needed. Any other items that I consider necessary to do my job." As an afterthought, he added, "And a hot tub, if you don't have one."

  Carl sat for a moment, then got up and went to the restroom. Knowing Carl, Jordan was quite sure he'd be pacing the floor. Carl never could sit still when dealing with a problem. He had even paced in class during particularly hard tests in high school. The teachers weren’t about to tell him not to; his parents funded the new stadium. Jordan preferred to eat alone in any case, and the food was excellent. Jordan was nearly done with the bowl of jasmine-steamed rice he'd ordered on the side when Carl returned.

  "All right, you've got it."

  Jordan fumbled and dropped his fork. "What?"

  "The deal. I'll pay you one-hundred ninety thousand a year, plus all the fringe benefits in your email, and the items you just added at present," Carl answered irritably, sitting down.

  Jordan stared in consternation. "The hot tub?"

  "I have one, of course."

  "The masseuse?"

  "From one to four times a month. Give me
veto power on the items you consider necessary to do your job."

  Jordan eyed Carl warily. "No."

  Carl rested his forehead in his hands. "Jordan, that gives you quite a lot of latitude. How can I know you won't take advantage of me?"

  Jordan's voice was taut. "You have to trust me."

  Carl considered, poking at his food, then spooned the curry over his rice and pushed it around a little. Grimacing, he answered. "I have to put my life in your hands then."

  "No more than I put mine in yours. And when I tell you what weights to lift and what to eat, you do it, not like in high school. You fell a good twenty percent short of your potential. I'm not throwing my job, my students -- yes," he said when he saw Carl's surprise, “I've also been training guys at the club in my spare time, which was not in your income assessment, as it’s all under the table. I'm not tossing it all aside for nothing. And you'll guarantee me employment for two years minimum, or severance pay equal to it." Jordan was sure, now, that he'd gone beyond Carl's limits.

  He was wrong. As Jordan ate the last piece of chicken, Carl answered. "Yes."

  Jordan stopped chewing and swallowed. "And the kitchen?"

  "It's yours," Carl answered, scrubbing his eyes with his fist.

  "You'll stay out of it?"

  "Yes," came the reluctant reply.

  "No munching, no crumbs on the counter?"

  "Yes! I said," Carl paused and looked over at Jordan, "yes."

  Jordan was floored. "And if you're lying to me, I'm released with severance pay."

  Carl closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. "How many times must I accept your terms? When does it end?"