by Dan Taylor
All that’s left is the slugs. The one aimed at the bookshelf missed and went into the dry wall. I pry it out with the rubber-tipped instrument and replace it with a slug I shot into the dry wall section back at the range. Then I pry out the one in the floor, settle for replacing it with a slug I shot into plain concrete.
The last slug is the one I put into Ms. Hammer’s throat. Usually it would be in and out, meaning I could pry it out of the wall or whatever it had ended up embedding itself into. But she wasn’t standing, meaning the downward trajectory most likely leaves the slug buried deep inside her upper abdomen.
Mistake number two.
I bend down to a kneeling position by her, make the sign of the cross, and then lift Ms. Hammer up, hoping to see the slug in the carpet beneath.
It isn’t there. But there is a blood-soaked hole in the upper back section of her dressing gown, between her shoulder blades.
Looks like the bonus roll-over power ball came out for me this week, as the slug is in embedded in the skirting board.
I carefully lower Ms. Hammer back into the place she fell, and then start getting to work on the last slug, when I hear the doorbell ring.
11.
I wait a second, to see if it rings again.
At resting rate, adults with healthy lungs breathe between twelve and twenty times a minute, which is between seven-hundred and twenty and one-thousand and two-hundred breaths an hour. I’ve been awake for around three and a half hours, which means I’ve taken around nine-hundred and forty breaths today.
The next breath is the first one I’m conscious of taking. And the first one that I really listen to.
After what seems like a minute, I go back to prying the slug out, figuring it was a neighbor who’ll come back later.
Until it rings again.
Twice.
And then that voice, the one I hopefully only listened to for less than a minute says, “I know you’re in there, Margaret. You’ve got your welcome mat laid out.”
It’s the guy. The neighbor. Hancock.
Silence a second.
I don’t move.
“Oh, and by the way, seeing as I’m being the best neighbor today, that’s not the smartest move. I know you want to keep that thing pristine, by not having me or whoever tread on it as we—let’s drop the pretense—as I go past your apartment door, but it’s not the most security conscious thing to do. Someone could notice that you’re always out when it’s not there and burglarize you.”
Silence again.
“Margaret, I know you’re there, no matter how still you are. Okay, I’m going. Just wanted to let you know I think your delivery guy’s outside. The one who’s delivering that clock you were in a tizzy about this morning, and that he seems lost. He drove away and then came back. He’s either lost and confused about what he’s delivering, or he had to deliver a safe to a different building. If I were you, I’d go out and look for him; maybe he’s still in his truck.” There’s a pause. “Okay, Margaret, I’ve done my good deed for the day. Thanks for ignoring me. Bye now.”
Shit.
Time to get the hell out of Dodge.
I pry out the slug, put it in my pocket, take one out of the Ziploc bag marked HARDWOOD, use some of the blood from her neck wound to smear blood onto it, and then try and force it into the hole left in the skirting board.
It only partially goes in.
I then force it fully into the skirting board using the handle of the instrument I used to pry out the old slug, making sure it’s flush with the end of the hole the original slug made. Nothing says planted evidence like a slug that backed its way out of the hole it made.
I then pick up the tape measure, put that in my pocket, and take a quick look around.
Everything seems in place that supports a robbery gone wrong. And then I think of something. If the robber moved the bookshelves after he shot her, to check for a safe or other place of safekeeping, then how did the slug end up in the skirting board?
That’s the type of shit that creates the Bob Lambs of this world and puts people like me in jail. But you know what else does? Prying neighbors with too much time on their hands.
I think a second, come to a solution.
I carefully step over Ms. Hammer’s body, and then put my back against the wall, between the gap between the two bookshelves. And then, making as little noise as possible, put an elbow-shaped indentation in the wall, making it look like Ms. Hammer caught the robber while he was looking behind the bookshelves, she confronted him, they struggled by the wall, he got free, knocking her to the ground, to a kneeling position. And then he fled, turning around before he left the living area, aiming at her but firing a bullet into the wall, one into the floor, and then the final one in her throat.
There’s no sign of the struggle on Ms. Hammer’s body. No contusion on her cheek where he punched her, no skin under her fingernails from where she scratched him, and no saliva in her ear from when he gave her a wet willy to make his escape.
Sure, I could punch her in the face now, but it would leave a different mark than if it were made before she died. So instead, I kneel down next to Ms. Hammer’s body, grab a handful of her hair, and yank it out, taking a little bit of her scalp with it, making it look like the robber didn’t fight fair with Ms. Hammer.
I then place it a couple feet from her body, as though the robber noticed it after he shot her, was horrified to see he had a tuft of hair, attached to which was a section of scalp, hanging from his glove. He shook it loose, and then he got out of here.
Which is what I’m going to do.
I go over to the hand truck.
I wheel it to the door, and am about to leave, when I hear footsteps outside the door.
12.
I look through the peephole to see that it’s the neighbor again, Hancock. He’s standing outside the door, one hand on his hip, the other holding a cell phone.
He reaches out with the hand not holding the phone, and I think he’s going to press the doorbell again, but instead he knocks on the door, hammering on it, like he’s the police, making me jump.
I press my eye against the peephole again, watch him think a second.
Then he says, “Margaret, it’s me again, Mr. Hancock. I know you’re in there.” He raises his voice. “I need you to come to the door right now, Margaret.”
He waits a second, glances down at the cell phone.
And I wonder if he’s noticed the change in the light coming through the peephole from my standing here.
I’d go back to the living area, but he’d hear my footsteps. And I’d have to take my eye away from the peephole, but I just remembered that while it isn’t possible for him to look through the peephole and see the person on the other side, it is possible for him to notice that the person looking has moved to or from it, indicated by the aforementioned change of light.
What’s he doing here? Is he still being the good neighbor, making sure Ms. Hammer knows her delivery guy’s here?
Now that I think about it, this Hancock guy’s probably the person that helped her with the moving of the bookshelves. That figures. He’s her nearest neighbor, and he seems like the kind of guy who might be around a lot, seeing as though it’s getting to the point where most people are thinking about going to work, and he’s stoned and wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it.
Why would he bang on the door like that, instead of just ringing the doorbell again? And why should she open the door right now?
Has this Hancock guy figured out what I’m doing here, dressed as a delivery guy?
It’s a stretch, would seem like too much of a stretch, if the guy standing outside, Hancock, didn’t do what he’s about to do.
13.
He holds up his phone and looks at it, then looks away, thinking, a stupid look on his face. He looks like he’s thinking about dialing a number. I take out my Beretta, slowly, and point it at the door. If he starts dialing, I’ll wait to see if he stops on three digits, and then I
’ll cut my losses, put a bullet in him, and call this my last gig before I move to Mu Ko Ang Thong.
Jimmy can get a new guy, Bob Lamb can forever wonder what happened to Clive Nuttree, the Cuckoo Clock Killer, and I’ll take Sandra with me, whether she’s showing signs of progress or not.
As he starts to dial, I put my finger on the trigger.
One digit.
Two.
Here’s the third.
If he moves the phone up to his ear before dialing a fourth, he’s a dead man. He just doesn’t know it yet.
But he carries on dialing.
Dials seven or eight digits. I lost count.
Then he puts the phone up to his ear.
He could be phoning Hollywood Community Police Station directly, so I don’t move the Beretta away from the door, nor do I move my finger away from the trigger.
It’s long, that silence between dialing and being connected, if you listen to it.
And then, startling me like when he knocked on the door, a phone behind me starts ringing.
The neighbor’s phoning Ms. Hammer’s landline.
“Come on, pickup,” he says.
And then I realize why he’s phoning.
He’s not worked out what the delivery guy was doing waiting outside his apartment building. It was a stretch. But what he thinks, and why he’s phoning, and I’m ninety percent sure about this, isn’t much better for me.
After ten or so rings, it goes to voicemail. Ms. Hammer has a cassette-tape-recorded analog device, and I hear an audible click behind me—presumably from the small hallway table, though I don’t take my eye away from the peephole to look—and then the sound of Ms. Hammer’s voice, from beyond the grave.
“This is Margaret Hammer. I’m out at the moment, but you can feel free to leave your name, number, and the reason you’re calling after the beep and I’ll get back to you.” Then there’s a pause, before she says, “Beep!” And then she laughs, before the actual beep comes.
I expect the neighbor to hang up, but he leaves a message. “Margaret, it’s Mr. Hancock, again or not, depending on if I’m right about what happened. You could be out, I suppose, but I don’t think so. Five years you’ve had that welcome mat, and I can’t remember one time you left it outside without having been home.” He pauses, thinking a second. “Just thought of something, and don’t I feel stupid.” He slaps his forehead with his palm.
Then he continues, “How would I know if you’d forgotten it? Anyway, if you’re out, at the store or whatever, and have just gotten back and are listening to this message and thinking why the hell is Mr. Hancock phoning and sounding all worried, and then forget I ever called. But if you’re—”
He gets cut off by the machine.
What was he going to say? I’m not ninety percent sure about why he was phoning anymore, more like ninety-nine.
He starts dialing the number again, gets four digits in, before he realizes he can just press a single button to redial Ms. Hammer’s number. And then he starts cursing under his breath, before pressing the single button.
He puts the phone up to his ear. That silence again. The same ten or so rings. The same voice from beyond the grave, sounding like she was in her forties and loving it. The same goofy beep joke.
The neighbor says, “Hi, Ms. Hammer. It’s Mr. Hancock again, your favorite neighbor. Where was I? Oh yeah, if you’ve just gotten back from the hair salon or store or whatever, ignore this message and the one before it. Wait, you would’ve heard that one first, right? Anyway, if you’re hearing this message, in good health, then forget I ever phoned. But if you’re…” His voice trails off, and he stands there, thinking about his wording, maybe? Biting his nails. Before he continues, “Now I don’t want to cause offense, but if you’re lying on the floor having had a heart attack or a stroke, or there’s some other medical reason why you’re incapacitated, then give me some sign, maybe thump the floor with your hand or foot, and I’ll listen out for it. If I you give me a sign, then I’m phoning an ambulance.”
14.
He hangs up and then puts his ear to the door. I can’t see him, because of his relative position to the peephole, but he went to my right. I keep still.
If I shift my weight from my heels to the balls of my feet, I could make the floorboards creak, and that guy, the well-intentioned neighbor, will phone an ambulance, as he said. And he’ll stay right outside the door until they get here. The hero will wait, and then he’ll casually tell the responders he was the one who phoned, maybe getting in their way a little as they try to break the door down. But he can do that, as he’s the hero with the cell phone who had the common sense to notice that Ms. Hammer looked a little ill the last couple days and for this to be a red flag when considering her welcome mat’s outside her door, which it never is when she’s out, but she’s not giving any indication she’s home.
So he phoned. No, don’t worry about it. It was nothing. Anybody would’ve done the same, he’ll tell them.
And me? I’m waiting inside like a dummy. Nowhere to go, except out the window, which is ten stories up. I remember which floor now. Peter Hammer wouldn’t have to tell me twice in a situation like this. So I’d have two choices. Go out the window, screaming as I fall all that way, or wait inside, standing by Ms. Hammer’s body, maybe shrug as they saw me standing beside the body, before I tried to shoot my way out. The ambulance people wouldn’t wait for the police, not in a situation like this, where they’d suspect she’s just fallen or suffered an internal injury, so I could probably do it, make it out of the building at least. Maybe even halfway across L.A.
The neighbor, the one with his ear to the door, he knows what type of delivery truck I’m driving, and he knows it says “Ok-ay Del-ver-ies,” on the side. He said it like that, slowly, as though memorizing it.
How long before they’d radio in the description of the vehicle? I could go on foot, try to find a cab, but I may as well make a beeline for Hollywood Community Police Station, all the good it would do me.
I snap out of it and stop thinking about what-ifs.
All I’ve got to do is stand still for thirty seconds or so. A minute, max.
Don’t move a muscle.
I think about how the sun will feel on my face. Shit, it’ll feel good.
I can hear every tiny movement on the other side of the door. The scratching sound his jacket zipper is making as he presses himself against the door. When he shuffles his feet, making sure he keeps balanced, it sounds like they’re my feet they’re so close.
It enters my mind again, the thought of pulling the trigger. This is the best opportunity I’ll get. Shit, not even Taz could miss him from here. Smart move is to do that, before his mind starts piecing our conversation together with this situation. Before he figures out there’s something strange about a delivery guy who wants to deliver a safe someplace else, goes to try to find it again with his SatNav, but then comes back, to deliver something to the building he said he didn’t need to find.
I must’ve had half a brain telling him I wanted some other apartment building. But then again, I didn’t know at the time that he lived opposite Ms. Hammer, or about his knowledge of the delivery I was going to make.
I can do it, and not think twice about it. Guy wouldn’t deserve it. But sometimes doing the smart thing means collateral damage.
I could probably open the door and catch him before he fell, and I could drag him inside and he could keep Ms. Hammer company until someone noticed the bad smell.
And then I hear him move away from the door and see him move into view through the peephole. He looks down, and then without saying a word, he kneels down, rolls up the welcome mat, picks it up, and puts it under his arm, and then goes into his apartment.
His taking the mat into his apartment’s a good sign. I reckon he figures he’ll look after it until she gets back. Maybe score himself a freshly baked pie or home-baked cookies for his good deed, as long as she’s not too insulted by his suggestion she might’ve suffered a h
eart attack.
But I didn’t like the look on his face before he picked it up. Guy looked pensive, like saving Ms. Hammer’s welcome mat from muddy shoes and getting a pie in return is the last thing on his mind. I just pray he doesn’t think on it too much. Instinct will save me, but it’ll get him killed.
That pensiveness could stem from the fact that her not having made a peep doesn’t rule out her having sustained an injury or suffered a heart attack. She could be dead in here, or unable to move or talk.
But then again, the guy wouldn’t take the welcome mat with him if he thought that realistic or probable.
I’ll give it five minutes before I leave, maybe ten.
I don’t think he’s standing by his peephole, watching the door, but it’s within the realm of logical that he might’ve figured out the shady-looking delivery man had something to do with the situation he senses is so wrong and he hopes to catch him coming out, even if it’s just to get another look at him.
Or he could be peeping through it from time to time, hoping to catch Ms. Hammer coming home, her hair freshly permed, and he can go out and speak to her, shoot the breeze, put his mind at rest.
The hero with the welcome mat under his arm, but with the ageist comment left on her outdated answering machine.
In five minutes—not ten—I’ll be able to walk out clean.
That’s my plan, until I think of something.
15.
If he hasn’t put two and two together now, he will when he or someone else notices that Ms. Hammer hasn’t been around for a little while, and then notices the stench coming from her apartment.
And that plan of making the cops think she got the cuckoo clock delivered a couple days ago is a no-go now.
Walking as though I’m walking on my new carpet for the first time and I’ve got shit on both heels, I go back to the living room. I leave the tape measure where it is. But I bring the hand truck over to the cuckoo clock, slide it underneath, and then wheel it over so it’s a couple feet from the entrance to the apartment.
