The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights

by Faye Kellerman

  Hartley managed to open his mouth.

  With practiced skill, the dentist placed the forceps around the crown of the back molar. He gripped the handles, then paused. “What’s that?” he asked.

  “Ahhhhh,” Hartley responded.

  “I hear something.” Another beat. “Do you hear something?”

  “Ahhhhhh” was Hartley’s answer. But he did hear something. The buzz in his brain. The voices, as always. But how could the dentist hear it?

  “Ahhhhhhhhh,” Hartley responded, trying to talk louder.

  “Can’t understand a word you’re saying.” With care, the surgeon rotated the forceps. Up and down, up and down, back and forth, back and forth, until he could feel the ligaments holding the tooth to the gum breaking. “Ah, well.”

  Hartley heard the cracking of tooth matter along with the voice. Again he tried to talk, but the gas . . .

  “There it is again,” the surgeon said. “Like someone’s playing a radio inside your head.”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Hartley tried to scream.

  “Now, calm down,” the surgeon insisted as he turned up the nitrous portion of the nitrous oxide. “You were doing okay. Just hang in there. It’s almost over.”

  Hartley felt his voice box weaken . . . just couldn’t move. But he could damn well hear.

  The surgeon chuckled. “You know, you read about funny things in the dental journals . . . about radio transmissions that come through dental fillings. I never believed the stories. But maybe that’s what I’m hearing. Has that ever happened to you?”

  Hartley couldn’t talk.

  “There!” the surgeon said triumphantly. He held a bloody tooth aloft. “Got it.” Slowly, he turned down the nitrous. “Done. Hartley, I’ve got you breathing more oxygen now. You should come around in about a minute or two. I’ll just let you relax.”

  The door closed. Again Hartley said nothing. Worse than that, he heard nothing.

  Absolutely nothing.

  No buzz, no voices, no sound.

  All of it gone, gone, gone!

  Damn those nutshells. He should have sued the bastards.

  But what was the point now?

  Gone!

  No more Mr. Johnny-on-the-Spot.

  No more Radar Robert Roadrunner.

  No more the Scoop.

  No more parties and special invitations.

  No more press conferences.

  No more office with a door.

  Gone, gone, gone.

  So what was left for him? Just a life as an ordinary reporter. As these thoughts came into his brain, Hartley became increasingly depressed. As soon as he was physically able, he reached over to the gas tanks, lowered the oxygen tap to almost nil, and turned the nitrous knob on full blast.

  Good old nitrous.

  He always wanted to die laughing.

  MR. BARTON’S

  HEAD CASE

  “Mr. Barton’s Head Case” appears here

  for the very first time in English. It was

  originally written for a German

  anthology of short stories that revolved

  around the biblical theme “Thou Shall

  Not Murder.” I chose the little-known

  story of Balaam and Balak, and it

  evolved into a modern-day fable with

  all the gravitas of the sixties series

  My Mother the Car, featuring Jerry Van

  Dyke. (Strangely, the car in that sitcom

  not only talked, it spoke in English.

  Just a step more bizarre than Mr. Ed,

  the talking horse: “Oh, Willlllburrrr!”)

  And God opened the mouth of the she-donkey and she said to Balaam: “What have I done to you that you have struck me these three times? . . . Am I not your she-donkey on which you have ridden since you have been in existence, until this day? Have I ever been in the habit of doing this to you?”

  —Bamidbar (Numbers) 22 parashat Balak

  IT’S BUSINESS,” HE SAID. “NOTHIN’ PERSONAL. WELL, maybe a little personal. Hell, it’s a lot personal. I can’t stand the son of a bitch! You wanna know why?”

  Actually, Billy didn’t want to know why. The less he knew, the better. But the man was paying him good money, so he played the game. “Why’s that, Mr. Barton?”

  “ ’Cause he’s a goddamn self-righteous son of a bitch, that’s why. Comes from nothin’ . . . less than nothing. Comes from garbage. And now that he’s got a badge, he thinks he’s hot shit.”

  “A badge?”

  “Yeah, a badge. He’s a Fed.”

  “Whoa, whoa, Mr. Barton,” Billy protested. “You didn’t say anything about knocking off a Fed.”

  “What?” Barton’s eyes narrowed to slits, swallowed up by the thick lids that topped them. “You think I’m payin’ you all this money to pop Joe Schmuck?”

  “You didn’t say anything about a Fed, sir.” Billy touched the knot of his tie, a Stefano Ricci. Put him back heavy in the buck department, but only the best. The jacquard silk had been dyed jewel blue, perfectly setting off his crisp white Brioni shirt. His mocha-colored double-breasted suit was Kiton, a cashmere blend and made to measure. His barrel chest necessitated custom clothes. “Feds got protection, sir. Heavy-artillery protection. At this stage in my life, I’m not sure I want the heat.”

  “What stage?” Mr. Barton protested. “C’mon, Billy. What are you? Thirty-five? Forty?”

  “Forty-two.”

  “You’re a young man.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of action, Mr. Barton. I’ve had a good career. You want to go out on a high note, you know what I’m saying?”

  “I’m paying for your high note.”

  “I’m not saying the money isn’t good. It’s good. Your money is always good, sir. But there are other considerations.”

  The old don slid back into his leather chair, interlaced his stubby fingers, and set them in his lap. “You gotta do this for me, Billy. I ain’t givin’ you an option, I’m givin’ you an order.”

  Billy regarded Barton in his flashy silver lamé Valentino getup. Same black shirt and tie—yesterday’s statement. The man had no originality, no class. “Sir, with all due respect, and I’m giving you lots of respect ’cause you deserve it, sir. But with all of the respect—due and otherwise—I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this. And if I’m not comfortable, that very much increases the chance of a fuckup. And the one thing you don’t want, sir, is that fuckup. So you can order me to do it. And knowing who you are and all that, I’d do it. But keep in mind what I just told you.”

  “You’re gonna fuck this up on purpose?”

  “I never fuck up anything on purpose.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  Now Barton was irritated. Not good to get him irritated, especially because Billy knew that Barton had a Heckler & Koch 9mm Parabellum resting in his desk drawer. Probably had other pieces as well. Not to mention those two gorillas outside the office door, and the two gorillas down the hallway. Barton had more gorillas than the Bronx Zoo. Billy felt naked without his piece, but it was part of the process. Whenever he went to see Mr. Barton, the goons outside always copped his steel.

  Billy pretended to be thinking about things, busied himself by looking around the office. Barton had come up in the world—from a two-bit bouncer to the head of a very lucrative construction firm. He had punctuated his rise in social status by acquiring things—the big hulking rosewood desk, the new wet bar with the Lalique Scotch tumblers (the clod had left the labels on the bottom of the glasses), and the contemporary artwork that Billy’s three-year-old niece could have done in her sleep.

  “You ain’t answering my question, Billy.”

  “Look, sir . . .” Billy leaned across the desk. “This is a prime opportunity for some young stud to cut his teeth on. I’m getting old—yeah, I know, I know, I’m only forty-two. But I’m getting out of the business soon. Maybe it would be best if you started breaking in someone with a little more grit.”


  “You’re the best. I want the best!”

  Billy said nothing. No sense disagreeing with the obvious.

  Mr. Barton laughed, showing off big porcelain-capped teeth. That grin sitting between heavy shadowed jowls reminded Billy of a bulldog. When Barton was younger, thinner, he’d been a dead ringer for Richard Nixon, right down to the ski-slope nose. Now the man was a quintessential crime boss—the gaudy custom suit, the blow-dried gray hair, the collar pin, the gold Rolex, and the flashy pinkie ring. Still, Billy was smart enough to know that although Barton was a caricature, he was no cartoon.

  “It’s the money, right?”

  “I already told you that money wasn’t the issue.”

  “Money is always the fuckin’ issue,” Barton growled. “I’ll make it worth your while, Billy.”

  “You already did that, sir.”

  “I’ll give you double.”

  Billy couldn’t believe his ears. “What?”

  “You heard me, kiddo. I’ll give you double.”

  “You must really hate this guy.”

  “Yeah, I do. He gets in my way.”

  Again Billy looked around the room, but in his mind, he was already spending the cash. Amber would look dy-na-mite parading around the Caribbean, wearing one of those skimpy little things . . . basically tit pasties and butt floss. She had the body, that was for sure, and what Mother Nature had left out, surgery sure helped along. “Yeah . . .” Billy nodded. “Yeah, okay. You want it done that bad, I’ll make sure it gets done.”

  Barton grinned. “See, I told you it was the money.”

  “You’re right, Mr. Barton. You’re definitely right!”

  “You can smile now, Billy.”

  Billy felt his lips move upward, then he felt himself beaming. “You are one hell of a crazy motherfucker—”

  “Watch your mouth!”

  “You’ve got a file on this guy?”

  “Do I got a file on this guy?” Barton leaned back in his chair. “Pshhhh. I got everything you want on this guy, twenty-four/seven. I know when he wakes up in the morning to take a piss, I know how he takes his coffee, I know where he stops to buy his lotto ticket, I know what position he likes best when he fucks his old lady. She’s okay, you know. The old lady. You might wanna—”

  “It leaves evidence, sir.”

  Barton laughed. “You never heard of a rubber?”

  “As tempting as it sounds, I’d like to get the job done cleanly. In and out.”

  “Clean, dirty, I don’t care. Just so it gets done and it don’t come back to haunt me. You wanna know what the beef is, Billy?”

  “Anything you want to tell me, Mr. Barton, I’m listening.”

  “The beef is, he’s a self-righteous son of a bitch. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us. Makes all of us working stiffs look bad.”

  Barton was repeating himself. Billy said, “I don’t like self-righteous assholes, either.”

  “He came from garbage. He got above his raising. Such impudence can’t go unpunished.”

  Billy nodded. “I’ll take the file whenever you want.”

  “Go on, Billy. Tell me how you’ll do it.”

  “As soon as I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” Billy tried out his best smile. “I’ve got to read the file first.”

  “Fair enough.” Barton leaned forward. “You still ride that piece-of-shit jalopy?”

  “I don’t need anything fancy.”

  “Fancy is one thing. But that broken bag of bones? What is it? A Honda or a Hyundai or a Daewoo . . . some small piece of Oriental crap. Don’t you need something with accelerated pickup?”

  “The engine’s modified, sir.”

  “Why don’t you get yourself one of those nifty little two-seater jobs from the Krauts? They really know how to tune an engine.”

  “Those kind of cars are noticeable, Mr. Barton. What you want for the job is something plain and ordinary. Like Sal.”

  “Who the fuck is Sal?”

  “My car, sir. Her name is Sal.”

  Barton gave him a strange look. “You name your car, Billy?”

  “Yeah. We’re like . . . like old friends. She’s my workhorse. A mule, actually. That’s why I named her Sal, after that song about the Erie Canal from grade school.”

  Barton looked at him with suspicious eyes.

  “You know what I’m talking about?”

  “I got no idea what you’re talkin’ about.”

  “The mule that helped build the Erie Canal . . .” Billy hummed a few bars. “That don’t sound familiar?”

  “Not in the least. I went to Catholic school. Only thing I remember about the music was a chance to stare at Katherine O’Neal’s tits as she sung in the choir.” Mr. Barton shook his head. “Just make sure it don’t break down.”

  “I guarantee you she won’t. We’ve been through a lot together, Sal and me. She’s sort of my . . . my good-luck charm.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t tell you how to do your job. But I am saying that she could use a permanent date with the compactor.”

  “Maybe one day, but not yet.”

  Barton got up from his chair, signaling Billy to do the same. He handed Billy a black briefcase. “Everything you need is in there.”

  Billy nodded. The two men shook hands—a gesture of clinching the deal rather than one of trust or friendship. They stood eye-to-eye, locked for a moment in an ocular pissing contest. Then Billy broke it off. After all, the man was paying a considerable sum of cash. He held the rights to being the alpha dog. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome, Billy. As always, it’s a pleasure doin’ business with you.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I do got a question for you.”

  “What, sir?”

  “You keep calling your hunk of junk a mule. And you also keep callin’ it a she. Aren’t mules males without balls?”

  Billy thought for a moment.

  The man wasn’t educated, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid.

  Billy did what he always did before he went on the road. He brought Sal in for a complete tune-up. Harry announced that she—in Billy’s mind, Sal was always going to be a she—was healthy and fit enough to travel anywhere Billy wanted to go. Afterward, he gave Sal a wash. Her bronze coat had faded to peanut-butter brown, and primer was peeking through some of the bigger dents, but Billy loved her more because of her imperfections. To him, the dings and scratches were war medals, emblems of fine service and a job well done. Her interior leather had begun to crack, little spiderweb lines in the seat cushions, but for a ten-year-old baby, she was still soft and supple.

  The next part of the routine was the meal: the biggest, baddest, most cholesterol-laden piece of motherfucking cow you ever wanted to eat in your whole life, served specimen-rare—blue, they called it—with blood still running from the animal’s veins.

  Just hit the beast over the head and put it on a plate.

  The waiters knew what he liked, had heard him order like that before. Still, they laughed at his corny joke whenever he told it. They knew a good tip when it bit them in the ass. The eatery he liked best served his cow with a mound of french fries dripping with oil or a baked potato the size of Idaho. Salad, too. Yeah, it was good to eat something green. He called the meal his primary-color dinner—red, yellow, and green—until Amber pointed out that green wasn’t a primary color, blue was, and that green was actually a mixture of blue and yellow. That’s when he told her to shut up unless she wanted her crème brûlée shoved in her face. (He said it a little nicer, but that was the gist.)

  After the meal came the bedroom calisthenics, one for the road, and usually pretty slow after eating all that meat. But Amber was patient and kept up the moans and groans until it was over. Then she’d fall deep asleep, her soft smooth leg draping over his. He’d catnap but inevitably wake up, leaving her apartment as she squeaked and snored with that cute little grunt of hers every time she exhaled. He liked Amber. She didn’t cost him a whole lot of money
, she wasn’t too demanding, and she didn’t have a whiny voice. It was sultry—low and hoarse, no doubt from the cigarettes, but still, it was sexy.

  Yeah, Amber was all right, he thought as he left her place, walking down the empty streets of the city. But Sal was better. Sal was his true-blue friend who always showed up no matter how tough the going got. The night was warm and muggy, and Billy heard the constant hum of air-conditioning from all corners. Life was decent and would be even better as soon as Billy took care of this business. He couldn’t say for sure that it was his last job, but he did have other things in mind now that he was older. He had lived within a four-mile radius his entire life, his spectrum of experience limited to the dull city rhythms of his formative years. The same people, the same food, the same girls, the same thugs. He was tired of freezing his bones off in the winter, tired of battling mold and damp walls and wind tunnels and freezing pipes and hissing radiators.

  He wanted to try out new things: someplace that was warm in the winter with an ocean nearby. He could picture himself and Sal driving down the East Coast to the Keys to visit his sister, Fiona, who was a big pain in the ass but was the only living relative he had who still talked to him. Her husband was a doofus but played a decent game of golf.

  Surely he could do better than Fiona.

  How about cross-country? A coast-to-coast excursion, just Sal and him and the open road. Maybe find some hot little spot in Ma-li-bu!

  The heels of his shoes made a clacking sound on the sidewalk as he dreamed about his future.

  Trouble was, the Malibu chicks liked those sardine-box sports cars—little two-seater numbers with souped-up motors and ear-blasting boom-box jungle-bunny stereo. No, no, no, anyone who couldn’t appreciate Sal didn’t stand a chance with him.

  He took off his jacket and draped it over his arm and thought some more.

  Those Malibu babes were fine numbers. He remembered that bathing-suit special about them on TV, all those luscious asses. So hey, if the girls wanted glitz, he’d get a Harley. He certainly could afford one after this job, that was for sure.

  A Fed.

  He really didn’t want to whack this Fed or any Fed. Feds had protection. Feds had nice families and went to church picnics and taught their kids how to play baseball . . . Well, not all Feds. He didn’t know a thing about the Fed Barton wanted him to take out. Maybe this Fed was a monster. Maybe he was that kinda self-righteous prick who would hide under the guise of being a law-abiding citizen, be all prim and proper but would be, in actuality, a secret diddler of little boys.