As he opened it I held my breath.
“Oh my god,” he said as he peered into the box.
I hope you like it.
“Well, let’s see it,” his mother said.
He picked the book out of the box, held it in the air, and turned it toward his mother. A hardbound first edition, first printing of Pride and Prejudice, I hoped he would take great pride in having it. I had bid on two of the books on eBay, hoping to buy the first one, but I lost out on it at the last minute. Although the one I purchased was in much better condition, the first one was five years older, and I was interested in it for that reason alone.
He stood, held the book at his side, and grinned. After a dozen or so pictures, his mother turned toward me.
“It was his favorite since high school,” she said. “He might try and act tough, but he’s a romantic at heart.”
I grinned and mouthed the words “I know.”
Vince walked over to me, hugged me, and kissed me as he released me from his arms. “I love you, Sienna.”
“I love you,” I said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Open this,” he said after reaching under the tree and handing me a gift.
It was the first Christmas gift I had been given since my father died. I had several gifts, but they were all purchased by me, wrapped by me, and opened by me. And, speaking from experience, I can say they’re never as much fun when you know what’s in them.
“I don’t open them like you do,” I said.
“However you like,” Anita said as she raised the camera.
“Well, if you’re going to take pictures, you better hurry,” I said as I tore into the paper.
Within a few seconds, the wrapping paper was in shreds and an untaped box remained. I quickly opened the box and looked inside. As much as I didn’t want to, I began to softly cry.
“You didn’t,” I said as I wiped the tears from my face.
“I did,” he said.
The book I wanted to buy for him, a first edition, first print of Pride and Prejudice from 1850, lay in the box. I not only had been outbid by my lover, but we both had the same ideas for what we believed the other would cherish for a lifetime. Our each having purchased the other the exact same gift spoke volumes of not only our love for each other, but for our love for books.
With glassy tear-filled eyes, I glanced around the room. The camera sat in Anita’s lap as she wiped tears from her cheeks. I lifted the book in the air.
“He…” I paused and bit my lower lip.
I realized if I continued, I would be in a full-fledged sob. It was too much. Vince was too much. Spending Christmas morning with a family was too much. I turned toward Anita and held the book close to my chest. With tears rolling down her cheeks, she raised the camera and took a picture. I turned toward Vince and shook my head.
“I love you,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess we think alike,” he said.
“It’s all the proof I need. You two are made for each other,” Anita said.
For the next hour we opened gifts, some large, some small, but none as meaningful as the book Vince bought for me. The day, as far as I was concerned, was best day of my lifetime. I wished my father could have been there, but realized his departure from the earth wasn’t something he had planned, but something that had simply happened. I didn’t know if my belief in matters was correct, but in my belief he was witnessing everything that was happening while enjoying a glass of his favorite wine.
“There’s one more for each of you,” I said as reached behind the tree and removed a two small gifts.
“There sure is,” he said as he reached behind the couch and produced a large box.
He kicked the box with his boot, sending it sliding across the floor. It came to a stop at my feet. I stood, stepped around the big box, and handed him the small one. After giving Anita hers, I walked to the couch and sat down in front of the big box.
“I’ll go last,” I said.
Anita opened hers, turned toward me, and smiled. “Bombshell?”
“Yep. The day we met. You said you liked it. It’s what I was wearing that day, on Thanksgiving,” I said.
“Thank you, Honey,” she said. “I’ll wear it with fond memories.”
“Open it,” I said as I motioned toward Vince.
He tilted his head toward the large box in front of me, “Open yours.”
“I’ll go last,” I said.
He removed the wrapping paper, took his knife from his pocket, and made a huge production as he cut the tape from the box. After removing the outer cardboard covering, he stared down at the hard plastic case.
After studying the case for a moment, he opened it.
“I knew you didn’t want something fancy, but I really wanted it to be dependable. The jeweler said it was a good one,” I said.
Sitting and gazing at the box, he simply nodded his head and continued to stare into his lap.
He removed the black Tag Heuer Formula watch from the box, studied it for some time, and unbuckled the watch from his arm without speaking. The process seemed more like a ritual than simply replacing a watch. He hadn’t so much as made eye contact with me since opening the box.
Anita sat down beside me on the couch and began to take pictures.
“His father gave him that watch when he was a kid,” she whispered. “It’s a cheap watch, and it hasn’t worked right for years.”
I turned to face her and chewed my lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“Let him be,” she interrupted as she nodded her head toward Vince.
Slowly and methodically, he removed his watch, strapped the new one on his arm, and placed his old watch in the presentation box. After studying the watch for a moment, he turned toward where we were sitting.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“9:10, Dear. And the date is the 25th,” Anita said.
He nodded his head, glanced down at the watch, and made the adjustments. I was humbled that he replaced his father’s watch with the one I had purchased for him. From what the jeweler said it would keep time better than any other watch I could buy.
After studying the watch for a long moment, he shifted his eyes toward where we were sitting. Without speaking, he raised his clenched fist in the air and extended his thumb, giving me the “thumbs up” sign.
I returned the gesture.
He reached into his lap, pulled out his knife and shook it in the air to get my attention. As I noticed what he held, he slid it across the carpet toward me. As it came to a stop at my feet, he motioned toward the big box. It was almost as big as the ottoman sitting in front of the couch.
Curious as to what may be inside the box, I flipped the knife open, set it at my side, and tore into the wrapping paper with my hands. After exposing the large box, I cut the tape from the seam and opened the flaps. A smaller box sat inside. I removed it, slid the large box to the side, and cut the tape on the smaller box.
I opened the box and gazed inside.
Another smaller box was inside the box between my feet. I turned toward Vince and cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”
He grinned and shrugged his shoulders.
“Scoot back, Honey,” Anita said. “I need a picture.”
I turned toward her, smiled, and pointed to the boxes. A few pictures later, and I was back to the box opening routine. Six boxes later, and I held a small box in my hands. I glared at Vince and shook the box.
“Was all of that necessary?” I asked.
“Probably not, but it was fun,” he said.
I opened the cardboard box. Inside, a slightly smaller box with a name I recognized from the jeweler I had visited.
Rolex.
I opened the box and removed the gold watch. Much smaller than the one I had purchased Vince, it was gold and had small diamonds that circled around the face. Back to wiping tears from my face and fully realizing just how much my father’s saying of the unexpected result of the nat
ural development of life was applicable to us, I turned toward Anita and held up the watch.
With tear-filled eyes and a heart full of what I was sure was pride, she took several photographs.
“You’re always one minute from being late. Now you’ll never have to worry about the clock in your Continental crapping out. Turn it over,” Vince said. “Look at the back.”
I wiped the tears from my cheeks, turned over the watch, and gazed down at the back of the case. Delicately engraved, but easy to read, the inscription was perfect.
The Money Shot
November 9th 2014
The fact he remembered the date came as no surprise, Vince’s memory was almost photographic. He remembered almost everything, and seemed to remember anything with numbers in it.
Sitting on the couch in the living room of the big house that I hoped to one day fill with grandchildren for Anita to enjoy, I realized that particular day was far more than special.
It was the…
Best.
Christmas.
Ever.
Chapter Two Hundred Fifteen
VINCE
January 13th, 2015
I sat patiently and waited for him to arrive, thinking of Sienna the entire time. Love drunk and feeling completely different than I had ever felt before, I realized Sienna was exactly what I had hoped Natalie would have been. It had also become painfully obvious I wasn’t actually ever in love with Natalie, and it took my having met Sienna to realize it. Since I was eighteen years old, I was in love with the idea of who I wanted Natalie to become, but not who she was. With Sienna, there were no changes I wanted to see made, nothing I hoped she would do differently, nor was there anything about her I either despised or even lightly questioned as being in need of adjustment. In summary, Sienna was the woman of my dreams, and I was now filled with thoughts of her every waking moment of the day.
In many respects I felt as if her presence had become nothing short of a necessity. Having experienced her in my life for the last six months, imagining living without her was something I couldn’t force myself to do. Her being a permanent fixture in my life undoubtedly made me a much better man. Not completely convinced she wasn’t making me a softer more subtle version of my former self, but realizing it really didn’t matter, I allowed my days to simply include her, silently hoping she didn’t turn me into a twat.
Parked across the street from where he lived with me slumped down in the reclined seat, the vehicle I was in appeared to be empty, at least to a passerby. The neighborhood wasn’t at all what I expected, and I wondered how a man who could afford to live in a $600,000 house couldn’t afford to pay a $30,000 attorney’s bill.
I felt odd in the rental car I was using, but trying to blend in while driving my old truck or riding my motorcycle would have been impossible. Being dressed in my button down shirt and dark blue jeans did very little to make me comfortable, but again, in this particular neighborhood I realized the importance of fitting in. With my line of employment, the fewer people who witness my activities the better off everyone was. After what seemed like an eternity, but was only an hour and a half according to my new watch, an Audi sedan pulled into the driveway.
After the garage door closed, I patiently waited a few minutes and proceeded with my ritual. I confirmed there was a round in the chamber, secured the Glock pistol in my holster, and began to open the car door. The sight of him walking down the sidewalk was a surprise, but a welcomed one. I turned and glanced over my shoulder as he continued down the walk. Apparently, he was walking to his mailbox, which was only a matter of ten yards behind where I was parked, but on the other side of the street.
Dressed in jeans, a pull over camouflage sweatshirt, and military style boots, he didn’t at all appear like I had expected him to, especially after studying his photos at the attorney’s office. Obviously a physically fit man, I suspected he may put up a hell of a fight or try to run, but there was no way he was going to outrun a bullet.
As he removed mail from the mailbox and inspected each individual piece, I quietly pulled open the car door and took a few steps in his direction. Half way between the car and where he was standing, he turned and looked over his shoulder.
“Something I can help you with?” he asked in an obviously aggravated tone of voice.
“Come on, Rudy. I’m Paul. Paul, you’re acting like you don’t remember me.” I said as I turned my palms upward and continued to walk in his direction.
In the decade that I had been employed in my profession, I had collected debts from all walks of life including businessmen, criminals, the accused, the convicted, drug dealers, drug users, and everyone in between. Although neighborhoods like the one I was in were uncommon and lower class areas were more frequently the hiding places of my targets, I never changed my defensive posture regardless. A man willing to walk away from a $30,000 debt and tell his attorney to fuck off, knowing all the while I was eventually going to pay him a visit was a threat regardless of where he chose to reside.
The difference for me was not where Rudy Vallencio lived, but that he was known to be a collector of firearms, and more than likely would be armed if he was in the home. I needed to keep him outside for our negotiations if possible.
With his back still facing me, he turned his head toward the house as if I hadn’t even spoken. Assuming I was going to need to say something else to keep him within earshot, I took a shallow breath and prepared to continue our one-sided conversation.
As I saw the mail fall to the ground in front of him, I realized he wasn’t planning on talking.
Everything went into slow motion. The sound of a vehicle’s squeaky brakes behind me, the fluttering of the mail to the ground, his pivoting toward me, and the pulling his pistol from the waist of his jeans were all as clear and precise as if they were a scene from a movie. The sound of his gun firing and a scream from behind me were equally – and unmistakably – clear, and everything happened before I was able to clear my Glock from my holster.
My fear was now a reality.
I had become a twat.
I cleared the Glock from the holster, instinctively dropped into a defensive crouch, and fired the weapon twice. The sound of three gunshots rang echoed, and Rudy fell to the ground.
Fuck.
I ran the thirty or so feet which separated us, picked his pistol up, and searched him for additional weapons. The two gunshot wounds – one in his abdomen and one in his chest – were each bleeding profusely. The sound of shouting from behind me caused me to turn around, and I was shocked to see a US Mail Jeep, complete with a bleeding mail delivery person inside.
Fuck.
Rudy wasn’t dead, but he would be in a short period of time. The woman in the Jeep appeared to be shot in the leg. I ran to the vehicle and gazed down at her leg.
Fuck.
I pulled my knife, cut the sleeves off my shirt, and tied them together. After tying a tourniquet to her upper thigh, I asked if she had a phone. Relatively alert, and surprisingly calm for having just been shot, she pointed to her purse.
“In…in my…purse. Thank you…for…saving…me,” she said.
I reached into the purse, removed the phone, pulled out her pack of cigarettes, lit two, and handed her one.
“Thank you,” she said.
I took a long much needed drag on the cigarette, inhaled, and let the smoke fill my lungs completely. I exhaled the cloud out into the winter air, inhaled another long drag, and held it deep in my lungs. As the smoke burned against my lungs and I felt the pressure build, I made the call no one percenter ever wants to make.
I called the police.
Chapter Two Hundred Sixteen
SIENNA
January 13th, 2015
Police cars, crime scene tape, and a firetruck aren’t the things a woman wants to see when her respective other calls and tells her to come and come quick.
“They may charge me with murder” wasn’t very comforting to hear, either.
I pulled
the car right up to the edge of the crime scene tape, got out, and shifted my eyes toward the crime scene. Countless police officers, police cars, firemen, and what seemed to be an off-duty ambulance were all forced into a one hundred foot square area. It looked like what my father often described as a Mongolian clusterfuck. I shook my head, scanned the area for Vince, and ducked under the yellow tape.
“Ma’am, you’re going to need to step behind the tape, this is a crime scene,” an officer said in a demanding tone as he gestured toward the tape with his hand.
I disregarded his demand and continued walking toward Vince as if I was a crime scene professional.
“The dead are incapable of demanding justice, Ma’am, but it’s my responsibility to see to it that you stay out of my crime scene so I can see to it that justice is served,” he said as he puffed his chest out.
The officer narrowed his gaze and glared. I wondered how many times he’d rehearsed the cheesy line waiting for an opportunity to use it. Dressed in jeans, Ugg boots, a sweatshirt, and Victoria’s Secret hoodie, I didn’t quite look the part, but I really didn’t care. As far I was concerned, Officer Responsibility needed to fuck off. I’d read enough books I could fake my way through some yellow tape, and I was sure of it.
I placed my hands on my hips and gazed up and into his eyes. “Well, in 1879 James Madison drafted a little document I like to refer to as the Fourth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, and it’s my responsibility to my client to see to it that justice is served in respect to unreasonable search and seizure, and it’s further my responsibility to remind him to exercise his right to remain silent and make every effort to avoid any police coerced self-incrimination in what is undoubtedly a stressful time. Now, with all due respect to you and your crime scene, excuse me, Officer,” I said as I stepped past him.
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