by Jeremy Bates
Chicken shit.
Buddy thought about stopping and waiting until Wilma pulled farther ahead, because if he kept up his current pace, he was going to arrive at the bank doors right when she did. Then he would have to walk through the lobby with her, all the way to the teller counter.
Then again, if she glanced over her shoulder, or saw his reflection in the glass front of the building, and he was just standing there, she’d know he was trying to avoid her.
Buddy kept walking and reached the front doors exactly when she did, like they’d goddamned choreographed it.
Wilma swiveled her head slowly toward him and smiled. She had a relatively thin face. Her neck and shoulders weren’t that fat either. All her weight had simply parked itself in her trunk. “Good morning!” she sang—literally. Guuuuuud morning! She greeted everyone at the bank this way, all ten employees, five days a week. What was that? Twelve hundred singing good mornings a year? It was surprising she hadn’t blown her head off with a shotgun by now.
“Morning, Wilma,” Buddy said pleasantly, helping her with the door. She waddled past him inside. He followed, slowing to keep pace beside her. How she ever got anywhere, he didn’t know.
“A bit chilly, isn’t it?” she said. “And it’s supposed to be spring!”
Buddy wasn’t going down that road, so he merely nodded, and they walked in silence. The bank’s layout was one big square. Teller counter straight ahead. Info booth and waiting area to the right. A string of four glass-walled offices to the left. Buddy’s was the last one. Between it and the teller counter a door led to a staff-only area that contained a kitchenette, a stationary room, Gino’s office, the vault, and the building’s rear entrance.
Wilma said, “I hope they’ve fixed the photocopier. You know it hasn’t been working for two days now. Did you know that? How long does it take to fix something around here—? Guuuuuud morning!”
Betty, a teller half Wilma’s age and size, had emerged from the staff area. She had a nest of black Medusa curls and a permanently angry face. “Morning, you two.”
Wilma said, “Now tell me this weather isn’t normal for spring. Is it normal?”
“It’s pretty cold, Wilm. Gotta wear a jacket.”
Although only halfway across the lobby, Buddy felt Betty’s arrival meant he could take his leave, and he veered away from Wilma toward his office. He flicked on the lights, powered on his computer, then went to the kitchenette. He opened the fridge, to deposit his lunch inside, and frowned. Betty had placed her lunch on the top shelf next to the butter and jam. Right where he always put his lunch. For four years now, every day. She had to know that. Was she just fucking with him? Or was she really that clueless? He moved her lunch—a plastic container filled with leftover spaghetti bolognaise—to the bottom shelf, beside the milk, cream, and a two-liter bottle of Coke. He put his lunch in its place.
Back in his office Buddy slumped into his chair—and frowned again. His Empire State Building paperweight, which he’d bought from a going-out-of-business souvenir shop on the Upper West Side, was facing the wrong direction on his desk. As he swiveled it forward, he noticed the pencils and pens in his stationary cup were all upended, their tips pointed skyward.
“What the hell?”
Just then the front door to the bank opened and Fernando entered. He was Buddy’s age, Hispanic, a major ass-kisser. If he got the promotion over Buddy today, it was only because he was sucking Gino’s dick in his free time.
Wilma sang her idiotic welcome. Fernando grunted with her and Betty for a good minute before swinging by Buddy’s office.
“Buddy!” he said, grinning. “What’s up, chico? And what’s up with those pencils? They all upside down or something.”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Fuck you didn’t, you OCD freak!”
Laughing good naturedly, obvious to the fact Buddy wanted to cut his head off and shove it in a microwave, he went to his office, which was adjacent to Buddy’s.
Buddy left the pens and pencils how they were, to show Fernando his stupid gag didn’t bother him. Then he accessed the internet. Usually he would use the time before the bank opened to check his emails or to read the news online. Now, however, he logged into Facebook with his alias, Jennifer Walsh. He’d chosen a female name because he figured people, both men and women, would be more receptive to friending a female rather than a male they didn’t know. He also chose a hot no-name Filipina actress for his profile picture because the majority of the population was ugly, and everyone wanted good-looking friends to boost their self-esteem.
Buddy typed “Dil Lakshmi Kentucky” into the search box and pressed Enter.
And there she was, number one on the first page of results. He clicked her profile and jumped to her timeline.
Her most recent post read:
Going to the movies tonight. Twisted Jordon’s arm to see a rom-com.
It was dated March 14, 2014, more than a year ago.
Buddy chewed his lip, wondering at this. Had she started a new account? He was about to do another search for her name when a message popped up. It was from Fernando.
Hey! Long time. How have you been?
Buddy glanced at the moron through the glass wall dividing their offices. He was leaning close to his computer screen, one hand on his mouse, waiting for a reply.
Buddy had sent friend requests to everyone he worked with so he could spy on them, see what made them tick. Virtual stalking—it was a hobby of his. Most had accepted, and their lives were as boring as he’d imagined they would be. Fernando had been harassing “Jennifer Walsh” for a date ever since they friended.
Buddy typed: “I’m great, Fernando, thanks.”
“Listen…” he replied. “I was wondering if maybe you want to get a drink sometime?”
Buddy glanced at Fernando again. Still leaning close to the screen, but now tapping his foot anxiously.
Buddy finally turned the pens and pencils in his stationary cup tips down—they had been bugging the hell out of him—and typed: “When are you thinking?”
“Any time.”
“How about today? Say, five?”
“Perfect! Where’s convenient for you?”
Buddy thought for a moment, then typed: “Do you know the Mercury Lounge? Lower East Side. Great live music.”
Fernando didn’t hesitate, even though the bar was at least an hour away by train. “Works for me. But can we make it five thirty?”
“I’ll be wearing a red dress. See you then.”
Fernando hooted from his office. Then he was on his feet, doing a little dance and pumping his fists in the air. He saw Buddy watching him and added a few groin thrusts to his jig.
Buddy gave him a thumbs-up, then returned his attention to finding out more about his new neighbor. He performed a second search, but it didn’t appear she had any other Facebook accounts. He tried a Google search next with the same keywords—Dil Lakshmi Kentucky—to see if she was active on any different social media platforms.
Buddy’s eyes widened as he scanned the first few results. He clicked the top link, jumping to a story from the Cincinnati Inquirer:
Court in upheaval after woman found not guilty in death of boyfriend
A jury tasked with deciding the fate of a woman accused of stabbing to death her boyfriend with a pair of garden shears has been found not guilty of both murder and manslaughter. The twelve jurors deliberated for more than seven hours before acquitting Dilshad Lakshmi, 27, in the 2014 slaying of restaurant manager Jordon Scott, 29.
Dilshad Lakshmi admitted to stabbing Jordon Scott six times, but pleaded not guilty to murder on the grounds she acted in self-defense.
Much of the packed courtroom in Newport, Kentucky, was filled with the victim’s family, including his parents and younger brother.
Relatives of Mr. Scott broke down into tears after the jury's verdict was read.
“I hope your children die the same way!” Mr. Scott’s mother, Naomi Scott, yelled at Ms. Laks
hmi as she was led out of the courtroom, her face impassive. Mrs. Scott collapsed a few minutes later and was taken to a hospital in an ambulance.
Speaking outside the court, Mr. Scott’s aunt, Silvia Carey, said: “It’s a travesty. It sends out the message that it’s okay to kill someone if you have an argument with them. How can that woman walk free while my nephew is dead and buried underground? He had so much to live for.”
Ms. Lakshmi’s attorney, Monty King, claimed that Jordon Scott became aggressive toward his client after the couple returned home from a friend’s birthday party, accusing her of flirting with other partygoers. After a heated argument, he followed her to the backyard, where she’d gone to smoke a cigarette. When he began to physically assault her, she stabbed him with a pair of garden shears.
Prosecutor Mary Lindberg presented an entirely different version of events, asserting that Ms. Lakshmi was the one who turned violent when Mr. Scott attempted to end their relationship. Relying on the testimony of forensic experts, the prosecution argued that Mr. Scott was stabbed while sitting down at the patio table. “The first wound destroyed the left ventricle in his heart,” she said. “There was no justification to continue stabbing him. That is cold-blooded murder.”
Monty King, however, invoked the “stand-your-ground” defense, arguing that because his client felt threatened she was not obligated to stop attacking Mr. Scott until she felt certain she was safe.
“Bullshit,” Buddy said, filled with a zany kind of energy. He had never met a killer before—not even an acquitted killer. For a moment he wondered if it could be a different Dilshad Lakshmi. But how many Dilshad Lakshmis were there in Kentucky? And twenty-seven—twenty-eight now—would be roughly the age of his newest neighbor.
He returned to the search page and clicked on the second link:
After spending hours selecting a jury, attorneys for both sides in Dilshad Lakshmi’s murder trial delivered opening arguments in Campbell County Circuit Court.
Police say Dilshad Lakshmi stabbed boyfriend Jordon Scott six times out back of their East Row home in 2014.
Dilshad Lakshmi’s defense attorney, Monty King, began his opening statement by describing his client as a former honor student at the University of Kentucky with “no criminal record and a good head on her shoulders.” He also said that testimony from neighbors who heard Jordon Scott shout at her threateningly, and photographs of bruises on Dilshad Lakshmi’s arms and legs, will support Lakshmi’s assertion that she stabbed him in self-defense.
But according to WLWT News 5 investigative reporter Martin Armstrong, prosecutors aren’t buying it. Assistant Commonwealth Attorney Don Cormic said, “We believe the evidence will prove that any perceived abuse against Ms. Lakshmi did not rise to levels justifying stabbing someone six times.”
Prosecution also allege that Dilshad Lakshmi’s former cellmate at the Campbell County jail in Newport will testify to the court that Ms. Lakshmi showed no remorse over the death of her boyfriend, often joking about the stabbing. She will testify that Ms. Lakshmi originally planned to plead insanity, but when she realized she would come across as too intelligent, she decided to plead battered girlfriend syndrome instead.
“Bullshit,” Buddy said again, staring at the photograph that accompanied the article. No makeup, and a slack, expressionless face, but definitely the Dil Lakshmi he’d met this morning.
He returned to the search page and brought up a third article:
Detectives have charged a woman with murder following the death of a twenty-nine-year-old man on Saturday in the East Row Historic District of Newport, Kentucky.
A police media representative announced she was expected to appear in the Campbell County Circuit Court on Monday.
Talking to the media outside the taped-off home, Detective Milo Hoover said the man died under suspicious circumstances but was tight-lipped about details surrounding the death. He said the woman was assisting police with their inquiries.
A commotion caused Buddy to look up. Betty had just opened the front doors to the bank and the line of people who’d queued up poured noisily into the lobby, some going to the withdrawal tables, others to the teller counter.
Reluctantly Buddy closed the web browser, pushed thoughts of his psycho-bitch neighbor from his mind, and started preparing for the day.
***
The morning was busier than usual. Buddy approved one loan applicant and rejected another. The latter was a thirty-something woman who gave him a sad sap story about needing ten grand to finance a trip to Denmark, to visit her ailing mother. Nevertheless, her debt-to-income ratio was way too high to meet the eligibility requirements, and his hands were tied. That was the thing, these people thought Buddy was God or something, could just grant a loan out of the goodness of his heart. But it wasn’t up to him. He was just the smiling face of the bank, the guy who filtered out the losers with low credit scores. He forwarded all applications to the underwriting department, which made the final decision. Checks and balances to make sure bleeding hearts with puppy dog eyes didn’t get loans they couldn’t pay back. And he only forwarded what he thought would be approved, otherwise he ended up looking like a chump.
At noon Buddy ate his lunch at his desk as usual, then spent the afternoon looking busy reviewing account records in case Gino stopped by to tell him about the promotion. He also managed to squeeze in an hour of brainstorming his next novel. He was a writer, but he didn’t tell anyone that because he hadn’t published anything yet. And he knew what people thought of unpublished writers. They dismissed them immediately as hacks or “aspiring authors”—the latter insinuating that they were attempting something they could never achieve. Which was bullshit. After all, you didn’t call a med school student an “aspiring doctor.”
Buddy had started writing seriously after he graduated college, and by seriously he meant every day. He’d completed three manuscripts so far in as many years. He didn’t write full drafts like they did in the old days. That was a consequence of the limitation of typewriters: you had to put down what you wanted on the first go because there was no Backspace or Delete key. With word processors, however, it was a different ballgame. Buddy, for instance, would get an idea for a chapter, dump as much nonsense onto the page as he pleased, mainly to feel as though he’d accomplished something, before going over the dribble, rewording it, erasing entire paragraphs, adding new ones, until it was close to how he wanted it. Then he’d move on to the next chapter. By the time he got to the end of the story he had a near perfect final draft.
Buddy’s first novel was called Fallen. It was about a husband and wife who die in a car crash together. The man goes to heaven, while the woman, a former hooker, goes to hell. Nevertheless, the man still loves her, wants to spend eternity with her, so he returns to Earth and goes on a massive killing spree to piss off God and impress the Devil. In the end he gets condemned to hell—where he learns there’s no such thing as love, only carnal desire, and spends eternity watching his wife fuck an endless supply of miscreants.
Buddy sent off query letters to a dozen agents and received form rejections from all of them save one, who mentioned he liked the idea, but fifty-thousand words was too short for a full-length novel. He encouraged Buddy to beef it up to eighty- or ninety-thousand words and resubmit.
Buddy didn’t heed the advice. The story was perfect how it was. Anything he added would be fluff. Besides, by then he was already several chapters in to his next novel and wasn’t looking back. The name of it was Monsters, and it started with a bang—a Boeing 747 goes down mysteriously in the Himalayas. A US-led search-and-rescue operation is put together, because the majority of the passengers were American, and they find the wreckage in remote mountainous terrain, as well as the cause of the crash: the remains of a fifty-foot-long dragon. The US secretly dispatches an eclectic group of scientists and soldiers to find and capture a living, breathing specimen. They succeed and bring a large male back to the States, where, naturally, it escapes and wreaks havoc on LA.
Buddy pitched the story as a modern-day King Kong with dragons. A handful of agents liked the idea enough to ask for sample chapters, but in the end they all passed.
Buddy didn’t understand why. The story was a real corker. It had everything you could want. Action, mystery, science, folklore, even a romantic subplot for the female readers, because they comprised the largest reading demographic.
In the end the rejection only made him more determined to succeed with his third novel, Prey. The plot was dark and gritty, the most realistic yet: an American soldier stationed in Okinawa gets arrested for raping and killing a local Japanese girl. The US Army can’t do anything to help him; he’s beyond their jurisdiction. So while being transported to stand trial for his crimes, the soldier kills the guards and goes underground. But he soon learns there’s no way to escape the island—ninety-nine percent of the population is Japanese, and his white face is all anyone’s talking about—so he decides to make the most of his freedom before his inevitable capture by raping and killing as many locals as he can. The story has a Rambo-like vibe—one man against an entire police force—and ends with an equally spectacular climax.
Buddy was so confident it was a winner he initially sent query letters to only three agents at the top literary agencies in New York. When they passed, he sent queries to another six agents. When they passed, he began to freak out and spammed no less than fifty agents, pretty much everyone in New York that represented suspense and thriller novels.
No one was interested. It was a huge blow to Buddy’s confidence, because he suddenly felt as though his career was moving backward. He became depressed and stopped writing for about a month, during which time he did a lot of soul searching, eventually deciding his writing had grown too ambitious. After all, what did he know about dragons or covert government missions or Japan or soldiers? The old adage was true: you had to write what you knew about. Lawyers wrote legal thrillers; doctors wrote medical thrillers; cops wrote police procedurals. Problem was, Buddy wasn’t an expert on anything. That’s why, a couple weeks ago, he made the switch to the horror genre, because horror writers didn’t need to be an expert on anything. Look at Stephen King. He bullshitted about kids finding a dead body, and rabid dogs, and crazy fans. The best horror was the mundane, stuff that could happen to anyone. All you had to do was know how to scare people. And that was something Buddy could do, no problem.
