By Vern Smith.
It was mid-afternoon, somewhere around two on a sticky Tuesday, late July. Carter's transistor had been calling for rain since breakfast, humidity thickening the air. The sun beat down hard, radiation intake up, and everyone was going on like winter was a long-lost relative.
There would be no relief for months.
Out in Bellevue Square, Carter sat on his green bench, as he would, refusing on principle to fight the heat. He'd been cold and sick all winter, so he wasn't going to complain. Besides, the square was the closest thing he ever had to a backyard, something of a miniature park - a parkette, they called it - with a circular wading pool in the middle.
Adjusting the brown and tan satchel slung across his chest like a newspaper bag, he sat alone on the pool’s north bank, facing the sun. Across the water, about a hundred feet away, sat Fitzgerald on the southern extreme. The pond's geyser shot up in between them, keeping the water cool.
Shithawks circled like the poor man's buzzards, waiting for Fitzgerald's afternoon ritual of breaking stale bread into tiny bits, then tossing the bits onto a concrete shore near the water's edge. The pigeons would come soon, and they'd come up close, always too close.
In the beginning, there were no angles, no agendas, and no vendettas. It was just about killing seconds and minutes and hours within the neighbourhood's confines back then.
Carter and Fitzgerald, the two of them never spoke - going about their ways in detached manners, developing a deep, mutual, brooding hate based entirely on the nonverbal.
Carter thought it gave them purpose and reason, the intangibles needed when they were alone, always in the heat when it was too much, shivering in their rooms in the winter, which was most of the time.
Somewhere inside, even he silently acknowledged Fitzgerald's feeding ritual, why it needed to be done. And why they needed to be there, together, in a space getting tighter.
Fitzgerald had been feeding the birds that whole time, drawing them in. With a steady sustenance supply, the shithawks and pigeons made nearby nests. It only made sense. The square was a source of people food, and Fitzgerald was among the most dependable of his species.
All of that was fine by Carter, to a point. He understood hunger, and he understood middle-age crazy. He knew what it was to be declining in the middle of the day - the fear of nothing to do and a limited supply of discretionary dollars to do it with. So yes, a man had to do something. But the filthy birds had become too much, and Carter was not alone in his distress.
In the late eighties the city put up signs aimed at discouraging Fitzgerald and his kind. When they refused to cease and desist, city workers took a run of their own at the birds, feeding them drug-laced nuts and seeds. It was a touchy-feely bureaucratic compromise that satisfied no one. The feed was supposed to agitate the birds and drive them away, without killing them. But they picked the narcotic crumbs clean, looking back at the city workers, and, in their own way, asking for more.
They were always asking for more, fighting over hard bread, expired produce, and whatever else people threw at them. Seemed like a lot of people weren't finishing their hotdogs, so Carter thought they were distressed by their diets, bunged up. That what they were eating was responsible - all that yeast rising inside - for the tousling and fraying. He figured some kind of self-produced paste held their feathers together, their poor little systems working overtime to stem the disfigurement.
Whenever Fitzgerald's supplies began looking grim, they'd swoop down on Carter like vampire children on a man who didn't trick or treat.
Carter never asked for that, any of it, and he never brought anything for the birds. He wasn't going to encourage them when excrement speckled the square like contaminated dabs of oil paint.
Carter knew, he just knew pigeon droppings were among the most toxic animal-produced substances - heard it on the transistor - not to mention displeasing from an aesthetic point of view. Carter felt he'd reached and surpassed the point of being reasonable. He had been dive-bombed too many times, including three or four hits that summer. It had gone on for too long, and now there were too many shithawks and too many pigeons.
It wouldn't have been a federal case, certainly not the silent war it had become, except that afternoons in Bellevue Square were among Carter's last pilgrimages. He needed to be in the square. It was his refuge, his sanctuary, a place to go and get on, listening to his radio and trading stories with friends that only his mind brought to life. A place to simply be.
Carter's transistor reported a bad score from the ballpark. At this, he accidentally burned himself with a cigarette. Sucking on the sore spot, he was somewhat sure he was also sun-tanning a cancer burn - a dark blotch about the size of a dime on his receding forehead.
Turning brown, just like last July, and every other one for the past twenty summers, he remembered that item about the ozone. Rumour had it right over the goddamn city right now. At least, he thought that's what the transistor said.
Whether or not this was true, he knew it wasn't safe to be out in the sun. Then again, it wasn't safe to drink the water, eat the food, or even fuck, and he didn't want to live in a place where doing those things was like living on the edge of a free-fire zone. So he did all that, when he could, enjoying a little bit of control over something that couldn't end well.
Over on the pool's southern end, Fitzgerald kept tossing mouldy feed. Pigeons materialized, joining the shithawks and turning the square into a rent-controlled Jack Miner's of sorts.
Back to the North, Carter felt like he was melting inside. Glaring across the way at Fitzgerald who smiled a smug fuck-you back at him.
The birds were still cooing and squawking and eating when Scagleoni showed at his regular time. Claiming his bench on the wading pool's west bank, he buried his face in his arms.
Fitzgerald thought he was laughing to show disrespect, but couldn't say who it was aimed at.
Carter thought Scagleoni was weeping because he was wearing impractical clothing - long polyester sleeves, heavy navy pants, and desert boots.
"Get the fuck outta here," Scagleoni snapped, shoo-shooing the birds away with the back of his left hand. "There's nothing for you... I've got nothing for you."
From the north and south polars, Carter and Fitzgerald faced each other, twitching every so often inside walking shorts and T-shirts turned drab and from too many cycles.
Scagleoni considered himself a failure, Fitzgerald a deadbeat. Carter fancied himself an ambiguous blend of the two. All of which meant they had more in common than not, except for the fact that Scagleoni often spoke out loud. In their minds, both Carter and Fitzgerald knew that this particular flaw would lead to Scagleoni's demise. He’d do well to make it through another summer shooting his mouth off like that. And there he was, oblivious to it all. Jabbering, trying to entice the birds now without the benefit of bait.
"Sing, little eater men. S-I-N-G… Peter Peter Peter..."
Scagleoni was thinking about his wife, wondering where she'd been, why she had to go. Trying to stop, his voice drifted off, fading.
North, Carter picked himself up off the bench. With a limp, he was walking and stumbling and balancing enroute to the fountain. Pressing the button, he let the water flow, working it down from lukewarm to cold. After thirty-three seconds he held the satchel to his side, lowering his mouth toward the spout. White droppings fermenting on the device like digested white lightning stopped him halfway. Ended up he mumbled something about salmonella, encephalitis, bottled water, and conspiracies.
Shuffling back to his bench, he saw Fitzgerald's offerings picked clean of anything substantial. Only the smallest crumbs remained. The birds would be dispersing soon. But before the pigeons and shithawks had an opportunity to fly free, Carter reached into his satchel, producing a bulk-bag of croutons, sprinkled with something that looked like parsley. Throwing garlic croutons, croutons mass-produced to complement Caesar salads, or to be stuffed into the rectal cavities of rapidly decomposing fowl.
With the first handful hitting the concrete, Fitzgerald's fair-weathered flock scattered in a stormy blur of city-snow-white-and-X-mas-green-and-Easter-purple - swooping down and squawking north. Pecking with abandon as he doled out the pungent feed.
Carter smiled, glowing as if post-coital while the transistor sent out a warning to the investors of junior mines. Once the business report was complete, a hard-driving dance tune that seemed to be called Hobo Humpin' Slowbo Babe tested the cheap speakers with a deep bass. Carter did not know what a Hobo Humpin' Slowbo Babe was, exactly, but it made him think about a fashion program on TV - smoke machines and amazon go-go dancers wearing thigh-high boots, black leather.
What with Carter embracing his ways, Fitzgerald knew something was wrong. His mouth was open, eyes pinched as he processed the situation. Croutons were too expensive for this type of thing and Carter had too many, considering he too had to be on a fixed income of some sort.
Fitzgerald wondered if his stale bread would be good enough for the vermin next time. Ego-bruising aside, he was twisting and turning on the outside now. He knew Carter hated his birds, and, over time, the more Carter had hated them, the more Fitzgerald had fed them.
That was just the way it worked, and whenever Carter became obviously animated and affected, Fitzgerald would leave the square, only to return minutes later with a new supply. But Fitzgerald's own cheque would not arrive for another day. And he was right out of cheap, day-old product when Scagleoni grimaced like it was opening day, chanting, "GO BIRDS GO... GO BIRDS GO..."
On the east bench, McLaren arrived, kicking off sandals with thick rubber straps. She reached into her baggy jean shorts, checking to see if something was there. Feeling it, she sat back wiggling in a burnt-orange tank top, ener-chi embroidered in the middle of her chest. She stopped when the left strap fell, exposing a vanilla line.
Carter knew she was younger than the others - somewhere in her late twenties or early thirties - but he never could tell about these things. Whatever, without bothering to understand the situation, she joined in, shrieking, drowning out Scagleoni. "GO BIRDS GO... GO BIRDS GO..."
Fitzgerald felt the first signs of coming undone. Walking in circles, ulcer burning, he wanted his birds back. In search of spoiled food, he ran into a Thai restaurant across Augusta. Back on the sidewalk seconds later, he was ejected once again over yet another long-running feud. Next time, the guy in the apron was calling 911. Fitzgerald was tearing apart the garbage out on the curb by then, rummaging for something, anything.
"GO BIRDS GO," Scagleoni and McLaren screamed in foggy unison, voices dueling to be heard.
Jackhammers tapped in repetition from the job site three or four blocks away. Dickie Dee jingled. And the continuous smell of decomposing flesh wafted into the square from chicken-blood alley.
In front of Fitzgerald, a flat-black Chevy Malibu turned over, backfiring, belching a cloud the colour of its paint.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
Kids played on the swings and the pollywog teeter-totters. They played on the jungle gym and the monkey bars and slid down the yellow tongue of the lizard slide. They made makeshift castles in the sandbox, yelling the things kids yell, making that collective noise that they make without actually forming words.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
Dickie Dee and his bells crept closer. Carter waded into the pool - that being what it was for, after all - washing the dust of crouton crumbs from his hands, then washing some more.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
Good and clean, he pushed his gimpy legs back towards shore, almost falling when he motioned Dickie Dee over.
Some old guy bummed a cigarette off some other old guy.
A young couple made out under an evergreen tree.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
Crushed with anxiety, Fitzgerald forgot to look both ways, trapped in the centre of the street by blaring horn when the Malibu clipped him just enough to knock him down.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
Fitzgerald regained some semblance of his surroundings, picking himself, gathering soggy tomatoes. As best he could, he came running like a three-legged dog across Augusta, holding the crate, screaming. Just like the children, no actual words were formed.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
An elderly widow decked-out in black walked by the pool on her way out of the market. Groceries in tow on one of those contraptions with wheels, Carter watched her passing a brown-skinned man holding a red-and-green umbrella, the flag of somewhere or another.
"GO BIRDS GO..."
It seemed like any other day in the neighbourhood.
Out the in the middle of the water, Harvey was floating facedown - all city-snow-white-and-X-mas-green-and-Easter-purple - as Fitzgerald splashed to him in hurried want, crying and calling the bird by the name he had given it.
Harvey was floating facedown with some of the others. On shore, two dozen or so convulsed on the cement. A few more - mostly hearty shithawks - managed to fly away in wounded flight, determined to die in a place of their choosing. And Christ, those two near Carter's feet - he was satisfied they all had the fever the way those two were pecking at each.
Scagleoni started screaming about something else - he was going to take off all his clothes and run around naked if someone didn't turn down the heat - and McLaren was quick to promise the same.
On the North side, Carter sat on his bench, sucking on a cherry popsicle in the sun, watching Harvey bobbing in the water. The first angry clouds started rolling behind his back when his transistor called off the storm-watch.
3.27.2009
Murdoch's Wife
by Peter Sellers.
"How much does it cost to have somebody killed?" Murdoch asked.
"How long is a piece of string?" Kieran replied.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," Kieran said, "that it depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Depends on who it is. You want me to whack the guy runs the bar down your street, it'll cost you X. You want me to whack the prime minister or the captain of the Leafs, that's something else entirely and it'll cost you Y. And I really don't like having to kill women. So if you want me to whack a chick, I either won't do it or I'll do it but I wouldn't feel right taking money for it. So who do you want me to cap?"
"I want you to kill whoever's fucking my wife. How much is that going to cost me?"
"Were you not listening, my friend? That depends entirely on whether your wife is getting her ass bounced by the guy who runs the bar down the street or the captain of the Leafs or the Prime Minister or another chick. So who is it?"
"How the hell should I know? You think she gives me names?"
"Ah. Well, that creates some difficulty. You see, I'm a craftsman, not a clairvoyant."
"Yeah, well that's the other part of the job. I want to hire you to find out who the bastard is before you whack him. I don't care how you do it. I just want him dead."
"But you need me to find out who this person is first."
"Yeah."
Kieran sipped some beer and thought for a minute. "That'll cost you extra," he said. "I'm a craftsman, not a private detective."
"Charge me X plus Z, I don't care. I want him found and I want him popped. And there's one more thing I want."
"And what might that be?"
"I want you to bring me the guy's fucking head."
"That," Kieran said, "will definitely cost extra."
Murdoch raised his hands in front of him, fingers splayed, in an expression of mock surprise. "What a shock," he said. "And since we're on the topic of dough, there's one other thing. Now, it's not that I'm of a suspicious or untrusting nature. I'm not. But there's nothing to say that you couldn't go out, pick any poor dumb prick off the street and whack him and cut off his head and bring it to me and tell me it was the guy."
Kieran thought about the chances that he might do this and decided they were slim at best. "I'm a craftsman," he said, "not a psychopath."
"Yeah, well that's as may be, but I'll still need proof that the guy whose head you bring to me is the same guy's been getting head from my wife."
"I'm assuming you mean a videotape or photographs or something."
"Yeah, or signed affidavits from a bunch of witnesses, which seems less likely to me. How much do you reckon all that'll cost me?"
Kieran smiled. "How long," he asked, "is a very long piece of string?"
Two hours later, Kieran said to Murdoch's wife, "Your husband wants me dead." They were lying in bed in the loft of the two-storey north Toronto apartment that Kieran had rented under another name so that he'd have a quiet and private place to spend afternoons with Murdoch's wife.
"How do you know this?"
"He hired me to find the guy you're screwing and kill him."
"So he hired you to kill yourself, basically. Oh, brother. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to think on it," Kieran said. "Now turn around."
*********
For a professional killer, Kieran kept his life as ordinary as possible. He shopped at the local markets and he said hello to his neighbours. He paid his parking tickets on time and he made regular donations to a variety of charities. He kept normal hours, waking every morning at seven, and he never played his stereo too loudly. The last thing he wanted was to stick out by seeming mysterious, peculiar or unusually aloof. When anyone asked what he did, Kieran told them he was in marketing, self-employed, specializing in strategic and concept development and execution. He figured that was at least partly true.
Then one day a neighbour said that the board of the telephone crisis line he was on was looking for a marketing person. They were already hip-deep in accountants and lawyers but someone like Kieran, with a marketing background, could be really helpful in fund-raising and helping recruit phone volunteers. Kieran thought about it for a day or two. He realized that, much as he had no problem with people having their lives ended abruptly by others, he did see the need for those considering self-destruction to have somewhere to turn. So he accepted. Kieran liked to think that, for a killer, he had a very highly developed social conscience.
It turned out that Murdoch's wife also sat on the board. And when she walked into the room during Kieran's first meeting and he saw her for the first time, his stomach twisted in an unfamiliar way. And every time he saw her after that, the reaction was the same.
Over the course of several board meetings, Kieran and Murdoch's wife talked and were increasingly drawn to one another. Soon they were having lunch together. And, although she told him emphatically that she was not unhappy in her marriage, they were in bed together within a matter of weeks.
"I've thought about it," Kieran said to Murdoch's wife two days later. It was Friday afternoon and the sun was very bright through the skylight above Kieran's bed. "There's only one solution."
"And I'm guessing it isn't suicide."
"I'm really not the type," Kieran said.
"I can see that," she said.
Kieran looked at her with a smile. "No, the answer is you'll just have to sleep with somebody else. We'll film it or something. And then I'll kill him. Your husband will be happy. I'll get paid, so I'll be happy. And we can carry on as usual. So you'll be happy."
"So everybody's happy."
"Yeah. Except the dead guy. He won't be too thrilled, I don't expect. But at least he won't notice."
"The only thing I'm a little unhappy about is that you basically want me to sleep with someone I don't know."
"Only once. And it doesn't have to be someone you don't know."
He reached up and pushed the dark hair out of her eyes. "I'm sure lots of guys you know would jump at the chance."
**********
Kieran was not sure if he had ever been in love. But weeks before he first took Murdoch's wife to bed, he felt himself falling in love with her. Whenever he entered a board meeting his eyes sought her out. He had never been one to wait for a phone call before, but he felt small pangs of anticipation build in him when he thought she might call and equal measures of disappointment when the phone rang and it was not her. When he considered it logically, he was not sure why he felt the way he did about her. She gave no indication that she would leave her husband. She frequently promised to do things that remained undone or cancelled plans he was very much looking forward to with excuses that Kieran knew were not true.
She had cancelled out on theatre tickets, on summer weekends at cottages north of the city and winter weekends at country inns. It was obvious to him that her emotional commitment was less than complete. Still, he wanted her. And as he waited, he watched her behaviour and his own with growing irritation. And he played by her rules.
**********
"I know who you can kill," Murdoch's wife said.
"Who might that be?"
"He's a doctor. His name's Lackman."
"Why him?"
She turned over on her stomach. "Rub my back," she said. As he did so, she explained, "I went to see him a few times about this little problem I was having a year ago or so, and he lives near my house, and we've run into each other on the street a few times, and he's always really friendly. Anyway, at some point, my husband became convinced that we were having an affair. Mmm, down a little. There. That's good. He actually has come on to me a couple of times. It was pretty subtle, but I know he'd like to have a fling. He stands too close to me and he touches me a lot. Getting him into bed shouldn't be any problem. Anyway, he's not totally hideous. And he's already a suspect in my husband's mind, so that will help when you bring in his head."
"And you never fucked this guy?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said.
**********
Murdoch's wife had been sleeping with Doctor Lackman for about seven months. She did it some Tuesday mornings and most Thursdays over the lunch hour. Days when she was not seeing Kieran.
"I want you to do something for me," she said to the doctor as they lay beneath the ceiling fan.
His eyes were closed but his mind was racing. "Anything."
She traced irregular shapes on his chest with her fingernail and said, "I want you to kill someone."
"What?" His eyes popped open and he turned and propped himself up on an elbow.
"I want you to kill someone," she repeated. "And then cut off his head."
"What?" He stared at her, thinking he must have misheard.
"You're a doctor," she said. "You know about this. You can cut off his head. I've heard about these anatomy classes medical students all take, where you cut up derelicts and people who sign that form on their driver's licence. This will be no different."
"What?" he said again. "No different? You're asking me to kill a man and cut off his head. That's substantially different in my book."
"Why? In school, didn't you cut off someone's head?"
"Yes, but..."
"And I know you've killed a couple of people."
His face turned a shade redder. "I didn't kill anyone. Those people just died, and it was during surgery. Nobody could prove I did anything wrong."
"Yes, but you know in your heart things might have gone better if you'd been a little less hungover."
"Why?" he asked. "Where did this come from? One minute I'm lying here all relaxed and the next minute you're talking about murder."
"Here's where it came from. My husband thinks I'm having an affair," she said. "And he's going to hire someone to kill my lover. That, my darling, is you. Now my husband tends to do the things he says he'll do, so I believe him. And I'd hate to see anything happen to you if it could be avoided. So I need you to kill someone, in order to save your own skin."
Lackman thought about this for a minute. Murdoch's wife could almost feel the wheels grinding round. "So you want me to kill the guy who's been hired to kill me."
Murdoch's wife laughed. "Oh, brother," she said. "That would be the worst thing you could do. Because the guy who's been hired to kill you has to report back to my husband with your head in a box or a bag or something. No. If you kill him, my husband will know something went wrong and he'll just hire somebody else. No. We have to make a deal with the killer to take my husband's money and leave you alone. Then we find somebody else, I take him to bed and you kill him." She smiled at him sweetly. "Then you give the head to the killer and he takes it away. My husband's happy. The killer's doubly happy since he got paid and didn't actually have to kill anybody. And we can carry on just like always."
"Why don't we just pay the killer again to kill someone other than me?"
"We could do that, but it's very expensive." And she told him how much Kieran was going to charge her husband for the job. She inflated the price considerably, sensing that Lackman would not know how to begin to check. And also knowing he was tight with a dollar, and wanting to discover how much he was willing to do for her.
Lackman responded true to form. "So I have to kill a complete stranger."
"Not necessarily. There must be a colleague or two that you'd like to see dead. Or I could find someone."
"Yes, I think that's a good idea. But isn't this plan awfully complicated?"
"Oh," she said, "you're a doctor. I'm sure you can figure it out."
Then she reached out towards him and Lackman felt the breath thickening in his throat and knew he would do exactly as she wanted.
"Oh," she murmured into his throat, "there's one other thing. Do you own a video camera?"
**********
Kieran was sitting at his usual table at the back of the bar when Murdoch walked in. The room was large and virtually deserted. "Good afternoon." Kieran smiled and waved a hand at the opposite chair.
Murdoch said, "How much?" as he sat down. Kieran told him.
"What?" Murdoch said very loudly.
"Please be more discreet," Kieran said, "or I'll have to ask you to look for another supplier."
Murdoch leaned forward across the table and continued in a stage whisper. "That's an incredible amount of money."
"What you're asking me to do is an incredible thing. You want me to videotape a man having sex with your wife, then kill him, which means doing it in front of a witness, then cut off his head, then transport it across town like a candied ham. And after it's over I presume you don't want to get arrested for it. And I know I don't. That takes an extreme amount of caution, preparation and attention to detail. And also an extreme amount of money. And it's all up front. Take it or leave it."
"Can I give you a cheque?"
"Sure," Kieran said.
Murdoch's expression told Kieran that he had meant the question as a joke.
"I'll just invoice your company," Kieran explained. "That way you can write it off." He'd done this before and it didn't bother him at all. He considered it a good idea to have a record of revenue and regular tax payments.
"Yeah, right. And what do you invoice me for?"
"Consulting on strategies to eliminate a competitive threat," Kieran said.
Murdoch thought about this for a moment. "Okay," he said. "Back date the invoice a month and I'll pay you right away."
"I'll send a courier tomorrow," Kieran said.
**********
Murdoch's wife was in a state of some confusion. Ever since Kieran told her what he did for a living, she had felt some unease. Given her background as a social worker, it made her frequently uncomfortable to be so close to a man who earned a handsome living by killing other people. Her friends, who did not know about Kieran at all, told her she had changed. She felt she had lost some of the focus in her life. And she felt a gentle pressure from him. It was obvious he wanted more than twice weekly trysts but, much as she had told he she had longed for someone like him, she really didn't want anything to change. There was a large part of her that felt it was time to say goodbye to Kieran. She had already begun detaching herself.
Lackman was a different matter. He wanted nothing but sex. He was too self-centred and shallow to offer anything more. The only disappointment for Murdoch's wife was that, unlike Kieran, the doctor was a pedestrian and mediocre lover and, despite considerable practice, he didn't seem to improve. But he was not frightening to her in the way that Kieran was. And she got the sense that ending a relationship with Kieran needed to be done on a permanent basis. He felt much too dangerous to leave alive.
Unfortunately, permanence was not a strong suit of hers. She was counting on Lackman to help her out.
Sometimes she thought she should just dump them both and work it out with her husband.
**********
Kieran made an appointment to see Doctor Lackman. He fabricated symptoms and, on the scheduled day, went and sat in Lackman's waiting room for half an hour, pretending to read an old Toronto Life while surveying the room and the other patients as they came and went. Kieran was successful because he was thorough. He never killed anyone without first getting to know them. Their habits and their patterns. Unlike others in his profession, he was not averse to meeting with future victims on some pretence or other. And he was quite curious about the doctor.
Finally, Kieran was called into an examining room where Lackman measured everything that could be measured and explored every place that could be explored. "You're healthy as anything," he said. "You must take really good care of yourself."
Kieran looked Lackman right in the eye and said, "I plan to live for a long time."
**********
Kieran followed Lackman closely for several days, becoming fully acquainted with the doctor and his comings and goings. Then, on the next Friday, he said to Murdoch's wife, "Start getting your man primed."
"When are you going to do it?" She felt a shiver of excitement.
"Next week. We'll sort that out in a minute."
"How are you going to do it?"
Kieran shrugged. "I'll work that out. Don't worry, you won't get any blood on you. But we have to do it someplace anonymous. I want you to bring him here."
"Here?"
"Yeah. Bring him here."
"How do I do that?"
"Tell him it's an apartment you borrowed from a friend. I don't know. You'll think of something. Just get him here and I'll take care of everything else."
Murdoch's wife suggested the following Thursday at noon, and Kieran agreed.
**********
In the apartment that Kieran rented under another name, there was an electrical outlet in the wall at the head of the bed just above the top of the mattress. The first time they'd used the apartment, Murdoch's wife had touched the outlet and said, "Isn't that dangerous?"
Kieran shook his head. "Only if you stick a fork in it. Even then, I guess not. Power's controlled by that switch." He pointed to the switch on the wall next to the door of the room. "I thought your husband was an electrician or something. You oughta know something about it."
"Why? That's what he does. We don't talk about it much."
On Thursday morning, Kieran opened the breaker panel in the apartment and threw switches until he found he right one. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom and pulled the bed away from the wall. With a small screwdriver he undid the plate covering the outlet and went to work. When he was finished, he pushed the bed back into place. Then, one corner at a time, he raised the legs of the bed and placed round rubber feet under them. He readjusted the carpet on the hardwood beside the bed, then took out four tacks and a small hammer and fixed the mat to the floor. Then he went downstairs, turned the power back on and went out to have a cappuccino.
From his seat in the window of the caf‚ across the street, Kieran watched Murdoch's wife arrive at the front door of the building. She let herself in and disappeared behind the glass and up the stairs. Ten minutes later, Kieran watched Dr. Lackman arrive. The doctor buzzed, the door opened and he too vanished inside.
When they were together the day before, Kieran told Murdoch's wife that a friend who knew about these things had set up a hidden video camera that would go on automatically. Then Kieran would give Lackman and Murdoch's wife time for a good, healthy romp before he let himself into the apartment and subjected the good doctor to an extreme case of coitus interruptus.
He looked at his watch and signalled the waitress for a refill.
In the apartment, Lackman was clearly agitated as Murdoch's wife pressed into his hands the pistol belonging to her husband that she had taken from the house. "I'm not sure about this," he said. "Look at my hands." They were shaking considerably.
"Don't worry. He'll be naked and lying down and focused on me. You can do it. Just stay in the closet until I get up to go to the bathroom. He'll watch me walk there. He always does. That's when you come out and shoot him."
Lackman gave her the same look of comprehension you see on the face of a dog that's just been told how to mix cocktails.
**********
When his coffee was finished, and he felt he had given the happy couple enough time, Kieran reached into his pocket and left several large coins on the table. Then he walked slowly to the corner and crossed the street with the light. Taking out his key he let himself into the building, whistling softly. He climbed the stairs with one hand lightly on the banister and when he let himself into the apartment all he could hear was Dexter Gordon playing "I'm a Fool to Want You".
He went up the stairs to the bedroom on the second floor and stood in the doorway, with one hand resting on the door jamb.
"Where is he?" Kieran asked to Murdoch's wife, who was alone in the bed.
"He cancelled on me," she said without missing a beat. "Come here."
Doctor Lackman didn't like being in the closet. He'd never liked enclosed spaces and he found that being cooped up, coupled with the prospect of killing another man, was causing him to tense up. Breathing slowly and deeply, he tried to fill his mind with happier thoughts. From somewhere he could smell the musk of her perfume. He realized the closet held clothes of silk and cotton, all she ever wore next to her skin. He imagined her standing before him, the fabric slipping off her body. The he started to wonder what her perfume was doing on clothing in a stranger's closet.
He was distracted by the sound of his victim entering the room. He heard footsteps and a few words exchanged but they were muffled and indistinct. His hands began sweating and he switched the gun from one to the other, alternately wiping his palms on a crisp white blouse.
He leaned forward to try and hear what was being said more clearly. The panic was building in him. It must have been long enough. He wasn't looking forward to shooting an unarmed man in the back, but it was rapidly becoming preferable to spending any more time entombed in someone else's closet. It was time to get out.
"Come on," Murdoch's wife said again, "Come to bed."
At that moment, the doors of the walk-in closet slapped open and Lackman stepped out. He was wearing boxer shorts and he looked very slight and insignificant despite the pistol clenched in his two delicate hands. From the bed, Murdoch's wife groaned, "Not yet."
"I'm going to kill you," Lackman said, voice wavering. Then he paused and peered at Kieran more closely, "Wait a minute, I know you."
Since he didn't pull the trigger right away, and was obviously going through the Rolodex in his head to figure out why he recognized Kieran's face, it was obvious that the doctor was not a true killer. So Kieran took the time to look at Murdoch's wife, lying on the bed, half covered by the tangled flannel sheets. "I really wanted you," he said. "Before he shoots me, get out of bed so I can have one last good look at you."
Murdoch's wife hesitated for a moment but then she began to get out of bed. She rose as she always did. Languorously, dropping her slender legs over the edge of the bed. Then placing a hand on the head of the metal bed frame and setting her feet squarely on Kieran's mat. As her feet touched down, Kieran reached up and threw the switch on the wall. Instantly, the current streaked along the wires to the outlet at the head of the bed, then raced along the copper wire Kieran had installed that led from the hot wire in the outlet to the metal bed frame, then the current surged through the frame into the sleek and beautiful body of Murdoch's wife and through her body into the metal plate Kieran had placed beneath the worn carpet at the side of the bed. On which her small, soft feet rested.
Lackman had never seen a person being electrocuted before and he did as Kieran thought he would. He lowered the gun and turned to watch the bed and the spasms of its occupant. Kieran took his own pistol out and shot the doctor through the head. Then, after giving Murdoch's wife a few extra seconds of juice, he switched the current off. He had never seen anyone electrocuted either and he found it very educational.
He knew it would take the cops about a minute and a half to make a connection between the electrocuted woman and the dead doctor and the electrician husband turned cuckold. By then, Kieran would be back home, talking to neighbours and shaking his head along with the rest of the board. He could imagine, too, the reactions of her friends. Murdoch's wife hideously murdered in a secret love nest. Who would ever have imagined such a tawdry thing of her?
He left the doctor's head attached. There was no real need anymore. He took one last look at the crumpled woman on the floor. Then he went downstairs, locking the door behind him. It was too bad about Murdoch's wife. Oh well. At least the cheque had cleared.
"How much does it cost to have somebody killed?" Murdoch asked.
"How long is a piece of string?" Kieran replied.
"What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," Kieran said, "that it depends."
"Depends on what?"
"Depends on who it is. You want me to whack the guy runs the bar down your street, it'll cost you X. You want me to whack the prime minister or the captain of the Leafs, that's something else entirely and it'll cost you Y. And I really don't like having to kill women. So if you want me to whack a chick, I either won't do it or I'll do it but I wouldn't feel right taking money for it. So who do you want me to cap?"
"I want you to kill whoever's fucking my wife. How much is that going to cost me?"
"Were you not listening, my friend? That depends entirely on whether your wife is getting her ass bounced by the guy who runs the bar down the street or the captain of the Leafs or the Prime Minister or another chick. So who is it?"
"How the hell should I know? You think she gives me names?"
"Ah. Well, that creates some difficulty. You see, I'm a craftsman, not a clairvoyant."
"Yeah, well that's the other part of the job. I want to hire you to find out who the bastard is before you whack him. I don't care how you do it. I just want him dead."
"But you need me to find out who this person is first."
"Yeah."
Kieran sipped some beer and thought for a minute. "That'll cost you extra," he said. "I'm a craftsman, not a private detective."
"Charge me X plus Z, I don't care. I want him found and I want him popped. And there's one more thing I want."
"And what might that be?"
"I want you to bring me the guy's fucking head."
"That," Kieran said, "will definitely cost extra."
Murdoch raised his hands in front of him, fingers splayed, in an expression of mock surprise. "What a shock," he said. "And since we're on the topic of dough, there's one other thing. Now, it's not that I'm of a suspicious or untrusting nature. I'm not. But there's nothing to say that you couldn't go out, pick any poor dumb prick off the street and whack him and cut off his head and bring it to me and tell me it was the guy."
Kieran thought about the chances that he might do this and decided they were slim at best. "I'm a craftsman," he said, "not a psychopath."
"Yeah, well that's as may be, but I'll still need proof that the guy whose head you bring to me is the same guy's been getting head from my wife."
"I'm assuming you mean a videotape or photographs or something."
"Yeah, or signed affidavits from a bunch of witnesses, which seems less likely to me. How much do you reckon all that'll cost me?"
Kieran smiled. "How long," he asked, "is a very long piece of string?"
Two hours later, Kieran said to Murdoch's wife, "Your husband wants me dead." They were lying in bed in the loft of the two-storey north Toronto apartment that Kieran had rented under another name so that he'd have a quiet and private place to spend afternoons with Murdoch's wife.
"How do you know this?"
"He hired me to find the guy you're screwing and kill him."
"So he hired you to kill yourself, basically. Oh, brother. What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to think on it," Kieran said. "Now turn around."
*********
For a professional killer, Kieran kept his life as ordinary as possible. He shopped at the local markets and he said hello to his neighbours. He paid his parking tickets on time and he made regular donations to a variety of charities. He kept normal hours, waking every morning at seven, and he never played his stereo too loudly. The last thing he wanted was to stick out by seeming mysterious, peculiar or unusually aloof. When anyone asked what he did, Kieran told them he was in marketing, self-employed, specializing in strategic and concept development and execution. He figured that was at least partly true.
Then one day a neighbour said that the board of the telephone crisis line he was on was looking for a marketing person. They were already hip-deep in accountants and lawyers but someone like Kieran, with a marketing background, could be really helpful in fund-raising and helping recruit phone volunteers. Kieran thought about it for a day or two. He realized that, much as he had no problem with people having their lives ended abruptly by others, he did see the need for those considering self-destruction to have somewhere to turn. So he accepted. Kieran liked to think that, for a killer, he had a very highly developed social conscience.
It turned out that Murdoch's wife also sat on the board. And when she walked into the room during Kieran's first meeting and he saw her for the first time, his stomach twisted in an unfamiliar way. And every time he saw her after that, the reaction was the same.
Over the course of several board meetings, Kieran and Murdoch's wife talked and were increasingly drawn to one another. Soon they were having lunch together. And, although she told him emphatically that she was not unhappy in her marriage, they were in bed together within a matter of weeks.
"I've thought about it," Kieran said to Murdoch's wife two days later. It was Friday afternoon and the sun was very bright through the skylight above Kieran's bed. "There's only one solution."
"And I'm guessing it isn't suicide."
"I'm really not the type," Kieran said.
"I can see that," she said.
Kieran looked at her with a smile. "No, the answer is you'll just have to sleep with somebody else. We'll film it or something. And then I'll kill him. Your husband will be happy. I'll get paid, so I'll be happy. And we can carry on as usual. So you'll be happy."
"So everybody's happy."
"Yeah. Except the dead guy. He won't be too thrilled, I don't expect. But at least he won't notice."
"The only thing I'm a little unhappy about is that you basically want me to sleep with someone I don't know."
"Only once. And it doesn't have to be someone you don't know."
He reached up and pushed the dark hair out of her eyes. "I'm sure lots of guys you know would jump at the chance."
**********
Kieran was not sure if he had ever been in love. But weeks before he first took Murdoch's wife to bed, he felt himself falling in love with her. Whenever he entered a board meeting his eyes sought her out. He had never been one to wait for a phone call before, but he felt small pangs of anticipation build in him when he thought she might call and equal measures of disappointment when the phone rang and it was not her. When he considered it logically, he was not sure why he felt the way he did about her. She gave no indication that she would leave her husband. She frequently promised to do things that remained undone or cancelled plans he was very much looking forward to with excuses that Kieran knew were not true.
She had cancelled out on theatre tickets, on summer weekends at cottages north of the city and winter weekends at country inns. It was obvious to him that her emotional commitment was less than complete. Still, he wanted her. And as he waited, he watched her behaviour and his own with growing irritation. And he played by her rules.
**********
"I know who you can kill," Murdoch's wife said.
"Who might that be?"
"He's a doctor. His name's Lackman."
"Why him?"
She turned over on her stomach. "Rub my back," she said. As he did so, she explained, "I went to see him a few times about this little problem I was having a year ago or so, and he lives near my house, and we've run into each other on the street a few times, and he's always really friendly. Anyway, at some point, my husband became convinced that we were having an affair. Mmm, down a little. There. That's good. He actually has come on to me a couple of times. It was pretty subtle, but I know he'd like to have a fling. He stands too close to me and he touches me a lot. Getting him into bed shouldn't be any problem. Anyway, he's not totally hideous. And he's already a suspect in my husband's mind, so that will help when you bring in his head."
"And you never fucked this guy?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she said.
**********
Murdoch's wife had been sleeping with Doctor Lackman for about seven months. She did it some Tuesday mornings and most Thursdays over the lunch hour. Days when she was not seeing Kieran.
"I want you to do something for me," she said to the doctor as they lay beneath the ceiling fan.
His eyes were closed but his mind was racing. "Anything."
She traced irregular shapes on his chest with her fingernail and said, "I want you to kill someone."
"What?" His eyes popped open and he turned and propped himself up on an elbow.
"I want you to kill someone," she repeated. "And then cut off his head."
"What?" He stared at her, thinking he must have misheard.
"You're a doctor," she said. "You know about this. You can cut off his head. I've heard about these anatomy classes medical students all take, where you cut up derelicts and people who sign that form on their driver's licence. This will be no different."
"What?" he said again. "No different? You're asking me to kill a man and cut off his head. That's substantially different in my book."
"Why? In school, didn't you cut off someone's head?"
"Yes, but..."
"And I know you've killed a couple of people."
His face turned a shade redder. "I didn't kill anyone. Those people just died, and it was during surgery. Nobody could prove I did anything wrong."
"Yes, but you know in your heart things might have gone better if you'd been a little less hungover."
"Why?" he asked. "Where did this come from? One minute I'm lying here all relaxed and the next minute you're talking about murder."
"Here's where it came from. My husband thinks I'm having an affair," she said. "And he's going to hire someone to kill my lover. That, my darling, is you. Now my husband tends to do the things he says he'll do, so I believe him. And I'd hate to see anything happen to you if it could be avoided. So I need you to kill someone, in order to save your own skin."
Lackman thought about this for a minute. Murdoch's wife could almost feel the wheels grinding round. "So you want me to kill the guy who's been hired to kill me."
Murdoch's wife laughed. "Oh, brother," she said. "That would be the worst thing you could do. Because the guy who's been hired to kill you has to report back to my husband with your head in a box or a bag or something. No. If you kill him, my husband will know something went wrong and he'll just hire somebody else. No. We have to make a deal with the killer to take my husband's money and leave you alone. Then we find somebody else, I take him to bed and you kill him." She smiled at him sweetly. "Then you give the head to the killer and he takes it away. My husband's happy. The killer's doubly happy since he got paid and didn't actually have to kill anybody. And we can carry on just like always."
"Why don't we just pay the killer again to kill someone other than me?"
"We could do that, but it's very expensive." And she told him how much Kieran was going to charge her husband for the job. She inflated the price considerably, sensing that Lackman would not know how to begin to check. And also knowing he was tight with a dollar, and wanting to discover how much he was willing to do for her.
Lackman responded true to form. "So I have to kill a complete stranger."
"Not necessarily. There must be a colleague or two that you'd like to see dead. Or I could find someone."
"Yes, I think that's a good idea. But isn't this plan awfully complicated?"
"Oh," she said, "you're a doctor. I'm sure you can figure it out."
Then she reached out towards him and Lackman felt the breath thickening in his throat and knew he would do exactly as she wanted.
"Oh," she murmured into his throat, "there's one other thing. Do you own a video camera?"
**********
Kieran was sitting at his usual table at the back of the bar when Murdoch walked in. The room was large and virtually deserted. "Good afternoon." Kieran smiled and waved a hand at the opposite chair.
Murdoch said, "How much?" as he sat down. Kieran told him.
"What?" Murdoch said very loudly.
"Please be more discreet," Kieran said, "or I'll have to ask you to look for another supplier."
Murdoch leaned forward across the table and continued in a stage whisper. "That's an incredible amount of money."
"What you're asking me to do is an incredible thing. You want me to videotape a man having sex with your wife, then kill him, which means doing it in front of a witness, then cut off his head, then transport it across town like a candied ham. And after it's over I presume you don't want to get arrested for it. And I know I don't. That takes an extreme amount of caution, preparation and attention to detail. And also an extreme amount of money. And it's all up front. Take it or leave it."
"Can I give you a cheque?"
"Sure," Kieran said.
Murdoch's expression told Kieran that he had meant the question as a joke.
"I'll just invoice your company," Kieran explained. "That way you can write it off." He'd done this before and it didn't bother him at all. He considered it a good idea to have a record of revenue and regular tax payments.
"Yeah, right. And what do you invoice me for?"
"Consulting on strategies to eliminate a competitive threat," Kieran said.
Murdoch thought about this for a moment. "Okay," he said. "Back date the invoice a month and I'll pay you right away."
"I'll send a courier tomorrow," Kieran said.
**********
Murdoch's wife was in a state of some confusion. Ever since Kieran told her what he did for a living, she had felt some unease. Given her background as a social worker, it made her frequently uncomfortable to be so close to a man who earned a handsome living by killing other people. Her friends, who did not know about Kieran at all, told her she had changed. She felt she had lost some of the focus in her life. And she felt a gentle pressure from him. It was obvious he wanted more than twice weekly trysts but, much as she had told he she had longed for someone like him, she really didn't want anything to change. There was a large part of her that felt it was time to say goodbye to Kieran. She had already begun detaching herself.
Lackman was a different matter. He wanted nothing but sex. He was too self-centred and shallow to offer anything more. The only disappointment for Murdoch's wife was that, unlike Kieran, the doctor was a pedestrian and mediocre lover and, despite considerable practice, he didn't seem to improve. But he was not frightening to her in the way that Kieran was. And she got the sense that ending a relationship with Kieran needed to be done on a permanent basis. He felt much too dangerous to leave alive.
Unfortunately, permanence was not a strong suit of hers. She was counting on Lackman to help her out.
Sometimes she thought she should just dump them both and work it out with her husband.
**********
Kieran made an appointment to see Doctor Lackman. He fabricated symptoms and, on the scheduled day, went and sat in Lackman's waiting room for half an hour, pretending to read an old Toronto Life while surveying the room and the other patients as they came and went. Kieran was successful because he was thorough. He never killed anyone without first getting to know them. Their habits and their patterns. Unlike others in his profession, he was not averse to meeting with future victims on some pretence or other. And he was quite curious about the doctor.
Finally, Kieran was called into an examining room where Lackman measured everything that could be measured and explored every place that could be explored. "You're healthy as anything," he said. "You must take really good care of yourself."
Kieran looked Lackman right in the eye and said, "I plan to live for a long time."
**********
Kieran followed Lackman closely for several days, becoming fully acquainted with the doctor and his comings and goings. Then, on the next Friday, he said to Murdoch's wife, "Start getting your man primed."
"When are you going to do it?" She felt a shiver of excitement.
"Next week. We'll sort that out in a minute."
"How are you going to do it?"
Kieran shrugged. "I'll work that out. Don't worry, you won't get any blood on you. But we have to do it someplace anonymous. I want you to bring him here."
"Here?"
"Yeah. Bring him here."
"How do I do that?"
"Tell him it's an apartment you borrowed from a friend. I don't know. You'll think of something. Just get him here and I'll take care of everything else."
Murdoch's wife suggested the following Thursday at noon, and Kieran agreed.
**********
In the apartment that Kieran rented under another name, there was an electrical outlet in the wall at the head of the bed just above the top of the mattress. The first time they'd used the apartment, Murdoch's wife had touched the outlet and said, "Isn't that dangerous?"
Kieran shook his head. "Only if you stick a fork in it. Even then, I guess not. Power's controlled by that switch." He pointed to the switch on the wall next to the door of the room. "I thought your husband was an electrician or something. You oughta know something about it."
"Why? That's what he does. We don't talk about it much."
On Thursday morning, Kieran opened the breaker panel in the apartment and threw switches until he found he right one. Then he went upstairs to the bedroom and pulled the bed away from the wall. With a small screwdriver he undid the plate covering the outlet and went to work. When he was finished, he pushed the bed back into place. Then, one corner at a time, he raised the legs of the bed and placed round rubber feet under them. He readjusted the carpet on the hardwood beside the bed, then took out four tacks and a small hammer and fixed the mat to the floor. Then he went downstairs, turned the power back on and went out to have a cappuccino.
From his seat in the window of the caf‚ across the street, Kieran watched Murdoch's wife arrive at the front door of the building. She let herself in and disappeared behind the glass and up the stairs. Ten minutes later, Kieran watched Dr. Lackman arrive. The doctor buzzed, the door opened and he too vanished inside.
When they were together the day before, Kieran told Murdoch's wife that a friend who knew about these things had set up a hidden video camera that would go on automatically. Then Kieran would give Lackman and Murdoch's wife time for a good, healthy romp before he let himself into the apartment and subjected the good doctor to an extreme case of coitus interruptus.
He looked at his watch and signalled the waitress for a refill.
In the apartment, Lackman was clearly agitated as Murdoch's wife pressed into his hands the pistol belonging to her husband that she had taken from the house. "I'm not sure about this," he said. "Look at my hands." They were shaking considerably.
"Don't worry. He'll be naked and lying down and focused on me. You can do it. Just stay in the closet until I get up to go to the bathroom. He'll watch me walk there. He always does. That's when you come out and shoot him."
Lackman gave her the same look of comprehension you see on the face of a dog that's just been told how to mix cocktails.
**********
When his coffee was finished, and he felt he had given the happy couple enough time, Kieran reached into his pocket and left several large coins on the table. Then he walked slowly to the corner and crossed the street with the light. Taking out his key he let himself into the building, whistling softly. He climbed the stairs with one hand lightly on the banister and when he let himself into the apartment all he could hear was Dexter Gordon playing "I'm a Fool to Want You".
He went up the stairs to the bedroom on the second floor and stood in the doorway, with one hand resting on the door jamb.
"Where is he?" Kieran asked to Murdoch's wife, who was alone in the bed.
"He cancelled on me," she said without missing a beat. "Come here."
Doctor Lackman didn't like being in the closet. He'd never liked enclosed spaces and he found that being cooped up, coupled with the prospect of killing another man, was causing him to tense up. Breathing slowly and deeply, he tried to fill his mind with happier thoughts. From somewhere he could smell the musk of her perfume. He realized the closet held clothes of silk and cotton, all she ever wore next to her skin. He imagined her standing before him, the fabric slipping off her body. The he started to wonder what her perfume was doing on clothing in a stranger's closet.
He was distracted by the sound of his victim entering the room. He heard footsteps and a few words exchanged but they were muffled and indistinct. His hands began sweating and he switched the gun from one to the other, alternately wiping his palms on a crisp white blouse.
He leaned forward to try and hear what was being said more clearly. The panic was building in him. It must have been long enough. He wasn't looking forward to shooting an unarmed man in the back, but it was rapidly becoming preferable to spending any more time entombed in someone else's closet. It was time to get out.
"Come on," Murdoch's wife said again, "Come to bed."
At that moment, the doors of the walk-in closet slapped open and Lackman stepped out. He was wearing boxer shorts and he looked very slight and insignificant despite the pistol clenched in his two delicate hands. From the bed, Murdoch's wife groaned, "Not yet."
"I'm going to kill you," Lackman said, voice wavering. Then he paused and peered at Kieran more closely, "Wait a minute, I know you."
Since he didn't pull the trigger right away, and was obviously going through the Rolodex in his head to figure out why he recognized Kieran's face, it was obvious that the doctor was not a true killer. So Kieran took the time to look at Murdoch's wife, lying on the bed, half covered by the tangled flannel sheets. "I really wanted you," he said. "Before he shoots me, get out of bed so I can have one last good look at you."
Murdoch's wife hesitated for a moment but then she began to get out of bed. She rose as she always did. Languorously, dropping her slender legs over the edge of the bed. Then placing a hand on the head of the metal bed frame and setting her feet squarely on Kieran's mat. As her feet touched down, Kieran reached up and threw the switch on the wall. Instantly, the current streaked along the wires to the outlet at the head of the bed, then raced along the copper wire Kieran had installed that led from the hot wire in the outlet to the metal bed frame, then the current surged through the frame into the sleek and beautiful body of Murdoch's wife and through her body into the metal plate Kieran had placed beneath the worn carpet at the side of the bed. On which her small, soft feet rested.
Lackman had never seen a person being electrocuted before and he did as Kieran thought he would. He lowered the gun and turned to watch the bed and the spasms of its occupant. Kieran took his own pistol out and shot the doctor through the head. Then, after giving Murdoch's wife a few extra seconds of juice, he switched the current off. He had never seen anyone electrocuted either and he found it very educational.
He knew it would take the cops about a minute and a half to make a connection between the electrocuted woman and the dead doctor and the electrician husband turned cuckold. By then, Kieran would be back home, talking to neighbours and shaking his head along with the rest of the board. He could imagine, too, the reactions of her friends. Murdoch's wife hideously murdered in a secret love nest. Who would ever have imagined such a tawdry thing of her?
He left the doctor's head attached. There was no real need anymore. He took one last look at the crumpled woman on the floor. Then he went downstairs, locking the door behind him. It was too bad about Murdoch's wife. Oh well. At least the cheque had cleared.
Murder on Railway Street
by Slim Volumes
It is the coldest May,
the final day
and lilacs still
do not bloom.
The Enforcer
is down,
a single hole
behind the ear
leaking his life
into Monday's papers.
Associates
feel the draught,
re-arrange furniture
away from windows.
Bone aching cops
turn up their collars
to wait out
the weather.
Seeing their breath,
citizens
warm memories
over the embers
of his deeds.
The last
independent book,
retired 3/21/61,
shifts comfortably
in his leaking grave.
-------------------------------
It is the coldest May,
the final day
and lilacs still
do not bloom.
The Enforcer
is down,
a single hole
behind the ear
leaking his life
into Monday's papers.
Associates
feel the draught,
re-arrange furniture
away from windows.
Bone aching cops
turn up their collars
to wait out
the weather.
Seeing their breath,
citizens
warm memories
over the embers
of his deeds.
The last
independent book,
retired 3/21/61,
shifts comfortably
in his leaking grave.
-------------------------------
Parade
by Slim Volumes
the farmers' heads
are silent
now
having had their say
and been tried
tried at the Ancaster Assizes
tried and convicted
of treason
found guilty and hung
hung and cut down
before dead
cut down and gutted
entrails burnt
before their eyes
hung
drawn and quartered
their severed heads
piked in a row
on Burlington Heights
the entry
to three civilized communities
a mute parade
of thick tongued gargoyles
to tell
all who pass
that here live
the king's
loyal subjects
-----------------------------------------
the farmers' heads
are silent
now
having had their say
and been tried
tried at the Ancaster Assizes
tried and convicted
of treason
found guilty and hung
hung and cut down
before dead
cut down and gutted
entrails burnt
before their eyes
hung
drawn and quartered
their severed heads
piked in a row
on Burlington Heights
the entry
to three civilized communities
a mute parade
of thick tongued gargoyles
to tell
all who pass
that here live
the king's
loyal subjects
-----------------------------------------
Baby in a Box
by Slim Volumes
A Blue,
come down from the attic,
-something you should see.
Lieutenant's thick knuckles
cease stirring silk and satin
round the dresser drawer
and slide shut his probe
into suspect dainties
to follow up steepturn steps.
A beige board suitcase,
clasped and thickly belted
through the handle.
-was over there,
the Blue nodding at dragscrapes
through floorboard dust.
-thought you'd wanta open it.
Lieutenant
pushes back his fedora,
releases the buckle pin
from its hole.
Simultaneously
thumbs out the clasp buttons.
-locked.
He sends the Blue to the cellar
for a pry.
We each
flame a smoke
and wait
in
our
own
empty
cartoon
cloud.
Lieutenant crosslegged on the floor,
the lid back:
concrete,
concrete and rotting meat,
bone,
a miniature body,
laid inside,
cement poured,
grip closed, locked,
and belted.
Baby in a box
with a handle handy
to make behave.
The Blue spits for attention,
-she's a monster,
done this.
Lieutenant:
-yes, a monster,
better that
he pulls his hat down,
-than someone
with a motive.
-----------------------------------------
A Blue,
come down from the attic,
-something you should see.
Lieutenant's thick knuckles
cease stirring silk and satin
round the dresser drawer
and slide shut his probe
into suspect dainties
to follow up steepturn steps.
A beige board suitcase,
clasped and thickly belted
through the handle.
-was over there,
the Blue nodding at dragscrapes
through floorboard dust.
-thought you'd wanta open it.
Lieutenant
pushes back his fedora,
releases the buckle pin
from its hole.
Simultaneously
thumbs out the clasp buttons.
-locked.
He sends the Blue to the cellar
for a pry.
We each
flame a smoke
and wait
in
our
own
empty
cartoon
cloud.
Lieutenant crosslegged on the floor,
the lid back:
concrete,
concrete and rotting meat,
bone,
a miniature body,
laid inside,
cement poured,
grip closed, locked,
and belted.
Baby in a box
with a handle handy
to make behave.
The Blue spits for attention,
-she's a monster,
done this.
Lieutenant:
-yes, a monster,
better that
he pulls his hat down,
-than someone
with a motive.
-----------------------------------------
Highway Phoenix
by Slim Volumes
Chewy is out of Providence
unearthed wandering New Bedford
where he knew no one, not even the voice
vouched from the sleepless island
Picks up the brown Merc
a map, a name and
fronted by necessity
seven franklins under the mat
that he blows on blow
and hits the I-90 an eagle
screaming through the Commonwealth until
dawn’s first gleaming puts gold epaulets
on his Adirondack and Catskill shoulders
Mercury’s heavy chambered heart
drums the Mohawk Valley
past exits to
Iroquois lakes
Greek ports and
Yankee know how
Chewy thrills toward purpose in a world beyond borders
craves the trusty’s redemption
notes the Factory Outlets for his return
Lips pinch at the river
Anything to declare? No
Chewy says and means it
the Smith waiting
cloistered in a roadside toilet
for this last stretch down the Quick and Easy Way
The end gathers Chewy on
an elevated appendix dangling
from a curve in the highway
takes him to a mealy body-shop
filled with violated wing-heeled gods
Lank coverall goofs, big and biker thick
finger Vince, their failed sinner
and make busy
as Chewy opens the wound
--------------------------------------------------
Chewy is out of Providence
unearthed wandering New Bedford
where he knew no one, not even the voice
vouched from the sleepless island
Picks up the brown Merc
a map, a name and
fronted by necessity
seven franklins under the mat
that he blows on blow
and hits the I-90 an eagle
screaming through the Commonwealth until
dawn’s first gleaming puts gold epaulets
on his Adirondack and Catskill shoulders
Mercury’s heavy chambered heart
drums the Mohawk Valley
past exits to
Iroquois lakes
Greek ports and
Yankee know how
Chewy thrills toward purpose in a world beyond borders
craves the trusty’s redemption
notes the Factory Outlets for his return
Lips pinch at the river
Anything to declare? No
Chewy says and means it
the Smith waiting
cloistered in a roadside toilet
for this last stretch down the Quick and Easy Way
The end gathers Chewy on
an elevated appendix dangling
from a curve in the highway
takes him to a mealy body-shop
filled with violated wing-heeled gods
Lank coverall goofs, big and biker thick
finger Vince, their failed sinner
and make busy
as Chewy opens the wound
--------------------------------------------------
Last Bus
by Slim Volumes
fuelled by something
no one likes or admits
the last bus is late
a taste of what might come
the beast gasps
stoops
lips you aboard
overlooking your pass
its driver steers you
from friend and argument
from city light
to suburb dark
so dark
you see only within
old ads curl up the ceiling
their yellowed things past use
these passengers are familiar
you've ignored them on elevators
through narrow halls, in the doctor's antechamber
a nun knits booties for unborn babes
the driver spreads over-shoulder gibber
he's attracted to bright
Tims for a pee and coffee
steal behind his wheel
this coach is warm and grumbly
eager to move on
you are last on this bus
and you do not know your stop
------------------------------------------------
fuelled by something
no one likes or admits
the last bus is late
a taste of what might come
the beast gasps
stoops
lips you aboard
overlooking your pass
its driver steers you
from friend and argument
from city light
to suburb dark
so dark
you see only within
old ads curl up the ceiling
their yellowed things past use
these passengers are familiar
you've ignored them on elevators
through narrow halls, in the doctor's antechamber
a nun knits booties for unborn babes
the driver spreads over-shoulder gibber
he's attracted to bright
Tims for a pee and coffee
steal behind his wheel
this coach is warm and grumbly
eager to move on
you are last on this bus
and you do not know your stop
------------------------------------------------
Haiku
by Yosa Buson
(1716-1784)
Japanese poet and painter.
a thief
vanishes over the rooftops
night chill
----------------------------------
(1716-1784)
Japanese poet and painter.
a thief
vanishes over the rooftops
night chill
----------------------------------
3.26.2009
Quarry
by John Swan
Eco-noir, first published in blood&aphorisms, summer '95.
Gunshots echoed like cannon-fire in the steel Quonset hut. A bullet found the target, lifting and flinging it against the grey corrugated wall. There was a bright red stain left where the body slid back to the floor.
"Rats," deKuipers said. "I hate rats."
He turned to face me and continued, "If you take this promotion Mitchell, we'll be paying you a lot of money. We think you're the kind of guy respects a position of trust. That's important. Just so you understand. I hate rats."
**********
"This is a bit extreme," Mitchell said. "If we’re going to report what they’re up to, we should be accurate. He never threatened me."
"Where did I write that he threatened you?" Schooley asked. "He offered you a job. He was just making sure you knew your responsibilities."
"Yes, but this stuff about the rats. deKuipers has exterminators to take care of them."
Schooley shrugged against gusts of gravel dust. “Adding colour is all. Colour’s important, you want anyone interested in this story.”
"And about the gun," Mitchell continued.
"Now, I know there was a gun. You said you found a gun in deKuipers' filing cabinet."
"Yes, but I've never seen him or anybody from the company so much as touch it."
"Did you bring it?"
"Yes. Here. I still don't understand what you expect to learn from it."
Schooley took the pistol. "Is it loaded?" He looked at the bullets resting inside the clip and admired the precise, simple technology: purpose and design combined without a quibble. He re-assembled the weapon and slipped it into his coat pocket.
"Did you bring the files?"
"Of course."
Schooley took a compact, 35mm camera out of his pocket. "Hold them open on the car hood. Try to keep your fingers from covering up anything good. Let's get these things photographed so you can return them to the office tonight."
"What about the gun?" Mitchell asked. "deKuipers will miss that first, if he misses anything."
Flash! Schooley fired the camera and Mitchell turned a page. "I'll need it for a while. If it can be connected to something illegal, I'll want to keep it." Flash!
"Just storing a gun in an unlocked filing cabinet is illegal, isn't it?" Flash!They had a rhythm going, a team intent on their work. Flash!
"Yeah. I think so. But we'll need more than that." Flash! "If I can't connect the gun to anything, I'll get rid of it." Flash! "Put it in one of the company's own dumpsters, somewhere, maybe." Flash! "If anyone asks you about the gun," Flash! "just tell them you don't know anything about it."
With a hand anchoring the papers against the night wind, Mitchell turned to face his companion. Flash! The camera blinded him. Schooley switched the camera for the gun. He flicked off the safety, inserted his finger behind the trigger guard and blew a hole in the gap between Mitchell's eyebrows. A breeze lifted deKuipers Environmental Services files and carried them out over the company's abandoned quarry.
Eco-noir, first published in blood&aphorisms, summer '95.
Gunshots echoed like cannon-fire in the steel Quonset hut. A bullet found the target, lifting and flinging it against the grey corrugated wall. There was a bright red stain left where the body slid back to the floor.
"Rats," deKuipers said. "I hate rats."
He turned to face me and continued, "If you take this promotion Mitchell, we'll be paying you a lot of money. We think you're the kind of guy respects a position of trust. That's important. Just so you understand. I hate rats."
**********
"This is a bit extreme," Mitchell said. "If we’re going to report what they’re up to, we should be accurate. He never threatened me."
"Where did I write that he threatened you?" Schooley asked. "He offered you a job. He was just making sure you knew your responsibilities."
"Yes, but this stuff about the rats. deKuipers has exterminators to take care of them."
Schooley shrugged against gusts of gravel dust. “Adding colour is all. Colour’s important, you want anyone interested in this story.”
"And about the gun," Mitchell continued.
"Now, I know there was a gun. You said you found a gun in deKuipers' filing cabinet."
"Yes, but I've never seen him or anybody from the company so much as touch it."
"Did you bring it?"
"Yes. Here. I still don't understand what you expect to learn from it."
Schooley took the pistol. "Is it loaded?" He looked at the bullets resting inside the clip and admired the precise, simple technology: purpose and design combined without a quibble. He re-assembled the weapon and slipped it into his coat pocket.
"Did you bring the files?"
"Of course."
Schooley took a compact, 35mm camera out of his pocket. "Hold them open on the car hood. Try to keep your fingers from covering up anything good. Let's get these things photographed so you can return them to the office tonight."
"What about the gun?" Mitchell asked. "deKuipers will miss that first, if he misses anything."
Flash! Schooley fired the camera and Mitchell turned a page. "I'll need it for a while. If it can be connected to something illegal, I'll want to keep it." Flash!
"Just storing a gun in an unlocked filing cabinet is illegal, isn't it?" Flash!They had a rhythm going, a team intent on their work. Flash!
"Yeah. I think so. But we'll need more than that." Flash! "If I can't connect the gun to anything, I'll get rid of it." Flash! "Put it in one of the company's own dumpsters, somewhere, maybe." Flash! "If anyone asks you about the gun," Flash! "just tell them you don't know anything about it."
With a hand anchoring the papers against the night wind, Mitchell turned to face his companion. Flash! The camera blinded him. Schooley switched the camera for the gun. He flicked off the safety, inserted his finger behind the trigger guard and blew a hole in the gap between Mitchell's eyebrows. A breeze lifted deKuipers Environmental Services files and carried them out over the company's abandoned quarry.
Reggie's Gifts
by John Swan
A small Christmas Noir.
She placed one foot on his stomach, spiked heel at his navel.
"So, what should I do?" she asked.
"Humiliate me. I’m slime."
"But how?"
"You are my mistress. I must obey."
"Put out the garbage when you go, will you?"
"It's no good if you make fun."
Reggie saw herself in the hall mirror, black latex bulging. She was over fifty years old. How had she let Campbell talk her into this? Sweat tickled down the trough of her spine and she squirmed, hooking her heel on his innie.
"Ouch! Jeez."
"Well, you wanted pain."
"I want to anticipate pain, savour it, not get jabbed suddenly."
"Let's face it, I'm no good at this." Reggie peeled the rubber halter down to her middle, and scratched her back on a door jamb. Disappointed, Campbell removed his leather harness, chains, and the rest.
Later, in the dark, they cuddled before the TV. "I like you," he said during a station break, "a lot." Reggie sobbed quietly.
**********
"Hello?"
"Campbell. It's me, Reggie. How are you?"
"Fine."
"Where have you been? I haven't heard from you."
"Well...I've been busy."
"I’d like you to come over Christmas Eve."
"I was thinking of going to my sister's."
"I made something special for you to wear."
"Well..."
"Do not fail me. You’ll regret it."
**********
Campbell rang the door bell and shivered. His ensemble from Reggie had arrived that afternoon, an elf's costume: pointed hat with tassel; red T-shirt; brown vest; green tights; and brown, curly-toed slippers, also tasseled. Campbell was tall. The tights and shirt gaped at his belly. The hat and slippers, on the other hand, were much too large.
"Interesting," he’d said to the reflection in his bedroom mirror.
When Reggie answered the door, her hair was white and bobbed, her cheeks rosy. She wore a faded flannel robe.
"Pompom to the front, big fella," she said, pulling the point of the hat over his left eye. "Well, turn around. Let’s see you."
Campbell did a pirouette.
"You’ll do.” She gripped his left ear and pulled him into the house. "Though you look more gnomish than elfin."
Campbell bent and shuffled, arms flailing. "What's the difference?"
"Gnomes are uglier."
"Sure, in this get-up."
Reggie dug her nail into the sensitive flap of his ear. "I beg your pardon?"
"Ouch! Oww. The costume’s fine."
She brought him to the dining room. On the table were reels of scotch-tape, a pen, tags and brightly coloured paper. Unwrapped presents filled each corner.
"I want sharp, symmetrical creases." She lowered him into a chair. "Fold over all exposed paper-ends. Here's who gets what." The list was pages long and barely legible. It brought furrows to Campbell's brow. "When you're done, I'll inspect every parcel. If I'm not satisfied, you'll unwrap it all and start again."
"When you’re done that," handing him a blade screwdriver, a pair of worn pliers, and pages of diagrams with instructions incomplete in several languages, "I have toys in the basement that need assembling," she explained, for Reggie had grandchildren.
"There'll be paper cuts," she whispered, drawing the final word into a hiss. "You'll get bloody, scraped knuckles," and she pinched his cheeks and shouted: "and you’ll probably stab yourself with that rusty, old screwdriver," laughing, as Campbell shivered with delight. Reggie opened her robe, revealing black, thigh-high boots and a blood red merry-widow trimmed in white fur.
"Mrs. Claus?" the gnome ventured.
"You've all night to please me," Reggie ordered, "before the fat old elf gets home."
A small Christmas Noir.
She placed one foot on his stomach, spiked heel at his navel.
"So, what should I do?" she asked.
"Humiliate me. I’m slime."
"But how?"
"You are my mistress. I must obey."
"Put out the garbage when you go, will you?"
"It's no good if you make fun."
Reggie saw herself in the hall mirror, black latex bulging. She was over fifty years old. How had she let Campbell talk her into this? Sweat tickled down the trough of her spine and she squirmed, hooking her heel on his innie.
"Ouch! Jeez."
"Well, you wanted pain."
"I want to anticipate pain, savour it, not get jabbed suddenly."
"Let's face it, I'm no good at this." Reggie peeled the rubber halter down to her middle, and scratched her back on a door jamb. Disappointed, Campbell removed his leather harness, chains, and the rest.
Later, in the dark, they cuddled before the TV. "I like you," he said during a station break, "a lot." Reggie sobbed quietly.
**********
"Hello?"
"Campbell. It's me, Reggie. How are you?"
"Fine."
"Where have you been? I haven't heard from you."
"Well...I've been busy."
"I’d like you to come over Christmas Eve."
"I was thinking of going to my sister's."
"I made something special for you to wear."
"Well..."
"Do not fail me. You’ll regret it."
**********
Campbell rang the door bell and shivered. His ensemble from Reggie had arrived that afternoon, an elf's costume: pointed hat with tassel; red T-shirt; brown vest; green tights; and brown, curly-toed slippers, also tasseled. Campbell was tall. The tights and shirt gaped at his belly. The hat and slippers, on the other hand, were much too large.
"Interesting," he’d said to the reflection in his bedroom mirror.
When Reggie answered the door, her hair was white and bobbed, her cheeks rosy. She wore a faded flannel robe.
"Pompom to the front, big fella," she said, pulling the point of the hat over his left eye. "Well, turn around. Let’s see you."
Campbell did a pirouette.
"You’ll do.” She gripped his left ear and pulled him into the house. "Though you look more gnomish than elfin."
Campbell bent and shuffled, arms flailing. "What's the difference?"
"Gnomes are uglier."
"Sure, in this get-up."
Reggie dug her nail into the sensitive flap of his ear. "I beg your pardon?"
"Ouch! Oww. The costume’s fine."
She brought him to the dining room. On the table were reels of scotch-tape, a pen, tags and brightly coloured paper. Unwrapped presents filled each corner.
"I want sharp, symmetrical creases." She lowered him into a chair. "Fold over all exposed paper-ends. Here's who gets what." The list was pages long and barely legible. It brought furrows to Campbell's brow. "When you're done, I'll inspect every parcel. If I'm not satisfied, you'll unwrap it all and start again."
"When you’re done that," handing him a blade screwdriver, a pair of worn pliers, and pages of diagrams with instructions incomplete in several languages, "I have toys in the basement that need assembling," she explained, for Reggie had grandchildren.
"There'll be paper cuts," she whispered, drawing the final word into a hiss. "You'll get bloody, scraped knuckles," and she pinched his cheeks and shouted: "and you’ll probably stab yourself with that rusty, old screwdriver," laughing, as Campbell shivered with delight. Reggie opened her robe, revealing black, thigh-high boots and a blood red merry-widow trimmed in white fur.
"Mrs. Claus?" the gnome ventured.
"You've all night to please me," Reggie ordered, "before the fat old elf gets home."
Chocolates and Roses
by John Swan
Romantic fantasy, first published in Zygote, winter/spring '99.
It began with a sigh.
In the breakfast nook, tile, marble, chrome, on a side of the house that caught morning sun. Wanda came in, wearing one of her short, silk housecoats, the pink probably. Matching slippers. Nothing else. The refrigerator hummed contentedly, filled with eggs and bacon, fresh fruit, juices, maple syrup. In the kitchen cupboards: six kinds of cereal. Fresh pastries in the bread-box. She poured a cup of coffee that had been brewed from fresh ground beans, then sat down at the other side of the table. And sighed.
Behind his paper, Martin couldn't see any of this, but knew the routine. Except the sigh. "Something wrong, dear?" he asked.
"Not really."
He sipped at his cup, folded the paper, set the world aside. God she was beautiful. Before morning make-up, hair bed-tousled, eyes heavy with sleep, she made his chest ache, made him need to feel worthy. So he shaved twice daily and worked at a catalogue exercise machine. She didn't notice, considered her own beauty an achievement. At night, playing beneath sheets, she said she loved him. He could scarcely believe his fortune.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Tell me."
"That new restaurant on the Concourse? La Frenza? Everyone goes."
Martin nodded, pretending he shared these interests.
"Leslie and I went yesterday. Arrogant little man would not seat us. Can you imagine?" Martin shook his head. "We said who we were. I was very patient, but he would not seat us without reservations. For lunch!"
"Did you speak to the manager?" Martin asked.
"This, man, claimed to be the owner. Said he couldn't offend regular customers by giving away reserved tables to women who showed up unannounced at the door. Women who just showed up at the door! Suzanne and me? I ask you. Somebody really should pin back his ears."
Martin suppressed a smile. Wanda knew he was charmed when such dated expressions passed between her full lips.
"The name again? La Frenza?" She nodded and he redirected the subject. "Let me show some appreciation. Valentines day next week. Anything special you'd like to make it up?"
"Ooh, a surprise, please. I love your surprises. You never fail to spoil me. I always wish I'd found something half so wonderful for you."
"We could go someplace special."
"Valentin's. They'll treat us properly there."
Martin nodded and stretched his thin mouth to a smile. "Maybe you should make reservations."
Wanda smiled too. "You are wicked," she said, rose to kiss him across the table, let her housecoat fall open.
**********
Fredo turned out the lights. He'd balanced the cash, made up the bank deposit while the waiters cleared tables and put up chairs for the night. The kitchen shone clean. A woman would be in next morning to wipe and vacuum the dining room. Next morning: fewer than five hours. Fredo longed for someone he could trust with the keys. Longed to sleep in, just one day.
Arms braced him from behind. "Happy Valentine, lover."
He stiffened, startled probably because he was so tired. "Leslie! How'd you get in?"
"Back door."
Fredo had repeatedly asked staff to lock the back before leaving. They seldom did, leaving him alone, so he'd thought, with the night deposit and the back door wide open to anyone with an appetite for quick cash.
Leslie slipped her left hand into his white, chef's pants. She was small, dark, adept.
"Not tonight, baby. I am way too tired," he sighed
"It's Valentines Day."
"Tomorrow."
He felt her hair on his neck as she shook her head. "After midnight," she said. "Tomorrow is today already."
Small fingers worked in his trousers, squeezing, stroking. She came round front, her hot breath on his chin. He thickened, but not fully hard, not yet. Leslie led him to the cool, steel prep table; guided him onto his back, legs dangling over the edge; then, one by one, undid the buttons of his shirt, pressing her lips softly to the dark, coiled hair beneath, until she reached his buckle. She laughed, quietly, and pulled at it with her teeth, until Fredo removed the metal spike from the leather's eye. Leslie gently drew him out.
She backed to the fridge, opened the door with her hand behind and removed without looking a small bottle of olive oil. Then to the spice cupboard, where she selected for aroma and sensation. At the prep table, she poured small drops of oil onto Fredo's naked torso. He tensed as each cold, golden globule formed on his flesh. Within the circle she formed with the oil drops, Leslie sprinkled three seasonings, then slowly mixed them with the oil, warming them with her hands and the heat rising from Fredo's belly. Hands glistening, Leslie began to stroke Fredo, then bent to tease with her tongue. Fredo closed his eyes and inhaled the pungent spices, savoured their delicate tickle, the entire kitchen now alive in the small space of his lover's mouth.
In the corridor that divided the kitchen from the washrooms, the one that led from the back door, Martin watched and waited for them to finish.
Stroking, pressing, Leslie revived Fredo, held him, led him to an edge, then back until his hands raised her. They traded places, Leslie lying on the table. Fredo at the edge, delicately pushed back the silk of Leslie's skirt, fingered aside her lacy fantasies, lifted her legs to his shoulders and applied some of the oil that still shimmered on his stomach. He entered on waves of silk, paused, savoured, danced his hips to a slow jazz in his head. Leslie passed a satisfied gaze over his slim body, took the rhythm, closed her eyes.
At the depth of every few strokes, Fredo stopped to press against the rigid flesh that rose from within Leslie's undergarments, holding it against his own gleaming stomach with his hand as his torso danced and Leslie softly moaned. Martin started, forgetting for a moment the reason he'd slipped into Fredo and Leslie's world.
Leslie was first to notice. She pushed her lover away and brushed her dress back to her knees, nodding toward the hall. Fredo, flesh flagging, tried to button up. He saw the .45 in Martin's hand.
"Shit." He should have locked the back door after Leslie came in.
Martin smiled. "You could say that." With the gun he waved them away from the cutlery, then produced a roll of mechanics' wire. "Tie his feet," he said, tossing the coil to Leslie. "Three loops around the ankles. Tight," and when she had done that, "The hands. Behind. Now!"
Martin pushed Leslie aside, took pliers from his pocket, pinched a loop of the wire around Fredo's wrists and twisted until it cut the flesh. Then he cut the roll free. "Down. On the floor," he ordered.
He teetered. "I'm going to fall."
Martin nudged him over. Something cracked on contact and Fredo cried out. Martin moved onto Leslie.
"Your turn." The gun barrel traced a circle in the air for her to turn around. When Fredo and Leslie were tied and on the tile floor, Martin went back to the hall. He returned with a red, plastic jerry-can.
"What? That's…" Fredo.
"Gasoline."
"You don't need that," Fredo said. "Just take the money and leave."
Martin hadn't seen the deposit pouch laying on the prep table. He removed the bills and put them in his jacket pocket. "Thanks." He brought out a gold cigarette lighter, flipped the lid and thumbed the gear. When the canvas bag caught, Martin tossed it onto the cold griddle and watched it burn. Before pocketing the lighter, he re-read the inscription: M- my light and my heat. W.
Martin crouched beside his captives.
Fredo: "You've got what you came for, now get out. We won't tell anyone. We won't even report the money stolen. No fire. Please. No fire."
"What makes you think you know what I came for?"
"What is it then? Some fag-baiting thing?" Fredo couldn't avoid a quick sneer.
Martin grabbed Fredo by his shiny, black hair. "My wife was here last week. You insulted her."
"How? Who…look, I'm sorry. I don't even know your wife. There must be a way we can work this out. This is crazy." Martin unscrewed the cap from the jerry-can and watched Fredo's face tighten. Tears came. His voice gurgled. "Oh God, I'm sorry. Please, don't do this."
Leslie spoke to Martin for the first time, her voice calm. "It's too much, torching us." Martin looked at her, raised a brow. "Your wife, she'll think about how we died, the pain. It will spoil your gift," she said.
Martin rolled his eyes over her. She was smart. A beautiful and intelligent creature, his captive. "Never has before," he said and put the muzzle behind Leslie's ear.
Fredo moaned.
"I wasn't even here when you're wife came in," Leslie tried. "Why kill me?"
"I'm a romantic," he said. "Hate to separate lovers," but he brought the gun back to his side. It struck Martin that Leslie was erect, still excited. "There could be another way." She waited, unblinking. "My wife becomes a partner in the restaurant. Then your boyfriend would know to be polite and seat her."
Fredo recovered. "What? You think I'd just sign my business over to you?"
"Eventually, yes, but for now I was thinking a less formal arrangement. Say, every week I drop by for half the money. Gives us a chance to establish trust. Partners should get to know one another, their capabilities, before they get fixed into contracts, don't you think?"
Fredo sputtered.
"Say yes, baby," Leslie told him. "Say yes or he's going to burn us if you don't." But her eyes burnt through Martin.
"There you go. Just say 'yes.' We can start our arrangement right away. And to show my good faith…" Martin took the deposit money from his pocket, counted some out onto the prep table for Fredo and Leslie. "There's your half for this week."
"But…but, that's not half. The bag wasn't profit. There are expenses…"
"Expenses are your half," Martin said.
Fredo whined incredulous protest.
Leslie shushed him, her eyes still glued to Martin.
"Come over here, baby. Let me loose. We should get to know one another too. Celebrate the deal."
Martin stepped back. She's a pistol, he thought. If he'd seen her on the street, he wouldn't have taken her for anything but what she pretended to be.
"I can do things, whatever you want. Things you've never done. Things you've never even dreamed," Leslie offered.
She looked real to Martin. The face, heart-shaped, heavy, sexy make-up, and the body, slight and trim, you could hardly tell. A real pair, he could see that, the dress revealing deep cleavage. He listened to her talk, enjoyed the arrogant, youthful, assumptions she made as Fredo whimpered at her side. As his eyes descended her body Martin had thoughts, saw himself in ways he never had before. He inhaled the oiled-spice aroma that filled the room and remembered Wanda, the shampoo smell of her hair, what she would say if she knew what he was thinking right now.
He took two quick steps forward and put a bullet in Leslie's head. Fredo screamed and Martin fired a second shot to end the noise.
He stared at what he'd done. Watched as thickening, red fluid channeled into gaps between the shiny, white floor tiles. Tried to imagine the act undone, and weekly cash from the restaurant adding to his and Wanda's freedom. His hand shook as it rested his .45 on the steel table.
It was steadier when he took the gun up again and polished the table surface free of fingerprints with his elbow. He went to the bathroom for toilet paper, tore a length and wadded one end into the kitchen's toaster, trailed the other over Leslie and Fredo. He poured fuel over their bodies and around the room, set the toaster on dark, pushed down the lever and left
**********
In a dark corner of Valentin's, at the same side of a table that looked over the bay, Martin and Wanda celebrated their love.
Champagne bubbled in a glass amid a mess of wrapping paper, ribbon and the open boxes. "Roses and chocolates?" Wanda said.
"You don't like them?" Murky scotch lay flat in the bottom of Martin's tumbler. It was unusual for him to have three when they were out. "Not good enough?"
"I love them. It's just so unlike you, Martin. I'm surprised you didn't give me another restaurant."
"Well, tell the truth, the deal fell through so I had to come up with something different." He threw back his drink and looked around for a waiter. "Another place will come up, I'm sure, the way you and Suzanne get around."
Wanda laid thin, pink fingers on a cellophaned carton. "Chocolates and roses," she sighed.
Romantic fantasy, first published in Zygote, winter/spring '99.
It began with a sigh.
In the breakfast nook, tile, marble, chrome, on a side of the house that caught morning sun. Wanda came in, wearing one of her short, silk housecoats, the pink probably. Matching slippers. Nothing else. The refrigerator hummed contentedly, filled with eggs and bacon, fresh fruit, juices, maple syrup. In the kitchen cupboards: six kinds of cereal. Fresh pastries in the bread-box. She poured a cup of coffee that had been brewed from fresh ground beans, then sat down at the other side of the table. And sighed.
Behind his paper, Martin couldn't see any of this, but knew the routine. Except the sigh. "Something wrong, dear?" he asked.
"Not really."
He sipped at his cup, folded the paper, set the world aside. God she was beautiful. Before morning make-up, hair bed-tousled, eyes heavy with sleep, she made his chest ache, made him need to feel worthy. So he shaved twice daily and worked at a catalogue exercise machine. She didn't notice, considered her own beauty an achievement. At night, playing beneath sheets, she said she loved him. He could scarcely believe his fortune.
"What's wrong?" he asked. "Tell me."
"That new restaurant on the Concourse? La Frenza? Everyone goes."
Martin nodded, pretending he shared these interests.
"Leslie and I went yesterday. Arrogant little man would not seat us. Can you imagine?" Martin shook his head. "We said who we were. I was very patient, but he would not seat us without reservations. For lunch!"
"Did you speak to the manager?" Martin asked.
"This, man, claimed to be the owner. Said he couldn't offend regular customers by giving away reserved tables to women who showed up unannounced at the door. Women who just showed up at the door! Suzanne and me? I ask you. Somebody really should pin back his ears."
Martin suppressed a smile. Wanda knew he was charmed when such dated expressions passed between her full lips.
"The name again? La Frenza?" She nodded and he redirected the subject. "Let me show some appreciation. Valentines day next week. Anything special you'd like to make it up?"
"Ooh, a surprise, please. I love your surprises. You never fail to spoil me. I always wish I'd found something half so wonderful for you."
"We could go someplace special."
"Valentin's. They'll treat us properly there."
Martin nodded and stretched his thin mouth to a smile. "Maybe you should make reservations."
Wanda smiled too. "You are wicked," she said, rose to kiss him across the table, let her housecoat fall open.
**********
Fredo turned out the lights. He'd balanced the cash, made up the bank deposit while the waiters cleared tables and put up chairs for the night. The kitchen shone clean. A woman would be in next morning to wipe and vacuum the dining room. Next morning: fewer than five hours. Fredo longed for someone he could trust with the keys. Longed to sleep in, just one day.
Arms braced him from behind. "Happy Valentine, lover."
He stiffened, startled probably because he was so tired. "Leslie! How'd you get in?"
"Back door."
Fredo had repeatedly asked staff to lock the back before leaving. They seldom did, leaving him alone, so he'd thought, with the night deposit and the back door wide open to anyone with an appetite for quick cash.
Leslie slipped her left hand into his white, chef's pants. She was small, dark, adept.
"Not tonight, baby. I am way too tired," he sighed
"It's Valentines Day."
"Tomorrow."
He felt her hair on his neck as she shook her head. "After midnight," she said. "Tomorrow is today already."
Small fingers worked in his trousers, squeezing, stroking. She came round front, her hot breath on his chin. He thickened, but not fully hard, not yet. Leslie led him to the cool, steel prep table; guided him onto his back, legs dangling over the edge; then, one by one, undid the buttons of his shirt, pressing her lips softly to the dark, coiled hair beneath, until she reached his buckle. She laughed, quietly, and pulled at it with her teeth, until Fredo removed the metal spike from the leather's eye. Leslie gently drew him out.
She backed to the fridge, opened the door with her hand behind and removed without looking a small bottle of olive oil. Then to the spice cupboard, where she selected for aroma and sensation. At the prep table, she poured small drops of oil onto Fredo's naked torso. He tensed as each cold, golden globule formed on his flesh. Within the circle she formed with the oil drops, Leslie sprinkled three seasonings, then slowly mixed them with the oil, warming them with her hands and the heat rising from Fredo's belly. Hands glistening, Leslie began to stroke Fredo, then bent to tease with her tongue. Fredo closed his eyes and inhaled the pungent spices, savoured their delicate tickle, the entire kitchen now alive in the small space of his lover's mouth.
In the corridor that divided the kitchen from the washrooms, the one that led from the back door, Martin watched and waited for them to finish.
Stroking, pressing, Leslie revived Fredo, held him, led him to an edge, then back until his hands raised her. They traded places, Leslie lying on the table. Fredo at the edge, delicately pushed back the silk of Leslie's skirt, fingered aside her lacy fantasies, lifted her legs to his shoulders and applied some of the oil that still shimmered on his stomach. He entered on waves of silk, paused, savoured, danced his hips to a slow jazz in his head. Leslie passed a satisfied gaze over his slim body, took the rhythm, closed her eyes.
At the depth of every few strokes, Fredo stopped to press against the rigid flesh that rose from within Leslie's undergarments, holding it against his own gleaming stomach with his hand as his torso danced and Leslie softly moaned. Martin started, forgetting for a moment the reason he'd slipped into Fredo and Leslie's world.
Leslie was first to notice. She pushed her lover away and brushed her dress back to her knees, nodding toward the hall. Fredo, flesh flagging, tried to button up. He saw the .45 in Martin's hand.
"Shit." He should have locked the back door after Leslie came in.
Martin smiled. "You could say that." With the gun he waved them away from the cutlery, then produced a roll of mechanics' wire. "Tie his feet," he said, tossing the coil to Leslie. "Three loops around the ankles. Tight," and when she had done that, "The hands. Behind. Now!"
Martin pushed Leslie aside, took pliers from his pocket, pinched a loop of the wire around Fredo's wrists and twisted until it cut the flesh. Then he cut the roll free. "Down. On the floor," he ordered.
He teetered. "I'm going to fall."
Martin nudged him over. Something cracked on contact and Fredo cried out. Martin moved onto Leslie.
"Your turn." The gun barrel traced a circle in the air for her to turn around. When Fredo and Leslie were tied and on the tile floor, Martin went back to the hall. He returned with a red, plastic jerry-can.
"What? That's…" Fredo.
"Gasoline."
"You don't need that," Fredo said. "Just take the money and leave."
Martin hadn't seen the deposit pouch laying on the prep table. He removed the bills and put them in his jacket pocket. "Thanks." He brought out a gold cigarette lighter, flipped the lid and thumbed the gear. When the canvas bag caught, Martin tossed it onto the cold griddle and watched it burn. Before pocketing the lighter, he re-read the inscription: M- my light and my heat. W.
Martin crouched beside his captives.
Fredo: "You've got what you came for, now get out. We won't tell anyone. We won't even report the money stolen. No fire. Please. No fire."
"What makes you think you know what I came for?"
"What is it then? Some fag-baiting thing?" Fredo couldn't avoid a quick sneer.
Martin grabbed Fredo by his shiny, black hair. "My wife was here last week. You insulted her."
"How? Who…look, I'm sorry. I don't even know your wife. There must be a way we can work this out. This is crazy." Martin unscrewed the cap from the jerry-can and watched Fredo's face tighten. Tears came. His voice gurgled. "Oh God, I'm sorry. Please, don't do this."
Leslie spoke to Martin for the first time, her voice calm. "It's too much, torching us." Martin looked at her, raised a brow. "Your wife, she'll think about how we died, the pain. It will spoil your gift," she said.
Martin rolled his eyes over her. She was smart. A beautiful and intelligent creature, his captive. "Never has before," he said and put the muzzle behind Leslie's ear.
Fredo moaned.
"I wasn't even here when you're wife came in," Leslie tried. "Why kill me?"
"I'm a romantic," he said. "Hate to separate lovers," but he brought the gun back to his side. It struck Martin that Leslie was erect, still excited. "There could be another way." She waited, unblinking. "My wife becomes a partner in the restaurant. Then your boyfriend would know to be polite and seat her."
Fredo recovered. "What? You think I'd just sign my business over to you?"
"Eventually, yes, but for now I was thinking a less formal arrangement. Say, every week I drop by for half the money. Gives us a chance to establish trust. Partners should get to know one another, their capabilities, before they get fixed into contracts, don't you think?"
Fredo sputtered.
"Say yes, baby," Leslie told him. "Say yes or he's going to burn us if you don't." But her eyes burnt through Martin.
"There you go. Just say 'yes.' We can start our arrangement right away. And to show my good faith…" Martin took the deposit money from his pocket, counted some out onto the prep table for Fredo and Leslie. "There's your half for this week."
"But…but, that's not half. The bag wasn't profit. There are expenses…"
"Expenses are your half," Martin said.
Fredo whined incredulous protest.
Leslie shushed him, her eyes still glued to Martin.
"Come over here, baby. Let me loose. We should get to know one another too. Celebrate the deal."
Martin stepped back. She's a pistol, he thought. If he'd seen her on the street, he wouldn't have taken her for anything but what she pretended to be.
"I can do things, whatever you want. Things you've never done. Things you've never even dreamed," Leslie offered.
She looked real to Martin. The face, heart-shaped, heavy, sexy make-up, and the body, slight and trim, you could hardly tell. A real pair, he could see that, the dress revealing deep cleavage. He listened to her talk, enjoyed the arrogant, youthful, assumptions she made as Fredo whimpered at her side. As his eyes descended her body Martin had thoughts, saw himself in ways he never had before. He inhaled the oiled-spice aroma that filled the room and remembered Wanda, the shampoo smell of her hair, what she would say if she knew what he was thinking right now.
He took two quick steps forward and put a bullet in Leslie's head. Fredo screamed and Martin fired a second shot to end the noise.
He stared at what he'd done. Watched as thickening, red fluid channeled into gaps between the shiny, white floor tiles. Tried to imagine the act undone, and weekly cash from the restaurant adding to his and Wanda's freedom. His hand shook as it rested his .45 on the steel table.
It was steadier when he took the gun up again and polished the table surface free of fingerprints with his elbow. He went to the bathroom for toilet paper, tore a length and wadded one end into the kitchen's toaster, trailed the other over Leslie and Fredo. He poured fuel over their bodies and around the room, set the toaster on dark, pushed down the lever and left
**********
In a dark corner of Valentin's, at the same side of a table that looked over the bay, Martin and Wanda celebrated their love.
Champagne bubbled in a glass amid a mess of wrapping paper, ribbon and the open boxes. "Roses and chocolates?" Wanda said.
"You don't like them?" Murky scotch lay flat in the bottom of Martin's tumbler. It was unusual for him to have three when they were out. "Not good enough?"
"I love them. It's just so unlike you, Martin. I'm surprised you didn't give me another restaurant."
"Well, tell the truth, the deal fell through so I had to come up with something different." He threw back his drink and looked around for a waiter. "Another place will come up, I'm sure, the way you and Suzanne get around."
Wanda laid thin, pink fingers on a cellophaned carton. "Chocolates and roses," she sighed.
Chifon
by John Swan
Chiffon was serialized in Prophile Magazine through the fall of 1998. The complete story is bound in a 16 page chapbook that is available by mailorder as a fundraiser for Alchemist Theatre.
"I see you in peach," Meg said.
One knee deep in the carpet pile, I was looking through my shelves of old records for a Ray Charles classic: Makin' Whoopie.
"Peach chiffon. What do you think?"
I'm near fifty, and wear size 3X. "I admire your imagination," I said.
"For the Ugly Bridesmaids' Fancy Dress Ball. A fundraiser for Alchemist Theatre. I'm on the board.
Right then she was on the sofa, her face behind some big-page fashion magazine. I ran an index finger along the second row of album covers, and stopped when I couldn't remember what I'd just read.
"I don't think there's enough peach chiffon in this town for the job."
She dropped the mag. "I'll sew something up. Seventy dollars a couple." She smiled. "I'm asking you to take me."
I rolled onto my butt, back against the rack. Though Meg was often on my mind, I'd never pictured her behind a sewing machine. But I'd learned to hide surprise when she revealed another talent.
"I'm to wear this in public?"
"The Ambassador Club in September." "You could have warned me you were in the arts when we met."
**********
The snug skirt on the dress Meg made had me mincing from the car-park. The Ambassador proved to be a gay bar just north of downtown, the kind of place we'd kept a cruiser watching nearby when I was on the force. Meg's theatre group had the banquet hall upstairs. She went white-tie with a pencil moustache, her long hair slicked back, banded and tucked down her collar. My topcoat couldn't contain all the chiffon. I scanned the street, hoping not to see someone in blue that I might know.
I didn't recognize anyone inside either, though Meg claimed the room was up to its wainscot in dignitaries: doctors, lawyers, lieutenants of industry. The men looked embarrassed; husbands forced by wives into frilly bibs, top hats and pastel tails. At least they wore suits. I'd have swapped a nut for one and thought it a bargain.
"John." Meg got my attention. "This is Queen Mebbe, your bride."
"Jesus," I said as my hand disappeared in his white gloved mitt.
He was six-six easy, in white lace and sequins that seemed to flow without end. Make-up gleamed out his white veil. Behind him, in trimmer versions of the dress grabbing up my butt, two likely lads strained to keep the long train of his gown off the floor.
"Kudos kiddo," he said, looking me over, toe to tiara.
I turned to Meg, mouthed "Kiddo?" Her smile broadened.
"Credit where it's due," Mebbe said. "You should be maid of honour."
Meg added, "We've places at head table," which was on risers at the back.
On it, the plastic couple atop a tiered cake ducked the rafters. Maybe I could hide back there.
"Make room for Meg's girlfriend," Mebbe instructed the entourage and I was ushered to a place on his train. "Give her at least three feet of tail. She looks good for it."
"So, who's the lucky guy?" I asked, but nobody troubled to reply.
When Meg's back turned, I snuck to the bar for a rye and soda, took it to the darkest, loneliest corner, and snarled at anyone who approached. The room flounced in ribbons, bows and balloons, monster bouquets either side of the cake, a flowered, lattice arch in the corner opposite. I wondered again who would be Mebbe's groom.
When Meg returned to his side, she took one of Mebbe's large hands and began to greet guests. What in hell? had just crept into my skull when a crash and yelp came from behind a door on my left. The schmooze-fest froze, all eyes my way, expectantly. Jesus, had she told everyone I'd been a cop? I sipped from my glass, waiting to see if any of them would make the first move, then put the drink down and rose to investigate.
Cases were stacked against hall walls. Some had tumbled, leaving a trail of half-empty, broken bottles down a set of back stairs. On the landing halfway down: a tall body in saddle-shoes; white socks; bare, hairy legs; poodle-skirt and pink, cashmere sweater. The fall would explain the skirt lifted above his waist, but not the frilled, red panties at half mast. A blond-curled wig lay empty beside his head, which was wedged under one arm at an unworkable angle. Party guests gathered at the top landing, Mebbe up front. A lavender suit pushed through, calling himself doctor. Another emerged from behind Mebbe's flowing skirts and raced down to scrub mascara from the corpse's staring eyes.
The doctor pushed him away. "What in hell are you're doing?"
"He can't be found like this," the man whispered hoarsely. "Don't you see? It's Mayor Bob."
Mebbe descended for a closer look, then lowered the poodle-skirt over the mayor's milky thighs. "My! Such an enormous loss to the community."
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