I didn't get much sleep right before I left Albany; I was too keyed up and my thoughts raced all night. Have you ever had one of those times where no matter what direction you went, it wasn't right? Yeah, that's where I was all night. No matter how many times I rolled over or swapped pillows, trying to get the cool side, I'd lay there and think of what's happened.
I know I said I don't do outcomes, but the past few days have made me mental. No way out.
Finally, after getting something to eat at the pinnacle of breakfast cuisine, Burger King, I looked again at the map and made up my mind to go south; get out of the northeast and get some miles between me and; and what? I didn't know. I just had to do something; to move; to look like I was doing something constructive.
There was no more news about Varden, so I didn't have any idea whether my name was attached to the case or not, but after my telephone call... I just didn't know where I stood.
I've always been able to think better when I'm driving long distances, although I have auto-hypochondria; that's when you are in a car for a long time and you rub your neck and think you've found a lump; it's gotta be cancer!
Anyway. I was able to get past Washington, D.C. before my eyes burned and the car kept going towards the edge of the road. The sound of the tires hitting the edge, where there are some speed strips to warn you, popped me back to consciousness. Most of the motels along I-95 were not what I wanted; they asked for too much information and usually wanted the car's license tag. So, I took an exit near Richmond and drove towards town to find a little hole-in-the-wall Mom-and-Pop motel; the ones left over from pre-interstate.
Finally found a place some people would call "quaint", but I call old and never re-decorated. Smelled that way, too; camphor smell from the moth repellent. Too tired to care, I grabbed a small bag out of the car and undressed to my boxers; fell into bed and my eyes closed immediately. Immediately, that is, until I heard an argument and noise from the next room.
Besides the loud screaming, someone was throwing things at the wall separating me from my sleep. While I couldn't quite make out everything being said, it was loud enough to keep me from sleeping, even with the pillow over my ears.
The minutes dragged on until my neighbors decided to take their discussion outside, in front of my door. Enough! I opened the door and saw some scrawny guy throw his fist at a woman and hit her in the face. The next time he drew his hand back to hit her again, I stepped between them.
We just stared at each other for a few seconds until he said, "Fuck it! You can have her," and got in his car and left. I looked behind me and the woman looked terrible; black-eye, bloody noise, running mascara; and bruises.
I grabbed her arm and took her inside my room; no resistance at all.
"Sit down," I said and pushed her towards the foot of the bed.
I soaked a washcloth, stood in front of her, grabbed her chin and wiped her face. Tears started dropping from her eyes.
"What's going on?" I asked. She said nothing.
"You have somewhere to go?" Nothing. She just sat there.
"You can have that bed," I said pointing to one still untouched. "I'm going back to bed."
That was somewhere around 0-dark-thirty. I never saw the time. When I awoke, light was trying to creep around the curtains and Miss Messy-Face still sat at the end of the bed, The tears had stopped.
"Thank you," she said.
"What now?"
"I dunno. That was my husband last night and we're done. I have nowhere to go."
"We'll talk more after breakfast," I said. "Why don't you wash up."
An hour later, I was showered and at a Denny's with a little fresher companion. The waitress made some comment about her leaving me after she saw the bruises and black eye.
"You can call me Mack."
"I'm Kate."
"Okay, Kate. What now? Can I drop you some place? You have someone to stay with?"
"Not anymore. We were just moving to Richmond when he told me he had someone else. She's here, somewhere in Virginia, and that's that."
"Where you from?"
"Wisconsin. Milwaukee, Wisconsin. No one there either."
"I'll give you some money for bus fare. Where do you want to go?"
Kat looked straight at me, then down and the tears started flowing again.
"Okay, okay. You can ride with me a while until we get this figured out."
We ate breakfast and decided we go south together until she thought of somewhere she'd rather be. On the way back to I-95, we stopped at a Wal-Mart so Kate could get a few clothes and personal items. She changed when we got gas and, once on the road, fell sound asleep.
Two wanderers on the road. If this were still college, it would be an adventure. Now, it's still an adventure; a different kind. In college you didn't worry about the future; you felt safe no matter what. That's different now.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Time to get out of Dodge...
In the last couple of days, I've managed to get to the bank in Albany and withdraw most all of the cash from the safety deposit box. There is a few thousand left in there, just for emergencies, but the rest is with me.
A cab took me from downtown, which really isn't that large, past a few used car lots. I wanted something I could pay cash for without alarming anyone, especially the IRS. So, I had an arbitrary limit of $5,000, which shouldn't ring any bells.
I found an older Chevy Impala, with only 75,000 miles on it; paid cash and drove it off the lot. The IDs I gave the dealership were false, a rush job, but the people in the dealership didn't question anything. With the economy in the dumper, all they cared about was the cash. I was happy to give a semi-spirited negotiation as to the price, but caved easily. I just wanted to make sure they were ready to close everything and let me drive out of there.
Although I have a temporary plate on the car, I'll either ditch it somewhere or steal a plate off another car. For today, at least, nothing to worry over. Just down the block from where I got the car, I dropped into a convenience store to fill the tank, grab something to eat and get a map of the east coast.
Getting out of Albany is easy, just jump on I-90 going east towards Boston where I plan to catch I-95 south. I got until Key West to make up my mind where to stop for a while. Once on the road, and still in Albany, I used a new pre-paid cell phone to call my benefactor's number. Although he had called me a few days ago, he failed to disguise the Caller ID, which showed on the cell's display. I have a good memory.
"Hello?"
"I want my 20k."
"Ah, Mr. Stevens. I didn't think I would hear from you again. Did you like my little present?"
"No. Not one bit. It was cruel and completely unnecessary, but more than anything else, it was obscene."
"Oh, I think it was necessary, Mr. Stevens. And, as far as the rest, call it what you want."
"Why? What possible reason could you have to do that to someone?"
"I wanted to get your attention and it worked, didn't it? It's important for you to understand I know who you are and can use that information for my security. As of now, you're not tied to Varden, unless you were stupid and I don't think you are. But, if we can't get along..."
"What do you want?" What is it you want me to do?"
"Nothing yet, but I'll have an assignment in due time. Just plan on calling me in a week or so at this number."
"What if I give your number to the police?"
"Go ahead. The number is re-routed so many times, it's impossible to locate and, it's not through the telephone company. It's Voice Over IP, an Internet number. In the mean time, make yourself comfortable and call me back next week. I'll tell you where you can pick up your money at that time."
The line went dead.
I pressed the end key to terminate the connection, wiped the phone thoroughly and disposed of it before getting too far down the road. Isn't this a pile of shit. I'm caught in a trap I helped create; wanting just to get out of everyone's life, even my own, and a voice, belonging to someone I don't know, has too much information about me. Like I said before, I'm royally fucked.
I had to force myself to slow the car under the speed limit and not pass other cars like an idiot. That's a sure way to get someone's attention and by someone, I meant police. Up until I went to Varden's house, I was in complete control, or so I thought. All I had to do was complete that one job and disappear again. Now, where was I? I'll tell you where I am. I'm the fucking target; I'm a fucking puppet.
I'm heading south. Instead of taking I-90 towards Boston, I'm going to cut over to I-87 and go south, past New York. Time to get out of Dodge...
A cab took me from downtown, which really isn't that large, past a few used car lots. I wanted something I could pay cash for without alarming anyone, especially the IRS. So, I had an arbitrary limit of $5,000, which shouldn't ring any bells.
I found an older Chevy Impala, with only 75,000 miles on it; paid cash and drove it off the lot. The IDs I gave the dealership were false, a rush job, but the people in the dealership didn't question anything. With the economy in the dumper, all they cared about was the cash. I was happy to give a semi-spirited negotiation as to the price, but caved easily. I just wanted to make sure they were ready to close everything and let me drive out of there.
Although I have a temporary plate on the car, I'll either ditch it somewhere or steal a plate off another car. For today, at least, nothing to worry over. Just down the block from where I got the car, I dropped into a convenience store to fill the tank, grab something to eat and get a map of the east coast.
Getting out of Albany is easy, just jump on I-90 going east towards Boston where I plan to catch I-95 south. I got until Key West to make up my mind where to stop for a while. Once on the road, and still in Albany, I used a new pre-paid cell phone to call my benefactor's number. Although he had called me a few days ago, he failed to disguise the Caller ID, which showed on the cell's display. I have a good memory.
"Hello?"
"I want my 20k."
"Ah, Mr. Stevens. I didn't think I would hear from you again. Did you like my little present?"
"No. Not one bit. It was cruel and completely unnecessary, but more than anything else, it was obscene."
"Oh, I think it was necessary, Mr. Stevens. And, as far as the rest, call it what you want."
"Why? What possible reason could you have to do that to someone?"
"I wanted to get your attention and it worked, didn't it? It's important for you to understand I know who you are and can use that information for my security. As of now, you're not tied to Varden, unless you were stupid and I don't think you are. But, if we can't get along..."
"What do you want?" What is it you want me to do?"
"Nothing yet, but I'll have an assignment in due time. Just plan on calling me in a week or so at this number."
"What if I give your number to the police?"
"Go ahead. The number is re-routed so many times, it's impossible to locate and, it's not through the telephone company. It's Voice Over IP, an Internet number. In the mean time, make yourself comfortable and call me back next week. I'll tell you where you can pick up your money at that time."
The line went dead.
I pressed the end key to terminate the connection, wiped the phone thoroughly and disposed of it before getting too far down the road. Isn't this a pile of shit. I'm caught in a trap I helped create; wanting just to get out of everyone's life, even my own, and a voice, belonging to someone I don't know, has too much information about me. Like I said before, I'm royally fucked.
I had to force myself to slow the car under the speed limit and not pass other cars like an idiot. That's a sure way to get someone's attention and by someone, I meant police. Up until I went to Varden's house, I was in complete control, or so I thought. All I had to do was complete that one job and disappear again. Now, where was I? I'll tell you where I am. I'm the fucking target; I'm a fucking puppet.
I'm heading south. Instead of taking I-90 towards Boston, I'm going to cut over to I-87 and go south, past New York. Time to get out of Dodge...
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Like Sand Through My Hands
Like most people, when I check into a hotel room, I turn on the television and channel surf. I wanted to see if there was any news about Varden, so I turned to one of the local Albany channels; news only and then lay down on the bed.
I must have drifted off, because I remember waking to an adrenalin burst upon hearing Varden's name mentioned by one of the news presenters. Unfortunately, it was at the end of the broadcast for the rotation; a promo of a story to come later; I'd have to wait.
The cold water I splashed on my face, in the hopes of making me more alert, almost worked. I took the towel back into the room and sat on the bed to wait; it didn't take long.
"Local dignitary, Thomas Varden, was killed last night at his Hudson home. Varden served on the school board, city council and was Mayor of Hudson from 1984 to 1988. He was well liked by the community and is survived by two sons, both now living in Pittsburgh, and seven grandchildren.
The police are only saying he was killed last night in his home. As yet, they are releasing few details and have no suspects. A news conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10:00."
Time to get out of here, I thought, before this blows up further. Whoever targeted me and killed Varden may be up to something else and I don't want to wait around and see. I had money stashed in Albany and getting it was first on my list. Then leave this area.
Without knowing whether the police are looking for me, I can't take any chances flying, train or bus. I thought this through while in the shower and decided to get a used car; not from a retail dealer; private sale only.
So, my plans are to go back into Albany and get to the bank where I have a safety deposit box; the library to use their computers and get on the road again. I'm hoping to find someone selling a decent road car through the classifieds or Craig's List.
I also decided not to shave and grow a beard as a partial disguise. A couple of day's growth, with my thick stubble and I'll have the beginnings. I'll shape it later.
When I get the car, I'll decide what direction to travel. What's the most important, however, is I can't do this forever. I have to find whoever did this to me and why.
I must have drifted off, because I remember waking to an adrenalin burst upon hearing Varden's name mentioned by one of the news presenters. Unfortunately, it was at the end of the broadcast for the rotation; a promo of a story to come later; I'd have to wait.
The cold water I splashed on my face, in the hopes of making me more alert, almost worked. I took the towel back into the room and sat on the bed to wait; it didn't take long.
"Local dignitary, Thomas Varden, was killed last night at his Hudson home. Varden served on the school board, city council and was Mayor of Hudson from 1984 to 1988. He was well liked by the community and is survived by two sons, both now living in Pittsburgh, and seven grandchildren.
The police are only saying he was killed last night in his home. As yet, they are releasing few details and have no suspects. A news conference is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 10:00."
Time to get out of here, I thought, before this blows up further. Whoever targeted me and killed Varden may be up to something else and I don't want to wait around and see. I had money stashed in Albany and getting it was first on my list. Then leave this area.
Without knowing whether the police are looking for me, I can't take any chances flying, train or bus. I thought this through while in the shower and decided to get a used car; not from a retail dealer; private sale only.
So, my plans are to go back into Albany and get to the bank where I have a safety deposit box; the library to use their computers and get on the road again. I'm hoping to find someone selling a decent road car through the classifieds or Craig's List.
I also decided not to shave and grow a beard as a partial disguise. A couple of day's growth, with my thick stubble and I'll have the beginnings. I'll shape it later.
When I get the car, I'll decide what direction to travel. What's the most important, however, is I can't do this forever. I have to find whoever did this to me and why.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Questions, But No Answers
So, here I sit, in a hotel room in upstate New York. I don't know whether to move on to some other area of the country or stay here. I want to hide, pull the covers over my head and sleep, but I'm too agitated for that.
The paper I picked up in Varden's bedroom had my real name on it; nothing else; but it was enough. The old man was dead long before I came into his life, much less to his bedside. Whoever cut him open did it as a message to me; told me I'm the prey. Varden was the hook to set me up and I bit on that hook; all the way.
After I folded the paper and put it in my pocket, I wanted to get away from there as quickly as I could and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped. Clearly, leaving my name there was a message, if not for me, for the cops. What else was there?
I turned around, went back up the steps and back into the bedroom. I started there. Inside my coat, in the breast pocket, I had a package of wipes, the kind with bleach. Even though I had gloves, I wiped down every square inch of anything I came near; the bed, the table; the floor. All of it. I put the used wipes in my pocket.
I wiped down the stairs and the handrails after looking into each of the rooms on the second floor. If the paper with my name was planted, what else was there? Would I even know what to look for? I figured anything I did was better than doing nothing at all. So I checked.
Dawn started to break around 5:00am and I had to leave before it got much brighter and someone saw me leaving Varden's house. I left by the back door; relaxed my breathing as I walked around the side of the house and waited to see if anything was moving. Nothing. I went around the block the opposite way I came to the house and walked back towards the train station. Besides a dog barking at me, I think no one else noticed until I got down to the station.
A 9:18 train brought me to Albany's Rensselaer station half an hour later. I bought a local map at the newsstand, a cup of black coffee at the Beanery and sat down, like I was waiting for a train.
A cab took me to downtown Albany and I walked the streets for a few hours, just thinking to myself and going back over the last few days. My nervous energy kept me going for a while and then fatigue settled in. I got on the first bus I found, which took me to Schodack about eight miles outside Albany. Along the way, I saw a couple motels go by, stepped up to the front door of the bus and asked the driver to let me out.
Across the street from the bus stop were a few stores and a fast food place. I bought a change of clothes, grabbed some burgers and walked back to one of the motels. My head still aches trying to understand what's happening to me and I can't sleep.
How did I get into this and how do I get out? I need to get out of New York, but to where? My head has been doing this all morning; asking the same questions over and over.
The paper I picked up in Varden's bedroom had my real name on it; nothing else; but it was enough. The old man was dead long before I came into his life, much less to his bedside. Whoever cut him open did it as a message to me; told me I'm the prey. Varden was the hook to set me up and I bit on that hook; all the way.
After I folded the paper and put it in my pocket, I wanted to get away from there as quickly as I could and started down the stairs. Halfway down, I stopped. Clearly, leaving my name there was a message, if not for me, for the cops. What else was there?
I turned around, went back up the steps and back into the bedroom. I started there. Inside my coat, in the breast pocket, I had a package of wipes, the kind with bleach. Even though I had gloves, I wiped down every square inch of anything I came near; the bed, the table; the floor. All of it. I put the used wipes in my pocket.
I wiped down the stairs and the handrails after looking into each of the rooms on the second floor. If the paper with my name was planted, what else was there? Would I even know what to look for? I figured anything I did was better than doing nothing at all. So I checked.
Dawn started to break around 5:00am and I had to leave before it got much brighter and someone saw me leaving Varden's house. I left by the back door; relaxed my breathing as I walked around the side of the house and waited to see if anything was moving. Nothing. I went around the block the opposite way I came to the house and walked back towards the train station. Besides a dog barking at me, I think no one else noticed until I got down to the station.
A 9:18 train brought me to Albany's Rensselaer station half an hour later. I bought a local map at the newsstand, a cup of black coffee at the Beanery and sat down, like I was waiting for a train.
A cab took me to downtown Albany and I walked the streets for a few hours, just thinking to myself and going back over the last few days. My nervous energy kept me going for a while and then fatigue settled in. I got on the first bus I found, which took me to Schodack about eight miles outside Albany. Along the way, I saw a couple motels go by, stepped up to the front door of the bus and asked the driver to let me out.
Across the street from the bus stop were a few stores and a fast food place. I bought a change of clothes, grabbed some burgers and walked back to one of the motels. My head still aches trying to understand what's happening to me and I can't sleep.
How did I get into this and how do I get out? I need to get out of New York, but to where? My head has been doing this all morning; asking the same questions over and over.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
In the Dead of Night
I've been set up! Royally fucked is more like it.
Accepting a contract is not exactly like getting a job. I can't check my employer's references or see how they are rated by Dun & Bradstreet. But still... honor among thieves and all that.
I'm in a small motel up the road a piece from Hudson, near Albany, New York. Some place called Schodack; never heard of the place; it's Nowheresville, USA, which is good for the time being. After last night, I need to keep low and stay under the radar and try and determine what to do next. Frankly, I'm scared shitless.
The train up to Hudson, yesterday, was uneventful. It rides along the Hudson river and, after you get out of the urban areas, is quite pretty. I just sat there, looking out the window and watched the vista sweep by and saw a beautiful sunset.
Once I got to Hudson, I got some dinner at some joint near the train station and walked to the address I was given. Just a regular house, like you see up in the northeast; front porch, looking out over a small lawn; nicely kept. I walked on by, mentally cased the house, and kept walking for another few blocks.
There were just a few lights on in the house; something small downstairs and it looked like a bathroom upstairs; everything else was dark. My plan was to make certain I could get to the house without being noticed and use the back door for my entry. All I wanted to do was sneak inside, find Thomas Varden and give him the drug cocktail I had in my pocket. If I could get to him while he was sleeping, he'd never wake up. If he did feel the needle and woke up, he wouldn't be conscious long.
I waited down the road, walking around a few more blocks, found an empty house for sale and went inside to kill some time. Near 1:00am, I left, found my way back, no one else on the street, which is what I hoped and few lights anywhere.
The back of the house was quite dark and I waited until I could see where the door was. While waiting, I pulled on the surgical gloves I bought earlier. These old doors didn't lock well and, if you used a credit card, you could work it in the crack of the door and push it open. There were two doors; I don't know why I expected one; but I forgot, here in the north, there is usually a storm door and then the real door.
The storm door opened outward; unlocked. I got a phone card out of my pocket, which is like a credit card, but anonymous. I don't carry any identifying information anymore. Cash works most anywhere, so I can get by without any bank cards.
I put the phone card into the slot between the door and the jam and started to work it down towards the lock. As I did, I had my right hand on the doorknob; getting ready to push it, but it turned. This door was also unlocked. Unusual, but it didn't alarm me. Some people forget to lock everything before they go to bed.
Inside, the kitchen was dark, except for the little bit of light coming in through the windows. It wasn't much, but I could see if there was anything blocking my path. The other rooms downstairs had the usual, old, musty smelling furniture. No Varden downstairs.
The stairway was lit from the bathroom, which I could see at the top of the stairs. I slowly stepped on each stair, near the outside, to keep any creaking to a minimum. At the top, I could feel my heart beating in quick-time and, from nearby, I could hear someone breathing, like they had a cold. Before following the breathing, I checked the other rooms; two more; both bedrooms; both empty.
After a deep breath, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the cigar coffin, opened it almost all the way, and took out a syringe. It didn't matter which one, they all had the same thing in them; full of heroin. I didn't know how much a usual dose of heroin was, so I filled the syringes with as much as I could. I'd give Varden at least two, if not more.
Slowly, I walked towards the room where I heard the breathing; labored breathing. The door was almost closed, so I pushed it with my shoulder and walked in. The bed was to my right. I stood next to the bed and listened; just the breathing; in and out; in and out.
I bent over and felt for his arm, but I wanted to be absolutely certain it was Varden. Next to me, on the bedside table, was a lamp. I felt for the switch; found it; turned it on.
Even now it's difficult to describe what I saw. On the bed was an emaciated, older man, connected to an I.V. As soon as the light came on, he looked at me; he was awake; but he was also in bad way.
He had been opened, from his pubic area to his chest and was bleeding out. The skin had been pulled back, exposing his intestines, which were partly outside his abdomen. Two skinny legs splayed towards each lower corner of the bed and tied with rope to keep them open. His arms were by his side, not moving. I looked to his face and saw his throat open, like his body. The breathing came from there, not his mouth or nose.
His eyes still focused; focused on me; on my eyes. I held up one of the syringes to where he could see it and he blinked a conscious, slow blink. He knew what it was and what I was about to do. It was a signal telling me he was ready.
I walked closer to the I.V.; looked back down at him and he blinked again; a slow blink. Seconds later, his eyes closed for the last time. I used six syringes on him, not because he needed it; I did.
I hadn't noticed before, but there was a folded sheet of paper on the night stand. The real shock was it had my name on it; not Fred Smith; Mackenzie Stevens; my birth name.
Accepting a contract is not exactly like getting a job. I can't check my employer's references or see how they are rated by Dun & Bradstreet. But still... honor among thieves and all that.
I'm in a small motel up the road a piece from Hudson, near Albany, New York. Some place called Schodack; never heard of the place; it's Nowheresville, USA, which is good for the time being. After last night, I need to keep low and stay under the radar and try and determine what to do next. Frankly, I'm scared shitless.
The train up to Hudson, yesterday, was uneventful. It rides along the Hudson river and, after you get out of the urban areas, is quite pretty. I just sat there, looking out the window and watched the vista sweep by and saw a beautiful sunset.
Once I got to Hudson, I got some dinner at some joint near the train station and walked to the address I was given. Just a regular house, like you see up in the northeast; front porch, looking out over a small lawn; nicely kept. I walked on by, mentally cased the house, and kept walking for another few blocks.
There were just a few lights on in the house; something small downstairs and it looked like a bathroom upstairs; everything else was dark. My plan was to make certain I could get to the house without being noticed and use the back door for my entry. All I wanted to do was sneak inside, find Thomas Varden and give him the drug cocktail I had in my pocket. If I could get to him while he was sleeping, he'd never wake up. If he did feel the needle and woke up, he wouldn't be conscious long.
I waited down the road, walking around a few more blocks, found an empty house for sale and went inside to kill some time. Near 1:00am, I left, found my way back, no one else on the street, which is what I hoped and few lights anywhere.
The back of the house was quite dark and I waited until I could see where the door was. While waiting, I pulled on the surgical gloves I bought earlier. These old doors didn't lock well and, if you used a credit card, you could work it in the crack of the door and push it open. There were two doors; I don't know why I expected one; but I forgot, here in the north, there is usually a storm door and then the real door.
The storm door opened outward; unlocked. I got a phone card out of my pocket, which is like a credit card, but anonymous. I don't carry any identifying information anymore. Cash works most anywhere, so I can get by without any bank cards.
I put the phone card into the slot between the door and the jam and started to work it down towards the lock. As I did, I had my right hand on the doorknob; getting ready to push it, but it turned. This door was also unlocked. Unusual, but it didn't alarm me. Some people forget to lock everything before they go to bed.
Inside, the kitchen was dark, except for the little bit of light coming in through the windows. It wasn't much, but I could see if there was anything blocking my path. The other rooms downstairs had the usual, old, musty smelling furniture. No Varden downstairs.
The stairway was lit from the bathroom, which I could see at the top of the stairs. I slowly stepped on each stair, near the outside, to keep any creaking to a minimum. At the top, I could feel my heart beating in quick-time and, from nearby, I could hear someone breathing, like they had a cold. Before following the breathing, I checked the other rooms; two more; both bedrooms; both empty.
After a deep breath, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the cigar coffin, opened it almost all the way, and took out a syringe. It didn't matter which one, they all had the same thing in them; full of heroin. I didn't know how much a usual dose of heroin was, so I filled the syringes with as much as I could. I'd give Varden at least two, if not more.
Slowly, I walked towards the room where I heard the breathing; labored breathing. The door was almost closed, so I pushed it with my shoulder and walked in. The bed was to my right. I stood next to the bed and listened; just the breathing; in and out; in and out.
I bent over and felt for his arm, but I wanted to be absolutely certain it was Varden. Next to me, on the bedside table, was a lamp. I felt for the switch; found it; turned it on.
Even now it's difficult to describe what I saw. On the bed was an emaciated, older man, connected to an I.V. As soon as the light came on, he looked at me; he was awake; but he was also in bad way.
He had been opened, from his pubic area to his chest and was bleeding out. The skin had been pulled back, exposing his intestines, which were partly outside his abdomen. Two skinny legs splayed towards each lower corner of the bed and tied with rope to keep them open. His arms were by his side, not moving. I looked to his face and saw his throat open, like his body. The breathing came from there, not his mouth or nose.
His eyes still focused; focused on me; on my eyes. I held up one of the syringes to where he could see it and he blinked a conscious, slow blink. He knew what it was and what I was about to do. It was a signal telling me he was ready.
I walked closer to the I.V.; looked back down at him and he blinked again; a slow blink. Seconds later, his eyes closed for the last time. I used six syringes on him, not because he needed it; I did.
I hadn't noticed before, but there was a folded sheet of paper on the night stand. The real shock was it had my name on it; not Fred Smith; Mackenzie Stevens; my birth name.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Adventure Beckons
This is a an almost perfect setup. Me, someone outside of society and living by myself; no friends or family. Fred has no background, no history and no ambition, beyond the immediate. As long as I can keep me off the radar, I should be able to do this. By off the radar, I mean not losing sight of being careful and don't leave fingerprints or DNA.
That's why I picked up the used syringes with the box and not my hands; besides not wanting to stick myself. Once I use and discard them, all that is left is my target's DNA and the fingerprints and biologicals of whoever used the syringes before I acquired them. Quite safe, so far.
My initial plan now is to score a few doses of heroin or some type of phenobarbital. I could go back to where I found the syringes, but I don't want to show a 'new" face twice. I don't want to be carrying the stuff around with me either; it's a one off for this job. I figured a large dose of a soporific is an easy way to take care of my cancer victim.
I checked in on the drop and there was but one message, just my target's name and address; up the road a piece in Hudson, New York; about an hour and a half or two up the road. Funny how this is all coming together... Hudson is right on the other side of the river from the Catskills, right where Rip van Winkle took his long nap.
Tomorrow, I travel. I'll take the 7:15pm Amtrak train up and two hours later, I'll be in Hudson. A short cab ride and I should be near the house before 10:00. Good. That allows me enough time to take care of business and catch the 6:45am train back the next morning.
Tonight, I just need to go out and buy some dope.
I've been running this whole thing back and forth in my mind. It's a puzzle; that's all; a puzzle. Something with a solution. How to kill a person and get clean away. That is the intriguing element; the penultimate teaser with an 'A' or 'F' outcome; pass or fail; do it or get caught.
My life now is nothing more than living my future as it is today. I tried the marriage thing and a nose-to-the-grindstone job, which were like taking one step in front of another, day after day. Where does it lead? I know where it leads and I don't want to go there. It's not my thing; but, what is my thing?
What's that line from "Me and Bobby McGee?"
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,..."
I got nothing left; nowhere to go that I haven't been, in one way or another. Certainly, I was prepared to live in a cheap flop-house for as long as it took or as long as I wanted. There was nothing to go back to, anymore.
This, then, was a way out; one way or another. If I got caught, I have nothing more than what I have now. If I didn't, I have adventure.
Tomorrow starts the adventure...
That's why I picked up the used syringes with the box and not my hands; besides not wanting to stick myself. Once I use and discard them, all that is left is my target's DNA and the fingerprints and biologicals of whoever used the syringes before I acquired them. Quite safe, so far.
My initial plan now is to score a few doses of heroin or some type of phenobarbital. I could go back to where I found the syringes, but I don't want to show a 'new" face twice. I don't want to be carrying the stuff around with me either; it's a one off for this job. I figured a large dose of a soporific is an easy way to take care of my cancer victim.
I checked in on the drop and there was but one message, just my target's name and address; up the road a piece in Hudson, New York; about an hour and a half or two up the road. Funny how this is all coming together... Hudson is right on the other side of the river from the Catskills, right where Rip van Winkle took his long nap.
Tomorrow, I travel. I'll take the 7:15pm Amtrak train up and two hours later, I'll be in Hudson. A short cab ride and I should be near the house before 10:00. Good. That allows me enough time to take care of business and catch the 6:45am train back the next morning.
Tonight, I just need to go out and buy some dope.
I've been running this whole thing back and forth in my mind. It's a puzzle; that's all; a puzzle. Something with a solution. How to kill a person and get clean away. That is the intriguing element; the penultimate teaser with an 'A' or 'F' outcome; pass or fail; do it or get caught.
My life now is nothing more than living my future as it is today. I tried the marriage thing and a nose-to-the-grindstone job, which were like taking one step in front of another, day after day. Where does it lead? I know where it leads and I don't want to go there. It's not my thing; but, what is my thing?
What's that line from "Me and Bobby McGee?"
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose,..."
I got nothing left; nowhere to go that I haven't been, in one way or another. Certainly, I was prepared to live in a cheap flop-house for as long as it took or as long as I wanted. There was nothing to go back to, anymore.
This, then, was a way out; one way or another. If I got caught, I have nothing more than what I have now. If I didn't, I have adventure.
Tomorrow starts the adventure...
Monday, May 25, 2009
Getting Set Up
I said "yes" without reservation; somewhat out of compassion. After watching my grandmother and a friend die from pancreatic cancer, I had no reservations concerning euthanasia. Pancreatic cancer has no cure and few escape the final, painful outcome. While some states, such as Oregon, now have a Death with Dignity law, that wasn't true in this case.
It doesn't matter much to me which states have it or not. When my time comes, I'll find a way to take care of myself, if I'm able.
High school was a fruitful time for me. I reconnected with Bob-the-Boss, but in a different way than previous years. I had pocket money in high school, I earned by mowing lawns and selling answers to tests. But, the most I made happened by chance, when a kid in the school came to me and asked to borrow $20.00 for a date. I gave him two weeks to pay it back. After a few weeks, I caught up with him in the hall and asked for my money. He refused. Bad choice.
While I was planning how to get my money, Bob approached me after school. He had both hands out in front of him with the palms towards me and he was smiling. "Hey, bud," he said. "Can I talk to you a minute?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Can you lend me five bucks for gas? I'm broke and payday is Friday"
"Where ya working?" I asked as I peeled a five from the bills in my pocket. At the same time, I had an idea. "You can keep it," I said to Bob as I handed it to him. "I just need a favor."
"What's that?"
"Someone owes me twenty and hasn't..."
"Just tell me his name."
I told Bob who the kid was and also said to get $25.00 back instead of twenty. I don't know what Bob said or did, but I got the money that afternoon. After that, Bob became my enforcer and I was in the money business.
After high school, bob joined the army and I was on my own. By the time I dropped out of college, I had paid my tuition and expenses by offering quiet, short-term loans and had built a healthy cash reserve, stashed in a couple of safety deposit boxes around the northeast. That's why I could walk out on Debbie without worries and also why legal matters meant little to me. I had grown up skirting the law on quite a few issues. Never been busted.
I spent most of the morning, after accepting the euthanasia contract, setting up dead drops for email, where my new benefactor and I could trade information. It's fairly easy to do, if you follow some rules. Both of us can create messages and leave them as drafts; don't send it anywhere. To make it work, log on, read the draft and delete it. No emails come from or go to any account. There are no RFC-822 headers, which are used to trace email.
The header data, of an email, shows every part of a route an email takes to get from its origin to the destination, as it hops from one server to another, but, since our messages are never sent, there is no header, no hops, no destination. I set up a random routing between a dozen or so of these drops so, if one were compromised, for any reason, I had alternatives. Also, I could reach these from any place on the world using Internet cafes, which I used to create these and are available in most countries.
While out, I purchased some clothing, including a suit and tie, and also a travel valise. One final act with the phone was to call a contact number and leave the first login instructions as a voice message. I'd either drop that node from my drops or change the login information later.
To be safe, I broke the phone in a dozen pieces and dropped each piece in a different location. Of course, I wiped the phone down before disposing of it. Can't be too careful!
At noon, I went into the store and told my boss I was resigning, but would work through the day, but he told me it wasn't necessary, gave me some cash, and wished me luck. That was that.
When evening came, I finished a good dinner, at a small Turkish restaurant, and thought I would take a walk; I really had an idea I wanted to pursue. Down the street, on my way back to my hotel, was a cigar shop and I knew I'd find what I need there. After looking for a few minutes, I bought a single cigar, a Rocky Patel, but not to smoke.
After leaving the cigar shop, I opened the wooden coffin, which is the packaging for this brand, and was ready to just ditch the cigar, when I noticed an older man, sitting in a chair and leaning back against the brick wall. What I really saw was the end of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. As I passed, I offered the Rocky Patel. He looked up at me, I just nodded, he took it.
I don't smoke cigarettes or cigars, but the wooden coffin packaging is what I really wanted.
Around midnight, I left my room and walked a mile or two, where I hoped I would find what I really wanted and was not disappointed. This area is known to be a hangout for drug dealers and prostitutes and hidden, way down an ally, is an old tenement, which I guessed to be a shooting gallery, where the addicts go to get their fix.
No one challenged me when I walked inside and, after waiting a moment to let my eyes adjust, I started looking. It didn't take me long, maybe five minutes. In one of the corners I found about a half dozen discarded syringes. I used the sliding top of the cigar package to nurse three of four of these used syringes inside and then closed the box.
A good productive day. Tomorrow, I'd get the name and address of my quarry and start making plans.
It doesn't matter much to me which states have it or not. When my time comes, I'll find a way to take care of myself, if I'm able.
High school was a fruitful time for me. I reconnected with Bob-the-Boss, but in a different way than previous years. I had pocket money in high school, I earned by mowing lawns and selling answers to tests. But, the most I made happened by chance, when a kid in the school came to me and asked to borrow $20.00 for a date. I gave him two weeks to pay it back. After a few weeks, I caught up with him in the hall and asked for my money. He refused. Bad choice.
While I was planning how to get my money, Bob approached me after school. He had both hands out in front of him with the palms towards me and he was smiling. "Hey, bud," he said. "Can I talk to you a minute?"
"Yeah, sure."
"Can you lend me five bucks for gas? I'm broke and payday is Friday"
"Where ya working?" I asked as I peeled a five from the bills in my pocket. At the same time, I had an idea. "You can keep it," I said to Bob as I handed it to him. "I just need a favor."
"What's that?"
"Someone owes me twenty and hasn't..."
"Just tell me his name."
I told Bob who the kid was and also said to get $25.00 back instead of twenty. I don't know what Bob said or did, but I got the money that afternoon. After that, Bob became my enforcer and I was in the money business.
After high school, bob joined the army and I was on my own. By the time I dropped out of college, I had paid my tuition and expenses by offering quiet, short-term loans and had built a healthy cash reserve, stashed in a couple of safety deposit boxes around the northeast. That's why I could walk out on Debbie without worries and also why legal matters meant little to me. I had grown up skirting the law on quite a few issues. Never been busted.
I spent most of the morning, after accepting the euthanasia contract, setting up dead drops for email, where my new benefactor and I could trade information. It's fairly easy to do, if you follow some rules. Both of us can create messages and leave them as drafts; don't send it anywhere. To make it work, log on, read the draft and delete it. No emails come from or go to any account. There are no RFC-822 headers, which are used to trace email.
The header data, of an email, shows every part of a route an email takes to get from its origin to the destination, as it hops from one server to another, but, since our messages are never sent, there is no header, no hops, no destination. I set up a random routing between a dozen or so of these drops so, if one were compromised, for any reason, I had alternatives. Also, I could reach these from any place on the world using Internet cafes, which I used to create these and are available in most countries.
While out, I purchased some clothing, including a suit and tie, and also a travel valise. One final act with the phone was to call a contact number and leave the first login instructions as a voice message. I'd either drop that node from my drops or change the login information later.
To be safe, I broke the phone in a dozen pieces and dropped each piece in a different location. Of course, I wiped the phone down before disposing of it. Can't be too careful!
At noon, I went into the store and told my boss I was resigning, but would work through the day, but he told me it wasn't necessary, gave me some cash, and wished me luck. That was that.
When evening came, I finished a good dinner, at a small Turkish restaurant, and thought I would take a walk; I really had an idea I wanted to pursue. Down the street, on my way back to my hotel, was a cigar shop and I knew I'd find what I need there. After looking for a few minutes, I bought a single cigar, a Rocky Patel, but not to smoke.
After leaving the cigar shop, I opened the wooden coffin, which is the packaging for this brand, and was ready to just ditch the cigar, when I noticed an older man, sitting in a chair and leaning back against the brick wall. What I really saw was the end of a cigar hanging out of his mouth. As I passed, I offered the Rocky Patel. He looked up at me, I just nodded, he took it.
I don't smoke cigarettes or cigars, but the wooden coffin packaging is what I really wanted.
Around midnight, I left my room and walked a mile or two, where I hoped I would find what I really wanted and was not disappointed. This area is known to be a hangout for drug dealers and prostitutes and hidden, way down an ally, is an old tenement, which I guessed to be a shooting gallery, where the addicts go to get their fix.
No one challenged me when I walked inside and, after waiting a moment to let my eyes adjust, I started looking. It didn't take me long, maybe five minutes. In one of the corners I found about a half dozen discarded syringes. I used the sliding top of the cigar package to nurse three of four of these used syringes inside and then closed the box.
A good productive day. Tomorrow, I'd get the name and address of my quarry and start making plans.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
"Is is and isn't isn't"
While I was waiting for my 9:30 call, I realized I needed a reason to kill someone. I couldn't pick someone at random or blindly follow orders to do so. And I wasn't sitting here anxiously either. I don't do outcomes.
Outcomes are nasty devices eating into your mind and can paralyze you. Outcomes are forecasting events that may or may not happen; having an internal dialog with someone that could be confrontational. I used to have these conversations with myself years ago, before I learned the dialog I made up was always different than the actual one.
I remember the last time I did an outcome and it was with my old boss. I'd had a rather large sale go up on me. I was meeting my customer in his office and were ready to sign the contract. Everything was done and we were having some small talk, waiting on his VP to initial the paperwork.
The VP kept us waiting for thirty minutes and I asked if we cold phone him and see when he will stop by. My customer phoned the VP's office and was told the guy had gone for the day, but left instructions to can the contract. No reason. No idea of postponement. One minute here and the next gone.
On my way to the airport, I started to have this imaginary conversation with my boss, working out various scenarios; trying to find the right way to tell him I fucked up. We were depending on this contract to meet some company goals and it had been an important water-cooler conversation in the office.
So, while in the plane, I had these imaginary conversations with my boss. If he said this, I would say that, and so forth. I spent most of the flight engaged in these dialogues, when something came to the surface. I had no earthly idea why this contract disappeared at the last minute. All had seemed to be going along quite well the past few weeks; demonstrations, plant visits, their engineers meeting with ours; no problems at all.
Killing myself by engaging in these fruitless internal conversations was just wasting time and keeping me from doing anything else. Near the end of the flight, the attendant asked if I were okay. She said I'd hardly moved the entire two hours. Briefly, I told her I just lost a large sale and she said, "Is is and isn't isn't." Just like that. Is is and isn't isn't.
I thought about those five words while landing and thanked her on the way out. Ever since then, I don't do outcomes.
The phone rang.
It was the same voice—computerized, no doubt, to protect the identity. "Do you have an answer for me?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Yesterday you asked who?"
"Yesterday that mattered. Now, it doesn't. Why matters."
"I presume your answer is 'yes'?"
"Why did you give me the three grand?"
"For your time."
"For thirty minutes?"
"For your time. What's your answer?"
"Why?"
The voice paused. "If your answer is no, then why is moot."
"Yes, but on my terms."
"Your terms?"
"I'm not going to kill anyone unless the reason is good. For instance, as much as I dislike my wife, I wouldn't want to see her hurt. The reason to kill her isn't there."
"The first person on the list has stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Is this enough of a reason?"
"Wait a minute! You said 'list'; what list?"
"That comes later. Right now there is only this one person and they want to go quickly and painlessly and not wait for the cancer to take them. Will you take this contract?"
"Yes."
Outcomes are nasty devices eating into your mind and can paralyze you. Outcomes are forecasting events that may or may not happen; having an internal dialog with someone that could be confrontational. I used to have these conversations with myself years ago, before I learned the dialog I made up was always different than the actual one.
I remember the last time I did an outcome and it was with my old boss. I'd had a rather large sale go up on me. I was meeting my customer in his office and were ready to sign the contract. Everything was done and we were having some small talk, waiting on his VP to initial the paperwork.
The VP kept us waiting for thirty minutes and I asked if we cold phone him and see when he will stop by. My customer phoned the VP's office and was told the guy had gone for the day, but left instructions to can the contract. No reason. No idea of postponement. One minute here and the next gone.
On my way to the airport, I started to have this imaginary conversation with my boss, working out various scenarios; trying to find the right way to tell him I fucked up. We were depending on this contract to meet some company goals and it had been an important water-cooler conversation in the office.
So, while in the plane, I had these imaginary conversations with my boss. If he said this, I would say that, and so forth. I spent most of the flight engaged in these dialogues, when something came to the surface. I had no earthly idea why this contract disappeared at the last minute. All had seemed to be going along quite well the past few weeks; demonstrations, plant visits, their engineers meeting with ours; no problems at all.
Killing myself by engaging in these fruitless internal conversations was just wasting time and keeping me from doing anything else. Near the end of the flight, the attendant asked if I were okay. She said I'd hardly moved the entire two hours. Briefly, I told her I just lost a large sale and she said, "Is is and isn't isn't." Just like that. Is is and isn't isn't.
I thought about those five words while landing and thanked her on the way out. Ever since then, I don't do outcomes.
The phone rang.
It was the same voice—computerized, no doubt, to protect the identity. "Do you have an answer for me?"
"Why?" I asked.
"Yesterday you asked who?"
"Yesterday that mattered. Now, it doesn't. Why matters."
"I presume your answer is 'yes'?"
"Why did you give me the three grand?"
"For your time."
"For thirty minutes?"
"For your time. What's your answer?"
"Why?"
The voice paused. "If your answer is no, then why is moot."
"Yes, but on my terms."
"Your terms?"
"I'm not going to kill anyone unless the reason is good. For instance, as much as I dislike my wife, I wouldn't want to see her hurt. The reason to kill her isn't there."
"The first person on the list has stage 4 pancreatic cancer. Is this enough of a reason?"
"Wait a minute! You said 'list'; what list?"
"That comes later. Right now there is only this one person and they want to go quickly and painlessly and not wait for the cancer to take them. Will you take this contract?"
"Yes."
Friday, May 22, 2009
Along the way...
I didn't feel any fear but thought I should; I just looked at him and slowly started to unfasten the watch from my wrist. His eyes moved to look at what I was doing and then moved back up. That was my tell.
He was standing almost like a fencer, with his right leg towards me, bent slightly at the waist, with his right hand, the one with the knife, outstretched. I just stood flat-footed, facing him and with my hands in front of me, worked to get the watch loose.
As soon as the buckle was unfastened, I held it by one strap and threw it towards him. To be more accurate, I threw the watch past his left arm and put a little oomph behind it. He did what I expected, took his eyes off me and twisted just slightly to his left.
Just as he made his move to get the treasure, I came down quickly on his right knee with my right foot; all 200 pounds of me behind it. The sound a knee makes as the tendons tear is not like the crack of a broken bone, but it is as unmistakable.
Big boy went down immediately and grabbed his knee with both hands, the knife dropping to the sidewalk. I took a step towards him and kicked the knife far enough away that I wouldn't have to worry about it and walked a few more steps to recover my watch. He didn't make any moves in my direction, just rolled from side to side, moaning about the pain. I still had the scotch, hanging from my left hand.
As I picked up the watch, my ride appeared at the curb and I calmly walked over and got in, leaving my the thief rolling on the ground and moaning.
My driver didn't say anything or ask about the drama, just drove me back to where he picked me up. Before I could open the door, he turned around in his seat, and handed me an envelope.
"What's this?" I asked. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I just do what I'm told to do. That's all."
I took the envelope and my scotch, got out of the cab and walked back to my room. Once there, I opened the envelope and took out $3,000. I looked back inside but it was just the money, no letter. I left the money on top of the envelope, opened the scotch and poured some. Next to the kitchen area was a small table, chrome legs and rim, with two mismatched chairs. I sat down at the table to enjoy my drink.
All in all, this was one of the most interesting evenings I've spent in a while, but I didn't feel really high or low and I certainly didn't feel anything for the guy whose knee I just broke.
I'm not someone who fights moral dilemmas over defending myself. Is is and isn't isn't. I don't hold grudges either. The man who tried to rob me will hurt for some time, but I just did what I had to do... his knee was my way out of the situation. It's done.
Now, to the real question. Can I kill someone? How can I decide without knowing why or who? Or, do I need to know anything? I looked out my window, three floors up, and watched some people walk by, on their way to whatever. Men and women going about their daily chores. Could I pick anyone and kill them? No, I don't think so.
I could have killed that guy tonight, if I had to, and I don't think I would feel any different than I do now. So, anyone no, someone yes. But I don't know who I'm going to be asked to kill. I'll wait and reserve that decision until tomorrow.
He was standing almost like a fencer, with his right leg towards me, bent slightly at the waist, with his right hand, the one with the knife, outstretched. I just stood flat-footed, facing him and with my hands in front of me, worked to get the watch loose.
As soon as the buckle was unfastened, I held it by one strap and threw it towards him. To be more accurate, I threw the watch past his left arm and put a little oomph behind it. He did what I expected, took his eyes off me and twisted just slightly to his left.
Just as he made his move to get the treasure, I came down quickly on his right knee with my right foot; all 200 pounds of me behind it. The sound a knee makes as the tendons tear is not like the crack of a broken bone, but it is as unmistakable.
Big boy went down immediately and grabbed his knee with both hands, the knife dropping to the sidewalk. I took a step towards him and kicked the knife far enough away that I wouldn't have to worry about it and walked a few more steps to recover my watch. He didn't make any moves in my direction, just rolled from side to side, moaning about the pain. I still had the scotch, hanging from my left hand.
As I picked up the watch, my ride appeared at the curb and I calmly walked over and got in, leaving my the thief rolling on the ground and moaning.
My driver didn't say anything or ask about the drama, just drove me back to where he picked me up. Before I could open the door, he turned around in his seat, and handed me an envelope.
"What's this?" I asked. He just shrugged his shoulders and said, "I just do what I'm told to do. That's all."
I took the envelope and my scotch, got out of the cab and walked back to my room. Once there, I opened the envelope and took out $3,000. I looked back inside but it was just the money, no letter. I left the money on top of the envelope, opened the scotch and poured some. Next to the kitchen area was a small table, chrome legs and rim, with two mismatched chairs. I sat down at the table to enjoy my drink.
All in all, this was one of the most interesting evenings I've spent in a while, but I didn't feel really high or low and I certainly didn't feel anything for the guy whose knee I just broke.
I'm not someone who fights moral dilemmas over defending myself. Is is and isn't isn't. I don't hold grudges either. The man who tried to rob me will hurt for some time, but I just did what I had to do... his knee was my way out of the situation. It's done.
Now, to the real question. Can I kill someone? How can I decide without knowing why or who? Or, do I need to know anything? I looked out my window, three floors up, and watched some people walk by, on their way to whatever. Men and women going about their daily chores. Could I pick anyone and kill them? No, I don't think so.
I could have killed that guy tonight, if I had to, and I don't think I would feel any different than I do now. So, anyone no, someone yes. But I don't know who I'm going to be asked to kill. I'll wait and reserve that decision until tomorrow.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
The Start of My New Life
After my shift at the store, I got my usual burger and read a little of the paper, although my concentration was divided. I'd decided right after I got the letter, I would see this through—after all, what else did I have on my agenda? Yeah, right; go back to my little room and watch TV. I had nothing really to lose. Most everything is gone, except for my pretend life with the same future as yesterday.
At 9:30 on the dot (I still have my good hiking watch), a cab drove up and stopped. "You Fred?" the driver said. I climbed in the back seat and we started. He said nothing to me the entire time. About thirty minutes later, the cab stopped in the middle of a block in a decidedly seedy part of the city—crap all over the sidewalk and guys walking with their hands in the front pockets, stooped over and looking at the ground. No one looked up or at anyone else.
I got out of the cab and the driver said he'd be back in 30 minutes to take me home. He threw a cell phone at me through the window. I've read books and have seen TV dramas where someone gets a pay-phone call, but it's difficult to find one of those anywhere.
Less than a minute later, the cell phone buzzed—not ring like a phone, buzzed and the keys started flashing. I pushed the green button to answer the call and I heard a voice like one of those robotic computerized, non-gender-specific ones.
The phone said, "Fred," but I couldn't tell whether it was a question or statement, so I just listened. The voice then asked a question, "Is this Fred?"
I told the voice that I hate talking to robots; nothing against them, you know, just don't see any meaningful relationship developing with a robot.
The voice said, "I want you to kill someone." No "Hi, how are you," no beating around the bush; just "I want you to kill someone."
I surprised myself by saying, "Who?" Not "What the Fuck" or "You got to be out of your freakin' mind!" just "Who?"
The voice said, "twenty thousand dollars... cash".
So, that's what we've come to, is it? People are just a commodity and someone's life can be bought. Don't care about names, family, friends or anything else.
The funny part was, I didn't say no. I didn't say anything. Would not saying no be a yes? I didn't know.
The voice said, "Don't answer yes or no. Turn off the phone and the car will take you back. If your answer is yes, turn the phone back on by this time tomorrow; if no, break the phone into pieces and dispose of it in a dumpster." Then the line disconnected.
Well, isn't this something. Now, I have a future, if I want it. I don't know if I could kill anyone, even though I felt like I wanted to strangle Debbie, every once in a while. But, I'd never do it. Oh, I've had my share of school-yard fights; won some, lost some; but I've never came really close to really killing anyone.
I looked up from the phone, saw a liquor store at the end of the block, put the phone in my pocket and headed off to by a new bottle of scotch. There was plenty of time to make up my mind on what I would say tomorrow.
I stayed in the store a while looking at what they had to offer. "Chivas would be good," I thought. But, if I bought a bottle of 12-year-old, I wouldn't have much money left. So, I went with cheap.
If you've ever had cheap scotch, you know how it bites... not bites as in it sucks, bites as in it is a harsh liquor, not smooth like an aged one. With a new, cheap bottle of scotch in hand, I slowly started back to where the cab had dropped me off and noticed, for the first time, the temperature dropping quickly. With just slacks and a polo shirt, it was getting near uncomfortable. I glanced at my watch, I and saw I had about five minutes before my ride came back. And that's when someone said, "Give me your watch."
Shit, I thought. I just wanted to get back to my room and relax, but had another five minutes before my ride showed up. I looked up. This guy was about three or four inches taller than me and I'm near six feet. He had linebacker shoulders and a knife.
"Asshole," he said, "gimme the watch, now, and gimme your money". Then he pulled his knife hand up further so I could see it better.
When I started seventh grade, an eighth grader, Bob-The-Boss, came up to me and gave me a knee in the balls. I dropped to the floor and cried like a baby, dropping all my books and papers. No one helped me.
For days, I felt shamed and humiliated... wouldn't look anyone in the eye. This was the start of junior high and I had three years to go; two of them with Bob-The-Boss.
I don't know what really happened, but a few weeks later I was walking down the hallway, going to class and I saw Bob in front of me, with his back turned. I came up behind him and put a sharpened pencil up to his neck, under his chin. My other hand on the back of his neck so he couldn't pull away.
In a quiet voice, I said, "Do you want to die?
He said nothing. Didn't move. Just stayed quiet. So, I asked him again, still in a quiet voice, almost whispering. "Do you want to die?"
His friend and accomplice, Jack, stood back and with eyes wide, just watched.
I pushed the pencil deeper, making an impression in his neck and drawing a drop of blood.
"Answer me," I said. "Do you want to die?"
He finally said no and I turned him around and looked into his eyes so he could see me.
About this time in my life, I was studying magic, both close-up and illusions. I had mastered the classic palm, finger palm, edge palm, French drop and more. A friend of mine told me every time I did the "magic" part, my eyes got wide. That's called a "tell". Just like in poker when you look at your hand or watch someone else's bet. If your eyes give away something, it's a tell. I had learned to keep my eyes steady and this is what I did with Bob. To him, I was as serious as anyone he has ever met; clear, focused, and ready to follow through.
As I looked at Bob, I told him if he ever bothered me again, I was going to remove his eyes and then kill him and I said all this while steadily looking right at his pupils. He had to believe me.
"Okay," I said and nodded my head. "Okay," he said. He didn't nod his head.
I put the pencil back into the pocket protector, in my shirt pocket and walked away. He never bothered me again and, in high school, we actually worked together.
So, here I was with this giant standing in front of me, holding a knife and demanding my watch and money.
At 9:30 on the dot (I still have my good hiking watch), a cab drove up and stopped. "You Fred?" the driver said. I climbed in the back seat and we started. He said nothing to me the entire time. About thirty minutes later, the cab stopped in the middle of a block in a decidedly seedy part of the city—crap all over the sidewalk and guys walking with their hands in the front pockets, stooped over and looking at the ground. No one looked up or at anyone else.
I got out of the cab and the driver said he'd be back in 30 minutes to take me home. He threw a cell phone at me through the window. I've read books and have seen TV dramas where someone gets a pay-phone call, but it's difficult to find one of those anywhere.
Less than a minute later, the cell phone buzzed—not ring like a phone, buzzed and the keys started flashing. I pushed the green button to answer the call and I heard a voice like one of those robotic computerized, non-gender-specific ones.
The phone said, "Fred," but I couldn't tell whether it was a question or statement, so I just listened. The voice then asked a question, "Is this Fred?"
I told the voice that I hate talking to robots; nothing against them, you know, just don't see any meaningful relationship developing with a robot.
The voice said, "I want you to kill someone." No "Hi, how are you," no beating around the bush; just "I want you to kill someone."
I surprised myself by saying, "Who?" Not "What the Fuck" or "You got to be out of your freakin' mind!" just "Who?"
The voice said, "twenty thousand dollars... cash".
So, that's what we've come to, is it? People are just a commodity and someone's life can be bought. Don't care about names, family, friends or anything else.
The funny part was, I didn't say no. I didn't say anything. Would not saying no be a yes? I didn't know.
The voice said, "Don't answer yes or no. Turn off the phone and the car will take you back. If your answer is yes, turn the phone back on by this time tomorrow; if no, break the phone into pieces and dispose of it in a dumpster." Then the line disconnected.
Well, isn't this something. Now, I have a future, if I want it. I don't know if I could kill anyone, even though I felt like I wanted to strangle Debbie, every once in a while. But, I'd never do it. Oh, I've had my share of school-yard fights; won some, lost some; but I've never came really close to really killing anyone.
I looked up from the phone, saw a liquor store at the end of the block, put the phone in my pocket and headed off to by a new bottle of scotch. There was plenty of time to make up my mind on what I would say tomorrow.
I stayed in the store a while looking at what they had to offer. "Chivas would be good," I thought. But, if I bought a bottle of 12-year-old, I wouldn't have much money left. So, I went with cheap.
If you've ever had cheap scotch, you know how it bites... not bites as in it sucks, bites as in it is a harsh liquor, not smooth like an aged one. With a new, cheap bottle of scotch in hand, I slowly started back to where the cab had dropped me off and noticed, for the first time, the temperature dropping quickly. With just slacks and a polo shirt, it was getting near uncomfortable. I glanced at my watch, I and saw I had about five minutes before my ride came back. And that's when someone said, "Give me your watch."
Shit, I thought. I just wanted to get back to my room and relax, but had another five minutes before my ride showed up. I looked up. This guy was about three or four inches taller than me and I'm near six feet. He had linebacker shoulders and a knife.
"Asshole," he said, "gimme the watch, now, and gimme your money". Then he pulled his knife hand up further so I could see it better.
When I started seventh grade, an eighth grader, Bob-The-Boss, came up to me and gave me a knee in the balls. I dropped to the floor and cried like a baby, dropping all my books and papers. No one helped me.
For days, I felt shamed and humiliated... wouldn't look anyone in the eye. This was the start of junior high and I had three years to go; two of them with Bob-The-Boss.
I don't know what really happened, but a few weeks later I was walking down the hallway, going to class and I saw Bob in front of me, with his back turned. I came up behind him and put a sharpened pencil up to his neck, under his chin. My other hand on the back of his neck so he couldn't pull away.
In a quiet voice, I said, "Do you want to die?
He said nothing. Didn't move. Just stayed quiet. So, I asked him again, still in a quiet voice, almost whispering. "Do you want to die?"
His friend and accomplice, Jack, stood back and with eyes wide, just watched.
I pushed the pencil deeper, making an impression in his neck and drawing a drop of blood.
"Answer me," I said. "Do you want to die?"
He finally said no and I turned him around and looked into his eyes so he could see me.
About this time in my life, I was studying magic, both close-up and illusions. I had mastered the classic palm, finger palm, edge palm, French drop and more. A friend of mine told me every time I did the "magic" part, my eyes got wide. That's called a "tell". Just like in poker when you look at your hand or watch someone else's bet. If your eyes give away something, it's a tell. I had learned to keep my eyes steady and this is what I did with Bob. To him, I was as serious as anyone he has ever met; clear, focused, and ready to follow through.
As I looked at Bob, I told him if he ever bothered me again, I was going to remove his eyes and then kill him and I said all this while steadily looking right at his pupils. He had to believe me.
"Okay," I said and nodded my head. "Okay," he said. He didn't nod his head.
I put the pencil back into the pocket protector, in my shirt pocket and walked away. He never bothered me again and, in high school, we actually worked together.
So, here I was with this giant standing in front of me, holding a knife and demanding my watch and money.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
The Beginning...
My name and where I come from is not important. I'm a killer.
Stop looking to see if your door is locked. The odds are in your favor; unless someone has a contract for your life, you won't see me. In fact, even if you do have a contract, you most likely won't see me either.
You may be a secretary, manager, consultant, photographer, or news reporter and that is how you earn your living. I make my living killing people.
So, you're probably asking yourself why I do this; what would make someone murder another person for money? It's a living. I don't mean it as a snide joke. I do it because I like the freedom and the lifestyle. I travel quite a bit all over the world and have frequent flyer miles I never use.
I'd spent the better part of my life trying to dig my way to the top and never getting anywhere. The current economy would make it difficult to go back to what I did, but, on the other hand, this downturn means more business and more business is more money.
Someone once said there are only three types of people you'll deal with--those who lie and take all the marbles; those saying you can work 50/50, but take all the marbles and there are those who tell you, from the beginning, they are going to take all the marbles. The last one is the one you want to work with. Unfortunately, most everyone falls into the first two categories. So, fuck them.
I wasn't always a hired killer. I used to have a regular job, just like you, and was married. (no children). My wife turned into a real bitch after four years, spending money we didn't have and constantly complaining about... well, mostly me. "Why can't you get a better job or a raise? When are you going to take me to Europe? Your haircut makes you look like a jerk." And so on.
One day, I came home for lunch and found her in bed with someone I didn't know. I walked in the bedroom and there she was bouncing on this guy's lap, like she was sitting on a beach ball. As I came in the room, she turned and looked at me and smiled. The bitch smiled.
I turned and walked out of the house and haven't been back since. No car, no clothes, not a thing. The anger lasted until I got on the first bus out of town and, while riding down the freeway, the further I got from home, the better I felt. No more arguing; no more bitching; no complaining... freedom.
When I reached New York, I paid for a weekly room in a flophouse. During the next week, I walked the neighborhood, bought some cheap clothes and started working at a convenience store. Hey, it's money just like I used to make, only less. It covered the rent, some food and little else. As the store was privately owned, I got paid in cash. There was some money left over from the ATM withdrawals I got before I left town. Debbie was probably too busy bouncing on that guys lap to check the bank, so I took as much as I could; a few thousand, which I safely hid behind one of the wall panels, in my room. I hope that poor schmuck Debbie's fucking doesn't get involved with her--she's a human praying mantis.
I worked for a couple of months on second shift, noon until eight, which was okay with me, when everything changed again.
I got home about nine, after getting a burger and reading the paper, and there was mail in my mailbox. I don't mean mail addressed to Dear Occupant or those sleazy offers with your name imprinted, but are obviously the same come-on as all those third-class mailbox stuffers. No, this was an envelope addressed to me, but no return address. A white envelope, addressed and with a cancelled stamp in the corner. Nothing else. And it used my new name (using only cash allowed me to be anyone I wanted, so I changed my name, just for the hell of it).
I unlocked the door and walked to the kitchen, which was only a couple of steps, throwing everything but the envelope in the trash. The envelope, I tossed on the counter, next to the bottle of cheap scotch (I really missed the good stuff) and just stared at it for a minute.
Now, I know to you, getting mail addressed with your name is no big deal, but for me, it set my stomach churning. No one knows me by my new name and everyone now calls me Fred; just Fred; no last name. Don't need one. The hotel doesn't care as long as they get the rent and the convenience store owner has me off the books. Just Fred.
And that's why I stood there and stared at the envelope addressed to me. The me with the new name. The name I made up. It was more than strange. It creeped me out. How could anyone know me by this name? The envelope had both my new first and last name, Fred Smith. The creepy part was I've never told anyone my full name, just told them to call me Fred.
Before I opened the envelope, I poured two fingers of scotch and swallowed it all at once. I didn't do it for any reason than habit. Every time I got home from work, I'd drink a couple of fingers, before I sat down. So, I just did the same thing. Actually, I was amused by the envelope. While disrupting my fast-food digestion, on another level, it was a puzzle.
After the scotch, I tore one end of the envelope and inside was a single piece of typewritten paper. No heading on the letter, like you get with a lawyer or other business. No date. No Dear Fred (not any of my names, as you'll understand in a bit). Just a few paragraphs:
That's all it said.
Stop looking to see if your door is locked. The odds are in your favor; unless someone has a contract for your life, you won't see me. In fact, even if you do have a contract, you most likely won't see me either.
You may be a secretary, manager, consultant, photographer, or news reporter and that is how you earn your living. I make my living killing people.
So, you're probably asking yourself why I do this; what would make someone murder another person for money? It's a living. I don't mean it as a snide joke. I do it because I like the freedom and the lifestyle. I travel quite a bit all over the world and have frequent flyer miles I never use.
I'd spent the better part of my life trying to dig my way to the top and never getting anywhere. The current economy would make it difficult to go back to what I did, but, on the other hand, this downturn means more business and more business is more money.
Someone once said there are only three types of people you'll deal with--those who lie and take all the marbles; those saying you can work 50/50, but take all the marbles and there are those who tell you, from the beginning, they are going to take all the marbles. The last one is the one you want to work with. Unfortunately, most everyone falls into the first two categories. So, fuck them.
I wasn't always a hired killer. I used to have a regular job, just like you, and was married. (no children). My wife turned into a real bitch after four years, spending money we didn't have and constantly complaining about... well, mostly me. "Why can't you get a better job or a raise? When are you going to take me to Europe? Your haircut makes you look like a jerk." And so on.
One day, I came home for lunch and found her in bed with someone I didn't know. I walked in the bedroom and there she was bouncing on this guy's lap, like she was sitting on a beach ball. As I came in the room, she turned and looked at me and smiled. The bitch smiled.
I turned and walked out of the house and haven't been back since. No car, no clothes, not a thing. The anger lasted until I got on the first bus out of town and, while riding down the freeway, the further I got from home, the better I felt. No more arguing; no more bitching; no complaining... freedom.
When I reached New York, I paid for a weekly room in a flophouse. During the next week, I walked the neighborhood, bought some cheap clothes and started working at a convenience store. Hey, it's money just like I used to make, only less. It covered the rent, some food and little else. As the store was privately owned, I got paid in cash. There was some money left over from the ATM withdrawals I got before I left town. Debbie was probably too busy bouncing on that guys lap to check the bank, so I took as much as I could; a few thousand, which I safely hid behind one of the wall panels, in my room. I hope that poor schmuck Debbie's fucking doesn't get involved with her--she's a human praying mantis.
I worked for a couple of months on second shift, noon until eight, which was okay with me, when everything changed again.
I got home about nine, after getting a burger and reading the paper, and there was mail in my mailbox. I don't mean mail addressed to Dear Occupant or those sleazy offers with your name imprinted, but are obviously the same come-on as all those third-class mailbox stuffers. No, this was an envelope addressed to me, but no return address. A white envelope, addressed and with a cancelled stamp in the corner. Nothing else. And it used my new name (using only cash allowed me to be anyone I wanted, so I changed my name, just for the hell of it).
I unlocked the door and walked to the kitchen, which was only a couple of steps, throwing everything but the envelope in the trash. The envelope, I tossed on the counter, next to the bottle of cheap scotch (I really missed the good stuff) and just stared at it for a minute.
Now, I know to you, getting mail addressed with your name is no big deal, but for me, it set my stomach churning. No one knows me by my new name and everyone now calls me Fred; just Fred; no last name. Don't need one. The hotel doesn't care as long as they get the rent and the convenience store owner has me off the books. Just Fred.
And that's why I stood there and stared at the envelope addressed to me. The me with the new name. The name I made up. It was more than strange. It creeped me out. How could anyone know me by this name? The envelope had both my new first and last name, Fred Smith. The creepy part was I've never told anyone my full name, just told them to call me Fred.
Before I opened the envelope, I poured two fingers of scotch and swallowed it all at once. I didn't do it for any reason than habit. Every time I got home from work, I'd drink a couple of fingers, before I sat down. So, I just did the same thing. Actually, I was amused by the envelope. While disrupting my fast-food digestion, on another level, it was a puzzle.
After the scotch, I tore one end of the envelope and inside was a single piece of typewritten paper. No heading on the letter, like you get with a lawyer or other business. No date. No Dear Fred (not any of my names, as you'll understand in a bit). Just a few paragraphs:
"I have a simple proposition for you and all you need to do, at this point, is read this letter."
"From time to time, I need someone to help me and for that I pay in cash. It's good money, enough for you to get a real life back, but it won't be easy."
"Be at the corner of sixth and Randolph tomorrow after work. A black car will pick you up at 9:30 and bring you back. If you are not there at that time, I'll understand you don't want to help me."
"From time to time, I need someone to help me and for that I pay in cash. It's good money, enough for you to get a real life back, but it won't be easy."
"Be at the corner of sixth and Randolph tomorrow after work. A black car will pick you up at 9:30 and bring you back. If you are not there at that time, I'll understand you don't want to help me."
That's all it said.
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