ScottF
Status: Dr. Seuss
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Gender: 
Posts: 43
http://authorscottfrederick.blogspot.com
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« Reply #7 on: August 15, 2011, 02:16:00 AM » |
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“I need to know why you want this envelope,” I said. “Why's it so important you want to hire someone to pinch it?”
He looked me over, clearly not trusting me. But he knew he had to play by my rules if he wanted my help.
Smart man.
“Look, I – it's embarrassing.” He said.
“We're all adults here.” I said.
The locals at the bar were chattering about where they should go to next.
Good riddance. Make this easier, if I could get this guy alone without distractions.
“Okay,” he finally said. “I was married.”
“Was.”
“Going through a divorce right now. And...”
“What's in the envelope?” I prodded.
“It's the reason why I'm getting a divorce,” he said. “I...I haven't always been the best man in the world, I admit that.”
Oh, good Christ. What does he think I am, his therapist?
“Everyone [expletive] up now and then,” I said. “What's in the envelope?”
“Sometimes … sometimes, people get urges...”
If only you knew, buddy.
“And ...” he continued, “if people act on them, there are consequences. So -”
“So she cheated on you or something? Usually why people get divorced.” To hear Tiny talk of it, it's also a major reason they hire him. He's cheaper than a lawyer, anyway.
“No,” he said. “I mean, I was the one who cheated.”
I couldn't believe two women in the world would let this out-of-shape dope stick anything in them. But if I'm any indication, there's all sorts of [expletive] up roaming around this planet.
“Well, we all want some strange, now and then.” I said.
“The manila envelope. There are pictures of me in a motel having intercourse. Very, very … graphic pictures.” He told me, shaking his head shamefully.
I made a mental note not to look in the envelope.
***
“I've got some rules,” I told him. He was attentive.
The locals were gathering their coats and purses and things. I heard one of them mention going to the Pelican, a pretentious little place across town. More their speed. If standing still is a speed.
“First,” I said, “you keep your mouth shut about this. Understand?”
“Of course!” He answered. “If I said anything I'd be implicating myself. I just want the envelope so my wife can't use the photos in court!”
“You don't tell your priest,” I said. “Not your rabbi, your best friend, or your Cousin Sue. You tell nobody. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Number two, once its done and you have your pictures? We don't speak again.” I said. “We don't speak, we don't get seen together, nothing to connect us. It's just easier that way.”
“No offense, but that one will be easy.”
“Good,” I said. “Number three, payment.”
The locals finally left the bar. Harlow relaxed.
“How much?” He asked.
I paused, just for dramatic sake.
“Five thousand dollars.” I said. Two thousand more than my usual opener.
Without hesitating, he handed me the slip of paper with the safe combination on it, then reached into his coat again and produced a white envelope stuffed with hundreds.
Tiny and the bartender stopped what they were doing at the sight of it. I shot them a look and they turned away.
Harlow slowly, deliberately peeled off fifty of the bills. I figured he must be walking around with fifteen thousand easy.
“I need the pictures by this time next week,” he said.
“No problem.”
“If you rip me off I know where to find you.”
“What would you do if you did?”
“I think I have enough money to convince one of your friends to do me a favor,” he said, meaning Tiny.
He was right. Tiny would most probably do it.
“Don't worry, Harlow. I like things nice and clean. No need for complications. You'll get your envelope.”
He handed me the five large.
***
By the time I got home I was crashing out. Always happened a few hours after edge play.
I took off my clothes and put on a pair of sweat pants. Yawned.
I still had my dad's revolver – the one I played Russian Roulette with almost twenty years ago. It was in a box in the back of my closet, behind the old rusty lunchbox I used to store gear for my hobby.
Manacles and rope, razor blades and other toys.
The same bullet I had used the last time I played roulette was still in the chamber. I'd never taken it out.
It called to me. Every night before bed, I felt it, beckoning. It wanted me to set it loose.
My pulse surged. Every night I'd been able to avoid spinning that magic chamber, avoid opening my mouth, avoid pointing the gun up at my brain...
Tonight, I pressed my hand to the closed closet door. It felt warm. I ran my palm slowly over its smooth white surface, down to the knob.
Twisted. Pulled.
I quickly shoved the lunch box aside and grabbed the cardboard box, heard the gun rattle inside. I yanked the top off and there it was – heavy, shiny, black.
Waiting.
I pulled it out. Ran my fingers over every inch. Gave the cylinder a spin. Opened it.
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