Telemurdering: Chapter 3 & 4

                                                                                      Telemurdering”
                                                                                          Chapter 3



    On the evening of October 20, Nathan Piper, a disabled Marine, Vietnam War hero prepared to celebrate his fifty-fifth birthday the next day. Many happy memories, and the fact that it was “paid for,” had kept Nathan and his younger brother, Jeff, from leaving the big, two-story house their parents purchased in Richburg. Also, Jeff stayed because of Nathan's special problems, the result of combat related injuries sustained in Vietnam while he tried to save his best friends, Jerry Ehrlich and Little Joe Thundercloud. Since he couldn’t drive or hold the most menial job, he wouldn’t have been able to afford a decent place to live and wouldn’t have had anyone to look in on him regularly, since his wife, Lindy, had been gone for over twenty years. Nathan needed someone around in case he had one of his seizures, like the one he had suffered earlier that day, and to help him get through his not so infrequent periods of depression.

    Because his Dad died way back in the ‘70’s, and due to the recent retirement of his father's old business partner, Jeff became the CEO of Piper Pipes and Drilling. In spite of frequently working late because of the added responsibilities, and the special problems Nathan presented, Jeff did his best to maintain a normal social life and had come close to tying the knot a couple of times. In his late forties, he had yet to find that special someone to settle down with. Since he took the attitude of “Love me, love my big brother,” it didn’t help that some of Jeff's potential love interests were “creeped out” by Nathan. Shortly after arriving home on this particular night, Jeff had gone back out to Kroger’s to pick up a birthday cake with the image of Nathan’s favorite football team, the Arkansas Razorbacks, emblazoned on the top.

    Nathan rooted for the underdog in any contest, unless they were playing Arkansas, and the Hogs, although they won the National Championship, back in 1964, were virtually always the underdog when it came to the important games against the perennial NCAA superpowers. In red sweatpants and a tattered, too tight, 1989 Cotton Bowl sweatshirt, Nathan stood in front of the big-screen TV when one of the hog's games were being broadcast. He'd lean way over to the right, with his arms outstretched above his head and hands wiggling. “Woooooo, Pig Sooey,” he would shout, his face turning red with the exertion. Then, straightening up, he would leap into the air, yelling, “Razorbacks!”

    This evening Nathan watched a videotape of the past week’s game against Florida. The Hogs hadn't played the Gators for several years and Nathan was busy analyzing the game, which had been incredibly close. The phone rang just as the Razorback kicker attempted the all-important 48 yard field goal that could send the game into overtime. Grimacing with irritation, Nathan picked up the remote, hit the pause button and reached for the phone. Conveying his annoyance by the tone of his voice, he said, “Hello?”

    “Is this Mr. How-How-Howard Henderson?” the caller asked.

    “No,” Nathan replied, thinking, “Jeez, another telemarketer!” Forcefully, he said, “You’ve got the wrong number!”

    Rather than hanging up, the telemarketer continued,  “Oh, uh, they m-must have just put the wrong name on here sir. This is P-Paul, Paul Grand, I’m that security system man. Were just c-c-calling around the neighborhood, talking to the neighbor’s about a security system for their new home. D-Did you have a chance to get one yet?”

    Nathan answered, “No. But listen, somebody already—”

    Paul continued, “We have people in the area t-tonight, until eight-thirty, and they will be out there again t-tomorrow, which is better for you?”

    Nathan tried to get the telemarketer to understand that a mistake had been made, saying, “Listen, I’m not Mr. Henderson. This isn’t a new house—"

    “Oh, th-that’s okay sir, we p-p-protect old houses too. Is Mr. Henderson going to be home in a little while? We could be out there tonight, or would tomorrow be better?”

    “No,” Nathan tried again, his face beginning to turn red, “You don’t get it, you have a wrong number.”

    “Is th-th-this 281-555-3781?” Paul asked.

    “Yes,” Nathan replied, “but somebody already—”

    This was one of those telemarketers. Not only would he not take no for an answer, he never gave you a chance to say it. “Sir d-did you know there have b-b-been a number of break-ins in your area recently?”

    Nathan hadn’t heard about any burglaries in the neighborhood, but figured it was possible, so he asked, “I hadn’t heard about that, where did they occur?”

    The crafty telemarketer answered quickly, “Oh, just down the st-st-street from you. They hit that convenience store and then several of the houses n-n-near it.” He had no idea of the street names in Nathan’s neighborhood, but he knew that every neighborhood had a convenience store nearby, and that made him sound familiar with the area.

    Nathan asked, “Bill’s? They hit Bill’s convenience store?”

    “Yeah,” Paul agreed readily, “I think that’s the one. S-S-So can we drop by tonight? We j-just want to show you about the security system for your home…”

    Nathan’s attention was distracted momentarily, as the doorbell rang. “Look,” he said, “I’m not interested, and someone already called earlier today. Somebody’s at the door, so I gotta go.” He hung up, got up from the couch wondering who might be at the door. When he opened it, he couldn’t have been more pleased. Jerry Ehrlich and Little Joe Thundercloud stood there, smiling expectantly.

    Without waiting to be asked, Jerry came in and hugged Nathan, saying, “Happy Birthday you old, fat cabrito. What’s cookin’?”

    Little Joe was close behind. “Speaking of cooking," he pointed at Nathan's midsection, "I can see you haven’t been starving. What have you put on since last year, ten, maybe fifteen pounds?”

    Nathan shrugged, and said, “Ever since Lindy left, I don’t have the motivation or the energy to go out and walk in the evenings anymore, and I eat too much fast food. That’s why I’ve put on this weight. We used to —”

    “Nathan, you lost Lindy twenty years ago,” Jerry said, “Get on with your life, man.”

    Little Joe agreed, adding, “Your fifty-five, Nathan. Give yourself a birthday present that'll help you live longer and be healthier. Start exercising again!”

    “You guys are right," Nathan admitted. "No doubt about it. So anyway, pull up a chair.”

    “No, we can’t stay,” Jerry said, “but we’ll try to get back by tomorrow. We were just in town about a couple of rental homes we might buy. We have an appointment with a realtor over in the Klauke subdivision. What time have you got, Nathan?”

    “Nathan looked towards the far end of the blue denim couch, where a small clock and the phone sat on the end table, and then down at his wrist. He pointed to it with pride, saying, “See, guys, I’ve still got it. This watch sure means a lot to me, and it's been a good one. Self-winding, self-adjusting calendar date, and it never runs slow or fast.”

    “Yeah, well, you didn’t think we’d get you a crappy watch, did you? We’re glad you’ve enjoyed it, buddy, so what time is it?” Jerry asked, again.

    “It’s just about eight,” Nathan responded. “but you don’t have to go yet, do you?”

    “Little Joe'll kick my ass if we’re late. He promised the lady realtor we could get there by eight o’clock, and she said she doesn’t usually work later than six, so we gotta run, son. See you later.” The phone rang again as Jerry and Little Joe turned and headed for the door. Nathan waived goodbye and picked up the phone, watching the door close behind his best friends.

    “Mr. Henderson?” It was the telemarketer. The same one. “Mr. Henderson, is that you?”

    “No,” Nathan answered, “I told you before, you have the wrong number, now leave me alone.” He hung up, still upset that Jerry and Little Joe had left so soon. He sat down on the couch and picked up the universal remote to the TV and VCR. "Now, was that kick good or not?" he mumbled. Sometimes TV camera angles made it hard to tell. He would use the slow motion feature, and . . . the phone rang again. “Damn!”

    “Mr. Henderson, d-d-did you hang up on me just then? My wheelchair rolled over the phone cord and I might have d-d-disconnected us accidentally, because I just know you wouldn’t hang up on a disabled person.”

    In the telemarketing room at the Safe Sentry offices, Donnie and Max guffawed at the bold ploy to make the prospect feel bad about hanging up on Paul. Paul would try and say anything to get an appointment. A misfit to be sure, but he did have a few redeeming qualities that had, so far, kept Jim from firing him. When it came time to go to work he stayed on the phone and didn’t waste time talking about movies, sports, or music, like Max and Donnie. He always contacted far more prospects than anyone else in the department. The problem was, he would lie to about half of them, giving incorrect prices, misleading product performance information, or unrealistic expectations on when a consultant could arrive for an appointment. Then, if the customer called back to complain, he claimed complete innocence.

    “Listen, I told you I’m not Mr. Henderson, My name is Nathan Piper! Have you got that? I don’t want to be called anymore! Now take me off your list!” Terribly agitated, Nathan slammed the receiver down and tried to regain his composure. He didn’t like telemarketers. Years earlier he had developed an aversion to incoming calls after coming out of a coma and then being hounded by the incessant ringing of the phone in his hospital room. For some reason, it made him uneasy wondering who was going to be on the other end when he answered. He had been having such a nice evening, watching the tape of his football game and visiting with his friends. He studied the readout on the caller I.D., Identifying “Safe Sentry Security” as the company that had called. “That’s the same company that called earlier, I believe I’ll give them a call, and see if there’s a manager I can talk to,” he thought. He picked the phone back up and soon found himself talking to Jim Patton.

    “Now, wait a minute,” Jim said, after listening politely for a while, “did I just hear you say you were bothered while you were watching a tape of your favorite football team’s big game against Florida? Because I’m a huge Razorback fan, I happen to know that Florida played Arkansas this past weekend, so would that make you a Razorback fan, as well?”

    “It sure would,” Nathan exclaimed. “I’ve been a Hog fan since the early sixties. I used to live in Tulsa. There's a lot of Razorback supporters up there.” 
 
    “Well I’ll be,” Jim said, “I never would have expected to get a call tonight from somebody that has so much in common with me. I used to live in Tulsa, too. My family moved down here when I was just ten. How old are you, Nathan?” Jim asked.

    “I’ll be 55 tomorrow,” Nathan said, and then asked, “How old are you, Jim?”

    “I just turned 51 last August,” Jim said. “Where did you live in Tulsa?”

    Nathan answered, “East 28th street, near Sheridan.”

    “No way, I can’t believe it.” Jim was amazed. “I lived two streets over, on East 30th place. So anyway, Nathan, let’s get back to your problem tonight. You were saying Paul Grand said he was calling back because he rolled over the phone cord with his wheelchair and thought he had disconnected the phone?”

    Nathan assured Jim, “That’s what he said.”

    Jim didn’t attempt to lie for his employee, saying, “He’s not crippled. He doesn’t use a wheelchair. And you said he kept calling you Mr. Henderson?” 

  “Yeah, he did,” Nathan confirmed, “I even told him to leave me alone, and hung up on him, but he called right back, again. I tried to tell him two or three times that he had the wrong number, but he wouldn’t listen...”

    “What part of town do you live in Mr. Piper?” Jim asked.

    “I live in Maple Grove subdivision, in Richburg,” Nathan said, “you guys probably don’t even come out this way.”

    “Oh, my goodness,” Jim said, “This is unreal. I live in Richburg, too. Over in Town Pointe subdivision, and yes, Mr. Piper, we do have a lot of customers out there. Maple Grove is a really nice subdivision, Mr. Piper, the homes there are beautiful. May I ask, if it’s not being too nosy, what you do for a living?”

    Nathan said, “I’m a disabled veteran, Mr. Patton. I’m not employed, but my brother, Jeff, is the head of Piper Pipes and Drilling.”

    Jim replied, “I’ve heard of Piper Pipes. Their offices are down near the ship channel aren’t they, near the old Shanghai Red’s restaurant?”

    “Yes,” Nathan answered, surprised. “That’s exactly where the office is. It’s a pretty successful company, but not exactly a household name.”

    “Well, Nathan, I really want to thank you for calling. You’ve given me some ammunition to do something I’ve been wanting to do for quite some time.”

    “Ammunition to do what, Mr. Patton?”

    “To Fire Paul Grand. He’s been an embarrassment to me for over a year. He’s on probation now, and this is just what I needed to be able to dismiss him without getting our HR department upset with me. I’ll do it tonight, Mr. Piper. He won’t be bothering you, or any of our other potential customers anymore.”

    Nathan felt so relieved and so happy to have found someone else that seemed to be as big a Razorback fan as he was. “Mr. Patton, could I ask you a favor?” Nathan asked.

    “Yes sir, Mr. Piper, you go right ahead.”

    “Would you come by and watch a Razorback game with me on my Big-Screen TV? There aren’t many of us Hog fans in this part of the country, and I get kind’a lonely.”

    “I'd be delighted. If you wouldn't mind the extra company I might even bring my wife. When’s the next televised game?” Jim asked.

    “The Ole Miss game should be televised this coming weekend, but I’m actually going to that game. My brother, Jeff is taking me. It’s my birthday present!”

    “Wow, that’s nice,” Jim said. “We should win, but their quarterback is fun to watch. If he were on a better team he'd have better stats. How about the South Carolina game? I know that one is supposed to be on ESPN, November the eighth. Why don’t we get together for that one?”

    Nathan liked that idea and they exchanged phone numbers. Before hanging up Jim reiterated his promise to Nathan that he wouldn’t have any more problems from Paul Grand. Nathan got up, excited to have a new friend, and went upstairs to his room, where he opened his daily journal that lay on his desk next to his computer. He flipped the pages to the next month, and under Saturday, November 8, he wrote, Jim Patton coming over to see Razorback game with me. He wrote Jim’s cell phone number in the book and then closed it. “He really sounds nice. I guess having that idiot telemarketer call me and then making me mad was kind of a good thing. Otherwise, I never would have got to talk to Jim.” He heard the garage door opening and knew Jeff was home with his cake. He got up from his desk and hurried downstairs, as excited as when he used to be a young boy in Tulsa, waiting for Dad to come home with a big birthday present.

                                                                                  ~ ~ ~

    Overall, it had been a pretty productive evening. Seventeen appointments had been set for tomorrow, of which, about ten would be sold and installed. Jim earned twenty bucks for each installation generated by appointments his telemarketers had set. His team usually set between fifteen to twenty-five appointments per day, so he made enough money to live comfortably in his modest one-story home. Although he worked an average of fifty-five hours a week, far more than he wanted to work, he still enjoyed what he did. After going to the courthouse in the mornings to get the new home owner information, the job offered him the luxury of being able to go back home to pick up his wife and take her to lunch before heading into the Safe Sentry offices in Houston.

    Jim’s wife, Becky, had reluctantly retired from working as a registered nurse when she lost most of her sight due to diabetic retinopathy. Despite five operations she lost all light perception in her right eye, and with her left eye she no longer possessed the ability to identify individual steps if they were going down, away from her, or curbs, if they were the same color as the road. Without a major contrast in color, whatever she saw blended together. When out with her husband, he always remembered to tell her if there was a step, up or down, for which she needed to prepare. But because of her independent nature, other members of her family and close friends frequently forgot her visual limitations, which resulted in occasional painful and embarrassing falls in public. She could get around her own house okay. She didn’t run into walls, except sometimes at night if she got up to go to the bathroom and didn't turn on the lights, or had become disoriented due to a low blood sugar episode. She had adjusted pretty well, except for one thing; she couldn’t drive anymore, which upset her no end.

      Losing her sight frustrated her, not only because she had been making nearly $45,000.00 a year and now received a monthly social security disability check of only $912.00, but it had forced her to be the one thing she despised and had never wanted to become; dependant on others. Sometimes, alone and bored, she would break down and cry while reading the newspaper with the aid of a magnifier. Sometimes she cried about a big sale she would have loved to go to, or while trying to watch TV and not being able to make out the faces on the 52-inch-screen. If she had to go to the doctor, and what female didn’t on a regular basis, especially a 51-year-old, female diabetic, she had to depend on her husband to rearrange his work schedule to drive her into Sugar Land or Houston. If he couldn’t take her, she had to ask her sister, or sometimes one of her friends. There just weren’t any decent doctors that she knew of in Richburg that were on her Medicare supplement plan.

    Slightly before eight that evening, clad in her red T-shirt material pajamas and sitting in the comfortable burgundy leather recliner her husband had bought for her, she put down the magnifier she referred to as “her eye,” laid down the magazine she'd been reading, picked up the cordless phone that she kept on the right arm of her chair, and dialed her husband at the office. He answered on the third ring.

    “Safe Sentry Security, this is Jim, may I help you?”

    “You running on time, tonight,” she asked?

    “Hi sweetheart,” he said. “I might be a little late. I’ve got some personnel details to handle, so don’t go getting antsy if I’m not home by nine-thirty.”

    She asked, “So I probably won’t see you until ten?”

    “Yeah,” he said, “that’s probably pretty close to right. You want me to pick up anything on my way home?”

    “That depends,” Becky replied, and asked, “What do you want to eat tonight?”

    “Don’t know. What are you going to have?”

    “You know me,” she said, “same as usual, oatmeal and toast. You might want to pick up some milk — we’re running low on that. You want me to fix you a salad? We have some of that Boars Head smoked turkey breast.”

    “That sounds good. Do we still have some of the Virginia Brand, Honey French dressing?”

    “Becky replied, “I don’t know, but I’m not going to get up out of this chair right now to go look. If we don’t have that, then we probably have some of that Tomato and Bacon dressing you like.”

    “Alrighty then,” Jim said, doing his best Jim Carrey imitation, “I’ll have a salad and some crackers. Do we have any Birch Beer?”

    On the other end of the phone, Becky exhaled noisily, and asked, “How do I Know? I’m not the one that drinks that stuff. I know we have diet coke and tea, but I don’t know about your Birch Beer. We ought to go to Speck’s this Saturday and get some if we’re out, and we should pick up some of those honey mustard pretzel pieces, too.”

    “Okay, well, I gotta go. Hey, you know what?”

    “What?” she asked. She knew. Becky wasn’t a romantic like Jim, and rarely admitted it, but she truly loved to hear it.

    “I love you,” he said.

    “I love you too, now hurry up. Get your work done, and don’t be too late. What time should I start worrying about you? That’s a bad neighborhood, you know.”

    “You always say that, honey, but my own employees are far worse than most of this neighborhood. If I’m not home by ten thirty, call my cell. I should be home by then. I’ll call you when I’m on the road, as usual. Love you,” he said again, and hung up.

    She put the phone back down on the armrest of her recliner and sighed. Last week, when they went to see their 81 year old friend, Jack, and his wife, Dollie, Dollie said Jim was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She had been right of course, but like all men, he had his faults. All too often, when she wanted to go to bed, he would stay on that damned computer until one in the morning, making CD’s to listen to during his long commute each day. And if he wasn’t doing that he’d be enhancing photos with that new computer program he bought.

    Becky couldn't understand why Jim didn't want a job where he was paid hourly, instead of having to be a manager. Why did he have to be the boss? Manager’s never got paid extra when they had to work extra hours. She shrugged her shoulders, picked up her magazine and magnifying glass and smiled. Yeah, he had his faults, but she loved him.

    At eight-thirty Jim said, “Pull the plug, you guys. Everybody did a pretty good job, tonight. Now, let’s hope the sales team does a good job, tomorrow.” He went around and picked up several last minute appointment slips. Walking past Paul's desk, he said, “Paul, don’t run off. I need to talk to you in my office before you leave.”

    Paul became paranoid, stammering, “N-N-No, I d-d-don’t want to talk in your office. Why c-c-can’t we t-talk out here?”

    “Okay,” Jim agreed, “We’ll talk out here. Just don’t run off.”

    Paul turned to Max, who grunted as he got up from his desk. “Max, will you wait for me?”

    “Not tonight," Max shook his head. "I have to catch the bus — got some grocery shopping to do.”

    Next, Paul turned to Donnie with the same request, “D-D-Donnie will you wait for me?”

    Donnie pushed himself up, out of his chair and grimaced, pressing his right hand into the small of his back. “You’re a big boy Paul. You don’t need me to hold your hand. Besides, Jim doesn’t bite.” He turned towards Jim, and asked, “Do you Jim?”

    “Only if you look like a cheeseburger,” Jim grinned.

      Max walked out, followed closely by Donnie, leaving just Jim and Paul. Jim disappeared into his office, only a few steps from the main telemarketing room. He came back and sat down next to Paul with a piece of paper dangling from his right hand. “Paul, I have some good news for you,” Jim said. “You know how you’ve been saying it didn’t make sense for you to work here because you had to pay so much to the babysitters you were barely breaking even?”

    Paul knew something was wrong and asked, “Wh-Wh- What is it, Jim? What are you m-m-mad at me for?”

    “Mad at you? No way, Paul — I’m relieved,” Jim said. “I got a call from a guy you spoke to two or three times tonight. He told me that he asked to be taken off our list. He said each time you called he told you that you had the wrong number. Does any of this ring a bell, Paul?”

    “N-N-No” In Paul’s eyes you could see him desperately searching for a lie to get him off the hook. “What was his n-n-name,” Paul asked, his stutter becoming more prominent as he became more nervous.

    “Trouble, with a capitol T, Paul. That’s what his name was.”

    “Th-Th-There were a lot of wrong numbers tonight,” Paul said, his voice shaking. “I might've gotten con-con-confused and called somebody more than once, by accident”

    “Yes, I can understand how that could happen, Paul,” Jim replied, remaining calm, “but I must admit, I’m not sure how your wheelchair could have rolled over the phone cord like you told this fellow, and disconnected the phone, since you aren’t crippled, and don’t sit in a wheelchair. What can you tell me about that, Paul?”

    “I never s-s-said anything like that,” Paul claimed.

    “Have you ever said anything like that to a potential customer,” Jim asked?

      Paul thought about the answer for a moment. He knew Jim had heard him say it before, and had asked him to stop saying it. “Well, so what if I have. Wh-Wh-What’s the harm in that? It might m-make them feel s-s-sorry for me, and m-m-might make them let us c-come out to see them.”

    “The harm, Paul, is that when you call people back that have said for you to leave them alone, you could get us sued. You aren’t doing things the way your company asked you to do them. This man asked to be taken off our list. Did you turn his name in to me?”

    “You, you, you didn’t give me a chance. I was g-g-going to.”

    “When?” Jim asked, “When were you going to get around to it Paul? Have you got the form filled out? Do you even know where the forms are kept?”

    “Donnie or Ma-Ma-Max would get one for me, if I asked.”

    “Ah, yes, they would, if you asked, which you didn’t. I’m tired of playing these games with you, Paul. You know you’ve been on probation since you called that girl back, two weeks ago — the one that hung up on you. You told her she was in a bad neighborhood, and should have more sense than to live in such a bad area without having an alarm.”

    “I was j-j-just trying—”

    “I know, Paul, you were just trying to set an appointment. There’s always a good reason for you to break the rules, isn’t there, Paul? You can rationalize just about anything you do, can’t you?” Jim paused for a moment and stared into Paul’s suddenly cold, gray eyes. When he continued, he said, “I imagine you could even rationalize murder if you killed someone, couldn’t you?”

    Paul’s chin began to tremble. The harsh look in his eyes softened as they became moist, filling with tears. “You aren’t going to f-f-fire me, are you, Jim? Please, I’ll do b-better. I c-c-can’t lose my benefits. I’ve got to see the d-d-doctor about my liver. You know how sick I am.”

    Jim held out a piece of paper; Paul’s termination of employment notification. “Yes, Paul. I know how sick you are. You’ll be able to retain your benefits for up to 18 months, but you’ll have to pay for them directly to the insurance company. I want you to understand that you are terminated, effective this date, for repeated violations of company policies, including conduct that is considered detrimental to the company’s image and intent in serving the public. Your actions could leave the company vulnerable to litigation from parties who may feel you legally crossed the line and harassed them after they requested to be left alone.”

    Like a dark cloud passing across the sun on a windy day, the cold look returned to Paul’s face, replacing the trembling, pitiable, demeanor he had briefly adopted. He fixed a steely gaze on his boss and said, “You better not do this Jim. You b-better change your mind. I ha-have to keep this job and I’m n-n-not going to let you take it away from me. Don’t ma-ma-make me have to...” Paul stood up from his chair without completing his thought, glanced at the termination notice and tore it in half. The two pieces fluttered to the floor. Paul pointed at Jim and repeated his threat, this time finishing the sentence, “Don’t make me d-d-do something I don’t want to do.”

    “Paul,” Jim replied, his voice low and steady, “we all have to do things we don’t want to do. It’s called discipline. It’s called being responsible. I have an obligation to this company to do what is frequently the hard thing, in correcting, and sometimes terminating people that can’t or won’t do things the way we ask for them to be done. I don’t want to see people lose their jobs, or their benefits, but for those that work here, there are certain rules that have to...”

    Paul turned walked away. Jim wondered if he might have been talking over Paul’s head, but he was pretty sure Paul understood. Part of Paul’s act was to make people think he didn't understand things, but in this case, Jim figured, he just hadn’t liked what he had heard. After bending down and picking up the two halves of the termination notice, Jim walked back to his office. In his daily journal he wrote, “Terminated Paul Grand. Paul threatened me tonight, saying ‘Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do.’ I’m just writing it down here, in case anything should happen. I don’t really think he would do anything. He can make more money selling drugs than he can working here, and I explained that he could keep his benefits up to 18 months.”

      Jim closed the journal, leaving it on his desk next to his computer terminal. Closing the door to his office, he proceeded to the Branch Manager, Jerry Dobbin’s office, and put a copy of Paul’s termination slip in Jerry’s black plastic, “in tray,” on the wall next to Jerry’s door. Briefly he thought, “I hope we still have some of that honey French dressing. That sure would taste good tonight.” He turned out the lights, set the alarm, and walked outside.

    The air was wet with a light mist that magnified the effects of a cold wind which whipped across the sparsely lit, nearly deserted parking lot. As Jim turned the key in the front door and the lock clicked into place, behind him he heard something else click. He turned around to see Paul, brandishing a wicked looking knife with a 12-inch, highly polished blade that gleamed menacingly as the parking lot lights from above danced across it's length. Paul held it out in front of him, moving it slowly back and forth for Jim to see.

    Jim looked at the blade and then into Paul’s glazed eyes. “Jesus,” Jim thought, “He must have come out here and lit up as soon as he walked out of the building.”

    “I t-t-told you n-n-not to make me d-d-do something bad,” Paul said. “Take it b-b-back, Jim. Ta-Ta-Ta-Take it back. Tell me I’m not f-f-fired.” Paul continued to wave the switchblade back and forth. His fluid movements were those of a person who had handled a knife more than a few times, and belied how tightly he was wound up.

    “Paul, you were fired when you walked out that door, and you’re twice as fired now. That’s not the way I want it, but it’s the way it has to be.” Jim started to walk around Paul to get to his car, but Paul moved quickly, blocking him while continuing to display the weapon.

    “Paul, put that thing away. I fired you because you couldn’t, or wouldn’t follow the rules. But you’ll probably be able to draw unemployment and I told you that you can keep your insurance for up to 18 months. It’s just business, Paul. You’ll be okay, but what you’re doing right now isn’t very wise.” Behind Paul a car passed by the parking lot, giving Jim an opportunity for a diversion. He pointed, shouting, “It’s the cops, Paul!”

    Paul jerked around to look. As he did, Jim attempted to get around him, but at the age of 51 he had gotten too fat and slow. Even if he hadn’t had problems with arthritis in his ankles and knees he would have still been slower than Paul, who at the age of 29 may have been stoned out of his gourd, and weak from liver damage caused by hepatitis, but was still plenty quick enough to stop this old couch-potato from reaching his car. Paul expected Jim to stop again, but instead, Jim just kept coming and rammed into him with all his might, crushing him up against the side of the car. The expression on Paul’s face became one of pain and panic. Why hadn’t this fat fool just stopped? Why had he kept coming? Why hadn’t he just changed his mind, and said, “Okay Paul, let’s act like the whole thing never happened.”

    Jim saw the confused look on Paul’s face as he crashed into him. You never expected this old fart to call your bluff, did you, Paul? he thought. Gasping and grunting, they both collapsed onto the wet pavement. Jim looked down towards Paul’s hands for the knife, intent on wrestling it away, but saw that Paul no longer held the weapon. Frantically, he looked around. The knife lay not much more than an arm’s length away from the two combatants. Jim lunged for it and got there just a split second after Paul. He grabbed Paul’s wrist with both of his hands and pounded the hand holding the blade against the pavement. Once again, Paul lost his grip on the knife. It flew a good five feet away from either of them. Paul dove towards the knife, but Jim pounced on him and held him, preventing him from reaching it. He turned him over on his back and, straddling him, drove his fist into Paul’s face. Paul’s nose exploded and ran dark red, the blood spreading over his mouth and cheeks as Jim continued to pound away.

    “Stop, Jim, stop, you’re killing me!” Paul screamed.

      Panting, Jim shouted back, as he prepared to throw another punch, “Isn’t that what you had planned for me, Paul?”

    “I just wanted to sc-scare you!”

    Jim peered into those eyes, those scared, sunken-in, confused eyes, staring up out of that blood spattered face, looking for something that might tell him if Paul were telling the truth, or if this was just another ploy to get him to drop his guard. He relaxed for a moment, and when Paul made no attempt to continue the fight, he wearily began to get up. It was just the break Paul hoped for as he squirmed free of Jim’s considerable weight, once again diving for and grabbing the switchblade.

    Rather than attacking Paul, Jim decided to try, once again, to reach safety and end this conflict by getting into and locking the car. That would give him the time to dial 9-1-1. He quickly grabbed his keys and, with his first attempt, although under intense pressure, he precisely inserted the ignition key into the slot on the side of the door. As so many books and movies had described, each perilous second seemed to drag by as if time had slowed to a crawl. With speed that he wouldn't have imagined himself capable of, he turned the key and heard the click of the unlocking door, while with his other hand he grabbed and lifted the door handle. Rejoicing as the door began to open, he prepared to swing into his Toyota and relock the door. That was when he felt the shock and searing burn of the switchblade plunging into his back. He fell forward against the door as the blade slid in between two ribs, puncturing his right lung.

    Gasping for breath, Jim felt the blade withdrawn from his back and then plunged a second and a third time, deeply, into his left side. Sliding down the side of the Toyota, his head began to swim as his perforated lungs filled with blood. As his strength escaped, the realization dawned that he would not live to see the rest of what could be a national championship season for his beloved Razorbacks. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled across the sky as the mist became a heavy, wind blown curtain of rain billowing across the parking lot.

      Lying flat on his back, staring up, directly into one of the security lights that seemed to get dimmer with each pitiful attempt at taking a ragged breath, his increasingly disjointed thoughts fixated briefly on the Kreskin game. He finally had the answer. It had been correct when it said he would marry a girl named Becky and that he would die when he was fifty-one. If there was an afterlife and he saw his father there, he would have to ask him why he ever brought that damn game home. No longer aware of the thunder, the wind, and the cold, fat pellets of rain that struck his face and rolled down his cheeks, his thoughts turned to his niece, Rachel, the closest thing he had ever had to a child of his own. He hoped someday she would find a nice, hard working boy with whom she would spend her life.

      His final impressions were of Becky and how much he loved her. Just before slipping away into the dark abyss, in the dim recesses of his dying, oxygen-starved brain, he worried about her being able to find a ride downtown for her appointment with the ophthalmologist next week.


                                                                                  Chapter 4


    Standing in the driving storm, panting from physical exertion and psychological stress, Paul wiped his hair out of his face. He attempted to pull himself back together and watched, mesmerized momentarily, as the pouring rain rinsed the blood away from the switchblade that he had just pulled out of Jim Patton’s back. His first inclination was to run, but he reasoned he probably shouldn’t since Jim’s clothes would surely be stained with some of his own blood, which continued to drip from his battered nose. He wished he had a cell phone that worked right now. He would call Giselle and ask her for advice. She always knew what to do. Unfortunately, they had failed to pay the bill on the cell phone and it had been cut off, after which it had gotten lost, somehow.

      Then Paul remembered, Jim had a cell phone. He could use it. It was probably in his pocket. Just as he bent down to search through Jim’s pockets he thought, “Wait a minute, that won’t work.” If he called Giselle at their apartment, or even at the modeling studio, it would be a dead giveaway when the pigs checked Jim’s cell phone call record. Jeez, his nose really hurt. He cursed the dead body of his former boss, gave it a wicked kick to the groin and then bent down to remove the stylish, Citizen wristwatch that he wore. “That ought to be worth a few bucks,” he figured. He checked the back of the watch for any kind of identifying inscription. Pleased to find nothing that would link the watch to Jim, he smiled.

    Paul flinched, his concentration broken by the unexpected brilliant flash and thunderous concussion of a nearby lightning strike. The brief scare triggered a memory of his eighth birthday and his father's cruelty. Sheets of water cascaded down the exterior of the cold window he pressed his nose against. It had been raining all day. No one had come to his party, partly because they lived so far out in the country, and partly because of the weather. After eating cake and ice cream alone with his mother, he desperately wanted to go outside and play. He had literally worn his parents out with his incessant pleading, “Can I go outside?” Dear old dad had been drinking, as usual, and had finally lost his temper. “Go ahead you fuckin’ retard," he exploded. "If you haven’t got enough sense to stay inside during a storm like this, then you just fucking go right ahead! Maybe God will do us all a favor and you’ll get hit by lightning!” His mother had been outraged, as always, by the insensitive remarks about her poor little Paulie, and had cried in protest as she engaged in what turned into a ferocious argument.

    Reaching up to gingerly touch his throbbing nose and checking to see if he was still bleeding, Paul remembered trying to comfort his mother that day. He remembered her swollen, blackened eye and dabbing with a damp handkerchief at her bloody, broken nose and how his father had ranted, “You see? You see what you’ve caused again, you worthless little shit?” Looking down at the still body of his boss he could still hear his inebriated father’s incriminating accusations. “You see? Do you see what you’ve caused, you little shit? You little retard!”

    The rain still came down hard, drumming on the bill of the old, orange, Houston Astros cap that Max had given to him. He'd have to go back into the office and find Jim’s copy of his termination notice. Fuck! Why hadn’t he kept the copy Jim had given him, rather than tearing it up and letting the pieces fall on the floor? He'd have to find those pieces, too. He could call Giselle from inside, if she were home. Right now, he couldn’t remember if she was working tonight, or not.

    Giselle was just finishing a “session” at that moment, but not at the modeling studio. When she had gone back to get that whole “cookie” she had offered two hundred, and had been told the price was four hundred because it was soooo good and a little larger than usual. Giselle had countered with two-hundred-forty dollars; all she had. She had made it clear that she would be willing to throw in a little stress relief session to make up the difference, but she hadn't meant stress relief for the seller and his four friends. That kind of party should have netted her a couple of cookies, but, oh well, a girl had to do what a girl had to do. She didn’t care. Men were usually quick and easy to take care of and now she had what she wanted, although her asshole would be sore for a couple of days thanks to that big, black freak named Mojo. She collected her clothes and stepped into the shower to clean up.

      Closing her eyes as the warm water splashed against her chin, neck, and breasts, she wondered why men, especially in a group, insisted on spraying her face and breasts with their semen. Was sex some kind of sport, similar to archery, where their dicks were the bows and her face and tits were the bull’s-eye? But as much as she detested it, becoming a sticky, cum-covered mess was the quickest, easiest way to keep them from wanting seconds. Pulling up her panties, after drying off with a towel that smelled like it belonged to the old TV sitcom talking horse, Mr. Ed, she thought, “I bet he’d say, ‘Gosh Wilbur,’ if he’d seen me in action a few minutes ago.” She winced, at the burning sensation in her rectum and thought, “Oh well, that’s why they make Anusol, I can always sit on a pillow for a day or two.” Leaning forward at the sink after rubbing a circular clearing in the fogged up mirror, she noticed a fresh blister from the glass pipe on her lower lip while putting on her lipstick. She rubbed her tongue over the sensitive spot while she wiggled into her tight, black leather pants and hurriedly slipped into her leopard print halter top. She couldn’t wait to get outside and hit that pipe again.

                                                                                          ~        ~        ~

    Wearing latex gloves that he kept in his car just in case he should run into a situation where he might wish to avoid leaving fingerprints, Paul unlocked and opened the front door. Immediately the alarm system begin beeping, meaning he had thirty seconds to enter the security code or the alarm would activate, alerting the police to a possible break-in. He had watched over Jerry Dobbins shoulder on a number of occasions while the branch manager had opened the building on Saturday mornings, and had memorized the numbers, 0-8-1-5. Jerry was such a nice guy, such a nice, sweet, trusting guy who believed in everybody.

    Paul appreciated people like that. They made life so much easier for people like him. After deactivating the alarm system Paul flipped a light on and went straight to Jim’s office. He turned the doorknob and found that the door was locked. No problem, he pulled a credit card out of the wallet he stole from Jim’s rear pants pocket, and used it to jimmy the door open. Looking at the credit card he noticed that it was a Platinum Mastercard issued by Chase, with an expiration date of March, 2005. Paul guessed that it probably had a ten thousand dollar limit and wondered what he might try to buy with it. He didn’t trust the department stores, or even many of the gas stations these days due to security cameras that recorded all of the transactions, but busy restaurants, old mom and pop gas stations, and country stores were prime targets to get a little mileage out of Mr. Patton’s good credit. Unfortunately, he would probably only have 24 to 48 hours before the card was canceled, so he would need to sit down with Giselle, tonight and figure out what they needed and where they should try to get it. Jim had been carrying two hundred and fifteen dollars in cash, which Paul figured he would need to hide from Giselle. He knew she would spend the money intended for the rent and the groceries on cocaine. Hell, it was probably long gone already, if he knew her, and he did.

      Jim’s wallet, credit cards and cash weren’t all that Paul had already taken. Jim’s diamond ring, a family heirloom passed down from his great-grandmother, now rested on the middle finger of Paul’s bruised right hand. Paul admired the antique diamond nestled in a classic white gold setting. As he stood in the doorway of Jim’s office, he wondered if it would cut glass. It certainly looked like the real deal, nearly a full carat. He would have to pawn it, for sure. Anyone that knew Jim had seen that ring.

    There on the desk next to the computer, sat Jim’s daily journal. Protruding from it was the termination notice Paul had come back to locate and the copy that he had torn in half was there as well, taped back together. The exultation he felt, while triumphantly holding the two pieces of paper was short lived as he realized there had to be a third copy. He remembered Jim frequently saying, “Everything is done in triplicate around here.”

    “Where could that third copy be?” he wondered. Then it hit him. Of course, it would be in Jerry’s in-box. He picked up Jim’s leather bound journal, tucking it under his arm, (no telling what he might have written in there) and headed straight to Jerry’s office. The gold colored copy was right there, in plain sight. Paul snatched it out of the black plastic bin, stuck it in Jim’s journal with the other copies and breathed a sigh of relief through his mouth. His nose was still completely stopped up and sore as hell. He walked to the bathroom, unzipped his fly and took a quick leak before going to the mirror to examine the damage Jim had inflicted upon him. He washed his face, gingerly dabbing at the swollen and possibly broken nose with a paper towel. Besides his nose throbbing and the headache that was building to head splitting proportions, his right hand was scraped and swollen from being pounded on the pavement during the struggle for possession of the switchblade. Paul pressed down on one of the offending knuckles and winced, deciding it might be broken as well. After tearing up the paper towels and flushing them, rather than leaving a bunch of bloody towels in the trash can, he walked out of the restroom and went to his desk to call Giselle.

    Giselle was just opening the door when the phone began to ring. The babysitter, a black, teenaged girl named Sally, who lived upstairs with her mother, jumped up from the couch and wasted no time in complaining about having to stay past the agreed upon time. Giselle waved her off with one hand while answering the phone with her other. Standing there with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot impatiently on the floor, Sally heard Giselle ask, “Where the fuck have you been, Paul? Sally is chewing my ass because she was supposed to be home by nine tonight, and frankly, my ass can’t stand a lot of chewing tonight!”

      Shock registered on her face, and she shouted, “He did what? Then what are we going to do for insurance, Paul? The shock on her face escalated to horror, as she said, “Oh my God, tell me you didn’t... Oh my God, you idiot, you fucking retarded idiot! Where are you right now?” She told Paul to wait a minute and turned to Sally, who was waiting to be paid. “Sally, Paul’s been in an accident and I have to go. He had the money and was supposed to be home before nine to pay you. I’m sorry, but we’ll have to pay you tomorrow. I really gotta go right now, so I’m going in to wake Richard up and take him with me. We’ll see you tomorrow sweetie, okay?”

    Sally wasn’t happy about it, but what could she do? “Whatever,” was all that she said as she walked back over to the wobbly folding card table in front of the couch and picked up her school books. Before she walked out the door she shouted to Giselle, who was already in the bedroom getting the baby, “You better pay me tomorrow Ms. Grand, or I ain’t gonna be yo babysitter no mo!”

    Giselle waited for the door to slam and shook her head, attempting to clear some of the cocaine induced cobwebs before she shouted into the phone, “You retarded bastard! How the fuck could you be so stupid? Where’s the body now?” The baby woke up and began to cry as Paul told her that the body was still in the parking lot. Giselle went berserk, screaming even louder than the considerable screams of the child, “In the parking lot? How the fuck long were you going to leave it there, Paul? Were you going to just leave it there all night and hope nobody would drive by and see it? Were you thinking maybe in the morning nobody would notice it when they got to work? Maybe they would just step over it and think it was a speed bump?” The baby began to shriek in fear as its mother continued her tirade, “You listen to me, Paul, God damn it! You get that fucking body into the trunk of Jim’s car, right now. I’ll be up there in a few minutes and we can take the car and the body to a chop shop that’s run by a guy I know. They’ll give us money for the car and get rid of the body for us, but we gotta get that car off the streets before the cops come looking for it!” She slammed the phone down and ran to the kitchen, reaching up into the cabinet where they kept the whiskey. She poured a small amount into the baby’s bottle and then filled it up the rest of the way with apple juice. “That ought to quiet the little shit down,” she said. After getting soaked by the continued heavy rain while strapping the still howling Richard into his car seat, Giselle ran back into the apartment and grabbed a pillow, which she threw onto the driver’s seat and sat on for added comfort.

                                                                                ~        ~        ~

    At the Old West Steakhouse, Rachel Evans walked quickly over to Cindy Stetson as a tall, older, gentleman walked in wearing a cowboy hat. “Cindy, your Dad’s here,” Rachel said. “Want me to take over any of your tables so you can spend some time with him?”

    “Yeah, he’ll be in a good mood tonight,” Cindy replied. “He just had a bunch of work done on his car today. He’s wanted to do that for a while. Could you take the party of four at that table in the corner?”

    Rachel turned and looked, recognizing the four teenaged boys sitting there as students at Richburg high. “Oh great,” she said, “They’d probably have to look up the word tip in the dictionary. The next time they leave money on a table will be the first.”

    Cindy reminded Rachel, “I always takeover a table for you when your Aunt or your Mom comes in.”

    “Yeah, yeah, okay,” Rachel agreed and headed over to check on the four boys to see if they were ready to order.

    Cindy walked up to her Dad and said, “Hi Daddy, how’s Methuselah?”

    Sam took his hat off, smiled a big, satisfied looking smile, and said, “He’s like a new man, cupcake. I took him out on 59, toward Wharton, and he ran just the way I hoped he would.”

    Cindy smiled and asked, “Do you want your usual table in the back?”

    Sam nodded, saying, “That would suit me to a T, sweetheart,” and allowed Cindy to lead the way. He didn’t like eating right up front, next to the big window where people that were just arriving invariably peered in at those who were halfway through their meal. It made him feel, he said, “Like a goldfish in a bowl.” And besides, having been in law enforcement for many years, you never knew when someone you had arrested might see you and might just decide they wanted to spoil your supper. Once seated, Sam put his hat down on the chair next to him, looked up at his daughter and said, “Bring me the best steak your chef can find back there and have it cooked medium-well, please. I’d like a baked potato too and a piece of that turtle cheesecake for dessert with a cup of coffee. But just bring me water and some lemons to drink with the meal. I’m gonna follow the example of some friends of mine and make me some lemonade.”

    “Did you want a salad with that?” Cindy asked.

    “No, thank you honey,” Sam smiled. “Bring me some rolls to get me started and I’ll be just fine and dandy.”

    Cindy went back to the kitchen and asked the chef, a big guy named Tommy, to find the biggest, best piece of meat in the fridge for her Dad.

    “Can he handle twenty-four ounces?” Tommy asked.

    “Hey, he can always ask for a doggie-bag, if he can’t finish it.” Cindy replied.

    Tommy went over to the big meat locker and pulled out a thick, juicy hunk of red meat. He laid the monstrous porterhouse down on the wooden chopping block and raised the meat clever into the air.



                                                                                    ~        ~          ~


    With a crisp whack, the large, razor sharp instrument cut through bone like a hot knife through butter, severing Jim Patton’s head from the rest of his torso. Paying no mind to the grissly dismemberment of Mr. Patton's corpse, taking place behind them, Paul and Giselle negotiated with Antonio, the owner of the chop shop not far from Katy, Texas, about fifteen miles west of Houston off of Interstate ten. The significantly reduced price Antonio offered for the Toyota was partially due to the discreet disposal service he had agreed to perform. Outside, in the locked car, Richard dozed peacefully, while the rain, which had let up a little, patted a soothing pattern on the car’s roof. After a half bottle of his Mom’s special apple juice, he had gone out like a light.

    “Tony, That’s a 2001 Camry,” Giselle argued, “Once you’ve given it a paint job and fix the little dent in the rear bumper, you’ll get top dollar for it in Mexico.”

      Smiling broadly, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, Tony replied, “Yes, but you’ll get the death penalty if they ever find that body, so you have to keep in mind the very convenient and valuable service I'm providing for you. Now if you would prefer to dispose of the problem on your own and feel that my price isn’t as good as you could get elsewhere, just let me know.” He spun around towards the big guy with the blood stained apron, who hacked away at the body in the background. “Hey Julio, hold up for a moment. See if you can find a doggie bag. They may be taking 'the leftovers' home.” When he turned back around he grinned at Giselle and Paul. It wasn't intended to put them at ease. His amused expression faded as he asked, “So, What’s it gonna be?”

                                                                                      ~        ~        ~

    In the Town Pointe subdivision in Richburg, Becky Patton was getting antsy. Her husband had often said if she had been an ant, her little antennae would have been twirling. It was getting close to ten-thirty and she hadn’t heard anything from her husband. Jim was very good about calling when he started home. There had only been one or two times in the past year that he had failed to call while he was on the way. Once, his phone had been malfunctioning and he couldn’t reach her and the other time he had just forgotten to call because he had been talking to her sister, Marla, whom he occasionally picked up at her job when she had to work overtime.

      By eleven, she knew something was definitely wrong. He had never been this late. She called Marla, who had not worked late that evening and was already asleep. Rachel, who had been doing her homework had answered the phone and had gone to wake her mother up. Marla left for work in the mornings around five and was usually in bed by around eight. Yawning, and sounding somewhat disoriented, she informed Becky that she had not seen or spoken to Jim. Becky’s next call was to her old school buddy, Jeannie Dell, with whom she frequently went to garage sales on Fridays.  “Jeannie, Jim hasn’t come home yet tonight and I haven’t heard from him. He always calls me when he’s on his way home.”

    “Did you call his work number and his cell phone?” Jeannie asked.

    “They forward their phones at eight-thirty every night, so even if he were still there I wouldn’t be able to talk to him. I tried his cell, but he didn’t answer, so I left a message.”

    Jeannie thought for a moment, and asked, “Did you call the Houston Police department and ask them to go by the office?”
    Becky asked, “I was going to call Jerry Dobbins, the branch manager, first. Don’t the Houston Police have a, we don’t care policy, if the person hasn’t been missing for twenty-four hours or more?”

    “How should I know?” Jeannie asked. “You know my policy on the police, I stay as far away from them as possible.”

    “Jeannie, will you or Kevin take me in to Houston? Maybe he’s been in a wreck, or who knows what could have happened? Maybe if we go along his normal route we can see his car.”

    Jeannie had been watching a movie and had smoked some primo weed about an hour earlier, so she didn’t exactly feel like going out and driving on the wet roads, but Becky and Jim had always been good friends to her and Kevin so she just couldn’t say no. “Well Beck,” she said, after hesitating and sounding for a minute like she was going to say no, “Yeah, okay, I’ll be over there in ten to fifteen minutes.”

    Thirty minutes later she arrived in her van, which leaked on the front passenger’s feet in rainy weather, and they spent the next two hours searching for some clue as to where Jim could be. They had met Jerry Dobbins at the security company’s offices. Becky apologized to Jerry for the way she looked, saying she must look a fright, but was far too concerned with worry about Jim to let it stop her from going out. Jerry seemed plenty concerned as well. He and Jim had been friends for some time and he promised to do everything in his power to assist in their search. Jerry had been in radio for many years before getting into the alarm industry. Ironically, he had even worked for a short time at the radio station in Richburg, which was less than one block from where Becky and Jim lived. When they arrived back at Becky’s house at about one-thirty, she thanked her friend and handed her a twenty for gas, which Jeannie politely refused. Doing her best to remain brave, Becky joked, “I don’t know whether you should be more shocked at Jim failing to come home, or me going out without makeup.”

    Jeannie asked if Becky might like to spend the night over at her house, but Becky said she should stay home in case someone heard something and called to get in touch with her. She went inside and walked straight to the answering machine which blinked, indicating there was an, as yet, unheard message that had been left. Quickly, she pressed the play button, praying that it might be Jim, saying he was alright and had encountered some kind of car trouble or had been in a minor accident, but instead, it was Jim’s mother. She was 82 years old and frequently spoke baby-talk to her son, as if he were about three or four years old. “Howdy Doody, this is your Mommy calling. I just wanted to hear my sweet boy’s voice. Are you home, sonny boy? When you get a chance, call your Mommy. I love you.”

    Becky didn’t know if this was a sign of senility or not. Jim had assured her that it wasn’t, and Becky guessed that she agreed, because from time to time, depending on her mood, his mother had always spoken to him this way. The devastating disappointment of hearing her mother-in-law’s voice, rather than her husband’s was more than she could bear. She collapsed onto her recliner, looking dolefully at the cordless phone. She began to cry, sniffling and whimpering softly at first, and then sobbing, loudly, mournfully, as her worst fears and a burgeoning feeling of helplessness took control of her emotions and overwhelmed her. He was either dead or hurt badly and unconscious. Those were the only things she could think of that would have kept him from calling. And, if he were hurt badly she felt certain someone would have looked into his wallet and called his home to let his family know of his plight. Jim was dead. She knew it.

    Someone had, most definitely, looked into his wallet, but not the kind of people Becky was hoping for. Paul and Giselle had finally accepted the $2,500.00 that Antonio had offered for Jim’s Toyota, and were trying to figure out where they could eat at one-thirty in the morning using Jim’s credit card. n the back seat of the old, white Mustang Richard continued to sleep in his soiled diaper, drooling, much like the drunks that lived in the cardboard boxes downtown, his head rolling to the left and right with the motion of the vehicle. Paul asked Giselle, “Is Richard okay? I haven’t heard a peep out of him tonight.”

    “Guess he must be sleepy,” Giselle answered, briefly glancing back. “He’s really out of it,” she chuckled. “Kinda looks like one of those bobble-head dolls. Lucky us.”