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Every swindle is driven by a desire for easy money; it's the one thing the swindler, and the swindled have in common. - Mitchell Zuckoff Thruce, The Unwell Everton, was drunk. He was so drunk like he had never been before. Splattered, squashed, and intoxicated. His cat had died on him. His eleven-year-old tabby, a wild Russian Blue, had passed away after keeping him company for all that time. It hurt, it so damned hurt. He looked at the picture of Gizmo, his cat, and cried. The tears just kept on rolling down his cheeks like a stream of waterdrops pouring from soda pop. He knew why he cried; it wasn’t all about Gizmo; there was something else, nagging at the edges of his brain. He was guilty of someone’s suicide! There, he thought it. It was real; he actually found the words. “I actually am guilty of the death of Carmen,” he blurbed out loud. He was alone; who would notice it anyhow? Oh, shit, Carmen…! The very thought of the woman made him even more helpless and tearful. I liked you, I took your money, I know, but you were somebody I really liked. Why did you do it? It was only money. I never thought you would take it this hard. It wasn’t as if I took it all, only a portion of what you had. Why did you do it, dear Carmen? I never meant to, I really never meant to…! Oh shit! And then he broke, pouring out his soul over the pic of his dead cat. “Gizmo, Gizmo, You too, Brutes? Why do you all leave me? Why am I all alone?” “I am not a bad person? Am I? I take the money of silly women, I know… I won’t apologize for that. That’s what I do for a living. I cheat, I ly, I fake my affection, but I never really meant any harm. Oh, Carmen, you shouldn’t have… we could have worked something out. Hell, I even would have given you back the 50,000 if I had known it meant that much to you. It was only petty cash. I didn’t want you to take your own life over it. I never wanted you to die.” He whispered, his voice feeble and soft. He poured himself another scotch. "I wished there was something I could do… feeling so helpless; if only I didn’t take that money. Not from her. She was a nice lady. We really had fun for those few weeks, we really had. If only… wait for a second, I can give back the money to her family. I could donate anonymously. She would have liked that, yes, she would. Her kids could need the money, she told me about them. Yes, that’s what I am going to do. I deposit the money. I will make it right for her kids. Perhaps I add some of my own too. I have enough. And then I take some time off, that’s what I do. Just go to some parties, have a good time, forget all this shit: Gizmo, Carmen, my lousy life. Yes, I deposit the money. I transfer now." He wiped away his drunken tears and got to it. The picture of Gizmo fell on the floor. Thruce didn’t notice. That night he dressed all nice. Tie, clean white shirt with two cufflinks, his diamond ones. With a black suit and matching shoes, he felt all honky dory again. His drunken stupor was forgotten, a new chapter to a new story. Baron Thruce of Everton was ready to go. Charlie, his chauffeur, looked at him and smiled politely. “Where to, Baron, anywhere special tonight?” He kept the door to the front seat open. “The Night Club, Charles. I need a cocktail and some company tonight. Gizmo has passed away in the morning. I buried him in the yard.” “Oh no, Sir,” the driver was genuinely shocked. “That’s awful…, I will bring you there, Sir, you better relax now. “ “Thanks, Charles, I will.” It was eleven fifteen at night, and the sky was pitch black. No stars but a full moon shining through. Wolf Moon, as folklore had it. January 5th, 2541, was just another Friday night. The streets were empty, with no lights on the pavement. The municipality of Los Angeles had decided a long time ago it was not worth their while to distract money from the city’s cash register to provide for amenities for its citizens. Consequently, there was a great gap between the possibilities of the Haves and the Haves-not. Ordinary folks didn’t come out at night but stayed hidden in their houses and apartment buildings. No sensible citizen would dare to walk the streets at night, and only a few had cars. Gasoline was costly, and energy was scarce. The likes of Thruce The Unwell Everton didn’t care much. They had their tinted windows in their expensive cars, driven by street-wise chauffeurs. When you paid the right people, you could have any lifestyle you wanted. He looked through the window while passing Santa Monica Boulevard to Watts, where the Night Club was. The streets were almost empty. The occasional drunk, swaggering on his feet, a couple of girls heading home from a party, that was it. The curfew would not be enforced till midnight. He would be inside by then. Besides, he knew people from the police force. It would not be difficult to bribe them with a little cash. He was notoriously famous in the city; everybody knew Baron of Everton. Rules did hardly apply to him—the power of money and wits. The Nightclub, aka 007, was a highly recommended and famous club in the center of Los Angeles. It was named after a movie character back in the Old Days before the virus hit the globe. More and more facts from ancient history were revealed by scientists and research journalists probing the Net that had not been available for many years but was up and running again thanks to Artificial Intelligence. It was a sophisticated club run by its owner, fat Hussler, a friend of Thruce. The car stopped near the red carpet, and Thruce got out, waving with one hand to the crowd waiting in line to enter. The bouncers knew him, and they greeted him with enthusiasm; whenever the Baron was visiting, the clientele had a terrific time laughing over his puns and funny remarks. He was a real party-goer and an asset to any club. Besides, he was a great tipper. “Hi Hank, hi Ronald,” Thruce had made it his job to know the names of the guys at the gate. He might need them in other circumstances. Didn’t he? He took out his wallet and waved with a couple of bills. “Here, guys, this is for the both of you; I have something to celebrate tonight. My sanity. “ They parted to let him through. There was a staircase downstairs into a small lobby. The door to the main hall was open, and Thruce could hear public and music's noise. Friday night, party night. A round hall with several evenly placed stand-off tables in the middle and leather-bound rugs at square tables near the walls. It was a huge room that could easily harbor three hundred people. At the rear end, there was a stage where people danced. Disco balls lit the place with nano light. Several colors lightened up and gave the crowd a cheerful outlook. Everybody seemed happy and having a good time. Prominently placed in the middle, a large bar with three barkeepers. Boys were mixing drinks with cocktail shakers, dancing on the rhythm of the beat. Thruce sighed with relief. How he missed this. It was good to be back. They smiled when they saw him walking toward them at the corner table. Pam and Bill were his closest friends. A crowd, looking with interest in Thruce and his party. “Long time no see, Thruce. Where have you been hiding?" Pam kissed him on the cheek. He gave Bill a hand. “Yeah, well, Gizmo died this morning, so I had to come. Been doing this and that, you know.” His friends were in shock, didn’t know how to reply. Thruce joked: “Okay, folks, here goes: Where does a dead cat go? Purr-gatory. What has 4 legs and flies? A dead cat. “ They all laughed. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed all of a sudden. Fat Hussler motioned him from afar to come and say hello. “I’m so glad that I know the sign language; it really is pretty handy.” Thruce walked away, leaving Pam and Bill and the crowd laughing. He said hello to the boss of the joint and walked to the bar to order. The bartender brought him his drinks and put them on the counter. “Baron, one minute, I've got a joke for you. You are probably the only one who understands.” “Shoot, Jeff,” Thruce smiled. Jeff cleared his voice. “Okay, sir, here goes: "When the officer walks up to the window and asks Schrödinger for his license and registration, the psychologist seems to be a little off. Not sure if Schrödinger is drunk or on drugs, the officer asks him to step out of the car to perform a sobriety test. Schrödinger passes with flying colors, but he's now fidgeting and unable to make eye contact with the officer. The officer thinks that there may be something in the car, so he gets Schrödinger's permission to search the vehicle. He finds nothing in the glove compartment nor the backseat. "The only place the officer hasn't checked yet is the trunk. When he opens it, he's shocked at what he finds. "Officer: Sir, do you know that you have a dead cat in your trunk? "Schrödinger: Well, now I do...”1 “Nerd!” Thruce laughed out loud and walked away, juggling with his three beers. “Schrödinger’s cat, well done, Jeff!” This was the beginning of a nice night out! WC:1665 Footnotes |
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