Maybe some earrings.
Maybe something else, but earrings sounded good and he’d never really gotten her anything like that ever, might be the smart thing to do, make this seem special, like he knew how much she was worth.
you be me
The apartment itself was sort of cluttered, but even still nondescript. I’d shown up, like he said, in his car and had worn the coat and hat, the glasses and he’d been satisfied by how my beard had grown. The full instructions were in an envelope, typed, just bullet points.
7:00AM Leave in car.
7:30 AM Grocery Store.
8:30AM Return.
8:45 Send E-Mail#1.
So on so on so on.
Even the sub-points were listed—the password for his bank card, the telephone numbers, all of it. It was a little funny he’d commit it to paper, but then again I didn’t know exactly what I’d do against him even with the list—no, not a hole I was gonna grubby myself with, just a bit of moot to play with, idle away the time.
So it went fine, three days of that—getting gas, groceries, renting movies, sending e-mail, making telephone calls (though I wasn’t supposed to talk, just whoever picked up left the phone off the hook for this amount of time or that). I took out the trash, I left the windows open, I sang in the shower (cartoonish deep, the woman who lived next door had flirted with the guy about it once).
Morning the fourth day, I left as usual, drove out to the shopping mall, parked in the middle of the garage. I slipped out of the coat I’d left in (the keys I’d been given slipped into the pocket) left the hat on the driver’s seat, rather liked the glasses so held on to them.
I lit myself a cigarette after closing the door, made my way to the bus stop. Killing a man was the easiest thing I’d ever done.
Doctor, Lawyer, Indian Chief
Reg first tells me how he’s been with a prostitute when we’re on our way home from work, one evening—I believe him, no reason not to, and he presses it a bit like he expects me to either be disappointed or excited when I’m neither.
“You ever been with a prostitute?” I remember he asks me and I tell him No, maybe with a kind of gesture like Of course not, so he laughs and tell me “Well man, it sure beats fucking yourself, but feel free to go do that, alright?”
***
So, he brings it up from time to time, always about this same prostitute. I joke like he’s falling for her or something, but it’s nothing like that he tells me and I know it isn’t.
Asks me again why don’t I try it out—it’s easier for me to, after all, Reg the one with the wife, the two kids, for me it’d be nothing and I have nothing else going.
I think about it, even jerk off to it more and more, start asking him more questions about what’s it like, really, and all.
***
Gets I tell him to let me know the next time he’s got a minute to get me started, feel a little silly, but I’d rather have him show me around so I don’t get beat down some alley, don’t wind up getting my dick bit off or something.
“Naw,” he says, “man you gotta try it with Shelly. If nothing else, cause she’s clean, you know? Doesn’t bother with raincoats.”
I look at him funny, but he’s serious and right away in my ear talking it up, how she’s something else, how frankly he’d get off on the idea, too, something worth doing is worth doing right and two people doing the same thing right is even righter and, besides, he wants to know I’m treated well, so I don’t think he’s crazy for stepping out and paying cash money for it.
***
Shelly is something else. I’d done some things with some girls before, and with Shelly it was nothing like she stood on her hands or was full of two buck kama sutra bullshit, it was her venom, her energy, it was the way she was somewhere else that got me somewhere else.
***
Reg meets me right when I’m done, meets me where we usually grab a drink, has the biggest grin and pumps me for details, but not too many and I concede he’s right to pay out on the regular for it if that’s how it goes.
Orders us up a set of six shots, holds up his first, twitches his head we’re going to toast.
“To us, man—to us, to the grave, right?”
I nod deep, we tilt the shot back, have a laugh and he’s got his next up, taps it against the side of the next for me.
“To Shelly, too, right?”
“Fuck yes,” I say.
He holds up a finger, so I don’t drink yet.
“To Shelly, who’ll be joining us there.”
I smile, he tips his nose I should take the shot, so I do. “Joining us where?”
He takes up his third shot, points at mine. “The grave.”
Points at mine, again, I take it up, do my best to chuckle, a little bit confused. “How’s that?”
He throws his shot back, takes a big breath, points at mine, still in my hand.
“Drink up, man,” says Reg to me. “Got some bad news coming it’ll take the edge off.”
Stuart and Lexi sitting in a tree
Wasn’t clever of Stuart to fuck me over, though we’d shaken hands on it and called it ancient history. Wasn’t hard to get the key to he and Lexi’s place, she being the responsible gal to have a spare key, left in the cliché kitchen drawer, thing wouldn’t be missed the length of time it’d take to copy. Wasn’t hard at all to find the panties, I mean those coulda come from any department store, but for realism’s sake I took em from some drunk slut picked up hardly even had a good time tumbling her around except it got me off hard thinking where those panties’d wind up.
Simple enough to arrange it Stuart’d come out of town with me a night or two, wrangled it good it’d fall right on the heels of Lexi having been out of town, she’d get in town just when we’d be leaving, setting everything fine, perfect, little work of art. Stuart came to my place he got off work, having made it simple enough to slip into his place and secure those stale panties down the crease of the sofa cushion, pillow left on top, remote control wedged down a bit further.
***
We were both a few shots of bourbon down when the call came in—fuck it was lovely, Stuart putting a finger to his ear to drown out the peripheral din, stammering, telling me he needed to take the call. I had two more shots the forty minutes he was out, could imagine him pacing the freezing sidewalk, wish I could’ve heard him whirling, but it was even better offstage.
Stuart came back in to my brow creased concerned, though I had a hard time not laughing.
“Lexi,” he said, didn’t get further.
I got him a shot.
He was pale, unfocused, hands probably just shivering but seemed they were shaking.
“I need to get home.”
“Have a shot,” I said, waving a dismissive hand.
He protested, tried to talk, I insisted, he drank. He was shuddering, verge of tears, so I touched his shoulders, real good friend asked him Hey, was he alright, he looked sick.
“I have to get home.”
“Something up with Lexi? Fuck her, this is our time, right?”
“Lexi,” he said, reached for the shot on the table, mine, but I let him have it.
“Fuck her,” I said, gave him a pat, turned to get some more drink.
“She’s dead.”
A Public Ransom
I didn’t have my camera on my when I came across the ransom note, made a special trip back out. One of the most interesting pieces I’d come across, for the detail, the bizarre location. Written in what seemed to be just thick marker on the chipping paint-over-brick of the wall next to an Animal Clinic, the note itself read:
Have took another 1 (there were tally marks totaling fourteen) no wants it back, or do you well? Leave money $2 thous in blue cloth bag throw in dumpster in back of Ageis Apartements.
And over it there was lolling red scribble scrabble.
***
There hadn’t been much exciteme
nt over the graffiti photo series, so I’d given it up for almost a year, moving on to other projects, mostly photography for booklets for local bands, had kind of a client base, did well enough. Still, sometimes I would walk at night, no particular concept in mind, taking photos.
When I saw this new ransom note, it took me a minute or two to remember was this the one I’d photographed—no, this was in marker down in the sooty corner of a bus stop cover, written without even clearing the soot first. It read:
Have took another 1 (there were tally marks totaling out to eighteen or nineteen, it was smudged) no wants it back or do you well now? Leave money $2 thous in blue cloth bag throw in dumpster in back Ageis Apts.
I didn’t have anything to photograph it with, but it was cool to see this someplace else—the whole ride home it got me thinking about my abandoned series.
Took out the album I’d compiled the photos in, found the photo, which I’d labeled Public Ransom.
Later on, I opened the album again, struck by the thought that the photo had red scribbled over the writing, the one I’d just seen at the bus stop had not.
***
Out of a kind of giddy curiosity, I looked up the Ageis Apartments—some dump you could rent out a week for eighty bucks, just crap apartments set in an area of undeveloped lots and mostly unrented strip malls.
There was a dumpster—just one—in an enclosure. I had a few cigarettes, a little bit anxious, poked around, looked underneath, thoughts this way and that.
Whole walk home I knew I was going to do it, because what the fuck why not? Get a pillowcase, leave it in the dumpster, get a spot to stake it out, snap a photo, have a nice little story to tell.
***
Actually had a blue pillowcase back at my place, stuffed some paper in an envelope, enough it’d feel like two grand, I guessed, feel that there was something in there, anyway, just in case someone poked through—wouldn’t want them to discard it just because it felt empty, think it being there was just coincidence.
Stupid thoughts.
I’d have a photo anyway, but who knew who’d root through a dumpster behind the Ageis, wanted to be able to connect the note, the story, the photo.
***
Made the drop and took up post down a short stairwell in one of the nearly vacant stripmalls, the steps down around to the back. I’d a perfectly fine view of the dumpster, pretty sure no one would notice me or if they did I’d notice them first.
The way the area turned at dusk had me feeling nervous, just the smell of settled dirt moved by car tires, settling again, a stale area, noplace.
***
I figured I’d have to wait all night, or figured no one would show up, but it wasn’t even midnight and a fellow wandered back to the dumpster enclosure, finished a can of something, had a smoke, then boosted himself up, peering in over the lip of the dumpster.
Almost forgot to snap the photo, but snapped three—not that the fellow would be so identifiable, thin beard, hood on, bulky clothes, big black rimmed glasses, cigarette in mouth.
Lowering down, the guy had the pillowcase, padded the bulk of the envelope through the cloth and hurried off, in through the rear door of the Ageis.
I muttered something similar to “Fucking fuck,” started to move across the way, but only got a few paces, stopped. No point.
“Fuck.”
***
The photos were very creepy and my head was a little bit all over the place, not sure exactly what to do about this. At the very least, I should report it—a guy had taken the bag, after all. Even if I just got someone to stake out the place again, follow him. Prank or game or whatever it might be, it seemed curious enough that I couldn’t just stop it at this but, same time, I should remove myself from being the active participant.
Didn’t get good sleep, all night thinking how to best present myself to not just be told “Fuck off” by the cops or whoever—television and movies made me figure this is what would happen if I just laid it out how things had gone.
Struck me I hadn’t photographed the bus stop note, grabbed my camera, headed out—maybe no point, but seemed like at least something to do.
***
I made a slow time of it heading over to the bus stop, smoked, finished a coffee I’d bought not having even wanted to. I wanted to just snap a shot or two and get out, nothing elaborate, just get the image.
When there was a lull, no one around, no traffic, nothing but a stale breeze, I made my way over, camera ready, took a seat. Squinted to verify the thing was still there—felt myself camp up, caught a breath wrong, scooted back and walked away, head down, quickly, no direction in particular.
The note had read the same as before, now scribbled over in red. And next to it, scrawled, uneven, also in red, had been the words:
no no tricks against me this one I made her hurt made her cry too
word on the street
“You weren’t ever married before, were you?”
Jarod had been waiting awhile to ask this question, did so in a playful tone, though it had been eating at him. Sheila gave him a perplexed look, matter-of-factly said “No,” continued with writing checks out for the bills.
Leaning on the kitchen counter, Jaord explained how some man had approached him earlier, asked if he was married to Sheila Prince.
“I told him you were my finance and he asked me if you’d ever told me about him, said he was your first husband, you’d been twenty, left him abruptly and just sent him papers for the divorce.”
Shelia looked up while writing a few times as Jarod spoke, enclosed the check she’d finished with a payment stub, sealed an envelope.
“Well, I was never married.”
Jarod nodded. “You don’t even want to know what this guy looked like, this doesn’t worry you?”
“Does it worry you? What, did he do something threatening?”
“If you weren’t married, I’d say the whole thing is a little threatening.”
Sheila sighed—quite exasperated—set down the bill she’d picked up, turned to face Jarod.
“What did he look like?”
Jarod described him.
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“That’s all?”
She shrugged. “You don’t believe me?”
He said of course he believed her, but that it seemed quite odd and maybe she could do something more to put his mind at ease.
“Like what?” she asked, returning to the bill she was paying, her shoulders tense in a way he recognized from so many arguments.
“I don’t know,” he said, let a breath out his nose. “I guess if he doesn’t bother me again there’s nothing to do about it, anyway.” He paused. “Right? I mean, does that make sense.”
She said it made sense, not looking up at him, licked an envelope, took up another bill.
they followed Christophe Slough
Christophe took a turn and then another just because the blue truck with the rusted hood was riding his ass and though even after the first turn he was nervous, it wasn’t until the third that he tensed, really began to think he was being followed.
He kept to the same road, not turning, trying to convince himself that the turns he’d taken before hadn’t been that random, that it was reasonable for this truck to just be going the same direction—it was no longing riding him, just behind him.
But when he took a left, then a u-turn, then turned back onto the same road he’d been driving down and the truck did, too, there was no getting around it. Worst was the fact he was, though not far from the roads he normally drove on, an area of town he did not trust, there was an air of discontent and dilapidation to everything.
At a traffic light, the truck pulled up so close that he could not get a look at the drivers in either his rearview or side mirrors, the only way he’d be able to was if he turned, but he was hoping, now, that the driver was not under the impression any of his turns had had th
e purpose of testing out whether he was being followed. Obviously the driver thought that, or at least probably, so he wished he’d been a bit more clever about it or that he hadn’t even bothered, had just driven back home or at least to an environment where he didn’t feel so foreign—Christ, even if he saw a cop, here, it’d be a far cry from trusting that cop.
He pulled in to a gas station, the lot of which was busy enough, a chain gas station, just off the freeway and a number of the fueling vehicles and those parked looked like travelers, giving Christophe an air of safety, of belonging. The blue truck pulled in, too, so he parked, the truck did, too, in a moment he’d had to be concentrating on maneuvering in to a spot so still no idea about the truck’s driver.
He got out of his car, went into the food mart. Three women got out of the truck, one began pumping gas, one stepped over to a grass area to have a smoke, one came into the shop, went to the cooler. They were all ordinary looking enough, one of them a bit on the large side had a rougher air, maybe, but the other two seemed they were normal women and they weren’t giving any indication, particularly, of keeping an eye on him.
Christophe moved to the cooler, as well, took out a random drink. He could see, or thought he could, in the thin of reflection to the open glass door that the one woman was looking at him, but when he, as casually as he could manage, glanced in her direction she seemed busily occupied, moving her finger back and forth between two types of drinks, like as a little choosing game.
Christophe steeled himself, closed the cooler, turned squarely in the woman’s direction.
“Stop following me, okay? I’ll call the police, I have your license plate.”
The woman had knit her brow, rolled her eyes and said something about how he needed to fuck off.
Despite this, though, the woman feel into place in line behind him, standing close, but not so much he felt he’d be justified in causing a scene and, anyway, best to let her get it out of her system in this childish way—honestly, he wondered why he was buying the soft drink, but paid, made a point of not turning around but heard the woman begin her transaction.