Heraclitus, the ancient Greek philosopher, who said, ‘Ethos anthropos daimon.’ Character is fate.”
He looked down at Marta’s brown boots and excised clothing. Then he picked up the contents of her purse from her chest and set them on the floor with her other things. He then brought his mouth to her ear. “I apologize for my rudeness this afternoon. I admit to have behaved poorly. In fact I now believe you to be a special person. I believe that you have been selected.”
“You’re going to kill me. Is that it?”
“I broke the law this afternoon by not using my turn signal. I am guilty as charged. I will send in the money. How much is the fine?”
“I don’t know.”
“I pride myself on keeping my word, Marta.”
He picked up her mirrored sunglasses and put them back on her. Then, with his large hands, he forced her jaw open and shoved the sock back inside her mouth. Then he retaped her face.
Getting up, he crossed the carpet to a row of built-in supply cabinets made of natural mahogany. He had paid several thousand dollars extra during the construction of his motor home for natural wood instead of the standard laminate facing. Opening one of the cabinets, he removed a jar of petroleum jelly.
Returning to Marta he reached down and picked up the long-barreled stainless steel flashlight. As she looked on, he coated the tube with lubricant; then he leaned close to her ear. “It’s time to begin now, Marta,” he whispered.
It was after midnight when he punched in the number of his assistant Raoul at his Malibu estate. His call was answered on the second ring.
“Raoul,” he said, “I’ll need your help.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m at the Bescara Inn off Route 1 an hour or two north of Santa Barbara.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring two cars and two of the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Burn the motor home after you dispose of the remains inside. The motor home should look as if it were vandalized—torn seats, stolen electronics, broken fixtures. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Burn it to the ground.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I’ll be asleep. My suite number is 125. There are two tall potted cactuses on either side of my room’s door. I believe they are Adenia glauca . Leave the keys to one of the cars on the floor behind the cactus. The one on the left as you face the room.”
“Will you be returning to Malibu, sir?”
“Good night, Raoul.”
“Good night, sir.”
SIX
T he next morning, after less than two hours’ sleep, after another dream about reaching into my jacket pocket and finding the severed and bloody hand again, I reported for work. I parked Mom’s red shitbox up the block from Sherman Toyota, on Ninth Street. A legal spot. No meter.
It was seven forty-five A.M. Saturday morning. I was wearing a new pair of pants and a stiff, new unwashed white shirt that was already scraping a red mark on my neck. I had a new tie, too, but I’d stuffed it into the glove compartment before I went in, in case I needed it later.
The conference room at Len Sherman Toyota had no windows and no pictures on the walls. In fact the room wasn’t a conference room at all. It was a working replica of a high school classroom, complete with two dozen one-piece pine and metal student desks. There were pads and pens resting on the desktops and my friend Woody was the only other person in the room. I waved hi . Not only had Woody gotten me my job, but over the last several months he had come to be a good friend. On two occasions when I was freaked out and on the verge of getting drunk it was Woody I’d called both times. He had driven all the way out from Santa Monica to Point Dume to talk me down and save my ass. “How’s it going, big guy?” I asked.
“Just ducky, JD. Pull up a chair. The big show’s about to get started.”
Then he pointed to a large corkboard pinned to the wall to my right. “But first have a look at those mug shots and see who you’re working for.”
I
He looked down at Marta’s brown boots and excised clothing. Then he picked up the contents of her purse from her chest and set them on the floor with her other things. He then brought his mouth to her ear. “I apologize for my rudeness this afternoon. I admit to have behaved poorly. In fact I now believe you to be a special person. I believe that you have been selected.”
“You’re going to kill me. Is that it?”
“I broke the law this afternoon by not using my turn signal. I am guilty as charged. I will send in the money. How much is the fine?”
“I don’t know.”
“I pride myself on keeping my word, Marta.”
He picked up her mirrored sunglasses and put them back on her. Then, with his large hands, he forced her jaw open and shoved the sock back inside her mouth. Then he retaped her face.
Getting up, he crossed the carpet to a row of built-in supply cabinets made of natural mahogany. He had paid several thousand dollars extra during the construction of his motor home for natural wood instead of the standard laminate facing. Opening one of the cabinets, he removed a jar of petroleum jelly.
Returning to Marta he reached down and picked up the long-barreled stainless steel flashlight. As she looked on, he coated the tube with lubricant; then he leaned close to her ear. “It’s time to begin now, Marta,” he whispered.
It was after midnight when he punched in the number of his assistant Raoul at his Malibu estate. His call was answered on the second ring.
“Raoul,” he said, “I’ll need your help.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m at the Bescara Inn off Route 1 an hour or two north of Santa Barbara.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring two cars and two of the men.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Burn the motor home after you dispose of the remains inside. The motor home should look as if it were vandalized—torn seats, stolen electronics, broken fixtures. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Burn it to the ground.”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“I’ll be asleep. My suite number is 125. There are two tall potted cactuses on either side of my room’s door. I believe they are Adenia glauca . Leave the keys to one of the cars on the floor behind the cactus. The one on the left as you face the room.”
“Will you be returning to Malibu, sir?”
“Good night, Raoul.”
“Good night, sir.”
SIX
T he next morning, after less than two hours’ sleep, after another dream about reaching into my jacket pocket and finding the severed and bloody hand again, I reported for work. I parked Mom’s red shitbox up the block from Sherman Toyota, on Ninth Street. A legal spot. No meter.
It was seven forty-five A.M. Saturday morning. I was wearing a new pair of pants and a stiff, new unwashed white shirt that was already scraping a red mark on my neck. I had a new tie, too, but I’d stuffed it into the glove compartment before I went in, in case I needed it later.
The conference room at Len Sherman Toyota had no windows and no pictures on the walls. In fact the room wasn’t a conference room at all. It was a working replica of a high school classroom, complete with two dozen one-piece pine and metal student desks. There were pads and pens resting on the desktops and my friend Woody was the only other person in the room. I waved hi . Not only had Woody gotten me my job, but over the last several months he had come to be a good friend. On two occasions when I was freaked out and on the verge of getting drunk it was Woody I’d called both times. He had driven all the way out from Santa Monica to Point Dume to talk me down and save my ass. “How’s it going, big guy?” I asked.
“Just ducky, JD. Pull up a chair. The big show’s about to get started.”
Then he pointed to a large corkboard pinned to the wall to my right. “But first have a look at those mug shots and see who you’re working for.”
I
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