Authors: Draven Madpen
26
An eminent mayor begins seeing
some hot-blooded mistress for several months. It is a passionate, heated fling
which continues on with no strings attached. However, over the course of those
few months spent together in secrecy, something had spawned within the pair.
Deeper feelings were hatched and what started as a lascivious kick became a
bond of true love. Of course there was only one problem. The man already had a
wife. And due to his position as a city elected official, and the fact that it
was an election year, a bitter divorce might be frowned upon by the citizens.
And there is yet another facet to the love imbroglio which added a whole nother
problem. The mistress was also married.
What are two love struck birds
to do? Simple! The mayor develops a plan. He promises his mistress that he will
divorce his wife after the election, leaving himself free to marry her. Upon
hearing of this wonderful news, the mistress found herself so overwhelmed with
joy that she divorced her husband the very next day. She did this to avoid
suspicion later on – it might seem a bit awkward if they both divorced at the
same point in time – like a clever little scheme was hatched or something… She
and the mayor continue seeing each other all through the duration of the
election campaign. Their spouses and ex-spouses are none the wiser.
Lo’ and behold! The boastful
mayor is reelected by a landslide. One could barely call it an election – more
of a one sided thrashing. His mistress, naturally, eagerly awaited him to
divorce his wife and fulfill their promise of love. But the deceitful
politician reneged on that part of the deal (how unusual, right?). It seems he
had lost interest in the woman. Understandably, she became furious. After all,
she’d kicked her own husband to the curb and fully expected to be Mrs. Mayor.
She pleaded and begged, begged and pleaded, but all to no avail. The mayor
would not budge.
So what does a vindictive,
heartbroken, irate woman do? She goes to her local pawn shop and buys a .44
magnum. The woman then travels to the mayor’s house, knocks on his front door.
A jolly man, her ex-paramour, answers the door and is greeted by a bullet right
between the eyes. She blows smoke from the barrel like any good and decent
coldblooded killer in the action movies. The body slinks downward, falling to
his knees, where the mayor remained for a moment before tipping over forward.
The crime was not well thought
out -- she hadn’t formulated a plan to exculpate herself from charges.
Obviously the woman was convicted of murder, sentenced to an extended prison
stay. The story is neither a perfect murder nor a particularly well done crime.
I merely relay it here for entertainment purposes. What is the saying? “Hell
hath no fury like that of a woman scorned.” After reading so many cases of
female killers I’m inclined to believe it.
While pouring over my abundant
crime literature collection I couldn’t help but read a few juicy tales. One
specific story really chilled my bones. That night I was unable to sleep as a
result. I kept imagining a bald headed, bearded lumberjack luring me into the
woods and chopping me up into tiny bits. Yes, I know I live in the city where
there aren’t any woodland areas for miles. But tell that to my racing heart and
shaking hands.
The story did succeed in
diverting my mind from the exciting task at hand. Mainly that of killing Wilmer
Cromwell. The days fly by as I feel myself growing impatient. My hands itch to
off the nitwit. Normally, my bedroom curtains are closed to prevent me from
seeing any would-be lurkers creeping outside my window. But last night, as I
lay awake in bed, the moon appeared so radiant and so wondrous that I couldn’t
bring myself to shut it out. Either that or the fear of a crazed lumberjack
kept me from leaving the bed.
I’ve always wondered though,
at what age do children learn they can’t hide under the covers? When you’re
young and snuggled in your bed, and a noise frightens you, you crawl under your
blankets and hope nothing happens. You feel safe under that thin layer of
cloth. But we adults know simply hiding in plain sight isn’t going to prevent
harm. So, at what age do we realize hiding is not enough? That simply wishing
will not suffice? We must take action!
I know I’ve never learned,
even to this day. Actually, I have learned it, but I don’t respond accordingly.
Fear grips me, restrains my limbs. I’m terrified, petrified and unable to move.
The cold night air and horrifying sounds terrorize my mind. The warm covers are
my only protection. Any maniac could rush into my room without warning to end
my life. I know how I should act but I am unable to do so. I can’t help but
panic, wondering if I locked the doors, if I checked the windows… These are the
thoughts that keep me up at night. And yet, I’m smiling.
27
It is a new, bright sunny day.
There is nothing but exhilaration and enthusiasm in my heart. And yes, there is
a justified reason for my good cheer. For it is today that I implement a
crucial crux of the plot.
The building is quiet. I don’t
hear the normal din, and it’s probably because I’m early today -- for no
particular reason at all. A bout of insomnia is keeping me awake. I decided
that sitting at the office would be better than sitting at home. Perhaps I’ll
catch a glimpse of Natasha as she walks by. And what do you know… my wishful
thinking is answered in the affirmative, almost instantly.
For her she comes… The ever
radiant Natasha sauntering her way down the hall. She’s wearing a blood red blouse
and black skirt. Her hair is pulled back into a bun and her spectacles are
thick, black rimmed pieces today. I guess she figured a red blouse and red
glasses were a bit too much. It’s an astonishing attire. Breathtaking.
Stunning. I love the way her legs are revealed each time one moves forward.
She looks in my office,
performing a double take upon spotting me. Her sensuous head turns with a
pained expression. Natasha’s skin is a flawlessly tanned, creamy texture.
Immaculate. Here she executes a strange gesture. One that I don’t quite
understand initially. She is opening her mouth and then closing it with her
right thumb in a rapid fashion. Quite peculiar. The chomping sounds… I haven’t
the slightest inkling what it signifies. But seconds later the meaning is all
too clear…
I become conscious of the fact
that
my
mouth is agape! How embarrassing. Perhaps I should have added
jaw-dropping to the list of adjectives describing her appearance. Natasha’s
head shakes from side to side as she walks to her office. Another strike
against me.
Mr. Cromwell arrives a tad bit
earlier than normal today. He greets me with that disgusting smile. “Hello,” he
says, rushing off into his office. Not even a J name? Pompous ass. The door
shuts slightly. Minutes afterward I hear the pecking of fingers on keyboard
keys. Wilmer’s up to his usual sneaky, enigmatic business. Every day the man
sits in there typing away for a terribly lengthy period of time. Just what is
he up to? I’m tempted to jump out of my chair and barge in with such speed to
prevent him from having time to minimize the windows, to catch him in the act
before he can react! But I resist the urge. Doing anything out of the ordinary
might alert suspicion. These last few days are critical. I must maintain my
characteristic behavior, lest I become an object of scrutiny.
Perhaps after Wilmer’s demise
is finalized, I will surreptitiously check his computer history to see just
what the twit was hiding. All this time spent at the office and I’ve never, not
once, seen anything on his screen except for the desktop – one time. Whenever
someone enters the room you see Wilmer’s hand slide the mouse up and to the
right, then he clicks that little red X. A special client, maybe? Some illegal
activity? Porn?
The one man who might know is
Ellington Fairfield. If his stalking has been as complete and thorough as I
imagine, then the man’s certainly viewed the mysterious monitor. I’ll make a
mental note to check on this topic the next time I rendezvous with my
informant.
A sad day is upon us this
morning… It pains me to say, but Muscles, Todd Storton, has essentially been
eliminated from the plot. Somewhat. Utilized to a lesser degree, I can say. Not
entirely removed, however. There is only one small errand I have for him to
run. Other than that, his only job is to keep that fat mouth shut and do what
comes natural to him: forget everything. I only wish there was a greater need
for the enforcer. Some special task I can ask of him – cajole him into
performing. Unfortunately, the killing of Mr. Wilmer Cromwell simply doesn’t
warrant this kind of action. Such a picturesque noirish finish…and it’s all
going to hell. My one solace being this is not a book of fiction, don’t treat
it as such. Everything cannot go according to my fantastical wishes. I must
deal with reality. And the reality is comprises must be made if I am to commit
this murder and remain a free man. Two rather important points, I’d say.
There
is the man of the hour! Here comes Ellington Fairfield skulking
down the hallway. He’s just left his office and is making a beeline for the
break room. It’s been a slow day, so I decide to make things a bit more
dramatic.
I poke my head into Wilmer’s
office. His hand instinctively flicks the mouse up and to the right.
Click.
He’s
closed the screen again… What a dimwit.
“I’m taking my break now, Mr.
Cromwell,” I say in the usual defeated tone.
“Very well, Joonie.” he
replies.
Joonie. The name causes me to
chortle.
The moment I turn away, I
notice a tapping sound – Wilmer resumes pecking away on that wretched keyboard.
The scoundrel! What has he got in there! …Oh well. Although I told Wilmer I was
taking my break, it’s only half true. Normally my break is spent brooding in
the break room staring at a nondescript wall, pondering if I should off myself
or not. But not today. Today I sneak into Ellington’s office. Here I take up a
position on the inside left of his door.
Ellington will be returning
shortly, no doubt, so the wait is brief. Heavy, fast footsteps alarm me of the
goon’s approaching presence and I position my body. The door is wooden except
for a large rectangle of clear rain glass in the center, which distorts all
images, but still allows one to see shadows on the other side. It is through
this that I see his dark outline walk in as the door swings open. He shuts it
with his left hand and walks to his desk without looking back. I’m standing to
the left of the door, not moving, barely breathing, doing my best to appear
suave. Which is a difficult feat for me to pull off. I’m not exactly a James
Bond look alike.
I remain frozen there, stuck
stiff for thirty seconds, waiting and waiting. Ellington has seated himself.
His head tilted forward, lying on his arms, which are folded across the desk.
It’s a difficult waiting! What a boring man. And suddenly… the sound of crying,
dull sobs, or what I think is weeping emits from Ellington. I think so, yes…
Jesus Christ! Is he actually crying! No time for such bellyaching, ol’ boy! I
tap my foot to attract his attention.
“What?! Who the?!” Ellington’s
head jolts upright. His petrified face relaxes upon seeing my own; the rest of
his body follows shortly. I stand there without saying a word. My expression a
statue.
“Oh… It’s just you Jamie.”
Just me, huh? Well Ellington,
you little fool, wait and see what I’ve got in store for you.
“Yes,
just
me Mr.
Fairfield.”
He drags a hand across his
face wiping away the tears.
“What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I’ve got some bad
news for you.” I pause and direct my eyes to the chair in front of Ellington’s
desk. Judging by the slight shaking of his noggin, I’d wager he notices the
gesture.
“Please, go right ahead.”
I nod my head in
acknowledgment before taking the seat. My hands are held in front of my chest
like a churchgoer at the altar.
“What is it?” Ellington asks
nervously.
A book I read once said it is
best to pause for a moment before speaking so that your listener will pay more
attention. Kind of a suspense builder, I guess.
“It’s about Cromwell,” I
inform him rather curtly.
“Jesus Christ…I should have
known.”
“Before I get to the
nitty-gritty I’ve got a question to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Thank you. You told me that
you’ve spent a fair bit of time
following
Mr. Cromwell. I wonder, in all
of that time, have you ever seen what he does on his computer? I’ve never been
able to look at his monitor while he’s there.”
Ellington sighs.
“Jorple, it’s the damndest
thing, but no. No I haven’t. He’s got this keylock that requires a password to
access. I don’t have the password and cryptic things like that have never been
my forte. Why, do you suspect something bad on there?”
“Ellington,” I say with a
pause. “I couldn’t begin to fathom what this miscreant keeps on there. I can
only assume it’s his dastardly plots -- probably against you.”
My final comment does the
trick. Ellington slaps a hand to his forehead, leaning back in his chair,
processing what I just said. Absorbing it like a sponge. He shakes his head in
disbelief.
“I know, I know,” my voice is
calm, caring, and serious. “That’s not the worst of it, Fairfield.” The
dropping of
Mr.
before his name surprises even me. I’m really getting
into this role. “I heard Wilmer talking and… it’s not good, not good at all.”
“What is it, goddamnit?”
The books also told me to
reveal information bit by bit, drag it out to create the utmost suspense.
Ellington is jumping at the bit for me to continue. I refrain and instead stare
directly at him for a few eternal seconds. His eyes are burning. I’m not quite
sure if it’s out of fear or anger. My speech is slow and calculating.
“I heard Wilmer talking and—“
“Yes?! Yes?! And?!”
“And… He’s hired a hitman to
take you out.” The phrase comes out of my mouth with speed and fluency, like a
shotgun blast to Ellington’s forehead.
His head flips over backwards
to the rear and rolls to the left and back to the right. All the while Mr.
Fairfield is repeating the phrase, “Jesus Christ, oh my God, dear Lord! Why
me!” I let this pitiful display continue on for far too long before slamming my
hand down on the table. He snaps out of the paroxysm and leans forward. His
tone is like that of a supplicant, a pleader.
“What am I going to do Juker?
You’ve got to help me!” Ellington reaches across the desk. He latches on to my
wrist my wrist, taking hold with strong fingers. His large hands are moist and
the slime from his palms causes me to gag. With great effort I manage to wrest
free of his clutches.
“Get a hold of yourself,
Fairfield!” I snap. He looks at me like a lost child, tears forming in the
bulging eyes.
“Listen, I’ve got a plan. I
saw Wilmer talking to the guy—“
“You know who he is? You’ve
seen him!”
“Yes. Now listen. I’ve seen
him and know where you can find him. I’ve thought about it long and hard. Your
only chance of survival is to commit a preemptive strike; it is the only way.”
“Where? How? When?”
“Leave that to me, Fairfield.
You’re going to do it tomorrow night.”
“Me? Tomorrow night? Going to
do what?” Ellington’s voice is frantic. He’s pawing his chest, alternating
between hands as if he can’t believe I’ve selected him.
“Yes,
you
Fairfield.
You’d better be up to it, too. Otherwise Wilmer’s man will put you down before
you get the chance.”
“Alright, alright! Tell me
what I need to do.”
“Not now, Fairfield. I’ll tell
you tomorrow morning. For now you must swear secrecy, here, now and forever
after we’ve handled this. Understand?” Ellington nods his head. But I reiterate
my point for emphasis. “Do you understand me Fairfield? What we do must
never
be repeated. Not ever. Got it?”
“Yes! I understand, I’ll never
speak a word of it to anyone.”
“Terrific. I’ll see you
tomorrow.” I push back the chair and stand to leave. My hand performs the
zipped-shut gesture across my mouth, indicating silence. Ellington nods
obediently as I turn to leave with a smile wider than the Mississippi river
plastered on my face.