by C.G. Banks
*
At one minute after noon he pulled into Placard’s neighborhood. Not quite as big as his, but more exclusive from the looks. The houses here sat on larger lots though the actual sizes of the houses weren’t much different. This was also an older neighborhood; the landscaping had had plenty of time to grow and shape the yards. He liked that. He rolled sedately through the tree-shrouded streets, peering at the mailboxes as he went along. Most of them had addresses, enough anyway to get a pretty good idea how they were marked off. Also, he knew the guy’s car. Definitely a plus except for the long, winding driveways and closed garages. But he wasn’t much worried about that either; his senses were on high alert.
He came to the end of the street and stopped. He’d missed it somehow; there’d been no ping of warning or recognition as he’d driven by. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and breathed out and in slowly, slowly. He decided to swing right and make the block. He knew he was on the right street and he knew the house had to be there, but he didn’t want to look like he was casing the neighborhood. He hadn’t seen any Neighborhood Watch signs but it looked like that kind of place.
He made the circuit and was starting to turn right again when he saw the car coming his way. The binoculars had engraved every detail on his mind and now fate seemed to be handing it to him on a silver tray. He felt the old, familiar thrill as the guy he’d been spying on this morning drove straight past as Tomas sat idling at the STOP sign. “Fucking amazing,” he muttered, pulling slowly out to the cross street.
Placard was about fifty yards ahead by now, his taillights flashing as he hit the brakes. Tomas let his car go into a coast (he didn’t want his own taillights flashing, oftentimes it was the little things that eventually got you clipped) and marked the other car by the foliage on the right side of the road. He’d already familiarized himself with the house numbers and knew which way the guy would turn. Then, sure enough, a turn signal (this guy was careful, no doubt about that) and the car swung into a driveway behind the drape of a large, overgrown azalea. Tomas chanced a look at his watch (as he’d done when his prey had turned) and found nine seconds had elapsed. Ten, eleven, and he was at the bush himself. He swung into the driveway, his face set now, and reached down for the brochures he’d taken with him for the second time that day. He had to have something to distract the guy’s attention for just moment and these would be as good as anything. The rest of the stuff he needed he already had. The bigger stuff in the trunk.
The drive curled left toward the house and lucky for him a squat live oak was anchored at the curve, obscuring the garage from the street. Tomas came around the oak with a welcoming smile on his face. The guy was getting out of his car and looked back. As Tomas rolled to a stop he smiled as widely as he could and waved his hand out the window. He almost laughed when the guy waved back, stopped beside his closed door, and actually put his hands in his pockets.
Fucking chump, Tomas thought, thumbing his own door latch and leaving he car running. He got out all peaches and cream. “Hello there!” he said, smiling broadly and waving with his free hand. The brochures in the other hid the brass knuckles. “Mr. Placard, right?” and the guy nodded like someone had him on a chain. Tomas was within ten feet and closing fast. He couldn’t chance a look over his shoulder now to see if the coast was clear or not; he’d just have to go on faith. “Great, great,” he said, still smiling like he had a million teeth in his head. Five feet more. A brief wash of suspicion crossed the man’s face and that’s when Tomas dropped the bundle of flyers and in one fluid motion set his left foot and drove his right brass-knuckled fist into the side of Miles Placard’s face. He felt the crunch of teeth as the man collapsed straight back onto the gravel driveway, one of his feet clipping Tomas’s left knee. He landed on his side and remained there, blood pooling out of his mouth, his eyes rolled up in his head.
Tomas dropped to one knee and looked around quickly, right and left. It was a good seventy yards straight across to the neighbor’s doorway and there was no movement on the street or lawns. He scooted over to the unconscious man and grabbed both ankles, pulled him over behind a bush a couple of feet away. Thorough landscaping, he fucking loved it! He put a hand to the man’s throat and felt a pulse. Good, the punch hadn’t killed him, but it had damn sure fucked his face up. And that was fine too; he wouldn’t need it much longer anyway. The cheek all the way up to his hairline was starting to swell like a balloon.
Tomas looked over his shoulder at the house. The garage door was down, probably so stuffed full of shit our man here couldn’t get the damn car inside. Fucking unlucky for him. Most of the windows he could see were covered but there was one, a big nice picture window in what must have been the living room, that looked in on a dark and empty-looking house. He looked back at the guy, checked his left hand. No wedding ring. And this guy didn’t look the sort for a live-in girlfriend. Or boyfriend, for that matter. He walked over to the white Corolla he’d just climbed out of and used for jobs like this. He had bought it a few years back for its anonymity and kept it parked at a friend’s storage unit not far from his house. The trunk contained almost twenty stolen license plates along with a suitcase of tools and several heavy blankets. Walking over, Tomas had to smile. You couldn’t even see the next-door neighbor’s house because of a gigantic hedge that ran almost the entire way to the street on the driveway side. The damn thing must have been twenty feet high. Again, kudos to the landscaper.
He fitted the key into the lock and popped the trunk, pulled out one of the heavy blankets. Then he nonchalantly walked back to his victim and laid it out on the grass beside him. He wasn’t even worried about neighbors now. He was feeling this. The guy coughed weakly and Tomas looked down. There were several teeth lying on the ground in the blood. The guy groaned, eyes fluttering. Tomas sized him up, figured him about five-nine or ten. The blanket was six even. He bent down and rolled the guy over on his back. Pushed him over on the blanket and began to roll him up. He made it tight and when finished you could barely see the top of the guy’s head about three inches down. Tomas moved to the feet-end and dragged Placard over to the gravel behind the Toyota. He bent down, cradled the man’s body and hoisted it into the trunk.
He checked his watch. Just shy of three minutes since he’d clocked this fucker.
He shut the trunk.
Looked around for anything he’d missed, forgotten in the excitement. There…the brochures, lying where he’d dropped them. He went over and scooped them up. Headed back to the Corolla. Looped around and got pointed straight down the driveway. He rolled slowly around the curve to the street. Idled at the end, taking one more quick look around. Still nothing noticeable, but no guarantees.
He turned left and worked the knob on the radio. Found Bon Scott howling about cyanide and TNT. “Dirty fuckin deeds,” he said, glancing in the rear view mirror. “Never any doubt about that.”