I now find myself staggering down the hall back to my own office. The clock reads 1:55. That’s quite awhile to have been out. Especially, considering I’ve not eaten any lunch today. There’s a growling in my stomach. Drat! I’ll have to rough it out or risk Wilmer getting suspicious and asking questions. Thank God he didn’t see me lying on the floor. Seems he should have been parading over my limp corpse, relishing in his victory. The fool… you had your chance! Now it’s my turn.
I sneak into the office, tip toeing my way across the dirty floors (damn janitor still hasn’t cleaned) and take a seat at the desk just as my legs give out.
One positive has come from this ordeal. A grand one at that. Ellington Fairfield is now thoroughly spooked beyond a shadow of a doubt. He should perform his task with intense focus and precision. The man will not falter on this journey. He mustn’t. Otherwise the whole plot will be compromised and—Oh, Jesus…
A lumbering figure approaches my office. It doesn’t look happy. Not at all. The lantern jaw and unintelligent face are instantly recognizable. Todd Storton. With his angry, scowling face on – like he just dropped the last cupcake. I know exactly what he’s here for… Georgia and his five minutes with her in the break room. Yeah, about that… The oaf hulks into my office – no water jugs this time. I guess that means he’s serious. Storton plants the knuckles of his extended arms on my desk, leaning forward.
“You ain’t a welsher, are ya, shrimp?”
“Why no, Storton. I know what you’re here for though. And I’m a man of my word. You want your five minutes? Of course you do! Who wouldn’t? It’s the beautiful, ravishing, debonair, scrumptious, sensual, lavish, and –“ judging by the look upon the caveman’s mug I think, once again, it’s time to kill my darlings. “And you’ll get it!”
“I knew you was a smart guy,” he says, trying to sound menacing.
“See that clock, fathead?”
Storton follows my finger pointing at the wall.
“1:59, what of it?”
“Listen you blockhead. Georgia will walk down this hall from the left and enter that break room in exactly sixteen minutes. Okay?”
Storton rocks his head back as the great, slobbering mouth opens. I’m reminded of Jonah and whale.
“Ahhh,” he says wagging a finger at me. The brute leans over my desk, taking hold of my entire body, and shakes me from side to side. A gesture of appreciation in dimbulb circles I assume.
“I better go, uh what is it they say? Oh yeah, I better go freshen up. Ha-ha!”
And with that final bit of drivel, Storton leaves my office. The oaf heads off to the bathroom. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. I choke down the vomit climbing up my throat.
32
The next highlight of my day will come in approximately fifteen minutes when Storton barges in on an unsuspecting Georgia. I’m sure the water jug man’s presence in the employee break room, minus any water jugs, will cause quite a startle in her. Invasion of the monster-man. There is an antsy feeling stirring in my gut. I can’t recall ever experiencing this before. Is this happiness? Anxiousness? God forbid… giddiness? It’s a pleasant sensation, perhaps what people refer to as the butterflies.
Beep.
Sexkitten69… requesting a game. One part of me finds it to be a bit prophetic in a sense. A final game of Go Fish! on the eve of my most justified action in life. I accept the challenge without hesitation -- awaiting Georgia’s entrance. Wilmer Cromwell is ensconced in his office, the door is slightly ajar, and the sound of tapping reaches my ears. He must be busy with his clandestine activities as always.
A flash of blond catches my attention. I twist in my chair, right in time to spot Georgia walking down the hall. She resembles a Barbie doll. The perfect figure, cherry blond hair, smooth skin, poised, proper, naïve, and gives the impression of being completely brainless. I’m not sure if it’s a fair assumption but my gut tells me I’m probably right. My indifference tells me not to care. It’s almost here!
Georgia flips her hair to one side. Time slows down as the lengthy golden locks whirl outward for a brief moment, exposing her long, thin neck. As soon as her hair comes to a rest, the world resumes real-time. Woah. Lucky Storton. She enters the break room.
I keep my eye trained on the hallway for any sign of Todd Storton. Sure enough, the ogre doesn’t disappoint – right on schedule. He steps out from the hall corner, where I assume he had been observing the door, waiting for Georgia to pass by. What a creeper. Storton kind of hop skips toward the room. The slackjawed doofus sees me staring out at him, so he gives a wink as he passes the window (utter glee written on his face). Now I’m not the only giddy one in the building.
Oh boy, here it comes! Sexkitten69 is prodding me to make a move. Hah! Think again, woman! Your wee game is trivial in comparison to the utter humiliation of Todd Storton. I can’t wait to see him leave the room -- rejected and dejected.
Wilmer holds steady tapping away as I slink to the hall door and peer down toward the break room. Storton vanishes beyond the threshold. Only a matter of moments! Yes! She’ll send him out shrieking, screaming bloody murder. “Security! Security! Help!”
…The wait is longer than I anticipated. Has my sense of time been warped? Or has it really been several minutes since he’s entered? She hasn’t screamed. There’s been no noise suggestive of a struggle. Is he raping her? The ol’ chloroform trick? My mind is racing to secure a viable explanation when the break room door eases opens. A woman’s hand pokes out. The girl is obviously facing away from the entrance; her arm is extended out behind her back as if she’s --- speaking? As if she’s speaking to someone! What in God’s name is going on?
Her hand, Georgia’s hand, pushes the door farther open. She’s smiling and giggling in that self-conscious way women do when flirting with a man. What in tarnation is happening! I’m shocked, mortified to see Todd Storton standing in front of her with a broad smile on his vapid face. But that is not the shocking part. It’s not unusual for the troglodyte to smirk stupidly… Georgia backs out of the room without taking her eyes from him – not in a don’t come any closer, I’m warning you! sort of fashion either. They exchange a few pleasantries out of earshot. She then turns to leave, but as she departs, Georgia looks over her shoulder and… waves goodbye to Storton. Her face is genuine and pure. There is no feigned delight. She is truly intoxicated by our grotesque, massively overweight, hairy, dull water jug man!
I can’t believe it… Georgia spins toward the hall in a sensuous manner. I catch the last glimpse of her golden hair as she rounds the corner, removed from sight. Storton sees me seeing him -- shows me the thumbs up sign, complete with a goofy grin.
The world is in a state of disarray. Nothing is as it seems. Everything is chaotic, capricious. Storton is landing supermodel quality women and I’m playing Go Fish! online with, in all likelihood, a man posing as a woman. Bah! What do I care! Trivial! Trifling! Picayune occurrences in a nugatory environment. These are meaningless things in a meaningless world. Who cares if Storton wooed the office goddess? My true task is the murder of Wilmer Cromwell -- the cessation of his clinking. Storton can’t beat me on that front, not where it really matters. He can keep the lifeless Georgia and all her talk of shopping and cosmetics. I’ve got a date with destiny. It’s go time! Sevens?! She wants my sevens!
The hour grows late. Thankfully the workday is nearly over. The sun begins to dip below the horizon. Wilmer’s final productive working day is coming to a close. I’ve been sitting in my office chair tuning out the world. Sexkitten69 has beaten me over thirteen times in a row. Why she’s stilling playing is beyond me. Only a real simpleton can be entertained by effortless victories. You might as well be playing yourself. A true competitor thrives on challenge. Worthy opposition. Such tests as, oh I don’t know… committing the perfect murder! That is my contest… I have nearly succeeded. I will vanquish the man! The trophy is mine! Victory will be had!
Tonight I will venture over to Wilmer Cromwell’
s home while he is at the gym, during which time, our pal Ellington will be drugging the repulsive Lionel Ducard. Hopefully. If not, then these days of planning and scheming have all been in vain. Just like my entire life. Nothing would be new there. Yet I hold steadfast to the machination. Moments of doubt are always common before the final culmination of your efforts. One is forced to wonder if everything will be alright. Did you do everything you could have? Has any task been forgotten or neglected?
I wonder if the pills that junky sold me are the correct ones. I wonder if Storton didn’t somehow give me the wrong bottle of poison. I wonder if Ellington’s notes were erroneous and Wilmer Cromwell won’t be at the gym. He’ll be at his home and very curious as to why I’m breaking into it. Perhaps I should have gotten a silenced pistol just in case? When all else fails, whip out a gun. It seems to work in all the hardboiled novels. The good guy merely draws a gun, puts a few rounds into the goons and his problems are solved.
Then again, the authors of those stories had months if not years to plan the action sequences. And not only that but, believe it or not, they script the villain’s lines and responses. I don’t have such luxury. I’ve got one shot. Only one shot to execute this project. There won’t be any mistakes. There won’t be any mishaps, see?
Ellington Fairfield galumphs into the hallway. He appears ever more disheveled and discomfited by the minute. What a weak-minded simp. Constantly unraveling he is, at the slightest grievance. Pathetic. As I sit here staring at the nervous body before me, I can’t help but think I’ve made a mistake. How could I entrust such an important mission to this lummox? He’s been an unstable nutcase since day one. Then again maybe that’s a bonus. Only an unstable nutcase would even consider helping me drug a random stranger. No matter! We’ve come too far to turn back. At least on my side… there will be no turning back!
Fairfield seems unsure about something. He’s stumbling in the hall glancing in my direction every now and again. It’s the kind of stagger terrified drunken people perform. The dull keyboard sound suddenly stops. Wilmer is coming! I decide to have a little fun with Ellington. So, I wave my hands in front of my chest in such a way that he couldn’t possibly understand my meaning. Ellington’s eyes bulge from their sockets like oversized baseballs. Wilmer exits the inner door of the office. He approaches my desk. I quickly bring up the spreadsheet. The same spreadsheet I’ve been working on for weeks without any progress. If he had a brain in his head or was even slightly perspicacious in the least bit, he’d have noticed this. But the dunderhead is an unobservant nitwit. The dense fool.
My eyes widen in mock terror as Ellington attempts to dart away. But, and quite comically, he falls in the process. The black lawyer from down the hall is now stuck on his knees trying to secure footing, to find a way up, to sprint back to the safe haven of his office. It’s rather amusing. Mr. Cromwell puts a hand on my shoulder as we both stare at Fairfield.
“What a strange, peculiar man,” Wilmer says, shaking his head slowly.
“Indeed, he is,” I reply with sincere conviction. “Indeed he is.”
“Oh, James I’m heading off now. See you tomorrow and great work today.” The predictable arrogant smile greets me as I glance up to meet Wilmer’s eyes.
“Getting in a workout later tonight?” I ask cheerfully.
“Why yes, yes I am Joseph.”
“Terrific, Mr. Cromwell. I admire your healthful ways and wholesome habits.”
“Why thank you, Jafar. You know,” Wilmer leans in close to me as if he’s going to reveal a secret. “You could get in great shape too. Pump a little iron and you wouldn’t be so puny anymore! Ha-ha!”
I try very hard to force a smile and laugh along with the insult. But I only manage a pained expression among several forceful expulsions of air. Like a man trying to catch his breath after being punched in the gut. Hard.
“Well I’ll be seeing ya Junior.”
“Have a good evening…”
Mr. Cromwell leaves the office. He departs down the hall. His hair is shining brilliantly under the dim hallway lighting. I’m staring blankly at the floor, but my mind is far from empty. It’s imagining Wilmer lying on the floor breathing his last painful, torturous breaths. Hard.
33
A desperate whispering voice disrupts the silence.
“Jaden! Jeff!” I hear.
Ellington Fairfield is standing in my office doorway waving his arms.
“Yes? What is it Fairfield!”
He steps into the room, shutting the door behind him.
“We’re still on for tonight?” he asks.
“Of course. You’re not going yellow belly on me, are you? Your life is at stake!”
“No! No! I’m right with you Juddington!”
“Good, good. Then what is it you want?”
I lean back in the chair, as my arms instinctually fold impatiently.
“I—I—I just wanted…”
“Yes, Fairfield? Spit it out.”
“I’m having doubts. That’s all.”
“Oh? Doubts?” I envision myself lurching at Fairfield and slapping him across the face. But he’s much larger than I am and there’s no telling what he might do.
“There’s no room for doubts, Fairfield. All you’ve got to do is head down to the bar, find the con—err, hit-man, wait till he looks away then drop the pills, no, you’d better make it powder. Sprinkle the powder into his drink. That’s all. Got it?” The thought of this drunk chugging a few pills down his gullet seems a bit messy, risky even for a sauced up degenerate.
Ellington nods his head weakly. It’s good enough I guess. He turns to leave, hunched, defeated. I shout after him, “Seven o’clock!”
Speaking of the time, I’d better be getting my gear together. Tonight’s the big night. No more clanking bowl. No more clinking glass. No more Wilmer Cromwell. The clock reads a little after 5:15. That gives me roughly two hours until Wilmer wends his way to the gym.
My home is quiet and serene. There’s no sign of a break-in. None of my locks have been jimmied; not a single fresh scratch on any of the window sills. There aren’t any foot impressions on my lawn leading up to the backdoor. From these clues I can surmise, fairly accurately, that there isn’t a lazy eyed no-neck goon hiding in my closet with a rusty crowbar. Fortunately, I happen to be correct… this time.
A happy sight I do see. Lionel Ducard’s watch is sitting on my kitchen counter in a plastic bag. His watch, you ask? Yes! Remember back at the bar during our first encounter, back when I mentioned I took something of his? Voila! I wasn’t there just to take a fat girl back to my bachelor pad!
I put on a pair of gloves to remove the timepiece. Fingerprints, mind you. If it’s going to be found at the crime scene to incriminate Lionel, then I must ensure that it’s plausible. As of now it might look too much like a setup. But I’ve got an idea. A stroke of genius I recall seeing on an old episode of Matlock or some such masterpiece. One little tweak to the watch will solve all problems.
My fingers work diligently at the band until a lone screw pops free -- the band loosens. This way it appears Lionel could have lost it unknowingly during his devious deed. An accidental falling during a roughhouse or some such.
“Oh, looks like it just slipped right off his wrist!” is what Officer Obvious will remark. The police are such fools. If everyone knew how easily they are duped, the amount of crimes would triple overnight. Your own grandma would be out this very evening perpetrating a heinous act of robbery or friendly neighborhood assault. I may publish a book about it at some point. Just to throw it in their faces. Anyway, the watch looks believable. The strap is broken just enough to fall off your wrist after a good shake, but not so loose that it wouldn’t stay on to begin with. I’ll just slip the little device back into the bag for now.
An old staple in crime novels is the broken watch. Actually, it’s a bit of an old technique from the earliest modern crime stories. Someone is murdered -- their watch is found lying beside the body. Lo and
behold! It’s broken… The watch has stopped! And at what time? Why at the exact time the murder took place. A convenient plot device, sure. But it holds little weight in the real world of true crime. No, Lionel’s watch will be functioning properly. He’ll just run into a little mishap when the band breaks without him noticing as he flees from Wilmer’s home.
Showtime is nearing. Calm the nerves, ol’ boy… I grab a mystery novel and plop down on the couch until the hour of reckoning is upon me. But I’m not reading… I’m fantasizing.
You probably wouldn’t recognize me just now. I doubt it. Not with this clever disguise on. Nobody could pin me down. A dapper hat, some different clothes, a little make-up and here I am, transformed, ready for action.
I pay the (thankfully non-homicidal) taxi driver as he pulls up to the curb. “Out ya go,” he says.
I jump from the cab. Friendly guy. There are still a few more blocks until I reach Wilmer’s home, but this way the cabby can’t place me at the scene of the crime. See how smart that was? It wasn’t just for exercise. Although, my heart is racing. I’ve never felt so alive. A surge of energy jolts through my body as I dart from shadow to shadow approaching Cromwell’s abode. The bottle of poison bounces in my pocket with each step. I hope to God that Ellington’s notes were correct. Wilmer must be at the gym or all is lost. The only fear running through my mind concerns Ellington and his ruffled demeanor when I last saw him. Dear God! Please let that buffoon spike Lionel’s drink! Haul his flea-bitten body into the dumpster, shut the lid tight, and be done with it!
The night air is surprisingly warm. The sun has set and our lovely moon is in her new stage, which leaves the night pitch-black. I rather enjoy the dimness. There is beauty in darkness. A comforting effect. Up ahead I see Wilmer’s house come into view. He lives in a large, ritzy type of place. The kind you expect swindling lawyers to live in. The house they bought with money snatched from unwary clients. Part of me is jealous at the sight. The other half is sickened. If only there were someway for me to acquire Wilmer’s dough after he perishes… Perhaps that’s where Percy Sullivan will come into play if this murder goes according to our arrangement.
CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw Page 17