It had been a particularly savage, though precise, killing – or rather, execution. The culprit had used a pillow to muffle the shots, chasing down and killing each family member, taking care of the last one as she hid in a closet on the upper floor. Only the baby had been left alive. The culprit had pounded on the door, but no one else in the complex had paid attention, as it had been a common sound.
The cops soon got their man. It was one of the stalkers, the really creepy guy I’d seen a few times on the staircase. He’d been a two-time loser, an ex-con who’d gone to a party a while back and met one of the daughters from that apartment. They’d had sex and he’d refused to accept it as a one-night stand.
Facing the death penalty, he elected to blow his brains out with a shotgun when Fort Worth police had surrounded his house. They never did find the handgun he’d used on the family, but surmised that he’d disposed of it. His house, his job and his travels took him past many spots along the Trinity River. When all was said and done, though, another black family had met a violent end. Of all the things I hadn’t been proven “black” enough for, the constant cycle of violence plaguing African-Americans was one I was again only too glad not to have experienced.
Now, 18 months later, it’s quiet in my complex. Oh, I still hear the music and the cursing, even smell the marijuana smoke, but its several units away now. I come home from work and eat my dinner and watch my television in peace. I exercise and use the computer and read in peace. Just the way I like it. I don’t have to worry about being “black” enough.
Unfortunately, I hear that a new family might be moving in. The managers had a contractor in and he totally redid the floors, walls and carpets. You would never know the place had been virtually spray-painted with blood and brains. A year and a half apparently had been enough time for enough people to move out of the complex so that few remembered the horrific events that had taken place next door to me. Newcomers tried not to think about it. They’d come from tougher neighborhoods and didn’t want to think of such things, even as they displayed many of the symptoms that had caused their earlier problems.
As I sit at my computer, typing a new short story, I tell myself that, this time, a nice family will move into that apartment next door. They won’t play their music loud to ignore the desperate cries of their kids. They will take their trash to the dumpster and put it inside. They won’t have people coming and going at all hours of the day or night. They’ll discipline their kids, make them wear shoes, and keep them out of the street. Maybe they’ll even be nice enough for me to personally meet.
If not, well, then they might just have to learn the hard way about being neighborly. I reach into a desk drawer and pull out my old Ruger 9-millimeter. I cradle it in my hands and then put it away. I’ve got plenty of bullets, even after using up an entire box eighteen months ago.
It might be riskier this time. I’m sure the cops will find it hard to believe that two families could be gunned down in the same apartment in less than two years and not suspect me. But, it could happen. I’m harmless enough.
If left alone.
As I said before, I’m a creature of habit and the quicker my neighbors learn that, the better off we’ll all be. If not, then they’ll find out I can be just as “black” as any of them.
For G.O.O.D.
“Good morning, Mr. Carstairs, please have a seat.”
Leonard Carstairs took a deep breath and tried to put aside his extreme nervousness as he did as the rather portly man behind the desk instructed. Try as he might, the nervousness remained, hanging around him like an obnoxious friend who couldn’t take a hint or a breath mint. He glanced around the office, keying in on just how spare it was.
The walls were adorned with what looked like shower curtains. The floor was plain concrete, but smooth and Leonard could only wonder how slippery it must be when wet. On one wall, there protruded a huge valve not unlike a connection for a fire hose. The desk before him was rather plain as well, being of unvarnished wood, with a cheap lamp and nothing else atop it. It reminded him of the desks he had seen all of his teachers sitting behind in elementary school. It seemed out of place for an office.
Curious, he centered his gaze on the man on the other side of that desk. The man, who could also be called rotund, was dressed rather shabbily, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his paisley tie pulled down and his sports jacket rumpled. His jet black hair was a tousled mess, as if he’d awakened only moments earlier. His face seemed flush, though, as if he’d just undergone some great physical exertion and Leonard thought he saw a few beads of perspiration on the man’s brow.
The portly man noticed Leonard staring at him and he quickly ran his fingers through his hair until he got some semblance of order to it. He then tried to straighten up his shirt, jacket and tie as much as possible. Only then, did he lean back in his faux leather chair and study the client before him.
Leonard Carstairs wasn’t a very physical specimen, but he was typical of the type of client the portly man was used to seeing. He wore contact lenses, but his constant squinting told everyone that he should have stuck to prescription glasses. His hair was neat and his clothes were tidy, yet the three types of buttons sewn onto the shirt revealed that he was not in the habit of regularly buying new clothes. The fact that the shirt sleeves did not reach the man’s wrists told the portly man that Carstairs probably shopped for his clothing at thrift stores, where price tended to matter more than a proper fit. This was further corroborated by the way Leonard’s suit jacket seemed to be a size too large for his slender frame.
“Mr. Carstairs, no need to be nervous,” the man said, after an uncomfortable silence. “I’m Maxell Coombs. We spoke a little while ago.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir,” Leonard replied, his voice still a little jittery. “Sorry, I’m just a little nervous and, well, rather embarrassed to have to be here like this. I…I never thought I’d ever have to do this.”
“Quite alright, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs replied, nonchalantly. “Oh and forgive my appearance. I had some rather unexpected physical work a moment ago. Something rather heavy was blocking the door and we – my associates and I – couldn’t get it to cooperate. Sort of like my wife when I’m trying to carry in new furniture and she can’t make up her mind where to put it.”
“I was kind of confused by the sign on your outer door,” Leonard said. “It just says ‘G.O.O.D.’ on it.”
“Stands for Get Out Of Debt,” Coombs explained, with a slight laugh. “Our motto is ‘Get out of debt, for good,’ as in G-O-O-D. Clever, isn’t it?”
Leonard was still nervous, but he calmed down enough to laugh at the man’s humor. Mentally, he made himself do the stress buster exercises his wife Francine had taught him. He counted down from ten and then took several long, deep breaths which seemed to get him somewhat close to normal.
“Take your time, sir,” Coombs stated. “I completely understand what you’re going through. It’s not often you go from so high in life to so low. It takes a while to get used to and, between you and me, some people never get used to it. Like those celebrities on those reality shows like Unreal Life.”
“I think I’m okay now, sir,” Leonard said, more calmly. “I think we can begin. I thought about your proposal and I think it’s doable.”
“You didn’t discuss this with anyone, did you?”
“Oh, no, sir,” Leonard replied, vigorously. “Just like you said. No one but me. My wife did interrupt me last night because all that thinking had made me restless, but I just told her I’d had some hot chocolate after dinner and couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s good, very good,” Coombs replied, intertwining his fingers and resting his hands on his desk as he leaned forward. “It’s always better that way.”
“Well, actually, there was one person,” Leonard blurted. “But, you know him. Dainmon Phillips. He’s the one that I, eh, met in that bar and recommended you.”
“Oh, yes, I remember,” Coombs said. �
�By the way, he says no offense on you assuming that he was a criminal and you approaching him with your, ahem, ideas about how to end your problems. He understood. He’s been there himself. Oh and I take it you don’t drink too much? He said you got wasted after one bottle of beer.”
“Oh, no, almost never,” Leonard replied, fervently. “That was my first beer in about five years and the first one I actually finished in my whole life. I was very stressed that day, I can tell you.”
Coombs furrowed his eyebrows and stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He could easily imagine Leonard Carstairs being one of those stereotypical hen-pecked husbands that Hollywood showed in movies and television in the 1950’s; the kind of men who were afraid of their own shadows and were completely dominated by their wives. In fact, he knew Carstairs was one of those types of men.
He’d read it in the man’s eyes and mannerisms from the first time he’d met him two days earlier. That meeting in the park had been brief, a sort of feeling-out process but, for Coombs, it had been more than enough time for him to read Leonard Carstairs like a book and know he could do business with the man. He didn’t really need any particulars from Carstairs then, just a chance to study him.
“So, relax, Mr. Carstairs, and tell me exactly how you got into this predicament and why you think my solution is the only viable one for you,” Coombs said, smoothly and professionally.
“Ahem, well, you have to understand my upbringing,” Leonard began, after coughing to clear his throat and to keep from nervously twiddling his thumbs. “My parents were very thrifty. Oh, they got me good clothes and all, but they didn’t waste money. Money was to be saved. It let us buy a nice house and a great car and still put enough way to supplement my father’s pension.
“They instilled good money habits, Mr. Coombs. A suit is a suit, sir. No need to pay extra for a label. They said I would need good money habits, especially now that most companies don’t offer pensions and with the housing market the way it is, and gas, too.”
“Understandable,” Coombs said, with a nod and a quick glance at Leonard’s ill-fitting suit jacket. “So, how did such a thrifty man end up half a million dollars in debt?”
Leonard blushed deeply, highly embarrassed. When he looked up, he saw that Coombs hadn’t flinched. He knew he’d have to come clean, so he pushed aside his embarrassment and cleared his throat again.
“It was love, Mr. Coombs,” Leonard finally replied. “It was the one thing my parents didn’t really teach me about. They just said that I’d know when I was in love. And I did know it, Mr. Coombs. Such love as a man has never felt before. God must have smiled on me, for such a woman as my Francine to walk into my life. We’ve been through a lot in our twelve years together. We’ve been blessed with two wonderful children.”
“Uhm, I thought you had three kids?”
“Huh?” Leonard said, caught off-guard. “Oh, yes, three. That’s right. Well, eh, Francine was, well, she was already pregnant when I met her. The father had run off, like a coward and I offered her a place to stay.
“She had nowhere else to turn and my parents had always told me to be a Good Samaritan. She stayed, had her baby and I helped raise him. Francine fell in love with me and we’ve been together ever since.”
“Okay, Mr. Carstairs, I’m going to be blunt with you,” Coombs blurted out, straightening up in his chair. “Every chump comes in here with a sob story like yours. I don’t mean to be cruel, but we have to break this fantasy life you’re living in, if this plan is going to work. So, I’ll give you the sad reality you refuse to admit to.”
Leonard started to say something, but Coombs’ demeanor cowed him immediately and he sat back in his chair, like an obedient child.
“Sorry to have to do this to you, pal, but your loving wife used you,” Coombs stated, frankly. “I’ve seen her picture, remember? No doubt she had the eye of every guy in town, but when she messed up and got knocked up, she had no eyes on her. She was probably brushed aside by her parents for embarrassing them and had nowhere to turn. Until you came along or, rather, she came along for you. Stop me if I’m wrong.”
Leonard said nothing.
“She wouldn’t give you the time of day before,” Coombs continued. “Suddenly, she’s in dire straits and now down to your level so you’re looking pretty good. You pay your bills, you keep your promises and, best of all for her, you probably hadn’t been laid in a good long time, unless, of course, you dipped into your savings and went to a massage parlor.
“Anyway, she’s got a home and a husband with a steady paycheck and who is very unlikely to stray, like past boyfriends. But, she’s still who she is and she looks like someone who wanted more in life. Someone who expected to marry a doctor or lawyer or some other mook with the means to keep her in a high-maintenance lifestyle.
“So, in order to keep her love and preserve your luck, you tried to buy her the things she wanted. Big house. Expensive car. Jewelry. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. But, now, you’re maxed out on everything, reduced to shopping for crummy clothes at thrift stores, brown bagging it for lunch, even walking to and from work to save the bus fare. And you’re too embarrassed and ashamed to go to your parents for help because they expected so much better out of you. Am I right?”
Leonard nodded, meekly.
“So, your wife plays around and you take it like some schmuck.”
“Now hold on a minute,” Leonard snapped, jumping out of his seat. “You can’t talk that way about my…”
“Sit down, Mr. Carstairs or I’ll make you sit down,” Coombs said fiercely. Leonard shrank back like a deflated balloon. “Good. Now, like I said, I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you need to hear it. Your loving wife plays around, but stays with you because you pay the bills or, at least, you try to. Of course, we both know what’ll happen when you can’t pay anymore. Now, one more time, Mr. Carstairs, are you sure you want to go through with this?”
“I-I, yes, God help me, yes, I do,” Leonard almost whispered.
“Why, for crying out loud?” Coombs demanded.
“Because she’s my children’s mother,” Leonard replied, in a defeated voice. “Someone has to care for them, no matter how she’s treated me.”
“Maybe you can cut down on some expenses then,” Coombs suggested. “Some of hers for a change. For one thing, if she’s such a good mother, why do you have to hire so many babysitters? You gave us permission to peek into your finances, remember? You’re very meticulous and you spent a lot of dough on babysitters while you were at work. Why would you do that if she was at home with the kids? She doesn’t have a job, yet she’s always out. Never has time for any of the kids’ soccer or baseball games or dance recitals you’ve been paying an arm and a leg for. You make it to all of those events, but she doesn’t. When’s the last time she even told your kids she loved them?”
“Its…it’s…God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Leonard said, slowly, trying to hold back tears. “Francine loves them. I know she does. She’s just always had a hard time saying ‘I love you.’ She’s just got, well, you know, she’s got her own things to do. Don’t you think I’d change things if I could? Oh, there have been so many times I just wanted to confront her and just, just, just tear her a new one, make her see how badly she’s been treating all of us. But, it’s just not in me. I’ve never been that kind of person, Mr. Coombs. You’re single. How could you possibly understand?”
“Because, Mr. Carstairs, I was a kid once,” Coombs replied, solemnly. “My mother cheated on my dad so much I lost count. Spent all the money he made. I watched my old man age about fifty years because of what she did to him. Thank God for my grandparents. They took me in after the old man died. My mother – the louse – tried to spend the insurance money and, man, did she pitch a fit when she couldn’t get any insurance on account of my old man committing suicide.
“He wasn’t too bright, my father. He planned to make it look like a robbery gone bad, so he stood over a railing on a bridg
e and shot himself. The gun dropped into the water. The cops almost bought it until they found his wallet and car keys inside the car, next to the notebook in which he described his plan to the last detail. He was a good man, mind you, just not terribly bright. He always had to write everything down.”
Coombs stopped to take a deep breath and let it out before continuing.
“Anyway, my mom didn’t even stick around for the funeral,” he said. “After a few years when she was dead broke, she came back and claimed us, because the mother always gets first dibs, you know. It was a nightmare, but I only had to suffer it for two years before I graduated. So, that’s why I don’t want to see your wife get the insurance money.”
“She’s not getting any of it,” Leonard said. “She had me take out a huge insurance policy, but I thought about what you said the first time we talked and changed it this afternoon. All the money goes to my children. I won’t need it when I start my new life, you know.”
“Your kids aren’t old enough to get the money, yet, Mr. Carstairs,” Coombs retorted, to Carstairs’ shock. “Your wife will be guardian of them until they turn eighteen. I don’t imagine there’ll be too much left by then.”
“But, you can fix that, can’t you?” Leonard implored. “It’s true I haven’t loved Francine for years because she’s cheated on me so much, but I’ve wanted my kids to have two parents. It’s just that now I have so much debt, I’m better off dead to them than alive. If I do this plan, I can start fresh. Save my money up, maybe even anonymously send them money or set up a trust fund for college. I can’t do that with all this debt or a wife who will spend every cent I have.”
“There’s always a divorce,” Coombs suggested.
“Oh, no, Mr. Coombs, I couldn’t do that,” Leonard replied, genuinely mortified. “Have you read the statistics of what happens to children in a divorce? I couldn’t do that to them.”
Dark Tidings: Volumes I & II Page 7