Closing Costs

by Wesley Southard

  He drove in silence, a raw, acidic taste building in his throat. He popped a strawberry mint into his mouth, but he began to chew it instead of letting it naturally dissolve. Up until this point he had been cool and calm. He shouldn’t be nervous, he had no reason to be. He was good at his job—damn good. He was friendly, personable even when faced with less than ideal clients, and he knew his shit. Which is exactly why he was now dreading his legal obligation to disclose what happened all those years ago.

  He remembered the night Monique broke the news on her show. It chilled him then, and it chilled him now. Harris Whitecomb, local sheet rock spreader turned Mega Millions lottery winner, went to sleep the night of July 18th in his king sized bed inside his multi-million dollar home and was found the next morning a little lighter above the shoulders. He had been decapitated in his sleep by his sixteen-year-old son Cameron. It was Cameron’s twin brother Colin who had found their father, sans head, early the next morning. After a few hours, it reached national news, but it had quickly dissipated once something of more importance arose. For weeks, the police searched for Cameron Whitecomb. No one, not even Colin, knew where he had disappeared to. He left all his belongings, took no money, and left no motives behind. The police were at a stalemate. Colin, being too young to have claim to the home and having no relatives to look after him, was given up to the state until he was eighteen. The rest of Harris Whitecomb’s lottery winnings, which was said to be in the tens of millions, was never found. Mr. Whitecomb never divulged where he held his money, and the whereabouts of his earnest fortune disappeared with several strikes of a half-sharpened machete.

  That’s why the house remained empty and caked in filthy layers of undesirable lore. Nine years and every potential sale ended in a curt “Thanks, but no thanks.” No one could sell it. Hershel planned on changing that today. He had to.

  After taking a left onto Bell Road, he turned right onto Oak Grove and drove until the houses and subdivisions dissolved into hills, stripper pits, and dead, yellowed cornfields. It hadn’t snowed in the last few weeks, and he hoped that the maintenance company they had hired to keep the property cleaned up had done the job they were paid handsomely for. By the time he pulled up to the long paved driveway, he was happy to see they had.

  The cool March air bit him as he stepped out of his car. He shivered and pulled the collar of his suit jacket up higher around his neck. Though he normally wore a polo and slacks to his appointments, today he wanted to look his absolute best, so he went to Men’s Warehouse and purchased a reasonably pricey suit to match the house. He didn’t wear suits often, but he liked how it made him feel. Quickly, he checked himself in the reflection of the car window, satisfied. He turned to the massive home and sneered. You’re not beating me today.

  Behind him, a slick red Lexus convertible purred into the driveway. It pulled to a stop behind his Honda CRV, and the man he only knew from pictures on the Internet exited the car. Evgeni Sokolov appeared much shorter than Hershel had anticipated, though to be fair, at six foot four most people were smaller than him. The man couldn’t have been much bigger than five-five, and probably weighted less than an empty shopping cart. Posh was the word that came to mind when Hershel looked over the Russian’s outfit: slick Italian loafers, a purple Gucci t-shirt with kakis, and brand new Burberry round-framed sunglasses. The only thing he wouldn’t call posh was his childlike bowl haircut that stopped just above his eye line, though he wore it with confidence, so Hershel couldn’t knock him for that.

  Hershel smiled and held his hands up high. “Dobro pozhalovat’ v dom vashey mechty!”

  “Ha ha!” the Russian laughed, clapping. “‘Welcome to the house of your dreams!’ I like it! You’ve been practicing your Russian, da?”

  “That I have, Mr. Sokolov.”

  The man approached Hershel and he was somehow even smaller than he was standing by his car. They shook hands. “No no with formalities. Please, call me Geno. That is my professional name. Is what the kids know me by?” Though his accent was thick, Hershel had no problem understanding him.

  “Well then, Geno, I’m Hershel Merkley. Welcome to Indiana. I trust you had no problem finding the place?”

  “No problem. Rental car has...how you say…GPS? Is very nice car. Many bells and whistles.”

  “How was your flight from LA?”

  “Was not bad. We had layover in Atlanta, but we get here quickly.” He turned to face the house, which towered over them both. “Is big home, no? Ochen’ bol’shoy. Everything in America big. I like what I see, my friend.” He winked at Hershel.

  Hershel wasn’t sure what he meant, but he shook it off. “So did you come alone?”

  “No no. Yana is in car. She no like the cold. You would think Russian woman would like cold, but she no like it. Sometimes I think she is Finnish.” He whistled toward the car.

  Yana Sokolov didn’t exactly step out of the car—she slithered out of it. She rose from the passenger side door and glided toward him with the ease and grace of a runway model, her large four-inch heels lightly clicking the pavement. She was nearly a whole head taller than her husband, who quickly wrapped his arm around her waist as she came forward. Long straw colored hair cascaded over her shoulders, and though she had spent the day flying across the country, her thick pouty lips were perfectly concealed in hot pink lipstick. Her almond shaped hazel eyes looked him up and down.

  Hershel put out his hand, which she lightly accepted. “How was your flight, Mrs. Sokolov?”

  She didn’t answer, only looked toward her much smaller husband. Evgeni said, “Don’t be offended, Hershel. Unlike me, she speak very little English. She is fashion model in LA. She only know words like ‘Turn’, ‘Change’, and ‘Hungry’. I try to teach more words, but she stubborn like Ox.” He turned to her. “Yana, do like what you see? Nu kak tebe? Nravitsya?”

  She smiled. “Da.”

  “Excellent!” Geno said. “Then we move inside now. We have much to see, much to discuss, my friend.”

  Hershel said, “Absolutely,” and led them up the pristinely edged walkway to the front door. His nerves were all but gone. He smiled to himself, knowing he could pull this off. He reached for the Ebox. His fingers lightly brushed the doorknob.

  The door was already open.

  Hershel’s smile faded. He didn’t believe the groundskeepers had any access to the inside of the house, but maybe they had been in to use the bathrooms. Maybe one his coworkers didn’t properly lock up the last time they were here. Either way, he didn’t like it. He stared at the crack in the door and clicked his tongue.

  “Is problem?” Geno asked.

  Hershel shook his head. “Nope. No problem at all.” He carefully grabbed the doorknob and closed it, then after punching in the key code he took the key from the Ebox and pretended to unlock the door. All about appearances, he thought. He pushed the door open and stepped aside to let them though. When they entered the house, Hershel quickly stepped back outside and glanced around. Though he had no idea who opened the house, he knew damn well who could have. He lived just down the hill. And he prayed he wouldn’t be a roadblock today.

  SIX

  He grunted as he ripped the machete from the homeless woman’s skull. Several red-stained teeth and a long strip of wet skin flew in his recoil. The teeth clattered about the numerous other body parts already littered across the floor. From the other side of the room, anchored limbs continued their futile scratching for their unmaker. The salt enclosing them remained untouched.

  The woman grunted as she toppled backwards, though she had no arms or legs to brace herself. Blood squelched across the dusty concrete but never broke the salt circle. The droplets that did hit the small white granules popped and sizzled. He dropped to a knee, tired and more defeated than ever. His machete dripped warm red onto the floor.

  The woman lifted her head and grinned, the deep gash in her skul
l opening wider. “You fail, human.” Her voice gurgled like water going down a drain.

  Baring his teeth, the man growled, “What am I doing wrong, damn you! Why won’t you tell me?”

  Raw, broken skin began to slide backwards from her face. “You do not listen well, human. You cry like a wounded animal. And much like animals you do not listen to my words.” Wisps of gray smoke leaked from her mouth.

  The man screamed, “Tell me!”

  “Six eyes, three souls. You do not bring this to me. Over and over you bring two and one. You want to speak to him? You want your answers? You do as I request.”

  “I don’t understand!” he said, frustrated. “‘Six eyes, three souls’? What the fuck does that even mean?”

  Her ruined cranium continued to split and widen. A small blue tentacle wormed out of the hole in the woman’s face, pushing the ruined yolk of her eye from its socket. “I will not repeat myself, human. You have but one more attempt. If you fail, I will take your two and one with me, and you can visit your father for the rest of eternity. You will burn right along with him, be one with the infinite fire. I will personally oversee your eternal torment. It would be my divine pleasure.”

  Cameron Whitecomb stood and backed away as the tentacle elongated and stretched across the woman’s face until it reached her chest. Its mucusy skin slowly dragged across the homeless woman’s breasts and nipples. Her skull cracked wider, and her smile grew with it.

  Witnesses, he thought anxiously. It requires witnesses.

  Just above him, the front door creaked open, and multiple pairs of footsteps walked across the upstairs floor.

  SEVEN

  The interior of the house wasn’t quite as warm as he would have liked, but Hershel had to imagine it would cost a small fortune to keep the place warm. A small fortune he hoped the Sokolovs planned on dropping today. He ushered them into the foyer before closing the wide, double set front doors behind them.

  His cell phone buzzed in his pocket.

  “My apologies, Geno,” Hershel said, embarrassed. “I usually have my cell turned to silent when I’m with clients.”

  Evgeni waved him off, glancing around at the high vaulted ceilings of the entryway and the shimmering chandelier that hung high over their heads. “Is no problem. Please, take call. You are busy man, no?”

  Hershel checked his caller ID and saw it was Monique. He held a finger up to his client and stepped away toward the staircase on his left that led down to the half-finished basement. He answered, “Hello, Mrs. Merkley.”

  “Hello, yourself, old man,” his wife cooed. “How’s it going?”

  “We just got here. We’re inside the house.”

  “Oh, shoot! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll let you go.”

  “No, hey,” he stopped her. “It’s fine. I’ve got a minute. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, everything’s perfect. How are the Russians?”

  He turned to glance as the irregularly sized couple slowly walked about the room, Yana and her clicking heels staying at arm’s length to her husband. They quietly spoke to one another, though he couldn’t make out the words. Unfortunately he had only practiced one phrase in their language. “They’re maybe a little jetlagged, but fine. The wife doesn’t speak much English, so the husband Geno does all the talking. They seem nice though.”

  “Geno, huh? You’re already on a first name basis?”

  “For the moment, yes…until I have to tell them about you know what.”

  “I understand,” she said. “So do you feel nervous? Do you think you can make the sale?”

  Hershel grinned. “I think so.”

  “Yeah?” he heard her grin too.

  “You bet.”

  “Ok, old man, well I’ll let you get back to it. Oh—before I let you go. Don’t forget about the Hesston Banquet tonight. Seven o’clock. Please don’t be late.” Monique had the distinct privilege to host a special event the Old National Events Plaza later that evening. Live on stage, she would be conducting an exclusive interview with local celebrity Lydia Hesston, a deep space astronaut, who the Mayor of Evansville wanted to honor for her contributions to the community and the world at large. Hershel himself would have been nervous as hell in front of hundreds of the most wealthy and powerful people in the area, but Monique spoke to most of them through her show on a nightly basis. She had been prepping for weeks and was more than prepared to shine.

  Hershel checked his watch. Ten after twelve. “We’ll be done way before then. Plenty of time to clean up and get ready.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you tonight.”

  “One more thing.”

  “Yes?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “I may have a surprise for you tonight.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “We shall see. Ok, got to go.”

  “Good bye, old man.” She hung up.

  Hershel placed the phone back in his pocket and sighed. The pressure was on now. He turned to face his wandering clients. “Sorry about that. My wife wanted to remind me of something we had planned for this evening. Now where were we?”

  Yana Sokolov visibly frowned, but it was quickly replaced with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Is no problem, Hershel,” Evgeni said. “Wives always there to remind us of things we may forget. What is wife’s name, may I ask?”

  “Monique.”

  “Monique? I like that. Is very American name. Is she beautiful like Yana?”

  Hershel was taken aback by the callowish question. He wasn’t sure what to say. He quickly answered, “Very much so, yes.”

  Yana blushed and turned away.

  “Yana is very beautiful, and I would have it no other way,” Evgeni boasted. “Is how we met, you know? She wanted to be singer in Russia, but she not sing very well. She have long legs and pretty face, but no harmony. Is shame, no? She make money now as model, but with me she could have been huge singer.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Geno, what is it you do exactly?” Hershel led them through the entryway into a short hallway off to their right and into the first of three living areas on the main floor. The glass sunroof overhead bled midday sun across the mocha colored walls and the pristinely maintained white trim floorboards. Beautiful paintings, rich velvet couches and chairs accented the high arched windows and dark wooden floors, giving the room an almost ‘too lofty to be lounged in’ vibe. The type only to be admired.

  Evgeni straightened the collar on his shirt, visibly happy to finally talk about himself. “Little old me?” he joked. “I am record producer in Los Angeles, California. I help make music for the kids to dance to. I am originally from Yaroslavl, Russia. Much bigger than this place, but much smaller than Los Angeles. I used to make…what do you call it…house music. Music for disco. People dance, use drugs, have fun. But it make me no money. Not much money in Russia. None for music. So I save money and move to California to make music in America. Music make more money here.” After quickly eyeing the room, he slowly left and walked back into the hallway, Yana following. Hershel kept up behind them. It was best to give the client space to breathe, let them get their own feel of the place without rushing them through.

  They entered the kitchen, and Evgeni leisurely strolled around the room. He ran his fingers across the large, granite-topped island in the middle of the floor. “The big problem is no one heard of Evgeni Sokolov in America. Maybe I was big deal in snowy Russia, but in sunny America I was nobody. I had to make myself a somebody.” He eyed the stainless steel appliances and custom cabinetry throughout the open kitchen. Yana stayed near the fridge, checking her cell phone. “Have you ever heard of Megan Masters?”

  Hershel shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “You should,” Evgeni said. “She not my favorite, but she can sing. She new pop si
nger. Record company was struggling to find young girl a hit song. I brought them song I had made, and they loved it. Have you heard ‘Whisper in the Castle’?”

  “Maybe,” Hershel lied. “I’m not sure.”

  He sang, “‘Whisper in the castle, hold me close and don’t let go! Screaming just to hear me, you hold the key to my soul!’”

  Hershel laughed. “Yes, I believe I have heard that somewhere.”

  “Of course you have. It big hit all over the world. I did that. Those my words, my music. It may have made her big star, but I make big money. Suddenly Geno in demand. It Geno this, Geno that. Everybody want a little Geno on their albums. It make me very wealthy man. We no longer live in apartment. We own very big home in Los Angeles. We also own condo in New York City. I get everything I want now.”

  Internally, Hershel cringed. He’d been around some high rollers, but Geno certainly took the full-of-shit cake. “Well, congratulations on all your success. It sounds like you’ve found your piece of the American dream.”

  Evgeni nodded, already walking out of the room past Hershel. “Da. American Pie and all that.”

  They walked past yet another living area, this one with crimson colored walls and double sliding doors that led to the back patio and pool area. Beyond the fenced-in yard were miles of corn stalks, yellowed and long dead from winter. Evgeni briefly stopped in the dining room, only to carefully tap his foot on the handsome decorative rug beneath the dining table.

  Hershel turned to find Yana standing a few steps behind. Her eyes met his, and her thick, pouting lips curled into a smile. Hershel gave her a professional smile back and a nod and turned away. He was afraid he would stare too long. Though he couldn’t be sure, he was fairly certain he had never been around a model before, much less someone who used their looks for a living. She was quite striking, gorgeous even, but not quite his type. He’d been with plenty of beautiful women in his youth, when his stomach was still flat and his head still had hair, but he doubted that even at his peak he would have been able to land a woman like Yana. It didn’t bother him much though. The past was the past, and if everything went right today, he could spend a whole month with his wife in the middle of the Indian Ocean, soaking up the sun and making memories. And trying to fix his little problem.