Kill Me

by Stephen White

  Positions on those parameters are totally client derived.

  It had to say that someplace on the Web site had to be a bullet highlighting that phrase on the inside cover of the glossy brochure.

  Positions on those parameters are totally client derived.

  “By your own definition, the client is already too impaired to make that judgment.”

  “No, no, no, no,” he said, his tone almost jolly. “By then, the client’s decision will already have been made. Long before, at the time that the client chooses to engage our services, he or she is required to identify their wishes on what they would like us to do on a long menu of possible eventualities, not unlike the decisions responsible people make when they sign a living will. By the time the tragic time comes—the time when the client is too impaired, by either health or circumstances, to make the decision objectively—the difficult decisions have already been made. By then, no changes are possible.”

  That surprised me. “Why is that, exactly?”

  “Should you become a client and should you become impaired—‘impaired’ meaning that you have unfortunately crossed the threshold you’ve previously identified—the contract you’ve entered into with us is irrevocable. Completely irrevocable. Irrevocably irrevocable. Once you have become impaired, we will consider, by contract, that you lack the capacity to change your mind.”

  “That is your policy?”

  “No, that is our promise. We commit to our clients that the rational decision, the clearheaded decision, the forward-looking decision, the decision made with a healthy brain and a vigorous mind—unclouded by sentiment—will be the decision that guides us in implementing your wishes.”

  “Life is always a futures market though, isn’t it?” I asked.

  I could tell he wasn’t sure what I’d meant. “We don’t look at it that way,” he said.

  He never asked for a clarification, and I began leaning toward the conclusion that he was the kind of guy who would disagree with anything he didn’t understand.

  We ate the next small course silently before he placed his chopsticks down, dabbed his napkin on his lips, and said, “Fees.”

  The financial arrangements he proceeded to describe sounded odd, but then the whole damn business model was hovering somewhere north of peculiar.

  Enrolling—that’s what he called it—cost one million dollars. “One, six zeroes,” was his precise phrasing of the amount. Next came a three-month “eligibility assessment,” during which the company would do an exhaustive background check on the client to determine, among other things, the feasibility of the company being able to deliver on its ultimate commitment. If, after the background check, the client was rejected for some reason—I didn’t ask for the list of reasons—$750,000 of the initial one million would be returned.

  The balance was nonrefundable.

  Once the client was accepted—excuse me, “enrolled”—the policy would be “quiescent” until “activated.”

  I asked for definitions of those final two words.

  By then the next course had arrived. He placed his chopsticks down reluctantly. “Things have evolved over the years. We’ve discovered that during this process, loading the gun and pulling the trigger have turned out to be two very separate acts.”

  The metaphor had its desired effect: It reminded me that we were talking about taking lives.

  Specifically, mine.

  “How so?” I asked.

  “When we originally conceptualized this endeavor and started providing services, we didn’t employ a quiescent period, and we didn’t identify a threshold event. The initial fee we charged was good for both enrollment and activation. A separate flat fee covered the costs of the eligibility assessment.

  “Our clients, it turned out, especially the younger clients, the healthier ones—like yourself—occasionally needed some time to become comfortable with the idea of our service. They wanted the peace of mind that comes with having this weapon—our service—in their arsenal, but they were not quite comfortable leaving the weapon loaded and placed … in a complete stranger’s hands. Do you understand?”

  “Of course. I think I’m feeling the same way.”

  “Yes, that’s understandable. We should have anticipated it from the beginning, but … Regardless, an event—usually external, something regrettable and tragic with a friend, or a loved one—would usually help these clients clearly see the peace of mind that comes with full enrollment in our program. With me?”

  “Yes.”

  “To accommodate our clients’ needs, we’ve adapted our service so that the contract is considered quiescent—”

  “Which means revocable?”

  “Inactive, actually, until the client makes the second payment. Prior to that point, the client is betting that he will not suffer an activating event.”

  “And an activating event is defined as …”

  “We have a basic definition, which provides a minimum threshold for activation. The client may choose more exacting criteria, if he or she chooses.”

  “The basic definition includes what exactly?”

  I felt as though I were pulling teeth. It was like trying to get the guy from Allstate to tell me whether I had coverage if my basement flooded after a heavy rain. Come on, yes or no?

  The waiter approached the table. My host, who was about to answer my question, paused.

  THIRTEEN

  I needed a break to consider what he had said so far. Arranging my own death was a much more complicated undertaking than I had anticipated. The Yebisu had taken its inevitable toll and I excused myself at that moment to go to the bathroom. I noticed the Death Angel was watching my hands as I stood up from the table and dropped my napkin onto the chair.

  When I returned a few moments later the table had been cleared. Totally cleared. Plates, chopsticks, soy, Yebisu, sake, Pellegrino. Everything except my half-filled glass of beer.

  Antiseptically cleared, I thought.

  “I thought we’d pass on dessert,” he said. “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. I’ve had more than enough to eat. It was terrific.”

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you. You were discussing the addition of the ‘quiescent’ period to your company’s protocol, and you were about to describe the basic criteria for an activating event.”

  “Yes, I was. Some clients, it turned out, fear accidents more than they fear illness. Others fear illness more than they fear accidents. The ones that have a personal experience with or a family history of debilitating illness are typically looking for a net that they can put in place when the feared diagnosis looms … nearer, so to speak. A man of fifty worries about heart disease more than the man of forty. Yes? You understand? Alzheimer’s is typically more of a concern as we age.”

  “Yes.”

  “The addition of the quiescent option allowed everyone to have what they need. Those seeking protection against a debilitating accident could have the comfort of knowing the policy was in effect immediately after the eligibility assessment, should they choose. Those who were more concerned with the effects of serious illness could choose to extend the quiescent period until a diagnosis loomed closer.”

  “Gotcha,” I said, as the rationale for the arcane structure became more clear. “The aforementioned second payment. An additional fee is associated with activation?”

  “The initial deposit covers one decade of our services. Then we charge one million dollars for each five years of additional life expectancy, which is based on an actuarial evaluation completed at the time of the initial assessment. The total fee is paid in advance, of course. That is the second payment.”

  “For a young man, total premiums could approach … ten, six zeros,” I said.

  “Yes. For a very young man. Now, if our services are never required, and the client dies naturally or accidentally prior to his expected longevity, any fees unearned by us—the actuarially derived life expectancy less the actual age at the time of death�
�are anonymously donated to a charity identified by the client at the time the contract is entered. No moneys are ever—ever—returned to a client’s estate after his or her death.”

  I raised my eyebrows just to see what he’d do.

  “For obvious reasons,” he said.

  “Of course,” I concurred.

  “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do.”

  “Our promise? We are prepared to act in case of an unexpected event from the moment we receive the second payment. But once the contract becomes active, the irrevocable nature of our commitment requires a nonrefundable investment on the part of the client.”

  Our waiter chose that moment to deliver the tab. My host took a fast glance at the total, pulled a thick clip of currency from his front trouser pocket, snapped three large bills from the wad, and left them spread on the table like a winning poker hand. He pocketed the restaurant check.

  The tasting menu at Nobu was apparently pricey.

  “The next step?” I asked.

  “You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a taxi.”

  More humor, I supposed.

  He shrugged. It was a-guy’s-gotta-try kind of shrug. I gave him points for recognizing that his humor was going over with me like a Chris Rock monologue at a Focus on the Family picnic.

  “If you would like to apply for enrollment, I will provide instructions on how to make the initial deposit. At that point we will begin our evaluation. I assure you of our discretion.”

  “I would like to apply.”

  I surprised myself with the pronouncement. I hadn’t been aware that I’d reached a decision.

  He nodded. “Consider it done. Please open a new mobile-phone account with this carrier”—he reached into his lapel pocket and slid a small card across the table imprinted with the name of one of the national mobile-phone companies—“and give the number to no one. No one, do you understand?”

  “Yes. I’m a quick study. How do I get the number to you?”

  “We’ll know the number within hours of activation. And we’ll be in touch shortly thereafter.”

  “So,” I said. “How many clients does your organization … serve?”

  “I’m so sorry. I would love to be more forthcoming about details like that. Rest assured that we have sufficient resources to cover our obligations. However, we do try to be ever so discreet. For our own protection, and especially for that of our clients.”

  I decided to try a different tack. “You have had circumstances develop where it has become necessary for you to … follow through on the ultimate terms of the agreement? On … hastening.”

  He leaned forward and pursed his lips so that the unnaturally dark color momentarily disappeared. For the first time he whispered. “We call them end-of-life services.” He leaned back and resumed his normal speaking voice.

  “Like a hospice?”

  He couldn’t tell if I was joking. It was exactly what I had intended.

  “Please understand our position. When you choose to enroll, we’ll discuss those mechanisms, and others, in more detail, much more detail. I assure you that we do endeavor to be discreet both before and after our clients’ deaths, which means we do everything possible to shield their families from the actual circumstances of the loved one’s … end. To an outsider, either a loved one or a forensic professional, the circumstances of a client’s death will never appear suspect.” He smiled an undertaker’s smile. “We’ve not yet failed to provide that shield. We don’t expect to fail in the future. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

  He stood to leave at that point—expecting that I would have no other questions, or at least expecting that I would have the good sense not to ask them. I watched curiously as, holding his napkin in his right hand, he wiped the linen, seemingly absently, over the top rail of the chair.

  I realized he’d just wiped away any fingerprints he might have inadvertently left behind during our meal.

  The guy was dead serious about discretion.

  “Please,” he said, gesturing me toward the restaurant door. “I have to make a stop before I leave.”

  He had to pee, I guessed. He was discreet about even that.

  I thanked him for the meal, and we said good-bye without shaking hands.

  When I stepped outside, I walked into a day that had turned gray and was threatening the city with rain. I found myself hoping that my new, old friend was waiting for me with her chauffeured Town Car and her probing fingers.

  No such luck.

  I succeeded in hailing a cab right away and felt lucky to have it. I told the driver to take me out to Teterboro Airport in Jersey, where Mary would be waiting to take me home. The cabbie made a point of telling me how much the ride would cost. I was thinking about other things. I said, “Fine.”

  FOURTEEN

  “I’d like to come back,” I said to my Boulder shrink at the end of that first day’s pair of sessions. “This has been fun.”

  “Sarcasm? Yes?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so,” he said. “When?”

  “Soon, maybe. Same arrangement. Two visits in one day. That works for me. When can you do it again?”

  He picked up an old-fashioned appointment book, not a handheld computer. He spent a moment checking this and that before he said, “Thursday this week. Or Tuesday next.”

  “Thursday this week.”

  “You’re feeling some urgency?” he asked.

  Yeah, you could say that. “What times do you have?”

  “Ten-thirty and two-fifteen.”

  “Can do. It’s been a pleasure,” I said, standing.

  “If that remains the case,” he said, still in his seat, “then I’m not going to be of much help to you.”

  “And that means … what?”

  “My impression is that you’re a guy who walks into a room and takes it over. Either by charm, or by skill, or by sheer force of will. If none of those things work, you’ll do it by fiat. But you’ll do it.”

  I didn’t disagree with him. I did like to run the world, or at least any part of it that I was currently inhabiting. I hadn’t been like that my whole life—people who knew me when I was younger would’ve called me a free spirit—but I’d been like that since I’d decided to make some money.

  But I was curious about exactly what point the psychologist was making. So I waited him out. To my surprise my wait wasn’t long.

  “If I permit that to happen here,” he said, “I’ll be conspiring with you to waste your time. And wasting your time, I’m afraid, given your circumstances and your agenda, whatever it is, would be a crime.”

  “How do you know so much about me?” I asked. “Or think you know so much?” He did know a lot, and then he didn’t, but I wanted to see how he’d respond to being thrown a bone. I sat back down to hear his answer.

  He took a quick glance at his watch deciding, I thought, whether or not he had time to answer me.

  He said, “I only know what you’ve taught me. When you meet somebody, if you shut up and give them half a chance, in a remarkably short period of time they’ll teach you almost everything you need to know about them. If it’s important that you know the person, and understand him, the trick is to pay attention during the lessons and be the best student of that person you can be. That’s how I know what I know about you. You are the expert on you in this room, not me. You’ve been teaching me things about you that you aren’t even aware have been part of the lesson plan. As you teach me about you, I try to pay attention, to be the very best student I can be.”

  “I’ve told you almost nothing about me,” I said. But what I was thinking was, This guy does his work the same way I do mine. I pay attention. If there’s any way at all to pull if off, I will let the guy on the other side of the table show his cards before he’s ready.

  I knew my retort had been weak.

  He knew that, too. He said, “Facts are crap.”

  FIFTEEN

  I drov
e out to Jeffco Airport and left my new Prius in the parking lot at the FBO—Fixed Base Operator; think airplane service station, but with a clean bathroom—that had fueled the plane. Patience isn’t one of my long suits, so I paid one of the line guys, a kid, twenty bucks to wrestle the car cover into place on the Toyota, a task that seemed to me like trying to force a cantaloupe into a condom.

  Mary had spent the day antiquing north of Boulder and a few of her finds were strapped into seats in the back of the plane.

  She came back into the cabin when I came on board, but she didn’t ask what I’d been up to. She never did. Trace, the copilot, stayed up front doing preflight checks.

  The flight over to Montrose was uneventful.

  Little that happened those days felt uneventful, so a smooth flight over the Divide was a wonder.

  Facts are crap.

  Is that true?

  SIXTEEN

  I wasn’t aware there was going to be an interim meeting in the enrollment process, but I was summoned back to New York three weeks to the day after I made the initial payments to Death Angel, Inc. As I had been instructed during the first call I’d received on that mobile phone I’d been told to buy, I’d dutifully sent the required funds in a shotgun pattern to multiple offshore destinations, the money going to a wide variety of charitable fronts.

  My favorite was the 225K I “donated” to the ever so ironically named Youth in Asia Foundation.

  It was in Singapore.

  Yeah, and I was on the moon.

  My assistant, LaBelle, handled the transfers for me. She handled the details and the paperwork related to everything important in my life, both business and personal. I could tell she had questions about what I was doing with all that money, even opened her mouth once to ask me about it.

  I held up an open hand and said, “Don’t go there, LaBelle. This one’s a state secret. Okay?”