Cliff Roberts Thriller Box Set

by Cliff Roberts

CHAPTER EIGHT

  On the way to the gun show, I drove by the house. I was surprised to see a Beemer in the driveway. It was eight a.m., and some unfamiliar car was in my driveway. Shit. I wasn’t even out of the house, and she’s got her boyfriend spending the night. I should go in and start beating the crap out him. Mess him up good, that son of a bitch. Then my lower back reminded me that I wasn’t going to mess anyone up. I could barely move, let alone punch out some asshole. I could see it now. I’d hit him once as hard as I could, and then I would have to go sit down while he grabbed my old baseball bat and then bashed my brains in with it. I needed a gun. I needed it for protection and to equalize the battlefield. Seeing that car in my driveway gave me one more reason for buying it.

  Walking into the civic center, I was amazed at the large number of kiosks that were set up there. It was wall-to-wall guns and knives. The variety was huge. I could buy handguns, long rifles, shotguns, crossbows and long bows. There were single shots, double barrels, even a couple of triple barrels. I could buy a handgun with a six shot clip, nine shot, twelve shot and even a fifteen shot clip. There were American guns, European guns, Russian, Chinese, Japanese and even Czechoslovakian guns. There were new ones, old ones and antiques. Everything a gun nut could want from a target pistol to a modified assault rifle. I even heard one guy tell another guy in a whisper he would sell him the kit to change the modified assault to a full-on assault for another five hundred. I knew he was the guy I needed to talk to. So when the other guy finished with his purchase, I strolled up and started looking at his handguns.

  The vendor stepped up to the table and asked if I was a cop. I assured him I was not a cop, and he proceeded to look me over really hard. I guess he decided I was too out of shape to be a cop because he asked what I was looking for. I told him that I’d like a handgun—nothing too big but with some stopping power. I wanted something easy to shoot and used ammo I could get anywhere. He smiled and asked if I had ever shot a gun. I told him sure, I used to hunt and most of my friends had handguns, which I’d shot a number of times, I just hadn’t shot anything in a couple of dozen years. He laughed and called me a novice.

  He directed my attention to a Sig Sauer .40 cal. with a nine round clip. He explained that it was the new nine millimeter and that all the cops and gun enthusiasts were carrying them. The .40 cal. rounds could be bought at Wal-Mart or any sporting goods store. He also explained that the stopping power was much better than a nine millimeter, which was why the cops had switched when the price had come down. Then he hit me with the price—twelve hundred dollars plus tax.

  I didn’t flinch. I pulled a roll of hundreds from my pocket. I looked around nervously, unsure how I should ask the question, making a mental note of the dozen signs I could see that said you had to have a valid ID to make a purchase and that no ammo would be sold here. Plus, to make matters worse, Florida has three day waiting period when you purchase a handgun.

  I also noticed that there was a black guy at the end of the aisle, looking at me. When he realized that I was looking back at him, he turned away and stepped behind a kiosk. Was that him? I shivered as I thought about the dead woman again. The guy selling the gun must have noticed my behavior because he asked if I was all right.

  “Hey, buddy. You okay?” the vendor had asked. “Buddy?” he asked a second time, before I reacted.

  “Huh? I….” I started to say, but I wasn’t sure what he had said.

  “You okay?” he asked again.

  “Yeah, sure. I…ah…just wanted to know…ah…if there was any way to…ah…you know…ah…”

  “You want to know if there’s any way that you can buy the gun without showing ID, right?” the vendor guy blurted out loud enough that I jumped because I was afraid that someone would overhear and they would report me. Hell, I thought this guy might report me.

  “Is that possible?” I whispered as I looked around again, and there he was again—the black guy—watching me. Once more, he turned away quickly and stepped behind a kiosk. Who is that guy? Why is he watching me?

  “Sir, step right over here, and I will help you fill out the forms,” the vendor guy spoke loudly as he winked at me. I followed behind him sheepishly to a table he had set off to the side of his kiosk where we both sat down. He quickly pulled some forms out from under the briefcase sitting there, and he began writing.

  “Yes, sir! That .22 cal. is the perfect gun for target practice. Hell, it’s even good for scaring away the damn gators from your yard.” The vendor kept on talking, yet I had no idea what he was doing. “Yeah, the .22 cal. or smaller are the only weapons you don’t have to wait three days for in the stores, but here at the gun shows, you can purchase any gun the same day with valid ID.”

  He slowed down his talking as he finished writing on the form in front of him, so I leaned in and whispered, “I don’t want a .22 cal.”

  He looked up and smiled, saying, “Trust me.”

  I wasn’t sure that was a good idea, but I sat quietly waiting for him to finish. My hands began sweating. My underarms felt like they’d just been hosed down by a fire hose, and yet my mouth felt like I’d been eating sand. Yeah, sure, I wouldn’t say I was absolutely honest. I cheated when possible on my taxes; I’d accepted extra change from the cashier at Wal-Mart. Hell, I’d even set the car on fire and burn it if I thought I could make an extra buck or two from the insurance. Let’s face it, I’m poor, and that is what poor people did to make ends meet from time to time. It didn’t mean I was a criminal, just desperate. Kind of like now.

  The vendor finished and pushed a small piece of paper toward me. I looked at it and discovered there was a number on it. The number was $1,700.00. I looked at him and he smiled, all nice and polite, I looked at the number again and it dawned on me that this was the cost if I didn’t want to show any ID. I smiled. This was going to happen.

  I pulled out the money and said, “Tax?”

  He smiled, and said, “Throw in another hundred.”

  I counted out $1,800.00 and looked around at the other kiosks, but this time I saw no one looking our way, and I smiled. I was just another happy idiot buying a gun, which was more than likely going to sit in the closet forever and be sold at the estate sale after I died. Alternatively, it would get me killed as I tried to do something stupid because I was buoyed by the false sense of invincibility that guns gave people. I think it was Samuel Colt, the gun manufacturer, who said, “God made man, and Sam Colt made them equal!” Or maybe it’s a line from a movie.

  Next, the vendor pushed another piece of paper in front of me and handed me a pen saying, “Sign here!” as he pointed to the bottom line.

  I sat motionless for a minute, maybe two, as I looked at the form and saw it was a declaration of valid ID that the State of Florida requires to purchase a gun. The name on it wasn’t mine. It said: William R. Connelly, age 29, resident of Punta Gorda, Florida, and it gave a driver’s license number. Hell, there was even a home phone number.

  My hand shook as I signed the name written on the form, which looked like someone tried signing while being flipped about inside a cement mixer. I seriously doubted that anyone would believe that William really signed this form. As I shoved it back across the table, the vendor slid a brown bag across to me with a box inside saying it housed a Sig Sauer .40 cal. handgun. A receipt showing I purchased it legally was in the bag, as well.

  “Y’all come back and see me when you’re ready for some real killing power, friend. Good luck with the gators.” the vendor loudly exclaimed as he turned toward another customer who had just walked up. I turned and quickly found my way to the exit and went right to my car. Shit. I’d gotten the gun. I felt better prepared now in case Mr. Psycho showed up. Well, I will have, once I go and buy some bullets.

  I’d had now committed a real crime at least four times in three days. I kept lying to myself to justify it, too. Hell, all I needed now was a street reputation, and I would be a bonafide gangster in the hood. I had to have been delusional at this point. I
t was the only logical explanation for my behavior that I could think of.

  When I reached the store, I did a quick check of the trunk to make sure the money was still there, and it was; so I dropped the gun in there, as well. I slammed the trunk lid quickly as I looked around, making sure no one saw me, or more importantly, no one saw what was in the trunk. I went into the store and quickly made my purchase of two boxes of ammunition and got back to the car as fast as I could. Then it was off to the Everglades to load and shoot the thing. I had to make sure I could at least fire it. Maybe, if I shot it a couple of dozen times, I’d figure out how to hit something with it, which wouldn’t be a bad thing.

  I spent the afternoon right up until dark shooting the gun. I tried picking out tree branches or clumps of grass in the distance and shooting them. I was a pitiful shot. I wasted a whole box—fifty rounds—trying to hit something before I found the range and started hitting the grass clumps fairly regularly. My macho side decided that was plenty good enough, since a man is much bigger than a clump of grass at a hundred feet away, and besides, I would be shooting at a man who was less than twenty feet away. I convinced myself I was good to go. Bring it on, Mr. Psycho.

  I drove home under the speed limit afraid some cop would pull me over and ask what was in the trunk. I was sure that they were following me, just waiting for me to commit another crime. I drove around in circles for over an hour, watching my mirrors, looking for a tail, but found none—not that I knew how to spot one. If someone was watching me, I am sure they had a good laugh at the stupid U-turns I took and the mad dashes through parking lots. I convinced myself once more that I had it nailed and had lost anyone who was trying to tail me. I also convinced myself that the black guy who was looking at me at the gun show had been driving in a Toyota Camry. That he’d followed me down Route 80, starting in Labelle, and didn’t turn off until I reached I-75, where I turned north, and he went south.

  After doubling back to the Airport Inn, I surmised that Mr. Psycho wouldn’t think I’d stay at the same place two nights in a row, so I went in and booked the same the room for a second night. I lugged my small suitcase, the money bag and my new handgun up to the third floor, and once again, I ordered pizza and had it delivered along with a two liter bottle of Coke. It took an hour to arrive, and I practically bit the delivery woman’s head off until I realized they had told me it would take an hour, and she was quite cute. She looked to be in her mid-thirties and had no wedding ring. I tried to make small talk but fumbled the words, and she smiled politely, taking the five dollar tip. I stood dumbfounded in the doorway as she left, but I was pleased to see her look over her shoulder and smile as she returned to her car. Maybe I still had a chance with women. Yeah, right.

  After eating, I took a long, hot shower. I noticed for some reason halfway through it that the phone hadn’t started to ring. It was quiet. I convinced myself that I had lost Psycho Man, and I was home free. Maybe tomorrow I would go out to Captiva and look for women at the Mucky Duck. I’d get a room at ’Tween Waters Inn. It would be great.

  I took my time drying off and wondered if I ordered another pizza if the same woman would deliver it again. Was she the only one working this Wednesday, or was it Thursday? Didn’t matter; she was probably a smoker, which it seemed eighty to ninety percent of the women I saw were. I hated the smell of it and especially the breath of a smoker, so I pushed that thought out of my head and wondered how I would ever find another woman. You see, I knew that I was a far better man when I have a woman around me. Plus, I was lonely, and a woman is a whole lot better than any guy friend I could ever have because there might be sex. I did mention that I liked women, right? Yeah, I know I did.

  I wrapped the towel around me and stepped out of the bathroom, looking to watch some TV before I hopefully got a good night’s sleep. That thought was short-lived, though. As soon as I looked up, I froze. In the far corner of my room sat a man in a ski mask, a t-shirt and Bermuda shorts with tennis shoes. Shit! Shit! Shit!

  “You may as well come all the way out. I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you,” the man said in that voice—the voice of Mr. Psycho. I stepped slowly to the edge of the bed and stood there, holding the towel around my girth, wondering if he would kill me here or take me somewhere else to do it.

  “You know, of course,” he said as he leaned forward, picking up my brown bag which held my new gun in it, “that it doesn’t do much good to have a gun for protection and then not keep it with you at all times.” He pulled the gun out of the bag and hefted it up one handed, looked over the finish and smiled. “At least you didn’t go cheap! I’m glad you know that a quality gun can make all the difference. Those cheap ass guns from China or the Czechs tend to fall apart on you. You know, things like the hammer pin breaks off or the clip lock breaks. Hell, most self-respecting criminals would laugh at you if you flashed a gun with duct tape on the handle.” He grinned widely, apparently thinking he just made a funny. “The only guys who use damaged guns are the street hustlers. The drug cowboys down on Martin Luther.”

  It was then I noticed, as I stood there practically naked, he was wearing latex gloves. Shit. He was going to kill me here. He would probably force me back into the shower and then shoot me in the head with my own gun, so it looked like suicide. Oh, shit. I’m a dead man.

  “Go ahead and take a seat,” he said, casually motioning with the gun toward the bed. I remained rooted to the spot, staring at the gun. “Oh, sorry. I won’t shoot you. Well, not yet, anyway.” He grinned again. Ha, ha! He’s a laugh a minute.

  I slowly slipped between the two double beds and sat on the far one, looking at him. I subconsciously pushed the towel down between my legs. He watched and just shook his head.

  “What’s with the gloves?” I asked in a squeaky voice as I sat there trembling. Shit, I had to think fast, but my brain was acting like it was detached at the moment.

  “Oh, these?” he said as he looked down at his hands. “Force of habit. I don’t like leaving any trace of myself behind. Far too many people could be looking for anything.”

  “Yeah, I could see how being a mass murderer would make you a bit over-cautious,” I said sarcastically.

  “Now, there you go. You’re relaxing. I was hoping it wouldn’t take too long to get you to relax and be your own sarcastic self. I’ve enjoyed hours upon hours of your conversations with your soon-to-be ex and God,” he rattled off.

  “How do you know I’m getting a divorce?” I shot back, almost before he was finished.

  “I know all about you. It’s hard to be someone’s friend if you don’t know them. That’s why I gave you the money because friends help friends out, and you needed help.”

  “What did I do to get your attention? I mean, every book I read or movie I’ve seen says that psychos like you don’t just randomly attack people. Your targets do something that draws your attention. You know, like cut you off in traffic, wear bright clothes, cause a scene somewhere. What did I do?” I asked as my voice cracked yet again.

  He sat there looking at the floor for several moments before he spoke. “I’m unsure I can share such intimate details with you just yet, but I will say you didn’t do anything.”

  “Then, why me?” I asked loudly as I sat there, shaking badly. I was sure he was going to kill me if I stopped talking.

  “Okay, it wasn’t you. It was your soon-to-be ex-wife. She caught my attention,” he stated coldly with an air of detachment.

  “What? What did she do to make you want to kill me?” I asked.

  “Who says I want to kill you? I’ve been saying I’m your friend for weeks now, and yet you think I want to kill you?” He was grinning again. “No, I want to help you. That woman is a big problem. Hell, she’s been cheating on you since she arrived here four years ago. I thought it was extremely trusting of you to let her move down while you sold the house. Did you know she met the guy when she came down to interview and started screwing him the first day she arrived? They sat next to each other on th
e plane flight down. I was really shocked when she still acted like she wanted you to follow. I think she really just wanted you to do the heavy lifting of the move before she shit on you.” He explained everything I had thought but wouldn’t believe. How did he know this stuff?

  “I probably knew that deep down but didn’t want to face it, but how did you know?” I asked.

  “I’ll share all of my secrets in time. Just accept that there are people who will do anything when they are offended to seek revenge. I happen to be one of them,” he said as if it were a matter-of-fact, everyday admission.

  “How? How can you know all that? You can’t spend all day watching her or me. You’ve got to sleep sometime, and how would you know what we said in our house unless you had a microphone…” My words trailed off as I realized that Mr. Psycho was also Mr. Tech Geek, and he had planted bugs in our house and probably our cars, too. Shit. Who was this guy?

  “I can tell by the look on your face I don’t need to answer that. You’re quick. I found myself completely taken in by the drama of your life. It was way better than reality TV. To you, it seemed mundane, but to me, it was fascinating. You’re one hell of a strong man. She just kept piling shit on you, and you took it for the most part. You hung in there telling her you loved her, buying flowers for no reason, taking her out to dinner, doing those incredibly stupid honey-do chores she would think up for you while she went shopping. Only she wasn’t shopping. She was out screwing her boyfriend.” He just kept explaining my life to me and seemed to enjoy the fact that I’d been treated like shit and hadn’t done anything about it. I wanted to kill him and then go kill my ex.

  “At first, I thought that you were a total loser, and then I started to understand the situation you were in, and it struck me that I was just like you. I had some woman shit all over me and think she could get away with it, too. I wasn’t married to her, but I was deeply in love with her, and all she wanted was my money. When I said no more money, she bolted faster than water through a sieve. She even stole my favorite painting, claiming she was entitled to it because she had to sleep with me for so long. She even went so far as to say she would never provide me with a sexual favor again, even it meant she would be eaten by rats. Talk about harsh. She completely devastated me.” He wasn’t grinning now. He just stared at the floor, and for moment, I thought he was going to cry.