Asking For Trouble

by Simon Wood

  From his lofty vantage point, there seemed to be no activity. Eleanor would be at work, but Ted would be there, puttering around, trying to make one of his damn fool schemes succeed. Even in Richard’s short marriage to their daughter, there’d been too many. There was the property speculation deal in which Ted bought cheap properties with no money down and gave them a quick makeover for a quick profit. The upshot had been a string of expensive home inspections that proved cheap houses are cheap for a reason. Ted had moved on to want ads, selling junk that no one wanted. Their garage was still chock-full of trash. Buying cars from auctions to sell had been next. The city had confiscated six heaps after multiple complaints from the neighbors. His current fad was telemarketing. Richard had no idea how that one worked; neither did Ted, he was sure.

  What stuck in Richard’s craw was Ted’s ridiculous belief that he was as successful as Bill Gates. Other people’s successes were his successes. He put himself on their level, never once acknowledging that he lived in near poverty, and he still had the audacity to consider himself better than Richard.

  Just sitting there, Richard’s blood pressure skyrocketed. Ted made him sick. He felt sorry for Eleanor for having to be married to that, especially since he was going to kill her, too. But she was just as guilty—she condoned every one of Ted’s harebrained schemes. She never once said, “Ted, you’re a grown man. Act like it.” If she had, he might have considered sparing her.

  He’d gone there to study their movements, to understand their habits in the hope of seeing a chink in their defenses. But he knew them already, and he despised them. There was nothing to learn.

  A speeding truck from the water plant roused Richard from his angry thoughts. The dashboard clock said it was after three. He’d been parked there for five hours. Enough waiting. It was time to do what had to be done. He gunned the engine and drove down the road.

  ***

  A week had passed since Richard had spent the day watching Ted and Eleanor’s home, but tonight was the night he was going to do it. It was all planned, and he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. The house-buying pretense wasn’t going to last much longer. The mortgage broker had a bank ready and waiting and house viewings with the Realtor were a nightly affair. He’d turned down two excellent investment properties already. If he didn’t act now, he’d end up in the financial hole he was trying to avoid.

  Tonight was a night off from house hunting, and that was his alibi. Richard loved soccer, a passion Michelle didn’t share. There was a night game in San Jose, and he would be going alone. The drive to San Jose would take him past Ted and Eleanor’s. He would kill them, go on to the game, and return home to the shocking news. He would miss the first half, but that wouldn’t matter. The game was being broadcast on the radio. He took his ticket from his breast pocket and popped his “get out of jail free” card in the glove box. He turned up the radio, listened to the game, and peeled off the freeway off-ramp to Ted and Eleanor’s.

  Richard concealed his Honda in the park’s overflow parking lot and joined the trail. It was dusk and essentially the park was closed, but it was unsupervised. Ted and Eleanor walked the trail every night to reflect on another great day in paradise. Richard knew this was their main form of entertainment because it was free, but their supposed love of nature camouflaged that. Richard hid himself in a grove of trees a quarter mile from the parking lot. He slipped into coveralls, snapped on a pair of rubber gloves, and pocketed a knife he’d bought at an army-navy surplus store.

  Waiting was hell. He kept swallowing, working his tongue over the roof of his mouth, and wiping his gloved hands on his coveralls. Paranoia seeped in. Maybe he’d screwed up and given himself away. With every passing second, he expected his in-laws to round the bend and the police to swoop in. He knew it was stupid. He was letting idiotic guilt take over, but he couldn’t stop it.

  But all of the fear, paranoia, and guilt evaporated instantaneously when Richard heard Ted and Eleanor approaching. Ted’s inane banter cut through the night air, and Richard’s hand tightened around the knife. He couldn’t make out what was being said. It was all noise. But it didn’t matter. He would pounce the moment they were even with his position.

  They were laughing when Richard leaped out of the trees. Jubilant at their good fortune at his expense, no doubt. Well, he’d get the last laugh.

  They gasped when he growled at them to stop and they spotted the knife glinting in the moonlight. He relished their fear. How he wished their faces hadn’t been lost in the dark!

  “You’ve been taking advantage of me for too long.” Richard didn’t wait for a plea for clemency. He plunged the knife into Ted’s bloated belly. Blood spilled over Richard’s gloved hand, and he pressed the blade deeper.

  Ted crumpled, sliding off the blade. Eleanor screamed. In reflex, Richard lashed out with the knife, catching Eleanor’s throat. She went down without another sound.

  Richard rummaged through Ted’s pockets for his wallet. Their deaths couldn’t look random. It was more believable if it looked like a violent robbery carried out by a desperate junkie. Senseless tragedies like this happened every day. He jerked out Ted’s wallet from the back pocket of his pants and slipped Eleanor’s chunky diamond off her finger, along with another ring on her right hand. Ted groaned but Eleanor lay still.

  Richard raced back to his Honda with the wallet and Eleanor’s rings. He dumped them with the knife into a Ziploc he’d brought with him and stuffed his coveralls and rubber gloves into a trash bag. Peeling out of the parking lot, he headed for San Jose.

  At a gas station outside San Jose, Richard filled up and dumped the trash bag in a nearby Dumpster. Five miles from the gas station, he tossed the knife out the window and down a freeway embankment. Parking outside Spartan Stadium, he still had the wallet to lose. The rings and the wallet’s contents he would keep for now and dispose of down a storm drain on the way home. He opened up Ted’s wallet and tugged out his cash, credit cards, and driver’s license.

  On the drive to the game, he’d been on a high, delirious to be rid of his burden, but his world came to a crashing halt when he looked at the driver’s license he’d pulled from the wallet. The driver’s license picture was not his father-in-law. Just to reinforce the calamity, the credit cards didn’t have Ted’s name on them, but instead, the name “Thomas Fairfax.” The rings he held in his palm weren’t Eleanor’s. He’d killed the wrong people.

  “Oh, God,” he murmured.

  Richard stumbled into the stadium on uncertain legs. Rushing blood gurgled in his ears, and he couldn’t breathe. He dropped Fairfax’s empty wallet into a nearby trash can. He handed his ticket to the stadium worker and waved off a free program. He climbed the steep steps to his seat, numb.

  Goals flew into the back of the net one after another. The San Jose Earthquakes were having a landmark game, but Richard couldn’t raise a smile. The murders of two strangers weighed heavily on him, but that wasn’t the only thing worrying him. Ted and Eleanor were still alive. That meant he had it all to do again.

  The fifth goal went in and the crowd leaped to their feet. A man noticed Richard was the only one who wasn’t cheering. “LA can’t win them all, buddy.”

  The game ended and Richard trudged back to his Honda. He’d left the car on a residential street, and trash and recycle cans for the following morning’s pickup blocked it in. He dumped all the Fairfaxes’ remaining belongings in a can.

  Driving home, he didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t use the same MO to kill Ted and Eleanor now. It had been so perfect, but his bungled murders would lead to better security at the park. He couldn’t afford to be hasty, but time was against him. Ted and Eleanor would be evicted in less than a week.

  How could he have been so wrong? It had sounded like them. It had looked like them. How did he kill the wrong people?

  Richard’s question went unanswered because an eighteen-wheeler changed the subject. The semi’s blowout rendered the rig helpless, and though the driver
frenetically tried to regain control, the trailer section plowed directly into the passenger side of Richard’s Honda. The eighteen-wheeler smeared Richard’s car across the freeway, driving it into the median.

  ***

  Richard awakened in a hospital bed. Molasses-thick memories trickled back into his consciousness. Progress was slow, but he knew he had been in the hospital for a week. He tried to move, but he only managed to move his head.

  Suddenly, with the intensity of a thunderbolt, he remembered and began to cry. The accident had left him a quadriplegic, but he wasn’t crying because he was incapacitated for life. He was remembering what Michelle had said to him the day after the accident.

  “We’ve all decided,” she said. Standing on either side of her, Ted and Eleanor nodded and smiled. “There’s no point in buying a second home. Mom and Dad can live with us. They will look after you while I’m at work. Just think, honey, we can all be one big happy family. It’s the safest solution, too. Did you know there were two murders near their home last night?”

  THE TASKMASTERS

  The bar fight was over. Matt staggered to his feet. The loudmouth was down and he wasn’t getting back up without assistance. None of the barflies volunteered to help the guy on the floor, even though they closed in to examine Matt’s handiwork. Matt ran the back of his hand across his mouth, leaving it blood streaked.

  Police sirens wailed in the distance. Matt’s heart rate quickened again, just as it had started to slow down. He couldn’t afford to be busted again. As everyone swarmed for the exit, Matt went to follow, but someone held him back. He shook off the hand gripping his shoulder and whirled around with a readied fist to face his new challenger. The middle-aged guy held up his hands in surrender. A lucky thing since he had six inches and fifty pounds of muscle on Matt.

  “Easy, pal,” he said. “I’m not trying to stop you. Back door, before the cops get here.”

  The sirens intensified. Matt didn’t argue; he followed the man out the fire exit and into the service alley.

  “C’mon, this way,” the man urged.

  He jogged down the alley, sidestepping busted trash bags and puddles containing more than just water. Matt followed him into a side street, then into another alley lit by a thumbnail moon.

  “We’ll hang here until things are cool,” he said.

  Matt didn’t reply. What was his guardian angel’s motive? He didn’t trust him. But then, Matt didn’t trust anyone.

  “Get into a lot of fights, don’t you?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The way you handled yourself in there. You didn’t learn those moves in a boxing ring or a dojo. You’ve had a street education. Besides, I recognize a bottle scar when I see one.”

  Instinctively, Matt touched the thin scar beneath his left eye with his thumb. Although faint after so many years, he remembered the fight like it was yesterday. He’d been eighteen at the time, and it had been over a girl. Frank Tremaine hadn’t liked the idea of losing his Susie. Matt had thought it would be easily settled, but he hadn’t expected Frank to go for him with a bottle of Bud. He’d nearly lost his eye that night. There’d been a lot of Frank Tremaines over the years and a lot of fights over lesser reasons than Susie. Tonight was no exception.

  “Have you done time?” the man asked.

  “Once.”

  “Carry on like you’re going and it’s easily going to be twice.”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Harry Sharpe.” He thrust out a hand.

  Matt looked at the hand warily. This attempt at an introduction could be a stunt to take him down. He ignored the proffered hand and said, “Matt Crozier.”

  Harry let his hand drop without showing any sign of being insulted. “Good to meet you, Matt.”

  “What do you want? Why are you helping me?”

  Matt backed up a step as he asked the questions. He’d rather take a chance with the cops than this guy if something went down. At least he knew what to expect with the cops.

  “I represent a group that helps young and wayward men like yourself. We try to turn their skills toward more positive outlets and keep them out of trouble.”

  Matt was already shaking his head. He knew where this was going. A dark alley, a sensitive older man and a misguided youth, a cry for attention and a sympathetic ear, leading to a tender moment. It was pathetic, really.

  “Sorry, dude, you’ve dialed the wrong number. I don’t answer those sorts of calls.”

  The older guy rolled his eyes. “I’m not trying to pick you up,” Harry snapped. “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  Matt backed up toward the street. “Okay, whatever you say, Reverend.”

  Harry lunged and snared Matt’s arm. Matt took a swing. Harry blocked it and slammed Matt up against a Dumpster.

  “I’m not a priest. I’m trying to teach you something. If you want to end up dead or serving a life sentence, then carry on doing what you’re doing, because believe me, you will overstep the boundary of a bar brawl to manslaughter one of these days. But if you want to change that, learn something, make yourself a better man, you’ll call me.”

  Harry released Matt and jammed a business card in his palm. Matt watched him leave and turn the corner. Once he felt Harry wasn’t coming back and the police weren’t waiting for him, he stepped out into the street. He examined Harry’s card under the streetlight. TASKMASTERS, it read, followed by a local telephone number.

  ***

  Matt spent the following day mulling over what Harry Sharpe had said. He didn’t need some do-gooder telling him where his life was heading; he already knew. He just couldn’t keep from getting into fights. He wasn’t a kid anymore. At twenty-eight, he was fast approaching thirty with nothing to show for it except calluses and scar tissue. He’d eventually cross the line, and it would end his life one way or another. Harry had handed him a timely reality check.

  He hadn’t heard of the Taskmasters, and neither had anybody else he asked. The consensus was they were some organization similar to the Toastmasters or the Rotary Club. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but a public speaking group wasn’t it. Harry and his pals didn’t seem the type to sit around over a pleasant meal, challenging each other to speak on a subject suggested by one of the other Taskmasters. How this would make him a better person he couldn’t imagine, but he’d heard they were connected with the business community and helped members find jobs. He could do with a boost in that direction. He’d go and try it out—just this once.

  He dialed the number. Harry picked up the phone on the first ring.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Matt, from the bar last night.”

  “I remember you. I wasn’t sure you’d call, but I’m glad you did. You want to join, then?”

  “I thought I’d check it out.”

  “Good. We’ll pick you up at nine. What’s your address?”

  Matt was waiting outside his apartment complex when the SUV pulled up in front of him. Harry was driving, with three other men in the vehicle. Matt wandered over, and the guy in the back flung open a door. Matt got in.

  “Guys, this is Matt,” Harry said. “Okay, quick introductions. Riding shotgun with me is Brett Chalmers. Sitting next to you is Frank Tripplehorn. And taking up too much room in back there is John Stein.”

  The Taskmasters smiled and nodded. Matt tried to do the same, but they were nothing like he’d imagined. Matt had taken the trouble to dress up, nothing too fancy, but then again, he didn’t have anything too fancy. Irrespective of his effort, he was the overdressed one. Everyone else was in jeans, a polo shirt, and a windbreaker. They all had Harry’s muscular build, except John Stein, who was another X-size up. His head scraped the underside of the SUV’s roof.

  Harry drove off. The Taskmasters bantered easily with one another, talking about nothing much. Matt interrupted them.

  “Where are we going?” He hadn’t intended the level of fear in his voice. It didn’t go unnoticed by the
others.

  “We have a clubhouse where we meet,” Tripplehorn said.

  “Is there anything else you’d like to know?” Chalmers asked.

  Matt shook his head, and the Taskmasters returned to their conversation.

  The “clubhouse” was an exaggeration of mammoth proportions. Before Matt had called Harry, rich Corinthian leather and dark mahogany had sprung to mind. But way before they arrived outside the derelict building on a street consumed with derelict buildings, he knew they weren’t heading for a fancy downtown address.

  “Home sweet home,” Stein said, sliding out of the SUV.

  Harry popped the padlock and opened the chain-link gate. They filed through the opening and over to what had once been an Italian restaurant. While Harry relocked the gates, Stein unlocked a graffiti-daubed side door. The Taskmasters had put minimal effort into the restaurant. It was rainproof, but the air reeked of decomposing sheetrock and urine. A startled rat scuttled across the floor to hide in a darkened corner. Tripplehorn deposited a cooler at the center of a collection of raggedy La-Z-Boys.

  Something was very wrong, and Matt started planning how he was going get out of this. He knew when he was out of his league. Harry and Co. weren’t the kind of guys he could punch his way past. He wondered if the Taskmasters were connected to someone he’d hurt but couldn’t think of anyone with that kind of muscle on tap. Harry dropped a heavy hand on Matt’s shoulder and guided him toward the circle of easy chairs.

  “Don’t be put off by the surroundings. Take a load off and have a beer.”

  Tripplehorn flipped open the cooler and tossed Matt an MGD. “You’re in good company.”

  Matt did as he was told and sat down.

  Harry took a beer from Tripplehorn and flopped into a chair next to Matt. “I declare this meeting of the Taskmasters now in session.”

  Harry raised his bottle and so did the other Taskmasters. Matt shifted in his seat.

  “Only two items of new business tonight,” Harry said. “The first being our new member, Matt.”