Angel and Brain tried to engage Peter in some sports talk and failed, since Peter knew nothing about sports. He never watched the Olympics or even the Super Bowl.
They asked him what line of work he was in, and Peter answered by telling them it was his job to motivate people to buy things they didn’t need with money they didn’t have. They then asked him how business was going these days, and Peter said that if he were any busier, he’d have to hire a second accountant just to keep track of all the money coming in. That got him a laugh - a small laugh.
Brian or Angel finally said, “We hear you have some other kinda problems though. That right?”
Jamie said he had to go for a piss and slid out of the booth; Angel or Brian rose to let him pass. When he had gone, Peter said, “I have a lot of problems. My dog just died, and my wife left me and took me for about 65 grand. Now she plans to start stripping me in the courts.”
“Yeah, women are just good for one thing, eh? And they make you pay for it one way or the other. That court shit can drag on for years and grind you down to the bone. Lawyers, filing fees, audits, business valuations, real-estate appraisals, all that shit costs thousands even before the final judgment fucks you over. There should be a better way to settle these things.”
The other suit nodded and motioned for another round for the table. The next round came, and they all looked gravely at the drinks for a moment.
Peter asked, “I wonder where Jamie went? He must be taking an awfully long crap.”
Angel or Brain responded, “He probably fucked off. He’s one strange guy. He’s on parole and he’s not supposed to be drinking and hanging around.”
Peter said, “Now I have to go to the can. When you push 60, you just can’t hold it like a kid. I’ll look for Jamie.”
Peter excused himself and went to the can to piss. About 10 seconds into his piss, someone came in behind him and just stood there. When Peter was done, he saw Brain or Angel look at him for a second. Then the man threw the bolt lock on the bathroom door.
“Peter, my friend and I are businessmen. We find that sometimes, people make attempts at industrial espionage. I’m sure you understand that we can’t function in an environment of mistrust. Raise your arms and relax. I have to make a quick inspection to see if you are equipped to record or transmit any of our trade secrets.”
He patted Peter down expertly and looked in his pockets, even the seams. He was good at this, as though he had done it before. He smiled when he was finished and said, “I hope you didn’t enjoy that. I wouldn’t want to be locked in a bathroom with any guy who did.” He laughed at his own joke and so did Peter.
They returned to the table and Peter got right down to business. “First of all, you guys have to understand that I’m not here to ask for your help.” Peter had read enough spy books to understand the concept of “plausible deniability.” Plausible deniability is when things are said with a nod and a wink and are merely “understood.” “Well, what I mean is, not for your help to actually do anything. I’m writing a book about this guy who wants to kill his wife and maybe you can give me some info on how to do that. Is that okay?”
Peter felt excited talking to these two “businessmen” - more excited than when he wrote about murder. The excitement was akin to a sexual feeling but it was not centered in his genitals. He really wanted to kill the previous administration, and the thought of actually killing her was a new and different kind of thrill for Peter.
“Sure, we like to discuss things hypothetically. And you have to understand that we don’t actually know anything about killing anybody. We just like to have a few drinks with an interesting guy like yourself, and shoot the shit. Right?” Brain or Angel turned to his counterpart for affirmation and got a nod. These guys also understood “plausible deniability.”
“We’re going to kick around a few ideas - off the top of our heads - to help you write your book. Let’s see … if we were contract killers or brokers or some bad guys like that, what would we ask you about?”
“I know! You’d ask, ‘What’s in it for us?’ ‘Does your wife have life insurance?’ ‘How much is she going to take you for in the divorce?’ and ‘How much is your house worth and who gets it and how much equity do you have in it?’ That sort of thing is what you would want to know.” Peter was excited to be dealing with real bad guys and couldn’t hide it.
“So, how much is in it for these hypothetical bad guys?” one suit asked.
“Hey, guys, this is great stuff. Let me think for a sec about what I’d actually pay for a hit.” Peter paused and took a sip of his beer, then went on.
“She has a great life insurance policy that was really cheap because it came as part of her state pension, and she can’t cancel it or cash it or change the beneficiary. That policy is for 650K. Let’s see. Half the house equity is about 180K. Her pension is assigned to me until I die, and she can’t change that, either. That alone is worth about a $1.2 million, depending on how long I live, of course. I guess there’s the savings factor for lawyers and maybe getting back some of the stuff she swiped. And I remember that there’s mortgage insurance we have on each other that I’ve been paying for.” Peter took another sip and calculated in his head.
“I think I could go to maybe 50K for a hit on her, but nothing up front, because I’m broke.” Peter realized that in cash, liquid assets and lifetime benefits, he was looking at about $2 million. He grinned.
“Oh, that’s bad, Peter - nothing up front. I’ll bet the murder-for-hire business is a cash business and the cash would be up front. Maybe a bad guy might say, ‘Okay, but the 50K would be up front and another 50 when the insurance comes in.’ That insurance might be a long time coming. Well maybe, for a higher total figure, the bad guy would only want 25 up front but maybe a hundred or more on the back side - you know, interest and compensation for the additional risk.”
Peter chimed in, “It wouldn’t be long before the bad guy’d get the second payment. A person could sell their house the day after the hit or get another mortgage, if the house is owned in a joint tenancy. My house is totally mine when she dies. Another thing: can this bad guy make it look like an accident? That’d be a great help with getting the insurance quickly. You know cops love to pin the wife’s murder on the husband - especially when there’s a divorce pending and lots of bad feeling.”
One suit said, “Oh, wow, the kind of killer you’re talking about, one who could make it look like an accident, might be a lot more expensive than what we were talking about before. That kind of hitter is not easy to deal with - you know, with the financing and second payments and stuff. You’re talking ex-CIA or KGB or special ops guys. Those guys can make it look like an accident, but those kinds of guys don’t want to hang around waiting for a second payment, or dick around for a dinky hundred grand. No, I recommend a good old-fashioned street crime. That should be good enough. A little robbery gone wrong or a carjacking should do it.”
“Yeah, I guess a street crime would be okay. Phew, you guys are sure giving me a lot to think about. This has been really great. What else do you have for me?”
“Well, maybe this imaginary husband should go home and try to think of ways to raise cash. Then he might try to get ahold of some people to do the deed, if he can find them. This is going to be a great book. If you need any more ideas, here’s my card. A woman will answer at that number. Just say ‘Hello’ and ask for me; tell her you are calling about the Robinson account. Got that - the Robinson account?”
“Who’s Robinson?”
“You. It’s your code name: Robinson.”
“And you’re Brain.” Peter was guessing at the name, because he had forgotten which guy was which.
“Yep, Mr. Broviak, I’m Brain. You’re a quick study, Mr. Broviak. My associate and I will be waiting for your call. You can pay the tab. We have to be somewhere else.” The two men stood up and left.
“Hey, I was going to pay for it anyhow. Thanks for your ideas!” Peter called out to their retr
eating forms. They didn’t look back. Peter felt a tingle of excitement. This wasn’t writing about killing. This was the big leagues - working with pros. This was real life and real death.
Chapter 41
On the drive home, Peter began to imagine a debt-free future in which he could forgo doing boring work for dull clients for peanuts, and spend as much time painting as he’d like. He imagined revisiting his first novel and rewriting it, if only he could remember where he’d hidden it all those years ago.
When Peter got home, he started to jot down a few notes about his conversation with Brain and Angel. He became engrossed in writing fictional scenes involving Kathryn’s dying from a professional hit. This material was much more alive than the writing he had done about poisoning and car accidents. It almost outshone the sniper scenario, which had been his favorite until now. Peter didn’t feel any need to get stoned or drunk or laid. He was no longer depressed. This new writing was pure fun because it was real. He was going to make it happen. Writing about a future event he was going to orchestrate made Peter feel like a powerful deity.
Peter slept an uninterrupted 10 hours. When he got up, he wrote some more until the phone rang. “Blocked Number,” it said. Peter responded with a saccharine smile, “Hello, nutcase darling. Do you have three words for me today?”
She did: “Will. Still. Kill.”
“Well, my little ubernut, how’s this? ‘Wham. Bam. Slam.’” Peter slammed the phone down and chuckled. This caller was a mere child trying to frighten a god.
Chapter 42
Since he was near the phone, Peter decided to make a few calls. No one answered until he got to Frannie.
“Peter, I have big news. I’ve forgiven you for running out of the hospital like some kind of nut. Peter, darling, you know the project we started soon after we met? I’ve resurrected it. Do you have some time to brainstorm with me and get our first product online within a few weeks? You’re the only one I trust with the web design.”
“Frannie, I’m kind of busy but for you, I can make time,” Peter lied. “When do you want to start?” Peter was excited to have Frannie asking to spend time with him, but he did not want to show it.
“This weekend? I’ll be at the farm. Come out for a swim and some tennis or riding. My bruises have healed up enough so I can play again. We can relax while we work. I have some cash for you, too.”
Peter really only heard the word “cash.” He glanced at his stack of unpaid bills near the phone. Then he remembered she had also said “farm,” so he asked, “You have a farm now?”
“No, I just house-sit this big mansion and horse farm for a friend who lives in Europe most of the time. He has these two big dogs. They’re like his children. He doesn’t want to fly them over to Europe any more, ever since one of them got lost in baggage at Orly for three days. He won’t put them in a kennel either, so I look after them.”
“My, aren’t we fancy with our own horse farm? Must be nice …”
“Peter, your envy is not attractive. I’ll e-mail you directions and stuff. Thanks, darling.”
“Darling,” huh? Peter thought this might turn out to be a very interesting weekend.
The next call was from Elaine. “I have a treat for you, Peter. I’m planning a getaway to wine country near the lake this weekend and I’ve rented a little cottage. You’re invited to spend more than three hours with me. If you are good - if you are very, very good - I’ll let you spend the night, although I’m not sure where I’m going to let you sleep.”
“Elaine, you picked the wrong weekend. I have to work. I need money. I have an out-of-town meeting with a regular client. I wish you’d given me more notice; maybe I could have put the work off for a week.” Peter was just a little smug that two women wanted him on the same weekend, but at the same time, he calculated that Elaine was a sure thing for sex, and sex with Frannie was a more distant possibility.
Elaine said, “I won’t beg. If you have something else to do, do it. After all we’re not married; well, actually you are married.” She hung up without waiting for a goodbye, as usual.
“Shit, shit, shit,” Peter thought. He wanted to finally spend a whole night or even a half-day with Elaine. His record for quality time spent with her was three hours and several minutes. He wanted more - a lot more and a lot more often. He couldn’t express to Elaine how much he wanted her without seeming a fool. He suspected craven dependency tendencies might be lurking somewhere in his makeup like a rat in a cellar.
Peter glanced at his calendar and saw that he had an appointment with Lisa. He couldn’t believe the appointment had rolled around so quickly. His mind was everywhere, but not in depression mode, so he briefly considered canceling the appointment. It would be a wasted session since he could not tell Lisa that he was planning to kill the previous administration. Lisa was legally bound to divulge this information.
Chapter 43
Peter drove into the city. When he arrived at Lisa’s office, Peter felt good enough to want to make this his last visit. He had been writing well and Frannie had cash for him. Peter’s short time horizon let him think he was okay forever. Elaine still wanted him, probably, and somewhere inside himself, he now had the resolve to make himself a double millionaire - and a murderer. Resolve had cured his depression and quelled his fears.
“Hello, Peter, take any seat but mine. How are you feeling?”
“I’m great, Lisa. If I leave now, do I have to pay?” He hadn’t had any more bad dreams or hallucinations since he had firmly and finally decided to kill Kathryn.
“Yes; it’s the same as canceling an appointment without due notice. But first, tell me how great you feel.”
“Great enough to think I don’t have to see you after today.”
“What made the difference?”
“Writing and money.” And, Peter thought, the resolve to murder Kathryn.
“Peter, before we get started, I have news about your writing. My sister-in-law wants to see more of it. Maybe an outline … She got the e-mail I sent her with your writing when she was at the cottage, bored with the old mildewy paperbacks on hand. I’ll give you my card with her contact information on it when you leave. Peter, I lied to her about how I got this manuscript in order to protect your identity. Rest assured I don’t make it a practice to lie to my patients - just my family.” She chuckled at her own little joke. “Are you okay with that?”
“Okay? I’m peeing my pants! Bachman & Bates are one of the biggest publishers in the world. They’re all over the place. She really wants to see more?” Peter was not lying about his excitement. He was astonished at how well his life was turning out since he finally found the nerve to really kill the bitch.
“Peter, she didn’t say she would publish you, she just said she was intrigued. But it is an honor. Big publishers reject over 99% of everything they see. Can we go on with how you are feeling?”
“Sure. I got a big job with up-front money out of the blue, and I’m no longer a person of interest in a murder investigation; well, actually, it turned out to be a suicide investigation. At least, they haven’t come to get me yet so it must be okay. I’m writing every day, and I have a thing going with a very sexy lawyer. And then you tell me this news about your sister-in-law … It’s like Christmas! If the situation improves, the situational depression improves, eh doc? Am I getting the jargon down?”
Lisa had lifted her eyes when Peter mentioned “sexy lawyer,” but it barely registered with Peter in his elated state.
“Yes, situational depression improves when the situation improves - until the next rejection.” Lisa paused for effect. “I don’t mean to bring you down. I’m relieved and happy you feel so good, but how can you be sure it will last?”
“What are you trying to do, promote therapy addiction in addition to all my other little neuroses?”
“What do you think I mean, Peter?”
“I think you mean that when the symptoms are gone, the disease may still be there. Do I get my doctorate now?”
Peter was impatient to leave, but didn’t want to say so.
“You get an honorary doctorate. You haven’t sat through enough horrible, boring, undergrad psych lectures to get a real one. All kidding aside, you told me you’ve been suicidal more than once. If your fortunes worsen again, what’ll you do without the tools to combat the depression that follows? I’m not trying to sell my services; I’m trying to arm you for the fight of your life if things get bad.”
Lisa paused to let that sink in and to gage Peter’s reaction. “Peter, let’s go back to what you said about a murder investigation. You didn’t think I’d forget that, did you?”
“Like I said, it was just an investigation into my friend’s suicide. They had to rule out murder. It was just routine. It made me think, though, how awful it would be if those cops had even one small scrap of a reason to believe I killed him. When the cops came over to tell me I’d been cleared, they told me that I had actually been a suspect because I had guns, and the police had recently been called to my home, and I have a psychiatric history, and blah blah blah. Thinking of myself the way a cop might think of me scared me for awhile, but the scared feeling went away.”
The session went on, with Peter skirting issues and babbling about how good he felt until the 60-minute mark rolled around.
Peter left Lisa’s office in the same good mood he’d been in when he arrived. He hadn’t been in such a good mood since before Kathryn left. He remembered a line in the Bible from the annunciation of the Virgin Mary, “But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”
He decided, on a whim, to walk the three blocks to Elaine’s office and ask her to “dinner.” Since Elaine had no assistant on site, he just walked up to her door and tried to enter. It was locked, so he knocked. Elaine bellowed from the other side of the door: “Screw off! When the door’s locked, it means I’m busy.”
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