Killercon

by William Ollie

  Deeper into the article, he discovered that police were baffled as to the whereabouts of the victim’s head. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Right up my alley!”

  Bryan laid the newspaper aside, grabbed a yellow legal pad and a pen off the coffee table, and scribbled a note about the protagonist in his book stabbing a pencil into the eyeball of some fat, overweight middle management honcho who had looked at him wrong while interviewing him. He drew two long lines beneath his notation and wrote decapitated under them. Then he leaned back and thought about the newspaper article, closing his eyes as he imagined Benjamin X stepping off the page. Benjamin X, carrying the huge, serrated hunting knife he had used to hack through the poor woman’s neck. Bryan could almost hear her screams, the spinal cord splinter and crack beneath the sawing blade. Maybe she was a secretary handing out applications, too busy to accommodate him when he tried engaging her in conversation. Maybe he asked her for spare change in front of the grocery store and she called him a bum. Bryan could see the jagged, white cord of bone protruding from the pulpy stump of her neck, shredded meat and tendons sticking to the wooden floor—or maybe it was thick, beige carpet, like the one beneath Bryan’s feet, soaked dark brown from buckets of bright-red blood that had pumped from the gory pit where her head should have been. And what about the head? Why’d he keep it? Maybe he wanted to take it back to the office complex where he’d applied for the job, leave it on the doorstep, or in the oversized/business-sized mailbox out front so the little old lady who gathered envelopes and folders would keel over dead when she went out to check the mail. Or did he take it home and have sex with it, set it on a bookcase, or in the refrigerator with all the others he’d collected?

  Bryan, on a roll now, thought, Damn, maybe I should go straight to the computer and get this shit worked into the story!

  John Wayne’s voice sounded in the background and Bryan looked up. The VCR’s digital display read: 8:30. He thought of Carrie bounding down the front porch stairs, Johnny Z and Horrorcon. If he wanted to find himself in Orlando at the end of the week, he should probably knuckle down and make some kind of effort to mollify his wife. She deserved that much. Actually, she deserved a lot more than the half-assed effort he planned on putting forth this morning. Maybe when he got back from the convention he’d bear down and find something he wouldn’t mind doing, like bartending or driving a cab—hell, shining goddamn shoes. Something where he could take stories imparted and spin them onto the printed pages of his horrified tales of tragedy.

  Bryan clipped the pen to the legal pad and tossed them both onto the coffee table. He turned off the TV and stood up, and then made his way to the shower in the bathroom adjoining their master bedroom. After showering, he shaved and ran a brush through his hair. Then he slipped into a pair of khakis and a blue-and-white striped pullover shirt. Nothing too fancy, it was just a warehouse job, after all.

  A job I don’t even want!

  He fastened a leather watchband around his wrist, put on brown socks and a pair of black leather loafers, and then headed back to the bathroom to give his hair a final brushing. Then he was out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and down the hallway, stuffing wallet and keys into his pocket as he walked out the front door.

  Halfway to the car he remembered the flat, and cussed himself for showering before changing it. He crossed the yard to the curb, stepped up behind the Honda and fished the keys from his pocket. Standing behind the open trunk, the thin layer of carpet and pressboard cover pulled to the side, Bryan lifted the undersized temporary tire from the trunk.

  And felt the rubber flatten against its rim.

  “Aw, shit. She is never going to believe this.”

  He stood for a moment, watching his neighbor from across the street back a blue Z28 out of his driveway. The twenty-year-old vehicle had a wide white stripe centered on its top that continued on its hood, white pinstripes lining its sides. With its blue and white paint sparkling in the sunlight, the car looked like it had just rolled off the showroom floor.

  Then it rolled up next to Bryan.

  The driver, who had stuck his blonde head out the window, said, “Dude.”

  “What’s up, Larry?”

  “Just hangin’. Looks like you’re up shit creek, though.”

  Sighing, Bryan muttered, “I’ll say.”

  “No problem, bud. I’ll be your paddle.” Larry pulled into Bryan’s driveway, cut the ignition and got out. He had on a pair of Levi Dockers shorts. Unbuttoned and un-tucked, a dark blue floral-print shirt covered the pleated tops of his pants. He wore brown Timberlands and no socks. He had the trim, muscular body of someone who spent time in a gym, but not so much that he couldn’t find his way into the sun to keep his body tanned. His short hair looked freshly cut, like it always did, and Bryan wondered (not for the first time) how many times a month the owner of a string of do-it-yourself carwashes—who was probably the only neighbor on the block to spend as much of his days at home as Bryan—actually visited his barber.

  Larry walked over to the Honda, laughed and shook his head. “Tough luck, bro.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Bryan said, and then dropped the spare by the flat rear tire, stepped over to the trunk and picked up the jack.

  “Dude, you’re not going to change that without changing your clothes, are you?”

  Bryan looked down at his hands, already filthy from handling the tire. “Aw, hell.” He tossed the jack into the trunk and snatched the keys from the latch. Leaving the trunk open, he said, “C’mon, Larry”, and headed back to the house.

  On the way, Larry leaned into the Camaro and grabbed a plastic tumbler, taking a quick drink before hurrying across the yard and catching up to Bryan on the porch.

  While Bryan went off to change, Larry planted himself on the couch. A few minutes later, Bryan came back wearing the same cut-offs and Sabbath t-shirt he’d spent most of the morning in.

  Larry, holding up Bryan’s legal pad, said, “You are one sick puppy.”

  “Thanks,” Bryan said, laughing. “C’mon, let’s get the show on the road.”

  Chapter Six

  “So,” Larry said on the way to getting the tires fixed. “What’re you guys doing for Halloween?”

  “I’m hoping to be at a horror convention in Orlando.”

  “Hoping?”

  “Well, I haven’t actually run it by Carrie yet.” Bryan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve mentioned it, kind of hinted at it. So far she’s seemed a little cool toward the idea.”

  “Cool as in ‘cool, Dude’, or—”

  “More like cool as in I don’t want you to go. I think I can swing it, though. I’ve always got my trump card ready.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Well, yeah. I am a writer; I do have books on the market I’m supposed to help promote. Need to help promote if I want to stay in the market.”

  Larry slowed to a stop behind a line of cars at a red light and turned to Bryan. “Dude, I have always wanted to ask you. How in the hell did you get into that shit?”

  “I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid I used to read comics: Batman, Superman, Fantastic Four, everything I could get my hands on. I started out writing my own little stories, using Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent as characters. They’d meet up with Reed Richards, Benjamin Grimm and his pals to save the world from Lex Luthor and his evil cohorts.”

  “You drew your own comics?”

  “Well, stick figures.”

  “Hell, that’s still cool. All I ever did was eat bugs and pull my big sister’s pigtails.”

  Bryan laughed.

  The light changed and Larry stepped on the gas, following the car in front of him as it turned right at the intersection.

  “So I just kept at it, switched from comic books to King, Koontz and Barker. Kept on writing.”

  “Man, I’ll bet you were a natural.”

  “Yeah, right,” Bryan said to the man who was probably ten years his senior, but seemed more
like a big brother than somebody pushing forty. “It ain’t easy.”

  “Well, yeah, everybody’d be doing it if it was.”

  “Exactly. Took a lot of years reading and writing before I even figured out how shitty my writing was. Then I got serious. I didn’t just read King and Barker and the rest. I studied them, the way they put the words together, structured their sentences. Then, after what seemed like forever, my shitty little stories didn’t seem so shitty anymore. Then apparently they weren’t shitty at all. Because people started buying them.”

  Larry signaled a left turn, and moved into the next lane over. He looked into the rearview. Then, looking back at the road, he said, “How much does a story go for?”

  “Back then I was thrilled if I snagged ten bucks for one. Gave plenty away for free just to see my name in print.”

  “And now?”

  “I get anywhere from sixty bucks on up to two-fifty,” Bryan said, even though he had received the upper-most portion of that scale only once.

  Larry signaled another left hand turn, slowing to a stop while the oncoming traffic cleared. “So you’re doing pretty good, now, I’d guess.”

  “Actually, not that great. Hence the khakis and black leather loafers… I’m supposed to be on my way to a job interview right now.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  The traffic cleared and Larry pulled up to the front of General Tire, popped the trunk and he and Bryan got out of the car. Led Zeppelin’s Stairway to Heaven blared from within the garage as a short guy in a dirty gray mechanic’s uniform stepped out of a row of bays to greet them. Young, with a baseball cap turned backwards on his head, he smiled widely, put a caressing hand against the roof of the car, and said, “Sweet!”

  Larry smiled, and his smile turned into a grin. “Thanks, man… Uh, watch the paint job?”

  Red-faced, the young mechanic lifted his hand, revealing a greasy mark beneath it, which he buffed away with a rag he fished from his back pocket. “Sorry about that,” he said. “How can I help you?”

  “No problem, Dude.” Larry lifted the flat from the trunk and handed it to the kid, grabbed the other tire, and said, “Just a couple of flats.”

  They followed him to an open bay, where Larry dropped the spare and led Bryan to the front door. Inside, a short, stocky man stood behind the cash register. He wore a white uniform shirt with a name tag sewn above the pocket.

  When he saw them, he called out, “Hey Red!”

  “Red?”

  “Yeah,” Larry said, then, “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dude, it’s just a nickname.”

  “Yeah,” the man said, apparently having heard their exchange, “his mother was a redhead, and my ‘ol pal Larry was born with a fuzzy little shock of red fluff. Looked like a little peach.”

  “All right, Charlie,” Larry said, and to Bryan, “My hair turned blonde about the time I hit three. He’s the only person ever called me that.”

  “Okay, Larry. What can I do you for?”

  “Bryan here woke up to a flat tire and a worthless spare.”

  “You give it to one of the boys?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good enough.”

  Bryan excused himself to the bathroom, and Larry followed him. Once inside, Larry washed his hands while Bryan stepped up to the urinal. When they emerged from the bathroom, the mechanic who had taken the tires poked his head through the doorway to let them know they had been repaired.

  “What do we owe you, Charlie?”

  “On the house, Larry.”

  “Cool?” Larry asked Bryan, who said, “Too cool, brother-man.”

  “Cool, Daddy-O,” Larry called over his shoulder as they crossed the floor.

  “Over and out, Red!” Charlie said, Larry chuckling as he pushed the door open.

  Chapter Seven

  On the way out of the parking lot, Bryan said, “Thanks a lot for the help. Much appreciated.”

  “No problem, Dude. You’d have done the same for me. Besides, it didn’t cost me a dime.”

  “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

  “What… Charlie? I see him out somewhere, I buy his dinner, or a couple of beers. He steers a few cars my way when he can. Besides, he’s an old family friend. Anyway, where to now?”

  “I guess back to the house so I can get dressed and go for that interview.”

  “What’re you, kiddin’? It’s almost noon. What’re you gonna do, walk in there at one-o’clock and ask ‘em for an app?”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Bryan said. Then, as it began to dawn on him that they were heading in the wrong direction, away from the house, “Hey, where’re we going?”

  “Let’s grab a beer, man.”

  “The hell, Dude? I can’t go for a beer. I’ve got to apply for that friggin’ job.”

  Larry turned the radio on and strains of Free Bird filled the car. “Hell yeah,” he said, then, “Look, what’re you gonna do? Show up late in the afternoon and the guy’s gonna think, what the fuck. Where the hell were you this morning? In bed? I know if I’m looking for somebody, they’d damn well better show up bright and early, or not at all.”

  “Geez, I promised Carrie I’d go down there today.”

  To apply for a job I have no intention of ever taking.

  Larry took a right, and then moved to the left-hand lane, continuing for a couple of blocks before turning left at the next intersection.

  “The hell’re we going?”

  “Look,” Larry said. “Just tell her the truth. The spare was flat, and by the time you got it fixed it was too late. No biggie, you’ll just go down tomorrow.”

  “Aw, man. She’s gonna be pissed.”

  Larry pulled up to a red light, then took a right and headed up an entrance ramp onto I-77. “Dude, what are you, pussy whipped? Christ!” He paused a moment, then, “Look, by the time you go home and change that tire, and get cleaned up… hell, it’s gonna be two o’clock. Another thirty to forty minutes to haul ass across town? Or,” Larry reached into his right front pocket and pulled out a zip-lock baggy, revealing a couple of thinly-rolled cigarettes that lay alongside a single green and gold-laced bud—“you can fire up one of these bad boys and join me for a beer. Either way, your day’s pretty much shot.”

  He was right, and Bryan knew it. What difference could it possibly make if he hurried home or not? So he could race across town to apply for a job he didn’t even want? Make an effort? What the hell would that prove, other than to show Larry that, yes, he was pussy whipped—scared to death of what his wife might say.

  “Fuck it.” He punched the cigarette lighter with the palm of his hand and Larry turned up the radio, smiling and stomping the gas pedal while Skynnrd broke into their raucous dueling guitar attack. Bryan opened the baggy and plucked a joint out of it, held the bag to his nose and took a big whiff, turned to Larry and raised his eyebrows.

  “Jeez,” he said.

  “Ha! You ain’t seen nothing yet!”

  The cigarette lighter popped up and Bryan pulled it from the dashboard, touched it to the joint and drew in some smoke. It tasted sweet, and he held it for a moment. First his face contorted. Then it turned red. Then the smoke expanded, exploding from his lungs and out of his mouth, mixing with the frenetic crescendo of the hard driving Southern Rock anthem. He was coughing and saying “Yikes” when Larry took the joint from him.

  They passed it back and forth until the roach was a tar-stained nub, and then tossed it out the window, Bryan savoring the high grade marijuana, Larry seeming to enjoy the look on Bryan’s face when he muttered, “Whoa.” The music changed to a slow-paced ballad and Larry eased off the gas, cruising along at the posted speed limit now while Bryan handed him the rolled-up baggy, which he stuffed back into his pocket.

  “What about you?” Bryan said. And when Larry glanced in his direction, “How’d you end up with a shit-load of carwashes?”

  “Insurance.”

  “Insurance?”

 
“Yep, insurance money. My parents died in a fire when I was seventeen. House caught fire and burnt ‘em up alive.”

  “Geez, what happened?”

  “Came home one night and the house was on fire. Bunch of firemen spraying it down with water, but it was too far gone. Man, it was like that fire was a living, breathing creature, a gigantic orange face of flame spreading up into the sky. I can still hear the sound it made, like being in the heart of an airplane engine in full thrust.”

  Larry moved into the right lane and headed down an exit ramp.

  “They said somebody started it. Friggin’ cops thought I did it. Dragged my ass down to the police station and kept me there for sixteen hours. Kept saying I didn’t have an alibi ‘cause I went to the movies by myself and nobody saw me. Said I could’ve snuck back to the house and set the fire without anybody seeing me do it.”

  “Man, I’m sorry,” Bryan said, but he was really wondering, Did you, Larry? Did you sneak back home and burn your own parents alive?

  “Yeah, well, don’t be. My dad was a mean-spirited prick who fucked up his son’s childhood every chance he got. And Mom just stood by and watched him do it. I don’t know what the hell he did to my sister to make her run off like she did—she won’t talk about it.”

  Larry looked over at Bryan, who glanced nervously down at his feet.

  “I didn’t do it, Bryan. I don’t know who did, but I didn’t. I’ll tell you one thing, though. By the time the cops were done with me, I almost believed I had done it. The mind is a tricky son of a bitch, and after all that grilling and keeping me up all night, I would’ve said damn near anything to get some sleep. But something kept telling me to hang on, and I didn’t tell ‘em shit. Just the truth, that I’d gone to the movies and come back to find the house on fire. And then, when I didn’t think I could take any more, my sister and her husband showed up with a lawyer.”