The Contractor

by Paul Moomaw

  “Katherine said she didn’t want me to kill you as long as she was alive.” I pause and look down at him, watching as fear and hope mingle in his eyes. Then I say, “She’s dead now, though.” I hit him again, this time hard enough to daze him. He is almost unconscious as I drag him across the room and prop him in his recliner. It has a big pillow on it and I grab that and press it against his chest. Then I push the gun into the pillow and pull the trigger three times. He gasps, and slumps over his knees, and dies.

  I put the pistol away and pull on a pair of light cotton gloves, then begin a search of the apartment, looking for anything that might have to do with me. I find a copy of Leo Lampman’s report and stuff that into a pocket. There is also a stack of bills from the private investigator, still apparently unpaid. The latest one has an angry OVERDUE stamped on it in scarlet. I go to the gun safe. I do not have my pick set but the safe is open. Angwin must have been at it when I knocked. I look inside and find that he has not given up his pornography in spite of everything. There is a fresh stack of eight by ten glossies. All of them show Angwin and small children doing bad things. I take the photos out and carry them to the other room. I hold them in my hand and look down at Angwin. I remember that Katherine was concerned about the impact on her niece if Angwin’s sexual proclivities were made public. But Katherine is dead and I have no connection with the girl. The pictures will provide the police with a potential motive and put an additional fire wall between the killing and me. I probably do not need it, but it cannot hurt. I shuffle through the pictures one more time to make sure that Paula is not one of the children there. Then I scatter them over Angwin’s body.

  I take one last look around. I am quite sure that I did not touch anything except Angwin before I put the gloves on. I go to the front door, open it and step outside. I close the door behind me and then tuck the gloves back into a pocket and walk down the street to my car. If Angwin is as socially isolated as he seems to be no one will even think about him until he fails to show up for work Monday. As I drive away I make a mental check on my list of things to do before I go. Angwin was number one. Leo Lampman is next. He is collateral damage and that is a shame, but he is another dangerous loose end.

  I have done my homework on Lampman, too. He has a small store front office on Twenty Third Avenue South on an interracial cusp between the white neighborhoods to the north and the black ones to the south. At the beginning of last week I called his office twice, once at midmorning and again around three. Both times I got an answering machine. That is good. It means Lampman probably has no hired help around. His message said that he kept office hours every weekday from seven thirty to eight thirty in the morning and was out on cases the rest of the day.

  The rest of that week and all of this one I went to his office and parked across the street to see if he is as good as his word. He is. His car appeared every morning by seven twenty-five. He usually managed to find parking close to his office, which is one half of a small duplex building. The other half is a beauty salon that does not open until ten in the morning, so he has the building to himself for the hour he is there. At eight thirty on dot every morning his front door opened and he was on his way. During the two weeks I scouted him no one else showed up. I think his business may be marginal. He drives a beat up Chevrolet that is at least eight years old and he himself looks tired and sour.

  * * *

  Now it is Monday and I am parked across the street again when Lampman appears. I get out of my car and duck traffic to reach the opposite sidewalk as he opens his front door. By the time he steps inside I am right behind him. I close the door as I pass through and notice that the lock is a dead bolt with key holes on both sides. When I leave I will have to take the keys with me so I can lock the door. The longer before anyone discovers Lampman’s body the better.

  “I don’t see walk-ins,” Lampman says. “You need an appointment.” He is turning around as he speaks and his eyes pop wide when he sees the gun in my hand. It is the same Smith and Wesson I used on Angwin.

  In the rear of the small office there is a battered desk and a wooden office chair. He backs toward it.

  “If you’re looking for money you picked the wrong guy.” He tries to smile but only manages a grimace.

  “You did work for a man named Edward Angwin.”

  “I don’t talk about clients. That’s confidential.”

  “You don’t need to say a thing. I want his records. Then I’ll leave.”

  “Why the fuck should I give you anybody’s file?”

  “Because if you don’t I’m going to kill you right now.”

  Lampman looks at me and sees that I mean what I say. He shakes his head slowly.

  “Okay.” He opens a drawer in his desk and I step closer and aim the pistol at his head.

  “Just a key,” he says.

  “Go slow,” I say, and he nods and pulls the drawer the rest of the way open. He takes out a small key and stands up.

  “See?” He walks to a file cabinet in the corner of the room and unlocks it. “Angwin?” he says.

  “Yes.”

  He pulls open the top file drawer and runs his fingers over the folders inside, then pulls one out. “Did he stiff you, too?” he says. Up to this point he probably has been too focused on the gun to notice much else. Now as he turns around with the folder in his hand he really sees me for the first time.

  “Shit,” he says. “You’re that guy.”

  “I’m that guy.” I nod toward the folder. “Is that everything?”

  “Yeah. It ain’t much, but he didn’t pay much either. He didn’t even pay for what he got.”

  “Hand it to me,” I say, and he holds it out. I step closer and take the file in my left hand, then motion with the gun toward the desk. “Sit down while I look at this.”

  He sidles toward the desk, pulls the chair out and eases himself into it. As soon as he is firmly seated I shoot him. The shot is noisier than usual because there are no curtains or rugs to absorb the sound, but it is still a small pop, and there is no one next door to hear it.

  Lampman stiffens for a moment and then slumps. He tries to support himself with his forearms on the desk and stares at me. His eyes hold shock and indignation.

  “You said you wouldn’t . . .” he says and I pull the trigger again. The bullet makes him twitch a little and then he falls forward onto the desk. I step closer, press the barrel against his temple, and fire a last time. The bullet goes all the way through and makes a mess when it exits.

  I rummage through Lampman’s pockets and find the key to the front door. I lock the door and then do a quick search of the office. There is not much ground to cover. The desk has only the one shallow drawer, which contains a box of paper clips, a small stapler, three ball point pens and a bottle of Ibuprofen. I go through all four drawers of the filing cabinet. There is nothing else there connected to Angwin. There is no other chair in the office, which I suppose says something about Lampman’s personality. I lean against the wall and go through Angwin’s folder. Lampman was right. There is not much there, but what there is makes me glad I have it. There are a few pages of hand written notes and two typed reports. One of them contains my name and address. There are also a dozen photographs, including the ones of Katherine and me that I have already seen.

  I check my watch. It is ten minutes to eight. I am ahead of schedule. I take a last look around the office and go out the door. I close it behind me and lock the deadbolt. Then I walk down the block to an intersection with a traffic light and cross the street there instead of jaywalking again. This is not the day to risk getting hit by a bus.

  I have one last task. I drive to a convenience store on Martin Luther King Avenue and buy a telephone card. There is a pay telephone outside the building. They are becoming rarer, victims of the cellular era. Some day they will be gone, but so will I, so it will not matter.

  I go through the ritual of punching in card numbers and then dial Guido Valenti’s number. He answers his own call
s, always has, and when he does this time I say.

  “You know who this is.”

  The first response is silence, and then, “Hey, Dave. How the hell are you?”

  “I’m alive. You surprised?”

  “Oh, man, I feel bad about what went down,” Valenti says. “You know you’re like a brother to me.”

  “Cain and Abel were brothers.”

  Another silence, then a tense laugh. “Good little joke,” Valenti says. “Look, I can understand that you’re upset. Come to town and we’ll talk. Maybe we can get things cleared up.”

  “Another good little joke, right?”

  “Dave, believe me. I was totally opposed to this, but the bosses make the decisions. You know that. What can I tell you?”

  “Nothing. But I have something to tell you. You need to pass it on to them.”

  “Sure,” Valenti says.

  “I’m hanging it up. I’m retiring. Tell the bosses that.”

  “Okay, Dave.”

  “I’m leaving Seattle and they will be wasting their time trying to find me. Tell them that. I have no hard feelings right now. Tell them that.”

  “Word for word, my friend.”

  “I’m not your friend.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Tell the bosses that I will leave them in peace if they leave me in peace; but if they insist on coming after me I’ll find them before they find me, and then I will have hard feelings. Tell them that. I am a dangerous man. You shouldn’t need to tell them that. I’ve killed four of their goons already and I’ll kill anybody else who poses a threat to me. Tell them that.”

  I pause and then say, “And if I have to start killing people you’ll be at the top of my list. You don’t need to tell the bosses that, but you should take me seriously.”

  “I do, Dave, but it don’t matter. I’ve got cancer from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. The docs tell me I’ve got another few months and then good-bye.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. The words are an automatic ritual but as I speak them I realize they are true. “Are you in pain?”

  “Not yet. They say it may start hurting in a while, but if it gets bad I can check out early, you know?”

  “That’s good. You’ll tell the bosses what I’ve said?”

  “Before the day is over.”

  “Okay.” I hang up. I stare at the telephone in my hand for a moment and then replace it. I realize that I will miss Guido, not his company, but his very existence. He has been a fixture in my life, one of the constants. Skeeter was, too. Now they are both gone.

  * * *

  I have not had breakfast and when I get home I am hungry. I make coffee and an omelet with gruyere cheese and cilantro and eat. Then I pour a second cup of coffee and go to the big chair by the window. Matisse comes up and bangs his tail against my legs and I realize I have not fed him. I will have to learn a new habit. I get up and fill the food and water dishes I have bought for him which now occupy space in a corner of the kitchen. Then I return to my chair to drink my coffee and look out at the city. It is a cloudy day and the Olympics are hidden. The Space Needle is the main attraction this morning. I wonder if I will develop a special place for myself in the Yaak that takes the place of this chair and window. A line from a book I read many years ago pops into my head. “Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.” This has been my perch for doing that. I think that if I create a place like that at my new home it will be outside. Maybe I will find the proper tree and hang a swinging chair from it. The idea makes me smile. My psychologist would have nodded and said I am releasing my child. Maybe she would have been right. I feel Matisse’s muzzle on my foot and reach down to tug his ears. I wonder how he will take to the woods. He has always been a city dog.

  We sit peacefully together for a while and then I stand up and wander around. Matisse gets up, too, and shadows me. As I explore I realize that I will not miss this house. There are a few things that I am attached to, and I will take those with me. But even though I have owned the place for more than a dozen years, I will have no difficulty leaving. Katherine’s words come back to me. The first time she was here she said there was nothing of me here. It was like a motel room, she said. I realize that she was right. In the ways that matter I have stayed here, but not lived here.

  I go back to the window, Matisse still sticking close. I look out one more time and I know I can leave now.

  Chapter 54

  The house sold more quickly than I thought it would, and left me with a pot of gold. I paid three hundred thousand dollars for it years ago. It sold for a million and a half. With that and what I have already put aside I will not want for money. I was wrong about fitting everything into a small U-Haul trailer; one half the size would have sufficed.

  The cabin will need work, but it is sound enough to get through a winter. The roof is metal and the logs are well sealed. One window has a crack and there are no storms, but that can wait until spring. There is a wood stove for heating and another for cooking, which will require me to learn new skills. I have spent the last week bucking dead-fall logs with a chain saw and splitting them for the stove. It is slow work. I have less than a quarter cord and I will need more, but cutting and splitting through the winter will be another way to stay warm. There is electricity for lights and for baseboard heaters that can keep the place from freezing when it is unoccupied, and a gas refrigerator fueled by a big propane tank outside.

  Matisse has made himself at home. He spent the first days exploring the cabin, then the grounds close to it. Gradually he has expanded his territory and made more of it his own. Every morning after his breakfast he goes outside, trots over to the huge ponderosa across the clearing from the cabin, lifts a leg and marks it. Then he barks three times. Never two, never four. It is his announcement to the woods that he is ready. At first, every time I looked at that tree, I saw Katherine standing in front of it. That happens less often now, and I can hope that means I am beginning to heal. I miss her terribly, even as I think it is foolish to miss something you never really had.

  It has snowed overnight, the first of the season, and there are about two inches on the ground. I feed Matisse and he goes to the door for his daily ritual. I let him out and go back to my ritual, washing breakfast dishes in water heated by the wood stove. At some point I realize I have not heard Matisse bark and I look out the window over the sink. I can see his tracks leading to the tree, but I do not see him. I go outside to see what he is up to. His tracks reach the tree and there is a spatter of yellow at its base. Then the tracks move on into the woods. I follow, a little concerned because this is his first experience with snow. There is a trail that leads toward a small creek and he has taken that. After about a thousand yards another set of tracks merges with his, huge tracks with the big pug marks of a mountain lion. I begin to run, and then I hear a yelp and squeal that tell me I may be too late. I keep running and there is howl and then silence. I run faster and suddenly burst into a small clearing. The cat is there, crouching with Matisse under its front paws and blood on its face. I yell and wave my arms and the cat snarls at me and stays where it is. I pick up the biggest rock I can find and throw it hard. It hits the cat in the ribs and the beast flinches but will not give up its prize. I find more rocks and keep throwing and yelling, advancing toward the cat as I do. Finally it stands and runs, snarling over its shoulder as it vanishes into the trees.

  I rush over to Matisse, or what was Matisse. Now it is just a body. There is no Matisse there. I stand over the body and it becomes blurry and I realize my eyes are filling with tears. As I bend down to pick it up they splash down my cheeks and fall on fur that is already cold. Then I am sobbing, howling like an animal myself, as I carry the still body back toward the cabin.

  I lay it gently at the base of the ponderosa and go to the tool shed next to the cabin. I take out a pick-axe and a shovel and return to the tree.

  The ground has started to freeze, but it is hard only for the first couple
of inches and I am able to break through that with the pick-axe. Then I take the shovel and start digging. It is hard work. The ground is rocky and I have to stop every few minutes to pry stones out. When the hole is finally deep enough I toss the shovel aside and sit down next to the body. I place it in my lap and rock with it back and forth. I have no words, and if I did I could not make my mouth form them because my teeth are clenched too tight.

  Finally I rise and place the body in the hole.

  “Matisse,” I manage to say. “I am so sorry, Matisse.”

  I cover the body with dirt. Then I use the rocks I pried from the ground to form a cairn that I hope will provide protection from the big cat and other predators. My eyes are dry now, but the sadness is overwhelming. It is a novel experience. I am sure I have felt sadness before. I have seen it in the eyes of that boy called Daniel whom I once knew. But it has been so long that when it comes now it is unfamiliar. I realize that it is the feeling I should have had when Katherine died, and could not.

  I take the tools back to the shed, go into the cabin, and pull out my rifle. It is a Marlin 45-70 lever action that I have had for years. I find a box of cartridges and load the gun, then head out into the woods, following the cat’s tracks. I spend most of the day hunting for it, but I never find it. I am not surprised. Cats hide well, and without trained dogs they might as well be ghosts. The animal is probably watching me as I hunt for it. When it begins to get dark I give up and return to the cabin.

  I have no desire to eat. I pour a stiff shot of brandy and gulp it down. Then I add wood to the stove and damp it for the night, and go to bed. I lie in the dark for what seems like hours before sleep finally takes me.

  Then I am awake again, suddenly and terrifyingly. My heart is pounding and I am shaking. The dream that woke me is still with me, even though I am sure I am awake, playing itself out over and over again as I watch in the darkness of the room. I squeeze my eyes shut but that makes no difference. The same scene returns. I look at it as if from a short distance. There is a small boy, and he stands at the feet of a man who blocks the door to a bedroom, and I understand that the boy is named Daniel and the man is his father, who sways drunkenly, the shattered neck of a beer bottle in his hand, and in the other room a woman lies on the floor, her red hair matted with even redder blood, and she is bloody all over, and she reaches out through the blood toward the boy and cries, “Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.”