by David Kazzie
When she was parked in the chair, her bare and freshly pedicured feet straddling the casserole dish, she looked back at the client. He had taken position on the loveseat directly opposite and was watching with unabashed interest. Thankfully, he was still clothed. His gut strained against his shirt, like sausage popping free of its casing, and she saw that he was even chubbier than she thought. They sat silently for a few minutes, and she started to wonder whether she was supposed to know what he wanted her to do, or whether he had already, to put it delicately, physically manifested his satisfaction with the evening's festivities. Then, when she couldn't take it anymore, she asked:
"What do you want me to do?"
He nodded toward the thick casserole.
"With your feet," he said, his breathing getting shallow.
It would be to Krista's disappointment to learn that Arden McKinley was well in control of his faculties and of his body this evening. He had been saving himself for this night for weeks, training his mind and body to draw out the evening's festivities until he reached a zenith of culinary and orgasmic bliss.
With that, Krista dunked her feet into the casserole dish and began mashing the elbow noodles and cheese between her toes. She was surprised by the depth of her revulsion at the act. Quite frankly, it felt like she was running barefoot through a pile of intestines. As noodles squirted between her toes, she felt hesitant to begrudge anyone his sexual fetish, but the allure of wasting perfectly good mac-and-cheese was lost on her.
McKinley watched with rapt interest, unconcerned with the hooker's obvious dismay with his sexual preferences. His surprise at the eroticism of his fetish had been long since addressed in therapy, and besides, who did she think she was? She was just a hooker. And he was Arden McKinley. All he cared about was the fact that her delicate feet were enveloped with warm, moist macaroni and cheese. And what was so weird about this anyway? People loved food. People loved sex. What exactly was the big deal?
"Like this?" she asked.
"A little faster," he said.
Her legs pistoned faster.
"Not that fast."
The ringing of a cell phone interrupted the festivities. Dammit. His staff had strict instructions not to contact him unless it was an emergency. This had better be a goddamn emergency.
"Excuse me," he said, getting up to answer his phone.
"Should I keep my feet in here?" asked Krista.
"Oh, definitely," he said.
Krista, who never again ate macaroni and cheese, leaned back in the chair and exhaled.
Arden checked the caller ID screen. It was Bernard Shelton.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. McKinley, this is Bernard Shelton."
Shelton had worked for McKinley for three years and yet always identified himself in full when he called his boss.
"Yes, I know," McKinley said. "You ever hear of caller ID?"
Shelton said nothing.
"So what is it?" McKinley asked.
"We have a problem."
"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" McKinley pleaded, his eyes darting over to the casserole dish.
"A very big problem."
"What problem?"
Silence on the other end, and it was then that Arden started to get nervous. As if the problem were so big, so catastrophic that Bernard Shelton was having difficulty articulating the scope of the disaster. After what seemed like an hour, Shelton began talking.
McKinley listened carefully and hung up the phone.
Bernard Shelton was right. They did have a problem.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saturday, December 22
1:24 a.m.
"Now appearing on the main stage, Ginger," crowed Mikey the DJ. "Put your hands together for Gingerrrrrr."
When Ginger burst through the curtains and sauntered down the runway, Charles Flagg got up from his table and headed for the restroom. Ginger might have drawn the raucous applause of the mouth-breathers surrounding the stage, but Flagg didn't think she was a worthy specimen. Really, none of the dancers were. As good a time as any to take a leak. He hated using public bathrooms, and if it hadn't been for the fact that his bladder was about take matters into its own hands, he wouldn't be making this particular jaunt. Really, though, what was he expecting at the Eager Beaver, this strip club just south of the Virginia-North Carolina state line?
The Beaver was housed in a former BurgerTown, which was closed by corporate after a massive outbreak of hepatitis B was traced to a shocking disregard for the food safety protocols set forth by the state health department. It sat in a well-heeled strip of motels, gas stations and fast-food joints just off the freeway, way stations for the eternal travelers along Interstate 95.
He found the bathroom at the end of a dark corridor, which led to the Eager Beaver's private dance rooms. The sign posted on the bathroom door did not bode well for his eliminatory future.
WE AIM TO PLEASE. YOU AIM TOO, PLEASE.
After taking a deep breath, Flagg stepped inside and surveyed the restroom, which he found unacceptable. Oh, he did plan on notifying the manager about the bathroom's current state, as the sign pasted to the wall suggested. The black-and-white tile floor was grimy and damp. The paper towel and soap dispensers were both barren. This, Flagg supposed, made it difficult for the men who worked in the club to comply with the posted directive that ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK.
Three urinals stood before him like dirty, bacteria-ridden sentinels. In a panic, he patted his pants down and was relieved to find the small plastic dispenser of hand sanitizer tucked into his back pocket. He exhaled. There was one stall, which he preferred to use, but it was missing a door, and the toilet itself was filled to the rim. Thick streams of toilet paper hung out over the sides like dreadlocks from the eighth plane of hell.
Flagg stumbled backwards, fighting the urge to expel his lunch. Jesus, why did he even stop in this stupid club? Sometimes, he let the little head do too much thinking, and really, the little head was just not cut out for advanced thinking. Everyone knew that. He turned his attention back to the urinals. They would have to do.
Abiding by one of the many secret bathroom codes that all men knew, he selected the urinal that was the farthest from the door and stepped up to the porcelain. And waited. And waited. And waited some more. He prayed that things would flow quickly and heavily, but he stood ramrod straight with a bladder that refused to empty. Despite the fact that he was alone in the bathroom, Flagg was overcome with his usual crippling and paralyzing case of stage fright. His heavy bladder was virtually pulsing, and yet he was unable to squeeze out a single drop.
He exhaled slowly as the frustration welled up inside him.
With the club's bass thumping underfoot, he tried every trick he could think of. Deep, slow breaths. Nothing. Thinking about rain. Nothing. Calm down, he thought, calm down.
The door to the bathroom opened behind him, and his heart sank. Might as well close up shop, he thought. He would just have to get a hotel room and piss in privacy. It was then that Flagg witnessed the newcomer. His name was Jimmy Burrell, and he was a big, doughy type, thoroughly filling out his Carolina Panthers jersey, but not in a good way. A patchy beard, which was never going to thicken like the guy hoped, gave him a certain radiation-sickness-chic. And then, to top it all off, he broke one of the Four Rules of the Public Bathroom.
1.If possible, leave one urinal open between you and the next guy.
He stepped up to the urinal next to Flagg and dropped his pants. All the way. This astonished Flagg. The man's pants and boxers were now bunched up at his ankles. His ankles!
Then the guy started began breaking the Rules left and right, almost as if he were enjoying it.
2.Never make eye contact with a stranger in a public bathroom.
He looked right over at Flagg, who had just finished zipping back up.
3.Never speak to a stranger in a public bathroom.
"Tough to take a leak after looking at all that ass, eh, bu
ddy?" the man said. "Dick gets all hard."
With his still-full bladder causing him exquisite misery, this new development was just too much. With the speed of a cobra, Flagg grabbed his new friend's head with his right hand and snapped it down across his left forearm, which he had planted between the man's left shoulder and ear. Upon the sickening snap of his neck, his spinal cord was severed, and Jimmy Burrell died before he could even wonder why this guy was reaching out to touch him.
That, after all, violated the Most Sacred of all the Rules of the Public Bathroom.
4.Never, under any circumstances whatsoever, touch a stranger in a public bathroom.
Flagg gently lowered the man's body to the ground, making it look like he had simply collapsed while taking a whiz. He checked behind him, but luckily, the door remained closed. It wouldn't for long, as sooner or later, some other joker would decide to take a leak. Fortunately, the weather had turned, and there weren't more than twenty men out there, taking in the best of the Eager Beaver's stable of dancers.
* * *
Flagg quietly exited the bathroom and, seeing no one in the corridor, sat back down at his table. No one paid too much attention to anyone else in the club (other than, apparently, his now-deceased bathroom buddy), so he wasn't terribly worried about being identified. It wasn't like there was a gaggle of NASA engineers out here. Still, when he saw a young guy disappear down the corridor, he decided it was a good time to make his exit. He left a crumpled dollar tip on the table and headed out the door.
A light freezing rain had been falling since dark, about the time that Flagg stopped in at the Beaver. Already, a thin layer of ice had coated the windshields of Flagg's red station wagon like a good doughnut glaze. The weather forecast called for more frozen precipitation throughout the night, and so Flagg decided to check into a hotel for the night. He could use the sleep. Moreover, he really couldn't afford a fender bender or any situation that would draw police involvement.
He had set out at dawn from Miami, where he had picked up a crate of AR-15 assault rifles that he was selling to a group of gang members in northern Virginia. He told himself that he had stopped by the Eager Beaver when the weather had started to deteriorate earlier this evening, you know, to get off the roads before they got icy. The truth was, and the truth was embarrassing to look at, was that he had wanted to see some boobies. He had to admit to himself that the detour had not been well served.
He checked into a Holiday Inn Express at the foot of the exit ramp and made it into his room just as the freezing rain switched over to a light snow. His overnight bag and crate accompanied him into the room. With a yawn, he dropped his stuff on the spare bed and removed a queen-sized comforter that was tucked into his bag. He gave it a hard shake and spread it across the dingy bedspread, as he couldn't bear to imagine the stories that it, or even more terrifying, the sheets underneath, could tell. Then he took a long and gratifying leak.
Another yawn, and he stretched out on the bed, remote control in hand (after cleaning it down with a sanitizing wipe, of course). Wall-to-wall Christmas specials. The particular special that Flagg had stumbled across involved a man whose wife had died, leaving him to raise his three children. At some point, an angel debating whether to give up her wings got involved.
It was times like these Flagg reminded himself to meditate. It got him back to his baseline, back to normal. He turned off the TV and counted to fifty, carefully regulating his breathing. When he was done, he saw that it was nearly 1:00 a.m., time for the top stories on CNN, and he turned the TV back on.
He began to drift away while the news anchor rolled through one headline after another, each of which simply confirmed his opinion of the world at large. Police in Kansas had arrested a woman when they discovered her nine-year-old daughter was not dying of leukemia and had spent the $31,000 in donations for the girl's medical treatments on spa treatments and a new pickup truck. Another giant chunk of the Arctic ice shelf had collapsed into the North Atlantic. Clearly, mankind was on the back nine. And he was only one man. How much could one man do?
"And our last story before the break," said the newscaster. "Richmond, Virginia is abuzz tonight with talk of last night's SuperLotto drawing," said the newscaster. "Just one ticket matched all six numbers for the $415 million jackpot, and it was purchased in downtown Richmond. Tonight, the town waits to find out who the lucky winner is. Let's go live to Richmond, where our own Amy Morgan is waiting with a live report."
The screen cut to the front of a shady looking convenience store, where a well-bundled reporter was clearly freezing her ass off and wishing that the only time she'd ever been to the convenience store was two days earlier, to buy the winning ticket.
"Kelly," said the half-frozen reporter, "I'm here at Lucky Lou's Chicken Shack, where since yesterday, this little store has been hopping, people just wanting to catch a bit of the lightning that struck here Thursday night."
"Does anyone have any idea who bought the big winner?" asked the anchor.
"No," said the reporter, visibly anxious to end her live report and not forthcoming with many details. Who could blame her? wondered Flagg. Any convenience store called Lucky Lou's Chicken Shack probably wasn't in the safest neighborhood.
"Amy, has anyone been able to talk to the cashier that sold the ticket?" asked Kelly. "Maybe she remembers something from around the time the ticket was purchased."
"Yeah, that would've been nice to get, Kelly," said the reporter. "Reporting live from Richmond, Virginia, this is Amy Morgan, CNN. Back to you in the studio."
"Wait, Amy, I've got a few more questions," said Kelly the anchor.
"I'll have more details as they become available," said Amy, the I've-totally-had-it reporter. "Back to you in the studio." This time with a little more heft in her voice.
"OK," said Kelly the anchor. "Thanks for that enlightening report." She turned back to the main camera and the broadcast cut to commercial.
The story bothered Flagg because it meant someone out there now had more money than they would ever know what to do with. One of these dumb rednecks that would cash in without consulting accountants and lawyers and financial planners. Oh, no, they wanted to get themselves on the Today show and start buying giant pickup trucks equipped with diamond-encrusted gun racks. They'd start buying houses and cars and giving money to desperate relatives addicted to crystal meth.
It gave him a headache just thinking about it.
* * *
After even more yoga, the headache subsided, and Flagg got ready for bed. He brushed his teeth, he put on his pajamas, and he plugged in his nightlight. Charles Flagg was not ashamed to admit that he was afraid of the dark. Admit it to himself, at least.
But sleep was hard to come by that night, and so he was wide awake when the phone call came in at three in the morning. He was glad to have the distraction and grabbed the wireless phone from the nightstand. The caller ID screen read Restricted. It was probably a wrong number, but something told him to take the call.
"Flagg."
"Good morning, Mr. Flagg."
"It's three in the morning, and I'm wide awake," Flagg said. "I wouldn't exactly call that good."
"I have a proposition for you," said the caller.
"Who is this?"
"That's not important."
"Then we're done talking," Flagg said.
"Would three million be enough to buy my anonymity?"
Flagg paused. He wasn't an idiot.
"You know who I am?" Flagg asked.
"You came highly recommended."
It always amused Flagg when prospective clients talked like this, as if they were in a James Bond movie.
"Really," Flagg said. "Maybe I should update my list of references."
"Perhaps a good-faith deposit for your services would put you at ease."
More highbrow talk.
"Money's nice."
"Give me an account number, and I'll wire in one hundred thousand dollars right now," the caller said. "All
you have to do is listen to my proposal. The money is yours to keep."
"Fair enough."
Flagg gave the caller the number for an empty account in a bank in Grand Cayman. He learned the trick from reading John Grisham books in the early 1990s. Hell if it wasn't a good idea.
"I'll call you back in fifteen minutes," he said. "That should give you enough time to confirm the wire transfer, then move the money into another account."
He hung up.
Flagg was intrigued. It had been a while since his last big payday, as he had been pursuing his life's work for nearly a year without a break. It wasn't the kind of work that paid very well. It was better described as a labor of love. This gun run he was doing tonight was minimum-wage work, labor he equated to illegal aliens working on construction sites, running at the first sight of an Immigration and Customs Enforcement van.
A few minutes later, Flagg confirmed that his account at Grand Cayman Bank had just gotten a hundred grand chubbier, and he bounced the money from there into a Hong Kong bank.
His new employer called back a little later.
"Now do you trust me?"
"I'm listening."
"You're aware of last night's SuperLotto drawing?"
"I am," he said.
"And you know the ticket was purchased in Richmond, Virginia?"
"Just saw it on the news."
"See, the ticket hasn't been cashed yet," the caller said. "At a minimum, it will be out in the wild for at least four more days. Possibly longer, if the ticket-holder goes to a lawyer or financial advisor."
"In the wild?"
"Because of the Christmas holiday," the caller said, "the ticket can't be cashed until Wednesday, which is the next time that SuperLotto's offices will be open."
A tumbler clicked into place.
"You want me to steal the ticket," Flagg said.
"Precisely," the caller said.