by Dan Taylor
Then out of nowhere, a Grammy-worthy performance, she bursts into tears. She opens her bag and starts rifling inside it, all the while saying, “Why, God, why? Why did you have to take him from us so soon?”
Eventually, after giving me a can of mace, a rape alarm, and what looks like a dildo to hold, though it could be some sort of truncheon-like weapon, she finds what she was looking for: a small rotating fan. She takes the things from me, puts them back in her bag, and turns it on, puts it in front of her face, drying what I’m sure are fake tears. Okay, maybe I spoke too soon. Not exactly a Grammy-worthy performance.
She gestures at my shoulder. I’m sure it’s my shoulder. And then she says, “Do you mind?”
I look around at all of Greg’s grieving relatives. A few are keeping tabs on the situation with their peripheral vision. There’s no way I can get up and leave, so I say, “Be my guest.”
She starts lowering her head onto my shoulder, but at the last second, she goes past it and lowers her head onto my crotch. The fan? It’s still running. I can feel the breeze making its way through my zipper.
Anyway, before this insane woman, who is more likely to be a rapist than the victim of rape, pinched my ass, I was about to introduce myself.
I’ll try again.
I’m Jake Hancock, and I’m at the funeral of my only employee: An actor named Greg. A couple days ago, I was vacationing in the Caribbean with my ex-wife and her husband when I got a call from an LAPD detective. I was lounging on the beach, having reneged on my acceptance of an invitation to go to some goofy water park with them. I draw the line at seeing my ex-wife’s new husband go down a water slide in his Speedo. Anyway, I was sipping a mojito, wondering if the twenty-something swimming in the ocean was doing so naked, when my cell phone started to vibrate. When I answered, the conversation went something like this:
“Hancock, Dukes,” the caller said.
“Hancock dukes?”
“Mr. Jacob Hancock, this is Detective Dukes.”
Detective Dukes and I are acquaintances, but he’s speaking to me in a tone that suggests we’re not. But I’ll get on to the reason behind that later on.
“Hey, Detective. I was confused for a second, with you having just said two names at me, one of which is also a verb.”
“Never mind that. Are you sitting down?”
I glanced down at my lounger. “Technically I’m lying. Why?”
“I have some bad news, and you’re not going to like it.”
A few thoughts raced through my mind: Had my sister had an accident? Had something happened to my nephew? Or had that time when I unknowingly paid for a lap dance with counterfeit ten-dollar bills finally caught up to me?
I said, “Hold on. Let me prepare myself.”
I downed the rest of the mojito and waited for the swimmer, who was nearing the shore, to get out of the water. She emerged from the water wearing a bikini, and she wasn’t nearly as attractive as I’d hoped. Only now was I prepared for what the detective had to say. Failing that, at least I wasn’t distracted.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
“Mr. Hewter-Pickle was found dead yesterday afternoon. Gunned down. Looks like it was a pro hit. Though the word on the vine is it was a 480, if you know what I mean.”
I ignored that stuff about it being a 480, whatever that meant, as I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about. “Never heard of the guy. You sure you got the right number?”
I looked down at my empty mojito glass, thinking that the walk to the bar, on that hot white sand, would be a bitch.
“He gave you as his next of kin on his gym membership. Are you sure you haven’t heard of him?”
“Is that something people have to do, give a next of kin when they join a gym?”
“It is, but that’s not really the point.”
“Why?”
“We don’t have any suspects or a motive.”
“Not that. Why do people who join a gym have to give a next of kin?”
“If I hazard a guess, will you at least think about if you know Mr. Hewter-Pickle?”
“I would definitely give it another try.”
“If they had an accident, say, some weights fell on their head, the gym would inform the next of kin.”
“That makes sense. I’m going to use that excuse next time I think about gunning for a beach body.”
There’s silence a second.
Then the detective says, “So?”
“So what?”
“Do you know Mr. Hewter-Pickle?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m a little slow today. I’m on vacation and on my third mojito. And we’re in the same time zone. Let me see…” I think a second. “No, I would remember a name like that.”
He sighs. “Well this keeps on getting stranger by the second.”
“Why’s that?”
“Mr. Hewter-Pickle, as well as giving you as his next of kin, looks just like you.”
“Wait a minute? Is his name Greg Hewter-Pickle?”
“Gregory, but yeah. I’m sorry to have to tell you he’s deceased.”
I went into shock and started rambling. “Jesus, I never knew his last name. How could I know the guy so intimately and not know his last name?”
“Do you want me to hazard a guess again, Mr. Hancock?”
“What…? No. I’m in shock.”
“Okay, I’ll be going now.”
“Is that it, the end of the conversation?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Aren’t you going to ask how I’m feeling? Maybe tell me that everything’s going to be all right.”
“I can put you in contact with a counselor, if you’d like. But she’s more used to dealing with grieving teenagers.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ve got my own shrink. Bye, I suppose.”
“Okay, Mr. Hancock. I’m sorry for your loss.”
After I’d hung up, I looked around the ocean-side paradise I was vacationing at, thinking it didn’t quite look as sunny as it did before the phone call. Then I realized why. The sun was now partially hidden by a cloud.
As I walked to the bar to order another mojito, for the shock, I knew three things for sure: I needed to go back to Hollywood, I would never go to a gym ever again, and the next time I came to the Caribbean I would bring flip-flops with me.
Back to now, and Greg’s insane sister still has her head resting on my crotch. I prod her.
She was quiet while I reminisced, but she starts crying again. A couple relatives look over. I have no idea, based on their stares, whether it would be more appropriate to ask her to remove her head or just carry on consoling her.
I decide to go with the latter.
Until someone walks through the door, late for the funeral.
Enjoying it so far? Click the link to view in on Amazon