Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

  “Just because you helped me, doesn’t mean you don’t need help yourself,” Ted says. “Just tell me that you’re not planning on doing harm to yourself.”

  The coffee’s not done brewing, but I jerk the pot from the machine and pour myself a cup. I’m almost out of creamer. You know what drives me nuts? The word “creamery.” People use it like a synonym for creamy. It’s literally the location of where cream is processed. It’s not an adjective describing the texture of something.

  “Malcolm?” Leslie says.

  “What?”

  “You’re not planning anything, are you?” Ted asks.

  “Bud was a real guy. I have proof,” I say. “I have papers signing over a trust from him to me. And I have a letter from him. He started a software company and he used to run a plumbing business in Tibet. He’s a real person.”

  “I worked for that software company too, remember?” Ted asks. “You hired me. Remember?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I hired a lot of people. I was a project manager.”

  “Come on, Malcolm. You managed the whole place,” Leslie says, “until you gave up daily operations to run this Prize.”

  “Look,” I say, “I’m super touched that you guys care enough to come down here and check on me. I’m not suicidal. There is a real Bud, and it’s not me. I have enough money to get by, but I’m not responsible for giving away Bud’s billions. Are we cool?”

  “I guess,” Leslie says.

  “Okay,” Ted says.

  “Great to see you guys. Take care,” I say, standing and holding out my hand. After a quick shake, they leave.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Coffee and cold leftover pizza—I would have this for breakfast every day if I could. About halfway through, my stomach reminds me that I can’t have this every day. I stretch my feet up on the desk and hope that the new angle will slow the acid that’s creeping up my esophagus. It won’t, but at least it’s more comfortable.

  I put a poker tournament on the TV and get back to work on my email.

  About noon, I switch over and work on transcribing my notes. Hughes, or one of those guys, tracked down the apartment where Bud and I stayed in Belarus. He sends me a box with all the maps and, more importantly, the laptop with Bud’s story. A lot of it was online anyway. That machine contained my version of events after we left Vermont and a couple of Bud’s thoughts that I typed up. I’m trying to pull everything together into one big narrative.

  I’d almost forgotten how much Bud dictated to me.

  I’m working on this when the door opens. Franza doesn’t knock. She just lets herself in and closes the door behind her. She’s sitting in the chair across from me before I can greet her.

  “Hello, Franza,” I say.

  “Hey, Bud, you’re looking rugged,” she says, with a neutral expression.

  “Malcolm,” I say. “My name isn’t Bud.”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s an expression. Bud. Buddy. They’re just nicknames. Settle down.”

  “Sorry.”

  She glances away and uses her pinky nail to scrape the corner of her mouth. It’s like she’s letting my small apology solidify into something bigger.

  “Is there something I can help you with? The Prize is closed. I’m afraid your aunt will have to turn elsewhere.”

  “Dead. She’s dead,” Franza says.

  “Oh,” I say. I wait for a second so she will know there’s no attitude conveyed with my condolences. “I’m so sorry.”

  “S’okay,” she says. “Laurette was a fraud anyway.”

  “Still, she was your aunt.”

  “No, Laurette wasn’t my aunt. Susan’s my aunt. She’s fine. Laurette’s the one that’s gone.”

  “So the woman I met…”

  “Laurette was the spirit who inhabited Aunt Susan. Laurette died, so now we have Susan back. It’s a good thing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Yeah, it’s been much better. She doesn’t get as many clients in as she used to, so we’ve all been pitching in a little to help with the utilities and property taxes, but it’s not too bad. Those old ladies are sitting on a gold mine over there. If we can keep them out of assisted living and actually hold onto the house, we kids are going to have a nice little payoff eventually.”

  “And how is Susan’s health? I remember she was older than her years because of Laurette?”

  “Unfortunately, she hasn’t bounced back all the way. I think the spirits took something out of her.”

  “You know, Franza, I was told that you were supplied information about me before my reading. That perhaps a bunch of Laurette’s predictions came from another group?”

  “Yes, for sure. Laurette had the sight, but that’s not why I came and got you that day. They had a whole folder on you. They dropped it off with a stack of cash and gave us a deadline. I didn’t think it was a big deal. You saw right through it, didn’t you?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You take money where you can get it, you know?”

  That’s never been my philosophy, exactly. I usually try to find a job that interests me. I’ve been lucky enough to be good at jobs, and compensated accordingly. It’s not about the money for me.

  “Sure,” I say. “Well, like I said, the Prize is closed.”

  “I read about that. I also read that the guy who put up the money gave everything away to charity. Did he give away all your money, too? Is that why you don’t have the Prize anymore?”

  “It was never my money. I was just the Prize’s main judge. So, no, he didn’t give away the money associated with the Prize.”

  “What’s he going to do now? Susan said he’s dead. I guess a lot of people are saying that, but she said it weeks ago, before any of this talk about his charity. We were just sitting there, eating fried chicken, and she says ‘Malcolm’s boss is dead.’ Like it was a perfectly reasonable thing to say. Back when she had Laurette, she was always saying crazy stuff like that, but it’s been so long I almost dropped my drumstick. My girl, Emma, she thought Susan had a stroke. Isn’t that precious?”

  “Huh.”

  “That’s what made me think of you,” she says. “I came by that afternoon but you weren’t here and your office was all locked up.”

  “And that stopped you?”

  “No, of course not. I left you a note on your desk. Didn’t you get it?”

  “No,” I say. I lift up some of the papers I have scattered there. It’s mostly mail that I’ve been opening and sorting so I can deal with it later. Like a magic trick, there’s a note I never noticed before. It’s from Franza. It just says that she stopped by. “Sorry. I didn’t see it.”

  “That’s okay. I’m here now. Anyway, I came back because they had all that stuff about that guy giving away all his money. I thought maybe you would be cleaning out this place. Looks like I was right.” She’s looking at the big shredder bin in the corner. It’s about three-quarters full of discarded files. I could have requested a confidential shredder bin—the kind with the lock on it that goes into a secure van to be carted off to a secret shredding location—but it seemed unnecessary. At least it seemed unnecessary until Franza’s prying eyes arrived at my office. It seemed unnecessary until I saw the note on my desk and realized that the lock on my office door didn’t mean anything to her.

  “Yeah, I’m getting rid of the notes I took about all the cases. Nothing interesting.”

  “My brother-in-law’s nephew is looking for office space around here. What’s your rent?”

  “I’m keeping the office,” I say. “I mean, the corporation is.” Somehow I think it might be better if Franza thinks I don’t command any money.

  “You’re going to be working here still?”

  “No. Maybe. I guess I haven’t decided yet. There’s a job for me if I choose to take it.” That’s a stretch, but it’s not an outright lie. I’ve thought of creating my own job to do in this office, I just haven’t decided what it is yet. Perhaps I will work a
s the curator of Bud’s memoir. I can finish polishing and rewriting his story.

  “I don’t know what you’re lying about, but it’s something. I don’t have all of the touch, but I have enough.”

  She’s touched. We agree.

  “Speaking of the touch… Last time we talked, our conversation ended rather abruptly,” I say.

  “Did it? I don’t remember.”

  “It ended with you demanding payment for your aunt’s reading, and me declining.”

  “You have to pay. It’s a known fact. If you get a reading from someone, you have to pay. If the client doesn’t pay, you upset the spirits and that could ruin a person’s entire livelihood. You shouldn’t have taken the reading if you didn’t want to pay.”

  “And it still counts if the client is robbed?”

  “Who was robbed? You might have been persuaded, but nobody was robbed.”

  “I have no memory of paying you. In fact, I have no memory of the trip back to the office, or coming in and sitting down.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you about that,” she says. “Are you prone to blackouts? Do you have them often? What’s the last blackout you’ve had?”

  I let that question drop. Franza’s smiling. She’s laughing at me a bit, I suppose. She’s not going to reveal the secret to her little trick. I guess I shouldn’t be too mad. She could have done a lot worse. She could have robbed me of everything and left me in a bad neighborhood.

  “So if you’re not here about the Prize…”

  “I just came to check on you. Make sure you were okay. I thought maybe you would be out on the street.”

  “Nope. I’m good. Technically, I’m unemployed, but I have options. Thanks, though. And I’m sorry to hear about Laurette, but I’m glad you have Susan back.”

  “Now that you’re technically unemployed, do you think you have a free night to go out for dinner sometime?”

  “I think I do.”

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  To say that Franza is an entrepreneur would be a stretch. She’s a hustler, but for the most part she’s very creative and aboveboard. I respect her ability to earn money with her wits and on her own terms. I’ll give you an example. On our third date, the back of her van was filled with bags of compressed winter coats. These are the kind of coats that cost a fortune and keep you warm, but they’re not well made enough to last more than a couple of seasons. You’re paying for the label with these coats.

  She “borrowed” them from a women’s shelter. Some company ordered dozens of them with custom logos, but sent the wrong artwork. Instead of trashing them, they donated the coats to the shelter as a charitable contribution.

  Franza intercepted the coats, denying women and children of the designer garments. She got the logos removed, resold them as factory seconds, bought cheaper, sturdier coats for the shelter, and pocketed the profit. The women got better coats, the coats found homes with bargain hunters, and Franza made a week’s pay for a night’s work of unstitching. She’s a hustler.

  I would find it exhausting to always be looking for the next hustle, but she enjoys that as much as she does executing her crazy plans.

  With all her running around, she has managed to raise three amazing children. She has Emma, Nicole, and Haskett. We haven’t talked about the father of these kids. From what I gather, that’s a touchy subject.

  She’s asked about my former relationships. I tell her to go through Laurette’s notes.

  Susan does seem different now that she’s not “channeling” Laurette. She seems younger, and nicer. They still run the Palmistry business, but I take it their appointments have dropped off since Laurette’s departure.

  I haven’t done anything with Bud’s money yet. My paycheck still shows up. Apparently, the payroll was set up to draw automatically from the escrow’s interest. Same with the rent on the office. I’m operating just as I was before. I’m just not doing any work. I’m sure the escrow is growing now that I’m not expensing all kinds of contractor work.

  Franza’s been asking when I intend to get a real job. Apparently, her family disapproves of men who aren’t over-employed. Her sister’s husband works two full-time jobs and picks up shifts at a deli on the weekends. One of the jobs consists of playing cards at a firehouse, but still, it’s work.

  I told Franza that I didn’t care what her family thought of me because I wasn’t sure that I approved of them. She smacked me on the back of the head.

  Bud lied to me in his letter. He said that besides the Prize, his estate would be divided up amongst a small group of charities.

  When Hughes finally proved Bud’s death—or just somehow got a death certificate, I’m not sure what happened—I was summoned to the reading of Bud’s will. All the real money was donated, of course, but he left me his property in Vermont. The lawyer handed me a bunch of papers and a set of mine-detecting goggles. Crazy stuff.

  I’m going to go up some weekend and have all the security removed so I can take Franza and the kids up there. They’ve never been north of White Plains. Franza’s funny. No matter what you say, what she hears is entirely up to her.

  “I would like to take you guys on a vacation,” I say.

  “Oh yeah? Where?”

  She’s working on peeling labels off peanut butter jars, so I’m only getting part of her attention. Even after you get a corner started, if you make the slightest mistake, the label shreds and leaves behind the glue and paper.

  “Up to my boss’s place in Vermont. The kids will get a kick out of it. It’s way in the woods. You can’t even get cell phone reception up there.”

  “Some shack with no electricity? My kids will hate that.”

  “No, it has electricity. You just can’t use a cell phone.”

  “What, like they take it away? What is this, some kind of police state? They tried to take Haskett’s phone from him in middle school. He just about punched that one teacher in the neck. That guy had it coming though. I heard he tried to get Cole Ruggiero’s pants off at the assembly. Did I tell you about that?”

  “Yes, we talked about that. Listen for a second—it’s a really great place out in the country. There’s plenty of electricity and each kid will have their own bedroom. There’s a balcony with a grill, and a lake where we can go swimming.”

  “That sounds much better than that shack you were talking about. Let’s go there. Besides, the kids like to go anywhere with you. They love you.”

  68 FAMILY

  WE’RE NOT EVEN OUT of New York State before the kids are already driving me crazy. I didn’t want to drive Franza’s van all the way to Vermont since it could break down at any time, and it’s probably filled with dozens of undocumented types of bacteria that might wreak havoc on the Vermont landscape.

  For the trip, I’ve rented a big, luxurious SUV. The girls have their own captain’s chairs, which are completely separate with no shared armrest to fight over. Across the back, Haskett has his own bench where he can stretch his teenager legs. But Haskett is bored and the remote control for his seat-back TV isn’t working. That means to change the channel he has to reach forward, which puts his hand right in range of Nicole’s hair. Every time he pulls it, Nicole screams at such an intensely high pitch, my eyes automatically become unfocused. Haskett is bright, well-spoken, and handsome, and I wonder what it would feel like to choke the sweet spark of life out of his insolent eyes.

  Emma, always sweet, is wearing headphones and singing a song that I assume she’s making up as the words leave her mouth. The syllables don’t seem to coalesce. The tune must have been composed on some Chinese scale. It contains notes that don’t fit into a Western ear.

  I take a deep breath. It’s not that bad.

  Franza doesn’t even seem to notice. She’s holding a book open with one hand and texting with the other. Last time I asked, she was working on a deal for a bunch of folding chairs.

  Nicole screams. Haskett complains. Emma sings.

  I decide to take a break as soon as we’re in Con
necticut, the state of the long tidal river. There are a bunch of gas stations right off the highway in Danbury, and this vehicle guzzles fuel. As I’m filling the tank, I look through the tinted windows at my family. Is it too soon to call them that? A second ago I couldn’t wait to get out of the driver’s seat so I could catch a break from the noise. Now that I’m out here, I can’t wait to finish filling the tank so I can get back in. There’s warmth in that cacophony. There’s an embrace in Franza’s inattention.

  ♣ ♢ ♡ ♠

  Everyone loves the cabin. I can tell because none of them have said anything nice about it yet. If the kids hate something, Franza will clout the back of their heads until they say something nice. Emma sets up her easel on the porch and makes about a hundred drawings of the trees. Nicole finds her way into the safe room and activates the cameras so she can spy on everyone. Of course, Haskett’s phone works here. As soon as we arrived, he figured a way to route his phone through Bud’s wireless network. Now, he’s messaging and fussing on the phone within minutes.

  At the moment, Haskett is out in the yard showing his friends—via a live video he’s streaming from his phone—all the filled-in holes where the contractors dug up Bud’s mines. The security firm swept the property five times with every technology available. They swear that there’s a zero percent chance of mines on the property. I’m still nervous for Haskett.

  Franza and I are in the living room, looking out the big windows. I’ve told her a little about Bud’s village, but the trees remind me it, so I tell her some more.

  “In some ways, they were way more advanced than us,” I say. “But they had steam-powered carts. It was odd.”

  “Wouldn’t that make sense though? Where were they supposed to get gasoline and oil?” she asks.

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “How come they were never prosecuted for murder? Don’t they have any laws over there?”

  “I’m not sure they ever found the village. It’s kinda hidden.”