by Dan Taylor
When I leave, I’ll be doing so with the clock for the first time during a job.
I go back over to the space in which I had the cuckoo clock, check for an indentation in the carpet. I can’t see it, but I know it’s there. Give it a few days and it’ll be gone, even to my eyes.
I’m not worried about any physical evidence left behind by the clock or the hand truck. The workmanship of the thing is generally at best shoddy, but the base of it is sanded and lacquered so it leaves no woodchips or the like.
And the hand truck is clean.
The story is, according to the physical evidence, Ms. Hammer was waiting for her cuckoo clock, was measuring up the space between the two bookshelves, and then some opportunist thief with a nervous disposition and an itchy trigger finger came in to rob her, saw her, eventually managed to shoot her after a struggle, and then left with her jewelry box, but only after dropping some of the pieces.
That still leaves the problem with the neighbor.
I think a second, come up with a solution.
I’ll go back down to the delivery truck with the cuckoo clock, look around as though I’m lost, go into the cab of my truck, looking like I’m consulting a map or whatever, while I actually drop off my Beretta, and then go back up to Ms. Hammer’s apartment with the cuckoo clock after appearing to the passersby or other apartment building residents that I confirmed it’s the right address.
Knocking on the neighbor’s door would be too obvious, so I’ll loiter around, knock on the door a few times, hard, like my deaf grandmother’s in there and her apartment is on fire, and wait for the guy to come out.
He’ll recognize me as the guy who wanted to deliver the safe at that other apartment, but the depot gave me the wrong delivery itinerary and the wrong truck. Turns out I did need to make a stop here.
The craziest things happen some days, and/or it’s a small world.
We’ll shake hands, I’ll tell him I’ll fit this address into tomorrow’s delivery route, and all of a sudden the delivery guy’s taken out of this whole equation.
I check my watch.
There are just a couple minutes before I leave.
I go up to the door, peep through the peephole.
Is he doing the same thing at this exact time?
Turns out he isn’t, because he’s coming through his apartment door, and carrying a set of keys.
16.
It takes me a second to figure out what he’s doing. I was right about that pensive look on his face. Guy’s so concerned about the wellbeing of his neighbor he went and got the spare set of keys.
I’d thought about it a second, the possibility of him keeping a set, but dismissed it as unlikely, after he’d left the message on her answering machine. The way he talked, it didn’t seem like they were close. And I also thought if he had them, why wouldn’t he have used them when he began to be concerned, instead of leaving the message.
But none of that matters, because in thirty seconds, a minute max, he’s coming through that door.
And when he does, I’m going to blow his brains out.
I won’t be hiding in the kitchen or bedroom, first thing he’ll see is me. In an ideal world, Ms. Hammer’s body would be lying someplace else, so that he could come in, close the door, and be lured into a position where it’s unlikely the suppressed but not silent sound of my discharging Beretta would be heard by any neighbors that happen to be in the corridor or making their way into the corridor at the moment I kill him.
It’ll be the head, square in the forehead. It’s a smaller target, but I’m no slouch on the firing range, and if I were to hit him in the chest the propulsion could send him sprawling backwards out into the corridor. People go straight down from a headshot, as soon as the brain stops sending signals to their leg muscles to be taut, which is instantaneous.
Straight down like the controlled demolition of a building.
I ready myself, pointing my Beretta at the door, waiting for the sound of the key in the lock.
But then I think off something. Did I lock the door after I’d come in?
It’s the first time I’ve been left on the doorstep and had to make my own way into a target’s home. Every other time I’ve been invited in, no questions asked, apart from if I’d like a cup of tea or coffee. But this time was different.
Of course, locking the door behind me isn’t part of my MO, at least not until I’ve dealt with the target… shit, there’s mistake number three.
But did I do it before shooting this time?
“Margaret, I’m outside your door again, and you don’t know this, but your nephew gave me a set of keys a couple years ago, said he was worried about you. Or at least I told him not to tell you. If you’ve been ignoring me all this time and are having a shower or using your foot spa while chilling out in the living room, now would be a good time to speak up, because I’m about to use them,” the neighbor says.
He’s silent a few seconds, and I go back to thinking about the lock. I replay it in my mind. That split second when I decided I wouldn’t wait around for Ms. Hammer to measure the space intended for the clock and then come back again to invite me in. I glanced up the corridor, let her know I was coming in, and then wheeled the hand truck over the threshold.
I went as far as the end of the hallway, into the opening of the living area, and then stopped.
“Apologies in advance if you’ve just been rocking out with your headphones turned way up… which would mean you didn’t hear what I just said.” And then, to himself, “Jesus, I’m dreadful at this.”
I carry on replaying it in my mind. I stopped, saw that Ms. Hammer appeared to have not heard me, as she was still measuring the space, and didn’t turn around to chew me out.
And then it hits me. Jesus, I didn’t go back and lock it.
I wouldn’t have, seeing as though I expected us to have a conversation about my coming in uninvited, at least for a couple seconds, before I pulled my weapon on her.
At the very moment I’ve thought of potential consequences of this, the neighbor says, “I’m coming in, Margaret, ready or not.”
And then I hear the sound of the key in the lock.
17.
He struggles a second, making scratching sounds on the door, and then I hear it go in.
His struggling is long enough for me to be able to go over to the door and lock it from the inside, but he’d hear it. And anyway, I don’t know if A) Ms. Hammer locks the door after herself, and B) if the neighbor, Hancock, knows this. It also wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to the outcome. I still have to blow his brains out, cut my losses and get out of the business early.
Early retirement, unlike my dad.
And then something strange happens.
Or at least I didn’t figure it as one of the possibilities.
I thought it likely the neighbor might find it unlocked, and together with the welcome mat being left outside the door, he’d figure his suspicion was right. That Ms. Hammer had fallen or had suffered an infarction. And then he’d come in.
Or the second possibility after finding it unlocked: He’d suspect someone’s in here, having killed her—whether it’s the delivery man or not—and then he’d say something, addressing me for the first time.
What I didn’t expect him to do was to find it unlocked, open it slightly, shut it, and then lock it himself.
I wrack my brain, trying to think of a reason for his locking it besides him knowing I’m in here.
Is this another action like the taking of the welcome mat? Does he suspect Ms. Hammer might’ve gone out, forgot to lock her door and forgot to take her welcome mat in?
I creep over to the door and look through the peephole, don’t see him standing in front of the door, but he could be standing to one side.
Then he says something that confirms what I suspected he knows.
18.
“Don’t shoot. I’m not standing in front of the door,” he says, then pauses. “Margaret locks the door behind
her. Every time, without fail. I hear the door unlock, and I’m going into my apartment, locking the door behind me, and then phoning the cops. Do you understand?”
There’s silence a second.
Then he says, “Stamp your foot once if you do.”
I don’t.
Part of me hopes that if I stay silent long enough, he’ll go back to thinking Ms. Hammer’s had a stroke.
It’s the only plan I have for now, and it seems like a good one, until he says, “If you don’t communicate with me, I’ll also do what I said.”
I try to get my head around what his motivation is. He maybe figures to keep me in here until the cops come, whom he’s either phoned before he came back out with the keys or is doing so via text message right now.
“Okay, have it your way.”
I wait, watching through the peephole, expecting him to go back to his apartment. And whether he suspects it’s the delivery guy or not, I’ll do what I have to do, get out of here, leaving the cuckoo clock.
But he doesn’t do anything.
What side of the door do I think he’s on? His left, my right. He didn’t think about which side before, but I bet he is now. My gun is the barrier between him and his apartment. He knows that if he goes past, I’ll put a bullet in his back before he’s got a hand on his doorknob.
I also think he has a gun. I hear it in his voice, the confidence, and it makes sense.
He could’ve moved farther up the hallway and kept me trapped from there, but I don’t think so. In his mind he’d also give up tactical advantage, or he can’t aim for shit and knows it, and also knows that if it comes to a shootout, I’d be the Vegas betting odds favorite over ten feet or more, despite having to open the door to get a line of sight.
Or he wants me to assume he has a gun.
“I’ve lived across from Margaret long enough to know that she’s the type of lady to accumulate some enemies over the years, and I know she’s also as strong as a bull, for her age, or was. Every time I play my music too loud or bang pots and pans, she comes knocking on my door, complains that her neighbor should be a little more considerate, because of her various ailments over the years. But just little stuff. A couple months ago it was a bad back. Last year it was bad knees. Last week it was tinnitus.” He pauses. “She never mentioned a bad ticker or something else life threatening. And she would’ve, believe me. Sure, she could’ve had an undiagnosed heart problem, or something else that means she’s lying dead in there, no bullet in her, but I’m ninety percent sure I’m talking to someone who was hired to kill her. Call it instinct.”
Silence a second.
“You’re not going to talk to me? I was kinda hoping you would. It would make me feel a lot less silly for standing in the hall with a pistol in my hand. Eight years I’ve had it. Never thought I’d have to use it. I keep it in my stuff drawer. Everyone has a stuff drawer, right? A place where they keep spare sets of keys for properties they don’t reside in or for cars they no longer own, and for where they stuff circulars. I keep it clean, though, the pistol. Shoots as straight as the day I bought it. Have you got a stuff drawer, buddy?”
I think about his wording a second, and about the clock that’s ticking.
The way he said pistol.
A gun owner, whether he’s an enthusiast or not, tends to name its branding, model, and, if it’s a larger weapon, its gauge when speaking about it. This guy, based solely on him saying only the term pistol, doesn’t know shit about guns. And people who don’t know shit about guns don’t tend to own one, unless they’re a housewife who was given one for protection by her husband.
But then again, a guy who buys a pistol and keeps it in a drawer, never uses it apart from to clean it every couple years, might not know shit about guns either.
“You don’t wanna talk? Suit yourself. I’ll just carry on talking, if you don’t mind?” He pauses. “You probably don’t, and I understand why you’re not replying. Hell, if I were in your position, I’d barely be able to get a word out I’d be so scared. Not that I’m saying you are.”
If he’s trying to distract me from formulating a plan to get out of here, he’s doing a good job.
I’ve changed my mind. He does deserve it.
“You know what I’ve been wondering, how’s a guy or gal like you get into this line of work? You drop out of school, work at McD’s a couple years, get sick of taking shit from five-star-badge Bob, and then snap?”
I figure I’ve only got a couple minutes before the police arrive. What’s it to be? Jump out the window, wait for the cavalry to arrive, or go out and face the music and potentially find out everything I’ve thought about the neighbor standing outside the door is wrong?
It’s time to call this guy’s bluff, or not.
I reach down and unlock the door.
19.
For a second I don’t think he’s heard it, until he says, “Don’t come out. I’m warning you. I’ve just taken the safety off… Can I go ahead and call you Dave? I like using people’s names when I speak to them. I feel like I’m being rude otherwise. I should probably choose a gender-neutral name, actually.” He pauses. “How does… Peyton work for you? No? Me neither.”
I take off a glove, open the door, and then throw it out. Having not heard a gunshot, only him saying, “What the…?” I open it farther and then go out to find the neighbor standing by the wall, pointing a banana at me.
I’m pointing the Beretta at his forehead, but there’s something I want to know before I say bye-bye: “How long ago did you phone the cops?”
“Hey, you’re the delivery guy. Never mind. I’ll be going, then.”
He tries to turn and walk away, but I pull him back by one of his shoulders, turn him back around. He says, “Oh, boy,” and then puts his hands up, one of which is still holding the banana.
Then I say, “The cops, how long?”
“I know a person in my position would say this, but I didn’t. I left my cell phone in the apartment.”
“Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
I believe him.
“Get in Ms. Hammer’s apartment.”
“No. You’ll shoot me.”
“I’ll shoot you on the spot if you don’t.”
“Then I have a question: What’s my motivation?”
I hear a door being unlocked behind him, so I put the hand holding the Beretta behind my back. He gets confused for a second, until he turns around, sees one of his neighbors coming out, carrying a briefcase. He stops, glances up at Hancock’s hand.
Hancock says, “Hey, Bill. Late for work?”
“Is… everything all right, Jake?”
“Couldn’t be better. I was just showing this delivery guy, who carries shit all day, an exercise for stabilizing shoulder joints to prevent injury.” He glances up at the banana himself. “Using household items. Like this banana.”
“Okay. I’ll be off, then.”
“Okey-dokey.”
As the neighbor leaves, glancing at us one more time before disappearing through the door that leads to the landing, Hancock says, “Yeah, so it’s not like lifting weights, where you tend to go ape-shit. You want to concentrate on the movement, really feel it…” his voice trails off. Then he says, “Has he gone?”
I raise the Beretta and point at his forehead again.
He says, “I’ll take that as a yep.”
“Go inside, and don’t scream.”
“Seriously guy, just go. I’m not a snitch. And I’m sorry about calling you Peyton. It may have sounded weird before, when I said okey-dokey, but that wasn’t a code or some shit to Bill to phone the cops. Whatever’s going on here isn’t any of my business.”
“You made it your business when you went to get the spare keys. Now walk.”
He sighs and then says, “Excuse me,” before going around me.
I follow him in, keeping my gun trained on his back.
Despite my saying don’t scream, upon going into the living area and s
eeing Ms. Hammer’s body, he says, in a loud voice, “Jesus! That does not look like a good way to go.”
I slap the back of his head. “Keep your voice down.”
He says “ow” and then turns around. “You’re probably thinking about killing me, but that’s a really bad idea. Some gangster guy, Jimmy ‘Eight Fingers’ Blumstein, already wants me dead. And a good rule of thumb is, if someone has a body part for a nickname, you probably shouldn’t—”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s true. And I don’t know if you’re associated with the criminal underworld—and I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope you are—this guy might not be over the moon to find out someone else took out the guy he wanted taking out.”
Of course, I wouldn’t believe a word this guy’s saying, if not for his knowing who Jimmy Blumstein is. I’m still not completely convinced what he’s saying is true. But he’s right. These nutcase crime bosses get a little sensitive about this kind of thing. He could want to use the guy who’s standing in front of me, wearing a T-shirt with a cartoon character on it, to send a message, as dumb as it sounds.
I’m interrupted from my thinking by the guy, Hancock, saying, “Can I reach into my pocket and get something out?”
“What is it?”
“A knife.”
“You have a knife in your pocket?”
“I do.”
“No. And why were you pointing the banana at me before, if you had a knife?”
“As silly as it sounds, in all the excitement, I forgot it was there. I hoped you’d see the banana through the peripheral vision of the peephole—that’s a thing, right?—and think it was a gun. Speaking of the banana, can I drop it? I’ve been holding it too tight, and it’s split.”
“You can put the banana down, slowly.”
He drops it, making a banging sound. Says, “Sorry. About the knife, it’s only a box cutter.”
“What difference does that make?”
“I wanted to get it out to somewhat prove my story about that madman, Jimmy, wanting me killed.”