Death Revokes The Offer

by Catharine Bramkamp

  “Just stay,” he commanded, far less laid back with a gun in his hand. “Come on, get the stuff and let’s go.”

  “Dude this place smells like shit.”

  “It’s the varnish, toss it in the dumpster.”

  “Where?”

  “The dumpster outside.” He snarled. Dude Two was clearly tiring of his management responsibilities.

  The boy gestured with the gun, his cohort found the can of varnish and we were all momentarily blinded with the light as he opened the door and tossed the can with a bang into the dumpster.

  “Great, happy? Now get the stuff and we’re out of here.”

  “What about them?” The staff for this operation, Dude One, found what I too was looking for, the bag of coke. It was large enough for him to need two hands to manage the bulk. I was tempted to ask if that amount came from one door or two, but I held my tongue. There was a lot of money in that bag. There was a lot of money in those doors.

  I needed to gain time, any time. I still had unfilled dreams – heavy equipment operation, another trivial New Century gold statue, more advice for Carrie, my on going battle with my mother.

  “Is this the part where you explain why you’ve been following me around and hitting me over the head?” I asked, just hoping the distraction would work.

  “No man, you just got in the way.”

  “What happened to all the doors?”

  “Gone,” grunted the Dude One.

  “Why didn’t you just removed the coke from the doors and put the doors back where you found them?” I asked. “No one would have known.”

  The boys stopped what they were doing and looked at me in complete surprise.

  “I should shoot you.” Said our friend with the gun.

  I shook my head, working on my advantage. “No, you don’t want to do that, the state actually frowns on that.”

  “Yeah, like we’re worried about that.” They both laughed.

  “Come on.” Our man with thousands of dollars of drugs clutched in his arms gestured to our man with the lethal weapon in his hands.

  “We have to go, remember we’re meeting him?”

  “I should take care of her.” The gun hovered over my head. I swallowed, but my throat was so dry that swallowing had no effect at all. So I tried to clear my throat, that didn’t help. I thought of standing, towering over him. I knew I out weighed him and I could take him, but my head was woozy and the gun loomed large.

  “Come on, leave her, we’re just suppose to get out of here.” The boy with the gun ruminated over my prone body. I held my breath.

  “Come on!”

  He took one more thoughtful stare, saluted me with his gun, and dashed out after his friend. I’m glad they were still teaching some manners in school: don’t kill. That’s a good rule.

  The blast of gunshots outside curbed my enthusiasm.

  Chapter 9

  I dragged myself up to my knees just before the door opened again. The shaft of light caught me full in the face.

  “Well, shit. Look who it is.” The figure silhouetted in the light sounded somewhat familiar but my poor brain had been dashed around inside my skull a little too often. I wasn’t making the connection. If he would just stand still and hold that flashlight up to his face, I could probably recognize him.

  “I thought you were just a Realtor.”

  “Surprise.” I managed to get on my hands and knees, and of course, kept talking. “You didn’t think I’d notice missing doors? That everyone wouldn’t notice missing doors?”

  “That was a problem,” he mused. “An unforeseen consequence if you will. But as the lead investigator, it wasn’t too much of a problem to suppress it. I did pretty well, didn’t I?”

  He kicked the door closed and it took another few seconds for my eyes to adjust again, but now, in the low, seeping light I could make out his features better. Yes, crap, it was Mark, candidate for DA, father of three, devoted spouse and sibling. And head bad guy. How fucking perfect.

  “Very well,” I agreed. Agree with mad men and men with guns, oh and the mother of the bride. I read that somewhere. Probably not in my positive thinking literature, there is not a gun chapter in Seven Habits of Successful People.

  “You know, I thought dad would have more money left in that house,” Mark said conversationally, as if we were sitting in the living room of Mortimer’s house.

  “You never can tell with parents.” I agreed readily. Damn, I had actually kind of liked him. I had liked him more than Hillary. But to Hillary’s credit, she hadn’t killed anyone recently. I could not say the same for the future DA for Marin County.

  “It was supposed to be simple.”

  “Good help is so hard to find.” I said sympathetically. Really, it is hard to find good help. Have you tried to find a good housekeeper? But I digress. I was in danger here I should pay attention.

  “So, if you’re so smart, who killed my dad?”

  “What do you mean? Your door dudes.” I was ready, I pushed my weight up onto my hands and then heaved again – determined to stand. But he jumped forward and shoved me back down – hard.

  “Nope, they don’t know how to work a gun.” Mark scratched his head with the small tip of the flashlight, which wasn’t a flashlight at all; it was a rather large gun. It was larger than the one Dude Two had recently brandished around.

  I didn’t know about that, it seemed to me they knew more than Mark in that respect. In fact, I hoped Mark did know a great deal about operating a firearm. The last thing I needed was a botched murder job leaving me paralyzed or stupid or both. The least he could do was execute a clean kill.

  Really that is exactly the kind of stuff that ran through my addled brain.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill dad. My cohorts aren’t really killers. But they are handy with heavy objects, no? Maybe it was Hillary?” He asked, a little too plaintively considering he was the one holding the weapon.

  I recognized the tone; it had been used on me too often during my childhood. If my brothers couldn’t think of a good excuse for their nefarious activities, they just threw out my name, and my mother was instantly distracted.

  “Hillary? Do you think she’d kill her own father?”

  “Don’t underestimate Hillary,” he commanded.

  “I’m not, I’m not,” I protested. “Really, I’m not”.

  “He was supposed to have more money hidden. Hillary said he bragged about it, he told her. “I have money in the house.”

  “He meant he had equity in the house.” I said. Oh Jesus, was that what she was looking for, the money in the house? I didn’t know if I should laugh, feel vastly superior, or just sad.

  “You’re very smart, aren’t you?” Mark said.

  “Surprised?” I countered.

  “Don’t underestimate your enemies.”

  “Don’t underestimate your friends.” I glanced over at Carrie.

  That was her cue to come to her senses and do something spectacular like throw a cat at him or deliver a surprise karate chop. She didn’t move. That distracted me even more. She doesn’t have a hard head like to do. Her silky brunette hair fanned out on the filthy cement. I was worried about what the dirt and grit was doing to her skin. I was about to call to her when Mark smacked me with his open palm

  “Pay attention. I’m the one with the gun.”

  “I’m concerned about my friend.” I replied, using my best phone technique. When we performed role-playing at the Monday office meetings, this one never came up. Okay, I’ll be the Realtor in trouble and you be the mad man holding a gun. Okay, what do you say? It’s a rather uncommon scenario.

  “Don’t be concerned, I’ll probably just to kill her,” he said sadly. “I’ll have to kill you too.”

  I took a breath and searched through my troubled mind for an answer to that, how do you negotiate such a thing?

  “Not necessarily. I can be bought.” I offered. Well, it’s almost true, for that moment I could be bought; I may possibly
change my mind once I was out of danger.

  “No, extortion is messy and distracting.”

  “Really? Then what about your henchmen? Your dudes?”

  “They were,” he paused. “Fired.”

  My stomach tightened and my heart started beating harder. Shit. I had underestimated him by more than a little, I had under-estimated him by a mile and a half, with an extra acre hidden by trees with an easement included. I was so screwed. Actually, I was dead. I wondered who to pray to at the last minute. Really there should be some sort of secular last minute God. A specific god just for emergencies.

  Just when I was getting fond of the dudes, at least Dude One.

  “Since, I’m not going anywhere and since I plan to stay in Marin and since I’m head of the investigation, and you and your friend are unimportant . . .” he swung away from me to the right and aimed the gun at Carrie’s inert form.

  “No!” I rose up on my knees and lunged forward, aiming for whatever I could hit. I collided with his legs and only managed to push him closer to my friend. He yelped, and the gun fired close to my head – loud, very loud. He staggered but did not fall. I didn’t have enough strength to really smack him down. I was very sorry about that.

  The bullet zinged and hit a chip out of the cement.

  “You bitch,” he regained his balance and turned to me, which, I suppose, was my stupid goal.

  “Fine, then you first.” He loomed over me and I couldn’t wiggle backwards, it wouldn’t do me much good anyway. He raised the gun and – I admit – I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to watch myself get killed.

  I heard a click, then a big slam. The warehouse door burst open and light flooded the room again. This light/dark thing was giving me a headache. I opened my eyes just in time to see Mark fall down.

  Oh come on, you wanted him to come in at the last minute. And so did I. I was thrilled to see him, so I said the first thing that came to my scrambled brain was to yell at him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Rescuing you.”

  “I don’t need rescuing, haven’t you seen Sex in the City? Carrie, not this Carrie, clearly says, ‘I don’t need rescuing’.”

  “But when a girl has a gun to her head and is about to bite the big one, I think rescuing is needed.”

  “Oh, you think that?”

  Ben put his hands on his hips and glared at me. I could feel that look even in the dim light. “I think the bodies in the dumpster outside will help my case along,” he said quietly.

  I swallowed. Poor little dudes.

  He extended his hand and I reluctantly took it. Really, I could get up by myself. I was pretty sure. I wobbled as I stood and he caught me against his side and tightened his grip around my waist.

  “Come on, let’s get you outside.”

  “No, no, I’m fine right here. In fact, I’ll just sit down, don’t mind me, just go about your business.”

  “No,” he moved me forward, towards the light. Was I supposed to go towards the light?

  “You are coming outside. You don’t look very good. People really should stop beating you up.”

  I took two steps and stopped. I think that sinking to my knees right there in the nice cool warehouse would be a fine idea. Or I could vomit. There seemed to be a myriad of choices, none of them included moving forward. That light was very bright.

  “I’ll take you by Starbucks if you come outside with me right now,” he cajoled.

  “Caramel Macchiato?” The coffee part of my brain was working, that was a relief.

  “Any strange concoction your heart desires.” He propelled me smoothly past Mark, who moved as we walked by. Ben kicked him in the head on the way to leading me outside into the sunshine.

  “Sit right over here.” He steered me away from a dumpster, which, when I thought about it a number of seconds later, was probably THE dumpster. I gingerly lowered myself onto a couple of empty pallets and lifted my face to the sun. My legs ached from the contact with the cold cement and my scratches burned. I was not in good shape, however I was alive, that’s a good thing.

  Ben carried Carrie out, because of course he could – she’s a little thing and looks perfect as the victim, her dark hair cascaded over Ben’s arm, her slender legs dangled artfully. If she had done any of this on purpose, I’d hate her. But she was just Carrie. She was the one who needed saving, she deserved to be saved. She groaned as the sunlight hit her face.

  “Here.” He set my best friend next to me. “I‘m going to lock the door and call the police. Stay with her.”

  I heard him lock the doors, and watched Carrie’s eyes flutter against the hard light.

  “I feel like shit,” she said.

  “It’s okay, you don’t look like shit,” I reassured her. She didn’t look all that terrible. She had a cut on her forehead, scrapes, bruises, and cut on her arm from the flying cement chips. I reached out and brushed away some of the blood, my fingers were stiff and awkward. It had been so close. But I did not bring that up; I may never bring it up.

  She groaned and tried to move, but I put my hand on her slender thigh and stopped her.

  “If I die,” she wheezed. “I want you to have my shoes.”

  “Thank you, that means a lot to me.”

  “And if I don’t die,” she sat up and started to gingerly pat down her hips and thighs. “I’m going to kill you.”

  I accepted her wrath because it was so pitiful. I listened for any movement from the warehouse, there was none.

  She found what she wanted in he personal pat down and pulled out her cell phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The Calvary.”

  There was a cartoon – Dudley Doo Right –in which Dudley saves his sweetheart Nell at the end of every episode. Within twenty minutes, Patrick Sullivan was here to save the day, no wait that was Mighty Mouse. Anyway, Patrick pulled into the driveway in his sports car instead of his trusty steed, but just the same, he scooped up the heroine.

  “You should see a doctor.” He frowned at her scrapes and bleeding temple.

  “Oh no, I . . ..”

  She didn’t want to admit she didn’t have insurance, not in front of him, and I wasn’t going to say anything that would make things worse.

  “I’ll be fine,” she ended lamely.

  He pulled out a blue blanket from the trunk of the convertible and wrapped it around her. The blanket looked like cashmere, and of course Carrie made it look even better. How can a woman who has been through hell and back look that good? It was not fair.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he soothed her – he bundled her into the passenger seat, and turned to glare at both Ben and me. The rescue cat mewed; Carrie turned her head around to look for it. I picked up the offending object and brought it to her and dropped it onto her lap.

  She grabbed it like a lifeline.

  Patrick said nothing more; he drove her away just as the police pulled in. Fair enough.

  “He bought the economy model.” Ben walked up to me and steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “And wow, cashmere and only 80 degrees outside. Our boy does know how to do it right.”

  “What would you know about it?” I brushed at my shorts. I didn’t even want to know how bad they looked from behind. I needed a blanket to cover the damage. And my arms were starting to sting. A cashmere blanket would be nice. Hell, some sympathy would be nice.

  Unfortunately the detective on duty was the very same one I annoyed earlier in the story.

  “Nancy right?” I squinted at her pitifully narrow nametag.

  “Yes,” she glanced down at my shoes.

  I had to explain just exactly why I was hanging around the scene of a very ugly crime. Ben stood quietly by my side, but let me do the talking, my punishment. I wrapped up my mea culpa by adding that I knew I brought all this on my self and I was very, very sorry and I would never, never do it again. But the cops were happy with the cocaine, once they fished it out of the dumpster. And they w
ere delighted with Mark. It seemed he wasn’t very popular with City and County staff.

  We made our statements. Mark was carted away.

  Just try explaining this to Hillary, I thought vindictively. As if the worst thing that will happen to him is facing his sister. Maybe it is.

  “Are you okay to drive?” Ben steadied me.

  I tried to remember just exactly where I had left the car. Oh, yes, down the street because I’m so clever. I glanced at my watch. After all that, it was only six o’clock. It was far too early to have hysterics; I usually try to schedule all hysteria for after 8:00 PM.

  “Yes,” I said reluctantly. Is there an addendum to fill out if one of your sellers is a murderer? I didn’t think so. At least there wasn’t a form yet.

  “Yes,” I focused on Ben, who at least was looking at me in sympathy.

  “I can follow you home,” he offered.

  “No, no, that’s okay.” I’m tough remember? And when the going gets tough, the tough drives herself home.

  I was tough and I did get myself home in one piece. I showered, winced at the stinging, admired the growing black bruises on my back and thighs and applied Sponge Bob Band-Aids on the worst of my cuts. I wrapped myself in a Turkish cotton robe and loaded up my favorite DVD. I was not in the mood for anything but cartoons; I was not in the mood to talk. I was not in the mood.

  Except when I saw it was Ben calling. I paused the movie and took the call.

  “What are you doing?” He asked.

  “Nothing.” His call had interrupted my favorite part of Lilo and Stitch, where Lilo delivers the line about a pet, a chain saw and re-discovery, and I can’t quote it directly because Disney would sue my not insubstantial ass if I even mentioned something as extremely copyrighted and protected as a product by Disney. Funny how a company that seems so child friendly and benign could, in reality be so nasty and vicious in protecting its own interests.

  “His own interests.” I said into the phone.

  “Whose own interests?”

  “Sweet, quiet unassuming Mr. Fischer.” I said.

  “What are we talking about? Professor Plum in the dining room with the wrench?”