Night Creepers

by David Irons

  Swaying over and sitting at the desk in front of her with a never-ending smile, there was a roughness about him. Here was a man who used to dress impeccably, now in a dirtied suit with an out of control hair cut like a character from a Fritz Lang movie. His presence made her intuition begin tingling like the drawn squiggly lines of Spiderman's spider sense.

  He asked her how she liked the job.

  'Yes, it's great,' she simply said, lying through her teeth.

  'I pay you well, don't I?'

  'Yes, you do,' she replied, lying again.

  Then after an amount of time that felt like too long – her smelling the overpowering cologne he had doused himself in to hide a dull unwashed muskiness – he just coolly looked on at her with soulless blue eyes, then smiled.

  'Ya know, Alison is out of the office for a reason today, I sent her home because I wanted to talk to you.'

  Jennifer stared up at him, hearing his unwelcome cocky tone and saw something transmitting through his eyes she didn't like one bit. She stayed silent, but expected nothing less than the worst.

  'I understand you took this job because you want money, right?'

  'Why else would you take a job if it wasn't for the money?' she said in a tone that hid gritted teeth beneath.

  'Well,' he said with a smile, 'I heard the "sketches" weren't exactly working out for you?'

  Jennifer smiled back, wondering how he knew about her business, her real business away from this place, making that dream of being an artist a reality. A thing she kept private and the fact that no, it wasn't doing so good.

  'It's just that I heard that my face of the company was in trouble financially, with the IRS?'

  She held her smile, not letting it falter for a millisecond and furrowed her brow.

  'Where did you hear a thing like that?' she asked, trying to keep puzzlement away from her eyes.

  'I hear lots of things. It's my job, don't worry it's okay; you're only human like the rest of us, things go wrong, accidents happen,' he beamed back, 'besides I have a proposition for you, to help pay that tax bill, I think…'

  'Wait, wait just there,' she said, as disbelief washed over her, not wanting him to finish his sentence. 'Please don't say you have a proposition to help me pay my debts off. I can only think of one thing in this situation. And believe me, I don't want that in my head.'

  A yellow-toothed grin pulled over his face, making her even more repelled.

  Getting up from his chair he walked around towards her then detoured backwards, swaying with a slightly cocky swagger. He stopped, placing one hand on the open mouth of the casket at the side of the room. 'Now, how do you know what I'm going to say?' he beamed.

  She walked over, never taking her eyes from him.

  'Because I've dealt with men like you before: climbers. You've put yourself in a good position round here, the king of your own castle, and good for you.'

  He grinned at her, almost wallowing in the praise like a pig knee deep in the most pungent shit in its pen.

  Her face changed, her chin lowered and she looked up past her brow, eyes burning. 'But don't think that just because you can net a few property deals and sell a few wooden boxes that you can put a price on me.'

  'Well, I think you might be jumping the gun. Besides, all I said was...'

  She cut him off again. 'All you said was nothing, all you insinuated was everything.'

  He shrugged with disappointment, smiled playfully.

  'I think there could be something here for both of us. You could earn a lot of money… It's true about you redheads, ain't it? Fiery.' He winked with an old man's grin. A grin filled with an almost paedophilic awkwardness like something from a bad after school special.

  'You don't know who you're dealing with Mr. Blitzer, and you should. You play with fire, you get burned.'

  Quickly she reached up, grabbed the open coffin lid and slammed it down, not caring in that second about anything. Not the tax bill, her career in the wonderful world of funerals; just the rage that flowed through her veins.

  She slammed the lid with a fast, dull crack, a sound like pool balls breaking on a table. The lid didn't shut all the way; Blitzer's fingers kept it open an inch as they padded its fall like a set of uncooked sausages.

  'Fuck!' he screamed, pulling the mashed digits from its clasp. 'What the fuck is wrong with you? I'm the boss! You can't do that!'

  'Sorry,' she said, emotionless. 'Like you said, I'm only human and accidents happen.'

  'I should fire you for that!' he bellowed, holding his hand.

  'Maybe you should, but your public persona has cracked. And the story of what happened today – just like the ones that your ex-wife is so good at telling – would be another nail in your… well, your coffin,' she growled.

  'You little bitch,' he sneered through gritted teeth, a tendril of spittle shooting out from the side of his mouth that was instantly sucked back in again.

  'But if you just left, backed out the door and we continued as normal… We could just chalk this up as another… accident.'

  'You little carrot-topped bitch,' he seethed, quickly firing the words from between his lips like a fast moving razor. 'You live over there in a house your parents bought, thinking you're hot shit because you push a pen around a pad and come up with some fucking doodles. When you haven't even got a pot to put that red headed rear end of yours in to piss.'

  'Are we done now, Mr. Blitzer?' she asked, with cool fury in her eyes.

  'Yeah, we're done,' he said. 'We're beyond done. And don't worry you can keep the job. I'd rather have someone so filled with venom working for me than against me.'

  With his good hand, he unlocked the door. 'You take care Miss Blu. Don't let that rage get the better of you.' He smiled.

  She stared at him with blazing eyes, watching as he shot out the door, relieved he was gone, wondering if she would be better just to do the same: up and leave, letting the door just swing on its hinges as she made tracks away from this place. Alas, even though her defiance and dealing with a would-be pervert was worth its weight in gold, her bank balance was still filled with sinking lead. So, what did she do? She did what she had to: she stayed there and continued to work.

  She hadn't seen hide or hair from him since. And, from what she had heard around the office, neither had anyone else.

  Despite the scandal of his divorce and the damage Kristi, his ex-wife, had done to his good name, he still had his fair share of devotees around the town; like witless Alison next door. Even though Blitzer wasn't there in body, through her, he still was in spirit.

  Then as if by some telepathic ray, the door to Alison's office swung open. Jennifer — who had drifted away, mulling over the past, jumped and swayed in her chair. Caught red-handed doing nothing, she guiltily beamed up at the woman. Alison sneered at her, standing in the doorway with a long, solemn face, that would make Vincent Price in Witchfinder General seem like Mr. Rogers.

  'I knew if I crept out here I would find you doing nothing.'

  'I was just… You made me jump,' Jennifer stuttered.

  'Mr. Blitzer wanted me to tell you that we need you in an hour early this Saturday for a quick stock take,' she said with a schoolgirl's foolish pride.

  Jennifer didn't answer, just flicked her eyebrows Alison's way.

  Not getting the reaction she wanted, Alison went in for a second jab. 'And Mr. Blitzer wants us both to actively pursue new marketing strategies to broaden the business, so come on! Let's get to work and start using our brain for something useful, apart from dreaming about drawing pointless pictures.'

  Jennifer repositioned herself at her desk, swallowed and sighed, pumped her fists three times — ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

  'Oh, Mr. Blitzer also said we need to make sure those blinds at the front of the store are situated at a twenty-five to two stance at all times. Let the public get a glimpse through the window rather than be able to stare inside. It's a much better marketing technique. It makes our reception seem like a
personal space, accessible, but away from outside. Closing them like you do doesn't help, we don't want to cut off our public.'

  Alison readjusted the blinds on the door, as a huge beaming rainbow of a smile widened on her face.

  'Speak of the devil, Miss. Blu. Let's see what the boss thinks of you dreaming on the job again.'

  Jennifer pulled down a slat of the blinds and sure enough, with the afternoon sun setting behind him, there was William Blitzer wandering across the street towards them. His posture was off, his steps stumbling, still in the same suit she last saw him in. A wash of pain winced over Jennifer. As if the day couldn't get any worse, here he was, the other thorn in her side.

  Jennifer sighed, thought, Yes, Mr. Blitzer is a first class asshole, he is a first class jizz-stain, one that should have landed on the bed sheets, Mr. Blitzer is…

  A loud banshee screech pierced the air, a passing black truck glided down the street outside; its tires stationary, the brakes jammed on, its shell dragged along the ground in a plume of blue smoke by the unstoppable force of its big V8 engine. Then, the truck's chrome grill guard struck Blitzer's midsection full blast, bending him over its hood like a human concertina. Pulling him under its 4X4 wheels, it cracked over his bent body like a cockroach under the heel of a boot. His arms and legs snapped like dried dead tree branches as his head popped across the asphalt in a gush of red and raw meat, in a grotesque crunching slop. The truck struck like a phantom in the night, its driver, realizing what he had done, let off the brakes, pulled it in gear and sped away, leaving a diminishing trail of red tire prints behind in its getaway.

  'HE'S DEAD!' Alison screamed, pulling the door ajar and running out into the street.

  Jennifer, shocked in a faraway trance, dropped the blinds and shot up in her seat.

  …Mr Blitzer is dead, she thought finally, eyes as wide as saucers.

  Sprawled outside, Alison, with one hand on the boss's still warm buckled corpse, bellowed out to the afternoon sky — 'GREGORY BLITZER IS DEAD!'

  CHAPTER 2

  Five Days Later

  In the wide-open hills and gorges of the Shasta Trinity National Forest, the afternoon light dipped down behind thick dense pine trees. Driving around long dry winding mountain roads were five stretch limos. Their polished paintwork glistened like watery ripples in the dipping sun, as the rising plumes of dust dulled their shining black gloss.

  Gregory Blitzer was dead, vehicular homicide, a hit and run. The driver of the black 4x4 put the pedal to the metal and got the hell out of there. It had killed the man whose blood once pumped to be the kingpin of his small town, leaving his heart permanently still, congealing in his cold dead carcass on the Bandon asphalt.

  Apparently, he was on his way to the funeral parlour to tell Alison his newest renovation project was operational. The same place the occupants of the five limos were heading now, a mismatched ensemble of people from his life amongst the living, being carried to his funeral and will reading.

  He always had his fingers in many pies. If the banks refused to invest in your business, the next best step in Bandon was a trip to see Gregory Blitzer. And if your proposition made financial sense, presto change'o you were in business; probably with a higher loan rate than the bank, but beggars can't be choosers.

  The only person in any of the luxury stretch cars that crawled around the wooded mountaintop, which still held any warmth for Blitzer, was Alison Johnson.

  To the outside world, she was still a blubbering wreck, apparently crying almost nonstop since she witnessed Blitzer turned to mush, stopping only for sleep and microwave macaroni meals. Now in the last limo in the crawling queue, she was still a blubbering, bumbling woman, one dressed head to toe in black. Today was the day where she could publicly cry to her heart’s content, where she could show the other people in the congregation of remembrance that she was the one who felt it the most now he was gone. She was the one who respected him, not like the others on their way to the funeral, not that slutty ex-wife, not that creepola lawyer Alex, and especially not that Jennifer Blu.

  'Who are you, Jennifer Blu?' she thought, staring out of the window, wiping more tears from her eyes. She had never liked Jennifer Blu. She never understood why they needed Jennifer Blu. With her youth and careless attitude, Alison resented being stuck every day in what she considered to be her and Gregory Blitzer's funeral parlour with that Jennifer Blu.

  Alison knew it was herself who was the only people he had down on his funeral arrangements who really meant anything to him. She was the only woman in his life who had stayed true blue. Yes, she was the real true blue, not like the you-know-who Blu. She had not sold him out or packed him up and shipped him down the river. She was loyal; she deserved to be able to grieve at his funeral, not like those others. Pulling the rumples out of her tight black cocktail dress, one that made her figure look womanly unlike the frumpish clothes of her everyday life, she adjusted her black blazer and tilted her hat up. Her brown eyes beamed out from underneath its brim with rings of streaming black makeup to the limo's driver.

  'Driver? How long until we reach the church? I'm feeling a little faint being cooped up in here.'

  The driver, a nonchalant looking man with dark glasses and a moustache, seemed to ignore her. He watched the dirt road, conscious of the distance between him and the car in front, never looking up in the rear view where his letterboxed reflection sat adjacent to her. Feeling awkward, as though her small, meek wallflower-like voice wasn't enough to catch his attention, she was surprised when after an awkward amount of time, he coolly spoke. 'Not long now, cemetery's a few bends away.'

  Looking straight ahead through the dusty windscreen, his mirrored eyes stared forward, not back at the woman in the back seat who squirmed in her own tear-drenched skin.

  She glanced down as a streak of rage pulled through her body, such insubordination from a limo driver, a mere limo driver. What's the difference between him and a cab driver, apart from the monkey suit? Normally she would have reprimanded him with a severe lashing of her forked tongue. Mr. Blitzer hired her for that tongue, for that attitude. She might not be the easiest thing on the eyes — not like the other women he had around. But her demeanour of 'give her a job and she'll do it' was all he needed to keep the funeral parlour running.

  Thinking about his praise for her subordinate behaviour, a smile quickly pulled over that once proud face.

  'You're doing good, very professional, just like Mr. Blitzer would want,' she said to the driver. This time there was no answer from him, the smile fell from her face and a sullen expression returned as she turned away again to look out at the rolling trees next to her.

  *

  An icy silence filled the air of the limo ahead, as Kristi and her daughter, Kelly, sat facing opposite windows of the air-conditioned rear cab. Kristi watched through the black birdcage veil on her fascinator hat out past the road's worn metal barrier, down to the ravine below. She stared at the twisting, one-track road that brought them up this far, the woodlands all around her, not seeing them as a living thing, a natural place of habitat for wildlife, plant and tree life. All she saw was a disgusting mash of colour; greens, browns and oranges. She once thought this was a retreat away from civilization. That with Blitzer's money it would be a life she could live with, a life she could deal with. But in fact, experiencing the last two years surrounded by this scenery, it had become nothing more than putrid tones and smells she had grown to hate.

  LA, that's where it's happening baby, that's where it's always happening. Being in this nowhere place was a minor blip on the radar, just another payday she had put under the belt. A payday just like the kid next to her was in her past relationship. She longed for those LA smells: smog, gasoline, fast food vendors pedalling their slop on the side of the street, the smell of people. Yeah, people. She forgot what it was like to be around people.

  She had set up a few meetings with some producers, agents, casting directors recently. All of them people from the past who she kne
w, people who could get her what she wanted. Somehow though, with one of these sleaze-balls talking to another, the old Hollywood rumors had started. Tarnished with a bad rep, her once hot property status had become tepid, her now well-known onset attitude being a thing of refusal when it came to casting her in the movies again. The tantrums, the ballyhoo, the bullshit; no one wanted to work with her because of it.

  But she would be back though; she would show those loud mouth bastards. She had a list in her jacket of those producers, agents and casting directors that had snubbed her in the past.

  Something she called, "The old shit list."

  And when she had made it, when she had her second wind, she planned on visiting each one systematically to give them a piece of her mind, and an even bigger slice of attitude.

  She needed back into LA. There was youth in LA. Young people, young men who would wine and dine, trying to get in her panties for a good time. Oh, and she would let them, she wanted them in there. She couldn't escape the brushes of time and the aging it caused. But with a little nip and snip she could have a 23-year-old on his knees, going down on her while she slipped the wallet from his back pocket.

  That's all this Blitzer thing was, just a blip on the radar, another payday: work. But it had gone on too long, she had deluded herself to think this was something she wanted in life; she never wanted him, she never really wanted anyone.

  Her vision pulled back from the woods outside to her own reflection, her eyes still youthful, big wide Disney eyes, like endless black pools of tar. Her skin showed age that the little nip and tuck she had in mind would polish out. Her hair now from the bottle to cover the grey strands that began to flow through it. These were minor problems, she still had it and she knew she did.

  All she wanted was cash; she wanted a certain kind of lifestyle that only the green stuff bought. Today was a payday; even after divorcing him three months ago — the old fool forgot to exclude her from the will.