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Chapter Fourteen
His apartment is dark and damp. Cluttered and full of filth. No place for a woman, that’s for sure. What she saw in him is anyone’s guess. Whatanywoman sees, well, it’s too much to try to comprehend. He isn’t home when I arrive, but then, he rarely is. This is where he fucks and he sleeps, and as it turns out, it’s where he’ll die.
If he’s surprised to come home and find me waiting, he doesn’t show it. I think he must be high. It’s the McDonald’s bag in his hand at three in the morning that gives him away. He thinks it’s a joke when I aim my gun at his head and order him to sit with his back against the wall. He doesn’t beg. Instead, he has this curious look on his face. I can tell he thinks his buddies are playing a joke on him, that this is a prank. He’s thinking about what a good story this will make.
Once he realizes he’s mistaken, his demeanor doesn’t shift all that much. He’s certain I’ve come here to rob him, and a man like him values nothing. It reminds me of a poem written by Ryokan, a Zen master. He lived the simplest kind of life in a little hut at the foot of a mountain. One evening a thief visited the hut only to discover there was nothing in it to steal.
Ryokan returned and caught him. “You may have come a long way to visit me,” he told the prowler, “and you should not return empty-handed. Please take my clothes as a gift.”
Afterward, Ryokan sat naked, watching the moon. “Poor fellow,” he mused. “I wish I could give him this beautiful moon.”
Only this kid, he wouldn’t give anyone the moon. He only thinks of himself, so I tell him to put the handgun in his mouth. It’s not registered. Or maybe it is, who knows? That’ll be a headache for someone else to figure out. I picked it up for fifty bucks off the street from a guy who looked like he hadn’t slept for days.
It takes a bit of coaching to get him to put it in his mouth, and I have to prove that the clip is empty. Of course the chamber isn’t, but he’s a hipster. He doesn’t know that. I’d be surprised if he’s ever touched a gun in his life.
He starts to freak out a little. Just a tinge of panic. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Nothing I can’t handle. I tell him he has to trust me.Why would I hand him a loaded gun? How stupid would that be?
This seems to be logic he understands, but only because it’s rooted in emotion. He takes the gun out of his mouth and tells me he doesn’t have any money on him, but that he can get some, whatever I need. The way he says it makes me smile. It’s naive, almost like he doesn’t mind handing over what’s his. Like the Zen master, he considers it charity, but he’s different. His possessions aren’t his. He’s done nothing, added nothing to society. Another thing he’s never done in his young life—put in a hard day’s work, which is probably why he thinks he can fuck with people’s emotions, why he’s a terrible lover, why he’s a disgrace. In a world full of Mickey D’s, McSex, McRelationships, where everything is fast, easy, and cheap, not to mention ready to trash when it’s slightly inconvenient, he thinks he’s different. He thinks his art will get him somewhere in life, but nothing worth having was ever made in a few minutes in the drive-thru lane.
To drive my point home, I ask him to put on one of his EPs. He thinks I am genuinely interested, but I think it will be nice to have him die with a familiar soundtrack in the background. Not to mention it’ll look good on the police report.
I ask him to pour us a drink. He stands and reluctantly goes around to the kitchen. I watch as he lays the pistol on the counter and mixes two cocktails. He doesn’t touch his. I down mine and shove the glass in my jacket pocket. A souvenir, I say to him. With a nod, I tell him it’ll be a great story when he’s famous.Maybe he could autograph it?
He smiles at that. Once again, I tell him to put the revolver in his mouth. The first time you get a person to do something they don’t want to do, it can be hard. The second time is always easier; it’s a little like boiling a frog. I tell him I’d like a picture. It could make a great album cover. I’ve always had an eye for art.
He laughs and I can see his fragile ego is stroked. My proof is, he picks up the gun and he does what I ask. Although, when I tell him to pull the trigger, he doesn’t so easily acquiesce. The secondary weapon in my left pocket might help, but I’d rather not go there. This has to be his idea. It feels better that way.
He stalls by taking the gun from his mouth to ask if I’d like another drink. I wouldn’t, but he pours two anyway, one for him and one for me. I don’t mind. I’ve got time.
We listen to his shit music as he finishes his drink. “I’ve got to get going,” I say. “How about that photo?”
“I know I’m buzzing,” he laughs. “But this is too much.” He cocks his head and narrows his eyes. “Chris put you up to this?”
“Who’s Chris?”
He points a finger at me. “Good one.”
After a moment of silence, he gives in and positions the gun in his mouth. “How’s this?” he asks as I adjust my phone into position. His mouth opens wider and he looks at me with a sort of wry grin.
“Finger on the trigger,” I tell him, angling the camera. “Make it look real.”
He does as I ask, and then jokingly, he squeezes the trigger. Only it isn’t a joke, and the chambered bullet works its magic. My God, if it isn’t a mess.
Chapter Fifteen
Ethan
I’m in the drop-off line at school with the kids when the police department number shows up on caller ID. It’s Max, or at least I hope it is. Max is my best friend. We worked together as rookies at the police department a long time ago, ages ago, before I joined the FBI. While my life has taken many turns, Max is still there, now as a lead detective. Without thinking, I place the call on speaker, forgetting that the conversation will play throughout the car. “Ethan,” Max says, breathless. “We got another one.”
I don’t even get in a hello.
“Last night. Some kid blew his brains out.”
Goddamn it.I glance in the rearview mirror. Max’s revelation just so happened to coincide perfectly with the timing of the safety patrol opening my car door. Not only did my children hear about a dead kid, half of the school courtyard has too.
“A kid?” I sigh, ducking to peer out the passenger window at Kelsey. “I told you—my range is twenty-five to sixty-five.” I fish Kelsey’s lunch box from the backseat and hand it to her out the window.
“Well, not akidkid. He’s—I don’t know—twenty-two, twenty-three.”
