Chester finally opened his door all the way. He palmed something in mid-air that Jerry couldn’t see.
“Hair,” Chester said, as they walked into his apartment. I tape it across the doorway when I leave so I know if anyone’s been inside.” His grin said he knew it was an awfully smart and sophisticated thing to do.
The apartment opened up into a small, rectangular kitchen. Chester carefully wound the long hair inside a small bowl on the counter, and taped the two pieces of tape to the outside of the bowl.
Jerry looked around in shock. The entire apartment, including each kitchen counter, was stacked floor to ceiling in newspapers, boxes, and household items. Jerry had heard of hoarders - people who save everything they ever touch or come in contact with- but he’d never met one. Chester appeared to be a very neat hoarder.
“I know, I know, you’re thinking I’m a nut-job. Well I’m not. I like to think of myself as a collector. If you look around, you’ll notice there’s no food being saved. I’m not saving my own poop. The house is clean. The garbage goes out every day. I just like to collect real stuff.”
He walked quickly over to a large stack of newspapers that bookended the small, brown couch. Jerry thought for a second that he should have just made the couch out of newspapers.
Excitement shone on Chester’s face. “Look.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the biggest stack of newspaper. The one that somehow, looked like an intact column in the room. It was impossibly neat, compressed, and ran all the way to the ceiling. “This is exactly one year’s worth of Westwood Harbor Gazettes.”
Jerry was impressed in spite of himself. It was almost a work of art. He gave a low whistle. “Wow, man.”
Chester’s eyes glittered savagely at the compliment. Jerry almost took a step back. Suddenly he was a little afraid of this obviously slightly-crazy man. He wished for his gun. The gun that Craig had convinced him to wear and gotten him a concealed carry permit so he could protect Emma if Norman Foster hunted her down while they were working. The gun always felt good and solid in the small of his back. A secret weapon with ultimate stopping power.
Jerry ran his tongue out over his lips. “You were going to tell me about that guy?” he said.
“Oh yeah!” Chester wound his way past newspapers to the blessedly clear dining room table. “Sit.” He held out a hand towards the chair nearest the door. Jerry stepped towards it. “Coffee?”
“No thanks. I had some. Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Chester nodded and sat down in the chair opposite the one he offered Jerry. Jerry slid into his.
Chester leaned forward and spoke in a low conspirator’s whisper. “He’s a hit man.”
Jerry’s body jerked involuntarily at the words hit man. His innermost fears burst out of the box he contained them in and exploded all over his brain.
“A hit man?” he choked out. “What makes you say that?”
Chester leaned forward farther. “Because man, get a clue. He’s carrying, for one. He’s got this fancy gadget he always checks, for two. And he’s covered in prison tattoos, for three. And let’s not even ignore the fact that he broke into her apartment to do a hit. And when he couldn’t find her, he marked the place up. With blood. Who does that?” Chester sat back, satisfied he had proved his point.
Jerry didn’t want to engage in this discussion. He felt like if he did, the safe, normal world he lived in would evaporate, fall over like stage dressing, and he’d never get it back. But he also felt like if he didn’t, he’d be damning himself to his own personal hell a second time. And that was unthinkable. So he leaned forward, mimicking Chester’s body language and whispered voice.
“Wouldn’t a hit man lay low, wait for the victim to show up, and not destroy her apartment?”
“Yeah, unless he knew he lost her. Then he’s gotta let her know he knows and hope she makes the
“Hair,” Chester said, as they walked into his apartment. I tape it across the doorway when I leave so I know if anyone’s been inside.” His grin said he knew it was an awfully smart and sophisticated thing to do.
The apartment opened up into a small, rectangular kitchen. Chester carefully wound the long hair inside a small bowl on the counter, and taped the two pieces of tape to the outside of the bowl.
Jerry looked around in shock. The entire apartment, including each kitchen counter, was stacked floor to ceiling in newspapers, boxes, and household items. Jerry had heard of hoarders - people who save everything they ever touch or come in contact with- but he’d never met one. Chester appeared to be a very neat hoarder.
“I know, I know, you’re thinking I’m a nut-job. Well I’m not. I like to think of myself as a collector. If you look around, you’ll notice there’s no food being saved. I’m not saving my own poop. The house is clean. The garbage goes out every day. I just like to collect real stuff.”
He walked quickly over to a large stack of newspapers that bookended the small, brown couch. Jerry thought for a second that he should have just made the couch out of newspapers.
Excitement shone on Chester’s face. “Look.” He made a sweeping gesture towards the biggest stack of newspaper. The one that somehow, looked like an intact column in the room. It was impossibly neat, compressed, and ran all the way to the ceiling. “This is exactly one year’s worth of Westwood Harbor Gazettes.”
Jerry was impressed in spite of himself. It was almost a work of art. He gave a low whistle. “Wow, man.”
Chester’s eyes glittered savagely at the compliment. Jerry almost took a step back. Suddenly he was a little afraid of this obviously slightly-crazy man. He wished for his gun. The gun that Craig had convinced him to wear and gotten him a concealed carry permit so he could protect Emma if Norman Foster hunted her down while they were working. The gun always felt good and solid in the small of his back. A secret weapon with ultimate stopping power.
Jerry ran his tongue out over his lips. “You were going to tell me about that guy?” he said.
“Oh yeah!” Chester wound his way past newspapers to the blessedly clear dining room table. “Sit.” He held out a hand towards the chair nearest the door. Jerry stepped towards it. “Coffee?”
“No thanks. I had some. Besides, I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
Chester nodded and sat down in the chair opposite the one he offered Jerry. Jerry slid into his.
Chester leaned forward and spoke in a low conspirator’s whisper. “He’s a hit man.”
Jerry’s body jerked involuntarily at the words hit man. His innermost fears burst out of the box he contained them in and exploded all over his brain.
“A hit man?” he choked out. “What makes you say that?”
Chester leaned forward farther. “Because man, get a clue. He’s carrying, for one. He’s got this fancy gadget he always checks, for two. And he’s covered in prison tattoos, for three. And let’s not even ignore the fact that he broke into her apartment to do a hit. And when he couldn’t find her, he marked the place up. With blood. Who does that?” Chester sat back, satisfied he had proved his point.
Jerry didn’t want to engage in this discussion. He felt like if he did, the safe, normal world he lived in would evaporate, fall over like stage dressing, and he’d never get it back. But he also felt like if he didn’t, he’d be damning himself to his own personal hell a second time. And that was unthinkable. So he leaned forward, mimicking Chester’s body language and whispered voice.
“Wouldn’t a hit man lay low, wait for the victim to show up, and not destroy her apartment?”
“Yeah, unless he knew he lost her. Then he’s gotta let her know he knows and hope she makes the
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