collectibles that had been stored up here for so long.
The big man held a fireplace poker tightly in his right hand. He had thought of using a gun on the little bastards that lived up here but had decided that that would be foolish—a slug could tear right through the floorboards and into the second floor of the house. Besides, he had always been leery of guns. Knives, clubs, and big cars were much more personal weapons, and that's the way he liked it when he killed—up close and personal.
He had a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, and because he was coming down with a head cold, it was difficult to breathe.
"Dammit!" he whispered into the handkerchief. This was something he definitely did not want to do. This was… offensive. Dirty. Bizarre. Grotesque. "Grotesque," he whispered, pleased with his choice of words. He thought that he had always been good with words.
He took a step forward. He stopped. The body seemed to be in motion and this sent a tremor of fear through him. He stared hard at the body and realized that it was not in motion, it only looked like it was in motion because the little bastards that lived up here were all over it, having their fill.
"Jesus!" whispered the big man, and turned and fled down the stairs to the second floor.
~ * ~
Sam Goodlow looked at his reflection in the window at his office and asked himself who he was seeing. That certainly wasn't him . That man was blond and handsome, and he oozed breeding and self-confidence. He—the real Sam Goodlow —oozed only clumsiness, bad taste, a sort of infantile vulnerability, and he always had.
And as he thought these things, his reflection changed and he was once again seeing a stocky, craggy-looking man with red hair and gentle gray eyes. Himself. The real Sam Goodlow . He was pleased. This latest "episode"—as he had come to think of them—had lasted quite a while.
Maybe he should see a shrink. What harm could it do? At worst, he'd simply get to know himself a little better, and that was always good for the soul.
He glanced at his desk, across the room. It was empty. Empty? he wondered. Why was his desk empty? This was his place of business and as long as he had conducted business here he had kept a good, cluttered desktop. Clients liked cluttered desks—it made them think he was busy, always on the move, that he didn't have time for something so mundane as neatness.
Except for clients like Violet McCartle . Classy old woman. "You're certainly not the neatest of men, are you, Mr. Goodlow ?" she had said at their first meeting.
"Is it one of your requirements?"
She smiled. It was a good and gracious smile, but it looked to Sam as if it hurt. "I have a job for you, Mr. Goodlow . It's not much of a job, so I'm sure you can handle it." She produced a manila envelope from her cavernous purse and handed it across the desk. The envelope was sealed and he began to open it. "No," she said. "Please don't. Not just yet."
"I don't understand."
"You will." She nodded to indicate the envelope. "My address is there. Could you please come and see me a week from today, about this time?"
"And don't look in the envelope?"
"No. But find a place to hide it, please. Find a very good place to hide it."
He wasn't sure. He liked having all the answers up front and this woman's cryptic way of doing business made him uneasy.
"I assure you," Violet McCartle said, "that all your questions will be answered a week from today.
He was still uncertain.
"There's a good deal of money in it for you, Mr. Goodlow ."
This fact was not completely persuasive, but it helped.
"How much?" he asked.
"We'll settle that next week, okay?"
He thought a moment and said, "I'll be there."
"Good." She said nothing for a moment, then finished,
"I look forward to seeing you." A quick, secretive smile flashed across her mouth.
~ * ~
The memory faded.
Sam looked at his reflection in the window again. He saw a craggy, red-haired man look back and he asked himself, "Is
The big man held a fireplace poker tightly in his right hand. He had thought of using a gun on the little bastards that lived up here but had decided that that would be foolish—a slug could tear right through the floorboards and into the second floor of the house. Besides, he had always been leery of guns. Knives, clubs, and big cars were much more personal weapons, and that's the way he liked it when he killed—up close and personal.
He had a handkerchief over his mouth and nose, and because he was coming down with a head cold, it was difficult to breathe.
"Dammit!" he whispered into the handkerchief. This was something he definitely did not want to do. This was… offensive. Dirty. Bizarre. Grotesque. "Grotesque," he whispered, pleased with his choice of words. He thought that he had always been good with words.
He took a step forward. He stopped. The body seemed to be in motion and this sent a tremor of fear through him. He stared hard at the body and realized that it was not in motion, it only looked like it was in motion because the little bastards that lived up here were all over it, having their fill.
"Jesus!" whispered the big man, and turned and fled down the stairs to the second floor.
~ * ~
Sam Goodlow looked at his reflection in the window at his office and asked himself who he was seeing. That certainly wasn't him . That man was blond and handsome, and he oozed breeding and self-confidence. He—the real Sam Goodlow —oozed only clumsiness, bad taste, a sort of infantile vulnerability, and he always had.
And as he thought these things, his reflection changed and he was once again seeing a stocky, craggy-looking man with red hair and gentle gray eyes. Himself. The real Sam Goodlow . He was pleased. This latest "episode"—as he had come to think of them—had lasted quite a while.
Maybe he should see a shrink. What harm could it do? At worst, he'd simply get to know himself a little better, and that was always good for the soul.
He glanced at his desk, across the room. It was empty. Empty? he wondered. Why was his desk empty? This was his place of business and as long as he had conducted business here he had kept a good, cluttered desktop. Clients liked cluttered desks—it made them think he was busy, always on the move, that he didn't have time for something so mundane as neatness.
Except for clients like Violet McCartle . Classy old woman. "You're certainly not the neatest of men, are you, Mr. Goodlow ?" she had said at their first meeting.
"Is it one of your requirements?"
She smiled. It was a good and gracious smile, but it looked to Sam as if it hurt. "I have a job for you, Mr. Goodlow . It's not much of a job, so I'm sure you can handle it." She produced a manila envelope from her cavernous purse and handed it across the desk. The envelope was sealed and he began to open it. "No," she said. "Please don't. Not just yet."
"I don't understand."
"You will." She nodded to indicate the envelope. "My address is there. Could you please come and see me a week from today, about this time?"
"And don't look in the envelope?"
"No. But find a place to hide it, please. Find a very good place to hide it."
He wasn't sure. He liked having all the answers up front and this woman's cryptic way of doing business made him uneasy.
"I assure you," Violet McCartle said, "that all your questions will be answered a week from today.
He was still uncertain.
"There's a good deal of money in it for you, Mr. Goodlow ."
This fact was not completely persuasive, but it helped.
"How much?" he asked.
"We'll settle that next week, okay?"
He thought a moment and said, "I'll be there."
"Good." She said nothing for a moment, then finished,
"I look forward to seeing you." A quick, secretive smile flashed across her mouth.
~ * ~
The memory faded.
Sam looked at his reflection in the window again. He saw a craggy, red-haired man look back and he asked himself, "Is
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