lived—two minutes later, Charise called out, “Find someone, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“I got it.”
He jerked his head up, startled, to find the girl tramping back in his direction with a glass of liquor sloshing in one hand and the white pages in the other.
She’d figured it out.
* * *
Todd Ruben. 10102 Pratchett Street. Nick committed the name and address to memory and sighed loudly at the phone book.
He reached the house about an hour later, though it would have been considerably sooner had he not gotten lost. The neighborhood was all prefab and ugly as hell and the streets had no order, no grid to them. Rather, they were all useless roundabouts and twisty byways that had Nick’s head spinning before some miracle tossed a green rectangular sign in his path that read PRATCHETT STREET . From there it was smooth sailing.
He parked in the street right in front, killed the engine, and stepped out onto the front lawn. It was getting late and he was tired and he just wanted to get it done as quickly and painlessly as possibly. Accordingly, Nick walked directly to the front door and pressed the button for the doorbell.
A voice cried, “Hold on!”
Nick held on.
A moment later the lock ratcheted and the door opened. A short, brown-skinned man Nick took to be Mexican looked up at him inquisitively and said, “Hi.”
“Hi there,” Nick said, feigning a smile that almost hurt. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I’m quite lost. I’m supposed to be at my sister’s baby shower, but it’s at her friend’s house, and—listen, I know how this sounds, but would you mind if I used your phone?”
The Mexican knitted his brow, thinking it over. Another guy, a redhead in his undershirt, came up behind him.
“Who is it, Todd?”
“Guy wants to use the phone,” Todd said.
The redhead laughed. “Well, are you going to let him, or just stand there having a staring contest?”
Todd laughed, too. Even Nick joined the merriment. All three men had a grand laugh, and only one of them felt how terribly bizarre it all really was due to what was going to happen next.
Todd stepped back, opened the door the rest of the way, and said, “Sorry, sure. Come on in.”
Nick crossed the threshold as he’d crossed many before, and when Todd shut the door again, Nick noticed that the men were now holding hands. He smirked, tried not to make anything of it. But it did occur to him that he had never offed either a Mexican or a homosexual before.
First time for everything , he thought.
“Phone’s over there,” Todd said.
“In the kitchen,” his lover added.
Nick said, “Thanks.”
He crossed the den to the kitchen, which was a good size and in the middle of some massive food preparation scheme. Todd followed, noted Nick’s taking in of all the chopped vegetables on the counter and meat laid out on the island in the middle.
“Brent’s a chef,” he said, gesturing to the redhead.
Nick said, “Ah.”
“There’s the phone.”
“Right.”
Nick reached for it, took it from the hook, and silently wondered how a Mexican cat ended up with a decidedly Caucasian name like Todd Ruben . He dismissed it when Todd turned around to hunch over a mound of chopped onions.
It was time.
Nick slammed the receiver against Todd’s temple twice in quick succession, stunning him. While Todd wobbled on his feet, wondering what the hell had just happened to him, Nick rapidly wrapped the telephone cord around his neck and pulled it tight. Very tight. In seconds Todd started to spasm and his brown faced turned dark purple. His throat made wet retching sounds and his tongue protruded. Brent called out from the den:
“Don’t forget to mix the onions with the peppers, babe.”
Nick held fast to the makeshift garrote until Todd quit fighting. He held on for another minute and a half after that, just to make sure. When it was done, he supported the dead man with one arm and let him down slow to the cold linoleum floor.
In
“Yeah.”
“I got it.”
He jerked his head up, startled, to find the girl tramping back in his direction with a glass of liquor sloshing in one hand and the white pages in the other.
She’d figured it out.
* * *
Todd Ruben. 10102 Pratchett Street. Nick committed the name and address to memory and sighed loudly at the phone book.
He reached the house about an hour later, though it would have been considerably sooner had he not gotten lost. The neighborhood was all prefab and ugly as hell and the streets had no order, no grid to them. Rather, they were all useless roundabouts and twisty byways that had Nick’s head spinning before some miracle tossed a green rectangular sign in his path that read PRATCHETT STREET . From there it was smooth sailing.
He parked in the street right in front, killed the engine, and stepped out onto the front lawn. It was getting late and he was tired and he just wanted to get it done as quickly and painlessly as possibly. Accordingly, Nick walked directly to the front door and pressed the button for the doorbell.
A voice cried, “Hold on!”
Nick held on.
A moment later the lock ratcheted and the door opened. A short, brown-skinned man Nick took to be Mexican looked up at him inquisitively and said, “Hi.”
“Hi there,” Nick said, feigning a smile that almost hurt. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but I’m quite lost. I’m supposed to be at my sister’s baby shower, but it’s at her friend’s house, and—listen, I know how this sounds, but would you mind if I used your phone?”
The Mexican knitted his brow, thinking it over. Another guy, a redhead in his undershirt, came up behind him.
“Who is it, Todd?”
“Guy wants to use the phone,” Todd said.
The redhead laughed. “Well, are you going to let him, or just stand there having a staring contest?”
Todd laughed, too. Even Nick joined the merriment. All three men had a grand laugh, and only one of them felt how terribly bizarre it all really was due to what was going to happen next.
Todd stepped back, opened the door the rest of the way, and said, “Sorry, sure. Come on in.”
Nick crossed the threshold as he’d crossed many before, and when Todd shut the door again, Nick noticed that the men were now holding hands. He smirked, tried not to make anything of it. But it did occur to him that he had never offed either a Mexican or a homosexual before.
First time for everything , he thought.
“Phone’s over there,” Todd said.
“In the kitchen,” his lover added.
Nick said, “Thanks.”
He crossed the den to the kitchen, which was a good size and in the middle of some massive food preparation scheme. Todd followed, noted Nick’s taking in of all the chopped vegetables on the counter and meat laid out on the island in the middle.
“Brent’s a chef,” he said, gesturing to the redhead.
Nick said, “Ah.”
“There’s the phone.”
“Right.”
Nick reached for it, took it from the hook, and silently wondered how a Mexican cat ended up with a decidedly Caucasian name like Todd Ruben . He dismissed it when Todd turned around to hunch over a mound of chopped onions.
It was time.
Nick slammed the receiver against Todd’s temple twice in quick succession, stunning him. While Todd wobbled on his feet, wondering what the hell had just happened to him, Nick rapidly wrapped the telephone cord around his neck and pulled it tight. Very tight. In seconds Todd started to spasm and his brown faced turned dark purple. His throat made wet retching sounds and his tongue protruded. Brent called out from the den:
“Don’t forget to mix the onions with the peppers, babe.”
Nick held fast to the makeshift garrote until Todd quit fighting. He held on for another minute and a half after that, just to make sure. When it was done, he supported the dead man with one arm and let him down slow to the cold linoleum floor.
In
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