right at sunrise, searching. The office had a huge aquarium on one wall. The water had all evaporated and the room smelled like the rotting fish. Alex opened the window that faced the backyard, thinking it was safer than the one that faced the street. The air and light came streaming in and she helped Roxanne look.
The office was like a checklist of prestigious artifacts. Green glass banker s lamp with a brass body. Oak desk like an aircraft carrier. Large blotter and Mont Blanc pen lined up next to Franklin Covey day planner. The dead man in the bed upstairs had likely thought himself pretty important. A tiny blue book in one drawer held account numbers, passwords, credit cards numbers, and five crisp hundred dollar bills folded in half. Roxanne slipped the money into her bra without looking at it. Alex stared at her for a moment before they both burst out laughing. When the moment passed, Roxanne dug it back out and set it gently down on to the desk.
“Maybe he didn’t want to write it down,” Alex offered.
“He would. Thinks he’s fucking James Bond.” Roxanne went back to staring at the book, scowling. “He was the kind of guy who wrote down all his passwords, because he’s worried that he’d forget someday.”
Alex shrugged and let her obsess. An hour later Roxanne was still working. Alex checked the kitchen and found the pantry untouched. They feasted on tuna and tomatoes and beans and Alex ate a whole can of peaches while Roxanne turned the pages again and again.
Roxanne laughed abruptly. “Last page. In case of emergency, call 354-610. That’s only six numbers.”
She walked to the wall safe and dialed it in, 35-46-10. The door swung open and pulled it wide, excited and pleased with herself for figuring it out.
Stacked up inside the case was an obscene amount of cash. Banded perfectly pristine stacks of hundreds, from the bottom to the top. Roxanne clawed it out on to the floor, hoping for something else behind it. No luck. Bands of bills hit the floor and spread out, sliding against one another, whispering paper defeat. Nonplussed, Alex sat down again.
Roxanne stood there, looking at it.
“No way a guy has this much money and no gun. There’s a gun here.”
“Roxanne, maybe he was really anti-gun. Maybe he had hired goons. You don’t know that there’s a gun here.”
“There is. There is.”
By the third day, Alex wanted to leave. Roxanne would not be moved. Alex sat, frustrated. She read the magazines in the bathroom. She did inverted pushups on the stairs.
Roxanne did not give up until she found it. She had been right all along, and she found it. After several days, she was muttering, all day long.
“Little dicks. All little dicks have guns. He’s paranoid about the money. He was into something dirty. He thinks he can’t trust anyone so he needs serious firepower. Helps him sleep at night.”
Alex had stopped trying to talk to her. Roxanne was trying to get into a dead man’s head and it was starting to scare her. Roxanne didn’t eat for almost a day, pacing the bedroom with the corpse. She dragged the mattress off to one side, with his dried out body stuck to it. The gun was not underneath. The gun was not hidden in a flour canister or in the basement. She tore everything out of the linen closet, checked the freezer and ended up letting out an unbelievable enclosed stink of rotting meat. It was not on top of the high kitchen cabinets, where there was an inch of dust and dead bugs. The gun was not under the bathroom sink or the kitchen sink and there was not a single loose brick in the fireplace. They always went back into the office, where money carpeted the floor. She flopped down into the big leather chair and Alex sat on the desk.
“It’s ok,” Alex told her. “You’ll find one.”
“There’s one here,” she insisted again. “I can feel it. I know this guy. He has a big motherfucking gun in his house. Maybe his wife doesn’t know, but I know. He likes to hold
The office was like a checklist of prestigious artifacts. Green glass banker s lamp with a brass body. Oak desk like an aircraft carrier. Large blotter and Mont Blanc pen lined up next to Franklin Covey day planner. The dead man in the bed upstairs had likely thought himself pretty important. A tiny blue book in one drawer held account numbers, passwords, credit cards numbers, and five crisp hundred dollar bills folded in half. Roxanne slipped the money into her bra without looking at it. Alex stared at her for a moment before they both burst out laughing. When the moment passed, Roxanne dug it back out and set it gently down on to the desk.
“Maybe he didn’t want to write it down,” Alex offered.
“He would. Thinks he’s fucking James Bond.” Roxanne went back to staring at the book, scowling. “He was the kind of guy who wrote down all his passwords, because he’s worried that he’d forget someday.”
Alex shrugged and let her obsess. An hour later Roxanne was still working. Alex checked the kitchen and found the pantry untouched. They feasted on tuna and tomatoes and beans and Alex ate a whole can of peaches while Roxanne turned the pages again and again.
Roxanne laughed abruptly. “Last page. In case of emergency, call 354-610. That’s only six numbers.”
She walked to the wall safe and dialed it in, 35-46-10. The door swung open and pulled it wide, excited and pleased with herself for figuring it out.
Stacked up inside the case was an obscene amount of cash. Banded perfectly pristine stacks of hundreds, from the bottom to the top. Roxanne clawed it out on to the floor, hoping for something else behind it. No luck. Bands of bills hit the floor and spread out, sliding against one another, whispering paper defeat. Nonplussed, Alex sat down again.
Roxanne stood there, looking at it.
“No way a guy has this much money and no gun. There’s a gun here.”
“Roxanne, maybe he was really anti-gun. Maybe he had hired goons. You don’t know that there’s a gun here.”
“There is. There is.”
By the third day, Alex wanted to leave. Roxanne would not be moved. Alex sat, frustrated. She read the magazines in the bathroom. She did inverted pushups on the stairs.
Roxanne did not give up until she found it. She had been right all along, and she found it. After several days, she was muttering, all day long.
“Little dicks. All little dicks have guns. He’s paranoid about the money. He was into something dirty. He thinks he can’t trust anyone so he needs serious firepower. Helps him sleep at night.”
Alex had stopped trying to talk to her. Roxanne was trying to get into a dead man’s head and it was starting to scare her. Roxanne didn’t eat for almost a day, pacing the bedroom with the corpse. She dragged the mattress off to one side, with his dried out body stuck to it. The gun was not underneath. The gun was not hidden in a flour canister or in the basement. She tore everything out of the linen closet, checked the freezer and ended up letting out an unbelievable enclosed stink of rotting meat. It was not on top of the high kitchen cabinets, where there was an inch of dust and dead bugs. The gun was not under the bathroom sink or the kitchen sink and there was not a single loose brick in the fireplace. They always went back into the office, where money carpeted the floor. She flopped down into the big leather chair and Alex sat on the desk.
“It’s ok,” Alex told her. “You’ll find one.”
“There’s one here,” she insisted again. “I can feel it. I know this guy. He has a big motherfucking gun in his house. Maybe his wife doesn’t know, but I know. He likes to hold
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