Major intersections
in the Metroplex where Carol settled after abandoning the
small town of her birth were infested with panhandlers sporting
barely legible, hand-lettered cardboard signs welcoming pity
and disingenuously seeking temporary employment, and she
circulated through the major arteries for several hours before
making her selection. By then the cheeseburger and French
fries in the white bag on the seat beside her had grown cold
and the ice in the soda cup had mostly melted despite the
air conditioning vent aimed directly at the cup holder.
“Homeless. Hungry,” his
sign read. “Will work for food.”
Greasy, disheveled
hair of indeterminate color drooped to his shoulders and
a patchy beard masked the lower half of his jaundiced face.
He wore a tri-colored—light tan, pale green, brown—desert
camouflage field jacket open over a stained white wife beater,
baggy Wrangler jeans held up by a too-long brown leather
belt, and once-white running shoes held in place with mismatched
laces. He had the intersection to himself, no mangy dog for
a companion, and only a single, bulging Hefty SteelSak for
his possessions. No one stopped for him and he never rose
from his position.
Carol crossed
the intersection several times, approaching in different
lanes from different directions until she finally ventured
into the turn lane next to the raised concrete median where
he squatted. The first time, she caught a green arrow and
had to proceed through the intersection without stopping.
The second time she had better luck and found herself trapped
behind a rusting Ford F-150 leaking oil and Tejano music.
When she powered her window down and held up the grease-stained
white bag, he rose and shuffled toward her car.
“You hungry?”
He eyed the bag. “Yeah.”
“Then get in,” she
said. “I have a job for you.”
He hesitated.
“Make up your
mind,” Carol insisted. She dropped the bag into her lap and
placed both hands on the steering wheel. “The light just
turned green.”
The F-150 lurched
forward. The driver of the Lexus behind Carol leaned on his
horn. The panhandler backpedaled, seized his SteelSak, and
with it hurried around Carol’s pristine white Maxima. He
squeezed into the passenger seat just as the traffic light
changed from green to yellow. Carol stomped her foot against
the accelerator, slamming the passenger door and forcing
the panhandler back against the seat, leaving the finger-waving
Lexus driver trapped behind a red light as her Maxima shot
through the intersection.
Carol took one
hand off the wheel, handed the white bag to her passenger,
revealing a tiny green sprout tattooed on the palm of her
left hand, and pointed at the sweating soda cup. “The drink
goes with it.”
He pushed the
SteelSak containing all his possessions into the rear seat
as the Maxima climbed the onramp to the Interstate. Then
he tore the to-go bag open and wolfed down cold French fries.
Carol glanced
at the panhandler. “What’s your name?”
He mumbled around
a mouthful of food. “John.”
John reeked of
stale sweat and the gassy stench of poor digestion, an odor
that overwhelmed the pine-scented deodorizer hanging from
the rearview mirror. Carol switched off the air conditioner
and powered all four windows down to evacuate the stench.
Her finger-length blonde hair immediately began to wilt as
triple digit heat blew through the open windows. Split ends
clung to the sweat arising on the back of her neck and her
antiperspirant lost the battle.
“Do you know what
I want you to do for me, John?”
He shook his head
as he unwrapped the cheeseburger, then took a bite and licked
catsup from his scraggly moustache. As he chewed, his gaze
traveled the length of her, from her white leather sandals,
over her white linen Capri pants, and up to the white silk
blouse with mother of pearl buttons that she had fastened
all the way to her throat, the silhouette of her lacy white
bra visible through the thin material. A slash of crimson
lipstick bisected her slender face and pale blue eyes the
color of faded denim looked back at him.
“I want you to
kill me, John.”
He stopped chewing. “What?”
“How much money
do you have?”
“A dollar-sixty-three,” he
said.
“Open the glove
box, John.”
He did, then swallowed
hard.
“That’s ten thousand
dollars,” Carol said. “Ten thousand dollars in small, unmarked,
non-sequential bills. That’s a lot of money, isn’t it, John?”
“Yes.”
“And all you have
to do to keep it is kill me. What would you do with ten thousand
dollars, John?”
He took another
bite of cheeseburger and chewed slowly without answering.
The world outside the car changed as the white Maxima traveled
away from the heart of the city. Multi-story office buildings
no longer crowded the Interstate, replaced by single-story
strip malls and chain restaurants that littered the frontage
roads. The highway was just as busy, though, with four lanes
of traffic in each direction and every vehicle but one a
self-contained universe where petite women did not offer
strange homeless men thousands of dollars to kill them. He
lifted the soda cup from the holder, guided the straw between
his chapped lips and drew down a long swallow.
The Maxima left
the Interstate for a state highway that led beyond the suburbs
to an exurb where multi-story homes occupied verdant acre
plots and the only people seen outdoors were illegals hired
to maintain the illusion of spring during the searing heat
of rainless summer. Carol swung her car up a long drive that
took them behind one of the houses and into a garage that
faced away from the street. She insisted that her passenger
leave his SteelSak inside the car and follow her through
the garage into the house.
“Don’t touch anything,
John. You don’t want to leave fingerprints.”
Car keys, house
keys, keys to things long forgotten, all jangled when Carol
dropped her key ring on the kitchen counter. “When you’re
finished,” she said over her shoulder. “Take the car.”
The interior of
the house was Better Homes & Gardens perfect—everything
in its place and so clean dust feared to settle—as if nothing
had been touched since the day the decorator fluffed the
last throw pillow, and the rooms smelled of potpourri with
a hint of homeless man wafting through the air. And it was
cold, pimpling her skin and his, tightening her nipples so
they dimpled her blouse. Carol led John through the dining
room to the foyer and up the staircase to the second floor,
panty lines etched in the fabric of her Capri pants when
each leg alternately tightened against her buttocks while
ascending the stairs.
She led him into
the master bedroom, a room decorated entirely in white—white
walls, white carpet, white furniture, white drapes, white
comforter over white silk sheets. The only contrasting color
came from the black nose, eyes, and feet of a stuffed lamb
centered on the bed and a stainless steel nail file on the
nightstand.
She stopped and
turned. “We’ll do it here.”
He hesitated. “Here?”
“Hit me first.” She
stared at him. Bits of hamburger bun clung to his beard.
Beads of sweat chilled on his forehead. His eyes darted in
every direction without focusing on her. “Ten thousand dollars,
John.”
He backhanded
her. He was strong, stronger than she’d expected, but his
heart wasn’t in it. A bit of grime from the back of his hand
stained her cheek.
“Come on, John,
you can do better than that.”
He slapped her
again.
“How long has
it been since you were with a woman, John?” She tore open
her silk blouse, sending mother of pearl buttons flying,
exposing a lacy white push-up bra that barely contained her
milk-white breasts. Her constricted areolas were dark circles
beneath the push-up bra and she thrust her breasts at John,
taunting him.
“Be a man, John,” she
insisted. “Make a fist and hit me. Hit me. Hit me, damn it!”
He cocked his
arm and caught her jaw with a roundhouse right. Her head
snapped to the side and she smiled.
“That’s it, John.”
He buried a fist
in her abdomen, driving the breath from her and doubling
her over. When she straightened up, she threw herself back
on the bed, knocked the lamb aside, and beckoned to him. “Do
it here, John. Have your way with me first, if you want to,
but kill me here, on the bed.”
He straddled her,
pinning her legs with his weight. Then he blacked her eye,
split her lip, and made her ears ring. She held her arms
up to block some of his blows, ensuring the presence of defensive
wounds.
“Ten thousand
dollars,” she whispered.
He closed his
eyes and continued pounding on her until she felt certain
there was no stopping him. She reached for the nightstand
with her left hand, and then jammed the nail file into his
neck, piercing his interior jugular vein. His eyes opened
wide and he clutched his neck. Blood sprayed through his
fingers, stippling her, stippling the bed, stippling the
wall behind the bed. She withdrew the nail file and jammed
the point into his jugular a second time. He rose, stumbled
across the room and collapsed against the wall. Carol waited
until John expelled his last breath before she reached for
the white phone and dialed 911.
“I just needed
some yard work done,” she explained between sobs to the first
police officer on the scene. “I thought I was being a Good
Samaritan.”
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