21 Tales (4 page)

The first few times I had said that, Susie rolled her eyes and showed me the little condescending smile she uses when she thinks I’m acting childish. This time she showed the same condescending smile, but it seemed strained. She was finally beginning to realize that I meant what I was saying.

“Come on, all Barb did was swap fortune cookies.”

“She had no right doing that.” I felt a hotness flush my face. “The waiter put that cookie in front of me for a reason. Your idiot friend had no right taking it. Everything has gone to shit since she did!”

“You’re acting insane,” Susie muttered.

I was livid. I couldn’t speak, I could barely look at her. She knew better than to say that. Her words must’ve slipped out, but she had no right. No fucking right. I caught a quick glimpse of her face, pale now, an anxiousness ruining any attempt she had at looking unconcerned. I turned on my heels and got the hell out of there.

Driving to McGinty’s, it was like I was on autopilot. I didn’t even realize where I was going until I got there. Still too angry to do much of anything else, I took a seat behind the bar and ordered a black and tan. As I cooled off, I regretted the way I had acted. It wasn’t Susie’s fault about what happened, and besides, she’s been a rock in my life, by far the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I shouldn’t have treated her like that. It’s just that the whole damn thing frustrated me to the point where I could barely breathe, let alone think straight.

Joe had taken my order. After letting the beer settle, he brought over my drink. Half a pint of Bass with another half a pint of Guiness layered on top. I guess the type of drink that shows indecision. You just can’t make up your mind what you really want.

“So Dan, how are things?”

I took a sip of my beer, met Joe’s eyes for a moment before looking back down. “I’ve seen better days,” I said.

“Sure you have.” He thought I was joking. He waited for me to say something. When I didn’t, he added, “You must’ve signed your book deals by now.”

“The deals died on me. All of them stillborn.”

“You’re kidding?” There was a long silence where I could sense him standing there, but I just wasn’t in the mood to look up. Then, his voice oddly formal, he said, “Sorry to hear that. Look the drinks are on the house tonight.”

I nodded, felt him walk away. I could understand his discomfort, especially after the way I had been celebrating the last time I was in. After fourteen years of struggling as a wannabe writer, it finally looked like I was going to make it. I had an Italian publisher telling me they were going to send me a contract for two of my books, a midlevel US publisher interested in a third, and the kicker, HarperCollins all but promising to buy my latest. All of this happening within a two week period. When I had gotten the call from the editor at HarperCollins last week, I left work and went straight to McGinty’s and bought drinks all around. There was no way I could’ve stayed at work after that. I was on just too big a high. For fourteen years I’d been trying to make it as a writer and it finally looked like it was going to happen. All those years of squeezing in whatever time I could to write my books, all the rejections, one publisher after the next telling me my writing was better than good, but just too dark for them. Waiting year after year for that one break. For that one crack so I could squeeze through. And then three deals all but done. One right after the next. Floating on Cloud Nine? Fuck no, not even close. Stratospheres higher than that. Way up in that rarified air.

After McGinty’s, I went home to pick up Susie so I could continue the celebration, and of course, Barb had to be there.
Come on, Honey,
Barb’s depressed about Tom, couldn’t she join us?
I was in too good a mood to turn Susie down so we all went out for Chinese food.

During dinner I was mostly in a good mood. Barb has a way bringing me down, but not that night – at least not for most of it. After we ate and the plates were cleared away, the waiter dropped off fortune cookies in front of each of us. Before I could move, Barb had snatched my cookie and replaced it with her own.

“Maybe some of your luck will rub off on me,” she said.

I sat there annoyed, but forcing a smile.

She cracked open her cookie, and laughing that grating horse laugh of hers, read the fortune. “
Years of hard work will soon lead to fame and fortune
.” Turning to me, she snickered, “Ha! Jeeze, sorry Dan, it looks like I stole your fortune.”

I opened the fortune cookie she had left me.
Humility is a valued teacher
. I didn’t even understand what the fuck that was supposed to mean, but then again, why should I? That fortune was meant for her, not me.

Two days later I got an email from the Italian publisher that he was going to have to pass on my books. It seemed that he had a falling out with the translator he had lined up and had no one else to work on them. Then the next day another email from the midlevel publisher. He was cutting back on his crime fiction list and would have to pass on my book. That afternoon I got a call from the editor at HarperCollins. The book I had sent him was a crime caper with outsourcing as an integral theme. The editor was having second thoughts whether the subject of outsourcing would still be topical by the time the book came out. I sat and listened as he convinced himself to kill the deal. At some gut level I knew there was nothing I could do about it, no way to talk him out of it, and I knew why …

Joe interrupted my thoughts, asking if I’d like another black and tan. I was about to tell him sure, but instead changed my order to a pint of Guiness. My indecision was gone. With a clarity of thought I knew what I had to do.

The next few days were rough ones. I couldn’t help feeling antsy. Susie sensed my uneasiness, but misunderstood the reason for it. Still she tried her best to be supportive, telling me over and over again that I’d find new book deals to replace the ones that had fallen apart. I played along. I knew what she was saying was shit, but it wouldn’t have done any good to let her in on what I was thinking.

Finally Thursday came. Somehow I made it through the day at work without jumping completely out of my skin and got home a little after six. The next three hours were murder as I waited for Barb to call Susie. She always called Susie after her Thursday’s
Men Are Bastard’s
support group meeting, usually with half a bottle of wine already in her.

The phone rang a little after nine. I let Susie pick up, but could tell quickly from her end of the conversation who she was talking to. I then waited twenty minutes before signaling to Susie that I was heading off to McGinty’s for a couple of beers. She nodded back, somewhat distracted.

I went to McGinty’s and had a couple of pints of Guiness. Checked my watch, saw it was quarter to ten. By this time Susie would’ve gotten off the phone. I threw a twenty down for Joe and headed off to Barb’s apartment building.

Ten minutes later I parked my car on a side street, trying as much as I could to keep in the shadows. A couple of days earlier I had taken a hammer from my tool chest and left it in the trunk of my car. Now I had the hammer inside my jacket and was headed  towards Barb’s apartment – a ground level unit with its own private entrance. Using the spare key she had left with Susie, I let myself into her apartment.

She was sitting on the sofa wearing a nightshirt that barely covered her chubby thighs. A bottle of wine next to her was three quarters empty. She blinked a few times before she recognized me and then asked what I was doing there, her words slurred by the wine.

“There’s something I have to do,” I told her.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “Why are you wearing gloves?”

I didn’t answer her. Annoyed, she asked, “Susie know you’re here?”

I nodded.

“What happened, is she worried I’m going to hurt myself? Jesus, she shouldn’t take me so seriously. Especially after my Thursday night meetings.”

“That’s not why I’m here.” I let out a heavy sigh. “I’ve got no choice, Barb, I have to reclaim my fortune.”

She stared blankly at me before her mouth twisted unpleasantly. “You’re not making any sense.”

“Sure I am. You fucked everything up when you stole my fortune.”

The unpleasantness had spread to the rest of her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But I don’t think I want you here.”

“This will just take a minute.” I stopped for a moment so I could gather my thoughts. Somehow I had to get through to her. I don’t know why, but it just seemed important for her to understand. “Do you have any idea what fate is?” I asked.

She didn’t say anything. Just stared at me dumbly. Her complexion had always been too pasty. Still, before Tom had split on her you could argue that she was kind of cute. Not now though, not with the extra weight she had packed on, not with how fleshy her face had become, like several layers of stucco had been slapped on. I could barely make out her eyes buried under all that extra flesh.

“Let me explain,” I continued after realizing she wasn’t going to answer me. “Fate is something real, something tangible. Kind of like a wave, or maybe more like a wind current.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t really care either. You’re giving me a headache.”

“I’ve got to explain this to you, Barb. When you swapped fortunes with me, you caused whatever wind current I was about to ride to bend around me instead. Unless I find a way to bend that current back to me I’ve got no chance of being published. I’m sorry, Barb, but I’ve got to reclaim my fortune.”

She sniffed, her expression more petulant than anything else. “I’m calling Susie and telling her that you’re here bothering me.”

She reached for the phone. I moved quickly then, slipping the hammer out from under my jacket and swinging hard as I reached for her. I caught her on the side of the head. The way her eyes rolled up in their sockets she was probably dead then. The hammer, though, got stuck in her skull and it was a struggle to get it out. After I did, I hit her a few more times. There was no doubt she was dead by the time I left.

When I got to my car, I wrapped the hammer in an old towel and tossed it and the gloves into the trunk, planning to find a dumpster later. I guess on the way home I must’ve been driving erratically. A cop pulled me over. After he shined a flashlight in my face, he took a step from the car and had his service revolver out and pointed at me. I hadn’t realized it at the time but some of Barb’s blood had sprayed on me. I guess I had felt the stickiness but thought it was sweat.

The cop’s voice cracked as he ordered me out of the car, and then to put my hands behind my head. When I did, my hands were jerked behind my back and handcuffs slapped on.

The next few hours are pretty much a blur. I know they obtained a search warrant and found the gloves and hammer. I remember sitting in an interrogation room when a detective dumped the stuff in the middle of the table, all of it in evidence bags. I remember him and another cop yelling at me, trying to get me to tell them who I had killed. I didn’t say a word, but they found out soon enough. They had called Susie and she must’ve realized I had taken Barb’s key. Anyway, before the night was over they found Barb’s body.

Susie divorced me before the trial. When the trial came, I ignored my lawyer’s advice and pled guilty. I didn’t see much point in doing anything else. After all, they caught me red-handed, or, to be more precise, red-faced.

That was fourteen years ago. I have eight minutes to finish this up before they take me out of my cell and prepare me to die by lethal injection.  The warden is now standing to my left, frowning as he tries to look over my shoulder to read what I’m writing.

In an hour and eighteen minutes I’ll be dead. The most famous prisoner to be executed by the State of California. Everything I told Barb about needing to reclaim my fortune turned out to be true. Thanks to my notoriety, my books went from gathering dust in my closet to being published, with three of them ending up on the NY Times bestseller’s list. After that I became a hot commodity, signing whatever book deals I wanted. The last fourteen years I’ve worked nonstop, writing thirty-seven books. The last one I finished only a couple of hours ago, giving me only that much time to squeeze in my one nonfiction piece. Not really a confession, more an explanation. While I’ve hinted in some of my novels about what happened with Barb, I’ve never really given a full explanation before.

Early on, after my first six books started making money, Barb’s family sued me for damages. The jury awarded the family five million dollars, probably figuring that was more than I was ever going to make. By the time my twenty-fifth book hit the bestseller’s list I had made ten times that, but it was too late then for their lawyer to go back and change the jury award.

Even though Susie remarried, I’ve tried transferring my money to her, but she won’t take it. I can’t really blame her. It would’ve been nice, though, if she could’ve talked to me one last time, or at least acknowledged one of my letters, but I understand why she hasn’t.

Only four minutes left. The warden’s now tapping his foot, his face folded into a scowl as he stares at his watch. Damn, I just didn’t leave myself enough time to do this properly. My one nonfiction piece and it’s going to be a fucking hack job.

Two weeks ago the Governor of California offered to commute my sentence to life if I’d publicly state remorse for murdering Barb. I turned him down, not out of principle, but for the simple reason that the well has run dry. I’m out of ideas for novels. To be honest, the last four were derivative of earlier works. Critics noticed and commented on that. Anyway, I could tell the Governor was disappointed by my refusal. You can take a lot of flack executing a bestselling author.

Out of time. The warden’s indicating for me to wrap things up. I raise my index finger pleading for one more minute. He doesn’t like it, but he nods, and then asks me if it was all worth it.

He’s a decent man. For his sake I try to keep the smile off my face as I tell him it wasn’t. But come on, thirty-nine books on the bestseller’s list? Twelve of them made into movies?