Mr. Smith's Big Day

Mr. Tanner hated the color black.1

Actually, the word ‘hate’ was perhaps too strong of a word. In fact, Mr. Tanner, if someone had bothered to ask him, did not hate or love anything. The closest word to describe his feelings for the color was simply: unsuitable.2

He had felt that way since August 17, 1998 when he had returned from a business trip to Atlanta and opened a letter addressed to him a week before in a handwriting that curled inward like dying petals after absorbing too much Texas sun. In the following two months, he wore little else except that color, ate only in restaurants and no longer used the upstairs bathroom.3

Now, he sat in a coffee shop in LAX airport and watched the river of travelers pass by him, their heads bobbing up and down like excited dolphins as they eeled towards their destinations.4

Carefully, he disposed the remains of his empty cup and clicked up the handle of his shiny black Samsonite luggage before heading out the door, the little wheels following faithfully after him. Meandering through the mob of frequent flyers, he passed through the double doors and headed towards the gloom of the upper parking deck. Although it was nearly ten at night, cars still belched out figures dressed in warm sweaters and coats while the chirping noises of locking mechanisms shrilly echoed against cement walls.5

As he strolled past a white Buick, an older model that had retained its natural good bones, the owner of the vehicle, an elderly man, who like his car, still owned a certain grace belonging to a much younger man, stepped out of the driver’s side and reached for the back door. As the door swung opened, Mr. Tanner suddenly stopped and lifted a hand to pat nervously against his chest.6

“Oh God. My keys,” he muttered under his breath and tossed a sigh at the older gentleman who flashed him back a look of obvious sympathy.7

With a sheepish grimace, his brown leather gloved hand still fluttering over his breast pocket, Mr. Tanner turned to wheel back to where he had came and rushed at the old man, the flat of his hand slapping the side of the other’s skull a second before it crunched against the white metal hood. Mr. Tanner sensed rather than saw the dazed expression of the shorter man pressed between him and the Buick, and in a fluid motion, grabbed the silver head and slammed it down again.8

A garbled moan rose above the sound of bone crackling, and Mr. Tanner twisted the elderly man to face him. One filmy blue eye stared up and before the last spark was drowned out by two long streaks of blood, Mr. Tanner smiled like a child opening the first of many Christmas presents.9

Then he lowered his lips and whispered urgently, “Tell her I’m at 1794.”10

With a practiced flick of his wrist, Mr. Tanner opened the driver’s side door and shoved the corpse into the front seat. Quickly, yet without any wasted movements, he pushed the body so it lay against both seats and shut the door. Then he tugged at his suitcase and entered the backseat, the heavy door closing behind him.11

He eyed the other suitcase seated next to him and noted that it was compact, made of superior quality and most importantly, a spinach green color that was soothing to the eye. Mr. Tanner unzipped the suitcase, emptied the contents to the floor and within minutes transferred his belongings consisting of newly starched shirts, pants, toiletries and clean socks into the new luggage. 12

As he emerged from the backseat, Mr. Tanner straightened his heavy navy blue coat, brushed down his short brown hair and with a few darting glances, opened the driver door again. With expert fingers, he fished out the dead man’s wallet and after taking all cards and cash, returned the wallet to its original place.13

His steps easy and quiet, Mr. Tanner walked away from the car and headed down the darkened steps towards the bus platform, his mind glossing over a memory creaking like an old rocking chair and tinted a lemonade afternoon. 14

Grandmother. Her hair shivered a snowflake white, bolts of skin draping over a face that once had more than a passing acquaintance with beauty. She had once said something that only fifteen years later made any kind of sense. 15

“Child, good people always die young. It’s the bad ones that live forever.”16

Of course, Grandmother had lived to be 94, but then again, no one said she was good. But she had always been kind to Mr. Tanner. She was never good at baking cookies, and it was easier to get a rattlesnake to wrap its warm scales around you than expect any sort of contact from her sagging arms, but she was blood. And more importantly, she was bottled wisdom distilled into a quicksilver flavor, robust and slightly tangy. 17

Plus, she had married a man named Obediah Jones, a man of craft and medicine, dark as a walnut with a mind as keen as the wind that sliced his homeland with war and breathtaking ocean views. Obediah had watched God turn gray one night and often spoke of that event to the dead that gathered around him like chickens to corn. It was he that taught Mr. Tanner that there are ways to send messages to those that had passed the veil, but that the surest ones were those that were delivered in person.18

So Mr. Tanner spent day and night searching for messengers because, well, he had a lot to say.19

At a trashcan, Mr. Tanner flipped through the cards and read the name at the bottom. James Phillip Randall. He noted with interest that the driver’s license was to expire on this very date. Apparently, he had saved someone some time at the DMV. He’d just count it as his good deed for the day.20

After mingling the handful of bills with his own money, the rest of the items were carefully slipped into the trash receptacle, and after five minutes of waiting, Mr. Randall boarded the next bus that would take him to Hollywood and Vine. He would’ve taken the subway, but he was admittedly tired and unnecessary walking did not seem a productive use of energy. As for a taxi, yes, he certainly could afford it (at last count, his wallet held over fifteen hundred dollars), but he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a transparent mode of transportation. For although riding a bus was anathema to his fastidious nature; it contained many kinds of people, and many sets of fingerprints as well as other human particles.21

Mr. Randall took a seat near the rear of the bus and after setting his spinach green suitcase near his feet, reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his palm pilot. Taking the slender wand in hand, he jotted a few notes down including the date, name of the messenger and also the message sent. 22

By nature, Mr. Randall was a very organized individual, abhorring chaos and anything smacking of erratic behavior. He enjoyed order and although would not consider himself married to, at least had an intense flirtation with anal retentiveness. In many ways, the preciseness of life calmed him as no drug or drink ever could.23

So it was more than a touch ironic that randomness was now something he had to embrace in order to stay alive. 24

All law enforcement thrived on patterns. They searched for it like Johns for prostitutes, sweet-talking and stroking those patterns to murmur back a name, a face and a motive. And once they recognized the pattern, that predictable signature of weapon or victim, it then was only a matter of time before pursuit became capture. 25

And Mr. Randall had too much to do for that to ever happen.26

But in truth, despite the endless traveling, the sweat of different hotel rooms, grubby buses and the interminable seeking of the proper people who had no idea of what an honor he accorded them with his messages, Mr. Randall held not one iota of regret or even the smallest hesitation that he would do it all over again if given the chance. For what he did, he did for her.27

Only her.28

Obediah, that excellent font of all that was knowledge and understanding, had told him that the most powerful force in the universe was balance. Or rather, the attainment of balance. From the spark of electrons to the blazing waves of supernovas, each entity sought and needed its opposite. Happiness and sadness, light and dark, despair and hope, life and death, each made the other whole. Without the one, the other could not possibly exist.29

From the dregs of his thick, coffee accent, Obediah had shared, “You might think that one equals one. That it be even just ‘cause that be the way you count ‘em. But no, that is not how it really is. You must make the sum equal the sum. Do you think one butterfly equals all the oceans of the world? What about a thousand butterflies? Ten thousand? A million? Maybe. Maybe not.”30

Mr. Randall had struggled with this concept. In his cataloged and conceptualized consciousness, one did equal one. He had not one clue as to what his mentor meant, and even after August 17, 1998, still could not grasp ultimate understanding.31

Then Obediah had sighed and said, “When I use the body of a plant, I am allowed to enter. When I use the black cat bones, I may listen. When I use the flesh of a man, I may speak. But it is only when I have sacrificed my own blood, then and only then, may I understand.”32

After the funeral, they had sat in his little parlor, in a house he had built his grandmother when they were younger and drank bourbon straight but not neat, and Obediah had turned to Mr. Randall, his thin face weary and wary, shadowed like the corners of a room afraid of slipping on spilled moonlight.33

“You want her back, don’t you, boy? I know. I felt the same when your granny left me, too. But I’m too damn old to go chasing after that crazy bitch. And my time will be comin’ soon enough.”34

Mr. Randall had said nothing. But that did not mean he didn’t answer Obediah’s question.35

“You still a young man, so I guess it’s only fitting and proper you want to do what I can’t. So I’m gonna ask you something and then I’ll tell you something in return. What you do after that, well, it’s what you’ll do after that.”36

His eyes focused solely on a glass that was dangerously close to empty, Mr. Randall nodded and waited.37

“Tell me, boy. What is she worth to you?”38

“I can’t begin to say.”39

“Then I can’t begin to help you. Tell me. What is she worth to you?”40

“Please. Not right now.”41

“Then when? Not a year from now, when you’ve forgotten how she smelled? The way she fucked you and how she looked when she knew you would do anything to keep her from stopping? You can still feel her hair, can’t you? Because right now, she’s more alive than she will ever be.”42

His eyes pricked him as he asked hoarsely, “So tell me…what is she worth to you?”43

Mr. Randall’s face had screwed into a child’s wail as he contemplated Obediah’s question.44

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand what you’re asking.”45

Obediah had smiled sadly and took another sip. “Then I’ll tell you what I mean. I know what the spirits want. They’ve always needed it because it is the one thing they do not possess anymore. And there is nothing more desirable than what you can’t have, especially if you once did. But if you can give it to them, they will repay you with what you want most in this world.”46

For a second, something struck against Mr. Randall’s eye. It might have been called a gleam, but it was far too hard, instead, it was sharp and expectant, almost amber in color, set above hunger and the need to use teeth.47

“What do they want?”48

Obediah smiled, this time in genuine affection. “Remember what I said about balance? What do you think the dead could possibly want?”49

And with the quickness of fire, Obediah added, “But the real question, boy, is how much is she worth to you?”50

The bus squealed to a halt. 51

Mr. Randall peered through the grimy window and satisfied he was still two stops away from his destination, returned his attention to pressing tabs on the small electronic device. In the past, a simple notebook and pen had sufficed. But he had soon run out of room and so decided it was time to upgrade. He scrolled down and down until he reached the first entry.52

Emily Marie Dobson. 9/30/1998. He’d picked her because of her hair. It was the same length, with the same glorious reddish brown sheen. Her eyes were different, but only by a single shade of green. True, she was but a faint copy, her face rounder, nose shorter, jaw less delicate, but he figured she was about as close as he’d get under the circumstances. It would be as if looking through a hazy and imperfect mirror, the face indistinct, yet still recognizable. 53

He had lingered in her hair, stroked it actually, but did not touch any other part of her. His skin would’ve crawled to New Jersey before he did that. Besides, he didn’t need her that way. It would be as pointless as undressing a mannequin, or rubbing an erection against marble. Instead, he had brushed her hair away, tucked a strand behind her left ear and whispered: “I love you.”54

The first few times it had been hard to select the right message. He tried to be gentle, his words wooing and tender. He told her how much he missed her. Talked about their first date, that funny little Italian restaurant on Algonquin and Stuart. The small ribbon of beach under a patch of stars where he had proposed and heard her eyes say yes. His voice actually trembled when he asked Mr. Christopher David Owen (5/06/1999) to repeat to her that the only time he felt normal was in the months they had first moved into their new home on Beecher St., that lovely little structure of cream with shutters of soft gray and a lawn he loved to keep green and unwrinkled.. 55

During those halcyon days, he spoke to neighbors, the mailman and even grocery boys. He obeyed 7:30 in the morning, sang in 5:30 traffic and even touched church pews without bothering to consult his blood because Heaven was nothing as grand as endless clouds and operatic rejoicing. It was much simpler in scope. Dinner on the table, news at 10, and a crisply made bed. Next to her.56

It had been so good. So very damn good57

And since 9/30/1998, only once, to his eternal shame, did he lose his temper. On 1/04/2000, Carl Jay Mallory had felt his heart stop when a shard of his broken glasses had punched through the side of his throat, his brown eyes filled with questions as he stared up at a snarling face screaming, “Why? Why did you leave me, Goddamn you?” 58

His eyes had closed, but words still filtered into his fading conscious, gasping and ripping like his last breath.59

“You were all I ever wanted. That fucking letter didn’t say shit to me. What you did was unforgiveable. And when I get you back, I’ll make you pay…”60

Mr. Randall had tried to make up for that incident in dozens of ways since that time. He had pleaded, coaxed and begged forgiveness for his unconscionable outburst for, of course, he forgave her, and sent messages left and right asking for her understanding. She was all that was holy, good and pure. She was his angel and guiding light, without her, life was just life.61

Brakes hissed and shuddered to a stop. Mr. Randall rose, pulled on his luggage and stepped off the bus. He walked two blocks and entered a small complex and paid forty-five dollars in cash for a room that came with free cable.62

Within ten minutes, he changed his clothes and emerged from the room and headed to a coffee shop. He ordered a tuna sandwich with cheese, a glass of water, and a slice of tired apple pie. After he had finished, he paid the $8.97 bill in cash, and left a generous, although not too generous tip, and shrugged on his dark navy blue coat.63

Outside, he checked his watch. It was ten minutes to midnight. Not much time. He was frustrated over the fact that he had just a few hours to accomplish his goal, but he only had about 24 hours to get it done, board a plane and make final preparations.64

He allowed himself a quick sigh and headed south on foot until he reached another bus stop. The third stop placed him at St. Mary’s Hospital and he ambled toward the parking lot deck. As he took the stairs that led to the top level, his thoughts jackknifed back to its normal cycle of calculations. In his previous life he had been an accountant, the occupation well suited to his nature, and he found he had more than a passing talent for crunching and deciphering numbers. 65

He wasn’t particularly philosophical or even pretentious in his musings about the working of the universe, but he did hold to the belief that all science, and to an extent, metaphysics had their roots in numbers and in the sum of those numbers. He may not understand the nuances of poetry, the frippery of abstract art or even Obediah’s murky revelations, but he could count.66

And he also understood the word: exchange.67

Often, he thought back to Obediah’s statement of “You must make the sum equal the sum”. And since then, Mr. Randall delved as deeply as he could within himself to find out just how much was she worth to him? 68

At first, he was like any Sir Galahad and insisted he would quest on until everything was as it was. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t give or do and tallied up his columns with a determined air. However, what stopped him was simply the matter of time. There was China, India, and all of the Europe to contend with, and despite the fact he was a one man army, he was, alas, just one man. He’d be old and gray before it was all said and done, and he refused to see her when he could not be the man she had remembered.69

Then he thought, alright, how much for a year? Five hundred thousand? No, she was worth more than that. Six months? It’d take him one hundred years. A week? Perhaps he’d still own his all his original teeth. But the spirit world was greedy and nearly insatiable. It would be better to start off with a small amount of time. Just until he could get through his paces.70

Finally, he decided on a half-hour. 30 minutes. And if broken down further, 1,800 seconds. It sounded about right, considering that he’d rather spend one second with her than a lifetime with anyone else. It had taken him less than a minute to decide his course and over ten years to finally see the light at the end of the proverbial tunnel.71

But according to his calculations, each second was worth each life. 72

The sound of clicking heels alerted him that someone was heading towards a car. Casually, he followed her until she approached a gray Honda Civic, and just as the car alarm beeped, collapsed to his knees.73

Clicking heels came closer, the tip-tap noise mingling with his groan, and a hand touched his navy coat. A voice, roughly feminine and used to asking this question, floated around his head. “Sir, are you okay? I just got off shift, but I can call for someone if you need help.”74

“No, I’m fine,” Mr. Randall murmured faintly. “But my chest feels tight and-“75

“Don’t move, sir. I’ll be right back. Just stay calm. You might be experiencing a heart attack.”76

The hand moved momentarily off his shoulder but was immediately encircled at the wrist. Mr. Randall sprang up, clasped a palm against the lower part of a jaw and slashed it backwards, and a short popping sound echoed in the parking deck.77

Gently turning the awkwardly tilted head, Mr. Randall gazed deeply into half-closed eyes and quietly said, “1795. Almost there, angel. Tell her to wear that blue dress she wore to the company Christmas party. That’s my favorite.”78

After stuffing the body under a huge black SUV, Mr. Randall grabbed the fallen keys and got into the Honda. Sedately, he drove the car down the ramps and entered into the night traffic. At a stoplight, he reached inside the bulky brown purse beside him and pulled out a flat red wallet. Then he bent his head and read the license exposed through the clear plastic window.79

Elizabeth Ann Brandon. 5’6. 145 lbs. 8760 Winchester Dr. Los Angeles, CA 90615.80

The face was ordinary, almost homely. Not young, not old, somewhere between graduate school and a table of checkers at a rest home. Yet it was a face suited for nursing, neither completely compassionate nor exactly distant. Efficient came to Mr. Randall’s mind. The look of someone who had a job to do and did it without complaint or controversy.81

He bet he’d have liked to work with her.82

Mr. Randall pried open the side wallet slot. $142 dollars and a coupon for canned cat food. He glanced around the interior of the car, noting the absolute neatness of each square inch. Not married, or if married, definitely no children, he nodded with satisfaction. This was a woman that would not be overtly missed, or at least immediately.83

A good sign.84

As the Honda wheeled into a nearby suburb lined with box-shaped houses, Mr. Randall again marveled over how much he knowledge he could gleam from his messengers, the far majority without even the benefit of a single conversation exchanged. It would be logical to suppose that after so many had passed through his life; Mr. Randall would be hard-pressed to remember every one. And although he did record their names, if prodded, he could picture each of their faces as if they were his own.85

It was the least he could do. After all, he respected them, felt enormous gratitude over their performed services, and quite frankly, this hallowed group was the closest people Mr. Randall had allowed to him in the last ten years. That was why he strived to always be clean and quick. It wouldn’t be polite to bother them any more than necessary, and besides, the sooner he sent them on their way, the sooner she would receive his messages.86

The car shut off, and Mr. Randall quietly closed the door. He stared at the row of silent houses and proceeded to saunter up the street coldly illuminated by light posts spaced ten feet apart. After ten minutes of walking, Mr. Randall lifted a hand and started to point to houses nearby.87

In his head, he chanted: Eni. Meni. Minee. Mo.88

His breath streaming out like frosted cotton candy, Mr. Randall whispered, “Catch a tiger by the toe. If he hollers, let him pay fifty dollars every day. My mother told me to pick the very best and you are it.”89

His finger landed on a two-story soft beige structure blooming with silver roses in the front yard. Grass muffled his approach and after making sure no Rover waited on the other side of the fence, Mr. Randall deftly jumped over the tall wooden planks. He landed on his feet and swiftly made his way to the back porch, a small pick emerging from his coat pocket.90

The door was ridiculously easy to open, and when no alarm sounded, Mr. Randall slipped inside the dark kitchen and made his way soundlessly up the stairs. At the top of the landing, he paused and looked at the pictures lining the smooth walls and was very pleased to find the residing family was of Asian descent. 91

In a world and time where patterns could unravel the most perfect of plots, random selection had been his best friend and ally. The last few days had forced him to select messengers with common racial ancestry and although he was careful to strike at both male and female, there was nothing that threw off the hounds as a change of skin color and cultural background.92

Plus, the added bonus was that this would not be a one person case, it would be a unit, a household and in a safely tucked away section of the city.93

And it had been some time since a knife was last used.94

Down the hall Mr. Randall padded and turned the knob to the master bedroom. A snort followed by a raspy exhale of breath greeted him as he slid to the right side of the bed. He could just make out the dark head that twisted against a plump white pillow. Beside the occupant dressed in old fashioned pajamas, a smaller head faced in the opposite direction, a slender arm resting on top of the white comforter.95

Mr. Randall counted two more snores and then as the noise reached its peak, slit the thick throat, ending all sounds.96

“1795. I’ll be waiting in the kitchen at Grandma’s house. I’ll have your favorite wine ready.”97

The words barely registered in the still room, and Mr. Randall crossed to the other side of the bed and repeated his actions on the dead man’s wife. He paused and ran fingers through the dark hair, his eyes gentle and soft as he looked down at the oval face cradled in his hand.98

“I don’t say this often enough, but I love you so very much. And no, I didn’t forget the flowers. Roses, right? Peach with baby’s breath. Like the one you had at our wedding. How could you think I’d forget?”99

Mr. Randall ruefully shook his head and tossed back the comforter, revealing the two still bodies. He placed them ceremoniously on their backs and stripped them naked. Then he methodically carved strange and ancient symbols on their flesh, intricate indents that marched up and down their cooling forms. Finally, he drew the age-old inverted pentagram on each chest and then flipped the covers back over them. 100

Patterns. Definitely to be avoided.101

Soundlessly, Mr. Randall left the room and returned to the landing. There he opened the closest door to his right and even with only dim streetlight to guide him, Mr. Randall realized he had entered a child’s room. It was wallpapered with cartoon dinosaurs and toys littered the carpet near a small desk and bookcase. A boy’s room.102

As Mr. Randall loomed over the sleeping figure buried beneath a thick blue blanket, he smiled wistfully. How happy she’d be to see this little one. She’d always wanted a little boy while he had insisted on a little girl with her mother’s beautiful eyes and shiny curls. 103

He’d imagined that female child lying in her pink princess bed, tiny figure clean and sweet-smelling from her bath. He would have hugged her giggling body and planted kisses upon her pert nose and round cheeks before reaching for a slender foot to tug at a warm toe.104

Now this little piggy went to market. And this little piggy went to Heaven. And this little piggy said only two more to go. And this little piggy will tell her…105

“It’s time to come home,” Mr. Randall softly said and rammed the tip straight into the hollow at the base of the throat. 106

It was nearly three in the morning when Mr. Randall walked back to the car. In one hand he held keys, and in the other a grocery bag containing something lumpy and wet. Aside from the bag and its contents, he had been careful not to take or touch anything and even locked the back door as he left. Again, Mr. Randall believed in respect for his messengers. And since his method of randomness had forced him to do what he did, he did not even attempt to take the cash he knew resided in pockets and purses.107

Even he had a line he would not cross.108

However, he did record their names. Wong Family. God bless them for their generous hospitality. 109

Although he had gleaned all his esoteric knowledge from his Grandmother’s knee, Mr. Randall was hardly a bonafide believer of such subjects. He used them when he had to, when he felt his actions were becoming predictable, but he mostly saw them as necessary theatrics that would confuse and confound any pursers hot on his trail. Only Obediah’s darker teachings had appealed to him, and only because it was the surest way to get her back.110

Yes, Obediah would be proud of him. Proud to know his seedling had resulted in such fair fruit. And when he returned home tomorrow, Mr. Randall would share all that had happened and insist that Obediah help him plan his next and final step. After all, Obediah was blood. He was the only person who Mr. Randall called family, and the one man who could understand what had to be done.111

His hands sheathed in the extra pair of gloves he had brought with him, Mr. Randall started the car and drove up the winding roads of the Pacific Highway 1. Beside him, the black swells spread like unfolding sheets on an enormous bed before being childishly tugged back by unseen hands. On the other side, only a dozen or so headlights flashed by before he reached a small outcrop of rock that jutted out about fifteen feet from the road.112

Mr. Randall pulled to a stop, got out with bag in hand and walked towards the edge. The drop to the surf was around twenty feet, but it would do for his purposes. A few tugs and the tie at the top of the bag gave and with a quick toss, it fluttered down until it landed with a small splash at the bottom.113

Even before the splash, Mr. Randall had already turned on his heel and got back into the car. He knew the sea would conceal any skin flakes hidden within the used gloves and as for the intestines and eyes, they’d soon be digesting within the bellies any creatures roaming within its depths. He would’ve sliced off the thin layer of fat to further the theatrics, but there simply wasn’t enough time. And time was something he always seem to lack.114

Mr. Randall drove until he sighted a small diner that had a few cars parked in front. Then he drove another few minutes and parked the Honda behind a large grocery store that still had a tiny number of customers milling inside shopping.115

He shut the motor and leaned back against the seat, rolling and rubbing the back of his navy coat on the gray fabric. Then he got out of the car, beeped the alarm and headed to the last dumpster near the end of the building. There he slid out of the coat, shook it out twice, and threw the coat into the box-shaped trash along with the car keys, closing the lid quietly.116

For a second, he allowed the cold to bite into his thin blue button-up shirt, the bracing wind doing wonders for his concentration. Above him, stars winked on and off like some cosmic neon sign, diligently blinking despite the on-coming strands of morning fog that threatened to swallow them come morning.117

Mr. Randall smiled faintly. The next time he saw those same stars, she would be next to him, and even though he knew they had so much to talk about, he was determined to save at least a few of them to simply hold her like he had the night he proposed, their arms linked around each other’s bodies, their hearts beating against each other.118

After the short walk down the road, Mr. Randall entered the diner, headed to the far end of the counter and sat down on a stool. A young and bored waitress took his order of chicken soup and a cup of coffee. As the bowl was plonked down in front of him, the hot liquid brushing up against the rim, Mr. Randall placed his cup of coffee in front of him and heard a chuckle sound a few seats down from him.119

“Great service here, huh?”120

“Maybe the morning shift’s better.”121

“I wouldn’t bet the farm on that, pal. Don’t know why I always stop here when I’m heading back. Maybe ‘cause it’s the only thing that’s opened that’s not some fast-food joint.”122

Mr. Randall flashed a friendly smile. “At least you can save yourself tip money at a McDonald’s.”123

Another quick chuckle followed by a nod answered him. 124

“Say, aren’t you cold, buddy? Noticed you don’t have a coat on. You’re a braver soul than I.”125

Mr. Randall crinkled up his eyes sheepishly and tilted his head conspiratorially. “I, uh…I was in L.A., and I saw this kid walk by and well, let’s just say he needed the coat more than I did.”126

Blue eyes widened approvingly. “Wow. Didn’t know Good Samaritans existed anymore. Good for you.”127

“Yeah, well, I got lots of coats back home. Just seemed the right thing to do, y’know?”128

“Back home? You don’t live around here, then?”129

Mr. Randall shook his head, then spooned in some soup. “Nope. North Texas. Haven’t been home in while. Been out here on business. But it’s time to go back.”130

The man nodded his brown head. “I hear you. I’m driving back home myself. San Diego. God I hate L.A., but business needs must. Too bad I hate to fly, otherwise I’d already be in my own bed by now.”131

Mr. Randall responded with a sympathetic nod. “Yeah, not too fond of flying myself. The only good thing is getting back to the wife. Whatever gets me back to her, I’ll take it.”132

“Damn straight, pal. Damn straight.”133

Mr. Randall returned the grin and tucked back into his soup. After he finished, he left a ten dollar bill on the counter and rose from his seat.134

As he passed by the other man, he suddenly turned and shyly asked, “Say, you wouldn’t mind if I bummed a cigarette would you?”135

“How’d you know I smoked?”136

Mr. Randall shrugged. “Just looked a smoker. If you’re not, I’m sorry I asked.”137

The man chuckled again. “Don’t be. I’m one. If you don’t mind, let me first pay and we’ll both go outside for one.”138

Patiently, Mr. Randall waited outside the door. Then as the door opened again, he walked toward the side of the building, the other man’s footsteps close behind him.139

“Goddamn California. Man can’t even smoke in front of a building anymore. It’s bullshit.” The sound of rustling and Mr. Randall accepted the Camel before leaning close to the lighter.140

The flare of fire died out and a dull red dot appeared to hover in thin air. Then the red dot glowed brighter as the man inhaled deeply. “I’m telling you, before too long you won’t even be able to smoke out in the fresh air. Fuckin’ Nazis.”141

Mr. Randall blew out a ghost cloud and sucked in again. “Yet another reason to go back home. Although the wife wants me to quit, so I guess it all equals out in the end.”142

The stream of smoke wavered a little as the other man made both an amused and disgusted sound. “Funny shit. What is with wives? Sally used to do that, too. Used to say this shit’ll kill me. Huh.”143

Mr. Randall’s ears perked up at the desolate note interjected at the end of the sentence. Carefully, he murmured, “Used to?”144

The red dot lowered and the sound of a foot sliding around dirt rose. “Yeah. Car accident a few years back. She didn’t make it. Ironic, huh?”145

“Sorry.”146

“It’s okay. Shit happens. Still happens, I guess.”147

The cigarette dropped to the ground near Mr. Randall’s feet. He ground it out and then stooped to pick up the butt while his other hand swept over another object on the ground.148

“If you could see her again, what would you say to her?”149

The other man took one last drag and flicked away the butt, the red dot exploding into a series of flying sparks. “What would I say to her? The usual shit, I guess. Missed her, love her…but mostly, how the hell did she get coffee stains out of my dress shirts?”150

Mr. Randall hefted the rock slowly in his hand as the other man laughed at his own comment. Then he stood in front of him, a small smile lifting up the corner of his mouth.151

“Okay.”152

The blow shattered the man’s right temple and he crumpled to the ground without a sound. 153

Mr. Randall slid his arms under the corpse’s shoulders and dragged it into a thick patch of dune weeds and quickly stripped off the black jacket. He grimaced at the color, but decided this was not the time for personal preferences. 154

Keys jangled in the jacket as Mr. Randall bent to the back pocket and took out a flat wallet. He reached inside the right side of the coat and flicked the lighter.155

John Patrick Smith. 5’11. 180 lbs. Eyes: Blue. Hair: Brown.156

It wasn’t a perfect match, but if glanced at (and that was all airport security ever did), it was a passable likeness. He’d had worse luck.157

Mr. Smith sighed and straightened, shoving the wallet into his back pocket. This would be the first time he’d send off a messenger empty-handed. But the man had his own to deliver, and Mr. Smith was nothing if not a romantic.158

“Tell Sally I said you’re welcome.”159

Mr. Smith took out the car keys and noticed it was a rental. With quick strides, he headed to the front of the diner and unlocked a red Toyota Sedan with the rental car company’s tags. Once inside, he tuned the radio to a local Jazz station and drove within the speed limit all the way back to the hotel.160

Dawn was just curling her fingers around thick building corners when Mr. Smith entered into the room. He shrugged off the black jacket and sat down on the bed, remote in hand. He watched the morning news for awhile, carefully noting if any reports concerned him. When he was satisfied that it did not, he stood up and started to unbutton his shirt and undo his belt. At the last minute, when he was naked and had the shower running, he peeled off his gloves and walked under the hot water.161

Once dried and wrapped in another clean towel, Mr. Smith secured the curtains and then crawled into the bed, palm pilot clasped loosely in his hand. He turned on the bedside lamp and made a few quick notes, his eyes flicking up and down as he scrolled.162

1799. One more to go.163

Mr. Smith tilted his head back until it rested against the headboard. His lips thinned as he concentrated on what he still needed to do. He’d catch the bus to the airport after he dumped the rental car at the mall. And once home, he had to visit the liquor store, the florist and stop by that funny little Italian restaurant on Algonquin and Stuart. Then he’d go home and Obediah.164

He thought about Obediah’s words. How it took his blood to understand. In the end, it was fitting that Mr. Smith would have to use his own blood to fetch his wife back. Obediah would understand. He’d been doing poorly lately and missing his Grandmother like the dickens. 165

And once Obediah had shown him what he needed to do, Mr. Smith would make sure that he wasn’t the only one who got his wish.166

Setting the palm pilot to the side, Mr. Smith clicked off the bedside lamp and caught the tail end of a commercial, the announcer sounding both playful and ominous as he stated: What do you want on your Tombstone?167

He smiled, and said softly, “Love. I did it for love.”168

Then he clicked the remote, and settled comfortably against the pillows. He was so tired and needed his rest. But still a self-satisfied expression flitted across his features. Tonight had been nearly perfect, and he couldn’t wait for tomorrow.169

After all, it would be Mr. Smith’s Big Day. 170