Doctor Woorley’s Black Bag

Bobby Pritchard clicked the big car's headlights to bright as he drove slowly under the arched Paradise-by-the-Sea sign. From the back, one really couldn't tell what the sign said, even with the high beams. But the back of the sign was all Bobby was ever going to see again, because he was leaving for good. Paradise-by-the-Sea was a quaint little resort just off the East Coast and had been the location of the Annual Golden Agers of America Retreat for the past dozen years, bringing to the little town, where Bobby was the ace mechanic, some of the nicest grand parents anyone would ever want to meet--and as far as Bobby Pritchard was concerned, some of the richest. Bobby had always complained about the large influx of oldsters during the week-long event--never able to quite see the trees for the forest, until one day he ran smack dab into a tree trunk wearing a diamond necklace. Suddenly he had his eyes opened and he saw the meaning of life, the meaning of the Golden Agers invading his hometown every year.

So a few weeks before the thirteenth annual retreat, Bobby quit his full-time job as a mechanic and went to work at Paradise-by-the-Sea, along with a bunch of high school kids half his age, as a valet/waiter/greeter/games player. Bobby, with his ulterior motive tucked away safely in his back pocket, proved to be such a natural working with some of the older adults, that he became something of a favorite among the Golden Agers. So that at game time everyone wanted Bobby to be on their team--which was just the way Bobby wanted it. First he'd win their trust, then he'd take their jewels.


Bobby patted the soft leather case that rested on the seat next to him. It used to belong to Dr. Woorley, as did the car. Now the car, the bag, and everything in the bag belonged to Bobby. He was so proud of the way the evening had unfolded, almost script-like, so proud of the loot he had scavenged, that he smiled brightly as he drove along, brighter than the glistening hood ornament on front of the mile-long Cadillac. And then he laughed loudly, louder than the vibration from the front-end shimmy.What a shame, Bobby thought. The man droves a thirty-thousand-dollar car less than a year old and he couldn't keep the thing aligned. He could have had it done for less than eighty bucks. Not that it mattered. Bobby was going to ditch the car first chance he got. With the loot in the black bag, he could buy several Cadillacs. The car began to shudder. Bobby increased his speed, like a pilot trying to get through some turbulence, when the left front side of the car dropped and the bumper kissed the asphalt with a bang. The pavement screamed and spit sparks that pitted the clean, white paint along the driver's side of the Cadillac. Bobby was jolted, much like a kid on a seesaw whose partner has suddenly jumped off, while the left front tire rolled noiselessly across the double yellow line and into a gnat infested swamp. Bobby jerked the steering wheel a hard right, trying to turn the car back away from the shoulder and the leather bag slid across the seat and stopped against his thigh. He stretched out a protective arm. Then the right tire took off to the swamp and the right bumper dropped and began digging its own furrow at a speed still above the legal limit. Clawing frantically for the door handle as the headlights skipped across the watery marsh the car was careening for, Bobby cursed Dr. Woorley for having neglected the car's alignment. The door flew open and he spilled out of the front seat and onto the ground, where the smells of the burning asphalt, and now the newly plowed soil, were strong. The ground was soft and the thick grass almost like a pillow. He could have been falling onto a feather bed. He could hear the Cadillac, farther away, splashing, bubbling, drowning.

As Bobby reeled head over feet, something making a glassy, jingling sound, tumbled past Bobby. He recognized it as the sound of priceless loot in a doctor's black bag. In the midst of his flip-flopping, he smiled another broad smile of satisfaction--one that froze on his face, to be preserved for the authorities later, because his head found the only lump in the soft bed and hit it hard. Dr. Woorley's black bag came to a jingling stop only inches from his head.

Later, as the police and camera crews worked in the area cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape, someone would comment that had the young man landed only a few inches over, perhaps on the doctor's bag, he'd probably have survived the crash without a single scratch.

"OK, everybody," the short lady with glasses and a big purple bead necklace said loudly as she clapped her hands. The nametag on her lapel didn't give her name, only her title: GAMES DIRECTOR. "The time limit is up and it seems most everyone is back. It's time to determine the winner of this year's scavenger hunt." The scavenger hunt was the biggest, most popular event of the retreat every year. Nothing was off limits; nobody locked their doors, and the Golden Agers came and went as they pleased. Now, nearly a hundred of retreaters piled their treasures onto card tables as the GAMES DIRECTOR came with her list, looking over the rims of her glasses and checking each team's finds. After she made her rounds, she announced that Dr. Woorley's team had won. Even the disappointed clapped enthusiastically and then began the business of returning their finds. "Howard, this is your dull razor," Dr. Woorley called above the din. Howard Spearman laughed and accepted his razor back from Dr. Woorley. "Congratulations," he said. "Thanks. Fun game, huh? I sure thought Bobby's team was going to give me a run for my money. Have you seen him around?" Howard shook his head. "Me neither. The last time I saw him, though, he was doing pretty good." Dr. Woorley discreetly slipped Cecil Johnson his lower plate. Cecil had left it lying out on his nitestand. "He had my black bag and he was filling it up right and left. Hey, whose are those?" Dr. Woorley pointed to Howard's pile of salvage. "Oh, these are yours." Howard picked up the shiny lug nuts and shook them in his hand as if they were dice. "Took'em off the front of your old Cadillac." Howard laughed and poured the shiny bits of metal into Dr. Woorley's cupped hands. "Don’t worry, friend--I left one on each side just to make sure the tires wouldn't fall off."

Rosie's Last Stand

The warning on the bottle had more or less said that one drop could halt a charging rhino, so Andrew Macatil, with a shaky hand, added two drops to his wife's herbal tea. (The person who had written the warning didn't know Rosie.) And when Andrew offered his wife her drink, his hands were trembling so much that the tea was white capping like a stormy sea.

"What are you so nervous about?" Rosie, Andrew's wife of eight years, barked. She clutched the glass and calmed the waves. "You'd think you'd just murdered someone."
Ironically enough, Andrew thought, those were the last words ever out of Rosie's mouth (Umph! didn't count), because first she sipped and then gulped the tainted drink and a moment later she dropped like a rhino from a tree limb. "Umph!"

Andrew had done it. He could hardly believe it. He had snuffed her just like the bottle had warned. He slapped his imaginary partner-in-crime a high-five. But his excitement quickly faded when he thought about getting rid of the body. He had to get her away from the house, make it look like an accident. Not only did she have ninety pounds on Andrew, but now it was all dead weight, so to speak.

Andrew had married Rosie for all the obvious conveniences: they worked in the same factory, so it would be easy for them to car pool; she cooked (somewhat) and he ate; he was a man and she was a woman. However, he had grown tired of the constant harping, the barking, the griping, the yapping, and the yipping. It was like being married to a zoo. And he didn't have the nerve to ask her for a divorce. He'd rather kill her than do that--and so that's exactly what he’d done.
A knock fell at the door, causing Andrew to scurry around and around the body, as if three laps would make it disappear. Finally he realized that he was going to have to move her. Careful to use his legs, Andrew lifted Rosie just enough to plop her into his big easy chair. Her arms dangled over the sides like wet noodles, so he carefully raised each heavy hand and placed them in her lap. Her dark green eyes were glued to the dead TV set across the room, so for the sake of verisimilitude he turned it on.
As he walked away to answer the door, Andrew felt Rosie's eyes on him. They followed him like a full moon will follow you on a drive through the country, like the eyes of a priceless portrait hanging in a museum. Andrew shivered, straightened his shirt, and opened the door--where Clara Debussy stood filling the doorway. Andrew had never met Clara before, but she introduced herself at the same instant his eyes beheld her, so there was never any question as to who she was.

She carried a tote bag with the words Beautiful Babes on the side and presented Andrew with a stiff forearm, driving past his 145 pounds into the living room without an invitation. "This is Thursday," she said. "Rosie’s expecting me. Where is she? Ah, Rosie. There you are." Clara sat on the stool before Rosie and plopped her bag on the coffee table between them. She began dumping bundles of brochures, tubes of lipstick, bottles of eyeliner, packets of face powder and a thick order pad from her bag before she noticed something odd about Rosie and stopped. Andrew held his breath.

"Rosie, what's the matter?" Clara squinted and leaned forward. So did Andrew. "Why, you're not wearing any base this morning, are you? Always remember, Rosie--a happy face wears a good base."

Andrew exhaled and said, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Debussy, but Rosie's not feeling too well today, so--"

"If Rosie doesn't want me here--" she cut Andrew a hard look over her shoulder (as did Rosie) "--then let Rosie tell me." She looked smugly at Rosie and continued to dump her goods.

Andrew said, "I'll be in the kitchen."

He ran to the sink and nearly drowned himself splashing cold water on his face. He stopped only long enough to talk to his reflection in a copper-bottomed pot that hung from a carousel above the sink. Stay calm, Andrew, old boy. Just be firm. Suggest she come back tomorrow. Smile. Be friendly. Don't take no stiff forearm from no short chubby cosmetic lady and-- Andrew stopped himself--a move that may have saved the cosmetic lady's life. Now he had two bodies to get rid of, one alive and one dead.

Clara's face lit up when he walked back into the living room.

"Mr. Macatil. Just in time. Rosie placed her order and she needs the checkbook." And then, almost apologetically, she added, "She a bit low on some basics and since I'm running a big sale now is a good time to stock up. So if you could just make the check for a hundred and ninety-five dollars, I'll be on my way.

Andrew did an about-face to the kitchen sink where he consulted the Copper-bottomed pot again. Checkbook. Checkbook. Just find the checkbook and pay the lady. Get rid of her. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she's blackmailing me. Maybe I should take this pot in there and-- Andrew stopped himself again. He found Rosie's purse on the kitchen table, fished out the checkbook, and returned to the living room just in time. "What's going on here?" he said. Rosie was still in the chair. Only now she had a bib tied around her neck and Clara, standing before her like an artist before a blank canvass, was applying one of Beautiful Babes' top-of-the-line cosmetics to her pale face. "Every customer is entitled to a free facial with every one hundred dollars' worth of orders," she explained. "Out! Out of my house!" Andrew bellowed. He'd never yelled like that before, not while Rosie was still living. It felt so good that he did it again. "Take your bag and go!" he screamed and pointed dramatically at the front door. When Clara saw that Rosie wasn't going to object, she grabbed up her empty bag and stormed out, not bothering to take her samples or brochures. Rosie merely sat quietly and watched her leave. Alone again, Andrew paced about the room--behind Rosie's chair as much as possible--and formulated a plan. He'd take her to the car and maybe go for a little drive in the country--maybe down by the landfill. (It felt good to know that just because he'd killed his wife, he hadn't lost his sense of humor.) He turned off the TV, hoisted Rosie to her feet, and concentrated on all the laws of physics and leverage he’d learned in high school as he traversed the distance across the living-room floor. It was surprisingly easy. When he opened the front door, however, two policemen were there to greet him, smiling and nodding simultaneously. Andrew attempted to speak: "Wha-what? I—er—ah--" "Mr. Macatil?" the front officer, the small officer, the officer with the yellow notepad and pencil in his hand, said. "Ah--yes?" The officer looked at Rosie and checked his notepad. "Mrs. Macatil?" "She is," Andrew answered for her. "I'm Officer Spooner." The officer touched the pencil eraser to his chest. "And this is Officer Lebo." He hitched the pencil back over his shoulder, indicating the big officer behind him. Andrew figured this second officer had at least a good fifty pounds of his own over Rosie. "We got a call from a Mrs. Clara Debussy a few minutes ago," said Officer Spooner. "She said you placed a big order and then refused to pay. Is that right?" "Ah, yes. I mean, no! I mean, I placed a big order, but I want to order more—I want to make it a really big order. I may have said something to make her think I was finished, but I wasn't." Andrew's brain was clicking. "If you might know where I can reach her, I'll gladly take care of it." Andrew was getting obsequious and Rosie was getting heavy. "Might I say, Mrs. Macatil--" Officer Lebo spoke up from behind Officer Spooner. "--you do look lovely.” Officer Spooner smiled at Andrew and said, "These mix-ups happen all the time. We'll talk with Mrs. Debussy and see if we can iron things out. Just try to be a bit clearer about your placing orders from now on, Mr. Macatil. Okay?" Andrew nodded. "Have a good day, Mr. Macatil," Officer Spooner said. "And sorry to trouble you. Good day to you, Mrs. Macatil." As the officers were walking away, Andrew could no longer uphold the laws of leverage. He felt his lumbar vertebrae crack and he and Rosie swayed back and forth, like lovers slow dancing, until his knees gave in and Rosie overwhelmed him. They crashed onto the coffee table, sending powder compacts, wands of mascara and eyeliner, tubes of lipstick, and Beautiful Babes brochures up into the air and onto the floor. Andrew's neck cracked at a point just below the medulla oblongata. "Hey! Mrs. Macatil, Mr. Macatil, break it up!" Officer Spooner cried, racing back through the front door with his partner. He and Lebo lifted Rosie from off of Andrew without a fight. Officer Lebo eased her onto Andrew's easy chair while Officer Spooner knelt by Andrew and placed a trained hand against his carotid artery. "I'll call an ambulance," Lebo said, reaching for the phone. "And a coroner," Spooner announced. "He's dead." They turned their attention to Rosie. "It's always the pretty ones you have to watch out for," Officer Lebo said, slightly disappointed. He unhitched his handcuffs, cuffed one of Rosie's thick wrists, and wrestled around her midriff for her other hand. "You can cooperate, Mrs. Macatil, or we can do this the hard way," he threatened. From behind, he pushed her head forward, seized her other hand, and cuffed her wrists together. "Okay, now--on your feet." Nothing. Officer Spooner retrieved his notepad and, with one hand, flipped it to a worn page and said, "Rosie Macatil, as an officer of the law, it is my duty to inform you that you have the right to remain silent--"

Lawrence turned the doorknob and breathed a sigh of relief when he discovered it unlocked. Many times the client remembered every detail, time, place, money, alibi, and then would forget to leave the door unlocked. He silently thanked Mr. Thigpen and tiptoed into the shadowy kitchen, not much more than a shadow himself in his black long-sleeved turtleneck, black slacks, black Reeboks, and black ski mask rolled up on his forehead. He wouldn’t pull the mask down until later when it came time to earn his money.
Once in the strange house Lawrence turned up the sensitivity dial on hi8s senses as a good writer should: the refrigerator hummed, almost growled, protecting its cold goods like a guard dog; the green numbers of the digital clock on the range glowed 12:15, the colon between the hours and minutes blinking once every second, as steady as clockwork; and the only light, the low wattage incandescent over the range, draped a yellowish tent over the harvest gold range and onto the speckled linoleum floor. Oh, this is good, he thought. Got to write all this down when I get back to my notebook.
Lawrence Longfellow had decided to be a writer his sophomore year in high school after hearing for the two-dozenth time, “Longfellow? Are you going to be a writer, too?” He soon found out that once he said yes, people usually just said, “Good luck,” and that was that. But if he said no or I don’t know, it was always, “Well, what else can you do with a name like Longfellow?”
So twenty-one odd jobs and fifteen years later, Lawrence was the proud published author of two odes: “Ode to Cold, Cold Spring Water” and “Ode to the Miners of the Motherlode Who Never Found It” (a poem which every other magazine rejected because of some major scanning problems). And for his efforts he received four contributor’s copies and a year’s subscription to the San Andreas Fault Quarterly.
Lawrence lied to his family about his writing success in order to explain the Porsche and the home in upstate New York. He told them he was using the pen name Stephen King instead of his real name because Longfellow suddenly didn’t sound like a credible name for a writer. His family, living in a small town in Tennessee, was very proud of Lawrence and went often on all-day excursions to bookstores to count the number of books Lawrence had written. But Lawrence, a.k.a. Stephen King, had a feeling his luck was about to change. He’d been working this same job, a very lucrative job at that, for the past year and had filled a notebook with experiences and insights for a book that’d make a Robert Ludlum novel look like a Walt Disney production. He even had a working title: The Personal Diary of a Hit Man.

Mr. Thigpen had told Lawrence that he wouldn’t be down for his midnight snack until about twelve thirty, so Lawrence used this free time to explore the refrigerator for some fringe benefits.
He discovered a brand-new tub of onion dip and then rummaged through the cabinets until he found a pack of wavy chips. Lawrence made a big production of the party favors. He spread out a napkin, poured himself a glass of milk, and used the first chip on the dip as if it was a shovel. With the goods poised before his open mouth, Lawrence froze at the sight of a shadowy figure slipping in through the same door he had entered earlier.
Lawrence’s eyes had acclimated somewhat to the yellowish light but, still, all he could make out was a dark form easing the door closed and tiptoeing into the room. Just as quietly as the dark figure tiptoed across the linoleum, Lawrence lowered the chip and dip to the counter, left his stool, and crept backwards until his searching hand found the refrigerator door. He yanked the door open and a monolith of light fell into the dark room and lit up everything in its path, with the exception of the shadow frozen on tiptoes. Lawrence could see it wasn’t a shadow at all but only someone dressed in a black turtleneck, black slacks, black Reeboks, and a black ski mask. The mask was rolled up on this person’s forehead so that only a rosy complexion, beautiful almond-shaped eyes, and a delectable nose could be seen.
“Barbara?” Lawrence asked incredulously. “Barbara Monroe? Is that you?”
The face of the shadow smiled into the light of the refrigerator and answered, “Why, Lawrence Longfellow. How long has it been?”
Lawrence closed the refrigerator and offered his first true love a stool at the counter where they sat and talked about life since high school. “So did you ever pursue that acting career?” Lawrence asked. “What else could I do with a name like Monroe? I’ve made a few commercials. Maybe you’ve seen a couple,” she said hopefully. “Do you remember the Bow Wow Burgers for dogs?” Lawrence nodded. “Well, that was me setting the bowl on the floor. You can see both of my arms and my feet.” Her pink face beamed with pride. Lawrence was genuinely impressed. That was closer to big time than having two poems published in the San Andreas Fault Quarterly. He pushed an unbroken chip into his mouth and crunched. It was about then that he fell in love all over again with Barbara’s almond-shaped eyes. Had he ever noticed a woman's eyes before? Maybe only now because everything else was so well camouflaged, he rationalized. But he had to admit that even as a silhouette Barbara was…well…womanly. As Lawrence recalled, she was one of the few girls in high school who was womanly before graduation. She had been the buxom blonde captain of the cheerleaders who sat next to him in study hall (only because Coach Bryant had been a stickler for alphabetical seating arrangements). And although Lawrence was head over heels in love with her, they never spoke to one another unless Barbara needed a pencil. (Lawrence always had a pocket full of pencils. What else was a kid named Longfellow supposed to have?) And then it was always the same predictable dialogue. “Have you got a pencil I could borrow?” “Yeah, sure.” Lawrence figured he must have told her “yeah, sure” a dozen and a half times his senior year. He was flattered that she remembered his pursuit of writing career, but then she brought up the same thing again. He nearly told her about the odes, but after hearing about the Bow Wow Burgers thought differently and told her instead of his plans for a novel. Barbara thought that was such a great idea she offered to help him out by lending some of her personal experiences, some that she promised would make for juicy chapters. “And this experience would make a heck of a twist, don’t you think?” he said. “I come here to knock off this guy’s wife, run into an old high school sweeth—uh, I mean friend,” he blushed but continued, “and you were just coming here to…” Lawrence searched his memory but came up empty. “Barbara, what are you doing here?” Barbara lowered her eyes and a wisp of blonde hair escaped from her ski mask and fell across her right eye. She looked up demurely and Lawrence reached instinctively for the pencil in his pocket he knew she would ask for. The two almonds became troubled. “Lawrence, I had no idea you’d be here. Mr. Thigpen hired me to—“ “Ahh,” he said and nodded with understanding as if she had explained fully. “He did seem terribly nervous when he hired me. Of course you know most of our clients always are. I guess he just wanted to be doubly sure. Ha-ha.” The sound of footsteps caused them both to look toward a darkened doorway that led into the interior of the house. Lawrence glanced at the green digits on the range, 12:35, past time for Mr. Thigpen’s midnight snack. He turned back to Barbara, who had disappeared behind the counter. She pressed her finger to her lips and made a shushing gesture just as the door opened and Mr. Thigpen, clad in a red plaid housecoat with drab-green pajamas underneath entered the kitchen. It was obvious he had not taken the time to comb what little hair he had before coming down. The little tufts on each side just above the ears stuck out at curious angles, accidentally creating the latest teenage rage. Mr. Thigpen took one look at the chips and dip and said to Lawrence, “Hey, kid. You’ve got a job to do, don’t you?” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder apparently in the direction of the Thigpen bedroom where he would find Mrs. Thigpen sleeping. Lawrence left Barbara crouched behind the counter and squeezed past Mr. Thigpen in the doorway, rolling the ski mask down as he disappeared to earn his money. Barbara dared to peek over the edge of the counter after Lawrence had gone. She screwed her face up into an expression of disgust at the sight of the disheveled Mr. Thigpen and the even more disgusting sandwich he was creating. Something like ham or bologna hung out unevenly around the edges of the bun, dripping mayonnaise, mustard, and pickle relish onto the counter. Such a slob, Barbara thought. He should be happy that any woman would want to live with him and now he was trying to kill that one. Tisk, tisk. As Mr. Thigpen ate his sandwich, accompanied by the appropriate sound effects, Barbara crept unnoticed to the back door, turned the know, and jarred it just wide enough for her to slip through, but for the second time that night, the warm-cold light of the refrigerator fell on her. “Oh, good, good,” Mr. Thigpen, manning the refrigerator door, said. “Perfect timing. He just went up. I’ll go into the living room and take care of it while you go up and take care of him.” She had disliked his shifty, peanut-shaped eyes before and liked them even less now. Barbara had to admit Mr. Thigpen did have an ingenious plan: hire a killer to knock off his wife and trash the place to make it look like a robbery; then hire another killer to kill the first one, keep the gun and tell the authorities you shot the intruder. With such a large insurance policy on the wife, if she suddenly got knocked off by a mysterious, disappearing intruder, someone might ask questions. But if she gets knocked off and Mr. Thigpen comes up with the dead body of the said intruder, he’s a hero—and a rich man. Barbara sat motionless on a stool at the counter and watched five green minutes go by on the range clock. Instead of going upstairs and killing Lawrence, she was absently admiring Mrs. Thigpen’s kitchen d_cor. With the exception of Mr. Thigpen’s mess, it was a quaint, attractive room: wooden canisters were stacked on the counter in one corner; blue pot holders with chickens and cows and pigs and ducks on them matched the towels hanging from the drawer handles; three china cups on saucers dotted the windowsill over the sink; and some copper-bottomed pots and pans adorned a carousel that hung from the ceiling above the range. Barbara felt cozy in the kitchen, comfortable with the domestic atmosphere. This was exactly how she would fix her kitchen if she had one, she thought. Must have been professionally done. She couldn’t do it. Not to Lawrence Longfellow. It had been such a pleasant surprise to see him. And thought they had hardly said a sentence to one another in high school (wasn’t he the quiet kid with lots of pencils?), it was plain to see that they now had lots in common. And he had looked so cute with the ski mask rolled up on his forehead, his eyes like two little acorns. Now she remembered! His picture had been right next to hers in the school annual. That’s how she was able to remember his name so easily. And in the picture he wore those awful glasses that covered up those pretty little acorn-shaped eyes; she would have remembered those. No. She had been wanting to make a clean break from this line of work and maybe tonight was the night. She’d break her contract, get a job as a waitress like all the other aspiring actresses, and continue to work for that one big break. The sound of furniture crashing to the floor and vases and candy dishes shattering came from beyond the darkened door. Barbara slipped a wavy ship into her mouth, crunched much louder than Mr. Thigpen’s concert, and waited. Barbara was having a vision of Lawrence’s dead body lying across Mrs. Thigpen’s dead body, as had been the plan, when Lawrence walked back into the kitchen. She noticed he had a .45 automatic just like hers tucked into the front of his belt. He looked at Barbara and shook his head. His eyes were two wistful acorns. “I couldn’t do it, Barbara. For the first time I’m breaking a contract.” He laid his .45 on the counter. His smile beamed brighter than a refrigerator light and Barbara knew exactly how he felt. She laid her .45 on the counter next to his. “I’m quitting, too,” she said. Lawrence pushed the dip aside and took Barbara’s hand. The acorns looked lovingly into the almonds. “Do you know I once drew a heart around our pictures in the school annual?” he said. She squeezed his hand affectionately. The moment was shattered by the crashing sound of Mr. Thigpen bursting through the kitchen door. He flipped the lights on and stood squarely and squatly in the doorway. In the full brightness of two hundred watts everything was in living color, and Barbara and Lawrence could tell by Mr. Thigpen’s livid face that Mr. Thigpen was dangerously enraged. “What’s going on here?” He looked to Barbara, then to Lawrence, then to Barbara, then to Lawrence. “She’s still up there!” he said to Lawrence. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Mrs. Thigpen’s bedroom. The cords in his neck stood out and pulsed as steadily as a digital clock. “Snoring like a bear! You…you’re fired! Do you hear me!” He pointed a fat, livid finger at Lawrence’s nose. Slowly the realization that he must be talking to a ghost spread over his face. His jaw quivered with anger. “And—and what are you doing here anyway?” He looked accusingly at Barbara. “What is he doing here anyway?” he said to her. He swung his arm about until his fat finger was aimed at Barbara’s nose. “You’re fired, too!” Then he waved both hands frantically att he two shadows. “BOTH OF YOU ARE FIRED!” Lawrence and Barbara fired their .45s simultaneously, producing a .90 caliber blast that jiggled the three china teacups on their saucers. Two neat holes appeared in Mr. Thigpen’s housecoat, allowing some of the lividness in his face to spill out. He fell backwards and lay motionless with an accusatory finger pointing towards the ceiling for nearly half a minute before his arm fell lifelessly by his side. Since Mrs. Thigpen never awoke during the commotion, Lawrence made an anonymous phone call to the police department from the trashed-out living room and then dropped the telephone into the Thigpens’ thirty gallon aquarium (something Lawrence had always wanted to do) before he and Barbara went out for pizza. Three months later Lawrence submitted a poem entitled “Ode to Monroe” and signed it simply, Longfellow. The San Andreas Fault Quarterly loved it, rushed Lawrence his two contributor’s copies, and published the poem only a month after he had submitted it. Later, a national tabloid picked up the ode and ran it on the front page with the heading HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW WOOS SEXY MARILYN MONROE IN SPIRIT WORLD. Lawrence proposed to Barbara in front of a newsstand and, in between guffaws, she answered yes. Three months after that Lawrence sold The Personal Diary of a Hit Man for a gargantuan sum and was offered an enormous advance for the sequel, The Personal Diary of a Hit Woman. He wrote home and told his family he was now writing under his real name of Lawrence Longfellow, but they didn’t believe him and kept buying Stephen King books and faithfully visiting the town’s run of bookstores for Mr. King’s latest. Barbara stayed busy for the most part with her co-staring role in the film version of The Personal Diary of a Hit Man, so busy that she had to hire an interior decorator to revamp their beautiful new home. It seems Mr. Thigpen had taken out a hefty insurance policy on himself in order to avert any suspicion about collecting on the wife’s policy. So, one week after Mrs. Thigpen found her husband laid out dead in the doorway, she was a wealthy lady (some consolation for the stains on the rug). She used part of the money to start a business she’d always dreamed of. “Okay…Okay…Yes, I can do that,” Mrs. Thigpen answered the caller on the telephone. “Thank you and I’ll call you regarding the final decisions.” She hung up and stared at the telephone, hardly believing her ears. How exciting! Monroe and Longfellow, the country’s hottest new couple, wanted her to remodel their entire house! This is it, she thought. The break she was looking for. One sure to be a boon for Thigpen Interiors.

Edward Thackston had every reason to kill his wife: Lillie was excessively complaining, lazy, over-weight, and she hated to read. So when he discovered How to Murder Your Spouse by Dr. Harvey Conkwright at the local bookstore, buried on the bottom shelf behind some children’s fairy tales, he surreptitiously carried it to the sales counter hidden between a copy of How to Grow Fatter Tomatoes and Making PVC Furniture for Fun and Profit.
“There it is!” the sales clerk nearly shouted, as if she’d found a lost contact lens and everyone could stop looking now. She held the book up next to her face like a box of soap powders on a TV commercial and tapped her long index finger on the spine; her nail clicked against the slick jacket. “This is the last copy I know of in this part of the country. I know because I called everywhere.” She puffed and her evenly cut bangs waved at Edward. “A man was in here just last week asking about this.” She was smiled, shaking her head with disbelief.
Edward nodded and smiled also, being polite. He checked his watch and prompted the lady to please hurry, but she missed his subtle hint.
“Did you know that Dr. Conkwright is dead now?”
Edward shook his head.
“Yeah! Automobile wreck. An accident they say.” She giggled at the obvious irony. “Now, if you’re really interested in this, then I’ll show you what I sold to that other gentleman.” She moved to leave the register and to strand Edward.
“Please,” he said, and stopped her by raising an arm across the aisle.
“No problem. No problem.” She backpedaled to her spot behind the register. “You just looked like a man who likes to keep up with the times.”

It was Monday night and Lillie wouldn’t be home from playing bingo until late. So in the privacy of his own living room, Edward sat down in his easy chair (after discarding an empty potato chip bag first) and removed the new/old book from the plastic shopping bag.
It was as thick as a dictionary, four hundred and seventy-two pages. The edges had yellowed a bit and on the back was a black and white photograph of Dr. Harvey Conkwright. He was definitely the professor-looking type: grayish hair, round spectacles, and a serious countenance. A wicked smile spread across Edward’s face as he stared at the photograph and wondered whatever had happened to his spouse.
He traced a finger down the table of contents. Chapter One was entitled “Accidental Fall.” He read through the chapter and soon found a scenario perfect for the Thackston household. Before he retired to bed, Edward collected all the soap from the bathroom.

“Honey! Come on down. I’ve got breakfast ready!” Edward called from the foot of the stairs. He was nervous, yet excited. The steps Edward stood at the foot of were hardwood, stained and lacquered, and now each one was polished with a thin coat of Dial soap (he happily hummed the commercial’s theme song). He had been up way past midnight glazing each step. His cramping back muscles and bruised knees testified to that.
Lillie had returned late from Monday night bingo as he had predicted (she had won another afghan; it lay on the floor just inside the front door) and had gone straight to bed. A full day of soap operas and an evening of bingo are enough to exhaust anyone.
He paced about anxiously at the foot of the stairs, expecting any minute to see her shuffling down the hallway, her housecoat turned inside out (she always took it off that way and never bothered to straighten it out in the mornings), toilet paper wrapped around her head like a turban to protect the fifteen dollar wash-and-style she got every Saturday, and eyelids half closed, dreading the full, busy day of soaps and phone calls. And, oh yes, this was Tuesday. The Avon lady would be here for at least tow hours—had to run the vacuum for the living room.
Come on. Come on.
“All right, Edward,” came the wide-awake voice from above. Edward stopped pacing and watched curiously as one would stop to watch a mufflerless car come into view from around a corner, refusing to believe a mere car could be making that sound.
He heard thud thud thud. She was not shuffling—she was bounding.
When she appeared at the top of the stairs, she was not wearing an inside-out housecoat but a lavender jogging suit. And in place of the toilet paper on her head, she wore a matching lavender sweatband. She looked like Jane Fonda’s portly sister.
She hefted her rear up onto the banister, raised her feet, and rode the rail all the way to Edward, who stood, slack-jawed, at the foot of the seventeen soapy steps.
She jogged in place at the foot of the stairs following her successful flight. “Good morning, Ed’s.” She was chewing gum and it popped rudely, making little clicking noises like fingernails tapping a book jacket. “See the afghan I won?”
Edward nodded.
“I’m jogging now, did you know that?”
Edward shook his head.
“A little jogging would do wonders for yourself, you know.” She was beginning to pant. “I’ll have that breakfast when I get back,” she said and waved a tata. “Oh, by the way.” She stopped in the open doorway and turned back. “Only one egg for me.” She smiled again and patted the bulge of lavender that was part jogging suit, mostly stomach. Click click click went the gum.
Edward nodded.

While Lillie was jogging, Edward referred to Dr. Conkwright’s how-to manual once again. In an orderly fashion, he turned to Chapter Two: “Assassination.” That seemed like a pretty strong remedy. But jogging? Something had definitely happened to Lillie. Maybe she was losing it—and at an advanced rate. The thought of a crazy Lillie was enough to scare Edward straight to the yellow pages. He thumbed through the “A” section and mused over the numerous display ads.

A week passed and Lillie jogged every day. She was panting less now. Edward only hoped every day that nothing would snap before Wednesday. He had called every single number listed and Wednesday was the earliest time slot anyone could fit him in. Monday night Lillie came home with another afghan. Tuesday night she mysteriously left the house without a word and Edward let her go without questioning, afraid that in her condition she could spring like a cobra. He figured she must be getting worse because this time she carried with her a white bathrobe, rolled up and tucked under her arm.
Edward’s special guest showed up at two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, punctual as a good assassin should be, dressed entirely in black—pants, shoes, and longsleeved turtleneck. Probably used to working the night shift, Edward thought.
The business card the paid killer gave to Edward said his name was Boomer Bang Bang (obviously his professional name). He was a lot older than Edward had imagined, maybe in his fifties. But there was no substitute for experience, Edward reminded himself. This man’s face was rough, weathered with deep lines, evidence of a lot of outside work. He had beautiful silver hair, thought, kind of long and sw3pt back above the ears.
“Er…ah…should I call you Boomer or just Mr.—“
“Boomer would be fine,” the assassin answered in a dry, raspy voice that’d make Clint Eastwood shiver.
As Edward laid out the plan and explained to Boomer that Lillie was napping on the sofa, Boomer pulled a length of rawhide shoestring around his forehead and tied a hard square knot in the back that no doubt would give him trouble later. He then raised his pants leg and unsheathed a foot-long knife. He clamped the knife between this teeth and started for the living room.
“Wait,” Edward stopped him. “This isn’t going to be…messy, is it?”
The assassin frowned. He seemed insulted. He removed the knife and rasped, “I do good work. And I offered you a money back guarantee. If it’s cleanliness you want, call the Immaculate Brothers and they can put you on their six month waiting list.”
When he said six months, Edward thought the foot-long knife had just been inserted into the pit of his own stomach. “Okay. Go ahead. Just be careful. The carpet—it’s not that old…”
Boomer Bang Bang reinserted the knife between his teeth, making the steely, glassy sound of a bit fitted into a horse’s mouth, and stole away into the living room as quiet as a shadow with silver hair.
Edward leaned against the door, his ear pressed against the cool wood, and listened to the humm of silence. The assassin was weightless, floating toward his victim like a deadly bee. Then…
HiYah! (Just like Bruce Lee.) UUGG! CRASH (Edward recognized the sound of an end table lamp falling in ruin…) AARRGG! HiYah! BUMP BUMP BANG! HiYah! CRACK! (…a piece of furniture or Lillie’s arm…) AARRGG! UUGG! CRASH! (…the other end table lamp) AARRGG! HiYAH! THUD!
And then silence.
Edward listened to the ringing silence for a long time before he pushed open the door and peeked around the edge. Just as he had feared, both end table lamps had been shattered and broken glass rained over the not-too-old carpet. But what upset him the most was the sight of Lillie standing in the middle of the living room, looking down at something hidden by the sofa. She was dressed in a white bathrobe, panting heavily, and poised like Bruce Lee’s portly sister.
“This nut tried to kill me,” she said between pants.
Edward nodded, nonplussed.
Now she smiled, realizing her recent feat. And with her hair slightly mussed, as if she’d ridden across town in the back seat of a convertible, her beaming smile, and her face flushed a bright scarlet, Edward thought she was remotely attractive. “I’m taking karate lessons now, Ed’s. Didn’t I tell you?”
Edward shook his head.
“Yeah. Had my first class last night. Instructor says I’m a natural. I was just practicing a little, she aid as she chopped the air and issued a soft hiyah. “Sorry about the lamps. Hey, what are you doing home so early anyway?”
Edward decided to question Mr. Bang Bang further about that money back guarantee.

That night, while Lillie practiced her karate in the hallway, Edward discreetly pulled Dr. Conkwright’s How to Murder Your Spouse out from under his mattress as if it were a dirty novel. He impatiently skimmed over Chapters Three and Four—“Decapitation” and “Drowning”—but bent the book back on Chapter Five, breaking its spine, so it would stay open as he read about “Electrocution.”
He was just making a list of recommended supplies to pick up at the hardware store when all of a sudden Lillie’s bare foot punched through the wall just above the bedroom television. Her foot, powdered white with drywall dust, looked like a piece of modern art hanging on the wall.
Edward finished the list and hid the book away, as if the foot could see what he was doing. He had to move quickly because the situation was getting critical. He didn’t sleep a wink that night.

On Monday night she came home with another afghan. On Tuesday night she went to her karate class again, and while she was gone, Edward set the stage. He ran an extension cord from the wall plug behind the refrigerator. With a screwdriver and a hammer, he pulled the baseboard and window facing out enough to conceal the cord, then touched up the scarred paint with shoe polish (Dr. Conkwright was such a perfectionist).
He twisted the naked strands of the single hot wire around the cabinet’s brass knob. He was supposed to fasten the other wire to a copper-woven mat and position the mat so it’d be stepped on at the same instant the knob would be touched. Edward wasn’t nearly the perfectionist Dr. Conkwright was, though. In place of a copper-woven mat, Edward used a twelve-inch pizza pan and an alligator clip. Lillie would be in such a hurry, he predicted, she’d step on the pan before ever noticing it. And when she opened the cabinet door—poof! Or rather, zap! There would be no missing this time. Electrocution is electrocution.

“Honey! I can’t seem to find the decaffeinated coffee!” Edward called from the foot of the stairs.
“Did you look in the cabinet over the sink?”
He answered, “Sorry.” The inflection in his voice implied that he had, but still couldn’t find it.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” came her reply.
Edward did a jig back to the kitchen, dumped his decaffeinated coffee into the sink, plugged in his homemade electrocuter, and hid behind the morning newspaper, not sure he wanted to see this.
A moment later he heard her footfalls down the hallway, the padding of her bare feet on the hardwood steps (Now she uses the steps!), and finally came her voice in the same room. “I don’t know why you can’t find it,” she said as she crossed the linoleum floor in four strides. Edward peeked from beneath the bottom edge of the newspaper and saw her naked feet. (Where’d she get that tan?) And, just as he had planned, just as Dr. Harvey Conkwright had written, she stepped right dead-center on the big, flat pizza pan, her naked foot making the perfect ground.
Behind the newspaper Edward tensed and grimaced. He squinted his eyes and braced himself as if he were expecting an explosion (Chapter Six) rather than an electrocution. He heard the cabinet doors open and close: swoosh, bang, swoosh, bang. Any second now, he thought.
“Oh, here it is,” she said, and then the last swoosh bang.
Edward jerked the newspaper down and his jaw seemed to drop with it. His expression of amazement grew even larger at the sight of Lillie standing before him in only her undergarments. (Had she lost that much weight?) She was holding ajar of decaffeinated coffee and smiling with the success of having found it.
Edward’s gaze was quickly drawn to the top of her head. She was wearing a plastic bag punched full of holes where strands of hair had been pulled through and rolled in pink curlers that were lined up all over her head like tiny sausage links. She looked like Phyllis Diller’s scantily clad little sister.
“I’m giving myself a perm, Ed’s. Didn’t I tell you?” she said in response to his stare.
Edward shook his head.
“Yeah, sorry I forgot to tell you.” She waggled the jar of instant coffee. “You’re going to have to fix this yourself. Hard to do anything with these on.” She waved her hands to show Edward the gaudy protective rubber gloves that were a part of every do-it-yourself home permanent kit.
Edward nodded.

Little by little it seemed that Edward’s motives for murdering Lillie had disappeared. She never complained about anything any more, the house was always immaculate, and she was even starting to look good. She no longer had those funny little bulges around her tummy and on the sides of her hips. And with her thirty-dollar tan and her twenty-dollar home perm, she was ready to make TV commercials. It scared him now to think of how close he had come to losing her. Rather than waste any more of his time reading Dr. Conkwright, Edward decided to visit a travel agency. Two months ago he would never have dreamed of a second honeymoon, not with Lillie anyway.
Edward stood in the kitchen and looked down into the mouth of the trash compactor. The remains of last week’s groceries were crushed and mashed into what looked like an old fashioned poultice for what ails you. He unceremoniously dropped in How to Murder Your Spouse by Dr. Harvey Conkwright and turned the appliance on.
After the compactor had ground and belched all it was going to, Edward left the sparkling kitchen and walked into the living room, greeted by an aroma redolent of springtime in a pine thicket. Lillie was sitting on the couch with her back to him. Her wavy, bouncy hair was inviting. Edward peered over her shoulder to see that she was reading a book. Not a large book, but still a book.
“Lillie!” He was barely able to suppress the shout. He was beyond happy: he was ecstatic. “You’re reading a book! This is great!” Edward held onto the end of the couch to steady himself as he sat down beside her. Had she mentally read The List of Changes Required to Prevent Murder that he had carried in his vindictive heart for so long? “I have to be honest with you, darling.” He choked back the tears of happiness that threatened to make an idiot of him. “I haven’t been the happiest man in the world lately, but…”
Lillie looked up from her book and offered him an understanding smile, a sympathetic smile, a smile that caused Edward to melt and to puddle right there on the end of the couch. She looked like Elizabeth Taylor’s little sister.
Edward forced himself to remain tame. “Lillie,” he began as he reached into his suit coat pocket, “I have here a couple of tickets for a week-long cruise.” He produced two multicolored tickets with the name of an exotic island stamped on the front of each and waved them before her. “How about it?”
Her smile never wavered. Without a word she took the tickets and then resumed her reading. Edward was surprised to find himself suddenly aroused by the coquettish game. “What book are you reading anyway?” he asked. He raised up slightly and leaned forward in order to read the small print.
Lillie casually removed the book from her lap to reveal a steely-blue pistol. Edward saw fire flash from the little round O of the barrel’s end. It happened so quickly that he never had a chance to assume the expression of horror that should have frozen on his face as he died. He fell back on the not-so-old carpet as his life quickly escaped through the small hole in his chest. He died with his eyes squinted and his lips pursed, an expression he often assumed when trying to read small print.

The doorbell rang as if this scene were part of a play and the gunshot had been the actor’s cue. Lillie closed her book and laid it on the end table where a lamp used to be. She covered Edward’s body with her latest afghan, which had been neatly draped across the back of the couch, and answered the door.
A tall man wearing a white sports coat, a purple shirt open at the collar, and also a thirty-dollar tan, stepped in and gave Lillie a kiss usually reserved for the end of the movie.
“I was so glad you called. So you finally got a chance to read it, Huh?” this man asked.
“I cheated and skipped to Chapter Ten,” Lillie answered apologetically. “Just finished it this minute, though, and it really works.” A smile blossomed and she beamed proudly.
“Oh?” He looked around expectantly and noticed the lumpy afghan. “Hey! Hey! So it does!”
“Yeah, it was great.” She shared his happiness. “Do you know that that was the most of a single book I’ve ever read?”
“No kidding?”
She shook her head. “You’ve been a great inspiration to me, Johnny.”
He kissed her again, blatantly disrespectful of the dead. “More good news,” he said. “I told all my karate students that I’ll be gone for a week. And someone else will call the numbers at the bingo hall. Why don’t we take a little vacation?” He pulled her close and they rubbed noses.
Lillie held up the two multicolored tickets and fanned them teasingly. “How about the Caribbean?”

Lillie went upstairs to pack while Johnny folded Edward and stuffed him into the trunk of his foreign car. He picked up Lillie’s new book from the end table and figured he’d better get rid of it, too. He opened the trash compactor and remembered for a moment, as he held the book over the compacted garbage, the day he had bought it, shortly after he had met Lillie at the bingo hall. The edition he had asked for, the bookstore didn’t carry. The sales clerk had searched thoroughly but had been unable to find it. She had guaranteed him, though, that this one was better, more current. It was only about a hundred pages, could hardly be called a book.
He laughed at the simple, blatant title, How to Murder Your Spouse, and beneath that, in smaller print, The Simplified Edition. He dropped it into the mouth of the trash compactor. The author’s picture stared up at him, definitely the professor type: grayish hair, little round spectacles, a serious countenance. He smiled wickedly and wondered whatever happened to her spouse. “Thanks a lot, Dr. Helen Conkwright,” Johnny said as he pushed the COMPACT button.

The interstate median was so overgrown with brush and trees that anything could have been hiding in there: a state trooper with a radar gun, an elephant escaped from the circus, or even an alien from another planet who had come to Earth to collect aluminum cans.
That’s where I first met Renson. I’d had a blowout and, after seeing there was not spare tire in the trunk but plenty of room for a set of golf clubs, I decided to hike back to the last exit by going through the median, remembering a rest stop about a mile back where I could surely find a phone.
“Hello there!” a man greeted me as I entered a secluded clearing. He undressed as he spoke, or at least he was taking off the top layer of his clothing, which consisted of a pair of baggy dark green pants and a flannel shirt that was soiled and faded. He pulled off an old baseball cap and scratched his scalp furiously. “That’s better,” he said. He rolled the raggedy clothes up like a Sunday newspaper and stuffed them into a silky pouch. Underneath this first layer of clothing he wore a smooth, glossy one-piece suit, something like a cross between Captain Kirk’s and a student of a Jane Fonda workout. “My name’s Renson, from the planet Ardon. Where are you from? Altra? Constain?”
Other than the Halloween costume, I’d have never guessed he wasn’t a local. He had an earthly body, two arms, two legs, and no membranous, multi-eyed head that constantly oozed solar slime.
“Congressman Willis,” I introduced myself, using my professional title as a matter of habit. “I live about twenty miles from here.” Ambassador from another planet? Doppelganger? Wacko? My curiosity was greatly piqued.
“Oh? A native?” he said, just as curious. “Don’t see too many of you in these parts.”
“These parts?”
“You know. Middle Land. It seems the place is overrun now with Smarians and Wylocks. Can’t get a decent day’s work. You know how that goes. Once word gets out about a new hot spot, it doesn’t take long to floor the place.” He picked up a bulging black Hefty bag. “Didn’t do too badly today, though.” He shook the bag and it made a metallic rattling sound like a bag full of aluminum cans.
“Have a nice day,” he said, and turned to leave. “Oh, by the way,” he stopped before he had gotten to the edge of the clearing, “If you’re going to be traveling through here very much, watch out for the Garvons. They’ve finally gotten bearings on this place. Had a run-in with one earlier.” He shook his head grimly. “Once they show up, you can kiss happy hunting goodbye.” He waved a hand airily before him to show how easily happy hunting could go.
“Have a nice day, Congressman Willis,” he said, and then disappeared into the undergrowth, carrying the Hefty bag across his shoulder like Santa Claus.
For a moment I stood and laughed at the lunacy of this encounter. I had never met a real-life wacko before. I once had a whole commune of constituents, over five hundred people, try to evade federal taxation by claiming they were from some fictitious planet called Lovetron. Just looking for an easy ride, I figured. I wondered if this Renson character could be one of them.
In the middle of the clearing I spotted a small pile of charred debris that was still smoldering, a campfire not properly extinguished. All of a sudden I disliked the personable and friendly wacko. An improperly extinguished campfire could be disastrous. I knew because last year my pet project in “Washington had been the prevention of forest fires. (This year it was the billboard problem along the interstates.)
I found a good-sized digging stick and knelt down by the charred circle. “AAAHHGG!” I protested the fetid aroma, an odor I imagined soured yogurt would make if spread over smoldering logs. I poked at one of the small logs, holding my breath, and rolled it over, trying to smother it in the ashes. That was when I saw, undoubtedly, the long, slender fingers on one end.
I screamed, choked, backed away, and fell against a small tree that I hugged like an old friend and kept repeating, “911…911…911,” so as not to forget this number whenever I did get to a phone.
Before I could fully appreciated the support of my tree friend, a small explosion just above my head snapped its trunk as if it were a twig, and thousands of toothpicks rained down around me. I followed the trunk to the ground and from the corner of my eye watched the leafy top of the tree parachute down and land softly in the clearing. Small fingers of fire danced on the nub of a trunk that was left.
I sat up on my knees and searched the woods for my wacko friend, who apparently dealt in heavy arms. What was his name? Renson? I didn’t see him, but I saw someone else coming and the sight of this stranger frightened me. He was about the same size as Renson, but his face was longer an distorted as if it were made of silly putty. His hands were huge, club-like, and in one of them he held a small box-shaped weapon with a glowing red eye on one end.
“Where is your find?” this thing growled. His mouth was like a vertical mail slot with a row of teeth on each side.
I shook my head and backed away on my knees, not knowing what the heck he was talking about. He pushed his long face up close until his pug nose nearly touched mine. “Where is it? He demanded. He grabbed one of my hands in one of his—it was as big as a baseball glove—and squeezed unmercifully. I heard some bones snap but felt no pain, only a great pressure When he released his grip, however, and the crushed nerves were again able to do their thing, they went a message back to my brain that told my mouth to make a funny “OOOAAAHHH” scream.
“Answer me!” He trained the weapon with the little red eye on me. There was no mistaking he was intending to turn me into human toothpicks.
I was about to sing like a canary when all of a sudden the alien blew up, disintegrated without even a chance to squeal. One moment he’s training a nuke on me, just an ounce of pressure on the trigger finger and I’d have been atomized. And the next moment he’s gone—only a pile of charred ruins remained. The fetid stench of burning, soured yogurt was strong. Two blackened limbs lay crisscrossed on the ground, smoldering like a deserted campfire.
“That’s two in one day,” said my good, good friend Renson, who appeared from behind some trees. He holstered his weapon and walked toward me.
“What’s going on here?” I screamed. I was rightfully panicked.
“He’s one of the Garvons I warned you about. A nasty bunch. We work our tails off for centuries and these goons think they can just tag along and take easy pickings.” He kicked at the limbs angrily. I couldn’t tell whether they were arms or legs or one of each.
The pain in my hand caused me to yell out again. My fingers had turned a deep, dark purple, almost black. My entire hand had swollen until it was as big as a Garvon’s.
“Hurts pretty bad, huh?” Renson asked. I was hurting too much to be ironic. I nodded my head vehemently and tears fell like salt form a shaker. Renson looked about the clearing and deliberated. Finally he knelt beside me. "I’ll take care of this.” He opened the Hefty bag and I saw why the contents had sounded like aluminum cans—they were aluminum cans, hundreds of them.
He took a single can (a light beer, I believe) and turned it upside down to shake out the last stale drop. “Okay, now be still and this will hardly hurt at all.” I trusted him. Someone who has trekked across the universe looking for aluminum cans, and who could turn you into a potpie with the push of a trigger, was someone I wanted on my side.
He produced a pouch I had not seen before and from it a squirt of the clear solar slime that had been missing earlier. Then, as if he were mixing a galactic cocktail, he brought the can and his secret ingredient together, crushing the can as if he were Deacon Jones. There was the sizzling sound of bacon frying as he clasped his two hands and this newly concocted poultice around my ragged hand. A silvery-colored slime oozed from between his fingers. I felt a slight burning sensation and tried to pull away, but he held it tightly. The pressure soon eased the pain and, after a few moments, Renson released my hand. I pulled it close to me, exercising the fingers. A thin, waxy film made my hand shiny, but the purple was gone. The pain was gone. Everything was normal.
“How’d you do that?”
He smiled proudly. “Nothing magic, I promise. Just a little chemical engineering.”
“The cans?”
“Yeah. Great stuff. Nothing like them on Ardon. Or Altra or Constain, for that matter. We all have our own mining teams. We were the first to find this system a few years ago, and we had it to ourselves for a while. Quick and easy money.” He looked toward the undergrowth and shook his head sadly. “The market’s getting too competitive, though. Everywhere is too crowded. And, I guess as in every business,” he jerked his head in the direction of the smoldering extremities, “you’ve got your pirates. Never used to have to carry one of these.” He indicated his weapon; it looked more like a TV remote controller than a devastator.
I rose to my feet, still stunned by what was happening. I began wondering if I were the one who had gone wacko. Or maybe I had flipped the car when the tire blew out and was now lying in a hospital bed in a coma, having an out-of-body experience.
“Well, look, I’ve got to hike a pretty good ways back to the ship and still make a checkpoint today or it’ll be another month before one will be this close again.” He surveyed the surrounding growth suspiciously. “I wouldn’t hang out here too long if I were you.”
“Thank you,” I said, my voice paper thin.
He acknowledged my thanks with a nod and, with the bag across his shoulder, turned to leave me again. But before he could cross the clearing, a long-faced, bludgeon-handed Garvon stopped him. Two more Garvons appeared and bound him with only their hands. Renson’s struggle was brief. One took his Hefty bag full of cans and shook it triumphantly while the others cheered. I turned to run. Maybe my friend knew how to fight Garvons, but I didn’t. Four more poured forth from the undergrowth. Each one held up his own little TV remote controller and seemed eager to change my channel.
“Uh-oh,” Renson said, looking at me almost apologetically. They bound us both and carried us away.

There were seven of them altogether. I bounced painfully across one’s shoulder, his hands gripping the backs of my legs. They carried us probably half a mile through the median undergrowth. I could hear the zoom of east and west bound traffic on each side. We threaded our way through the trees. The smaller ones the Garvons pushed aside, breaking them off at the ground.
They threw Renson and me into a cage that had no door. One of them simply grabbed the bars and pulled them apart as if they were made of Play-Doh, and after we were inside, he squeezed them back into place, leaving a gap too small to think about escaping through. I tried to move the bars after they’d left, but they were as rigid as steel.
A few feet away was a spaceship nestled in the undergrowth, slain trees poking out from beneath. All seven Garvons boarded the ship, leaving Renson’s black Hefty bag on the ground not far away and Renson and me alone in the cage like a pair of exotic birds. Renson sat on the ground across from me. Without his blaster, he was as helpless as I was.
“I was just looking for a phone,” I explained. “I had a flat tire, you know.” I could see my sanity dangling from a fraying rope as clearly as a sharply-focused photograph. Renson nodded noncommittally. “I have to vote on legislation tomorrow,” I continued to babble. “I’m a congressman. Did I tell you that? Had dinner with the president once.” Again he nodded, his face as blank as an empty page.
My belly growled and I wanted to scold it for begging at such an inopportune time. In my shirt pocket I found some chewing gum, spearmint. “Want some gum?” Renson waved me off.
“If I could just get to those cans for two seconds,” Renson said, the wheels clearly turning. His attempt at rational thinking helped me to get a better hold on that fraying rope.
“What is it with the cans?” I asked.
He looked at me unbelievingly. “It’s not the cans. It’s the element. I think you call it aluminum. As I told you, there’s nothing like it on my planet. Of course there’s nothing like this on your planet either,” He patted the bottle of solar slime. “By itself, it is nothing. We discarded it for eons, much as you do your aluminum. But mix these two elements together and they become the purest form of energy. We can heal ourselves, grow our food, and fuel our ships.
“We first discovered this aluminum centuries ago in other systems. But we never steal,” he reminded me. “Most of the independent mining companies don’t. Aluminum seems to be the type of element most beings find temporary uses for and then discard. So I put on a guise most appropriate to whatever planet I’m on—“ I remembered the old pants and shirt and ball cap “—and start collecting.”
“But hwy here in the median?”
“Are you kidding?” Middle Land is perfect.” The name he had given to the wooded buffer between lanes of interstate made me smile. “There’s plenty of cover to land my ship, hardly any natives pass through, except in cases like yourself, and most of the mining can be done without much walking. I just head down the highway and it’s there for the taking.”
“What about these Garvons?”
“Well…” Again he was almost apologetic. “They’ve taken there for the taking a bit too far. They’re nothing but thieves. Too lazy to work for themselves. I used to think the Lovetrons were lazy, always looking for a free ride—“ now I knew I was dreaming and expected to see my old high school gym teacher running by in his skivvies “—but Garvon is also a violent planet. Whereas we use this energy for food and healing, they use it for weapons, for fuel for warships, and to heal wounds suffered in wars. More than once when they’ve set their teeth into a planet—“ He stopped and looked away as if he had said too much.
“They what?”
“Never mind. That’s not important to us right now, is it?” Selfishly my concern swayed from the fate of Earth to my own neck.
A pneumatic hissing sound caused us both to look toward the Garvon ship. A door opened and two of the Garvons came down a ramp. They stopped outside our cage and studied Renson and me as if we were the prize exhibit at the zoo. They began to talk in a foreign language. Renson concentrated.
“What are they saying?” I whispered.
He listened a little longer before turning to me. “They’re trying to decide which one of us to eat first.

It didn’t take the Garvons long to decide that I’d be the appetizer. Renson was probably twenty pounds heavier, so I guess he deserved to be the main course.
One of the aliens pulled the bars apart while the other one reached through the gaping hole an seized me in his vise-like hands. Renson screamed something in their language, which I repeated as best I could, hoping it was profanity. I learned that laughter was truly a universal language, for both aliens were unmistakably guffawing. The Garvon pulled me up close to his face. His long, vertical mouth, I could plainly see, had too many teeth and numerous cavities. Never brush after meals, huh? I thought crazily.
The Garvon continued to squeeze me, tighter and tighter until my lungs were empty. Then, remarkably, he stopped squeezing and let me go. I fell at his feet and looked up to see the Garvon clawing at his own throat and gasping for air. There was a faint squeak—the sound of air passing through a tiny opening—and then the Garvon fell and lay still.
The other alien, who had watched in awe, now bellowed with anger and grabbed me up from the ground. He pulled me close to him also and his long, vertical mouth opened to the size of a bucket. I screamed into the hole and heard the scream echoed. Then this Garvon dropped me, too. Soon he was lying beside the first one, as still as a stone.
Renson sprang from the cage and to the side of the felled Garvons. He checked over both of them and said, “They’re dead. How’d you do that?”
“I—don’t know,” I answered, nervous, excited, and not wanting to be premature with the celebration.
“That stuff you’re chewing. What’s in it?” His tone said hurry, hurry.
“Sugar?” I said. Renson shook his head. “Gum?” Again a shake. “Spearmint?”
“That’s it!” he shouted. “Must be. I’ve never heard of it. Imagine, something so sweet to you is a poison to the Garvons. Haha! Quick, give me some!” I fumbled in my shirt pocket for the gum, my shoulders still aching from the first Garvon’s crushing grip. Renson ripped off the paper and stuffed four sticks into his mouth. He chewed with exaggeration.
“Now let’s take care of the rest of them,” Renson said boldly. He grabbed his Hefty bag and clinked and clanked to the top of the ramp. The door hissed open unexpectedly and Renson found himself face to face with another Garvon. Renson killed him with one blow.
Standing in the doorway, he emptied the whole bottle of solar slime into the bag with cans. Then he twisted the top and shook the bag like a giant Shake’n’Bake recipe. He tossed the bag through the open door and tore back down the ramp. “Cover!” he shouted.
I scrambled on all fours and flattened out on my belly behind some trees. I covered my head with my arms to protect it from the noise of the explosion and the rain of the tiny pieces of spaceship and Garvons. A silvery slime coated everything, leaving no opportunity for flames. To someone driving by only twenty yards away, the noise could have been a tire blowout.

Over the next few months I did a lot to save the world. But I knew things like that would never show up on my voting record.
I introduced a bill and fought like crazy for it: instead of cutting back on or banning all the billboards, why not plant more trees in the grassy median areas? This would cut the problem in half because east bound traffic would be able to see billboards in the west bound lane and vice versa.
And then plant some low growing foliage, something that would spread and help to blanket the area and inhibit accidental fires. Something perennial. Something like—spearmint plant.
The ecologists and environmentalists loved the idea. They loved to see plants grow, especially if government dollars were paying. Soon a vote for trees was a popular vote to have on record. Other congressmen followed suit for their states. And so this country became a little greener and a little sweeter, too sweet for certain aliens to be sinking their teeth into.

One afternoon recently my wife and I were driving along I-24 with a new spare tire packed safely in the trunk. A yellow, dinosaur-looking piece of machinery was parked in the grassy median. The bucket on the front scooped out holes faster than the workers could fill them with saplings. Middle Land was growing, spreading out like a Garvon stretching his cramped fingers.
I drank the last of my diet Pepsi and rolled down the window. A lone man wearing rags and dragging a half-filled Hefty bag behind him was walking along the shoulder of the interstate. He wasn’t Renson. Maybe someone from Altra or Constain. Or maybe a Wylock or Smarian. At any rate, I flung the can and watched it my mirror as it skipped across the asphalt and disappeared in the weedy median.
“Honey! What are you doing?” My wife was aghast. “What would your constituents think if they knew you littered the highways like that?”
I smiled lovingly, knowing this only irritated her, and said, “I guess there are some things they’ll just never know, huh?”

The Key Ring

"Hey, kid. You ready?" Mad Dog whispered.
I couldn't believe we were doing this: Mad Dog was busting out--and with my toothbrush tucked away in my sock, along with a few dollars I'd managed to scavenge, I figured I was, too. Three months was more than enough time to spend behind bars for what Mad Dog and I had done, at least in the way we'd done it. We never used a weapon; we never hurt anyone, hardly; and we were that close to getting away with it, too.
It all started when Mad Dog asked me innocently enough if I'd be interested in robbing a bank.


"Go away, old man. You're bothering me." I took a long drink from my
second beer and noticed that the tattered old man wasn't moving, so I tried again. "I'm saving that seat for someone," I told him. Actually it wasn't a seat--it was a barstool. And I wasn't saving it for anyone in particular, either, other than the tall, long-legged blonde I was hoping would walk through the door and plant herself on that stool.
"Aren't you the least bit curious as to how we'd do it?" the old man asked.
"Do what?"Then he leaned in close like the blonde was suppose to, the Eau de Whiskey was overpowering, and he whispered, "Rob a bank."
"No I’m not," I said. "Now I told you, old man, that seat--" "Mad Dog."
"What?" "The name's Mad Dog. People call me Mad Dog because--" "I don't really care."
Then the old man got real quiet, as if maybe I'd hurt his feelings, and I thought for a moment he was about to leave. But he didn't. He just sat there swirling his drink around in his glass meditatively. Then he said, "Considering tomorrow will be payday for most people, meaning the bank should be pretty well stocked up, we could probably walk away with fifty, maybe a hundred grand. No cops, no lights, no alarms." He winked one reddish-yellow eye at me.

A hundred thousand dollars?But I couldn't take someone who wore a long, woolen coat in the summertime seriously. He was a bum and a drunk. His hair was long and shaggy, a messy tangle of grey that looked like an old mop left to dry out on the back-porch railing. He was probably only in his forties but he looked in his sixties. And he nursed that drink with the passion I figured should be reserved for a tall, long-legged blonde. No, I couldn't trust the man. I'd take my chances with Temporary Services. I'd find another job. A hundred thousand dollars? I called for my third beer. A couple more of these, I thought, and
I'd forget about my disastrous day. I was a light-bulb salesman up until about 9:30 that morning, when I'd made a quick stop at the Piggly Wiggly to deliver the biggest order of my short-lived career. I had my arms full of those fancy chandelier bulbs—tear drops, flickering flames and all--when a runaway shopping cart clipped me from behind and a week's pay shattered to dust on the pavement right there beneath the giant neon pig. A hundred thousand dollars? No. Temporary Services would be just
fine. I'd make my minimum wage, garner a few benefits, holidays, vacation time.
Mad Dog? Why do they call him Mad Dog? A nice nine-to-five job was what I needed--a daily routine, a little stability. A hundred thousand dollars? "Just exactly what are you talking about old—Mad Dog?"
Mad Dog gave me a jagged jack-o'-lantern smile and I wondered if he'd ever played hockey or boxed.
"I'm talking about these," he said. He reached into a pocket of his big coat and produced a jingling, shiny ring of keys and laid them on the bar. "These are the keys to First City Bank,” he whispered. “They'll get you in everywhere from the little boys’ room to the green, green vault."
That broken smile of his was lethal and my pulse quickened. "Where'd you get those?" I asked. Of course I didn't believe a word of it.
"Had'em made," Mad Dog said, returning to his drink."What are you talking about?"
He rubbed his growth of beard thoughtfully. " I spend a lot of time just down the block from First City Bank. You might even say that's my home. Of course, you won't see no mailbox with Mad Dog painted on it.”
“Tell me about the keys."
He frowned. "I was going to. One night this important-looking man was leaving late like I'd seen him do a lot of times, locking up behind himself. Only this time when he slid into that fancy car of his, I noticed he dropped something--something big and shiny. So when he drove off, I ran over and picked those up." He reached over and touched the keys on the bar.
Pulse down. "Well don't you think he's missed them by now? He’s probably had every last lock changed." I was surprised to find myself slightly disappointed.
Mad Dog laid a finger aside his temple, indicating a working brain beneath that shaggy scalp, and said, "I had copies made."
"What?" Pulse back up.
"Copies. A friend of mine works at an all-night key shop and made me some copies. You're looking at a man who's spent some time locked up. To me a key is a treasure, every last one worth its weight in gold--or in this case, maybe even more. So after I'd had the copies made, I went back and put the original set of keys down in the exact spot where I'd found them. And sure enough, it wasn't ten minutes later that fancy car came back and the man jumped out, kind of frantic, you know. He stumbled around in the dark for a while before he found them, and when he did don't you know he gave them a big old kiss." As Mad Dog turned the bottom of his glass to the ceiling, I said, above the pounding of my pulse, "So the keys you have...will fit…" "Everything." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Doors, alarms, security cameras, vault timer. We can go in and out like VIPs for a night. You interested?"
He was asking the same question he’d asked earlier, only now it didn't seem like such a crazy notion. In fact, it seemed too good to be true. "So how come you're asking me anyway?"Mad Dog ordered another drink and told the bartender I'd take care of it. I didn’t deny it. He waited for the drink to arrive and he'd had a chance to sample it before he answered. "Well, I need someone to help me carry out all that money, don’t I?"

At 4:00 A.M., Mad Dog and I stood on the darkened stoop of a downtown department store across from First City Bank.
"Nice outfit," he said to me, and I shrugged, thinking he had no room to be sarcastic. I was brand-new to this crime business, so I didn't know what to wear other than what I had seen on TV: black slacks, black turtleneck and a black ski mask with eyes, nose and mouth holes.
"You got the keys?" I whispered through the fuzzy mouth hole.
“Got'em right here." He slapped the pocket of his woolen overcoat. “Okay—ready? Follow me."
I trailed after him into the orange glow of the sodium streetlamps, a bum in a long, flowing coat followed by a shadow. The street was deserted except for a few empty cars that lined the curb on both sides. My car was parked in front of the bank. I had parked it there earlier that afternoon, before shopping for something to wear to a bank robbing, and killing ten hours at the International House of Pancakes. First City Bank was all plate glass across the front. The glass was tinted but that didn't matter at 4:00 A.M., because a dozen eight-foot cool-white fluorescent lamps lit up the lobby like a Christmas tree. Undaunted, Mad Dog approached the front door as if he were the bank President. I stayed glued to his back. "Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked. "Settle down, kid. I've watched that guy with the fancy car do this a hundred times. One key on the side of the jamb here will turn off the alarm. Just watch that red eye above the door."
I watched, but nothing happened. Mad Dog jingled and jingled, trying one key after another. If it had been December, children all over town would have been at their windows, searching the sky.
After about five tries, the red eye went blind."See," Mad Dog smiled. "We're VIPs tonight." In the shadows of the night, his smile was a piano keyboard. "Now for the door lock."
I tapdanced so much while Mad Dog searched through the ring of keys for the right one I was beginning to feel like Gregory Hines.
“Hurry, hurry--headlights!” I grabbed Mad Dog’s coat collar and plunged us both to cover behind my car. He lay on top of me, his shaggy hair falling across my nose hole, and I could smell the same cologne he'd worn earlier."What the--" he started."Car," I whispered into his ear and he went deadly still.
"Keys," he whispered back.I turned my head and saw the ring of brass and chrome keys dangling from the lock, sparkling like silver and gold. The car was too close to make a dash for them now.
The car moved slowly by, tiny chunks of gravel popping and crunching beneath the tires. A stark halide glow crept along before it, threatening to wash over Mad Dog and me. Looking up from the ground past the muffler of my car, I watched the white glow slowly recede like a tide, the car's wheels roll on by, and the bottom half of the City Police Department decal on its door.
"Cops," I whispered into Mad Dog's ear.
He growled like a mad dog.

When the street was once again silent and orange, Mad Dog rolled off of me and I could breathe. "Come on," he said. "It'll be a while before they make another pass."I was all ready to give up my new-found life of crime, had even turned my back to First City Bank to walk away, when Mad Dog turned the very key that had dangled from the lock as the City Police Department had driven by, and there was the solid sound of a deadbolt sliding back into its chamber. Mad Dog pushed the door open. Silence. No alarms. No strobing lights. Just a complete silence that bade us to come on in. So we did.
Mad Dog crawled to a corner that was sectioned off into a square by a desk, a credenza, some file cabinets and some bookshelves. Following, I reached the desk, raised up and peeked over the top edge to read the nameplate: PRESIDENT. Mad Dog was snooping around. Sniffing?”What are you doing?" I asked."I believe the vault timer's over here somewhere. Banks nowadays have these fancy timers so that the vault won't open until the clock says to, sort of like an alarm clock." He read the concern on my face. "I said like an alarm clock. Don't worry."
" Where is it?"Mad Dog traced a small wire from a junction box on the floor to the bottom drawer of the desk. He tapped a finger against the walnut and pulled on the drawer, but it was locked. Back to the keys. It took him nearly ten minutes before he found the right one. Finally, he pulled the drawer open and peered into it.
"It's here," he announced. "Now all we have to do is to turn the clock up to--what time do banks open anyway? Nine?"I nodded nervously, wondering why he hadn’t checked that out beforehand—that and when the employees begin to arrive. Mad Dog reached into the drawer, fidgeted with something for a moment, and then removed his hand and looked up dejectedly. "It's locked."
Now, how did I know it would be?"Just give me a minute," Mad Dog said. But I didn't have another minute.
"I've got to go to the men’s room," I told him, and turned to crawl away."Wait!" He was still whispering. I stopped and looked back over my shoulder. "You'll need this." And Mad Dog worked a single key off the ring and handed it to me. The word MEN had been stamped on one side. "I knew that one would come in handy."

When I returned, Mad Dog was gone. But a much more attractive sight greeted me: the vault door was ajar. It had been pulled back, revealing its foot-and-a-half thickness and exposing a series complicated bolts and latches that Mad Dog had managed to open by merely moving the big hand on the clock ahead a few hours. There was a crack of light from floor to ceiling. Every few seconds the crack of light was broken by a shadow--Mad Dog was inside. I crawled up to the vault and pulled the door back. Mad Dog motioned for me to hurry inside. I did, pulling the door to behind me, leaving it partially opened. Mad Dog had found the key to the cash drawers and stood over bundles and bundles of fresh green money waiting to harvested.
"And how much do you need today, sir?" he asked.
"Oh, about ten grand," I played along. Mad Dog picked up five new bundles and, with a flick of his wrist, tossed them to me one at a time. I caught them all, laughing. "Did I say ten? I meant twenty." And Mad Dog flicked five more bundles at me. "And forget the interest," he said, waving a hand in contempt of the word. "It does my heart good to see a satisfied customer." And he continued to toss money at me, bundle after bundle. Obviously I wasn't going to be able to carry all of this. Where were all the moneybags with big dollar signs printed on them that were supposed to be lying on the vault floor so bank robbers could haul away the loot?
Mad Dog must have read my mind because he unbuttoned his coat and there, sewn to the lining, were more pockets than could be found at a kangaroo farm. He made me put the coat on. After all, I had signed on as chief money carrier. We stuffed the coat full and figured we had at least the one hundred grand we'd estimated earlier over drinks. When we were fully loaded, we worked our way out to the car, using the keys in reverse. Mad Dog had memorized each key on the way in, so he locked up everything as we crawled out. With the final turn of the proper key, the red eye above the front door came back on.
Silence. Robbing a bank had been—how do the big boys say it on TV?--a piece of cake.Mad Dog, a lot skinnier without his coat, slid in on the passenger side of my car. I lumbered in behind the wheel, a hundred grand heavier.
Car keys!?

Ignition empty.
Pockets empty."Do you have the keys?" I asked, my voice rising through the sentence. I checked my pockets again, moving slowly because of the hundred grand.Mad Dog jingled his ring of keys happily.
"No. Car keys," I said, voice still rising.
Mad Dog growled.

"The bathroom!" I said. "I put the men’s room key on my ring so I wouldn't lose it. I must have left--" I was looking past Mad Dog into the once again highly secured First City Bank. Mad Dog growled a second time, jingled the big ring of keys not so happily this time, and left.
He disabled the alarm and re-entered the bank much faster than it had taken him the first time. Was I looking at a serious career move here? While I was waiting for Mad Dog to return, drumming the steering wheel nervously with sweaty fingers, that white glow of light returned, and this time it flooded my car and froze me to the seat before I had time to think about plunging to the floor. I waited and waited.
From far away, barely audible above the beating sound of my heart, I heard a car door open and slam shut and then another. I heard hard-soled shoes on the asphalt, moving closer to the car. Then someone shined a three-hundred-candlepower beam into my eyes. "Going skiing, mister?" the officer asked. "I'm suppose to meet my buddy here at any minute,” I heard myself, “and then we're going straight to the lake. Fishing for walleye and striper, you know--early morning fish."
I thought I detected the faintest trace of a nostalgic smile on the officer's face. "Yeah. Wish I were going," he said. His partner nodded sympathetically.
"Oh, me too, officers," I said. "I mean, hate to see a man stuck at work when he'd rather be fishing.""Mighty big coat you're wearing, isn't it?" asked the one with the flashlight."Well, yeah, but it gets cold out there on the lake in the mornings--even in the summertime."
I waited forever and I hoped.
And they bought it. I hadn't felt this much relief since Mad Dog had rolled off me earlier. The one with the flashlight killed it and said, "OK. Come on, Jim. Let's leave the man to wait for his friend. He's got some fish to catch." They turned and began to walk away, but before they reached the cruiser I heard the most bloodcurdling scream I've ever heard in my life.
"Oh, God! It's Mad Dog!” the officer without the flashlight wailed as a blur streaked across the hood of their car.

At the booking room downtown, I got a good look at the teeth marks in this officer's forearm. The wounds were gapped just like Mad Dog's smile. He had never finished explaining that they called him Mad Dog because every time he sees a policeman, he goes as crazy as a mad dog.

"I said, are you ready?" Mad Dog whispered again.
Toothbrush, fine. Savings account closed out. "Yeah. I guess so," I answered, patting my stuffed sock. Mad Dog had chosen the late afternoon to pull this job off. He figured we'd be less conspicuous with the sun up and people milling about than we would be at 4:00 A.M.
"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" I asked.
He growled like the old Mad Dog, but with the shave and the haircut and the three months of drying out, he didn't look like the same one.
Everyone at Big Mountain Prison knew Mad Dog. He was a bank robber from way back. Messed up then, too. He'd resumed his old position in the prison key shop once we arrived. Only this time he'd gotten hold of the Warden's key ring somehow and made copies of all the keys before returning it.A bright red sign on the door read AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. The lock clicked and Mad Dog pushed it open. Silence. No alarms. No strobing lights. A piece of cake.We both took a long look at freedom, shiny and sleek. "Where to?" I asked my buddy. The smile he flashed my way was undoubtedly Mad Dog's--and the only weapon we’d armed ourselves with for the escape.As we drove through the main gate, Mad Dog told me about a rich friend
of his in Malibu who'd been paroled earlier. Mad Dog said this friend had expressed a great interest in his idea about a chain of key-making shops along the West Coast."Okay, you can open your eyes now," I told him once we were through
the main gate and safely past the uniformed guards. Mad Dog checked the
Rand McNally and then pointed right. I turned the long car, set the cruise
control for the legal speed limit, and thought, Now who would have guessed
it--Mad Dog and me driving off into the sunset in the Warden's Cadillac?

“Excuse me, sir. But I said wouldn’t you be interested in a new hand? You know, one with five fingers.” The short, squatty man behind the counter of Mel’s Rent-All held his own right hand up by his face and wiggled his fingers sarcastically. At least I thought he was being sarcastic at the time.
I had lost three fingers on my right hand fifteen years ago when I was nineteen. Right after high school I went to work for a place that made water heaters. One day my foreman sent me over to the steel-punch machine to fill in while Walter Clark took a ten minute break.
Shoot, I didn’t know any more about the punch press than what I had seen while passing by. It jammed up on me the first thing, and when I tried to pull out the wedged piece of steel—whap—right on my hand. I lost my middle finger, ring finger, and little pinky. I got three thousand bucks, though, a thousand bucks a finger. (I was surprised a pinky brought as much as a middle finger.) And Walter Clark felt so bad he put my fingers in a jar and buried them out behind the plant. From then on, every time it got cold, the nubs hurt like crazy.
I was extremely self-conscious about my hand. I usually kept it balled up in what looked like a fist. Hardly noticeable. Or I kept it in my pocket or tucked behind my back. But this irksome salesman was talking about it like I could pick one up at the supermarket.
“Since you’re new here, I’ll make you a special deal: two days at no cost. You like it, maybe we can work up a rent-to-own deal.” Short-and-squatty was grinning proudly. His eyes nearly squinted shut when he did that, leaving two little slits that looked like coin slots in a vending machine. And I remember wondering if he intentionally put that much oil on his hair. His flippancy about my hand was starting to get me hot.
“What are you talking about?” I said a little louder than I meant to. Luckily no one else was in the store.
He held up both hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just trying to make a sale. And to please you so you’ll come back and maybe do more business.” He pointed to my hand.
“We’re talking about fingers!” I waved my nubs in front of his face.
He nodded and grinned proudly. “The sign says anything, right? Well, make your choice.” He was grinning so big now I couldn’t see his eyeballs at all.
“Okay, give me a hand to go and hold the mayo.” It was my turn to be sarcastic.
He offered a reproachful frown before he disappeared through a curtained doorway that led to the back room.
I laughed when he had gone, more in frustration at myself for sticking around and not getting the heck out of there. I had a lot of work to do. If I had thought for one minute he was just making fun of my missing fingers, I’d have decked him with a good left and then gouged out his squinty eyes with my lone finger and thumb.
I checked out the machine I had come to rent in the first place, trying to convince myself that I was just making sure all the hoses and attachments were there and that I wasn’t curious about what might come back through the curtain. It was Sunday afternoon and Millie had me stripping twenty-year-old wallpaper off the bedroom wall. This machine was supposed to make it easier for the wallpaper to peel off. Save time. Either way, I was missing the Bears and Packers game. That hacked me off, too. Sometimes that woman—
“Here we go.” It was the short, squatty salesman coming back through the curtain triumphantly. “I believe I have just what you need. He was carrying a tower of wobbling shoeboxes before him and had one tucked under each arm.
“Listen,” I made an intimidating fist with my left hand. “If this is some idea of a joke, then I won’t hesitate—“
“This is no joke,” he cut me off sternly. Each word was like icy steel. “Think of this as nothing more than a sales promotion. You like our business, then you’ll come back. Maybe bring some friends.” His eyes were big and round, somber. Not a single muscle on his face worked for a smile. “Now, let me see your hand.”
I’m still not sure why I held my hand out to him. I think he hypnotized me with that stony seriousness. At any rate, I held out my hand. He took it like a shoe salesman, turned his back to me, and locked my hand and wrist under his armpit. I watched nervously, ready to pull back at the first sign of any funny business. He took something from the box and, his back still to me, acted as if he were slipping something over my hand. Unbelievable pain shot up my arm and held me like an electrical shock. I withered helplessly as the salesman worked unconcerned. I couldn’t scream because my throat had closed up tight, swollen shut. I couldn’t even breathe. Then suddenly it stopped. I gasped for air and stood there as weak as a kitten. My hand was still a prisoner.
“There,” he said finally as he released my hand and stepped aside, turning back to face me. I pulled it up close to me. It was tingling as if it were waking up form a long sleep. Thousands of needles tapdanced on the front and back, nothing painful. I raised my hand until it was only inches from my nose and stared at it unbelievingly. Slowly and deliberately I unfolded each finger, one at a time. They tingled pleasingly with every movement. I gaped in amazement at the salesman.
“How does it fit?” he asked.
I shook my head in disbelief. “How does it look?”
“Great.” He gave me the thumbs-up sign. “Like I said, use it. Try it out for two days. You like it, come on back and we’ll take care of all the paperwork.” He slipped me a business card and his eyes turned into squinty coin slots again.
I was in such shock I couldn’t say anything else. As I left I could only wave mechanically with my new fingers.

I left the wallpaper stripper at Mel’s Rent-All. Shoot, I just got a new hand. I knew that you could ruin a new paint job on a car if you washed it too soon from the factory. I thought it possible my new hand might fall off if I took it home and worked it too hard right away. Give it time.
Millie let me know that she didn’t like the not working idea too much. I promised myself I wouldn’t strain my hand, at least no time soon, but dog-gone if I hadn’t been home an hour before I strangled Millie. It was fast and effortless and I did it all with my new hand. Once again I held it before my face and flexed it slowly. Boy, was I happy.
The first thing I thought about while Millie’s lifeless body lay on the floor before me was, What am I going to tell her parents? They were supposed to be over that night for supper.
I wrapped her body in a blanket, dragged it out the back door, and made sure no nosy neighbors were around. I was so glad to be able to push and pull with my hand that hadn’t done much more in the last fifteen years than button a shirt. And the shovel felt so good in my hands that I dug the hole two feet deeper than I needed to.
When I was back in the house I searched around in my jacket until I found the business card. MEL’S RENT-ALL. Mel Houssman, Owner. The man said they rent anything. I figured I’d give it a shot.

“Your wife?” Mel asked over the top of a five by seven snapshot I had handed him. Mel turned out to be the short, squatty man with oily hair and squinty eyes.
“Yeah, how’d you—“
“Common request,” he answered automatically and continued to study the photograph. “Her name’s Millie?”
“Hey, how’d—“
“It’s on the back of the photo,” he said and flipped it over to prove it.
“Okay, sorry.” Nervously I knitted my old fingers with my new ones and allowed him time to think. “Well? What about it? Is it possible?”
“Sure. But it’s gonna cost you.”
“No problem,” I assured him, somewhat relieved. He grinned and the eyes squinted familiarly.
“How tall?”
“Pardon?”
“How tall is she? Hard to tell in the picture.”
“Oh, five-five, I believe.”
“Weight?”
“Ah…one forty-five, I thing—no wait—one thirty.” As long as I was making the decisions, why not?
“Okay, give me a minute,” he said as he turned and left. He kept his eyes glued to the photograph, feeling along with one hand as he disappeared behind the curtain.
No more than five minutes passed before Mel flipped open the curtain and triumphantly announced, “May I present your wife, Millie.” And he wafted an arm graciously towards the doorway.
“Oh, there you are,” her squeaky voice came in before her. “You take me home right now. Mother and Father will be in soon and my house is a wreck.”
Surely to goodness it was Millie, as alive as she had been only five minutes before I had killed her (except fifteen pounds lighter).
“Are you going to stand there with your lip on the ground all day? Now let’s get.” She ushered me toward the door.
“But, Mr. Hossman,” I gestured toward Mel. “I need to pay—“
“That’s okay. You’ll be back, Mel predicted. “Enjoy.” He waved friendly-like and once again the squint as my new Millie led me out.

The new Millie was an incredible reproduction. She walked like Millie. Talked like Millie. Bit her lip when she vacuumed, scurried and nagged like Millie. I’d have thought I dreamed all the other had I not been able to make a shadow of a rabbit on the wall in a beam of afternoon sunshine with my new fingers. Or look out the window and see the freshly dug earth about a hundred feet away at the back edge of the property line (right next to the garbage cans).
She even fooled Millie’s parents when they finally arrived for supper. My rental equipment hugged them both as I took their coats. I offered my obligatory “Howdy-do’s,” started to help her father to the living room, and then remembered how he hated that.
Millie’s mother asked her about her new diet, but my Millie just laughed it off and led her back to the kitchen. Her mom’s squeaky voice carried into the living room and penetrated the TV roar of a partisan Chicago crowd at Soldier Field. She was saying something about still having that tacky wallpaper up in the bedroom.
Her Dad (I always referred to Millie’s parents as Her Dad and Her Mom or Mr. Warpool and Mrs. Warpool) was quickly engrossed in the Bears and Packers war on the tube. The Bears were up by a touchdown late in the third quarter. Her Dad was okay. We had a couple of things in common, things we could relate to fully; football was one.
“Come on, Harold,” Mrs. Warpool called. “Turn off that ballgame and come eat this delicious-looking dinner your daughter cooked for us. You are so lucky, Charles,” she said to me and patted my cheeks roughly (she knew I hated that). She pushed the on/off button on the TV. There was a static pop and the screen went black. Mr. Warpool grumbled, labored to get up from the overstuffed couch, and made it to the dining room table. The squash casserole was too salty and the green beans were too greasy—just like Millie’s.
After dinner Mr. Warpool went back into the living room, turned on the TV, and sank back into the sofa. It was late in the fourth quarter. The Bears were down by a field goal and driving. He tried not to act too excited for fear of Mrs. Warpool. She had her sensors on, and if she thought he were enjoying himself too much, she’d change that in a hurry.
“Now, Harold. We didn’t come down to gawk at the tube all night,” she caught him. “We can do that at home. Let’s enjoy each other’s company. Come on, let’s play cards. Charles,” she called to me, “do you still remember how to play canasta? Come on.” She turned the set off on fourth-and-one. Mr. Warpool started to say something but then stopped when she gave him a look I couldn’t see from where I sat. She flew back into the kitchen, her broom indiscernible, and asked Millie the whereabouts of the canasta cards.
Mr. Warpool labored up from the couch again, his face reddened with anger. “Excuse me, Mr. Warpool,” I said and, with one hand on his elbow and the other on his back, helped him up. “Could I ask you a question? It may be a bit personal.” He answered with a glare which I took to mean, “Yeah, go ahead.”
I took a sweeping look at him. He gripped the worn, single crutch so tightly his knuckles were white. After forty years the crutch was almost like an extension of himself. His right pants leg was neatly rolled and pinned as if to seal in the freshness of the stump. He lost his leg in Germany in 1944 when he was only eighteen. That was the other thing we had in common—violent amputations. He had married Mrs. Warpool before he left for the war, so she was pretty much the family martyr for sticking with a crippled man for so long.
“Just what,” I began, slipping an arm around his shoulders chummy-like as we walked toward the kitchen, “what would you do if you could have your leg back for a day? No. No. A serious question,” I said when he shrugged my arm off and turned toward me, distrust flashing in his eyes. He had always been sensitive about his lack of leg—never tolerated any references to it.
My sincerity must have shown through, though, because he slowly turned his scowling expression toward the kitchen door and allowed himself to fantasize.
“First of all,” he began. And I stood as anxious as a child for what I hoped he was going to say. “That woman…” His face was fiery red. At that time I felt as if our understanding transcended football and we were on the same wavelength. He needed to say no more. I fetched our coats from the hall closet.
“Hey, where’re we going?” he asked, surprised that I’d so blatantly defy Millie and Her Mom.
“I’d like for you to meet someone, and associate of mine.” I ushered him toward the front door.
“B-but Mrs. Warpool. And canasta.” He was having second thoughts.
“Don’t worry. Think of it like this: There’s four seconds left on the clock. You’re down by two and looking at a sixty-yard field goal to win.” He scowled at my flippant reference to his missing leg. “And,” I paused and smiled mischievously, “Mrs. Warpool is the football.”
I raised my hand, palm toward him, and wiggled my fingers. His eyes widened and the corners of his mouth dropped in a look of surprise and confusion.
“Don’t worry. You’ll see,” I assured him. Mrs. Warpool called out that they were ready to play canasta. Mr. Warpool glared vengefully at the kitchen door where she sat just on the other side, dealing from a deck of worn-out cards. Without another word Mr. Warpool put his coat on and left willingly.
I started to close the door but caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. I stopped and waved sarcastically, my fingers dancing beautifully. I winked at my reflection before pulling the door behind us. Mrs. Warpool was still calling.

Somewhere Else

Was it absolutely necessary for a grave to be six feet deep? Wendel Harmon was wondering with each shovelful of earth. The night was hot and sticky and the full moon transformed his backyard into a stage. A good night for a murder, he thought crazily, and then shook his head. He had planned this night for several months and he couldn’t let it all unravel now.
The hardest part had been the waiting. After he actually had the pillow over his wife’s face and held it there for at least a half-hour, everything seemed to go more smoothly than he had anticipated. The cloying smell of her body powder had nearly gagged him, but he held fast. Afterward, he carried Alice’s lifeless body downstairs and packed her neatly into one of the big U-Haul boxes in the living room and stuffed a couple of sheets in beside her on either side as if she were fine china.
Then he had stepped out onto the back porch and filled his lungs with fresh air. The neighbors were asleep and the night was still, so he pulled a brand-new shovel out from under the house and began digging in the back corner of the yard, along the fencerow.
Alice had unknowingly done her part to help Wendel cover his tracks. He had talked her into packing things like clothing in separate boxes and marking them His and Hers so that when the Salvation Army showed up, he’d simply separate the His from the Hers and the last of Alice would be gone as easily as that.
Wendel seemed to relax now with every shovelful, realizing things were going as planned. Tomorrow he would load p all his possessions, pick up Annette, and take three days to drive across the country to California, where he’d move into a new house with is new wife and start his new job.
Wendel enjoyed selling. He sold big trucks, tractor-trailer rigs where one sale could easily cover two month’s living expenses. And he was a darned good salesman. Month after month, he had won all kinds of prizes for being the top salesman, prizes like a set of golf clubs, a gas grill, even a grandfather clock. It was these praiseworthy credentials that had helped him to land the new job in sunny California.
Six months earlier, Wendel had gotten his hands on a trade journal and turned to the C section for California. Southern Cal always seemed like a dream place to Wendel, so he figured he’d go for it. Annette was all for it, too. He applied for a sales position with a multimillion-dollar marina and met with a representative making rounds in his part of the country. They liked what they saw and hired him. “California here we come!” Wendel sang, and for the short time remaining, Alice was almost bearable to live with. But he’d have to break away nice and clean from her, he decided—and for good, or she’d track him down and sap him for everything he had.
He rented the U-Haul truck using a fake I.D. and address so there’d be no chance to trace him in case something should be found, made arrangements for the Salvation Army to come the morning of moving day, and bought a brand-new shovel.
He was up past his thighs in the hurried grave. Deep enough. Throw plenty of dirt over it, pile up a few rocks in the corner by the fence row, no one would ever notice. He had met the buyers of his house once. They were an older couple who’d probably use the swing on the front porch more than they ever would the backyard.
Wendel hurried back inside. U-Haul boxes, stacked up like giant toy blocks—some packed, others empty—were silhouetted by the dim moonlight that seeped around the draperies. The shadows were dark, mysterious monoliths that sat as still and austere as a courtroom judge.
Wendel took a few steps and racked his shin on the coffee table. He knelt and held his knee close to him until the sharpness of the pain subsided to a dull, throbbing ache. But he dared not turn on the light. Mr. Reynolds next door might be making his way into the kitchen for his midnight sandwich or cookies and peek out his window and see Wendel’s living-room light on. Maybe he’d pass it off at the time, but then before he went back upstairs to bed he’d likely peek out one more time, remembering the light, and se Wendel planting his wife in the backyard. Just rub your shin and keep groping,“ Wendel told himself.
He found the long box he’d settled his wife in, punched out the perforated handles on either side, and dragged the box out the back door and across the yard to the newly dug grave. He wrestled the box into the hole and covered it over with a foot of dirt and rocks just like he’d pictured in his mind. Then he went back into the house, took a shower, and slept as soundly as a baby.

George and Mabel Akers had lived in the same farmhouse for over forty years. In that house they had raised a family and had grown old together. George finally decided, when he saw what a toll the daily farm chores were taking on Mabel and himself, to buy a small frame house in a friendly subdivision close to town, with just enough house and yard to keep them busy but not kill them.
When they saw Wendel and Alice’s home, they fell in love with it. It was a white frame with black shutters and ref flower boxes under the two bay windows. The backyard was fenced in and there was a big front porch with a swing made just for retired folks.
Later that same week, George made a few trips into town. One night he secretly slipped the front-door key of their new home into a glass of wine and toasted with Mabel, who was rightfully confused by the gesture. But when the big round Yale key broke the surface of the wine, she squealed with delight. George only nodded and grinned, receiving his hugs and kisses dutifully.

Annette would have done about anything to get away from the Laundromat where she was the sole worker for the bundle service they advertised on the front marquee: WE DO IT ALL .50 A POUND. She was tired of sorting, washing, drying, and folding, tired of the wet, the heat, and the incessant thumpthumpthump of the spin cycle.
She first met Wendel Harmon two years ago when he brought in twenty pounds of slacks and white shirts. That was the day Wendel fell in love with her eyes. They could have come fresh off the boat from Italy—dark and deep, a window to her soul. He could tell right away she was attracted to him. Before she had written out a receipt, he suggested, in that sales-winning personality of his, that they have lunch. Their conversation was colored with just enough unhappiness so that Wendel jokingly suggested they run off together. She said yes, seriously.
They had seen each other for over two months before Annette learned he was married. Wendel promised her he and Alice were in the throes of divorce and as soon as some financial obligations were met he’d be gone.
Supposedly the arrangements had been made and they were performing a mutual parting of ways the night he put a pillow over Alice’s face. If the grandfather clock he had won had not already been packed and bedsheets stuffed around the words, it would have struck twelve the moment he covered her face with the feather pillow and chimed the half hour as he lifted it.

Mabel Akers hadn’t been so excited in a long time. George had given her $200 cash and dropped her off at Wal-Mart to buy odds and ends for their new house.
She shopped with as much discrimination as possible, passing over things she had always believed she wanted but now that she had the money and opportunity decided against, like a set of blue glasses she realized would look cheap with her antique china and a Bissell sweeper she had seen women on TV use. And after forty years of Christmas and Mother’s Day, she had plenty of towels and potholders.
Instead, she tried to be more practical. She purchased some blue shower curtains, a blue toilet-tank set, and some daisy stickers that stuck to the tub bottom and were supposed to keep you from slipping. She bought a new welcome mat for the front porch (one with a big rainbow-colored bass on it for George’s sake), some cleaning supplies, and a half dozen climbing rose bushes that were packed into a bargain bin marked SPRINGTIME SALE / 2 FOR $6. They were all pruned closely and looked like gnarled hands protruding from bags of dirt. She read the instructions on the back for planting even though she’d planted hundreds over the years. (Dig a hole at least 12 inches deep.) They’d be perfect along that unsightly fencerow.

When moving day came, Wendel hired some extra backs from Temporary Time and they had the truck loaded in a few hours. Shortly after noon, he picked up Annette, packed in her few belongings, and they headed West. Before they had gone too far, Wendel had to stop at a service station. Annette teasingly rolled her imported eyes at the delay, but Wendel couldn’t go any farther until he washed the smell of Alice’s body powder off his hands.

It took George and Mabel nearly four days to get all their antiques arrange. (Everything they owned had reached antique status at sometime during their marriage.) The next thing Mabel wanted to do was to clean out the cluttered fencerow and plant her climbing rose bushes.
As she dug with a small pointed shovel to set the roses deep, George stepped out onto the back porch and called to her. “Just fine,” she answered. “This is going to be beautiful.” She scratched her nose with the back of her hand and left a smudge of dirt on the tip. When the point of her shovel hit the heavy-duty-cardboard box buried only a few inches below the soil, she stopped. Odd, she thought. She tried again, but the ground seemed too spongy.

Wendel counted the twenty-third convertible in the last half-hour before allowing himself to believe he was finally in sunny Southern California. His office was a small, three-walled cubicle—two walls on wheels and the third a glass storefront that overlooked a lot filled with spanking-new boats of every kind.
He and Annette were so exhausted they slept on the floor. Rather than unpack the next morning, he bought a new suit and hired help from Man Power to come over later in the morning to unload the tuck. Annette would show them where to put the furniture. He spent most of the morning touring the marina with his new boss, meeting fellow salesmen, organizing his desk, and counting convertibles.
He had a stack of books and pamphlets on Johnson, Evinrude, Mercury, and other boat manufacturers he’d have to cram before he went into the sales rotation in two days, though he still found it hard to believe that boats he would sell one day would be floating in the Pacific the next.

Mable Akers began scooping away big handfuls of dirt, realizing something had been buried. She had read stories in Reader’s Digest about new homeowners unearthing great treasures the previous eccentric owner had buried and then taken the secret to the grave. She called for George and together they soon uncovered a large rectangular box with an orange U-Haul printed across the top.
George, as excited as Mabel, explored the edges blindly with his hands. Mabel stepped back, resting on her shovel. Her heart was pounding. George straddled the hole and grasped each side of the lid and wiggled it off.
They gasped simultaneously.

The ringing was growing louder. It was still a muffled wailing, like the screams of a dying woman. Then there was no mistaking it. The ringing was the siren of police cars. One? Two? A dozen? What was he doing? He scolded himself—people broke the law in California, too. Wendel tried to ignore the sirens and pretended to thumb through an Evinrude accessory catalogue, which he refused to pull down from his face even when he heard the piercing nose of sirens and the tearing screech of tires on the pavement outside his window.
Finally, he lowered the book, peering over the top edge at three police cars nosed into the parking lot, lights strobing. Some policemen knelt by the cars, guns drawn, and others charged the front entrance, their guns held in various stages of alert.
Through the glare of the window he saw Annette step out of one of the squad cars. A blanket was draped over her shoulders, the kind paramedics drape over victims of shock. Her eyes were dark and stormy—and in them Wendel could read the desire to be somewhere else.
His mind raced, scanning every move he’d made in the last few months—the truck, the fake I.D., the new job, the buried wife. He couldn’t think of a single mistake.

George stepped back from the hole and held Mabel. She let her shovel fall and hugged George around the waist, drawing close to him. Then she pushed away and punched him playfully. “George, is this another of your tricks? Like the key in the wine?”
George shook his head, bewildered.
“Come on, George,” Mabel demanded. She looked at the open box again. Bedsheets were packed in tightly to prevent any moving parts from jostling about. “Who else would do this? Why would anyone want to bury a grandfather clock?”