CLANK: A Book of Madness (Psychological Satire Novel) Unsettled Office Worker Loses the Last Screw (19 page)

33

A desperate whispering voice
disrupts the silence.

“Jaden! Jeff!” I hear.

Ellington Fairfield is
standing in my office doorway waving his arms.

“Yes? What is it Fairfield!”

He steps into the room,
shutting the door behind him.

“We’re still on for tonight?”
he asks.

“Of course. You’re not going
yellow belly on me, are you? Your life is at stake!”

“No! No! I’m right with you
Juddington!”

“Good, good. Then
what
is it you want?”

I lean back in the chair, as
my arms instinctually fold impatiently.

“I—I—I just wanted…”

“Yes, Fairfield? Spit it out.”

“I’m having doubts. That’s
all.”

“Oh? Doubts?” I envision
myself lurching at Fairfield and slapping him across the face. But he’s much
larger than I am and there’s no telling what he might do.

“There’s no room for doubts,
Fairfield. All you’ve got to do is head down to the bar, find the con—err,
hit-man, wait till he looks away then drop the pills, no, you’d better make it
powder. Sprinkle the powder into his drink. That’s all. Got it?” The thought of
this drunk chugging a few pills down his gullet seems a bit messy, risky even
for a sauced up degenerate.

Ellington nods his head
weakly. It’s good enough I guess. He turns to leave, hunched, defeated. I shout
after him, “Seven o’clock!”

Speaking of the time, I’d
better be getting my gear together. Tonight’s the big night. No more clanking
bowl. No more clinking glass. No more Wilmer Cromwell. The clock reads a little
after 5:15. That gives me roughly two hours until Wilmer wends his way to the
gym.

My home is quiet and serene.
There’s no sign of a break-in. None of my locks have been jimmied; not a single
fresh scratch on any of the window sills. There aren’t any foot impressions on
my lawn leading up to the backdoor. From these clues I can surmise, fairly
accurately, that there isn’t a lazy eyed no-neck goon hiding in my closet with
a rusty crowbar. Fortunately, I happen to be correct… this time.

A happy sight I do see. Lionel
Ducard’s watch is sitting on my kitchen counter in a plastic bag. His watch,
you ask? Yes! Remember back at the bar during our first encounter, back when I
mentioned I took something of his? Voila! I wasn’t there just to take a fat
girl back to my bachelor pad!

I put on a pair of gloves to
remove the timepiece. Fingerprints, mind you. If it’s going to be found at the
crime scene to incriminate Lionel, then I must ensure that it’s plausible. As
of now it might look too much like a setup. But I’ve got an idea. A stroke of
genius I recall seeing on an old episode of Matlock or some such masterpiece.
One little tweak to the watch will solve all problems.

My fingers work diligently at
the band until a lone screw pops free -- the band loosens. This way it appears
Lionel could have lost it unknowingly during his devious deed. An accidental
falling during a roughhouse or some such.

“Oh, looks like it just
slipped right off his wrist!” is what Officer Obvious will remark. The police
are such fools. If everyone knew how easily they are duped, the amount of
crimes would triple overnight. Your own grandma would be out this very evening
perpetrating a heinous act of robbery or friendly neighborhood assault. I may
publish a book about it at some point. Just to throw it in their faces. Anyway,
the watch looks believable. The strap is broken just enough to fall off your
wrist after a good shake, but not so loose that it wouldn’t stay on to begin
with. I’ll just slip the little device back into the bag for now.

An old staple in crime novels
is the broken watch. Actually, it’s a bit of an old technique from the earliest
modern crime stories. Someone is murdered -- their watch is found lying beside
the body. Lo and behold! It’s broken… The watch has stopped! And at what time?
Why at the exact time the murder took place. A convenient plot device, sure.
But it holds little weight in the real world of true crime. No, Lionel’s watch
will be functioning properly. He’ll just run into a little mishap when the band
breaks without him noticing as he flees from Wilmer’s home.

Showtime is nearing. Calm the
nerves, ol’ boy… I grab a mystery novel and plop down on the couch until the
hour of reckoning is upon me. But I’m not reading… I’m fantasizing.

You probably wouldn’t
recognize me just now. I doubt it. Not with this clever disguise on. Nobody
could pin me down. A dapper hat, some different clothes, a little make-up and
here I am, transformed, ready for action.

I pay the (thankfully
non-homicidal) taxi driver as he pulls up to the curb. “Out ya go,” he says.

I jump from the cab. Friendly
guy. There are still a few more blocks until I reach Wilmer’s home, but this
way the cabby can’t place me at the scene of the crime. See how smart that was?
It wasn’t just for exercise. Although, my heart is racing. I’ve never felt so
alive. A surge of energy jolts through my body as I dart from shadow to shadow
approaching Cromwell’s abode. The bottle of poison bounces in my pocket with
each step. I hope to God that Ellington’s notes were correct. Wilmer
must
be at the gym or all is lost. The only fear running through my mind concerns
Ellington and his ruffled demeanor when I last saw him. Dear God! Please let
that buffoon spike Lionel’s drink! Haul his flea-bitten body into the dumpster,
shut the lid tight, and be done with it!

The night air is surprisingly
warm. The sun has set and our lovely moon is in her new stage, which leaves the
night pitch-black. I rather enjoy the dimness. There is beauty in darkness. A
comforting effect. Up ahead I see Wilmer’s house come into view. He lives in a
large, ritzy type of place. The kind you expect swindling lawyers to live in.
The house they bought with money snatched from unwary clients. Part of me is
jealous at the sight. The other half is sickened. If only there were someway
for me to acquire Wilmer’s dough after he perishes… Perhaps that’s where Percy
Sullivan will come into play if this murder goes according to our arrangement.

My feet make a dull clopping
noise on the pavement. The surrounding houses have but a few lights turned on.
Their curtains are drawn; however, I can still peer inside and see the outline
of bodies. I’m no voyeur but I do have an interest in people watching. Two
particular windows catch my eye. The first is of an overweight man with a
potbelly. He’s sitting in what I presume to be a rundown, rotten, bug infested
couch. The leg rest has been popped out and his stinky feet are extended on it.
This is your typical moron. Some idiot who’s barely living. It’s more like
dying. It’s obvious by the quick flashes emitting from a corner of the room
that this twit is busy watching some insipid television show. It passes the
time until he resumes scrubbing toilets the following day.

The next person of interest is
slightly more appealing. Judging by the setup I’d say it’s a woman’s bedroom.
My theory is given even more credence by the silhouette of a young woman
stripping clothes from her body. She’s peeling off her pants, bending over
slowly and removing them from her ankles. Next comes the shirt. Wow! Those
large lovely lumps outlined against the curtains… There’s no way in hell this
show has gone unnoticed, it seems far too routine, far too practiced… I’m sure
a neighborhood pervert is busy watching the woman along with me right at this
moment; it’s probably his nightly activity in fact. Secreted away in some
nearby bushes with a pair of binoculars or video camera in hand. Actually… This
is bad news for me. It means a witness could be spotting me at any second. Even
catching me on film! I can only hope he’s so infatuated by the undressing woman
that my presence escapes his attention. Why shouldn’t it? I’m a nobody doing
nothing.

Women have a way of diverting
men’s attention. And a few women are very adept at using seduction to get what
they want. That’s what I’ve learned from reading crime novels. Never trust a
gorgeous woman unless… well, not unless anything. Just don’t trust them.

By the time I glance up again
I’ve almost overshot the house. Damn the sexy woman! Wilmer’s home is dark
aside from a porch light and a few inner illuminations, which I assume have
been left on to ward off burglars. Maybe he keeps the system on a timer. That’s
one trick cagey homeowners employ. They think by leaving a few lights on,
perhaps even a radio or television, they’ll deter hoodlums from entering. It’ll
make them suspect someone is home. How pathetic.

To make sure he’s truly gone,
I creep up to the garage. The side door has a glass fixture in the middle of
it, through this I’m able to peer inside the room. Sure enough, his car is
gone. And unless it’s down at the shop I can safely assume Wilmer Cromwell is
at the gym getting in a nice, sweaty workout. My hand grabs for the pill bottle
in my pocket. Pawing at the item. I hadn’t noticed it until now, but I’ve been
compulsively fiddling with the bottle during this entire excursion. And on this
note, allow me to elucidate a part of my plan. A very ingenious idea, if I may
be so bold. The means of execution? We all know: this poison. But how? Ah-hah!
The answer is simple… I’ve ground the pills up into a fine powder – this will
go right into the one substance Wilmer consumes on a near hourly basis… muscle
mix! Chug down those proteins, big man! With a side of toxin! Now, let’s get to
the reckoning…

As I stare at the garage door,
I’m struck by a puzzling conundrum. Something so very simple, so trivial, that
I feel ashamed to have forgotten to address it. …How am I supposed to get in!
The door is locked. Confound it! Hold steady, ol’ boy. No need to panic. Think
on your feet. Be impromptu for once! This problem is only momentary. Positive
thoughts. Get your head right. Think positive. Now… How would I open the door?
Wait! That doesn’t matter. Who cares! It’s how
Lionel Ducard
would enter
the house that matters. It’s him committing the murder after all, isn’t it?

Now… how would a lowlife,
raunchy con break into a house? Pick the lock? Not in my skill set. Kick in the
door? I’m too weak. Smash the window! Yes -- Of course. There’s got to be a
rock around here somewhere. And luckily Wilmer has a splendid little pathway
lined with the perfect window sized smashing stones. I select a lovely one.
Time to hoist this guy overhead. But just before I send the stone sailing
through the garage door window I freeze. Something tells me this isn’t right.
It’s stupid. And here’s why. Mr. Cromwell will be returning home tonight and a
smashed window is liable to raise suspicions. Yet at this juncture it’s my only
option.

The idea is solid enough, most
assuredly. However, I must alter the plan of attack. In a typical home, what
room is most likely to go unchecked before bed? I’m suspecting either a spare
bedroom, lounge room, or office space. Wilmer’s house has all of these. He’s
told me so… numerous times.
What a condescending little fool. Die! Die! Die!
That will come soon enough… For now, entering the home is my main chore. I
notice he has a well maintained yard as I walk to the rear of the house in
search of a spare bedroom (taking precaution to lurk in the shadows, as to
avoid detection by neighbors). The night is terribly dark but I can see the
outline of a few flowerbeds and lawn gnomes, or some type of ornament. They’re
rather feminine looking in style. What kind of man would keep such trash in his
yard? It should be barren and rugged. Then again Wilmer probably thinks it
makes him appear refined and artistic. What a mooncalf.

A few of his inside lights are
on. But I figure any space with a light shining is a primary room of Wilmer’s.
Most people wouldn’t bother going into a room they don’t use to flip on a light
just to ward off burglars. It’s simply too out of the way. They’d have to be
very paranoid, to a psychotic degree. I myself turn on
every
light in my
home before leaving. Safety first, for myself. I’ll have to risk choosing a
window, probably the farthest away from the other lighted rooms. The only
danger there is that I might hit the bathroom window, and Wilmer is sure to use
the lavatory before retiring to bed. Nothing like coming home and finding your
bathroom window smashed in…

You can generally tell a
bathroom window from others by its size. They’re smaller and slightly less
conspicuous. Just big enough to allow in some light and let
a lot
of
smells out. The far left window is illuminated. That’s his bedroom judging by
common layouts. And spare bedrooms are rarely placed next to the main sleeping
chamber. Which means my options have been narrowed down to either window on the
far right. One of the rooms must be his office and the other is the spare
bedroom. I keep the rock pressed tightly up against my body with one hand as I
reach into my pocket with the other to make sure the pills haven’t fallen out.
Good, still have them.

Now it’s time to use a little
muscle and hope the neighbors don’t get too suspicious. It’s alright if they
hear a bit of the crash. Just not enough to warrant a police call. When
investigators come by in a few days to ask questions, which they most
definitely will, I want them to report hearing a clash. That gives credence to
the story. I’d rather not have them leaping over the fences with flashlight and
shotgun in hand just yet though!