Tedd and Todd's secret (43 page)

"Hmm. Yes, he is a good person," Dylan said after a pause. "One of the best, depending on how you judge people, of course. Which reminds me, this money problem of yours. You know, being ruined for life and all that. I know an old man and a boy who love to help out people in just the sort of jam you're in. They speak a bit strangely, but you'll get used to it. Anyway, you'll find out…"

BLACK ROCK PRISON (the continuing saga of TEDD AND TODD'S SECRET)

(Sample)

Kevin dropped the eyes on the floor. One of them bounced off his leg and came to a stop under a table; the other one landed in front of him and there was no way he could avoid stepping on it.

“Shit,” he exclaimed, completely annoyed. He inhaled slowly and deeply, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, then exhaled forcefully.

Kevin Peyton was a meticulous man. He paid attention to details and was convinced that it was precisely because of this that he enjoyed such a good reputation in his profession. Clients recognized his fastidious personal touch and respected him for it.

“He was perfect,” a woman had told him on one occasion after admiring the results of his labor with fascination. “Even better than before the accident.”

Kevin had limited himself to nodding respectfully and had abstained from commenting. He certainly hadn't had the faintest idea of how to reply to that kind of remark. It was the only time that he remembered ever hearing anything like it. And it had come from a regular client, which was something rare in his profession.

This time no one would be congratulating him. He could have kicked himself for having been so clumsy as he took off the mask and picked the eyes up off the floor. It was no easy task to get the one from under the table but he finally managed to grab it. He threw the eyes in the trash and looked the body over carefully, searching for a solution for this unfortunate mishap. He remembered that once a long time ago he had had a similar problem with an eye donor. The body had to be presentable, so he had resorted to stuffing some cotton balls under the eyelids to keep them from sinking down into the eye sockets.

For a fleeting moment he considered presenting the cadaver with sunglasses. It was a totally involuntary and random thought, undoubtedly brought on by nerves. He quickly dismissed it tucked it in the back of his mind as a last resort. The cotton balls would no doubt work perfectly and provided a considerably more elegant recourse.

Fortunately, everything turned out exquisitely and two hours later the deceased was in impeccable condition for the family's showing: a good suit, a little makeup, and the yellow handkerchief that his wife had so vehemently insisted be placed around his neck. It wasn't necessarily an unusual request; Kevin had dressed corpses in every way imaginable. Just the same, as he finished preparing the body he couldn’t help turning over in his mind the possible significance of that particular accessory—but didn't arrive at any interesting conclusion.

He finished up with an hour to spare before the funeral home would open. The family of the deceased wouldn't arrive until ten a.m. and his colleague would be there by then. Now seemed like a suitable time to go out for breakfast.

Norman's bar was the best bet given that it was across from the funeral home and Kevin didn't like to have to take the car; in fact he hardly ever strayed too far from the Far Southeast Side. The Chicago cold grabbed him as soon as he stepped out onto the street. Kevin was used to low temperatures so his thick wool sweater was more than sufficient to keep him warm.

At this early hour, the bar would be closed, but Norman would no doubt already be there getting everything set for breakfast and maybe even be in the mood for a little company. And anyway, Kevin wanted to see his friend alone.

Norman Smith was a nice man with a certain magnetism about him. You couldn’t help but laugh at his witty remarks delivered with that cheerful Irish accent. His sharp tongue was always at the ready with entertaining observations for any and every situation and it was extremely unusual to see him angry or gloomy. Kevin had known him for more than ten years, since the time when the funeral home had opened. After his ridiculously difficult first day straightening things up in order to be able to carry out his new duties, Kevin had crossed the street and gone into the Irish bar directly opposite the funeral home to have a drink to relax a bit. Norman had struck up a conversation with him. Later, as he walked back out the door, he had already decided where he'd go the next morning to have breakfast.

They got along well. A strong friendship developed between them over the next eight years, and then Kevin discovered Norman's secret: gambling. Poker, roulette, betting . . . anything and everything. Then a year and a half ago, Norman suffered an “unexpected” slump and lost everything. Consequently, he almost lost the bar as well. Kevin took pity on him and loaned him money. A considerable sum of money. It meant a serious sacrifice on his part since his wife had walked out three years before that without a single word, leaving him on his own with his now eighteen-year-old daughter—the most important person in his life.

Now the tables had turned. His precious Stacy's imminent entry into the university along with a rough patch at the funeral home had put him in a rather delicate economic situation. His daughter's future was at stake, leaving Kevin desperately needing to get his money back, or at least part of it. The problem was asking Norman for it. Of course, it was legitimately his and the time period in which his friend should have returned it had long since passed. Just the same, Norman hadn't even ever mentioned the matter; it was as if it had never happened. Kevin was infuriated. In his opinion, as a good friend, Norman should have taken the initiative and returned the money to him without forcing him to ask for it. Or, at the very least, he should have explained the reason why he still hadn't kept his end of the agreement and indicated when he might be able to. Nevertheless, it seemed that Norman didn't see it that way so Kevin would have to bring it up even though it wouldn't be easy for him. Figuring that it would also put Norman in an uncomfortable position made Kevin uneasy, and he got annoyed with himself for feeling like that. He was only taking back what belonged to him—nothing wrong with that—and besides, it was for his daughter's benefit. But

still . . .

Maybe this time Norman would say something to him. The best case scenario would be to show up at the bar and chat a bit, just the two of them, and to act as relaxed as possible so Norman would have no idea of the grudge that he was carrying over the whole thing. The worse case would be to somehow have to manipulate the conversation so it turned to the topic of debts, and then Norman would hopefully take the hint. No, surely he wouldn't have to do anything like that.

Kevin took long strides across the street, moving to the other side with great agility. He was tall—six feet, three inches—and he was in great shape. His body showed all the signs of regular exercise and was wonderfully sculpted. Virtually all of his muscles were well defined, but at the same time he didn’t look like someone who never left the gym. And he was handsome; people had always told him so. Kevin was uncomfortable hearing compliments—they made him blush—but he knew they were true. He couldn't deny it. His unmistakable garnet eyes and his straight ginger-red hair were the main reasons for his natural good looks.

Kevin entered the bar but didn't see anyone. He was just about to call out to Norman, thinking that he was somewhere in there, but then saw the silhouette of a man at the far end of the bar. Instantly he realized that something wasn't right. This guy was not the typical Irish client that frequented Norman's place. Kevin cleared his mind and focused his attention. He heard a muffled sobbing that was apparently coming from the unidentified man. He then remembered that the door to the establishment had been unlocked, that he had only had to give it a push to open it. And he noticed something else—a strange . . . odor.

“Hello,” he greeted the stranger. “Have you seen the waiter?”

The man did not turn around but kept his back to him. Kevin wondered for a brief moment what he should do. The stranger was seated on a stool and had one elbow leaning on the bar. He was dark-haired, medium height, and he seemed thin, though it was really hard to know for sure because a black raincoat enveloped him. Kevin approached slowly, making noise as he moved so as not to startle the man. Something out of the ordinary was definitely going on here. The man moved. His shoulders rose and fell quickly and Kevin heard him moaning weakly.

“Are you okay, man?” Kevin reached out slowly toward the stranger's shoulder. He realized that his hand was shaking though he didn't know why. “I don't mean to bother you.” Kevin gently tapped him and the man slowly turned around. “Don't be alarmed. I only want . . .”

Kevin instinctively took a step back. He tripped over a stool and fell clumsily to the floor. He sprung back up, his heart pounding uncontrollably as a rush of adrenaline burst through his body. He stared at the man and then dropped his eyes to the man's left hand.

He was clutching an enormous pistol.

“G-Get away,” said the man in a voice choked with emotion.

“Calm down, friend,” said Kevin, struggling to control himself. “I'm nobody . . . I just came to . . .”

“I don't care who you are. I just want one last drink.”

And in that moment Kevin understood it all, or he thought he did. The man wasn't pointing the pistol, it was more like he was just mindlessly holding it. Two tears rolled down his cheeks onto his chin. His eyes were very strange. They seemed unfocused, like he wasn't looking directly at anything. His face was thin and pale, vaguely reminiscent of someone who had been attractive in his younger years. It was obvious that he had been rubbing his eyes judging by the look of his eyelids. Kevin's fear that the guy would shoot him quickly evaporated. That was definitely not this guy's intention, nor had he come to hold up the bar. The only real explanation filled Kevin with a sick feeling like he had never felt before. Unless he was pitifully mistaken, the man was about to kill himself.

“I can serve you whatever you want. The bar belongs to a friend of mine.”

“That would be fine.” The man dragged his hand under his nose and wiped his face. “A whiskey would be great.”

Kevin nodded and carefully jumped over the bar. His hands were still trembling.

“Any special kind?”

“It's all the same to me, even rum would do. . .”

“No, no, whiskey is fine.” Kevin found a bottle, put two glasses on the bar and filled them. “To your health.”

The stranger reached for the glass but accidentally knocked it off with the back of his hand. Once again he burst into tears when the glass smashed on the floor, scattering shards of glass in all directions. Kevin hurried to put another one out and quickly filled it with alcohol.

“Come on now, relax. It's not a problem.”

It took the man some time to regain his composure. His uneven breathing kept him from speaking. With quite a bit of effort, he finally managed to pick up the glass and downed it all in one swallow. Kevin did the same.

“Okay, I think it's time . . .” said the man, somewhat calmer.

“No! Let's have another.” Kevin cut him off. “I don't know about you, but I'm thirsty. It would be a shame to waste this bottle.”

“For all I care you can drink up everything in the bar. I'm going to . . .”

“Don't do it!” The words rushed out of their own accord. Kevin had no idea why this guy even mattered to him, but he couldn't let him commit suicide without at least trying to stop him. It just wasn't right. “I don't know what your problem is, man, but I'm sure there's a solution . . .”

“And what would you know?” the man screamed, gesticulating wildly. The gun was waving up and down, making circles in the air. “You think know me or something? You have no idea about my problems!”

“That's true,” Kevin said hastily in the most conciliatory tone that he could manage. “I don't know you, but I am sure that you're an intelligent man . . . .” Kevin really had no idea about that, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. The tension of the moment was overwhelming. “I see it in your eyes, in your expression. It's clear that you've got a good heart.”

The man stopped moving and seemed to calm down a bit.

“N-No I'm not . . . or I wouldn't be about to blast a hole in my head.”

“Yes, you are. It’s just that you must be going through a rough time. It happens to all of us.” Kevin thought he might not be doing too badly since the man’s expression softened just a bit. “No one can survive in this cruel world on their own. I’m sure that someone in your family . . .”

“I don’t have anyone.”

Mentioning family was a mistake and Kevin silently reprimanded himself even though he couldn’t possibly have known. He was doing the best he could, never having experienced such a delicate situation.

“That’s tough. But I’m sure that you matter to someone.”

“It hurts so much . . . No one cares about me and no one will miss me. Everything will go on just as it always had when I’m gone. It’s better to end the pain . . . I’m tired of suffering.”

The stranger put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and closed his eyes so tightly that his eyelids turned white. Two new tears crept out from beneath them.

Again Kevin’s heart pounded violently.

“Don’t do it, I beg you! You matter to me!” The man was breathing rapidly. “I wouldn’t be here with you if I didn’t care. I could have walked out of here but I stayed by your side. You have to believe me!”

An excruciating moment of uncertainty hung on for several interminable seconds. Kevin truly believed that at any instant he’d be seeing the pathetic, miserable man’s brains blasting through the air, just a few feet away from him.

Then the man opened his eyes. He didn’t take the barrel out of his mouth, but his breathing slowed somewhat. It was a powerful image. Kevin had no idea how to react. This man in front of him was trembling, gasping with each exhalation as if he’d just run a mile. The barrel of the gun was soaked with saliva that was starting to trickle down his chin, mixing with the tears that were spilling from his eyes. Such strange eyes. Kevin studied them closely for the first time. They looked like the eyes of a dead man, something with which he was quite familiar. What struck him was that he had dealt with cadavers whose eyes reflected more life than the ones in front of him now. They were a grayish color—a very unusual shade—and lacked any flicker of life; they were completely dull. And Kevin would have sworn that they hadn’t looked directly at him even once.