The Sapphire Express (8 page)

“Yes,” I said firmly.

The dirty man was quiet for a moment and said, “So tell me your plan then, Mr. Undertaker. How are you exactly going to take care of this?”

I finished my drink and said, “Well, I assume you have a back door for deliveries?”

“Yes.”

“And it’s van accessible?”

“That’s right.”

“Shovel?”

“In the storage room.”

“OK, then. Give me a minute, and I will park my van in the back and we load the cargo, OK?”

“Are you fucking sure about this, man?”

“Yes. And don’t forget the shovel.”

Ramses thought about his options for a moment and said, “OK, fuck, get the van.”

I walked outside and drove the Econoline to the dark alley, where the graffiti-stained backdoor was waiting for me like hell’s secret escapeway, and I took a deep breath. Ramses was standing by the door with a sturdy steel shovel, and he seemed anxious and a little hesitant, too. He was biting his nails with his rodent’s teeth and holding a bottle of Bud Light in his right hand. I figured that his previous encounters with law enforcement had made him a little too apprehensive about the men and women in blue. Or maybe I was the one who was a little too relaxed in such a situation because of my inexperience; I wasn’t sure.

I stepped out and said a cheery hello to Ramses. He didn’t say anything, and we walked silently into the bar and laid the knife avenger on a dusty carpet and rolled him up inside. Then we carried the giant Tootsie Roll outside and lifted it into my van.

After taking a short respite, Ramses handed me the shovel and said, “You know what you are doing, right?”

“Stop worrying, Ramses. I will take care of this.”

“Can I fucking trust you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

I looked into his suspicious eyes sternly and said, “Look, Ramses, there are two kinds of people in this world: people who piss in the shower and people who lie. I piss in the shower.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes, I am. I don’t fucking lie. Not anymore. In fact, I’m so goddamn honest that most people would prefer if I lied.”

“Fair enough,” he said and pulled a wrinkled pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of his dirty shirt. Then he put two bent cigarettes into his mouth and started sucking on them in earnest. The red tips of the little cancerous bones started glowing brightly in the gloomy night like the nose of Santa’s favorite reindeer. I thought that he looked stupid with those damn Marlboros in his mouth, but I didn’t say anything.

I grew tired quickly of watching Ramses smoke and eject murky saliva out of his stinky mouth, and I said, “OK, I will leave now and come back tomorrow. I’m coming back because I want to drink alcohol, not because I need to talk to you about what happened here tonight. What I will do with the slim man is no longer your concern. I guarantee you that he will get a proper and respectful funeral—a private one where none of his so-called friends can see his sad cadaver and dwell in their superiority and lie about how they tried to help him, OK?”

“OK, Mr. Undertaker, I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he said in a voice that sounded borderline relieved. “And, uh, thanks.”

“No problem, man. But before I go, could you bring me a couple of those bratwursts and a cold beer?”

“Sure,” he said and quickly disappeared into the bar. After a couple of minutes, he came back with two sausages in a Ziploc bag and a sweaty bottle of Miller Lite in his hand and said, “Here you go, man. The sausages are already cooked, and the beer is colder than a polar bear’s cunt. Enjoy.”

I took the sausages and the beer and jumped into the van without thanking him. Then I placed the gorgeous white bangers respectfully on the passenger seat, put the beer in a cupholder, and drove into the unforgiving darkness.

I could see the familiar lake basking in the beautiful moonlight in the distance. It was a place I had visited many times before, but never with a dead body in tow. I had gone there to fish bass and just enjoy the cruel indifference of wilderness and the timeless splendor of nature. It was my favorite national park in the United States, and I loved visiting its forests and lakes because they were always quiet, and most people didn’t even know that they existed. The park was grossly neglected and horribly underfunded, and it closed its gates to the public at 6:00 p.m. It wasn’t, by any means, the coolest or the most exciting national park in the world, but it was still a nice place to take your family for a swim or a stroll in the beautiful forest. It was also a nice place to bury a slim man.

              I entered the dark forest with anticipation boiling in my blood and started removing the chains from the rusty entrance gate with steady hands. It wasn’t much of a challenge to break into the park, because the gate was old and tired, and the dying chain was ready to retire. Even the lock was missing, and I figured that someone had lost the key and had been too lazy to buy a new one. That thought made me smile because it was proven, once again, that laziness was the main reason why crime sometimes paid off.

I passed the placid lake, thinking about the hungry eels that were hiding in the dark abyss, and turned left at an old dilapidated ranger station that had been abandoned when that part of the forest had burned down seven years ago. I increased my speed to thirty miles per hour and followed the narrow dirt road all the way to the most remote part of the park and smiled nervously when the impenetrable blackness welcomed me with its open, nonjudgmental arms. Nobody visited that part of the forest even during the day because there was simply nothing interesting to see or do there. Everybody knew that the north side was cursed, or blessed, with some truly difficult terrain, and hunting, off-roading, and all other leisure activities were banned there because the forest was an important flying squirrel habitat—or at least that was the official story. The flying squirrels were abundant everywhere in the park, but, for some reason, the north side was off-limits to the public. Some people said that the government had a secret underground facility there where they drew blood from aliens, but I personally believed that it had been closed for financial reasons. I was, however, ready to put a green head in a chokehold if it ever came to that.

              I reached the end of the road after ten minutes of patient driving, and the Econoline’s headlights revealed the scaly bark of a majestic oak that had been saved from the road builders’ chainsaws simply by being born in the right place.

I parked under the tree and stepped out of the van cautiously. I left the engine running because I needed the headlights to guide me through my special nightly chore, and I didn’t want the battery to run out. Needless to say, that would have been a total disaster.

I fetched the shovel from the back of the van and walked about a hundred yards into the forbidden forest that had been partially awakened by the bright, electric eyes of the mighty Econoline. I scanned the ground carefully like a hungry coyote and soon noticed a small clearing in the middle of an army of old trees. It was a perfect place for a humble forest grave, and I knew that the time had come to put the shovel to work.

The ground was soft and moist, and the digging progressed surprisingly well. My arms were strong and determined, and the shovel was shockingly sturdy for a tool that had been found in a dirty closet of a dive bar from hell. Its sharp edges cut effortlessly through the small roots that were hiding underground like thirsty, toothless serpents, and the grave grew bigger with every ounce of dirt that flew out of its gaping mouth. The process was fairly straightforward and somewhat movielike, but obviously it wasn’t the most conventional way to spend an evening. It was, however, way more fun to dig a shallow grave in a shadowy forest than watch a boring game at home alone and talking to the mirror in drunken delusion. At least I got some fresh air and exercise that wasn’t artificial. Getting fit while doing something productive was the dream, after all.

After the hole was ready for a brand-new midnight passenger, I walked back to the van and started eating the bratwursts that Ramses had so kindly given me. I was glad that I had been farsighted enough to ask him to bring the wonder bangers because the grave digging had made me awfully hungry. It would have been just horrible to be in that unforgiving forest without the nourishing companionship of my meaty Bavarian friends.

The sausages tasted mighty good, almost heavenly, and when the last delicious piece disappeared into to my grateful gut, I whispered to myself with the satisfied voice of a full man, “Wow, really yummy, Mr. Undertaker. Such a nice man that Ramses is. Such a nice man he is.”

Feeling chirpy and recharged again, I pushed the human Tootsie Roll to the edge of the black hole and took a deep breath. Then I kicked the slim man and his flying carpet into its final resting place with my unforgiving boots and filled the hole with the same dirt that had come out of it. The body disappeared under the dark soil quickly, and I was sure that the slim man would never be found—at least not by any human being.

As I was marveling at my night’s work and looking at the sky of hope and enigmatic wonder, I realized that the humble grave I had dug for the slim man was, in fact, quite a special thing. It was nature’s own magic box, and any aspiring illusionist would have been grateful to have a place where he or she could just drop a man and make him disappear from the face of the earth. The only downside was, however, that the man would never come back again. Well, perfection was hard to find in the modern world.

After the grave had swallowed its frigid dweller without any objection or heartburn, I put my right palm on my chest and said solemnly, “Hey, uh, slim man. I hardly knew you, but I must say that you made an everlasting impression on me. You didn’t live a conventional life, no sir, you did not, but I’m sure that you once had dreams and hopes—just like all of us do. You were once a beautiful child, someone’s treasure, someone’s fulfilled dream, and someone’s life. You had that magical sparkle in your little eyes, and you were eager to learn and see new things. You saw the moon and his star friends twinkling in the quiet night sky, and you pointed at them in wonder and innocent awe of a miracle child that you undoubtedly were. You touched the warm ocean water with your little fingers, and you smiled and looked at your parents with excitement pulsing in your young heart. You were perfect and pure, and you wanted to be good; you wanted to be somebody, too. I promise you that if I had known you then, I would have held you in my arms and loved you so, told you how precious you were, and cherished every single second with you. I don’t know what happened to you, slim man, but it wasn’t your fault—I am sure of that. I think you were dealt a bad hand in life, and your dreams were crushed before you could even try to reach them with your bruised arms. I hope that you had, at least, a chance to love a little, feel proud a little, feel special a little, and feel loved a little—feel like you mattered, because you did, my God, you did. You are a true marvel of nature, and we are all equal in eternity. We can’t choose our parents or control everything that happens to us in this world of wicked unfairness and pain, but we are all equal because we are all born and we all die. Rest in peace, slim man, and remember that I love you, and I respect you. Maybe in another life, you would be my son, and we would ride that old blue bicycle together and watch the first spring egrets fly in the morning sky. We would wave at the pretty birds, and they would look down from the placid skies and say, ‘Oh, what a wonderful little boy there is down there, riding that blue bicycle with his young father. What a perfect little boy that is down there…’ And one more thing, slim man: It’s good that you don’t have that knife with you because that might be a problem at heaven’s gate. Well, adios, my friend. Tell the yawning angels that I said hi. Tell my daughter that Daddy is coming soon. Tell her that I am sorry because I didn’t understand that the days with her weren’t just days, the hours weren’t just hours. Tell her that I should have known that it wasn’t just life.”

After the slim man was buried, my work in the quiet forest was done, and I covered the drag marks with fallen leaves and brushwood and made sure that I didn’t leave any evidence behind. The rain that was forecast for the coming morning would do the rest and wash away the tire marks and footprints, and I knew that getting caught was as likely as being hit by a rogue wave in my local swimming pool.

I was also OK with what I had done. Ramses had told me that the slim man had no family who cared about him, and you could have counted the number of his friends with two fingers. It was clear that no one would, unfortunately, miss him—not even me. At least he had finally found peace in that midnight forest that welcomed everyone, the dead and the living alike. That had to be good enough for him.

6

A Job Offer

The next evening, I drove to Johnny D’s with thirst ringing its little conniving bells in my lateral hypothalamus. The voice inside me told me to go visit the godfather, or many godfathers, and I complied happily because I had a slight headache, and I needed to get rid of it fast. A hangover just didn’t mix well with an inner slideshow that included images of forest corpses and grimy shovels, and I wanted to numb my mind and subdue the growing chemical pessimism with chemical optimism as fast as possible. I wanted to forget the slim man and treat the whole thing more as a cloudy dream than a slice of morbid reality that I had, for some weird reason, given birth to.

The neighborhood around Johnny D’s was quiet, and I found a parking spot near the bar without any trouble. I was eager for a drink, and the entrance to that grimy world of fine liquors looked exceptionally inviting that night. I was ready to sit down on my favorite barstool and just relax and unwind, but there was a problem. A one-armed man was blocking the bar door with his scrawny chassis.

The bony man was old and poor, and I didn’t want to be disrespectful, so I said politely, “Excuse me, sir, but I need to go inside. I’m thirsty, and I have an appointment with the godfather. He doesn’t really like waiting for people.”

The old man looked at me with one eye and asked, “Are you the man who dresses like a Chinaman but isn’t really a Chinaman?”

“No,” I said.

“Are you the one who travels with a chained cherub in the silent lands and screams bloody murder with his dirty jackalope’s mouth? The one who weeps in his dreams like a GODDAMN baby!”

“No, I’m not that man.”

“Well, good, because I have the fruit of the manchineel tree in my pocket, and I will mix it with your drink, if you are that man.”

“Well, lucky me. I’m not that man. But hey, can I ask what happened to your arm?”

“My arm is gone.”

“Yes, but what happened to it?”

“Oh, my dear Kaiser, I should have believed the men in bearskin hats when they told me not to swim in that murky cove where the rusty trucks dumped sheep carcasses and cows’ heads under the bleeding moon. A night wave brought a shark, and it took my arm.”

I thought about his wacky words for a moment and said, “Wow, I’ve never met a real shark-attack survivor before. But hey, I really need to go inside. Please, sir.”

The one-armed man moved aside and said, “Go right ahead, dear Kaiser.”

“Thank you,” I said and opened the door.

A thick wall of cigarette smoke and vaporized sweat welcomed me like an old unwanted friend, and I glanced around the bar and noticed that the place was devoid of customers. Ramses was cleaning the shot glasses sluggishly with a bent Marlboro hanging from his diseased mouth and whistling some wicked tune that I almost recognized. I said hello to the dirty man, sat down on my favorite barstool, and ordered a godfather and a glass of ice water.

After about twenty seconds, Ramses slammed the water on the counter and said with a serious face, “I talked to the owners today. Your money is no longer good here.”

“What?” I said in disbelief.

“Yeah, from now on, you can drink as many godfathers as you want and eat as many bratwursts as your stomach can handle, and it’s all on the house. And the offer is valid until you die or decide not to come here anymore. How’s that sound?”

“It sounds good,” I said.

Ramses nodded and retreated back to his cleaning duties.

After about five minutes of silent drinking, I ordered another godfather and slid the empty glass down the bar to Ramses. I didn’t order the second drink just because it was free, but because I wanted it.

Ramses brought me the drink and looked at me a little longer than usual. Then he said like Lieutenant Columbo, who hadn’t showered in four years, “There is one more thing.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Well, I just want you to know that the owners of this fine establishment are, uh, how should I say, uh, somewhat unconventional.”

“You mean that they are criminals.”

“Well, I don’t really like to use that word, but they are connected, if you know what I mean.”

“So?”

“Well, I have known them for more than twenty years now, and I trust them 100 percent. They are older guys, but still in the game, more or less. I would describe them as gentleman criminals. What I’m saying is that they are good folks, and they even postponed my appointment with the Grim Reaper when I made a big mistake a while back. Got this job from them, too. My father knew them, but he is dead now.”

“OK, and I need to know all this because?”

“OK, listen, here’s the deal. The owners want to know if you could do some, uh, consulting for them.”

“Consulting?”

“Yeah, you know, along the lines what happened last night. The money is good. I can guarantee you that.”

“That type of thing, huh?”

“Yeah and then some.”

I was quiet for a moment, and I asked, “What makes you think that I would wanna do something like that?”

Ramses looked at me sheepishly and said, “Uh, it’s just how you handled that thing with Rocky, you know. You are ex-military, right? I can see that. You have that unmistakable confidence and killer instinct in you. Special forces?”

I took a sip of my drink but didn’t say anything.

“So, what do you think?”

I looked at him grimly and said, “What are we talking about here exactly? No goddamn code words or any other concealed horseshit this time. Give it to me straight, or I’m out of here.”

“OK, wait,” Ramses said and walked to the front door and locked it. Then he came back, sat next to me, and said in a low voice, “There is this guy who has murdered a couple of working girls near Randall’s truck stop, and my employer wants him gone. They need an outsider for the job.”

“And why don’t they tip off the cops, if they know who the guy is?” I asked.

              “They want him gone, OK. He is a piece of shit, a sadist who likes hammers and nails.”

              “And who is this hammer-wielding sadist, then?”

              “A father of two who moonlights as a killer. He’s a partner at some big consulting company in downtown. A real slimy, two-faced psycho.”

              “Is your employer involved in prostitution?”

“No.”

“Trafficking of women and children?”

“No.”

“Mistreatment of innocent people in general?”

“No. As I said, they are old-timers. It’s more like offering protection and stuff, if you know what I mean. You would be actually helping the girls, you know, making sure that the boogeyman doesn’t return with his hammer.”

“Your employers must be desperate, if they trust some untested guy like me with the job.”

Ramses looked at his feet and said with a voice that was loaded with disingenuous compunction, “I might have exaggerated your skills a little. Well, a lot. Let’s just say that the bosses were very impressed by you, OK?”

“Why did you do that?”

“Uh, well, honestly, I…I can make a little bit of money if this thing goes well, and, you know, I really think that you are the right guy for the job. I really do. And, you are not completely untested. Not in my book, at least.”

“Don’t you have anyone else?”

“No, not really.”

“Don’t
they
have anyone else?”

“Yeah, they might, but as I said, my pitch was good, and I offered a good price. It just clicked, you know.”

              I looked at the dirty man for a long time and said, “OK, I’ll do it.”

              His face lit up like a Molotov cocktail, and the man was suddenly energized and excited. Then he put his hand on my forearm and said reassuringly, “This is great, man, really great. Come back tomorrow, and I will give you the details. Think about the money, too, and how you want to get paid. It can be a check or cash in a duffel bag. No wire transfers.”

              “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said and emptied my drink in one gulp, but as I was getting ready to leave, someone started knocking loudly on the front door.

Ramses walked to the hell’s terrestrial gate slowly and pulled it wide open with much more force than was necessary. It looked like he was getting ready to scold the doorbanger but quickly changed his mind, when he noticed that there was a good-looking woman standing outside his crappy kingdom. It was the surprise of a lifetime, and the greasy man froze like Tanana roadkill when the rare beauty looked at him with her sexy eyes and asked, “Are you guys open? I could really use a drink.”

“Come on in,” Ramses said bashfully, and the woman followed him into the gloomy bar and put her golden purse on the counter. Then she started looking curiously around the fine dive and asked with a soft voice, “Can I get a cosmo, please?”

Ramses glanced at me incredulously, but being the gentleman he always was, the obedient servant started mixing a cocktail that, unfortunately, wasn’t going to taste or look anything like a cosmopolitan; that was 100 percent guaranteed. He probably didn’t even know what a cosmopolitan was since 99 percent of his orders were cheap beer and nonpremium liquor, but at least the man tried.

The drink that was supposed to be fancy was soon ready, and Ramses put the disgusting creation next to my venerable godfather and said to the visiting angel, “This is a fine man enjoying his cocktail here. I recommend that you sit with him rather than sitting alone. You don’t have to, of course, but I strongly recommend it because I know that some crazy night runner will soon walk through that door, and when he sees you, it is 100 percent guaranteed that he is going to sit next to you and annoy the crap out of you. Then I have to throw his pimply ass out, and that’s a lot of unnecessary work that I don’t really feel like doing right now. I hope you understand because I am just trying to be a proactive and smart herdsman here, OK?”

“Uh, OK, I guess,” the graceful lady said and warily picked up her purse and sat bravely on the barstool next to me. I looked at Ramses like I wanted to strangle him, but the truth was that I was secretly quite pleased to have a beautiful woman sitting right beside my old carcass. The lady was clearly in a wrong place, but that didn’t bother me one bit. I figured that maybe she was a gift from God, and I couldn’t say no to a gift from God, could I now?”

“Hi, I am Monica,” the woman said with a beautiful smile that revealed a row of perfect teeth.

“Hi, pleased to meet you, Monica,” I said and shook her hand firmly.

“Nice handshake,” she said.

“I’m a powerful man, Monica. Only physically, though.”

She looked at me and smiled mysteriously before directing her attention to the curious dive bar cosmopolitan.

I looked at her healthy hair and the classy blue skirt that didn’t, fortunately, have enough room for her beautiful tanned legs and asked, “Why are you here tonight, Monica?”

The mystery girl started stirring her drink with a tiny cocktail stick and said with a deep sigh, “I got into a fight with my best friend. Started to feel kind of down, so I left Roxie’s.”

“Roxie’s?”

“Yeah, the martini bar on Jefferson.”

“Oh, that one,” I said in a voice that made it abundantly clear that I had no idea what the hell she was talking about.

“Anyway, I just left her there and started walking. Then I saw this place and, well, here I am,” she said and opened her arms wide open.

“What were you guys fighting about, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Yeah, she, uh, she started dating my ex a couple of weeks ago, and I think that was a really selfish thing to do. I mean, there are billions of people in this world, and you have to, you just have to date your best friend’s ex. I mean, come on. If that’s not lazy and selfish, I don’t know what is. And don’t tell me that you can’t fight love because you can and you should. You need to have some backbone in this world, or you don’t deserve to have any friends. That’s my take at least. What do you think?”

“Uh, I actually agree with you. And I am not saying this just because I want you to like me, OK?”

“Good answer,” she said and smiled.

“Let’s have a toast, then,” I said.

She looked at me curiously, and I raised my glass and said, “Screw all lazy, selfish friends with no backbone who say that they can’t fight love.”

She raised her glass and said with a cute giggle, “Screw them.”

Then we laughed together, and when I looked her straight into her sparkling eyes, I felt a giant warm wave crashing hard against my stone heart. It was just so wonderful to talk to a real woman and know that I didn’t need anything from her. I didn’t need her to sleep with me, and I didn’t need her to accept me or even like me. That allowed the authentic me to remain on that barstool, and all the horseshit and pretentiousness that horniness so often produced was totally absent. Of course I wanted to sleep with her, but I wasn’t going to change my behavior because of that. Love, or fucking, was no longer a priority for me, and I was prepared to go home alone. I had no illusions, and I had accepted my limitations as a man already a long time ago. I was an old bastard in a creepy van, and she was a goddess from heaven’s puffy clouds, sitting in a place that normally catered exclusively to the deranged and neurotic.