21 Tales Read online

  Finally she stopped. As she stared at me her eyes shrunk to small black points. The office became deathly quiet where only Louise's breathing could be heard. Then she started laughing.

  “You're pathetic. Nothing but a pathetic lying bastard.” Her laugh died away. “And,” she added, weakly, “I guess I must be pretty pathetic too. I'd have to be to stick around as long I did. Maybe we should give each other a break and call it quits?”

  I felt like I had been smacked full in the face with a sledgehammer. My mouth dropped open and all I could do was stare at her. She was serious. Dead serious. After a while I could talk. “No, honey,” I heard myself begging her, “we can work this thing out. We got to. It's too important.” My voice choked off. Louise was studying me intently. She could tell I was dead serious too. She opened her mouth, paused, and then she called me a bastard one last time. Before she left she addressed the office, hoping that everyone enjoyed the show.

  When I returned back to my desk I was shaking like a leaf. I couldn't let her move out on me. Not now. Not after everything I'd been through. As I was trying to sort this out in my mind Bob Harrison called, asking me to step into his office.

  My knees were still wobbly as I entered Harrison's office. He looked uncomfortable. It's not easy firing your best salesman.

  “I'm sorry, Russ,” he started. “But—”

  “Yeah, I know.” I dropped into the chair across from him and met his pale blue unhappy eyes. “It's a shame about the Mullin deal. I was so damn close. Well, maybe if I push it a little I can turn it around.”

  “That's not what this is about.”

  “No? What, about Louise? Well, I don't blame you for being upset, but I wouldn't be too hard on Jack if I were you. I'm sure he tried the best he could to keep her out but I doubt that she –”

  “Stop it.” His voice was just above a whisper. He paused and then looked away from me. “I hate doing this, Russ, but I can't tolerate her disruptions to the office. I've warned you about her.”

  “She's not coming up here again. I promise you.”

  “You've promised me that before.”

  “I know. Christ, I know.” I tried to smile. “I can't afford to lose my job now. Not with the recession. I'll work it out with her. I'll do whatever I have to.” I swallowed hard. I had to fight to keep from sobbing. “Damn it, Bob, give me one more chance!”

  He studied me. His pale blue eyes looked miserable. There was a slight crack to his lips as they formed a smile. “You never got home last night?”

  I met his eyes. “I was out late trying to close the Richmond contract. Afterwards, I didn't feel I could stomach Louise and all her craziness so I spent the night in a motel. When I stopped off this morning to change into something clean she went nuts. That's all there is.”

  I stood up and told him I still had some details to iron out about the Richmond contract. He nodded and watched as I left. We had an understanding. One more visit by Louise and I was unemployed.

  When I got back behind my desk I was shaking. I couldn't afford to lose my job, not now, not with Louise going to New York in two weeks. With Sales you're always traveling. I was going to need the alibi the job gave me when Louis met the Broadway Butcher.

  # #

  I don't know what happened between Louise and me. For the first few years it seemed like we had the perfect marriage. I don't think either of us could've been happier. Then it changed. She changed. Everything with her became a battle. Everything became twisted and ugly. If I said it looked like rain, she'd mutter something under her breath about hoping I'd drown in it. One night I woke up to hear her swearing at me. It was four a.m. and she was sitting up in bed, her knees pulled to her chest, and in a barely audible whisper she was calling me every hateful thing imaginable. It went on for over an hour and during it all I pretended to be asleep and in my mind pictured ripping every limb from her body.

  For a long time I thought about divorcing her, but it didn't seem right. She had to suffer. She had to suffer as bad as she made me suffer. And just as important, I had to be able to get away with it. I couldn't stand it otherwise. Not after what she'd put me through.

  I knew for six months about Louise's business seminar. For the last three months I've made seven trips to New York. One trip every two weeks. My next trip will coincide with Louise's seminar.

  For a while I was puzzled about how the newspapers were reporting the murders. They left in some of the details, like about the teeth and the fingertips, but they left out so much more. Eventually I realized what was going on. They were purposely misleading the public, trying to protect against any copycat murders. And in doing so they made my plans for Louise all the more perfect. Because no copycat murderer, like a husband, could possibly do it. At least not if they were going to match all of the Broadway Butcher's grisly details.

  The newspapers were wrong about a lot of it, though, especially their psychological profiles. I got no thrill out of any of it. In fact, I wish I could've made it fast and painless for them. But I couldn't. They had to die the same way Louise was going to die. And Louise's death had to be pure horror.

  # #

  When I arrived home that night Louise had a suitcase spread out on the bed and was folding her clothes into it. I just stood and watched. It was all for show. If she was serious about leaving she would've already been gone.

  “You almost got me fired,” I said after a while.

  She looked up from her packing. The skin around her mouth tightened, and for a second it looked like she was going to let loose with something nasty, but as she looked at me a softness melted into her face.

  “You were serious before,” she said in a tone I hadn't heard in years. “About me leaving? You really don't want me to leave?”

  The fragility in her voice almost floored me. I had to blink to make sure it was really Louise standing in front of me. When I was able to compose my voice I told her I wanted her to stay.

  “I think you mean it,” she said.

  I shifted my eyes away from her. “I do. I realized how close I was to losing you and it scared me. I don't think I could stand it.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  “I wasn't with anyone. Does it matter?”

  “Yes. Where were you?”

  I looked her straight in the eyes. “I met yesterday with a client in Connecticut. I was tired. I didn't feel like driving home so I stopped off at a motel. By myself. That's the whole story.”

  “You didn't go anyplace else?”

  “Like where?”

  Louise stood staring at me. As she did, her eyes seemed to grow larger. I had forgotten how big they could be. “I don't know,” she murmured. Her bottom lip began to tremble. “You really think we can work things out?”

  I moved my head up and down an inch. Her eyes were quickly becoming moist. It's funny, but I had forgotten they were brown. For the last few years I had thought of them as nothing but small black holes.

  She bit her lip. “I'm sick of hating you. I'm sick of what's happened to us. I can't take it anymore.”

  She started bawling and then stumbled to me, burying her head into my chest. She felt so small in my arms. Her tears so hot. The last few years she cried a lot but not like this. Always out of hatred or anger or frustration. Usually a smoldering combination of the three. This was different. As I held her, as I tried to soothe and comfort her, all I could think of was good. Let her think things were getting better. That we could actually be happy again. Later, when the time was right, she'd find out the truth. And her last few hours will be all the more unbearable.

  # #

  We made love that night. Afterwards she fell asleep in my arms, her head resting under my chin. I felt too exhausted to push her away. About all I could do was let my eyes close.

  # #

  I could see myself in an alleyway. I'm bending over something. Maybe a dead dog. I can't tell. From behind, my hair is a mess, sticking out and streaked with dirt and sweat. I'm watching as I mo
ve away. What I was bending over wasn't a dog. It was the last victim, the librarian from Tampa. Her face looks like raw hamburger. What's left of it…

  # #

  I woke up in a cold panic. At first I thought I was back in that alleyway. Then I remembered. I looked over at Louise. She had rolled over on her side and was still sound asleep. I collapsed back onto the bed.

  It was the first time I had dreamt or even thought about any of the victims. It took a while before I could fall back to sleep.

  # #

  The next morning at breakfast Louise was eyeing me suspiciously. “I'm afraid I'm going to wake up any minute now,” she said.

  I walked over and forced myself to kiss the top of her head. “You have woken up, darling. What we had before was the nightmare.” As I massaged her shoulders all I could think was just wait baby, in two weeks you'll have yourself a genuine eye-popping screamer.

  Louise grabbed one of my hands. “Maybe I should cancel my trip to New York?”

  I stopped cold. All I could do was stare at her.

  “I don't want to risk what we just got back.” Her eyes were searching mine. “I can skip it this year.”

  “I'd feel too guilty,” I said at last. “I know how important it is to you.”

  “We should be together now,” she insisted stubbornly, her eyes still searching, still probing.

  “We've got two weeks for that. And then an eternity.” I reached down to kiss her forehead, but she moved and got on her toes so that instead her mouth found mine.

  “You're trembling,” she said.

  “Because of how much I love you.”

  # #

  The next two weeks went by quickly. During it Louise fumbled around awkwardly, trying to do all the little things lovers do. I played along, partly to keep her in line, partly so that our final meeting would have just the right je ne sais quoi.

  I have to give Louise credit. During those two weeks she worked hard trying to please me. Sometimes I'd look at her and find myself confused, not recognizing her. Her razor-sharp edges softened to the point of being inviting. Her eyes so damn big. So damn brown…

  Neither of us slept much the night before her trip to New York. She spent most of it on top of me; sometimes making love to me, sometimes sobbing silently.

  I drove her to the airport the next morning. After a painfully long kiss, she burrowed her head against my chest.

  “I don't want to leave you now,” she said, her voice muffled by my overcoat. “I wish you could come with me.”

  We stood silently for a moment. She pulled away and gave me a timid smile. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  I looked long and hard into her eyes and found myself shaking my head. “I can't,” I muttered, my throat thickening. “I'll see you when you get back.”

  She stood quickly on her toes and pushed her mouth hard against mine, making the kiss last. “If you get the chance,” she whispered, “sneak down to New York and surprise me. You know where I'm staying.”

  I nodded and watched as she walked away.

  # #

  I didn't go to New York. Instead I stayed home and thought about Louise, about when things first started going wrong between us and why. I guess it wasn't as big a mystery as I first thought. If you looked at it honestly, you could say that I caused most of it. And to be even more honest, I must've, at least subconsciously, wanted it to happen. I must've been searching for an excuse to create the Broadway Butcher. The psychological profiles the newspapers came out with were a lot closer to the truth than I'd want to admit to.

  Louise has come back from New York, and these days tries her hardest to please me. She senses something is wrong but keeps quiet about it, afraid to upset our newfound peace.

  I would like to tell her what is troubling me. I really would, but I can't. You see, I do love her, probably always have. And if I told her, she would leave me. I don't think she'd be surprised, though. Sometimes I catch her looking at me a certain way and…

  And…

  At night when I try to sleep I see them. Different ones each time but they're always there. Always the same way. Louise can somehow sense the tension building within me. She tries her best to relieve it, but it doesn't really work.

  Sometimes now when I'm awake I see them. It's getting harder to keep them out of my head. It's getting harder to keep from getting into my car and driving back to New York.

  I tried throwing away the pliers and the other stuff. A few days ago I went to a store and bought all of it all over again. I couldn't help myself.

  I know it's only a matter of time.

  At least I’m no longer kidding myself.

  A Rage Issue

  This one’s probably my most autobiographical story. Yeah, a Phil Leotardo look-alike backed his car into me while I was waiting at a light and he decided to parallel park on the street, and yeah, the guy came charging out of his car yelling it was my fault, and yeah, I had a few moments where I lost it. But that’s where the stories diverge. My wife was in the car with me, and she kept me from doing something stupid. And so instead, I was able to work out my rage with this story.

  The guy looked like Phil Leotardo from the Sopranos. Not exactly like him, he was thinner and had a mustache, but he had that same white helmet of hair and that same general air like he was some sort of mafiosa badass the way he popped up and down, examining the rear bumper of his red Grand Jeep Cherokee and shooting me dirty looks—as if the accident were my fault, which was total bullshit. What happened was I had stopped behind this Phil Leotardo dipwad in traffic and he decided to back up and take a parking spot on the street, along with taking a piece of my front right bumper with him, not to mention ignoring me blasting on my horn. Anyway, I tried to stay calm. It was just a fender bender, not worth anyone losing any blood over, but watching this Phil Leotardo wannabe strutting around and shooting me looks as if this were my fault started bugging the shit out of me. If my wife had been in the car with me she would’ve gotten me to control myself, but she wasn’t. I rolled down my window and asked Leotardo why he didn’t stop backing up when he heard my horn.

  The guy was fucking beside himself over that. At first he was speechless with indignation, then he came charging towards my car, his index finger making short jabs in the air with each step he took.

  “Didn’t you see I was trying to park?” he bellowed, his face red and veins bulging on his forehead. “Why’d you have to pull up so close to me? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Whoa.

  Before I go on any further, let me give you a little background about myself so you’ll understand why I ended up reacting to ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ the way I did. I have a bit of a rage issue, something that was passed on to me by my dad. It came from the way he’d wale on me over any little thing. Before he’d beat the hell out of me he’d first have to get in my face, screaming What the hell is wrong with you? until I was soaked with his spittle and the world would start slipping away. It would happen a few times each week, every once in a while breaking bones, sometimes knocking me unconscious but mostly just leaving me seething. When I was fifteen he died, but yeah, it left me with a bit of a rage issue.

  Some more about myself. I’m decent sized, not the biggest guy in the world, not the smallest either. About six feet, a hundred and ninety pounds. I’m also deceptively a lot stronger than I look. When I was twenty-four I started studying martial arts, first taking Kempo-Karate. I thought that kind of discipline would help me deal with my rage. Wrong. It was probably the worst thing for it because what you’re learning how to do is beat the fuck out of someone. All that training and sparring just made me want to beat the fuck out of people for real. I should’ve quit, but I enjoyed the classes too much, especially the subtle way it fed my rage. So I stuck with Karate for six years, earned my black belt and two additional stripes past that, then moved on to Tae Kwon Do. Tae Kwon Do is kind of a funky martial art. While Kempo-Karate is basically geared towards street fighting, Tae Kwo
n Do has some really bizarre and complex kicks, some of them very deadly, especially if you’re going against some shmuck who doesn’t know how to fight. Anyway, I did Tae Kwon Do for three years, then switched to Kung Fu, the Tiger-Crane style. I’ve been doing that for the last seven years and have been getting pretty good at it, learning lots of ways to hurt someone really bad. The big difference between Kempo-Karate and Kung Fu—with Karate you’re learning how to fight and spar, with Kung Fu you’re learning how to kill.

  Getting back to Phil Leotardo.

  I didn’t exactly black out when he yelled what he did at me, but it brought me to a pretty bad place; a place where while I was aware of what I was doing, I really didn’t have much control over it. So I was out of my car yelling back at Leotardo, calling him a fucking cocksucker and letting him know that he caused the accident and if he thought any differently then he had fucking shit for brains (another thing good old dad used to like to scream in my face). Leotardo was flustered. He almost took a step away. Almost. But then he had to glance back at his jeep. There was a woman sitting in the passenger seat—she was about half his age, around thirty, either his daughter or a date; I’m not sure which but from the way she was dressed, I’d guess date. Anyway, instead of doing the smart thing, he decided to put on a show for her. He tried poking me in the chest with his index finger. I swatted it away with a tiger-claw move, really as basic a kung fu move as you can do, and without any real conscious intent, followed through with a tiger claw strike. You can think of it as kind of a slap to the face, except I hit him in the jawbone with the heal of my hand and drove with my legs, putting all my weight and power behind the blow. It happened so fast. Blink of an eye. A normal person hitting someone like that might stagger them, maybe even knock them off their feet. Someone like me, as strong as I am and with sixteen years of intensive martial arts training behind them, I’m going to minimally shatter their jawbone into dozens of tiny pieces. In other words the person is fucked. As it turned out with Leotardo, I did more than that. I killed him. Maybe it was his head hitting the curb when he fell that did it, but it didn’t matter. Looking at him with his eyes glazed and half-opened, I knew he was dead.