Black Cars

by J. L. Comeau  

You comfortable back there, Mr. Winslow?  Great.  How was your flight?  A little turbulence, yeah?   I'll get  your luggage, okay?   Just let me stow your bags in the trunk and I'll be right back. 

Wow, cold out there tonight.  Dulles Airport is always windy.  Make sure your passenger door's shut good and tight; wouldn't want to lose you, ha.  So where're we headed?  Oh, yeah.  I remember that address.  That's your girlfriend's house, right?  Good looker, mmm-mmm, great skin.  Oh no, I'd never say anything about her in front of your wife, Mr. Winslow.  No way, no way.  I believe the driver-passenger relationship is sacred, don't you?  Like the doctor-patient relationship, right?  Did you tell anyone about your little side trip here to D.C.?  No?  Smart man.  Yeah, you told me when you called you were going to surprise the girlfriend.  Why the hell not, if you're the one paying the rent?    You look sorta cold, Mr. Winslow.  Just between you and me, I keep a little flask of cognac in the glove box for my best customers.  Want a little snort?  Sure, let me fix you up.  Warm the old bones.

That's better, huh?  More?  Here.

Hey, how did you like calling my car direct on this cellular phone?  Convenient, huh?  Thanks, I like this new car, too.  Yeah, it's a real switch from driving that old taxicab of mine.  They call this a black car.  Luxury sedan.  They're real popular up on Capitol Hill now.  Public got fed up with seeing all the politicians on the evening news riding around in poshy stretch Lincolns while all the time the national economy was going straight to hell.  You're right, they were afraid of losing votes. So now they mostly use Town Cars or Crown Vics like mine here. 

What's that?  Oh, yeah, right.  It does kinda ride like jet, doesn't it?  I like it better than the Town Cars, which are great furniture but not much automobile.  Nice and plush inside, you know, but they drive like battleships, definitely.  They don't park, they dock, know what I mean?  My Crown Vic's pretty plushy too, but a little leaner, little meaner.  She's got a fuel-injected 5.0 liter engine and gas shocks, so she's quick and smooth both.  Want me to open her up so you can see what I mean?

Hang on.

Ain't that a rush?  Yeah, I think she's pretty sweet.  Hey, it's starting to drizzle.  Look at the windshield.  See how the droplets pick up traffic lights?  Just like little jewels, huh?  Pretty.   

Beg your pardon?  Naw, I only drive nights.  I come out with the cockroaches, so to speak. If you've ever been on the Capitol Beltway in rush hour, you'll understand.  You have?  Then you know.  And I just like night people better for some reason.  They're not like day people.  Different attitudes, you know?  They swing a little looser, laugh a little easier.  Mostly they're workers, young minority guys who can't get a break dayside.  Then you have your revelers and derelicts along with the usual assortment of weirdos and nonconformists.  The night's more tolerant of differences.  You can disappear if you want to.  It's almost lawless out here, kind of like the Old West. 

Huh?  Oh sure, there's always cops around, but they're night people, too, see.  They have different eyes than day patrols.  Cat's eyes.  Night eyes.  Like me.  I can see in the dark better than I can see in the light.  Sun kills my eyes.  Burns my brain.  They haven't made sunglasses dark enough to suit me.  

Oh, it takes a while, absolutely, but you get used to it.  When I first started driving nights eight years ago, I had a hell of a time trying to sleep with all the clatter going on outside during the day.  Drove me crazy.  Construction hammering, dogs yapping, kids squealing.  I finally fixed myself a bedroom in the basement of my townhouse.  Painted all the windows over and stapled up some fiberglass insulation until the place was quiet and dark as a tomb.  My wife didn't appreciate me moving down there, of course.  She was alone most of the time after I started working nights, so she ended up running off with some jerk with a government job.  Day job, right?  What can I say?  So, anyway, I've been single for about six years now.

Yeah, I like being single okay.  No big deal.  There's plenty of women around, I guess, but mostly I only get to meet hookers and junkies.  My luck.

What?  Oh, yeah, sure, I get some sun on my face every morning.  It's not like I'm some kind of vampire or something, ha. I knock off at sunrise and meet some of the other night drivers at Denny's or the Big Boy for breakfast.  There's quite a few Black Cars prowling the night, more than you'd imagine.  There's business out here after dark, let me tell you.  If you know what you're doing, that is.  A lot of monkey business, too, if you know what I mean.  All the kooks and kinks come out. Things can get pretty weird sometimes, but I don't really give a shit what people do as long as they pay me what they owe.  I'm a driver, not a cop, right?  Yeah, gotta make that living first and foremost.  But it can get weird.  Believe me, I could tell you some stories.

You really want to hear one?   A truly weird one, huh?  Okay.  Well, let's see...  There's so many--  Oh.  I've got one for you.  Whoa, the rain's really coming down now.  Better turn on the wipers.   Well, Mr. Winslow, every occupation has its legends, I guess, and in the black car business we drivers swap tales, mostly bull stories about hot babes in the back seat inviting us to join them or wild lies about huge fares and tips that never happened.  Stuff like that.  We all do it.  Anyway, one story I kept hearing again and again was about a couple living in a luxury suite at the Willard, that swank hotel around the corner from the White House.  Right, that big, palatial building where the Queen of England stayed when she was visiting.  God knows what a suite goes for; I can't even afford a sandwich there.   

So like I said, I'd been hearing about this wealthy couple for years, about how they'd hire out a black car for an entire night.  Hey, that's a driver's dream.  Thirty bucks an hour for a whole night can turn into one hefty chunk of green.  Then on top of that, this particular couple were said to tip a hundred percent.  That's five or six hundred bucks total for eight to ten hours' work, so you can understand why all of us drivers were eager to book those two, right? 

Pardon?  Yeah, I'm getting to that.

At first I thought the stories were a bunch of brag and crap like the rest, you know, because none of the guys who'd ever transported this couple were still driving.  You understand how rumors get started.  But I'm an ambitious kinda guy and I keep my ear to the rail, so to speak.  So a few months ago, one of the other drivers told me over a plate of greasy flapjacks that he'd heard the couple in question lived in Suite 302.  Well, that's all I needed to know.  That very night I hustled my backside over to the Willard and slipped a quick twenty into a receptive palm, which got me the couple's name and a free run of the building. 

Wow.  What a joint.  Ever been in there?  It's like walking into another world: crystal, gold, marble, carpets up to your ankles, period furniture, giant flower arrangements.  Full-tilt swank. There's even little flower designs pressed into the sand in the ashtrays outside the elevators.  But, Jesus, the place is so hushed and formal it's sorta creepy, know what I mean? 

So anyway, I trotted myself up to 302 and shoved my business card under the door.  On the back of the card I'd written: Call me for the best ride of your life. 

Two nights later they called.

I'd just dropped a fare at National Airport when the phone rang, man's voice.  Hello, the voice said, slow and thick as molasses, not drunk, see, but cultured, classy.  Some kind of accent.  Mr. McClung, he said, This is Mr. Alton Murdock calling from Suite 302 at the Willard Hotel.  My wife and I received your business card with great interest.  We are actively pursuing appropriate transport to and from our activities, and it seemed almost supernatural that your card should appear in such a propitious manner.      Propitious, right.  Had to look it up later.  Anyway, the Murdocks booked me for that entire night, eight to five.  It was a Saturday and I had a lot of business already booked, sure, but hell, I'd have cancelled my subscription to the resurrection for a chance at that kind of dough, ha.   So I farmed out all my previous bookings to the other drivers and didn't say a thing to anyone about the Murdocks.  I like to play my business sly, you know?  Keep my best customers to myself.  Black Cars are competitive as hell; we'd steal each other's clients in a heartbeat.  It's expected.  Business is like that, right?

So, to get back to the story, I buzzed home for a shower and got all decked out in my best suit.  Grey Italian double-breasted job.  Sharp.  I thought I looked like a million bucks when I pulled up in front of the Willard at eight.  But then I saw the Murdocks and realized I might as well have worn a leisure suit from K-Mart.  Brother, they were something to see.

They kind of flowed down the front steps of the hotel like melting butter.  Smooth.  Clothes you wouldn't believe.  Mr. Murdock and his wife looked as different from each other as an eagle and a cat, but somehow they seemed perfect together.  Complemented each other, right?  He was as dark and tall as she was fair and tiny.  Like a storybook king and princess, you know?  Perfect.  Could have been in their thirties or sixties, no telling. 

I was kinda nervous when the doorman ushered them into the car.  I'm from a working class background, grew up in the Virginia suburbs.  I was afraid my manners might offend them.  Well, the Murdocks put me right at ease, talking to me the way you would talk to someone across a dinner table.  Friendly.  Told me they wanted a tour of the city.  I thought that was pretty strange since they were residents, and said so.  They laughed and Mr. Murdock said, We want to see your interpretation of the District.  We want you to show us things we've never seen before.       

I figured he wasn't talking about the Washington Monument or the Lincoln Memorial.  So I took a chance.  I headed northwest across the city toward what they call the Crater District. 

You familiar with the Crater?  No?  Hey, let me tell you, it's unique.  Half blast zone, half upper-middle-class residential district.  It's where the two parts of Washington, D.C. come together. Sandwiched in between burned-out buildings and deserted lots are big renovated homes that the owners bought for a song.  Yuppies, right.  Thought they were smart because those great big houses are located two blocks from the business district and two blocks from the subway.  They were sure the whole area would get cleaned up and renovated when urban renewal rolled in, but they were wrong.  Now they're stuck out there in their fancy houses butted up to the worst kinda urban blight. Rats big as ponies, know what I mean?  The residents did manage to get rid of most of the prostitutes who hung out there when they moved in, but nature abhors a vacuum, right?  A whole new variety of prostitutes moved in.  Transvestite hookers.  Guys all decked out like chicks.

What's that?  Oh, yeah!  They're gorgeous-looking!  You wouldn't believe them, all made up and dressed in glitter and spandex and legs like you never saw.  They stand around on the corners competing with the crack dealers for attention as the cars drive by.  They come out at night, yeah, just like the rats.  Just like me, ha.

Well, I drove the Murdocks over there for a look, thinking that either they'd get pissed and that would be the end it, or they'd get a kick out of the Crater circus.  I've picked up my share of rich types and one thing I've found out:  kicks are hard to find when you've got tons of dough.  They get bored when they can have anything whenever they want it, right?  So what the hell, I took a shot.

As it turned out, the Murdocks loved the Crater.  They made me circle through the area for hours, and let me tell you, when you drive slow through the Crater in a brand new black car, you arouse some interest from the locals.  Christ, the hookers and the dealers were all but chasing us around the block.  They can smell money, you know. 

The Murdocks stared and gawked and gave each other long looks, asked a lot of questions. I told them about the transvestites' business, how they took their clients into the alleys and abandoned buildings and sometimes came back out in body bags.  Screams and gunshots are night music around there.  The residents don't even bother calling the cops anymore.  The cops won't come.  What's the point, right?  I made the Murdocks keep the doors locked, of course; it's dangerous as hell in the Crater after dark.  Yeah, stabbings and shootings and all that kind of stuff.  Bad place.  The yuppies stay shut up in their houses behind barred windows once the sun goes down.  But for several hundred bucks, man, I'm willing to hang tough for a few hours, know what I mean? 

Nothing much happened that first night with the Murdocks.  At five the next morning, I took them back to the Willard and they paid me.  Five hundred and forty bucks.  Doubled the fare, can you believe it?  Just like I'd heard.  And then they booked me for the following Saturday night.  the Crater's kink business hit the target dead-on.  The Murdocks were mine.

How're you doing back there, Mr. Winslow?  Warm enough?  Good.  Sleepy, huh?  Yeah, the rain and the wipers are kind of hypnotic, aren't they?  God, I love driving in the rain.  Slicks away all the ugly, know what I mean?

It was raining that second Saturday night when I picked up the Murdocks, too.  Raining like hell.  They carried a couple of big leather satchels with them and I stowed them in the trunk.  I wondered what the deal was, but didn't ask.  None of my business, right?  I was afraid the weather might drive the  Crater sex and drug circus indoors, but those hookers and dealers, they're hard cases, I'm telling you.  They had their corners covered like always.  It was just like being in an old forties film that night, the dealers all slouched down in trenchcoats and snap-brims, the hookers hawking their skinny bods through transparent plastic umbrellas.  Streetlamps puddled lights on wet asphalt, traffic lights blinked through the downpour.  Weird.  Surreal, like Mr. Murdock said.

We eased through the district for about an hour, up one street, down the next, through the alleyways.  Caught a hooker and his john in the headlights.  They were busy doing commerce up against the wall of an old abandoned building.  Didn't even look up at us.  That's the attitude in the Crater.  Nobody gives a shit.  The Murdocks didn't say anything either, but I glanced at them in the rearview mirror.  They were smiling.

While we rolled around the Crater in the rain, Mr. Murdock told me that he and his wife were from somewhere in Europe, don't ask me where.  Said they were in the custom furnishings business, that his family had been making chairs and sofas and stuff for centuries.  Very exclusive clientele, royalty and ultra-rich, you know.  I asked him how much his cheapest piece would cost me.  A hundred grand, he says.  Can you imagine?  Hope it's made of gold, I said.  Christ.

So anyway, we drove around and around, past the same hookers and dealers who were getting a little pissed with all our looking and no buying.  Want some crack? a dealer on a prime corner shouted at us.  What the fuck's up, man? he said.  Disgusted, right.  Gotta make that living. Mr. Murdock told me to keep going, so I did.  On and on.  He and his wife nearly had their noses mashed against the back window, gawking.  They whispered back and forth and I watched them in the rearview.  I got the message quick that it was the hookers that interested them, not the dealers.

So all of a sudden this leggy black guy in a white curly wig and glitter makeup runs right out in front of the car and whips open his shiny plastic raincoat.  Nothing but a red sequin G-string on underneath.  I had to slam on the brakes.  Nearly slid right into the bastard; couldn't have missed him by more than a foot.  He came running up to the Murdock's window, all girly and breathless, and tapped a three-inch plastic fingernail against the glass.  Open the window, Mr. Murdock told me, so I buzzed it down halfway.  Hookers have blades in those big pocketbooks they carry, you better believe it.

I'm Tina, the hooker said in this weird cotton-candy high-pitched voice.  Wanna date? he/she asked, flipping these big fake eyelashes all crusty with silver glitter.  A real hot little number, I guess, if you're into that kind of thing.  I got no prejudice against kinks, it's just not my personal taste, right?      Well, Tina trotted in place bending over at the window, red spike heels clattering on the wet pavement.  C'mon, she kept saying, be a sport.  I'll do ya both, she told the Murdocks.  I'll do ya both real good, sucking and smacking those big frosty lips, you know, putting on a real show to clinch the deal.

And it worked.  Mr. Murdock opened the back door and let Tina into the car.  I didn't like that much.  Never know what kind of crud those hookers might be infected with, right?  But, hell, I'm making plenty of cash, so who am I to complain?  I just put the car in gear and started rolling. Jesus, Tina was all over them, rubbing and smooching and slobbering, so Mr. Murdock pushed her back in a gentle way and started asking her questions like where and how much and so forth.  Tina batted those wild eyelashes and told me to kill the headlights and pull back through an alleyway off of 10th street and drop them at the entrance to a big hulking cavern of a burned-out church back there.  Huge stone building that looked a thousand years old.  Mr. Murdock asked me to pop the trunk as he and his wife and Tina got out of the car, and they picked up their satchels and disappeared into the rain.

I didn't like sitting alone in that dark, wet alleyway, I can tell you.  A big dirty rat loped across the road right next to the car dragging some kind of dead animal through the dirt.  Nasty.  Christ, you can't imagine what might be lurking out there in the dark in that kind of a place, you know?  And the rain kept coming down, plunking on the roof, visibility zero.  I hit the Auto Lock key.  The Murdocks could damn well bang on the door when they wanted back in, I decided.  I wasn't going to get my damn throat cut.    

I kept wondering as I sat there in the dark, waiting, what the hell do people like the Murdocks want with a fifteen buck transvestite street hooker when they can afford the classiest call girls and gigolos in D.C.?  Kicks, I figure.  Thrills.  That's what everybody's looking for when they have the time.  I guess people like the Murdocks just have more time than the rest of us, right?

Mr. Winslow?  You awake?  Oh.  I thought you'd fallen asleep back there.

Well, about forty-five minutes or so after I let Tina and the Murdocks out, I heard a man screaming somewhere out in the night.  I had the windows shut tight, so I can't tell where the screams came from but, man, I started to get nervous.  Real nervous.  I glanced at the dash clock.  After midnight.  They'd been gone almost an hour.  I decided that if they didn't come back in another fifteen minutes, I'd blow the horn and wait another five.  Then screw it, I was out of there, dough or no dough.  Can't make a living if I get stabbed or shot to death, right?

But ten minutes later, here they come, running through the rain carrying their satchels.  Just the two of them, Mr. and Mrs. Murdock.  No sign of Tina, naturally.  That's the way it usually goes. After everybody gets their jollies, the hooker splits for the curbside again pronto.  Gotta make that living, right?  Get right back at it. 

I popped the lock and the Murdocks piled into the back seat, dragging their satchels in behind them.  They seemed happy; Mrs. Murdock's usually pale skin was all flushed and pink.  She looked beautiful, young, eyes all glittery like Tina's makeup.  Excited.  Mr. Murdock told me to drive them back to the Willard and I slid out of that black alley like Cisco Crisco, easy and slow.  

Well, I wheeled it out of the Crater and delivered the Murdocks back at the hotel at a quarter to one.  Shit, I thought, not much dough tonight.  But Mr. Murdock lays a thou on me.  My eyeballs almost fall outta my head, right?  I can depend on your discretion, can't I Mr. McClung?  Mr. Murdock said. You betcha, I told him.  I can be plenty discreet for a grand, I'm telling you.  Less than five hours work, too.  Christ.

Like I said, I don't give a shit what people do, just as long as they pay me when they're done.

As they left, Mr. Murdock told me they had some business that would take them out of town the following week, but he wanted to book me for the week after.  Great, I said, sure.  So two weeks later we went back to the Crater and picked up another vestie hooker, same type, tall and leggy, young and slender.  Light cocoa color.  The Murdocks seem to be turned on by skin color, right? Look, Agatha, Mr. Murdock told his wife while he pawed over the hooker, what lovely texture.  So soft.  Then Mrs. Murdock started rubbing the guy's chest and legs, too.  Kinda made me sick.  Not to my taste, you know.  I got different ideas about kicks.  But, hell, I drove them over to the burned out church again and they went off to do their weird thing and  then I took them back to the Willard. I make my thousand and everybody's happy.        

Well, this goes on every other Saturday night for about ten weeks, and then things change. Things always change, right?  Mr. Murdock told me he had a business proposition to discuss.  My ears perked right up because I'm an ambitious kinda guy, and I'm always game for more dough.

You okay back there, Mr. Winslow?  You look a little sick.  Yeah, I thought you looked kinda pale.  We're almost there.  You want me to go on with the story?  Okay.

So anyway, Mr. Murdock tells me he's interested in younger men, you know, adolescents. Yeah, he's a chicken hawk, wants a little chicken.  That's what they call the under-age male hookers: chickens.  Well, I knew right where to take the Murdocks, just a couple of blocks over from where we picked up the vesties, right?  We cruised a while and Mr. Murdock located a tall, good-looking blonde kid in a pair of low-slung jeans and no shirt.  Lifted weights, you could tell right off. Muscular, you know.  Kinda like yourself, Mr. Winslow, wide shoulders, good body, good tone. Takes care of himself.  Except that the kid's arms were all tracked up from popping junk.  But you're going to find that on pretty much all the chickens or else they wouldn't be out there hustling.  That's what I told Mr. Murdock.  He didn't like the needle tracks, but he invited the boy into the back seat anyway.

The kid was clever, you could see it in his eyes.  Before he hopped into the car, he checked out the Murdocks and me real good.  Wary as a tomcat, this kid.  Been around, you could tell.  Once he was in the car, he smiled at the Murdocks, big green-eyed cat grin, sneering.  What's your pleasure, he asked Mr. Murdock, and Mr. Murdock leaned forward and told me to take them to the regular place, meaning the abandoned church. 

Hey, the kid said, I thought we were going to do this right here in the car, man.  Mr. Murdock didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead while we rolled toward that dark tunnel of an alleyway. No, the kid yelled, starting to panic, I don't work this way, man.  Calm down, Mr. Murdock told the kid, there's no reason to get excited.

Well, the kid started to open the door and Mr. Murdock grabbed him by the back of his neck and whacked his head up against the door jamb hard.  Blood covered the side of the kid's face and he looked around, stunned, like a shot dog, you know?  Not his face, Alton!  Mrs. Murdock hollered. Don't ruin his face!  Mr. McClung, Mr. Murdock called to me as he was struggling with the boy.  I need your help, Mr. McClung.

I didn't like it one bit, let me tell you, but the Murdocks are my best customers, so I turned around and conked the kid on the top of his head with my portable credit card imprinter and he dropped like a sack of potatoes.  Bam, out cold.  Open the trunk and help me carry him up to the building, Mr. Murdock said, so I popped the trunk, then got out and slung the kid over my shoulder.  While the Murdocks got their satchels, I locked the car up.  Hated the idea of leaving it in that dark alley untended.  Who knew if it would even be there when I got back?

So I followed the Murdocks through the dark up to the church, right?  I was so damned worried about my car that I didn't even think about what kind of weird shit the Murdocks had in mind, I just walked behind them carrying the kid through the weeds and the trash.  Christ, that building was dark.  All echoey and creepy inside, you know?  Mr. Murdock flicked on a little penlight to light the way.  Rats and roaches and big hairy spiders skittered away from the light as we moved down what I suppose was the aisle between the pews, although all the pews and fixtures got ripped off a long time ago.  Just a big room with high ceilings and a filthy plank floor littered with used condoms and liquor bottles.  Nice joint, huh?  The Church of Twisted Scenes, ha.

So Mr. Murdock told me to drop the kid in the corner of a little room behind what used to be the altar.  The kid was moaning, starting to come around.  I asked Mr. Murdock what else he wanted me to do, and he said just to go on back to the car and wait for them.  I was glad to be getting out of there, let me tell you, and I turned to leave as fast as I could.  As I headed for the doorway, I saw Mrs. Murdock kneeling over one of the big leather satchels.  She'd spread a white cloth on the floor next to a couple pairs of rubber aprons and gloves and was busy laying out what looked like doctor's tools: scalpels and drills and dental picks and stuff.      

Well, let me tell you, I hustled out of that place and back to my car, which was waiting in the alley in one piece, thank God.  A miracle.  I locked myself in and sat waiting for the Murdocks, trying to ignore the screams that came from the church.  Hey, nobody notices screams in the Crater.  Just a little night music.  So anyway, about an hour later I see the Murdocks coming back to the car.  My eyes had adjusted to the dark, and I noticed that their satchels looked a lot fuller than they had earlier. Sides all bulged out, you know?  And they felt heavier than when I stowed them in the trunk the first time.  Smelled funny, too.  Like biology lab in high school.  Ugh.  Formaldehyde or something. 

When we got back to the Willard, Mr. Murdock layed two grand on me and patted my shoulder.  Good man, he said.  I know I can trust you, Mr. McClung.  I suppose you understand about our little business now, don't you?  he asked me.  Yeah, I said, I guess I do.  We like to mix business and pleasure when we can, he said with a weird smile.  Fine, I told him.  It's okay by me.

What was that, Mr. Winslow?  I can hardly hear you.  You're slurring your words real bad. Huh?  Oh, yeah, you're right.  This isn't your girlfriend's house.  We're going to make a little stop. Uh, huh.  Right.  This is the Crater.  No, now don't get upset, I know you're having trouble moving and talking.  It's the stuff the Murdocks gave me to put in the cognac.  It's to relax you.

What?  Yeah, I know it's dark.  This is the alley I was telling you about.  See the old abandoned church over there? Wait a second and I'll come around and get you.

Here you go.  Just let me get you up on my shoulder and lock the door.  It's okay if you holler.  Nobody's going to come.   Nobody cares.  I'm really sorry about this, Mr. Winslow, but I gotta make a living, right?  You're not much of a tipper, to be perfectly honest, and you've got just the kind of skin the Murdocks are looking for.  They're in the custom furnishings business, like I told you, and they produce their own leather--the most supple and exotic leather in the world, right?  Get their kicks and their rare skins at the same time. 

Me, I got a two thousand dollar a week coke habit.  That's why I'm so talkative, I guess. Cocaine does seem to go right to my yapper.  Keeps me hopping for dough, let me tell you, and the Murdocks keep me rolling in the high numerals.   

So, here we are.  Business is business.

What's that?  No, your girlfriend doesn't know you're in town, remember?  But I'm going to go over and pick her up anyway.  She knows me--remember the time you had me drive her out to the airport hotel to meet you?--and I'm going to tell her that you want me to transport her to a little rendezvous with you, which is true.  I'm going to bring her here to the Murdocks, too.  She's got a great complexion, Christ.  Maybe the Murdocks will save you for later and do her first so you can watch them peel her alive.  They'd really get off on that.  That's probably how it'll go.

Okay, I'm going to let you down now.  Can't sit up against the wall here?  All right, just slump forward, it doesn't matter.

Here come the Murdocks now.

Hey, Mr. Murdock, Mrs. Murdock.  He's the one I've been telling you about.  Yeah, he is a nice one, isn't he?   Wait'll you see the girlfriend.  She's a beaut.  Right.  Twenty grand for the both of them.  They'll make you a nice sofa and chair, ha.

Oh, by the way, Mr. Winslow, since I probably won't be seeing you again, I want you to know I'm going send my regrets and my business card to your wife after your carcass gets found.  They'll eventually identify you by dental records and figure you came down to the Crater for some fun and games.  People get cut up and die here all the time.

Yeah, you being a veteran and all, your wife'll probably have you buried right here in Arlington Cemetery.  I'll give her a call.  With that new black car of mine, I can do funeral processions, too, and somebody in your family is sure to be needing a ride.    

Been nice doing business with you, Mr. Winslow, but I've gotta get back on the road now, pick up your sweetie. 

Yep, gotta make that living.   

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©2004 J. L. Comeau