An Odd Job

Tim Fenster

            Mr. John DiCarlo had a lot on his mind as he slowed his black BMW to a stop before the intersection.  He wondered why Sal had so little work lately, leaving him to find new “clients” to pay his extravagant bills.  He wondered who this “Spades” guy was.  And most of all, he wondered if “Spades” was a guy who knew how to keep his mouth shut.

          A dozen teenagers crossed the street wearing wife-beaters and torn jeans with the waistband halfway between their knees and hips.  He was hit with the notion that this wasn’t his neighborhood.

          He pulled his car into the driveway of a small brown house surrounded by a chain fence.  After a quick glance in the rearview mirror—to be sure no one was watching—he opened his car door.  His piece felt heavy on his shoulder sling.  Can never be too careful, he thought.  After all, he’d never actually met Spades.  In his line of business, anyone you didn’t know was someone to not be trusted.  Those who didn’t know this rule would be sitting behind bars within a week of the job.

          DiCarlo looked around the driveway for somebody, but the driveway was empty save for a few dry leaves and a black oil stain.  Reaching for his cell phone, a sudden roar cut through the calm air like a bullet through flesh.  A Rottweiler tore around the corner of the house at full speed.  The beast nearly toppled backward when it reached the end of its leash.  Droplets of spit leapt out from its snarling teeth and splattered on his pants. 

          A large man with a shaved head rounded the corner just as DiCarlo considered silencing the dog. 

“My bad.  Got to keep this bitch around.  Never know when someone’s going to break in here and steal my shit, you know.”

          DiCarlo sighed, and suddenly missed walking in the back door of Sal’s Bistro whenever he was called in for a job.  “It’s quite all right.  Let’s just get down to business.”

DiCarlo followed Spades through the front door and into the man’s living room.  DiCarlo sat uncomfortably on a crumb-ridden green couch.  Spades disappeared into the kitchen after DiCarlo declined his offer for a drink.

          Spades came back with a can of Steel Reserve and a small picture of woman’s face.  He set them both on the table and slid the picture toward him.  Spades cracked the beer and took a long sip as DiCarlo studied the picture.  A strange notion struck him, and he studied the picture longer than usual.

          “Everything cool?” Spades asked.

          DiCarlo shifted in his seat and quietly said, “May I ask why you’re putting a hit on this woman?”  He abruptly cleared his throat and added, “not that I need to know—”

          “She’s a witness,” Spades replied and took another sip.

          DiCarlo glanced down at the picture.  “I guess she hangs around bad company.”

          Spades lowered his eyebrows.  “What does that mean?”

“Never mind.  It’s just that I know this woman.”

          “Will that be a problem?”

          “No. . .I only knew her for a night,” DiCarlo added.

          Spades laughed and leaned back in his chair.  “Banged her, huh?”

          “One night stand.  She wanted more but—” DiCarlo cut off, reminding himself that Spades wasn’t a friend.  He was a client. 

          DiCarlo’s lips tightened.  “Now, you understand that I do not exist.  If the police arrest you and throw you in jail, you still don’t know me.”

          “Shit, man, I don’t even know your name.  I know your one phone number, that’s it.  Don’t worry ‘bout it.”  Spades sipped his beer, leaned back, and tried to relax.

          “You just need to understand that if I go to jail for this job, you will die.”  He set the photo on the coffee table and rested his hands on his thighs.

          “Okay, okay.  Just do your shit.  Do it right.”

          “I will.  I always do.”

          Spades exhaled and let his head fall back to the chair.  “Good shit, man.  Good shit.”  He stood up and wandered to the door.

          Sitting at his steering wheel in Spades’ driveway, DiCarlo took a long look at the picture of Drescher.  He swallowed hard and sighed.  A deep feeling that some would call love—an emotion he’d long ago replaced with cheap lust—made his heart feel heavy.  You made the deal on this job; and besides, you need the money, he told himself.  It’s just a job.

DiCarlo took a long sip of red wine—his third glass since dinner—and ran his finger along the rim.  His glance wandered to the blue cell phone on the table.  He’d always had between three and five cell phones, but blue was always the color he’d used for his personal phone.  It was the only phone he would answer with his real name.  The address book had less than ten entries, and Drescher’s name wasn’t there.  But he knew that he’d find her number if he checked the phone’s memory.  It seemed she’d called and texted him about a thousand times after that night. 

At first, it took much of his discipline to ignore her.  But, as always, her texts eventually turned from desperate pleas for another date to angry hate mail along the lines of, “stay away from me u bastard, cuz next time i see u ill kill u.”  Then, like always, it was simply a matter of deleting her texts and emails.

          One had to learn a certain skill for in this line of work: suppression.  Just as he often had to suppress his conscience, he also had to suppress his feelings.  He’d gotten perfectly used to both.

          Yet still the unprofessional—and extremely risky—thought of calling her lingered on the back of his mind.

          The next night, after carrying his landlady’s garbage cans to the street, he got in his car and drove past Drescher’s home.  Her car was in the driveway.  The light in the living room was on. 

          He went home and stayed up late, drinking coffee, watching TV, and reading newspaper websites.  Once the clock on his cable-box read 2:30 am, he got off the couch and gathered his tools.

          He parked his car on the side of the block opposite Drescher’s home.  The digital clock on his dashboard read 3:06 am.  His weapon was hidden and secure in the holster beneath his armpit.  He glanced in the rearview mirror and out each window.  The streets were as empty and silent as they ever were in the big city.  He stepped out of his car and closed the door quietly. 

He walked casually as he rounded the block on the dark, empty sidewalk.  A single car rolled pass as he neared the target’s house. 

He slowed as he approached Drescher’s white ranch home.  A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that he was clear.  Moving quickly, he made a beeline across her front lawn and slipped behind her Honda Accord that sat in the driveway.  He checked the backyard for a leash or dog bowl, and found neither.  So there would be no unexpected canine guards for this job.  And she lived alone.  The job would be easy.

          Rounding the back corner of her house, a flood light turned on, illuminating the driveway.  He froze.  The thought of turning back crept into his mind, but he let it go.  She was probably asleep, as were most everybody in this neighborhood at this hour.  Bathed in white light, he slipped to the back door and picked the lock within seconds.  Before entering, he pulled a silenced pistol from his shoulder holster.

          The door opened, creaking softly, to a dark narrow kitchen.  He closed the door silently.  The room was black, save for the luminance of the flood light through the back windows.  The deeper he entered the house the darker the rooms became.  He moved up the stairs at a snail’s pace, ascending one stair at a time. 

          At the stair’s peak, DiCarlo froze.  He glanced left and right down the hallway, and wondered which of the half dozen doors led to her bedroom.  Closing his eyes briefly, he searched his mind for that far-back memory of the night she’d led him to her bedroom.

          His mind replayed the night they shared: the drink he bought her, his bad jokes and pick-up lines, her smile, and that seductive look in her eyes when she asked him “Are you as sick of sitting in this bar as I am?”  The story continued in his mind: the drink of wine they shared, their passionate kisses in the kitchen, her smile as she pulled his tie to lead him toward the stairs, and crawling up those stairs with hardly enough patience to reach the bedroom. 

          It hit him: her bedroom was the second door on the right.  He walked to the room silently and with his pistol raised.  Yet somehow, despite his better training and experience, he didn’t notice the sliver of light peering through the crack beneath her door.

          As he reached for the handle to her bedroom, the door seemed to pull away from him.  It opened to Drescher, who stood only inches before him in the open doorway.  The lamp beside the bed gave her enough light to recognize her attacker, though she didn’t see his gun. 

          DiCarlo froze the second he saw into her wide green eyes. 

          “Johnny?  What the fuck?  What the hell are you doing here?  I’m calling the cops.”

          The last word from her mouth broke DiCarlo’s trance.  His pistol hand shot up.  A quick pull of the trigger and a soft phfft sound.  And she fell the same as they all do.  The motionless body was twisted awkwardly on the floor as blood pooled near the head.  A bad feeling crawled into his gut, but he ignored it as he began work on the final steps of the job.  He wrapped her head in plastic wrap to contain the slow flow of blood.  He threw her limp body over his shoulder and carried her out to the back yard.

          The job was practically over once he found her keys on a hook near the back door.  Then it was only a matter of stuffing Drescher’s body into the trunk of her car and driving it to a quiet place on the East River.  After unloading the cargo into the river, he drove back to Drescher’s house, slipped into his BMW, and drove off.

          Once he got home it was the same old routine: a shower, a glass of whiskey, and a long relaxing sit.  Yet this time he felt different.  Something felt amiss as hot water flowed over his tired and sweat-soaked body.  He couldn’t explain the feeling, but it seemed as though somehow the job wasn’t over.  All that remained was a call to Spades, but still, he felt there was something more. 

          DiCarlo slept through the morning and into the afternoon.  He called Spades to tell him the job was done before even brushing his teeth. 

That evening he joined Sal and his associates at their four-star Italian bistro.  It was a nice, casual experience—to be able to eat and laugh and relax, and not worry about completing another job. 

          DiCarlo chewed through a piece of rare filet mignon as the Sal told an anecdote about a recent encounter with a crooked cop.  He washed the steak down with a sip of ice water, and suddenly his lungs were heaving and he struggled for air.  Droplets of water shot out his mouth as he tried to suppress the coughs.  The drops splattered on his jacket, his plate, and the tablecloth.  Sal’s associates looked disgusted.  DiCarlo got his cough under control enough that he could at least suck in air between coughs.  Soon his breathing returned to normal, but still every breath was punctuated by a sharp cough. 

“Is it poison?” Tony exclaimed.  “Damnit, Sal, I told you not to whack him ‘til next week.”  Everyone laughed, except DiCarlo, who physically couldn’t.  

          “Someone going to have to do the Heimlich on you?” Tony asked.

          “No, I’m fine,” DiCarlo said as the coughing slowly gave way to normal breathing.

          After returning from dinner with Sal—filled with wine and heavy food—he passed out immediately upon laying down in bed. 

In sleep, he found himself standing on an empty beach.  All alone, he felt drawn to the water.  The sand sank with his every step, and as he neared the ocean, the sand sucked his feet in ankle deep.  He struggled through the sand until reaching the ocean.

A pile of black string, like seaweed, floated at the water’s edge.  Drawn to it, he bent over and touched what resembled a dark old wig.  Rank, wet hair slid between his fingers.  His hand shot back as a figure lurched up from the shallow water.  Before he could act or even speak a word, Michelle was standing before him.  He grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her in for a long kiss.  In that moment, he felt perfectly content.  But suddenly she was gone. 

DiCarlo was left holding seaweed as the water rose to his knees.  He glanced across the empty ocean looking for her, but his attention was soon occupied by a much more dire concern.  The ocean was rising.  The water rose at a tsunami pace, quickly rising past his hips and chest.   Within seconds, he was blowing air bubbles and gasping for oxygen.

DiCarlo’s eyes shot wide open.  His bedroom felt unfamiliar.  The dream felt like reality.  He sat up, pinched the space between his eyes, and shook his head. 

“What the fuck,” he uttered to himself.  The boy in him wanted to turn on the light, but he suppressed the irrational fear.  He lay back down and pulled the covers over his shoulders.  A cold chill ran through him, despite the late summer heat. 

Unable to sleep, he tossed and turned.  He eventually rolled over onto a damp patch of the sheets.  He leaned up in bed and ran his hand across the wet area.  It wasn’t the small puddle near his pants that he experienced often as a young boy.  Instead it was a thick, wide area of dampness.

He flicked on the lights.  A puddle—about as wide as one’s head—covered the pillow.  He threw off the blankets.  The puddle grew wider near his torso, and narrowed as it trailed down the mattress.  He stared, examining the damp area.  It almost seemed to be in the shape of a human body.  His blood was racing.  Heart beating like a machine gun.  A thought of Michelle passed through his mind, and then lingered on the back of his conscience.   

He tried sleeping on the dry side of the bed, but for the first time in years, sleep was impossible. 

Sometime in the early morning DiCarlo began feeling sick.  The symptoms weren’t horrible—he felt constant fatigue and had an unquenchable thirst.  Though he felt exhausted, he still couldn’t sleep.  Even a combination of Ambien, alcohol, and marijuana couldn’t put him out.  He spent the day in a kind of daze—somewhere between dreaming and reality.  And the whole day, Michelle lingered on the back of his mind. 

Around midnight, sleep crept up on DiCarlo as he droned off to a late-night cable news program.

He awoke feeling confused, and briefly wondered where he was.  The TV was set to some televangelist preaching about the Judgment and the Devil and God.  An icy breeze passed by and DiCarlo felt the need to look around.  He had the feeling that someone was with him.

As he crawled up off the couch, something caught his eye.  There was a small puddle of water on his living room carpet.  It was shaped like a footprint.

“What the hell,” he uttered.

A second puddle of water appeared right beside the first.  He blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes clean.  There was now a third puddle—in perfect line with the other two.

He was struck with a sudden terror.  His chest heaved as he sucked in gasps of air. 

“Is someone in here,” he screamed.  “You better get the fuck out.  You picked the wrong person to mess with.  The wrong fucking person.”  

A fourth puddle.  A fifth.  A sixth.  All in a perfect line, like footsteps. 

DiCarlo grabbed his chest.  His heart couldn’t keep the pace his frantic mind called for.  Air entered his lungs through short hysterical gasps. 

A new watery footstep appeared every second.  DiCarlo crawled after them at a glacial speed.

The footsteps crossed the kitchen floor, entered the hallway, and turned up the stairs.  Frightened tears dripped down his face. 

The foot-shaped water splotches turned and began appearing on the stairs, slowly heading up.  DiCarlo followed far behind and stopped at the staircase.  He gripped the railing and pulled himself up the stairs—one at a time—like an infant. 

He prayed the water-footsteps would end at the top of the stairs.  They didn’t.  The footsteps trailed down the hallway toward his bedroom.  DiCarlo couldn’t quite make it to his feet, and instead dragged himself along the floor on hands and knees.  He found himself at a crossroads when he reached the bedroom door—he could either open the door or bolt out of the house screaming.  His every sense told him to do the latter, but as a man so accustomed to risk, he sided with his sense of wonder rather than safety.

He cracked the door open.  The water footprints ended at the bed.  Gripping the wall, DiCarlo pulled himself to his feet and inched toward the bed.  The left pillow was soaked.  He reached down and touched the wet cloth, and felt something that couldn’t possibly have been a pillow case.  It was moist, slimy, and stringy.  Like the wet hair of his dream.  He leapt back—crashing into the wall and sliding to the floor.  His hand was covered in blood and a putrid pink liquid.  He grabbed an undershirt off the floor and wiped off his hand frantically.

The wet footsteps appeared again on the hard bedroom floor.  But this time they moved away from his bed, and appeared much faster.  A thousand thoughts went through his mind as he sat panting on his bedroom floor watching the watery footsteps appear on the hallway carpet.  He considered waiting to let her leave when the blue cell phone in his pocket vibrated with a text message.  He checked the message as the watery footsteps turned down the stairs.  The message was from 1-917-688-3495—a number that he knew in his heart was Drescher’s cell. 

It read, “Remember when i said the next time i see u ill kill u?  ; ) C ya again soon love.”

DiCarlo’s heart kicked into top gear.  He looked at the watery footsteps heading down the hallway and glanced down at his phone.  Air fumed in and out of his heaving lungs.  The pull of her allure suddenly became irresistible.  DiCarlo could sit and wait for her presence to leave no easier than a man could sit and wait for a burning building to crumble beneath him.

He rushed through the hallway and down the stairs.  His backdoor was now open, swinging in the heavy wind.  The wet footsteps led outside.  He ran out, not even caring about the torrential rain from the storm outside.

He looked around, panting.  There were no visible wet footsteps anymore—everything was soaked and sitting beneath standing water.

Despite the solid, steady flow of rain, something—a clear, blank figure—broke the flow of water.  It was a slim, narrow body that moved slowly.  The figure headed across South Avenue toward the East river.  DiCarlo followed.  He ignored passing cars, and paid no heed to the fact that he was trespassing on riverside property.  When the figure reached the river’s edge, the water seemed to move along the contours of a human body, as if it were going under water.  After it was under, the water was still, save for the crashing waves and pounding rain.

DiCarlo approached the water’s edge.  The river was flowing faster than he’d ever seen.  The wind bent trees and blew over trashcans.  He heard a voice, and felt the grace of a woman’s touch.

“What do you want from me?” he screamed.  The voice ceased, but still he felt someone near.  “Just leave me be,” he whispered sheepishly.  “Please, we’ll just go our separate ways, please.”

“If only it was that simple,” the wind seemed to whisper.