Chapter 9

I am tied to a chair now. She is shaking. Her fingers are trembling. The tiny hairs on her skin are standing straight up, and she looks at these men. Three of them. She looks long and hard and she wonders about their humanity.

Did they have mothers growing up, and if so, what did these women teach them? One man’s mother was sick. He needed drugs so that she would feel better. That was moral, it seemed, at least in his mind. It was moral to lie, murder, cheat, and steal simply to heal her from her condition.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” I say, “It’s awfully horrid when those we love are sick.”

I can see a tear escaping from his eye, but that wouldn’t go along with his tough guy facade, so he rubs it away.

“That’s none o’ yer damn business, ma’am!”

“Well, I suppose it is since you’ve stolen my money and meddled with my affairs. I believe that’s the definition of a person’s business: An event that involves someone’s financial state of wellness. Of peace of mind. Of abundance. And you’ve taken that from me, have you not?”

I hear a car pulling up in the drive, and I silently pray that it’s Irene. A gun is on my throat now. The man is holding it there. I couldn’t believe someone could do this, but, then again, was there anything truly unbelievable about the human beast when you really sat down and thought about it? No. People committed heinous crimes every day, for many reasons, some of them justified in their own minds, and this man, in his own opinion of himself, was a hero: A son saving his mother from the death that we are all so afraid of.

His phone rang and he picked it up. He automatically placed the gun elsewhere before hand and I breathed an enormous sigh of relief.

Then I could see his shoulders hunch as he listened. The man broke down and sobbed uncontrollably.

“My mom’s dead. All of this and she’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry,” I offered.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“Well, my mom still needs drugs. My sister’s in rehab and my brother’s dealing some blackmarket shit on Wall Street. He needs drugs and he needs them now! So I’m still gonna get your damn house, lady.”

“Is that why you killed the man’s wife?”

“What? I didn’t kill nobody’s wife. Not me, dog. I was just runnin’ around stealin’ shit. What the fuck you talkin’ about?”

I hear a knock on the door.

The kid opens it.

“Who is it?”

Irene is finally here. She’s going to save me from the insanity and she’s...holy shit, the darling, sweet, innocent, pure Irene came to fight. She’s got a gun.

“Untie her. Now!” she says, gun to the man’s neck. He realizes quickly that his doesn’t have any bullets anymore and obeys. Andres is still sobbing and, despite myself, I just want to hug the man. That’s it that’s all. We drive away. I escape.

They try to take me back but eventually give up. Andres’ willpower was the oil on this machine and he’d lost a significant amount of willpower to go through with anything after he learned of his mother’s death.

People are so complicated sometimes…

“Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome. What the fuck, Annette? I found Eduardo’s wife, Juanita, dead in the shower. Do you know who did that?”

She sighed, “I’m sorry. You’re my best friend and I’m glad you’re alive. It just spooked me. That’s all. I really need to know who the fuck did it.”

“I don’t think it was those guys.”

“Are you sure?”

“No, but I’m not sure about anything thee days,” I answer, looking out of the car window and replaying the rather tame scene of my escape in my mind.

The trees rush past me and I look at her, her beautiful, long blonde hair, her flattering but conservative pink top, and her beautiful, skin-tight jeans.

Irene’s always been prettier than me. She was the one who’d always picked up boys at the bar, while I was locked away in my room, writing something or other about boys falling for women. It was much easier to control on the page than it ever had been in real life.

“They stole all of my money, Irene. They said it was for Andres’ mother, but she just died. Of course, they haven’t given it back. They were fighting about that when we left.”

“Well then I’ll call the police.”

“No. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I was sleeping with him…”

“What...you were sleeping with him...well, the police know people have affairs, Annette, but, honestly, the poolboy? I didn’t have you pegged for that sort of woman, and after writing all of those novels about sordid affairs too…”

She shook her head in disgust.

“I know. I know. I don’t think Eduardo’s found out.”

“Who the fuck broke into our house though? The only other person who I ever saw was that dude dressed like a clown.”

“That’s the guy who did it. I’m sure of it. I saw a knife once, in his pocket.”

“Well a lot of people carry knives in their pockets, Annette. Cowboys who’ve moved to the big city think that those things remind them of home. They’re heirlooms of sorts, souvenirs from a long-lost era. Everyone has knives.”

“Yeah, but there’s this gang of guys who dress like clowns and they have an emblem on each one: a jester hat. They use the knives to slit peoples’ throats. I looked, and that’s what happened to Jaunita. Exactly what happened to her.”

“Damn. Are you sure?”

“As I said, one can never be sure when it comes to murder. It could be Eduardo, for all I know. Maybe he didn’t want her to find out. It’s odd that she was in New York. She usually stays in Bevery Hills. She must have known something about her husband. Figured out what he was doing behind closed doors and followed him here, determined to hold him accountable for his behavior, but then, she was stopped by someone. Maybe the criminal in her mind. The traitor. The betrayer. She could have been angry. Maybe it started out in self-defense and then, rather than confessing, he took out his knife and slit her neck to save himself from her wrath.”

“Wow, Annette. You really are a writer!” Irene shook her head.

“I swear I never could have made up such a fucking story on the spot, but we don’t know. This is real life. Things aren’t always as they seem. Was anyone following you the night you two...slept in the hotel together?”

I inhale sharply.

“Well, let me think. There was a man. A man with a briefcase and a blue suit. He was wearing glasses. He always wore very pointy black shoes. They seemed expensive, vintage probably.”

“Why on earth did you spend so much time staring at this man’s shoes?”

“Because there was something different about them. A jester hat emblem, and there was a bulge in his pant pocket that looked a lot like the knife I saw. He had a similar stature to the clown.”

“Hmm...That does seem odd.”

“Yeah. He was staying in the room across the hall. I saw him leave early and get breakfast. I didn’t see him after that.”

“I’m calling the police. This is ridiculous. We’re staying at a fucking hotel tonight.”

She dials a number and calls.

“Hello? Jim? Yes, I would like to report a robbery. Andres and these other two guys, I don’t have their names, stole 4 million dollars from my friend, bestselling author Annette Baker.”

She hangs up.

“They’re looking into it.”

“Okay. Let’s stay in a hotel tonight.”

“Have you told Eduardo?”

“No. I haven’t told him.”

We saw the writing on the wall as we continued driving. This is what it said:

The clocks

go forward

by an hour.

We steal time

from the Universe

unaware as yet

we will have to give it back.

Our faces

hang like masks

mirrored in the dark

hospital window

our own ghosts

visiting this night.

I watch myself

as if seeing

someone from another world

who is & isn’t me.

Outside a bird

unknown to us

creates the dawn

whistling like a janitor

opening up

the early morning.

We gain

this extra hour

(this added time) .

The clock caught napping

still living in the not so long ago

my mother

stepping into her future

that is now

her past

the extra hour

like a useless bauble

falling out of

her hand.

Donall Dempsey

You held my hart in your hands and my soul in your mouth, we watched the moon slip through the dark knight, A lullaby of blood and sticky labels, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.

We sang to the pound of the engine, you lay your head in my lap, so sweet so simple, you toyed with the coins in my pocket, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

won't you save me, for I've been running all my life, I've been sinning, I've been stealing and I know that that ain't right, won't you save me, won't you teach me right from wrong, I've been sinning, I've been stealing, please take me home.

We danced to the backdrop of yellow fields, spattered with red confetti, shookhands with the devil, all dressed in rags, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

The devil he has taken me, and I can't run no more, No more sinning or stealing, for now my life is done; you can't save me, You can't teach me right from wrong, No more sinning, No more stealing, For now this soul has gone.

Ten cops, camera and a smile, Photo for a trophy, V8 Ford full of holes, reach for the sky, reach for the sky, No more dollars, No more heists, No more; No more, Bonnie & Clyde.

Percy Flaherty

I wasn’t really sure what to think about it, to be totally honest. The words that had been graffitied on the wall were eerie, particularly because they were etched in red, and there was a jester hat near each one that looked a bit too similar to the shoes and the knife for my taste. The problem was that there was no real way to know if the man I saw by the hotel room was the same man I saw dressed up as a clown: He wore too much face paint. It was a disguise, and a stupid one, and how on earth had he obtained my mother’s locket?