SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE OF HELL
A new year greets me with the rum tongue of my secretary sporting pit stains and a clean slate. She's looking to make me the first "uh oh" of her January. Whiskey dick to the rescue, I respond in kind and make like I'm going to get us both a drink. She waves at me in a haze of cigarette smoke and a crush of bodies. I can't tell if she's hopeful or near-sighted. But she looks better as a I walk away. I find the bedroom and pull my jacket from under two gropers. I smell rum on my ass.
"I thought you were getting us drinks?"
I shrug and think of Eddie Murphy's line about how he was just fucking her, but he makes love to you.
"Fuck you, Kevin."
"Look. I'm sorry. I'm drunk and I don't think this is best time for you and me to hook up."
"Why not? Jesus. You think I don't see you look at me every day?"
I did look at her every day. I looked at everyone everyday. It gets you through a day as a counselor to members of the District of Columbia bar to imagine yourself humping the help. Apparently, my efforts to pass time had been comprehended as more than vague interest.
"I'm sorry," I said. I locked my arm around her waist and pulled her to me. She was more sober than I had imagined and the word from my pants pointed to all systems semi-go.
"Let's go."
"Fuck you," she said. "Let me find my coat."
2. Julius Caesar - 3/15/2002 4:43:37 PM
* * *
I rolled off of Maureen and gave her a gentle pat on the thigh. She turned and smiled. We started laughing. She was a great lay, but I'd been huffing on fumes to get her over. I was pretty sure she hadn't pantomimed to save my feelings. Or my life.
"I'm getting some water, old man."
She got out of bed and I got a full view of her ample ass. I was reminded that it's easier to fuck a heavier woman. There's more to move, and they move better. It's as if they have more in them warm and ready. I'd bedded some rigid models with the best racks around. Hourglass figure, toned, clad in lingerie straight from a store that sold five pieces, tops. The lays were good, but mainly in the capture, like shooting a duck at the Eastern shore. It's a hell of a thing to see it fall from the sky, but cleaning and eating the greasy, grisled meal takes from the event.
She handed me a bottle of Artesian something. She was wearing a flannel robe.
"Are you going to stay?"
"Sure. Why? Do you want me to?"
She put her hand on my chest.
"I just wanted to know. I want to go get some eggs and juice. I don't have anything but cereal bars and beer."
I grabbed the robe and gave her a kiss. I opened up the robe.
"You may want to take a break," she laughed, averting her eyes to her own breasts.
"My wallet's in my coat. Get the Sunday Times and some steaks."
"Steaks?"
"You do breakfast. I'll do dinner."
3. Julius Caesar - 3/15/2002 5:19:55 PM
I heard the door click shut. Time to find out a little more about Maureen Culhane.
I went to her top drawer. Lingerie. Standard. No bells and whistles, but some nice teddies. I slid my hand on the pine underneath. A video tape and a vibrator. Batteries dead and thankfully, not too intimidating. I rushed out to the living room with the tape. She'd gone DVD.
Second drawer was clothes. The rest of the drawers were uneventful.
She was a Catholic girl. I'd figured that when she didn't even mention a condom and gently pulled my head back up when I tried to go down on her. A Presbyterian would have had me at the CVS no matter the time. Every Catholic girl I ever had took a while to get into oral sex. When I asked Mary Jane Cullen why, she told me it was because it was such a personal thing. She told me this while I was nailing her on her father's work bench.
Maureen had worked for me about six months. I didn't really know her beyond a laugh and my aimless fantasies. Technically, I was probably violating the DC Bar's sexual harassment policy by sleeping with her. But she seemed alright. And it's best to know everything you can know about a woman early.
What I knew from looking on the top of her dresser was she was one of five children. She played lacrosse in high school at Holy Redeemer. She was drunk to the point of passing out at Ocean City beach week, 1984. Her father's prayer card said he was dead last year. She had various perfumes which she did not wear. Her high school boyfriend looked like Lyle Alzado in braces.
I sat back on the bed and looked for the water. The tape sat there. I put it back in the drawer and my hand hit metal.
A .32 snub nose, a fucking relic. Loaded.
4. Julius Caesar - 3/16/2002 12:56:07 AM
A gun in the lingerie drawer of my secretary. Professor Plum in the library with a candlestick. I pulled the videotape out and tried to remember where it was placed in relation to the gun.
The front door opened. I ran to the closet in my underwear, gun in one hand, video in the other. First date, last date, Maureen Culhane. I nestled in the sweaters. Maybe she'd think I went out for cigarettes. Maybe she'd go to the can.
"Please, no. Jesus."
I peered through the slats. Maureen was being pushed into the bedroom. Her hands were raised up to stop what couldn't be stopped.
"Get on your knees."
From the closet, I only saw his extended arm. The gun was at her head.
"Where the fuck is it?"
"No, no. Please. No." She slapped at the gun, pleading.
I shoved the videotape in the waistband of my boxers and gripped the .32 with both hands. Fuck it. Here goes. I took a last peek to locate the target.
5. Julius Caesar - 3/16/2002 1:00:49 AM
The room exploded. He shot her. He executed her.
"You crazy fuck! You shot her!" The other voice was a black guy.
"She hit . . . Jesus, oh, she hit the gun . . . Jesus. Oh Christ."
The white guy blew it. His hands reached out to Maureen's body, to take back what he had done.
"You stupid fuck," the black guy said.
The wrong guy was running the show. The white guy put his hands to his ears. To rewind. The black guy came over and took the gun away.
"Start looking, dumbshit."
The black guy was driving now.
"Bill, I'm sorry. She hit the gun."
"Tell it to Wellman. Start . . . "
Bill pushed the white guy back in the living room.
". . . . looking for it."
Bill started looking too. Closet first. He found a white man with a videotape stuck in his drawers. He raised his pistol. I put the .32 in his face, clamped my hand over his gun and took it.
"Easy, now," he said.
I had two guns. Wild Bill Hickock.
The white guy poked his head around the corner.
"She's got a DVD. No tapes. Oh, shit."
"Oh shit is right. Don't move."
He ignored me. His head poked back and he was gone like someone on Laugh-In. I started unloading the guns at where the cocksucker's head had been. The black guy gave me a hard shove back into the closet and I put two in the ceiling.
By the time I scrambled to my feet, I was alone with Maureen Culhane.
6. Julius Caesar - 3/17/2002 4:27:12 PM
Maureen's face was a mess. I couldn't look at it, so I put my hand on her wrist to check a pulse. Nothing. That's when I noticed the blood on her chest.
The hard geometry of it was one of the ones I'd put in the wall or the ceiling didn't stay put. There was no way to tell which of the guns created this new wound. The way my day was going, I assumed the hole in her chest came from the .32.
I imagined I heard the buzz and commotion of neighbors worried about gunshots, but there was no one in front of her townhouse. I put my clothes on and thought about the phone.
"Hello, officer, I had a one-night stand with my secretary, and even though the gun that killed her has my prints, as does a second gun, and I rooted around her apartment, the truth is, this black guy and this white guy came in, killed her and then I chased them off."
"Honest. Engine."
I gathered my shit, put the guns and the water bottle in a trash bag, wiped prints from door and dresser handles, and split. It was almost 7:00 a.m. and no one was on the street when I started to hoof it home. The walk became uncomfortable when I realized I still had a videotape in my shorts.
7. Julius Caesar - 3/18/2002 2:23:04 PM
Chapter 2
It was 8:00 by the time I got to my Dupont Circle neighborhood. Everybody was stirring, getting their coffee and paper. I hustled into the Starbucks. The stockholder took my order and I huddled with the rest of the sheep.
"What did you rent?"
It was a little bohemian with cat glasses and a nose-piercing waiting on a double espresso.
"Excuse me?"
"The videotape." She pointed to the tape sticking out of my pocket.
"You know, I forgot, actually. But I'm pretty sure it's late."
"It's a porno," she laughed.
"No it's not. I swear."
"Let me see."
"No. That would be bad."
"Why?"
"It would start our relationship off on distrust. I think we can go further than that."
"Ah," she laughed. "Why would I want to go further with an insecure man who can't even admit that he rents porn?"
"Because you would be wrong. You see, you just don't get it. It's about the trust."
"Okay," she smiled. "I'll trust you. But if you rented that at Village Video, you left the plastic cover at home, and they charge you $1 extra if you don't return the cover."
"Hmmmm, " I said.
"Double espresso," a stockholder with a goatee and rasta head called out.
"Thanks, Lucius," she said. She grabbed her coffee. She turned back to me.
"I tell you what. I buy your trust bit. But trust is a two-way street."
"Uh huh," I said. She was a cross between Lisa Loeb and Winona Ryder. She had to be ten years younger.
"How about you cook me dinner tonight, and we can watch that movie in your pocket."
"Okay," I said.
8. Julius Caesar - 3/18/2002 2:23:42 PM
"Latte grande."
"Thanks, Lucius," I said. "Can I borrow your pen?"
He sneered at the familiarity but gave up his big black marker.
"But what if it's a porno?" I asked while writing my address down on an empty cup.
"Then we'll have started off on the wrong foot," she said.
"I'm Kevin. Kevin Carroll."
She extended a hand and took the cup.
"I'll see you at eight. I'm Loretta. Loretta Lovejoy."
"Oh no you are not," I said.
"I swear. Do you want to see my id?"
"No, no," I said. "We need to start with trust."
9. Julius Caesar - 3/19/2002 10:09:56 AM
* * *
I picked up my bag of guns from behind the Starbuck's dumpster and headed home. I should have felt bad, but I couldn't bring myself to stop thinking about Loretta Lovejoy and her possibilities. She must have been making a joke. Using a porn star moniker. But still. I was as comfortable as an erection in church. What's underneath that Easter dress? Thank Jesus and the saints for the long cassock of the altar boy.
At least it made sense. A date after a murder looks good. Loretta could vouch for my early morning appearance at Starbuck's. I needed to remember to talk about the party last night. How I came home alone.
I walked up my front steps. My leg started hurting. I pulled something during my shooting spree.
"You're supposed to take trash out, Kevin," cracked my landlord and downstairs neighbor.
"Last night was a rough one, Darius. I can't tell the difference between my trash and my laundry."
"We thought we heard you stumble in late last night. We thought it might have been Churchill."
"I don't know what Church was doing, but I'm sorry for making noise. I'm sure I knocked my share of things over in the kitchen last night. New year's and all."
"It wasn't too bad. Bill couldn't sleep anyway. We were watching an old movie."
"Well, sorry anyhow. I'm up to sleep this off."
"See you later."
I opened the door and Church brought his weight across my legs, purring and wailing. I opened a can of tuna, something my vet had explicitly prohibited for my 18 pound cat. Fuck her. He'd earned it.
I tried to think about Maureen Culhane. Alone and mutilated across town. But Loretta Lovejoy kept interrupting.
Yes, the healing process had been hard. But a little over an hour, I was dating again. It was time.
10. Julius Caesar - 3/19/2002 4:06:06 PM
* * *
Village Video was closed. I walked back to my townhouse and knocked on Darius' door.
"Come on in."
"Hey Bill."
Bill waved without looking. He was watching a bowl game in front of their entertainment center, a crude altar in an otherwise tastefully decorated flat. Darius and Bill owned the entire townhouse, but rented out the upstairs floor as a separate unit.
"You want a beer?" Darius asked.
I waved no. From his sports zone, Bill laughed. He looked like Phantom in front of his organ.
"Come on, Kevin. Hair of the dog."
"I'll pass. Actually, I was wondering if you guys had anything from Village Video that you hadn't returned."
"How cheap can a man get?" Bill cracked.
"Stop it," Darius said. "We could probably feed Somalia with what we pay on late fees. I think I've got six or seven over by the TV."
11. Julius Caesar - 3/19/2002 4:07:19 PM
I started looking at my choices when Bill pulled himself up and snatched a tape from the pile.
"Not that one."
He wedged the tape in between his ass and his easy chair.
"Bill really liked Saving Ryan's Privates," Darius laughed.
"Shut up."
"I'm kidding. Watch your game."
Darius came over and surveyed the tapes.
"For you?"
"Actually, not just for me. I have a date tonight."
"A date?"
"Yes. I met her this morning at the Starbucks. I think she lives in the neighborhood."
"A first date? Her name?"
"I don't want to tell. It's ridiculous."
"Her name is ridiculous?" Bill asked.
"It's Loretta Lovejoy."
"Get out," Darius said.
"No shit."
"Bullshit," Bill said.
Bill didn't just sit pissed off in a chair because he was lazy. He had sciatica, the kind that could act up and have him wearing Depends for a week. Years of basketball from youth league through college, and then on the asphalt of D.C., aggravated the condition.
"No one has that name." Bill pulled the lever on his chair and reclined back to the LSU game.
I hadn't even entertained that she was just toying with me. I felt like George Plimpton in Paper Tiger. Bill was playing Alex Karras, revealing that I didn't just have the scrimmage of the century. Was I now old enough to fuck with?
"Don't listen to him," Darius said. He handed me Vertigo.
"Safe first date movie. It suggests a good mix of romance and intellect."
I took the tape. Darius came closer to my ear at the door.
"But don't cook. Order out. The name is ridiculous, and you'll feel terrible if she blows you off."
"Thanks," I said.
"You want to stay for lunch?"
"I can't. I have some errands to do."
12. Julius Caesar - 3/20/2002 3:44:54 PM
* * *
I hooked the bag of guns to my old Schwinn and headed down P Street on my way through Georgetown. Litter was strewn across the neighborhood. New Year's gets crazy in most places. Georgetown revelers merited their own mobile hoosegow under the Key Bridge. One year, the arrests came so fact and furious the cops started cuffing people to telephone poles. This became an invitation for every drunk passerby to cop a feel. Modern stocks, and everybody gets a spanking.
By the time I reached the C&O Canal, I was sweating. I left my bike on the footpath, found an incline down to the Potomac and negotiated the slope. I was alone and the water was high. I surveyed the area and found footing. I was pretty sure no one could see me from the footpath. The angle was too sharp. That left the houses across the river, up on the bluff near Mclean.
No way. They'd need a telescope and impeccable timing. I pitched the guns as far as I could and watched them plop into the river.
By the time I reached the footpath, my wind and my Schwinn were gone. I sat on the dirt path gasping. I closed my eyes and saw Maureen Culhane's shattered face. I shook my head. Still there. I looked up. A father and son paddling a canoe passed by.
13. Julius Caesar - 3/20/2002 3:46:16 PM
"Are you okay?" the father said.
"Yeah. Yeah. Thanks."
I couldn't get it out. Her one eye open. Teeth exposed through flesh. I shook my head again.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Thanks."
I got up quickly and started running down the footpath. I slammed an open palm against my face. Two Hispanics with fishing poles gave me a look.
The vision stopped. I was dizzy. I knew enough to know something was wrong. I did this for a living, though most lawyers were suffering far less pointed mental maladies. Post-traumatic stress was my guess. My morning ebullience was denying what happened. My mind wasn't going to let that occur.
I wanted a drink and I wanted to be with people. I started the long walk home.
14. Julius Caesar - 3/21/2002 5:16:07 PM
Chapter 3
Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is an anxiety disorder that can develop after exposure to a terrifying event or ordeal in which grave physical harm occurred or was threatened. Traumatic events that can trigger PTSD include violent personal assaults such as rape or mugging, natural or human-caused disasters, accidents, or military combat. PTSD can be extremely disabling.
Military troops who served in the Vietnam and Gulf Wars; rescue workers involved in the aftermath of disasters; survivors of the Oklahoma City bombing; survivors of accidents, rape, physical and sexual abuse, and other crimes; immigrants fleeing violence in their countries; survivors of the 1994 California earthquake, the 1997 North and South Dakota floods, and hurricanes Hugo and Andrew; and people who witness traumatic events are among those at risk for developing PTSD. Families of victims can also develop the disorder.
Many people with PTSD repeatedly re-experience the ordeal in the form of flashback episodes, memories, nightmares, or frightening thoughts, especially when they are exposed to events or objects reminiscent of the trauma. Anniversaries of the event can also trigger symptoms. People with PTSD also experience emotional numbness and sleep disturbances, depression, anxiety, and irritability or outbursts of anger. Feelings of intense guilt are also common. Most people with PTSD try to avoid any reminders or thoughts of the ordeal. PTSD is diagnosed when symptoms last more than 1 month.
I closed the book. Frightening thoughts dogged me most of the walk home, a collage of Maureen Culhane, on top of me, dead, smiling, face shattered, walking out for eggs, pleading. Two quick vodkas helped, but the idle chatter with the bartender helped more. I doubted my earlier diagnosis but didn't relish having to wait more than a month for confirmation.
15. Julius Caesar - 3/21/2002 5:17:40 PM
My cell phone rang.
"This is Kevin."
"Hi, Kevin. It's Barry Proctor."
"It's New Year's, Barry."
"Happy New Year, Kevin. I'm sorry. I'm at the office and I'm kind of freaking out."
"That's because you're at the office on New Year's, Barry."
Barry Proctor was one of my weekly regulars at the offices of the D.C. Bar. He suffered from the peculiar hell of overwork, occupational uncertainty, and titanic insecurity. He needed a friend, and once a week, paid for by bar dues, I was Barry's friend. Unlike most weekends, I was glad he called. I could train on Barry's problems instead of my own.
"I'm dying, Kevin. I can't believe I'm in here."
"How did it happen?"
"Sterner sent me an email asking if I could review some documents."
Sterner was the senior partner, Barry's Leopold Mozart.
"Did you talk to him?"
"I emailed him back, saying it would be tough."
For people like Barry, email was a godsend. No more flesh and bone confrontations. No eye to eye. Just a quick note. Which only made their necessary human confrontations more traumatic.
"What did he say."
"Nothing. He didn't reply."
"So you came in anyway."
"Just for a quick stop."
Barry was one of those lawyers who attached to the office much like a diver to a source of oxygen. Too long away and too rushed a return could bring on the bends.
I didn't say anything.
"I know. I know. But no one was here and the boxes were there."
"And now you are doing the work even though you said no. Don't blame your boss, Barry. For all you know, he took your email saying no as it was intended."
16. Julius Caesar - 3/21/2002 5:17:54 PM
We went on some more, two beers worth, Barry thanking me, and me keeping him on the line. He pledged to work harder. I could feel his anxiety.
"Well, I'm here now, so I might as well finish the documents."
"That's your call, Barry."
"I know. I know. Okay. Thanks."
I looked at the clock. It was 7:45 pm.
17. Julius Caesar - 3/25/2002 3:42:48 PM
"Come on up."
I hit the button to open the downstairs door and opened my front door a crack. I heard Loretta reach the landing.
"Come on in. I just got out of the shower. There's a beer in the refrigerator."
"Thanks. Take your time," she said.
I pulled on my jeans and checked myself out in my bathroom mirror. I looked alright, but the bathroom was foul. I chucked toiletries and trash into the bathtub and sealed the mess off with the curtain. My bath towel was used to scrub off the toothpaste and unidentified gunk off the sink. I almost cried when I looked in the commode.
After a few minutes, the bathroom was close to gleaming. My bath towel was destined for the dumpster.
When I got to the living room, she was standing in front of the television, one hand on her hip, the other on the remote. I looked at the outline of her panties under her leggings.
"It's Vertigo."
"Not this one."
I took my eyes off of Loretta's backside and brought them to the television. A grainy image of men in a windowless room. The view was at waist level, the taping obviously surreptitious. The men appeared to be reviewing documents. The date at the bottom of the screen was Feb. 22, 2001. It viewed like a 20/20 expose' on bad meat-packing practices.
One of the men reviewing documents looked low. It was the white shooter from that morning. He may have seen the camera. The picture cut to fuzz for a second and then re-started. February 26, 2001. The view was through a car windshield. Two men unloaded boxes from a van in front of a building. The sign at the loading dock read Bankins Storage.
"Shit," the voice in the car said. The car began to move and accelerate. The camera view jumbled and fell to the passenger floor. Black and white fuzz returned.
18. Julius Caesar - 3/25/2002 3:48:06 PM
"Where's the part where they all get naked?" Loretta said.
She'd removed her nose ring and was wearing contact lenses. It aged her nicely.
"That's part two."
"I don't smell dinner."
"I can't really cook."
"Okay," she seemed put-out. I hoped she wasn't a whiner.
"I can order in?"
"No. Let's go out. I've seen Vertigo. Besides, I'm dying to know what that . . . ." she pointed to the television, "was all about."
"That was work," I said.
"You can tell me all about it over dinner."
19. Julius Caesar - 3/27/2002 3:47:18 PM
We spent our walk to Kyoto talking about how cold it had become. After ordering drinks and immediately filling out a sushi chart, we sat back with our Kirins.
"Cheers," I said as I offered the bottle for a toast. I had mulled "I'm glad we met" but it sounded too forced, too cute by half. Not that I wasn't glad we met. I was. I was also cognizant enough to know that perhaps 98% of my gladness was of the generic stripe. She was a woman. She showed interest in me. She was attractive. She smelled nice. I'd seen the outline of her panties. She was all possibilty.
The trick was time. Attraction was as subject to erosion as any mountain pass. At best, at this moment, she was near perfect. Soon, we'd be talking. Would she be work? Would she be really stupid? Would she be unsuitably smart? Later, courting. Too hands-on? Too blase'? Weak or gritty? Later, in days or weeks or months, hopefully, we'd be fucking. Would she come easily? Would she smell right? Would she make me sad about my peurile desires? Would her ex-boyfriend call the call she would always take? Would she take a shit with the door open?
98% can become a gentleman's C in short order.
Loretta clinked my bottle without saying a word.
"What do you do?" I asked.
"I work at the Fresh Fields."
"Up on Wisconsin Avenue?"
"Yes. I'm an assistant manager."
Good. Job, decent money. And how much politics could be brought back in bed from the grocery store?
"How about you?"
Better. Realization that "assistant manager, Fresh Fields" pretty much covers the field.
"I'm a counselor for lawyers."
"Hmmmm. A psychiatrist?"
"No. A counselor. I don't have all the paper. I'm like triage."
"How so?"
Very good. Either understands the reference or can play it off like she does.
20. Julius Caesar - 3/27/2002 3:49:09 PM
"They come in to see me. If they are really fucked up, I refer them out. If they merely need counseling that my limited skills can cover, I take them on. I'm the mental equivalent of a nurse's aide."
"Hard work?"
"No. Most lawyers in this area are well-adjusted. Most of the ones that aren't are menaces, beyond my gifts as a trained professional counselor. I'm a glorified pal."
"Do you need a degree to be a glorified pal?"
"I have a Masters in Psychology."
I explained that I got my Masters after I hit big in a personal injury case. Jenelle Briggs was playing with the drain in a Lanham, Maryland Best Western baby pool. She got sucked in. The pool lifeguard reversed the pressure, but the process took 5 minutes. By the time Jenelle was pulled out of the drain, her intestines had been sucked from her body. She was 9 years old. She lived. I knew her parents, so I brought her to the top personal injury firm in the state. The matter settled for $25 million. I didn't do a lick of work, but my cut was $2.5 million. The firm got six. I thought we did alright until a couple of North Carolina attorneys hit for $31 million a year later. One of them was now a senator.
"So, I went to school and fell into counseling. The hours are flexible."
"You like it?"
"Yes. I'm a pretty good friend."
"Can you prescribe drugs?"
"No. Why? Do you want drugs?"
"Rarely," she smiled. "I was just curious."
I drained my Kirin and motioned for two more. A happy-faced Asian nodded an acknowledgement.
"So, which of your clients brought you a tape?"
21. Julius Caesar - 3/28/2002 1:09:17 PM
* * *
When the door closed behind us, we went at it. She arched and molded her body to mine. I slid my hands down to the small of her back. She pulled away.
"Let me go to the bathroom."
My spotless bathroom, I thought, as she walked away. I went into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red. I yanked the cork out. Loretta stood before me, disappointingly clothed. She pointed a gun at my head.
"I'm not going to kill you."
"Thanks," I said, foolishly holding the bottle as a shield.
"Excuse me."
She backed up to the television and hit the eject button. My machine made a low moan, then a high squeak. The tape was jammed. It happened pretty regular. The machine turned off.
"What happened?"
"It's jammed."
"Get it out."
I put the bottle down and worked my way over to the TV. She stepped to the side and placed the gun to my temple. They should have sent Loretta Lovejoy into Maureen's apartment, I thought.
"I thought you liked me," I said.
"You thought wrong."
"You were pretty efficient."
"You walked home, dumbass."
"I did do that."
22. Julius Caesar - 3/28/2002 1:10:37 PM
I stuck two hands into the slot and pressed my eight fingers hard against the tape. The tape that contained the image of Maureen Culhane's killer. An image Loretta Lovejoy knew I had seen.
"I need you to push the eject button."
"What?"
"Push the eject button," I said. "It will start the tape out and I can shove it free with my fingers."
She approached, left the gun at my head with one hand, and looked down to hit the button with the other. I brought the VCR across with both hands and swung as hard as I could at her head. The machine shattered across her skull with a thwack. Something or everything broke, never to be repaired. Her gun skittered across my parquet floor. She lay at my feet. Shards of metal and plastic stuck into my hands. I was bleeding all over the videotape and her pants.
I picked the pieces of the machine out of my skin and knelt down beside Loretta. I touched her face. Her head lolled to the side, separated from its support. Her eyes were open and unseeing.
23. Julius Caesar - 3/31/2002 12:16:01 PM
I pushed my blinds back and looked down at the street. Just as Loretta had been waiting in the morning, I'm sure she had back-up tonight. It took some time, but two heads illuminated by the lighting of a cigarette appeared in a Taurus.
I slumped down against the wall. Loretta' s wound was leaking. I grabbed a garbage bag and put it over her head.
The men in the car were only the immediate problem. I needed to get them a message of leverage. I needed a basis of negotiation for the powers that be.
I moved back to the window and watched several more cigarettes light up. After an hour, I quietly came down the steps, Loretta's gun in my hand but at my side. I approached the Taurus straight on. The jumpy shooter from that morning was up against an oak, shaking his dick after a wiz. I was Jesus on water holding an oversized Publisher's Clearinghouse check.
"Hey," he said.
Black Bill came out of the driver's side, gun leveled. I kept mine to my side.
"Keep it quiet, get back in the car. We need to talk."
Bill kept his gun on my chest. He hit the door unlock and I climbed in the back seat.
"What are you doing?" the white guy said.
"Shut your fucking mouth," Bill responded.
They both leaned over the seat like Jackson and Travolta in Pulp Fiction.
"Here's the deal," I started. "I know you from this morning, but I didn't know why we met until tonight. Loretta is dead. I broke her neck over an hour ago."
"Oh Jesus," the white guy said.
"Please," Bill said, trying to concentrate. "Please, just shut up."
24. Julius Caesar - 3/31/2002 12:16:33 PM
"I know you want the tape," I continued. "In the time you've been sitting here scratching your ass, I took the back door out of my place. The tape is now safe, with a note and in an envelope, with instructions to be sent to The Washington Post if anything happens to me. The note is copied to the police."
"Sent where?" the white guy babbled. Bill brought his .45 hard across his partner's face. The kid fell back, hit his head on the windshield and slumped unsconscious.
"Please, "Bill said. "Go on."
"That's it," I said. "I need to make a deal. I need you to report the situation to Wellman or whoever the hell is running this thing. I expect I'll be hearing from you soon enough."
"Okay."
"Oh. I need something else."
Ten minutes later, Bill and I were in the alley at the back of my townhouse. He clicked open the trunk and Loretta Lovelace, possibilities exhausted, was dropped dead and down.
"I'll talk to you later," Bill said.
"Look forward to it."
25. Julius Caesar - 4/2/2002 3:23:03 PM
"What happened to him?"
"I broke his nose because he wouldn't shut up."
Stan Wellman rolled his eyes. The kid couldn't say anything because he was pinching his nose closed with toilet paper. He sort of whinnied.
"Where's Loretta?"
Bill looked at his feet.
"She's dead."
"She's what?"
"She's in my trunk," Bill said. "We have problems."
* * *
What a generation, Wellman thought. A simple stick-up turns into an execution-style slaying. Surveillance gets botched, an employee gets killed, the other pistol-whips the client. Attention spans of spastics Had to be video games. Donkey Kong playing retards.
Wellman leaned over his desk and pointed at the kid with a busted nose.
"This is on you. Tell your boss that this is on him."
"What?" the kid squeaked.
"You're out. I took you on against my better judgment because your boss and I have history and it made him feel better to have you in on it. Bad enough you murder the girl this morning."
"That was an accident!"
"Shut up. You kill that girl, we go to plan B, and one of my employees is dead."
How do you add that to the bill, Wellman thought? What do you charge for a young woman?
"How is that on me?"
"Do you know how many snatches I've done for your man? Do you know how many law firms I've burgled so cases against his clients could go up in smoke? It's a fucking videotape, Tad. It's like stealing a bike. And you fucked it up."
Tad slumped in his chair.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Deliver the message. I'm not doing it. I'll take care of Loretta. We'll wait to here from you. Now get out."
The kid pulled himself up from his chair with one hand and walked out of the office.
26. Julius Caesar - 4/2/2002 3:23:19 PM
* * *
Two hours later, Wellman and Bill lugged Loretta through the woods of Prince George's County. Half a mile in, Bill started to dig into the hard earth. Wellman sat on a log and looked at the rolled up carpet.
"She used to be a whore."
"I know."
"She was good. She was smart."
"I'm sorry. I was too long waiting."
"Nah, nah. Don't."
Like Loretta, Bill was a foundling, a foster home reject referred to the Wellman Investigative Agency by the D.C. government's summer jobs program. He was a keeper. She was a keeper. Fuck all, this one had gone bad.
Wellman picked up his shovel and started in on the earth with Bill. He kept his head low and mixed his tears with sweat.
27. Julius Caesar - 4/4/2002 3:05:58 PM
* * *
The rain hit hard on the ride back. Wellman heard Bill sigh as pellets fired against the windshield.
"She's deep enough. Don't worry."
The Anacostia River stretched out before them. The moat to DC. One side, there was law and pomp and gleaming marble. This side, the blackest of the black, cordoned off from what license plates promised tourists was "A Capitol City!". Separated from the remains of Loretta and hundreds like her. They crossed the South Capitol Street bridge and headed back to Wellman's office in Southeast.
Wellman turned the key and opened a door with WE LMA & ASSOCIA ES across the front. The office consisted of two rooms. A front area where Bill and Loretta sat, answering phones and drinking coffee, and a back room for Wellman. Life had been good. Wellman took in steady pay for his legitimate business, process serving. As Bill and Loretta got older and better, Wellman brought them in on special projects, from surveillance for divorce proceedings to an occasional local bail jumper to what Wellman called legal intelligence. Two top lawyers in white shoe K Street firms knew Wellman from way back. They did not lose cases. Corporations noticed.
It all started as a goof. Wellman and Teddy Stansfield twenty years back, Teddy a junior associate, Wellman serving process and tending bar.
"It's bad," Stansfield said over beers. "This bitch is going to cream us. She's got my client saying 'nigger' left and right. He hasn't hired a black in ten years. He calls her 'watermelon' and 'monkey'. Her witnesses are churchgoers. And in two days, we're going before a D.C. jury."
"Settle."
"No shit. She's got a good attorney. Maurice Calhoun. He wants $2 million."
"Ouch."
"If only the bitch would drop dead," Stansfield laughed.
28. Julius Caesar - 4/4/2002 3:06:32 PM
* * *
Two days later, Judge Robinette looked at a nervous Maurice Calhoun.
"Mr. Calhoun, where is your client?"
"Your honor, I do not know. I have been unable to reach her for two days. Her family has been unable to reach her. I am concerned for her well-being. We would ask for a continuance."
"Mr. Stansfield?"
"Your honor, we oppose the continuance. We've already continued this case one . . . "
"She had appendicitis," Calhoun interrupted.
"Mr. Calhoun, sit down," Judge Robinette instructed.
"We have already had one continuance. Ms. Dewey was present for the pre-trial conference. She was at the pre-trial settlement meeting. She knows that trial is today. I have seven witnesses on standby, an expert witness whose clock is running, all of which is costing my client tens of thousands of dollars. We have a jury pool outside the door. Now, as you may or may not know, Ms. Dewey's drug use was an issue at discovery. She has a criminal record."
"Oh for the love of . . . "
"Enough," Judge Robinette boomed. "The motion for a continuance is granted, but with the following proviso. Mr. Calhoun, you either bring me a hospital record or some other damn fine reason for your client's failure to appear. We will reconvene in two days, same time."
"Your honor," Calhoun pleaded.
"Two days, counsel."
Two days went by. No Greta Dewey. Case dismissed, with prejudice. Costs awarded against plaintiff.
29. Julius Caesar - 4/4/2002 3:07:00 PM
The next day, Wellman got a call from Stansfield.
"It's done."
Wellman went downstairs. Greta Dewey sat in the dark of his basement, blindfolded. After popping her over the head with a tire iron, Wellman had put her in his trunk. Later, he hauled her from his garage to his basement, tied her to a chair, and dressed her wound. For five days, Wellman fed her soup, cleaned her up when she soiled, and redressed her with clothes from JC Penny. He did not speak to her once. She mostly cried. When she screamed, he taped her mouth shut.
On her last day with Wellman, he fixed her a shot of heroin, spiked her and watched as she lulled to oblivion. She was found later that evening by the DC police, asleep by the side of Military Road. She was arrested for possession and sentenced to three months.
Wellman got half of Ted Stansfield's bonus that year, his first cut of a long and tasty pie.
30. Julius Caesar - 4/5/2002 1:14:24 PM
Chapter 4
Ted Stansfield cradled the sides of Tad's head and held on for dear life during his climax. Kill a girl, get a girl killed, all washed away with some tears and a blowjob. Stansfield took a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned himself up. Tad got off his knees and sat back in one of the ornate chairs across from Stansfield's desk.
"I'm sorry, Teddy."
Indeed you are, Stansfield thought. Tad Montague was a sorry paralegal and it was now evident that he was a sorry potential replacement for Wellman. The boy excelled at tanking documents and sucking cock. That was about it.
"Don't worry. I'll work it out. I'll see you later."
Tad took the key and walked out of the office. He'd be spaced on OxyContin and Depeche Mode by the time Stansfield got home.
Eighteen months ago, it had been different. Tad was a fresh, clean paralegal who had practically snapped his thong at Stansfield. Stansfield reacted with a recklessness rivaling that of the former president. He dumped his wife of 18 years and his double-life at the Chevy Chase Country Club and the P Street bars. He worked out. He got his cock pierced, but had to abandon the adornment when infection set in.
31. Julius Caesar - 4/5/2002 1:15:37 PM
He fell in love with Tad Montague. So much so that he told him his secrets and entertained his desires. Tad was a child to whom Stansfield could not say no.
Stansfield got Tad in on working the Coral-Co case. It was Tad's idea to lose the documents, though Stansfield knew he would have come around on it.
"It's an old company. The records are not computerized. The liability is massive. And the only person who knows about them is me."
The plaintiffs were small town West Virginians. Stansfield recognized at once that they carried the usual bullets of adolescent cancer deaths, grieving families, towns torn in two, blah, blah, blah. Coral-Co had been subsumed by Agricon, Stansfield's biggest client, and word was that Morgantown counsel was bringing in Boston plaintiff's counsel.
The pollution occurred twenty-five years back. The defense would be lack of evidence. Coral-Co was long defunct, had no records, and accordingly, the plaintiffs had little to work with but their own pitiful stories. Stansfield knew the Morgantown firm had one rummy of a former employee who was about to croak from cirrhosis, and his testimony was shit. The Boston folks might be able to foot for experts, but with no hard evidence, Stansfield knew he could settle it out for nothing.
32. Julius Caesar - 4/5/2002 1:16:45 PM
Until Tad traveled to an off-site storage shed while responding to an interrogatory inquiring as to all facilities maintained by Coral-Co. Ten boxes. Three of which chronicled what was dumped, when it was dumped, why it was dumped, and who dumped it. There were even clippings of obituaries and articles as to the potential hazardous effects of many of the toxins released into the Swigert River. Worse, there were two letters from Coral-Co to Agricon alluding to the dumping.
"We look through the documents, trash them, and it's that easy."
It sure seemed it. And with Wellman dying of prostate cancer, Tad pushed to become his replacement. It made as much sense as anything does when presented by a new lover. You want me to what? You read my mind, darling Besides, Stansfield didn't know the black kid working for Wellman, and he didn't like the girl. Wellman could go in a year. Stansfield planned on twenty more. So he put Tad in for tutoring.
Stansfield checked his fly and stood up. "It's that easy," he remembered as he looked out over L'Enfant's maze.
It would have been, too, if Dennis Culhane's righteous Catholicism and Tad Montague's desire to be Mannix hadn't made things so hard.
34. Julius Caesar - 4/8/2002 4:05:20 PM
* * *
Tad rolled out of Stansfield's K Street offices and headed for the train. He decided at the foot of the Metro that he was going straight to Dupont Circle. Stansfield may be tight with the fat bastard, but unless Wellman was Stansfield's tour guide to life as an newly out gay man, Tad was pretty sure he had the upper hand.
Tad waited for the Red Line. The line of commuters sat before him. Old folks, government workers, white collar, a few tourists. He thought about pushing them in front of the train. Like dominos. From the time the lights flashed, shove six or eight into the pit. Gives 'em ten, twelve seconds tops to scramble back up.
I shot that girl in the face. Tad tried to forget his fear and humiliation. The black errand boy dissing him in the car, the blonde cunt telling him to shut up. At least he didn't get her killed. That was on the black kid as far as Tad was concerned. He'd even asked him what was taking so long.
Now Wellman was putting it all on him, about to trade in on years of buddy-buddy with Stansfield.
The blowjob was a reminder of what Tad could give, what Wellman could not, even without a busted nose. It was time to let Wellman in on Tad running things. No one was washing their hands of anything.
The guy in Dupont Circle was going to cough up that tape.
35. Julius Caesar - 4/17/2002 11:04:03 AM
Chapter 5
Wellman lay on his side on the hospital bed. A Grade 3 tumor was negotiating its way in and around his prostate. New in town. Saying hello. Wellman was not offering a welcome reception. It was his twenty-third day of external radiotherapy, and the first where he felt sick immediately after he received the short bursts of radiation. As a precaution, they brought him to a room to vomit and rest.
The regimen was supposed to be two months of external radiotherapy. If that didn't work, move directly to internal bombs, planting little seeds of death in his body that would germinate and eat the insides out of his cancer. It wasn't all too terrible. If the treatment became invasive, Dr. Paramhawa warned that the side-effects became more pronounced.
"If the proton-beam does not do what we need it to do fast, we will not wait the two months. I suggest we utilize the pellets by ultrasound."
Wellman liked the doctor because he enunciated and preferred words like proton-beam and pellets over radical prostatectomy and interstitial brachytherapy. Years of being mocked as some jockey at the 7-11 probably made the doctor deliberate in speech. But he had managed to avoid the physician's jargon, an occupational language that kept the pygmies from questioning the gods, or even gleaning a solid recommendation.
"Then, if that does not achieve the desired results, I'm afraid I recommend surgery. Quickly."
Wellman knew it was bullshit. Dr. Paramhawa recommended surgery yesterday. But it meant Wellman would never get another hard on, at least not without pills and a pump. And he may be unable to control his bodily excretions.
36. Julius Caesar - 4/17/2002 11:04:42 AM
So they split the difference. Two months of external radiotherapy became a wait-and-see process, with internal implants coupled with more aggressive external beams on deck. Today was Wellman's last chance to avoid the pellets. Paramhawa would look at the charts and make a call. To date, the cancer was neither growing or receding. It was just laying there, taunting.
Wellman sat up and felt no nausea. He rang the buzzer and in 10 minutes, per hospital insurance protocol, he was wheeled to curb.
"Can you get me a taxi?" Wellman asked the orderly.
"No need. I got him."
It was Ted Stansfield. With flowers. And an earring.
"We have to talk."
"We will. Let me get you home."
As they walked to the car, Stansfield held Wellman's arm.
"Hell of a mess your boy has got us into."
"Yes. Forget that now. How are you?"
Wellman shrugged. The new Ted Stansfield was taking some getting used to.
37. Julius Caesar - 4/18/2002 11:29:09 AM
"How did you know where I was?"
Wellman shifted his weight into the comfort of Stansfield's Mercedes.
"I have my ways."
"Thanks for coming by."
"Fuck you, Stan. I had to press Bill. It was like pulling a molar. Why do you want to do this thing alone?"
Stansfield put his hand on Wellman's shoulder, holding the wheel with the other. Wellman moved ever so slightly.
"Stan, I'm gay. I'm not hot for you."
In the last year, Stansfield's life change covered much more than the bedroom. Before, he was a family man, Chevy Chase, different class. They might have a drink once a year, and Wellman got the obligatory invite to the firm Christmas party, but that was the extent of the relationship. Stansfield was country club. Wellman had never been in his home.
When Stansfield came out, he sat Wellman down and told him. That year, he sent Wellman a birthday gift. He called just to talk. He introduced Wellman to the useless Tad Montague over drinks. "I know why you're doing this?" Wellman told him shortly after his revelation. "It's because you're comfortable telling a schlub like me that you now suck cock." In true new-Stansfield style, the lawyer did not shrug it off or dismiss the jab. He pondered. He later told Wellman that his therapist devoted an entire session to Wellman's observation. As a result, Stansfield brought Tad Montague to his son's football game.
38. Julius Caesar - 4/18/2002 11:29:25 AM
"Okay. You're not hot for me. Look, what do you want to do with your boy?"
"Nothing. I won't burden you with him again."
"I'm sorry it didn't work out."
"Don't be. He's a screw-up. I've got to get him in therapy. Some kind of help. He's in a bad way."
"Ted, I think the kid's a little . . . you know? I don't want to hurt your feelings."
I don't want to hurt your feelings. Jesus, Wellman thought. It was rubbing off. Stansfield smiled as if he was reading Wellman's mind.
"What about the tape?" Wellman said.
"It looks like we can't steal it. So I'm going to try and buy it."
"Let me do that."
"No. It's Tad's mess, so it's my mess."
"You better move."
"Where do you think I'm going after I drop you off? I need the address. I'm going to have a chat with Mr. Carroll."
"Look out," Wellman said. "He's no slouch."
"He's a lawyer," Stansfield said. "We'll get on well."
Stansfield pulled the car up to Wellman's Silver Spring rambler, got out, and opened Wellman's door. They stood face to face. Stansfield embraced the investigator and whispered in his ear.
"I'm sorry about Loretta."
When Stansfield pulled away, there were tears in his eyes.
death by VCR!
good move
2. Ms. No - 4/2/2002 4:27:43 PM
Jules,
I'm really enjoying this.
Write faster.
3. theDiva - 4/4/2002 3:15:39 PM
seriously. Good stuff.
4. rubberducky - 4/4/2002 3:22:24 PM
yes! very entertaining!
wonder why Ace didn't like it?
5. judithathome - 4/8/2002 3:13:22 PM
Jealousy, obviously...
6. zojak quafeth - 4/8/2002 3:56:30 PM
Wow. Look at JC's minions. These comments sound like those Herbal Essence Shampoo orgasm commercials:
"I'm really enjoying this"
"good stuff"
"Faster"
"good move"
"Yes!"
...Having said that. It is good stuff.
7. theDiva - 4/8/2002 4:13:00 PM
Hey, minion this.
8. zojak quafeth - 4/8/2002 4:24:45 PM
Was minion a bad word? Sorry, what would you prefer: :)
Harem?
Babes?
Chiquitas?
Bitches?
Ladies?
Stable?
9. theDiva - 4/8/2002 4:32:20 PM
My love, Julio is my minion. You are forgiven. ;-)
10. zojak quafeth - 4/8/2002 4:55:39 PM
lol.
11. Indiana Jones - 4/10/2002 9:36:34 PM
Switch from first person was a good movie.
12. Indiana Jones - 4/10/2002 9:36:51 PM
move
13. rubberducky - 4/15/2002 3:59:30 PM
only people at least of average height get 'minions', ZQ
14. zojak quafeth - 4/17/2002 12:00:04 PM
Hadn't thought of that. I guess you're right. mini-me had no minions.
15. Indiana Jones - 4/23/2002 6:28:25 PM
The men in this story cry too much.
In post 29, "long and tasty pie" is a mixed metaphor or something. "Long pie" just doesn't work.
These are quibbling comments; I'll give a more fulsome review in due course.
16. rubberducky - 4/26/2002 3:18:37 PM
one thing is for certain: he's failing to deliver on his posts per week pledge.
17. concerned - 5/1/2002 3:52:49 PM
A 'Julius Caesar' joke or two:
What do you get when you put an epileptic in a cabbage patch?
Seizure Salad.
Ever hear about the python named Julius Squeezer?
That's all my Julius Caesar jokes for today.
Carry on.
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