By Jenny Lin
At the start of the burglary, there were supposed to be two of them: the man who went by the name Just Butcher and the other, who always signs his cheques as Robert Brookston. They were not unkind or morally corrupted by their senses. But each has their problems to worry about, and it was these problems that turned two unremarkable young fellas into the kind of delinquent in which pedestrians almost always bypass if ever encountered on street.
The only ones who didn’t find Just and Robert’s presence an unsettling disturbance were likely the two men themselves. But to create a vivid scenario that explains why they are used to, and by all means—even enjoys each other’s company, you must picture yourself sitting in a room full of fart for a really long time. Take a deep breath—a soulful one as if you’re sucking an old ghost outta its grave— what you felt would’ve been air, yet in reality the substance you inhaled remains one hundred percent fart.
In other words, these men were worse than the products of a bad stomach. Whatever their surroundings offered, they learned to thrive in it and gradually reflect the way their environment was.
Earlier that night, both men were knocking back a few at Robert’s place. “It’s actually my aunt’s,” he corrected, “She went to the health facility last month, left me with the house.”
Just Butcher nodded as he put down the can next to its three empty siblings and picked out another. Robert watched as Butcher took a sip from the can, licking away the foam with a quick flick of his tongue, he crossed his legs and lazed back against the old armchair. In front of them, the Indy 500 blazed in furious flashes of grey and green inside the telly. Race cars roared round and round the tracks. The buzzing flicks of the commenters whispered fiercely behind the screen, but none of their passion reached the cramped space on the other side.
Seated on the old couch, Butcher switched through the channels, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. He was the kind who took time picking out the show: a scene of a lioness with her pups; a baseball tournament in Memphis; Elvis Presley shaking his hips at a voluptuous blonde (“Oi! Why’d you change that?”). Butcher threw down the control and lounged back as Mickey Mouse raced around in his turbine legs.
They drank too much that night. The cans toppled in a small hill at the corner. Robert, drunk with the liquor flooding his veins, cradled his face in both palms and shook with each breathy gasp of air. Beside him, Butcher said nothing. He had his eyes on Donald Duck at the moment and couldn’t spare any more for Robert.
“What’s the matter?” It wasn’t even a question, really. But one must make sure the well-being of his host if he intended to stay over a week in the other’s house (or their aunt’s).
Robert grabbed the tissues and blew his nose. He struggled to sit up from the armchair, it was the same one his aunt fancied before she got the stroke, “I’ve fallen…” his voice came out in a wisp of smoke, the look in his eyes distant and misted in the worst kind of way Butcher would never want to explore.
“I’ve fallen hard.” Robert wiped his eyes with the back of his hands and crawled out of the armchair. He sat down at the other end of the couch where Butcher was seated, “I’m a man in love, Just. I fookin’ mean it”
“Well,” Butcher muttered lowly, hoping the volume of his voice might loll the other man out of the conversation they were veering into, “Good for you, Romeo.”
Robert regarded him with wide disbelieving eyes, “You are a freaking menace, Justen.”
And here we go again, Butcher took a drag of his smoke and exhaled through his nostrils.
“You blood sucking sucker drinking my beer, crashing in my place, looking at my TV, and that’s what you say? Oh, good for you, Romeo. Like my problems just some kind of joke to you?” Robert rose wobbly to his feet and stumped in front of Butcher, who’s gaze remained unfazed at the screen between Robert’s legs. “Stop watching that crap, you idiot!” he yelled.
The other merely squinted; he blinked slowly, as if comprehending the message underwater. There was a long pause. And Donald quaked hoarsely to Mickey Mouse in the background.
“I thought it was your aunt’s place.” Said Butcher, it was impossible to focus on the Telly while Robert’s shadow was casted all over him. “And didn’t we split the bill?”
“We stole it,.”
“Right, then we both get a fair share.” he yawned, “You gonna cry over it again?”
Robert’s face darkened, “I wasn’t crying over anything.”
“Whatever. Move a little, will ya? You’re blocking the screen.”
Robert cursed but retreated reluctantly. He tried imitating Butcher and stared mindlessly at the telly until Mickey Mouse had ended, and there came out some singing rabbits neither were too interested in.
But there was a pressure building on Robert’s chest, an invisible force choking the air out of his lungs. One he couldn’t suppress under the magnificent work of alcohol and was certain by the youth of his age to not blame on the cardiac diseases. He clawed at his shirt until he flung it over his head and tossed it to the far end of the room. “Alright,” he declared with finality, “There’s something I want to tell you about.”
Butcher plucked the cigarette from his mouth and give it a tap, leaving a mound of grey ash sprinkling onto the dusty rug. Robert shuffled to Butcher’s side on the couch. But since it was crossing what was considered a comfortable boundary between two grown men, he handed the other another can as an offering for permission.
Butcher took it (permission granted), and Robert started to speak, “Two weeks ago,” he paused, “No, actually it might be two and a half, it was Wednesday alright, I was strolling on the main street, and I saw this woman—”
A sharp snap made Robert jump in his armchair.
“Shoot,” Butcher crouched over his knees as the can dribbled foamy beer all over the rug beneath his feet. He hastily sucked the top of the can and wiped the clinging beverage on his hand against the couch. “You go ahead, Rob, I’m listening.” He said without looking up.
Robert strode to the pile of cans and chucked the shirt back to Butcher, “Here—just use this one.”
Butcher clutched the shirt in his hands hesitantly. He gave it a quick sniff before deciding that it’s one of the bad shirts that needs a replacement anyway, the guilt halted halfway before turning on its tail and running back to the cave.
“Right,” dabbing at the wet stains with Robert’s shirt half-heartedly, he said, “You continue with that thing you’ve got.”
“Where were we again?” Robert paced slowly between the small room.
“You said you met some chick on the street,” Butcher reminded him.
“Oh yeah,” He turned around, and the show’s back again, “’ Bout that chick…I suppose she’s the type you’d be calling a peacock. Showy as one, and dressed up like a strutting Louis Vuitton—I mean she’s fine herself too. Got the legs, the blonde, lotta’ junk.” he puffed out his chest, “Not that I care,” he quickly added.
Butcher quietly took a sip while Robert kicked the cans half-heartedly back to their pile at the corner. “Anyway…” he continued, “She’s about our age, y’know. Not exactly old enough to be married but also not quite a minor. Figure maybe she’d be interested in having a guy…”
Butcher arched a brow, then he placed the can down by the couch and leaned forward with fingers in a crisscross, “So you wanna hit on her.”
Robert let out a breathy laugh, hands cupping over his knees, he wheezed, “Man, you know exactly what I mean sometimes,” his smile faltered, “Damnit.”
Butcher dropped his head back on the couch, “Not that I take bursting your bubbles a hobby, Robbie, which I must admit isn’t easy around a sentimental guy like you, but if she’s as loaded as she seems…wouldn’t that be a bit out of our league?”
Robert flinched at the words, “But there’s always a chance that she’s not as rich as she seems,” he tried to reason, “Maybe her bag is a fake…o-or maybe someone gifted it to her!”
“I thought you know how to tell apart a real luxury brand from a knockoff. Isn’t that what we do?” Butcher picked at his nose and snickered. He rubbed his fingers and let the substances sprinkle over the rug when Robert had turned toward the telly again. “She’s wearing the real ones, alright.” Butcher scoffed.
“Fine! Say these are real Louis Vuitton she’s wearing, but what if she’s—she’s-” stammering, Robert’s face morphed into a deep shade of crimson, “Fine! She’s out of my league!
“Well, there you go, Robbie doll,” Butcher hummed with his eyelids casted, “Now, I’m getting real tired, all that alcohol in me—you wouldn’t mind if I crash on your couch for a night, would ya?”
Without waiting for permission, he started to lie down, kicking off his shoes and letting those long legs hang off the couch arm like a pair of wet trousers.
He heard the rustle of Robert’s feet against the old rug but couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge until the man had practically knelt beside him. “Butcher,” he hissed, glaring at Butcher feigning sleep, “Let me finish, you asshole. I know you’re there.”
“…Well. Carry on,” Butcher mumbled. A grin had crept up the corners of his mouth, betraying his crafted camouflage, “And as much as I enjoy your heartfelt monologue, I do suggest you to just get it out of your system, the quicker the better.”
Robbie glared at the half-lidded eyes. He relented with an aggravated sigh, “I need to pull a favor. A big one. From you.”
Now both of his eyes were wide open. Butcher sat up, scrutinizing Robert, “And what is that favor you’re pulling me into?” dark eyes squinted warily.
Behind them, a sharp melody erupted from the telly and startled them both. Robert grabbed the control and shut it off. “The girl’s living on her own most of the time.” The fact spilled out bluntly, though he felt like chewing down a dry tree bark, “I’ve been watching her these days from the windows. Didn’t see a man for over a week.”
“Huh. A lonesome sweetheart, eh?” Butcher picked at his nose, but Robert had forbidden him to sprinkling the substance on the floor this time.
“I need your help me getting her attention,” Robert shuffled closer. The weight shifted the couch slightly as he put an arm around Butcher’s shoulders, gnawing at the tall man’s nerves.
“Please. It’s the only way, and I’m begging you.”
Butcher furrowed his brows. If it wasn’t the fact that he was already pressed against the couch arm, his impulse would’ve driven him to shake off the other man. But since he had nowhere else to hide, and it would be a scandalous blemish to their bonded friendship, he stayed perfectly still and listened.
Robert wanted a show. He delivered his plan with much enthusiasm, too much if you ask Butcher. At one point, he leapt from the couch and started his nervy little pace again with arms flailing like an unskilled swimmer, and in Robert’s plan: Butcher would barge into the woman’s house and play the bad cop, or rather bandit (“but don’t you get all handsy on her!”), and by the time the woman starts to cry or scream (“probably both.”), Butcher would fire a warning shot so Robert could enter and take over from there.
“And that’s a cue for you to run away,” Robert explained with a smirk, “you can even grab a few souvenirs along the way, I’ll make sure she’s so properly served the next day that she doesn’t even remember the name of her pap.”
A horrible numb appeared behind Butcher’s neck. He didn’t want to break the dry line of saliva that had sealed his lips. Finally, he licked those dry lips, “I don’t know, Robbie…that’s a great deal of favor to ask,” he shook his head, “I might have to think over it tonight,”
“You mean tonight on my aunt’s couch?” Robert’s face crumbled, “It was a favor as harmless and small as that, Justen…” he sighed and withdrew the hand from behind Butcher’s neck. “You know what? I get it. Sometimes I just expect too much from others.” Robert offered a weak wavering smile that cracked pretty much the second it appeared, “But you need to know, I never regretted faking that proof for Justen Butcher when the cops almost got him busted for real that time when he tripped that vagabond and got him killed. And I wouldn’t hesitate a single sec if you ask me to do a million times more. Even if you said no to me this time, Justen, I would still answer any favor that you ask of me. Because you and I, we are a family, and that is what life for men like us are. We have no one else but each other. And maybe next time I get drunk thinking over my girl,” he tapped his lips in deep thought, “Maybe I might slip out something the cops would like to know about you,”
Butcher’s face contorted. Meanwhile, Robert had turned on the telly again. The cartoony animals sang in a happy chorus as they danced with fused hands; at the corner of the room, the pile of cans remained a tattered hill of obsoleteness.
“Alright. You win,” He muttered, “But I’m picking the souvenirs first.”
2.
They got the details sorted out after that. The next night, Butcher snuck into the mansion three minutes past eleven. Robert emerged from the street at the opposite side shortly after Butcher’s entrance, but instead of crossing the road to the half-lidded door, he had taken a detour and wound up at the shadowy side of the mansion.
An extravagant window hovered just slightly over his head. A stream of soft, classic love songs flowed from a tasteful vinyl into that night’s luminous silence. He stood among the line of trash cans, patiently waiting, perhaps for the surprised yelp of the woman of his dreams, but definite as concrete for the warning shot that would be the cue to his performance. The soft tangerine light flickered from within the window, and the vinyl sizzled and spasmed in its short lapse before playing Love Me Tender.
The hair on his neck bristled with tingling pleasure. Robert picked up a discarded newspaper from the trash and clutched it tightly over his heart while his feet grew lighter as he waltzed alone to the muffled tune.
He looked up expectantly at the window that would become his future home. From above, the tangerine glow flickered suggestively like a tiny seductress, flickering once and twice, giving away those playfully winks.
A gunshot came, and Robert knew it was his cue. The newspaper lying discarded at his feet, and he bolted for the front door. Two more shots echoed as he leapt up the stairs in swift strides and flung open the door. A sharp breaking of glass almost startled him, and before anyone knows— he was inside the house, the soles of his worn sneakers smearing filth all over the clean wool woven carpet.
The interior was entirely dark; beside him, a tall shape joined Robert’s wild dash just as the light flicked back to life from the living room—and it was Butcher, eyes wild and out of breath.
“Justen?” Robert’s brows knitted in half processed confusion as the dark oppressive hall gave away to the wooden frame leading them to the grand interior of the living room, “The heck are you doing here?”
Somewhere outside the mansion’s forgotten wing where the owners kept their trash hidden away, the soft lull of the vinyl coming from within the warm lit room leaked into the quiet air. An off-pitched scream sliced through the windows like a jagged stone.
Butcher clasped a hand over Robert’s mouth. The noises were muffled for a while, but then Robert bit Butcher hard and yelled again, only louder. The only illumination of soft tangerine emits from the extravagant chandelier hanging over a flight of spiraling white stairs at the grand windows of the living room. Below the extravagance—A woman’s body sprawled limply against the soft floor; the blossoming crimson had started to seep out like the petals of a dead rose.
He pushed Butcher off of him and stumbled to the center of the room, where he immediately drew out a poker from the brass stand next to the massive fireplace, clutching it over his head like a baseball bat. His knees buckled and a single drop of sweat dripped upon the carpet, placing a darker taint over the pale color.
“Y-You killed her!”
“Bull. I just got here.”
Butcher tried to approach the fireplace, but the moment he placed a step forward, Robert hollered on top of his lungs and swung the poker wildly at the air.
“Oh, for God’s sake…” Butcher cursed under his breath. Then, raising his voice, he spoke to Robert, “It wasn’t me, okay? It’s impossible!” he dropped both hands to the sides of his pants, letting the duffle bag thump over the carpeted floor; he placed the pistol back into his pocket. “She didn’t even know I’m there. I was upstairs packing!” he pointed at the plump bag at his feet.
The expression on Robert was still crumpled, the iron stick gritted nervously in sweaty palms, but his incoherent mutters were soon cut to a horrified yelp as the duffle bag soared across and sharply crashlanded right into the empty hearth. Robert peered up in panic, but Butcher’s gaze was steel, and it was an edict.
Robert gulped, reaching a trembling hand, he picked up the bag. His hands shook as he slipped open the bag, revealing tatters of fine jewelry, though a thin dust of shattered ceramic was mingled among them. Robert took out a watch and examined it; he dropped it back as if burned.
The bag zipped in a slash, and Robert tossed it back to Butcher. The silence stretched long and painful as the merry Elvis hollered from the vinyl in slow, anguished spins.
Butcher grunted, “Freaking…and I would have thought you were the one who fired.” He scowled, patting Robert’s shoulder with a grunt (causing a sharp flinch from the other).
“I don’t even have a gun with me…” He doubted Butcher could even hear him at that volume. Clearing his voice, Robert spoke, louder, “I mean…if none of us were there at the shooting, then somebody else must’ve done it,”
“Maybe that other guy was somewhere around right now,” the reply came out shaken, his hands developed an unconscious tremor, which he quickly hid in his pockets, “Let’s leave.”
Robert’s eyes shimmering with each uncertain flick of light, and he nodded in sync along the soft
paddings of feet against the marbles overhead.
The conversation muted. Both heads clocked upward in unison; four unblinking eyes searching along the staircase and the high blood velvet curtains.
You hear that? Robert’s grip sank deeply within Butcher’s arm, his face a melpomene mask of grief.
Butcher hissed lowly and peeled off the talon-like nails on his arm. Yes! He mouthed back angrily at the man. I’m not deaf.
What should we do! Robert cradled the poker in his arms like an infant. Indeed, he was on the verge of a guttural break down.
They stared at each other, trying to decode the plan in each other’s eyes and found that no evacuation plan was devised so far for neither of them.
The windows rattled; the chandelier flicked; time had fallen into a static; and a thin puff of smoke rose from the revolver in the man’s hands as he halted amid his descent from the spiraling stairs. The exploding bang of a bullet jetting out of the muzzle reached them only a splitting second behind
From across the room, Robert clutched Butcher’s shoulders with whitening knuckles as short, erratic gasps escaped from his throat(“I’m shot…Damnit!”).
The click of the revolver snapped, and the three men unfurled to face one another. The living room that had felt so extravagant in its grandeur was suddenly meagre in its tightness; the chandelier hung lowly as if to kiss the ground; and the air stood unbearably thick while the metallic stench dominated the room.
In a low voice to Robert, Butcher whispered, “We’re finished, Robbie,” he set him to the ground slowly, but even the slightest bumps caused a muffled cry from the other.
The black void of the revolver was ticked at, the only thing holding the man back from pulling the trigger was Butcher’s pistol that reciprocated the favor.
“It doesn’t look like what it seems, mister.” Butcher lifted his free hand into the air; his voice smoothed and leveled as if approaching a crouching beast, “We found the Missus like that—”
The vinyl cracked in a buzzing zap and slowed to a stop as the music faded to an end. The air churned heavy and suffocating, even as much as a wrong breath could had set the room on fire.
Finally, the host cleared his throat, and the two intruders shivered.
“Your name—Mister whose legs are fine and hole-less.”
Butcher gulped, his hand starting to grow tired from leveling a weapon for so long, “You mean my name?”
“Yes, your name. I need to know the name of my fiancée’s murderer, if that’s not too much,” the man concluded in jarring tranquility of a worthy aristocrat. “God forgive me... for what I must do to the man who killed her”
“W-wait! Hold on! We didn’t kill her. It wasn’t us,” paniced, Butcher almost stepped on Robert if not for the train of curses that had burst out from the injured.
The tuxedo man, whose vacuum eyes glistened under the chandelier, had his gaze welded into Butcher’s form.
“Please!” Robert cried out. Body limp against the carpet, he clutched his bleeding leg between both hands, “Give him a chance to—”
“I need a name from you,” the man interrupted. He looked right at Butcher, “I must have it.”
“Right…Right…a name, of course,” Butcher chuckled, a cold sweat trickled down his back and slid into the waistband of his pants, “But I assure you it’s not the name of your murderer, sir. You look about our age, why don’t you go first?” he tapped his pistol suggestively, where the slugs should remain in their chamber, “In case the police need a name of the other murderer-to-be.”
There flashed an involuntary tremor along the finger, a twitch in the eye, and half of a scowl that curled upward to a smirk.
The iron was raised for another count of ten. Then, slowly, silently, the black void sank lower and thudded against the tailored trousers.
Butcher exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding
The man spoke, a deep vigorous sound, “Fine. Call me…Wallace. Wallace Coins.” He marched up to Butcher. The revolver waved back and forth before it went absolutely still by his side. “Now, may I have a name from the…suspect?”
Butcher’s mouth twitched. It was like Wallace had plucked it ripe from his throat, but he found the name rolling over his tongue.
“Just Butcher.” The name landed like a flat pancake.
Across from him, Wallace frowned, “Just Butcher. Not in the mood for surnames, huh?”
“Just is short for Justen.”
“Could’ve fooled me, Butcher,” Wallace scoffed. Then, as if remembering the dead woman lying on the floor and the two strangers that had emerged with a questionable motif, his expression grew stoic, “Give me a good reason not to shoot you right now, Butcher.”
“Because I have a pistol?” Butcher suggested weakly.
“Try me, I don’t mind.”
Butcher suppressed the urge to scream. His teeth sank deep into his lip and the taste of iron flooded his cavity. I need an outlet right now, he thought. Never had him in his entire life felt so oppressed and helpless in a madman’s house holding a loaded pistol. But whoever Wallace wanted dead, Butcher now shares a mutual interest; since for him, the mental strain was enormous (and in poor Robbie’s case, the torment had gotten physical)
Time had numbed his senses enough to neglect the gore, but a spare spark of hope had ignited from the dampness of the mansion as a glimmer of salvation reached out to him. The drops of glass on the chandelier shifted and sparkled overhead, and finally—Butcher offered a weak smile, “How ‘bout I’ll prove it to you?” he could hear every one of them words that came out of his mouth as if someone else had been voicing him behind the scenes. For the first time in life, his brain had been clean and polished enough for this kind of quick resolution. “In my opinion, you just wasted a very qualified slug on a scum like my poor ol’buddy Robbie there, which unfortunately…will only be the least of your future regrets. Damn it, I must say that! Now let me show you the smashed window where the real murderer escaped. How ‘bout that? Better a deal than rotting alone, no?”
For I will ascend heaven as the lord might see my innocence. He shuddered.
…Will I?
A gust of wind howled from the outside. The drops of glass shimmered and swayed subtly over the four bodies in the living room of a classified mansion on the main street. Two of them shifted; then one left the room, the other followed.
The man who remained on the ground squirmed, wincing upon the slightest tug upon his tender, leaking wound.
“Wait-Wait! Justen!” he cradled the leg helplessly, “You aren’t gonna leave me here, are you?”
And when Butcher reciprocated with the kind of irked annoyance, the message was forced down Robert that those who leave can walk had a mission to deal with—He was currently capable of neither tasks and therefore remains in the room with the corpse. After all, in his current state he couldn’t walk out the front door even if it was swinging wide open.
So that was exactly where they left him—alone and crippled—in a room with the corpse which had been the woman whom he had dreamed of for days and weeks.
Robert let out a soft sob and regarded the mess his mangled calf had become. The torn muscles ached and spasmed no matter which position he’d taken. It was a horrible experience to get shot.
Somewhere not so far, the woman’s body sprawled lifeless on the same Italian carpet. Her fresh blood leaking over the holes (a total of three—Holey Christ!) embedded into her forehead had oozed wetness from the small, rounded dents. Her glassy eyes gazed at a small spot over the distance that turned out to be Robert.
He bit his nail in distress as the seconds molded into what appeared to be like hours. He tried shifting away from the corpse’s gaze; one small drag at a time despite the red flag flailing a furious protest against his nerves, but he pursed his lips tight, gritted his teeth, and kept shuffling toward the main door.
It was an endless path. There had never been a trip longer than the one meter he had added between himself and the corpse. Sweat pooled over his eyes, and when he looked back, the corpse had been staring at his direction the entire time, and the spirals of stairs toppled over him like a grinded white ghost. His bottom pushed for another inch, and his vision fused shut for a pure second of nothingness.
He hit the floor this time, and he wasn’t bracing for agony’s fangs to bite at his wound with mad enthusiasm.
“Oh damnit!” Robert gasped as another wave of nausea wrecked his body, “I thought he’s gonna miss that shot on the goddamned stairs.”
The crystalline drops on the chandelier dulled in the murky eyes of the corpse.
“I’m so sorry,” a tear slipped down Robert’s cheek, “I thought this was a good plan. But all I did was putting both of us in the hands of a cuckoo and got myself shot.” He rubbed his eyes in frustration—it stung painfully, “and now I’m stuck talking to a d-dead woman,”
The corpse said nothing, and Robert curled against the carpet. His leg still throbbed like a mad eyed rabid. It was a lie when people would say you’d only get used to pain. A complete lie.
Is it normal that you feel nauseous after getting shot?
Nevertheless, he wrapped both arms around himself to steady the dull agony pulsing down his calf, shivering.
The corpse saw nothing through its murky eyes.
He had a long time to himself after that, waiting for Butcher to come back—if he’s still coming back, that is. He just finished counting the final drop of chandelier (all five hundred and forty-two of them) when he heard the distant arguments merging from the interior hall.
The tuxedo man, Wallace, emerged first; the sleeves of his shirt had been pushed up over his arms to reveal the bare, chiseled lines; behind him, Butcher’s grime covered face appeared in a tight scowl.
“So,” Robert’s mouth creaked up in a strained little smile as he inched his back against the sofa, praying that Wallace wouldn’t get upset about the bloody tracks on the white carpet, “Did he believe you?”
He saw Butcher’s veins budging round the pistol, and his feigned cheerfulness faltered back to raw anxiety.
“There wasn’t a single crashed window. We searched the entire mansion and found absolutely nothing,” Butcher glared at Wallace, the revolver thumped against the expensive trousers in rhythm. Next, his almond eyes shifted to Robert, still crippled, the little scum who was the reason they were here.
Wallace gave a well-mannered nod, and with the kindliest tone issued his sadistic edict, “Since there is no way to prove neither of your innocence, it seems to me that death has demanded to engage one more tonight—”
Gritting his teeth, Butcher crouched next to Robert, “I think this guy’s broke out of the asylum, he’s a complete mental!”
Robert’s leg—the good one—kicked once, pathetic and involuntary.
“You think he’s a serial killer?”
Butcher blinked once, “’Course not. I mean—” his face darkened, “I hope not.”
“Don’t you find it too strange?” Robert pulled him up close by the collar, “the way he’s acting. It doesn’t strike me as what normal rich guys do.”
“Maybe he’s slightly on the cuckoo side,” Butcher whispered back, “Look.”
Robert pursed his lips and glanced behind Butcher’s shoulder where Wallace was kneeling beside the corpse with hands enclosed in a sort of ceremonial prayer.
“Oi!” Butcher cried out, and Wallace turned with a strange serenity, “Do you have a wheelie or something, I can’t just walk out here with Robbie like that.”
Wallace frowned, “But you’re not leaving yet...there’s a dead wo—my wife on the ground.”
There was a beat of silence among them.
“Hold on,” Robert sat straighter. One brow crooked up skeptically, “You said she was your fiancée.”
“When exactly did you two got married”?
There was a ripple of change on the man’s face. Like stone striking the surface of a calm water.
“There’s something wrong about this,” Robert murmured. In a louder voice, he demanded, “Where’s your watch, Wallace?”
He gestured at Butcher, who realized Robert’s intention, scurried to the duffle bag lying limp behind the column and picked it up. Bringing it over to the sofa, Butcher gave it a thorough shake until the shattered ceramics tumbled out with the clunks of Rolex which he had taken from the bedroom.
“What is the meaning of this?” Wallace scowled, and the slightest crack in his pretense thus surfaced.
“This,” said Robert, gesturing at the pile of watches scattered on the carpet, “Is a collection of vintage Rolex watches.” He strained across the floor and picked up a silver-plated wristwatch. Recognizing it from one of his previous smuggles, he cited out the details, “Produced in 1938, one of them early Oyster Perpetuals, I think.”
Robert held it out for Wallace to see. The man stood immobilized like one of those columns in the house.
“You are a fraud,” Robert concluded, “You are a fraud who doesn’t know the host of this house has a liking in watches. Look at you! Coming all dressed in that nice tuxedo, and yet your arms are naked as a newborn! Because you couldn’t find any Rolex in the drawers? Or was it because Justen had taken all of them in the bedroom before you could go inside and got yourself busy stuffed in that stolen suit?”
A trickle of sweat skidded down Robert’s temple. He had been right: the woman lived alone for at least two weeks, that part is certain. Which leaves that gremlin Wallace, pretending as the host, to be either a serial freak, or just a psychotic newbie who’d accidentally shot the mistress when she saw him through the window’s reflection.
Meanwhile, Butcher had sauntered to the coffee table by the corpse where he picked up a translucent piece from the broken fragments resembling a whiskey set, the surface still wet from the stains of the spilled liquor.
“So that’s where the shatter had come from,” Butcher released his fingers, letting the fragment hit the pile of glass in a crisp snap.
“No wonder neither of you had found the broken window,” Robert grimaced, “Good thing you find it now, I guess.”
The weight of their gaze now dropped fully upon Wallace Coins. It was the heaviness of a silence that was enough to suffocate the conscience of any man.
Slowly, almost intangible, the tip of the fraud’s fingers twitched around the handle of his revolver.
“You two aren’t afraid that I’m gonna shoot you right here?” His voice came out cold and leveled; a mild tremor passed through the tips of his fingers. Wallace tilted the revolver, and the black void was aimed again at Butcher, “I can shut you both up right here and nobody would ever know—”
“But you can’t.” Butcher snarled, “I counted it, you idiot! Your junk’s got six chambers, you used up all of ‘em.”
“What? No—No, it isn’t.” The response was met by an erratic cough that must had been a laugh.
Butcher flashed the pistol. Aiming it at Wallace, he said, “You shouldn’t have wasted that precious slug on Robbie. Or maybe you shouldn’t have blown her brain three times in advance.”
“You think I can’t shoot you?” the other man growled, his hand still clinging to the machine. But no shots were fired.
“If you had had a bullet up your chambers, you would’ve shoot me a long—” suddenly, he faltered. There were three embedded in the woman’s forehead, one knocked over the whiskey set, and one in Robert’s calf. That was five bullets—but a revolver has six chambers.
The finger against the revolver’s trigger twitched almost imperceptibly.
A small click, and the void expelled from it a tremendous force. The motion flashed in a bulge of firelight that sent Wallace Coins flying backwards. His head knocked over the leg of the vintage table with a loud crash.
Butcher marched forward and yanked the revolver from the man’s hands. He checked the chambers.
“O’ Christ Almighty! There’s one more!” he exclaimed. He dug it out and showed it to Robert, sitting a few feet away against the sofa, “I must have miscounted it earlier. God, he could’ve blown my brains out! I almost died, Robbie!
Looking down at the blood trailing a line down Wallace Coins’ forehead, Butcher slammed a kick in its gut, “Serves you right you son of a—Y’think you can fool me? Is that so!”
“Butcher.” Robert sighed, his head lulling back against the white leather.
“Yeh?”
“Shut up and call the cops.” He thought for a moment, “and an ambulance. Call the ambulance first. I’m bleeding out.”
Cursing, Butcher threw the revolver back at Wallace, it bounced right off the leaking hole over the man’s forehead and dropped soundlessly to the Italian carpet.
Outside, in the unperceived hallway, the dials of the telephone clicked and beeped in rhythm. After a brief pause, an urgent conversation crept through the open frame and was observed in the living room (“Yes, my friend was shot. Well…but the guy is dead—no, it was out of self-defense. Why…Yes. Of course, I am shocked. Just come over and you’ll see”).
The night stretched on in its dazed dreary. Just Butcher walked back into the living room and squatted down on the sofa. It was then did he notice the huge television hanging over the wall just up above Coins’s left. Somehow, they had overlooked the big thing with their attention all drawn to the woman on the far side down the windows. Delighted, Butcher dug the control from the crease of the leather and pressed on the button. He took his time flipping through the channels until Micky Mouse was back on the midnight show.
Seated on the carpet with his back against the sofa, Robert groaned as the squeaks of Micky Mouse echoed like a choir of Anglo ghosts touring through the mansion on main street.