Requiem for Moses (31 page)

This time it was David who snorted. “And you believe him? And all you’ve got to do is accept some dough? Not a bad deal. The old man must have a hole in his IV tube.”

“It doesn’t make sense, does it?” Bill said. He’s not coming to the wedding … so what! Who’ll miss him? Next, he demands that we accept his money—and in return he’ll destroy the tapes he threatened to use to embarrass you and cripple my potential practice.”

“You’re quite right, dear,” Judith said. “On the face of it, there’s no point to his offer.”

“Which means,” David said, “that there’s more to it than meets the eye. Like Gilbert wrote, ‘Things are seldom what they seem.’ What’s he got in mind?” He looked from one to the other. “Any ideas?”

“My guess,” Judith said, “is that he’ll find some way of using the money gift as a debt we owe him. Dad always does things like that—at least he has with me. He gives something with one hand and he takes it back—with interest—with the other hand.”

Bill nodded. “So what you’re saying is that we don’t know what he’s going to demand of us. We’re just sure there’s no free lunch. Somehow, sometime, he’ll demand his pound of flesh. And if we refuse his offer then he uses the tape of you and Jake.”

“That’s the way I see it,” Judith agreed. “On top of that, what’s to say that even if he gave us the tape, that he wouldn’t keep X number of copies to use if the occasion arose.”

“Now, hold on a minute,” David said. “Aren’t you being a little harsh? The old man doesn’t like your choice for a life’s companion; so he won’t go to the service. But to show he’s not a sore loser, and so you won’t cut him out of your life forever, he helps defray the cost of the wedding. And, on top of all that, he throws in a most destructive tape in the bargain. And why? Because he has become God’s Chosen One. Doesn’t that sound like a possible explanation?” David’s sarcasm was caustic.

“Sure,” Judith said. “And the pope’s Polish.”

David and Bill looked at each other.

“You don’t know?” Bill said.

“What?”

“The pope
is
Polish.”

Judith waved a hand in dismissal. “I don’t keep up with that.”

“But you got a call from the old man too,” said Bill to David. “What did he want from you?”

“Nothing, really. Like you, he was offering me things.”

“Like …?”

“All along,” David said, “he’s held a double threat over my head: He will either make me sole heir of his considerable fortune or he will cut me off without a penny.”

“And?”

“And upon my passing the bar, I will be pressed into involuntary servitude. I’ll be Daddy’s lawyer. And that almost certainly would preclude any other practice, and make my life more miserable than even I could imagine.”

“He couldn’t do that to you,” Bill protested.

“Don’t underestimate Pop,” David warned. “When he wants something, he gets it.

“Anyway, he assured me that he was about to make a binding will, in perpetuity, that I inherit the bundle. And he promised that I would be free to act in his behalf, legally, on a case-by-case basis. And, if I chose to represent him, I could charge a competitive fee … sound pretty good?”

“Great,” Bill said. “But how much of that can you swallow?”

“I’ll admit, I have trouble getting any of it down.”

“So where does this leave us?”

The waitress returned and filled cups. She looked longingly at the money. “Would you like me to take that for you?”

“Just leave it, dearie,” Judith said. “Trust us. It’s yours. When we leave.”

It was evident from her manner that she’d believe all this only as she put the money in her pocket. She walked away, making a face to herself.

“I’ll tell you where this leaves us,” Judith said. “It leaves us with a string of promises. And knowing Daddy, they’re empty promises, every one of them.”

“That puts us back at square one, doesn’t it?” Bill commented. “We’re right where we were before Monday: Each of us is up the creek and Moses Green has the paddle.”

“Then it may be up to us to take the paddle in our own hands.” Judith played the ingenue for a moment.

“What do you mean?” David asked.

She reverted to Lady Macbeth. “We’ve got to return Dear Old Daddy to last Monday night. But this time, no miracles.”

The other two looked at her blankly for a few moments. “You’ve got to be kidding,” David said finally.

She turned to him. “But this time you can’t botch it.”

“Botch it? Me?! What do you mean, me?!”

“Whatever you did—drugged him, overdosed him, I don’t know— but whatever you did, you botched it and he regained consciousness. This time we’ve got to make sure he’s dead.”

“What do you mean, me?!” David repeated. “I didn’t do anything! Look to your bridegroom—or yourself! You—one of you, both of you, I don’t know—you’re the ones who bungled it!”

“Wait a minute—” Bill began.

“There’s nothing to be gained in pointing the finger at each other,” Judith said dismissively. “Maybe we can all learn something from that fiasco last Monday. This time we’ve got to make certain Daddy doesn’t cheat death.”

“Are you serious!?” Bill was incredulous. “You’re talking about
murder
—or conspiracy to commit murder. You can’t be serious!”

“You want to marry me?”

“Of course I do.”

“You want to see your career end up in the toilet?”

“Of course not.”

“You got any other way out of this fine dilemma?”

Bill pondered.

“No … but …”

“Then we have to plan.”

“I say we take out a contract on him,” David offered.

“A contract!” Bill was still fumbling with the fact that he had suddenly become part of a homicidal conspiracy.

“Da-
vid!” Judith was exasperated. “You’ve been seeing too many movies. How many killers for hire do you know? Or should I call them ‘hit men’ for the benefit of you and your film buddies?”

“Well …” David’s train of thought quickly ran out of steam.

“I can’t believe this!” Bill said.

Judith ignored him completely. “No! We do not hire anybody.”

“We don’t hire …?”

“You heard me. Now, with three, this shouldn’t be so difficult. We have to get Mother out of the way.”

“We have to kill Mother?!” David was truly horrified.

“No, idiot! We get her out of the apartment. That should be easy for you, Bill; she likes you.”

“I don’t know ….” Bill demurred.

“I do! And that will give David and me a chance to get into the apartment.”

“I haven’t got a key. Have you?”

“No. We don’t need one. Don’t you remember, Davie: There’s only one lock and no dead bolt. We can trip the lock with a simple strip of hard plastic.”

“Good God!” David exclaimed. “So we can get in. You make it seem so simple. What the hell would we do? I mean, you’re actually talking about murder. What do you want me to do, strangle my own father?!” He paused. “Up till now, this sounded like one of those crazy daydreams. This is the first time I’ve gotten serious about this. I really don’t think I’m able to … I mean, I can’t kill
any
body, let alone my own father.”

“Don’t be so emotional, David. It won’t be anything gross like strangling him. We can just give him some pills. The only thing we’ve got to be careful about is that he gets enough to do the job. This time he’s gotta be dead—really dead.”

“This is insane,” Bill said.

“Fine!” Judith threw up her hands in disgust. “Davie, you can find out what it’s like to start a professional career with no money for even a diploma to hang up. And you can be a lackey for your father for the foreseeable future—that’s all Daddy’s promises are worth.

“And Bill, you can marry me and watch your future become part of your past.

“Both of you can crumble before Daddy. But I’m not going to.”

Silence fell as all three sat, thinking their own thoughts.

Judith knew this had to be done, even if she had to do it herself.

This time, it’s got to work.

Chapter Twenty-Five

The hardest part of the night shift at a gas station was fighting boredom. Especially was this true for Stan Lacki.

The job was as easy as rolling off a log. And as interesting as watching paint dry or grass grow.

All he had to do was sit in the cashier’s booth, take money and make change. Ultrastrong Plexiglas surrounded him. Theoretically, it was bullet-proof.

Stan knew bullet-proof meant that certain bullets couldn’t penetrate the enclosure. He also knew certain other bullets could penetrate just about anything. Every time someone came up with an impervious substance, someone else would be challenged to invent a projectile that would do the job.

But the manager of this service station had a healthy policy aimed at protecting the employees first and foremost: If someone points a gun, give the money. Don’t rely on the glass. Don’t rely on anything—a passing police car, an involved citizen, nothing.
Give the money.

The bullet-proof pane? A deterrent only to the easily discouraged robber.

For Stan this was like caging a wild bird. Stan was an auto mechanic. The best, he thought—a thought shared by a growing number of customers. Word had it that Stan Lacki was an excellent technician, honest, and as caring for the customer’s car as he was for his own.

Business at that station was booming. And the steady increase could be laid directly at the door of Stan Lacki.

Putting Stan on night duty was like hiring Michelangelo to paint a house. It made no use of a great talent.

A car full of teenagers pulled up to a pump. The driver staggered out of the car—a rusted-out bag of nuts and bolts. It took several tries for him to get the pump into his gas tank. Stan watched the procedure. If this was the best any of the males in that car could do, the girls in the car were going to be pretty safe tonight.

Finally, after spilling a little less than a gallon, the inept one managed to get the pump turned off and the nozzle replaced in the notch.

The tab was $7.57. The driver, a kid of maybe seventeen, pushed a twenty-dollar bill through the slot. As he lurched off, some of the change slipped through his fingers onto the ground. He didn’t stop to pick it up, but continued on his uneven way back to the car as if traversing a giant slalom.

Rich kids,
thought Stan, as the driver laid rubber pulling out of the station. Their parents probably give them everything they want. Even before they ask for it.

But that driver! There was a probable fatality in his future. And, more than likely, he would take his friends with him.

Parents and kids.
Stan was reminded that he and Claire would never be parents.

Rough on him. He’d dreamed of having a son, playing with him, watching him grow, adored by his mother. Stan would have the boy up to his elbows in axle grease. His mother wouldn’t like that. But she’d put up with it. Because Stan was making their boy into another Stan Lacki. And the world needed all of those it could get.

Or maybe the firstborn would have been a girl. That would have been all right, too. Stan could have waited for his little man. Meanwhile, he could have watched with love as their girl grew up to be a beauty like Claire.

His eyes began to tear. He wiped them dry as another car pulled in. He waited to see which pump it would stop at. But the car pulled up to the garage. The driver, a young woman, got out of the car and approached his booth.

She was twenty-some. She wore a red beret over long, straight blonde hair. Her outfit was a camouflage jacket over a very short denim skirt. Black mesh stockings did not quite reach her skirt. In contrast to all this, her face was soft and innocent-looking. As she neared his cubicle, Stan could see that her skin was almost alabaster white and she wore decidedly too much lipstick.

The round hole in the cashier’s window tended to measure the customer. Most people were too tall to speak directly into the hole; they stooped. This customer stood on tiptoe, but did not speak up as the majority did. That made it difficult for Stan to hear her. He leaned forward and turned his head slightly.

“Mister, I got trouble with my car.”

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s leaking.”

Stan twisted to look at the car. From this distance and angle it was difficult to get a good view. But he could see a small, dark puddle forming under the front of the car.

“I guess you’re right. Your car seems to have a leak okay … maybe an oil leak.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Probably. But not till tomorrow. I gotta stay in here.”

Her face pinched together. She looked on the verge of tears. “Please, mister,” she begged. “I gotta get to the other side of town. It’s late. I’m afraid I’m gonna get stuck on the freeway. And then what?”

And then what indeed.
Stan could anticipate the story buried inside the paper. One more in an endless number of victims of violence.

The leak would take its toll. The car would cough. Lights on the dashboard would warn to stop for repair. She would pull over to the shoulder. Someone else would pull over. A good Samaritan … or a beast? Stan well knew the odds favored deep trouble. And this little lady would be found assaulted—or dead.

Still, this was his cocoon. He was safe—or as safe as the crazies out there would let him be. As long as he didn’t open the door. As long as he stayed inside. As long as a robber would settle for money.

He’d never thought of it this way before. The few times he’d drawn the night shift, he’d never really adverted to the protection this enclosure provided. But he’d never been in exactly this predicament.

“Please, mister,” she pleaded. “I’d offer you a lot of money, but I only got a few bucks. You can have it all if you’ll help me.” She dug out her wallet and fingered through it. She held a handful of dollar bills up to the window. “Eight dollars,” she said, “and some change.”

He looked at her—and saw Claire.
What if it were Claire?
Well, it wouldn’t be Claire. He would have seen to it that any car Claire drove would be in dependable working order.

But she might be in some other kind of fix. He would want whoever she asked for help to give it. “Okay. Let’s take a look at it.” And he left his cocoon.