The Sapphire Express (10 page)

The company was called the Sapphire Express, and it offered the most expensive cleaning services in town. It was a normal company, in my humble opinion, but for some inexplicable reason, it had been critical for Eden—and for most of the other fine ladies in the neighborhood—that Sapphire Express was trusted with the weekly cleaning. It was the service that “all successful people” used, and other options weren’t even discussed in our household.

I figured that there must have been something mysteriously appealing about a company that owned a fleet of black Mercedes Benz commercial vans and even had its own cleaning academy where every new employee had to spend four months before he or she was allowed in the field. The expensive vehicles were part of their brand, and each van had a blue sapphire logo painted on its side, and the text “The Sapphire Express” written in bold golden letters under it. If the company’s Mercedes was parked in front of your house, everybody knew that you were a superior human specimen, part of the elite. The poor souls who couldn’t afford the Sapphire Express talked about the company with envy burning in their unworthy eyes, and someone had even heard that the cleaners always left a bottle of real champagne in the fridge before they locked the doors. That rumor was untrue, but the dreamers wanted to believe in it anyway because they hoped that one day they could afford to hire the distinguished Sapphire Express themselves and enjoy a bottle of free champagne just like the elite.

The people who were fortunate enough to be able to afford the Sapphire Express compared their experiences at their backyard cocktail parties and game-day barbecues. Even the huddled grill masters in their black aprons, longneck Bud Lights, and manly beards joined the conversation from time to time and uttered proudly through the dancing ribeye smoke, “Oh, they are just the best, aren’t they?” The ladies nodded approvingly, and everything seemed so wonderful after two full glasses of Chardonnay on the rocks. All of a sudden, a fairly ordinary cleaning company was transformed into an immortal being that had hypnotized the entire neighborhood. It was a gender-neutral lovefest that filled people’s hearts with pride and tingling self-satisfaction, and if you weren’t a believer, or couldn’t afford to be a believer, you were seen as an outcast and encouraged to do everything in your power to join the exclusive club of the enlightened. It would have been unwise not to max out your credit cards or raid your savings account to become a member because the Sapphire Express was a powerful force of nature, and it defined you in the eyes of your peers. It was simply a priceless necessity, the God particle itself, and a critical building block in the passive-aggressive suburban universe. In my opinion, the whole damn thing was a neurotoxin that had poisoned the weak and insecure, but I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. There was no way I could have prevailed over that kind of power. No way in hell.

7

Head on the Wall

The next day, I woke up with a massive erection and walked briskly to the bathroom to deflate it with a satisfying stream of strong morning urine. Then I went to the kitchen, drank a full glass of ice water, and started searching for a gun show online. I needed to arm myself and get ready for the unconventional task that I had, for some peculiar reason, agreed to perform. I wasn’t going to balk, even if I had been a little tipsy when I had promised to murder a perfect stranger—a man I knew absolutely nothing about.

It didn’t take long to find a show that fit my purpose perfectly. It was called the Tiger Gun and Knife Show, and it took place at a recently remodeled civic center about fifteen miles from my new house. It was a midsize show, and the organizers were giving free gun cases to the first one hundred customers. I didn’t care about the cases, though. I needed something that could kill—kill effectively and kill fast.

I was eager to get to the show, so I ate a quick breakfast, put on some fresh clothes, and cleaned my fake eyeglasses with my left sleeve. Then I jumped into the Econoline enthusiastically and started driving toward the civic center with murder and the consultant circling on my mind like a matador and his doomed Miura. The die had been cast, and nothing could stop the events that where about to take place. There was going to be blood, and someone was going to die. That much was guaranteed.

I found the civic center without any major problems and was soon faced with the largest collection of deadly weapons I had ever seen in my life. It was a much bigger show than I had expected, and the number of different ingenious inventions to kill men and beast—or men who had turned into beasts—was simply sobering. It was all good, though, because I was there to buy the best killing tools in the world, and the knowledgeable vendors in fatigues and thick beards were going to help me to do that. It was, however, a little disturbing to see with my own eyes how easy it was to turn a suburban pajama man into a lethal predator who walked hand in hand with the Grim Reaper.

I didn’t know much about weapons, but I figured that I would at least need some handguns, a shotgun, a stun gun, a bag of ammunition and some very sharp knifes. The tiger show definitely had all that and then some, but the problem was that the options seemed almost limitless, and had no idea where to start. It was like walking into a pizzeria that had two hundred different pizzas on the menu, and after twenty minutes of unproductive browsing, I fell victim to decision paralysis. The only way forward was to consult the professionals and let them guide me through the deadly labyrinth.

The strategy worked beautifully, and with the kind help of a retired Navy SEAL, I was quickly able to amass an arsenal of weapons that consisted of two 12-gauge Remington shotguns, two Sig Sauer military-grade pistols, two Cheetah 2.5 million-volt Cyclone stun guns, a Condor Kukri machete, a Gerber Air Ranger super-duty knife, a camouflage hunting bag, and a razor-sharp field skinner for a purpose I hadn’t yet figured out. I went overboard with the machete—there was no question about that—but the knowledgeable man at the knife booth had convinced me that a machete might come in handy one day. I figured that he had made a good point because the fact was, after all, that I was going to jump into the unknown, and at least
I
didn’t know anyone who didn’t want to bring a machete to the unknown.

The other reason why I bought way more guns than I needed was that I knew that a reliable secondary would save my life if my primary went down, or if the enemy somehow managed to wrestle my weapon from me. I was a math teacher, after all, and I knew that it was a statistical fact that guns failed and people made mistakes. I wasn’t going to find myself in a precarious position just because I hadn’t prepared for a mathematical certainty—that was for damn sure.

The buying experience at the gun show was pleasant and hassle-free, but I was still somewhat taken aback at how easy it was to build a one-man army, and I started wondering why no one had even asked for my ID when I purchased a bagful of weapons that could kill scores of innocent people. I really wanted to know the answer to that question before I left the show, so I approached one of the happy vendors cheerfully and asked, “Hi, can I ask you a quick question, sir?”

The vendor gave me a smile that was brighter than the Fayetteville sun and said, “Sure, of course. How can I help you?”

“Uh, I was just wondering why no one asked for my ID when I bought a gun here.”

The vendor gave me an even bigger smile and said proudly, “Ah, the beauty of the Second Amendment and the right to keep and bear arms. That’s the simple answer to your question, my friend.”

I looked at him incredulously and said, “So any crazy cat can buy these guns and go on a shooting rampage at a local high school?”

“Well, we just sell guns here. We can’t control what people do with them. We are businessmen, not babysitters.”

“Babies don’t shoot people,” I said.

The vendor looked irritated but didn’t say anything.

I decided to push his buttons a little more and asked, “Well, would you support the right to carry pocket-sized nuclear bombs if someone started selling them here at your gun show? You know, just little ones, powerful to kill, let’s say, five hundred people or so. Would you allow your neighbor to have one of those bombs in his house—a neighbor with a slight crystal meth problem and raging paranoia, a neighbor who just wants to protect his property?”

“Maybe I would,” he said sternly.

“What about the Declaration of Independence?” I asked. “Doesn’t that little piece of paper concern you guys at all?”

“What do you mean, man?”

“I mean that it grants the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness to all of us, but now you are saying that any idiot with a gun can take my right to life away from me.”

“Uh, I don’t think you are interpreting the text correctly, man.”

“If you say so.”

“What are you, some kind of activist? I don’t know if I appreciate your questions or your tone.”

“I am no activist, and I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think about my tone. I came here to buy guns because I need them. But I also wanted to ask a couple of questions that I thought were fair and relevant. I am sorry if you are offended by the fact that a man is still allowed to have an opinion in this country.”

“Look, man. I’m busy. I need to go back to work and sell these guns to someone who actually appreciates them, OK?”

“Please, go to work, man,” I said and walked away.

After my shopping for the dinner party where murder was served as the main course by an inexperienced chef was successfully completed, I drove straight to Johnny D’s. I needed to find out a little more about my upcoming assignment and allow the soothing flow of a perfect godfather to massage my tired organs and numb the parts of my brain I didn’t want to keep active anymore.

Johnny D’s home street was quiet, and I stepped out of the van eagerly. A solitary bum and his blind cat were sitting on the corner under a broken streetlight, waiting for something to arrive, something that would never come. I said a polite hello to the bum and the cat and started walking toward the bar. Then a glue-stained plastic bag flew past me like a poor man’s kite, and a crippled crow cawed at me loudly like I was a filthy intruder. There was something terrifying about that scene, and I decided to ditch walking and run to the bar.

I knocked on the door hard, like a group of bleeding zombies were breathing on my exposed neck, and after thirty long seconds, I heard Ramses shouting angrily through the door, “We are closed, motherfucker! Come back in two hours.”

“It’s me,” I said with a voice that had a hint of panic and desperation riding on the sound waves like an unwanted stowaway.

I heard the deadbolts moving, and the door opened just enough for the daylight to sneak into the dark bar. Then Ramses’s red nose appeared from the crack, and he said, “You are early, man. Come in.”

I followed the grumpy man into the abyss of the unholy temple where madness was the only celestial being and ordered two godfathers and a glass of ice water.

Ramses started fixing the drinks apathetically, and I couldn’t help noticing that he looked like he had just woken up. I picked up a stale peanut from the greasy bowl and asked, “Did you sleep here last night?”

“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. I’m not sure where
you
slept, though, or didn’t sleep. I can’t believe you left with that bird. She was, uh, something that you don’t see here very often, let’s just put it that way.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Don’t wanna to talk about it, huh?”

“No.”

“OK. But I need to talk to you about something else.”

“The consultant?”

“Yeah.”

“OK, shoot, that’s why I’m here.”

“Well, OK, my employer knows quite a bit about the man already, and I have some ideas how to get to him. Tomorrow would be a good day to do it.”

“Tell me where he lives, and when he will be home alone. That’s all I need to know. I’m not going to do any recon or engage in other surveillance bullshit that will just get me busted, OK?”

“OK, that’s fine with me. Here’s the file,” Ramses said and tried to hand me a black folder full of papers. “The address in on the second page, I think.”

“I don’t need the folder. I just want the address.”

“OK, whatever you say, man,” he said and pulled out a sheet of paper from the folder and put it on the counter in front of me.”

I took a careful look at the document but didn’t touch it. Then I said, “OK, I got it.”

“You sure you remember it?”

“Yes, I am sure, and I need you to burn all the papers in that folder, right now.”

“Uh, OK, I guess I can do that,” Ramses said pensively and pulled a little yellow lighter from his pocket and threw the papers into a small metal sink next to him. Then he lit them on fire and said, “The consultant will be at his house alone tomorrow evening from seven to nine. His wife and kids will be visiting the in-laws who he hates more than anything. The fucker ain’t gonna leave his crib for that crap. He will be drinking, too, and that should make your job a little easier. I have more information and a couple of good suggestions and practical tips if you need them.”

“I don’t need anything else.”

“What about guns and shit?”

“Negative, but give me another drink, right now.”

“Jesus, man. You already done with those two?”

“Just give me the drink, all right?”

“OK, but I think you should at least know that the target is a big fellow, and he has a black belt in something that I can’t remember right now. Aikido, or some shit. Just keep your distance, OK?”

“OK, but can I get the drink now?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ramses said and started fixing the godfather briskly.

We didn’t talk for a couple of minutes, and I was fully enjoying the peace and quiet that was truly a rare commodity at Johnny D’s. Then Ramses broke the sweet silence cruelly with his hoarse voice and said, “By the way, I learned today that there is no God.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I said that there is no God.”

“OK, explain.”

“Well, I just saw in the paper today that a child molester who is about to get released from a prison in Virginia won four million dollars in the state lottery. I mean, what the fuck? God would never allow that to happen, right?”

“Maybe it was the devil who gave him that money, Ramses. I think it’s pretty much proven that he has his days, too.”

“I guess,” he said and took a shot of rye and lit a cigarette.

“You seem awfully concerned about the world today, Ramses.”

“Nah, man, I just get so goddamn angry whenever I read the paper. This world, man…”

“What else is happening in the world that makes Ramses angry?”

“Well, some stupid school in this fine city of ours wants to become gender-neutral because some harebrained parent threatened to sue them.”

I looked at him with confused eyes and said, “I didn’t understand a word you just said, man.”

“Yeah, I know. I didn’t know what it meant, either, but I looked it up. It basically means that boys aren’t boys anymore. All the kids are just children, and they all play with same toys and do same things. No cars for boys, and no dolls for girls because that is discrimination. Fucking morons. What are they going to do next? Cut our dicks off because they aren’t gender-neutral?”

“That sounds like a bad science fiction movie,” I said. “You know, where some cult leader brainwashes his followers to believe his horseshit, and then they finally all jump off a cliff because they would rather die than accept that they were idiots. Well, I guess truth can be a nasty thing if it ain’t your truth.”

“Doesn’t that worry you, though?” Ramses asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because that sort of thing doesn’t represent the views of the vast majority of people. It doesn’t represent the fucking laws of physics and nature. What I mean is that there is this invisible behavior standard that hovers above the modern world, and we are all collectively scared shitless to speak against that model because there are real-life consequences if we do so—consequences that are imposed by cowards and slaves of that invisible master. We are terrified of those cowards because they might fire us and ruin our lives. They simply can’t tolerate such reckless creatures that have opinions that they don’t agree with, so they must destroy us before the cancer spreads.”