Black Cat Weekly #71

Chapter 5-2

Outside, he took a deep breath and looked around with fresh eyes. A cluster of businesses surrounded his office building. He paused, listening for sirens. Hearing only the familiar traffic sounds, he decided to test his theory. Entering the Liquor Mart, Brad made straight for the beer cooler. He grabbed a six-pack of Bud. Then, he returned it. He snatched up a twelve. Brad tucked the beer under his arm. He walked toward the checkout counter.

After only a few steps, he stopped and reconsidered. He turned and headed for the whiskey aisle.

He didn’t know anything about scotch. John drank it. At a Christmas party, Brad remembered John holding a tumbler of the stuff. He twisted his ring. Brad also remembered Mia introducing him as a guy she knew but didn’t like very much. He surveyed the bottles. Blindly, Brad grabbed the Laphroaig, choosing the 16-year-old over the 10. Bypassing the register, he carried the bottle in one hand and the twelve pack in the other. With his arms full of stolen loot, Brad felt like a pirate. He couldn’t wave to the clerk. Instead, he looked at the young woman and said, “aargh, matey.”

Near a food truck, he found a picnic table bench. Pulling his necktie free, he tied it around his forehead. That, he thought, was how a pirate would wear it. Brad twisted the top off the scotch bottle and knocked back a slug. He coughed, tasting smoke and medicine. He couldn’t believe that Mia had left him for a guy who drank that. He popped open a Budweiser and swished it around to rinse the taste from his mouth. He tried alternating swallows. By the bottom of the second can, the routine had become set.

By the bottom of the third Budweiser, he’d decided on a plan.

He walked a mostly straight line to Homer’s Hardware. There, he stole a hammer. He dropped the whiskey and the beer into a trashcan outside the Breakfast Spot. Next door, Halston’s Jewelers offered a wide selection of watches. Brad needed a watch. He couldn’t decide between the Rolex and the Patek Philippe. He smashed the glass and took one of each. He had two arms, after all. The salesman, polishing the display case at the far end of the store, didn’t look up from his work. Brad picked up a diamond-encrusted tennis bracelet. Holding the golden strand between his fingers, he let the light from the glass fragments play off the gems. Brad wondered if Mollee would like it for her birthday. He shook his head and dropped the bracelet back into the case. It felt over the top, too much for a first date.

Brad left Halston’s. He’d grown accustomed to the quiet, the acceptance of his actions by everyone around him. The jeweler had been no different. He had figured it out. February 30th was a day without consequences. He checked the time on each watch and then on his phone. He walked back to the Breakfast Spot, tossed the hammer into the trash, and retrieved his whiskey and beer. He yawned but shook it away. So much to do and so little time.

He pinballed out of the company’s parking lot, a whiskey bottle between his legs, a beer can in the cupholder, striking every fender between his space and the gate. He drove through the boom barrier. The snap of the wooden arm made a satisfying sound. Brad crafted his own lane out of the middle of the street. The few pedestrians clutched the collars of their children and watched him pass.

With each passing block, he felt less like a pirate and more like a god. He pulled the tie off and tossed it out the window. Brad ran a red light, then another. He released the steering wheel and raised his hands heavenward. “I command you to take me to First National Bank.” The car drifted to the right and caromed off a Toyota Corolla parallel parked outside a dry-cleaner.

Brad parked in the fire lane in front of First National. He’d always liked the looks of the bank with its old-school marquee. He pushed through the revolving door and paused, studying the lobby. The tellers sat behind cages of brass grates. A security guard stood at his station. Above him, an antique clock marked the time. He checked the clock against both watches, two minutes slow. In the corner, high on the wall, a security camera panned the room. Brad’s shoes clicked as he crossed the gray marble-tiled floor. He stopped in front of the security guard, an older man with a walrus mustache. The guard’s blue uniform contrasted nicely with the floor, Brad thought. “Will you tell me that date?”

The mustache fluttered as the man spoke. “March first, sir.”

“Thank you,” Brad said, sliding the man’s handgun from its holster.

“Most welcome.”

Brad nested the revolver into his waistband and walked to an open window.

Behind the grate, the teller looked at him and smiled. “May I help you?”

Brad guessed that she was slightly older than Mollee. Pulling a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet, he slid his arm through the brass and handed it to the clerk. “Would you make change for me?”

The smile broadened. “Of course,” she said and opened her cash drawer.

Brad plucked a thick wad of bills from the drawer. He remembered to snatch his own twenty from her hand before withdrawing his arm.

The teller canted her head, but did nothing to stop him. “Have a nice day, sir.”

As he walked toward the revolving door, Brad fanned the bills he had stolen and shook them. He’d seen movies with dye packs hidden in the currency. Nothing happened. Brad looked first to the guard, who remained frozen in his spot. He then shifted his gaze up to the camera. He smiled, wondering whether photographing a god would fry the circuitry. He shoved the money into his pants pocket.

Outside, Brad took a deep breath. He checked the time, first on his right wrist and then on his left. Both arms agreed that the workday was nearly finished. A god did not work from a cubicle. He drank nectar and allowed the mortals to worship him.

He hoped to have the worship of only one mortal.

Ahead, a man held a hand-lettered cardboard sign. In front of the man, a glass jar contained a few dollar bills and some change. Beside him sat a white five-gallon bucket filled with bundles of roses. Each bunch was tied together with a small bit of twine.

Mollee should have roses for her birthday. Brad walked toward the man, his eyes searching for the perfect bunch to steal.

The man looked at him and pointed the sign in his direction.

A benevolent god would not ask such a humble subject for a sacrifice. Bad pulled the wad of bills from his pocket. He slapped them into the dirt-crusted palm of the flower salesman, then picked up the bucket and continued walking down the street.

He settled the bucket onto the passenger seat of his car and secured it with a seatbelt. Brad drove back to the office, thinking about what he might say to Mollee. He passed the employee entrance. Hopping the curb, he parked in front of the main doors. Brad unclipped the flowers and entered, carrying the bucket. The receptionist watched without expression as if delivery drivers routinely blocked the front door and entered the building in a wrinkled suit, swinging a plastic bucket.

He punched the elevator for the third floor and briefly considered commanding the elevator to take him there. Mechanical devices, however, seemed immune to his powers. Perhaps he was only a demigod.

The door opened. He walked down the hallway, sloshing water from the bucket, a trail of small puddles marking his trail. Brad caught his reflection in a passing window. The bucket looked scratched and dirty. He should have stolen some ribbon and tied a bow around it.

Mollee looked up as he entered her cubicle. Her face showed a mixture of confusion and surprise. He disconnected her phone call with the index finger on his free hand. Then, taking her palm in his, he guided Mollee to her feet. He placed the bucket of flowers in the middle of her workspace, taking care, this time, to spill no water. Brad wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She did not resist. He kissed her on the mouth and allowed his lips to linger. He pulled back and looked into her eyes. “Happy Belated Birthday, Mollee.”

Brad spun and walked away. He did not look back. It seemed like something a demigod would do.

Outside, he put his car in gear and bounced off the curb back onto the street.

He drove aimlessly, uncertain where to go. He checked the time. Both Phil and Rollie, the names he had given his watches, agreed that the day was nearly finished.

Brad stopped his car in the middle of the road at Lookout Point. From here, he could gaze down on his city. Everything lay available to him. He twisted his ring. “Almost everything.”

He knew the way without thought. The car seemed to drive itself. Mia had gotten the house in the divorce. He pictured the scene. John would answer the door. Brad, the vengeful god, would extract his wrath. He patted the revolver still tucked into his waistband. Although he could not unleash a lightning bolt, John would hear the thunder-like c***k. The bullet would pierce him. The man had thought he cut his own swath through the world. In a few moments, he would learn the error of his hubris. Brad pictured John’s smug self-assurance draining away from his face.

Fatigue tugged upon him. Omnipotence, too, seemed to take a toll. He would kill John and then go home.

He entered the outskirts of his old subdivision. Brad had purposely avoided the old neighborhood since he surrendered his house key. He looked around and saw few changes.

He thought about Mia. She would rush to the sound of the gunshot. He could picture her, mouth hanging open, hands slowing rising to clutch her face, the slow dawning realization of the error of her ways. Mia had brought this fury down upon them. She would have to live with the costs of her decisions. Unless Brad shot her too.

Mia had made her own way, taking up with John and leaving Brad. She had not considered the consequences to him when she had made her decisions. Brad had been stuck. But things change. People change. Brad emerged from the chrysalis today. He unfolded his wings and found he could fly. He parked on the street in front of his old house. Sitting in the car, he looked at the home through the front passenger window. On February 30th, he finally understood in a way that he had never before been able to grasp. Mia had seized life. She hadn’t thought about the collateral consequences. For her there had not been any, until today.

Brad felt a peace he hadn’t known since Mia told him she wanted the divorce. A knot that had been tied up in his stomach finally slipped loose.

He got out of the car and walked toward the house. His hands dropped to his waistband. As a demigod, there was still one thing he needed to do.

Brad strode quickly up the walk. Mia and John had added bushes to the front of the house and planted flowers in front of them. He liked the addition. John, apparently, had a homey side. Brad was glad that he liked touching the earth. He rubbed his hands together as he neared the door, wondering whether this would be as easy as the jeweler and the liquor store.

The last few steps slowed. Brad felt so tired he could barely move. He would finish the deed and then go home and prepare for tomorrow. The job, the law, and the consequences would all come to bear, but first, sleep.

Perhaps that is why the gods retired to Mount Olympus. They wished to rest out of view of humanity.

He rang the bell and stepped back. His hands hovered over his midsection. The latch clicked.

John’s eyes widened in surprise when he opened the door. He recovered quickly. “Brad, didn’t expect to see you.”

Brad locked eyes with John. “Tell Mia this is for her.”

And he handed John his wedding ring.

Back at his apartment, Brad collapsed on the bed. He slept dreamless, still dressed in the suit he had worn for two days. He woke in the morning, instantly remembering everything that had happened the previous day. He took two deep breaths steeling himself for what was to come. He washed his face and finger combed his hair. He didn’t know if the police would call him to come in or break down the door and arrest him. Brad checked his phone to see if he had slept through a message.

Mark Thielman (markthielman.com) is a criminal magistrate working in Fort Worth, Texas. His short fiction has appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine, and a number of anthologies.

Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Black Cat Weekly, Mystery Magazine