Mixed Connections Sample
“It’s done.”
Two simple words. That’s where it all started. The voice at the other end was gruff, one that I didn’t recognize. It was one of the rare occasions where I’d accepted a call from an unknown number. If I’d been smarter, I would have hung up right away. But the caller had dangled an intriguing line, and I couldn’t resist.
“What’s done?” I asked.
A long pause. I sensed hesitation. Perhaps irritation too?
“You know … the job. What you asked me to do.”
I’d asked someone to do something? And he’d done it? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked anyone to do anything. I wasn’t important enough to command people like that. I was the mousy guy everyone told what to do. This underling had the wrong number. I almost corrected him, but he had stoked my curiosity.
“What job?”
“You okay, boss?”
Boss? Yeah, wrong number for sure.
“I guess,” I replied.
“Lawson’s dead, boss.”
Dead. The word spooked the life out of me, though I was sure I didn’t know any Lawson. But this was some real, living person who was … well, who wasn’t living anymore, and my next question was a reflex.
“Sorry to hear that. How did he die?”
I prayed it didn’t have anything to do with his heart. I’d been worried about mine giving way ever since my doctor had warned me about my high cholesterol numbers and all the problems it could lead to. Naturally, instead of cutting down on junk food, I’d been stress eating more of it.
“The usual.”
The usual? What the heck did that mean? Old age? No, that couldn’t be. He said this was a job I’d asked him to do. Then it struck me, and my breath caught. Gruffy had murdered Lawson. Gruffy had murdered Lawson. The chant repeated inside my head. My stomach churned.
Was it a mob hit? I pictured Lawson swimming with the fishes at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, sporting a pair of concrete shoes. The image was terrifying enough. I hung up.
A man was dead. No — murdered. It made me sick. Pretty much every day there was news about some homicide. It never bothered me. But this — this one had touched me. The killer had actually called to tell me what he had done.
A responsible citizen would report this to the cops. What would I tell them? I had no idea who Lawson was. I could share Gruffy’s number, but what would the cops do with it? Would they take it seriously enough to investigate if there was no dead body? I wouldn’t be surprised if they laughed me off.
As I considered the issue some more, I came to a conclusion. Quite likely, there was no murder. This was a prankster dialing random numbers and messing with people. Best to ignore it. The stress left my body right away.
A couple of hours later I was watching TV, Gruffy and Lawson forgotten, my breathing back to normal and my heart chugging along at its usual pace. The news came on. A local congressman had been brutally murdered and that had the reporters all excited. The mug was familiar. I’d seen it on a ton of election-season mailers, junk which I’d casually trashed without reading. To think the guy was celebrating his win a few months ago, and now he was gone. Poor Terence Lawson.
I was still pondering the vagaries of life when a chill ran through me. Was this the Lawson Gruffy was referring to? This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Now that we had a body, it was time to call the cops. I muted the TV and was reaching for my phone when someone knocked. My heart leaped out of my body as I held my breath. Why so jumpy? I asked myself. It’s not like someone wanted to murder me, right? It must be one of the neighbors.
Two simple words. That’s where it all started. The voice at the other end was gruff, one that I didn’t recognize. It was one of the rare occasions where I’d accepted a call from an unknown number. If I’d been smarter, I would have hung up right away. But the caller had dangled an intriguing line, and I couldn’t resist.
“What’s done?” I asked.
A long pause. I sensed hesitation. Perhaps irritation too?
“You know … the job. What you asked me to do.”
I’d asked someone to do something? And he’d done it? I couldn’t remember the last time I’d asked anyone to do anything. I wasn’t important enough to command people like that. I was the mousy guy everyone told what to do. This underling had the wrong number. I almost corrected him, but he had stoked my curiosity.
“What job?”
“You okay, boss?”
Boss? Yeah, wrong number for sure.
“I guess,” I replied.
“Lawson’s dead, boss.”
Dead. The word spooked the life out of me, though I was sure I didn’t know any Lawson. But this was some real, living person who was … well, who wasn’t living anymore, and my next question was a reflex.
“Sorry to hear that. How did he die?”
I prayed it didn’t have anything to do with his heart. I’d been worried about mine giving way ever since my doctor had warned me about my high cholesterol numbers and all the problems it could lead to. Naturally, instead of cutting down on junk food, I’d been stress eating more of it.
“The usual.”
The usual? What the heck did that mean? Old age? No, that couldn’t be. He said this was a job I’d asked him to do. Then it struck me, and my breath caught. Gruffy had murdered Lawson. Gruffy had murdered Lawson. The chant repeated inside my head. My stomach churned.
Was it a mob hit? I pictured Lawson swimming with the fishes at the bottom of San Francisco Bay, sporting a pair of concrete shoes. The image was terrifying enough. I hung up.
A man was dead. No — murdered. It made me sick. Pretty much every day there was news about some homicide. It never bothered me. But this — this one had touched me. The killer had actually called to tell me what he had done.
A responsible citizen would report this to the cops. What would I tell them? I had no idea who Lawson was. I could share Gruffy’s number, but what would the cops do with it? Would they take it seriously enough to investigate if there was no dead body? I wouldn’t be surprised if they laughed me off.
As I considered the issue some more, I came to a conclusion. Quite likely, there was no murder. This was a prankster dialing random numbers and messing with people. Best to ignore it. The stress left my body right away.
A couple of hours later I was watching TV, Gruffy and Lawson forgotten, my breathing back to normal and my heart chugging along at its usual pace. The news came on. A local congressman had been brutally murdered and that had the reporters all excited. The mug was familiar. I’d seen it on a ton of election-season mailers, junk which I’d casually trashed without reading. To think the guy was celebrating his win a few months ago, and now he was gone. Poor Terence Lawson.
I was still pondering the vagaries of life when a chill ran through me. Was this the Lawson Gruffy was referring to? This couldn’t be a coincidence, could it? Now that we had a body, it was time to call the cops. I muted the TV and was reaching for my phone when someone knocked. My heart leaped out of my body as I held my breath. Why so jumpy? I asked myself. It’s not like someone wanted to murder me, right? It must be one of the neighbors.