MORE OF SOMETHING MORE,
a story about a salesman trying to establish himself,
a CEO scheming to buy out his father's influence
and the woman important to each
12
Bill drove the limo up the curving
drive to the mansion with the rose-tinted facade. Two
columns framed heavy double doors of the front entrance that did not appear to
get much use. He was already pissed that Slade had
interrupted his week off to demand a pick-up, now
the mansion reminded him of those above-ground shrines in New Orleans
cemeteries. His brother recently passed and the family was caught
short of money for the burial. That pissed him off too.
Aching bones he had lain into a tub never rose on their own. Police and EMT arrived and then the coroner to haul dead
weight to the mortuary. The ringing in his ears was the register scoring
another profit and Bill, who lived on a cash basis without much to pawn, fell back on what he knew. He called in a favor and took possession of a brick. He cut it, dealt it and was in and out before anyone could respond, which was
a good thing: the streets were vicious now.
He switched off the engine and stepped
outside where the King County heat swamped him. The sun reflected off his
shaved head and his dark suit clung like a winding cloth. At the door, he
leaned on the bell but the oversized tomb did not respond. About to
blast the bell again, he heard soles slapping hard surfaces. The door
swung open to reveal a small gray-haired woman in floor-length white robe: Slade’s mother, Rhea. “Can I help you?” He explained and she
invited him in. Two adolescent boys peeked around a corner to
scrutinize him before disappearing. “Have a seat in the library. I’ll tell him
you’re here.”
Shelves of books filled the walls
around leather armchairs beneath a high ceiling, and on a small round table he spotted a small statue about six inches tall, jade
green and female, apparently though not certainly. Vertical creases in the gown conveyed motion. Two hands held an upturned
vessel.
“That’s Kuan Jin,” said Rhea, handing him a glass of lemonade. “The Bodhisattva of Compassion. Bodhisattvas vow not
to enter nirvana until all the other beings of the world do.” She
gave him a what-do-you-think-of-that look.
“I don’t know nothing about bootyfatwas or nervyana.” He sipped the cool beverage. An indulgent smile crossed her face. “Being compassionate is the point. I’ll see what’s keeping Stephen.”
Alone again, Bill stared at the statue and thought of his other job as bouncer: “Crowds behind the rope line don’t wait to be last. ‘Me first. Damn the rest.’” His stubby finger tapped its head. “Toys for rich people.”
“I don’t know nothing about bootyfatwas or nervyana.” He sipped the cool beverage. An indulgent smile crossed her face. “Being compassionate is the point. I’ll see what’s keeping Stephen.”
Alone again, Bill stared at the statue and thought of his other job as bouncer: “Crowds behind the rope line don’t wait to be last. ‘Me first. Damn the rest.’” His stubby finger tapped its head. “Toys for rich people.”
Heavy footsteps approached as he
slipped it into his pocket. He turned to see Stephen Slade dressed
in tan slacks and an striped shirt. With blue blazer draped over
one arm, he carried a briefcase and Blackberry in the other. “Let’s get
going.”
Down the drive and through the gate
that closed remotely behind them, Slade focused his attention on his mobile
device until a pothole rocked the limo. He shot a look at Bill who was
unapologetic and thinking, “Go to the sticks and this is what you get.” Thirty
minutes later they reached the highway leading to the interstate. Bill held
up the statue. “Look familiar?”
Annoyance then mocking scorn flashed on
Slade’s face. “Don’t tell me you want to stick it to the dash.”
“You don’t know everything you own. This
was in the library.”
“What’s it doing here?”
“Mrs. Slade was telling me about
compassion.”
“Keep it.”
“What’s it worth?”
“What’s it worth?”
Slade was dismissive. “Ten.”
Bill slid the base across the dash until
the head bumped the windshield. “It don't fit. I don’t want it.” Slade’s eyes narrowed.
The CEO entered the lobby holding the
figurine like a soda bottle. “Worth enough,” Bill thought, “to bury someone but
they wouldn’t suffer if it broke.”
Thinking how Mrs. Slade would alert her son to the theft, a laugh
rumbled inside him. “Been blamed for worse.”
The characters and events in this story are fictitious and do not represent any living person or real event.
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