Читать книгу Saffron’s Menagerie - Phil Stevenson - Страница 5

Lucky didn’t go out at night. He didn’t like it, especially weekends. He would prefer his casual strolls through Washington State Park during the afternoons, which usually finished with an early evening meal at The Spotted Pig or at Buvette’s, a popular, quaint bistro offering a French small-plates menu at breakfast, lunch & dinner.

Lucky is a loner. Rotund, short, unattractive, sweaty and unpleasant to look at. His crooked stained teeth need some orthodontic care. He is a relation to a ‘speak-easy’ type major New York dealer named Carlos, who provides his inventory at a most reasonable cost. Lucky helped out his cousin big-time some years back regarding an incident, when Lucky perjured himself, by giving Carlos an alibi after Carlos was charged with a break and enter. Carlos then returned the favor by selling Lucky modest amounts of cocaine and cannabis at well below ‘market price’.

Lucky spends all his funds, or most of it, on rare coins, which he gloats over in his third story secured collection room. In fact, he spends most of his time in his collection room, which also secures his prohibited substances. Lucky drinks Pepsi and munches on potato crisps as he dotes on his prized collections of rare Spanish coins. He has a gold doubloon and two silver ‘pieces-of-eight’, minted in the 16thcentury. He loves to look at them and thinks of Blackbeard the Pirate’s look on his face, when opening a chest full of them, with a ribald parrot screeching in the background, ‘pieces of eight, pieces of eight.’

It is now Saturday afternoon, and he decides to dine at Buvette’s and then go home to make his favorite dessert, a strawberry and cream concoction in a big glass bowl that he loves spooning into.

He’s ‘watching’ a rare Italian coin for sale on eBay, and the auction is ending that night. He plans to buy it. The sale ends at 8:35 pm.

He hails a cab to quicken the return of the few blocks to his townhouse and arrives home at 5:45 pm. Just enough time to settle and watch the news at six o’clock.

He walks to his kitchen, opens the freezer door and pulls out the frozen strawberries. It is the twin pack, each single serve separated by a perforation in the plastic pouches. He notices a small rip in one pack, thinks nothing of it, and decides it is the one to eat first. Using his teeth, he opens the pack wider and empties the contents into a very large long glass. He goes back to the fridge and retrieves a tub of thickened cream and spoons it into the glass. The strawberries will take about thirty minutes to defrost, and in anticipation, as usual, he pours himself a large Canadian Club whisky on the rocks. Then settles in front of the television and waits for the news.

He has been fascinated about the Hillary Clinton loss in the recent election and her shock reaction to it, but he doesn’t really care at all. He didn’t vote. After thirty minutes of commercials, more commercials with some news, he has finished his drink and now looks forward to his dessert.

As he enters his kitchen he didn’t notice a small movement in the glass. It may have been from the strawberries moving as they melted in with the cream. It moved again. And then, a third time, as if it was agitated.

As he sat back with the television, he amused himself on the amount of wealth he had accumulated in such a few years. He now almost owned his townhouse and had a magnificent private collection of coins from all over the world. The coins are also an investment, as they will appreciate over time. He knows that he must move on to another location soon, as his visitations on Friday afternoons were not going unnoticed. One local, who queried him in the street during casual conversation, referred to his visitors. His reply always is that he provides a resume, curriculum vitae service for job seekers who want a professional presentation when applying for jobs. Lucky always says that it paid the bills.

He had his favorite long spoon that dived deep into the stemmed glass. By now the strawberries were ready and the cream had melted though the batch revealing artistic strawberry red veins on the inside of the flute.

The spoon went deep into the glass and for a moment it seemed different to Lucky, as he felt something larger in the glass. He brought the glass up to his face to see, when from the creamed red miasma an orange insect jumps out at him and claws onto his left cheek. As if by nature, within a millisecond the insect’s engorged tail sting strikes Lucky’s left eye, into the corner near his nose. Lucky recoils, and by reaction slaps the insect on his cheek as hard as he possibly can. No casual hand flick away! The insect, now mortally damaged, arches its tail and strikes again, driving its sting into Lucky’s right cheek. Lucky gives the creature one almighty strike, feels its external skeleton crack, which causes it to fall into his lap, dead.

He looks down in shock and despair. It is a large reddish brown scorpion. Immediately he is overcome with excruciating pain in his eye, cheek and now his entire face. He slumps forward letting his dessert crash to the floor. He tries to stand up, but falls back into the chair and then rolls onto the floor in agony. Within minutes Lucky’s pulmonary system is failing. The system of blood vessels that forms a closed circuit between the heart and the lungs was under attack from the arachnid’s powerful poisonous venom. After a while, pink frothy sputum starts to dribble from his mouth. An hour later Lucky is dead.

SAN FRANCISCO

1.

Saffron Justice is reading her notebook in a comfortable leather seat next to a port window on the Gulfstream G600 private jet. She planned to be in Frisco for about three days if all went to plan. She wears a dark grey Prada fine merino wool suit with a white Prada tie-neck silk crepe de chine blouse. She had slipped her black Bally patent leather loafers off during the flight, and now searches for them as the pilot announces that landing is fifteen minutes away.

There are only five other people on this flight from New York. Four are business people having a quiet conversation, who share documents between each other. The other is a well-dressed graceful lady. They had exchanged smiles from across the aisle during the flight. Saffron took a liking to her as she reminded her of her mother.

Saffron fastens her seat belt and looks out her window. It is an overcast day in San Francisco, so nothing much was visible on the ground.

After the jet landed, she walked across the tarmac pulling her expensive carry-on luggage behind her and heads towards a waiting limousine.

Saffron is twenty-nine years old, five feet eight inches in height with a firm slim athletic body. This is the result of her disciplined workouts and gym exercises. Her eyes are a piercing hazel-green. She can hold a stare with anyone for a long time. Her dark brown hair is tied back in a ponytail that flows down her back. A slight breeze lifts it up and flicks it about. She has an exquisite face, long and sanguine. With a cute pert nose and gorgeous high cheekbones with unblemished skin.

When in San Francisco she always stays at an exclusive guesthouse that is actually on Lombard Street. Very chic, and not marketed on the Internet.

She always pays cash for her lodgings, could receive ‘room service’ from at least a dozen local restaurants and was given the privacy and confidentiality provided by this select establishment.

An express mail package is waiting for her arrival and soon after she is ensconced in her well-furnished suite. The lounge window overlooks the famous brick paved snaking street and she enjoys on occasions watching tourists walk down its serpentine shape in iconic awe.

With all the business arrangements having been met days before, with all loose ends competed, she is now here. Saffron lets out a sigh and mixes herself a gin and tonic, with a dash of bitters.

She retrieves a small atomizer bottle from her luggage and sprays her face, hands and arms with a fine mist. Then she opens the mail package to reveal a cardboard box. Slowly opening the box at one end the contents slide out onto the palm of her hand.

“Hello my babies. You both look in great shape,” she says to them with a big loving smile.

LOS ANGELES

1.

Ronald Sweet is a large girthed mogul Hollywood producer. His company, ‘Sweets Inc.’, had created some of the finest adventure and thriller movies on the L.A. lots. Academy Awards adorn the private den in his palatial home in Beverly Hills.

Beverly Hills. Yes, that was the place to be and that was his goal as a very young copywriter for MGM Pictures. Now in his late sixties, he had little to do with the day-to-day operations of Sweets Inc., however he still had a say on the Board.

This mild afternoon he is holding a birthday party for his fifteen-year-old son, Ronald Jnr. He adores his son and has already enrolled him into Princeton. He affectionately calls him Ronnie Jay, or just R.J. There are about twenty adults and ten or so teenagers in attendance. Mostly school friends of Ronnie Jay’s, plus his adorable girlfriend, Mary May Masterson, with her short blond Shirley Temple curls and coke-bottle figure.

“Afternoon tea is now served,” calls out Susan Sweet as she walks from the front steps of the house. “Those that want to eat make your way into the marquis tent and help yourself.”

A few hungry ones, especially the teenagers, walk their way into the large white tent.

“So, tell me Ron, did you ever think you’d be bringing up a teenager in your late sixties?” asks his friend and next-door neighbor.

“No, never once occurred to me. I’m a bit of a narcissist. Ronnie Jay changed that around for me. And, of course, my wife. She contributed mightily.” Ron winked at him as he looks into the tent at his wife coordinating everything to everyone’s wishes. Twenty-five years younger and still hot and tight. ‘Ah, the perks of Hollywood’, Ron smiles to himself.

“Come on,” says his neighbor, “I’m famished.”

2.

A FedEx van comes to a stop at the front gates of the Sweet’s residence. The gates are closed, with a security guy inside. A paunchy, stooped woman gets out of the van and slides back the side door to retrieve a small package. The security guard, now in a very relaxed state of mind after taking a toke from a joint a moment before, opens the gates and walks over to the FedEx van.

“Parcel for Ronald Sweet Junior,” is the driver’s call out.

The security guard thought nothing of it, as other gifts had arrived some time before, so he signs for the delivery. He looks at the FedEx woman. She wears a FedEx cap over her thick short dirty orangey hair and seemed to have a walking disability. However, he got a quick glance of her eyes. They were alive and full of spirit. Piercing even. They mesmerized him for a moment, but he shakes it off as effects from the dope.

“Have a good auld time,” she says with a dry smile, then gets back into her van and drives away.

3.

R.J. and Mary May walk over to Mr. Sweet to encourage him to join the rest in the tent. For some reason, Ron’s penchant for fine bourbon whiskey always dents his appetite. A maid from the house came out and says that a parcel is at the front gate for R.J.

“I’ll go down and get it”, offered Mary May, as they receive the news that yet another delivery has arrived.

“Ok then. Thank you,” Ronald Sweet smiles salaciously at Mary May as she darts off down the long drive to the front gates. Ronald eyes Mary with sinister intent. He would be in heaven if he ever had the chance to bury his face between her legs. Now, that would be true heaven all over again. He has a bad yen for young teenage girls, which had not gone unnoticed when on his movie sets.

“R.J.,” Ron’s wife calls out to Ronnie Jay from inside the tent, “Time to cut your birthday cake.”

“Be right there Mom. Just waiting for Mary May.”

R.J. walks toward the marquis and into the merriment that was inside. He sees Mary May run back over the fine manicured lawn, she even gave a Pollyanna skip, while swinging the package in one hand. She joins him and grabs his hand as they stroll into the tent.

Fifteen candles are lit and wait to be extinguished by the birthday boy. R.J. and Mary May walk over to the table to finally do the expected. After a few thoughtful loving words from R.J.’s father, R.J. blows all candles out with a strong adolescent exhale. Mary holds his hand and squeezed it like a baby anaconda. The serpent with the apple.

R.J.’s friends gather around to look at the cake. Mom starts cutting the cake into even pieces. Ron Sweet, from afar, observes the framed shot as if he was enjoying a scene on one of his movie sets. He wants another drink.

Everybody sang ‘Happy Birthday’ with crescendo, and all enjoyed the happiness they shared. It was a great adult and teenage party. Security is very present to ensure all enjoyed without concern.

R.J. was encouraged by his father to mix with the ‘oldies’. Which he did with great charm and maturity. Mary May was always at his side. She loves him. Puppy love maybe, but she loves him.

Mary proffered the parcel to R.J., who used the cake knife to pierce through the plastic post parcel. It reveals a small cardboard box with ‘Happy Birthday’ printed on it.

“Do you want to open it?” R.J. asks Mary as she tickles his palm with her long fingernails.

“Nope, it’s yours,” she says, “But we can share it if you like.”

R.J.’s fingers rip through the outer brown rapping. A small oblong cardboard box remains. R.J. flicks open the rear end. Then looks in. He can’t see a thing, so he empties the contents out in front of him. Two orange reddish brown scorpions emerge and immediately set on each of his hands. Their stings strike into R.J. repeatedly. In a split second, he attempts to flick the insects off, but one holds on, the other lands on Mary May’s dress. R.J. is in shock and quickens his breath. The remaining scorpion drives its sting into his wrist, as if by nature.

Mary May screams in terror and runs from the tent. “Get it off! Someone please get it off!” She screams over and over as she runs onto the lawn.

Jamie Mack, R.J.’s best friend, runs after Mary and sees the insect crawling up her dress. He takes off his fedora hat and begins to flick at it with the fedora’s short brim. Third attempt he dislodges it, the scorpion falls to the lawn. Jamie came down on top of it with the heel of his shoe and crushed it into the soft clay lawn. It was dead. Mary is still freaking out.

“Its dead! Its dead!” Jamie yells at her as he pulls her up from the lawn. She is crying and shaking. Jamie put his arm around her.

“Let’s go back to the tent and check on R.J.”

“No, not in there,” she resists and makes her way to the front steps of the house.

Meanwhile, back in the marquis, R.J. is lying on the ground. Ron Sweet had killed the other scorpion, by repeatedly hitting it with an empty beer pitcher. He picks up his son in his arms and hurries awkwardly back towards the house. R.J. whimpers, “Dad. Dad, please help me.”

Ron Sweet comforts his boy, “You’ll be OK son. The ambulance has been called and will be here in minutes.”

Ron walks up the steps of the house and past the sobbing Mary May.

“Is he alright?” She looks up.

Ron didn’t answer and moves R.J. onto the front veranda and lays him out on a large outdoor sofa.

Ron looks around for a moment. People are looking up at him from the front garden. One of Mary’s girlfriends has come to her aid and sits next to her. Jamie is next to R.J., asking if he can do anything.

“Help is on its way,” Ron replies solemnly.

Soon after, an ambulance drives up the long drive to the house. The paramedics run to the front porch and load R.J. onto a stretcher, then without delay into the back of the ambulance. Ronald Sweet jumps in to be next to his son. Within a few minutes the vehicle is racing its way to the hospital.

As the ambulance arrives at the emergency entrance and the rear doors are opened, they find Ronald Sweet holding his son. Ronnie Jay is dead.

VERMONT

1.

Seven months before the demise of unlucky Lucky, Police Sargent Tom Becker arrives outside Mary Taylor’s house at about 10 a.m. Mary had contacted the Brattleboro Police Department the day before to say what she saw the previous week. The information, though garbled on the phone, was of some interest, so Tom Becker is assigned the task.

Mary Taylor had lived alone for twenty years in her house, which is opposite her now deceased neighbor, Elizabeth Garner a widow and a recluse who had seldom ventured outside her home.

“Take a seat sonny, and I’ll make us a cup of tea,” Mary Taylor says as she invites the Police Officer into her home. “Sit over there near the parlor window and I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Tom Becker smiles politely and accepts her offer and hopes that this is not a waste of his precious time. Tom has lived in Brattleboro all his life and had entered the Police Force at age twenty-three. Now ten years on he had elevated himself to Sargent, which he is proud of. His superiors like him because of his professionalism and competence. The town of Brattleboro, Vermont is small, quaint and has numerous campuses close and nearby. A population of about 13,000. Warmish summers and snow-covered winters, like on the front of Christmas Cards. It also is home to The New England Center for Circus Arts and the Vermont Jazz Center.

“Well, this is what I saw last week across the street which might be of interest to you,” Mary says as she places a tray with two cups on the parlor room table.

“I’m all ears, Mrs. Taylor,” replies Tom as he picks up his cup.

“I sit here most days and read the paper, or write letters to old friends, or I doze off when bored,” starts Mary. “I was sitting right here when I saw a small white car stop outside Mrs. Garner’s home last Wednesday afternoon.” Mary takes a sip from her tea.

“Go on,” says Sargent Becker.

‘Well,” replies Mary as she put her cup down, “The car stopped and I saw the driver’s door open and a cat, of all things, jump out and run up to Mrs. Garner’s front porch and just sit there.”

“Go on,” says Sargent Becker.

“Well, then the car drove away. Later on, that afternoon Mrs. Garner’s grandson Bobby Garner, who comes around every other day to check on his grandmother, drove up in his car. He checked the mail box and then walked to the porch.”

“Was this cat still there?” asks Tom.

“Yes it was. It had not moved since it arrived. However it didn’t run away when Bobby approached it, in fact it went inside with him as he unlocked the front door. I think that a bit strange, don’t you?”

“Did Mrs. Garner own a cat?”

“Yes, but it died a few years back and it was completely black. This cat was a golden color, with a dark face, legs and tail. It looked like one of those pedigree types.”

“OK, go on,” says Tom.

“Well, I must have dozed off, because when I looked again, Bobby’s car had gone and it was getting close to dark.”

Mary looks at the Sargent intently. “But the next morning, when I was here at my table, I saw that same small white car pull up outside Mrs. Garner’s house again. It sat here for a while; when all of a sudden that same cat came darting out from under her house somewhere and leaped into the open driver’s door. I have never seen anything like it, ever. And later that day the ambulance arrived and I saw poor Mrs. Garner being taken away to the morgue, I suppose.”

Tom Becker says nothing, just looks at her. He then says, “And the white car?”

“Well, it drove away and I haven’t seen it since.”

“Did you notice what type of car or registration?”

“Not the registration, but it was a small Japanese car like my youngest daughter had once. A Toyota or Nissan maybe.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“I did on the second time. It was a strange thing too. As the car was about to drive away, the driver lent over into the passenger side and looked to my window. The driver was wearing a cap and had short clumpy hair.”

‘Man or woman?” asks Tom.

“I couldn’t tell. However, the driver was staring straight at me! It made me queasy and unsettled.”

‘So, what made you really call us?”

“Well, it was that look I got. It was very disturbing. I didn’t like it at all. Creepy. Something really weird,” Mary looks out her window then turns to Becker.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

“Nope, that’s about it. I feel sorry for Mrs. Garner and her grandson. I hadn’t spoken to her for many months as she never ventured out and I couldn’t be bothered to visit. We weren’t that close.”

2.

Sargent Becker contacts Bobby, the grandson, that afternoon and asks him to drop into the Police Station on his way home from work.

Bobby works at a local body shop and had the faint smell of noxious duco-paint about him. His hands are ingrained with automotive grime from his years repairing cars and trucks. Becker didn’t know Bobby that well, but as is in a small town, he has heard rumors of drugs and booze surrounding him following the death of Johnny. One definite thing he knew about Bobby was that his older brother Johnny, who served in Afghanistan as a Grunt, was captured and eventually executed by the Taliban. He had been offered up for ransom. US$750,000 they wanted. Bobby’s father did not have that money even if he sold everything he had. The U.S. Government wouldn’t help because they don’t deal with these types, except to hurt or kill them. Bobby’s grandmother had enough to help out, but she stubbornly refused.

“Hi Sargent. What’s up?” he asks as he sits down in a small interview room.

“Bobby, I want to ask you a few questions about your grandmother and the day before her death.”

Bobby shifts nervously in his chair, “Fire away Sir.”

“Did you visit your grandmother the day before she was found dead?”

Bobby shot back, “Yup, I did. My usual checkup on Gran to make sure she was OK. She can’t be bothered to answer her phone much, so I visit, check her mail and have a chat. She gets her groceries delivered every Friday.” He looks annoyed, “Oh shoot, I must cancel that now.”

“And do you remember anything different when you entered the house?”

Bobby smiles as if he was waiting for the question, “Yes there was a mangy cat sleeping on the front door mat.”

“Go on, what happened to the cat?”

Bobby straightens up, “I hadn’t seen it before. I say, ‘shoo cat’, to it and it ran off under the house. That’s the last I saw of it.”

“So when you left your grandmother’s place you never saw it outside or even inside?”

“Nope,” replies Bobby. “I gave all this information to one of your officers last week. I went back the next day because I left my sunglasses behind and Gran was dead. I called emergency. You can check if you want.”

Becker had checked and the statements agreed.

“OK Bobby, thanks very much for your cooperation. You can go now. Oh, one more thing, did you get on well with your grandmother?”

“Yeah, sure I do, or I did.”

“Any hard feelings from your brother’s misfortune?”

Bobby’s face becomes sad with a slight drooping of his mouth. “It was a hard time for us all Officer, but I’m over it now. As they say, life must go on.”

Tom wasn’t convinced.

Bobby gets up from the table, shakes the Sargent’s hand and leaves.

Mrs. Elizabeth Garner was declared dead on the day after Bobby’s visit (and the cat’s). The coroner signed off on the death certificate, as heart attack from short breath. Mrs. Garner was eighty-six. The only discerning marks found on Mrs. Garner’s body were a few cat hairs in her throat and scratches at the rear of her head and down her neck. Causes undetermined

‘A real cat killer’, Tom muses to himself. All too bizarre. This will go nowhere.

One last thing he might do is to check on Mrs. Elizabeth Garner’s beneficiaries.

LONG ISLAND

1.

Saffron, now safely back from San Francisco, is driving her near-new Maserati GranTurismoon Interstate 495 E into the heartland of Long Island. The sat-nav computer informed her that the drive would be about ninety minutes from JFK Airport, New York City to her home.

Living in Port Jefferson, on the North-West Shore of Long Island is a treat. Not as snobbish as the Hamptons where she and her parents once lived and not that ribald as to make downtown evenings unsavory. Port Jeff is a charming, yet calm place to live. Her father and mother, deceased when she was twenty-three, were rich. Very rich. Millions in the bank, due to their combined efforts operating an exclusive real estate business in Long Island for over two decades. Saffron had inherited the lot.

Following the death of her parents, which occurred while she was living away studying a Masters in Biological Science at M.I.T. Boston, she soon sold their home and purchased a stunning four bedroom Victorian original 19thCentury old world charmer with all the modern amenities of today. Situated on upmarket Oakes Street and about five minutes drive to picturesque Port Jefferson Harbor, shopping centers and restaurants. A nice spot to be. In the heart of the village.

She had furnished her two-story home with exquisite antique furniture in every room. The previous owners had done a remarkable job in renovating the home, whilst keeping all the beautiful wood adornments. The magnificent original oak staircase, bannister, doors, yellow pine floors, hand carved gas fireplace and rounded ten-foot tray ceilings were maintained in place.

The Maserati drove up her driveway towards the detached matching double garage that sat alongside the white painted weatherboard home with its light grey shingle roof. She pressed the remote and the double door opened up and glided back into the ceiling area of the garage roof. She drove her car in and got out.

Within minutes she was at the front door, unlocked it and walked in with her luggage rolling behind her.

‘Phew’, she thinks to herself, time for a quick gin and tonic before I pick up Caviar.

Saffron is pleased with her assignment in San Francisco and now looked forward to a few weeks of relaxing around her home with her menagerie.

Later she drives into the Village to pick up her Birman. She thought of her mother’s love of Birman’s and that is why she bought one. Whenever she thought of her parents she got sad, but always smiled, as she knew she had done them proud. In many ways, actually. Completing her Masters degree at M.I.T. was a challenge following their death, however she had persevered and reached her goal.

2.

Her parents had been killed by a booze and drug fueled young man, named Warren Clapper. He tee-boned them as they drove home one night after a friend’s anniversary party. Clapper had lost the plot and was doing three times the speed limit when he smashed into their Mercedes at a road intersection. Have you ever seen the Merc that Lady Diana died in? Her parent’s Merc looked the same. Utterly destroyed with no chance for the two occupants. Yes, people do die in Mercs’ and Volvos for that matter. How Clapper survived was a miracle. Maybe because he was in a large truck owned by his father’s business. He suffered only cracked ribs and a broken wrist.

Saffron spoke to Clapper only once. That was four years following her parents’ death. Clapper had been convicted of involuntary manslaughter and was sentenced to only six years jail. He was a rich Hampton kid and his influential parents hired the best defense attorneys and they did their job. There were no witnesses to the crash and Saffron’s father, who was driving, was found to have alcohol in his body. So, mitigating factors were introduced and twisted in Clapper’s favor. Warren Clapper served only two and half years at a go-easy prison farm in Connecticut.

He had been out of prison a year or so when he ran into Saffron. She waited for him in an old beat-up white clunker in a car park opposite Clapper’s favorite tavern. She had done her homework and knew that Clapper would arrive soon, which he did. He parked in the same car park, some distance from her. She watched him slide out of his blue BMW Sports and head toward the tavern; with that loping snaky gait she had observed before many times.

Saffron waits a few minutes and then goes in after him. She sees him already knocking back a shot followed by a beer chaser. Her stomach churns.

He drank alone and Saffron walked over to him.

“Hello,” she smiles, “Is that your blue Beemer parked over the road?”

Clapper grins, “Sure is. You like it?”

“Sure do,” Saffron smiles back then changes from being demure, “There are two guys looking inside it. Looks a bit suss to me.”

“It happens all the time,” Clapper shakes off the warning. “It’s a high performance M5 Beemer, and goes like a rocket. Most dudes around here don’t see that many. You want to take a ride in it later?”

Saffron laughs, “I would, but I’m working late tonight. Maybe next week. You come here often?”

“Sure do. How about next Wednesday? Suit you?”

This time Saffron gave out a girly giggle, “OK, you’re on,” and gently scraped her fingernails over his hand. “Got to go now, see you then, rich boy.”

Saffron walks away, looks back to see Clapper checking her out, smiles at him and walks out the door, which banged shut behind her.

After three more shots and beers to follow, Clapper decides to take a visit to the john. As he handles his dick, he thinks, ‘I’m going to do some banging at the Viper Room tonight.’

Not bothering to wash his hands, he returns to his stool at the bar to down the last of his beer and looks for his car keys. He is sure he left them on the bar. He searches though his pockets and swears, “Fuck,” out loud. No one notices.

“Must have dropped them, as I know I locked the fucker,” he mutters as he leaves the tavern.

He looks anxiously on the ground as he walks to his BMW, which is still parked, much to his relief. As he approaches his car, he still has not found his car key. He pulls on the door handle and the door opens. Surprised, he looks down into the illuminated driver’s floor well and sees his key.

Even Warren Clapper is no meathead. How could that happen? He thinks for a while. The car is not supposed to lock with the key inside. Crazy. Clapper brushes it aside as a tech malfunction to be looked at by the local dealer. He has a bellyful of grog and now a desire to fuck a whore.

He sits into the seat, closes the door, but does not notice a greased movement around the brake pedal. He fastens his seat belt and with the interior lights still on, he now does see a movement! He looks closer. A pair of shining dark eyes in an arrow pointed head slides out from the darkness. Its forked tongue flicks out each second. Clapper stiffens and tries to unfasten his seat belt.

He screams, “What the fuck!”

Fear overtook coordination, but finally his belt comes free. Too late, as the serpent lunges into his inner thigh, repeatedly biting it with vicious venom. Warren stiffens and knows he is in deep shit. He attempts to open the door but starts to lose more coordination. He manages to get his phone out and dials 911. He is just able to state his plight and location to the operator.

From down the street, a car’s headlights switch on and it drives into the car park next to Warren. Saffron is now in the passenger’s seat. She looks at him and he at her. He wants her to come to his aid. No go. She just smiles back at him. Saffron quickly gets out and opens the left rear passenger door. Out slides Apples, who makes a beeline into Saffron’s car.

Within eleven minutes the paramedics arrive and find Clapper in a state of shock with very shallow breathing. Warren is pronounced dead on arrival at the South Hampton Hospital.

3.

When the news got out that Warren Clapper died from snakebite in his car, people freaked out a bit. How could it happen? A lot were happy he got what was coming, but by snake bite?

The local police got involved but found nothing suspicious. There was nothing to indicate that Clapper’s car had been interfered with or such like. He received four fatal bites from a snake yet to be identified. The police did some work on behalf of the Clapper family’s request, and viewed last CCTV images of him. He was captured entering the tavern. Unfortunately, no coverage was available from the over road car park, which is an ugly vacant lot basically, used by locals.

Clapper was seen buying his first drinks and soon after was approached by a woman. She wore a Burger King uniform complete with cap. She had short blond hair and rimmed pink glasses. Her nose was long, a distinguishing mark, and she wore white sneakers with short white socks. She looked eighteen or nineteen but they couldn’t tell exactly. Clapper and her seemed to get on well.

The woman soon left and video saw Clapper drink for about thirty minutes, go off to the john for a piss, return, look for something, then leave the premises.

The police did follow up with images of the woman at the numerous local Burger King’s, but to no avail.

LONG ISLAND

1.

Saffron has retrieved Caviar from the cattery boarding suits. Caviar stayed this time for three days in the Paris suite. Chandelier and a large pic of the Eifel Tower, with sumptuous bedding and care. It slept better than most humans did.

Caviar ran up the steps and into the house. He is happy to be home and went straight to his food corner to see what was there.

Birman’s are very placid felines. They originated as temple cats living around spiritual monks (therefore no angst in their personality), in northern Burma at the turn of the 20thCentury. Not many, and oh, so expensive for the cream of the litter, which Caviar of course was. Recently a Birman adopted the Dalai Lama. Saffron loved that connection.

Herself inside, Saffron walks past her menagerie. A glass dome covers them on a small round oak table. Under the dome are about a dozen Orrefors crystal animals. Also, there is a glass daisy standing on its stalk. Saffron loves them all, but none more that her favorite three, which are always displayed to the fore.

Saffron is exhausted and needs to get back from her travel time distortion. She decides to pour a glass of Shiraz, settle down in front of her television, not look at the Internet and relax.

Saffron’s home has a large basement. In it she has a ‘safe room’ constructed using interstate builders and carpenters. It is invisible when in the basement. It could not be detected. A large old dusty bookcase, shelving half used paint tins is fastened to the outside wall of the safe room. It would slide sideways at the press of a secret button to allow access. Only Saffron and Brad knew where it was.

2.

After about two days doing nothing, Saffron decides to phone Brad. Oh dear Brad! She loved teasing him about Brad and Janet, saying she would be his Janet in his Rocky Horror Movie fantasy.

“You’re home Saff. Come on over and we can catch up and chat and do other things.”

Saffron needed other things, and set a time with Brad for late afternoon. She’d rock up at his place about 6:30 with Bollinger.

Brad is a part time high school lecturer who teaches Biology and Chemistry. Two great faculties. They would have great conversations using their knowledge.

Sex was always on the cards for them both and they usually participated with gay abandon.

“So, what’s new?” asks Brad after getting to ‘biblically’ know one another again. It was a great session as usual. Nothing wrong with that, dear congregation.

Brad is a decent citizen. He has a great love of Saffron and enjoys her company as well as the great sex. He knows that Saffron is so independent, in mind and wealth, that wishing anything more than he had, was beyond the pale.

It was in her early teens, at her parent’s Baptist Church that she met Brad, two years her younger. She initially thought of him as gawky, but soon warmed to him as a good friend. Were they ‘fuck buddies’ these days? She is not sure, but they enjoy each other’s pleasures without recourse. Sunday School sweethearts if you like, that never let go of it. Brad is also bi-sexual. Saffron never judged him, only to think that she had a 50/50 chance of him falling in love with her. Best not to get too close. Maybe Saffron’s heart strings to her beloved parents.

“So, what’s next?” asks Brad as he sloshed down the remnants of his Bollinger.

“There are a few things in the pipeline, but I think I’m going to retire from everything soon.”

“And at your age, what will you do? You are a qualified academic.”

“So what? What does that mean? Lectures, journal editions. Nah, don’t want it. I’ve got our little business humming and selling saffron, apples and caviar, which has a great demand, you have no idea,” Saffron smiles wickedly.

Brad likes that, gives her a passionate kiss on her soft lips and caresses her breasts. Soon, it is on again.

3.

After last night’s romp with beloved Brad, Saffron feels much more relaxed from her recent Los Angeles assignment. She wants to do some exercise in her gym room and catch up on a few good Hollywood movies or even better, British movies, which she has a penchant for. Don’t mention Bollywood, even though Saff does like the belly dancing.

‘Yes, we are fuck buddies’, Saff ponders. ‘He likes it. I like it. It’s like a physical and mental exercise, slash experience, all at once, complete with French Bollinger. And we are both as hard and tight as. It’s a win-win.’ Caviar rubs against her leg. She picks him up and rests him on her lap. Such a gentle graceful cat. A real temple cat, Shaloun Temple even.

She wants to get back on the Internet to see if anything has happened of interest. She has a private encrypted forum site on what they call, ‘the dark web’. Also has an ingenious way of providing would-be clients the codes needed to access the web site.

But today, Saffron is in no hurry.

She is loaded. Filthy rich. Make no mistake about that. The clients she engages pay her large amounts for her assignments. Why does she do it? Interestingly, she has even done a ‘pro-bono’ request, when her standard fee is US$2,000,000.

Saffron looks into her bathroom mirror. The mirror is huge and old fashioned, like the one but much bigger, that the nasty queen talks to about Snow White.

Saffron plays up to it. “Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who is the fairest of them all?”

Saffron, being a master of disguise, articulate in every aspect, talks from the mirror.

“Youare the fairest assassin of them all.”

Saffron smiles to herself, then with a drooping bottom lip, “Then am I not also the fairest of them all?’

The mirror replies:

“Yes, youare the most fairest assassin of them all in the land.”

Saffron laughs.

MANHATTAN

1.

Senior Detective Matthew Scott has obtained a warrant to enter the home of Franco Garcia and is waiting on his steps for the locksmith to arrive. His partner, Detective Barbara Custer, is at his side looking at her cell phone. No one wants to be called out for wrecking a colonial antique door.

Franco’s cousin, Carlos Lopez, had called the Police concerned that his attempts to contact Franco had no result. Actually, Carlos was pissed that Lucky wasn’t home to receive his delivery, which would have netted Carlos about four grand. However, Lucky was always home. A worry.

The locksmith drives a small shitty yellow van with a lock and key and phone number roughly painted on the side. Of all names, the business is called, ‘Locke’s Locks’.

“Don’t get down these parts much,” old Don Locke says as he waves to the officers after he parks his van.

He walks up the steps to them. “I don’t need to see anything except your badges. Then I’ll get this door open for you.”

Matthew shows him his badge and Don unzips his bag of tricks.

“This is a great lock, this one is,” he looks at the character and craftsmanship of the lock with admiration. “I haven’t seen one of these for years.”

“Will you be able to open it?” Barbara asks.

Don stops and looks at Custer with a frown. “Do you do your work well?”

Custer gets pissed and looks away.

“No electronics. Good old craftsmanship. Lots of tumblers. I’ll get it though.”

Don takes about four minutes, with his skilled tools and skillful know-how to open the door.

Matt says, “Would you wait out here until advised, as there may be other locks inside.”

“OK by me. I’m on a half hourly rate.”

Matt walks inside; Barbara follows and smiles at Don.

“Sorry lady. I didn’t mean to be rude, just doing what I know best.”

Barbara smiles again, “We’re cool. And thanks.”

The odor inside was rank and immediately assaulted their nasal passages like a rotting tsunami. It is now a week and a bit since Lucky received his last groceries. In fact, his most recent delivery is also rotting on his front steps.

Both detectives retrieve hankies and cover their noses and immediately put on gloves.

“I’m not sure I can stand the smell,” Barbara grimaces through her hanky.

“Hang in there. Do you have any perfume in your kit?”

“Yes, I do, and OK let me spray a bit on your cloth and on mine.”

“Call the Station and inform them that we need to have Franco taken away. At the moment, I am calling this a crime scene.”

Barbara Custer had to go outside, only as an excuse to call in the situation. She is twenty-seven, five feet four, and just made it into the force. Custer’s a red head, even there too. Short thick dark red hair in a bob that turns into the nape of her neck. An expensive cut. Easy to manage. She has a round proportioned face with neat white teeth. Brown eyes and an attempt at all times to be as attractive as she can. Custer has been in the New York Police Department for three years, and being a dux graduate, she moved into plain clothes very quickly. Matt is her first formal partner. They’ve been together for nine months.

Matt goes through the townhouse and visits all floors. There is only one room locked and poor Don had to suffer the stench as he makes his way to it.

“Oh dear Mary, what a smell. Is there a dead horse in here?”

Matthew hurried him up the stairs to avoid seeing Lucky, or what was once Lucky.

“This one is electronic,” Don frowns as he inspects the lock on the third floor room. “May take some thinking.”

“OK, Don take your time, we will be down stairs when you call out.”

Matthew, now downstairs looks at Lucky. He is covered with dried red sticky stuff. He is bloated and on the very, very ripe side. Matt notices a bug on the rug near Lucky. He bends down to get a better view. It is a scorpion, albeit a crushed one with red goo over it, but it is a scorpion!

Matt was born on November 20th, two days left of a Scorpio. As a kid, everyone loves to know their zodiac sign and look at it over and over again, with repeated forecasts for all souls on Earth. Like it or not. Now aged thirty-three he does not check the horoscope pages as much.

However, Matt likes his association to Scorpio types like James Bond, Ziva David and Winona Ryder, who he loves in the arts. He is very good looking, six feet tall, impeccably dressed, chiseled jaw with bright blue eyes, and as square as: ‘be there or be square’. Matt grew up in a cop family. Good people. Frustrated with their fellow kind on many occasions, however these guys are the best. They look after us, sometimes at their own peril. Matt respects that. He knows that the community depends on him to do his job the best he can. And so, he does.

“It’s open,” comes the yell from Don up the staircase.

“OK Don, we’re on our way.”

“Detective can I go now? There aren’t any more locks are there?” He looks pleadingly. “The smell in here is making me feel real bad. I don’t think I even want supper tonight. Can I go?”

“Thanks Don, you can go and thank you. Now you know what our job entails.”

Don tips his cap to Matt and scurries down the staircase, squeezing shut his ruddy nose with his fingers, and towards the respite of his yellow van.

Barbara sees him out and thinks she hears him dry-reach at the back of his shitty van. She thinks to herself, ‘I can never use this perfume again’.

Matthew walks into the secured room. He is taken aback as he takes in the image. Large glassed cabinets on each wall, each with subdued lighting, and displayed on immaculate velvet trays, are layers of coins.

There actually is a glint of precious metal in the room from the gold and silver. Each coin has a small description under it. Not even a museum in New York might present like this. Matt’s mind conjures up the opening of King Tut’s tomb by Lord Carnarvon. He is a bit of a square, but a sentimental type square.

And stamps. Layers of stamps, orchestrated into sections, countries and the like. Matt isn’t a stamp man, but coins, known through the ages like Blackbeard, are more interesting to say the least.

Barbara walks in.

“Well, well, what is this?”

“A private collection, I suppose,” Matt replies.

LOS ANGELES

1.

No one crosses Ronald Sweet. No one. Not after his climb to prominence and power.

Following R.J.’s death, Ron Sweet demanded a result. Who sent via FedEx, a package containing venomous killer bugs?

The pressure was on the LAPD.

They had located the FedEx van the following day. It had been reported stolen the day before R.J.’s birthday party. The cops found it parked in the lower level of a shopping center within six miles from Sweet’s residence. No fingerprints, no CCTV images, except a grainy clip of the van being driven into the car park. The driver’s face was covered with a scarf. The driver would easily have disappeared into the shopping center on that busy Sunday.

After two weeks of no results from the LAPD, Ron Sweet engages a high profile private detective. A dude named Mr. Gotcha. His real name is Herman Richter and he actually has a resemblance to Gerhard Richter, the famous German painter. Herman is no painter. He served in Iraq and liked it. Ex- Ranger and looks like one. Purple star. He now runs his own business, as security is so big these days. Him and two other ex-Ranger mates do well, representing themselves with the slogan, ‘We get the Job Done’.

Ron liked that tone and hires Mr. Gotcha on the spot. He wants Herman to look into all aspects of his son’s death. And to follow a line on insect deaths, especially scorpions and anything else as weird as this.

Ron has demanded a report on the origin of the scorpions that killed his son. After a week, a report, free of charge from the LAPD, is forwarded to him.

He reads it. In summary, it states:

Insect identification classification.

Hottentotta tamulus.

Also known as the Indian Red scorpion, a species of scorpion, belonging to the family Buthidae.

It occurs in most of India, eastern Pakistan and the

eastern lowlands of Nepal.

It is considered the most lethal of all scorpions known to man.

The scorpion's venom affects the pulmonary and cardiovascular systems of humans, causing the lungs to fill with fluid.

They have the ability to stay in a freezer for the night and thaw out in the morning.

They can survive for up to a year without food and water.

Their coloration ranges from dark orange or brightly red-brown through dull brown with darker grey carinae (ridges)

and granulation.

Ron Sweet drops the report down on his desk. Runs his hand back over his head and lets out a shot of air. He clenches his fists.

“Bugs from India? Who has done this?” he screams to the sky. “And why, why the fuck, why? Why me!”

LONG ISLAND

1.

Saffron sits down at her large screen computer and powers it up. After a minute or so, she executes a few commands and mouse movements and reaches her Internet goal.

A site labeled: Saffron, Apples, Caviar. Or SAC for short. Nothing spectacular. No graphics or pics. Just a button that states, ‘Click here to enter Forum’ and another, ‘Send email’.

There is one outstanding message. She navigates to it.

It reads, ‘Wish to engage your services. When I click on the forum button it asks for a password. How do we communicate?’

Saffron does not really want any more assignments, and the excruciating validation process she goes through to obtain proof from the enquirer is still risky.

She keys in a reply, ‘Saffron and rare apples are available. Sorry, there is no caviar in stock at present. Please provide your residential address and I will provide you with an inventory of what you require’.

She thinks, ‘This might well be the last assignment for me. I can’t go on doing this forever until I get caught’.

That afternoon she receives the reply. It contains an address somewhere in Fredericksburg, Virginia. She does a search on the place and realizes it is a small town on the Rappahannock River. She frowns, as she does not do assignments in small towns. Too risky. However, if this might be the last one, she could be in for the dare. The address given, with no name, is Chatham Manor, 120 Chatham Lane, Fredericksburg, VA 22405.

Saffron keys in one final response back to the enquirer. ‘You will receive an envelope in the mail to your prescribed address within ten days. The contents of the letter will include a sixteen-digit key to enter the forum. Your access will be limited to a specific time slice and date. Please note that. Do not enquire again until you receive your information pack. If so, our business will be terminated immediately. Your letter will have the SAC logo in the top left corner of the envelope. Chat soon. Goodbye’.

2.

She decides that the sun is well over the yardarm. Time for a gin and tonic.

‘So what to do with my live menagerie? If I stop after this one, I suppose I’ll let them grow old and die from natural causes’, she muses to herself walking down the steps into her basement, drink in hand. She reaches for the atomizer on a side table and sprays a fine mist over her face, hands and arms.

Pressing the secret button opens the sliding bookcase and she walks into her panic room. Caviar is upstairs. He’s never allowed into the panic room. And a panic room it has been to a few, but not for Saffron.

Immediately sounds of light thumping and anxious scurrying emanate. The room is small, ventilated and dry, fans buzz away. Smaller than you would think a panic room should be. Twelve feet by eight feet. There is a large empty fish tank about eight feet long on her right and another medium tank at the end of the room. Both tanks ooze excitement. She walks to the large tank. It has a soft sand base with a few hollowed small logs, water bowl and other extras that abound.

“Hello beautiful. How are you doing,” she speaks to Apples, her magnificent Eastern Brown reptile. She watches it strain to the top of the tank wanting to get out. Saffron opens a small hatch on top of the tank and the reptile slides out and up her arm. It’s glistening scales accentuating its ancient sliding rhythm. It stops under her neck with rhythmic flicks of its tongue over her soft skin. Snakes are not that good with their eyes, but they have amazing Jurassic sensory receptors on their tongues that tell them basically three things. Danger, Food and Mother. Saffron is Mother to Apples and Apples loves her mother dearly.

Apples did the dirty work on Warren Clapper. The Toxicology Department at South Hampton Hospital sent samples of the poison to various institutes. Two came back with identical results.

It turned out to be an Australian Eastern Brown snake that is not found anywhere in the USA.

The report went on to say that 1/14,000 of an ounce of its venom is enough to kill an adult human. The Eastern Brown snake is fast moving; can be aggressive under certain circumstances and has been known to chase aggressors and repeatedly strike at them. Even juveniles can kill a human.

“I love you too,” she purrs at Apples as they look into each other’s eyes. Then Apples buries his head back into Saffron’s neck.

“OK. OK, that’s enough. I need to check out your fun-loving neighbors, so back you go and I’ll see you later.”

Saffron points Apples back though the opening in the top of the tank and fastens it down.

“How are my other babies?” she asks approaching the smaller tank.

There is a hive of activity, as about half a dozen insects clamber on top of each other to reach the top hatch.

“Relax you guys.”

Saffron opens the hatch and six beautiful red orange scorpions skip up her arm so daintily, even with a swagger of delight. She holds them high and says, “Love all of you.”

One scorpion had about four babies clutched to its back.

“Ok, that’s it,” she says as she places them back into their tank. “I’ll give you yummy food to eat a bit later.”

3.

Stranger: Hello.

You: And to you too.

Stranger: Is that SAC?

You: Yep, I expected you. What do you want?

Stranger: A professional untraceable job.

You: How do you know about SAC?

Stranger: Someone passed your contact to me.

You: You need to be explicit! Now tell me.

Stranger: He knew I would have to identify him. It is Reg Charles.

You: OK then, you’re cool

Stranger: lol. I have heard from Reg that you are expensive.

You: So? Cut to the chase.

Stranger: I want my husband dead.

You: Is that so? Why?

Stranger: Because he screws around.

You: And you want to end him for that?

Stranger: It is a long story. If only I could talk to you in person.

You: Why?

Stranger: As a woman, I really don’t know any other way. I hate this forum stuff. It’s new to me.

You: This is a different forum. Only you and me.

Stranger: Let me think.

Stranger: He murdered my father. To get my inheritance and live the fucking life of Riley, without me.

You: Oh, I see. How do I know he killed your father?

Stranger: That’s why I want to meet.

You: Can’t you tell me now?

Stranger: I have one million dollars.

You: So?

Stranger: It’s yours if you kill him and leave no trace to me.

Saffron, thought hard on this one. Reginald’s name secured the proof.

You: Why do you not want to tell me?

Stranger: I can’t. I do not want to put it in words. It would haunt me forever.

You: OK. I will send you another code within ten days. We’ll talk again, so you can think about it.

Stranger: Thank you, thank you.

You: Do you live at this Chelton House?

Stranger: No.

You: I’ve checked it out. It’s an historic building that caters for tourists daily.

Stranger: True. I’m the person who takes the coins at the door. I also receive the mail. I’m here Mon – Fri.

You: Our time slot is up and I’m terminating it now. Look for my envelope in the post.

Saffron terminates the session.