David Wiltse - Prayer for the Dead

The moron thought he could hot-wire this kind of car. Wasn’t even looking in the right place.

“I’ll be happy to help you out,” said Eric.

He slid into the passenger seat and hit Dyce in the face. Dyce lifted his right arm, but Eric pinned it against the seat with his left forearm and hit him hard twice more in the face. He grabbed Dyce’s lapels and jerked him forward, then butted him with his forehead. The second time broke Dyce’s nose.

It was not until he was getting out of the car that Eric noticed the syringe. Sliding across the seat, he knocked it to the floor. Eric looked at it curiously.

“What the fuck is this?” he demanded.

Dyce could not speak for the blood in his mouth.

“What the fuck is this! What are you up to? The fuck you doing?”

He shook Dyce, slapped him once, not paying much attention to the man, still studying the syringe. Dyce shook his head in denial, tried to spit, dribbled blood onto Eric’s glove.

“This for me?” Then Eric got really mad.

“ It was good of you to see me so late.”

“Not at all. This is a service industry. I’m just glad we could work out a mutual time and place.”

The salesman was still in coat and tie at this time of night, no doubt maintaining his image for a customer.

“Come in, come in,” said the salesman. He backed away from the door, arm extended like a courtier. “Wife’s not feeling well? I’m sorry about that.”

“Sorry to impose, but I just thought it was better to meet at your home while she was under the weather. You know how women are.”

“Tell me about it,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Although I’ve never had the pleasure to be married myself”

“A lot of us who’ve been married haven’t had the pleasure, either.”

The salesman laughed, with a quick, easy flash of teeth and a throaty chuckle, useful for most occasions.

“I would have come by your office but I get off work so late.”

“No, listen, no problem. A man needs insurance, I’m eager to accommodate.”

The windows were covered with heavy drapes. The porch light had been on because a customer was coming, but the living room and entrance hall were illuminated only by a glow emanating from the adjoining room.

“Not all my customers are so eager to see me. But you may have heard the jokes about insurance salesmen.”

“I’ve heard a few.”

“I’ll bet you have. Well, listen, it comes with the job. At least I’m not a proctologist, you know?”

“I hear you.”

“Let’s go in the den; my stuffs in there. Insurance is actually the best investment you’ll ever make and, let’s face it, we’re all going to need it someday.”

“Absolutely.”

The den was dim and shadowed. What little light came from the single sixty-watt bulb seemed to be soaked up and swallowed by the wood of the bookshelves, the dark leather of the furniture. The lamp itself was turned so that the light hit the wall first and reflected back weakly.

“Have a seat, Mr. Beck,” he said, waving at a recliner in front of the coffee table that was already spread with insurance materials.

“Becker.”

“Becker, I’m sorry. I misheard you on the phone.” Becker leaned forward and looked into the man’s eyes.

“I hope this is bright enough for you, Mr. Becker. I can turn on another light if you want, but I keep it this way for myself. Too much hurts my eyes. Photo-phobic. Most people find it restful once they get used to it, but just say the word.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Scott.”

“Call me Doug,” said the salesman. “Everyone does.”

The man held Becker’s gaze, grinning slightly, forthright, foursquare, bored already with the sound of his own voice but also eager to make the sale.

“Tell me, Mr. Becker, what can I do you for?”

I’ve made a mistake, thought Becker. This is not my man.

“Do you sell for just one company, or what?”

“Let me tell you how that works,” said Scott. “I can sell you anything. You tell me what you need, we can find the company that suits you best, and I can sell you that policy… but I have found that for a combination of price and service, generally the best around is Connecticut Surety and Life. Most people don’t consider service when buying insurance, but, Mr. Becker, let me tell you, this is a service industry.”

Becker leaned back against the leather upholstery and heard the slow hiss of air escaping his weight. He felt the tension ebb from his body and his mind, but whether the sensation was one of relief or disappointment, he could not say.

Tee was in a jovial mood. He patted the passenger seat before Becker got in. “So.” Grinning widely.

“You look like you just ate something you shouldn’t,” said Becker. “And it agreed with you.”

“Me? You’re the one’s been dining out, as I hear it.”

Tee pulled away from the curb in the police cruiser and swung around the circular drive that terminated Becker’s dead-end road.

“Janie tells me she served you and Cindi breakfast the other day,” said Tee.

“Janie speaks to you now?”

“She’s thawing out. I got her on my back burner.”

“A little crowded there, isn’t it?”

“Changing the subject? Tell me about it.”

“Cindi had eggs, I had a bagel, as I recall it. It was a grand breakfast. Janie was a charming hostess.”

“I hate gentlemen,” said Tee. “Fortunately, I don’t meet that many. Did she mention me at all?”

“Couldn’t get her to shut up about you. It seems she has a thing for married cops.”

“Chief cop.”

“Even better. She’s contemplating a life of crime just to keep you calling on her.”

“Well, if I have to, I have to. I’m a martyr to the cause.”

“Ever take the wife dancing anymore, Tee?”

“I tried to call you last night. You weren’t home. You weren’t with Cindi, either. Unless she lied to me.”

“She didn’t lie to you; she doesn’t respect you enough. I was buying insurance.”

“Always a good investment. And?”

“We all make mistakes.”

“And then sometimes we get lucky,” said Tee.

He pulled onto 1-86, lights flashing to clear a space for himself.

“She called me last night, but you weren’t around,” he continued. “Maybe just as well because we got more information since then.”

“Who called, just so we each have the same conversation.”

“Woman named Helen Brasque, a checkout girl at the Grand Union on Ridge Road. Seems her boyfriend is missing. Hello, says I, that has a familiar ring, tell me about it. The guy’s named Roger Dyce. He lives in Clamden, over in the old military dependent area.”

“Where’s that?”

“Over by the Sherman access road; we just passed it. You don’t know about that neighborhood? I forgot you’ve been away twenty years. We used to have a missile here. Did you know that? I want to say Minuteman, but that’s not it. Anyway, they had a missile stored in a silo just off the electric company’s area. Less than half a mile from the high school, if you can believe it. You never been past there? The chain-link fence is still up; that’s about all that’s left. The things went out of style or something. I’m not sure what it is; they took it away at least fifteen years ago. Anyway, the point is, the military built some housing to put up the troops who operated it, serviced it, polished it, whatever you do with a missile. About twenty houses, all told, quick-fix jobs, built them on slabs, no cellars, a regular little neighborhood tucked away there pretty much by itself. Not bad houses, actually, a family neighborhood, lots of kids-what the hell am I talking about?”