J. Konrath - Dirty Martini

It’s one of the cops. First he’s patting his forehead with a napkin. Then he’s clutching his stomach. Then he’s on the floor, shaking like he’s plugged into an electrical outlet.

The Chemist can stare openly, because everyone else is as well. One of the other cops places a call on his radio, doubles over, then spews a lovely green vomit all over his fallen partner.

People are on their feet now, their shocked expressions priceless. The Chemist stands as well, feigning horror.

The little boy is next. His face plops right into his plate of gelatin, and Dad begins screaming for help.

Soon many people are screaming.

One of the yuppies, moaning nonsensically, runs full-tilt into another table, sending food and patrons flying.

The old man has something spilling from his mouth that appears to be drool, and he’s shaking with palsy so badly that his false teeth pop out.

More vomiting. More moaning. A mad rush for the door, where a girl who didn’t even eat at the salad bar is trampled. The last cop, apparently hallucinating, fires his gun into the crowd, then begins aiming out the window at people on the sidewalk.

It is absolutely glorious. Truly a scene from hell. Seeing the immediate fruits of his labors is so much more rewarding than watching the victims on hospital ventilators on the news.

He yearns to be closer to the action, to become a part of it.

No one is looking at him, so he doesn’t even try to conceal the jet injector anymore. He reattaches the hose, arms the unit, and then pushes his way into the throng of people.

Psssssssst. He gets a man in the neck.

Psssssssst. A woman’s arm.

Pssssssssst. A stray hand that got too close.

These first three he injects are so anxious to flee the restaurant that they don’t even turn to look at him. The Chemist knows the jet injector doesn’t hurt much. It’s more of a mild discomfort, like having a small rubber band snapped against your skin. In the panic of the moment, none of them feel a thing.

He locates his waitress, the only person in the restaurant who got a good look at him, and gives her two trigger pulls under the chin.

She opens her mouth to scream, then falls over, convulsing.

The restaurant is almost empty now, except for the dead and dying. He hurries back to his table, drops the note, then picks up his plate and takes it along, dumping the contents on the floor. Ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks are starting to arrive. He crosses the street, tosses his plate into a Dumpster, and stands there for ten minutes, watching the commotion.

The news crews arrive next.

This will get more than a ten-second sound bite, he says to himself. Then he catches the bus for home, anxious to turn on the TV.

I SPENT ALL DAY in the hospital, by Latham’s side. I held his hand, cried, and listened to the doctors tell me there was nothing else they could do but hope the toxin’s progression was stopped in time.

Latham didn’t regain consciousness.

Since I wasn’t a relative I wasn’t allowed to stay overnight, even though I flashed my badge and made threats. They kicked me out when visiting hours ended.

Not having any other options, I went home.

Sleep wasn’t going to happen. When all went well in Jack’s world, getting to sleep was difficult. With everything currently going on, sleep would be impossible.

Instead, I worked out my frustration the way my mother always did. I cleaned the house.

I began by just tidying up, but that progressed to knee pads and rubber gloves and Lysol and Pine-Sol and ammonia. Everywhere I looked I saw germs, poisons, toxins. I individually bagged all the food Latham had bought at the deli and set it outside on the porch, and then threw away every other piece of food in the refrigerator and scrubbed it out with bleach.

Then I scoured the sink, disinfected the garbage can, mopped the floors, hosed down the bathroom, washed the bedsheets and pillowcases, and then the pillows themselves and the comforter. And, dressed in my Kevlar vest, safety goggles, and two oven mitts, I gave Mr. Friskers a bath.

He didn’t like it.

After applying hydrogen peroxide to the gashes on my arm and cheek, I broke out the vacuum and wondered if I had time to do a room or two before I needed to get ready for work. My mother’s bedroom was the smallest, so I figured I could at least get that one done.

I plugged the vacuum cleaner in, pushed Mom’s twin bed over to the far wall, and bent down to pick up a shoe box she had under the bed.

Mr. Friskers, apparently still angry about the bath, launched a surprise attack, bounding into the room and leaping onto my back. I twirled around, feeling one of his claws dig into my shoulder, and the shoe box opened up and spewed paper everywhere like a snowblower.

The cat howled. So did I. Luckily, within reach was something he hated even more than the squirt gun-the vacuum.

I pressed the on pedal with my toe, and the sound alone was enough to make him disengage and haul ass out of the room.

All of those people who crow about how pets enrich our lives are full of shit.

I kicked off the vacuum, looked at the mess of paper around the room, and sighed as I began to pick stuff up.

It was mail, mostly. Some letters from one of my mother’s old boyfriends. I inadvertently saw the phrase nibble your luscious wet and had to turn away before I saw any more.

One envelope, however, stood out because it was still sealed. Written on the front was the word Jacqueline in my mother’s florid script.

I stared at it for a moment. On one hand, it was sealed and hidden in a box under my mother’s bed. On another hand, it had my name on it.

On any other day, I would have put it back unopened. But I was exhausted, emotionally frazzled, and I didn’t need anything else hanging over my head at the moment.

I opened the envelope and read the letter:

My Darling Daughter,

If you’re reading this, it is because you’ve been going through my things after I’ve died. I hope my passing hasn’t caused you too much distress.

I take that back. I hope you’re completely devastated. I loved you more than life itself, and know you felt the same way about me. You’re the one good thing I did with my life.

There’s something you should know, something I’ve never had the courage to tell you when I was alive. You see, I can’t forgive the man, and I knew if you learned the truth I’d have to deal with my buried feelings all over again. It was wrong, and you have every right to be mad at me, but now that I’m dead, I don’t have to hear you condemn me for my decision.

I’ve lied to you, Jacqueline. When you were small, you were told your father died of a heart attack. In truth, he didn’t die. He left us. One day, after supper, he calmly told me that he hated being a husband, hated being a father, and didn’t want to have anything to do with us ever again. Then he walked out of our lives forever.

I told you he died because, essentially, he was dead to us. It was easier to tell a child that her father wasn’t coming back because he was no longer with us, rather than he no longer wanted to be a father. I meant to tell you the truth, when you got older, but I feared you’d track him down and confront him.

It took a very long time for me to move on, after he left. You were a wonderful girl to raise, but you know how difficult we had it. I cannot ever forgive him for what he did to us, and never want to see him again.

I urge you to just let this go, but I know you won’t. It isn’t in your nature. You’ll track him down, and ask him why he did what he did.