Jeff Jacobson - Foodchain

It was more of a private road, really, lined with towering palm trees. Frank suddenly remembered that he was still in California. The driveway stretched for over a mile. There had to be more than a couple hundred palm trees; they were sixty or seventy feet tall at least, rising above the walnut and oak trees that surrounded the rice fields.

Eventually, the road split in half around a huge lawn. The house loomed behind the half acre of perfect grass, two-stories, in a strange amalgamation of styles. Southern pillars out front, flanking the front door. Farmhouse windows, sunk into stuccoed walls. Red clay shingles, Mediterranean-style. Frank pulled around to the right and parked the car in front of the door.

He climbed out and felt like someone was watching him, but the windows were blank mirrors, reflecting the morning sun. He buttoned the top two buttons of the suit jacket and walked briskly up the front steps. He pushed the doorbell and stepped back from the large, wooden double-doors to show respect. The sun climbed higher, and sweat collected in his sideburns, rolled down his armpits.

The right door opened and Theo glared up at Frank. He had a split lip and two black eyes. One nostril was swollen shut. “What do you want?” It sounded like he was trying to talk and swallow melted cheese at the same time.

“Your father home?”

“Why?” Theo’s breathing sounded painful.

“I’d like to talk to him.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the guy who wants to talk to your father.”

Theo glared at Frank for a while but eventually said, “Wait here.” He shut the door and Frank respectfully stepped back, off the front porch, and prepared himself.

After a few minutes, the door opened again, wider this time. Theo tilted his head. “He’s in his office. C’mon.”

Frank followed Theo into a modest foyer. Carhart jackets hung from an oak coat rack. Cowboy boots lined the walnut paneled walls. Theo glanced at Frank’s feet. “Take off your boots. Dad don’t like outside boots inside.”

Frank didn’t want to, but he pulled off the snakeskin cowboy boots, settling his bare feet on the smooth, warm wood floor.

Theo watched Frank a moment. “You got something against socks?”

“Yeah.”

Theo shrugged, then led Frank through a gigantic kitchen. The house was silent, save for the slow, deep ticking of a grandfather clock. They went down a long hall that ended abruptly in a closed door. Theo knocked quietly, then opened the door.

The first thing that hit Frank was the books. Thousands of them, lining the walls, stretching from the wood floor to the wood paneled ceiling. Sounds seemed to sink into the pages and vanish. Dozens, possibly hundreds of small picture frames surrounded the window. Frank couldn’t see what was inside the frames because brutal sunlight sizzled into the room, slicing through the dancing dust motes and falling full upon Frank’s sweating face. He blinked several times.

“Something I can do for you, mister?” Sturm’s voice sounded tired, raw.

Frank made his way over to two antique chairs. They faced an oak desk large enough to bury four people comfortably. Sturm waited behind the desk, his back to the window, fingers loosely clasped on the bare wood. His skull reminded Frank of a bare bulb in the sunlight.

Frank wasn’t sure if he should sit or remain standing. He chose to stand. “My name is Frank Winter.” He took a step forward, extending his hand. Sturm didn’t rise, but grasped Frank’s hand in a quick, perfunctory shake. Frank marveled at the size of the man’s hands; they seemed disproportionately large, as if Sturm’s hands and head belonged to another, bigger, body.

“I am here under…unusual circumstances.”

Sturm’s face remained in silhouette, except his eyes, as if they were lit from inside by a cold fire. Frank’s prepared speech crumbled and fell to pieces around his naked toes. He would have rather tried to talk to the Glouck’s mutant pit bull, Petunia. “And uh, with that in mind, I, uh, would like to offer you a business proposition.”

Sturm leaned back. “Is that so. Well, then. Guess it would depend on these special circumstances.”

Frank nodded, pinned like a dead moth under the weight of Sturm’s hairless stare. Either he told the truth, confessed his sins, or he thanked Sturm for his time, climbed back into the long black car, and kept running. “Mind if I sit down?”

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Winter. ‘Case you haven’t heard, I don’t have much time left.”

“I have heard, and I appreciate your, uh, situation.” Frank sat. “In fact, that’s why I am here today. I may be able to help you.”

“I have cancer, Mr. Winter. Unless you got a cure for one fat brain tumor, I’m afraid you can’t help shit.”

“No sir. I don’t claim to have the cure for cancer.” Frank met Sturm’s glacier eyes. “But I might just have a way to make the days you have left around here,” Frank made sure Sturm understood he was talking about the town, “a bit more enjoyable. Maybe even more…worthwhile. Respectable even.” Frank knew he was pushing it.

“Spit it out, son.”

Frank sat. “I am, well, used to be anyway, a vet. Horses, mostly. I worked on a few racetracks for, well, let’s call ’em businessmen. Businessmen that didn’t like to lose. They didn’t see much sport in racing thoroughbreds. They just saw…opportunities. And, well,” Frank shrugged, “I don’t get around so well anymore since I got kicked in the head. It didn’t help my finances. So I helped these gentlemen take advantage of these opportunities.”

Sturm clasped his thick, stubby fingers in front of his chest and waited patiently.

“Anyways, one of these opportunities didn’t work out.” Frank looked down at his bare feet on the wood floor. “It didn’t work out at all.” He looked back up, met Sturm’s eyes again. “In a place not too far from here. A place with a lot of animals. Exotic animals. Lions. Tigers. Monkeys. Even goddamn alligators.

“Now,” Frank leaned forward, “you seem like a man who can appreciate the finer things in life. I’m not talking about material things. No. I’m talking about things like skills. I’m talking about things like the relationship between a predator and its prey. I’m talking about instinct. I’m talking about hunting. I can provide you with an opportunity for the hunt of a lifetime. A hunt like this town has never seen. A goddamn safari in your own backyard. A chance to hunt—and eat—and mount—lions. Tigers. Monkeys. A rhinoceros. And all the gators you can shoot.”

Frank leaned back, crossed his legs. “But I don’t want any misunderstandings here. These animals aren’t for sale. We’d have to go in there…and take them.”

Sturm didn’t say anything for a while. “So…basically, you’re talking about a, a heist? Is that it?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“You’re asking me to break the law.”

“Technically, yeah. But, and this is the important thing, this, this heist, is unnaturally safe. There’s no law enforcement involved. None at all. There’s only one man. One man that feeds the animals. And I’ll take care of that element. Of him.” Frank realized he wasn’t talking in complete sentences anymore, but he didn’t care, he just wanted to spit it out, to get all the details on the table. “All you gotta do is go pick up these animals. And they’re yours.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

“Finder’s fee. A safari’d set you back ten grand, easy. I’m looking for ten percent.” Frank figured a grand would get him to Canada.

“So, you want one thousand dollars, just to point me in the direction of these animals.”

“And to make sure the keeper doesn’t bother you.”