John Locke - Wish List

“This could be a fake,” I say.

“You’ll have a chance to see for yourself soon enough.”

“Why’s that?”

“I already told you: you’re going to bury him tonight.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Do you have front row seats to Springsteen tonight? Did you fuck Jinny Kidwell today? Are you holding a briefcase with a million dollars in it? I were you, I’d believe it.”

The thing is, I do believe it. But I’m busy trying not to be sick. The contents of my stomach are swirling, and there’s a weird ringing in my ears.

“You killed my boss?”

“No, you killed him. By wishing it.”

“But…I was just kidding around! I didn’t expect someone to actually kill him!”

“Oh, really? Gee, you should have said.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“You think?”

“What if I refuse?”

He smiles a fierce, terrifying smile. “There’s no refusing. Ask Pete.”

“Who’s Pete?”

“The guy you been with since noon.”

“You mean Thomas Jefferson?”

“Oh, and that didn’t give you a clue?”

“That’s not his name?”

“Try Pete Rossman.”

“I don’t believe you. Jefferson’s paperwork checked out. I Googled the guy, for Chrissakes!”

“Oh, well, if you Googled him.”

“You’re saying Thomas Jefferson, or Pete Rossman, or whatever his name is—doesn’t work for you?”

“Yes and no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He’s in it the same way as you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Pete Rossman. Name doesn’t ring a bell?”

“No. What’s his claim to fame?”

“Pete’s a wealthy businessman, likes to keep a low profile. He’s hardly ever seen in public.”

“So?”

“His wife, on the other hand, is quite well known.”

“Who’s his wife?”

“Jinny Kidwell.”

Chapter 19

Though my car is parked near the entrance to Louis Challa’s, the limo pulls to a stop some fifty feet away. We’re at the far corner of the parking lot, facing the second curb cut.

“Your cell phone no longer works,” he says. “And we’ve tapped your home phone. Your computer, too.”

“Why?”

“We’re a controlling bunch, at least until we get what we want.”

I don’t like the sound of that. Up to now, I’ve been waiting for Perkins to open my door, but he’s still in the front seat, probably scared to move without being told. I shrug and let myself out the door and fish the keys from my pocket. I’ve got the briefcase in my left hand, but it’s feeling ten times heavier than the last time I lifted it. My head is reeling. Why would Rossman set up a line of credit in a phony name and fly me all the way to Hannibal to have sex with his wife? And why would he let her give me a million dollars for the privilege? The whole thing is completely insane.

I lean my head back in the limo and say, “I never caught your name.”

“Pete and Jinny call me Rudy.”

“Why would Rossman let me have sex with his wife?”

“That’s their business.”

“Fine, don’t tell me. I already know.”

He rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner, like a teenage girl being lectured by her father. “I sincerely doubt that.”

“Somehow you guys turned Jinny Kidwell into a mega star. She’s paying you back by granting my wish.”

He laughs. It starts as a chuckle, but keeps building. It isn’t a fake laugh. Finally he says, “Pete said that?”

“Jinny told me,” I say, indignantly.

“Yeah? Well, she lied.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What, two hours in the sack, you think you know her character?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Chachi, but she’s an actress, remember?”

“If Jinny lied, then what’s the real wish you granted her?”

“Maybe she put fucking you at the top of her list.”

“Right. Look, I’m serious. What was Jinny’s wish?”

“It’s not my job to tell you.”

“And just what is your job, Rudy?”

His eyebrows arch, but his voice remains even. “Collecting payments.”

“Payments for what?”

“The wishes you get.”

I’m standing in Louis Challa’s restaurant parking lot, leaning into a limo, talking to a guy who is as far from a fairy godmother as a choirboy is to a congressman. There are people milling about the parking lot, so I straighten up and look around to make sure no one can hear our absurd conversation.

I lean my head back in the car and ask Rudy, “What did you do to her?”

“Who?”

“Jinny. To make her have sex with me.”

“It’s not like you think. I don’t force people to do a certain thing.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me Jinny didn’t have to sleep with me? She chose to?”

“Yeah, more like that. See, I give people two choices, sometimes three. We try to be accommodating.”

“And of all the choices you gave Jinny, having sex with me was the least objectionable?”

He made a gun out of his thumb and index finger, pointed at me, and pretended to shoot.

“So she’s paid up?” I say.

“Her payment has four parts.”

“Sleeping with me was one, right? She paid me a million dollars, that’s two. What are the other two?”

“That’s between her and us.”

“She’s rich, so the money was no big deal. Sleeping with me probably wasn’t that huge of a sacrifice…”

“Says you. But remember, her husband had to sit in the car and wait while she had sex with you. Can you imagine how hard that must have been for him?”

No. I couldn’t imagine it. Didn’t want to, didn’t try to imagine it.

“So that was her third thing?”

“No. That was one of his things.”

“Holy shit!”

“Exactly.”

“Am I involved in her other repayments?”

He shrugs.

“When will you tell me? After I help you bury the body?”

Rudy gestures at the open air around me. “I wouldn’t speak so loud, if I were you.”

I look around again, but no one is within hearing distance.

“Are you riding home with me?”

“No. Perkins will drop me off before picking you guys up for dinner.”

“How do you know I won’t drive straight to the cops?”

“It wouldn’t be prudent.”

“Why’s that?”

“There’s a dead body in your trunk.”

Chapter 20

I look at my car. I want to run to it, open the trunk and prove him a liar. But customers have started arriving at the restaurant, and I can’t take the chance someone might see. Then I think of something.

“The car keys,” I say, holding them up, jingling them in my hand.

“What about them?”

I show him a smug smile. “You couldn’t have put anything in my trunk. I had the keys with me the whole time.”

He reaches into his pants pocket and tosses me a set of keys on a key ring that looks exactly like mine. I hold them next to each other, starting with my car key.

Identical.

I try my house key.

Identical.

My office key.

Identical.

“Where did you get these?”

“You’d better get moving. Don’t want to be late for the concert.”

“You’ve been inside my house ?”

“I’ll see you later tonight, in your garage. One a.m. Don’t be late.”

“What if I refuse? You can’t just make me bury a body.”

“Climb back in a minute, and close the door.” He sees the look on my face and adds, “Relax, we’re just going to have a little chat.”

I do as he says. When I’m settled in, he says, “I didn’t kill your boss.”