The Doorman Read online

  JJ had frowned. “No, I can’t go through with this.”

  “Why not?” the salesman said. “You deserve it, don’t you?”

  “You don’t know me that well. Anyway, I always said I’d never buy a truck that didn’t have a tool chest in the back.”

  “You mean, if it had a tool chest, you’d become the new owner today?”

  “I might.”

  “I’ll tell you what. Let me go talk to the manager. I’ll see what I can do. If he agrees to throw in a brand new tool chest, are you ready own your F250 today?”

  “If he threw in a tool chest, well, yeah, I guess so.”

  As JJ drove his new truck, he had to admit that he had gotten a good deal. He had paid $33,990 when the dealer cost $33,947. He not only negotiated the price, but getting the tool chest thrown in at the last minute was a master stroke.

  When he pulled up to his rehab house, he didn’t park it in the driveway as he had always done with his old Chevy. Instead, his new F250 crawled onto the lawn like some kind of beastly earth rover. When he stepped down onto the lawn, he tried to act nonchalant, as if buying a brand new 4X4 no big deal. He didn’t look around to see of the neighbors were gawking over his rig, but he was aware that a few of them might be peaking out the windows, sick with admiration. At least one of them was probably envious. He could imagine that because for as long as he could remember, he’d been envious of people with new trucks like this. Now, he actually had one, and he couldn’t believe it. It was like he was living someone else’s life.

  He opened the side gate to the back yard and drove his new vehicle behind the house. He cracked a cold beer and sat on the tailgate for a few minutes whetting his whistle and surveying the mess he had to clean up back there. Whoever owned this place before him had left a lot of junk back there. A stack of old rotted lumber lay in a patch of high grass. An old swing set had been disassembled and the pieces left in a pile to rust. Three rotted wooden chairs were draped over the pile of rusted swing-set components. The old playhouse had seen better days. It was rotted out and no longer safe. Plus, it was an eyesore.

  It was time to make a run to the dump, so JJ started loading up the bed of his new truck with a variety of junk from the back yard. He’d been working fifteen minutes when a voice said, “That truck is a beauty. Is it yours?”

  JJ turned. A neighbor was standing on the other side of the fence, a prematurely bald man wearing white drawstring pants and a Sherpa pullover.

  “What, this? Oh, yeah, my other truck was falling apart. I’ve needed a new one for a long time. Finally made a move.”

  The man reached across the fence. “Name’s Bill Weimer. I teach math over at the high school.”

  “Nice. I’ve seen you coming and going but haven’t had a chance to say hello before now.”

  “Well, it’s like you’ve been busy over there.”

  A woman with curlers in her hair stuck her head out of the back door. “Oh.” She studied JJ for a second. Then she said, “Bill, will you come in? I need your help.”

  He turned. “Yeah, I’ll be right in. Just give me a second. He shifted his gaze back to JJ’s truck. “It really sits high above the wheels.”

  “Oh yeah, it’s got lift kit.”

  “You’re gonna take her offroad, are you?”

  “Just for jobs like this.” JJ surveyed the yard. “Lot of junk to pick up.”

  “So you’re the new owner then?”

  “That’s right. I’m a contractor. I’m fixing it up. Then I’ll probably resell it.”

  The woman poked her head out the door again. “Are you coming inside, Bill?”

  “I’ll be there. Just give me a couple minutes.”

  She shut the door.

  “It’s good to see somebody fixing that place up,” Bill said, “especially after what happened there.”

  JJ let that sink in for an uncomfortable moment. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know?” Bill said.

  “Know what?”

  Bill snorted and shook his head. “Are you serious? You really don’t know?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Bill glanced back at the door as if he expected his wife call him again. Then he turned back to JJ. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there was a murder in that house.”

  “A what?”

  “You heard me right. The guy who lived there opened the door one night and was gunned down. The police never found out who did it. I thought they would have told you that.”

  The fire-sale price that JJ got suddenly made more sense to him.

  “Why do they think he was killed?”

  “I talked to the cops a couple of times. They said it was an ongoing investigation, but confidentially he said they had no good leads.”

  The wife looked outside again. “Are you coming, Bill?”

  “I’ll be right in.” He turned back to JJ. “I gotta run. Glad to meet you and really glad you bought this place and are fixing it up. We were worried that it was going to affect our property value. With all the work you’re doing, it should lesson the stigma.”

  “That’s probably right,” JJ said, working hard to hide his emotions.

  “See you later.”

  The neighbor trotted back inside his house. JJ stood there feeling like he’d just nearly been hit by lightening.

  CHAPTER 3

  With his heart racing, JJ leaned against his new truck. He sunk down and sat against the wheel. Nausea ballooned within him. He looked at the house, but quickly averted his gaze. He spied it again, but this time it suddenly struck him like a haunted house. He now dreaded his beloved project. He had been working in that house every day for the past two weeks—every day, all day. He had been content. At no point did he ever have any idea that someone had recently been assassinated in the house. The thought of it sickened him. Now, suddenly, he didn’t even want to go back in there. It was a sanitized crime scene. How is it possible that the realtor didn’t disclose this? The thought of hiring a lawyer flashed through JJ’s mind. After all, the value of this home had just dropped dramatically—probably by 35%. Who would want to buy a home where there had recently been a murder? Nobody, except another investor, and they would require a fire-sale price. The price JJ paid was already low, but not low enough to compensate for the horrible stigma that was attached to this property. He was almost positive that sellers of such properties had a legal obligation to notify potential purchasers of something like this. He was confident that he could get a substantial judgment for damages. He needed to at least get an opinion from his lawyer.

  He got out his phone and dialed his lawyer. When the receptionist answered, JJ hung up.

  Think! he told himself. This is not just any house. This is the house where he found a million dollars in cash. All of a sudden, JJ almost wished he’d turned in the cash. What if the cash was somehow related to the assassination? Now he’d gone and bought a new truck. He was deeply involved now.

  Don’t panic! he told himself. The cash might not be connected at all. It could be just coincidence. Of course. He had no evidence to suggest any connection, so he would be very foolish to go and turn in the cash. He would not find another million in cash in this lifetime.

  That money would help him expand his business and get it on stronger footing for his son to join him in several years. Then of course, he had his old age to think about. Obviously he couldn’t count on a government headed for bankruptcy.

  With flitting eyes, JJ stole a glance at the house—his house. Yes, like it or not, he owned it. He started hyperventilating. He felt like he couldn’t breathe because of how he was sitting against the wheel of his new truck. He got on his knees and then stood up.

  Something flitted through his mind like a sparrow. A dark thought.

  The van!

  That van from the heating and air conditioning company. Maybe there was a connection between...

  What if the van was not really what it appeared
to be? What if it was …?

  No! That was not possible. He needed to calm down and think rationally. He ran to the back door and turned the knob. He actually hesitated before entering. Slowly he opened the door and stepped in.

  I’ve been in this house for two weeks with no major problems, he told himself. Nothing is going to happen.

  Two weeks!

  He lunged up the stairs and stood at the living room window. He peered out the window. The van down the street was gone

  Where had it gone? It had been there for three days.

  JJ stood there for five minutes in case it came back. He watched the street in both directions. It was a quiet street.

  A car.

  A blue Jeep was moving down the street in his direction. He watched it carefully. Then he realized that he’d seen this jeep many times before. It was someone from the neighborhood.

  Where was the van? Why was it gone now?

  He got an idea. He went outside and walked down the street to the hippie’s house. He knocked on the door. The dude peered out of a dark interior, and JJ could smell smoke.

  “Yeah? Oh, it’s you. I haven’t changed my mind about selling. Still not interested.”

  “No problem. Reason I was dropping by is I’m working on my house down the street and I’m having some issues with my heater. I saw that the heating and AC guy has been working here and I was wondering if you recommend that company. I’m thinking of giving them a call.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The AC guy whose been working on your house.”

  “Nobody’s been working on my house.”

  “But the heating and AC truck has been out in front for three days.”

  “I saw the truck on the road over there behind that tree, but that’s not my property.”

  “Yes, but it’s a vacant lot and it’s right next to yours. I assumed he was walking over here.”

  “Well, that’s the second time you guessed wrong. No, I ain’t selling—and no, the AC guy ain’t done no work on my place.” He slammed the door.

  JJ looked at the nearest house. It was across the street and fifty yards down. It didn’t figure that he would park over here and then walk to that house. There was plenty of parking along both sides of the street.

  Heading back to his fixer-upper, he felt light on his feet, as if he was dazed from a blow to the head. He felt a kind of gnawing sensation in his guts that he associated with worry. If the AC guy wasn’t working on the hippie’s house, then he must have been watching JJ’s place.

  No! No way. That was paranoid. Things like that rarely happened.

  Then again, people rarely found a million dollars in cash.

  Still, there was no need for paranoia. If someone had wanted the cash, they would simply go in and get it. Why watch the house?

  The break-in.

  JJ cursed under his breath.

  By the time he got his truck and drove it around front, he was feeling better. More than likely, the van had just broken down. They fixed it, and now it was gone. Carrying his laundry sack, which he’d brought for just this purpose, JJ went inside. He had the money stashed under the sink in the utility room, but now he didn’t want it in the house at all. He put the packages of cash in two new trash bags and the laundry sack. He then took the bags out to his truck and glanced down the street. The heating and AC truck had not returned. He put the bags in his new tool chest in the back. He locked the chest and headed for his apartment.

  No, that was no good. That’s the first place someone would look for him. He certainly couldn’t take the money to the bank.

  He always assumed that it would feel great to suddenly have a lot of money. In fact, it was just the opposite. Despite his problems, his life had been fairly peaceful. Now that he suddenly had a lot of cash, worries preyed upon his mind and fears sprung onto the back of every idea. How could he sleep at night knowing that his money could be stolen? One false move and he could lose everything. Then he’d be stuck with a house that would be hard to get rid of—even if he discounted the price.

  JJ called his son. “Luke, I’m gonna be late. I don’t want you at home right now. Stay over at Grampa Mel’s for the night, all right? ... I’ll explain later. Just do it, alright? … Thank you.”

  Then he got an idea. Three hours later he was back at the fixer house. The money was now stashed inside his new Adventurer 80RB camper, the kind that fit in the bed of a truck. He’d picked up the camper for $18,995, but he’d financed it to avoid using a lot of cash. He’d moaned and groaned and finally coughed up $1,900 in dirty money—literally dirty—after he’d crumpled up some of the bills, threw dusty dirt on them, and then flattened them out again. Others he’d folded and torn. He’d spent half an hour preparing the money so that it didn’t look new. He was also careful not to use bills with numbers all in sequence.

  The camper was a beauty. It had a door and fold down steps. Inside it had a little kitchenette and booth table. It had a bathroom, including even a shower. A cabover bed. Windows. Nice setup.

  That was not only thing he had in his new camper. There was one more thing—Spit, the pit bull he’d just adopted from the pound.

  Now if anyone tried to get at his cash, they’d have to get past Spit.

  If anyone searched the house, they’d come up empty-handed.

  In the back bedroom, JJ finally decided to tear out the framing of the wall that he’d stripped bare of its plaster board. He’d barely worked five minutes when he realized he was too distracted to focus on this. Every thirty seconds, he was running to the window to look down at the truck and make sure it was safe.

  Then he realized the only way he was going to be able to relax was to get out of town for a few days.

  Why not? He had a camper now, didn’t he?

  Yes, it was time for a road trip. Pay as you go. Luke could stay with Grandma for a couple of nights…No, he’d go pick up Luke.

  His phone rang, and JJ gasped from surprise. He knew he was wound up, but this was ridiculous. He answered the phone.

  The voice was deep and hoarse. “I know you have the money.”

  “What are you talking about? Who is this?”

  “You shouldn’t have bought a new truck. The money is not yours. Do not spend any more.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If you try to leave town, you’re dead. If you call the cops, you’re dead. Give me the money or you’ll be dead by tomorrow.”

  JJ hung up.

  CHAPTER 4

  Tomorrow. Twenty-four hours!

  And no guarantee he’d live that long.

  JJ hurried into the living room and looked down the quiet suburban street. He could see a few homes that looked just like his but were in better condition. A couple of cars were parked along the street. There was nothing much to see. Just shadows on the street from the big shade trees. He went outside and double-checked that his truck was locked. Spit started barking at him. The pit bull had taken to him immediately, so JJ was glad to hear his ferocious side. JJ gave him a couple of dog treats and checked his water.

  Then JJ realized something. Someone could steal the truck and Spit would be trapped in the camper, so the dog couldn’t do anything about it. JJ closed the camper and opened the hood. The engine was a beast. Yesterday, he’d been so impressed by it. Now, he realized how irrelevant such things were. He unhooked the battery and shut the hood.

  Back inside, he lay on the plywood floor in the living room. He had to think of what to do. He needed a plan. He couldn’t leave town. The killer had said if he did that, he’d be killed.

  How could the killer know if he left town? JJ had just checked the street. Nobody was in sight.

  He remembered the killer’s tone. He’d spoken with certainty. JJ had no doubt. Somehow the man would know if he tried to leave town. What should he do?

  His lifespan had just been attached to a twenty-four hour countdown.

  Twenty-four hours to live!
<
br />   He lay there for a while feeling something he’d never felt before. Life had always been about trying to get ahead so that he would be able to save up enough money for when he needed to slow down and maybe even retire, probably let his kid take over the business. He’d spent decades worrying and never getting ahead. Now, he’d finally gotten a break and seen a glimmer of light, but it was like a curse.

  The threat of imminent death had been thrust upon him. What good was a million dollars when it came with a promise of death unless he gave it up?

  And JJ did not want to give the money away. Now that he had all that cash, he did not want to let it get away from him. Then again, what good would all that money do for a dead man?

  Tormented by confusion, he got up and paced the house several times, trying to work off anxiety. He stopped and peeked out every window he passed. He checked every door, making sure it was locked. The problem was that he was locking himself into a house where a murder had occurred. He realized that he had to get out of there.

  The phone rang, but he didn’t dare answer it.

  He found himself back in the infamous bedroom where he’d found the cash. He sat against the wall, looking over at the wall that he’d torn apart. All that was left of the wall now were the studs—and memories. That was the greatest wall he’d ever known in his life. He’d never forget the excitement of finding all that money. Yet it was also because of the wall that had received death threats.

  Twenty-four hours to live—or less.

  He thought about how the prospect of certain death changed a man’s priorities. He now felt like he’d wasted his life. He’d spent twenty years worrying about a future that would never even happen. He might be dead tomorrow. Just to sit there and realize that he was in a dead-man’s house was a surreal experience.

  Dead!

  No joke. No mental games. He thought of all the times when he’d been to self-help seminars and they’d told him, “Live this day as if it were your last.” He’d tried that before, but never really believed it was his last day. So he’d kept on living the way he always had, worrying about the future.

  One motivational speaker had encouraged his audience to write out the epitaph for their own tombstone. “When you face your own mortality,” the man had said, “you unleash the giant within. It’s only when you face your own death that you can really live.”