A Matter of Murder

By

Brian Drake

For Lucy and Ricky,

who will never know why.

Matt Webb opened his mouth, moved his upper lip back, ran the line of floss between his teeth. When he finished, he rinsed with water, then Listerine. He looked at his teeth in the mirror, ran his tongue over them. All white, straight. He liked having a clean mouth, same as he preferred a neat house and sharp clothes. Balanced his dirty line of work, his habits did.

He made a final circuit of his suite, locking windows. A painting over the couch was crooked. The hotel maid had probably bumped it while dusting. He straightened the painting. His final stop: the hall closet. Webb opened the door and removed a leather shoulder holster from the top shelf. The holster contained a Browning nine-millimeter automatic, a Hi-Power model with a 13-round clip. An attached silencer extended through the open bottom of the holster. He put his arms through the shoulder straps, secured it; grabbed a jacket, zipped it over the rig.

“You just can’t trust anybody these days,” his boss, Leo Cutler, had said earlier in the day. Webb had stood in the center of Cutler’s study, hands behind his back. The walls were lined with bookshelves – books that had never been read. Cutler paced back and forth in his pajamas and silk bathrobe. Webb’s watch read a few minutes past noon.

Cutler said: “We’ve got a guy skimming off our product. Want a drink?”

Webb shook his head.

Leo crossed to a drink cart and poured some whiskey, went to stand by the window overlooking a green lawn that stretched on for several acres. He said: “An example needs to be set, so I want this guy taken out. He’ll probably have a safe. Get everything in it. I don’t want nothin’ coming back on me.”

Webb said: “Mmm-hmm.”

“You talk too much, Matt,” Leo said. He faced Webb, laughed, swallowed a gulp of whiskey; gave Webb a name, photograph, directions.

Now the clock of Webb’s dashboard read half past eleven, the glow from the dash reduced because the bright glare from the panels bothered his eyes. The holster under the jacket, pulled taut against his back and shoulders, made his neck sore. He’d been driving for two hours, had not seen a speck of civilization for ninety of those minutes. The forest on either side of the road also blocked out the moonlight, with Webb’s headlights the only illumination; it felt as if a fingernail were gently scraping his spine.

He entered a small town – he’d missed the sign – but it was made up of small buildings, homes set far back from the road. He drove through a small town square. He spotted a sign – Frank’s Kitchen Shack – nodded, slowed and turned into the parking lot. He pulled a folded photograph from a pocket of his jacket that showed a puffy man in a suit. Webb studied it, glanced inside the diner. He saw a puffy man in an apron wiping down the counter. Nobody else inside. Webb put the picture away and climbed out.

A bell jangled as Webb entered. White tiled floor, long counter, booths on the window side. The man behind the counter quit wiping and looked at Webb. A mixture of brown and yellow grease stains decorated the front of his apron. His eyes, almost swallowed up by the puffiness of his face, narrowed a bit.

Webb said: “Am I too late for a burger?”

“Grab a seat,” the man said. He had a grandfatherly voice. “I’m getting ready to close but the grill and fryer is still on. How you like it?”

“Bloody, the works, extra pickles. And a Coke.”

Webb picked a stool, gave it a spin, then removed a handkerchief and gave it a quick wipe, sat down. He watched the cook slap a patty down on the grill and it began to sizzle.

“You must be Frank,” Webb said.

“Yup,” the man said, placing two halves of a bun on the grill.

“Frank Ferris, as in wheel.” He laughed. “Been here forty years next month, you know. Started as a little stand with four stools, this same spot. You passing through?”

“On my way home from upstate,” Webb said. “I was supposed to be home last night.”

Ferris filled a glass with Coke, set it in front of Webb. “Driving? Why not fly?”

“I’m not flying the way things are today,” Webb said. “Unless I can’t help it.”

“What about a train?”

“They’re nice,” Webb said, “but I like traveling alone.”

“Being alone has its benefits.” Ferris flipped the patty. “You want fries?”

“No thanks.”

“Price includes ‘em. Gotta get something for your money.”

“That’s okay,” Webb said.

Ferris shrugged, grabbed a plate.

Webb watched the puffy man spread a mix of mayo, ketchup, and mustard on the bun, build it up with patty, lettuce, tomato; rose a little on the stool to make sure he included the extra pickles. Ferris pressed the top bun down, placed the plate in front of his customer.

Ferris said: “You mind if I have a cigar?”

Webb nodded, swallowed a bite. Ferris lit a cigar that looked small between his puffy fingers. He leaned against the counter, exhaled away from Webb.

“Alone is good,” Ferris said, “but its nice having somebody at home.”

“Who’s waiting for you?”

“Nobody,” Ferris said. “Wife died about ten years ago. My son is a fisherman in Alaska.”

Webb swallowed another bite.

Ferris said: “So what do you do?”

“Engineer. I was attending a conference.”

“What kind of engineer?”

“Aerodynamics.”

The puffy man nodded, smoked. “I don’t know nothin’ but diners.”

“If you’ve lasted this long you’ve done okay.”

“Better than most, I s’pose. I tell ya, though, people today. We get this businessman in here this morning. Out of towner, like you. He orders eggs, bacon, wheat toast. One of my girls brings out his plate, but he says his eggs are runny. He doesn’t want runny eggs, he says. They’re perfectly good eggs! My girl tells him so. I hear the guy hollerin’, come out and say what’s the rumpus. He’s this fifty-something guy in a suit, Wall Street Journal, baby boomer type, you know how they are. Fuckin’ hippies. And he ain’t budgin’. The bacon and toast is getting cold and he’s complaining about the eggs, causing a scene.”

He puffed his cigar, continued: “So I say the hell with it, get him some new eggs, cook ‘em myself. Made sure the yolks weren’t runny. I bring out the plate, he says thank you, and I kid you not – he grabs his fork and knife and cuts those fuckin’ eggs ten ways from Sunday, yellow stuff all over the place. I about had a mind to dump the plate in his lap. He had this sharp gray suit on, didn’t come off the rack. Woulda been nice. I tell ya, people today.”

Webb had half the burger left, pushed his plate forward. “I’ll take those fries, you don’t mind.”

“Hungry, huh?” Ferris parked his cigar in one corner of his mouth, grabbed the plate. He spent a few minutes at the deep fat fryer, the frozen fries sizzling in the hot oil. Webb glanced out the front windows. No cars driving by. They were still alone. He rolled his shoulders, rocked his head side to side. The soreness in his neck was stronger now, but he’d be done soon enough.

Ferris said: “Got some nice motels down the block you need to stay the night.”

“Gotta get home to the wife. Only another two hours or so. I haven’t had any sex in a week.”

Ferris laughed, brought the fries over with a bottle of ketchup. Webb said he preferred mustard on his fries; Ferris handed him a bottle of mustard. The puffy man leaned his elbows on the counter and looked out at the road while Webb stabbed at the fries with a fork. He and Ferris were quiet for a long while. As he chewed, Webb looked down the length of the counter, saw a door marked Private at the far end.

Webb finished up the burger and last of the fries, stood up. “Thanks for being a pal,” he said.

“Nice having somebody to talk to this late.”

The puffy man wandered down to the register, Webb trailing. Ferris rang up the meal. Webb drew his nine-millimeter, held it low at the hip. Ferris stared at the black pistol. His mouth opened a little and the cigar dropped from his lips.

Webb said: “Office.”

Ferris nodded without taking his eyes off the pistol. He turned, his hands raised a little, made for the door marked Private. Webb hopped over the counter, stayed behind the puffy man.

The door squeaked open, Ferris took a few steps inside, hit the lights. Dark walls, desk, safe in one corner. Webb told Ferris to move to the right. He did, said with his back to Webb: “We can’t talk about this?”

“No.”

“I’ve got fifty grand in the safe. It’s yours. I’ll get out of town.”

“Open the safe,” Webb said.

Ferris jerked his head up and down, dropped to a knee in front of the safe. He spun the dial, opened it, looked up at Webb.

“I like Leo,” the puffy man said. “It ain’t personal. Just trying to - ”

Webb fired. Part of the puffy man’s head popped open and he toppled over.

Webb looked down at his jacket, pants. Some blood had splattered on the pants, but not too much.

Webb put the Browning away, grabbed the envelopes, folders inside; found a few stacks of wrapped cash and piled everything up. He found a paper bag and filled it, took the bundle out to the car. Back inside, he wiped the stool and counter, filled another paper bag with his plate and glass. He didn’t even throw the ice out.

A few miles down the road he found a gas station, grabbed the bathroom key from the attendant, brought a spare pair of pants taken from the trunk into a stall and changed. He rolled up the blood-spotted pair and put them in the trunk after returning the key with a polite thank you, and grabbing a cup of very black, very strong coffee for the long drive home. Driving away, Webb found a radio station playing “Hey Jude” and whistled along with the last chorus.