Mr. Murder

"He's in," a giant of a man said. "Delafield's paying him six bucks an hour under the table as a handyman." "Ripping people off right up to the last," the man muttered, rolling his leather chair back from his desk. "No great loss to mankind. What about the house?" "Got it. Everything's set." "And the cameras?" "But if you're taking her." "Who said I was taking her?" The giant looked confused. "So what are you going to do with her?" "The question is," the man said, "what are you going to do with her after I'm through with her." The giant seemed to falter somewhat. "You mean"you mean kill her?" "Why the hell would I step in to save her life if I was going to kill her?" he half sneered. "Look, I want a couple of days with her and then I'm gone. But I'll want tapes." His eyes narrowed. "What? What is it now?" "This is costing a fortune." The man shrugged. "I can't take the American accounts anyway. Spend it all, I don't care, just get it done." The man smiled a little, looking down, examining the nails of his right hand, one after the other. "I just have this last piano recital with my kid I want to see tonight and then I'll be ready to go. Tomorrow." "Tomorrow," the giant repeated, scratching behind his ear a minute. "I guess we can do it." The man looked up. "See that you do." "But what if she doesn't come?" "Oh, she'll come," the man said with some certainty. "But what if she doesn't?" He waved his hand through the air. "So I'll do her another favor. What does it matter?" He frowned. "What the hell is the matter with you? This should be kid's play for you." "I know, but." "Ipayyou a goddamn fortune," the man suddenly yelled, slamming his desk with his fists and jumping to his feet, "and I'mgivingyou a goddamn fortune, so what is your problem? Just do what I tell you!" He paused, breathing heavily. "Got it?" The giant looked unsure, but said yes, he understood, and took the cue to leave the office, closing the door behind him. The man walked briskly around his desk and crossed the office to lock the door. Then he went over to open the doors of an ornately carved mahogany wardrobe, revealing an entertainment center. He walked back around his desk to sit down and pulled open a drawer, removing a remote control, a box of tissues and a bottle of body oil. Slamming the drawer shut, he turned on the TV and DVD player. "Good evening," the attractive young woman said on the screen, "and welcome toDBS News Magazine.I'm Sally Harrington, sitting in for a vacationing Alexandra Waring." As the woman continued to talk, the man undid his belt, unzipped his pants and adjusted the opening of his boxer shorts. Eyes glittering, attention focused on the screen, he pumped oil into his right hand, grabbed a wad of tissues with his left and sat back in his chair. "I hate to be the bearer of less than good news," my studio producer, Haydn Cooke, says, appearing in the doorway, "but I wondered if you had seen this." I glance at our chief film editor, Clem, who sighs and drops his hands from the console to wait. This is our third interruption since we sat down, but this is what happens in television when you are a producer for DBS News in New York. I look at the papers Haydn hands to me to read: Harrington Hammered In Hometown Since my name happens to be Sally Harrington, I read on: Everybody with a television set has by now seen the great white hope for DBS News in the shapely form of the blue-eyed, almost-blond Sally Harrington. You know the one. The sensational witness from the Mafia Boss Murder Trial that audiences found so compelling the network decided to launch an early morning newscast to showcase her? Unfortunately for DBS, however, a bitter debate has broken out in Harrington's hometown of Castleford, Connecticut" a debate that has pitted residents who believe Ms. Harrington worthy of emulationVan Wormer, Laura is the author of 'Mr. Murder ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780778324072 and ISBN 0778324079.