Baxter Bane

Meet Baxter. He is a friend you have known and never met.

“Give me another year.... I'll need that....”

 

Baxter sucks back a gulp of whiskey from the bottle. He leans back and burps, falls unconscious.

 

He wakes and the TV is on. The station turns from station bars to static, then flickers back to station bars. There is a solid tone that drones with the station bars, then static.

 

“I'm so f*****g thirsty....” He looks around and finds the whiskey bottle. Takes another swig.

Looking at the blank TV flickering he reaches for a cigarette.

 

“B***h....” he mutters. “You're getting a call. Yah..... you wanna f**k with me? I'll give you a piece of my mind....”

Reaches for a cordless phone, fumbles and it falls to the ground.

“F**k me...”

Picks it up and dials 555.436.2571.

“F*****g b***h... better answer....”

He holds the phone to his ear as he douses his cigarette in the whiskey glass.

Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

“Hello?” A man's voice.

Baxter: “Hello? Who the f**k is this?”

Voice: “Who the f**k is this?”

Baxter reaches for his bottle, holds it to his mouth.

Baxter: “Who the f**k am I? I'm the f**k that got Nova pregnant. The first time.”

The phone clicks dead.

Baxter looks down at the handset, then stares over the TV on the wall. Slowly the phone falls between his fingers. He doesn't notice.

 

So another guy. “F**k..” he whispers.

Sure things hadn't been perfect, but when is everything perfect? Only when someone is playing imagination, a fairy tail game. He wasn't into fairy tails. The first time Nova got pregnant it wasn't right. He had lost his job, was in the hospital with pancreatic problems for six days writhing around under hospital sheets only crawling out to throw up the water that he desperately needed every five minutes. A constant cycle of drinking, puking, drinking and then the s***s came on. He didn't get the job back, and babies need money more than they need mother's milk. Reality is a b***h.

Nova had an abortion.

 

She came home crying, (Baxter didn't accompany her to the hospital) then used maxipads to stem the bleeding. It took 3 weeks for things to stop, but her tears took longer than that. She moved out and got a room with her “besty”, some girl she knew from college.

“I always hated her...” he whispers under his breath.

“She took her away from me....”

He looks down at the phone on the ground. It's a grungy carpet, dirty and dark green. Staring at it Baxter wonders if he should try again. Maybe, this time she will answer.

The TV hisses static.

“So a new guy? I don't f*****g care.”

He lifts the bottle to his lips and drains the last, glancing at the digital clock. 3:42 AM.

He bends over and picks up the phone. Stares at it. Reluctantly he punches in the numbers, one by one.

Pulls the handset to his ear.

Ring ring. Ring ring. Ring ring.

“Hello?” a woman's voice.

“Nova!?”

“Baxter!? Is that you...??”

“Yes... I heard someone else... someone...”

“Baxter, HELP ME! HELP ME!!!!”

Baxter reaches for a cigarette, sticks it between his lips and lights it with a Zippo.

“What the f**k is going on?”

“I'm being raped! I owe money..! Baxter... they want me for seven months to pay....”

The phone goes dead.

Baxter places the phone beside him on the table, and sucks hard on his cigarette. Is she telling the truth? The last time she called with that tone was when she needed money for the abortion. He paid. Never saw the fetus let alone any medical reports. Nothing from the doctor or the hospital, no official bill. Just her crying and asking for money. Cost him over three thousand clams, and that was money he didn't have.

Not with his drinking habit.

“So here we are again...” he thinks to himself. “Only this time.....”

He hadn't touched her in over a year. If it was the same problem, it wasn't his.

“That's for sure...” he whispers to himself.

The problem now was that he was out of whiskey. It was going to be a few short hours before that became a serious problem. Not like the abortion s**t. Maybe it was time for Nova to grow up.

Strange dreams followed that evening... into the early morning. Baxter woke at 11 AM, startled awake with a vague memory of something not right....

The sun streams in through the window making him wince.

“Am I supposed to be somewhere?”

A sharp rap at the door. Then again.. louder.

“BANG! Bang! BANG!”

 

“What do you want?”

“OPEN UP!”

Baxter crawls out from beneath the covers, realizing he's not wearing pants.

“F**k could I use a cigarette..... too early for this s**t....”

He puts on a house coat and clicks open the locks �" three of them �" one by one.

Cracks open the door..... the security chain still attached. Peering outside he sees two black men, one six foot four and the other his size. Baxter is 5'10, weighs 130 pounds clothes on... at least that was what they told him last visit to the clinic.

“Who the f**k are you?”

The one guy pulls back his jacket and displays a variety of tazers. Different shapes and sizes. Some throw needles attached to wires, others are touch only.

“We are here for the money.” he says. The big guy stares at Baxter.

“The money? What money?”

“The money you owe the b***h.”

Baxter tries to shut the door but the big guy pushes it open.

“You're not going anywhere. Pay the b***h.”

Baxter looks down at his naked legs.

“Pay the b***h? What are you talking about..? How am I going to pay anyone anything when I'm trapped in my f*****g room?”

The big guy reaches into his coat and pulls out a smart phone. He hands it to Baxter through the crack of the door.

“The internet f**k face.” says the other guy. His voice has a whistle. “Wake up to the industrial age.”

He shuts the door and Baxter listens as they walk away down the wooden hallway, the heavy guy creaking on the boards.

Baxter looks at the phone. It's one of those large cellphones that aren't quite a tablet and aren't quite a cellphone. Just a clunky hunk of electronic junk that you can't carry in your pocket but small enough you can't do any work on. He turns it on to see that the battery is half dead. These kind of phones need to be charged every hour, but f**k, they have a bright screen. The electronic wasteland glows in the dark.

 

“F**k me I need a drink.”

He looks under his cabinet and finds a bottle of vermouth that was given to him last Christmas. Well, wasn't exactly given to him, but came with the bottle of gin that was a gift. Baxter looks at the label. It has alcohol content.

“Seven percent... better than nothing....” he mutters, pouring off half the bottle into a plastic cup from the convenience store.

The phone thing makes a noise. An annoying rattle between a buzz and a ring... just enough to get your attention before you throw it out the window in front of a streetcar.

“You don't owe any money. What they want is your work.”

He pauses halfway through the vermouth, swallows, and takes a seat.

“My work?”

Thoughts. Thoughts.

“My work?” he says out loud.

“Yes. Your work.”

It's the phone. Baxter recoils. The phone is listening to what he is saying. It can hear him. He picks it up, walks to the bathroom and drops it in the toilet.

“Now for the rest of the vermouth.”

He downs the glass and lights another cigarette, looking out between the blinds onto the street. His “work”. That had been a long time ago, back when he believed anything was possible. Days, months sweat tears drawing writing.... is that the work they are talking about?

Who wants it?

“Nobody...” he mutters.

Yet they have the girl.

“I thought it was the money... just money.. How much is she worth?”

Last time he was with Nova Calendar he was worth the price of an abortion. The price to cut the only piece he had of her out of her womb, the price to get rid of everything. Everything he had put into her that she wanted taken out. The only piece of their relationship that could have survived, and she made him pay for it's removal. A tumor.

“Can't be it....”

He falls back into his chair. The TV is back on and it's channel 7 News.

“I don't talk weather.”

He shakes his head. Yeah Nova had said that he did amazing work, said she believed he was going somewhere, was going to be something but for her to take it to extortion...

Maybe she would. Because she would.

The refrigerator opens with a creak. Bare glass shelves coated with the thin white film of old mold and milk residue. In the back sits a can of opened pasta sauce, evaporated milk and three dead tomatoes that have rotted into a plastic bag. Pushing them aside Baxter looks for a loaf of bread, f**k, even a bun.

Nothing.

“Have to go outside.” he mumbles.

Shrugs on a brown and beaten leather jacket. Keys lay on the side table by the door, beside a candle and his answering machine that hasn't worked in three years. Who has a land line? A red led light signs “0” on the message center.

His hand opens and the keys drop into his jacket pocket.

xxxhnmxxxxxx

Corner store takes six minutes to reach. Bland and faded plastic sign hangs above the entrance outside, one florescent light flickering on and off. It's mid morning. A bell rings when he steps through the door and the floor creaks.

Three destinations inside. His eyes pick out each one. Bang. One: the back of the store that has the refrigerators where warm beer sits, waiting. The cheap s**t. Blue cans with shifted crap a*s graphics, surrounded by soon expired lunch meat packages, juice bottles and bottled water. Twelve of those.... then bread. The steel rack is up the next isle. All expired and on sale. Cigarettes can only be found behind the counter. Juggling the beer and the bread he approaches the counter. Candy racks offer sugar treats in front of him. Dry beef jerky. Gum and bars of soap.

Standing there. No one behind the counter. A man comes out of the back room with a slow gait, dragging one leg. Pulls up behind the cash register and stares at him with brown eyes. Thin black hair and the frown lines around his mouth that only come from years of doing the same thing... repetition.

“Last time I'm going to see you.” he says, looking Baxter.

Baxter looks over his shoulder at a box of condoms.

“Ok.... maybe a good time to ask for a tab.”

Raouel had owned this store for as long as Baxter could remember. Never much of a friend... fact was the only time he had seen Raouel was when the cops gave him the shake down the fall before. Strange how having cousins coming in from Pakistan and deciding to stay for eight months in the supply room make the authorities knee-jerk nervous. Kinda makes them want to kick things in. Doors and balls are usually the first place they start. Legs don't follow far behind.

Raouel leans on the counter and takes the weight off his bad knee.

“I've got something.” He glances back to the powder room.

“I've got everything I want.”

“Lost anything lately?”

He leans even closer.

“Cellphone died.”

“I know.”

“I've got a pack of cigarettes. Never want to see you again.”

 

Baxter sits in the back room, racks of supplies for the store. Dry goods, a desk sitting in the corner surrounded by boxes. Underneath the desk a small, heavy safe.

Raouel opens the combination, pulls out a cardboard shoe box. Inside is a small metal lock box. He opens it with a key attached to his wire necklace. The lock is rusted and opens with a screech. Baxter looks down. Five keys, one taser and a 38 revolver.

“Look familiar?” asks Raouel. The light from a security window draws shadows from the re-bar across his face.

“No.”

“You have a passport?”

“Yes.”

“On you...? Now?”

“No.”

Raouel smiles slightly.

“Well, now you have one.” He pushes the box across the desk to Baxter.

“If I see you again... I'm going to have to call the owners of this box.”

“Who is that?”

Raouel chuckles.

“The ones that fished your phone out of the sewer. Mafia... and construction. Wow....” he sits back and holds his knee. “They've been experts in concrete since Jimmy Hoffa. If you ever read the news.”

Sighs.

“Batteries die in water. Electronics rust.... but those damn SIM cards.... can put them through the washing machine with Tide Plus and they still keep their stickers. F**k, bleach them and they only turn a shade lighter....”

Baxter drops beads of sweat from his forehead. The drink is wearing off and nervousness washes over him. The alcohol confidence drains away with the color of his skin. His SIM card...

“All my contacts... everyone I know...” he whispers.

He looks up.

“Mafia?”

Raouel shakes his head.

“Long gone.”

“So is the f*****g Ku Klux Klan. What the f**k do you want?”

BANG!

The light from the security window goes black. A sudden explosion and the light bulbs explode.

Baxter hears a scuffle and then the shelves collapse. Boxes land on him, covering him in complete darkness. He hears Raouel cry out.

“...but I have him! I have him!”

“You have nothing...” a woman's voice.

“You were told to keep him here...”

Baxter holds his breath still. Moving slowly he feels around with his hand in the dark.... the cool metal of the safe box runs across his fingers. The lock is still open... he can feel the crack between the lid and the bottom. Spreading it open he slides his fingers into the cavity... the warm handle of the 38 revolver settles into his palm.

“Did you torture him?” the woman asks. Baxter holds his breathe.

“He came in, looking for bread. Cigarettes for fucksakes! He doesn't even know what...”

“You didn't tell him to leave?”

Raouel falls quiet.

“You gave him the box?”

“I asked him to leave.”

“He has the same information in his head.”

“He's a drunk. He can't remember.”

She groans.

“When you see him next tell him about the message waiting in his mailbox.”

 

The thing that impressed Baxter was when Raouel left, leaving him under the stock boxes. Who he left with.... just a door slammed.

 

“He's on my side...” he whispered to himself as he climbed out. The back alley light showed the 38 full with six shells. The back street was wet from last nights rain. Red orange copper cases and dark gray bodies for bullets shone from the open chamber. The small silver caps waiting to explode the mess into projectiles glowed in the reflection of his eyes. Caps that would penetrate before splitting apart from the crease cuts so fragments would blast through ribs, organs and most importantly shred arteries that feed vital signs. Without blood, things don't work too long.

 

“Damn I need a drink.”

Baxter looks down at his clothes. Brown leather jacket. Never got the beer. No cigarettes.

“Got to get rid of my look... new socks.”

Not the only thing. He had dark blue jeans, that was common, and a baseball cap. In the city this was enough to look normal, as in normal hick but that stood out as well. Better to dress up, look dapper because everyone wants to look dapper in the city. If you want to stand out you look like some s**t a*s small town n****r. Nothing to do with blacks, or hispanics, or natives or whatever the f**k they want to call each other. Not even the jews. Yes, spelled with a small “j”. Whatever these people have up their cray, adding a capital to their name isn't going to impress anyone. Just another reason for the “Serve and Protect” to wonder why you are walking around half drunk at eleven o'clock in the morning, especially with a 38 and a box full of …..

 

“KEYS!”

Baxter turns around.

“Give me the f*****g keys!”

Hardly at the end of the alley Baxter stares at one of the cities finest. Blue uniform, helmet, bullet resistant vest, 9mm extended out at the end of a muscular arm and pointed at his head. Behind him sits a cop car with the lights revolving red and blue, siren off. It's going to be one of those days.

But he is alone.

 

Baxter freezes.

“I'm looking for a missing person!”

The blue guy takes a step back, holding his gun steady.

“Who?”

“She's Nova. Nova Calendar.”

“I guess we are on the same team,” he says lowering his gun. “So where did you leave the body?”

 

Baxter sits at the police station. He hates being there, the same old cliché. Nothing to do with the crime but charged with contempt of court. Obstruction of justice. They patted him down and took the keys. Found the gun in his pocket. Somehow knew about the keys.... the keys.... what about the keys?

 

“What is your primary address Baxter Dane?”

The detective leans over and lears in his face. His dress shirt is supposed to be white but is unwashed and sweat stained. He has a leather holster over his shoulder holding a blued metal revolver.

“I only have a box address.”

“So, you live on the streets?”

“Seems so. Now.”

He wanders around the desk and sits on the corner, looks down at Baxter.

“Is there something I can get you?”“My mail.”

He chuckles.

“Mail?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I was told there was something important there.”

“Something to do with the girl... her whereabouts?”

“I don't know.”

 

The blue guys get interested in my story. They listen to the midget bullshit and such, the alcohol, the woman that showed up and buried me under the supplies after the lights blew out. POP! The box with keys, the 38. Seems like stories get the attention of guys that have nothing better to do than believe they are heroes. Genius. Nothing to motivate orangutangs like showing them something they couldn't have thought of in the first place, than make them believe they thought of it first.

 

I told them I could use the internet to check out some old friends - come up with contacts that could help them find this dead body while they went to my old address, 2914. Check the mailbox for some new deliveries.

 

Didn't realize that the precinct would send all six officers, didn't know they would find a f*****g mini nuke that would blow half the city block off the map. The men in blue had left me sitting in the captain's office working at his computer. You can believe it, but truth is stranger than fiction. The doors open. And well, I did get my mail.

 

But it wasn't a post delivery. Email is almost as cool as having your evidence sitting across on the counter when you hear the police report come in over the radio. An all post bulletin out for your arrest. You look around,

 

and you are the only one there. Guess they got gassed over lunch break.

 

Baxter walks outside and the weather is changing. Cold wind and sleet blow in his face as he makes his way down the sidewalk. “Concrete jungle.” he remembers his parents saying. He rehearses the words in his mind.

The only thing jungle about the place was they used plastic plants in the summer so they didn't have to be watered. Baxter shudders, he needed to be watered, and on a daily basis.

Had to get away from the neighborhood. Away from walking distance. Water falls from his eyes like tears as he turns into the rain and waves at a passing cab.

A splash of water covers him. Getting a cab in Rack City was like finding love in a small town. You could see them pass in the distance, but they all had better places to go.

He stops into a coffee shop that sells cocaine. At least the clients do, and they buy coffee in the meantime. Sometimes donuts or something sweet, and he wasn't talking candy. Something that stayed sweet for as long as the night could afford.

He walks up curling his hood around his neck, wiping his face as he approaches the counter.

“What do you want?”

He looks at the cashier, a slender black man wearing a scarf around his neck. F**k, when will the negro gays learn they are in the wrong town?

“I want a black coffee. I need something else.”

The gay dar clicks off for a second on the cashier, then clicks off.

“Not here. Not now.” he replies.

“Looking for someone... looking for Nova.... ah, forget it. I need a cab.”

“Lots outside.”

“I need a cab to the airport.”

The cashier turns back around, clicks off the coffee machine. Pours half a cup into a paper cup, from the old stale carafe. Probably been there since five AM.

“It's going to cost,” he says without turning around.

“I've got money, not time.”

“Heard some noise up the street a while ago.... you wouldn't have anything to do with that?”

Baxter holds out a $100 bill.

“I'll take the coffee. With a ride.”

The cashier slides the cup across the counter, reaches for the bill. Baxter holds the other end.

“With a ride.”

“Nova is dead.” he whispers. “You already know. I want the keys. All five...”

“Not for a C note.”

“You want a cab showing up, the kind with flashing lights?”

Baxter lets the bill slide from his fingers.

“I want a cab.”

The cashier chuckles, looks around the cafe. A couple of men, dark men dressed in heavy concealing jackets look back at him; eye Baxter. They sit on white plastic chairs, with plastic tables holding chromed baskets of ketchup, sugar, salt and pepper shakers.

“And how are you going to afford that?” he asks.

“I got an some mail. AOL style.” Baxter leans in. “I've got mail. You want to hear the tune?”

“No.”

Baxter thinks. He's been writing about something he has coined “murdercide.”

Yeah. He turns and walks out of the restaurant. Leaves the cashier chuckling then when realizing Baxter is leaving his face falls.

“He won't be back.” brandishing a gun from under the counter.

Murdercide.

If you met the right person. If you had the right connections. Baxter shields his face from the ran, the overhead street lights glowing orange and yellow.

All he needs is some heroin. Yeah, that little piece of folded paper that opens up to show a small pile of brown powder, looks like brown sugar only finer, softer....spit on it and a corner dissolves into the holy water he would take up a fresh needle, sharp and quick to pull the blood out of his arm and then rush up with a slow push into his brain. Release the blast of nothingness. Gone. All the pain, memory, worry, hurt and everything that could ever be.... gone. Like he was dead, and still alive. What a game that was. Because he was killing off a bit of himself. The trick was to keep the other bits of himself alive to see another day. Start off with the score... Baxter thought about the last time.

Steve was a good friend that came by and sat quietly in his apartment usually on the brown leather couch and let his blood drip off his face on the floor.

Easier to clean up.

Oh yeah, he had been in a fight with 3 n*****s that took him out with a skateboard cracked across his forehead before he dropped and then took the wheels to his skull. Steve had showed up 10 minutes before, the back door...

“Baxter. In.” Gasping.

Falls in through the door like in a hollywood film and not alone. There is a girl, straight brown hair, attractive with a guy. She talks french. The guy is gay.

“Is this guy gay?” asks Baxter.

Steve holds himself against the wall, catching his breath.

“F*****g ambulance attendant...” he mutters. “Grab the gear.”

Baxter walks into the living room. A table is lit with a blacklight tube �" he used it to check bills. Cheques. F*****g passports.

They follow Steve and let him bleed around. First over to the stainless refrigerator to grab a beer and take a shot of vodka, then over to the sink where he pukes. Uses the sink sponge to wipe his face and grabs a plate.

Dumps the brown.

Needles come from the drawer.

Marker, A,B,C.

“What about D?”

Steve snickers, blowing bubbles of blood from his nose.

Duct tape to pull their cubital fossa into inflated vessels begging for puncture from virgin steel. Acquired as fake diabetes victims.

“Yeah.” to the druggist.

No. The truth was Baxter got a birthday present from a friend of his. He/She was It, had a story when it was female and driving drunk into a transport truck while it watched the male love of its life blink out. Eyes went dead when half the car ripped apart and his head landed on her lap, gave her a wink.

She cut out her genitals, ended up in a mental institution and hung with Baxter always asking for,

“Enough drugs to kill me.”

The gift was a “Junkie's Dream” which included a box of sharps, alcohol swabs and some condoms so thick Baxter used them on his fingers when he stitched up.....

“I'm f*****g bleeding!” Steve screams.

The brown was sitting there and you only know when you know that the drugs stare back at you. Looking to be used, like a young girl.

Pin prick, blood floats back, push....

Heroin is a dangerous drug.

 

Turned blue. Ambulance guy apologizes for giving Baxter mouth to mouth....

“I'm not gay.”

Baxter sits and watches everyone staring at him while he sits on the couch missing his glasses. It's an old story and worn out.

 

But that was a few years ago and now is a new story. All he needs is a small batch of brown, the good stuff.

He wanders down the street, mumbling to himself... no one to listen. No one listens even when he talks... safe to say.

Pass the brown to him, he will do it. Crank it and die.

No fingerprints. No violence.

So the question is: Did he kill himself or was he murdered?

He shot it. He took it. Baxter gave it to him. Baxter knows its too much.

Didn't he have a history of.... didn't he...

 

_

 

Wakes up in a hotel in Montreal. The smell of cigarettes is the give away. Only in Montreal can you smoke in the lobby, hallways and rooms. Bars. You can f*****g smoke in the hospital while you are f*****g for fucksakes.

 

He looks out the window and watches the river flow around Habitat 67.

 

Reaches for the telephone, sees a receipt. Baxter picks it up while lighting a cigarette, pouring himself a minibar shot into the coffee he got from the coffee maker that...

Canada Post.

“$13.45”, he reads under his breath.

 

Sending address. Nova's.

Checks his wallet and - half empty of plastic Canadian bills.

 

Tracing number. Stop it.

Calls frantically, shaking.

“Canada Post?”

“213442435?”

“Delivered.”

 

Hangs up. He looks around the room. The clock on the side table reads 06:23. The walls are gray paper. The carpet holds scars.

 

Baxter grabs his jacket and a small briefcase. It's his... “I think...”

Flips it over on the bed and dials 9843. It has been recently oiled, rubs off on his skin.

Opens. Inside.

Passport.

“God. Thank you.”

Credit card, blue. Credit card, red. Drivers license. A ticket.

“Drunk in public...?”

He slams the lid shut, leaves the room, down the hall to the elevator, presses lobby.

Taps his foot.

Watches the door open into a large auditorium.

Walks past the desk with the attendant who always seems to be looking at something, gets closer to the door, closer... yes...

“Sir.”

Turns.

“You have a message, sir.”

“I don't think so.”

“It's a number.... seems to be some kind of combination....” He chuckles. “Not a phone number, that's for sure.”

Holds out his hand extending a piece of paper.

“Mr. Dane, right?”

Baxter slowly returns to the desk. It's raining outside.

“Can you call a cab for Trudeau?” he asks before taking the paper. “I have a flight to catch.”

The clerk is dressed in blue. Small square hat. Shoulder pads. Name tag.

“There is a cab waiting, Mr. Dane. All our customers have a cab....”

 

 

____

Trudeau.

What a stinking hole of a transport hub. It should be underground but that would make it difficult for the planes to fly. Laugh. A home for the homeless �" pretty hard to kick out anyone sleeping at a jet terminal. That's what everyone does. Waiting for delayed flights. The rest live there and sell off people's luggage. Yah. Use the bathroom then wrap toilet paper over cuts and sores, dabbing liquid soap on wounds. Meet up with the opposite sex and have children that are raised in a back storage room with a broken lock. Cut just along the edge of the clasp, so no one notices if it is locked or not. Food at the end of the day, in the dumpster. Regulations and such. When you are making just cents above minimum wage you would be surprised at what you don't notice.

Baxter stands in line with his hands full. Left hand holds his passport and the blue credit card, right hand carries the briefcase.

There are hundreds of people standing around. Different colors, clothes, voices and sounds. They are alone or with families, in suits or t-shirts and jeans. They are eating snacks from plastic bags and they have children that are crying. Children, Baxter noticed, always seem to cry. It's only when you become an adult that you learn to cry alone, he thinks. He laughs.... the first thing a child does when he sticks his head out of a screaming woman crying in pain is to join her. Screaming, crying.....

 

“Can I see your ticket, sir?”

Baxter turns to see an officer.

“I don't have one.”

“Why are you here?”

“To buy a ticket. I can buy a ticket here. Of all places, I should be able to buy a ticket.”

The officer looks at him.

“It depends where you want to go.”

“I want to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Yes.”

“Are you planning on returning...”

Baxter interrupts.

“No.”

The officer holds up a radio to her mouth.

“Do you support Crime Stoppers?”

She pauses.

“Yes.”

“I know someone that has been kidnapped.”

“Then you should call the police.”

“I know that someone will be waiting... at her address.”

She pauses.

“Why would she be at her address if she was kidnapped?”

Baxter steps back.

“Because I'm trying to kill her.”

The officer reaches for her stun gun. Stops, and pulls out her 9 mm.

“On the floor!”

Baxter lies on the floor.

“Don't you think you might be interested in knowing?”

Bang.

It was more of a sudden thud, like a hammer landing hard on a piece of rubber. Half of the officer's face seemed to fall off, slide to the ground. Her face dismantled. A chunk of something lodged in the wall behind her as she tumbled forward. No arms, just flat.

Baxter gets to his feet and moves to the next line. There are two Chinese women trying to pay with a debit card having trouble and the attendant brushes them aside.

“Cash.” Baxter mentions.

“Where to?”

“Here.”

“You want a ticket here? You are here...”

“I want a ticket that brings me back here as slowly as possible.”

The attendant stares at him.

“Will that be first class or economy?”

“I want a room. I want a suite with a bathroom, a bedroom.... I want a mini bar. I want a drink.”

She looks at her computer.

“There is an A380 leaving in twenty minutes for Dubai. It returns to New York.”

“That will do.”

___

 

$6980 later....

 

Baxter sits in the lounge at sixty seven thousand four hundred and fourteen feet above sea level, drinking a vodka soda with a twist of lime and smoking a Monticello number one, ashing into the empty case of a Rolex boulevard alarm clock turned upside down. The gold plating wilts from the heat.

“So you are into advertising?” she asks, tossing her hair. Purses her lips together.

“I have a package that I sent to an unhappy customer.” He shakes his head.

“Is she going to get her money back?”

“She is going to get her moneys worth.”

“I want to sleep with you tonight.”

Baxter turns slightly.

“I've only got room for one.”

“So I can't bring a friend?”

Mahogany is heavy. So is marble. Why would they use it on this flying machine? Just to impress people that don't know what it costs to live, people that want to show they can spend more than they can consume? Is that why she is sitting there, beside him?

“I'm not one of them.”

She sighs.

“Then you might be looking for something towards the end of the counter.”

She points to a girl sitting alone at the end of the bar. She's drinking a beer, wearing a tank top and tight jeans, her hair bleached blonde and frizzy. Baxter watches her roll her head with some brief turbulence.

“You never even asked for my name.”

“No.”

“Most men want a name. At least a name for the night.”

“I guess that's why I didn't ask.”

She stands up and pulls a jacket from her chair.

“I'm sitting in A-34. I'll be sleeping there too.”

 

__

 

Baxter returns to his room. It is on the third floor �" yeah, the f*****g plane has three decks. Three more underneath for cargo and transport. Wires and machines that make the thing fly through the air at over six hundred miles an hour half way around the world. If only he could take it back eighty years... it would blow some minds.

Same as a cure for cancer.

Author's Note

First installment. My third book.