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He loaded the gun with a single bullet and spun the wheel of fortune, listening to it come to a stop. Was today a good day to die? He wondered.
He was a well dressed man, sitting in a large, comfortable chair behind a massive cherry desk. Around him, the study was immaculate. Shelves of books lined the walls. A few pieces of art adorned a table here and there. Dark, elegant, opulent, only the best. He looked around at the understated decadence, his eyes coming to the framed picture sitting on his desk. A tiny spider was crawling across his phone cord. He tore a paper from his notebook and set it down before the spider. It crawled onto the paper and he gingerly carried it, opening the French doors to the patio, and shook it away outside. It was a beautiful day. He inhaled the fresh air deeply and went back and sat down in the study.
Smiling peacefully, he picked up the gun again, put it against his temple and pulled the trigger without hesitation. Click. Nothing. He shrugged his shoulders with a resigned sigh and unloaded the gun, placing it back in his right-hand drawer, and locked it securely. That done, he went out to the patio for breakfast.
The table was set for one. He sat down and unfolded the napkin, placing it on his lap. The morning newspaper was laid out in front of him. As he put on his reading glasses, a servant emerged from inside and began to pour his orange juice.
"Sir, what would you care for this morning?"
"Oh, let's see Gabriel, how about French Toast, no butter or sugar, with a side of fresh fruit. Nothing too heavy on such a beautiful morning."
"As you wish, sir." With that, the man quickly and silently disappeared back into the house.
He browsed through the paper. His stocks were up. A new slew of murders had the south side retreating in fear. The election campaigns were in full swing, with mud slinging in all directions. And, there was a sale at Penney's. He chuckled at the allusion, and tossed the paper aside.
The breakfast was utter perfection, as it always was. He could set his watch by the arrival of his morning pickup. The car arrived at eight-thirty on the dot. He checked his pocket watch with another amused look and seated himself in the limousine. His secretary was waiting for him inside.
"What's on the agenda today, Coleman?"
"Good morning, sir. Today's schedule, yes. You have a meeting with Dalmer and Dalmer at ten a.m. Lunch with Gina Mathers, eleven thirty. Don't know how she arranged that. Gerard's. Two p.m., Derek Waters, Twin Oaks Country Club, round of golf. Dinner party at Solomon's, six o'clock."
"That's all?"
"Uh, yes sir, that's all, sir." Coleman wasn't sure if that comment had been facetious or not. As relaxed as his boss was, there was something intimidating always lurking. He shifted in his seat.
"So, this Gina Mathers, tell me more about her. She's lunch?"
"Yes, sir, lunch. Ms. Mathers works for CGA, newly established, looking for backers. The firm uses donations towards helping people of various bad situations move on with their lives: victims of domestic violence, cleaned-up drug abusers, depressives, early widows, displaced homemakers - you name it. All non-profit, focusing within the city limits at present. Hopes to expand. Some big names on board, backing them."
"Yes, yes, all good, of course. Fine then. Ah, we're here.";
The car pulled up in front of the stately building and the driver came around to open the door. He stepped out of the car and walked to the entrance. The door was opened for him. As he went down the hallway to his office, he had to endure at least eight "good morning, sirs" and watched one nervous assistant drop her armful of files as he passed. He smiled, nodded, and proceeded into his suite promptly at nine a.m.
His receptionist followed in behind him and walked directly to the pot of fresh coffee behind the bar. She poured a steaming cup, set it down before him, and closed the double doors behind her as she left. All was quiet again.
He enjoyed the feel of the steam heating up his upper lip and nostrils as he took a drink of coffee. Turning his chair, he peered out the windows at the city. His city. He'd built an empire so well, it ran perfectly without him. The look of amusement left his face, replaced with a grimace of pain. His eyes squinted and he sipped his coffee, staring into nothing. A buzzer on his desk brought him back to attention.
"Sir, your ten o'clock appointment is here. Dalmer and Dalmer, sir."
"Yes, send them in."
The grimace of pain receded behind the mask. The two men were greeted by a warm smile and a firm handshake. They took their seats and the meeting began.
"Sir, what you've asked us to do is very unusual. As legal counsel, we found it imperative to meet with you in person. We're sorry to interrupt your busy schedule, but sir, are you sure this is what you want?" He smiled reassuringly at the two uneasy men squirming in their seats.
"Yes, I'm well aware it's an odd request, gentlemen, but I do assure you, it is exactly what I want. Please have it drawn up per my specifications, then send it over to me."
The men looked at each other beseechingly, but had no response for someone whose mind was clearly made up. They stood up and shook hands again.
"As you wish, sir. We'll be happy to comply. The papers will be drawn up immediately." They stiffly walked from the room, barely able to contain their bewilderment until the double doors closed again.
The clock read merely six minutes after the hour. Nothing to do until lunch. Again. Such a busy schedule on paper, so boring in life. Maybe he needed a vacation. He could herd cattle at a ranch, build bridges to connect the uncivilized parts of the world, bag sand for the impending flood he saw on television. But they wouldn't let him. No one would ever hear of him doing physical labor. It seemed blasphemous, sacrilegious. What a hypocrisy. What an irony. What a joke, but the joke was on him.
His car delivered him to the restaurant moments before eleven-thirty. Gina Mathers was a well-dressed woman who'd obviously worked her way up from middle-class society. He had keen observation skills. Wearing a navy business suit, she had dark brown hair, pulled back into a French roll, short, clean nails and a good handshake. At least, she had him intrigued. They sat at a table in the corner, away from the incoming lunch crowd.
"I'm so glad you accepted this meeting. I was told it's hard to get through to you, and you don't accept invitations from fledgling companies with people like me at the helm."
"Really? And what kind of people are people like you?"
"Well, basically...," she hesitated, "nobodies sir. I'm not even sure how I got this meeting arranged. I called several times and the receptionist politely told me to go away. Each time I got another backer, I'd try to use the name to get credibility with her. We're trying to do a good thing here. I couldn't get anywhere. And your backing would help us so much."
"So, what happened, Ms. Mathers? How did you get through?"
"Gina's fine, really. One day I called and a man's voice answered. I asked him if he was the new receptionist. He laughed and said no, just a temp filling in. She'd had a dental appointment. I told him of the situation, and he said he'd ask you about it. Within just a few seconds, he told me it was all right and set up the appointment. So you see, I don't know how I got through, but I did." He smiled at her, thinking of the day Joyce was having dental pain and he sent her straight away to his own dentist, listening to no arguments from her. The day that he'd had control of the phone.
"Well, then, a stroke of luck for you. You got me here. Now, what can I do for you? I understand CGA helps turn around people after unfortunate situations, domestic violence and the like?"
"Yes, exactly. We offer funds to those trying to start over. There's not a list of qualifications, per se. So many people have different stories. There aren't any right or wrong answers, just an explanation of the circumstances and a demonstration of intent to turn things around. The people are followed closely to make sure they adhere to the requirements set. If they don't, the grant is rescinded. We're doing well, so far. We'd have donations from many interested people, but your name on that list would give us the power to increase our credibility and donor base. I know I'm taking your time, and it's valuable, but this program is valuable too. Please, at least consider what you could do for people who are out there struggling, right now."
"Well, Ms. Mathers... Gina. You seem level-headed and off to a good start. I'd be happy to help you. Just get in touch with my accountant, Dave Mason and he'll work it out with the lawyers." He wrote down the number and passed it to her. "I'll send him the go ahead and we'll get something arranged. Now, shall we eat?"
"Thank you, sir. Thank you so much. Yes, let's do, if you have time." She smiled gratefully at him.
After a nice meal, and pleasant small talk with her, he asked, "What have you heard about me, if you don't mind my asking. You can't be from around here. You must have moved here recently. You know, you're one of the few people I've met who's not completely terrified of me."
"The truth, sir?"
"Yes, of course, by all means." He motioned for her to continue.
"Well, as for me, I moved here a year ago. You were right. And about you, well..., the story goes like this. You were a happily married man, with two children. Several years ago, your family was killed by a drunk driver who crossed the intersection and hit their car head on. People say it destroyed you, though you don't show it. Since then, you've never dated. You've mostly been a recluse between home, work, and necessary social functions. You're always calm and relaxed, but you have a sense of power that people find intimidating." She looked at him worriedly, wondering if she should have been so honest. He smiled at her and took her hand.
"Thank you, Gina. Thank you for your candor. And your lack of fear. It's very refreshing to me." He took his hand away, nodded, and sipped his water. His driver appeared at the table, and told him it was time to leave for his two o'clock appointment. For once, time had passed too quickly.
"It's been a pleasure Gina. Please, keep me posted. Let me know whenever you need anything, if I can be of help." With a smile, he turned and left for his meeting at the golf course. Business as usual.
The next morning, he promptly called his accountant and arranged for a donation to CGA. Ten million dollars. He smiled to himself. "That should hold her for a while."
Taking the gun from his drawer, he loaded one bullet and spun it around in the chamber. Was today a good day to die? Putting the gun to his head and squeezing, he heard only a click. He sighed. Replacing the gun in his drawer, as always, he went out to breakfast. He passed the day, watching the second hand count time down in his office. Another day passed excruciatingly slowly.
A week later, he came home from another boring day at the office and went to his study. Coming around to take a seat, he noticed the right hand drawer had been forced open. Bullets were scattered out of the box and the gun was missing. He looked up to see a man nervously wielding the gun at him from across the room in the shadows.
"It's all your fault. I could have gotten a lesser sentence. It was an accident. I never meant to kill anybody." He shook the tip of the gun back and forth as he spoke.
"Michael Conrad," he said evenly. "What brings you here? I thought you were still in prison for killing my family."
"I was, man. I got out. I got out of that joint. You smug piece of shit! Do you know what it's like in prison? Do you know what they did to me? I'm not a criminal, man. I'm in there with killers, see? Killers and psychos. I'm not a killer, man. I got drunk. I hit a car. It was an accident" He was enraged. His hand continued to shake as he yelled. "Then I read about this thing in the paper! Ten million dollars to help rehab people, give people a second chance. You never gave me a second chance, you piece of shit. You had them throw the book at me! You've got power, man! And you used it. It's your fault. But, guess what? Guess who has the power now, asshole?" He shook the gun.
"Michael, Michael, Michael." Moving around in front of the desk and away from it, he nodded to the drawer. "Better see for yourself. "Confused, Michael backed along the wall towards the desk.
"What do you mean, see for myself? This better not be some kind of trick! Because I've got the gun. I'm in charge! See? I'm in charge! "He peered down into the drawer. "What? What am I supposed to see?"
"Michael, would you believe my family was everything to me? My reason for living. That I would have gladly been in the car, instead of them, but I wasn't given the choice? That my life ended that day?" He nodded at the drawer and continued. "For four years, every morning, I've loaded that gun with one bullet, spun the chamber, put it to my head and pulled the trigger."
"You're full of it, man! You expect me to believe you did that every day since they died, and you're still here? What are the chances of that, huh?"
"Every day since you were put behind bars, but, that's exactly what I mean, Michael. What are the chances of that? You see, if you knew about guns and bullets, you'd know. They're blanks. If I'd used real bullets, I'd have been dead fifty-seven times already. I've kept track. It's all there in the notebook." He nodded towards the drawer again. "You see, I didn't really want to die. I just didn't want to go on living either. It was merely an amusement for me, a way to pass the time. I wondered every morning when I put a bullet in the gun, was it a good day to die? Would that have been the day I'd meet my wife and family again? Would I ever see them or would there just be nothing after death? Are they up there somewhere, or simply gone? Forever. Gone from me. Taken from me."
"Shit!" Michael put the gun down on the desk, exasperated, and started pacing to the wall, and then back. "Shit! What kind of stupid fuck are you? I'm not that fucked up!" He paced some more. "Shit!" he stopped in the corner.
"So what do you want from me? Forgiveness? Absolution?"
"I want your help! You can fix it. You've got the power. You can fix it. You can change things around for me!"
"You took my wife!"
"I told you I didn't mean to!"
"You took my children."
"It was a fucking accident man! I was drunk! I didn't mean to kill nobody. You think I wanted to kill somebody? Wanted to go to prison? Fuck no, man! That place is a hole. I wanted outta there!" He continued to pace. "Shit." He paced back and forth, stopping in the corner. "So why do you have this bleeding heart with everyone else? What about me? What about a second chance for me?" He stared at Michael, standing there screaming, and a thought occurred to him. He breathed in deeply, and sighed as he let it out. He began speaking softly and resolutely.
"You're right, but of course you are. I should have seen it. Here I am, helping others get a second chance. Why not you? After all, like you said, it was an accident. After all this time, it still hurts me like it was yesterday. Seeing their bruised faces, their lifeless bodies. I need closure. It's time for me to do something." He came around the desk, looking directly into Michael's eyes as he spoke. "I can help you, Michael, you're right. And I will help you, in any way I can. I can see now just how sorry you are." He opened his arms as a show of truce, after years of bitterness, anger and hatred. Michael's nervous demeanor relaxed a bit.
"You mean it? You'll help me?"
"Yes, I will." Michael walked slowly from the corner of the room to the desk. He breathed a sigh relief and relaxed as they stood facing each other and opened his arms to embrace. The sound of the gun's explosion boomed through the night air as the force of the bullet ripped into Michael's chest. With a momentary look of confusion, he fell to his knees, then crumpled to the floor. "Wha...?"
"You see, Michael, a thought occurred to me. The police would have never believed I'd killed you in a struggle, if I shot you from over ten feet away." With complete calm, he set the gun back on top the desk and picked up the phone.
"I'd like the number for Gina Mathers please. Yes, please connect me...Gina, hello, you got my check I see. There was a write-up in the paper. Oh, that's quite all right, as you said, it's for a good cause. People everywhere need a second chance. Say, what are you doing for lunch on Friday? I have some things to take care of before then. Great. How about Gerard's again, same time? Wonderful, Gina, I look forward to seeing you. No, I really mean it. OK, I'll see you then." He hung up the line. Staring at his wife's picture on the desk, he nodded to her absently and touched her face with his fingertip. "I'll guess I'll see you when I see you, love. Kiss the children for me." He took the picture off of his desk and carried it over to a table, placing it by another photograph from a time long gone by. Then, returning to the telephone, he dialed the police.
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