Work In Progress

Ray Butler upended cushions and looked under the couch. He rooted about the living room until he finally found it. The tip of a black plastic remote peeked out from a half eaten bag of microwave popcorn that was propped next to the armchair. He grunted, took a long swallow from a can of MGD, lifted an eyebrow and belched appreciatively. As he placed the beer down onto a wooden coffee table randomly riddled with white sweat rings, the old empties from the night before scattered like bowling pins and fell to the floor.

Ray bent over the popcorn bag and reached down to fish out the remote. He sensed the danger before he understood it. Fear froze him in place. His heart thumped double-time in his chest, and he became aware of the effort of breathing. The landlord had just replaced the carpet with plush brown shag, which, from Ray's stooped position, seemed to cover the ceiling. Fresh size-twelve footprints leading to the closet formed deep depressions in the carpet that stood out like flashlights in the dark. Like sleepy tendrils of a sea anemone in a soft current, the flattened fibers drifted languidly back to a standing position.

He forced himself to move again. Only one thought filled his mind as he pulled his empty hand from the bag, knocking it over: the Smith and Wesson .38 revolver, loaded and ready in the cupboard above the refrigerator. But could he get there in time?

Think casual, he told himself. He retrieved his beer from the table and made an exaggerated show of swishing it, then guzzled the last bit of swill. He gave the can a one-handed man-crush and flipped it toward an overflowing garbage can by the kitchen island.

He strolled to the refrigerator and opened the door. On the bottom shelf lay a plundered twelve pack box of MGD with only two cans left. He decided on a bottle of Bud Lite instead, which was lying on its side alone in the crisper drawer. "Damn," he said aloud as he shut the door, "now where the hell did that opener get to?"

He rifled through a few drawers and cupboards on his circuitous path to the gun's hiding place. When he opened the cupboard door, he was horrified to find that the .38 was gone.

"I believe that's a twist-off anyway," said a smooth voice behind him.

Careful to move slowly, like the hour hand of a clock, Ray turned to greet the intruder. The steady eyes that regarded him seemed to absorb the light around them. The man wore a grey, wool slash pinstripe Italian suit and python skin dress shoes. His jaw was square and bounded by a cleft at the end of his chin. And though he was clean shaven, there was just a hint of a shadow mustache and beard. He had crisp black sideburns half the length of his ears, and wore a white straw Panama fedora with a dark grey hatband.

When the man reached into his jacket pocket, eyes fixed on his own, Ray knew his time had come. He had been expecting a visit anyway--it was only a question of when. To Ray's intense relieve though, the man pulled out a pack of Camels and an ivory inlaid butane lighter. "Mind if I smoke?" the man asked.

Roy blinked. "By all means, be my guest."

"Are you sure?" the man said, "Your place, your rules."

"Mi casa es su casa," Roy replied.

The man's brow furrowed, and his tone took on a dangerous edge. "What, are you Mexican or some shit like that?"

Roy stuck waved his hands in front of him with his palms out. "No. It's just an expression. It means--"

"I know what it means. But this is America. And in America, we speak English. Capiche?"

"Yeah, sure, capiche... Uh, I mean, I understand."