Month: March 2015

Just Like Their Father

Posted by

0

“Hey there, you two.  How are you guys holding up?”

The oldest’s wine glass shook a little in his hand as he approached his two brothers.  Nerves, he told himself.  He willed his hand to cease, to hold still.  It was a fine vintage, after all.  No need to spill even a drop.

“Hey.  I’m doing all right.  Your flight get in all right?”

“Yeah.  Little rough coming in with the storm and all, but the pilot handled it.  I’m just glad I was able to book a hotel room last-minute and all.”

“Hotel?  You could have stayed here with the two of us.”

The oldest shook his head.  “Nah.  Late night work to do.  Always more business to attend to, even at times like this.”

The oldest cast his eye over his two brothers.  The youngest looked even paler than he remembered.  Was he sick, or was it just the stress of their father’s death piled on top of everything else?  He’d been staying at home with Father in the final days, so maybe he was most affected by the loss.  Unlike the other two, his wine glass held only water.

“Any word on the will yet?”

“Lawyer’s bringing it over tomorrow.”  At least the youngest seemed to know what was going on there.  No surprise – he was probably worried about losing his room, being thrown out of the manor.

The middle brother paused.  “Wait – I thought it was in the safe?”

“Safe?”  The oldest had been away too long.  He didn’t remember a safe.

“Yeah, down in the study.  Father had it put in a few months ago.”  The middle paused.  “But I don’t know the combination.  Do you-?”

They both shook their heads.  “Birthday?” suggested the oldest.

“Nah, easier way.  We’ve got a sledge hammer out in the shed, back behind the manor.  We could duck out now while everyone else is upstairs, go grab it, knock the thing open.”

“Now?” said the youngest in surprise.  “It’s snowing out there – and it’s not like he’ll come back.”

“Might as well do it now,” the middle insisted.  “Come on, you two, don’t make me do this on my own.”  He tossed back the rest of his wine and set the glass over on a side table.

The oldest shrugged, lifting up his wine glass in turn and gulping down the remainder.  “Damn good wine,” he said, slightly unsteadily.  He glanced at the youngest.  “Good find in the cellars, man.”

The three started for the back door, but the oldest paused.  “Gimme a moment, I have to make a call for a moment,” he told the other two.  “I’ll be right out after you, promise.”

The middle paused for a moment, looking uncertain.  He had already slid his hand into his jacket pocket, and looked like he was gripping something inside.  Maybe it was some lucky charm, for inner strength?  But after a minute, he nodded and headed out the door after the youngest.

The oldest waited until they had both left the manor, the door closing behind them, before he dialed.  “Yeah, it’s me,” he said into the receiver.  “They’ll both be staying at the manor tonight.  Just them, too.  Should be easy to make it look like a suicide.”

After the voice on the other end of the line confirmed this, the oldest hung up.  He felt a little unsteady on his feet, but put it up to the stress of the evening.  More stress than his brothers felt, that was certain.

It wasn’t anything personal against them.  But Father had been hoarding away his wealth for decades, money that the oldest could use to save his struggling business.  But in order to do that, he had to get the entire inheritance – and that meant getting rid of the other two heirs.

Outside, as they trudged through the snow, the middle brother kept his hand in his pocket, feeling the sleek metal of the wicked little device within.  He’d practiced for several hours, shooting tin cans off the fences at the edge of the manor.

Of course, he didn’t plan on shooting tin cans.  But how much different could it be?

He felt a small twinge of regret, but he steeled himself, committing to this choice.    He didn’t have the business of the oldest, the sympathy of the youngest.  He had always been forced to fight and claw to hold his own.

Soon, he’d be done having to fight these other two any longer.

Furthest out, the youngest felt the cold stinging at his slim frame, and tried not to shiver.  Just go along with them for a little while longer, he told himself.  He’d watched as they had both gulped down the wine he had “found,” and now it was just a matter of waiting.  He had been patient so long – it would just take a little longer, now.

He had always been last in line, trapped at home with the dying man while his brothers went out into the world, made advancements.  He had been forgotten, abandoned.  But he wasn’t going to lose out once more on this inheritance.

The wind howled as it blew the snow around the manor.  It was a cold night, and there was no warmth, no heat to be found out in that dark land.

Danni California: Part 3

Posted by

0

Continued from Part 2, here.
Start the story here.

Three months later, as Carson strolled back towards his police station, he could sense that something was wrong.

The building, even before he reached the heavy, weathered front door, somehow felt emptier.  Even before he laid his hand on the handle, he felt like it was colder than usual, like the absence of life within meant that less heat was spreading out into the building itself.

Even so, he had to open the door.  Carson braced himself, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

Her departure had been surprisingly orderly, he saw.

There was no mess, no wild disarray of belongings scattered across the desks in the room.  The furniture was still all in its normal places, the chairs pushed in at the desks, the papers all in neat stacks.  Even in her last hours, California had kept things tidy.

The only detail out of place was the wide open door to the jail cell.  Inside the cell, the bed was made up, the sheets neatly tucked beneath the thin mattress and the pillow carefully placed at the head of the bed.

Aside from the sterile bed, the cell was completely empty.

The sight was jarring – it wasn’t how Carson had left it, just a couple hours earlier, when he went out to do his patrol rounds.  When he had left the station, there had been a nice braided rug down on top of the cell’s concrete floor.  Posters had been stuck up to the concrete walls, along with a pair of hand-made flowery curtains.  A knitted throw blanket, with intricate stitching that left Carson speechless at its complexity, had been spread across the bed.

All of that was now gone.

But more importantly, the cell was empty.  In fact, so was the entire station.  The female presence, the girl that Carson had come to think of as an almost permanent structure in his life, was absent.

“California?” Carson called out as he stepped inside, even though he doubted he would get any answer.  He used the nickname he’d grown fond of, not using the girl’s real name.

But sure enough, there was no answer.  Carson made his way over to his desk and sank down into the chair, one hand coming up to cushion his head.  He tried to think about what had just happened, just hoping to figure out how he felt.

He’d always known that California wouldn’t stick around forever.  Like a small bird, she had hesitantly emerged from her shell, especially as she came to realize that no one was coming for her, no one posting bail to get her out of this cell.  She was stuck there, and Carson was her only contact.

At first, she had been dismissive, contemptuous towards him.  But slowly, she had opened up, until he finally felt comfortable letting her out.  She was still a captive bird, but she could be free to move around her cage.

And then, last night, as he got ready to leave, she had asked him to stay.

The night had been wild, amazing, almost otherworldly.  Whenever he closed his eyes, Carson still felt the hot brush of her bare skin against him.  He could still hear her faint moans breathed into his ear as he shifted and moved on top of her, pressing down to squeeze her between his body and the cell’s thin mattress.  He vividly remembered how she had given one last, fulfilled cry as she arched her back on top of him, squeezing down on him inside of her as they both finished together.

When Carson had opened his eyes that morning, he had found her curled up against him, her body tucked up against him and pressing against his chest, his crotch, her legs slid in between his.  She had shifted a little as he rose and dressed himself, turning to give him a glimpse of her naked torso.  The sight nearly tempted him back to bed, but his duty called him away.  He spread the blanket back over her and, with a smile, left the station.

That had been his last sight of her.

Carson thought of putting out a call, of filling out a report.  But what could he say?  She was technically free to go, and he had no real claim on her.  He could go chasing after her, but he didn’t even know which direction she had chosen.

Like a bird, California had flitted into his home, graced him with a taste of her presence, and then gone on her way.

For a long time, Carson just sat at his desk, breathing slowly, doing nothing.

And then, he slowly rose back up to his feet.  He closed the door of the empty cell.  And then, hat in hand, he headed down to the diner to get a cup of coffee.

Book 8 of 52: "Art of the Sale" by Philip Delves Broughton

Posted by

0

Is it strange that I really like reading books about sales, even though I’m not in a sales position?  As a graduate student, the most “sales” I have to do is selling my PI on some idea as the best approach, while secretly biting at my fingernails and hoping I’m not overlooking some obvious blunder.  I’m definitely not out cold-calling clients or making commissions.

But even so, I think some of the case studies in Philip Broughton’s narrative, “Art of the Sale”, are applicable to just about everyone who interacts with another person.

A lot of the lessons of this book are very similar to those that I’ve read in other sales books (again, this is a favorite area of mine).  It’s important to not be bothered by rejection, to always be optimistic, to truly have a passion for what you’re selling, to have a powerful intrinsic drive to be the best.  I’ve heard these tips before.

Yet even though most of the advice of “Art of the Sale” is fairly common, the way that these lessons are presented makes the book a very appealing read.  Instead of simply telling us these rules, Broughton takes us around the globe, showing us how master salesmen in different cultures and locations succeed.

And most interestingly, it’s not always the same path to success.

In fact, most of the salesmen profiled in Broughton’s book have found their own unique way to sell, to succeed.  But even though they vary their methods a lot, they all still find success, and Broughton concludes that, depending on the company and market, wildly different methods of sales can all work.

For example, for a company that sells huge pieces of power machinery to just a few clients, culturing client relationships is super important.  But for another company that sells thousands of products on low margin, relying on volume, pure speed and volume is all that matters.  And both of these approaches are correct – for their target market.

In conclusion, the most important lesson of this book for salesmen is not to adapt a strict set of rules or beliefs – but to understand how to best interact with your customers.  An interesting perspective.

Time to read: probably around 8 hours.  I read most of this book in small chunks before bed.