He turned the dial of the shower and listened to the tapping of the water against the floor

Darker Shades of Fear

(Installment 2)

He turned the dial of the shower and listened to the tapping of the water against the floor. He’d already pawned the jewelry pieces he’d taken from the motel earlier. In combination with his impressive total from the pool hall, he was able to afford something with a half decent shower. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. With the money he’d stashed in the bank over the years, he could quite possibly afford an estate.

He ran a hand through his straw-colored hair and studied his reflection. He had an ageless face. He could have been fourteen or forty, though he was probably something near thirty. He stripped and stepped into the shower. The water was hot and refreshing. It had a calming, almost soothing effect. He ran his hair under the water and applied shampoo from one of the crappy little bottles he’d found there. Probably liquid soap, but he didn’t really give a damn. He rinsed it clean and relaxed a few moments more before he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He wrapped a cheap white hotel towel around his waist and made his way to the bed where he sat down. He called room service and ordered a steak and a bottle of wine. He rarely drank wine, but tonight he felt compelled to do so. He read the details of the front-page article, smiling all the while.

He shook his head. They said that Mickey had killed him, thrown the body in the closet and panicked, which was why she set the building on fire. It never failed to amaze him how no one ever caught on. It had been years, and here he sat on the bed of a Holiday Inn.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He answered it, still clad in only a towel. The busboy looked rather disgusted, leaving the cart for Kenny to bring into his room. He concluded that the next time he ordered room service, he would answer the door completely nude solely to read the busboy’s reaction. He dismissed the amusing thought and wheeled the cart inside, shutting the door behind him. Taking a seat on the bed, he pulled the cart closer and opened the bottle of second-rate wine.

He smiled to himself as he evaluated his scenario. He was enjoying a steak and red wine in a warm, cozy little Holiday Inn while Mickey shivered through her first of many nights in prison, and Harding was off in the Great Beyond. No, he corrected himself mentally, Harding had most definitely descended into the fiery depths of Hell, if such a plane of existence were actually real.

He sighed as he lit another cigarette after his meal. He thought about Mickey. Goddamn whore. Not that he had a problem with whores. She hadn’t been anything special, just one of your average fake blonde, fake breasted, mediocre fucks. A mediocre one was better than nothing at all, and he was willing to pay full price simply because he caught himself almost feeling sorry for her. That was up until she had decided to change the rules. The concept of supply and demand wasn’t really all that difficult to understand. You get what you pay for, and he had no problem paying more than the suggested retail price. Theft was something else. It was cheating. It was intentionally giving the wrong change and pocketing the extra. Or something like that. She made the mistake of thinking he slept. He kept silent and watched her as she tore into his wallet, pocketing whatever she could take. Finally, he spoke.

“You gonna take it all, or leave some for me?”

She looked absolutely shocked. “You’re awake…”

He didn’t bother to answer her question.

“I guess you’re waiting for me to give it back.”

“I don’t give a shit. If you wanted it, you should have asked.”

She blinked, as if she had not heard him correctly. “What the fuck are you talking about? Look, I’m done with your fucking mind games!”

“We’ve known each other for...” he looked at the clock, “four hours. And you’re already tired of my fucking mind games. You ever want to be an actress or something?”

She flipped him the bird. “Money might not matter to you, but it means everything to me. You have no idea. I’m keeping it.”

He sighed in annoyance. “Just get out.”

“What?”

“Get out. Leave.” He said, turning to his other side.

“After I use the shower.” She replied.

Truthfully, he didn’t give a damn about the money. He’d already swiped Harding’s credit card and stashed him in the closet. She’d just made things easier. He had planned to make it look like a suicide attempt, but once he’d found out that Harding and Mickey and something going, it was easier to pin it on her. He’d already withdrawn all the cash he needed, so he stuck the card in her purse before she left.

Harding had it coming. Ever since the asshole showed up on weekends and late nights he seemed to always find a way onto Kenny’s bad side.

“You… hey, you! Blondie! Yeah, you!” He called until Kenny turned around. “You’re Dave’s boy, aren’t you?”

He suppressed the rage that name had conjured up. “Who?”

“Dave Johnson. I remember you. Haven’t seen you since that little… mishap you and what’s-his-name had.” He said, laughing a bit.

He had no idea who this man was, but already hated him. “My name’s Kenny. And I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” He replied, turning away.

Harding’s laughter echoed through the cheap motel and seemed to resonate in his mind. The paper-thin walls seemed to close in on him as he sat cross legged on the squeaky metal spring mattress. He felt panic as coldness delicately wrapped its arms around him. He never felt cold. His body began to shake. In response he gripped his arms tightly and forced the feeling into submission. Within moments, he was himself again. He could hear Harding’s voice from down the hall. He’d hired a whore and they were going at it now. Let him enjoy it, he thought with a small, devious grin.

He checked his funds… he supposed he could use this opportunity to ensure a bit of security.

He’d expected more of a fight from the old bastard. He was surprised at how quickly the old man went. He stashed the limp body in the decrepit closet and enjoyed a cigarette on Harding’s bed. All night, he listened to the sweet melody of the saxophone player beneath the window.

That’s what he’d do, he thought, smiling. He turned on the television and under “listening selections” he selected some classic jazz. The melody flooded the room. The lights seemed to glow brighter. The entire room was alive. He saw this and smiled as he took another drag.

There was a time, however long ago it was, when he would be wracked with guilt. He would have been overwhelmed with shame, seething at himself in reprimand for his actions. As he finished his cigarette, he was eased to find that he had no recollection of these times. No memory of the past, no concern for the future. He ran his hand through the mess of dirty blonde and sighed contentedly. He rolled to his side and tossed the newspaper to the floor with one last smile.