Request Denied: A Short Story

Request Denied was originally included in my dark fiction collection Rolling The Bones: 12 Tales of Life, Death, Loss, & Redemption, and surprisingly, it has probably spurred the most reader reaction…and since it hasn’t also been published independently as a Kindle single, I thought I’d publish it here, as another freebie (as I did with A Bearable Darkness of Being and Hell or High Water). So…enjoy!

“If you judge people, you have
no time to love them.”
~ Mother Teresa

Request Denied

    At first, I thought I was just hearing things.
    You know—you live in a big house, you’re alone, it’s getting late, and it’s dark outside…you hear things, am I right?
    But I live in Longwood Estates, a small, posh neighborhood that has an eight-foot stucco wall securing the borders and a manned security gate safeguarding the entrance—so it’s usually pretty quiet around here. Damn quiet, matter of fact. So when-ever I hear a strange noise—like, say, someone in my house, rummaging through my things—it tends to get my attention.
    Now, twenty years ago, when I was young and dead-broke, I would’ve thought I was probably just hearing things; I had nothing worth stealing, and the dump I lived in showed it.
    Hell, most crooks would have been scared to even approach the house I grew up in, in the neighborhood I grew up in. It really was that bad.
    But things are different now than they were back then. A whole lot different. Now, I own a successful landscaping com­pany. Greene Landscaping—that’s me, Dennis Greene—name lent itself nicely I suppose.
    What’s more, I’m a black man. Yep, that’s right—black man named Greene. Go figure, huh? And you should see the looks I get, when I meet prospective clients. You know they’re think­ing it, and wanna say something…but they never do. They just hire me, and I just go to work.
    Anyway, after nearly twenty years of bustin my ass, I’ve seen my share of success—like owning this half-million-dollar estate in such a nice neighborhood as Longwood, for in­stance. Half-acre lot, heated swimming pool with attached spa, cabana on the deck with a full wet bar, and my very own putting green on the back forty.
    I’m not ashamed of spoiling myself a little; I’ve worked hard to get where I am.
    Damn hard.
    Truth is, I’d even say I overbought; I’m single—never married—and now I have this great big place all to myself. It’s a huge three-story home, with lots of rooms to get lost in, lots of lonely echoes—and lots of strange sounds at night.
    In fact, because of all that, I recently considered selling the place, getting into something smaller. Maybe up in Summerlin. Or down in Henderson, I don’t know. So I called my realtor—Olivia Cook, the lady who helped me find this house—to do a little probing, get a feel for the market. But come to find out, she had retired. So the office referred me to another lady by the name of Jill. I spoke to her briefly, but evidently she’s new in town, not real familiar with the area, and seemed rather fraz­zled—and, quite frankly, rude and short with me when I spoke with her. I took that as a sign, and decided I’d stay put for now.
    I wished her a nice day, hung up, and that was that.
    So here I am.
    Then this evening, I was working late, up in the den on the second floor. I’ve been putting in long hours lately, because one of my foremen, José Vásquez, one of my best—good man, honest guy, hard worker, good head on his shoulders—sudden­ly left my employ. He was with me what? Eight years? At least that. Maybe more. His old man had a stroke, was laid up in a hospital in Chicago, and Vásquez went to help his mom take care of him. What I hear, she’s got her own share of problems: dia­betic, obese, and a bad ticker too. Already not managing things too well for herself, now she’s on her own, could sure use some help with his dad—if he makes it. And what I hear, they don’t know yet if he will. Either way, a bad situation.
    And, since José is their only child, it was a no-brainer.
    No notice, either; strokes don’t tend to give much advanced notice. His old man up and nearly died, and Vásquez up and left town to be with him and his mother.
    And I can respect that. In fact, after he told me what was up, I wished him my best as he hurried out of the office, trying to hide the worry that poured from every cell in his body—but everyone knew. You can’t hide something like that.
    God speed, José.
    So the last few weeks I’ve been filling in for him, running his crews rather than running the business, and I got behind on the books. And that’s not good. Without the books, you don’t know where you stand. You start to lose track of who you’ve paid, who you still owe, or how much (if any) you have left over. That’s important stuff—you got to know where the books are, you got to know where you stand. Otherwise, it all turns into one big, hot mess.
    That’s the way I run things, anyway.
    Tight ship.
    Tight books.
So, I was working late this evening, crunching away on my laptop up in the den, catching up the books.
    I should tell you that I don’t much like working in small spaces, or constricted areas. Never have. And that means pret­ty much anywhere indoors. That’s one reason I went into land­scaping; you work outdoors, soaking up the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air—instead of sitting in an office or cubical in some cold, dead building, breathing stale, recycled air while the fluo­rescent lights suck the very life out of you.
    Anyway, I had just showered, so was barefoot and robed, working away at my laptop, when I started getting that urge…the urge to be outside, to be free, to be away from—well, any­thing that restricts me, anything that feels like a box.
    Or a prison.
    Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore, so I got up, stepped over to the bar, opened the fridge with one hand and the liquor cabi­net beside it with the other, and set about fixing myself a stiff drink.
    Glass full, ice clinking, I returned to my desk, and sat the drink down just long enough to turn to the humidor—which I had strategically located against the wall behind the desk, just the other side of the big bay window—and gazed through the glass door for a moment, contemplating.
    My eyes came to rest on a Macanudo Ascot—a fine cigar in a light Connecticut shade wrapper, imported from the Do­minican Republic.
    Perfect.
    I yanked open the door and plucked it out.
    Turning back, I cut the cigar in my desktop guillotine, then snatched my lighter and cell phone up from the desk and dropped them into the pocket of my robe. I then folded the laptop, stuck it under my arm, retrieved my drink, and headed out of the den. On the way out, I leaned behind the unlatched side of the big double entry doors and jabbed the dimmer switch with my el­bow, plummeting the room into darkness.
    On the way back around, I managed to bump into the door that was hanging half-open in the dark, sending it squeaking on it’s hinges. It stopped a mere inch from closing altogether. (I’ve been meaning to WD-40 those hinges, just haven’t got around to it; been kinda busy lately). Careful not to spill my drink, I gently wriggled my toe into the crack between the doors, then pulled the loose door open with my foot just far enough to turn sideways and slip through—drink, laptop, and cigar all intact.
    I moved quietly down the hall, trotted up the stairs, strolled through the master bedroom, carefully backed my way through the french doors, and turned to step triumphantly out onto the rear balcony.
    Even though it’s outside, I still call this balcony my man cave…my favorite place to hang, especially at night. Secluded in the back of the house and all the way up on the third floor, I can look out to the east and see the distant galaxy of twinkling and flash­ing lights of the Las Vegas Strip—if the dust isn’t too bad, that is.
    And tonight, it wasn’t; the view was clear. I could even see the Luxor’s sky beam, forever shining deep into the night sky, as if fueling the multitude of stars, the enormous moon.
    With a warm breeze caressing my face and a host of unseen crickets serenading from below, I sat down at the small table I had stationed up there, carefully placed the Macanudo on the edge of the ashtray to the left, positioned my drink within easy reach to the right, opened my MacBook, rubbed my hands briskly together as it booted up—and got back to work.
    Just me, my laptop, a scotch on the rocks, and a fine cigar.
    I felt newly energized; it doesn’t get any better than this.
    So now the house was completely dark; if you didn’t know I was back there—three stories up, quietly crunching numbers, face cast in the faint blue-white glow of the computer, the or­ange glow of the Macanudo arcing back and forth in the dark­ness—you would’ve thought the house was empty, that nobody was home.
    And apparently, that’s exactly what the burglar thought.
    I had finished up last month’s books, and decided to take a break before plunging into this month, stopping for a moment to fully enjoy the Macanudo—which was exuding a wonderful aroma, having been stored at the perfect temperature and humidi­ty in the humidor.
    I smoked in silence. Only cricket song, and the soft clinking of ice against glass as a golden pool of Chivas Regal swirled about in the now-sweating rocks glass in my other hand.
    I didn’t mind that it dripped on my chest, cold and wet, each time I raised it to my lips; It was well worth it.
    Now, I don’t remember hearing anything unusual—no glass breaking, no door being kicked open, nothing like that. Didn’t notice any unusual traffic or suspicious vehicles creeping about the neighborhood, either (the security guards at the front gate do a pretty good job of keeping the non-essential traffic to a mini­mum).
    But something was wrong; I sensed it. Perhaps my subcon­scious had heard something that my conscience mind hadn’t, or couldn’t. Or maybe it was some kind of sixth sense, I don’t know. But whatever it was, I was suddenly acutely aware of it.
    I sat up and listened, straining to hear—straining to feel—gripping my glass close and motionless in front of me, holding the smoldering Macanudo out into the night—
    —and there it was again…faint in the night…vague, nearly inaudible…a distant rustling sound, a whisper of movement…down below me somewhere—
    —and so I honed in on the sound with all my senses, even held my breath as I listened…and then, suddenly, I realized what it was I was hearing: the muffled sound of someone rum­maging through drawers and closets, cabinets and chests—very quickly, very hurriedly—downstairs somewhere—in my house!
    Now, when you think you hear something like that, at first you don’t believe it; you doubt yourself. You figure you’re just hearing things, you’re just being paranoid—that whatever it is you think you hear is actually something else, something harm­less like noise from a forgotten TV set left on in another room, or the big American flag on the front of the house flapping in the cool night breeze, or your cat traipsing around somewhere or getting into something it’s not supposed to. Anything, as long as it’s not what you think it might be—cuz that’s too scary. You don’t even want to think about that, let alone experi­ence it.
    And besides—I don’t have a cat…
    But I couldn’t convince myself; I just knew it was a burglar. Had to be. Another thirty seconds of intent listening—the shuf­fling sound, the muffled sliding and banging of dresser drawers and cabinet doors—and I was sure of it. But then—when I heard something bounce once and then shatter on the floor somewhere, a muffled (shit!), then a length of silence, followed by the re­sumption of rummaging sounds—there was no doubt in my mind.
    Someone was in my house!
    If owning and operating your own business teaches you anything over the years, it’s not to panic. Ever. Cuz when you panic, you make bad decisions, and when you make too many bad decisions, the business struggles, or even goes bel­ly-up.
    So you shove the emotions way down deep somewhere, and you make strictly rational decisions based on spreadsheets and forecasts and market research. You deal best you can with the day, the people, the problems; keep yourself ground­ed, stay rooted in reality; keep an even keel, keep the emotions at bay.
    And if those emotions ever do threaten to surface, then simple: you wait till you get home, then drown them with a little scotch, smoke them out with a fine cigar.
    Then, try it again the next day.
    So when I realized I was being burglarized, my mind imme­diately switched over to what, when handling business, I like to call survival mode—that state of mind wherein I swallow all emotions and summons my rational mind to the forefront of the battle. That way, I’m better able to intellectually analyze the problem or situation, make the appropriate decisions, then take the necessary actions.
    The emotion of being robbed—and, realistically, my life ac­tually being in danger—was a big lump to swallow; but it went down okay with the last gulp of Chivas and the final drag of the Mac. Dropping the glowing butt into what was left of the ice with a quick sizzle, and discarding the tumbler onto the table, I made my decision.
    Now it was time to take action.
    Just then, I heard a door below me squeal in protest, as if being violated. That squeaky hinge on the big double entry doors to the den.
    He’s in the den.
    Good information to have.
    And it was perfect, too—because while the thief was busy pilfer­ing the den, I was able to tip-toe off the balcony and back into the master bedroom, quietly slide the lower nightstand drawer open, retrieve my loaded nine, click the safety off, and glide bare-footed and ghost-like across the hall and down the dark stairwell toward the den, weapon at the ready.
    Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I listened.
    Glancing into the kitchen to my left, I saw a cabinet door was hanging open. Below, a few feet away from the cabinet, my pepper grinder—or what was left of it—lying in shards on the floor, peppercorns scattered all over the granite tile, settling in the grout lines, drifting under the cabinets.
    To my right, the hallway. And I was right—the open side of the double-doors to the den was now noticeably further ajar than I had left it when I toed it open on my way out, so the bur­glar must have gone in there. But was he still there? Or had he moved on down the hallway to one of the spare bedrooms be­fore I got down here?
    I listened intently, but heard nothing. That made me ner­vous; my intention was for me to surprise him, not the other way around. But that was when I thought I knew where was; now I’m not so sure.
    As I stood in the darkness listening, I thought I heard a sound waft down the hallway from one of the bedrooms on that end. Holding my breath, I turned and listened in that direction for more. Sure enough, I heard the distant, magnetic click! of a medicine cabinet being opened. Only one of those two bed­rooms had an attached bathroom, so I once again knew where he had to be.
    Crouching slightly, I tip-toed quickly down the hallway, stopping just short of the open bedroom door on the left, the one with the bathroom. I raised the gun to shoulder height, pointing the barrel upward toward the ceiling. Then, tilting my head, I leaned slowly into the open doorway, peering into the room with one eye.
    My stomach tightened when I saw him, sharply silhouetted in front of the moonlit window on the far side of the room. The bed sat against the wall to my left, and he had apparently just left the bathroom to my right and was walking in front of the window, on the other side of the bed, to the nightstand in the far corner.
    He was tall and slender, and was carrying a bag of some sort—in the darkness, it looked like maybe a backpack—which was obviously weighted down with whatever he had found of mine that was valuable enough, and small enough, to shove in there.
    He had no idea I was there; I needed to act quickly, main­tain the advantage of surprise.
    As he bent and opened the lower nightstand drawer, I stepped silently into the room, and pointed my gun at him. But then I paused; I was in one corner of the room, and he was in the opposite corner diagonally from me, maybe thirty feet—and I thought the distance might be a problem. I’ve practiced a little at the firing range, but I’m no marksman by any stretch. Something goes wrong—anything at all—chances are I could miss him from here, and who knows what happens after that.
    So I decided to move a little closer while I had the chance.
    Stepping sideways, I glided along the wall, this side of the bed, until I reached the night stand on this side. Shorter dis­tance now—maybe ten feet, twelve—much better.
    As he gently slid the bottom drawer of the opposite night­stand shut and proceeded to the upper drawer, I aimed the gun at him, reached over to the lamp on the night­stand next to me, flicked it on, and shouted “Freeze, assho—”
    But the instant the light came on, he turned to me—a young black man—and before I could even get the words out of my mouth, with both hands he flung his backpack at me, hard.
    It sailed over the bed toward me at face level. I barely had time to duck, raising my free hand to shield my face. At the same time, I desperately fired a blind shot—
    POW!
    —but he had already leaped to the end of the bed in one stride, heading in the direction the door; by the tinkling sound of broken glass, I knew the bullet had missed him, shattering the window behind him instead.
    As the backpack struck the wall behind me and dropped to the floor with an assortment of rattles and clinks, he darted along the end of the bed toward the door. I tried to follow him with my flailing pistol—haphazardly, as I was now squatting and unbalanced from ducking the bag—but for a split-second I caught him within the sites, and again pulled the trigger—
    POW!
    —but just then he dove outward, toward the doorway, a small hole appearing in the wall behind him, the drywall emit­ting a small puff of white powder. The young man plummeted to the floor just past the foot of the bed, well short of es­cape.
    Laying face down on the floor, he stopped trying to flee, and instead yanked both hands up, folding them over the back of his head in surrender.
    Or perhaps self-preservation.
    Keeping the gun trained on him, I quickly stepped over by the door, flicked on the overhead lights, then quickly stepped back, keeping enough room between us that he couldn’t reach me if he suddenly decided to go for it.
    “Turn over,” I ordered in my best I-mean-business voice.
    Without a word, and keeping his hands locked behind his head, he rolled over and gazed up at me. In the light, I could now see how young he really was. Eighteen, nineteen…maybe twenty, tops. His clothes were dirty and worn, holes torn in the knees of his jeans, his untucked shirttail hanging threadbare and tattered. Sneakers filthy and falling apart. Dressed as he was, I wondered if he was homeless, or a tran­sient. And as I assessed his condition, I found it somewhat un­nerving the way the boy just lay there, looking up at me, wait­ing, almost like a child. For a moment I almost felt sorry for him. But then the anger and outrage of being burglarized, of being violated, of being forcibly thrust into such a harrowing situation took over, powered by a surge of adrenaline.
    The heat of anger burned in my face.
    “I should shoot you right where you lay,” I hissed at him.
    He just looked up at me with empty eyes. “Go ahead,” he said apathetically. Then he shrugged. “I don’t give a fuck.”
    “What? You don’t give a fuck? You don’t care if you live or die?” I asked, bewildered.
    “No. Why should I?”
    Looking down at him, I saw there was no spark in his eyes, no life, no enthusiasm in his face. And no emotion whatsoever in his voice, either; deadpan. I could tell he wasn’t bluffing—he honestly didn’t care if I shot him dead, right then and there.
    This took me somewhat aback; I wasn’t expecting such an apathetic response. I stood silently for a moment, trying to de­cide what to say, what to do, pondered this young man lying on the floor before me, having just risked his life, provoked me to shoot at him—and I very well could have killed him—all for petty theft? How can this be? How had he come to this? Where did his life go wrong?
    I mean, I was once poor, uneducated, and desperate, just like him—but I turned it around; I educated myself, worked hard, seized opportunities. I changed the circumstances of my upbringing, and built a better life for myself. But here lay a young man, probably facing much the same circumstances that I faced when I was his age, and yet he’s done nothing at all with himself—instead, he turned to crime. And now he doesn’t care one way or another whether he lives or dies.
    To me, this was unacceptable.
    Gun still trained on him, I asked, “How’d you get in here? Past the gate…the guards?”
    He chuckled. “Shit, easy. Just climb the tree, bro.”
    “Tree?”
    He motioned outside with a jerk of his head. “Other side of the wall, on Morris Street. Big tree, right next to the bus stop, branches hang out over the wall. Just grab me a branch, climb up, and jump over.”
    “And nobody saw you?”
    “Shit…do it all the time…nobody ever seen me.”
    “All the time? So I’m not the first one you’ve robbed in this neighborhood?”
    He didn’t answer this time, just shook his head.
    “Great. So you can get past security. But how’d you get into my house, without me knowing? I’ve been home all evening.”
    He shrugged again. “Your garage door hangin open.”
    I nodded slightly, realizing that once again, I must have ne­glected to punch the garage door button on my way into the house when I got home from work. I do forget occasionally, find the door standing wide open next morning, kick myself…then do it again a few days later. Just one of those things.
    Okay, so that explains how he got past security, how he got into my house. But I wanted to know more.
    I wanted to know why.
    “Why the hell do you do this? Break into people’s homes like this? Steal from people?”
    “Shit, what else am I sposta do?”
    “Try getting a job, like everyone else.”
    Finally, he broke eye contact with me, looked up at the ceil­ing. “Shit,” he scoffed. Then he looked back at me. “Nobody hirin these days, conomy like it is. Specially niggas like me…watchu thinkin?” He looked back to the ceiling and chuckled again, shaking his head like he thought I was crazy.
    “Case you haven’t noticed, I’m black—and people hire me all the time. I’ve got so much work I can hardly keep up. Being black has nothing to do with it.”
    He actually guffawed at this, then dropped the smile and turned back to me. “You a rich nigga, though—and, case you haven’t noticed—”
    —he said it mockingly—
    “—you dress—and talk—like a whitey…that’s a whole lot dif­ferent’n bein a poor nigga, look, dress and talk like you from the hood. Nobody gonna hire a nigga from the hood.”
    “Now that’s not true, and you know it. You’re just making excuses. You don’t even wanna try. Hate to think you might have to work at it—just want everything handed to you…like a welfare check.”
    He turned away, looked at the far wall, spoke quietly.
    “Shit…you don’t even know whatchu talkin bout.”
    “What about your parents, huh? They’re black, aren’t they? Don’t they work? Have jobs?”
    He let go a long, heavy sigh. Still facing away, he said to the far wall: “Parents? Shit, I don’t even know who my daddy is…left when I was a baby. And Momma? When the welfare run out—and it always run out—she hookin, mostly. Good money, from what I seen—cash money—but she so whacked out on booze and drugs all the time, that money don’t last long either. And sides, she gone most the time anyhow. Don’t even know where usually.”
    He turned back to me, looked me in the eye.
    “So most the time, it’s up to me to feed the kids.”
    “Kids? So you’ve got kids too?”
    Christ.
    “Not my kids, my Momma’s. I got three brothers—two are half-brothers, from a different dad—and two half-sisters, from another dad I think, not sure though, don’t remember, I’s pretty young back then. But they all younger than me, so, being the oldest, I gotta look out for ’em. No one else around to do it—shit, Momma sure as hell ain’t.” He shrugged again. “So I got no choice…I gotta take what I can, when I can.”
    “You mean steal. Burglarize. Break the law, commit crimes, victimize people who never harmed you in any way, people who don’t owe you anything.”
    He shrugged. “I do what I gots to do, same’s everyone else. Same’s you.”
    As I was pondering this, he asked, rather flippantly: “So you gonna shoot me now or what?”
    The young man honestly didn’t care.
    I needed to end this, and soon. I had a lot of work to do. The books don’t do themselves—I learned that the hard way.
    And then, thinking about the work, the books, the business, I remembered about Vásquez, about his old man laid up in Chicago, and about the whole reason I was working late tonight in the first place, why I needed to get back to it—and suddenly, I had an idea; a way to end this situation with­out sending this young man to prison, just making him a burden on society and wasting tax dollars for years to come. Doing that wouldn’t help anybody—not him, not me, and certainly not the taxpay­ers.
    No, there was another way.
    And suddenly, I wanted this young man to want to live.
    “What’s your name, kid?”
    He hesitated for a moment, then answered: “Jamal…Jamal Bryant…most folks just call me J.B.”
    “Well, Jamal—J.B.—you know anything about landscaping? Lawn care?”
    He frowned. “Why you ask?”
    “Do you?” I pressed.
    “Yeah, some, I s’pose. Mostly just engines though.”
    “Engines?”
    “Small engines, like on lawn mowers…weed-eaters…chain­saws and shit. I fix ’em. People bring ’em to me from round the neighborhood, and I work on ’em, can fix ’em usually. Make a little cash on the side—not much, you know, but a little. Helps out some.”
    “Where’d you learn to do that? Fix engines?”
    He shrugged. “Just come to me, I guess. Folks say I just got a knack for it. Say I’m a natural or some shit. Don’t know really.”
    He unlocked his fingers from behind his head and held his hands up in the air like he was holding something in­visible, turning it this way and that as if inspecting it.
“Way they work, just makes sense to me. I look at ’em, I see what’s broke, what ain’t right, and I fix it. Usually, anyway.”
He put his hands down on his chest, interlocked his fingers, looked back at me, and shrugged.
    “Always been kinda easy, really.”
    I felt a twinge of success; this could work…could play right into my idea. I lowered the gun. He followed it with his eyes, then looked back up at me.
    “J.B., do you know who I am?”
    “Nope.”
    “Dennis Greene. I own Greene Landscaping.”
    At this, his eyes actually lit up a little. “Hey—I seen your trucks around—white, with trees painted on the sides…pullin those big green and black trailers.”
    “That’s right, those are mine. And recently, I lost a man. Left my employ. A foreman, and a good one at that. So now I’m looking to replace him. And if I move up one of my other guys—promote a crewman—then I’ll still be short a man in the field. So I’ll need to hire someone onto the crew. A newbie.”
    He still just stared at me, but at least he looked a little inter­ested—I saw it in his eyes.
    I looked down, shook my head, and sighed with the weight of the decision. Then I looked back to him.
    “You’d have to start at the bottom, of course. Low man on the totem pole. And it’s hard work. Crewman work—outside, dirty, in the desert heat—but if you work hard, learn the trade, prove yourself, I could keep you on indefinitely. And I could sure use someone who can fix small engines—especially in the field, on the fly.”
    His eyes widened.
    “You offerin me a job? Workin for you?”
    “Yes I am. I’m willing to give you a chance, but only if you want it. Hell, down the road, you could even work your way up to Crew Leader. Maybe even Foreman some day, if you’re good enough. But you gotta want it. I don’t run a charity. And I despise deadbeats. Slackers don’t last a day with me.”
    His eyes left mine, and he just laid there, looking at the ceil­ing now, still frowning, like he just couldn’t grasp what I was saying, what I was offering. Then he looked back at me, squint­ing with suspicion.
    “You serious? You mean a real job? Like…get paid and shit?” He said it in disbelief, like the whole idea was some sort of fan­tasy to him, an impossibility. Or like he thought he was getting scammed somehow.
    I nodded. “Yes, a real job. A real paycheck, every week.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit. Start at say, ten bucks an hour? Twelve after six months, you prove yourself. Health insurance kicks in after one year—it’s a small benefits package, but at least it’s some­thing. Has optional vision and dental too. And I could pay you separately for engine repairs, if you’re really as good as you say. That pays by the job, depends on what all’s involved. But it’s usually pretty good money. I pay top dollar for good work.”
    I saw it happen. I saw the lights come on in his eyes.
    He actually began to smile.
    “Oh, I’m good alright!” he boasted. “Ain’t nuttin go wrong with a engine I can’t fix. Usually, anyways.”
    “So what do you say? We got a deal?”
    “So you ain’t gonna turn me in? For bustin into your crib?”
    “Nope. You come to work for me, and we’ll call it even. You help me, I’ll help you.”
    Then I looked over at the window and the wall.
    “However, you will be installing a new glass window pane in here, and repairing and painting that wall. And the cost of those re­pairs will come out of your first check. But no, I don’t plan to send you to jail tonight.”
    He hesitated, looked at the ceiling, frowned again. Bit his lip, like he was contemplating the biggest decision of his life.
    “Come on,” I prodded. “What do you got to lose?”
    He turned back to me, smiled hugely, and his eyes lit up, as he made the decision. “Okay. You got yourself a deal. I’ll take the job, come work for you!”
    It was working; his whole attitude was changing, right before my eyes. He was starting to want to live.
    And that’s what I wanted to see.
    I smiled.
    “Good. Now on your feet, Jamal.”
    The young man sat up, gathered his feet under him, then stood. I watched him unfold toward the ceiling, and was sur­prised. Looking up at him now, I realized for the first time he must be at least six-five, six-six. Towering, he turned to me, fid­geting a bit, not sure what to do next.
    Looking up at him, I instructed: “You’ll start Monday, if you really want the job. You sure you want the job? Like I said, you gotta want it. I don’t tolerate deadbeats. Can’t. Not in my line of work.”
    He smiled and nodded. “Yes sir, I do.”
    “Good. That’s good.” I nodded. Then I stepped closer to him—we were now only only about five feet apart—and we stood smiling at each other.
    “So, how’s it feel?” I asked through my grin. “To have a real job? A fair shot at life, a chance to prove yourself, to improve your circum­stances?”
    He was smiling hugely now, so excited he could barely stand still. He fidgeted, rubbed his hands together, looked around the room, like he didn’t know what to do, how to act.
    “Don’t know…don’t think I ever felt this way before…feels good, though, I can tell ya that!” He smiled at me, all teeth, eyes gleaming.
    “Well, I’m glad. That’s good. It’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” I replied, nodding my head in approval. But I had one more question. Looking him directly in the eye, I asked:
    “So tell me…now do you want to live?”
    “Yessir, I do!” he replied, nodding eagerly. “I want to live!”
    I raised the nine and pointed it directly at his chest.
    Eyes widening, he immediately stopped fidgeting and went completely still, staring at the gun before him.
    “Request denied,” I said sternly, and pulled the trigger.
    The first bullet went clean through him, and I grimaced when I saw a small spider-webbed hole appear in the antique mirror above the dresser behind him, the glass surface sprayed red with a fine mist of blood. I thought quickly of Rudy—
    —antiques dealer in town, good man, knows his shit, maybe he can repair it—
    —as the young man looked down at his chest in disbelief, watching as blood began to pour from a hole in his shirt just be­low his heart. Then I thought of the hardwood floor—
    —custom-built, hand-laid white oak…will his blood ruin it? Stain it? If it gets into the grain, it’ll probably never come out—
    —and knew I needed to act quickly.
    With one wide side-step I brushed past the corner of the bed and over to his other side, which positioned him directly between myself and the open bathroom door. This time, I was careful to point the gun directly at the center of his chest, his sternum. As he slowly looked back up at me, mouth agape, I fired again.
    And this time, the bullet struck solid—picked him up and flung him backward into the bathroom, where he collapsed on the tile floor in front of the tub.
    I looked down at the bedroom floor, noted a few spots of blood, but not bad—
    —Florence can probably clean that up, she’s the best house­keeper I’ve ever had—if she can’t do it, nobody can—
    —then, dropping the gun to my side, I walked to the bath­room door, reached in, flicked on the light. He was on his back, head against the tub, neck bent downward, pressing his chin to his blood-soaked chest. Spread eagle, eyes open, lifeless.
    As I stood looking over his body, urine began creeping out from under him, running silently along the grout lines.
    I nodded in satisfaction. Good move on my part; at least I know the tub and tile won’t stain.
    I stepped back, set the gun on the dresser, and fished my cell phone out of the pocket of my robe. I was already dreading the calls I was going to have to make. Rudy, the an­tiques guy—
    —do I have his home number? Think so—
    —and Florence, my housekeeper—
    —she’ll have to come in right away, clean this floor up before the blood dries—
    Oh—and I suppose I should call security, let them know that I’ve shot an intruder in my home. And, while I’m at it, I should let them know in no uncertain terms how displeased I am with their incompetence, allowing petty thieves like this to just climb over the neighborhood security wall and walk into people’s homes, right under their noses…I mean, why do we pay those outrageous HOA fees every month? Their inflated salaries? For this?
     Shaking my head in disgust, I brought up my contact list, scrolled down, and tapped Longwood Security Office.
            •
    So by now you’re probably wondering why I did it—why I told this kid I’d let him off the hook for burglarizing my home, and instead offered him a job—but then shot him anyway.
    Well, it’s real simple: You see, I wanted that deadbeat to want to live, before I killed the motherfucker.

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