One night while home alone and quietly enjoying a drink and a cigar out on his rear balcony, a wealthy, successful businessman hears strange noises coming from inside his palatial estate—and, covertly investigating, discovers a lowly burglar desperately rummaging through his house…
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 of any of the stories in that collection…and, since it hasn’t been published 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!
Note: For anyone who may be interested, I’ve published more of my fiction under the category My Fiction.
“If you judge people, you have
no time to love them.”
~ Mother Teresa
Request Denied
by Rand Eastwood
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…
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