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Angelus · (08-21-2013)

The Gnawing
Part 4: "Conclusion"

The copy center was closed Saturdays and Sundays. Saturday afternoon Anj called Rosenfeld at home and asked him if he felt like going for a ride. "I'll pick you up," he offered.

When he got there Rosenfeld was waiting out in front. He got in and fastened his seat belt. "Nice car," he said.

"It's a rental."

"I didn't figure you drove your own car all the way out here. You know, it gave me a turn. When you said, 'How about going for a ride?' You know, going for a ride. Like there's a connotation."

"Actually," Anj said, "we probably should have taken your car. I figured you could show me the area."

"You like it here, huh?"

"Very much," Anj said. "I've been thinking. Suppose I just stayed here."

"Wouldn't they send somebody else?"

"You think so? I don't know. They weren't really trying to knock themselves over trying to find you. At first, sure, but then you were on the back-burner. It wasn't until some hot head in San Francisco happened to spot you and the whole thing starts up again."

"Caught up in the lure of Roslindale?" Rosenfeld asked quietly.

"I don't know, Gary, it's not a bad place. You know, I'm going to stop that."

"What?"

"Calling you Gary. Your name's Walt now, so why don't I call you Walt? What do you think, Walt? That sound good to you, Walt, old buddy?"

"And what do I call you?"

"Peter is fine," Anj said. "What should I do, take a left here?"

"No, go another block or two," Rosenfeld said. "There's a nice back road, leads through some very pretty scenery."

A while later Anj said, "You miss it much, Walt?"

"Working back east you mean?"

"No, the city."

"Boston? I never lived right in the city, not really. We were outliers."

"Still, the whole area. You miss it?"

"No."

"I wonder if I would." They fell silent, and after perhaps five minutes Anj said, "My father was a solider, he was killed in the war when I was just a boy. We had a dog then that used to keep me company. Name was Duke. Hence the name in the ad."

Rosenfeld didn't say anything.

"Except I think my mother was lying," he went on. "I don't think she was married, and I have a feeling she didn't know who my father was. But damn, I sure remember that dog all right."

Sunday he stayed in the room and watching wrestling on television. The Mexican place was closed and he grabbed some food instead from the pizzeria on the corner of main street. Monday at noon he was back at the Mexican Cafe. He had the newspaper with him, and he ordered the same thing he'd ordered the first time, chicken enchiladas.

When the waitress brought coffee afterward, he asked her, "When's the wedding?"

She looked utterly blank. "The wedding," he repeated, and pointed at the ring on her finger.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, I'm not engaged or anything. The ring was my mom's from her first marriage. She never wears it, so I asked could I wear it, and she said it was all right. I used to wear it on the other hand, but it fits better here."

He felt curiously angry, as though she'd betrayed the fantasy he's pun out for her. He left the same tip he always left and took a long walk around town, gazing in the windows, wandering up one street and down the next.

He thought, Well YOU could marry her. She's already got the engagement ring. Walt will print the invitations, except who would you invite?

And the two of you could get a house with a fenced yard, and buy a dog.

Yeah. Fucking. Right.

I like to call this segment Anj's final thoughts.

Today we're talking about a very deluded man named Troy Turner.

What happened, Troy?

First you run your mouth with your little camera crews about how you're going to be taking this match on Warfare and you're calling me inconsistent and telling me that I'm not worth shit.

Then I call you out on your bullshit and now songbird you're singing a different tune.

Now you're telling me you respect me?

That you know how great I truly am?

That I never take work off and I'm the fucking man?

Well, you're right, but Troy, it sounds like you're backpedaling.

Maybe that so-called confidence you have in yourself is fading.

Bitter old veteran?

Please. I'm in the best physical and mental shape of my life.

But what I think you missed the point on is I HAVE been here awhile and I've seen every wannabe hotshot like you spouting the same garbage about being the best and how he's going to take the federation by storm.

But they've all failed, Troy.

That's what I'm trying to tell you. Even the guys I came up with who were trying to overlook me, they failed.

Are you good? Probably.

Will it make a difference on Warfare? No.

Congratulations though, you made it up the card. Let's throw a damn party for you, Troy. You willed yourself past ONE opponent and management decided to give you a shot. Anyone else here give a shit?

By the way Troy, how'd things fare for you on Madness?

I bet that's sticking in your craw a bit, huh?

If you can't even get passed Hunter Payne how in the world do you think you're going to take me out?

But don't worry I'll still make sure to wipe my boots off before I enter 'your house'

Just don't be surprised when it falls down around you.

At dinnertime he didn't know what to do. He didn't want to go back to the Mexican cafe but he felt perversely disinclined to go anywhere else. One more Mexican meal, he thought, and he'd wish he had the gun back, so he could shoot himself.

He called Rosenfeld at home. "Look," he said, "this is important. Could you meet me at your shop?"

"When?"

"As soon as you can."

"We just sat down for dinner."

"Well, don't ruin your meal," Anj said. "What is it, seven-thirty? How about you meet me in an hour?"

He was waiting in the doorway of the copy center when Rosenfeld parked the Honda in front of his shop. "I didn't want to disturb you," he said, "but I had an idea. Can you open up? I want to see something inside."

Rosenfeld unlocked the door and they went in. Anj kept talking to him, saying he figured out a way he could stay in Roslindale and not worry about the ramifications. "This machine you got," he said, pointing to one of the copiers. "How does it work?"

"How does it work?"

"What does the switch do?"

"This one?"

Rosenfeld leaned forward and Anj drew the loop of wire from his pocket and whipped it around the other man's neck. The garrote was fast, silent, effective. Anj made sure Rosenfeld's body was where you couldn't see it from the street, made sure to wipe his own prints off any surfaces he might have touched. He turned off the lights, closed the door behind him.

He'd already checked out of the motel, and now he drove a straight line to Seattle, with the Ford's cruise control set just below the speed limit. He drove half an hour in silence, then turned on the radio and tried to find a station he could stand. Nothing pleased him and he gave up and switched it off.

Somewhere north of the city he said, "Jesus, Walt, what else was I going to do? You hurt my sister I had no choice."

He drove straight through the next town and got a room at a Holiday Inn near the airport. In the morning, he turned the car into Hertz and dawdled over coffee until his flight was called.

He called back east. "It's all taken care of," he said. "I'll come by sometime tomorrow. Right now I just want to get home and go to sleep."

A few days later he was going through his pockets before taking some clothes to the cleaners. He found the Roslindale street map and pored over it, remembering where everything was. The copy center, the Rite Aide, the Mexican cafe. The gun shop. Rosenfeld's house.

Seemed so long ago, he thought. So long ago, so far away.

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[Image: tumblr_mqqvzknQVi1rj4ls1o3_500.gif]

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