Kill Me (5 page)

“You said, ‘business.’ What kind of guy are you talking about, Jimmy?”

“A guy who’ll do what you said on the mountain.” He paused long enough for me to catch up, and recognized the look of mild shock that was settling on my face, before he whispered, “That’s right, kill you. Arrange for your death. If you get seriously sick, like Connie. Or if there’s an accident and something happens like what just happened to Antonio.”

“Kill me?” I said.

“It’s a business. Think of it as an insurance company.” He laughed nervously. “Hey, I know my insurance, right?”

“They do this for … money?” For some reason the thought resonated with me at a number of profound levels. I found myself locked in a series of short exhales, totally neglecting the biological imperative to inhale in between. Part of me was shocked at the concept of what Jimmy was telling me, and part of me — not the most appealing part, I admit — was busy applauding the entrepreneurial imagination inherent in starting such an undertaking.

Grant suddenly stepped up and filled the space between Jimmy and me. Grant was a tall, light-skinned African American; he had to stoop way over to maneuver in the plane. “We can move the game down here if you guys want to play,” Grant said. To me, more than to Jimmy, he added, “I think those two knuckleheads are finally starting to get the hang of it. I keep telling them to think hearts, think hearts.”

I remembered to suck some air into my lungs before I tried to speak again. I said, “It’s all right, Grant. I think I’m just going to rest down here. I’m pretty sore. I don’t think I’d be much fun. Anyway, I’d be at a disadvantage with all the narcotics I’m on.”

Jimmy stood up. “I’ll join you guys, Grant. Deal me in for the next hand. I’ll be down there in a second.”

Once Grant had returned to the table in the rear of the plane, I said, “Did he really say ‘knuckleheads’?”

Jimmy leaned over so that he was close enough that I could smell the vodka on his breath. He lowered his voice and said, “I think I can get you an introduction. With the guy. Or the guy’s guy. If that’s what you’d like, of course. If you were serious before — about what you said.”

I tried to act cool, cooler than I was feeling. The Percocet was helping my act. “You weren’t pulling my leg? There are really people who do that? Who have a business?”

“Come on. I wouldn’t joke about this.”

“But it’s a business?”

He lowered his voice even further. “Yes. A quiet business. Okay? Very, very hush-hush. It’s not listed on NASDAQ. They don’t have a Web site.”

I appreciated that clarification; the web address was going to be my next question.

“I guess it would have to be a quiet business,” I said. The ramifications of the enterprise were only beginning to become clear. “Sounds felonious.”

“Of course it’s felonious. We’re talking about you hiring somebody to kill you. From a legal point of view, it’s no different than hiring somebody to kill someone else. No different.” He touched my good arm. “You can’t tell anybody I’ve told you this. I’ll deny it. I’m actually supposed to get permission before I … pass the word to a new guy.”

“Tell me again, how do you know about … somebody like whomever you’re talking about? Where did you —”

“El. Toward the end, when we learned that she was … terminal, an institutional liability guy I do business with in New York — a sweet guy — heard about what was going on, called me and offered to put me in touch with somebody. This liability guy, both his parents have Alzheimer’s. And his older sister already has early signs herself even though she’s only fifty. Fifty? Can you believe it? Although he’s never said, I think he’s already a … client of these people. He’s terrified of his genetic predisposition and he doesn’t want to end up like the rest of his family.”

Jimmy watched my face for evidence that I’d digested what he said before he added, “This is all word of mouth. Only by introduction. You have to know somebody who knows somebody to make contact with the guy. There are no business cards. No shingle, no brass plaque. No e-mail records.”

“Referrals,” I said, trying to find a mundane way to conceptualize what was so far from mundane.

“Yes,” he said, relieved that I seemed to get it. “Only by referral. If you’re interested, they’ll check you out before they contact you.”

“Did you … have you …?” I asked. Despite my total lack of eloquence, he knew what I was asking.

“That’s not something you’re supposed to … talk about. You have to promise not to talk about it. Whether you decide to buy in, or not, you have to agree to keep the whole thing secret right from the start. Discretion? I’m sure you understand, right? These people can’t operate with any kind of daylight.” Almost in exasperation, he tagged on, “Me? I’m a single parent with young kids. My options about the future are limited. I pretty much have to catch the ball I’m thrown and run with it.”

“Ah,” I said, feigning that I understood what he meant by that metaphor. But I didn’t understand. Not exactly. “Jimmy, have breakfast with me tomorrow when my head’s a little clearer. I’d like to hear some more about … the guy.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He took a step away. I said, “El didn’t …? Did she?”

“No,” he said instantly. “She wouldn’t have. God, El never would have.” He shook his head as though he’d revisited the possibility that very instant and had reconvinced himself. “No, never.”

“But you think I would?”

“If you’re offended that I brought this up, please forget I said a thing, and accept my most profound apology. I heard what you were saying on that mountain. Your reaction to Antonio’s … situation. The fall you took. You sounded sincere. I’m trying to be a friend, that’s all. If I’ve upset you with any of this …”

Jimmy turned away toward the galley, and the vodka.

“Wait,” I said. He stopped and faced me. I said, “It’s too late for Antonio? To get an introduction?”

“With the guy?” he asked.

I nodded.

His eyes looked sad. “For Antonio, last month, or the month before, would’ve been better. A lot better.”

NINE

Jimmy Lee and I had breakfast the next morning at Sandy’s Sunshine Kitchen in Ridgway. We had stumbled out of bed without waking the others and he had driven us down the hill to town. My first act upon getting out of bed had been to grab the Percocets I’d brought home from Canada. Driving wasn’t an option for me.

Ridgway, Colorado, has enough Old West charm that it has been used as the backdrop for classic Hollywood westerns. It has enough small town flavor to be a great place to live. The only people in the café at seven-oh-something that morning were Jimmy and me, some construction workers, and a table of ranchers who were taking a break from a workday that had, no doubt, started long before. A surly waitress who was usually as pleasant as the sunrise was stalking the territory behind the counter, and the typically even-tempered short-order guy at the griddle seemed to perceive every ticket she stuck on his spindle as a personal insult.

Thea had filled me in on the local gossip that the waitress was dating the cook’s brother. Given the tension, I suspected things were in a down phase for the couple, romantically speaking.

Despite the fact that I hurt in ways and in places that were not only novel but incredibly distracting, I found myself looking at Jimmy Lee’s proposal of the day before dispassionately. Before the plane landed that night I’d come to the conclusion that what Jimmy was offering for my consideration fell into the general category of risk management, and that the proposal was worthy of some deliberation.

When I was younger, and much poorer, I owned disability insurance — quite a bit of it. And when I was younger, and much poorer, I owned life insurance — a healthy chunk of it. Millions of dollars’ worth at one point. My company owned an even bigger policy insuring my life. For them, I was a “key man.” I remember that I liked the sound of it at the time.

Key man.

Even now that I had the personal financial resources to insulate myself and my family against the monetary consequences of serious injury, chronic illness, or death, I nevertheless took time out every few years to sit down with my posse of trust-and-estates lawyers and my financial managers to make doubly sure that the cascade of wills and trusts and tax-free or tax-deferred investment vehicles that had been set up to protect my heirs’ financial solvency for the generation-skipping future were all in tip-top shape.

Responsible adults take care of unpleasant things. Ninety-eight-plus percent of my life I masqueraded as a responsible adult. The other two percent? Well, witness the Bugaboos. But I took some odd pride in the fact that I routinely jumped through almost all the distasteful hoops that were required so that I could proudly carry the membership card for the Esteemed Society of Grown-ups.

The grown-up gold standard? I was at an age where I annually allowed a relative stranger to stick a finger in my ass to palpate my prostate. Everything else I did to act grown up was measured on that simple scale.

Was whatever someone wanted to do to me worse than a prostate exam? If it wasn’t, I considered it a piece of cake. If it was, I considered my cooperation serious evidence of my maturity.

A true badge of grown-up honor.

Following through on Jimmy Lee’s suggestion about “the guy” he knew? Where did that stand?

It was clear that the particular brand of insurance Jimmy was suggesting that I consider was going to cost me more than a few bucks, but I had more money than I would ever need, and had already spent an inordinate amount of it with attorneys and accountants and tax planners and charitable trust advisors mapping out what was going to happen to our wealth after Thea and I died, so I knew money wasn’t going to be the deciding factor.

It was also clear that further exploration of Jimmy Lee’s invitation was going to cause me to think, at least momentarily, about some things — Antonio lying comatose and brain damaged was very much on my mind that morning; my brother, Connie, deteriorating in Connecticut was never far from it — that in a perfect world I’d prefer not to have to think about.

But, as I said, money wasn’t an issue, and I was already thinking about Antonio and Marilyn and Connie anyway.

In the end, I decided to go forward after concluding that what Jimmy Lee was proposing wasn’t any worse than a prostate exam.

Remember, I never said I was a genius.

I only said I was rich.

One of Jimmy’s few flaws? He drank Coca-Cola with breakfast. Jimmy knew that it wasn’t a vice that someone of his social position could get away with in polite company in many of the places that he tended to hang out, so he only risked it when he was pretty convinced he wouldn’t be spotted. A weekday morning breakfast at dawn in a locals’ café in Ridgway was a pretty safe bet. But Sandy’s Sunshine was no greasy spoon — think honey, not high fructose corn syrup — and his request for a dawn cola fix earned him a raised eyebrow from the waitress who was not her usual nonjudgmental self. As soon as she delivered the Coke, he poured it into a heavy ceramic coffee mug and gave the empty back to her.

To me, it looked like he’d dropped some Alka-Seltzer into a cup of Sanka.

He sipped once at his odd morning brew as though it was too hot to gulp, and said, “No one would ever know if you decided to sign up. They guarantee that. They realize that it’s crucial that your family, in particular, will never know that you arranged your own death. In that sense, it’s a whole lot better than suicide.”

Jimmy was answering a crucial question I’d already been mulling. A deal-killing question. Could I keep Thea from ever —
ever
— knowing that I’d signed up?

“Yes, you can,” Jimmy said. “That’s what makes it better than suicide.”

“I don’t get it. What makes it better than suicide?” I asked.

He sighed. “With suicide — if you get sick, and then kill yourself — everyone, of course, knows who the victim is. Problem is that everyone also knows who the perpetrator was. People make judgments about those things. It’s human nature.”

Quitter. Coward,
I thought. Those kinds of judgments.

Jimmy went on. “The other problem … is that before you know it you might be too sick, or too badly injured, to kill yourself. Like Antonio.”

Yes, Antonio.
“I could just buy a house someplace in Oregon,” I said. “The coast is nice. Assisted suicide is legal there. Get some compassionate doc to do me in with an IV of some special good-bye cocktail.”

“Sorry. Oregon’s an option only if your condition is certified terminal. Antonio, God bless him, doesn’t appear to be terminal. If he lived in Eugene or Portland, he wouldn’t qualify. I’m not even sure if Connie’s situation would qualify if he lived in Oregon. I’d have to review the law on that. Regardless, it’s a viable option only if you’re willing for your family to know that you decided to check out rather than to fight. Are you willing for Thea to know that about you?”

“No.” I didn’t even have to think about it. Ironically, the words that jogged through my head next were
she’d kill me
. “God no.”

“If El had ever found out that I was thinking of quitting early on her and the kids? I don’t even want to think about it. If she were still alive … Even now, I bet she’d come down from heaven and …”

“Not to mention the message it would send to the kids,” I said.

“Not to mention that,” Jimmy agreed.

“So, with this guy — these guys, whatever — my demise would look … what, accidental?”

Jimmy said, “Exactly. They keep their end of the bargain by creating the appearance of an accidental death. The how is up to them. Your family will not suspect a thing. You won’t ever know when the end is coming, or how the end is coming. They plan it. They take care of it. They promise sudden. They aim for painless.”

“That’s sweet.”

He made an exasperated sound. I had that effect on people sometimes. “You don’t have to do this,” Jimmy said. “This is an all-volunteer army. Forget I brought it up. Jesus.”

“Hey, I’m interested, Jimmy. It’s not easy to digest all this, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re not making me any happier that I clued you in.”

“No one will ever know I signed up? If I do sign up. That’s the deal?”

“Not unless you tell someone,” he said. “Obviously they don’t have any control over that part.”

“You’ll know, Jimmy.”

“You and I will never talk about this again after today. I don’t even want to know if you decide to do it. It makes me uncomfortable to talk about this.”

“Insurance people always get referral fees,” I joked. “You won’t get a little something under the table?” I kicked him, under the table.

“That’s not funny,” he said. “Not about this.”

“Huh,” I said, lifting the Sandy’s Sunshine menu with my good hand. “So what are you getting with your Coke? Eggs and fries? A banana split?”