Six Crime Stories (8 page)

*****

Home Invasion

Listlessly
,
Bertram Delinsky turned a page of the newspaper and continued reading the sports section. The gray sheets crackled as he dragged them across his lap and straightened them
,
as he lifted them higher to catch the light from the lamp a little better. He shifted on the Naugahyde upholstery of his recliner
,
and that crackled
,
too.

Since Bert wasn
'
t much of a sports fan
,
the articles and box scores didn
'
t hold much attraction for him. In fact
,
he didn
'
t retain much of the information slipping past his eyes; he was reading the sports in the same way that he had read all the other sec
tions of the paper--just
halfheartedly skimming through the print without paying much attention to it. The words flickered past like cars on a freeway
,
holding no more meaning than if they had been shapeless blotches of ink.

The newspaper had blurred and faded because Bert
'
s mind was on other things. He was preoccupied
,
distressed about the current shape of his life. On the eve of his thirty-fifth birthday
,
he had made a terrible mistake: Bert had uncorked the bottle which held his fears and insecurities. At first
,
he had opened that bottle just a bit
,
just so he could take a quick peek. As we all know
,
however
,
the Anxiety Bottle can never be opened just a bit; once it
'
s breached
,
the cork flies out like a ballistic missile
,
and the contents spew all over the damn place.

By now
,
Bert was quite upset
,
and his brain was flooded with the gremlin goo which he should have left sealed tightly in its container. His worries were sprayed everywhere
,
like graffiti on the inside of his cranium
,
and he couldn
'
t seem to think about anything pleasant.

Tomorrow
,
he would be thirty-five years old. Thirty-five years of life
,
and what did he have to show for it? Not a whole lot. He still had the same job he
'
d had ten years ago--
selling furniture for a local outlet store. Sure
,
his title had changed
,
from
"
Salesperson
"
to
"
Manager
,
"
but he was still doing the same work
,
trying to pawn off sofa-beds and ottomans on unsuspecting newlyweds at ridiculously inflated prices. He wasn
'
t even making enough money to render his job worthwhile; twenty-three thousand dollars a year
,
plus the occasional bonus
,
didn
'
t exactly put him in clover. Bertram had a small house on the edge of the suburbs
,
and he drove a car which was only two years old; he was still paying the mortgage on the house
,
though
,
and the car was always giving him trouble. He had a television and a microwave
,
and something of a coin collection
,
but none of the coins was really very valuable
,
and he was considering selling them.

As he thought about it
,
Bert realized that he
'
d accomplished very little in his life so far. He
'
d never been hungry for success
,
and Lady Luck had never blessed him with the French kiss of Unexpected Prosperity. He
'
d never been married
,
and he had no children; though he
'
d dated a handful of women
,
he
'
d always managed to louse up the relationships one way or another. Though he met many casual acquaintances through the furniture store
,
he didn
'
t have any close friends
,
either.

All washed up; that was how Bert saw himself at this particular moment. He was thirty-four years old
,
almost thirty-five
,
practically forty
,
and he hadn
'
t so much as dotted an
"
I
"
or crossed a
"
T
"
in the great story of humanity. In a blink of God
'
s eye
,
he would be an old man
,
and then he would die; he feared that he would die without friends or love or wealth
,
without an undue ripple or even a stir in the curtains of the universe.

Lonely
,
disappointed
,
crestfallen
,
apprehensive
,
he read the sports section of the newspaper in the living room of his claustrophobic house. He probably shouldn
'
t have been so unsettled
,
because he was actually much better off than the majority of people on the planet; fear and dissatisfaction are the roots of human nature
,
however
,
and Bertram Delinsky was most certainly well-endowed with both qualities. The incipient birthday only served to amplify these annoying traits
,
strengthen them and thrust them through the mental screens which usually filtered them out.

Bert
,
who was now thirty-four years
,
three-hundred and sixty-four days
,
twenty-one hours
,
and seventeen minutes old
,
tossed his paper onto the blue shag carpeting and got out of his recliner.

The doorbell was ringing.

Puzzled
,
but glad for the distraction
,
Bert traveled the four yards from his chair to the front door. Since he rarely had visitors
,
and wasn
'
t expecting any that night
,
he figured that the person on his doorstep was probably a twelve-year-old practical joker. He
'
d been through the drill before: a kid would ring the doorbell
,
then giggle off into the darkness before Bert could catch a glimpse of him.

When Bert squinted into the peephole of his door
,
however
,
he noticed that his visitor hadn
'
t dashed away into the night. He wasn
'
t twelve years old
,
either. The visitor was definitely an adult
,
and appeared to be not much younger than Bertram Delinsky himself.

The guy had short black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a red and white plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up
,
and he looked fairly muscular. Quickly deciding that he wasn
'
t a door-to-door salesman or a Mormon making the rounds
,
Bert concluded that the guy probably wanted to use his phone; his car had probably broken down somewhere nearby
,
and he wanted to call for a tow truck. Bert had been through this drill before
,
as well.

"
Hello?
"
called Bert through the door
,
watching the visitor through the fish-eyed lens of the peephole.
"
Can I help you?
"

"
I sure hope so
,
"
grinned the guy
,
looking friendly enough.
"
You Bert Delisky?
"

"
Yes
,
"
answered Bert.
"
Who are you?
"

"
Buddy
,
"
replied Buddy with a nod.
"
Geez
,
I
'
ve been lookin
'
all over for you. I got a little turned around in Wilmar
,
and ended up lost. Couldn
'
t find this goddamn street
,
Bert.
"

"
That
'
s too bad
,
"
responded Bertram
,
taken aback by the visitor
'
s tone of familiarity. Though Bert had no idea whom the stranger could be
,
the guy apparently knew Bert
,
or at least pretended that he did.
"
What did you say your name was again
?
"
he asked through the door
,
searching his memory for a clue to the guy
'
s identity.

"
Buddy!
"
crowed the man
,
as if he were Bert
'
s closest friend and Bert was silly not to recognize him.
"
I
'
m Buddy! You know!
"

"
Uh
,
not really
,
"
Bert frowned.
"
I hate to say this
,
but I really don
'
t remember you. Where do you know me from?
"
He started to wonder if the guy was perhaps a former customer of his; it was possible
,
since Bert dealt with so many people at the store
,
and couldn
'
t hope to remember the face and name of every single one.

"
Didn
'
t
my wife ever tell you about me?
"
smiled Buddy.

"
Uh...I
'
m not sure. Who
'
s your wife?
"

"
Aw
,
c
'
mon
,
Bert
!
"
goaded Buddy
,
wagging his head.
"
Debby! I
'
m talkin
'
about Debby!
"

Bert rifled through his memory as if it was a drawer full of socks
,
but he couldn
'
t think of a single woman that he knew who was named Debby.
"
What did you say your last name was
?
"
he asked
,
though Buddy hadn
'
t revealed his surname to begin with.

"
Weems
!
"
declared the guy with playful annoyance.
"
Bert
,
don
'
t tell me you don
'
t know Debby Weems! You just saw her yesterday
,
for Pete
'
s sake!
"

Brows furrowed in puzzlement
,
Bert took a step away from the peephole and reached for the doorknob. He was tired of shouting through the inch-and-a-quarter of wood
,
and he wanted to get a better look at this Buddy person; maybe a clearer view of the guy would trigger Bert
'
s memory
,
and he could deduce the purpose of this visit.
"
Weems
?
"
he hefted quizzically after opening the door
,
gazing out through a gap of four inches.
"
I
'
m sorry
,
but I really can
'
t remember any Debby Weems.
"

"
Oh
,
I get it
,
"
chuckled Buddy good-naturedly.
"
It
'
s like a joke
,
right? She called and told you I was comin
'
over
,
didn
'
t she?
"

"
Uh-uh
,
"
Bert negated
,
still mystified. Opening the door and taking a closer look at the guy hadn
'
t helped; Bert now noticed that Buddy wore bluejeans and cowboy boots
,
but he still didn
'
t recognize his face.
"
Where does your wife know me from
,
anyway?
"

"
All right
,
all right
,
"
laughed the bearded enigma.
"
So you don
'
t know her. I
'
ll play along
,
Bert. Just let me drop off what I brought over to give you
,
okay?
"

"
Huh
?
"
flickered Bertram
,
more confused than ever.

"
It
'
s this
,
"
Buddy explained
,
extending a long white envelope which he had tugged from his back pocket.
"
She didn
'
t really want me to drive the whole way over here just to give you this
,
but I said I wanted to. Anything for my little wife
,
y
'
know?
"

"
I
,
uh...look
,
"
Bert stammered.
"
I
'
m really sorry here
,
but I can
'
t for the life of me remember a Debby Weems. Seriously
,
I don
'
t know her.
"