The Plan

The car is a Honda Civic from the early ’90’s, maybe ‘93. It’s been parked here for about forty-five minutes. It’s clean, but not gleaming; it has all four hubcaps, but no fancy options. It has that deep, arterial color that some people are going to call maroon and some are going to call burgundy, but which a particularly pedantic artist might describe as Quinacridone Burnt Orange.

If you had the inclination, and the means, to run a background check on the license plate, you would discover that the car was not a ‘93 Honda Civic after all, but was in fact a ‘98 Ford Expedition. Should this odd discrepancy inspire you to investigate further, you might - if you were lucky - discover that this particular Ford-not-Honda had been in a long-term parking lot near LAX for two weeks.

The man behind the wheel looks warm and friendly, like the uncle everyone wishes they had. Like the friend’s dad who took you guys fishing and let you sip one of his beers. If you were injured in a car accident and you saw his face coming towards you through the smoke and haze, you would know that everything was going to be all right. He has leaned his seat back just far enough to ease the discomfort of his too-tight pants, and is staring at not much of anything.

The man in the passenger seat is breathing much more loudly than he realizes. He is currently sporting a greasy sheen, apparently due to nervousness rather than any unfortunate skin conditions. For the last few minutes he has been twirling a cigarette between his fingers, and now he sticks it in his mouth and reaches into his pocket for a lighter. The man behind the wheel speaks without turning his head.

“You don’t want to do that, Rich.”

Rich pulls the smoke out, looks at it guiltily. “I’m sorry, Gray. I didn’t think you’d mind. I should’ve asked. Sorry.” Gray smiles faintly as he watches a yard a few houses down.

I’m sure I had a dog that looked like that. Jesus, exactly like that.

“I don’t mind, kid, but a cigarette butt is an easy thing to forget about. It’s an easy thing to drop, you know? And it’s soaked in your DNA. Might as well leave ‘em a signed confession, you see?”

“Yeah, Gray, I see. Sorry. Sorry, Gray.”

What do they call that….Jack….Jack Dempsey…..Jack Russel! A Jack Russell Terrier. What the hell was that dog’s name?

“Listen, Rich….”

“Yeah, Gray?”

Gray looks at the kid. The kid’s looking right back at him with those wide eyes. He’s still a little too shiny, a little too shaky. Gray knows what this is. It happens to everybody on the job. Sooner or later, it happens to everybody. That’s okay - that’s not the hard part. The hard part is getting past it. As Gray speaks, his eyes drift back to the little dog.

“How long has it been for you now, four months?” Skippy? Scooter?

“Two, Gray, two months.”

“No shit?” Snoopy….Snooper….Snap….Snappy! “You’ve been coming along really well. I mean that. For only two months, I mean….how many rides have we taken?” What the hell kind of a name is Snappy?

“Five, Gray. But, uh, one was a double, so….”

“Call it six.” Wood floors. We had wood floors. “You’ve been handling it really well. You’re a natural, you know? You’re solid.” His claws would make that clicking sound when he ran on the wood floors, so I called him ‘Snappy.’

“Thanks, Gray.”

Gray sighs. Just a little, but enough to tell Rich that this is going to be important. He pulls the lever on the side of his seat, leans it back just a bit. “So. What’s on your mind?”

Rich opens his mouth and almost says ‘Nothing, Gray,’ but that wouldn’t be true, and Gray would know it wasn’t true. This doesn’t feel like a time to speak anything but truth. Sure, keep your mouth shut as much as possible, don’t ask stupid questions - but right now, be true. “Well, Gray, you know, I understand that Mr. Mason is an important man, and I understand how important his business is, and I know he provides jobs for a lot of people, and sometimes people can get in the way of his busi-”

“Spit it out, Rich.”

Rich sighs. “This is a woman, Gray.”

Ah.

“Yeah, Rich. It’s a woman. Come on son, you’re not that young - you don’t think a woman can get in the way? You don’t think they can impede a man’s business?” The kids would love a dog like that. What would Betts say?

“No, Gray, it’s not that.”

“Well?” Heh, she’s a sucker for anything furry. Hell, maybe a puppy would get her off this ‘third baby’ kick she’s been on.

Rich is suddenly still. “Gray, this is Mrs. Mason.”

Ah.

“You can’t think of any reason a man like Mr. Mason might want to kill his own wife?” Rich is quiet. Gray tilts his seat back another little bit. “Listen, Rich. I’m giving you a bit of a hard time. I understand; it’s one thing to think about it and another to actually do it, yeah? It’s different, isn’t it?” Rich nods.

I sure as hell wouldn’t mind a dog. It’s been too long. Snappy….heh, what the hell kind of a name is ‘Snappy?’

“Listen to me, kid. Sometimes a marriage just doesn’t work, you know? Nobody’s fault, it just won’t fly. Sometimes there’s another person involved, sometimes a few other people. That can sting. Hell, that can kill. But with a man like Mr. Mason, image is very important. Mr. Mason is a very powerful businessman in a very dangerous business. Above all else, Mr. Mason cannot appear weak. Ever. Now it may not seem like such a big deal to you that Mrs. Mason has been stepping out with some other guy, I understand. But if word gets out that Mr. Mason can’t control his own house, his own family, what do you think would happen to him? To his business? To all those people, as you say, he provides jobs for? Do you see what I’m saying here, Rich?”

Rich rolls his window down, adjusts the side mirror and looks at his reflection. “Yeah, Gray. I understand.” He wipes a speck of the mirror. “Does Mr. Mason know who the guy is?”

I bet you could train a Jack Russell to pick up the paper, right? Hell, I bet you could train one of those things to do just about anything. I’ll have to subscribe to the paper. “I’m sure he does, Rich. I’m sure Mr. Mason will deal with him in due time.”
“Yeah.”

A deep blue Cadillac passes them an pulls into a driveway about half a block away, on the other side of the street. Gray puts his seat back into it’s regular position and leans against the steering wheel as the Cadillac enters a garage. “I’ll tell you kid, at the end of the day it probably doesn’t make a whole lot of difference, you know? We all just make our way as best we can.” He rubs his eyes.

“Yeah, Gray. I know.”

I’m not even gonna ask Betts, I’m just gonna surprise them. The look on Jerry’s face, that’ll be priceless. Where’d that dog go?

“I understand, Gray. I’m sorry.”

Gray is already unlocking his door to get out, but he’s always been good at reading voices, so he’s almost not surprised when he feels that cold metal circle behind his ear, and the clarity it grants him lets every word Rich says ring like a church bell in his head:

“I just love her so goddamned much.”

The car is a Honda Civic from the early ’90’s, maybe ‘93. It’s been parked here for about forty-five minutes. It’s clean, but not gleaming; it has all four hubcaps, but no fancy options. It has that deep, arterial color that some people are going to call maroon and some are going to call burgundy, but which a particularly pedantic artist might describe as Quinacridone Burnt Orange.

If you had the inclination, and the means, to run a background check on the license plate, you would discover that the car was not a ‘93 Honda Civic after all, but was in fact a ‘98 Ford Expedition. Should this odd discrepancy inspire you to investigate further, you might - if you were lucky - discover that this particular Ford-not-Honda had been in a long-term parking lot near LAX for two weeks.

The man behind the wheel looks warm and friendly, like the uncle everyone wishes they had. Like the friend’s dad who took you guys fishing and let you sip one of his beers. If you were injured in a car accident and you saw his face coming towards you through the smoke and haze, you would know that everything was going to be all right. He has leaned his seat back just far enough to ease the discomfort of his too-tight pants, and is staring at not much of anything.

The man in the passenger seat is breathing much more loudly than he realizes. He is currently sporting a greasy sheen, apparently due to nervousness rather than any unfortunate skin conditions. For the last few minutes he has been twirling a cigarette between his fingers, and now he sticks it in his mouth and reaches into his pocket for a lighter. The man behind the wheel speaks without turning his head.

“You don’t want to do that, Rich.”

Rich pulls the smoke out, looks at it guiltily. “I’m sorry, Gray. I didn’t think you’d mind. I should’ve asked. Sorry.” Gray smiles faintly as he watches a yard a few houses down.

I’m sure I had a dog that looked like that. Jesus, exactly like that.

“I don’t mind, kid, but a cigarette butt is an easy thing to forget about. It’s an easy thing to drop, you know? And it’s soaked in your DNA. Might as well leave ‘em a signed confession, you see?”

“Yeah, Gray, I see. Sorry. Sorry, Gray.”

What do they call that….Jack….Jack Dempsey…..Jack Russel! A Jack Russell Terrier. What the hell was that dog’s name?

“Listen, Rich….”

“Yeah, Gray?”

Gray looks at the kid. The kid’s looking right back at him with those wide eyes. He’s still a little too shiny, a little too shaky. Gray knows what this is. It happens to everybody on the job. Sooner or later, it happens to everybody. That’s okay - that’s not the hard part. The hard part is getting past it. As Gray speaks, his eyes drift back to the little dog.

“How long has it been for you now, four months?” Skippy? Scooter?

“Two, Gray, two months.”

“No shit?” Snoopy….Snooper….Snap….Snappy! “You’ve been coming along really well. I mean that. For only two months, I mean….how many rides have we taken?” What the hell kind of a name is Snappy?

“Five, Gray. But, uh, one was a double, so….”

“Call it six.” Wood floors. We had wood floors. “You’ve been handling it really well. You’re a natural, you know? You’re solid.” His claws would make that clicking sound when he ran on the wood floors, so I called him ‘Snappy.’

“Thanks, Gray.”

Gray sighs. Just a little, but enough to tell Rich that this is going to be important. He pulls the lever on the side of his seat, leans it back just a bit. “So. What’s on your mind?”

Rich opens his mouth and almost says ‘Nothing, Gray,’ but that wouldn’t be true, and Gray would know it wasn’t true. This doesn’t feel like a time to speak anything but truth. Sure, keep your mouth shut as much as possible, don’t ask stupid questions - but right now, be true. “Well, Gray, you know, I understand that Mr. Mason is an important man, and I understand how important his business is, and I know he provides jobs for a lot of people, and sometimes people can get in the way of his busi-”

“Spit it out, Rich.”

Rich sighs. “This is a woman, Gray.”

Ah.

“Yeah, Rich. It’s a woman. Come on son, you’re not that young - you don’t think a woman can get in the way? You don’t think they can impede a man’s business?” The kids would love a dog like that. What would Betts say?

“No, Gray, it’s not that.”

“Well?” Heh, she’s a sucker for anything furry. Hell, maybe a puppy would get her off this ‘third baby’ kick she’s been on.

Rich is suddenly still. “Gray, this is Mrs. Mason.”

Ah.

“You can’t think of any reason a man like Mr. Mason might want to kill his own wife?” Rich is quiet. Gray tilts his seat back another little bit. “Listen, Rich. I’m giving you a bit of a hard time. I understand; it’s one thing to think about it and another to actually do it, yeah? It’s different, isn’t it?” Rich nods.

I sure as hell wouldn’t mind a dog. It’s been too long. Snappy….heh, what the hell kind of a name is ‘Snappy?’

“Listen to me, kid. Sometimes a marriage just doesn’t work, you know? Nobody’s fault, it just won’t fly. Sometimes there’s another person involved, sometimes a few other people. That can sting. Hell, that can kill. But with a man like Mr. Mason, image is very important. Mr. Mason is a very powerful businessman in a very dangerous business. Above all else, Mr. Mason cannot appear weak. Ever. Now it may not seem like such a big deal to you that Mrs. Mason has been stepping out with some other guy, I understand. But if word gets out that Mr. Mason can’t control his own house, his own family, what do you think would happen to him? To his business? To all those people, as you say, he provides jobs for? Do you see what I’m saying here, Rich?”

Rich rolls his window down, adjusts the side mirror and looks at his reflection. “Yeah, Gray. I understand.” He wipes a speck of the mirror. “Does Mr. Mason know who the guy is?”

I bet you could train a Jack Russell to pick up the paper, right? Hell, I bet you could train one of those things to do just about anything. I’ll have to subscribe to the paper. “I’m sure he does, Rich. I’m sure Mr. Mason will deal with him in due time.”
“Yeah.”

A deep blue Cadillac passes them an pulls into a driveway about half a block away, on the other side of the street. Gray puts his seat back into it’s regular position and leans against the steering wheel as the Cadillac enters a garage. “I’ll tell you kid, at the end of the day it probably doesn’t make a whole lot of difference, you know? We all just make our way as best we can.” He rubs his eyes.

“Yeah, Gray. I know.”

I’m not even gonna ask Betts, I’m just gonna surprise them. The look on Jerry’s face, that’ll be priceless. Where’d that dog go?

“I understand, Gray. I’m sorry.”

Gray is already unlocking his door to get out, but he’s always been good at reading voices, so he’s almost not surprised when he feels that cold metal circle behind his ear, and the clarity it grants him lets every word Rich says ring like a church bell in his head:

“I just love her so goddamned much.”