Uptown Pharmacy.  One I hadn’t visited before.  That was the name of the game—Uncle George’s game.  I entered and stood in line at the Pick up Prescriptions counter.  The store had a medicinal smell and I inhaled lightly. 

       Uncle George semi-retired as a doctor 30 years ago, but he still writes prescriptions.  He came from that old school of docs who made house calls, and his patients loved him.  He never got filthy rich, but he was rich enough.  Since he had no children, he doted on his nephews.

     “Name please,” the pharmacist said.

     “Bill Smith.  Dr. George Cantrell called in my prescription.”

     “Yes, I have it here.”  He studied the package.  “One pill three times a day before meals. Do follow directions carefully.”

     “I will.  Thank you.”  I paid and left the pharmacy.  I could tell by feeling the bottle inside the package that it would please Uncle George.  In his semi-retirement years he invented a child-safe bottle cap, the Kids Kant Kap.  It hasn’t caught on as quickly as he hoped, so he works to increase its sales.  When he finds a pharmacy that doesn’t use Kids Kant Cap, he contacts the owner personally, giving him the hard sell.

     Where do I enter this picture?  At age 95, Uncle George is housebound.  His few remaining patients see him at his home.  I take the prescriptions he orders for me to him so he’ll know for sure who isn’t using the Kids Kant Kap. 

     And does he pay me?  No way.  I even have to pay for the pills.  Uncle George believes too much money corrupts the young.  Of course, I sometimes can resell some of the pills to cronies on the street.  Uncle George doesn’t know this and so far nobody has caught me.  I don’t know what’s in the pills.  Nor do I care.

     “You’ll get your reward when I pass on, Bill.”

Well, today is the day Uncle George will pass on.  Doing his legwork is a big drag.  I’m tired of waiting for my reward.  I’m tired of scrounging to make payments on my new SUV, scrounging to pay child support, and scrounging to pay those country club dues that assure Roxie, my current squeeze, that she’ll be seen in the right places.  

My debts are like hounds snapping at my heels.  Uncle George, this is the day.  So far, everything’s moving according to my plan.

     This morning I put my kid on the sunrise flight to his home in Kansas City.  He’s named after me, so Bill Smith’s the name on the airline roster.  I hated to spend the bucks. I usually drive him home. 

But this time the expenditure served several purposes.  It got the brat out of my hair, it got me some frequent flier miles, and it gave me a perfect alibi for my whereabouts today.  I have ticket stubs to prove that Bill Smith flew to Kansas City this morning and returned late tonight.

     Now, I drove to Uncle George’s estate, parked under the portico, gave a loud knock then entered.  Uncle George greeted me from his wheelchair in his Chat Room.  That’s what he calls it—his Chat Room.

     “Come in, Bill,” Uncle George called.  “Any luck today?”

     “Yes, indeed.”  I pulled the pill bottle bearing the Kids Kant Kap from the package and tossed it into his lap.   

     “Wonderful, Bill! The cap’s catching on.  I knew it would.  Soon every pharmacy in town will be using it.  It will save lives. You can be proud of yourself for helping in this endeavor, Bill.”  He admired the Kids Kant Kap, smiling as he flipped it off the bottle then snapped it on again.

     “On your way home, I want you to stop at the Regency Pharmacy on State Avenue.  I’ve already called in your prescription.  Bring it to me on your way to work tomorrow.”

     He was still smiling when I pulled out my gun and shot him.  The sound was no louder than a firecracker.  Only a small spot of blood leaked like catsup onto his shirt.

     His housekeeper would find his body tomorrow.  I wondered how much time would lapse before I had my inheritance in my hands.  My fingers itched in anticipation.  I tossed the gun into the river as I crossed Rushing Rapids Bridge.  I kept a low profile for the rest of the day.  When the phone rang, Caller ID told me it was Roxie, but I didn’t answer.  I wanted no slipups in today’s plan.  The next morning I slept late.  Easy street.  My kind of thing.

     At mid-morning someone knocked.  I peered outside and felt a chill at my nape.  Cop cars.  Blue and whites.  Two of them.  Putting on a calm front, I opened the door.

     “Mr. William Smith?” the uniformed officer asked.

     “Yes, Sir.  How can I help you?”

     “May we come in, Mr. Smith.  We have a few questions.”

     “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded.

     “Your uncle, George Cantrell died yesterday.  A homicide.  We think you may be able to help us find his killer.”

     “Murdered!” I tried for an expression of shock and grief.  “But who ... how ... when ...?

     “Those are the questions you may be able to help us with,” the officer said.

     “But I know nothing of this.  I took a six o’clock flight to Kansas City yesterday morning.  Returned after midnight last night.  I have ticket stubs to prove it.”

     “That’s very unusual, Mr. Smith.”  The officer pulled a package from his pocket.  “The pharmacist at Uptown Pharmacy says a man answering your description picked up this prescription.  According to the date and time on the package that we found in your uncle’s pocket, you picked it up at nine A.M.  Perhaps you’d like to tell us how you managed to do that.”

     The sound of the handcuffs snapping into place was a lot like the sound of the Kids Kant Kap snapping onto a pill bottle. I went along with the officers quietly.