Copyright © 2007 Renée Gardner. All rights reserved. 

Renée Gardner is the author of The Tap Dancing Gorilla, the first in a Manhattan based cozy mystery series. She has published numerous short stories, book reviews and interviews. A member of the Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime, she recently moved from new York City to Southwest Florida.

"George, say hello to Clark Filmore. He’s the city room’s new gofer."

George Weatherby continued to type a line of copy before he glanced up from his computer screen. Eddie Gleason and a young guy had crowded their way into the three-sided partitioned space that he referred to as "my office." Of course, no one in the city room at the Daily Sun had a private office, except the city editor, who was Eddie. The Sun had the distinction of being the only daily newspaper in this quiet town that was far enough away from the big city to escape its high crime rate, yet close enough for residents to easily drive into town to catch a show or enjoy a gourmet dinner.

In the fast glance that George allowed Clark, he noted that the young guy was ordinary looking beyond belief. Clean shaven, average height, medium brown hair, friendly puppy brown eyes. His baggy suit jacket hung over his shoulders like a tired blanket. Boring. George knew that if he passed Clark on the street an hour from now he wouldn’t recognize him.

"Nice to meet you, and welcome aboard." George’s voice held little enthusiasm.

Filmore, or Gilmore, or whatever his name was, would be gone before he learned his way to the cafeteria, same as the others. That’s the way it was with those eager beaver journalism majors fresh out of State U, who thought that a couple of months spent fetching coffee and checking facts earned them the right to a byline. Hah! Any fool knows that it takes years for a reporter to make the right contacts and learn the ropes. George didn’t become the best obituary writer in the whole state by writing dull copy. His sendoffs were special. "You give our obits a personal touch." That was how publisher Marshall Longstreet complimented him at last year’s Christmas party. "Glad you appreciate the extra effort I put into the job." George flashed a sly smile.

"Things kinda’ dead in your department, aren’t they," Eddie chuckled as he pushed Clark into the next cubbyhole. George didn’t bother to acknowledge the stale joke that Eddie made every time he introduced a new gofer.

George glanced at his Timex after the men left. It was time for his morning exercise. Twice a day he jogged up and down the four flights of emergency stairs the led from the city room to the lobby. It wasn’t much exercise, but it was better than nothing, and he enjoyed knowing that he had to do something at a specific time. Even his evenings followed a constant, if solitary, routine. Every night when he returned to his apartment, he exchanged his suit and tie for a pair of grey sweats. After a small neat scotch, he ate his take-out dinner seated at a well-worn Formica table while he read that day’s edition of the Sun from cover to cover. Every so often he cut out an article and put it into one of the file folders that were stacked beside his chair. Promptly at eleven o’clock, George washed his face, brushed his teeth, put on his pajamas and went to bed. The only personal touch in his Spartan bedroom was the faded black and white photograph that hung on the wall opposite his bed. It showed a teenage boy dressed in blue satin shorts and athletic shoes. His clenched fists and the determined set of his jaw suggested that he was a boxer.

A couple of days later just before 8:00 a.m George strolled into the city room -- he liked to arrive early and have a leisurely cup of coffee before his day began. But today as he neared his "office" he sensed that something was wrong. When he stepped over the threshold, he immediately saw what was amiss. Clark was seated at his computer, his finger on the mouse rapidly scrolling through the obituaries that George had written during his 15-year tenure at The Sun.

"Good morning, Clark." George forced a cheery greeting, though bile hotter than Hades rose in his throat. He wanted to shake Clark till he squealed like a frightened pig and explained how he was able to access George’s computer password, but his inner voice warned him against a confrontation. Instead, George carefully hung his jacket on the wire hanger hooked over the partition that separated his "office" from the real estate editor’s space.

"All those details about the dead person’s life that you include are awesome, man." A quick smile spread across Clark’s ordinary face. It troubled George that he couldn’t discern whether it was friendly or sardonic. "Like that stuff on Tim Nevin, the owner of that waste management company who tumbled into the deep end of his swimming pool. You know, like how the guy couldn’t swim. Geez. When you write an obit, it isn’t like you can call the person to check the facts, yet you knew everything about his business and family. You gotta’ tell me how you put it together so fast."

George tuned out Clark’s prattling. Clark and all the other gofers that crossed his threshold asked the same question. But he never revealed the answer. "Yeah, well, someday I’ll tell you. But for now, how about getting out of my chair? I’ve got to write half a dozen obits by noon deadline."

Three weeks went by before a citizen died who merited two columns and a photo. "Samuel Ciccotta, chief financial officer at Battle Industries, died yesterday from injuries sustained in a car accident the previous day. Ciccotta, who was 55 years old, was found by a passing motorist on River Road, the victim of a hit and run accident, blah, blah, blah." George pounded out the obit on his computer without ever referring the clippings about the CFO that Clark had gleaned from the library. The death of someone of Ciccotta’s stature ensured that George’s bylined obit would appear on the front page. Even if it was below the fold, the front page was as good as it gets.

George finally concluded that Clark wasn’t like the other gofers. He came in early and stayed late, he never protested when George asked him to write five-line send offs for retired school teachers, old barbers and those folks at the Happy Acres Active Adult Community on the south side of town. After Clark discovered how George liked his morning coffee -- a drop of half and half with three sugars -- he never failed to have it ready when George arrived. George begrudgingly admitted to himself that he was growing fond of George. But that would never do.

One evening nearly a month after Ciccotta’s death, George devoured his take-out dinner, read the Sun all the way through, turned his attention to the stack of file folders on the floor and shouted "Eureka!" His exclamation echoed throughout the drab, silent apartment. He reread the clippings a dozen times before he slipped out of the apartment and drove to a 24-hour supermarket.

It was still black as the inside of a cave when George sat straight up in bed. He never needed the shrill call of the alarm clock when there was work to be done. He quickly showered, donned his black cap, turtleneck sweater, jacket, pants, socks, running shoes, and gulped down a mouthful of scalding hot black coffee. Half and half wouldn’t do, for today he needed a jolt of pure caffeine. He grabbed a black plastic shopping bag filled with the items he purchased earlier then he switched off the kitchen light. He eased his car out of the garage and coasted to the end of the street before he stepped on the gas. No need to wake his sleeping neighbors.

"Drive right below the speed limit. Drive right below the speed limit." George repeated his mantra as the familiar streets of his urban neighborhood were replaced by rural scenery.

Shortly before five a.m. he reached a large weeping willow tree that had stood by the side of the road for as long as anyone in those parts, including George, could remember. He carefully maneuvered his ancient Volkswagen Beetle through the thick curtain of the tree’s tentacle-like branches and presto, the car vanished. It was as though it had passed into another dimension, for one minute it was visible and the next minute it was gone.

George cautiously opened the door on the driver’s side. With the shopping bag gripped in one hand, he eased himself out of the car then crawled on his stomach commando-style toward an apple orchard. Still lying prone on his stomach, he studied the huge trees heavy with Golden Delicious apples until he found the one that was right one for the job. After he made his preparations, all he had to do was to wait in the pre-dawn cold until the lights came on in the farm house. At the exact moment that a heavy-set figure opened the kitchen door, a dog began to bark incessantly.

The big man’s gruff command, "Hold your damn horses, Beau," quieted the dog.

George smiled. He was ready for the big man and for Beau. He listened to the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path that led to the dog’s kennel, the shouts of "Good boy, good boy," followed by more footsteps and finally the sound of man and faithful friend ambling toward the orchard. George peered up at the sky. Dawn was fast approaching. He needed to create his diversion quickly before the deep shadows that hid him faded away and he was left without a cover. He grabbed the three-pound T-bone steak from the shopping bag and flung it across the field.

"What was that, Beau?" The loud thump startled the man. Beau took off in a flash across the apple orchard to discover the answer.

The big man continued his stroll on a course that brought him closer and closer to where George waited. When the man drew even with a huge apple tree with branches bent low under the weight of half a hundred apples, it took George only one whack of his hunting knife to slash the rope that held back the thickest branch. A barrage of apples pummeled the big man square in the middle of his forehead. He vainly crossed his arms in front of his face to protect himself before he fell to the ground.

A second later George stepped from his hiding place behind the tree to place a gloved hand on his victim’s wrist. No pulse. It was as it should be. He retrieved the rope from the tree branch and the shopping bag from the ground before he crawled back to his car. Beau’s plaintive howls filled the air as the Volkswagen drove off.

The freak accidental that killed Brian McLean, the Apple King of Suddler County, was front page news for days. George’s obituary was the centerpiece of the many tributes that included the mayor’s decree that municipal flags be flown at half-staff on the day of the big man’s funeral, a display of drawings made by the elementary school kids that depicted the bobbing for apple contests McLean sponsored every Halloween, and reminiscences from his business associates. A television crew from the network affiliate covered his funeral. Neither the obituary that George wrote nor the public tributes mentioned the fact that years ago his wife and children fled his abuse, that he resigned from the bar association under mysterious circumstances, and that he grossly underpaid the migrant workers who picked his apples.

George was so caught up in the wave of grief that enveloped the town over the loss of their local celebrity that he failed to notice Clark’s uncharacteristic silence. No compliments, no questions, no morning coffee. "What’s wrong, Clark?" George finally asked.

"It’s not nice to mess into other people’s business." Clark snapped and strode away. A couple of minutes later, he returned with a piece offering of coffee, just the way George liked it -- a drop of half and half and three sugars. "Sorry, been going through a rough time."

As the weeks passed, George spent his days writing the obituaries of the local citizens while Clark dug up the mundane facts about their lives. He also checked facts for the reporters who worked on the crime and political beats. "Like to know what’s going on," is how Clark explained his offer to take on a heavier workload. Except the two days that he disappeared without explanation, Clark was a model employee.

It was well past bedtime before George heaved a cleansing sigh. He had finished reading every scrap of paper in a thick file, and now he knew what he had to do.

Two days later, once again dressed in his black costume, the better to blend into the shadows, George waited outside Trattore Oreto for Gina Caruso, the chef and owner. His hand was thrust deep in his pocket; his fingers were locked around the hand grip of a gun. She was the last person to leave the popular restaurant. George’s eyes were fixed on her when she walked into the circle of light cast by a street lamp. He raised his gun and slowly pulled back on the trigger.

"Don’t even think about shooting, George." An iron-hard grip locked on his hand.

George peered into the darkness at a face surrounded by a halo of brown hair. "Clark?"

Clark was all in black, same as George. He looked much older and much bigger than he did at the office. His well-developed shoulders and biceps strained the seams of his turtleneck sweater. His warm puppy brown eyes now turned steely hard sent a white hot shiver of fear run down George’ spine. He wondered why he had used the word "average" to describe Clark. No, no, Clark wasn’t average. He was terrifying.

Clark tightened his grip even harder on George’s hand. "Who are you?" George whispered.

Clark ignored the question. "The Company is not happy with your interference in its business. They want to know who’s giving you your orders."

"I work for myself … for the Sun … I mean I work for the Sun," George stammered. "What have I done?"

"You’ve terminated people that the Company wasn’t ready to lose."

George shook his head from side-to-side. This had to be a very bad dream. Yet when he bit down hard on his tongue, he felt pain. This was no dream. This was real. His mild-mannered assistant was an agent from the Company. But who or what was the Company?

"What do you want me to do?" George made a futile attempt to twist free from Clark’s grip.

"Nothing." Clark’s cold eyes stared at him.

Clark’s answer brought a smile to George’s face. Perhaps things weren’t as bad as he first imagined. This was just a friendly warning. "Good," he said cheerfully.

Clark shook his head. "You don’t understand. We don’t want you to do anything, because I’ll take care of everything."

"You want my job?"

"No. I want you."

"What do you mean? What did I do? I only wanted to write obituaries of important people. So what if I hurried things along? Everybody has to die sometime," George added as an excuse for his actions.

"None of the people I killed left families to mourn them. No loving wife became a widow, no child became an orphan." George sputtered his defense all the while Clark’s steely cold eyes bore into him.

"What did I do that was so terrible?" George repeated his plea.

"You messed into Company business. A lot of guys associated with the Company live and work in this town because it’s near the city. That’s what brought you to their attention. When Nevin drowned, the Company applauded. He was a burr under their saddle. But Ciccotta and McLean were different. Ciccotta was an enforcer and McLean, he was the congilieri -- the advisor. That’s when the Company sent me here to find out who was responsible for killing their people. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but what the hell, you’ll never get to repeat it to anyone."

Clark appeared to enjoy the opportunity to share his experiences with a fellow assassin, which gave George a glimmer of hope that he might be able to talk his way out of his trouble. But when Clark pulled him into the doorway of a shuttered grocery store to keep them out of view of passing motorists, George knew that his odds of seeing the sun rise tomorrow were slim.

Clark continued his story. "First I hung around the police station to find out if the killer was one of the boys in blue. When that theory didn’t pan out, I came to the Sun to see if I could pick up a lead on a suspicious character. They were looking for gofer, and a dumb broad in Personnel fell for my story that I was fresh out of State U. You were flying under the radar until I figured out that you were the only person who gained anything each time someone died. You weren’t like the goons I know. You didn’t want money. You killed for recognition." Clark’s smile indicated admiration, not scorn.

"You made a fatal mistake tonight when you put Gina Caruso in your sights. She’s the very special friend of the Company boss." Clark kept his steely eyes on Gina all the while she walked to her car the was parked halfway down the block. When the tail lights of her black Mercedes S600 finally disappeared in the late evening fog, he turned his gaze back to George

A shudder tensed down George’s body. Gina Caruso had been the perfect victim to put his name back into the limelight. She was beautiful, well liked, a great chef, a community do gooder. Damn! It was unforgivable that his notes failed to reveal that she was the girlfriend of Tommy Z, the most powerful mobster in the state. "Please, Clark, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to harm Tommy’s girlfriend." George made his merciful plea on his knees.

"It will be easier for both of us if you come quietly, George." Clark stooped down to keep his hold on his prisoner.

"Sure thing, but please don’t hurt me." George’s lower lip quivered. Tears brimmed in his blood shot eyes. He was as pitiful as a whipped puppy dog. But without warning, he rose to his full height and swung an iron fist at Clark.

George didn’t show up at Daily Sun the next day or the next or the day after. Neither did Clark. A couple of weeks later, Eddie Gleason received a post card from Hawaii. The message read, "Won’t be back. Taking care of Company business." He didn’t recognize the smudged signature.

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