Abukoff House Books

“So what’s your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“Obsessive compul-“

“Wrong. Chrono-obsessive disorder, and it’s not a problem. It’s a condition. Perhaps I should put up a sign explaining that to people so as to avoid conversations like this in the future.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that I know when I’m going to die, and more than aware of moments lost explaining that to people like you.” He allowed his visitor ten seconds to reply, then continued. “What do you want?”

“You know when you’re going to die?”

“Yes. You’ve paid for five minutes of my time, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And you are looking for something other than a description of my condition?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then I’ll say it again. What do you want?”

“I have a problem.’

“Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Unless of course you have nothing better to do with your money than to waste my time.” He stared at his visitor, challenging and imploring him to get to the point.

“What’s your name?”

“The terms of our transaction do not require you to present a problem requiring a solution. I would, however point out that problem solving is a speciality of mine. You can chit chat with your neighbor for free. Why are you paying to do that with me?”

“What’s your name?”

“Francis.”

The visitor laughed. “Francis? Not Frank? Why not Frank?”

“Because Francis is my given name. And because it doesn’t sound as stupid as Frank. You now have four minutes.”

“Why are you locked up?”

Francis tapped the single red button set into the formica table. “Jailor.”

The door behind him unlocked with a loud ‘clang’ and a sound of hydraulics, and Francis’ guard stepped in. “Waddya want Fred?”

Francis raised an eyebrow and gazed at his visitor. “See? You’re nothing compared to this.” Then he turned back to his jailor. “Why am I locked up?”

“To keep people from killing you, Fred. Remember?”

“Thank you. Goodbye.” Then he turned back to his guest. “So why are you here?”

“I have a problem.”

“If you could be more specific…”

“My problem is you.”

“I am your problem?”

“Yeah. See, you’re wrong.”

“Excuse me? I’m never wrong.”

“You are today.” Then he pulled a gun from inside of his coat and put a bullet in Francis’ head.

–

Why wasn’t he screened? How did he get in? Did he say anything before he killed himself?

No. And Francis cleared him. Said that he knew him and he was okay. That if we searched him he would stop seeing people.

They couldn’t have known each other. If he’d known Francis, he would have killed him on the outside.

Are you sure?

Put yourself in his place. I’d have killed him. You’d have killed him. Anyone stuck in a room with him for more than thirty seconds would’ve killed him. Look, it doesn’t really matter why Francis cleared him. He’s dead. We’ll find anything we need to know about him in his personal affects. As for a motive, well, Francis brings that out in people.

I see your point, but it doesn’t wash. He came here to kill Francis. Look at the transcripts. It says “my problem is you”.

So he must have known about him. Still, Francis wasn’t the kind of guy to produce a slow burn in people. It’s usually a pretty fast “I’m just gonna kill you now” kind of feeling.

How do you know that?

Because I got it every time I had to talk to him.

Let’s go through the transcripts. See if we missed something. Start it from the Body-Cam recordings.

–

Okay, this is from when Shorty-

Shorty the crackhead?

Yeah. This is from when Shorty took a shot at him

–

You must listen to me.

Why?

That woman who tried to kill me was only the latest. It’s because I have no patience for their trivia. I have no time for the dishonest pleasantries and platitudes that you people truck in.

Truck?

Yes, truck. Barter. You didn’t think I meant that you have it delivered in the bed of a Chevy, did you? See, this is precisely the sort of thing that enrages the common man crawling across the face of your city. I’m surprised you haven’t drawn your service revolver on me. Although I suspect you’re thinking about it. Your neck is red and your eyes are bulging. You should have your blood pressure checked.

Charlie, what are we gonna do with this guy?

–

Nothing there. Go back to when we brought him in

–

Let me tell you something. I was born with an itch. Not a physical itch, the kind you talking monkeys scratch as if nobody’s looking and nobody cares. I’m talking about the kind of itch that makes me hyper-aware of the passage of time. The understanding that every second that passes by is a drop of blood. I know how long my body will last. I know the number of breaths I have left. I have studied every possible way to extend my own life with biological means. There are chemical and homeopathic extenders that I have employed, but you reach a point of diminishing returns. Both in length of life and quality of life. To extend my life simply for the purpose of living longer without being able to use or appreciate the time would be a waste. A day spent popping pills is not a day worth popping pills for. But I can fine tune every day. I can make sure that I use each one of these precious seconds. Every sight is a feast. Every instance is not just an opportunity but an obligation to squeeze every ounce of potential from it.

My body requires four hours of sleep every night in order to rest and ‘do its homework’ as your doctors tell me. A natural stimulant upon waking fills in the gap that would otherwise be filled with two more hours wasted in sleep. At the end of the day, if I am not exhausted when I go to bed, I count the day as squandered and try to make up for it the next day. As such I do not have time for niceties or posturing. I do, however, have the ability and desire to use my mind and expiring clock to solve your problems.

Problems?

Who in this God-forsaken city hasn’t got a problem?

Yeah but half of them seem to be because of you.

You haven’t known me long enough to effectively insult me. Listen. I’m smart. I’m clever. I can help these people and you can make money from it. People will pay you for me to solve their problems.

What makes you so smart?

Let me put it as plainly as possible. Your brain is like a muscle in that the more you use it, the more powerful it becomes. I see everything. I hear everything. I notice everything. And every time I evaluate someone’s problem, I get better at it.

So you’re like Sherlock Holmes.

Except that I am not a fictional character who only appears to be a genius because he has clever writers. Please. I have made it my short life’s work to know as much as possible. And not only that, but to think most efficiently. How can I explain it so you’ll understand? I don’t need to know the answers before someone asks me a question. I’ve taught myself to use my brain. I’m sure that’s a foreign concept to you, and you won’t understand so I won’t try to explain. I’ll simply say that where you see a friendly white puffy cloud in someone’s problem, I see an equation. And with each equation I solve, my vision grows more clear. Given clarity and honesty with one’s self, people generally know what they have to do, but are loath to open their eyes. My eyes are open. But the sad fact is, I know that I’m dying. Let me use the time that I’m all too aware of.

—

Nothing there. Just the same charming Francis.

Anything from the people he’d driven to homicide?

We don’t have that much time.

Okay, the last, say six or seven.

—

Why did you take a shot at him, Harold?

Because the man won’t shut up. He dissin’ me day in, day out. Looks away from me on da bus.

You shot him because he looked away from you?

It da way he look away from me. Like I’m dirty.

Well, Harold-

No man. You just laugh. I can handle that. But dis man Francis. He look away like I hurt his eyes.

Maybe you did. Francis isn’t like other people.

He’s a freak.

Yeah. But if every freak in this town got shot at-

Wouldn’t be nobody left.

Nope. Harold you got to stop shooting at people who dis you.

It’s hard, man.

—

Okay, understandable but no answers.

What about Shorty?

Shorty wasn’t answering questions.

Do we think Shorty will know anything?

Shorty cares about crack. That’s it. If Shorty took a shot at Francis, it was because there was crack nearby or Francis got in the way of something.

You don’t think Shorty would have a personal interest in shooting Francis?

The only thing Shorty has a personal interest in is herself. Or crack. And crack would probably win between the two.

—

Anybody else?

Well, not involved with Francis, but there’s one guy who knows something about almost everything.

That sounds like Francis.

I talking about Lips.

Lips?

Cedrick Halloway. 1357 Palm View

Cedrick is Lips? Okay. So we need to talk to Lips.

—

Lips. Tell us about Francis.

I don’t know nothing about her.

Him.

I don’t know nothing about him.

Come on. You know something about everyone.

I’m hungry man. So hungry I can’t think.

Okay, Mickey D on us. After we talk.

You need to talk to Delilah.

Delilah?

Yeah. Leather girl, works First and Central on Tuesday nights.

I thought her name was Toni.

Toni to cops. Delilah to everyone else. Don’t tell her I sent you.

—

Hi Toni.

Awww shit.

No, we just need to ask you about someone.

I don’t know nothing.

Seriously, just a question. No strings. Do you know a guy named Francis?

I don’t care what their names are, fool.

Here’s his picture.

Oh shit him. He talked too much. I kicked his ass out.

Any idea who’d want to kill him?

Everybody.

Okay. Thanks a lot Toni. Stay out of trouble.

(Laughter)

—

So a blank. Anything in the shooter’s effects?

No ID. No credit card receipts. Just the usual garbage. We could run fingerprints, but unless he’s on record somewhere-

No way to connect him to previous shooters. No way to connect him to Francis.

So what’s next?

We go back. We talk to Shorty. Lips. Harold. Delilah. Circulate a picture of the shooter.

Lots of walking. For Francis.

—

The sound of the office door opening barely registered on them. Even the rich, baritone voice initially went unnoticed because they’d heard it so many times. It was the laughter that made them turn.

Listen to you two. You sound like Dragnet.

Francis, what the hell?

What.

Why aren’t you dead?

Because I’m not stupid.

Still the same old Francis.

Well, no. Actually not. You thought I was dead?

It seemed pretty obvious

My twin brother back there, lying in your refrigerator. He’s the dead one. But he knew he was going anyway. So he did me a favor, the first time in his life.

What?

You two really haven’t changed. Look, I’ll make it simple for you. If you’ll have an autopsy performed on Earnest-

Earnest?

His name. I would have thought that was obvious. Anyway, have an autopsy performed. You’ll find that he had a congenital heart defect that would have killed him five minutes into your last coffee break. He knew it. I knew it. The family knew it. Chrono-obsessive disorder. It runs in the family.

But why shoot you?

Because I needed a bit of surgery done. A particular mis-firing piece of my brain that was the damned clock I’ve heard ticking in my ear since I was born.

What?

You’d think Earnest had shot you in the head. Look. I identified the source of my C.O.D. and reasoned that a .22 caliber bullet in exactly the right place would silence that clock once and for all without killing me.

Why didn’t you just ask for surgery?

Because I would rather my idiot brother do it with his considerable skills as a marksman. We were born with different gifts. I got brains, he got eyes.

This just doesn’t make any sense.

To you. And surprisingly, it makes even less sense to your medial examiner, who is now contemplating an early retirement.

So am I. Just tell us in simple terms why you had your brother come in and shoot you in the head before killing himself.

I told you. But let me fill in the blanks. I identified the source of my condition and the treatment most likely to succeed. If I had asked for the surgery, I may or may not have received it. If I had told you that my brother was going to walk in here and put a bullet in my exceptional yet flawed brain, you would have stopped him. If he had walked in here and announced himself and we’d chatted about the procedure before he shot me, you would have stopped him. If he hadn’t killed himself immediately afterwards, he would have been arrested and died of natural causes while chained to one of your Formica benches. Does that about cover it?

You were dead. No pulse.

You do understand that all of that can be controlled with sufficient mental discipline, don’t you? And do you know anyone with greater mental discipline than me?

Except for your mouth.

I told you, I have no patience for meaningless platitudes. So, any questions?

Plenty. You could explain it a hundred times and still leave us with a big “why?”

And that is why you are you, and I am me. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I have to go out and buy a clock.