Meet Nick Stone. The highlight of Nick's day had always been smoking Jane, drinking beer, and causing trouble. Usually all at the same time. But that all changed when Dad woke up with a dead stripper in his bed. - This story promises to offend you, insult you and entertain you, all at the same time. In Odd-Jobs, the author holds blatant contempt for literary merit, and the result comes off a little like Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas.
At eleven p.m. Dad and I put on our Isotoner gloves and loaded Sally into the trunk of the Caprice. I gathered up some provisions: my lock-picking gun, a clean rag, a bottle of chloroform and a flashlight. I fished through Sally's purse and found a business card identical to the one she gave me yesterday, which I immediately flushed down the toilet before Sally's body was cold.
Dad and I drove the distance to Mr. Darvis's house in East Detroit under the guise of nightfall. Mrs. Darvis was visiting her sister and would not be joining us tonight. Parked at the curb across the street from his house, we waited anxiously for the left window's light to go out. That's his bedroom. At almost exactly midnight the light went out. I added an extra half hour for him to fall asleep.
"You sure you know what to do?" I asked.
"I'm high, not stupid," Dad retorted, dropping the glowing roach between his legs.
I put on the ski mask, pocketed the chloroform, rag and flashlight, and grabbed the lock-picking gun. I crossed the street and walked up Mr. Darvis's driveway, hopped the gate and went to the back door. A flick of the flashlight on the doorknob told me which extension to use on the lock-picker. I eased the door open and went in. I walked as far as the kitchen, opened the bottle of chloroform and soaked the rag with it. I crept stealth-style into his bedroom. His snoring was all the proof I needed to tell me he was asleep. On my knees, I gently lowered the rag over his mouth. After inhaling the fumes two or three times, he was out. I slapped him to make sure. He didn't wake up. I stood, used the flashlight to find the light switch, and turned it on and off three times.
Dad saw the signal. He started the Caprice, leaving the headlights off, and backed into the driveway as I opened the gate. Dad got out and opened the trunk. We carried Sally into the house, silk scarf and all, and gently laid her down in the bed next to Mr. Darvis. We both breathed a sigh of relief.
"Wow. That was rather easy," Dad said. "Is he really out?"
I bent over and slapped Mr. Darvis again.
With a big grin, Dad leaned over, punched him in the face, kicked him in the ribs and said, "Damn! That was fun! Always wanted to do that to the little f—r.”
I went back to the car, grabbed Sally's purse and left it on Mr. Darvis's couch. I left Sally's business card next to the phone. I went back to the bedroom, retied the silk scarf, arm and leg bindings she used on my dad's bed. The scene was identical. But this time, she was in someone else's bed.
We left the way we came in, relocking the back door and closing the gate. I started the Caprice and drove to the liquor store at the end of the street. I found a payphone and called 911. I told the dispatcher I heard screaming from a house, gave them Mr. Darvis's address and hung up.
The drive home was quiet and somber. We both understood what we'd just done. I have no clue how many felonies we'd just committed. It wasn't till we pulled up in the driveway till Dad spoke.