What I had worked so hard for finally came to fruition-- I was now the owner of Mocha Daze, a business my father had created.
So why didn't feel I good? Maybe because to go out and celebrate would be like dancing on the fresh grave of a child. Of course, this is what I wanted. Complete control over my father's last stake-- his business-- completed my plan. I had to cheat, lie, and swindle to get it. But now to complete the full circle, I would have to commit a crime I had never thought myself capable of: murder.
It would look like an accident, yes, but it would be a murder nonetheless. Barbra would become another statistic in the random violence this city has become known for, a mere etch in the yearly body count, and I would become the grieving widower. Peter and I would help each other through the grieving process, thinking the carjacking was a tragic "wrong place, wrong time" scenario; until at the right moment, I would tell him the truth that Barbra was victim of a planned homicide.
I fantasized about his reaction. Would he be angry? Would he tell the authorities that I killed his mother, a woman who would have destroyed her son if she discovered he was a homosexual? I merely beat her to the punch and now, besides, I could have Peter all to myself.
The sex was good, but the power was better.
The appointment with Carl was like any other business lunch. We met at the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset, sitting in one of their red vinyl booths, surrounded by suits and ties. We talked at great length about Disneyland, of all things. He mentioned his favorite rides, which ones his niece and nephew liked, and what the park was planning for the future. He smiled, ate his lunch without concern for anyone who might be listening, and then simply wrote down on a napkin, "$8500."
And that was it.
He didn't tell me when he would strike, where he would strike, or how. Except that the "job" would be "done" soon and that he'd need the money in small bills by Thursday.
I looked in his blue eyes, his beautiful smile, and thought to myself, "He's a killer. A professional killer."
He resembled any actor you would find on the streets of Los Angeles. Though his charming good looks weren't lost on me, even I draw the line on dating someone with THIS much baggage.
As we waited for the check, we talked about the traffic and how bad it is in Los Angeles now. More small talk, which was beginning to resemble a bad date from high school.
"I'll call you about my bill. Just follow the instructions."
"No problem," I shouted as he got into his car.
And as the valet brought my car around, I realized what I just agreed to. I imagined the horror stricken face of Barbra as the man swings the barrel of the gun into the driver side window.
The explosion.
The glass.
The blood.
And the lease to Mocha Daze and freedom.
