Lodger 42
Written by Mark SladeIra was on the run and held up in a small, rundown fleabag hotel outside of Baltimore. Room number 42, ground floor, with a view of an alley with two dumpsters full of trash, and an old homeless woman beating a rat to death with a rolling pin. She gave out a victory cry, placing the bloody animal into her rusty shopping cart, then moved on behind an empty warehouse.
Ira shook his head.
“Disgusting people in a disgusting city,” he said. “How the hell did I get to this low point in my life?”
He choked back tears.
This is how he got here.
He had traveled halfway across the country from San Diego with Helen, hoping the cops wouldn’t catch them, but if they did, they would go easy on her. She was only helping him because she’d fallen in love, and you can’t prosecute for that, can you?
“I shouldn’t have stolen that money,” Ira said. He was staring out the window, taking long drags from his cigarette, staring at two little boys in the street trying to dribble a flat basketball and not having much luck with it. He could relate. “Yep. That’s what their lives are going to be like. Nothing but disappointments. One big, fucking flat ball. That’s what your world is going to be,” he tossed the cigarette at the window, the lit end struck the glass pane and caused a minor combustion as it fell to the floor. He put his face in his hands and screamed, “Why did I take that stupid money?”
A half a million, that’s why, he thought.
The door swung open and Ira swallowed his heart. Panic stricken, he let out a fierce squeal. It was only Helen with two paper bags in her arms.
“Why didn’t you open the door for me?” She rushed to a small, crickety table in the middle of the room. She slammed the bags on the tabletop, cans and bottles clinked.
“Oh, God,” Ira caught his breath. “I thought you were the cops coming through the door.”
“I called out to you!”
“I didn’t hear you.”
“You never do,” Helen unloaded canned goods and bread from one bag and started on the second containing a dozen eggs, a package of bologna, and a bottle of whiskey. “You don’t hear anyone but yourself, Ira Biggs.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ira adjusted his thick framed glasses on his pale, skinny face. “My mother used to call me by my whole name. My teachers, my old bosses—so, just don’t. Okay?”
Helen turned to him quickly. She studied his miserable face. She was still angry, but felt a wave of sympathy for him. Or was it pity? Is that the right definition of what she feels for Ira?
It must be. He occupies her mind more than anything else. When Helen looks at him, she sees hurt in his expression and she just wants to hold him.
“Alright, Ira,” she said softly. “I won’t.”
Ira shook his head, watched the young boys kick the flat basketball back and forth. The ball had no bounce left, it barely rolled between the boys’ dirty Puma knockoffs.
“I wish I hadn’t stolen that money,” Ira said.
“Hey,” she went to him. Hesitantly, she gently stroked his cheek. “What’s done is done. Don’t fret. Everything will work out.”
Ira pushed her hand away. “Easy for you to say, You’re Not the one who is going to jail.”
“That’s not exactly true,” Helen said. “I was your secretary. I knew what you were up to. I helped you hide the money in offshore bank accounts, I helped you escape. I’m up to it to my neck, Ira, and I’m sick of it.”
Ira shrugged. “So walk.” He went back to staring at the boys playing with the flat basketball.
“I can’t,” Helen sat at the table. “I’m stuck. Stuck in the rat trap I set for myself.”
Rapid fire knocking alerted Ira and Helen, taking them out of their misery. They glanced at each other, then the door. Ira began to hyperventilate. Helen stood, then froze. She didn’t know what to do.
“You can let me in,” the deep, gravelly voice said from behind the door. “I’m not a cop.”
“Well, who are you?” Helen asked.
“No,” Ira demanded. “Don’t answer.”
“Please Ira,” Helen said. “I’m tired of running.”
“Then turn yourself in, Helen! I don’t care! I’ve got enough on my mind to think about you.”
“Mr. Biggs, I assure you, I am not with the Police. As a matter of fact, I am here to help you avoid capture.”
“Why would you do that?” Ira thought a second, his eyes darting back and forth, eyebrows jotting up and down. “How do you know I’m even Ira Biggs?”
“Mr. Biggs,” the gravelly voice said. “If I were the Police wouldn’t I have already smashed the door in and arrested you both by now?”
Silence.
Helen said, “He’s right, Ira. Cops don’t ask permission.”
Ira walked to the door, removed the chain, unlocked the door knob, and opened it partially. He saw a decrepit, elderly old man in a wrinkled black overcoat and black homburg too small for his peanut-shaped head.
“You can let me in, Mr. Biggs,” the old man said. “I won’t harm you.”
“How do I know that?” Ira said.
The old man laughed. He showed Ira his cane. He opened his wrinkled overcoat. “I’m not armed, Mr. Biggs. You’ll have to trust me,” the old man pointed his cane at Helen. “Besides, your companion already trusts me. You might as well at least pretend to do so.”
A pause. Ira swung the door open, and gestured for the old man to come inside the small room. Crossing the threshold, Ira noticed the old man’s limp, and a missing left shoe squared at the foot.
“Much obliged,” the old man tipped his beat-up homburg. “Do you mind if I sit? These old legs aren’t what they used to be.”
“Why no,” Helen stood, offering the chair to the old man.
“Just get on with it,” Ira said abruptly.
Helen went to him, patted his shoulder. “He will,” she said soothingly. Ira brushed her off.
The old man smiled. He sat in the chair in one go. He almost fell on the tabletop.
Reaching into the inside pocket of his overcoat, he produced a coin the size of a bottletop. He held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. Raised it up in the air for Ira’s benefit.
“Right here is a coin that will buy you your freedom, Mr. Biggs.” The old man turned it over twice with his fingers. “British Half Crown. Minted in with the year of our Lord, 1886. As you can see, a portrait of the Queen Mum, Victoria dons this coin.”
Ira leaned forward, squinted at the weather-beaten coin. He made a face. “That old junk? What are you trying to pull? I have news for you, buddy, we’re in America, and that coin can’t buy a Snickers bar here.”
“Well,” the old man chuckled. “Technically it can, and more than likely several houses—”
“I can’t use it,” Ira interrupted.
“Let him explain, Ira,” Helen said.
“Shut up, Helen. This old geezer is a fraud. I don’t know how you know about me, how you found me, but I bet you have turned us in—”
“How I found you? I didn’t. The coin found you.”
Ira laughed. “He’s a damn nut.”
“Oh, sure. I am a little crazy. You would be, too, if you went through what I have been through. You question what reality is.” The old man paused. “What I am is not a fraud, Mr. Biggs,” the old man said. “But I am a murderer.”
Helen gasped. She clutched Ira’s arm tightly.
“No reason to be afraid of me, Madame. I do not wish you or Mr. Biggs harm. I did wish my wife harm. Plenty of it.” The old man grit his teeth. “I hated her and her awful laugh, her awful walk, her annoying voice. That’s why I killed her.”
“Why are you telling us this?” Ira’s voice quivered.
“Being honest.”
“You don’t have to be with us,” Ira said. “I don’t care. I just want to know why you’re bothering us.”
“This is a part of the deal,” the old man said. “I found someone to take my place. Lord knows I’m beat. Beaten down. Beaten to a pulp.”
“Don’t talk in riddles,” Ira raised his voice.
“Please dear,” Helen took Ira’s hand in hers. “Let him explain. Patience.”
“I’m all out of patience, Helen. God hates me. He always has.”
The old man chuckled.
“I agree,” he said. He tossed the coin on the table. It bounced toward Ira, but never left the tabletop. “This is your only salvation. Unless you want prison.”
“I don’t want to go to prison.”
“I don’t either,” Helen said.
“Take the coin, take my place. I don’t care which of you does it,” the old man tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace.
“Take your place for what?” Helen asked.
“Sister, all you need to know will be explained when one of you touches that coin. Once a hand or finger touches it, you’ll know what I know.”
Helen and Ira exchanged worried glances.
Ira shook his head.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “You’re a scam artist. Fat chance I’ll pick up that coin or anything—”
The coin began to form a red glow around the edges and table lit up like a nightlight. Ira and Helen’s eyes grew bigger. Helen gulped, tried to speak when footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Voices were in the hallway. Ira swallowed hard. Panic crossed his face. Helen clutched his arm, dug her nails into his elbow. The voice drew closer as did footsteps upon creaky floorboards. Both passed the room’s door. A man and woman of the night promising sexual delights.
Helen and Ira breathed easy. The old man cackled.
“See,” he said. “I’m promising you relief from that.” He pointed to the door. “Out there, my friends, they will be hunting you. Forever, if need be.”
“What if they never find us, eh?” Ira said. “What if they forget about us?”
“They won’t,” the old man said. “And be sure somebody, somewhere, will recognize you.”
“I’m scared, Ira!” Helen squealed.
“Shut up, will ya!” Ira screamed.
“No, Ira,” Helen moved away from him. Ira followed. “You might be able to live with the fear of people coming after us, but I can’t live with the fear.”
“You don’t have to!” Ira came closer to her. Helen took a step away, inches from the wall. “You can leave anytime you want!”
“I don’t care what you say, Ira! I’m going to take the coin to save us!”
Helen reached for the coin. Just as fast, Ira grabbed Helen by the neck with both hands. He squeezed more and more. Helen screamed; gagged, panted, begged, then went limp. Ira let go. Helen’s lifeless body fell to the floor.
Ira glared, and Helen’s wife, dead eyes glared back.
“What have I done?”
“You’ve just done something a desperate man would do,” the old man said. “You’re better off without her. Blah!” The old man turned his nose up and shook his head. “She was much too clingy for my taste.”
“I-I never meant to hurt Helen,” Ira said, still in shock.
“Sure you did! C’mon fella, don’t aggravate yourself over piddly stuff! Move on. Now to the real business at hand.”
The old man offered the half crown to Ira.
“Real business?” Ira asked.
“Take it,” the old man grit his teeth. “Take it, or I’ll alert the authorities of what you’ve done.”
Ira took a breath. He glared at the coin between the old man’s fingers.
“It’s the death penalty,” the old man said. “Or the coin. It’s your choice.”
Ira took the coin.
There was Ira, dressed in black from top hat to boot; scarf covering his face; on the streets of White Chapel, London England—1886—on the hunt again, for more blood of another woman to appease the coin.
