Nathan G. Cava crept up the stairs and moved silently down the hall until he reached the study When he peeked in, he saw Fontaine on the floor by the fireplace and damned himself for being ten minutes late.
The Beverly Hills doctor had just discovered that his cash stash was history.
Cava had to admit that the show was still pretty good. There was some crying going on-some fist pounding and weeping. Even some grunting and swearing, weak as it may have been. Still, he’d missed the big moment. The existential moment. The beat of all beats. He’d hoped to see the greedy little bastard move the rock away and peer into the darkness. He’d hoped to witness the moment when the man realized that there was only nothingness.
Fontaine crawled over to his desk and lifted himself onto the chair, still unaware that Cava was watching him from the doorway. He was cradling his head in his arms and feeling sorry for himself. His shirt was wrinkled and soaked through with sweat, his hair in disarray. After a good five minutes, Fontaine reached for the phone and dialed a number.
Cava felt the cell begin to vibrate in his pants pocket. The phone belonged to Greta Dietrich, Fontaine’s love interest and fuck object. Cava had kept the phone since Dietrich hit the finish line yesterday morning. Curiously, Fontaine had been calling the number every hour as if he didn’t fucking get what was going on. The constant barrage of phone calls had become something of a nuisance for Cava. He had spent the night at Greta’s apartment in Santa Monica. Slept in her bed and got lost in the scent of her body as he grieved over her loss and tried to repent for the things he’d done. Greta didn’t deserve her fate, but Fontaine did.
The phone was still buzzing in his pocket. Cava pulled it out, deciding to take the call.
“Hello,” he said.
“Who is this?” Fontaine asked with suspicion.
“Your new best friend.”
“Where’s Greta? Put her on.”
“She’s busy. She can’t come to the phone right now.”
Cava tried not to laugh. Fontaine’s head was still buried in his arms. The guy was so distraught, so inside himself, he hadn’t picked up Cava’s voice in the room. For Cava it made it all worth it-like all of sudden he was playing with house money.
“Who are you?” Fontaine shouted into the phone. “Where are you?”
“Over here, Doc. Standing by the door.”
Fontaine finally lifted his head and looked over, then flinched as he got it.
“Where’s Greta? Where’s my money?”
Cava closed the cell phone, trading it for a.38 revolver. “Which is more important to you, Doc? The money or the girl?”
“We’re talking about over a million dollars.”
Cava grinned. “I thought so. Now, be real good and sit still.”
“What are you gonna do? Shoot me?”
“Not if you sit still. I promise.”
Cava crossed the room, opening his briefcase behind the doctor’s back. He found the five-pack of auto-injectors, opened two, and removed the red safeties. Each device delivered a fixed dose of 10 milligrams of morphine. One would probably be enough, but Cava wanted to ease Fontaine’s worries and make the ride feel good.
“You’re wearing latex gloves,” Fontaine said.
“That’s right. I’m a physician.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m afraid not,” Cava said. “Now roll up your right sleeve.”
He walked around the desk. Fontaine’s eyes got big when he spotted the auto-injectors.
“Please,” he said. “I can get my hands on more money. Please don’t do this.”
“It’s morphine, Doctor. The White Nurse. Morpheus and the Greek god of dreams. You see the dosage. It won’t hurt you, and we need to talk. It’s either the needle or the gun. Pleasure or pain. There’s no other choice tonight.”
Cava could see the beads of sweat percolating on the man’s forehead as he wrestled with the decision. He placed the auto-injectors beside the doctor’s hand, aimed the.38 at his head, and sat down in the chair in front of the desk.
“Where did you get these?” Fontaine said.
“The U.S. government. They come with the uniform, Doctor. The morphine will make you feel better. It will help you deal with your loss. The safeties have been removed. Now press the purple ends against your arm and shoot.”
Fontaine’s face lost its color. After several hard moments and three or four looks at the.38, the man held the injectors against his arm, closed his eyes, and pushed. One after the other.
It wouldn’t take long. Just a few minutes. Less than an hour to reach the moon.
“Good,” Cava said. “Now place the injectors on the desk and push them toward me.”
Fontaine did as he was instructed, then sat back in his chair and let out a loud gasp. His body had already begun to relax. The lines in his face were vanishing, his eyes just starting to become lazy.
“How do you feel?” Cava asked, his voice smooth as glass.
“Stoned,” he whispered. “Why are you doing this? Where’s my money? Where’s Greta?”
“I can’t show you your money, Doctor. But Greta’s in the basement. If you’d like to see her, we could go down and take a look.”
“The basement? What’s Greta doing in the basement?”
“Not that much actually. Would you like to see her?”
“No. She ran off with my money. Tell her to give it back.”
“I’m your best friend, Doc. I’ll see what I can do.”
Fontaine smiled, drooling a bit as his mouth opened. “That gun looks familiar.”
“It should,” Cava said. “It’s the one you kept in the bedside table. You gave it to me. Don’t you remember?”
Fontaine rocked his head up and down. “That’s right. I did. I forget when, though.”
“You gave it to me for Christmas. It’s a toy gun.”
“I like toys. Does it make a sound?”
“No,” Cava said. “It’s a toy. It just clicks. Watch.”
Cava turned the revolver to his own head, pressed it against his temple and pulled the trigger. When the gun clicked, Fontaine erupted in laughter, nervous laughter that he couldn’t stop. The man was feeling joyous. In the zone and rolling with the morphine. Still making the climb toward the top.
“Do it again,” Fontaine said.
“I’d be happy to. It’s a fun game.”
Cava pushed the gun against his head and pulled the trigger a second time, smiling at his prey.
“You’re a funny man,” Fontaine said. “A funny friend. I wanna try.”
Cava nodded, leaning forward and calmly loading the weapon behind the desk. Fontaine reached out and began to whine.
“I wanna try,” he said. “It’s my turn now.”
Cava passed the revolver over. Fontaine was beside himself with glee and fighting off the giggles. Once he finally settled down, he met his new friend’s eyes and raised the gun to his own head. He flashed a big wide smile, and Cava smiled back.
“It’s your turn, Doc. You’re free.”
Fontaine giggled and pulled the trigger.