After he stomps on the door frame of his driver’s apartment home, Kristoff walks rapidly back to his house, punches in his key code and as the door opens, smashes the pad with his fist several times, then takes the butt of his gun to it. He goes upstairs, turns on the intercom, listens, then taunts John. John’s response surprises the big boss. Who’d have thought that stupid man could have stolen my money — and shit, the folder! And god! He has the gaul to deny it. After the intercom goes silent, Kristoff goes out to his five car garage, walks around his Lamborghini — a gorgeous car he can barely get in and out of — to a small safe in the corner on a mid-level shelf. He uses a key to open it. He takes out five sticks of dynamite, walks to John’s apartment house. Kris haphazardly gauges the distance between the big house and John’s, then places the dynamite here and there around the foundation of the apartment house. He begins to light the first stick then realizes — Shit! I’m gonna blow my self to smithereens. He rushes around the house, picking up the sticks of dynamite; then he places all of them together against the front door. He lights them with his cigar lighter, runs awkwardly away from the small pile of explosive. In a few moments a rather large boom and then fire; wood from the door and its frame fly at him. He ducks, laughs. He turns, looks as the house begins to burn. Behind the bright flame, in the gaping hole that was the front door and part of the wall, he sees Lady, John’s German Shepherd. So, I did kill that stupid dog.
Kristoff walks away from the fire, worries momentarily that it may spread to his own house. When he gets into his foyer, he calls the fire department, says sluggishly into the phone, “My driver’s set his home on fire.”
The dispatcher gets the address and within ten minutes the fire engines arrive, quickly extinguish the burning apartment house, leaving only smoldering furniture and books. Everything John owns is lost or damaged beyond repair.
One of the firemen wants to know how the dog gets trapped in the house. Kristoff lies, “My driver kept the poor thing chained in the front room, all the time.”
“All the time?” asks the fireman.
“As far as I know, yes, all the time,” says Kristoff again.
“Who is this driver of yours?” asks the fireman. “Where can I find him?”
“His name is John Olmsted. As to where you can find him — your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well,” says the fireman, “the fire is out. I’d recommend you hire a good company to come over the next few days to cart away debris, make your property presentable to your neighbors.” The man looks around, says, “This is a nice neighborhood.”
The fireman stares at the big man for a moment, then excuses himself.
The Cock goes in to his house, shuts his large front door. He laughs as he imagines the complete destruction of everything John loves. Kris goes in to his living room, sits in his lounge chair, thinks — wonders where John runs and who can catch him. After fifteen minutes of debating with himself, Kristoff shakes his head, rises from the chair and goes upstairs to bed. There’s no one to call.
Copyright 2014 R. Jack Winter
All Rights Reserved