The Autobiography of Benjamin Abbott - Chapter 25: The Mansion
Fingers and I were waiting in the bowels of Humphrey’s Malibu mansion. It hadn’t been that difficult to first convince Louie and then have Louie convince the Maxwells of the secluded estate’s value as a place to trade one human life for another.
Firstly, Humphrey was the one who wanted me dead so there was a certain appropriateness to using his property for the execution. Secondly, the grounds were gated and secluded so the Maxwells could feel safe that I wouldn’t be able to spring any traps on them because, for all they knew, Louie had the only key to get in the locked and electrified gates. Of course, Louie’s key was a copy of the key Humphrey had given me and forgotten to take back when our honeymoon period turned sour. But the Maxwells didn’t suspect that, especially since the suggestion of Humphrey’s place as a meeting point was suggested by a trustworthy neutral third party.
It took a little while for Fingers and me to figure out how to get in the near invisible servant’s passageway, but once we did we quickly found the bank of monitors that covered the entire grounds and would let us watch the Maxwells (and Angel) arrive and set up and would also let us surprise them from the back entrance when they were most unaware.
Angel was supposed to be on the front step waiting for me. I would drive through the gates in my Mercury Tracer and then circle the roundabout in front of the mansion. I would get out of my car, leaving the keys in the ignition, Angel would get into my car and drive off leaving me alone with the Maxwells. A simple easy trade that only had a few dozen complications to it, not least of which is that Angel doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift and the Maxwells weren’t going to let an innocent witness to their nefarious activities leave the grounds alive.
Fingers loaded one gun for himself and another for me as we sat waiting and eating Jack-N-The-Box breakfast sandwiches. After I finished my sandwich, I realized I should have made the meeting time earlier, but I had wanted to make sure we got there before they did just in case they decided to be conscientious and show up a couple of hours early themselves. Unfortunately, they were not conscientious and saw no need to show up a couple of hours early, so we had a long wait.
Fingers started to complain about how we should have brought something to pass the time, but I stopped him before he could mention whichever board game he was obsessing about at the moment (probably still Stratego from Louie’s place), I wanted to strangle him out of irritation, fear, annoyance at our (Angel’s) predicament, for bringing up such triviality when we needed to concentrate and prepare.
“Don’t say it.”
“But.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“But.”
“Just don’t.” I kept my eyes fixed hard on the bank of monitors.
Silence.
For 30 seconds.
“It helps to calm the nerves.” He just couldn’t help himself. “A little professional advice.” I almost hit the roof.
Fingers pulled out a deck of playing cards and looked at me.
“No.”
And spread them out on the table in front of the monitors.
“No, Fingers, no.” I could feel a sulking Fingers next to me. He picked up the cards again. We still had two hours to wait. “Let’s just concentrate on the monitors, okay.”
“It’s a long time to wait.” He started playing solitaire.
He was right. It was a long time to wait. A long time of staring and not talking. Of listening to Fingers shuffle and flip cards. Of waiting and wondering. I got a headache from looking so intently at those black and white monitors trying to will the Maxwells (and Angel) to show up at the front gate; occasionally checking other areas of the grounds in case they decided to sneak in planning to surprise me like we were planning to surprise them.
Finally, at a quarter to they showed up in their black Lexus. And parked in front of the steps. And casually walked in to Humphrey’s mansion through the front door. And made themselves at home in the giant front foyer of the mansion by the giant hideous painting that Humphrey was so proud of.
Angel was placed on the couch (near the painting) as they waited, watched by Tommy Maxwell. I looked closely on the monitors to make sure she hadn’t lost any of her digits. Thankfully, I counted 10 fingers and 10 toes. Tommy literally licked his chops as the clock turned 2. He was looking at Angel as he did this, but he might have been thinking about me. No matter who the intended victim was supposed to be, I’m sure he was thinking about upcoming violence.
Fingers handed me a black metal object right after Tommy finished licking his lips, while I was still distracted by the disturbingly gleeful look on Tommy’s face.
“What’s that?”
Fingers’ right eyebrow lifted.
“I know it’s a gun.” I took it from him.
“You’re going to need it.”
My original well thought out plan didn’t include me wielding any guns. Fingers’ experience in these matters disagreed. I held the gun with both hands and pointed it into the air like a Charlie’s Angel. I tried to give Fingers my tough guy look.
“Have you ever held a gun before?”
“Nope. Never held one, never shot one. Which way should I point it again?”
He had obviously decided to spring this gun business on me at the last minute so I wouldn’t get nervous and accidentally shoot him or myself.
“Maybe you should have a baseball bat instead.”
“I’ll be fine. I used to play cops and robbers as a kid.”
“Don’t point that at me!”
I had absent-mindedly pointed it at his face as I tried twirling it confidently on my index finger. He pushed the gun away and made me point it at the ground.
Harry Maxwell moved from his standing position by the couch and took Angel by the arm walking them both to the open front door. It was now 2:03. Tommy went behind the couch and knelt down, hiding himself behind it while watching the two of them at the front door in a suitably unsubtle Maxwellian plan to ambush me as soon as I got out of my car.
“Now, remember to take the safety off when we go in.”
“Why can’t I do it now?”
“Because I don’t want to get shot when we’re walking up the stairs.”
“So how do you take the safety off, with the trigger right?”
Fingers’ patience was gone, he was now hitman-mode Fingers, he showed me where the safety was and then looked at me very sternly. “Stop playing around. It’s game time.”
“I’m sorry. I’m just a little nervous, that’s all, and when I’m nervous I talk a lot and joke around and …”
He slapped me across the face. I took a breath and composed myself. Without endorsing violence of any kind (except the killing of non-Fingers’ hitmen) this amazingly cleared my mind and calmed me. Who knew?
“Let’s go over your brilliant plan one last time.”
“Okay…” I was about to go over my brilliant plan one last time when I noticed that Fingers wasn’t paying attention to me and was staring at the monitor in the far left corner, the one that covered the Pacific Ocean and Humphrey’s little used rickety dock.
“What’s that?” Fingers wondered, squinting at the monitor.
“What’s what?” I turned and looked.
“There’s a little dingy or whatever those fucking things are called pulling up to the dock. And now it’s docking. And now a little guy is getting out of the dingy. And now he’s climbing the stairs to the back of the mansion.” Fingers was providing unneeded narration as we both leaned in close to the monitors as the little figure made its way past the tennis court and started going through the gardens bouncing from one monitor to the next.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Fingers’ shoulders slumped in disbelief.
Yes, it was Ronnie Toledo. I wanted to gloat about being right about the red corvette in the alley listening in on us but it didn’t seem like the right time given other pressing matters. (Okay, I did say I told you so once.) Fingers started to move in that purposeful way of his to go and break Toledo’s nose for the 3rd time, but I put out my hand and stopped him.
“I think our plan just changed.”