But one of them could survive if the other was dead. Thanks to the National Life Insurance Company.
The bill came and Jack said, “I’ll get it.”
“Thanks,” Stan replied.
Bastard.
Stan did not want to go club hopping, and Jack was just as happy about that. Stan was not a good wingman. In fact, he had a knack for driving the women away, especially when he told them the long, sad story of how his wife had left him for a dweeby college professor-English literature-who she’d met when taking a class at NYU. As Jack liked to tell people, she got an A in the course and Stan got an F.U. Jack had always wanted to use that in a book but thought Stan might be offended.
They drove to Jack’s rental house, a big contemporary on Georgica Pond. Jack pulled into the long gravel driveway and said to Stan, “Do me a favor. I like to garage the car. Can you move that bicycle?”
Stan got out of the BMW and walked toward the bicycle that Jack had left in the driveway.
There wasn’t another house in sight and no traffic on the dark road. In fact, no witnesses.
Jack put one foot on the brake and pressed slightly on the accelerator. The engine revved, and the car strained forward.
Do it! Now!
Just as Jack was about to hit the gas and release the brake, a thought flashed into his mind. What if the impact doesn’t kill Stan? He’d have to back up and run him over again. Then he’d have a lot of explaining to do to the cops: Well, Officer, I… I don’t know why I backed up and ran him over again. I was distraught.
Do it!
Jack realized he was pressing harder on the brake and the accelerator, and the engine was roaring.
Stan turned and looked back at the car, and Jack saw him staring at him like that proverbial deer caught in the headlights.
Jack slumped in his seat and took his feet off the pedals.
Stan hesitated, then wheeled the bicycle onto the grass.
Jack pressed the remote and the garage door lifted-revealing a garage filled with sporting equipment, bicycles, storage boxes, and other junk. Not much room for a car.
Stan stared into the garage, then turned and looked back at the BMW.
Jack took a deep breath, killed the lights and the engine, and got out of the car, forcing a smile as he walked up the driveway. He glanced into the garage and said to Stan, “I thought I cleaned this out.”
Stan didn’t reply. They made eye contact in the dim light of the lamppost. Jack forced another smile and said, “Too much to drink.”
Stan walked back to the car, retrieved his suitcase, and both men entered the house.
It occurred to Jack that this would have been far from the perfect crime. His enthusiasm was interfering with his judgment. He wouldn’t write a scene with so many illogical mistakes. And if he did, he could write it over again. But in real life-real murder-there were no rewrites. You get one shot at this, Jack. If you get it right, you get five million; if you get it wrong, you get twenty years to life.
He noticed that Stan was standing in the middle of the living room, looking at him. Stan seemed to be disturbed about something. In fact, Jack thought, Stan, who was not usually a very imaginative man, may have imagined that his author was trying to kill him. Not good.
Jack smiled widely and waved his arms to encompass the big cathedral-ceilinged room, saying, “Isn’t this a great place? Boy, I could get some good writing done here. You gotta come out for a few weeks. You work too hard, buddy. I want to run a few proposals by you. We’ll sit by the pool. Tennis in the morning. Hey, I have a bottle of Chateau Montelena in the wine cooler. How ’bout a nightcap?”
Stan replied, “Where’s my room?”
Jack maintained his smile and good cheer and replied, “Terrific room. Overlooking the pond.”
He carried his agent’s suitcase up the stairs and showed him to a big guest room, saying, “If you need anything, I’ll be out on the back deck.”
Jack went downstairs and poured himself a scotch from the bar, then went out through the sliding glass doors to the deck and collapsed into a chaise lounge.
Stan definitely looked a bit… troubled, but Jack was sure that Stan would conclude that he had misinterpreted what happened in the driveway. Jack was drunk and Stan had also had a few. Plus, Stan was still alive, so that was proof enough that Jack-his author and pal-was not trying to kill him. Jack recalled the night when they had pretended to push each other in front of moving vehicles. Just a little drunken fun. Maybe that’s what Stan was thinking now. In fact, maybe that’s how Jack should have played it. Well, he couldn’t rewrite that, but he could write the next chapter.
He put his creative mind in gear and thought about ways for Stan Wykoff to have an accident.
“ Killing a friend, wife, or acquaintance is easy,” Detective Corey had told him. “ You have access and trust. What you also need is balls and brains. And a plausible story. You need imagination. ”
“Got all that,” Jack said to himself.
Detective Corey had cautioned, however, “ The only thing the cops and the D.A. will have on you is your motive. A strong motive equals a strong presumption of guilt. But motive is not enough to build a case. ” Right. The five million dollars would look like a good motive, but the policy was over ten years old. It wasn’t taken out last week. Right?
He felt that he was starting to vacillate. Maybe he was just fantasizing about killing his agent. All authors fantasized about killing their agent. Maybe that’s what had happened in the driveway. A half-played-out fantasy.
Jack stared up at the starry sky. This could be his last summer in the Hamptons. His financial future-his entire life-rested entirely on what he did or did not do this weekend. He looked back at the big house and stared at the light in the guest room window; then the light went out.
In the morning, he’d know if Stan had let his imagination run wild-especially if Stan called a taxi to take him to the train station. But if everything seemed okay, then Jack would suggest taking the boat out for some ocean fishing.
The morning dawned bright and sunny. Good boating weather. “Good day to drown my agent.”
Jack got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. Little Scotsmen were playing bagpipes in his head and he took an aspirin, then washed up while he listened to the maritime weather channel. Seas were calm with one- to two-foot waves; winds were from the south at three to four miles per hour. Perfect day to take the twenty-eight- foot Sea Ray out on the ocean. Five miles should do it. In fact, since Stan Wykoff couldn’t swim, five feet should do it. But he needed to be away from witnesses. Five miles.
Jack slipped on a ratty flannel bathrobe over his boxer shorts and went downstairs.
He found Stan in the kitchen, already up and about, having a cup of coffee and reading the New York Times, which was delivered each weekend morning.
Stan glanced up from his newspaper, and Jack greeted him with a smile and a hearty good morning. He inquired of his houseguest, “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Jack thought Stan seemed subdued, but he wasn’t dressed, packed, and waiting outside for a cab. So, as Jack had hoped, Stan had forgotten or dismissed the driveway incident. People rarely took that long leap from suspicion to absolute belief-from reasonable doubt to conviction. That was why juries returned verdicts of not guilty and why murder victims rarely saw it coming.
Stan was wearing stupid yellow pajamas-silk or synthetic-with idiotic bears on them. Probably a gift from his wife. Jack hated men who wore pajamas. And open-toed slippers. Wimp.
Jack poured himself a cup of coffee and noticed that Stan had found a frying pan and had scrambled some eggs in a bowl, and he’d also found some chives in the kitchen garden. Stan was one of those men who liked to cook. Jack disliked men who liked to cook. Skinny men, like Stan, who sliced and diced and made horrible healthy things to eat. The only green thing in Jack’s refrigerator was the mold on the cheddar cheese.
Jack sat at the round table and sipped his coffee. He asked Stan, “Is this decaf?”
“Yes.”
