Fine Mess

The house was very big.The gentleman who’d just rung the doorbell was made to wait almost four whole minutes while the butler made the trek to the front door. The butler’s name was Neccas, he’d been with his master almost fifteen years. He opened the door without consulting the peephole, or - for that matter - any of the many complex and expensive home security elements at his disposal. The visitor was expected and, as usual, on time.

Mr. Neccas was polite. He and his caller exchanged pleasantries. The butler asked after the caller’s family. The Caller asked if Neccas had been “staying out of trouble”. The caller was a gentleman of medium height, a little shorter than the butler’s six foot - three, and dressed from head to toe in black. He was carrying a black nylon satchel over his shoulder, wearing black jeans, black loafers, and a black windbreaker over a black, long-sleeved t-shirt. He was wearing a black baseball hat with the words “A FINE MESS (enger)” embroidered on the front.

After a few seconds, Neccas asked the man in black the same question he asked every time the man visited. He used the same words and the same tone of voice. The man in black responded the way he always responded. He used the same words and the same tone of voice. Then the caller reached into his satchel and pulled from it what appeared to be a plain Manilla envelope. The caller then handed the envelope to the Butler, Neccas, saying:

Well well sir, next week then?

The butler took the envelope, and let the words hang there for a few moments before replying:

Next week. Good.

And then the man in black was gone.

2.

Neccas watched as the man walked back towards his car which - today - was an Audi TT convertible, deep huntsman’s green and clearly modified for performance. The man had left the engine on, and Neccas could hear the thing idling impatiently out there in the driveway. It sounded bored-out hollow, light and mean. Neccas watched the man get in the car and drive off until he saw the brake lights disappear into the tree-line about 100 yards from the great house. Neccas loved cars.

Then he got moving. His employer hated tardiness. He despised it, and had been known to punish - severely - in recognition of his hatred. The master asked him to bring the envelope as soon as the man in black left. Neccas found himself taking the stairs in twos and threes to make up for any time he might have lost staring after the TT.

3.

The Butler did not knock. That was part of the whole thing. He’d been instructed: “Don’t knock, don’t call, don’t announce the visitor or the package. Just come up, come in, hand me the contents of the envelope, load the movie, and leave. I mean leave. Leave the house. Leave the area. Go home. Report back tomorrow morning and resume whatever it was that you’d been doing when the package arrived. Are we clear?”

Yes

Mr. Neccas had replied.

Clear. Clear indeed.

The first time had been a long time ago, butthe procedure and the orders themselves never changed. As Neccas crested the stairs and made for the Master’s chamber, he thought himself lucky for all that. His job - especially on Mondays - was a simple thing and the compensation outsized.

He entered the room without pause, just opened the door and walked in. The Master was lying atop a his bed. The bed - as usual - was made and made well, as if the master hadn’t moved an inch the entire time he’d been lying there. The master did not speak. Neccas approached him on the bed, unfastening the envelope as he went. He reached in and came out with two pieces of fabric, handed them to the boss. The boss held each one up for inspection, as if in appraisal. Neccas had worked with the man for 13 years, and every single Monday for 13 years, the two of them danced this dance.

Necca’s had been working as a door man at the Plaza Hotel. He’d been at the Plaza for almost four years when the master and he had got to talking about the military. Neccas had been a Major, mustered out in 1997. The master had never served. He needed to hire a man, he said. “A valet” He’d said. He was talking about a number. Neccas told him he was making three times that number at the Plaza. The master started talking about another, much greater number. Then he talked of houses, cars, numbered accounts, retirement funds, and gathering interest. Neccas asked for the weekend to think things over.

4.

Neccas was finishing up. He’d poured a four-finger bolt of Jaimeson’s into a heavy crystal rocks glass at room’s wet bar. He’d put the DVD into a wall-mounted player, put the whiskey on a granite top night table. His Master did not speak. The blinds in the room flipped. The bright daylight flooding the room melted - for an instant - to full dark, and then to a comfortable sepia glow from hidden fixtures flush in the ceilings border. A wooden cabinet built into the wall opposite the bed began to open revealing a 96” plasma screen mounted atop a giant subwoofer. Six more subs, mounted under the bed three on a side, switched on and Neccas felt them humming in his ankles. He took a look around. He had - he knew - about sixty seconds left before the show started, and he needed to make sure all was perfect. The master demanded perfection in only a few select areas, and this ritual was at the top of that list. Neccas looked, thought, and looked once more, then - satisfied - he turned for the door. That’s when the Master said :

Wait

The Butler stopped. Spun on his heal. Waited.

The Plasma flicked on, the soft candle-glow in the room faded to black. It was show time. The Master said:

Sit.

And he patted the bed to the right of where he was sitting.

Neccas the Butler sat.

5.

The first frames were of the empty back seat of a car. The seat was a dark-crème leather. An enormous bench. Lincoln logos were visible on the bench top, and the rear widow was a vast expanse of glass looking out on an anonymous neighborhood. At first, Neccas thought it was dusk outside, as the houses, cars, trees, and sky in the scene were all washed out in a neutral greys and whites. Then the door opened and the view outside was a sliver or natural greens and glowing orange. The rear window was tinted, maybe even blacked out completely. The Butler felt sure they were looking at the back seat of a Lincoln town car, by far the most popular choice of model for car services all across the country. Seconds later a woman - almost middle aged, physically fit, honey brown hair that looked natural and a smart-looking pant suit - ducked into the back. She was alone. She was carrying a leather bound file wallet and a black purse that looked expensive. She sat, unweighted, smoothed her clothes against her back, and spoke to the right of the camera:

Thanks so much. I know it was late notice. I promise - I’ll leave a big tip.

She smiled a confused smile. A voice, clear and deep and recognizable, came back at her from off camera.

No problem Miss, happy to be of service. Just sit back, we’ll be there in no time.

Neccas felt a weird twinge, maybe the first inkling that something here was somehow amiss. He knew the voice. Had spent years of time with it, more than enough to be fuckin‘-a positive: The voice from off camera was the man in black’s voice.

6.

Suddenly, the Butler wanted - with every fiber of his deepest self - to be somewhere else, and not watching the woman. By now she’d begun needling through her leather file and checking back with her blackberry, confident that she’d be making her appointment, no longer worried about inconveniencing the man in black. She sat there, head nodding back and forth from file to phone like she was watching a tiny tennis match in her lap, the world unfolding in tinted black and white behind her. The drive went on and on. At one point she’d dialed the phone, and listened in for a while. There was apparently no answer though, because after a while she’d held the phone away from her ear with a disappointed look. Then she pressed a few buttons on the touch screen and went back to her tennis.

Neccas was stealing glances over at the all-unit DVD player. Ten minutes…Fifteen. Silence in the car. Then finally something happened: the car began to slow . The car was stopping. Neccas began to feel the first pangs of relief shudder through him. The woman had made it to her appointment after all, and soon she’d be away from the man in black and safe. All this: The weird package, A Fine Mess (enger), his Master’s unusual request…All of it seemed somehow suddenly benign, a trick of the light, maybe even on purpose. His master - he knew - had a weird sense of humor. He watched intently now, his relief a palpable thing. He saw the woman’s face brighten as the car stopped, she clicked something on the phone and put it back in her purse, closed the file, got ready to gather herself and leave the car.

Then she stopped, and her smile turned into a confused grimace. She opened her mouth to speak, but the man in black had already begun:

Sorry Maam, we’re almost there. Ms. Ryan here was already on the books, heading to the same area. Dispatch called and I said “yes“ without giving it much thought. I hope you don’t mind. Last minute and all that…

The woman was watching outside now, checking out something outside of the car and the camera-eye. She was - Neccas felt sure - watching the approach of “Ms. Ryan”. She replied a hesitant

Uh…oh kay-ee. Yeah…

…and then picked her bag up off the bench as a courtesy to the new passenger. A moment later Ms. Ryan entered the car. She was a shade younger than the woman on the right, bottle-blonde, gym toned, wearing a light grey skirt suit with a hem maybe a centimeter above office/professional. She was holding an expensive looking bag. She apologized to her back-seat mate, then towards the front, speaking to the same area that the first woman had, using the astringent professional voice that middle management folks love to use for service-people.

So sorry sir, so sorry. Thanks for the last minute we so appreciate it.

Then she turned back to the first woman.

At least we can share the costs…

And then man in black intoned, in a voice that made Neccas stomach seize

That, you may, miss. That you certainly may…

And he laughed a creepy fucking laugh. It filled the room, radiating from hidden speakers, and vibrating from the subwoofers under the gigantic bed. He added:

Always better for everybody when two can share the costs.

7.

Neccas had been the oldest of for boys. He and his brothers were created from a fairly typical Irish Catholic upbringing, which - in the 1970’s - had meant lots of children, born as close in age as was physically possible, a stressed out, vile-tongued mother, and a father who worked constantly. The difference in the Neccas house was that the absentee father, Charles Neccas the fourth (!), was a a criminal lawyer, one of the best (and most expensive) in the whole commonwealth of Massachusetts. So the Neccas family - bred and raised in the minivan-less 70’s - had to car that could fit all the children one two three four across the rear bench.

They were good boys, these Neccas. The helped out at church on Sunday, played in the little leagues, stayed out of trouble. They were however, boys, and that meant that a certain amount of trouble was a matter of course. Their mother - a fiery, profane woman with a shock of red hair - usually chose to deal with trouble by selective ignorance. Unless there was blood or a potential law suit, she let the boys police themselves. That is, of course, unless she was driving.

Ramona Neccas loved driving. She loved nice cars. Big, American expanses of steel and leather. Ramona’s dad had been a successful lawyer as well, so she was used to a certain comfort level. Nothing on earth allowed Mrs. Neccas more comfort than burning miles riding the elegant wave-form motion of a gigantic American luxury car. The boys got away with whatever they wanted in most areas, but in the car they knew they’d better damn well keep still. If they didn’t mom might stop the car. If mom stopped the car, well that was about the worst thing that could happen. “Like fighting a wolverine in a phone booth” his brother had once said, and Neccas the Butler thought that was about as good of an assessment as any. A wolverine with long red hair. A wolverine that cursed like a sailor while ripping you apart, and then grounded you. It hadn’t happened many times, but the butler Neccas remembered all of them. The thing he remembered most was the car stopping. There was a feeling there, distinctive and terrible. A feeling that said:

“the ride, so promising and well conceived at the outset, has taken a turn. Now, we will all be sorry”.

In his younger years, Neccas remembered simply bursting into tears after it became clear his mom was pulling over. As he grew, he learned to accept his fate with more grace, sitting - almost placid - as the car rolled into a soft shoulder or rest area, with a look on his face that betrayed nothing.

That’s exactly the look he saw in the faces of the women in the back seat, as the tinted background slowed to a stop in high definition behind them.

8.

They looked out of their respective windows, smiling through pursed lips, as they car ground to a halt. In the rear window there were trees visible, and not much else. Pine trees and tall oaks, and Neccas thought he could make out a birch or two, swaying in the distance. As the car was slowing he thought he heard the sounds of gravel crinkling under the wheels. He allowed himself a quick glance at his Master, who’s face remained impassive but alert, as if he were watching the most fascinating television show he’d ever seen, and didn’t want to make any extra noise or motion that might distract him from that purpose. Neccas looked back at the screen.

The woman on the left, the new woman, just looked on, silent. The woman on the right, the original passenger, began to speak, but then stopped right away. She managed to get out:

What eh….

Just as the car was coming to a complete stop. She stopped though, and a jostling noise, fabric on leather, filled the bedroom. The women’s eyes were now both focused on the same point just to the camera’s right. They were watching - the Butler realized - as the man in black turned around to face them. The woman on the right began again. She’d brightened a bit, looking a little more determined than last time:

Hi. Uh…So, I just

And then two things happened. First, an ominous noise echoed forth from the screen, cracking like salutes from the awesome home theater system. It was a familiar sound, unmistakable and awful: the raking slide of an automatic pistol. Then that very same pistol burst into view from off screen, driven hard through the perfect teeth of the woman on the right by a hand gloved in black.

The rear bench of the Lincoln came alive, and so did the home theater. The woman on the left began to scream. No words, she just tilted back against the seat and began wailing as loud as she could. A high breathless keening that sounded almost supernatural blasting through the expensive fidelity. The woman on the right was in a worse place. Her face, so lovely and well put together at the beginning of the ride, was transformed instantly to a hideous mask of dread, and raw throbbing fear. Blood was dripping and globbing from her savaged mouth, and Neccas could see teeth-parts and saliva in hi-def, staining the giant gun and everything below it. She was whimpering and trembling, and her tears were streaming down, mixing with the liquid ruin around her mouth. The sound from the speakers was otherworldy, like somebody chewing shards of broken glass, amplified ten million times. Within seconds, the right hand woman was screaming as well. Necca’s heard the awful notes join with the crunching sounds, saw the women’s hands join in an absurd silent union. He thought he might be sick.

Then the man in black squeezed the trigger.

The woman on the right must have known, because just before the report her eyes focused absurdly on the barrel and her scream started climbing the registers. The shot was loud and dry - no echo in the back bench of the town car. After it there was silence, for a while.

Neccas had seen a few people shot in his time, and a few of those had been head-shots. Never, though, had he seen anything like what he witnessed on the big screen in the Master’s bedroom. The woman’s head exploded, burst out like it had been wired by demolition experts. One moment there had been a face, a head, a mouth, the next, nothing. Only a black, smoking barrell hovering over a scorched neck. The rear bench - so pristine at the beginning of the ride - was instantly painted over with what looked like ten coats of blood, brain, shattered bone, and honey brown hair. Neccas saw an eye ball hanging absurdly from the ceiling of the car, and the lady’s torso began to fountain dark-purple blood. It spattered against the ceiling and dripped on the twitching body’s torso and lap.

The other woman, the second woman, took the full brunt of the explosion. Her face was so coated with gore that for a second, Neccas thought that she’d been shot as well. Then the woman’s eyes opened and rolled back in her head, and she started bashing her head against the seat. She’d gone “off the chain” - as Neccas’s old XO used to say - and he knew there’d be no getting her back. He watched with fascination as she bobbed and babbled. A few seconds later another black gloved hand reached from off screen. This time it held a syringe instead of the handgun. It plunged the spike into her gore-soaked top just below her collar bone. Within seconds she stopped moving all together, and as the shot faded to black, her breathing, regular and strong, filled the room in perfect amplification. Neccas breathed out hard. The Master said nothing.