Gun Work

Carl had saved Erica (so he related) from a stalker boyfriend with a history of vague threats and backhanded harassment. She would get flooded with junk mail based on credit card offers or find her parked car keyed, but nothing ever tracked back to the ex, one Rafe Torgeson. By Erica’s account, Rafe had been one of those sexy, seems-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time diversions who become dysfunctionally possessive/obsessive once they graduate from cheap thrills to what desperate people call a “relationship”... once they start clinging, fighting more than fucking, struggling for air, slamming down ultimata and grabbing for some kind of illusory life preserver that was never there to save them in the first place.

By Erica’s account.

And if you’re Erica, who can you get to believe your account? No one who’s known you long enough to see you go through this cycle before. No one at all — unless, of course, you meet someone new, with whom you have no history, who will believe virtually anything you tell them. Clean slate. Refreshed story to tell. Modify as you go.

Erica was the sort of woman, said Carl, who refused to believe she was not important enough for everyone to obsess over. She needed a history of epic betrayals and close calls in order to curry her next host, like any decent parasite. To say she was a drama queen was to undervalue her wiles. She was not interested in hot gossip so much as fundamental blackmail material.

Picture it: God, Carl, I don’t know where to turn, this guy has made my life a living hell, I’m not asking you to save me, just let me stay the night. Great in a movie, awful in real life because it reminds you of the real meaning of awe. All that is needed is a few pheromones, an auto-response sense of protectiveness for those of whom you have grown fond, and time for the whole stew to rot.

Carl had come to realize that the epically evil Rafe Torgeson, along with most of the other disaster exes cited by Erica, were her idea of confections. There was not a shred of actual proof of any of the thousands of crimes against poor, innocent Erica, who only wanted to help people... with the exception of her victims, like Rafe Torgeson and whomever else was back-dated on her dance card.

Carl logically concluded that sooner or later, he would become the next evil ex, just as soon as Erica had adequately prepped a fresh host full of new, unpolluted blood. Every disagreement, every conflict, every suggestion of hers not scooped up with a military sense of command, was another notch off Carl’s clock.

Erica, in turn, had smelled that her latest host had passed his spoilage date early, and to demonstrate her skill at manipulation she preemptively proposed the Plan.

Then she screwed Carl’s brains to mush, just to show there were no hard feelings. Predators never hang onto to devalued marks, and prefer quick exits, except in the case of vendetta, where they opt for the slow, lingering demise — gangrene instead of amputation.

“I knew I was outplayed,” said Carl. Anonymous streets whizzed past the closed windows of the BMW. “But damn it, I still loved her, or thought I did. You know? She came along right when I had decided not to cut and run from relationships so easily. I had decided to work at the next one... and she came along as the next one. I was ripe and she could smell it.”

“That’s really touching,” said Barney. “I assume you have a point floating around in all that self-pity.”

“The Plan. Erica knew about Felix Rainer, in New York. I had confided enough to her for her to know that Felix was a financial exposé waiting to happen. How much do you know about the Mexican economy?”

“I’m getting impatient, Carl, goddammit.”

“No, wait!” Carl locked eyes with Barney. “It’s relevant and it’s the truth. Please.”

Barney waited.