WALLACE GRUMMITT WAS a peeper, the worst kind of peeper who bandied about the term voyeur on the level of being a creepy extortionist. In Raphael’s line of work, details made all the difference. When he stayed in a hotel, he always covered the peephole since it was a two-way piece of glass. Wallace had discovered how to attach a camera to the peephole and record guests walking around the rooms naked.
He was also a stupid man. A simple man who recorded guests during a hotel stay where he worked as a security manager wasn’t very smart, but neither was Grummitt. He chose to video the guests who stayed in the presidential suite, which usually were celebrities and dignitaries. The footage, although grainy, was still clear enough for Mr. Grummitt to use for blackmail purposes. However, once the two-timing snake accepted the payments, he still sold the photos to the highest bidder.
It didn’t take long for the people who paid Mr. Grummitt to recognize the carpet patterns or room setups in the major hotel chain. Tomorrow, based on what he would be told by his employer, he would give the man a reminder of human decency. The Operator usually called him at least 24 hours before the job to provide the details of the type of criminal Mr. Exit would face.
“The employer sees no need to conversate with Mr. Grummitt,” Raphael was told by the Operator.
“Conversate is not a word,” he said, ending the call.
It wasn’t much, but it helped. Once he had done it for his country, not asking, taking orders, and ridding the world of the malfeasance the good old gub’ment of the U.S. of A, said needed get gone. He did the same thing for a living now. He just got paid much better. Two more years and Raphael planned a nice exit. The Swiss Bank accounts were healthy. The accounts in the Caymans were good, and the few bank accounts in America had wealthy portfolios, thanks to his father’s shrewd investments.
“I’m good,” he said, pulling into the hotel chain where Mr. Grummitt worked. Checking into the hotel, he made it to his room on the third floor, close to the stairwell. Inside the basic room, a piece of black tape went over the peephole. Next, he removed his sweeping equipment, going over the room for microphones and hidden camera devices.
“Well lookee here,” he said, pulling the minuscule camera from behind the picture frame. The eye of the camera was hidden in the green landscape of the painting. “Fucking peepers.”
Raphael didn’t bother to unpack his bag, instead he left it beside the bed, the front label facing the window. Checking his watch, he saw it was a quarter to three. The coffee shop was less than two miles away and peepers were creatures of habit. Today, he would scope out the coffee shop, ingress to enter the property, and egress to exit the shopping center. Doors were also at the top of his list. He needed to know the right way to come into the shop, plant a bullet in a man, and leave without being noticed.
“Time to go to work, Mr. Exit,” he said, taking the stairs of the hotel down to the side entrance.
Driving at a normal speed, he reached the coffee shop in less than seven minutes. He parked mid-way between the bean roasters and what looked like a sewing shop with a huge going out of business sale.
“Hmm, as if the universe is speaking to me,” he smiled, walking down the sidewalk to get a cup of coffee so he could be up all night feeling paranoid as fuck about life. The doorbell chimed when he entered, and he was greeted by a group of millennial hipsters with a chintzy phrase of welcome.
“What delightful cup of caffeination can I create for you today?” the overly stimulated young woman behind the counter asked.
“Decaf latte, skim milk, add chocolate,” he said, knowing good and well he was going to chuck it.
“Anything else we can get for you this glorious afternoon?” the girl asked as she rung up his order.
“A double order of your optimism would be great,” he replied, arching an eyebrow.
“Any day I wake up above ground is glorious,” the young woman said. “Who knows, instead of being here ordering a specialized cup of coffee, you could be dead on the shitter like Elvis. All that fame. All that money. Dead. Taking a shit. That’s life for you.”
“I think I preferred the optimism,” Raphael replied.
“Seriously dude, it’s all about perspective. I have a job where I stand here for damn near eight hours getting people hyped up on legal stimulants. Most people don’t even bother to make eye contact with me, but I do my job. One person,” she said, passing his order down and wrapping a chocolate chip cookie in a sleeve, then passing it to him. “That’s all I need to impact in a day. Do a good thing for one person and it adds a coin to the karma can. Here’s a cookie on me.”
He handed the girl a 10. “Keep the change for your karma can,” he said, taking a seat to wait for his order.
In the corner sat Wallace Grummitt. This time tomorrow, he would be dead. At 3:05 pm, the round-faced man stood up from the corner booth, calling out to the barista that he was going to sit a spell. He left his computer on the table along with his cup of coffee and waddled his way to men’s room.
“Irony is never wasted on me,” Raphael said, thinking that tomorrow, Wallace Grummitt would die on the shitter. For good measure, he went to the restroom to look about. Two stalls, one currently being defiled by the wide ass of Mr. Grummitt. The man definitely needed to eat less meat and more vegetables. “Courtesy flush, please.”
“Sorry. Sorry, had tacos last night,” Wallace called back.
Mr. Exit had already left the room. He accepted his coffee which was now ready, along with his cookie and slipped out the side door. There were never any bells or chimes on the side entrances.
“Good to know,” he said, making his way around the front of the building, being pulled toward the sewing shop, with a five-dollar cup of coffee in hand. He took a sip, surprised at how good it tasted and entered the sewing shop. Again, another cheerful face greeted him.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked. Her eyes were weary as if all the energy she could muster to come in each day had taken its toll. This was the last stand to sell off as much as she could to recoup her losses and possibly save her home.
“Yeah, I want to get a new machine for my wife. The current one she’s using is more than likely as old as she is,” he said, looking about at the projects adorning the walls. “This is an embroidery machine, right? Do you have any patterns that possibly have unicorns?’
“Sure do, but that’s Kimberbell, so those are sold separately,” she said.
Raphael understood the sadness. “This shop was everything to you, huh?”
“Yes, I sunk my life savings into it, and right now, I’ll be lucky to sell half of this stuff in this market. I’m going to lose my shirt,” she said, “but I tried. I wasn’t afraid to get out there and take my shot. Too many people stop short, afraid they’re going to fail and won’t try.”
“But you tried and have failed,” he said, looking about the store.
“Yeah, but what if I had never taken the chance? What if I spent my life sitting at home in a sewing room making products to sell on Etsy? I tried and I failed, but I can still teach, I have better equipment, and we go from there,” she said. “Enough about me. What are you hoping to purchase for your wife?”
“I want top of the line, all the bells and whistles, with the embroidery hoop as well,” he said. “I also need fabric, in yellow and purple. I will take any fabric you have with unicorns on it, patterns with unicorns, embroidery templates with unicorns. Also, I need a basic, but not too basic second machine for my teen daughter.”