Clean Up Crew Inc.

By Frank Cook

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Rebecca heard her office door click and looked up to see Shelly duck her head through the opening.

“Your 11:30 is here,” Shelly said.

Rebecca set aside the papers on her desk and rose from her chair. She turned up the wattage of her smile. “Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Excellent. Thank you. Show her in.”

The assistant pushed the door open and ushered in a woman of age, not elderly but not far from it.

“Hi,” Rebecca said from behind her desk. “Welcome to Clean Up Crew. I’m Rebecca. Chief Operations Officer. Please come in and take a seat. How may I help you?”

Despite the invitation, the woman remained standing near the door, clearly uncomfortable. “This is a lovely office,” she said. “That’s a very nice view.”

Rebecca’s smile was fixed. “Why, thank you. It is nice, isn’t it? Actually, I very rarely look out. Kind of a shame.” She gestured toward a plush leather chair. “Would you like to sit down?” 

The woman shook herself as if awakening to where she was. “I’m terribly sorry. This is all so new to me …”

Rebecca tried to put her at ease. “Not to worry. As you can imagine, we deal almost exclusively with first timers. Please come and sit. Coffee? Tea? Water?”

The woman offered a weak “No thank you,” then “Oh, where are my manners? My name is …”
“No, no!” Rebecca quickly stopped her. “No. We don’t need to know your name. At least not yet. Really, it’s for your protection. If we decide to work together, we can be a little less formal. But right now, it’s better this way. For our identification purposes, you are simply ‘Mrs. 11:30’ and today’s date. Please, won’t you sit?”

The woman was a little taken aback but nodded. “Of course,” she said and sat down. “It really is a lovely view.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said again and sat behind her desk. “Now. How can we help you?”

The woman looked around, uncertain. “It’s my father-in-law. And my husband, I guess. My father-in-law is quite elderly now. Disagreeable. In his 90s. Slowing down some. But—”

“But not slowing down quite fast enough?” Rebecca interjected.

The woman nodded.

“It’s OK, ma’am. These are the concerns we’re here to help you with. Tell me a bit more. You, your husband, your father-in-law. You all live together?”

“Yes. For some years now. I never really liked it, but my husband insisted. He wanted to take care of his father. But it was more like he wanted me to take care of both of them.”

Rebecca had heard this story before. “Have things become abusive?”

The woman looked up, tears beginning to well. “Yes,” she said, barely audible. “Both of them, actually. They’ll have terrible fights, scream at each other, and then blame me for everything. Saying I’m not doing enough for them.” She pulled down the collar of her dress just enough to reveal the top of an angry bruise. “I just can’t make them happy. And they don’t stop.”

Rebecca nodded and pushed a box of tissues across the desk. 

The woman took one and dabbed her eyes.

“Have you tried counseling?” Rebecca asked, knowing the answer before she asked.

“I asked them once. They just laughed and said I was the only thing wrong in the house.”

“Divorce?”

“My husband would k…,” her voice trailed off.

“OK then,” Rebecca said. “If you’re certain about this, we can continue.”

She opened the desk’s top drawer and took out a printed form and blue pen.

“It’s obviously not necessary in this case.” Rebecca brightened her smile, trying to lighten the moment. “But I need to state clearly that we don’t do children. Even teenagers!” She laughed.

“You get asked that a lot?”

“More often than you’d think.” Rebecca quipped back. 

Mrs. 11:30 gave a nervous laugh.

Rebecca clicked her pen and looked down at the form. “Shall we begin? And I want to remind you this is all preliminary. We’re just talking. I’m making a few notes here on paper. Nothing on a computer. This conversation is just between us and doesn’t bind you to anything.”

The woman nodded and squirmed back in her chair.

“So,” Rebecca said. “How did you hear about us?”

“I talked to a man named Matador. He referred me to you.”

“Yes, of course. Lawrence Matador. We have worked with him on several occasions. He’s very good. Very professional. You’ll be working with him?”

“We haven’t signed a contract or anything yet. And he suggested I talk with you before going forward.”

Rebecca sat back in her chair and relaxed a bit. “As I’m sure he explained, he handles the lethal part of the encounter. And then we come in and prepare the scene according to your wishes. It probably sounds like Matador and I are part of the same company, but we are not. He is an independent contractor. We have a mutual respect for our individual capabilities and often refer clients back and forth.”

The woman nodded her understanding. “Is there a price difference? I mean if I have Mr. Matador do it or if I …”

“Do it yourself?” Rebecca finished. The question always came up, and she always hated it. She sat forward, hands clasped flat on the desk.

“There are several issues involved in this sort of thing. First, if you hire Matador or another professional, you are assured the job will be done right, according to your specifications. Then, when the Cleaning Crew follows up, we can make sure the scene is staged properly. We have the very best of professionals working for us. Former CIA, NSA, Mossad. They are very good at what they do. On the other hand, if you do the lethal part, the job almost always gets messy. For instance, you might change your mind at the last minute, even as we’re about to arrive on the scene. Awkward! Even worse, what if you think you’ve completed the job, but the victim is still alive? Even if barely. We do not complete encounters. That’s written into our contract. If the victim is still alive, we either have to ask you to come back and finish or just hope that he or she quickly succumbs to their injuries. And, of course, the longer they linger while we’re there, the greater the risk to everyone, and the price goes up.”

Rebecca could see the woman was taking it all in, slowly nodding.

“Quite frankly, you end up paying about the same either way. Matador is a quality contractor. He does a good job, which makes our job easier. Alternatively, if you do it yourself, it always turns into a mess, and we’re there for an extended time cleaning up. Believe me, it is more economical to use a professional up front.”

“And you …”

“Take care of details. Wipe away fingerprints that shouldn’t be there. In case of a struggle, make sure only the appropriate DNA samples – blood and the like – are left at the scene. We remove any arrows that may point to you and, if necessary, plant arrows pointing at someone else. We could even leave some clues directing the police investigation toward you. We’ve had clients who have enjoyed a bit of a cat-and-mouse with the police, like Columbo or Monk on TV. We don’t recommend it. But again, we’ll follow your guidance.”

The woman acknowledged what she was hearing. “What do you need from me?”

“Just a few simple things,” Rebecca said. “Do you want the body found or removed and never discovered? If life insurance is involved, or perhaps an inheritance, you’ll want the body found right away so financial procedures can move forward immediately. However, if there is some vengeance involved on your part, we can remove the body and make sure it won’t be found. Under those circumstances, it could be years before the court declares the subject dead. In your case, I suspect you would like the body found. Yes?”

“Ummm … there is some insurance and, yes, an inheritance …”

Rebecca looked down on the form and checked a box. “At our next meeting, we will need you to bring recent bank and brokerage account statements. And the insurance policies.”

Mrs. 11:30 nodded. She could and would.

“Now, would you like the death to look accidental? Natural causes? Intentional… such as suicide? Random murder? Your father-in-law walks in on a burglar? There’s a fight, and he gets shot? Our crew can create that whole scene.”

The woman remained quiet for a lengthy period, and Rebecca sensed something was wrong.

Finally, she held up two fingers. “I’d like to do them both.”

“I beg your pardon,” Rebecca said.

“My husband, too.”

Surprise registered on Rebecca’s face despite her best efforts. “Oh,” she said. “I see.” Then she added, “I suppose that’s why Matador suggested you consult with me first. Ahhhh… yes. Both,” she repeated.

“Mr. Matador felt pretty positive he could manage it, but he wasn’t sure how it would work on your end.”

Rebecca thought for a moment. “Well, the fee would be somewhat higher,” she said aloud. “I’m sure we could work out a package deal, though. Yes,” she brightened, “a little unorthodox, but I’m sure we could do it. Did Matador suggest how he might …?”

“There are guns in the house,” Mrs. 11:30 said. “My father-in-law has a shotgun that he’s constantly loading and unloading, pointing it at me or my husband. And my husband has a large handgun. I assume it’s loaded.”

 Rebecca nodded. It all sounded pretty straightforward. She was certain Matador could take control of the weapons and use them for lethal work. Her crew would come in to make it appear they had shot each other.

“We’ll make sure you’re out of the house,” Rebecca mulled, looking up at the ceiling. “Manufacture an alibi… time and place.”

The woman began looking around the office once more, and Rebecca wondered if she was about to compliment the view again. She didn’t. “I wouldn’t, of course, but if something goes wrong and I get arrested, what’s to stop me from telling the police about you?”

Rebecca stared 11:30 in the eye. “If something went wrong, the District Attorney would likely charge you with voluntary manslaughter… crime of passion, first offense. A short prison sentence. Maybe some community service. But as soon as you admit you came here before the crime was committed it gets bumped to first-degree murder, premeditated. Death sentence. And Clean Up Crew? Is it an accessory after the fact? A slap on the wrist. We plea bargain down to nothing.”

Rebecca softened her look. “But don’t worry, you won’t get caught.”

A commotion in the outer office escalated to shouting, and then Rebecca heard her assistant scream, “No!”

A shotgun blast blew a hole through the office door. Mrs. 11:30 moved quickly enough to get out of the way as a hobbled old man walked in and screamed, “You bitch!” He ratcheted the gun again and aimed. Rebecca dove to the floor, snatching her Mauser from under her desk as she rolled against the side wall.

Then came zip, zip, zip, and blood spurted from two holes in the man’s chest and another from his forehead. He dropped to the floor.

A familiar figure emerged from the cloud of gun smoke.

“What are you doing here?” Rebecca said.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Matador shrugged. He unscrewed the silencer from his gun. Rebecca laid the Mauser on the floor. They both surveyed the damage.

“Oh my god!” Rebecca yelled. Then louder, “Shelly, are you OK?”

“Yes, ma’am,” came the quick response. The assistant looked through the splintered doorway. “Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Rebecca said, sounding more under control than she was. “Shelly, quickly, I need you to knock on the doors of some of the other offices on this floor. Ask them if they heard a loud bang. Tell them you think the noise came from the elevators. Then call our crew. Tell them we have a clean-up right here in the office.”

She remained sitting on the floor against the wall. “Matador, why are you here?”

Matador surveyed the scene and shook his head. “This woman,” he acknowledged her stunned presence, “approached me the other day. She said she found one of my old business cards hidden in her father-in-law’s things. We talked. She gave me her address. It rang a bell, and I realized I had done an encounter there some 20 years ago—this old guy’s wife. So I went out there to refresh my memory. I get there just in time to see her driving away. But the old guy and another guy – I’m assuming her husband – are arguing big time. Next thing, I hear a shotgun go off. Then, the old guy comes barging out of the house with the gun, jumps in his car, and goes after her. I follow him… and here we are.”

Rebecca nodded. “I could’ve taken him down, you know.”

“I didn’t mind. I didn’t like him the first time I met him either.”

A shaken Mrs. 11:30 finally spoke. “You say my husband is dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” Matador said.

A glimmer of a grin appeared as she sized up the situation. “Oh. Well then,” she said, standing erect. “Sorry to have been a bother.” She stepped over her father-in-law’s body and scurried out of the office.

“Wait!” Rebecca called after her, but she was gone. She turned to Matador. “You know what the worst thing is? I’ve got nobody to invoice.”

End.