Murder for Sale

By: Gil F. Cobos
September 11, 2008

The sign screamed out at him: Murder for sale. Ahead, 26 miles. Norman had to do a double-take. He had to be sure it wasn't a misprint. If it was, it would mark the third so far this drive. He craned his neck and studied the sign, the bold black letters against a clear bright yellow background, surrounded by an ebony border...it was not a misprint.

He couldn't take his eyes off it, bewildered and drawn in by the blatantly offensive nature of the sign. "Dammit," he shouted and snapped the steering wheel hard to the left.

That move nearly made the frail twenty-year old Ford fishtail out of control on the loose gravel on the side of the road. Damn sign was almost the death of him.

When he pulled over at the gas station, he saw that gas prices had risen by six cents since last Tuesday, when he last made this trip. He wasn't happy about it, but since he was almost on "E," he had no choice but to cough up the green. A paper ad in the window advertised the latest sales and savings. Six pack of Coke only $2.99. Payday candybars, 4 for a dollar. It must have been something in the air because Norman resented the fact that gas prices were spiraling out of control -- and he was diabetic -- yet by the time he left that dusty gas station, he had paid twenty dollars on pump number seven and purchased four Paydays and a six pack of Coke.

Shortly, he was on the road again, leaving behind the small, dirty town of Cottonwood just north of Sacramento. He would soon be at the condo in Redding, to surprise Letty.

She wasn't expecting him this soon. He never made the trip more than once a month, and since he had just been up there not more than a week ago, she would be very surprised to see him.

Surprised, indeed, once she'd discover why Norman had decided to make this trip. It was the break-up trip. He would arrive at her front porch, surprise her with the words that would end their love affair of three years. He would do it quickly, not beat around the bush. It had to be swift; he would get weak the more time he'd spend with her – always did. That was why he avoided telling her for so long. Avoided the break-up, until now.

Another sign flashed at him from an orchard of apple trees: Get rid of that special someone once and for all. "Murder One, the only one."

This time Norman lost control of his vehicle. The Ford Taurus spilled off the road and spun around on the loose soil, spraying rocks and clumps of dirt all over his car and creating a tornado of confusion -- whirling him around in a vortex of fear -- until it smashed into the bole of one of the apple trees. Norman's head met the steering wheel and his lights went out.

When Norman came to, he could hear the engine hissing at him. The pungent smell of gasoline assaulted his nose and he sprung up from the black of his sleep. His vision was hazy and soft with the wetness of his tears, rivulets of blood streaming across his face like wax leaking off the sides of a candle. For a moment, he seemed not to remember any of what happened. He grabbed at the door handle and tried opening the door. It wouldn't budge. No use, it had been smashed in as well.

He reached out and touched the windshield -- a net of spiderweb cracks -- and applied all his weight forward. The windshield popped out and lay to rest on the dirt in one single matt of glass, allowing Norman to crawl out from within the shell of his Ford to safety.

All he could see for miles around was dust and dirt, and on both sides of this lonely road, a field of apple trees that stood stalwart, stretching out into the horizon. Nothing out here but silence and death, Norman thought. Near death, anyway.

He dusted off his torn jeans, patted down the blue plaid shirt that was stained with his blood, and started heading north, where he saw another sign which simply read: Food, 5 miles.


As he came upon the small adobe Mexican restaurant, he noticed there were no cars in the parking lot. Probably closed. Still, he had to try.

Norman walked across the wood porch under the veranda and peeked inside. The house lights were on. Still open. He walked in through the front door and scanned the place. Practically empty, save for the large Mexican woman in an apron, who smiled at him from across the bar.

"Buenas tardes, senor. Bienvenidos."

Norman politely shook his head and walked toward one of the stools at the bar. His blood, no doubt, was still visible. Why the woman didn't react more shocked was beyond him.

"My car," he said as he approached the bar. "I've had an accident."
The woman gave him a stare impervious to any understanding, foreign to his concerns.

She was wiping down beer mugs with a cloth and didn't break rhythm as Norman winced and searched for new words, obviously irritated that the woman couldn't understand him.

"Please, I'm in trouble, you see," he said, showing the woman the pains of his face, pointing at them as if the light of the place hadn't done that job properly enough.

"She can't understand you," a boy's voice came from one of the roundtables by the bar.

Norman turned his head and placed his eyes desperately on the boy. "English. You speak english."

"Yes," said the Mexican boy of twelve. "So can she, when she chooses to. But not much."

Norman staggered over to the roundtable and grabbed at one of the firm hickory chairs, and sat down.

"Can you help me?"

The boy looked up from his gameboy and saw the hurt in the man's eyes. "What happened to you?"

"Car accident. Please, I just need a phone."

"Back there, by the bathroom."

Norman peered at the back of the restaurant and saw the sign: El bano.

"Thanks," he said quickly and stumbled off.

"Wait," said the boy.

"What?"

"You'll need some change."

The boy gave Norman some quarters, then turned his attention back to his gameboy.

Funny, the boy thought, Tuesdays are usually dead.

After dialing 911, Norman flipped through the yellow pages for a towing service. His hands moved through the thin sheets of yellow, randomly skimming the letters at the top of the page until he’d get to "T." But something stopped him before he could get that far. That same ad he had seen on billboards dotted along the side of the road all day was staring right at him from within the phone book.

Murder, it read. Safe, affordable prices. Act now!

Norman could feel the advent of vertigo as he stood there and studied the ad. There was no name of business and no address. Just a phone number. Call 1-800-NEW LIFE.

Norman closed the phone book and let it slip down to dangle from the plastic cable that bound it to the booth. This couldn't be happening. He was simply seeing things. He had hit his head a bit too hard in that accident and something wasn't firmly in place up there.

He shook the thought from him and walked out into the dining area, where he caught the trailing scent of salsa and frijoles. The spices tickled his nose and sent sparks off in his brain. It seemed the perfect anecdote. He followed the scent to the bar, where there was a hot Mexican dish and a Corona waiting for him.

“Go ahead,” said the boy. “They’re for you.”

Norman sat down and dove into the frijoles. The boy removed himself from his chair, still very much involved in his game, and left the dining area. Nothing but the company of the TV over the bar to keep his interest now.

An ad for Murder kicked off the first of commercial breaks. Norman sat at the bar in dazed horror, hot rice and beans dripping from the maw in his head.

"Don't settle for anything less than what's absolute. And what's more absolute than murder? Divorce does nothing anymore than just drive that thorn into your side further than what it needs to be, especially when there are kids involved. Don't put them through the torture of shared parenting. Just get rid of that other person for good. Make it absolute. Make it right. Call now to take advantage of the only sure-fire way of getting that one monkey off your back. Just dial 1-800-NEW LIFE. Call Murder One, the only one."

The screen went black just then and Norman ceased to move. The screen faded into white and an older, distinguished gentleman in a white smock entered the frame. A doctor. He looked out into the empty bar of the restaurant, glaring into Norman's eyes.

"Hello, Norman," said the man.

Norman snapped out of his langorous gaze and nearly jumped three feet back.

"What do you want?" he said.

The doctor smiled. "It's not what I want. It's what you want. You're not happy."

"How the hell do you know? You don't even know me."

"On the contrary," said the doctor. "I know all my customers. Past, present, and future."

"I'm no customer of yours. I'll never be a customer of yours."

"It's not wise to presume anything on the matter of murder. It's not prudent, primarily because of its unpredictability."

"Why are you haunting me?"

"Because I have to be sure, Norman. I have to be sure that you have what it takes."

"What do you mean?"

"Come on now, Norman. Are you telling me that you really don't know? You've seen the ads. That's why we're having this conversation right now. You've been seeing the signs for quite some time and now you're finally going to do something about it, aren't you?"

"I'm happy in my relationship." He sniffled. There was a glint of uncertainty in his tone that didn't go unnoticed. He tried to cover it up with a cough.

"Sure you are. That's why you're driving three hours out of your way, just so you can tell her how happy you are. You've really got to do better than that."

Norman sighed and surveyed his thoughts. Whatever was happening, it was beyond his comprehension, beyond his ability to understand; therefore, it was beyond his control to lie his way out of it. He pondered everything the doctor had said to him thus far and glared back at the television screen.

"I'm not happy. I'm going to break it off. That's why I'm driving three hours out of my way. That's why I've decided to do it now instead of waiting for next month. I'm tired of putting it off. If I don't do it now then it might never happen."

To this the doctor nodded and graced his face with a pleasant smile. "That's right," the doctor said. "But you know as well as I that when you arrive at her place you're apt to succumb to vulnerability. Oftentimes, the sight of the other person turns our inhibitions to jello."

"No," Norman said. "Not this time. It's gone on long enough. It's gone on way too long. I'm sick of it. Neither of us wanted it to end at first because it was convenient.

Neither of us had to commit because of the distance. That's what we both wanted in the beginning. But now, the more that time goes by, it's become harder. I want out."

"Are you sure she wants the same?"

"Yes. Why she hasn't given me the boot yet is beyond me. But I can tell. I'm almost positive she wants out, too. I've noticed how distant she's been lately. I think she's even seeing some other guy. Being this far apart has its drawbacks, you know. It ain't healthy.

The thought of her with another man... I can't take it. It's not that I'm in love with her, that's not it at all. I just can't stand being taken advantage of like that. I deserve better."

"Ah, the complications of long distance relationships," said the doctor, amused. "Don't wait any longer, my dear friend. Break it off the old fashioned way." At this, the doctor lent an arm to an expanse of weapons, each on vivid display in its own gruesome, deadly fashion.

"What are those for?" Norman asked.

"They're for doing the job right. All you need do is pick the one that's most right for you."

Norman scanned the variety of weapons. There were the most typical and practical items, of course -- guns, knives, rope, wire for strangling. There were lead pipes, poison, chloroform, acid, an overabundance of sleeping pills, plastic for appropriate suffocation, an aluminum baseball bat (which looked mean under the flourescent lighting, this one clearly not intended for its original purpose).

This room screamed murder from every corner, every angle, and went on and on. It seemed there was no end to the possibilities of murder. But even after all this, it appeared that Norman couldn't decide.

"I don't know," he said as his eyes sulked in his head and his body deflated with the loss of interest.

The doctor perked up for the first time with concern. It looked as if he might actually lose this sale. "Are you absolutely sure? Take a look at our fine hardware before you make up your mind."

Norman looked up and laid eyes on the wood ax, the steel nub clean and shiny, the blade sharp and gleaming. It called to him, soft and sinister. The doctor could see the excitement swell up in Norman's eyes as he gazed upon the ax.

"Ah, yes, the good-ol' fashioned ax. Nothin' like going retro, eh?"

"Yeah," Norman said, his voice quiet and simmering in the empty chasm of the

restaurant.

"Act now, Norman. Don't wait for the police to arrive to help get your car out of that orchard. It's just one more thing preventing you from doing what you need to do once and for all."

The words induced Norman.

"It's your lucky day," the doctor continued, making the final attempt to close the deal.

"It's on sale."

"How much?"

"Ten dollars."

A grin developed. Can't beat that. "Sold," he said, and slapped two fives on the counter.

"Good luck to you, Norman," the doctor said and sailed two fingers from his forehead in a sort of goodbye gesture, then left the screen.

The TV went black, and when Norman glanced back down at the counter the two fives were gone. Norman peered around the restaurant. He was still all alone. He rose from his seat and walked to the front door. Before he could leave he heard the Mexican woman call from the host podium.

"That'll be twelve-fifty for the dinner, senor."

Norman took out a twenty and handed it over to the woman. "The rest is yours."

The woman smiled.

Stepping out, he could see the sun slowly going down. A tint of red marred the sky and a delta breeze whipped through the trees, spreading cool on this quiet road in the California valley. Norman walked around to the side of the restaurant and saw the stump.

A perfectly sharp ax stood firm in the center of it, biting the hard wood with an attitude that could not be rebuked. He took another look at the road ahead and knew that it would be a long walk. Despite the whole apple orchard debacle, he predicted he would arrive at Letty's place in a little over an hour. Norman gripped the ax and proceeded to walk north. It was a long walk, and much too dark to see the light of any signs.


An overwhelming sense of dread swept over him as his key hit the lock to the condo. He realized this would be the last time he'd use it. This trip would be the last he would take.

The room was cold and empty; dark, save for the washroom light on the other side of the kitchen ahead. She was awake! Probably doing some last minute laundry. He'd get her by surprise. He quietly closed the door and firmly gripped the ax. He took three steps into the livingroom and tripped over the brown ottoman that he always thought looked ugly and didn't go with the color of the rest of the room.

As he hit the ground, losing hold of the ax in the process, he saw her wavy brunette hair as it entered the room. She had rushed in from the kitchen.

"Norman," she nearly screamed, relieved to see him and not the menacing looks of a stranger.

He rose slowly from the ground. She was wearing a white haltertop and chartreuse colored pajamas with matching slippers. The same color she had been wearing the day they met. Her fears melted and a soft, angel-like charm befell her. She was more than relieved to see him now, she was grateful. Although surprise visits were not his forte,she had been expecting him.

"It's good to see you, Norman," she said, holding the likes of a wood ax, much like the one he had walked in with. "You'll never guess what I got on sale."