Free A Safe Place for Dying by Jack Fredrickson

you’re gone.”
    At that point, someone must have cued the combo, because they took off into their approximation of “Fly Me to the Moon,” each saxophone flying in a different key. It made further discussion
impossible. I closed my mouth and beamed at Elvis, mellow as a panda on Percodan.
    Across the lawn the people kept clapping, and the drummer began singing about Jupiter and Mars.
    Elvis wasn’t done. He leaned to within an inch of my nose. “What the hell do you want, Elstrom?” he screamed, spraying spittle into my face.
    â€œChange my zoning to residential or commercial. I’ll sell and leave,” I yelled back, waving at the still-clapping crowd behind the glare of the floodlights.
    â€œNo can do,” he shouted. His lips gave a final twitch, and he stalked off. Someone at last thought to kill the floods, and the developers gave a final burst of applause.
    My stunt was stupid and childish. That night, I slept better than I had since I’d moved into the turret.
    The lizards held two more receptions. They didn’t risk the floodlights again, but the ambient glow from the colored Christmas bulbs was enough to light up my undies, and the effect was mostly the same. Each time I’d start stringing my flags, the crowd would roar, and Elvis would march over, his oily face shining red above the pale blue of his prom jacket.
    â€œChange my damn zoning, and I’ll leave,” I’d yell.
    â€œNo can do,” he’d scream back.
    And the drummer would sing about Jupiter and Mars.
    That was how July died. Every evening I ran up my flags, to remind the lizards that I was twitching for a fight. But after the fourth reception, no more were scheduled, and that was just as well. My little battles were just diversions, things to keep my mind from circling around what I was really doing, which was holding my breath, waiting for Gateville.
    So I felt a sick kind of relief when, at the steaming beginning of August, I answered the door just after lunch and found Stanley
Novak standing outside, clutching another tan envelope. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The sweat on his face said it all.
    I’d been varnishing, and Stanley didn’t look like he could survive the fumes, so I led him down to sit on the bench by the river. I took the new freezer bag out of the envelope and read the note on the child’s paper through the plastic: NEXT TIME SOMEBODY DIES. FIVE HUNDRED THOUSAND SUNDAY NIGHT SAME PLACE. The perfect pencil lettering, the computer printing on the envelope, and the Chicago postmark were the same as the first letter’s.
    I looked at Stanley.
    â€œIt came this morning. Mr. Chernek wants it analyzed to make sure it’s the same guy before he pays.”
    â€œIt’s the same, Stanley; you can tell just by looking at it. What I want to know is—”
    He stood up. “Please, Mr. Elstrom, have it analyzed. Then we’ll talk.”
    I didn’t waste the words. He was a blind pawn on the chessboard, like me. I walked him up to his station wagon and told him I’d have it checked right away.
    I drove to Leo’s. Up on the porch, television sounds came through the window screens. I knocked, waited, knocked again. After five minutes, Ma opened the front door against the chain, her head still aimed at the T.V. in the living room. People were grunting. Leo was in L.A., she said, but would be home that evening. I passed the envelope in, and as I did, Mr. Jack Daniel himself came wafting out through the crack in the door. Cocktails had started early. I made a polite grab to retrieve the envelope, but she was already shutting the door. The grunting inside had reached a fevered pitch. I let it go. I could only hope she’d drop the envelope on the hall table as she teetered back to her chair.
    Leo had told me she only drank when he was out of town. As long as he kept his trips to one-nighters, he’d said, he