A Star Like Me
Money is malleable, a shape-shifting unit of value.
It can be physically manifested in glorious pale green stacks, or a bag of gold coins, or pixelated digits on a screen—if that’s your preference.
Right now, as the night continues feeling a little too easy at every successive turn, it’s assurance.
If the circumstances were different, I’d have long since called this whole thing off, but the five hundred thousand dollars of up-front cash in my bank account is doing a bang-up job of coaxing me onward.
That money represents an even better life for Marlo.
It’s a private school and an Ivy League college.
Most of all, it’s more time with her. And, of course, more time to develop my social media empire.
Once tonight is over, and the goods have been delivered to their mysterious buyer up in Lake Arrowhead, I’ll never have to scam another morgue.
Five million dollars goes a long way.
Still, the simplicity of tonight’s plan is concerning, a feisty little gnat buzzing around in the back of my mind. I can’t help feeling the slightest bit anxious about the way this journey was laid out for me, my biggest payday ever for the least amount of work. It doesn’t quite add up.
Things didn’t begin so lopsidedly simple, though. When the offer initially came through, my biggest concern was brass-tacks logistics. Just because someone gives you an outrageous amount of cash to do something, that doesn’t mean it can actually be done.
Swiping random bodies from funeral homes is my bread and butter, but the city medical examiner’s office is a whole other story.
When the average person dies in any number of average ways, their corpse is swiftly carted off for a memorial, because average deaths are rarely worthy of criminal investigation.
However, when the circumstances are suspicious or foul play is suspected, the first trip any cadaver takes is to the medical examiner for a full autopsy.
Despite Eddie’s sudden and violent end, it’s pretty obvious what killed him (getting your head turned halfway around by a drunk driver can do that to a guy).
However, his fame has led to worldwide curiosity and tabloid scrutiny, with millions of people scrambling for details.
The Palm Springs medical examiner’s office will be double-checking every step of the process.
I’ve been asked to pick up specific corpses before, but never anyone with this kind of public attention. For all I knew, Eddie’s body could have a twenty-four-hour security detail.
My concerns were assuaged by the mysterious voice at the end of the line. The buyer informed me that my main job is transportation, and that procuring the body was almost entirely sorted out by someone on the inside. I was given a time, a place, and simple instructions. The door would be unlocked.
Now, my giant refrigerated truck is settled at the edge of a parking lot, quiet and shrouded in darkness as I stare across the vast concrete space. At the far end of the lot sit two government medical facilities, and between them is a dead-end alley in which I’ve been instructed to make my pickup.
From here, I can see a handful of news channel vans, but they’re all crowded around the front of the western building, gearing up to harass some unlucky forensic pathologist who must eventually make the trek from their vehicle to the front lobby.
The reporters look bored, like they’ve been out here for a long time and have little to show for it.
There were numerous rumors of Eddie’s sexual escapades throughout the eighties, any and all genders welcome.
Despite this, the bi-con never really had any high-profile relationships to speak of.
Even in his advanced age, Eddie somehow avoided locking things down with any one suitor.
All that is to say, while there’s plenty of public interest in Eddie’s death, any personal connections feel notably absent.
There are no family members here, only journalists.
My eyes linger on the dark alley nestled between the two buildings, an open maw of shadows beckoning me onward—a trap ready to spring.
The second I pull in there I’ll be cornered on all sides, forced to back up awkwardly should I need to abort the mission.
This fact makes me extremely uncomfortable, but what other choice do I have?
Should I say fuck it to five million dollars? Should I walk away and call it a night?
The simple fact that half a million is already sitting in my bank account makes this play worth considering, if only for a moment.
It’s enough to build a life out of, and with a few strategic investments, that money could grow some serious legs.
Even if I did nothing more than park the cash in a high-yield savings account, my passive earnings alone would change everything.
I’m not here for a piece of the action, though, I’m here for the whole fucking thing. Eventually, Marlo will realize that she was born into a family of sharks, not a school of fishes who nibble on the scraps of life before darting away.
I pull out my phone and press Noah’s name on the Recent Contact’s list. He answers quickly.
“How’s she doing?” I ask.
“Marlo’s asleep.”
“How was she doing?”
Noah hesitates. “She’s mad at you,” he admits, although that’s not much of a surprise.
I sit with this for a moment, letting the emotions wash over me. I knew this was coming, and in many ways, I don’t blame her.
After twelve years in a group home, then six more with an adoptive family that never gave a shit about me, I know what it’s like to feel abandoned by my parents.
Still, perspective is everything. I’ve given Marlo an incredible life thus far, and a little gratitude would be nice—the tiniest bit of recognition while I’m out here hunting the cold ocean depths.
“Well, fuck me for giving her a life I never could’ve even dreamed of,” I mutter under my breath, shaking my head.
Noah says nothing.
I wanted this to be some kind of “last words to my friends and family” situation, a final statement in case I’m seconds away from walking into a federal sting operation. Apparently, I can’t muster the grace for more than a bitter aside.
Well, I suppose there’s one thing I can add.
“Thank you, Noah,” I finally continue. “I know I can be a little … harsh sometimes. I really don’t mean to be. I just wanna say, I appreciate you so much. From the bottom of my heart. I don’t know what I did to deserve a friend like you.”
“Are you about to die?” Noah laughs. “You sound like you’re about to die.”
“Not yet.”
“Well, that’s very sweet of you,” he says. “You can be a little harsh, but sometimes that’s what it takes to get the job done.”
I crack a smile. Of all the things he could’ve said, that’s the most Poppy Stringer compliment I could ask for. I’m not even sure if he really means it, but it hits me just the same. For the briefest flickering moment, I actually feel seen.
“I’ll check in again before it gets too late,” I say. “It’s gonna be a long night, though.”
“I’ll be here,” Noah replies. “Good luck.”
We hang up, and I give myself five whole seconds to feel these strange emotions, whatever they are. When those five seconds end, however, everything changes.
I sit up straight and pull on a ski mask, then start the engine. I’m careful not to turn on my lights, gliding toward the alley with my head on a swivel as I scout for any other vehicles that might be tracking my movements. Nobody seems to notice as I cruise along like a lone, quiet hunter.
I pull down the alleyway and stop at the end of the narrow passage, slightly confused by the various dumpsters and the general disarray of this pickup location. This is clearly not an official medical transport bay.
There’s a soft thump as I pop open the glove compartment and pull out my holstered pistol, clipping the gun to my belt, then I leap from the vehicle. I hurry over to a nearby metal door. It’s propped open ever so slightly, just like my client promised.
The words too easy flash across my mind like a brilliant neon sign, but I move past them.
Slipping inside, I find myself in a long hallway.
This part of the facility is surprisingly officelike—not even the slightest hint of medical paraphernalia—and the one cracked door I can see through reveals a printer and a filing cabinet.
The lights are dimmed and it’s deathly quiet, the only sound coming from various computer towers as they hum away under distant desks.
This hallway is lined with small rooms, rows and rows of partitioned spaces leading off into the darkness. It’s here, in the inky shadows, that a stainless-steel gurney rests.
On top of the gurney is an oblong bag.
Everything about this situation feels slightly off, but not quite enough to cut and run.
It’s a simmering, instinctual discomfort, an abstract tension in my body that only comes when things are one degree away from making sense.
For instance, this part of the building is clearly not where the bodies are kept, yet here sits my five-million-dollar payday.
No security guards to avoid. No after-hours medical staff to charm.
I approach slowly, more apprehensive than I expected to be. Unlike the funeral home bags I’m used to, this one is jet black, but there’s no mistaking the shape within.
I slowly unzip the plastic cover, just enough to get a good look at Eddie’s face.
Sure enough, what once was Eddie Michaels stares directly upward from this morbid cocoon, his eyes unblinking and frozen in shock.
His irises are green, just like mine, and long ago, the hue of our auburn hair also matched.
Eddie’s mop went stark white halfway through his career, but he embraced the vibe with a gusto rivaled only by Steve Martin.