The Holistic Murder of a Fan Man

The man was definitely dead. No pulse, no respiration, bulging eyes, protruding tongue, and a very large hole in his cardiovascular region. Yes, definitely dead.

The man standing over the definitely dead man was definitely alive. Rapid pulse, deep breathing, blinking eyes, and shaking, weak knees. Yes, definitely alive.

The definitely alive man looked up and down the hotel hall. No one was in sight. He stepped through the open doorway and kneeled. His instincts took charge. He’d rolled winos many times in the past and this was almost the same except this guy wasn’t going to have a hangover tomorrow.

Wallet, watch, rings. What’s this?

The definitely dead man’s left hand was tightly clinched around something. Maybe it was a clue to his killer. A button ripped from a shirt? A secret message held onto even in death? Slowly, one by one, the definitely dead fingers are pried back. In the palm were three coins, neatly stacked. A half dollar, a quarter, and, on top, a dime.

Eighty-five cents? What’s so important about that?

Suddenly there was a noise. The elevator was opening at the end of the hall. The definitely alive man pulled the definitely dead man away from the door and farther into the hotel room. Softly closing the door, he rested his ear against it, listening intently.

Damn those thick carpets!

He was sure they were going to catch him in the same room with a definitely dead man. Someone heard the shot and now the cops, FBI, Armed Forces, Scotland Yard, and Batman were tip-toeing down the hall of the Bilkmore Hotel to arrest him.

Wait! No one heard a shot.

He had been right in the next room. He hadn’t heard anything. The killer must’ve used a silencer. And the definitely dead guy couldn’t have been lying there very long.

Maybe I’m safe.

A thunderous knocking rang through his ear. The definitely alive man jerked his head from the door and froze. The knock came again. The man looked back and forth from the body to the door; from the door to the body. His mind was racing with confusion.

He wasn’t a killer. He was just a small time con-man who walked out of his hotel room to find a definitely dead man lying next door. Sure, he had taken the money and watch. Sure, he had moved the body. Sure, he hadn’t answered the door when the Mounties and CIA had knocked.

But I’m not a killer!

There was another knock and then a young, male voice, “Mr. Gefilte?” A short pause and then, “Mr. Gefilte?”

The definitely alive man decided there was no escaping the inevitable. He could see his picture on the cover of a national tabloid right between “Two-Headed Baby Kills Parents” and “Noah’s Ark Was An Alien Submarine”. He opened the door ever so slightly.

In the hall was a young man in the green and black uniform worn by the Bilkmore’s bellboys. Over his left pocket was a nametag that read “Gayland Mann”. Actually, Gayland didn’t like to be called Gayland, but it was better than the name his high school classmates had given him, which was “Girly”. They had teased him unmercifully about his feminine mannerisms. Gayland wasn’t gay but he had lived most of his life being called “Gay Mann”. This job at the Bilkmore was a new start for Gayland. No one knew him here and that cute maid, Eleanor, had been staring at him. Maybe if he could just get her alone.

"Yeah, what is it?" The definitely alive man had found the courage to speak.

"Mr. Gefilte, your bill has been taken care of and your bags are downstairs. The doorman will have a taxi for you in five minutes. Will there be anything else?"

"Uh, okay, thanks."

They stared at each other for what seemed like minutes. Then the definitely alive man realized what the problem was.

"Oh, uh, here you go, uh, Gayland." He reached out and put the three coins in the bellboy's hand.

As he walked away Gayland thought, "Eighty-five cents? That won't even buy Eleanor a McCafe."

The definitely alive man breathed a sigh of relief. No Mounties. No SWAT team. But why hadn't the bellboy noticed that he wasn't this Mr. Gefilte?

He looked down at the definitely dead man. Short black hair, blue eyes, dark complexion, neatly trimmed black beard, mid-thirties, about 180 pounds, and if he could stand, about six foot tall. The definitely alive man moved closer. If it wasn't for the large hole in the cardiovascular region, they might be twins.

The scheming mind of the con man quickly developed a plan.

Why not take over this guy's identity? Then I can not only get out of the hotel but also out of New York. God knows, I need to lay low for awhile, what with Scapula looking for me. Scapula! Why hadn't I thought of it before?

Anthony "Meatloaf" Scapula, local mobster and general bad guy, had put a contract out on him. The hit man must have knocked on the wrong door and this Gefilte character had taken a bullet because he looked like the definitely alive man.

Damn, I never imagined Scapula would get this mad over a lousy ten thousand dollars. Maybe it was because I flirted with his girlfriend, the lovely Verna. Whatever it was I've got to get out of here.

In five minutes, he had stuffed Mr. Gefilte under a large sofa in the middle of the suite. His body would remain there undiscovered all day. This would be due to two things: (1) The extremely poor housekeeping habits of the maid, Eleanor and (2) The perfume of the next occupant of the suite, Mrs. Rita Filch, which was so heavy as to cause Eleanor to hold her breath while in the suite. But Eleanor didn’t judge Mrs. Filch because she understood that a strong, musky perfume was a standard accessory for widows over the age of seventy-five.

After hiding the body, the definitely alive man, whose real name was Paulsy Duckworth, picked up a briefcase near the door and cautiously eased into the hall and onto the elevator. Once in the lobby of the Bilkmore, he was met by Gayland who ushered him to a waiting taxi. The entire time Paulsy kept his head down half-expecting one of Scapula’s henchmen to spring from behind a pillar and send 230 grains of lead toward his brain at 566 miles per hour. It didn’t happen.

“Vhere to, bub?” asked the cabbie.

Paulsy was taken off guard. He hadn’t even thought about where he was going but he managed to mutter, “Uh, the bus station, I guess.”

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, Paulsy opened Gefilte’s briefcase and began pawing through its papers and folders.

Several business cards. A contract of some kind. A phone with locked screen. A passport. A technical drawing of something. 3x5 note cards with a rubber band around them. Ah, a first class airline ticket to Chicago and the plane leaves in one hour.

Paulsy leaned forward and checked the name on the cab driver’s identification card. It said Iyalko Levski. Paulsy didn’t want to butcher the guy’s name, so he simply said, “Driver, take me to the airport and hurry!”

Iyalko angrily made a sharp left at the next intersection and muttered “Chikidziq,” which was a very old Bulgarian curse often used by Iyalko’s great-great-grandfather, Vasil Levski, who was a Bulgarian national hero from the 1870s when he organized a network of regional committees that helped free Bulgaria from the Ottoman Empire. One of these committees was called Zhivot, which means Life. Following the death of Vasil Levski, Zhivot evolved into a super secret, worldwide, multi-billion-dollar organization with the sole purpose of attaining immortality for all of its members. Iyalko Levski was not a member.

“The plane leaves in an hour,” cried Paulsy. “You’ve got to hurry!”

Iyalko ran a red light and said with a nasty sneer, “Vhat is the rush? You must be a very special person. I’m sure they vill hold the plane for you. Chikidziq!”

At that moment a Rolls Royce that was once owned by Mrs. Rita Filch, raced in from a side street and crashed into the taxi’s right rear quarter panel. Iyalko slammed on the brakes, jumped from the cab, and began yelling vulgarities in Bulgarian. Emerging from the Rolls was a large, barrel-chested man with a stony, chiseled face. Iyalko approached the colossal man and stood toe to toe with him while increasing the volume of his profanities.

Paulsy, who was only slightly shaken by the accident, got out of the taxi and looked at the commotion that Iyalko was causing. When he looked at the big guy their eyes locked. Though they had only met once Paulsy recognized him as Carlos Effington, Scapula’s bodyguard and number one enforcer who had once dated Eleanor the maid at the Bilkmore.

Effington stared hard at Paulsy then his eyes narrowed, his head leaned to the right, then to the left, and finally his eyes opened wide. The killer was confused but there was no doubt he recognized Paulsy. Effington pushed Iyalko aside and took several giant steps toward Paulsy who turned and ran down the street. Fearing that Godzilla might catch him, Paulsy zigzagged for several blocks before ducking into Dimple’s Diner where he slipped into a booth by the front window.

Carlos Effington! I bet he’s the one that mistakenly killed that Gefilte guy and now he knows I’m still alive. I’ve got to find a place to lay low.

Paulsy ordered some coffee and again went through the briefcase. The definitely dead man’s full name was Aaron Levi Gefilte. It seems he owned an oscillating fan company called Gefilte Fan that sold fans around the world.

I guess Gefilte was the fan man. I wonder if there are fans of a fan man.

The unfolded technical drawing covered most of the table. In the corner of the document was written, “Gefilte Fan Model 85 Special.” The rest was a blown-up drawing of a small table fan with lines from parts to numbers, names, voltages, amps, and weird Greek symbols.

“Just a fan,” mumbled Paulsy.

“Oh, no,” said a voice behind Paulsy, “it’s more than just a fan.”

Paulsy turned to see a small, middle-aged man looking over the back of the seat from the next booth.

“What?”

The man scampered out of his booth and pushed his way in next to Paulsy.

“These are phone components,” said the man as he pointed to some of the parts in the diagram. “They shouldn’t be in a fan. What is this thing suppose to do?”

“Who are you?” asked Paulsy.

“Oh, I’m Milton Finkbinder. I’m a technician at Mandrake Industries. It’s right down the street. Who are you and where did you get this crazy schematic?”

Paulsy didn’t want to use his real name and he couldn’t pretend to be Gefilte so he used one of his con-man aliases that he had taken from an old billboard. “I’m Harry Flowers. I found the briefcase and I’m trying to figure out who it belongs to.”

“Well, Harry, it must be this Gefilte guy or someone from his company. I bet this is some new kind of fan that they plan on producing. It may be important. You should turn this in at the police station.”

Paulsy was about to create an elaborate lie to explain why he couldn’t do that when Darren Dimple, owner of the diner, approached the booth and personally refreshed Paulsy’s coffee. Dimple didn’t recognize Milton Finkbinder who many years earlier had defeated Dimple in the regional finals of the Scripps Spelling Bee when he successfully spelled “pococurante”.

“How about you, sir, perhaps you’d like another piece of pie?”

“No, no,” said Milton. “But could you tell us where the nearest police station is?”

Dimple rubbed the rough stubble on his double chin and said, “I could, but my brother-in-law wouldn’t like that.”

“What does your brother-in-law have to do with it?” Milton asked.

“Well, my brother-in-law is Anthony Scapula and a few days ago he put the word out on the street to find this mooch that you’re sitting with.”

Fear raced up Paulsy’s spine as he stared back at Dimple and Milton. Because he was hemmed into the booth, he didn’t have many options, so he slowly put down his coffee mug, smiled at the two men for several decades, and finally mumbled something that sounded like “tuna casserole”. When the blackness closed in on him, he put his head on the table. The last thing Paulsy remembers was a dented Rolls Royce pulling up in front of the diner.

#####

“Harry, Harry, wake up.”

Paulsy struggled to crawl out of the dark pit of unconsciousness. When he finally made it he was disappointed to see that he had traded a pit for a basement. He and Milton were standing on their tiptoes because they were handcuffed to a ceiling pipe.

“What happened? How’d we get here?”

“Dimple drugged you then this big guy came in and threw both of us into a Rolls Royce. He brought us here and hung us up. Why is this happening?”

“Take it easy, Milton. We’re dealing with some very bad people here.”

Just then the basement door opened and three people came down the stairs. The first was the giant, Carlos Effington. Behind him was a swarthy salesman-type wearing an Armani suit. The last person was a gorgeous blonde in a pale blue one-shoulder evening gown with balloon sleeves and bracelet cuffs designed by Rita Filch.

“Hello, Paulsy,” said Scapula. “Having a bad day?”

Paulsy could see the fan man’s briefcase on a nearby table, so he decided to try a long shot. “My name’s Aaron Gefilte. You can check my passport.”

Milton was confused. “His name is Harry Flowers.”

Scapula was even more perplexed. He gave Effington a questioning look.

“I swear I shot him, boss,” said Carlos. “Then twenty minutes later I see him in the street. I didn’t know what to do so I brought him here.”

Scapula went to the briefcase and took out the passport. He looked at the passport. He looked at Paulsy. He looked at the passport. He looked at Paulsy. “It could be him. What do you think, Verna? You know him better than me.”

The beautiful Verna Eekwenknocks cautiously approached Paulsy until she was almost nose to nose with him. She had to get that close because the former Miss Denmark was extremely nearsighted due to a hereditary visual impairment that began 85 years earlier when a random cosmic ray struck a gene in the eye of Verna’s grandfather, Otto Eekwenknocks.

While staring into his eyes she gave Paulsy a wink and said, “No, that’s not him.”

Scapula shook his head in disgust. “Okay, we’ll take care of these guys later. Right now, I have an appointment. Come on.”

The trio went back up stairs, leaving Paulsy and Milton hanging. Half an hour later the basement door opened again, and Verna came down the steps. She pushed a box closer to Paulsy, stood on it, and unlocked his handcuffs.

“Anthony and Carlos are gone,” she said. “You and your friend need to get out and go far away.”

“What about you?” asked Paulsy.

“Don’t worry. I can handle Anthony. Just go.”

Paulsy moved closer and started to kiss her, but she held him off and said, “No, Paulsy, it’s not going to happen. You know you can’t afford me.” She was right.

Paulsy grabbed the briefcase then he and Milton ran up the stairs and out a side door. Once outside they traveled several blocks before finally stopping in an alley.

“What the hell is happening?” cried Milton. “We’ve got to get to the cops.”

“I am the cops,” lied Paulsy. “I’m working undercover for the FBI that’s why I was using a phony name. I want you to go home and forget any of this ever happened. Maybe someday I can explain it all to you.”

“Oh, okay.”

Paulsy was surprised how easily the technician fell for the lie but actually Milton didn’t believe it all. He just wanted to get away from this maniac that had drawn him into this heavy drama involving gangsters, a mob boss, and implied physical threats. So Milton quickly shook hands with Paulsy and ran down the alley, leaving Paulsy to reassess his situation. Going through the briefcase Paulsy grabbed the passport and stuck it in his pocket but there he found something else. It was the key card to his room at the Bilkmore.

Crap! How could I forget? All my stuff is still at the hotel. My clothes. My equipment. I’ve got to get those things.

With help from a cloudy sky and the setting sun, Paulsy was able to slip into the hotel through a side door and then sneak onto a maintenance elevator. When the doors of the elevator opened on his floor he was met by the maid Eleanor. The expression on her face indicated that she not only recognized Paulsy but that she was also very surprised. Paulsy thought she was surprised because he wasn’t supposed to be on a maintenance elevator but actually, she was surprised because she thought he was the definitely dead man. Eleanor thought he was Aaron Gefilte who she had poisoned earlier in the day. She was confused. She was sure she had put enough batrachotoxin in his morning coffee to kill a brontosaurus, two buffalos, six squirrels, and still make a tufted titmouse very sick. As soon as Paulsy got far enough down the hall Eleanor took out her cell phone and dialed.

“Hey, this is Eleanor.” Pause. “Eleanor Plaidfish. You hired me to kill someone.” Pause. “Which one? The fan man, Gefilte.” Pause. “No, he’s not. I don’t know what went wrong but I’ll fix it.” Pause. “No, there won’t be an extra charge.” Pause. “You are? I may be finished by the time you get here. Bye.” She ended the call.

Reaching into her housekeeping cart Eleanor pulled out a towel that was wrapped around a small tactical dagger whose blade was coated in batrachotoxin which had been extracted from the skin of several poison dart frogs in the Amazon rainforest. Eleanor figured that if the poison didn’t take him out the blade surely would. She paid close attention to her target as he headed down the hall.

A shiver ran up Paulsy’s spine as he passed the room where he knew there was a body stuffed under a couch. He assumed it hadn’t been discovered yet and he wondered who would be the first to find it. At that moment the door to the suite popped open.

“Mr. Gefilte?” said Rita Filch. “I thought you had left hours ago.”

Paulsy stared wide-eyed at the tall, thin, white-haired old lady. He was speechless.

“Well, get in here,” demanded Mrs. Filch. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re here.” She pulled him into the room and ushered him over to the couch, but he nervously shied away and sat in a side chair.

Meanwhile Eleanor watched as her prey was cornered then captured by a silver fox. Her deadly mission was temporarily sidetracked. Eleanor used her pass key to enter the room next door and then slip through the connecting door to the old lady’s bedroom. From there she considered killing both of them but delayed it while she listened to their conversation.

Rita sat on the edge of the couch. “What’s the matter with you? Are you still here because I rejected your proposal?” Paulsy had no idea what she was talking about. “The idea that Zhivot members could communicate with each other privately by talking into a fan is… um uh, intriguing, but our people are super rich snobs that wouldn’t want a fan sitting on their desks. And quite frankly your presentation was lousy. Did you really need all of those note cards?”

Before Paulsy could say anything, there was a heavy knock at the door. When Rita answered it, a short, plump, red head with ample bosom stormed into the room. It was Teri Comma, Gefilte’s longstanding rival for favor and influence within the Zhivot organization. Teri immediately spotted Paulsy and flushed with anger.

“What’s he doing here?” yelled Teri. “You better not have given him the communications contract or I’m going to scream.”

“Calm down,” said Rita. “He didn’t get the contract but neither did you. No one liked your artificial fruit bowl with videotelephony. I mean, artificial fruit? Really, Teri, that’s so bourgeoisie.”

“But my artificial fruit bowl is the only thing that can provide Zhivot with a net-control device that will use crypto-net operations for electronically keyed equipment. What could possibly be better than that?”

“Cell phones,” said Rita.

“I…” began Paulsy.

But Teri spun on one foot and vented her fury on Paulsy, “SHUT UP! I’m warning you; I shot a man in Bulgaria for saying less than that.”

At that moment the door to the suite blew open and a gigantic, King Kong man entered followed by a slick, suave mob boss.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded Teri Comma.

“Anthony Scapula,” said Paulsy

“Carlos?” said Eleanor, as she emerged from the bedroom.

“Eleanor!” Carlos said with surprise.

“Paulsy Duckworth,” said Scapula, as he pointed at Paulsy.

“Aaron Gefilte,” corrected Rita.

“Wait a minute!” cried Teri. “What is going on?”

Scapula moved closer to Paulsy and said, “It took awhile but Verna finally admitted that you were Paulsy, so I kicked her out for lying to me, and then one of my little birds told me that you were here.” To the others in the room he added, “This man owes me ten thousand dollars and I aim to take it out of his hide.”

“Well, you won’t hear any objections from me,” Teri said with a sneer.

“But you will from me.” Rita went face to face with Paulsy. “So who are you really?”

Knowing that the jig was up, he admitted, “I’m Paulsy Duckworth. I’m a two-bit con man, living from one hustle to the next.”

“Where is Aaron Gefilte?”

Paulsy pointed at the couch. “He’s under there.”

There was silence and blank stares in the room for a long time. Finally, Scapula motioned for Carlos to take one end of the couch while he took the other. Together they picked up the sofa and placed it a couple of feet back. On the carpet was the twisted, stiff body of the fan man. The large hole in his chest was the first thing that everyone noticed but his swollen, contorted face was a close second.

“I told you I’d poisoned him,” Eleanor said to Teri. “See how purple his face is.”

“Not really purple. It’s more a mauve,” Teri observed.

“Lilac if you ask me,” responded Rita.

“Well, that bit around his mouth is definitely magenta,” Scapula said.

“You poisoned him, Cuddle Bunny?” said Carlos. “I shot him.”

“Well, Hulky Bear, technically I killed him first,” said Eleanor.

Wow! Cuddle Bunny? Hulky Bear? I’m feeling sick.

Eleanor smiled sheepishly at the others and explained, “We sort of knew each other a few years back.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Rita. “You poisoned Aaron but before he died your old boyfriend shot him. Why?”

“The poisoning was my fault,” Teri confessed. “I hired Eleanor to kill Gefilte because I hate his guts.”

“And I shot him because I thought he was Paulsy,” added Carlos.

“Which brings us back to you, young man,” Rita turned to Paulsy, “but I think I know more about you than you do. You see, the goal of Zhivot is to attain immortality. So several years ago we were involved in a cloning project. The cloning was successful, but the project didn’t get us any closer to immortality. Of the two boys that were cloned one was put up for adoption and the other was raised within the organization and eventually became Aaron Gefilte. You, Mr. Duckworth, must be that other clone.”

“Clone, shmone,” mocked Scapula. “He still owes me ten thousand dollars.”

“Would you allow me to buy his debt from you,” asked Rita, “for twenty thousand? And I’ll double that if you can promise me your silence about what has happened here today.”

“I’ll take that deal, lady,” said Scapula, “but if you don’t pay up Carlos will come looking for you.”

“No, it won’t be me,” Carlos said. He and Eleanor were standing in the corner with smiles on their faces. “I’m quitting, Mr. Scapula. Eleanor and I have decided to start our own assassin-for-hire business.”

“Damn, I’m having a bad day. Verna turns on me and now my enforcer quits.”

“Maybe I can help on both counts,” said Teri as she grabbed Scapula’s arm and lead him out the door. “Let’s talk about it over drinks at the bar.

Rita chuckled to no one in particular, “Teri will either wrap him around her finger or cut his heart out. Zhivot always wins.”

“That’s what I’ve read,” Paulsy said in a pococurante way.

“What are you talking about?” said Rita. “ Zhivot has been a super secret organization for over a hundred years with an emphasis on secret.”

“Maybe not, I read all about it last week in the National Rumor. The story was between “Psychic’s Head Explodes” and “Seeing-Eye Cats”. I think everyone knows about Zhivot.”

“He’s right,” said Eleanor, who had found a laundry cart in the hall.

“Yep, my grandmother told me about Zhivot after she saw it on a dark web site,” added Carlos, who had picked up Gefilte’s body and dropped it into the cart. “Oh, by the way, Cuddle Bunny and I will take care of this body. Don’t worry we’ll do it pro bono since there was kind of a mix-up on our part.”

Mrs. Filch was very disappointed. “All these years I thought we were doing a great job of keeping it secret. I’ve let the group down.”

“Don’t feel bad,” comforted Paulsy. “Does it really matter if it’s secret or public?”

“Public? Public? Oh my, you’re right! Zhivot has been pursuing immortality for a very long time. We know more about it than anyone else and everyone wants immortality. You’re right, Paulsy, we should go public, advertise, launch an IPO, and sell stock! We’re as ruthless as any other company. This could be big, really big! This was your idea, Paulsy, so I’ll offer you a position on the steering committee. We’d probably start you at eighty-five thousand and give you a million-dollar bonus.”

Paulsy was helping Carlos and Eleanor push the laundry cart into the hall. “It sounds good,” he called back to Rita.

Carlos and Eleanor continued pushing the body-laden cart down the hall while Paulsy stood in the suite’s doorway with his mouth hanging open. He was partly stunned by the idea of having a legitimate job that pays that much money, but he was also stunned by what he saw coming down the hall from the opposite direction. It was Milton Finkbinder and Verna Eekwenknocks and just behind them was a mob of Canadian Mounties, British Bobbies, a SWAT team, the French Gendarmerie, and one guy from the Bulgarian Politsai.

“What are you doing here?” asked Paulsy.

“Well, despite what you said, I did go to the police,” said Milton. “No one there believed me but as I was leaving, I ran into Verna. She said that this all started because she was supposed to meet you here at the Bilkmore but she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry, Paulsy,” said the beautiful Dane. “I love you, but you have no money and I’m very high maintenance.”

“That may have changed, Verna. I just got offered a very good job and lots of money. I’m a millionaire.” Paulsy stared at all the cops. “What are they doing here?”

“Oh, there’s an international law enforcement convention downstairs,” said Milton. “They were smitten by Verna and followed her up here.”

Verna turned to the horde of cops and said, “Sorry, boys, this is my fiancé, so run along and play with your guns, billy clubs, and rubber hoses.”

The policemen turned and reluctantly slinked away.

Paulsy’s eyebrows rose. “Fiance?”

“Well, at least until we learn more about this new job and that million dollars.”

“Will someone please explain what’s going on?” asked Milton.

“It’s complicated but first let’s get out of this hotel and find a decent restaurant,” said Paulsy. “I’m starving.”

As they moved down the hall, they met a tall, thin, blonde man standing in a doorway. He was standing over another blonde man who was lying just inside the hotel room and appeared to be definitely dead.

“Don’t do it,” Paulsy said to the definitely alive man. “I promise you, the best thing to do is just walk away.”

Oh, jeez, here we go again.

THE END

Bio: George Schaade is a retired history teacher that loves writing science fiction and humor. His stories often reflect the comic books and pulp magazines that he was raised on...

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