Karma

Preston entered the usual restaurant at about his usual time and sat at his usual table. The usual waiter brought him his usual espresso and glass of water, no ice. No words passed between them. This was also as usual.

It had been an unusually good morning, however. His stocks were up and it looked like they would stay that way, business was booming, and rarely had meetings with his lawyer brought more good news than bad. The unionization and “fair wage” efforts at one of the satellite factories looked like it would be a bust, nobody new was suing him quite yet, and his leasing company was, at this very moment, sending multiple eviction notices to tenants in several of his buildings. They were based on technicalities, but it meant that he’d be able to keep their deposits as well as raise the price for the next renters. He considered the substantial sums he’d funneled through several local PACs to oppose affordable housing in the city money well spent.

Speaking of, he thought and made a mental note to himself to have his attorney look into purchasing the empty lot he’d passed on his way here, the one where the loud, dirty, obnoxious kids played basketball. That would be an ideal location for another apartment building in a few years’ time. Preston prided himself on his organized and forward thinking.

The other unusual thing about today was the view. The morning’s fog had lifted and the view from the waterfront seafood bistro was lovely, not even the occasional noises from the freeway pass-through out the front door and one floor down dampened it. Preston straightened the sleeve of his navy-blue Armani suit as he watched a ferry dock across the way. Thank God he never had to travel that way, he scoffed to himself, crowded together like cattle.

The waiter brought him the usual plate of caviar, smoked salmon, and cucumber hors d'oeuvres and glass of sparkling Roederer Cristal.

“About time!” Preston sneered sarcastically at him.

“My apologies, sir” he murmured back. The waiter knew better than to offer the reasons, Preston Goff didn’t care. It didn’t matter, he would tip badly regardless.

Preston deftly and somewhat mechanically ate each hors d'oeuvre, thinking over the business meeting scheduled for this afternoon. He stood to gain even more money if this deal went through. He only hoped his incompetent boob of an assistant didn’t fuck it up. As he picked up the last one, just before his usual after-lunch coffee was to arrive, he noticed a man enter the restaurant. It was unusual for Preston to notice anyone other than himself and those who were of use to him or who may be in the future, so it was odd that the gentleman caught his attention. He wasn't able to pinpoint exactly what it was about the man that made him uneasy, but in an uncharacteristic moment of self-reflection Preston realized that he was afraid. This was a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long while, he was almost more afraid of the feeling than he was of the man.

As he watched, the last caviar, salmon, and cucumber slice forgotten in his fingertips, the maître d' and the man in the brown tweed hat had a whispered conversation. Preston watched out of the corner of his eye, his head turned just enough so he appeared to be gazing out the window at the Sound and not obviously looking in their direction. The man was dressed in browns and had pale, but not unhealthy-looking skin. He had a dark mustache and ponytail and seemed to be quietly yet politely arguing with the maître d'. Finally, the maître d' turned and pointed at Preston. Preston's breath froze in his chest. The man nodded once in thanks at the maître d' and began making his way through the tables to where Preston sat. He half placed and half dropped the last hors d'oeuvre back onto the plate.

Sweat began to form around the edges of Preston's dark blonde hairline and on his upper lip. Now he did turn and look directly at the man in brown. There seemed to be something in his hands that Preston had failed to notice before, but even now he couldn't say what it was as they locked eyes and Preston could not break the connection.

Saying no words of greeting or introduction, the man reached Preston's table and set a small, square package wrapped in brown paper on the tabletop next to the water glass. Nodding once at the plutocrat, the man turned on his heel and left. Preston did not watch him go; his eyes were riveted on the package.

He could feel his heart thudding in his chest as he examined its sharp, precisely wrapped corners and unblemished surfaces. He did not reach for it. Given the delivery man’s demeanor, his lack of ingratiating behavior or even the simplest of explanations made Preston terrified of what it might contain.

What was it? What was it about the mysterious brown paper package that made his heart race and breathing difficult? The fear seeped into his toes and fingers, settling in his stomach.

He looked up. No other diners seemed to have even noticed the interaction. Their continued conversations, meals, and even laughter grated on him in a way he could not explain. Preston was alone. Or they were all in on it as well. That must be it! This was an elaborate ruse to expose him and cost him his empire. He clutched at the tablecloth, feeling cold and nauseous suddenly. Preston glared around the restaurant, making aggressive eye contact with everyone he could. He’d show them that he couldn’t be intimidated! He snarled, which earned him more than few worried glances.

No, no, that can’t be it. Think! Preston pressed his hands to his eyes and then looked back at the package, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he thought only of the pit in his stomach and what the box might contain. Maybe one of the tenants he was having evicted had gotten word of where he was and sent an explosive to pay him back! Preston focused on his breathing, willing it to quiet as he closed his eyes and listened for the telltale “ticking” sound he was now absolutely certain the box would make.

Moments passed, he heard nothing. If only he could listen harder, if only everyone else would be quiet!

“SILENCE!” he shouted irritably, waving his arms somewhat wildly in the air. All eyes turned towards him, confused and shocked amidst a flurry of whispers and a few snickers. The maître d' and a server shared a worried glance. Mr. Goff had never acted this way before and they were unsure of how to respond. Ultimately the maître d' decided to do nothing, unless there was another outburst or one of the other diners complained.

Still Preston heard nothing from the box, and the initial surprise over, the conversation of the other diners soon resumed their normal level. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t dare reach for the water glass so close to the package lest he accidentally brush his fingers over it and upset it, setting off the bomb. No, wait! That’s it! he thought triumphantly. It wasn’t the box he had to worry about, it was the water! That’s why the man in brown had placed it so close to the water glass, he placed the box there so that he could surreptitiously slip poison into Preston’s drink!

“WAITER, WAITER! ANOTHER GLASS OF WATER!” Preston cried across the restaurant. Again, all eyes turned to him, but no one was even momentarily quiet this time, the politely condescending snickers more audible. The maître d' came hustling over.

“Sir, we’re happy to replace your water, but I would ask that you please stop shouting” he said gently but firmly. Preston waved him irritably away, as he looked past the maître d' to the server arriving with a fresh glass of water.

“Put it down over here!” Preston ordered, indicating the other side of the table from the package, the waiter glanced again at the maître d' before complying.

“Here!” Preston said, shoving his napkin at the young man. “Don’t touch the glass!” Preston hissed at him sotto voce as the server reached for the original water glass. Looking conspiratorially around with the finesse of a kindergartner, Preston motioned for the young waiter to grasp it with the napkin. “Pour it carefully directly down the sink!” Preston commanded him.

“Uh…Of…of course, Sir,” the bewildered server did his best to placate the obviously agitated magnate before both he and the maître d' returned to their posts.

Preston rubbed his hands gleefully together. Well! I foiled him! he thought, his mind on the man in brown. But lo! The package! Still, he did not reach for it. Yes, he had had the waiter get rid of the poison, but what was in the package? Preston sat quietly now, contemplating. Which of his many enemies had sent the man in brown?

Preston did not delude himself. He knew that he was no saint and that getting to where he was in life meant that he’d had to step on a number of folks to make it to the top. Worthy businessmen, the female employees, and of course the dirty, disgusting poor – he’d shoved past them all to reach where he was now. If truth be told, Preston had had the feeling for a while that they were conspiring to kill him, but which ones? Today it was the package at his usual lunch spot, but just yesterday it had been the old woman in rags near the train platform. Her eyes had followed him before he’d lost her in the crowd, narrowly escaping his fate.

Preston became agitated once more, staring fixedly at the package, his mind lost in thought about who could be responsible for this audacious invasion of his privacy and personal sanctity. He rubbed his hands together again, but this time in an anxious and obsessive way. He was not aware of his movements. He was not aware of anything beyond the confines of his own mind, gaze lingering unseeing on the package.

“Here you are, sir!” the server said with forced cheeriness in his voice, setting the coffee down near the remaining water glass. The arrival of the server with his after-lunch coffee, despite the one remaining hors d'oeuvre, now somewhat dried out and past its prime, startled Preston. He looked up, shocked, from his preoccupation, flecks of spittle flying off his lips with the sudden and unnatural jerking movement of his head.

"AHHHHHH"

Shrieking loudly once at the surprise intrusion, Preston shot up from his chair, upsetting the table and spilling everything on it. He stood still for only a second, eyes staring vacantly, hauntedly, at the stupefied server, before jolting past the other diners and outside. The maître d' could only watch helplessly as Preston Goff climbed the railing, plugged his nose, and plunged into the traffic below.