Fiddles IFs

It is dark when the van trundles over the freshly paved driveway of Henderson House, all the windows dark and the great river stone pillars holding the overhang up darkened to blue-grays. John can see into the living room from the wide, twenty-foot window next to the front door. It looks so easy to rob, Henderson House. In another time and place, he would have thrown a rock, damn the alarms, and made off with as much as he could carry.

It's almost a shame he's a law-abiding citizen now.

In the driver's seat, Rick taps his ID against the keycard-lock at the gate. Mila Henderson already had them scan their licenses and approved them - just them - to come by while she and her family were vacationing at Laguna Beach. She could afford to do that. Her YouTube channel had over four million subscribers, according to their boss, who stressed the importance of the job going off without any incidents. Beyond her lucrative Internet career, Mila Henderson also came from money. She bought Henderson House in the late 2010s, moving her collaborators in to create a sort of live-in media empire. From what John hears, they're a neighborhood nuisance.

The next step, obviously, is to "hire" a ghost. They paid a pretty penny for the crate in the back of the van. John swears it rattles when they stall at red lights, but Rick tells him it's his imagination, and the magicians at the Containment Department put so many goddamn wards on it - or whatever those little clay things are - they might as well be shipping a piece of paper.

"It's just gravity," Rick says philosophically, as he often does, "shit moves around, know what I mean?"

"Sure," John says, nodding sagely. "But I think you're thinking of velocity."

"Velocity is gravity, asshole." Rick swings the van up the driveway and parks it by the garage. John jingles the keys on the way to the front door, while Rick unlatches the van's back doors to grab the hand truck. He'll need help with the crate, for sure. Even as just bones, human bodies are heavy. The crate is doubly so, packed to the gills with soft styrofoam peanuts, bubble wrap, cloth, and plastic. That, and Rick is getting up in years (so is he, if he's honest with himself).

John is a long ways away from carrying TVs through windows and ripping out car stereos. He rubs his aching eyes. They've been getting steadily worse, and it gets harder to see in the dark with each night.

Turns out he doesn't even need the spare key. The arrogance of Henderson House is that they rely on their easily-climbed wrought iron fence and locked gate to protect their millions of dollars in assets. Computers, cameras, microphones, four- wheelers, dirt bikes, Teslas.

So easy to rob. So very, very easy to rob.

There's a bitter taste in John's mouth, swinging the front door open and half-jogging down the stairs to help Rick - whose dumb ass is trying to wiggle the crate onto the hand truck by himself. John catches the corner just as it decides to leap from the back of the van. His back twinges in protest, quick movements and big weight too much for it to not complain. The little clay talismans - which are mezuzot, and contain protective blessings from the Torah, but the two of them grew up vaguely Christian, and so neither of them know - jingle and clack against the plywood on its gentle way to the ground, and continue as its rolled up the front pathway to the door.

John imagines it's speaking to them in a language they don't understand.

"You're getting old," it says, "old and fat. Do you think you'll be able to retire? Probably not. Mila Henderson and her friends are sucking up all the money in the world, and here you are - dragging a corpse through her front door instead of tucking your kids into bed. That's the evil of you, John. Your greed and your ambivalence."

He grunts and grabs the ass end of the dolly to haul it up the stairs.

It is dark when the van trundles over the freshly paved driveway of Henderson House, all the windows dark and the great river stone pillars holding the overhang up darkened to blue-grays. John can see into the living room from the wide, twenty-foot window next to the front door. It looks so easy to rob, Henderson House. In another time and place, he would have thrown a rock, damn the alarms, and made off with as much as he could carry.

It's almost a shame he's a law-abiding citizen now.

In the driver's seat, Rick taps his ID against the keycard-lock at the gate. Mila Henderson already had them scan their licenses and approved them - just them - to come by while she and her family were vacationing at Laguna Beach. She could afford to do that. Her YouTube channel had over four million subscribers, according to their boss, who stressed the importance of the job going off without any incidents. Beyond her lucrative Internet career, Mila Henderson also came from money. She bought Henderson House in the late 2010s, moving her collaborators in to create a sort of live-in media empire. From what John hears, they're a neighborhood nuisance.

The next step, obviously, is to "hire" a ghost. They paid a pretty penny for the crate in the back of the van. John swears it rattles when they stall at red lights, but Rick tells him it's his imagination, and the magicians at the Containment Department put so many goddamn wards on it - or whatever those little clay things are - they might as well be shipping a piece of paper.

"It's just gravity," Rick says philosophically, as he often does, "shit moves around, know what I mean?"

"Sure," John says, nodding sagely. "But I think you're thinking of velocity."

"Velocity is gravity, asshole." Rick swings the van up the driveway and parks it by the garage. John jingles the keys on the way to the front door, while Rick unlatches the van's back doors to grab the hand truck. He'll need help with the crate, for sure. Even as just bones, human bodies are heavy. The crate is doubly so, packed to the gills with soft styrofoam peanuts, bubble wrap, cloth, and plastic. That, and Rick is getting up in years (so is he, if he's honest with himself).

John is a long ways away from carrying TVs through windows and ripping out car stereos. He rubs his aching eyes. They've been getting steadily worse, and it gets harder to see in the dark with each night.

Turns out he doesn't even need the spare key. The arrogance of Henderson House is that they rely on their easily-climbed wrought iron fence and locked gate to protect their millions of dollars in assets. Computers, cameras, microphones, four- wheelers, dirt bikes, Teslas.

So easy to rob. So very, very easy to rob.

There's a bitter taste in John's mouth, swinging the front door open and half-jogging down the stairs to help Rick - whose dumb ass is trying to wiggle the crate onto the hand truck by himself. John catches the corner just as it decides to leap from the back of the van. His back twinges in protest, quick movements and big weight too much for it to not complain. The little clay talismans - which are mezuzot, and contain protective blessings from the Torah, but the two of them grew up vaguely Christian, and so neither of them know - jingle and clack against the plywood on its gentle way to the ground, and continue as its rolled up the front pathway to the door.

John imagines it's speaking to them in a language they don't understand.

"You're getting old," it says, "old and fat. Do you think you'll be able to retire? Probably not. Mila Henderson and her friends are sucking up all the money in the world, and here you are - dragging a corpse through her front door instead of tucking your kids into bed. That's the evil of you, John. Your greed and your ambivalence."

He grunts and grabs the ass end of the dolly to haul it up the stairs.