The First Thing We Do - Prologue
The silver Jaguar pulled into the open spot in the parking garage. The overweight man who was squeezed in behind the wheel lifted the box on the passenger seat and opened it. He smiled at the sight of his new business cards.
The cards were made of suede with decorative foil and rounded corners. The lettering was raised gold. He had debated on the silk and imported cotton cards, but felt that suede was the way to go.
‘Silk and cotton are so last year, and easily forgettable as soon as the client puts it in his pocket,’ the salesman told him. ‘People will remember suede!’
The salesman was right. People would remember the way ‘Julian Hope’ reflected in the light. Not reflected, he thought. Glittered!
And in small raised print, his personal motto:
“’You gotta have Hope’,” he whispered. That was the money shot. That was the sell. That – including his proven track record - brought the customers in. Sure it was corny, but it’s always the bad joke you remember.
His cellphone went off; its ringtone Peter Gabriel’s ‘Big Time’.
“Julian Hope,” he answered. “Hey, Brother! I just parked the car. I’m about three blocks away. Just gotta make a small stop before I come over. You got the ya-ya?” he asked rubbing his nose in anticipation. “Sweet! Give me a few. Right. Bye. Oh! You gotta see my new cards, man! They are so cool! Bye!”
Hope tapped a button on the phone, ending the call. He opened the glove compartment and took out a small bottle that had a 14 karat gold spoon on a chain attached to the cap. He lifted the bottle up to the garage’s interior lights and squinted. Smiling he removed the top and spooned the last of his coke into each nostril and sniffed deeply. He tapped what remained on his thick fingertip and rubbed it into his gums. His head leaned against the seat’s headrest and he sighed as he felt the drug run through him.
Hope reached through the open window and placed the small box on the roof of the car. He then pulled his rounded bulk from the driver’s seat and locked the Jaguar, then turned on the car’s security alarm. He shoved the small box into a pocket.
He waddled up the inclined walkway to the street, waving to the sleepy looking security guard in the booth as he walked by. The man in the booth absently waved back, his attention focused on the small television playing a basketball game. When he reached the street, Hope inhaled deeply, sending his coke-enhanced senses into a rush.
Hope’s eyes went directly to a small hole-in-the-wall store across the street. The store sold his only weakness; grape soda.
Hope had gone from every 24-hour store and bodega in New York City looking for one that sold that particular brand of grape soda. Coke, Pepsi, Sprite, Mountain Dew; all the big names lined the shelves, but not his grape soda. As a chubby kid, Hope used to spend his free time sitting in his bedroom with a bottle of grape soda, bags of Funyuns and a stack of comic books. The grape soda brought back a time of no responsibilities, of comfort.
Versus walk directly across the street, then walk up a half block, Hope walked up his side of the street with the intention of crossing when he was directly across from it.
That was his intention.
As he walked up the street, Hope’s eyes kept darting to the store while his fingers kept pinching his nostrils. He was so distracted he didn’t see the dark figure coming in his direction.
“Whoa!” said Hope as the figure cut in front of him. “You scared the shit out of me!” Hope grinned and reached into his pocket. “You gotta see my new cards! They’re the balls!” The small box fell from his hands and bounced on the sidewalk. “Fuck!” Hope exclaimed. He widened his stance so he could bend forward to pick it up. “Good thing the box didn’t open,” he said.
When Julian Hope stood up, he no longer saw the figure.
He saw the barrel of the gun.
