Mantua Bay (8)
8
At first the harried woman at the clerk’s desk wouldn’t let him rent by the week. Chris coughed up two hundred bucks in advance of the seven-day rate to do so. Not that he knew how long he’d be stuck in Mantua Bay for. A week was minimum, he knew that for sure. It didn’t occur to him until after he got his keycard that he might’ve been better off finding a rental some place. The agency would write it off as easily as the Jolly Roger Inn and Suites.
He dropped his suitcase off at the room before heading to Giti’s Falafel for a shwarma plate. Giti’s was reputed to have the best Mediterranean food in all of Jersey, and Chris wanted nothing more than to have a plate of good food in him before getting down to doing what he had to do.
******
“What is so secretive about a hit and run that our government wants to put a seal over Shawn’s death like this?” Mrs. Lipman’s tiresome, apathetic manner of speech made Chris fairly confident she’d overdone it with the anti-anxiety meds. “Ugh, my poor boy.” Mr. Lipman put an arm around her, staring woundedly back at Chris like he had just insulted his wife. “Maybe, sir, you could understand why we might want some time to think this over,” he said. “That is, before we commit to all your terms and conditions.”
Chris wished for an opportunity to fingerpick a piece of tabbouleh lodged between his teeth without them noticing. If he was reading the room right, he wasn’t going to get such a chance. The Lipmans just learned they needed to change their names and move away the same day they lost their son. As far as fucks to give, his teeth picking wasn’t high on their list. He went in for the stuck food, raking it out from the middle of two front teeth with an index fingernail. “Mr. Lipman, this situation isn’t analogous to leasing a car, I’m afraid. In fact, it isn’t much of a choice at all. Maybe my job obliges me to frame it as such. I know you both are experiencing a significant amount of grief right now, and I sympathize with you. But I must tell you this, Shawn’s death wasn’t the result of a hit and run.”
“Pardon me?” Mr. Lipman squinted at him like he’d heard Chris speak in a foreign language. Mrs. Lipman sighed.
“Your son’s death was no hit and run, Mr. Lipman. I happen to work for a government bureau called the Grey Fox. Essentially, our bureau monitors clandestine extraterrestrial activity in our country. Your son was—”
“Just cut the bullshit, Bennett,” Mrs. Lipman said. “What are you really trying to say to me?”
“Your son was melted and killed by aliens, Mrs. Lipman.”
“You insane?”
“No, mam. I don’t believe so. This is about classified as it gets, from a government clearance perspective. It’s my responsibility to ensure that you and your husband make this transition as seamlessly as possible. We want you to be safe. And happy. As well you should be. What we offer is a protection plan similar to the federal witness program for mob informants. This means no communications with relatives, or friends. Catastrophic family emergencies superseding, of course.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Mrs. Lipman said.
“I still want some time to think it over,” Mr. Lipman said.
“Fine then, but it’s only a matter of time,” Chris said, “until word gets around about your son’s death, the way he was found. Interests will pique, Mr. Lipman. Trust me, it’ll get bad—”
“Just fucking call me Howard.”
“We’ve seen it all before, Howard. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to sit in a place like this and unload these kinds of facts to you and your wife. The fact is, statistically, homicidal alien activity occurs just about as often as your auto hit and run. Incidentally, we don’t want many to know this. You run the risk of some serious trouble. My advice? Do yourselves a favor, and get out of dodge.”
“My poor little boy…” Mrs. Lipman held her face in her hands and bawled.
Chris took out a business card. Handing it to Mr. Lipman, he stood up, valise in hand. “I’ll be in town addressing matters regarding your son’s case for some time. There’s more damage control than you may think. But I’ll be in touch again within twenty-four hours with your program details, and we can discuss the new situation. Again, my sincerest condolences with regards to your son. I understand that this is a painful time.”
Chris strolled down the extent of the mortuary hallway and paused at the outside of another door. When he walked through that door, he’d be making a similar speech to the handful of police officers, medics, as well as the two college lifeguards present at the accident. It might’ve not been the emotional shit sandwich he’d just experienced with the Lipman parents, but Chris surmised a far longer Q and A session. Before he entered, he sent a text to Lee Coslet: Ready for me in an hour? I want to take a ride to the old Earl’s Court location.
Lee’s prompt response read: Yes. Okay. EC is now North Carolina Avenue.
