Mansion on the Hill

Steve Weddle has a new short fiction contest, with the prize being a signed copy of Hilary Davidson’s The Damage Done. The rules? Write a 500ish-word story that includes references to Ava Gardner and Neil Young. Here’s mine.

Mansion on the Hill

“Would you?”

Daryl leaned against a retaining wall made from paving stones. He was covered with sweat after having mowed the expanse of lawn held back by the wall. He looked back over his shoulder to see who was speaking, and saw a preppy-looking guy about 15 years past being able to pull off the look.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“I said, ‘Would you?’”

“Would I what?” Daryl said.

“Kill for a glass of ice water. That’s what you just said. I wondered if you really would.”

Daryl pushed himself away from the wall and turned around. “It’s just an expression, man. Thinking out loud. No, I wouldn’t really kill for some ice water. I’m just really thirsty, OK? Do you live here or something?”

“Not yet,” the man replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there might be more than ice water in it if you were to take care of a problem for me.”

“A problem like the person living in this house?” Daryl said.

“Something like that.”

That had been two days earlier. Now, Daryl leaned against that same retaining wall.

“I can’t see shit,” said Randy, leaning next to him. “And what’s that racket?”

“Neil Young. Apparently this guy is so whacked he can’t sleep unless he plays this psychedelic noise collage over and over,” Daryl said.

“You mean ‘Metal Machine Music?’” This was Trent.

“No, that’s Lou Reed. This is ‘Arcweld’ or something like that. Doesn’t matter. The old coot is like Howard Hughes: batshit crazy and richer than God. His girlfriend is out of town, and the guy told me that if we get in and hit Hughes, er, whatever his name is, we can take whatever we find.”

“What’s in it for him?” Randy asked.

“He’s the heir, apparently. And, he’s conveniently out of town with the girlfriend.”

“So, she’s like Ava Gardner, huh?” Trent said.

“What?” Randy said.

“Ava Gardner. She was one of Hughes’ girlfriends.”

“‘Metal Machine Music’ and Ava Gardner? What, did you learn to read?” Daryl asked.

“Biography, man, best channel on television. You should try it,” Trent said.

They stopped talking and climbed to the house. Daryl was in the lead, crowbar in hand. He cracked a set of French doors and moved into what looked like a study. The other two followed. A light popped on and they were greeted by the wrinkled old man, a double-barreled shotgun in his hands.

“Welcome!” he said. “Howard Hughes. I like that. And just like Hughes, I’m smart enough to keep an eye on my place, and an ear. By the way, thanks for crossing the threshold. Now I’m legally allowed to do this.”

He pulled the trigger, spraying a wave of pellets that cut down Daryl, Randy and Trent one, two, three.

“‘Metal Machine Music,’ huh?” he said, turning toward the desk to grab the telephone. “I’ll have to ask my ungrateful nephew to pick that up for me on his return trip. I’m so tired of Neil Young.”

xxx