The Suicide Club

A Life in the Day of Anton Tzara

It was an upper class neighborhood. They were all upper class, at least upper middle, not much for problems, not much to worry about unless the media asked their maids whether they were legal.

Would they ever ask? Not likely. These people were home free, home — free.

He checked his watch. He was early. Early was good; not too, just enough to be ready for anything, because anything could happen. He knew.

The first few had surprised him. People were unpredictable, and the older they got the less predictable they were. He’d solved that. He just did kids now. Piece of cake really, like being a personal coach or some junior self-help guru, except his advice worked— every time.

He parked on the street. They probably had rules, but he wouldn’t be long, and parking in the drive could lead to problems. People had a way of coming home unexpectedly, and there you were, in their parking place, just when you didn’t want to be there.

Another thing he’d learned — people were inconvenient.

He pulled the black leather valise out of the back. It had gradually grown heavier as he accumulated the tools of the trade; this, then that, after awhile two or three thises and a few thats, anything they might want, anything he might…