Fiction

Ben Venice: G.H.O.S.T. Agent 3

benvenice

 

Part 3

When he didn’t report back to the company, they didn’t panic. It was never any mystery that he wasn’t that into his job. He wasn’t really cut out for sales, he just excelled at giving presentations. It came easy to him to command a room. He was always considered likely to eventually go off the reservation, it was risky to send him out so far without supervision. But the fact was, he was the best they had. If anybody could generate business that far from the Ohio Valley Base, it was him. Smitty and the rest of the office just decided to let him check in on his own time.

It was only when the Seattle homicide detectives followed a few sketchy witness tips and combed the Cedar River that the story became a story.  One overdue rented Cadillac, waterlogged. They never found the corpse, but that wasn’t shocking. The current got good this time of year, and a guy as big as Ben Venice would mainly roll across the bottom once those lungs filled with water. The door was open, the poor bastard might’ve just almost made it.

The service was small but action packed. As it was in life, the blonde came, the redhead didn’t, and the raven haired one wailed and wailed, made a scene. He had no siblings, parents long dead, no family he bothered to keep up with.  Most of his friends he knew from the nighttime world, who were used to not seeing him for long stretches at a time and didn’t read the paper. They wouldn’t even know he was gone until well after the funeral. Smitty came, but no one else from the office bothered. A couple fellas from the gym made it, passed a flask in the parking lot of the funeral home. No military stuff. They were going to do a flag or something, but then nobody could recall Ben even once saying anything good about the service. He didn’t even show up to get his medals.

His landlord went through his little apartment, donated his clothes and books. It was a funny thing, though, about his record collection. He hardly had any, but it was always figured that most of his disposable income went to the record store. He was always coming back home with those bags from Vine Records. There were shelves and shelves in his place, but they were all empty.

Ah, well. Maybe he sold them for booze money.

Where’s this story going? Spend a buck and find out.

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