You Gotta Die Sometime

By Jay Cameron Parker

Some people shouldn't die. They're just no good at it.

On his cross-country journey through depression-era America, Howard Jones faced death more than once. Now, someone is trying to knock off the unassuming door-to-door salesman again. When his would-be assailant is killed, Howard becomes the number one suspect in what was to be his own murder.

On the run, he must unravel the mystery behind the murderous plot. As his world crumbles around him, Howard realizes that discovering the truth, and evading death, will require him to confront his dark and troubled past.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jay Cameron Parker
• Release date: Apr 2, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215899335

Jay Cameron Parker

Jay Cameron Parker is a playwright, actor, and director. He lives with his wife in Southern California.

Book preview

To my loving family

CHAPTER ONE

The naked woman beside me slept through the noise like she was dead. I sat up and let my eyes adjust to the small dark room; the only light source came from the hotel sign shining outside a solitary window. The doorknob rattled.

Hello? I said softly.

I assumed it was another Stanley Brush salesman, perhaps Clifton, drunk and searching for his room. I gave it a few moments, thinking the guy on the other side would move down the corridor soon, but the doorknob continued to rattle. I tip-toed to the door.

Hello? I think you have the wrong room. This room is occupied, I whispered.

Perhaps he didn’t hear me. I flipped the latch under the knob and opened the door a crack.

The guy shoved his hand in and clutched my throat. His body followed, pushing his weight through, then slamming the door behind him. All the while, his hand squeezed my throat, cutting off my air. I grabbed his doughy, cold arm. I fell backward onto the floor; he straddled my torso. Both hands were around my throat. My heart hammered in my chest like an oil rig. I struggled to breathe. The stink of booze and sweat filled my head. Everything turned red. The dark figure on top of me, his teeth, his shoulders, red. Red stars and lights floated across the room then everything went black.

I don’t know how much time had passed when I came to. I lay on my back for several moments, massaging my sore neck. My body shivered as I stared at the sheer white curtains drifting lazily from the open window.

I grabbed the foot of the bedrail, pulled myself into a sitting position, and saw that the nude woman was no longer there. Well, that explained it. The woman was a wife, fiancé, or girlfriend. The midnight caller with the grip of a gorilla was her jealous who-zits.

I tried to stand, but the floor wouldn’t stay still, so I sat on a small chair next to the dresser. I figured it must be getting close to sunrise as there was more noise outside than before the altercation. It made sense that a big city like Los Angeles would start moving before dawn.

The Los Angeles salesmen have it easy; they cover a lot of ground if they do six miles daily. But for a guy like me, from some little pip-squeak desert area, I have to travel fifteen to twenty miles a day, rain or shine. So, coming to L.A. to receive the Stanley Brush Salesman of The Year Award of 1933 was a big deal for me.

I got the invitation on a Saturday two weeks prior. Between morning services the following day, I pulled my fiancé, Janet, aside under the shade of a large date tree and showed her the notice. New Eden was experiencing an influx of new members. Since Janet oversaw hospitality, I knew she’d be busy and have less time to argue.

She glanced at the invitation but did a double-take when she saw my name and picture on the cover.

You can’t go to that, she said, Conventions like these are excuses for drunken carousing.

I’m not going there to carouse, I said. "The company wants to honor me for a job well done. They’re going to award me a brand-new sample case with all the new inventory at no charge. The other guys will have to pay for their new cases out of their own pockets, and they probably won’t get them for another six months. I’ll have the best stuff in the region. And they’re throwing in 25 bucks on top of it."

No. You’re just asking for trouble if you go. Forget it, she said. Her cold blue eyes were fixed on mine. Besides, Dr. Pally has his thing there this weekend. You don’t want to get mixed up with that.

I have no intention of running into Dr. Pally and his congregation of muscleheads –

Keep your voice down. Someone will hear you.

I’m going to be somewhere else. This has nothing to do with him.

Reverend Wright approached, chuckling.

You two at it again?

He had just finished a rousing sermon. His curly black hair was beginning to frizzle, which always happened after one of his flamboyant exhortations. A wave of curls usually started at the back of his head and slowly worked toward his forehead, giving the impression that he was wearing a dark baby bonnet.

He wants to go to a convention in Los Angeles just to get a pat on the back, Janet said.

The scripture says, ‘God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ Instead of going to the convention to be honored, you should use the time to work on the Leadwell property. The Reverend said.

I lifted my hands to show off the dried red paint around my fingernails.

I’m still trying to scrub the paint off my hands from last week’s project.

There’s too much going on here. You don’t need to go to Los Angeles, Janet said.

Well, Wright said. It may not be such a bad thing to meet the men in charge of the company you work for. Perhaps you can schmooze them into giving you a raise. You know, Dr. Pally is having a rally there that weekend. Maybe you can drop in while you’re there.

Janet glared at his betrayal.

What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you nuts?

Listen, I said, I didn’t say I was going for sure. I said I was thinking about going?

A large car pulled up to the administration building, and a group of men dressed in matching silver shirts and blue ties got out. They stretched their legs and arms like they’d been sitting in the same position for a while.

More? Janet said, then focused her anger on Wright. Why are you allowing this? More of these guys show up every week, and you do nothing about it.

Wright ran his fingers through his hair and brushed dandruff from his shoulders.

Dr. Pally has been a Godsend. The New Eden Church would have closed a year ago if it weren't for him. Look at us now; we’re thriving. The vision has come to full fruition.

It’s not the New Eden anymore. This wasn’t the vision.

Pally called me an anarchist the other day, I said. he told me maybe I should leave. Maybe I’d be happier somewhere else. Me. He wants to push me out of here like he did the others.  And he suggested that Janet was stepping out on me. That she’s been seen in the company of another man.

Yes, Wright said softly, then looked at Janet sheepishly. I guess someone saw you in the company of a black man.

I don’t know what they’re talking about, Janet said laughingly. "They’re just trying to stir up trouble.

Well, I said, I’m going to slip away before more of these idiots and the chief idiot get here.

I meandered away, relieved that the conversation was over and sore at myself for starting it in the first place.

I rubbed my throbbing neck. The pain started letting up a little, and breathing was getting easier. I could still hear my pulse pumping. Sitting in the chair, I looked down at my new sample case resting on the grip stand. I reached over, ran my hand across the smooth new leather, unlatched the lid, and opened it. I admired the case’s contents by the pale blue glow of the outside hotel sign shining through the window.

There were mahogany-handled brushes of all sizes. Ivory combs and a silver cigarette case. The stationary included a shiny ebony fountain pen, a clear crystal ink bottle, ribbon-wrapped note cards with envelopes, and twenty-five sheets of fine paper for letter writing. A long, stainless steel letter opener lay like a fancy, sharp dagger in one of the velvet indentations.

A blue ribbon lay across the contents. Attached to the ribbon was a gold pin of the company logo. I couldn’t make out the words on the ribbon in the room’s darkness, but I wasn’t ready to turn on the lights. I rose from the chair and moved to the window to let the streetlight shine on the ribbon. I sat on the sill, held the ribbon up, and read it.

TO HOWARD JONES FOR OUTSTANDING SALES ACHIEVEMENT.

I exhaled proudly. I noticed something was happening on the sidewalk twelve stories below. A small crowd was gathered. A nude body was lying in a large circle of blood.

I got a sick feeling in my stomach as I backed away from the window, looked down at the floor between the wall and the bed, and saw a pile of women’s clothes.

A noise, like a cough, came from the restroom. How had I not noticed the light shining from under the door? How had I not heard the person on the other side breathing? The light was so brilliant. The breathing so loud. I crept back toward the chair and sat. I bent down to the sample case and replaced the ribbon.

The restroom door burst open, revealing the silhouette of the man. I could tell he was startled. He gasped. He jumped. His reaction gave me a second to respond, but only a second. I stood. He stormed toward me. His hands grabbed my neck. He slammed my body against the dresser. I swung my body around, pushed forward. He backed toward the window. My neck made popping sounds. I saw those red stars again.

I had the silver letter opener in my hand and shoved it into his neck. Three times. The wet blade slipped from my palm. I broke free, pushing him away. His grip went limp. He stumbled backward with the letter opener protruding from his neck. The window exploded as his body flipped out. The drapes tangled in his legs, and everything stopped for a moment. Then the curtain rod tore from the wall, and the man, the drapes, and the rod disappeared.

CHAPTER TWO

Maybe a regular guy with a clean past would’ve waited around for the cops to show up, but I couldn’t. The thought of Janet looking at me smugly, saying, I told you so, was one reason to run, but not the only one. I dashed into the restroom and found a gun in the basin. I had enough sense not to touch it. I rinsed the guy’s blood off my hands, put my clothes on, grabbed my suitcase and new sample case, and beat it.

A chorus of approaching police sirens intensified.

When I stepped out of the room and into the corridor. The door opened from the room across the hall, and a bleary-eyed man peeked out.

What’s going on? he said in a raspy voice.

Don’t know, I mumbled, pushing my hat down over my brow and dashing through the hallway.

I considered knocking on Clifton’s door, but those sirens kept getting louder, and I wanted out.

I entered a narrow door marked, IN CASE OF FIRE USE STAIRS. The sirens blared. I practically leaped down the stairs, taking some three at a time. My head spun from the throttling I’d taken earlier; my neck throbbed like that guy’s hands were still squeezing it; my heart still hammered, but I didn’t care.

Men’s voices echoed through the stairwell from below. Running footsteps coming up the stairs stopped me from going further. The exit to the 6th floor was nearby, so I quickly slipped through it. I dashed toward a window at the end of the corridor, where I found a fire escape leading down to an alley. I opened the window, sat the bags on the platform, and followed, shutting the window behind me. A gust of wind blew the hat off my head, and it sailed into the heavens. I clambered down the steep metal structure, tossing my bags to each platform below.

I thought about Clifton and that drink.

Hours earlier, something inside me said I was going too far when I knocked on the door of his room. He opened the door and scanned the hallway, ensuring nobody was around. How he led me in and giggled as he shut the door behind him. The sense of unease and excitement I felt. Even though we were twelve floors up, he pulled the curtains. He retrieved a flask from his coat pocket. The whole thing felt hinky and wrong. It reminded me of a part of my life I tried to forget.

I had been so square and careful since coming to California. I had forgotten the adrenaline rush from stepping over the line, sneaking around, or running.

Clifton grabbed two glasses from the bathroom sink and poured a shot of whiskey into each one.

This is some pretty good stuff. You get some homemade stuff, and it tastes like kerosene. But this tastes like the real deal. Here’s looking at you, pal! May our fortunes be fruitful and multiply! Clifton said.

We clinked our glasses and downed our drinks.

Maybe things would've turned out differently if I’d stopped there, thanked him for his hospitality, and been on my way. But I don’t know. Something about how the whiskey went down, like lava tumbling down the side of a volcano. How the stuff landed in my gut and burst into euphoria throughout my body. He was right; the stuff was good. I’d been around the bad stuff. He asked if I wanted another, and I said why not.

I met Clifton, a salesman from the San Diego territory, on the train ride in. The train car was crowded, and he was bawling out some guy sitting while a pretty young lady was standing. The guy in the seat tried to ignore Clifton by staring out the window.

The young lady said something like, It’s okay. I don’t mind standing.

Clifton’s chest was all puffed up, and he took up most of the aisle. He had to hunch over a little to keep his straw hat from touching the ceiling of the train car, and he seemed to be expanding the more heated he got.

No, it’s not okay, Clifton said to the well-dressed man, Look, pal, if you don’t do the gentlemanly thing and remove your carcass from that seat, me and my buddy here, Clifton then looked at me for the first time and winked, will toss you off this train in Redding. And let me let you in on a little secret. This train doesn’t stop in Redding.

The guy looked at his watch, rose from his seat, edged his way out, and squeezed himself down the aisle without saying a word. As if he needed to get up anyway.

Clifton yanked his handkerchief from his pocket, reached over a large Mexican lady sitting in the aisle seat, and brushed off the empty seat. He then turned to the young lady and gestured.

Madam.

The young woman gave him a faint smile, sat, and looked out the window.

Clifton looked at me and shrugged, then whispered in my ear.

Nowadays, you can’t just be a hero. You gotta be a pretty hero. I blame it all on the moving pictures. Clifton Eagleton. He offered me his hand, and I shook it.

Howard Jones, I said.

Howard Jones? A large smile filled Clifton’s chubby face. Not Howard Jones, number one Stanley Brush Salesman in the Riverside County Territory! You can’t be that Howard Jones? You’re a heck of a lot better looking than that picture on the invite!

I felt myself glow a warm shade of red.

Clifton looked at the young lady, still staring out the window.

Miss, did you know you are amidst one of the giants in the fine brush and stationery industry? This is Howard Jones!

The young lady glanced away from the window, nodded, then turned away.

It’s impossible to impress anybody nowadays, Clifton sighed. I blame the motion pictures on that too. Well, it sure is fine to meet you, Howard. I’m with the San Diego territory.

San Diego. I’m sorry, I didn’t connect your name with....

Don’t apologize; who the heck knows who I am? They don’t give awards to a rotten salesman like me. This is what I’m known for and how I make my real money. He took off his hat, a straw boater with a bright green band that had the words Mr. Know-it-all printed on it. He smiled broadly, waiting for a reaction.

Ah, Mr. Know-it-all? I said.

From the radio. You ever listen to the Crisco Radio Hour on Sunday nights?

Is it on before or after Jack Benny?

Clifton grimaced.

During, he said, deflated. Anyway, I’m a regular guest. I’m Mr. Know-it-all. You see, my brain is like flypaper. Everything that goes in sticks. I saw your name on the award announcements when they sent me my invitation. Ask me who the number one guy is in Phoenix, Arizona. Floyd Augustus Logan, that’s who. How about the number one guy in Seattle, Washington? Elmer Bumpstead is his name. Pick a random year, any year, and ask me who won the World Series. I’ll not only give you the team's name but also tell you the score and each player's batting average. I don’t know how I do it; it just comes naturally. My old man used to tell people that a bunch of encyclopedias fell on my head when I was a baby, and ever since, I’ve been a genius. On the radio show, people in the audience try to stump me. My ma wanted me to become a lawyer or doctor. She said those guys never go hungry. Well, look what’s going on now. Those guys are broke, but I always have money in my pocket. I’m not rich by any standards, but I ain’t broke like some doctors and lawyers I’ve seen. The radio show pays me five dollars for every question I get right. And I’m never wrong. Most Sunday nights, I walk away with thirty dollars in my pocket. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

I’ll have to start listening. I had no idea I was standing next to a celebrity.

Ah, cut it out! Other than that, that’s my only claim to fame. And some people think it’s all a put-on. There’s some wacky reporter dame who thinks it’s her job to prove to the world that I’m a fake. She’s hired people to follow me around, thinking that somehow, they’re going to find me cheating. Like I always say, the world is like a fruitcake. Full of nuts.

I can’t disagree with you there.

Anyway, it sure is good to know you, Howard. I took one look at you, and I could tell right away we would become grand pals.

He kept talking, and I kept listening. A bunch of passengers got off in Pomona and opened some seats. He squeezed his frame into the seat next to mine and continued to talk. He got on a joke-telling jag that had me laughing until my eyes watered. It wasn’t the jokes themselves that were funny, but the way he told them and spit them out one right after another.

Well, Clifton said when the train pulled into the Los Angeles station. I bet the company’s got you a nice room at the Biltmore.

No. The company was really clear that all they were paying for was the meal and the award. I made a reservation there, but if you know a place where I could save a buck or two, I’m all ears.

Come with me to the Wayside Hotel! It’s right down the street. I had to stay there two months ago when a relative died, it ain’t fancy, but it ain’t a dump either. And it’s cheap! There’s a bellhop there named Monroe. He knows all the ends and outs. I called ahead and told him I was coming. He’ll set us up for a grand old time, Howard.

We shared a taxi to the Wayside, and when we got to the front desk, Clifton insisted on signing in for the rooms while I waited in the lobby. The place was large and fancy, but you could see it was getting run down. Like so many other areas walloped by the Depression, this place showed the effects of being run by half the staff it needed. The worn-out furniture, the dusty counters, and the stained carpet were signs that the Wayside was sinking under its own weight.

At first, the bellhop, who introduced himself as Monroe, acted like a stranger to Clifton, but that changed while leading us to our rooms. Monroe laughed at everything Clifton said, and Clifton laughed at everything Monroe said.

Monroe led me to my room first. The small, stuffy room with chocolate-colored wallpaper and a landscape painting over the bed had a small dresser and chair.

Monroe, Clifton said, is my room any bigger than this one?

It is a little bit bigger, yes.

Well, I tell you what, this will be my room, and give Howard the bigger one.

That’s not necessary, Clifton, I said.

I insist! You’re a top salesman. If the company won’t spring for a fancy room for you, you can have mine.

If you say so, I said.

Monroe pulled the suitcase stand from the small closet and placed Clifton’s grip on it. He opened the window a crack, then went into the restroom and turned on the light.

Say, Monroe, Clifton said, Any new places in town for some midnight sightseeing?

If I think really hard, something might come to mind, he chuckled. I have a friend named Betty that you might like to meet.

Clifton sat on the bed and leaned into him.

You don’t say? Well, I’m up for making new friends. Would she have a friend for my new pal, Howard?

I got a girl back home. She’s enough for me. Thanks anyway.

Monroe shrugged.

You know what they say about the cat being away, Clifton said.

I’m not a cat; my fiancé’s not a mouse. I have enough lady friends, I said. But don’t let me put a damper on your fun.

All right. Get yourself set up, Howard. Then stop by in about twenty minutes. I got something I want to show you, Clifton said, pulling a quarter from his pocket and flipping it toward Monroe.

Monroe caught the coin like the whole thing had been rehearsed.

I nodded, then followed Monroe to the room next door. It was a little bigger than Clifton’s, but not much. Monroe repeated the same routine he did in Clifton’s room, and when he was done, I gave him 35 cents. He smiled brightly. Twenty minutes later, I was in Clifton’s room downing illegal whiskey from a hotel glass.

I knew it wasn’t Clifton’s fault I was in a mess. But I couldn’t help but wonder if the same thing would’ve happened if I hadn’t met him. I wouldn’t have gone to that club after the awards ceremony. I would’ve gone back to the room and never met that girl.

Arriving at the bottom platform of the fire escape, I dropped both cases to the alley below, unlatched the ladder, and rode it down to the pavement.

Drenched in sweat, I considered the narrow alley between the hotel building and another tall brick structure. In one direction was the street in front of the hotel, where the bodies lay. I saw the lights of the squad cars and heard the voices of a crowd from where I stood.

The passage was more prolonged and darker in the other direction. It was difficult to see where it led, but no other alternative existed. My heart sank when I grabbed my bags and noticed the scratches on my new sample case. My heart leaped when Monroe stepped from the shadows smoking a cigarette.

Mr. Jones, what are you doing?

CHAPTER THREE

Monroe’s tan uniform coat with a long row of silver buttons on each side was hanging wide open, exposing his dark, bare chest.

Hey, I said. I’m in trouble.

Mr. Eagleton just said.... Well, this doesn’t make any sense. Monroe said, flipping his cigarette onto the pavement. I told him I didn’t want any trouble.

You saw Clifton?

He left about a half-hour ago. He gave me a ten-dollar bill to let him out that back door.

Monroe referred to a door marked KITCHEN STAFF ONLY. A fixture above the door cast a moon-shaped light over the entrance and the trashcans surrounding the area.

Did he say where he was going?

He said there was trouble, just like you did, Monroe retorted. I told him I didn’t want any of his trouble, and I don’t want any of yours.

Did he say where he was going?

I don’t care where he was going! I don’t care where you’re going! I don’t want any part of this. Monroe began quickly buttoning his jacket. He left. Then suddenly, the police show up. I don’t want any part of it. I’ve been waiting back here because I didn’t want any part of it, then you show up. He told me you were gone.

"Gone? He said I was gone? In which direction did