Death and Taxes
HEATHER GRAHAM
I am an IRS agent.
But contrary to what you may be prone to believe, or no matter what it might seem, I am not the monster in this story. I swear.
You see most people believe that we IRS agents are horrible individuals—seriously, as if that’s a prerequisite when you apply for the job. Not true. We’re just working stiffs like everyone else. Everybody needs a job, and I, like the general public with whom I am just another number, needed steady work in order to maintain any kind of lifestyle.
The general public fears an IRS agent—but you can’t begin to imagine how IRS agents fear the general public.
Take the case of Mac Keenan. MacDonald Keenan, if you will. I was called in after several agents had tried to deal with the man.
First off, so you can get a general idea, the man is rich. Rich as Midas. He’s the kind who tries every loophole known to man while the middle class fellow can’t find a slit to slip through. His books are seriously works of art.
It started on a Monday. I was called into my boss’s office. “Vlad,” he said (my name is Vladimir, my folks are of Russian descent,) “we need you.”
“Oh?”
“Special case,” he told me. He pushed a picture out on his desk. It was a picture of a man of about forty-five, a big fellow, so it appeared. Definitely, a stocky man. “MacDonald Keenan. We believe that he has hidden income in vast amounts, and that his expenses list is a pile of pure bull.”
I shrugged. Nothing out of the ordinary.
“So?” It seemed that I was required to say something.
“We sent Josie Valentine about two weeks ago.”
“And what happened?”
“Mac got all nice and told her to come to his mango tree; he had great fruit—with no real value—that she was welcome to take. She was trying to stay on good terms with him, so she went.”
“What happened?”
“Chimpanzee jumped out of a tree and attacked her—she’s still in the hospital.”
“Why wasn’t this fellow arrested?” I asked indignantly. Josie was a sweet kid. I liked her a lot—so did most of her clients, even when they wound up paying back the big bucks.
My boss waved his hand in the air, “Big-time attorney, of course. Claimed it wasn’t his chimp and he didn’t know how the hell the creature got in the yard.”
“Okay, so why not meet at Keenan’s accountant’s office, or downtown in our office?” I asked.
“Keenan doesn’t have an accountant, does his own taxes. And he came down once. He saw Ted Larson.”
“And?”
“Ted started choking on his coffee. We had to call the paramedics in. Ted’s still in the hospital. Choked so hard he nearly suffocated, and then threw his back out. Ted will be laid up for another three weeks. His situation is pretty dire.”
“Ah, so was there another attempt made to bring Keenan in or to have an agent out to his place?” I asked.
“Aubrey Dupont went out.”
“Audrey? I don’t know her.”
“She’s out of a different office. Anyway, Mac Keenan came to the door all smiles to greet her. She went in to see him, gave me a call, and said that he was going to try to get some of his bank papers from the bank, said he lost them when a storm came through.”
“Okay, that’s reasonable.”
My boss shook his head. “I was on the phone with her when he walked her out. She tripped on a step on the front porch. Broke her up really bad. Her head caught it, you know?”
“Dear God! I hadn’t heard anything about it.”
“She’s in a coma now. But like I said, she’s out of a different office; maybe that’s why you haven’t heard.”
“Haul his ass back downtown,” I suggested. I hated house calls. Hated them. You tried to collect, and a woman called in her crying, starving children. She showed you that her washer was broken and she was doing laundry by hand. A man would be in the garage, trying to coax a few more miles out of “old Betsy” because he couldn’t afford a new car. He’s trying not to lose his house. See, I’m sensitive. That kind of stuff breaks my heart. I’m a softy. I’m willing to stretch when need be, but I sure hate it when I have to do home visits.
My boss hesitated and then said, “Vlad, I’m afraid of bringing him in again. Folks here are now superstitious. If I call him in, every one of my agents will call in sick. I need you for this one; I really need you.”
I expected a stupendous mansion. What I found had once been a mansion, but the iron gates were rusty, the massive lawn was overgrown, and the little garden ornaments were hairy with growth of lichen and moss. He had huge oaks in the yard that dripped moss.
It would have really made a perfect haunted house.
I parked my car and looked for a call box by the giant, dilapidated, but ornate front gate. There was none. I pushed on the gate, and it creaked open.
I walked up the overgrown tile walk and found the offending porch stairs—those which had sent poor Aubrey to the hospital in a coma. I walked up the steps without incident and thudded the door with the giant lion’s head door knockers.
I thought the man might refuse to answer, then we’d have to start proceedings, get cops, all that kind of stuff. And, really, I prided myself on being the “get the job done man” for the government. Hey, the government had taken a chance on me. It was the government, of course—no racial, sexual, religious, or other prejudices allowed. I liked that.
But, despite my misgivings, Mac Keenan came to the door.
He was a big man. Maybe six foot four, two inches above my dignified but fairly customary height.
They had sent Aubrey out to see this giant? I thought. Poor, poor dear!
“You the new guy?” he asked.
I handed him my card. “I’m Vladimir Oginsky,” I told him.
“Russ-sky, eh?” he asked.
“I was born here in the United States,” I told him. “My parents were Russian.”
“Aliens,” he said. “This country is just full of aliens! Well, sometimes, that pays. So, well, Mr. Oginsky, come on in. Or should I call you Vlad?”
“You may call me anything you like, Mr. Keenan, as long as you justify your taxes.”
That made him laugh. “Come on in then, Russ-sky. I have my books set up in the dining room.”
I followed him into the house. It was a strange place. It was filled with hunting trophies. Heads lined the walls, and exotic cats, snarls on their feline faces, were displayed full body. The place seemed ancient; there were artifacts from all time periods and a multitude of countries displayed on dusty shelves guarded by a vast nest of spider’s webs.
We entered the dining room. A boar’s head sat on a silver tray in the center. I felt as if I might have entered a castle deep in the Transylvanian woods run by Dr. Frankenstein. Wrong country, wrong story, I know, but that was the feeling I got.
“Right there,” he said proudly, drawing back a chair. “There are some of my receipts—I keep them all; take a look. I don’t know why the government has targeted me!”
I looked at the receipts. Most were far too faded now to be legible, but I found one.
“Publix?” I said.
“Where shopping is a pleasure!” he assured, quoting the giant chain’s motto.
“Mr. Keenan, you can’t deduct your groceries. I’m afraid we’ll have to start weeding these out.”
“What? A man’s gotta eat to live!” he protested.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Keenan. Congress makes the laws; I uphold them,” I told him.
I picked up another receipt. “Toothpaste? Oh, please, Mr. Keenan!” Another receipt for a movie rental; another was for several bottles of red wine.
“I’m afraid that your receipts are worthless, sir,” I told him.
“Worthless,” he said. He was seated across the table from me. He clasped his hands together and nodded. I thought that he would explode.
“Hermione’s Whorehouse, Las Vegas?” I said.
“Entertainment!” he bellowed.
“I’m afraid the government doesn’t see it that way. Why, if every man out there tried to deduct personal entertainment like that, the national debt could grow by even more billions. Half of these receipts are from Hermione’s Whorehouse. And say that the government made a turn and accepted such expenses—then married men would want exemptions for every present they bought their wives. Then women would want the same equality, and . . . well, congress will just never pass it. There are still many members on the far right. It’ll never fly. I’m sorry—these receipts are worthless.”
“You don’t understand the Publix?!” he exclaimed, indignant.
“I’m afraid not.”
“I’m thirsty,” he said suddenly, as if he’d made a quick decision. “Can I get you something? A brandy, bourbon, wine?”
“I’m working, Mr. Keenan,” I told him.
“Some food, perhaps? I make a mean spaghetti and clam sauce,” he said.
This is it; this is going to be his way of getting rid of me.
“Nothing, thank you,” I said.
“Iced tea?”
“Nothing, thank you.”
“Coffee?”
“All right, Mr. Keenan. Coffee would be great.”
He left the table. I went through the rest of his receipts. He wanted to deduct a new basement, some items for the basement I couldn’t read, his taxidermist’s bills, and a host of other personal expenses.
He returned with the coffee. I thanked him and sipped it as he watched me like a hawk.
There was something in the coffee, certainly. I had exceptional taste buds—the average Joe might not have noticed. I did. There was an acidic aftertaste. Arsenic? Did he really not care that a coroner would discover the poisoning? Or was it something more subtle that might go undetected during an autopsy?
“Mr. Keenan,” I told him. “You can’t deduct dog food. Or cat food, for that matter. And, as far as I can see, the only cats you have around here are dead ones.”
He smiled. “All right. I understand, I guess, though you might change your mind. I can’t deduct dog food, and since you’re a stickler, it seems I can’t deduct cat food either. You might change your mind.”
I finished my coffee. He watched me, stared at me, and seemed baffled.
He was waiting, expectantly.
“And you can’t deduct products for personal hygiene, either,” I said.
He leaned toward me then. He didn’t appear to be quite so affable. “You don’t understand, Vlad, Bad, Russ-sky, whatever you are. Yes, you know what? You’re wrong. I can deduct cat food. It’s part of my business. Yes, I’m an investor. But I’m also a show master. I do very special shows for very special people. And I can prove it.”
“Oh? You keep great cats around, and the meat bill is for them? Do you have the proper permits?” I asked.
He smiled. “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!” he said.
“All well and fine, sir, except that those rights come with the unspoken promise that you don’t prevent those rights to your fellow man.”
He gave me a sneer. “Come to the basement,” he told me. “You’ll see—every expense is totally legitimate.”
“All right,” I said.
I stood. He towered above me, that strange, sick, sneering grin upon his face. We passed by the front on the way to the stairs to the basement. He pointed outside. “You’re working late, Russ-sky. It’s almost dark.”
He led me to the stairs. There were few—very few—basements in this area, due to the fact that we were just above sea level. He had built up the ground below his mansion, I thought, in order to have a basement. Interesting. Most people would do so for a billiards table or a home gym.
Not Mac Keenan.
“Stairs are straight out of an old castle from Munich, Germany,” he said with pride. “They once led to a dungeon!”
“How fascinating,” I told him. “But not deductible. Not until you sell your house, and then, of course, the amount will work against your capital gains.”
He was silent as we continued down the stairway. I felt a little dizzy; whatever he had put in the coffee was definitely having some kind of an effect.
“See here!” he exclaimed with pride.
The grand basement room we reached was stone; the walls were lines with various instruments of torture, and I realized slowly that the room had a certain reek to it.
“Sit down, sit down,” he encouraged me. “That,” he said, leading me to a benchlike seat, “is an authentic garrote from the executioner who worked during the Spanish period in St. Augustine. Many a man met a grisly death with this lovely, historical piece.”
“Charming, Mr. Keenan,” I assured him. “You say you’re a show master. So, who is your audience?”
“My audience should arrive momentarily. Just as soon as true darkness falls and the moon begins to rise in the heavens!” he said dramatically.
“You know, Mr. Keenan, I’m a government worker. Nine to five is my usual.”
“But I’m certain your boss wants this problem solved, doesn’t he?”
“All right. I’ll put in for overtime. It’s the government; I may not get it. But you’re right, Mr. Keenan, we do want this situation rectified.”
He smiled suddenly. “You can run right now, Russ-sky. Run right now. They’ll send some other poor schmuck. I like you—I think you should run now.”
“I’m feeling a little tired,” I told him. “Whatever drug you put in the coffee is getting to me now.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” he told me.
He’d been at my side; suddenly he was behind me. He took my wrists, and I heard a snap; I’d been handcuffed. I felt the garrote fall around my neck.
I tsked. “Mr. Keenan. The garrote is period. What’s with the modern handcuffs? It totally ruins your show, you know.”
“Think it of it as theater art—moderne arte!” he said.
It was then that I heard the baying of the wolves. And the screeches that were made by the great cats. I heard noise above me, and I knew the creatures were coming to life. Mac Keenan was indeed a Doctor Frankenstein.
“What are you, exactly?” I asked him. “Werewolf, demon . . . vampire . . . zombie? Are you controlled by others?”
He laughed, delighted. “Ah, Russ-sky, you have been entertaining. I’m sorry, really. What am I? A show master, as I told you. My clients are of the wealthiest and most prestigious families. Most are European, though many are South American and Asian these days. Ah, you’d be surprised by my people from India and the Middle East, as well. Show master, Mr. Russ-sky. All right, a demon, if you will. I have been around a long, long time, as the sayings and songs will tell! I survive off the largesse of my clients, and therefore, you fool, my Publix bill is certainly deductible, and once you see some of my clients, you’ll understand that toothpaste is a work expense as well.”
“I do understand now,” I told him. “And I’d grant you your expenses—if your work was legal.”
“What’s not legal?”
“Well,” I began, but by that time the great cats were making their way down the stairs, snarling and screeching hungrily. There was a jaguar, a lion, a cheetah, and a puma. All stalking into the room, salivating.
No matter what his attempted expense deductions, I was intended as dinner.
“Wait! Wait, my dear pets!” he called out.
There was a thud against the stairway wall, and I looked up to see that a massive wolf was coming down the stairs.
A wolf, and not a wolf. He was going through horrendous and tortuous changes as he made his way. “Russ-sky, meet Max. Maximilian Davenport, werewolf out of Lyons, France. Max—meet . . . well, let’s get honest here, meet your dinner, sir.”
Max took on a full transformation and stood on all fours, howling with pleasure. The cats hissed and scratched the air.
Max started a heavy pad towards me.
“No, no, you must wait!” Mac Keenan said. “Wait, the mistress of darkness approaches with the newest love of her life.”
With that announcement, I felt a rush of air. There seemed to be a flurry of wings in the room, and then they were there. There was a woman—absolutely gorgeous. She was typical of any vampire fantasy ever written, huge dark eyes, dripping lashes, and long dark hair. Oh, and a chest that was brilliantly formed and well displayed in the black velvet dress she wore.
But she wasn’t alone. I recognized Ted and Josie from my office immediately. They both looked well enough.
“Vlad!” Josie said with dismay. As I said before, she’s a cute kid.
“Dinner is served!” Mac Keenan said angrily. Shall I shove the chair out a bit for you? Vampires first, werewolf second, and the cats—they will clean up the mess.”
“Josie!” I said.
“Mac . . . the chimp destroyed half my face. When Maria-Teresa came to the hospital . . . oh, sorry, Maria-Teresa, Vladimir Oginsky, I had to invite her in, and I had to allow her some blood and . . . then they declared me dead, and, well . . . here I am. Forgive me, Vlad, please?”
She was so pathetic.
“I was dying, too,” Ted apologized. “It seemed a good choice.”
“Where’s Aubrey?” I asked.
“Oh, well, she was really a big girl in excellent shape. I’m afraid that when we brought her out, we weren’t paying enough attention. Max was really hungry. He even ate the bones,” Mac Keenan explained. “If you all had left my grocery bill alone, things might have been fine. Give all these fellows, native and alien, and—hm, otherworldly?—enough raw meat and pig’s blood, and they stay pretty well satisfied. It’s your fault—you IRS people, and the government.”
“I’ve traveled some,” I told him. “We have our problems, but it’s still the best place to live.”
“Great. He’s a patriot,” Mac Keenan groaned. “You’ve been fun, Vlad, but . . .”
Josie started toward me. She licked her lips and I saw her fangs. She’d been such a cute girl! All brown eyes and long brown hair, she looked like a kid, but she was twenty-six and one of the best math people I had ever met.
The beautiful woman, Maria-Teresa, let out a cry of fury. “I am mistress, and I go first!” she announced. Josie quickly scrambled back; Ted—who hadn’t been that close—stepped back as well with a quick leap. He knew his place. I was glad.
Maria-Teresa smiled as she came toward me. She licked her lips and sat on my lap. She was hot, on fire. She crushed her breasts against me and gave me a soulful look with those nearly black eyes of hers. “I’ll try to make it sweet and erotic, sweet and to die for . . . you’ll not mind in the least.”
I felt her fangs slide into my neck.
I’d have let it go on a little further, but I still wasn’t sure just what the arsenic might have done to my system.
Ah, the arsenic. I guess it gave a taste to the blood.
She pulled back, staring at me with confusion and dismay. She started to turn to Mac Keenan, angry. “What is this—” she began.
She might have been beautiful, but I knew—she was pure evil, and there was no negotiating a settlement here.
I burst free from the handcuffs and thrust my neck forward with a tremendous lunge, freeing myself from the garrote, and knocking Maria-Teresa senseless. Not good enough. I caught her head and gave it a massive twist, breaking the neck instantly. Of course, she was a vampire, and that wasn’t enough. I twisted harder, until the head came free. It popped with a rather horrendous squishing sound. At least, though, no blood splurged all over the place.
She was old and evil; a pile of dust and ash burst upon us all, clouding the day.
Max, the old werewolf, howled, tucked his tail between his legs, and backed away. It sounded as if he was crying, the way he whimpered.
Josie and Ted just stared at me, openmouthed.
“She made you, so the spell should be broken,” I told my two coworkers. “You should no longer be blood-sucking servants of Satan.” I shook my head with disgust. “That’s horrible behavior for government agents. You should be ashamed! Get upstairs, I’ll get you both back to your hospitals. And Ted, if you die, you die, and that’s it.”
They were in shock, of course. They nodded, and stumbled their way to the stairs. I didn’t think Ted was going to die—they would think he’d had some miraculous cure.
I looked at Max, the werewolf. There was something so sad about him. I hate to see any dog with its tail between its legs.
“Snap out of it, Max!” I said. My tone was actually a damned good bark.
In a split second, Max was entirely human.
“I think your ailment might be psychosomatic. Look at you, you don’t even have any hair on your chin! Get to a doctor—I’m giving you one chance, and I mean it. Dr. Jimenez, on Main Street, is a wonderful shrink. One chance, Max, you see that doctor tomorrow. I’ll be following up on you.”
Max was out of the room and up the stairs, nodding as he went, moving faster on two feet than he had ever managed on four.
The cats growled at me. I growled back. They instantly froze back into their taxidermy positions, nothing more than dead meat.
Then I looked at MacDonald Keenan. “Scare tactics, sir, will not keep the IRS away. We all need roads and schools, and like I said, I don’t make the laws, I don’t decide the taxes.”
He stared at me, all tense, looking as if he might explode like a bomb any minute.
I thought he might have a heart attack on the spot. That wouldn’t have been good for my career—or the reputation of the IRS.
“What, what . . . what are you?” he asked me.
“An agent of the U.S. government,” I told him proudly. “All right, all right, you know why I love my job so much? A lack of prejudice. My parents came from Russia. But their parents came from . . . oh, well, it won’t really mean much to you, but they came from a little planet in a far distant solar system known as Aslinovia. It was a great place, until people of different colors started fighting against one another. The beiges, as we were called, were all but massacred. My folks got out. We settled in one place, and then my dad read up on the United States. Not perfect, but trying. So we came here. I served in the military, and I looked for a government job. They hired me at the IRS. Anyway, we weren’t so different on Aslinovia. And we’re not so different here—just a little stronger, physically, and mentally. So, here’s the thing, MacDonald Keenan. You’re going to jail, of course. You’re going to jail for the injury and death your so-called employment has caused others.”
“No one will believe—” he protested.
“Oh, yes. By the time I finish, they will,” I assured him. “You’re a horrible murderer, Mac.”
He shook his head. “You’ll never prove it.”
“Oh, I believe I will. But that doesn’t matter, Mac. I’ll get you one way or the other.”
“How?”
“Just like they got that other monster, Al Capone. Because you see, if you happen to get out of the murder charges, well, then . . .”
“Then what?” he demanded.
“I’ll be just like Elliott Ness,” I told him with a broad smile. “All right, so, maybe, in your circumstances, the Publix charges might be justified, but some of those others . . . Mac! What did you take me for, a fool? You’ll go down like many a man and monster, for income tax evasion! The Publix bill—now, of course, I’d let that go. But the Hermione’s Whorehouse is out, I’m afraid. And God knows, sir, where you’ve gotten half your income. I will be investigating that next! Damned vampires—the majority of your clientele, I believe. They’re the worst. So hard to pin down—and their banking! Disastrous. But I will find your hidden income, MacDonald Keenan. I will. I am a law-abiding man descended from legal aliens, and I will proudly do right for this country! And, of course, there are only two truisms in life for any man,” I told him.
“Oh?” he said, still looking shocked and frozen.
“Death and taxes,” I assured him. “Death and taxes.”