With a truck full of fresh cement, I drove to the address in Beverly Hills that had been left with my answering service. Only a certain class of people can reach me through that number. My brother Dick, who runs his own security agency, investigates every call. That way I know if someone is trying to set me up.
The guy who lives at the Beverly Hills address is a movie director with all the right connections. I rang the bell. Cecil himself answered the door.
“I’m so glad you’re here.” He looked at my truck with the revolving chamber going in circles to keep the cement from setting up. “How much does the cement in that thing weigh?” he pointed to the truck.
“20 tons or so.”
“Good, good. That’ll do.”
I didn’t know what it would do and didn’t much care. I got paid and paid good to deliver my load and not to ask questions about whom or what was being buried under it.
“Where do you want it?” I asked.
“Drive around back.”
At the rear of his mansion, an area six feet deep and six feet square with chicken wire spread on the bottom and reinforced walls of plywood were set to hold the wet cement in a square. The plywood came above the surface by about two feet. Cecil pointed, “Dump it there.”
“You going to smooth it out, or do you just want a big lump in the middle of your lawn?”
“The thicker the better for my design, but hold on before you start. Concrete is dreary to look at, but colors revamp it. I made tints so it’ll look like colored stone.”
He pointed to a pile of fifty pound bags of colored powders.
“I’ll pay you extra to add these to the mix.”
“A Hundred a bag,” I said. He agreed.”
I threw the bags up on the back of the truck, stopped it from spinning, and dumped in an ochre colored powder. While I worked, I heard voices coming from the house and then there was a horrible scream. None of my business. I emptied the last bag and started the container spinning again to keep the cement soft.
Cecil came out dragging something in a sheet. Looked like a body. He manhandled it into the center of the square and said, “Okay, dump the cement right there,” he pointed into the hole and at the thing wrapped in a sheet. I figured it was a body, but didn’t say a thing. This is why I get paid so much. When he went back into the house, I filled the hole with cement.
A week went by. I got a call to return to the Beverly Hills house with another load of cement. I repeated last week’s performance except the color I added was green instead of ochre. Again, Cecil came out dragging something wrapped in a sheet, shoved it into the hole and gave me the go ahead to dump my cement.
I wondered who he was burying under all that cement, but it wasn’t my business to know. I get paid to do my job and nothing else.
Another week passed. I got called to Beverly Hills once again. I couldn’t help wondering who this guy was hiding in his yard. I tried to convince myself there weren’t people buried under the cement, but couldn’t. Every time he dumped an object into the hole, he’d say, “Fill-er-up,” and go back into the house. If I wanted to see who he was burying, I could jump in, and lift the sheet.
No way. If anyone saw me, it would be the end of my lucrative business. The night I dumped a truckload on Hoffa was the night my career started. It became known I could keep my mouth shut so whenever somebody wanted to bury a body permanently, they called me. But this guy really aroused my curiosity. I’d never tell. Just take a peek so I’d know. I decided I would if he called again.
A week went by and Beverly Hills wanted another truckload. The last load I had colored yellow for an extra $500.
Now there were pink, from the ochre, green and yellow six foot squares in his yard. I figured he wanted to even the group out with this load. I wondered what color he’d pick this time and I wondered even more who or what he’d bury under the cement.
He wanted blue this time. I mixed the powder into the cement. He came out with what looked like a body in a sheet, dumped it in the hole and went back into the house. I jumped in, lifted up the sheet. It was a dead pig. What the hell? I couldn’t figure this out. Maybe he used a pig to fool me into thinking it was a body.
I heard a laugh and looked up. Cecil stood there with a bunch of evil looking men.
“Thanks, Sucker,” he said to me. “I bet you’d look by number 4 and I was right.”
“Okay, you got me dead to rights, but I only looked because I was so damn curious.”
“Curiosity is what killed the cat.” He nodded and soft cement started pouring on my head. “At least you’ll know who’s buried under this load,” Cecil said and laughed.