Rory, Who Wanders

"It's Rory, you say?" Edmund rapped his fingers across the line of his jaw. "Rory Wentworth?"

The man on the other end of the line hissed into his receiver. "Yes, it's bloody Rory Wentworth. You think this is a game?"

"No, no, of course not," said Edmund, flopping down onto a nearby chaise lounge. "Rory. Right. Does he happen to have any ID on him?"

"He's a bloody little boy!" spat the man on the phone. "What's 'e supposed to have? A bus pass?"

Edmund shrugged audibly. "Possibly. I don't know what he gets up to during his free time."

"Free time? He's hardly five!"

"He's very independent," said Edmund. "Likes to wander off. We've made a habit of leaving all the doors open in case the urge to wander takes over."

The man seemed momentarily lost for words. "This is your son we're talking about, correct?"

"One of them, yes."

"Well....well he's fucking dead if you don't pay up!"

Edmund considered this, humming lightly as he leaned back in the lounge. "Two million is quite a lot, don't you think?"

The man on the phone nearly spit. "IT'S YOUR BLOODY CHILD!"

"One of them," corrected Edmund. "Are you a father?"

The man took a breath. "None of yer feckin' business."

"Well, parenthood, as you may or may not know, is largely predicated on sacrifice. Give and take. Win some, lose some, etc., etc. And frankly, considering present markets, along with current household expenses and the expectations of my other, less-kidnapped children, I feel I must be firm on this. Two million is simply out of range, so to speak."

"I don't believe this." The phone was momentarily muffled as the man on the other end pressed the receiver against his chest and screamed. "You're really going to make me kill your child?"

"Oh no no," said Edmund.

"Well....good."

"No, I'm simply not going to prevent you from killing Rory if that's the tack you've chosen."

"That's horrible!" shouted the man.

"I agree," said Edmund. "Rory's a well-meaning fellow and I'd like to think he has a bright future, most likely as a vagrant or a ragabout. But it appears we've come to an impasse..."

"One million," squawked the man.

Edmund drew a slow, whistling breath. "No. I'm afraid that's still a bit steep."

"Five hundred thousand?"

"Hmm. I'm not sure...."

"Your son's not worth 500,000?"

"Well, I have others," said Edmund. "And while I do love Rory in an obligatory sort of way, I have to admit he does have his share of defects."

"I can't believe this," mumbled the man on the phone.

"His voice, for one," said Edmund. "Sounds a bit like a cat being fed slowly through the disposal."

"Oh for God's sake..."

"Walks a bit funny, too," continued Edmund. "I'm worried that one may be hygiene-related...."

"Don't say it..."

"Might not be wiping enough...or too much, I suppose..."

"One hundred thousand!"

"Ah...but then there's his eyes."

The man on the phone did all he could to not smash the receiver into the wall. "And what the hell's wrong with his eyes?"

"Nothing, I suppose," said Edmund. "His great aunt has a lazy eye, though. Seems like a thing he might pick up, knowing Rory."

"This is madness. You're really going to let your son..."

"One of..."

"One of your sons die over a hundred thou? Yer a monster, mate. Yer evil."

Edmund nodded, knowingly. "It feels that way sometimes, being a parent. But, you know, you try to do your best."

"Christ...fucking...Christ." The phone went dead before the dial tone picked up. Edmund set the receiver back down in the cradle, then picked up a pen and a pad of paper.

"Dear Martha," he muttered, transcribing himself onto the pad. "Gone golfing. Lamb for dinner? Reggie kidnapped - dead? Lots of love, E."

Satisfied, he set the paper down next to the phone and headed for the door. "Whoops!" he whooped, pulling his hand off the doorknob and returning to the phone. "There's a mistake."

He snatched up the pad and pen, quickly crossed out the word LAMB and replaced it with STEAK. With a nod, he dropped the paper back down on the stand, and, whistling as he went, headed out to his car.