The Untimely Death of Macal Hurley

A dark tale outlining the outcome when one’s passions are permitted to run amok

“I gather you’re unaccustomed to having the rules enforced.” George offered a long-suffering sigh. An ugly fingerprint marred the surface of the gleaming blade. “As well, I expect you feel more than a little inconvenienced by my tactics.” He polished the print away with the chamois. “I have observed those of similarly entitled natures rarely thrive throughout such predicaments. I strongly suggest you not get a lip on, as I can assure you such a temperament does not lend itself to a favorable outcome.”

George set down his chamois and observed the array of pristine instruments on the stainless steel workbench. For a moment, he continued his examination of his tools before he turned back to the two loathsome degenerates who sat before him. Both were to be on the receiving end of some of his righteous homegrown insights, and while they would leave the dank cellar of his estate 20 hours from now, the manner in which each individual exited was still in question.

George appraised his guests. While Linus Quigg’s eyes registered terror, his lovely wife’s, showed only mild curiosity. Considering the sticky wicket the woman was in, George found this oddly intriguing. The intrigue intensified each time her wide, green eyes slid over to her bound and gagged husband to pin him with a cool, accusatory glare.

George’s eyes ping-ponged between the husband and wife, confounded that such a dull creature as Linus could prosper as he did. In any event, it was Quigg’s prosperity that brought them here to the cellar. If Linus did not own the building in which Clinton Hurley formerly resided, none of this would have been necessary.

George realized he was staring awkwardly. That was often his way in social situations. He cleared his throat and pushed forward.

“Did you know a scarlet macaw can understand the context surrounding words? I’ll hazard a guess the two of you could manage as much. With that in mind, your lack of response could stem from either ignorance or stubbornness. I wouldn’t advise either. Is it too much to ask that you speak when spoken to?”

Silence.

A more frustrating pair, there never was. “Did you know the macaw’s brain weighs in at 25 grams, while the human brain tips the scale at 3 pounds? Where 3 pounds seems a tad beefy in your cases, I have to believe you possess adequate grey matter to formulate a yes, or no, response.”

Dull stares.

“For God’s sake, nod if you understand,” George shrieked. Now they’d gone and angered him. He hated the nasal quality of his voice when peeved.

Nasal or not, two heads nodded. “Affirmative. I’ll proceed. My apologies for the outburst. I had not anticipated that particular hurdle.”

“You are here under my tutelage as a result of your direct involvement in the death of Macal Hurley.”

Their eyes met across the space. Estelle Quigg’s gaze implored her husband to provide some form of communication to indicate the accusations were, in fact, false. The silly woman, of course, had no idea who Macal Hurley was. However, she had failed time and time again in her entitled life to grasp the depravity of her husband’s disregard for life. It was that inclination George felt warranted a ring-side seat.

Estelle was currently duct-taped to a chair. Linus occupied an undressed metal table of a design one would typically expect to find in an operating theatre. Linus was on his back, with a clear view of his wife should he turn his head slightly to the right. He did not turn to look.

Had roles been reversed, George would not have turned his head either. Estelle Quigg was a beautiful creature but, creature was the operative word. At 45, George now looked to presentation rather than packaging. A trophy wife, Estelle epitomized the powdered, perfumed, and primped, vapid, spoiled, and entitled trollop that was her kind.

Stupidly, Quigg not only drank the milk and bought the cow, he also paid for the whole damn pasture when he married Estelle. That was Quigg’s problem. George realized he had gapped again, and both guests stared at him with quizzical expressions.

“You probably wonder who this Macal Hurley is that I speak of. You say to yourselves, ‘I know no such person.’ And you are correct, of course. In response to such arguments, and before self-righteous indignation gets the upper hand, which it often does in these situations, I say, you did not know Macal Hurley. You did not know Macal for the simple reason you never made any attempt to know him.”

George selected a boning knife from the table and resumed polishing. Such activities comforted during trying times — and discussions involving Macal were always upsetting.

“Nevertheless, your lack of familiarity did not stop you from participating in his death. A death that resulted from cruel disregard for life, precipitated by greed, motivated by sloth, and conducted in an air of wrath and petulance by a fool. By a . . . a repugnant, spoiled, cretin, whose worth to society is not a fraction of Macal’s worth. He was so close to freedom and was robbed of it mere days before it could be rewarded.”

George turned away from them. He’d allowed emotion to carry him away and had gone nasal again. He placed his hands atop the table of similar design to the one Linus Quigg lay strapped to and took a deep fortifying breath. A brief interlude to collect his thoughts. Once the work was underway, he would feel more centered.

“I apologize,” George said. “Once again, I became too emotional. Such is my way when I speak of Macal.” He cleared his throat and continued. “We will return to the subject of Macal a little later.” George turned away from his gleaming instruments to face the two visitors.

“Rule number one,” George said. “You may scream, call out, or sing an anthem, it makes no difference to me — or you. We are isolated on my estate. There is no staff and we are two stories below ground in the wine cellar. Your screams will remain unheard even as someone stands at my front door.”

The husband and wife exchanged glances. “Do I need to ask you again to nod or shake your heads to indicate you understand? Please, tell me it isn’t so?”

Linus shook his head, the missus nodded. God help him.

“Rule number two. You will be given an opportunity — after a time — to make a sizeable donation to a charity that was a favorite of Macal Hurleys. Now, this point is critical so listen carefully. You will be released only after the transaction is finalized.”

Both heads nodded. Progress. “Rule number three. Estelle, you are here for no other reason than to watch. That is what you have done your entire, useless, entitled life. You may neither save him nor ease his suffering. You will be permitted to carry on with your life provided you neither prevent the donation from reaching its source nor open your foolish mouth. Neither the police nor the FBI can help you. Should you forget this rule, I will find you, and what you witness here over the next several hours will seem like a friendly game of chess in comparison to your fate. Do you understand?”

Rapid nodding. Estelle’s eyes glittered over the duct tape, but her cheeks remained dry. Odd thing, that. Perhaps he had misjudged Estelle Quigg. She seemed a woman of fiber, of substance, of mettle.

George held Estelle’s gaze. “Your sole purpose is to learn and take what you have gleaned here today to make a difference in the world. Do you think you can do that?”

More nods from Estelle. Conversely, Linus’ expression registered a predictable combination of fear and anger.

“Very well. Let’s get down to it because we have much to do.”

George plucked the boning knife from the workbench and approached Linus. “Allow me to make introductions, as you’re going to become familiar with this instrument. Here is my Wusthof classic boning knife. A fine instrument — top shelf — it cost me a pretty penny.”

“As this is not my first rodeo, I thought it worth the original outlay of cash because good quality tools are an investment, yes?”

Linus shook his head, and tears started to flow. Estelle rolled her eyes. George did a double-take at the eye-roll but carried on.

George ripped the duct tape from Linus’ mouth, and the begging began. He placed his fingers upon Linus’ lips. “Don’t do that. It’s not time for that. Later, perhaps but not now.”

Linus stopped, and his eyes bulged. George circled the end of the table and ripped the duct tape from Estelle’s face.

“Taking a cue from the eye-roll, the lady has something to say?”

“It’s just the Wusthof Classic, is all. It’s nothing, really.” She worked her jaw to ease the discomfort of the binding. “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for making that selection. Don’t mind me.” She continued to work her jaw and adopted a bored expression.

“I gather you have an opinion on the Wusthof Classic — a better suggestion perhaps?” George asked. The woman was nothing if not infuriating, and George thought it amusing how accurate his earlier assessment was proving to be. A miniscule tickle of pity took hold for Linus Quigg at his ridiculous selection of life partners.

“You claim this is not your first rodeo, and you respect good tools, so I might have expected the Shun Premier Gokujo, is all. May I ask why you made such an inferior selection?”

“You may not, Madam.” George twirled the knife in his hand, albeit self-consciously now that it had been the subject of criticism. Inferior? “My humble apologies that my chosen tool to skin your husband is not to your liking — not up to snuff. This blade is elegant and possesses a sound grip.”

“Certainly no offence is taken.”

“I’ll sleep better for knowing so.”

“My point is, you simply can’t know what you’re missing,” she said. “The double bevel of the Shun Premier Gokujo takes, and holds, a scalpel-sharp cutting edge, and is designed to release debris quickly from the blade,” she said. Her eyes glittered as she warmed to her topic.

She paused.

“Keep talking.”

“A hand-hammered tsuchime finish adds a unique aesthetic to the blade, and along with the Damascus cladding, reduces drag and helps to prevent food — or matter — from sticking. An instrument both exquisite in the hand and striking in appearance,” she said.

George pulled his cell phone from his pocket and began tapping and scrolling. After a moment, he found the knife and showed her the photo on his cell. “This one?”

“The very same,” she said. Her lips curled in a winsome smile.

George looked at the screen of his phone. “Comes with lifetime sharpening services,” he said. “Impressive.”

Estelle nodded and offered another engaging smile.

“An appreciated service to say the least,” George said. Perhaps the woman was not so vacuous, after all. He finished up on his phone. “I appreciate your insights. I also enjoy the convenience of online shopping? ETA is only 8 business days from now with free shipping.”

“Congratulations on a sound purchase,” Estelle chirped. “You won’t regret it.”

“Are you kidding me?” Linus asked. He lifted his head from the table fixed his wife with a glare.

“Sadly, Linus, you will not be around long enough to benefit from my acquisition,” George said.

“With grace and uncanny speed, George made a precise cut on the soul of Linus’ left foot. George continued speaking over the howl of pain and rage from Linus.

“Macal Hurley was 55 years old. By any standard, he was an old man. Macal was devoted, kind, funny, charming, infinitely intelligent, and handsome in old age. Undeserving of death,” George said. He held the terrified gaze of Linus Quigg.

“Excuse me?” Estelle said. “I beg your pardon?” George turned to her as Linus continued to whimper and mewl. He stared at her, incredulous. “Far be it from me to be overly critical, and as much as I’m intrigued with where you’re going regarding your friend Michael Hurley, I wonder if where you’ve started the process on his foot is, well — meaningful? Does it have some significance to you? Personally, I mean? Because, if not, I think it a little clumsy.”

George realized he was gaping. He’d made the first cut on her husband’s foot, the first cut to skinning both his feet, while alive, and she endeavored to provide, a critique? The woman was a barbarian. A loathsome, heartless wretch, yet George remained unable to tear his eyes away from the keen intelligence in her lovely, green eyes and the rich huskiness of her voice. A voice smooth like honey, dripping golden from a silver spoon, with sharp, crisp articulation like an autumn apple.

George closed his mouth. “The name is not Michael Hurley, Madam. It is Macal — Macal Hurley.”

“My mistake. My point was the incision you made,” she said.

“Have you no heart, Madam?” George asked.

“I hardly believe you are in the position to question me on such matters, Sir. And please call me Estelle. Madam sounds so stodgy.”

“Stodgy,” George repeated.

“Yes.”

“My God, Estelle, why don’t you shut up,” Linus said.

“Well, I beg your pardon if I’ve interrupted him, Darling. You’re right, of course. I will let him get back to the business of skinning you. By all means, Mr. Whoever-You-Are, please proceed,” Estelle said.

“My name is George. George Ogden,” he said.

“Now why would you tell me that? You said you were going to let me go when this was over.”

“Well, it seems we’re on the first-name phase of this engagement, and I find George an improvement to Mr. Whoever-You-Are. Further, it is not a worry. My face is regularly in the papers and columns. It would only be a matter of time before you learned my identity.”

George set the knife down and regarded Estelle in her chair. She was much more intelligent than he’d first guessed.

“Why are you in the papers and columns? Are you a local celebrity of some sort?” she asked. There was no denying the beguiling flip of her long, red hair. George recognized when a woman was flirting.

“I do significant fundraising for certain groups of my liking,” George said.

“Hmmm. Such as? Maybe we know some of the same people?”

“Well, I’ve recently become interested in one of Macal’s favorites.” George pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Do you smoke?” he asked Estelle.

“You will need to untie my hands.”

“I smoke as well,” Linus said.

“Fuck off, Linus,” Estelle said.

George took the boning knife and cut the tape that bound her hands. A tasteless thing to do using a good knife in that manner, but his new superior knife was on the way in 8 business days. Shipping would commence tomorrow. Amazon’s tracking was first rate.

George passed a cigarette to Estelle and lit it with his silver lighter. “Tell me more about your friend, Mr. Hurley,” Estelle said.

“Macal — to the best of my knowledge never went by Mr. Hurley,” George said. “I came to know Macal quite by accident. This estate can be a little lonely at times, so last May I set out to buy a budgie.”

“Macal was a budgie?” Estelle asked.

George stopped. “Of course not. You may recall that I said earlier he was 55 years of age. When have you ever heard of a budgie living to 55?”

“I recall that now, yes. Please continue,” Estelle said, exhaling a stream of smoke.

George pulled up a stool next to Linus and plopped down onto it. “Macal could have lived to 75. Your husband robbed twenty years from him.”

George exhaled a stream of smoke. He turned to Linus. “For every year you robbed from Macal, you will spend one hour in this room. Once you’ve been suitably hobbled, as was Macal, you will be permitted to make a one-time donation to Belize Wildlife and Referral Clinic. They are fundraising for a digital x-ray machine. You will not be permitted to make such an altruistic donation, however, until you fully and completely understand the seriousness of your crime.”

Linus began to whimper.

George continued. “Not to worry there will be no quiz at the end, just release.”

George was aware of Estelle’s eyes on him as he spoke. He basked in the intelligence present in her gaze, and considered the likelihood it was joined by equal measures of madness. Life with such a woman would never be dull, he thought.

“Here’s a little factoid. Did you know that by donating to the Belize Wildlife and Referral Clinic you will also be helping Friends for Conservation and Development.”

“Really?” Estelle asked. “Do go on.”

How agreeable she could be. A good listener was so hard to find. “It’s the only non-governmental organization with the assertive management presence in the Chiquibul Forest of Belize, which is the original home of Macal Hurley?”

“Was Macal an immigrant?”

“No, Estelle,” George said.

He turned back to Linus and realized he had used her first name. “If I was a betting man, which I’m not, but if I was, my stakes would be that you didn’t know any of that. Further, if I was a betting man, which I’m not but if I was, I’d bet that you don’t give a rat’s ass. Because you’re an asshole, Linus. You always have been, you always will be.”

“Yes. Such an asshole,” Estelle said. “We’re in agreement regarding Linus being an asshole but I’m still not clear on how he caused the death of your friend,” she said.

George rose and began pacing. He’d allowed himself to become embroiled again. He picked up the boning knife, and Linus began to cry and mewl.

“So here’s the thing,” George said. “The Chiquibul Forest is in the south-western region of Belize with 423,000 acres of tropical forest. In that 423,000 acres, there are an estimated 250 scarlet macaws left in existence.”

“An outrage,” Estelle said, stamping out her cigarette in one of the many ashtrays stationed around the room. “How can that even be?”

George ignored her question and continued. “Let me make something clear, Macal Hurley did not deserve to die. Allow me to explain. I mentioned earlier I went into the pet store intent on buying a budgie, yes?”

Estelle nodded. “Instead, I met Ringo. Good lord, it’s heart wrenching to think Macal was ever called Ringo to his face.” George inhaled deeply on his cigarette, and Estelle shook her head in sympathy. “I would have paid twice what they were asking for Macal and done right by him, returning him to his country and back into the hands of the BWRC.”

“Who’s that?” Estelle asked.

George hated the interruptions, but it was a valid question. “For all the time you sat silent and allowed your husband to brutalize friends, family, and acquaintances in his blind pursuit of the almighty dollar, you’re a regular Chatty-Cathy now, aren’t you?” he said to Estelle.

George took another drag from the cigarette and then stamped it out in the ashtray on the corner of his workbench. He pointed the boning knife at Linus, whose tears started anew.

“The BWRC is the Belize Wildlife Recovery Clinic. I’ve mentioned them before now. You might try listening since you’ll be allowed to make a donation in a matter of hours.” Estelle nodded and smiled a cheerful smile.

Linus whimpered.

“I’ll continue with my story. It was May and I’ve just seen Ringo. Clinton Hurley was buying him and money had already exchanged hands. I stepped in and offered twice the price, but my efforts only made Clinton Hurley want the bird more.”

“So Macal was a bird?” Estelle asked.

“Yes, Macal was a bird. A scarlet macaw, first poached from the banks of the Macal River as it flowed through the Chiquibul Forest National Park in Southwestern Belize,” said George, pleased with his flair for the dramatic.

“Young Mr. Hurley didn’t realize his purchase was part of a global travesty of wildlife poaching both illegal and barbaric. I was unable to determine how Ringo came into the possession of the pet store owner. Only his age was provided with any certainty. Ju Liu, the owner of the pet store, was interviewed at length.

“Interviewed?” Estelle asked. She pointed a slender finger at the table Linus occupied. “Here?”

George nodded. “Perhaps, interrogated is a more suitable description of the ordeal.”

“So Ju Liu and Clinton Hurley both visited the estate, as we are,” Estelle said.

“Visit? This is not a visit you insane bitch,” Linus shouted.

“Fuck off, Linus” George and Estelle said together.

“They did, yes.” George tapped his shoe on the floor. “Ju Liu still operates the pet store, but is more particular regarding the animals she’s responsible for.” George let out a long sigh.

“As for Clinton Hurley, he finally relinquished ownership of Macal to me, from the very table Linus currently occupies. It was my intention to return Macal to Belize, back to the hands of those who would protect him — back to a climate he found comfortable so he may be with his own kind. Did you know scarlet macaws mate for life?”

“Is that a fact?” Estelle said.

“Absolutely,” George said.

George knew at once he’d hit a nerve as Estelle’s green eyes flashed. She shot a scathing look at the confined Linus.

“No wonder you had it in for him,” she spat. The bird was more of a man than you could ever hope to be. You were no doubt blind with jealousy. The scarlet macaw with its 25-grams of brain matter summoned more character than you could even fathom.”

“Monogamous, too,” George said, with a nod.

“Seriously?” Linus groaned.

“No wonder you killed him. He made you look bad.” With lightning reflexes, she picked up the inferior boning knife and dug it into the sole of Linus’ foot.

Linus let out a howl and a string of expletives.

“You godforsaken, money-grubbing, bitch,” Linus screamed. He heaved on the table. George looked on in fascination and selected another cigarette from the pack. He was at once thankful for the sturdy construction of the table. Despite Linus’ fat ass bouncing around, it moved hardly an inch. Impressive construction. George bent and looked underneath the table to see how the bolts were holding up under the strain. Good tools were worth their weight, and he had another coming in 8 business days.

“A bird can mate for life, but you can’t,” Estelle said.

“How did Macal die, George?” George stood up and looked at Estelle. Her cheeks were flushed, her green eyes flashed with rage, and her lips had morphed into a cruel, blood-red slash. She was enchanting — a delight.

George cleared his throat. “After I coerced Clinton Hurley, I prepared to return to his apartment and retrieve Macal while Clinton waited here. Sadly, I was not privy to the fact you, Linus, had evicted Clinton the previous week. Clinton neglected that detail, believing it inconsequential. When you, Linus, entered his dwelling and saw the state of how the young man lived, you assumed he’d deserted the dwelling as well as Macal. You took poor Macal and set him out on the deck.”

“As it took me over 24 hours to convince Clinton, and negotiate a fair price in exchange for him never owning another pet, leaving Macal alone for just over 24 hours. Clinton had assured me there was ample food and water.”

“So? He was squawking and pissing off the neighbors, what the fuck does it matter?” Linus asked.

George braced himself against the table and closed his eyes a spell. “The temperature was -15 degrees Celsius outside, you reprobate. A tropical bird, in his old age, beautiful and majestic froze to death alone in a foreign land. In a cage. Hobbled, as you soon will be.”

“His life was a tragedy the moment he was plucked from the nest. Then you came along. I’ve done my research. You’re a barbarian. A charlatan. A lowlife,” George said.

“A cheating, lying, fornicator and a cheap, greedy, bastard,” Estelle added.

“Name your amount,” Estelle said. Her eyes were hard and cold.

“Five million.”

“Are you insane?” Estelle said.

“Absolutely, Madam. I would have thought that sufficiently obvious by now,” George said.

“Please. I’ll give you ten if you let me go, and take her,” Linus said.

“Fuck off, Linus,” Estelle said.

George watched, thinking what a delightful turn of events this was.

“Screw five million,” George. “I don’t question your sanity because you ask for five million, I question your sanity because you would go out on a limb like this, without first gleaning the facts necessary to make a suitable request,” Estelle said.

“My husband is worth over 600 million. Let me help mete out justice to this festering mound of dog shit, and I’ll transfer 100 million to your cause.”

“Estelle, listen to me,” Linus said.

“I say we shake on it, George Ogden,” Estelle said. “I really believe it is the least we can do.”

George took her soft, warm hand into his. If he didn’t know better, there was a spark there. He was sure she felt it too.

Originally published at https://vocal.media.