Buying Time
On his way to the Four Seasons' TY Bar, Stuart Milne walked past numerous friends and employees who patted him on the back and congratulated him. They represented but a small fraction of the people who gathered to celebrate his sixtieth birthday at the hotel's Cosmopolitan Suite.
"Thanks," he answered gruffly and continued to the bar.
"Give me a Glenfiddich on the rocks," he told the bartender.
"Glenfiddich?" the young man sitting beside him echoed. "You've got good taste."
And deep pockets.
"Give me another one," Stuart ordered after downing the first. "And pour one for my friend."
"Much appreciated," the stranger thanked him. "A perfect way to celebrate my birthday."
"It's your birthday, too?" the sixty-year-old asked.
"Yup. My thirtieth. The big three-oh. What's it they used to say? Never trust anyone over thirty. Well, that's me. As of today, I'm officially over the hill."
The sixty-year-old grunted with disgust and muttered, "What I wouldn't give to be thirty again!"
"And what exactly would you be willing to give, Mr. Milne?"
Stuart turned around at the sound of a female voice behind him. To say she was beautiful would be a vast understatement. She was undoubtedly the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Black hair. Green eyes. Hourglass figure. She was the stuff dreams were made of.
"Do I know you?" he inquired.
"No, we've never met. But I know you. Stuart Milne, billionaire real estate developer and entrepreneur."
"Stuart Milne!" the thirty-year-old exclaimed. "As in the Milne Building on Park Avenue, the Milne Complex across the Hudson in the Meadowlands and the Milne Castle in the Hamptons? Christ! Your name is everywhere. On planes, hotels, high-rise offices, sports arenas. No wonder you can afford Glenfiddich."
"Yeah, I'm filthy rich," Stuart admitted. "I'm also an old man."
"Why don't you buy me a drink, and I'll let you in on a little secret?" the woman proposed.
"A secret, huh?"
"I'll show you how you can recapture your lost youth."
Stuart laughed. He knew what she was, and if he wanted to take her up on her offer, it would cost him a lot more than a drink.
Oh, what the hell! he thought. I've got billions. Why not spend a few thousand to celebrate my birthday in style?
"What will you have, sweetheart?" he asked.
"The name is Delilah, and I'll have a strawberry daiquiri."
"Ah, you have a sweet tooth."
"I have sweet everything."
It was a corny conversation, straight out of a bad romantic comedy.
"Bartender," the billionaire called. "The lady would like a strawberry daiquiri. And give my young friend another shot of Glenfiddich."
"Thanks, Mr. Milne."
"No problem, kid," he said; then he picked up his glass and followed Delilah to a table for two.
* * *
"How much?" Stuart asked after Delilah sat down.
"Excuse me?" the black-haired beauty replied.
"How much do you charge for your services?"
"I'm not an escort."
Despite her denial, he was skeptical of her motives.
"You're not? Then what was all that crap about recapturing my lost youth?"
"Exactly that. I know how you become young again."
"Yeah, right!" he scoffed.
"What would you give to be thirty instead of sixty?"
Stuart downed his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I'm too old and too smart for this sci-fi nonsense. There's nothing that can stop or reverse aging."
"You're wrong, and I can prove it."
This is insane! She's either crazy or a scam artist-or both.
Yet there was something in her eyes that held Stuart's attention.
"What is it you want?" he demanded to know.
"You're well known for making business deals. Make a deal with me. If I can help you become forty again, will you marry me?"
Stuart's outburst of laughter drew attention from the TY Bar's patrons.
"This is no joke," Delilah whispered.
"Marry you? You must think I'm stupid. Don't get me wrong. You're gorgeous, but I don't want another wife. I've had four of them already."
"Fine," the mysterious beauty declared, putting her empty glass down on the table. "Happy birthday, Stuart. Hope you enjoy being sixty."
She stood to leave, but took only two steps before the billionaire grabbed hold of her wrist.
"Wait! How exactly do you intend to work this miracle?"
"I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me. If you learn my secret, I'd have to kill you," she joked.
* * *
In his youth, Stuart was known to be vain about his appearance. He especially took great pride in his thick, wavy black hair. The receding hairline that came with age was one of the worst aspects of getting old. As he stared at his reflection in the mirror of his penthouse suite at the ARIA Resort in Las Vegas, he could not take his eyes off the change Delilah's secret ministrations had wrought in his appearance.
I can't believe it!
But as the adage goes, seeing is believing.
She did it. I don't look a day over forty.
Pleased as he was with the transformation, forty was not his ultimate goal.
"When you're done preening in the mirror, let's go down to the Bardot Brasserie and get something to eat," his bride of only three hours called to him when she came out of the bathroom wearing a Versace original.
"Anything you want, dear."
While watching his bride eat her foie gras parfait, Stuart congratulated himself. In terms of the deal they had struck, he was the one who had come out on top. Still, given his greedy nature, he expected more.
"So, when do you work your magic and make me another ten years younger?" he pressed.
"Are you in a rush?" Delilah chuckled. "Don't you want to enjoy being forty for a while?"
"You'd better not think of welching on our deal!" he threatened.
"Don't worry. I wouldn't dream of going back on my word. When we return to New York after our honeymoon, I'll show you how to reverse the aging process yourself. Then you can be as young as you want."
In the week that followed their Las Vegas wedding, the couple enjoyed the entertainment Sin City had to offer. They had drinks at the minus5° ice bar in the Venetian. They attended shows at Mandalay Bay, the Bellagio and the MGM Grand. They dined at Caesar's Palace, Circus Circus and Luxor. And they gambled at nearly every casino on The Strip.
"Paris Las Vegas," Stuart grumbled, looking up at the model of the Eiffel Tower that stood in front of the casino. "We could have gone to Paris, France, instead. It would have cost less."
"What does the cost matter? You're a billionaire," Delilah laughed.
"I didn't get that way by throwing away my money on the roulette wheel or the craps table."
"I know, I know," his wife sighed with boredom. "You worked hard for everything you got. Blah, blah, blah. I heard it all before. Besides, you meet the most interesting people in casinos. Ones who risk everything on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel."
"Why waste your time with them? They're all losers!"
"Don't be so quick to write them off. After all, losers have their use."
* * *
"All right, we're home. Now spill," Stuart commanded when the newlyweds sat down for dinner their first night back in Manhattan. "How do I turn back the clock?"
"It's easy," Delilah answered. "If you want the past ten years back, you buy them."
The billionaire experienced a sudden burst of rage, believing that he had been tricked into marriage. He took out his phone and threatened his wife with an annulment.
"I'm serious. You went from sixty to forty after I found twenty desperate people and paid each of them to sell me one year of their life. By the way, you owe me $200,000 since I agreed to pay them $10,000 each."
"You want me to give you $200,000? That's ridiculous! I won't give you a dime!"
Delilah did not seem phased by his refusal.
"Do what you want. All those people signed a contract. If you don't pay, they get their year back. Be a cheapskate, and before you know it, you'll be an old man again."
Stuart went to the hall mirror and closely examined his reflection. Before his wife had worked her magic, what remained of his hair was nearly white, and his face had more wrinkles than a Shar Pei. Now, he looked like a man on the threshold of middle age. He could not deny the evidence of his own eyes. Delilah had made good on her end of the bargain.
This is better than a facelift!
"I have to admit it. This change in my appearance is well worth $200,000."
But did he believe he could buy ten more years?
"If what you say is true—and I'm not saying I believe you—what would I have to do? Put an ad in the classified section of the paper or on craigslist?"
"You don't have to look for them. I have a list of ten names and addresses of people to contact. Each of them would sell their soul to get out of debt."
"You expect me to go up to these people and ask them to sell me a year of their lives for $10,000? They'll think I'm insane!"
"Most likely. But when you place the check in front of their eyes, they won't care. I convinced them to sign a contract with only the promise of payment. Think how much more successful you'll be if you have the money with you."
"If someone came to me with such an offer, I wouldn't believe them."
"It's better for you if they don't. They'll think they've got something for nothing. Offer them enough, say $50,000, and they'll brag to their friends that a billionaire with dementia gave them a small fortune."
Stuart remained hesitant. The idea of buying time was ludicrous.
But what do I have to lose?
* * *
"May I come in?" Stuart asked politely when the Staten Island housewife answered his knock on the door. "I'd like to speak to you about a proposition I'm sure you'll be interested in."
Nancy Corbell's initial reaction was to slam the door in the stranger's face. But everything about him, from the expensive, tailored suit he wore to the chauffeured Bentley he arrived in, attested to his great wealth. Surely, he had not come to sell insurance.
"I'm not interested in buying anything," she said, and tried to close the door.
"That's fine because I'm not selling anything. Quite the opposite. I'm the one doing the buying."
"Whatever you've got to say, you can say it from there on the stoop."
"Fine," the billionaire conceded and removed a manila folder from his Gucci briefcase. "Now, according to my research," he read—the notes had been compiled by his wife, but why quibble over details? "You've been married for fourteen years and have yet to conceive a child. You turned thirty-eight on your last birthday and fear your childbearing days are nearing an end."
"What has any of that got to do with you?"
"A great deal. You see, we are in a position to help one another."
"How so?"
"There are medical treatments that will greatly improve your odds of getting pregnant. But they are quite expensive, I believe."
"They're not covered by my husband's insurance," Nancy angrily pointed out.
"I would imagine $50,000 would cover these costs," Stuart said, removing a certified check from his pocket and holding it in front of the woman's face. "I'll give you the money in exchange for one year of your life."
She was about to shut the door when her eyes went to the signature on the certified check.
"You're Stuart Milne?"
He nodded.
It was evident that he was good for the money. Fifty grand was peanuts to a man like him. But what precisely did he want from her?
"A year of my life?" she asked. "Are you talking about a job offer of some kind?"
After he explained as best he could what exactly he wanted to purchase, Nancy feared for her safety.
He's stark raving mad! she thought.
"Why me?" she muttered, bemoaning her predicament.
"The average lifespan for a woman in America is roughly eighty-one years," he continued, taking no notice of her apprehension. "Google it, if you don't believe me. You're not yet forty. That means you've got about forty-three years left, possibly more. In the long run, what difference will twelve months make when weighed against the money? Just think! By this time next year, you could be pregnant!"
"And how do I go about giving you this time? Am I going to have to undergo a blood transfusion or something?"
"All you have to do is sign a contract."
This is absolutely ridiculous! Nancy thought, but she could not take her eyes off the check.
PAY TO THE ORDER OF Nancy Corbell.
"Do you have a pen?" she asked.
* * *
"One down, nine to go," Stuart chuckled as Lars, his chauffeur, pulled into the driveway of a two-bedroom house in the Bronx.
Rather than carry his briefcase, he folded the contract and put it and the check into the pocket of his jacket. Then he strolled up the walkway and rang the bell.
"You must be Skip Banta," he told the lanky young man who answered the door.
Assuming the caller was on a mission to convert him, Skip replied, "Let me save you some time. I'm not a religious man."
"Neither am I. Don't worry. I'm not here to proselytize."
"What do you want then?"
"I understand you plan on getting married soon."
A look of dismay clouded Skip's face, making it appear more homely than it normally was.
"To a woman named Francie."
"I don't know who you are, but you've been misinformed. She turned me down."
"I know that. She's hoping to find someone with a better job."
Since Francie, whose picture was included in the dossier Delilah gave him, was as lacking in the looks department as Skip was, Stuart doubted she would be successful.
"What she wants," the gangly youth further clarified, "is a big wedding. You know, a fancy venue, an elaborate gown, a professional photographer, a tall cake with lots of flowers on it. I can't even afford to get her a ring."
The billionaire nodded his head in mock sympathy.
"I would imagine this," he said, showing Skip the check, "would make Francie reconsider your proposal."
"Would it ever!"
"Then perhaps you'll consider making a deal."
Skip invited his guest inside. The two sat at the kitchen table, drinking Maxwell House instant coffee while Stuart went over the details of the contract.
"You can do that?" the astonished young man wondered. "You can actually buy a year of my life? How is that possible?"
"To be honest, I haven't a clue," the billionaire admitted. "I only know it works. Why, I turned sixty on my last birthday, yet thanks to buying years from twenty people, I don't look a day over forty. But enough about me. Here's what you have to think about. Do you want to sell me twelve months to spend the rest of your life with the woman you love? If she does marry someone else, that's another year of being a lonely old man."
Unlike the woman from Staten Island, Skip Banta was not overly curious about how the transfer would take place. Instead, he kept his eye on the prize as he signed his name on the dotted line.
* * *
"I can't believe people live like this," Stuart mumbled as he looked out the Bentley's window at the tenement building in the Brownsville section of Brooklyn, where Remmy Petit resided. "This place ought to be condemned."
With the contract and check in his pocket, he climbed five flights of stairs to the attic studio apartment at the top.
No elevator. No air conditioning. I wonder if this hovel has indoor plumbing!
When Remmy answered the door, he recognized his visitor immediately.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he wondered.
"Excuse me?"
"You're Stuart Milne, multibillionaire real estate tycoon. What are you doing here on the other side of the tracks?"
His words were dripping with the disdain socialists and left-wing radicals felt for the wealthy and members of the establishment.
"Clearly, you don't approve of me."
It was a statement, not a question.
"It's what you stand for that upsets me. You think because you've got money that you're entitled to ...."
"Hold it right there!" Stuart shouted. "You're an artist, right? And by the looks of you, not a successful one."
"You can't measure everything with dollar signs," Remmy answered defensively.
"No, you can't," the billionaire agreed, reaching into his pockets. "It's the number of digits after the dollar sign that counts."
"Fifty thousand?"
"Made payable to you."
"What for?"
"How long have you been a so-called starving artist?"
"Since I graduated high school, twenty-two years ago. So far, I've managed to hold on—but barely. They shut my phone off. I haven't eaten in three days, and I'm being evicted at the end of the month."
"This money would go a long way, wouldn't it?"
"What do you want? A kidney? A lung?"
Tears came to the artist's eyes, and although he distrusted Stuart, he knew he would give him whatever he asked.
"Nothing so drastic. Just a year of your life."
* * *
"That was quick and painless," Stuart congratulated himself as he sat down in the back of his Bentley.
"Where to next, sir?" the chauffeur inquired as he got behind the wheel.
"Out of this neighborhood, that's for sure."
Although it was nowhere near as grand as his own home, the house in Bergen County, New Jersey, was a big improvement over Remmy Petit's garret. Stuart briefly wondered if Schuyler Van Loon was home. Then he saw the man's BMW in the driveway.
"I shouldn't be long," he told Lars as he removed the contract and check from his briefcase.
The man's wife answered the door.
"Is your husband home, Mrs. Van Loon?" the visitor inquired.
"May I ask who you are?"
"Stuart Milne."
The name was a familiar one. But this man couldn't be the Stuart Milne. He was much younger than the famous billionaire. But it could be his son. Was there a Stuart Milne, Jr.?
"Please come in," she said and led him to her husband's den. "I'll tell Schuyler you're here."
Unlike his wife, the mayoral candidate did not doubt the man's identity.
"Mr. Milne, to what do I owe this honor?" he asked sycophantically, as if hoping for a political contribution.
Stuart had met people like him before. Hell, the guy in the Oval Office behaved the same way. Both men made him sick!
"Let's get this over with," he grumbled. "I don't want to spend any more time here than I have to."
He took the check out of his pocket and slammed it down on Schuyler's desk. The candidate's eyes widened with surprise.
"This is most generous of you!"
"There are strings attached," Stuart added bluntly.
"There always are," the candidate sighed.
* * *
"I have to applaud you, darling," Stuart praised his wife that night at dinner. "I never thought anyone would agree to my proposal."
"That's because you've never been desperate for money," Delilah pointed out.
"I'll have you know I'm a self-made billionaire!"
"Yes, but your parents weren't exactly poor. They not only paid for your education, but they invested their life savings in your first real estate deal."
Stuart refused to argue the point. How could he? His wife was right. Still, he believed the credit for his success was his alone.
"Anyway, I bought four years from these gullible fools. When can I expect to see results?"
"Results?"
"When will I look like I'm thirty-six?"
"Soon. Just be patient."
* * *
The next day, Lars drove Stuart Milne back to New Jersey. This time it was to Little Falls, a town in Passaic County. The Bentley pulled into the driveway at the same time the teenager he sought was getting home from school.
"Miss Spade," the billionaire addressed her as he got out of his vehicle.
"Yes?" Mandy replied warily, having been warned from an early age not to talk to strangers, especially ones in cars.
"My name is Stuart Milne. You may have heard of me."
"Are you the man who owns The Milne Building in New York?"
"The very same."
"What are you doing here?"
"I want to discuss your plans for the future. It has come to my attention that you've been accepted to Harvard."
Mandy stared at the ground as tears filled her eyes.
"I was, but I can't go."
"Your parents can't afford the tuition, I take it."
"They couldn't even afford the books!" she mumbled.
"According to my sources, you applied for and were awarded an academic scholarship."
"It covers my tuition but not my room and board."
Although the check Stuart had in his pocket would not cover all her living expenses for four years, he had friends at the university who could help her get more financial assistance.
"I'm here to help you," he explained, handing her the check.
"What's this for?"
"Consider it a private student loan."
Since Mandy wanted to pursue a career in law, she was wise enough to question the terms of such a loan.
"I don't want the money back," the billionaire replied to her question about a repayment schedule. "What I want is a year in your life."
"An internship?"
"Not exactly."
At seventeen, the high school student could not foresee how much she might want those twelve months when she was in her eighties. She saw only a way to achieve her goal of getting an education. When Stuart handed her the contract, she took a Pilot pen out of her backpack and cheerfully signed her name.
* * *
Emilio Chavez sat at a table in a Manhattan Starbucks, typing away on his old Dell laptop. Unlike the people around him, he had not bought anything to eat or drink. He was at the coffee shop only to get access to the free Wi-Fi. He kept his eyes on the screen and ignored the disapproving looks of paying customers who wanted his seat.
The middle-aged secretary sitting across from him finished her caramel macchiato, closed her paperback book and exited the building. No sooner did she vacate her chair than a man in an Armani suit took her place.
"Hard at work, I see," the stranger commented.
Emilio looked up from his screen.
"Don't I know you?" he asked, unsure of the man's identity.
"The name's Stuart Milne."
"Yeah. I thought I recognized you. I've seen you on TV. You seem a lot younger in person."
"Nice of you to notice."
"You don't have coffee," Emilio observed. "You waiting for someone? If you are, tough luck. I was here first."
"I'm here to see you, as a matter of fact."
"What about?"
"I'm told you're an independent film producer."
His curiosity piqued, Emilio shut the lid on his laptop and gave his full attention to the billionaire.
"I am," he confirmed. "What's your interest in my business?"
"You're working on a documentary right now. About Che Guevara, isn't it?"
Emilio nodded.
"How's it coming?"
"It's coming."
"That's not what I hear," Stuart laughed. "What little budget you had, you blew through already. That's why you're here. You can't pay the rent on an office. How do you expect to hire actors?"
"That's not the problem," Emilio confessed. "I can get people to work for a share of the box office. It's the camera equipment I need."
"Would $50,000 cover the cost?"
"Yeah, but where will I get fifty grand?"
Moments later, Stuart produced the check and the contract. The producer scanned the one-page document while the billionaire outlined the terms of the agreement.
"One year of my life? That's all? Last year, I only made forty thousand."
"Then think of it as getting a twenty percent pay increase," he joked, handing the producer his Montblanc pen.
"I suppose I should have my lawyer take a look at this before I sign it."
"You got a lawyer?"
"Hell, no. I can't afford one," the producer answered, grinning from ear to ear.
* * *
From Manhattan, Lars drove the Bentley to Flushing. He found a parking spot in front of a dry cleaners and then got out of the vehicle to open his passenger's door.
"That's the place over there, sir. Above the Chinese restaurant," he informed his employer.
"Keep an eye on the car," Stuart instructed his chauffeur. "This neighborhood doesn't look too safe."
After climbing up the creaking stairs, he knocked on the door of the apartment. An aging Asian woman, clutching a torn bathrobe in her bony fingers, answered the door. Her English was so poor that her visitor could not understand what she said. Luckily, Li Mai, a neighbor who volunteered her services as a part-time caregiver, was able to translate.
With the aid of Li Mai, Stuart was able to ascertain that Tan Zhi had a rare blood disease that, if left untreated, would prove fatal.
"Doesn't she have insurance?" he asked the translator.
"No. She qualifies for Medicaid, but it doesn't cover the experimental treatment she needs."
Stuart faced a predicament he had not foreseen. By the look of her, Tan Zhi would be dead before the year was out. How could he buy any time from her?
"Perhaps I've made a mistake," he said.
The woman rambled on in Mandarin, and then her neighbor spoke.
"The doctor is confident that if she receives the treatments, Tan Zhi will completely recover."
I'd hate to have come out here all this way for nothing, he thought. And if the doctor's correct, the treatments will ensure she lives at least a year, most likely more.
"What the hell?" he sighed.
He then told the neighbor about the deal. Although she looked at him with unconcealed skepticism, she repeated his words in Chinese. There was little need for further translation. The smile that appeared on the sick woman's face and the gleam of hope in her eye conveyed her acceptance without need of language. Her hands stopped clutching her bathrobe and reached for the contract and pen.
After Tan Zhi signed her name, using Hanzi (Chinese characters), Stuart handed over the check. As he headed for the door, he heard her weeping with joy and thanking him in her native tongue.
* * *
When Stuart woke the next morning, he headed for his bathroom to relieve himself. As he passed the vanity, he peered into the mirror. The laugh lines and crow's feet that were on his face a week earlier were gone.
"Thank God, I no longer look like a Shar Pei."
It was not only his skin that looked younger. Only days ago, the hair at his temples was sprinkled with gray. Now it was black again. All pepper; no salt.
"Delilah was right. I can buy time. And it's worth every penny!"
Stuart was dressed and ready to leave on another time-buying trip before his wife came down to breakfast. He was opening the front door when she appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
"Where are you off to so early?" she inquired.
"New Jersey," he answered.
"Why?"
"To visit the next person on the list."
* * *
Milos Metaxas opened the door to the Packanack Diner in Wayne precisely at 6:00 a.m. Madge, his waitress, wearing a clean and pressed uniform, stood behind the counter ready to greet customers. Unfortunately, no one was waiting to enter. There was a time when business was good, and the diner was open twenty-four hours a day.
"I guess no one has time for breakfast anymore," the owner grumbled.
"It's easier to pick up an egg sandwich and a coffee at a drive-thru," Madge observed. "But we might get a few customers before lunch."
"Ten years ago, I had six servers, three busboys and four cooks, and we could barely keep up with the orders," Milos reminisced. "We would have a dozen or more people waiting in the lobby for seats."
"Yeah, but the economy is down."
"It's not that. Look at this place! The wallpaper is faded, some of the seats are torn, the linoleum is stained, the jukebox doesn't work. All these renovations cost money."
"You can always do a little bit at a time. Start with the floor, and then do the walls."
"I haven't got enough money to put new curtains on the windows! Business is so bad, I may have to close the diner."
Madge heard the front door open. She grabbed a menu and greeted the customer who entered.
"Welcome to the Packanack Diner," she said, putting on her brightest smile. "Would you prefer a booth or a table?"
"I'll sit at the counter," Stuart answered.
"Sure thing. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
"All right. Is your boss in? I'd like to speak to him."
"I'll go get him."
"You wanna see me?" Milos inquired, wiping his hands on his apron.
"Not too busy, are you?" the billionaire noted. Then, taking note of the outdated décor, he joked, "Nice ambiance. Is your designer into shabby chic?"
"Look, pal, do you want something to eat, or did you come in here to bust my ...."
"Whoa! I'm not here to cause any trouble. I have a proposition for you."
Secretly, Milos hoped the man was a land developer who wanted to buy his property—lock, stock and barrel.
"I notice your establishment could use a little work. Maybe you could make it into a retro Fifties diner. They're popular with both the young kids and the old geezers who were alive back in the Fifties."
"What are you, an interior designer? If you are, hit the road. I can't afford your services."
As much as Stuart was enjoying his banter with Metaxas, he decided to get straight to the point before the failing business owner lost his temper.
"Let me get this straight," the New Jersey native declared, staring with disbelief at the check in his hand. "You want to buy one year of my life?"
"Yes. Think about it. That money will go a long way in sprucing this place up."
"Fifty thousand for twelve months. That makes it a little over $4,100 a month, $960 a week, or roughly $137 a day. I don't know that my life is worth that kind of money."
"To me, it is."
"Oh, I get it now. I die a year sooner, and you live a year longer. And you can do this?"
Stuart nodded.
"I won't ask you how," Milos said, pulling a ballpoint pen out of his shirt pocket, "because I probably wouldn't understand it anyway." After signing the contract, he added, "I hope you have better luck with those twelve months than I would have had."
* * *
Stuart Milne was smiling like the Cheshire Cat when he sat down at the dinner table that night. Vera, the cook, placed a thick, juicy, medium-rare steak and a baked potato smothered in butter and sour cream in front of him. Delilah, who was eating only a salad, eyed her husband's meal with a critical eye.
"I hope you're still taking your Lipitor," she cautioned. "Given the cholesterol you're about to consume."
"What does it matter?" he laughed her warning off.
"High cholesterol is dangerous, especially for a man your age. Do you want to have a stroke or a heart attack?"
"Don't be silly! My age, indeed. I'm—what?—thirty-two now."
"No, you're not. You're sixty years old."
"Look at me," he argued. "Do I look sixty?"
"If someone gets a facelift and dyes their hair, that may make them look younger but doesn't change their age on the inside. Your heart, lungs, kidneys and other organs are those of a sixty-year-old man."
Stuart's face reddened with anger. In a fit of rage, he picked up his plate and threw his dinner against the dining room wall.
"You tricked me!" he screamed.
He rose from his seat, leaned across the table, grabbed Delilah by the throat and squeezed. If he had expected to see fear in her eyes, he was disappointed. Those dazzling green irises appeared to glow with triumph. Abruptly, he released his grip on her neck. His hands went to his chest.
"I ... c-can't ... b-breathe."
As her husband lay on the floor, struggling for breath and wincing with pain, Delilah stared down at him, patiently waiting for him to die.
"H-help ... m-me!"
"Why should I? I'm your wife. Once you're gone, I'll inherit billions."
"Those ... p-people ... the ... t-time ... I ... b-bought."
"Ah, yes. Those poor, desperate fools. They signed a contract to sell one year of their lives without knowing how long they had to live. Do you want to know what's in store for them? No, I don't suppose you do. You don't care about them. You don't care about anyone but yourself. But, while I'm waiting for your sixty-year-old heart to stop beating, I'll tell you.
"Nancy Corbell, the thirty-eight-year-old woman from Staten Island who sold you a year of her life for fertility treatments. She will become pregnant, thanks to your money. Here's the catch: she was originally going to die in a car accident on her child's first birthday. But since she gave you that year, she will live for only a few moments after holding her newborn in her arms for the first time, dying of complications from childbirth.
"And Skip Banta, the Bronx man who wants to give the woman he loves the wedding of her dreams. The fifty thousand will be too tempting for Francie to pass up. She will accept his proposal, and they will get married. Sadly, he will have an allergic reaction to the shellfish served at their reception and die on their wedding night.
"Then there is our artist from Brooklyn, Remmy Petit. Now that he can pay his rent, he will have time to work on his paintings. He will be discovered by a dealer and be given a one-man show in a prestigious gallery. He will get drunk after selling out his show, fall down the stairs of his garret and break his neck.
"That brings us to Schuyler Van Loon, the politician from Bergen County, he'll win his election and become mayor. Shortly after he takes office, compromising photos will appear online of him and a teenage boy. Before he's sworn in, he'll put a gun to his head and blow his brains out.
"Remember Emilio Chavez, the indie movie producer? He will finish his movie on Che Guevara, and it will be so successful that it will be nominated for an Oscar for best documentary feature film. But the award will be presented to him posthumously. The poor man will be sitting in his favorite Starbucks when he reads of the nomination on his laptop. He'll be so surprised at the news that he'll choke to death on a matcha latte.
"Lastly, we have Milos Metaxas, the man from Wayne, New Jersey, who wants to save his diner. Ironically, he'll suffer a fate similar to yours. He'll redecorate the diner so that it looks much better, but he won't update the electrical wiring. After a grand reopening celebration, the jukebox will short-circuit, and the Packanack Diner will burn to the ground. There will be only one fatality: the owner."
Stuart, who was losing his battle with death, found the strength to utter his last three words.
"Other ... t-two ... w-women?"
"Oh, yes. Mandy Spade and Tan Zhi. I admit I sometimes have a soft spot for some humans," the green-eyed devil confessed. "Mandy Spade, the sweet girl from Little Falls who was accepted into Harvard? She'll graduate with honors, but she'll change her major from pre-law to pre-med. She will devote her life to medical research and will eventually find a cure for ALS. You see, I can't really use your money, so I'm giving it all to her.
"And Tan Zhi, the old Chinese woman from Flushing? She was doomed to die in three months. Not even the experimental treatments would have helped her. But, lucky for her, I bought twenty years for you, and you bought an additional eight yourself. After you die, I'm bestowing them on her."
Upon hearing his purchased time would be given to someone else, Stuart Milne closed his eyes and gave up the fight. When he took his last breath, his hair turned white, and his face became as wrinkled as a prune. Despite the deals he had made to recapture his youth, he died looking a decade older than he actually was.
Salem often sits in Starbucks with his laptop. He watches cat videos on YouTube and drinks mocha lattes.
