The Chauffeur

This story contains sexual violence and mental illness scenarios and is intended for mature readers.



The undisclosed Priests voice came from the other side of the confessional. “My dear Son, whatever you tell me here is protected under any circumstances. If I break the sacred seal of confession, I will be subject to ex-communication from the church.”

I made the Sign of the Cross and took to my knees. ”Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I lied to the court when I confessed to the murder of a young Prostitute. I did not do it but did bear witness to it.”

“The penance you might consider before God is to speak the truth to those you lied to, and the right person will suffer the consequences.”

“I can not tell as my wife and child will suffer a fate worse than hell. He threatened their lives and mine. I will have the protection of Prison walls. They shall not. Bless me, Father, for they have not sinned.”

After a couple of weeks, I asked to speak with my lawyer.

We met at the windows where we could communicate through the phones, “I can’t live like this,” I said. “I confessed to the Prison Preist and would like to do the same for you.”

Hannah Hays agreed to listen, writing in her notebook as I spoke.

“I felt like such a failure as a human being. I remember her face and the surprised look upon it when he wrapped the saran wrap around her head—wrapping it over and over as she struggled to breathe. Beating her with blows that I could feel from the front seat, the plastic wrap turned crimson as her blood flowed from her eyes and nose. As the exemplary manservant I was, I said nothing.”

“Wait, don’t say another word Bill!” my attorney screamed. “The phone lines are not secure. What I need you to do is write it all down for me, and I’ll get my team on it right away.”

I began my three-paged manifesto with; I was trying to make ends meet by driving a private limousine in a place where most common folks have to live at least 50 miles away to find a home they can afford. Every day it was up the mountain early in my old beater Subaru. The gates to the estates were manned by security guards that would rotate schedules. Some were friendly, while some were not. I was often told to park behind the Grant estate's eight-car garage as my vehicle was an eyesore, even though that meant parking in an eight-foot snowdrift. 

When I arrived at the servant's entrance, I was expected to strip naked and bathe with an incredibly foul-smelling disinfectant soap just in case I had anything contagious. 

Mr. Grant then expected me to change into the clothing he had one of his maids prepare. I looked like a chauffeur from the 1930s and felt ridiculous in my black turtleneck with a double-breasted jacket reaching around mid-thigh. My jodhpurs pants were neatly tucked into my high leather boots. I was expected to wear white gloves alongside this ugly cap that had a chin strap. 

Maxwell Howard Grant III was quite errant, trying hard to stray from being a billionaire or the son of one anyway. Me too, I presume; I was as far from being wealthy as Maxwell was from being poor. I took part in his antics to beat the humdrum of everyday life.

If I may, I would like to tell you what led to the torture and murder of Delilah Cruz.

In the beginning, Maxwell's usual escapades involved tearing up costly hotel rooms on a whim. I remember the night Maxwell drank like a fish at the downstairs bar of the Royalty Hotel. He wanted me to accompany him inside but wouldn't let me sit down. I just stood there in my chauffeur's costume like an idiot as he flirted with the thirty-year-old something well-worn bartender giving her hundred-dollar tips after every pour. I lost count after seven.

Staggering up to his suite, he threw a wad of money at her asking if she would join us in a threesome when she was off. She agreed. 

“Sir, I'm married and cannot participate in any sexual encounters,” I chirped, then embarrassingly said,” I can't do anything like that anymore.”

Maxwell's reply was as sarcastic as ever, “I figured you for a limp banana anyway, Bill. I want you to stand in the corner and watch me fuck her brains out. Every once in a while, I want you to cheer for me, Bill; I mean, shout ‘way to go and stuff like that throughout. Got it, Bill?”

I feel humiliated telling you this, because I acted upon his wishes, which wasn’t the only time. But the woman always seemed to enjoy it. 

Afterward, I helped him flip the mattress off the bed, breaking the end table and lamp. Together we pulled the shower curtain down, ripped the expensive-looking wallpaper from the wall, and used the toilet paper from the bathroom to wrap everything. It was a massive mess, but no one uddered a word; they just charged his credit card for the repairs.

Money meant little to Maxwell. I think that's why he had me accompany him on his prowls. However, money did mean a lot to me, and he knew it. He loved to see members of the working class grovel for his financial gifts. 

I figured he would get bored with the hotel idea, and he did. Once, after picking him up from the Airport after he jetted back from Peru. He asked me, “Hey Bill, do you know any places in Aspen that specialize in high-end call-girl clientele?” 

I shook my head no. 

Maxwell told me, “I learned some new stuff on my trip to Lima. I met up with an old friend of mine in the music industry. I guess people would say we were both rich as fuck. The schmoozing we did while enjoying late lunches with celebrity’s from all over the world attracted all these high-end whores. They were all tit to ass number tens.

It was an excellent opportunity for my pal to meet up with his important people. For me, it was Call Girl 101 school. Attractive women followed those types around. Real classy but also trashy, as they would do anything for money.”

That led up to us finding Delilah Cruz in Aspen. 

The day of that horrendous night began like all the rest. Mr. Grant helped me, his driver, exit the compound gates which secured his Aspen estate. He had rarely attempted to help one of his subordinates with anything. 

“What do you say, Bill? I think you owe me a huge thank you, don't you?” Maxwell Grant questioned with a half-joking tone while begging for gratitude. 

At Fifty-five-year-old I said without malice to someone thirty years my junior. “That was great, Mr. Grant; thanks very much for your help, Sir,” 

Smugly he smiled something like a blue-eyed Cheshire cat. Even with his small stature and boyish charm, he looked deviant. 

For me, the day leading up to Maxwell finding Delilah Cruz was a day like all the others. I did a lot of waiting. I was waiting in the Limo at the Aspen Mountain parking lot. Doing my usual by drinking my fill of hot chocolate with an occasional shot of peppermint schnapps while Maxwell skied Aspen Mountain. Sooner or later, Maxwell would have his fill of throwing powder on the moguls and then pursue the snowcat-towed Oasis Champagne Bar. Usually drunk or high on something, he would find his way back to his warm awaiting Limousine.

 After his day of glorious skiing, it was off to downtown Aspen to find an underground bar specializing in high-end call girls disguised as legal escorts. The establishment was called ‘Girlfriend’ with packages starting at $1,000 an hour. Unlike other secret brothels in the area, they featured next-door type girls that liked kissing, cuddling, hiking, and or just talking. Of course, for more money they would give you the works. 

That’s when we saw the girl walking outside the establishment. Her coat tightly pulled around her as she walked towards us from the safety of her underground employer on that brumous high country evening. 

Hesitant, she said, ‘You two look pretty queer,” while looking through the passenger window, then pointing at ‘Girlfriend’, “they have some trans in there if that’s what you’re looking for.” We both presumed that was her place of employment.

I thought to myself, “I’m not sure what is queerer—having more money than God or being a servant of one of the ice queers of Aspen. Any one person who has more money than most all the other people in the U.S combined are pretty much the queerest.”

“What’s your name, little girl?” Maxwell asked in a creepy tone. 

Confidently she said, “Delilah,” but then, getting a look at my costume as I went to open her door, she questioned, “you are rich people, right?” 

“I’m afraid you picked the wrong John, baby; I don’t have a dime,” Maxwell said, followed quickly by, “I’m just fucking with you; please realize I was mollycoddled as a child and always get my way. Isn't that right, James?” 

Delilah looked puzzled as if she was getting a premonition about what was going to happen to her. Maybe it was from the vibe I was casting as I found it weird how Maxwell always called me James, instead of Bill, in front of the woman he collected.

I just looked at the unlikely pair in the rearview mirror and nodded. This one seemed very young. A lot younger than his average toys. “I'm willing to give you ten grand if you let me have my way with you,” he said.

I saw her eyes light up as if it was Christmas morning. “Seriously?” She questioned.

At that moment, I imagined it must be a dream for a sex worker to meet their rich love through their work, fall in love, go to the opera, and then gracefully transition from sex worker to trophy wife; something like a Pretty Woman effect. But this one didn’t live up to the trophy. She was young, yes, but her dyed blonde ringlets didn’t compliment her dark skin or round girlish face. 

Then to prove his wealth, he pulled a wad of bills out and threw them over her tiny body. “I bet she is no more than fifteen years old,” I thought. “The same age as my daughter.” 

“Look, I'll give you ten times that amount if you let me do anything to you.” She removed her coat and lifted her t-shirt above her head. That's when he sodomized her with the Limousine crowbar. She couldn’t breathe with the plastic around her head; she was moaning, so he killed her. She didn't expect it, and neither did I. 

I remember noticing she wore no panties when I opened the backseat door for her. She flashed a little muff like a professional. That's why I didn't say anything. 

Mr. Grant gathered the money from around her body and neatly tucked it into the pocket of my leather car coat. “I presume you will take care of this, right Bill?”

“What should I do, Sir?” I pleaded. 

“Dump her where she won’t be found until spring, then clean up my town car. Bill, please clean it up as new this time and get it back up to the compound pronto! Bill, this is between you and me, right? -Don’t say a word about it. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the wife and pretty daughter of yours.” Then he laughed, like Satan himself. 

Aspen Colorado tends to be a disappointment to ordinary people. If you can’t fork out a grand to ski or to try the snail appetizer at one of the upscale restaurants, forget it. If you are in a class of commonality, you will not fit in. That’s why I helped him. I dumped the young woman like trash in a snow bog a little way up the pass, right before they closed for the winter sign, as I knew it is where the plows store the mounds of recent snow. I used the small shovel from the trunk to cover the blood that had leaked from her body. It had turned the snow crimson. Soon she would be under 10 feet of white powdery snow as a big storm was moving in.

I signed the letter, William Hobbs

My so-called lawyer, Hannah Hays accepted my letter, read it, and said, “I think your letter may get you out of this place, Bill. I can get you into a treatment prison for the criminally insane. After all, we still cannot locate a Maxwell Grant the third in Aspen or anywhere.” 

I screamed, “Maxwell did it! He is very good at lying and even better at hiding. I assure you I told you the truth. It was my penance for my terrible deed! Did he pay you off too?“ 

“Bill, come on now,” she said condescendingly; you know your wife divorced you after your daughter was raped and murdered many years ago. Yet, you want me to believe they are part of your life, and you want protection for them. We know it was you and you alone that tortured and raped Delilah Cruz. Your DNA is all over her; yours and yours alone!”

As the guards escorted me away, I turned toward my lawyer and said, “I feel I have only one judge: that would be God, Hanna; I have never been at peace in my life, if that matters to anybody. I was only the chauffeur.”