I didn’t have to slide the envelope across the desk like some sort of sleazy movie villain. Liz simply strode across the room, planted a soft kiss on my cheek, and glided her hand over the envelope as she walked back towards the door, picking it up in a movement so fluid that I wasn’t sure it had happened at all. I’m not one to get easily distracted by a kiss from a woman, but I ought to give Liz her due; she was a professional, after all.
Before she left she turned back to me. “Suppose he’s not interested?” she asked coyly.
I smiled. “Not likely.”
Liz smiled back. “No, it’s not. But some guys … some guys are funny. Suppose he’s not interested?”
“If our boy Harold is able to withstand the full force of your … ample … persuasions, then both you and he are free to part.” Her piercing gaze lingered. “And of course,” I continued, “you will keep the money.” Liz nodded and turned to leave again.
“And Liz,” I called, “do me a favor, would you?”
Her eyebrows raised provocatively in an expression I knew she must have practiced in the mirror. “No,” I said, “not that. Not right now, anyway. What I want is this: if Harold does resist, and you have to leave, remind him- before you go- that he’s going to wish he had said yes. That after you deny all the pleasures the world has to offer you’re left with an ugly place indeed.”
She chuckled and said, “That’s a little deep for someone like me to be saying, don’t you think?”
“You may fool most people with that ‘simple working girl’ act, but I know you better, Liz. You’ll do just fine.”
The door closed behind her and I didn’t bother to think about the right and wrong of what I had just done, or whether Harold would take the bait, or even Liz, whose perfume still lingered around me. All of those things were already done and gone. I turned back to my work, or what I called my work when people were watching. I made phone calls, replied to some emails, and at five o’clock I locked up my office and met Harold Dunmoore for a drink.
Correction: I was having a drink, Harold would have a Sprite. As Harold hung his jacket the back of the barchair he slid a small envelope into the pocket of my own. Another well-practiced move. He ordered his Sprite.
“Jesus, Harry,” I said, “you could at least order a beer. I’d be happy to pay for it. Be worth any amount to see your smiling face.”
Harold shook his head without smiling. Harold never drank. Harold never smiled. “I don’t want a beer. I want what I ordered. And please don’t call me ‘Harry’.” And Harold never liked anyone calling him “Harry”.
“Alright,” I said. “I’ll back off. For now.” Sometimes it was fun to toy with Harold, but I was doing enough of that behind the scenes; no need to rub his face in anything tonight. “You were half an hour late tonight, Harold. Not like you. Long day?”
Harold took a sip of his soda. “There was an error in one of the reports filed today. It took a while to track down.” By his tone I knew that he had been the one to finally solve whatever problem there had been, and he was proud.
“Well, no one better than you to track down an inconsistency.” He shot me a look, his eyes narrower and his face paler than usual. We were both silent as the bartender took my class away and put another Manhattan in its place. “Fine,” I said, “you don’t want to talk about what you do. Fine. Good idea.”
“You’re drunk,” Harold said condescendingly.
I couldn’t hold in the laughter. “Damn it, Harold, you’re a piece of work. You really are. Drunk from one drink. If you’d ever had a sip of liquor in your life you’d know how alcohol works, godammit. You’d know that I wasn’t drunk, and that I’m just telling you to keep a clear eye on things. You wish I was drunk so you could write me off, but it’s just not true, Harold. It’s just not true. Face it.”
His voice was a whisper and his eyes darted from me to other random points in the room as he spoke. “I am a Senior Account Manager at that firm and that is my only job. Everything else, that stuff on the side … that’s mainly you. That’s your thing. The money-”
“We don’t talk about that. That word doesn’t pass between us. Ever.” Now it was my turn to lower my voice and be serious. “I’m sorry I made the comment in the first place, Harold.” I softened my tone a bit. “But I worry about you sometimes. Nothing makes you tick. Makes me think you’re out of touch.”
Harold got up and put his long coat on with a flourish. “I’m in touch.”
The next morning came with rain and very little sun. I took a cab to work and wondered how Harold had fared the night before. Liz could be very persuasive. Harold could be a total prick when he wanted to be, too. I watched the rain on the window and thought.
There were a lot of reasons I had set up that little rendezvous. From a business perspective, I didn’t mind having something on Harold. For a normal person it might not be that big a deal- even if a guy were married. But for Harold, a night with a whore would be the end of the world. It would hold him in place more than the threat of being fired or going to jail ever would. There was an obvious benefit to Harold, too, which I didn’t mind. A little fun would do him some good, once he realized it didn’t kill him. Most of all, though, it was the fact that I didn’t understand Harold. I made my business out of knowing people, in a way. I could talk to a person for a few minutes and see what drove them, what held them back, and what hurt them. It made me good at what I do, and I trusted it. But Harold … I just didn’t get Harold.
The sky was darker now and the rain picked up.
I’d seen holy-rollers and born-agains reject all things pleasurable in the name of Jesus or God or whatever. I’d even seen drug-addicts kick the junk for their wives or their kids. It does happen. But Harold didn’t have any of those things. He didn’t care about God or heaven or anything like that, and he never came close to having a wife, as far as I knew. Something else made him the way he was, and I just didn’t get it. No vices, no virtues. Just Harold.
But one night with Liz was all it would take for me to understand him. We’d meet at the bar downstairs tonight and he’d have a stupid grin on his face, or he’d avoid making eye contact. Worst case would probably be if he was really mad about the whole thing, but he’d let something slip and I’d know a little more than I did before.
I wasn’t in my office long before Mark Schroeder’s long frame came in through door. He looked tired and upset. “Morning, Mark,” I said.
He didn’t greet me or even pause. “Were you with her last night?”
“With who?” My mind was already working, but I didn’t let it show.
“With Elizabeth What’s-her-name. Where you with her last night?”
“You mean Liz?” Mark nodded. “No, I wasn’t. Jesus, Mark, what’s this about?”
“She’s dead, James. They found her this morning behind the Regent-Claire Hotel. I need to know that you didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“She-” I started. “No, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“James, as your attorney I’m going to need-”
“As my attorney you’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, whatever pays you enough to hold onto wife number three. You think she’ll be around long if you can’t afford her little necessities?” I snapped. It was overkill but I needed to control something.
Mark shut up and took a deep breath. “Right. Sorry. I’m just trying to do my job. They found an envelope full of money on her, so it wasn’t a mugging or anything. I just need to know whether that money will come back to you at all. You and Elizabeth-”
“Yeah, me and Liz,” I said quietly. “That money won’t come back to me.” I thought for a moment, and Mark had the good sense to stay quiet. “I was at the Harvester’s Club last night. Played poker. A lot of people saw me. We’re clear.”
Mark nodded. “Good.”
He was halfway down the hall before I shouted after him. He came back and stood in the doorway. “How did she die?” I asked.
“Stabbed. Three times. That’s all I know.” He left. I picked up the phone and dialed. No answer. Harold wasn’t at work.
I got out of the cab in front of Harold’s apartment and told the driver to wait. I searched the list for his name and rang the bell. I had never been to Harold’s place before. He didn’t even know I knew where he lived. I made a business of knowing people, though, and at least I knew where he lived.
Harold didn’t answer, so I rang all of the bells. One of them buzzed me in and I went straight to Harold’s apartment. The door was partly opened and the only light came from the hallway; the inside of the place was dark. I walked in carefully and there was Harold, sitting on the floor in the entryway. He was wearing his shoes and his jacket. It looked like he had been about to leave but just stopped. Now he was just sitting, staring. He didn’t move when I opened the door a bit and stepped in.
“Harold?” he nodded. “Harold, what happened?”
“You sent her, didn’t you? I couldn’t quite figure it at first, but you probably sent her, didn’t you?” His voice was steady, but just above a whisper.
“Harold, I… what happened?”
“Why did you send her? Why? That filthy whore …”
Harold was gone. I nodded absently at him before I stepped into the hallway where he couldn’t hear me. I made a call to a guy I don’t like calling. I came back to Harold after I hung up. “Harold.” No response. “Harold, I’m going to go soon, and a friend of mine is going to come and pick you up, alright? He’ll take care of you.” Harold just sat staring at the wall; he wasn’t going anywhere.
Back in the cab I thought about the things I had done over the last couple of days. I had no illusions about being the good guy, but none of this felt right even for me. I felt responsible for what happened to Liz, and getting rid of Harold wouldn’t make it less true but it might help. And I wanted to get rid of Harold anyway. I make a business of knowing people. But Harold wasn’t person. No vices, no virtues.
Comments