Where Fools Dare to Tread

by David William Pearce

  “Yes?”

  “Monk?” It was Agnes.

  “Yes…”

  “I see you got the phone. How are you?” I could hear the worry. For some reason it sounded strange to me. I was starting to wonder if I should be worrying too, but for another reason. I liked Agnes. I was fine with that. Was Agnes? What did she really want? My earlier fantasies felt as beaten as my face. It was Virginia all over again.

  “I’ve been better. How are you?”

  “I’m ok. I just wanted to hear how you were doing. Mr. Jones said you’d been hurt. I was…concerned.” Thank you, Mr. Jones.

  “I’ll be fine. I need a little time to recover, that’s all. When did you speak to Mr. Jones?”

  “Yesterday, he came by to talk to Johnny… and he told me you were in the hospital after some guys beat you up. It was kind of shocking and I was worried. I didn’t know how to reach you, so we decided to get you an inexpensive phone just in case you might need it, in case you wondered. I hope that’s ok. Are you out of the hospital now?”

  “Yeah, I’m at Mr. Jones’ house. The doctors wanted someone to keep an eye on me, so I ended up here.”

  There was a brief moment of silence that left me feeling oddly uncomfortable.

  “Well, if you want, you could stay here. I mean, if you’d like, or if it’s inconvenient there, or, I don’t know. I guess I’m babbling. It’s an option to think about.”

  “I’ll do that. I don’t want you to worry, Agnes, I’ll be ok.”

  Like the worry, I could sense her disappointment. I felt both bad and indifferent about it, if that’s possible. It was probably the drugs. Yeah, that was it; it was the drugs.

  Or it was anger.

  “Ok. I hope you feel better soon. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I will. I’ll talk to you later, goodbye.”

  “Bye.”

  The phone went dead. Apt. A woman, not my mother, or my ex-wife, or the one in San Francisco on whom I had a foolish crush, cared for me. It was a woman I met in passing, in a bar associated with a financier who had known ties to various and sundry characters. I knew Joanie cared, but she had a life independent from mine. Agnes, it was possible, did not. After Astral, I didn’t think much about a life with another woman. Sex, yes, but another round of commitment? No.

  I liked Agnes. I did. I think.

  Jones interrupted my mental wandering to let me know it was time for dinner. I got up slowly and followed him to the dining room. The food smelled wonderful, the aroma filled the air and with my nose unplugged it spread about my senses in glorious waves. Coretta and the kids, sitting at the table, were waiting on me. My head began to throb. Maybe it was time for another dose of pain relief. I took my place and prayed that I didn’t do or say anything stupid. There was roast, potatoes, Brussels sprouts, and bread. I took a little of each and waited for everyone else to be served. Orville said grace, and we ate in subdued silence, broken only by futile attempts to engage the kids on their school day.

  Both were tall and lanky with their mother’s beautiful eyes. Marcus spoke of practice, and Ella had to go to her friend’s house. It reminded me of when Rebekah was that age; she too had little use for me and my questions. A connection of sorts and the tasty food allowed me to relax a little. I was keenly aware of everyone there. I watched as they interacted, even in silence; noted the physical responses to the questions and to each other. An incredible sense of loneliness took hold of me, like a song, sweet and sad, singing of a lost life of family and love. The thought of Rebekah nearly brought me to tears. I missed her terribly. Somewhere in my head was her number. I should call.

  “Are you alright, Monk?” Coretta and the kids were looking at me.

  “I think so, why?”

  “You’re crying!” She was right. I felt tears running down my face on the right, and pooling around the swollen left.

  “I’m sorry, seeing you here with your family made me think of my daughter. I didn’t realize I was getting so emotional.”

  “It’s ok to be emotional. You’ve been through quite an experience. I still remember how frightened I was the night Orville was nearly killed. It was a terrible thing.”

  I looked over at Orville. His expression didn’t change.

  “When was this?” I asked.

  “Long time ago,” he said, “during the conflict between the east and west coast rappers. I was running security for a group, and some guys started shooting. Fortunately, they were lousy shots.”

  Coretta was dismayed at Orville’s nonchalance. “He was hit twice in the leg!”

  “Like I said, they were lousy shots.” Marcus and Ella watched intently as their mother glared at their father. I decided, for some unknown reason, to add my two cents.

  “Security can be a dangerous business…”

  The family turned in my direction, all with the same expression. The tiny voice in the recesses of my addled brain whispered that they were well aware of that.

  “Sorry. I’ll keep quiet.”

  It must be the drugs. It was all I had for an excuse.

  The rest of the dinner was without comment. The kids excused themselves, and I sat there like a flunky as Coretta cleared the table. Jones was lost in thought.

  “Why don’t you two go watch the game or something, I need the table.”

  Jones snapped out of his solitude. “Sure. You like basketball, Buttman?”

  “Depends on who’s playing.”

  “This is a Clipper house, Buttman.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Lead on, Orville.”

  Orville smiled. We got up and headed to the back of the house. There, along with a big couch and rather large television, were the talismans of his sports faith: posters of players past and present, team banners and a signed jersey in a frame. The Clippers were hosting Indiana. I found a spot on the couch and did my best to keep up as Orville provided a counter analysis to that of the broadcasters on the boobtube. I didn’t make it through the first quarter.

  It must be the drugs.

  16

  At some point they put me to bed, probably for the best. It was likely I was snoring loudly through my damaged nose and disturbing the flow of the game. During the night the pain welled up, and unable to stand it anymore, I took another of those goddamned pills. Coretta had thoughtfully placed a bottle of water on the table. Sleep, when it came, was fitful at best, too many bad dreams with knives and fists. The sunlight rousted me the next morning and the clock informed me it was past eleven. My head hurt. I slowly sat up and finished the water from the bottle. I wanted to go home. Every part of my body ached, and I had nothing to wear but the duds given me by the esteemed Mr. Jones. They were beginning to stink.

  I got up and made my way to the bathroom. I looked terrible. I hadn’t looked at myself since this nasty little party began. The left side of my face was a blackened-purple-bluish mess. My hair was a dirty pile going this way and that, and I needed a shave. A rivulet of dried blood traveled from the left nostril across my cheek. I grabbed the white washcloth and ran it under the faucet. The water caressed my sorry face, wonderfully soothing the bruised skin.

  There was a soft knock on the door.

  “Are you alright, Monk?”

  “Depends on who you ask.” A smile came to me.

  “Sounds like someone is feeling a little better. Would you like something to eat?”

  “I would, but I’d like to take a shower first.”

  There was a pause, no doubt concern I might fall and crack what was left of my skull.

  “Do you think you can take care of that by yourself?
”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, call out if you need any help.”

  “I will.”

  With the powers vested in me, I prevailed, though not without a few anxious moments: when I had to sit on the edge of the tub, finding the inner shower curtain wedged in my ass, suspect balance, and my one good eye blurred by the cascading water. Turns out I did not actually wish to crack my skull. The water stung as it struck the wounds, but I cursed under my breath and continued. Once I finished and had very carefully dried myself, I realized I had nothing clean to wear. Sitting on the toilet, I pondered my options. There weren’t any. I combed my hair, wrapped the towel around the waist, and called to Coretta.

  “Yes, Monk?”

  “I don’t have anything to wear.”

  “Oh.” Awkward silence. “I have a robe, I’ll get that.”

  While I sat in the terry-clothed robe, Coretta rummaged through closets and drawers looking for something appropriate for me to wear. All she could find was an old tracksuit Marcus used to wear for school. Kismet being what it is and given that Marcus was approximately my height, the tracksuit fit as well as was possible. I had no underwear or socks, but I was, once again, modest before the Lord. Coretta was kind enough to make me a sandwich for lunch. We sat in the kitchen waiting for Orville. Something was on her mind, but she seemed uneasy, unwilling to just blurt it out. Or so I thought.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, did you know the men who attacked you?”

  “No. I don’t know who they were. At first, when I noticed the door was open, I thought it might be a man I knew years ago, he had come by earlier, but I was wrong. Everything happened so quick it was all I could do to protect myself. If Joanie hadn’t been around I don’t know what I would have done.”

  She let that hang in the air for a moment.

  “Do you think they might target Orville?”

  I had to think. “I don’t know? I don’t think so. Orville’s a big man after all, and seeing how he’s in the security business, he’s better at defending himself. Now that I think about it, and I believe this has to do with the woman we’re looking for, it was more about what I might know than what Orville might know.”

  “What do you mean the woman you’re looking for?” Uh oh.

  “You haven’t discussed this with your husband?”

  “Orville can be a little tight-lipped when it comes to his business dealings. I don’t like it. I worry about him, but he just brushes it off, saying it’s no big deal. Looking at you, I’m thinking it’s a bigger deal that he’ll admit to. So who’s this woman you two are looking for?”

  I had to think. I had nothing.

  I tried to be careful with what I said. “Her name is Desiree Marshan. She killed a man and took some money.” Maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say. I had no idea how Coretta would react, and after my talk with Mallory I had no good explanation for why we were looking for her. That made me wonder; why were we looking for Desiree Marshan? I hadn’t had a chance to fully work through what might be going on. We didn’t even think to go to her current address. My head continued to pummel me.

  “Why aren’t the police looking for her if she killed a man? Why would you be looking for her?”

  “I don’t know now. I talked with the police about that. They consider it self-defense and have no reason to pursue it further. As for the money, the police, apparently, weren’t told about that. I don’t know.”

  “How much money?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I suppose it is.”

  Coretta watched as I somewhat nervously tugged at the tracksuit. I was feeling hemmed in by the nature of our little escapade. I wanted to have good answers for what we were doing and why, but there was nothing to offer. I didn’t know what we were doing to begin with, just going with the flow, but that was a copout and I knew it. Whatever we had gotten ourselves into was a lot more problematic and involved than finding some thief. Every twitch and every movement reminded me that this was darker and meaner than I’d been led to believe or had given any thought to. It was time to stop being a sap.

  The front door opened. We could see it from the kitchen. Our man Orville was back. He saw the two of us at the table and paused just long enough to get caught.

  “Orville Riley, we need to talk!”

  Orville Riley, aka Mr. Jones, played dumb. I sat in rapt fascination as our man rope-a-doped his wife as to the possible nature of our improbable affair. There were misunderstandings, we were simply a means of communication between interested parties, it was easy money. I know what I’m doing; I’m not a dumbass like Buttman! For each punch she threw, he ducked and weaved. Her exasperation was evident; his denial manifest, yet they continued to press their position. I kept my mouth shut having done enough damage already. Orville meant to wear her down, and wear her down he did. The questions and evasions continued. After a period of tense silence, she relented.

  “You worry me, Orville Riley; you worry me and I’m tired of it!”

  She shook her head as she left Orville and me to the quiet of the kitchen. Mr. Jones turned to me with his own look of exasperation.

  “What?”

  “You’re not helping matters, Buttman.”

  “And what matters would those be, Mr. Jones, or should I say Orville Riley?”

  Orville held his tongue certain his wife was within listening distance. It was obvious he had words for me, but was not prepared at this time to share. That was ok by me.

  I had a plan.

  “I’m ready to go home. We can discuss this on the way over.”

  Mr. Jones feigned interest in my well being. “Are you sure you can take care of yourself?”

  “I’ll manage. Besides, I need to put on some of my own clothes. Speaking of which, what happened to my stuff from the hospital? You know, wallet, keys, stuff like that?”

  “It’s in the bag in your room. No one took your thirty dollars.”

  “Well good, I might need that thirty dollars.”

  “Yeah, you just might.”

  We spread the news of my imminent departure to the family. The kids, having no interest and more important things to do, shrugged. Coretta voiced her reservations that I was pushing my luck. I should stay a day or two longer. I needed the rest. She was right, and I said so, but I had things to do, and I promised to rest when I got home. Orville said next to nothing, content to collect my meager possessions and deposit them in the car outside. I thanked Coretta for her kindness and gingerly hugged her. She seemed genuinely concerned, which caused me a pang of regret at my not staying, but I had a plan, and a plan requires action. I sounded like the old man as he ushered Astral, Rebekah, and me out of the state all those years ago. I got in the car and waved. Mr. Jones hit the gas and we were off.

  The freeway was its usual sundrenched kiss of fits and starts, packed with all the other lamentable souls forced upon this accursed asphalt and concrete. I felt the urge to puke come and go, welling in the back of my throat. Orville was back to the more comforting visage of the cool calculating Mr. Jones: back in black, ready for whatever came our way. I was longing for the cool of my bungalow and the comfort of my own bed. Maybe Joanie was back.

  Joanie.

  I had to let go of her.

  I tried to think of something else. I thought of Agnes. Sweet wonderful Agnes! I found myself conflicted over whether it was a good idea to call or whether it was better to wait. One part of me worried about moving too quickly, another part wanted to see her, to lay my sorry head against her breasts. I could feel the erection growing in my loose fitting running pants. Evide
ntly I was getting better. I needed to get back to the plan before the focus of my thoughts became obvious. I pushed away Agnes only to have Judith take her place. Judith, standing there in all her naked glory, smiling as I pictured her let loosening the drawstrings on the track pants. The erection started to ache. Whether he noticed or not, Jones interrupted my sexual reverie.

  “I don’t appreciate you getting my wife all worked up over this.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Then maybe we should have conferenced prior to you taking me to your house on what should or shouldn’t be discussed.”

  “I don’t need the bullshit, Buttman.”

  “And I don’t need to get the shit kicked out of me, but here we are so enough of the supposed outrage. You haven’t exactly been honest in why you’re involved in this, and don’t tell it’s about the twenty-five thousand because I know that was a ruse.”

  “Agnes tell you that?” For the first time Orville fused with Mr. Jones.

  “No, Agnes didn’t tell me, you did. I’m not a complete idiot!” I let that sink in for a minute. “So why are you in this anyway? I asked this before, remember? You may know security, but that’s not finding people and neither of us was bright enough to think of going to her house unless, of course, you already knew she wasn’t there or assumed she’d split. And if it was only about the money, Dulcimer has guys who have no problem taking care of those kinds of things, remember?”

  “So, what’s your point?”

  “I don’t have a point. I’m saying this whole thing is bullshit and unless you can explain why we’re doing this, I’m done, or I’m on my own, or something!”