No Good Guys Left

by Dan Taylor

  And then what? They come back here to find the bunny boiler who’s manipulating them is dead? That’s where the story falls down.

  I look at the soup, and then realize I have a part of what I’ve learned upside down and inside out.

  16.

  The soup didn’t kill Tracy, or at least it wasn’t meant for Tracy. That soup was meant for me.

  And those keys in the drawer, they’re trophies. Like scalps, but for a relatively civilized killer.

  I think about taking Georgina’s advice. Getting the hell out of Dodge. Maybe she’s right. I should’ve never hung around here in the first place. Before I did, it was just my word against a dead psycho’s. Sure, I denied knowing Tracy to her brother, but it’s the same thing: my word against his. Unless Daisy overheard the conversation? Would she testify against me? I’m paying her mortgage, but I barely know the woman. For all I know, she could be religious, or may have a strong sense of right or wrong without the motivation of eternal paradise.

  Had I found the keys straightaway, I would’ve gotten out of here. Those keys represent a whole bunch of suspects, and may even be the start of a thread that would lead detectives to uncovering that Tracy is a serial killer herself.

  I’d be home free in that scenario. But I went and ruined it. Sure, I could try to remove all traces of my being here, per Georgina’s advice, but I’m not trained or qualified to do so. I could spend all night, and remove ninety-nice percent of it: my fingerprints on the ladle in the stew, my fingerprints on the bread knife, fibers I’ve left in the carpet and on Tracy’s clothing, and ass indentation on the couch. But I wouldn’t get it all. And who’s the first guy detectives would crosscheck that shit against? Me, the guy who spoke to her last, according to her cell phone records.

  Jeez, I’ve also spoken to her next-door neighbor.

  With enemies like myself, who the hell needs assholes?

  I sigh, realizing that in the last half hour, which included a conversation with a professional I’m paying out the ass to keep on retainer, I’m still at the same point in the investigation. Square one, just with less time to get to square two.

  My phone beeps, and I take it out of my pocket to see I’ve received a text message. It’s from Georgina. It lifts my spirits, as I think she might have used her sharp Jewish mind to think of something that will help me, until I read it.

  Georgina’s asking me to send her a photo of my penis.

  I really need a new attorney.

  And that woman needs to be neutered.

  I check the time. It’s getting close to nine o’clock, the time of night I usually put on my PJs and attempt small talk with my wife.

  I sit down on the couch, dejected, deepening my ass indentation in the couch, and I’m so tired I fall asleep for a short length of time, and wake up, when there’s a knock on the door.

  17.

  I’m caught in two minds. It’s a cliché for a reason that the murderer tends to return to the scene of the crime. Or at least I think it’s true. My dilemma is if it is the guy, I’m not going to be able to arrest him. Going to the gym isn’t exactly part of my daily routine. The only exercise I get is when the elevator to my office is at the top of the building and I take the stairs instead. And then I’m only going up five flights of stairs, with a rest midway, and that’s only exercising my legs.

  I’ve seen quite a few cop shows, and arrests are typically made with upper-body strength, and look difficult when the arrestee is a rail-thin junkie, let alone a murderer with lunatic strength, and I haven’t had arms and shoulders day at the gym since college.

  If it is the murderer standing at the door, there’s a good chance he’ll be able to overpower me. But then again, why would the murderer knock on the door? To check that Tracy’s dead? None of this makes any sense, and I rethink that cliché.

  I creep up to the window, which has the curtains drawn, and peek through. I only dare look for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to come to a conclusion: It isn’t the murderer, unless he’s a barely pubescent eighteen-year-old who’s wearing a cap on which it reads, “Flying Duck Dragon,” and holding what looks to be a grocery bag.

  Huh?

  He knocks again, and says, in a voice I’d have figured too deep to be his, “Come on, dude. I don’t have all night. Do you want this Chinese food or not?”

  Chinese food?

  I peel back the curtain slightly and glance at him again, and this time he catches me. He shakes his head, and feeling emasculated, I let the curtain fall back to a resting position and hide.

  I think a second, and then snap my fingers. Georgina Steinberger. That’s who ordered it.

  Because she thought that would convince me to send her a photo of my penis?

  Even if Georgina’s completely put her ethics to one side for the evening, she doesn’t know the address, so couldn’t be behind the ordering of the food.

  “I’m two seconds away from leaving. I get paid either way for this gig, and the Chows pay for my gas whatever happens,” the delivery boy says. “You’ll also never be able to order from here ever again.”

  I want to keep him there, to stall, so that I can think more about this and how to proceed. So I rack my brain for something to say, and come up with, “How much is it?”

  “Uhh, it’s sixteen dollars and ninety-five cents.”

  “Okay.”

  I bought myself around twenty seconds with that discussion, and I used that time listening to what he said, like the mystery of how he came to be at the door would be cleared up by what the total for the food is.

  Then I realize something, and all of a sudden I’m not freaked out.

  I go to the door, open it, and take out my wallet.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, smiling. “I had no idea my girlfriend had ordered Chinese food. That’s what the confusion was about that. And I wasn’t sure how much cash I have in my wallet.”

  He shrugs. And I look in my wallet, only seeing fifty-dollar bills.

  When I hand it to him, he frowns, until I say keep the change. Before he leaves, I ask, “How long ago did she order it?”

  “The Chinese food?” the delivery boy asks.

  To which I nod yes, and say, “What I’m saying is, that food’s taken a long time to get here. It must’ve.”

  “Look, if you’re trying to get it for free…”

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  A bored look on his face, he takes out what looks like a Post-It, tears off a leaf, and then hands it to me. It’s a customer feedback form, only tiny, with the letterhead “Flying Duck Dragon” at the top in an ornate font. “Write whatever your complaint is on there.”

  “This is unnecessary. I was just wondering how long the food took to get here.”

  He checks his watch, and what he says distracts me from how awesome the spring rolls or whatever’s in the bag smells.

  18.

  “Can you say that again?” I ask.

  “Thirty-two minutes.”

  “So Tracy ordered the food—what?—around—”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “Do you have some sort of delivery itinerary, with details when orders were made and whatnot?”

  “Do you mean like this?” he asks, taking out a dog-eared page of lined paper.

  “Yeah. Can you just double-check it?”

  He frowns. Says, “What difference would it make? The food’s here, and it’s hot. Or at least it was when I got here.”

  “It’s difficult to explain; I’m just interested.”

  He sighs, rolls his eyes, and then uncurls the piece of paper, and takes ten or so seconds to find the order he’s holding in his hand. He then looks at his watch. “Thirty-five minutes ago.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “Why not? Isn’t this five-eight-nine Beaumont Drive?”

  “That sure sounds like this address.” It is, from what I can remember from typing the address into the Sat Nav.

  He looks at his delive
ry itinerary again, unsure about if he’s at the right address, and says, “And you’re Jake, right? Jake Hancock?”

  19.

  “I ordered this food?”

  “If you’re Jake Hancock, you are.”

  “And I said my name’s Jake Hancock. Me, with this voice.” I’m also pointing both of my thumbs at my chest, just in case there’s any confusion.

  He raises an eyebrow, shakes his head a few times, and says, “I don’t take the orders, but I think it’s safe to assume that if you’re Jake Hancock, which you’ve kinda confirmed you are, then you said it in your voice.”

  I lean close to him, and for some reason I whisper when I say, “Here’s the thing: I’m Jake Hancock, but there’s no way I ordered that food.”

  And for some reason, the delivery boy whispers when he replies, “Then I guess, I don’t know—”he shrugs his shoulders mockingly—“you forgot you ordered it.”

  “Have you ever done that?”

  The delivery boy’s looking at me like I sent him a Merry Christmas card at Easter. “I’m a little confused by this conversation.”

  “Good. So am—”

  “All I want to know, Jake Hancock, is if you’re going to take the food or not.”

  “Let me explain.”

  He sighs.

  I continue: “Look, I didn’t order that food—”

  “But you are Jake Hancock.”

  “No. You see—”

  “So you don’t want the food?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Then take it.”

  He holds it out to me.

  I refuse it by showing him both my palms.

  “I just want to know who ordered it,” I say.

  “I think we’re done here,” he says, then goes to leave.

  “No, wait!”

  He sighs again and turns around, says, “What is it?”

  I snatch the bag out of his hand. “You have a nice night.”

  He goes to turn around again, but I say, “Just one more thing: Who do I need to speak to find out who made the order?”

  “Chow.”

  “Does Chow have a first and or surname?”

  “Ying. That’s the guy you need to speak to.”

  “One more thing: Is it Ying Chow or Chow Ying?”

  “You’ll get along fine by saying Mr. Chow.”

  “You have a nice night now.”

  I stand in the doorway, waving him off like a party host, and then go back inside.

  I go through to the kitchen and place the bag on a kitchen worktop, and don’t immediately go and get out a plate.

  20.

  Sitting in front of me is the Chinese food that’s evidence that A) someone other than the neighbor and Tracy knows I’m here, and B) that they heard my conversation with Georgina Steinberger.

  It’s also evidence that right now I’m pretty dumb, as dead people don’t know anything, let alone who’s in their kitchen.

  The person is most likely a man, as he’s impersonated my voice, and is most likely Tracy’s brother, Detective Lucy, who is both linked to the victim, and is the reason I came here tonight.

  He’s most likely playing with me, and may or may not have killed Tracy.

  Good news, right? The prawn-fried rice in front of me, which landed in my lap, has cracked the case for me. It’s also turned up the intensity of my predicament to way past eleven and pulled the knob off, and is more than a bad omen that I’m being set up.

  The first thing to do is to throw the food away. At this point I could eat anything, but I’m not dumb enough to be Romeo and Julieted. But then again, if it is Tracy’s brother behind all this—framing me for Tracy’s murder—wouldn’t he have just killed me already? I’ve been here for hours, and I hear on the news from time to time that cops carry guns and like to shoot people.

  Why go the scenic route and order me some delicious Chinese food?

  There’s only one solution for this pickle, and it involves sending a proverbial canary into a Chinese-five-spiced mineshaft.

  21.

  Ten minutes later I’ve learned that cats don’t like Chinese food, and that I’m unwilling to mix noodles with milk. That would be wrong on so many culinary levels.

  I’ve also noticed something: All the dishes that I’ve received are my favorites. Or at least they look and smell like they are. There’s the one with the brown-colored sauce that smells nothing like oysters but is called so, the sweet and sour deep-fried balls of some indiscernible seafood, and the prawn-fried rice that I’ve already mentioned.

  This shit’s getting weirder by the minute.

  One thing’s for sure: I need to talk to Chow Ying about this guy he spoke to. I find the number for Flying Duck Dragon on their website and phone it.

  “Flying Duck Dragon,” the Asian guy on the other end of the phone says. “How may I take your order?”

  How may I take your order?

  “Hi, I’m Jake Hancock. Is this Mr. Ying by any chance?”

  “It is.”

  “I want to speak to you about an order that was made earlier in the evening.”

  A pause. “Is there something wrong with it?”

  “The food’s fine. It’s about the order itself.”

  “The order of food?”

  “No, the process that someone went through to order the food.”

  He doesn’t respond, which is understandable, so I elaborate, learning from my experience with the delivery boy: “Some guy phoned up and ordered food for me, pretending to be me, just with a false name.”

  “Address?”

  “Beaumont Drive.”

  “The whole address?”

  “There’s a number before Beaumont Drive, denoting which property, and then the postal code after it, along with the city. If we really want to get pedantic, there’s the country after that, too.”

  “That’s just the format of an address. What’s the actual address?”

  I sigh. “Have there been other deliveries made on Beaumont Drive this evening?”

  “I’m not going to give you that information.”

  “Good, because that’s not what I want to know. The point I’m making is, I don’t know the address for the property the food was delivered to, and gave you a unique identifier—the street name—so you could check something for me.”

  “I can’t take a food order without the full address.”

  “I’m not trying to order food; I’m enquiring about an order that was made earlier.”

  “So you haven’t phoned to order more food?”

  “No. I just want to know—”

  “I’m going to have to end this call. I need to keep this line free for orders.”

  “Just a minute. Please.”

  “If there are any complaints about the service, you can write it down on the customer complaints form provided to you, and mail it to us.”

  “I have no complaints. The food’s delicious, at least it smells delicious. What I’m interested in, Mr. Ying, is who the hell phoned up to make the order, because I didn’t.”

  There’s a pause. “You didn’t order the food yourself?”

  “No.”

  He sighs. Then says, “Not this bullshit again. You have a pen and paper?”

  “I do.”

  Mr. Ying provides an alternative phone number to call him on, and then I hang up and phone him back.

  He answers almost immediately.

  “Mr. Ying, it’s the guy that phoned a minute earlier.”

  “I know who it is. Just tell me who made the bogus order so I can blacklist them.”

  “I don’t want anyone blacklisted.”

  “Then what do you think’s an appropriate punishment?”

  “I’m not looking to get anyone punished. Here’s the thing: For reasons I can’t go into, some guy phoned your excellent Chinese restaurant—”

  “Cantonese. We only do some Chinese dishes.”

  “Cantonese, then—still excellent, by the way. Anyway,
some guy phoned up, made an order in my name, and I’d like to discuss with you what the person sounded like.”

  He doesn’t say anything, so I say, “I want to know if the person sounded like a cop.”

  “You’re a cop?”

  “Not me. The guy who phoned.”

  “Hold on a minute. I have an order.”

  I hold the line as Mr. Ying takes an order on his other line. Two minutes later he comes back, and has seemingly forgotten everything I’ve said since, “Mr. Ying, it’s the guy who phoned…” as he says, ranting, “There’s no way of me being able to check the genuineness of an order. All I do is take down the information.”

  I cut straight to the chase, as this sheep needs a shepherd: “Mr. Ying, do you record the calls you take?”

  “No.”

  “Do you at least remember taking an order for Beaumont Drive?”

  “Do you want me to check the orders for the last hour or so?”

  I breathe a silent sigh of relief. “That would be really helpful.”

  A minute later, he says, “There was an order for that address.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Sure, do you remember speaking to the guy who made the order?”

  “I take a lot of calls.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “It is.”

  “Would it help if I told you exactly what was ordered?”

  “I have it written down here.” He reads it off under his breath, and there’s a eureka moment. The exact list of dishes ordered seems to have jogged his memory, as he says, “I remember that guy. That was one crazy-ass phone call conversation.”