Usuality

by Thomas Mueller

  XL: ILLUMINATI CONFIRMED

  Michelle Lyon stormed across the main floor of the garage toward Nick’s office. Nick didn’t know who the dark-haired woman at Lyon’s side was, but it didn’t seem like a good time to ask. Whatever the hell Reagan and her actor dipshit were playing at, however they had orchestrated it so that Lyon showed up at the meeting in their place, they were going to be sorry for thinking they could pull one over on him.

  “Where’s everybody else?” asked Michelle, looking around. “And who is she?”

  Inside the office Marin was sitting alone at Nick’s desk, eating a vending machine danish from a plastic wrapper and sucking down a Starbucks. She stared at the newcomers with ambivalence.

  “I’ve been trying to tell you,” said Jade at her side. “It’s that actor, Garrett. I don’t know how or why, but he’s the one behind all of this.”

  Michelle dismissed the other woman. “I already know he switched phones with Silverman. That isn’t why we’re here.” She went to the window and closed the blinds, then she looked Marin up and down. The woman was too skinny for her taste, supple but in a boyish sort of way. She reminded Michelle of herself, and Michelle hated her own body.

  “This is Michelle Lyon,” Nick told Marin in a tone that said he wanted her to keep her mouth shut.

  It only made Marin more interested. “So you’re the one who ruined my night. Thanks for that.”

  “You’re not the victim here,” snapped Michelle, although she hardly considered herself a victim either. Victims didn’t have the power to fight back, nor the desire, and she was brimming over with both. “Who else is involved in this? I know it isn’t just the three of you.”

  Jade began to protest, but Marin interrupted her. “Oh, please. Nobody’s buying the tough chick routine.”

  Lyon took Silverman’s small automatic from her purse. Holding it pressed to her waist, she said, “You think this is a routine?”

  Marin looked like she was going to laugh. “Whatever.”

  Jade, for her part, was shocked by the seated woman’s glibness. She watched the gun in Michelle Lyon’s hand nervously. She hadn’t thought beyond exposing Garrett for being the arrogant prick that he was. Now, in trying to do so, she found herself being sucked into the wake of his shit storm. How was it one man could cause so much trouble?

  Julia Ocampo-Stolzman—Jade, she was Jade here, she reminded herself—had always been scrappy and thick-skinned, able to handle whatever the Man’s World she lived in could throw at her, but she’d obviously made a grave mistake contacting Michelle Lyon. This woman was as unstable as any man. Whatever was going on, Jade wanted no part of it. She held up her hands.

  “You don’t think I have anything to do with this, do you? I don’t even know her,” she said, pointing at Marin.

  Marin licked a drip from her coffee lid. “Garrett and I broke up, and Nick and I aren’t together anymore either, so you can just leave me out of this, too.”

  “You’re involved,” said Lyon. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

  “‘You wouldn’t be here otherwise,’” mocked Marin.

  Michelle smoothed a strand of hair out of her face. “That was childish.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one waving a gun around and accusing people of things they didn’t do.” Marin gestured with her drink. The smell of vanilla wafted through the room. “If you’re expecting some big criminal conspiracy you’re going to be disappointed. Nick doesn’t have the photos of you and your girlfriend,” she told the blonde woman. “He never did. That was all Silverman.”

  Knocking sounded from outside the front street-facing door.

  “If there’s no conspiracy, then who’s knocking?” asked Michelle. A note of craziness had crept into her voice, but she moved the gun out of sight behind her leg and tried to keep calm.

  “That’s probably my ex,” said Marin.

  “Who?”

  “You know? Garrett? The one you’re so interested in? Who is also about as far from being a criminal mastermind as you can get. Although he’s the one who actually has the photos, by the way.”

  “I told you he was behind everything!” exclaimed Jade.

  Michelle Lyon narrowed her eyes. “What about Cafferty Wade?” She glanced around, watching everybody’s reactions. “Are you waiting on him to show up, too?”

  Marin crossed her legs. “That guy who got caught in the photos rocking out with his cock out? No way he knows about this place.” She looked at Nick. “Right?”

  Lyon was sweating. She felt the grip of Silverman’s gun getting slippery in her palm.

  Marin continued, “The Carpet Czar is the one who’s been killing everybody. He’s the one you should be worried about. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m the only one who has any idea what’s going on.”

  “Would you shut the hell up?” said Nick dangerously.

  The knocking at the door sounded again, more insistent. Michelle tried to breathe but found it difficult. This wasn’t going at all like she had expected. She didn’t know exactly what she had expected, but she was beginning to doubt that anybody, including the skinny woman who liked the sound of her own voice, actually knew what was going on. So far, they were just a bunch of bumbling idiots, but she still needed to find out knew about Rachel and who didn’t.

  Wade had claimed he could keep her safe. Maybe turning against the others was what he meant, but then why would somebody as wealthy as Wade be involved in blackmail to begin with? Why did they know about him at all if they weren’t partners? It was a ridiculously convoluted affair, and she had to remind herself once again that blackmail wasn’t the issue, Rachel was. She needed to know the identities of the other conspirators if she was going to fix this.

  “Let them in,” she said, indicating the door. “And don’t try anything stupid.”

  The door had a key-only lock on both sides. Nick delayed, making a show of digging the proper key out of his pocket and silently cursing Marin’s big mouth. His vague plan to somehow offer up Garrett to the man with the glasses was looking less and less doable. Michelle Lyon was out for blood and his options were drying up. It was time to act. Just because the blackmail idea hadn’t panned out didn’t mean he couldn’t still salvage the situation, but to do that he needed to take stock of things and regroup, not get shot by some unstable bitch with a gun before he could come up with a new plan. He needed to get away from Michelle Lyon, from Marin, all of it.

  He finished unlocking the door, carefully removed his key, and then flung the door wide open and barreled past a nonplussed Tiny Johnson and a surprised Garrett Lindsay, sprinting away down the sidewalk for all he was worth.

  Both men watched him go. Perhaps fearing pursuit out the back exit, perhaps not thinking at all, he dashed into the crosswalk when he reached the intersection instead of rounding the corner at the end of the garage.

  It was a mistake.

  Garrett registered the Don’t Walk signal and squeal of brakes at the same instant the garbage truck slammed full-on into Reagan’s ex-fiancé, sending him into the air like a human piñata. He tumbled, skidding along the asphalt and coming to rest with his neck at an impossible angle and the majority of his body facing the wrong direction.

  Garrett tried to look away but couldn’t.

  “I would say something about taking out the trash,” said Johnson mildly. “But that would be in poor taste.”

  “Hey,” said Michelle Lyon loudly, trying to get the two men’s attention. She waved Silverman’s gun, unaware of what had just befallen her would-be blackmailer. “Both of you get inside, and don’t even think of doing what he just did.”

  Stopped motorists were climbing out of their vehicles. Somebody would be calling the police if they hadn’t done so already. Shrugging at her choice of words, Johnson stepped inside the small office.

  “Did he seriously just run away?” asked Marin.

  “That,” said Johnson, “and he got run over by a truck.”

  “What a douche. Wait, ar
e you serious? Is he, like, dead?”

  “Stop talking, both of you,” said Michelle, trying to regain control. Inside the office, the big stranger towered over her. She suddenly wished she hadn’t left Char behind. She hadn’t wanted her current lover to learn about Rachel, and she certainly didn’t want Char witnessing anything less than legal that might happen here, but the big man in the corduroy jacket had a quiet confidence that made her feel suddenly unsure of herself.

  Garrett noticed the familiar-looking automatic in Lyon’s hand. “Is that Bill Silverman’s gun?”

  “It is,” said Lyon icily, enjoying the look on his face. “And if you don’t want to end up like Silverman, or like Wade or your friend outside, you’ll do exactly what I say. Is this everybody?”

  Johnson stared at her impassively, careful to hide the fact that, inwardly, he was kicking himself for leaving his own .38 in the glove box of his van. He was starting to get as careless as his clients. “Everybody who what?”

  “Hold on,” said Garrett. “Did you just say Wade is dead?”

  Too late, Michelle realized her mistake. “He’s not here,” she said, trying to cover up her slip. “I can only assume that means one of you killed him.”

  “You keep mentioning Wade,” said Jade. Caught up in her curiosity about everything, she momentarily forgot her goal of blending in with the scenery and trying to stay alive. “What does the guy from the cheesy commercials have to do with anything?”

  Johnson surveyed the room, taking in Marin with her coffee, Michelle Lyon with the gun in her hand, the closed blinds, the unlocked door that had swung shut but could be easily pulled or pushed open again. There were dusty “Business Achiever” plaques on the wall behind the desk on his right. Frilly curtains around the room’s only window didn’t seem to fit at all with what Johnson knew of Polito’s personality. There was a water cooler in one corner with a stack of paper cups. Johnson went across and helped himself. Michelle Lyon didn’t try to stop him, and it told him she wasn’t at all experienced with controlling people at gunpoint, which was both good and bad. He didn’t recognize the woman standing beside Lyon, but he could see that Garrett did.

  “Who is she?” he asked, indicating Jade.

  “Bill Silverman’s partner,” answered Garrett.

  “Ex-partner,” said Jade.

  “Your ex-partner and Nick Polito were trying to blackmail Michelle Lyon,” Johnson said. “Silverman stayed behind after the meeting yesterday to snap photos of Michelle and her girlfriend. Wade, who lives in the penthouse behind her, managed to get himself caught in the background of the photos in flagrante.”

  “He means jerking off,” put in Marin.

  “For reasons we don’t know,” continued Johnson, “Wade hired the services of a man he’s had affiliation with since they both served together in Vietnam. We think this is the man who killed your partner, Silverman,” he told Jade. “He’s been trying to retrieve the photos and silence anybody who’s seen them.”

  “Just because he could be seen in them?”

  “I don’t think that’s why,” said Johnson.

  “Because he was involved in the blackmail?” persisted Jade.

  Johnson shook his head. “My guess is that he saw your ex-partner Silverman taking the photographs and for whatever reason he wanted to put a stop to any damage they might cause her.” He nodded toward Michelle, who frowned.

  It didn’t make sense, thought Michelle. Wade had to have been part of the conspiracy. Otherwise, how had Silverman found out about her and Char? And did they really expect her to believe that Garrett, who had delivered the singing telegram, who’d been involved from the beginning, wasn’t in on the plan to blackmail her? It couldn’t all just be one big coincidence.

  “Who are you?” Michelle asked Johnson. “Why should I believe a word you say?”

  “Exactly,” said Johnson. “Why should you believe a word I say? You should just kill us all and be done with it.”

  “You’re not helping,” said Garrett out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Just like you killed Wade,” continued Johnson. He’d sent the photograph to Garrett’s phone intending for Lyon to see it, recognize Wade and possibly confront him, but the jump from seeing the photo to her assuming they had killed the Carpet Czar was improbably huge. He had no idea what had actually happened between Lyon and Wade, but he was playing a hunch.

  It worked. Michelle Lyon’s face froze to match her voice. “No,” she said. “You’re lying.”

  “Holy shit,” said Marin, sitting up a little straighter in her chair. She was easily bored—who wasn’t?—but she certainly wasn’t stupid. Ever since that crappy motel she’d been listening. She hadn’t been interested, but she’d been listening. “He’s right, isn’t he?” she said. “Jesus, how is it you’re some kind of big-time network executive and you can’t lie to save your life?”

  The woman was closer to the truth than she knew, and Michelle Lyon decided she hated her for it. It was why she, Michelle, took great pains to preempt the need to lie, why she structured her life in such a way as to easily hide the truth in plain sight.

  Suddenly, the walls of the small office were getting smaller. Everything felt like it was starting to close in on her. She was still no closer to discovering how all of this connected to Rachel. A pedestrian hit by a truck would bring the police. Very soon, anything that happened inside the garage—gunshots, for instance—would be heard by the crowd outside. She had the sudden absurd thought that she could cover the end of Silverman’s pistol with her hand, shooting through her palm and using it as a silencer. They couldn’t prove anything about her and Wade, but Wade had known about Rachel, and so, too, might the others, even though they claimed not to know him. Everything that happened in the next few seconds hinged on whether he had taken that knowledge with him to the grave.

  “What has Wade told you about me?” she asked, watching their reactions carefully.

  “You mean that you prefer women?” said Garrett. “Hear me when I say that really, seriously, nobody cares. Your privacy is obviously very important to you. But we had nothing to do with blackmailing you. You should try trusting people for a change.” As he was talking, his eyes flicked past her shoulder to focus on something behind her and his voice became taut. “But if there’s one person you’re going to shoot today, it really should be him.”

  “I’m not going to fall for that,” said Michelle.

  “Did you kill Cafferty Wade?” asked a brittle voice behind her.

  This time Michelle did turn around. Harlan Lang stood in the inner doorway of the office.

  Michelle took in the man’s stiff clothing, his wide-rimmed glasses and indeterminate age, the knife held easily in his hand like maybe he was a chef about to halve a sandwich he had just finished preparing, although she had never seen a chef use a blade with such a harsh, angular tip.

  Jade backed away from Michelle until she really was pressed up against the wall like a flower. Marin looked like her latte had gone sour. Garrett stood with his fists clenched uselessly at his sides.

  Tiny Johnson put his hands into his coat pockets and slowly nodded a greeting.

  “Is he dead?” asked Lang again.

  Michelle Lyon shivered. Seeing the craziness staring back at her from inside the man’s snake-dead pupils, she had what her director Braxton called a ‘cacophony’. She realized two things. She was not the cold-blooded killer she thought herself to be, and she did not want to die. Fear surged through her, planting her feet where she stood.

  Johnson felt a strange calm descend upon him. He ran his tongue along the back of his teeth and wondered if he was about to die. Fuck it, he thought. Today was as good a day as any.

  “Does it matter if Wade is alive or dead?” he asked.

  “You mean am I going to kill you anyway?” Lang smiled.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  There was a long silence, then things happened very fast. Johnson whipped out his hand, tore a plaque fro
m the wall, and flung it at Lang, but the man with the glasses was already moving. Dodging forward, Lang slashed his knife across Michelle Lyon’s wrist and then yanked Silverman’s automatic away as her hand reflexively opened. He swung the gun around, bringing it to bear, but, before he could shoot, Johnson propelled himself forward, tackling Lang. Managing to hang onto his knife but not the gun, Lang went limp, allowing Johnson’s momentum to carry them both into a metal shelving unit on the far wall. Johnson took the brunt of the impact. Stunned, he lost his hold and Lang twisted away.

  Johnson steadied himself on the shelves and pawed around. Clutching the first thing his hand came upon, he hurled it at the man with the glasses. The object, a crescent wrench that was too heavy for Johnson to throw with much force, struck Lang in the jaw.

  Johnson recovered and dove again, this time not at Lang but toward where he’d last seen Silverman’s gun. The man with the glasses, unphased by the wrench, threw his knife backhanded. The blade buried itself in Johnson’s leg. The big man grunted and hit the ground hard. Despite the pain, his fingers crawled toward Silverman’s tiny automatic.

  Lang strode forward and stomped one booted foot down hard on Johnson’s hand. This time Johnson yelled out loudly, but, as Lang was bending over to retrieve the gun, Johnson yanked Lang’s knife from his own leg with his uninjured hand and stabbed it down through Lang’s boot, grinding the point of the tanto blade against the concrete floor. Hissing, Lang toppled over and suddenly both men were scrabbling about on the ground, landing punches where possible, pulling at clothing and hair, gouging with fingers and elbows. Johnson backhanded Lang to the face, loosening molars, but Lang found the wound on Johnson’s leg and dug a thumb into it.

  When the black sparks finally cleared from Johnson’s vision, Lang was standing over him and he found himself staring into the barrel of Silverman’s automatic.

  It was utterly absurd, the knowledge that such a tiny gun was going to end his life. Johnson would have laughed if he’d had the breath to do so.

  Lang, obviously in pain himself but still smiling, tightened his finger on the trigger.