Hear No Evil

by J. P. Choquette

  “Hey, Henry.” I pluck a bag of salt and vinegar chips from the shelf and set them on the high wood counter. “How’s business going?”

  “Oh, you know. Can’t complain. No one’d listen if I did.” He chuckles at this. “I’ll feed you first and then we’ll talk business.” I survey the big board above his head. “What can I get for you this fine day, Ms. Tayt?”

  “Can I get a Moo Magic Madness with extra pickles?” Unfortunately, Henry’s creativity extends to his menu. Every item on the list is a tongue twister and he gets a certain pleasure in making you repeat your order until you get it right. Sometimes, when he’s feeling grumpy, he’ll pretend not to hear you, making you repeat it again and again. I’ve seen grown men, big, strapping construction workers, nearly brought to tears of frustration as they try—and fail—to place their orders. “Vermont Vital Vittles Wrap,” “Charlie’s Cheddar Charbroil,” and “Bubba’s Big Blue Cheeseburgers,” are just a sampling of Henry’s wordsmith finesse. Despite the rather unappealing names, these sandwiches will make you groan in pleasure. And despite Henry’s sadistic streak, he’s a good guy. Eccentric, but good.

  “So whatcha workin’ on now, T?” Henry asks, smoothing mayo onto freshly made bread. The smell of the yeasty dough turns the rumbling in my stomach to a full-grown roar. I distract myself by walking to the cooler nearby and studying the selection of bottled drinks.

  “Same as always. You know, security gigs for the next American Idol wanna-be’s, deadbeat dads and cheating fiancés. What is it with men anyway?” I grumble this last part under my breath.

  Henry grunts in response, his focus on the sandwich before him.

  “Do you know how many times I’ve been contacted by a man to check up on his girlfriend or wife? Zero,” I say without waiting for an answer.

  “That’s because we’re too lazy and cheap to hire you,” Henry says. “Besides, if a wife or girlfriend cheats, a man tends to take care of that business himself.”

  “How so?” I ask, taking an orange soda from the cooler and setting it on the counter near my chips. Not my healthiest lunch ever. My watering mouth asks, “Who cares?” while a second little voice promises to eat just carrots for dinner.

  “We have our ways,” he says. I wonder for the hundredth time, what Henry’s real story is.

  I’m distracted by his hands though, in the process of layering on fillings. I watch mesmerized. No matter how many times I’ve seen Henry prepare a sandwich, it’s still amazing to see. Like an experienced ballet dancer standing on pointe, or an elderly sax player who has been playing since he was five, this man is a true artiste. His large, dark fingers set a thin bed of crisp lettuce on the bread, then a layer of perfectly ripe tomatoes, a smear of wasabi, fresh provolone cheese and then the pièce de résistance: breaded and deep-fried roast beef. Finally, a drizzle of honey and expertly placed dill pickles, then the top of the buttery, crusty roll. He makes these himself, every morning, so they’re fresh.

  The sandwich is wrapped carefully in white butcher paper, ends pulled taut with florescent tape and carried to the register. Set gently down near the rest of my lunch, Henry’s hand remains for a moment, as though blessing the sandwich before it goes. I thank him and grab a table near the window, the sunlight from outside pouring over me. Henry doesn’t do plates and utensils. Just use the wrapper and don’t whine about it.

  Wind whips the sharp snow outside into icy tornados, blasting a trio of flannel-shirted men just coming in. They have that hungry, obsessed look in their eyes that practically screams Henry’s sandwiches.

  “Helloooooo, gents,” Henry singsongs and then the joking and ribbing begins. I tune the men out, concentrating instead on the mix of warmth and cold, salty, and sweet of my sandwich. After the men have left and I’m sipping the last of my soda, ready to fall into a deep food-induced coma, Henry lowers himself into the chair facing me. How the small round bistro seat can hold him is a mystery. He grins at me as though reading my mind, white teeth flashing.

  “Don’t worry. I’m a lot lighter than I look.”

  I smile back and take another sip.

  “That was so good, Henry.”

  “Mmmm, I get that a lot.” He winks and for some dumb reason I blush.

  “So, what does your niece need?” I ask, ready to move the conversation back to business.

  “All work and no play, Ms. T, makes for a very boring girl,” Henry says, waving a finger at me. “How’s that man of yours anyway?” He takes a long, loud sip from a jumbo plastic cup with a tall, ridged straw.

  “What man?”

  Henry smiles lecherously. “You know, your tall friend. Handsome guy.”

  “C.J.?” I ask. “The trooper?”

  Have we ever come in here together? I can’t remember.

  “Nah, not him. That boy looks like he’s got a stick stuck somewhere you don’t want to find. I’m talking about your other friend, you know, with the dark hair. Little rough around the edges. Looks a little dangerous.”

  Oh.

  “Ezra? You have a good memory. We’ve only been here together once and that was months ago.”

  “I’ve got a good memory for good looks,” says Henry.

  “Well then it’s no wonder you called me.” I say. I’ve never met a man who likes to gossip as much as Henry. The fact that it’s about my love life, or lack thereof, seems only to intrigue him more. He sighs like a kid whose mother just informed him that playtime outdoors is over. I ignore it. I don’t want to talk about Ezra.

  I pull a pad of paper and pen from my bag and flip the notebook open.

  “You said you might need help with security for your niece?”

  Henry wags his eyebrows at me but not getting the response he’s hoping for, says, “Yes. Reggie. Well, her full name’s Regina. She’s my only sister’s daughter.” Henry pauses for another sip of his giant drink. “She turns eighteen this weekend and my sister hired a limo to take Reggie and a few close friends to Montreal. You know, enjoy their first drinks legally.”

  “I forgot the drinking age in Canada is eighteen,” I say. I’m already madly searching for excuses. I know that there are mountains of bills to be paid and it won’t be long before the letters from the hospital start to border on nasty. But doing a security gig for a bunch of screaming teenagers, no revise that, screaming and drunk teenagers in the heart of Montreal sounds like my idea of a nightmare.

  “What’s your rate?” Henry asks, setting his cup down on the table. “This is part of my birthday present, providing you as an escort. More of a gift to her mom really,” he says conspiratorially.

  “Why not just go yourself? You look like you could handle a few street punks.”

  Henry laughs out loud and then shakes his head. “Come on, T. Do you honestly think I don’t have anything better to do on a Saturday night than chaperone a bunch of squealing teenagers? Besides, Reggie would hate it. You’ll blend right in, darling.” He pauses, glances toward the door when the string of bells tinkle, announcing a new arrival. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or offended that he thinks I’ll blend in with said squealing teenagers.

  “How much?” He asks me again.

  I frown, chew my lip. If I set the price high enough it might dissuade him. I do some quick math in my head and blurt out twice my normal hourly rate.

  “Done,” he says, sticking out a big hand for me to shake. “And if you keep them away from the strip clubs, I’ll give you a hundred-dollar bonus.”

  I shake his hand and force a smile.

  This is going to be just great.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Molly’s number comes up on my cell as I’m parking. I’d tried her before I left the office but had to leave a message. I answer on the third ring, hoping she’s not going to dissolve into tears once again. But this time her voice is steady and firm.

  “Thanks for calling me back,” she says. “I’m hoping you could help me out with another job,” she says. Pause. “It’s a little unorthodox.”<
br />
  I think of Sunflower Specials. If you only knew ....

  “I’ll try. What is it?”

  She clears her throat. “I want to set Jordan up. Give him a little taste of his own medicine.”

  “Okay,” I draw the word out as though it’s made of many syllables. “So, what do you need me to do?”

  “His bachelor party is Friday night.” No wonder she was such a basket case. “And I have an idea ....”

  ***

  I spend most of Friday cleaning my house and worrying about Winston, who I haven’t talked to but know is fine, since I saw him pass by on his four-wheeler yesterday. Who knows for how long, though? Next, I worry about Leanne and Reba; about Ezra and his request that I mentor what’s-her-face and the big decision he’s facing, and, of course, about the creepy caller-turned-stalker. Should I have showed C.J. the note from the gym? The thought has crossed my mind more than once but I hate the thought of involving him.

  I turn the music up on the little teal radio. Instead of drowning out the worries though, the song lyrics just tangle up in them. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I wish I had a dog. At least it would be someone to talk to. Plus, he or she would need things that I would have to concentrate on, like potty breaks and walks and feeding schedules. Maybe I should ask Winston if he’d like to gift me one of his strays.

  I sit back on my haunches, blow a piece of hair out of my sweaty face, and survey the floor. It’s gleaming in the late afternoon sun, shadows from bare tree branches swaying across it as though they’re dancing.

  Dancing.

  Molly.

  Reggie.

  Ugh.

  Molly’s Revenge—her term, not mine—commences in a few short hours. And tomorrow night I’m hopping in a limo with four girls headed for a night out on the town in Montreal. Maybe I was a fool not to pursue a career in acting. I could be sitting in a dressing room in New York City right now, having makeup applied and practicing last-minute lines.

  I imagine it for a minute: the smell of the pancake makeup and hot curling irons and hair straighteners, the giddy laughter, and nervous adjustments of costumes. The sense when you step on stage that you’re fully alive. Fully present. Because if you aren’t in that moment, your audience won’t be able to come along with you.

  Stretching, I get to my feet. Feeling more like Cinderella than a Broadway actress, I set my scrub brush down and walk to the guest room-turned-dressing room. The light in this room is dim and I notice that the overhead fixture needs a new bulb. It smells good though, like perfume and possibilities. Rows of clothing racks line three walls, each holding tidy rows of clothes. There are tough leather jackets and hiking boots, jean overalls and flannel shirts, sparkly sequin skirts and gossamer-thin blouses with plunging necklines.

  The collection started before I went to college the first semester, most of it purchased at thrift shops, then, later, at some higher end consignment boutiques. I push the thoughts of credit card bills out of my head and run a hand over a red silk dress. “If I’m going to be an actress,” I’d told Ezra when he’d asked why my closet was so crammed with clothes, “I have to have a full wardrobe.” Then he’d asked about the necessity of that, seeing as most theater groups provide their actors with wardrobes. I’d shaken off the question. Like so many other things, men just didn’t get it.

  I finger the hem of a mini skirt I’ve yet to wear. Tonight, my role in Molly’s plan is simply to act as getaway driver. And muscle if things get out of hand. That won’t require a cute outfit though. Automatically, I turn to a different rack of clothes, this one made up of wool and denim and dark colors. Appropriate? Yes. Fun? Not as much. I stretch my back again and can’t help but grin, thinking about Molly’s plan. She’s clever. And bold. I can’t wait to see her fiancé’s face.

  There are still two hours before I need to get ready, my watch says. I’m about to call Ezra when the phone rings. Shutting the light off in the dressing room, I grab the receiver in the living room.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me.” C.J.’s voice is warm as honey. I picture him at home, stretched out on the extra-long couch, taking swigs from a bottle of local beer. He only allows himself two per weekend night. Not because he’s afraid of becoming an alcoholic but because he doesn’t want to get a beer belly.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Nothing. Didn’t you get my message?”

  Oops.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s been really busy and it just—”

  “Slipped your mind.” C.J. finishes my sentence and my cheeks flush. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over. Get a video or something.”

  What’s the or something? I wonder, but don’t ask.

  “I can’t, but thanks for asking. I’m going out in a little bit.”

  “Who with?” his voice is less honeyed. More hurt.

  My shoulders automatically go toward my ears and my back stiffens.

  “It’s work, C.J. But even if it wasn’t, that’s not your business anymore. Remember the whole friend thing?”

  He’s silent for a long minute. I picture another long pull on a brown bottle.

  “Sorry,” he finally mumbles. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  I sigh. Apologizing doesn’t come easily to him. I guess I should feel grateful.

  “It’s okay. I should go, though. I have to get ready.”

  “What’s the gig? Or am not allowed to ask even that.”

  I miss the days when phones had curly wires you could tangle in your fingers while talking. Or maybe strangle in a tight fist.

  “It’s a security gig for a bachelor ...” I clear my throat. What man would hire a female security person for a bachelor party? “A bachelorette party. Low-key, small group. Should be fun.” I make my voice sound enthusiastic.

  C.J. chuckles. “Sounds like it. Alright, I’ll talk to you soon then. And Tayt?” he says before hanging up. “Be careful.”

  Five minutes later, I’m still standing in the same spot, phone cradle in hand. I chew my lip and stare out the window at nothing.

  ***

  Two and a half hours later, Molly collects me from the Park and Ride in St. Albans. The not-so-happy couple had recently upgraded to a three-bedroom apartment in the upper part of the city. Molly told me earlier that she’d already packed eighty percent of Jordan’s stuff into boxes and called a moving company to deliver his half of the furniture to his parent’s house tomorrow. He had no idea this was happening as he was staying at a friend’s for the weekend.

  The scent of expensive perfume wafts over me as I step from the cold air into her warm SUV. Though I usually prefer to use my own car, jalopy though it is, tonight I’m making an exception. If I’m playing getaway driver, I want it to be in something trustworthy and Molly’s two-month-old Suburban fits the bill. Especially with its fresh, new snow tires.

  “Thanks again for helping with this,” she says.

  I glance in her direction as I pull my seatbelt on. Her fingers drum nervously on the wheel.

  “No problem,” I say. “Were you able to get in touch with the escort service?”

  She nods, checks both ways and pulls out onto the main road.

  “All set,” she says.

  She’d done a little sleuthing, found out which service was providing the stripper for the party and canceled it, playing the role of concerned sister.

  “What did you tell them?” I ask.

  “That I was the groom-to-be’s sister and that our mom just died. Shockingly tragic right before a wedding, isn’t it?” She gives me a half-grin and refocuses on the road ahead.

  Her beautiful cap of blond curls is tucked into a wig that is long and dark auburn. She’s wearing more makeup than before, quite a lot more, but it’s expertly applied. When we hit a red light she sighs, bites her lip, her fingers still tapdancing on the wheel. I struggle to think of something to get her mind off of her nervousness.

  “You said you’re in marketing, righ
t?”

  Molly nods.

  “Is that what you went to school for?”

  “My undergraduate degree was in theater.”

  “Really? Me too.”

  We spend a large portion of the next twenty miles discussing plays and musicals we’ve been in and seen live in which theaters. We talk about where we each studies and reminisce about our favorite roles.

  The time goes quickly and soon Molly is navigating a back road in Milton, south of St. Albans. The road is bumpy and gets worse as it turns to dirt. We bounce in our seats for the next several minutes, then Molly takes another turn, slowing on a hairpin curve shortly after. I make a note of the twists and turns as we may be leaving in a hurry.

  “This is our friend—well, Jordan’s friend—Mike’s place,” she says and seconds later steers into a long driveway. I can’t see the house from the road. We travel a few more seconds in silence and then the house appears. It’s magnificent: A mixture of logs and stone. The roof points and swoops in at least three different spots, windows take up most of the front and the landscaping, even in winter, is impressive. Bushes and shrubs are perfectly formed, winding paths lead to more private areas behind the mansion.

  “Wow.” What does this guy do for work? Drug pusher? Arms dealer?

  Cars are parked in tidy rows along the opening of the driveway. The house is dark, but the detached three-bay garage is lit up and heavy bass pounds out. Molly turns around in the driveway, then parks with the SUV’s nose headed toward the road several car lengths from any of the other vehicles. Easy out.

  “Smart,” I say, smiling at her.

  She doesn’t smile back. Her lower lip trembles and her eyes fill with tears.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She nods, shakes her head. “I’m not sure. I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I can’t believe that he really did,” she waves her hand over her head. “That.”

  “Do you need some time alone?” I ask this to be generous, but really hope she doesn’t. I don’t relish the thought of standing out in the icy wind.