The Guilt We Carry

by Samuel W. Gailey

  Alice slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and slipped down the aisle, going in the opposite direction of Buddy and the cops. Hopefully, it would take a little while to sort through his story.

  She didn’t look back. Just kept her head down and made her way toward the last car. The aisle was clogged with passengers trying to get off the train. Everybody moving too damn slow. She shoved past an old man, and he almost fell into an empty seat. He said something, but Alice kept moving faster. She came to the last car and peeked out the exit. No sign of Buddy or the cops out on the platform. She stepped out of the train and moved quickly toward the station. Not too many people to blend in with. Needed to get out onto the street and disappear into the city.

  The cops would talk to the girl. Get her version of the story. But she didn’t do anything wrong. Not really. Just young and naïve and a big target to guys like Buddy. Alice knew that Delilah wouldn’t go back home. She certainly didn’t go back home when she should have, and how she was still drawing breath could only be chalked up to sheer dumb luck. And if Delilah didn’t get a little of that, she’d end up pregnant or dead—or both.

  Not your problem, Alice told herself. Not your problem.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SINCLAIR WAITED FOR the giant to open the office door to the Comfort Manor and casually hummed a tune. “Camptown Races,” a song that he learned growing up, first singing it in music class when he might have been eight or nine years old. The simple melody had always stuck with him, even though he couldn’t remember all the lyrics. The tune was his form of mental yoga, de-stressing and calming his mind when the outside world became a bit more unpredictable and chaotic than he preferred. He didn’t appear to be in a hurry or particularly anxious about the fact that someone had stolen ninety-one thousand dollars from him—and that the very same person had walked out of Terry’s trailer with the cash—and had, for whatever reason, decided to leave the drugs behind. A bit puzzling to Sinclair, but he intended to get it all sorted out soon enough. He nodded his appreciation to the large man—a constant companion—who held the door open for him.

  “Thank you, Phillip. You can wait outside, if you please. Stay by the window where I can see you. Shouldn’t take me much more than a minute or two.”

  Phillip grunted that he understood.

  Earlier, they had driven past Terry’s trailer and discovered it still swarmed with Harrisburg’s finest. Everything taped off—the doors, the driveway, the entire perimeter of the lot. Detectives and forensic teams milled about, going over every inch of the trailer with a fine-tooth comb. Physical access to Terry’s deplorable tin box of a home would not be possible in the foreseeable future. But for Sinclair, this would not be problematic. One simple phone call would answer his questions about what had been discovered, or more accurately not discovered, in the trailer—the advantage of having someone inside the department on a retainer of sorts. Information was a valuable commodity. Maybe not to the extent of his product and the cash it produced, but invaluable nonetheless.

  Uncle Henry and Pig were dead. Sinclair was disappointed to lose two of his best men—loyal help was difficult to secure—but he was comforted by the knowledge that they managed to take down two cops in the shoot-out. Terry was dead as well. His drugs scattered about the trailer. But no money. Terry’s transgression nowhere to be found.

  Sinclair crossed the tiny lobby—not much bigger than a small bedroom—and stepped up to the plexiglass-protected front desk. This was the sixth deplorable motel that he and Phillip had visited in the last few hours. They were all the same: filthy and smelled of rotting fruit. He was eager to step into a hot shower and scrub the stink from his skin. Sinclair took a deep breath. Attempted to push this thought aside. He took solace in the understanding that it was only a matter of time before he approached the front desk he was searching for—that he would find this young woman named Alice. Sinclair was quite confident of that fact.

  * * *

  Ernie stood behind the front desk licking envelopes. He’d been at it for the last thirty minutes. Paying bills for the Comfort Manor fell to him, a responsibility that he didn’t mind—he was considered management—but he hated those envelopes that required licking; and there were still two large boxes left, purchased by the previous manager many years ago. Ernie had considered on more than one occasion just tossing the boxes into the dumpster so that he could purchase new envelopes with self-adhesive peel-off strips that didn’t taste like a sink full of dirty dishwater. That sure would be nice. He could use Scotch tape and avoid the whole licking process—this thought crossed his mind on a few occasions as well—but in the long run, licking seemed faster than tearing off strips of tape. At least the stamps were the self-adhesive kind.

  Ernie noticed the small man enter—or maybe it was a scrawny teenager. All kinds traipsed into the Manor, so he tried not to judge. He licked another envelope, then glanced through the plexiglass toward the petite man.

  “Help you?” Ernie asked.

  “I certainly hope so.”

  “Get you a room?”

  Sinclair visibly grimaced. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’m here to inquire about a certain young lady, early to mid-twenties, that I suspect might be spending her nights here. Alice is her name.” Sinclair started to place his manicured fingers on top of the counter, but after a quick glance at the grime-streaked Formica, decided it best to let his hands fall to his sides instead.

  Ernie stared at him through the comfort of the plexiglass. Lick, seal. Lick, seal. “A friend of yours?”

  Sinclair smiled, revealing his plastic mannequin grin, and shook his head back and forth emphatically. “No. No, she is not.”

  Ernie had been through this drill a few times over. “Yeah, well, I’m not allowed to …”

  Sinclair waved away Ernie’s words. “I understand all that. I really do. But time is of the essence. Are you the manager?”

  Ernie took a drink of water. All the licking made his lips dry. “Assistant manager.”

  “Is there another manager on duty?”

  “No. Just me.”

  “Then I suppose that you will have to do.” Sinclair stepped a little closer to the plexiglass and spoke with a tone of great confidence. “This person. Alice. She has taken something of mine that is of great value, and it’s rather imperative that I find her as quickly as possible. If she resides here, short of her actually being in a room here at the Casual Manor, I’m hoping to find something that will give me some sort of an indication of where she might be.”

  Lick, seal. “Comfort Manor,” Ernie said. Lick, seal.

  “Pardon me?”

  “It’s Comfort Manor. Not Casual Manor,” Ernie corrected.

  “My mistake. Comfort Manor.” Sinclair withdrew his money clip and held it out in front of him so that Ernie could see the entire wad of cash. He peeled off three one-hundred-dollar bills and spread them out neatly on the Formica countertop, then pointed out the window toward where Phillip was standing. Phillip stood facing the window, close to the glass—close enough that his breath fogged up the pane of glass.

  “That is my dear friend Phillip. Quite a large man, as you can plainly see.” Sinclair tapped the three bills on the countertop. “This is what I’d like to propose. In exchange for these three one-hundred-dollar bills, I’d like to take a quick peek into Alice’s room.”

  “I didn’t say she stayed here,” Ernie offered. Lick, seal.

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Look. I got work to do. So.” He licked and sealed to illustrate his point.

  “I understand. We all have jobs to do. What is your name, please?” Sinclair asked.

  “Ernie.” Lick, seal.

  “Ernie. Short for Ernest, I presume.”

  Ernie stared at Sinclair like this was the first he had ever heard of such a thing.

  “In any regard, my uncle’s name was Ernest. He worked as a mechanic and much preferred the company of an automobile to that of an actual human being. Di
ed a few years back as the result of a brain tumor. Wish I could say that I miss him, but I do not.” Sinclair tapped the cash again with his index finger. “Now, here’s the situation, Ernie. If you choose not to accept my offer and decline to show me Alice’s room, I will have Phillip come inside and crush your testicles with his bare hand.”

  Sinclair maintained his mannequin-like grin.

  Ernie stopped licking. Stopped sealing. “Huh?”

  “Phillip has crushed testicles before. I have seen it.”

  Ernie looked past the small man and out toward Phillip. “Look. I don’t think … You can’t get through the plexiglass.” But Ernie’s voice lacked any trace of conviction.

  “True. But Phillip will wait for you to get off work. And if you choose to call the police, Phillip will wait for the police to leave, and then he will crush your testicles. He is a patient man. He will wait for you.”

  Ernie stared back at Sinclair.

  “Three hundred dollars for two minutes of your time, Ernie. You stand to make one hundred and fifty dollars per minute. We will neither touch nor remove anything from Alice’s room, I might add. Three hundred dollars. Or shall I go and talk to Phillip?”

  Ernie set the envelope he had yet to lick down on the desk. He didn’t particularly want to have his testicles crushed. “Give me a second. I’ll go grab the key.”

  * * *

  The hotel room was just as Alice had left it—the mattress stripped bare and the dresser drawers yanked open. The shoebox-sized room still smelled of booze and cigarettes. The curtains were drawn and the overhead light didn’t work, making the space feel like a cave for a wild animal.

  Sinclair held a clean, starched handkerchief over his nose and mouth, glanced around the room, and watched Phillip search for anything of interest. While he waited, Sinclair removed his handkerchief for a moment so that he could light a cigarette, then alternated between puffing and covering his mouth and nose with the crisp white cloth.

  Ernie fidgeted in the doorway and kept glancing over his shoulder. He tugged on his Mister Rogers sweater, more out of nervousness and for something to do with his hands. He watched Phillip work the room, thudding around like a caged gorilla. “Alice said that she’d be gone for a few days,” he offered. “Going to Allentown is what she said. For a few days.”

  “Hmmm,” Sinclair mused.

  Phillip flipped over the mattress.

  “Do you really have to do that?” Ernie protested with a less-than-forceful tone.

  Phillip proceeded to flip over the box spring.

  “Alice said she was going to go see a friend. A friend that was in some kind of trouble. Marriage problems. That’s what she said.” Ernie pulled on the cuffs of his sweater.

  “Hmmm,” Sinclair repeated.

  Another hotel guest walked by, so Ernie stepped inside the room and partially shut the door behind him in order to block the view. “I don’t think you’re gonna find anything. Do you? Do you think you’ll find something?”

  “We shall soon see,” Sinclair replied.

  “What did she take from you, anyways? Alice. What did she take?”

  “My pride, for one.” Sinclair sucked on his cigarette like a piece of candy. “Do you think Alice lied to you, Ernie? About Allentown?”

  Ernie worked on his collar now. “I don’t know. I guess. Maybe. Do you?”

  Sinclair sat down on a shabby chair beside the window, his feet dangling an inch off the floor. He held up his cigarette, an ash ready to tumble and fall, and Phillip quickly found an ashtray and held it below the man’s burning stick. Sinclair tapped the ash and let out a long, disappointed sigh.

  “It’s not easy. I tell you, Ernie, it’s not easy. Running your own business. Always something. Especially a business such as mine.”

  Ernie nodded like he understood perfectly.

  “Check the bathroom again, Phillip.”

  Phillip nodded like a good servant and lumbered into the bathroom.

  Sinclair glanced around at his surroundings and shuddered. “How much is a room here at the Comfort Manor, Ernie? What do people pay for these kinds of accommodations?”

  “Well. Some people just pay by the hour. For. You know. Twenty for that. Fifty for the night.”

  “Ah. And after the hourly type of visits, are the linens stripped and replaced?”

  Ernie nodded. Then shook his head. “Sometimes.”

  “Fascinating. Truly. Our society, certain aspects of it, completely perplex me. What about you? Do you find it compelling? Or are you merely immune to it by now?”

  Ernie shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess. Don’t really think about it.”

  “Of course, you don’t.”

  Ernie glanced toward the bathroom. “Are you guys almost done here? I should get back to work.”

  “In a moment, Ernie. In a moment.” Sinclair wiped off some ash that had fallen on his pant leg. “Here’s the thing, Ernie. I offer a product that is … sensitive. I guess that’s the best way to describe it. And along with the sensitive nature of my product, I deal with some rather unpredictable people. People that are unstable, desperate, greedy, and quite frankly, morally bankrupt. It comes with the territory, and I signed on the dotted line. I shouldn’t complain. I really shouldn’t. I make a tremendous amount of money. More in two weeks than you do in over a year, I’m willing to wager.”

  Ernie looked like he wanted to crawl right out of his Mister Rogers sweater. He remained close to the door, continually glancing over his shoulder. “Okay.”

  Something shattered in the bathroom. Possibly a glass. Maybe the mirror.

  “Your friend just broke something. He’s gonna have to pay for that. Somebody will have to pay for it. I don’t want to get in trouble,” Ernie stated.

  Sinclair studied Ernie for a moment. Really scrutinized him. From head to toe. A trace of a smile curved at the edges of his delicate lips. “Tell me something, Ernie. Do you like what you do? And be honest with me. Does this kind of work fulfill you? Does it allow you a sense of accomplishment?”

  Ernie glanced toward the bathroom again—Phillip removed the top of the toilet basin and stuck his hand in the water. Ernie stared back at Sinclair, not really sure how to answer that kind of question. “It’s all right, I guess. Pays the bills.”

  “Just all right? And is that enough for you, Ernie? Just paying the bills. Barely scraping by. A hand-to-mouth existence. Living in some kind of shabby little studio apartment where the heater probably blows cold and the AC blows hot. Shopping for canned fruit and vegetables at the 99-Cent store. Clothes from Goodwill. That doesn’t sound all right to me. Directly the opposite, if you were to ask me.”

  Ernie shrugged—he’d never looked at his life in those kinds of terms. “I should get back to the office now.”

  Sinclair stabbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. “Should you?”

  Ernie nodded that he should.

  “Humor me for a moment, Ernie.”

  Ernie didn’t know exactly what he meant by that. “I gotta finish with the bills. I’m responsible for them. You know?”

  “Forget the bills, Ernie. For the time being.”

  Phillip walked back into the room. Shook his head at Sinclair.

  “I am seeking any and all information pertaining to Alice. Would you share with me all that you might know?”

  “I don’t know anything about Alice. Not really. Why would you think that I do?”

  “Because, Ernie, when I look at you, I see a man that is curious. I also see a man that has crossed the line into a state of utter loneliness. When you combine those two conditions, it creates the irresistible compulsion to insert yourself into someone else’s life that you desperately want to be part of. Do you follow?”

  Ernie glanced over his shoulder again. “No. Not really.”

  “Fine. In the plainest of terms, I’m willing to bet that you eavesdrop and snoop on the affairs of others. I think that you know more about Alice than you’re letting on.”

 
Ernie’s ears burned bright, but he shook his head. “I think that you should call the police if Alice stole something from you.”

  “Well, unfortunately, that’s something that I can’t frankly do at this point in time.”

  “I’m sorry. But. This doesn’t feel right. All these questions about Alice.” Ernie edged himself closer to the door. “I think that maybe I should give your three hundred bucks back and call the police.”

  Phillip lumbered forward, grabbed Ernie by his scrawny arm, and pulled him to the center of the room.

  “Disappointing. That is not the type of cooperation that I was hoping to seek from you, Ernie.”

  Sinclair simply nodded at Phillip, who then closed the door, bolted the lock, and slid the safety chain into place.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE WALK FROM the train station to downtown took over thirty minutes. And like every other American city center, certain areas of its downtown proved to be a big, bright neon light that seemed to attract all those desperate, hopeless souls forced to live upon the streets. In Charlotte, that section of town was near the Elmwood Cemetery, off of Eighth Street—close to the Urban Ministry Center, the Men’s Shelter of Charlotte, and the main public library—a popular spot for the homeless, junkies, drunks, runaways—all the dregs of society. Most hung out in packs, smoking cigarettes and passing bottles back and forth. There were a few loners. Men in wheelchairs slumped under a heap of blankets. Stragglers that sat on the sidewalk, muttering to themselves and picking at their hair. And for every bail bondsman storefront, there were two liquor stores along with the street dwellers that loitered in front of them.

  Alice held the duffel bag tight to her back and stepped into the Graham Street Liquor Mart, no different and no better than any of the other liquor stores other than it appeared to be empty, and she wasn’t exactly in the mood to be social.