by Terry Fallis
I’m sure I made some kind of a noise when this was happening, but I either can’t remember what it was or am too embarrassed to note its pitch.
“Gotcha. We meet at fucking last,” he said in a calm, American voice.
He was a big, blond-haired, defensive lineman-type, with a swagger and a smirk that made him seem even more sinister. Did I mention he was big? The entire wholesome beach-boy bodybuilder look was somewhat sullied by the telltale faintly yellow-tinged eyes of a heavy steroid user. Rather than fighting my way out of the bathroom and making good my escape, I thought it would be prudent to listen to what he had to say and, you know, see what he wanted.
“What are you doing?” I managed to gurgle through the pressure of his pile-driver fist pushed against my throat. “What do you want?”
“Don’t talk, Everett. Just listen,” he said evenly. “You’ve made someone very angry. That was not smart. Not fucking smart at all.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “Are you threatening me?”
He laughed at me, right in my face. He came in so close I could feel the air currents of his guffaw against my cheek.
“Am I threatening you, he asks? I can see this is your first rodeo,” he sighed, shaking his head. “So just to clarify, if I were threatening you, I’d be holding you upside down right now. I’d be gripping your ankle in my right hand, and your head would be partially submerged in this here toilet. I might even flush a few times to reinforce my point. Now Everett, with all your powers of deduction, do you think I could suspend you upside down by my right hand only, with your head in this here toilet bowl?”
I thought about it briefly.
“Yes, I would have to say you probably could.”
“Right. Good answer.”
He then pulled me forward and lowered me back onto the toilet so that his right fist, still clenching the front of my shirt and propped under my jaw, no longer supported my entire body weight. Again, he leaned in close, very close.
“To be fucking clear, no, I’m not threatening you. I merely offering you some friendly advice that really, and I do fucking mean, really, you should take, and embrace fucking fully. In case you hadn’t noticed, I quite like the word ‘fucking.’ It’s helpful when I’m trying to be serious, or in your case, fucking serious.”
It was an unexpected relief that his breath was quite minty and fresh.
“You’re going to have a visitor in the not-too-distant future. Now I’m telling you this straight up. You should do what he asks of you. Really, you should. You’re going to want to fucking trust me on this point.”
“And if I don’t?” I asked, totally taking leave of my senses, my mind rooted in all those TV shows where the victim says stuff like this and always comes out okay in the end.
“You really did not just fucking ask me that. Do you really want to let that stand, or should we just forget it ever slipped out?”
“I withdraw the question.”
“Okay, then, I think we’re done here,” he said, as if we’d just cut the lawn together. “Oh, by the way, I understand your father is recovering nicely from a stroke. Glad to hear it. He’s got quite the nice fucking view from his room over at, you know, the Orlando Fucking Health Rehabilitation Institute.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Ah, ah, ah, now. Remember?” He wagged his finger at me so it stroked the tip of my nose.
“I withdraw the question.”
“Fucking right, you do.”
After he left, I felt the need to make use of the facilities a second time. He was nowhere in sight when I emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later.
The cashier didn’t even look up when I wobbled out the door and back to the car. I raced over to the hospital, still spending more time than was safe with my eyes on the rear-view mirror.
Just like almost every other day, Yolanda was at the nurses’ station. But it didn’t really feel like every other day.
“Yolanda, is everything okay around here? Is my dad okay?”
“Hello, Master Everett. Everything is just fine now, but you did miss some excitement this morning. We had what we call a Code 22 mini-lockdown.”
“A Code 22 mini-lockdown? That doesn’t sound good. What does it mean?”
“We had an unauthorized visitor cruising the hallways, looking for someone.”
“Who was he looking for?” I asked, feeling a little queasy.
“Well, we’re still not sure, but he did spend some time with your father. Your dad pulled the patient alarm string.”
“Oh my gosh. Is Dad okay? Did the guy do anything to him?” I asked.
“If I’ve learned anything since your father arrived, it’s that you don’t mess with Billy Kane. Your dad had it all well in hand,” she explained. “Anyway, before security could get there, the guy was smiling and sauntering back out the front door like he owned the place, still humming to his big self, like nothing had happened. I tried to speak to him, but he wasn’t in the mood for conversation.”
I hadn’t heard much after the two words “big self.”
“What did he look like?”
“He kind of looked a little like that guy who played the Joker in that Batman show?”
“Cesar Romero?”
“No, not the TV show, the movie.”
“Jack Nicholson?”
“No, not that movie. One of the newer ones.”
“Danny DeVito?”
“No, no. He was the Penguin, I think.”
“Right! Oh, was it Heath Ledger?”
“Bingo. That’s the one,” she said. “Hey, you’re pretty good. You should get yourself on Jeopardy.”
“One of the few benefits of a misspent youth in front of the TV,” I conceded. “So this intruder guy looked like the late, great Heath Ledger?”
“Pretty much. Except this guy was about three times the size and had a dirty mouth on him, to boot.”
“Pardon my language, Yolanda, but did he happen to say ‘fucking’ a lot?”
“Now how could you possibly know that?” Yolanda looked at me with arms crossed over her not insubstantial chest. “He didn’t say much to me, but he did use that particular word quite a bit in our brief encounter. Do you know this dude?”
“Of course not. Does he sound like the kind of guy I would be hanging out with?” I protested. “You said yourself he had a dirty mouth. I just put two and two together. Anyway, I guess I’d better check in on my father.”
She kept her eyes on me for a minute longer before uncrossing her arms.
“He’s still in his room, hon.”
I found him propped up in his bed, flipping through the latest Car and Driver magazine.
“Dad! Are you okay?” I said, perhaps with a little too much concern in my voice.
“Whaddya mean, am I okay? Why wouldn’t I be? The new C and D just came through. The meatloaf at lunch tasted a little less like sawdust than the last batch, and I get to have a nap soon. Of course I’m okay. I’m fine.”
“Dad, I mean that big guy, that intruder, did he touch you?”
“What are you yammerin’ about? Some juiced-up Charles Atlas comes in to look around and everyone blows a head gasket,” Dad replied, returning to his magazine. “That happened like four hours ago. I’ve already moved on, and it’d be great if you would, too.”
“Well, just before we move on, what did he want? What did he say?”
“He just asked me my name, so I told him. That was about it.”
“Then what happened?”
“Well, he started moving around the room, picking up stuff, and looking at it. When he grabbed the photo of you and your mother there, and stared at it with this funny look on his face, well, that’s when I told him to shove off.”
“Dad, the guy’s huge. Why would you say something like that to him?”
“He was taking liberties and I didn’t appreciate it. So I did what I always do when people take liberties. I called him on it.”
“What did he do?”
“He just smiled and put the photo back, all gentle-like, and said ‘Whatever you say, old man.’ That kind of pissed me off so I asked him to kindly take his muscle-bound ass out of here. That’s when I pulled the call-stringy thingy.”
“And he walked out? Just like that?”
“He gave me a smirk and said we might be seeing more of each other.
“ ‘Not if I see you first,’ I told him.”
Just then, Yolanda came into the room with Beverley on her arm.
“Nobody tells me anything around here. I just heard the news. Are you all right, Billy?” Beverley asked. “Or is the more appropriate question, is the intruder all right?”
“Oh jeez, here we go again. I’m just fine. Top drawer. Couldn’t be better,” he said. “Look, nothing happened. And it’s over. I can’t tell the story again. Let’s change the subject.”
“Come on, Billy, I don’t have a lot of excitement in my life these days, not counting the pool on the timing of my own impending superstroke royale, of course. So how about cutting an old gal some slack and spilling some details.”
“Beverley, there’s nothing to tell,” Dad started. “Some cocky jerk dragged his big-ass muscles in here to rattle my cage a bit. So I just sent him and his big-ass muscles on their way. End of story.”
“That’s not nearly as exciting as Yolanda made it out to be.”
“I just calls them like I sees them,” Yolanda replied.
She settled Beverley in one of the guest chairs at the foot of the bed and stepped out of the room. I sat down in the chair nearer the head of the bed and fidgeted a bit.
“Okay, what’s going on, young Ev?” Beverley asked. “What’s happened?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Not to your father, because you don’t have a steering wheel and a turbocharged engine. But it’s obvious to me something is rotten in Denmark. How about you tell us?”
I sat there in silence for a minute or two, assessing my options. I didn’t like any of them.
“Okay, well, since I’m apparently an open book, you’re right, I have a bit of a situation on my hands. And I think it’s time I let you both in on it. I could use your help. Dad, Beverley knows part of this story already, but not the whole picture, or what’s happened in the last twenty-four hours.”
Beverley looked worried and leaned forward a little. Dad looked at his magazine and leaned back a little. Beverley slapped his right foot.
“Look alive, Billy, your son is about to tell us a story. And I think you’re going to want to hear it. I know I do.”
“Cripes, can’t an old car guy just read his new mag in peace?”
Beverley answered by shaking her head.
So he closed the magazine, folded his hands across his chest, and nodded to me.
It took me about twenty minutes to get it all out. I held my hand up twice to quell questions from Dad that I was about to answer with the next part of the story. I covered everything from stem to stern – the club, the pole, the blog, the Candace Sharpe plug, the tidal wave of readers, the money I was making from online advertising, the invitations to do major network talk shows, the book deal, Lewis, Shawna and Chloe, the protest rallies, Megan, the mysterious texts, and finally my washroom waltz with the bulked-up beach boy on the way over, who had apparently tangled with my father earlier in the day.
For the most part, neither Dad nor Beverley interrupted me, but I could tell by the way their eyes widened at certain points and Beverley’s hand shot to her mouth during the bathroom bully scene that I’d been able to hold their attention.
“Let me get this straight. The dance pole is actually in your apartment?” Dad asked.
“Your son is terrorized in a public bathroom by a blond behemoth and you ask about the dance pole?” Beverley asked him, shooting him a look of thinly veiled contempt. “That’s the part of the story you want to clarify?”
“What? He’s fine. Look at him,” Dad replied. “I’m just trying to visualize the sweet setup he’s got in his bachelor pad, that’s all.”
“Dad, the pole isn’t in my apartment. So you can dial back the mental picture of naked women swinging around my kitchen. It’s only the nut that anchors the very top of the pole to my floor that’s in my kitchen.”
He looked down and shook his head.
“Too bad.”
Beverley slapped his foot again.
“Focus, Billy. No backsliding,” she scolded. “You’ve come too far to relapse now.”
“Geez, can’t a guy just be a goddamned guy for even a couple of seconds anymore?” he complained. “Okay, so you think the jackass who joined you in the bathroom stall is the same guy who paid me a visit this morning?”
“Sounds like the same guy to me. And it clearly was no coincidence.”
“Thanks, Columbo,” Dad replied.
Both Beverley and my father suggested I stay at my dad’s condo that night. Why would I go back to the apartment? I could see the logic in their proposal, but in my state of mind, logic wasn’t necessarily the dominant actor. Frankly, looking back across a lifetime of decisions, logic has seldom enjoyed the influence it so clearly deserves. My computer, the source of my currently inflated income, was at the apartment. All my clothes, my toothbrush, all my other stuff, and a six-pack of Corona were all back at my apartment. No steroid-addled bronzed blond muscle for hire was going to keep me from my own apartment. Of course, it was easier to make such a bold decision when the pumped-up enforcer wasn’t holding me up against the wall of a stall with one hand. I headed home, anyway.
I drove the wrong way for a while, turning every couple of blocks, then corkscrewing through a labyrinth of residential side streets before finally meandering my way back toward my apartment on lesser populated roads running parallel to the major thoroughfares. I’m not sure why I took these precautions given that my muscular friend already knew where I lived. But I was a little foggy-headed. I remembered along the way that I needed groceries, so I stopped at a supermarket when I was almost home.
I pushed my cart around the aisles, doubling back in the middle of frozen foods and again in canned goods to make sure no other shopping cart was shadowing me. All clear, I thought. I picked up enough provisions to get me through the next several days, including a nice New York strip loin from the butcher’s counter that I figured I’d earned. As I turned to push my groceries to the checkout, I caught a flash of movement in the corner of my eye. A young man on a mission was moving my way. I took off down the cereal aisle, my shopping cart fishtailing in front of me.
“Hey!” the man said as I sprinted ahead of him. “Hey, buddy! Wait!”
I wasn’t sticking around for round two of “Let’s Bully Everett.”
“Wait, your phone! Your phone!” he shouted as I skidded into the juice and pop aisle.
Yeah, right. There was no way I was going to fall for the old “You left your phone on the butcher counter” gambit. No way. I’m no greenhorn. Then I slowed down and finally stopped. I’d left my phone on the butcher counter. The young man finally caught up, breathing hard.
“You left your phone …”
“I know, on the butcher counter,” I interrupted, accepting the phone from him. “Thanks so much, I’d forget my head if it weren’t attached.”
“Hey, are you okay? You look a little spooked.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Rough day. Sorry about bolting on you there. I, um, thought you were someone else.”
“No worries,” he said. “You’re fast. Glad I caught you.”
“Me too. Thanks again.”
I’d been home for about half an hour. It wasn’t until after I’d loaded my groceries into the fridge and cupboards that I noticed it. Now that I’d spied it, I wondered why I hadn’t seen it sooner. A small yellow Post-it note stuck to the closed lid of my laptop. I hadn’t put it there. I didn’t even have any yellow Post-it notes. I felt queasy all
of a sudden. Everything went quiet in the apartment. I was too far away to read what it said on the little yellow square. I just stood there, frozen at the fridge, my steak half in the meat drawer and half out. I let go of the steak and it slid the rest of the way in. I closed the drawer and then the fridge. I stayed where I was, listening. I could hear the kitchen crew downstairs getting ready for the night ahead, but there was not a sound in the apartment. From my spot by the fridge, I scanned every inch of my space for other telltale signs of a home invasion. Nothing looked out of place. Nothing seemed amiss.
I then forced myself to tiptoe over to my bedroom door. The room was empty. With a level of stealth I didn’t know I possessed, I eased over to my closet and yanked open the door with considerable force. Nothing. Good thing. What would I have done if bulging beach boy had been in there waiting for me? I mean, after changing my pants, what would I have done? I clearly wasn’t thinking straight. After checking everywhere, from under my living room couch to under my kitchen sink, I concluded that there was no longer an intruder in my apartment. There were no signs of forced entry. Both my front and fire escape doors were locked.
Finally, I inched over to my laptop and focused on the little yellow note stuck to the middle of the lid.
“Do what he wants.”
That’s all it said in relatively neat capital letters. I don’t know why I delicately flicked at the note with my finger. Maybe I thought it was a trigger of some kind, a tripwire for an explosive device inside. Ridiculous, I know. I came to my senses and opened the laptop. A larger yellow Post-it note graced the touchpad inside.
“So this is where you make the magic. Well, get ready to make some more.”
I was beginning to rethink the “sleepover at Dad’s condo” idea. I did another thorough search of the apartment. Again, I found nothing out of the ordinary, except perhaps for the two-week-old slice of pizza I discovered under my bed. Over the last couple of days, I’d wondered about that faint oregano scent in the room.