The Kissing Game

by Marie Turner

  Chapter 9

  “Más remedio tiene un muerto.”

  Even a dead man has more to hope for.

  Within minutes, I’m standing at Henry’s desk, feeling as though the fire of dread steams through me.

  Henry’s talking with an associate, a skinny pale man with slicked-back hair who speaks as if he has something stuck in his throat. I wait for them to finish. It takes a million years. As soon as the associate walks away, I glance around and lean over Henry’s partition.

  “I’ve got to get that video back from your boss,” I say, my eyes bulging.

  Henry scowls and shakes his head as if I’ve just told him I’m going to join the circus and become a clown. “You know it’s out of my hands now. It’s at my boss’s house.”

  “I know, but I’ve got to do something. Can’t you get the tape somehow? It’s dire, Henry, dire.”

  He bites the inner part of his lip and taps his pen on his desk. “I don’t know,” he says. His boss’s phone rings, and he answers it, writes down the message, and then hangs up. I wait while he finishes.

  “It’s really insane that you want the tape back now, you know that?”

  “I know,” I admit.

  “You know,” he hedges, leaning back into his chair and adjusting his sweater vest. He speaks in a ghostly whisper. “We could do something, but it’s risky,” Henry offers finally.

  “What?” I whisper, leaning.

  “I do have a key,” Henry gazes around his cubicle to make sure no one is within earshot.

  “To your boss’s house?” Air fills my lungs in a rush.

  “Yeah, he had me water his plants when he went on vacation. I’ve still got the key and code. What can I say? The man trusts me.”

  A key to his boss’s house.

  As I stand there, the first thought that scurries in my mind is breaking and entering. Am I that person who breaks and enters? Am I a criminal now? Do I do enter people’s homes unlawfully and take stuff? I was, after all, the woman who tried to drug her boss, kissed him on camera, and planned to use the evidence against him. Considering those facts, maybe I’m capable of worse. I realize Henry could possibly be leading me down a dangerous path, but I’m past the point of danger. I’m a villain already. The only thing missing is the deeply dented breastplate over my torso and a blood-spattered sword in my hand. Henry’s desk phone rings again, but he doesn’t answer it. He just sits there looking at me while I contemplate the consequences of venturing further down this path: hard time, the color orange, being someone’s bitch.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, considering the fact that Henry helped me get where I am now, and maybe can help me out of this mess. “Would you get in trouble? What if your boss caught you?”

  “I doubt I’d be implicated. To be sure, I could just give you the key and park down the street. You could go in yourself. But, why the sudden change of heart? I don’t get it. Just because Robert’s dad is in the hospital? You gotta have a little more backbone than that if you want to deal with lawyers, sweetie. And did we not all agreed that Robert deserved a little of his own steel-toed boot?” A printer nearby whines and three pages slide out if it, perfectly, one on top of the other.

  “Yeah, but I can’t do this to him.”

  Henry huffs and throws up his hands. “Whatever, fine. You want to go tonight? My boss will only be out of town until tomorrow. We’ll have to go quickly.”

  “Yeah, let’s do it,” I say. “We don’t have any other options. I can’t let your boss get that tape.”

  “Look, I’ll meet you on the corner of Market after work. I’ve got a long day and I won’t finish until around seven o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Henry,” I tell him.

  That day, Robert takes several conference calls that keep him occupied. He exits his office only twice: once to go to a lunch meeting, and the second time to hand me the tiny tape that he’s dictated his timesheets into. Each time his lashed eyes catch mine and I feel a jolt of hell more horrible than brimstone moving up my spine. When he comes out to hand me the tape, he leans in over my desk, closer than professionally necessary, so close that his open suit jacket tickles my spine.

  “I’ll be on a conference call for the rest of the day, but if you could enter these, I’d appreciate it,” he says so sweetly that forty priests couldn’t baptize the evil visitant of my guilt away.

  At 6:55, I grab my bag and set out without saying goodbye to Robert. His little red phone light is on, indicating he’s still on a conference call, likely making up for being out of the office yesterday because of his dad.

  Soon, I’m out in the street in front of the building. A lamppost flickers blue even though the sky is still pale. It highlights cracks in the street, lines that creep like hands up the road despite the fresh tar covering them. While I wait, one distant cloud ghostly arches down over the side of a distant skyscraper.

  Henry soon pulls up in his red Toyota. I collapse inside his car and shut the door. He glances around us as if he’s looking for watching eyes. He’s wearing his typical sweater vest, and his hair looks tired.

  As he pulls up to the red light, he instructs me, “I’m gonna drop you off a block away from my boss’s house. You can’t miss it. It’s the oddly shaped building second from the last at the top of the hill on the right.” He hands me a key and a slip of paper with the number code 4847 written on it.

  As he turns right at the intersection and drives towards Pacific Heights, he explains, “The thing is—his mailbox isn’t right inside the front door. The mail slot delivers straight into his office, but his office is on the second floor. It’s a weird layout. The key gives you access to the gate outside, but you have to go downstairs to enter the code to get into the house. Once inside, you’ll have to go upstairs to his office, which is facing the street.” Henry glances over at me while he’s driving, seeming to make sure I’m paying attention. I’m holding the key in my hand and thinking I’ve lost all hold on reality. “When you get inside, you have to type in the code backwards: 7484 or the alarm will sound.”

  “Okay, backwards?”

  “Yeah, backwards.” He eyes me. “You can do this, right? Because we don’t need any shit to go down. Just get in and get out.”

  “Certainly,” I say, thinking of Robert. What could go wrong when you’re doing something right? “Thanks for doing this, Henry. I’m sorry to be so much trouble, and I’m forever grateful.”

  I watch out the window as we drive toward Henry’s boss’s house. We pass a group of homeless people leaning against a decaying brick building, their stuffed carts nearby. They look like disheveled remnants of war party. It takes less than ten minutes to arrive at our destination, but by then the sky has lost its light.

  “I’m going to park here. If anything happens, and I mean anything, I’ll meet you over on Westin, just a few blocks from here, just look for my car.” Henry doesn’t shout at me or show emotion. He just nudges the car into a spot under a tree a block away from his boss’s house and slides the gearshift into park, as if he routinely does this kind of thing, as if breaking and entering is a normal Thursday night activity for him. The street outside looks ridiculously dark, like the edge of the earth. “Good luck,” Henry tells me. And no worries. It’ll be fine. You’ll be in and out. Just grab the envelope and get out quickly. Problem solved.”

  I remove my cell phone from my backpack and shove it in my pocket before placing my backpack in the rear seat of Henry’s car.

  “See you soon,” I say as I jump out and then shut the door.

  Briskly, I turn the corner in and rise up the dark Pacific Heights street alone. The air has grown remarkably crisp in the short drive, and dark wind comes at me from all directions. No cars climb the steep hill but instead crouch in parking spots that hug the curbs. With the air smelling like someone’s beef stew, the hill steepens as I pass glossy garages and a short tree that has sprouted out of a circle in the sidewalk. Like of victim of circumstance, it waves weakly in the wind. In front
of me, the apartments turn into houses with actual front yards and winding walkways that lead to gated entrances and sparkly windows.

  When I nearly reach the top of the hill, I see the oddly shaped house. It’s mostly glass and looks industrial. Soon I’m walking the path to the entrance, where small lights ignite beneath my feet, turning the ground into a fiery path. Using the key Henry gave me, I open the iron gate and soon descend down the steps toward the front entrance. Pausing, I listen for noise. For a second, I’m certain I hear the mumbling chatter of conversation. Holding my breath, I press my ear against the front door and listen. I hear only a car chugging up the steep hill.

  In the partial light, I notice the keypad next to the front door. With nearly shaking fingers, I type the code and hear the lock slide open with a snap. With my hand on the door handle, I barely turn it and the front door wafts open. As my right foot steps inside, a light flicks on in the entryway, revealing shiny parquet floors and an steel railing that wraps a grand staircase around an atrium.

  If I had the time, I would walk around the place and get a good look at how the other half lives. Instead, I slide the front door shut, and take a few steps inside. Something tells me to call out, “Hello!” but I opt to remain silent.

  Beyond the atrium, the floor-to-ceiling walls of glass reveal the sparkling view of San Francisco and lights across the bay. I pause and hear my pulse thumping in my temples, telling myself that I’m just running an errand. Just an errand. I’m not breaking the law. This is all for good deed, a voice keeps telling me. To save a cruel man who ruins my life but who is so beautiful that nuns would rip off their veils and habits at the sight of him. A man whom I’ve also kissed. Twice.

  Taking the stairs on the tips of my toes, I’m soon at the top of the landing and entering what I hope is the office. With my right hand on the wall, I flick on the light. The room is long and narrow, grassy wallpaper behind a plain bed. Past the bed are glass double doors that lead out onto a balcony. The window looks down onto lines of lights in the city. I flick off that light and continue toward the next door, which I enter. My hand shakes as I flick on those lights, feeling as if something might grab my fingers in the dark before.

  Overhead hangs an oval-shaped light that looks like a massive eye. The office is wood paneled with a television mounted on the left wall and the desk on the right. Near the window at the far end is a cabinet that I suspect holds the mail. At the sight, I feel a lifting sensation that my task is nearly accomplished. Having whipped the cabinet open, I reach for the mail, which falls out in a tumble of paper and advertisements. On the floor, I see the envelope sitting right there on top. Simple as that! I nab it so fast that the envelope opens, and out fall three pictures of beautiful, scantily clad young women. One is a tall Asian wearing a black leather negligee thing and holding a whip. The second photo is a busty blonde wearing a tight leather bikini and pointing at the camera. The third photo is a pixie redhead wearing a maid costume, only this one has a ball strapped into her open mouth, a pitiful expression in her eyes. On top of this photo, a post-it note reads: Contact favfun@hotmail.com. Clearly not my envelope. I shove the photos back inside and shuffle through the mail on the floor until I find mine. Then I stash the mail back into the cabinet and shut it, flicking off the office light before I leave. It’s so easy it’s nothing, nothing at all. I tip-toe out of the office, and as I descend the stairs, I think about Robert.

  With one foot at the bottom of the stairs, I notice red-white-and-blue lights twinkling like candy. The house is made of so much glass that I can’t tell where the lights are coming from.

  I’m nearly at the front door when I hear footsteps outside. Without contemplation, I bolt in the other direction, deciding to turn right at the stairs instead of heading for the front door. The darkness blinds me, so I use my hand along the wall and find myself in a massive kitchen. It’s all metallic and angular, lit through windows by the lights of nearby homes. At the end of the kitchen, tall glass doors lead to a room that’s full of plants with fern-like arms.

  Hearing swish of the front door, I push open the atrium door and dash through the room, leaves slapping me in the face and arms before I reach another set a glass doors. I see nothing but windows and plants and more windows and plants. My hand clutches the envelope tightly. My pulse pulverizes my ears.

  Do I hear talking? Yes, talking and footsteps.

  I find a sliding glass door that leads out onto a balcony over a little grassy hill that must constitute the backyard to this little mansion. An icicle-like breeze hits my face as I look down. It’s a full story drop, like jumping off the roof of a house. Turning back, I see and hear lights inside the house turning on. Flick. Flick. Flick.

  Wasting no time, I lift my leg over the balcony and the wood creaks. Only a one story jump, onto grass. How bad can it be? For a second, I remember breaking my arm when I was ten, the sound of the snap, the misshapen limb. Regardless, I clamber over the railing, tilt off the edge and crouch down, one hand holding the envelope, the other holding the railing. Let go, I tell myself, but my hand won’t let go.

  And then I just do. As I land on my crouched feet and then roll, the pummeling hurts my chest, and the ground nocks the wind out of me. Coming to a stop on the tiny hill, I realize the envelope has fallen out of my hands. My eyes search the darkness and spot it crumpled up, lying in the grass, about ten feet away. Above the envelope, flashlights move through the atrium, shining through the balcony door I’ve just exited from. Two shapes move in the dark.

  On my knees, I scurry toward the bushes, where I crouch behind a thick evergreen and hold my breath, tell myself not to move. Being caught means moving my body and moving my body means being caught, so I become one with the evergreen, like Buddha or Gandhi or Luke Skywalker, the bristly leaves on my face. With an evergreen sprout tickling my nostril, I contemplate all the ridiculous excuses I could use to explain my presence here at the Chairman’s house. But my mind just spins and feels as if it might implode.

  “Damn alarms. What do you think made it go off?” a male voice asks.

  “Got me. The wind might have blown open the back door,” a woman answers.

  “I tell you what, if I have to be sent to one more mansion to lock a back door for some rich asshole, I’m gonna leave San Francisco and take a job with my brother finishing floors in Florida,” the guy says.

  I breathe in the intense smell of evergreen while the light of the flashlight passes through the bush. I’m as still as a flagpole on a breezeless day.

  “Hey, what’s that?” the woman asks, and suddenly, I have a terrible urge to pee.

  “What?” the guy answers.

  I close my eyes tightly and pray. Dear god, dear god, dear god. That’s all. Just dear god.

  “That envelope on the grass.”

  “Hell if I know,” the guy grumbles.

  “Go down there and get it,” the woman orders him.

  “Jesus. Fine.”

  I hear stomping through the house that dissipates, then the sound of a sliding glass door opening, and the sound of paper in someone’s hand.

  “Now can we get out of here?” the guy asks. “I’m so hungry I could eat this paper.”

  “Why don’t get something here?” the woman grumbles.

  I hear the door close and their voices disappear.

  For years, decades, millennia, I stand there breathing in the scent of evergreen, an entire sapling nearly lodged in my nose, my pulse calming its lunacy, until I’m a thousand percent certain I’m alone in the backyard. Warily, I peek around the bush, hugging it as I do. The grassy space is empty, the envelope gone, and the house looks like black reflective glass, the moon a silver ball on its surface. The great burden I feel from not finding the envelope still lying on the grass makes me contemplate another go inside the house, but a logical voice mounts in my brain, and I decide my heart might not endure another attempt. Looking behind me, I spot a gate and work my way through the bushes toward it. When I open it, I find an em
pty alleyway, only a few recycle bins and trash cans lined for pickup. Down the back alley, I run. I run down the street. I run all the way to Henry’s car.

  .

  Chapter 10

  “Donde las dan, las toman.”

  What goes around, comes around.

  The following morning, Robert and I sit side by side in the Chairman’s office, each in our own chairs, the man across from us holding our lives in his hands. By the time I arrived at the office, I had only enough time to put my bag down before the Chairman summoned us over the phone.

  As he sits next to me, Robert seems to suspect nothing other than a standard meeting during which the Chairman will give us a new case. Standard procedure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Robert’s expression suggests he’s as interested in this meeting as he is in standing in line at the DMV. He doesn’t know what’s about to happen, obviously. He turns his bored eyes at me, and for a second they brighten with some sentiment. I wonder what he’s thinking and what he thinks I’m thinking. And the thoughts swirl like a horde from hell inside my brain, yammering and screeching and clothed in smoke.

  “Bacon avocado on toasted white,” the Chairman says into the phone.

  Robert then glances down at my empty hands and scowls slightly, no doubt thinking I should’ve brought a notepad. But who needs a notepad now? Bringing one along would’ve been just a unfitting formality. It would be like bringing a parachute on a sinking ship, a clarinet to a shootout, a snakebite kit to a blazing inferno. Utterly useless. I know what’s going to happen, and I won’t need a notepad for it. The whole event will unravel while I sit here, motionless, my capillaries exploding. Looking at the books on the shelves, I notice one entitled Morality of Law, and think about how the word morality is so close to mortality.

  Around us, the Chairman’s office looks the size of three of Robert’s. I’ve never seen the inside of it before, only walked past it the way commoners walk outside the gates of Buckingham Palace. The room is an explosion of glossy wood and books and smells like rare things. I suspect the wood comes from rare trees in a rainforest in some exotic corner of the world, where no doubt several species of insects and animals became extinct so that the Chairman’s office could look nice.