“Mr. Harrison used his military contacts over the years to keep himself, his wife, and their slave girl hidden. Not an easy feat, to make my own eyes blind and my ears deaf in this city, as you well know.”
That was an understatement. “So why bump them off last night, after they came to see me? You already had the girl.”
“I do not like loose ends. Which brings us now to you, Mr. Madison. The last of your kind, and a thorn in my side. Can you believe that I have wanted to meet you for quite some time?”
“My door’s always been open.” Even after I’d locked it, apparently.
“Yes, and perhaps in another life, we could have done business together.”
“You’re firing me?” I feigned disbelief. “You hired me to find the girl, and I have! You want me to start breaking mirrors in here, I’ll do it. You’ve got her stashed somewhere nearby. You made it a little too obvious, killing off everyone related to this case and saving me for last. Did you hope I’d die at the hands of the Yakuza in Little Tokyo? Maybe. But you would have wanted to keep the girl close to you until I was out of the way, regardless.
“But tell me, even if I were to believe what you say about her ‘oyster eyes’—and I don’t, by the way, it’s insane—what’s the richest, most powerful man in town need with her? Why go through all this trouble, and why steer me in the wrong direction? I’m just one man—”
“You asked me two questions. First: I took the girl because she is a priceless commodity, and I collect such things. And I may be able to use her against the Yakuza when I decide to incorporate Little Tokyo into my holdings. Second: I have given you so much undivided attention because you fascinate me, Mr. Madison. You are indeed a ‘champion of the lost cause,’ as your late friend the newspaper man liked to say.”
I clenched my jaw, knowing if Ivan were here in this room, I’d do my damndest to wring his throat after what he’d done to the old man. “I’ve got rent to pay, same as anybody else. Any chance you could lower it, by the way? I’m pretty sure one of your companies owns my building.”
A softer chuckle this time. “I’m afraid that will no longer be your concern.”
The goons closed in with their Tommy guns staring me down. I nodded. “So this is it.
Well, before I go out in a blaze of gun smoke, I’d sure like to see if what you say about her is true. The whole bit with her eyes. Sounds like a real-life miracle.”
“She truly is.” A short pause. “Very well, Mr. Madison. But only because I like you so very much.”
The mirrored wall behind one of the pool tables clicked, then slid open to reveal a room designed for a princess: lacey, frilly, hot pink. Standing between two armed men was the girl from the black-and-white photo, wearing a flowery kimono and hanging her head, eyes focused on the floor.
“Say hello, Mao,” Ivan’s voice encouraged her.
She looked up then, past the goons and straight at me—the lone oddity in the room, disheveled and swollen-faced. But nothing could compare to what had been done to her eyes. Blossoming crimson, they stared out at me through sockets so raw and chafed, her eyelids sagged like lumpy pillows.
“Hello,” she said quietly.
“Hey there.” Were they torturing her? “Is what they say true?”
She nodded once and returned her gaze to the floor.
Ivan chuckled. “You would like a demonstration, perhaps?”
One of the goons retrieved what looked like a salt shaker from his pocket as the other one grabbed hold of Mao by both arms. She didn’t struggle.
“No!” My outburst froze both thugs in their tracks.
Ivan sighed, disappointed. “Never mind,” he told his men.
I swallowed the dry lump in my throat. “Would you like to leave this place, Mao?”
Again she nodded, swollen eyes trained on the carpet.
“Your last words, Mr. Madison? Filling a child with false hope?” Ivan clucked his tongue in disapproval. Then to Mao: “This man is not here to rescue you, child. He is here to die. Would you like to watch?”
She shook her head and took a step back.
“Not so fast.” I held up my wristwatch. Now there was a red light blinking on the display. “Did you mention something about the Yakuza having no clue you had this girl?”
“What is that?” James the Chauffeur strode forward and seized my wrist.
“Destroy it!” Ivan boomed from above.
James snatched the watch from my wrist and smashed it underfoot. The little guy was stronger than he looked. Silence held the room.
“Too late,” I said.
A frantic voice came over the intercom, an alarm that started with something about an attack and ended with a wild shriek.
“They’re already here,” I said. “Gotta love Japanese technology.”
Little Mao looked up at me, her swollen eyes twinkling with unguarded hope.
* * *
It pays to have friends in high places—or low ones, if you happen to be an upstanding citizen who looks down on well-organized crime. Regardless, the wristwatch with the built-in audio transmitter had been a gift from the House of the Emerald Tiger. Once upon a time, I’d done a certain favor for a member of the Asada family, Yakuza blue bloods, and the wristwatch had been their gift to me in case I ever needed their help. And by the green tiger, I sure as hell needed it there in Ivan’s mirrored lair. Receiving my entire conversation by radio, the Yakuza showed up en masse to rescue one of their own from the Russian Devil—their term of endearment for Ivan. Little Mao was saved, and I escaped with only two wounds to show for it—both clean shots, by the way, one through my shoulder and another through my thigh.
“So the kid’s gone back to be with her folks?” Wanda asked me around a fresh wad of gum. She was a pro when it came to slings and bandages, and she had this bag of frozen peas for my face. It was working better than any of my flabby old ice packs.
“That’s what they tell me.” I winced as she tightened the sling to take pressure off my shoulder. “She’s some kind of national treasure now, with an all-expense-paid trip to New Japan for her whole family. Guests of the emperor and all that. Ivan and his goons will never see her again.”
“And she—I mean, she really can—“ She gestured at her own eyes, brilliant sapphires with just a little too much makeup around them.
“If seeing is believing, then I’m at a loss. But Mao was a hot commodity around town for some reason, and it sure wasn’t her stage presence.”
Do I honestly believe what Ivan said? I don’t know. Did Mrs. Jarhead’s necklace of pearls really come from Little Mao, chained down in their basement? If so, I wouldn’t know where to begin to explain such a thing. I’m no scientist, so I have no idea what impact the war’s early years might have had on the people of Japan—all that nuclear and biochemical crap before the United World and Eastern Conglomerate decided to duke it out the old-fashioned way. They were able to agree on one thing: they wanted a planet worth living on after all was said and done; so the nukes and bioweapons had to go. Where, exactly? That’s a great question. All I know is the world hasn’t seen them since.
But I have to wonder: Are there others like Mao out there? And if so, how are they being exploited? Or have they somehow found their own New Japan—76 out of the 6,852 islands currently under United World protection?
I glanced around Wanda’s apartment, nice place, but not nearly big enough for the both of us. “Listen, I’ve got a standing invite to open an office in Little Tokyo. You won’t have to put up with me here for long.”
She shook her head. “Still can’t believe Ivan burned down your office. You can stay here as long as you want, Charlie. I won’t let nobody get at you. You’ll be safe with me.”
“My own personal bodyguard.” I gave her a peck on the cheek and she blushed clear to the tips of both ears. “I’ve missed you, kid.”
I didn’t tell her about the parked car of Yakuza muscle watching the place downstairs, making sure that Ivan kept his d
istance. I was pretty sure the Russian had his hands full right now anyway, planning his revenge on House Emerald from his secret lair. The Yakuza would never try to assassinate him directly; they’d suffer the heat of the city police in an instant. But there were always power plays between the Russians and Japanese mob. The Yakuza had scored a major victory in stealing away Ivan’s golden goose, and he would make them pay. At any rate, I could count on being off his radar for a few days.
“Missed you too, Charlie.” She gave my sling one last adjustment before she was satisfied it would do the trick. “So, can you say it now?”
I raised an eyebrow. “It?”
She gave me one of her gorgeous smiles, the kind that almost fooled me into believing everything might turn out okay around here. Maybe it would. I sure as hell couldn’t see the future.
So despite the itchy feeling in my gut from the knowledge that plenty remained up in the air, I winked and told her what she wanted to hear:
“You know it, sweetheart. This case is closed.”
MILO JAMES FOWLER is a teacher by day and a writer by night. When he’s not grading papers, he’s imagining what the world might be like in a few dozen alternate realities. His work has appeared in more than 60 publications, including AE Science Fiction, Cosmos, Nature, and Shimmer, and many of his short stories are now available on Amazon for Kindle readers. Find him on Twitter @mfowler76, Facebook, and his blog, where he posts weekly updates on his journey as a speculative fictioneer.
Benign
by Caroline J. Orvis
I started stalking my breast surgeon almost by accident. I was sitting in my car weeping, again, after the latest useless appointment.
I saw him walking carelessly down the aisle of Jaguars and BMWs in the hospital parking lot. The surgeon clicked on his keyfob, and a shiny new Mercedes winked its headlights at him. Fumbling with the Tylenol bottle shoved into my ashtray, I shook out two pills, quickly calculating that I could take four more that day.
“You’ve got to stop taking so much Tylenol.”
“What am I supposed to do instead?”
I dropped a third pill into my palm and swallowed all three with a drink from the water bottle I left in the car for just that purpose. Hey, a girl can dream, right? You never know, maybe three will do the trick.
The good old doc was talking on his cell phone as he maneuvered his blood-red car out of its preferred parking space. Tsk, tsk. Didn’t he know that was illegal?
I started my engine and followed him out of the parking lot. He was oblivious to me. But that wasn’t surprising.
We stopped at a traffic light. For just a second, with my gearshift in neutral, I tapped the accelerator, imagining stomping it to the floor and forcing him out into the path of the truck barreling down the cross-street. I’d push the gearshift forward into first, the tires would screech on the pavement, and with a jerk, my front grill would make contact. Startled, the surgeon would lose his footing on the brake and his Mercedes would slalom forward, and then—crumpled metal, maybe even a fire, the good doc screaming, hurting. God, it was like porn in my head.
But I’m a coward, so I let up on the accelerator and grabbed another instant ice pack from the box on the floor. Squeezed it until it popped. The chemicals mixed and reacted, and I tucked it into my bra. Cool relief on my mangled boob, short-lived but necessary.
Fuck. The guy in the car next to me was leering—I guess he thought I was doing something sexual over here. I flipped him off, and he wagged his tongue at me. Double-fuck.
The light changed and I followed my doctor down the road, steering with my right hand of course. (It’s always a real pain in the ass when I have to shift—I mean pain in the breast, I guess—whenever I have to coax my left pectoralis major into activity.)
Thank goodness for all the TV detective shows I’ve watched over the years. I let a car get between us and changed lanes a couple times just like they always did. Christ, Starsky’d be proud of me. I hummed the theme song under my breath as I drove. The doc got on the highway, and following him got even easier.
He never seemed to consider that a patient might be a little upset with him.
After a few miles, he exited the highway and made a few turns, ending up on a residential road lined with overarching maples and evenly spaced crabapples. I hesitated for a moment. I decided that I hadn’t actually done anything wrong and continued to follow him.
The surgeon turned into one of the driveways, flanked by lush velvety lawns, country club style, and I coasted past, making a note of the house number. At the end of the cul-de-sac, I turned around and drove past again on my way out of the development.
I drove around a little more and discovered that my caring medical professional’s house backed up on a wooded park. By then it was dark out, and I decided that my instant ice pack wasn’t cutting it anymore, so I got the hell out of there.
Back home, I took some Aleve, washed them down with vodka, and slapped on another ice pack. Awesome! This is the life, let me tell you.
Just for yucks, I counted the Percocets that I’d liberated from my mother’s medicine cabinet after she died. Eighty-four left, no, eighty-three. I considered whether tonight was bad enough to bring that total down to eighty-two and decided no.
Flipping on the computer, I checked Monster.com. No openings in my field, of course. Then again, I’d pretty much decided a career change was in order, since you’ve got to be able to smile to work in customer service.
I rifled through the bills scattered on my desk. This one had to be paid. This one—I’d wait and see if they sent it to collections. Lookie here, another bill from my favorite surgeon. Thanks for using an out-of-network lab, dude.
I poured another vodka. Two drinks isn’t bad, right? I used to always call myself a social drinker on those forms the doctors make you fill out—you know, the ones they never read? Now, I checked “never drinks” What’s another lie?
“Why won’t you do the surgery if there’s a chance it could help me?”
“There’s also a real chance it could make you worse. Your best bet is to accept that this is going to continue hurting.”
“I can’t live this way.”
“Yes, you can. See you in six months.”
* * *
The jangling burn of my botched biopsy scar woke me up before the alarm again. From the pillow beside me, the cat stared at me like I was a stranger. Of course, he still hadn’t forgiven me for banishing him from sleeping on my chest. I had explained very patiently about the nature and unremitting quality of my suffering, and the cat had stalked off and taken a dump on the floor.
At least he was still there. My boyfriend had finally lost patience and hope that he’d ever be able to play with my boobies again and had taken off for good. Classy.
I got up and took my Tylenol and Aleve and all the bullshit supplements that never did anything besides max out my debit card. Fed the cat. And then my usual egg-white omelet, because it’s important to stay healthy, right?
I dressed carefully for the day.
Back at the park behind the surgeon’s house, I parked my car and walked through the woods until I had an eyeball on the back of the doc’s property. I could see him and a woman, who I assumed was his wife, eating breakfast in the kitchen, newspapers propped up in front of their faces and coffee swirled in stoneware mugs to prepare for the difficult day ahead.
With a dutiful kiss and a few words, the surgeon disappeared from the kitchen; then the red Mercedes paraded down the cul-de-sac as the wife carefully placed the dishes in the sink. In a few minutes, her matching Mercedes, midnight blue, followed.
Settling in on a convenient tree stump, I watched the neighborhood for an hour. People had things to do, places to be, and most of them were in a hurry to get there. Finally I lurched back to my car, holding my left side as still as possible to keep my pain bearable, and wondered what I always wonder.
Why did the surgeon have to go that bit too deep? Why did he take so much tiss
ue? Why did he have to nick that artery that sent me to the ER with a gushing blood clot? Why did he have to permanently damage the nerve?
All around me, women were getting biopsies. They were all okay. Even the ones who had cancer could be okay.
But not me. Why not me?
Two years and I couldn’t stop obsessing, because I couldn’t stop hurting. Why did I let them do this to me? Why didn’t I overrule them when they pressured me to do a biopsy? I had had my doubts; why didn’t I listen to them? Why did I believe them when they lied and said a biopsy was low risk? Why didn’t I research more? Why wasn’t I strong enough to take on the docs?
Everywhere I looked: pink ribbons, give money, support research, we’ve got to do more screening, more biopsies, more education, more 5K runs to raise even more money. Movie stars proclaimed their successful breast cancer surgeries on Oprah and Letterman. I had to quit Facebook, when I couldn’t stand the ads for breast cancer awareness anymore. I switched brands when yogurt containers proclaimed their support—collect our lids! Magnetic bumper stickers for the cure mocked me from every car.
I drove my car around to the front of the doc’s house. A final check: no signs for a security system, no neighbors watching through rustling curtains. My navy blue slacks and matching button-down shirt hopefully appeared professional, like some anonymous utility company worker. I carried a clipboard and a small toolbag, and I’d looped a company ID around my neck. Hopefully no one would ever need to look at it.
In front of the doc’s house, nestled in the pachysandra, I spotted a garden gnome that looked familiar from a home improvements catalog. Stooping down, I swiveled the head and extracted a key.
Seriously, some people are too stupid to live.
I relaxed in the doc’s reclining chair in his den, flipping the channels of his wall-sized flatscreen TV. The pillowy leather seat cradled my ass like a lover. No basic cable for my surgeon. This was the premium sports package, with all the HD channels, all the movie channels, Tivo, a premium sound system, and a fancy programmable remote control.
The Malfeasance Occasional Page 18