Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  At the end of my first shift, I left through the receptionist’s area, but she was nowhere to be seen. I made it a point the next morning to be early and went up to her desk as soon as I entered, asking about when I’d get an RFID card with my picture on it like Pip had. She was this short, pear-shaped thing that I prayed was at least a decade older than me, blond with those ridiculously big glasses everyone loved in the 80s. Name was Tina.

  Tina turned out to be the least talkative receptionist I’ve ever met, with little more than a handful of Mmhmms and I-sees. But as we chatted, the other early shifters filtered in, and an old man with this perfectly white and nicely groomed set of hair and a set of glasses with big black frames came in dressed better than anyone else I’d seen in the place and walked up to us. Any pretense of paying attention to me dropped, and Tina turned to the guy and said, “Good morning, Mister Gaunt.” My interest was piqued.

  He gave her the usual round of orders—move meetings, send someone a fruit basket, and so on—and headed toward the double doors into the factory. I closed with Tina as best I could, awkward and forced as it already had been, and followed the GM’s footsteps. The man shuffled toward the corner where his office stood, looking anxiously about the workstations, which straightened the spines of everyone starting their shifts.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to the man, but I at least took one thing from the situation: his face. At the end of the day, Pip having shown me different parts to build, I made my way to my truck and stayed there for a while, watching as the parking lot slowly cleared. Gaunt eventually came out and got into an older Lexus, doing that old man dance of settling into his seat while I impatiently waited for him to move. All that time getting comfortable wound up being for a ten-minute drive to a dark house on a quiet street lined with Beamers, Audis, and Mercedes.

  Did Dad ever tell you about Chris Gentile, the mechanic run out of town for creating his own business? Like those firebug firefighters, he went around destroying cars in regions he’d paid the local marketers to canvass with door handle advertisements. He had a telltale tick, though: alternators. Mess up the alternator, and the driver’s car would break down within twenty or thirty minutes away from home, making it more difficult to notice a trend in any particular area.

  Someone caught Gentile elbow-deep in a neighbor’s hood and asked him what was going on. When he couldn’t give a good answer, they called the cops on him. I don’t know who the guy was, but the story goes someone in his own shop turned on him and left town to open his own place far from Gentile’s reach. As I popped Gaunt’s hood—the same way we would’ve with any other stuck or broken latch—I imagined Dad telling us the story as if we were kids, adding “And on cold winter nights, you can still hear the cries of the alternators, calling for the throat of Christopher P. Gentile” in a spooky voice.

  By the time I got back to my truck, I had four missed calls from Ort on my cell phone. Once I’d driven a fair distance from Gaunt’s place, I returned the call and got invited to meet at Indian Creek. “Important,” Ort goes. “Something I’d only ever trust with you, princess.” This had to be good for a laugh, I figured.

  Half an hour later, Ort and I are sitting together in a booth, with him trying to convince me I should get involved in robbing ATMs, the scent of stale beer and cigarettes emanating from his skin and clothes. “Victimless crime. Done it a few times already. Get in, get out, no one gets hurt.” Christ, Bri, I hope I didn’t sound that bad when I pitched it to you. “Just need another pair of hands, and yours’re the only ones I can trust.”

  “Who was your partner?” I said. “You done this before, you had to’ve had help, right?”

  As soon as I asked, he started fiddling with the label on his bottle, then took a new pack of smokes from his pocket and packed them. “Previous partner got so much from what we were doing, he booked it,” he actually said. “Me? I’m trying to see the bigger picture. ‘S’why I need your help.”

  “And how’s Max doing? Haven’t been to your place since...what was it? Thanksgiving weekend?”

  “The dog? Hmph.” At that point, he couldn’t look me in the eye, and his bottle vibrated against the table from nerves. “Ran off,” he said once he got both hands on the bottle. “It’ll come back once it’s sowed its oats. But what about the MAC machines, man? C’mon, Eddie, you owe me.” That’s when he actually sat up and looked at me square, as if he thought he was telling the truth.

  “For what?”

  “For Frederick’s funeral, man. Cragle and I wound up getting into a fight outside, and you should’ve been there to have my back, asshole. That old son of a bitch...” He stopped himself, but I knew what was going through his head. He called Cragle on stealing his half of the money, maybe even stealing the dog too. Cragle, if he was anything like me, told him he was too sloppy to be pulling jobs like that, especially with how he beat the cashier. A fight broke out, and Cragle handed Ort his ass. “He said shit about Fredericks, man. Said his head looks better now.”

  Sounded more like something he’d say about his own friend, but I didn’t respond. Instead, I took a long sip from my beer, looked around the place, and let Ort have a minute to calm down. When he began to mimic me, that’s when I finally said, “Here’s what you’re going to do: Tomorrow, you’ll go over to the Oxford Valley Mall and go into the office building out back by the fountain. You’re gonna go up to the floor with J & J Staffing and fill out all their forms. When they ask, especially if you’re helped by a little bookworm named Christy, tell ‘em you’re a referral of Eddie Mazzaro. They’ll take care of you.

  “No need to get into anything criminal. Just good, honest work,” I told him. “They’ll hook you up with just what you need.” And that, brother, is how I damned another soul. Didn’t even get a referral bonus for it.

  When I got home, Richter tapped his code through the wall and I returned in kind. He took his time getting to the door since, keep in mind, he’s still hurt at this point. Still hadn’t told me what caused the leg injury, which meant something really banal or something he was intensely embarrassed by. He finally opened the door, took one look at me, and said, “Nevermind. I was hoping to find you a little less...foggy this evening.” He then closed the door in my face. Some nights, brother. Some nights you just can’t explain.

  * * *

  The next night, I drove about four cars behind Gaunt as he followed the path to his house. The taillights of the car were dim, and his turn signals took much longer to flash on and off than any rightfully should. At any moment, I figured, the car’d just crap out on him, and he’d be forced to pull over to the side, letting me swoop in to be the hero. Worst case scenario, he’d reach his house, and I cost a random man about two hundred dollars to get his car fixed.

  But just as I was giving in to the idea of that scenario happening, Gaunt turned on his emergency blinkers and pulled his car over to the shoulder. I moved to follow him when, out of nowhere, this tow truck turns on to the main drag and makes a bee line for the Lexus. Before I even had the chance to pull over, this no-name truck was already parked behind Gaunt, some asshole getting out of the truck to see what was the matter.

  Defeated, I went home and drank myself stupid. Richter knocked his code through the wall, but I ignored him. Instead, I turned on one of the Disney channels and muted the television so Richter’s mocumentaries about ancient alien civilizations came from the kids’ and puppets’ mouths. I found it hilarious until my alarm woke me in the morning and Spongebob or whoever was screaming at me at six in the morning, the mute button having been pressed again sometime in the night. Why did kid shows have to scream so much?

  I kept my head down that next day at the factory. Hungover at the steel never mattered as long as you could work your machine, but I didn’t know how Havis functioned yet. Gaunt arrived shortly after me, so he must’ve found a rental, but I didn’t pay much mind, seeing as how I didn’t even have any timeline to the boss lady’s request. But sometime after lunch, Pip tapped
me on the shoulder, making me think it was Getsinger coming to fire me. “Don’t know what you did, sir, but Mister Gaunt says he’d like to see you, sir,” he goes. Not exactly reassuring.

  I finished up the piece I was working on and made my way back to Executive Row. At first, it seemed odd he had a receptionist outside his office when I witnessed him ordering around Tina out front, but judging from the game she was playing on her computer as I passed through his door, he didn’t expect much. Wasn’t much of a looker and had a strong cloud of vanilla around her, but some guys have weird tastes. What do I know?

  Gaunt sat at his desk looking over something on his computer with a stern expression on his face. Could’ve been watching videos of kittens wrestling or pictures of the security cam pointed at the woman outside his office for all I knew, but he certainly took his sweet time. “I’ve been speaking with Pip about your performance at the company thus far, Eddie,” he finally croaked. “How do you think you fared?”

  “Pip’s an honest worker from what I can tell so far. I’ll trust whatever he’s told you.” Ambiguous answers. I didn’t know what Pip would’ve said, and I wasn’t in any shape to give detailed answers anyhow. But I was sent to be this man’s so-called friend.

  He chewed on that for a while before saying, “How comfortable do you feel working on cars? Any history there?”

  Took all my willpower not to snicker. I told him my pa had his own garage and now it’s run by my brother. “I’ve spent my fair share under a lift and know my tools, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  At that, he fell back into his chair and almost deflated. “I could’ve used someone of your persuasion last night.” He squeezed his eyes shut and grounded his fingers into a spot above his forehead. “I’m being told it’s the alternator.”

  “Only around two hundred, give or take for the labor.” He opened his eyes and paused the grinding, staying in the same position and looking at me in disbelief like I’d told him his daughter’s only good enough for the Tuesday afternoon shift at Club Risqué. “If they quote you more, get it over to my brother’s. He can hook you up.”

  The old man sniffed and shuffled in his seat, resetting his whole demeanor. “This Monday, you’ll be joining our installation team. Meet with Dugan first thing next week. He’ll be your TO.” He then explained that after six weeks, they’d have the option to bring me on full-time. “Based on Dugan’s opinion, of course. So keep your nose clean for the next five weeks, Eddie.”

  Challenge accepted.

  * * *

  Richter signaled through the wall the moment I shut my apartment door, and before I could even approach his front door, he burst through with car signs saying “Delivery” on ‘em, shoving them into my chest and awkwardly limping on his cane toward the stairs with one of those fruit bouquets from Edible Arrangements or Sherry’s Berries under his arm. “About time,” is all he said until we got to his Jeep, painted military green with a rear plastered in bumper stickers preaching about six years of political propaganda.

  I kept telling him it’d be easier if he just told me where we were going, but he insisted on directing me through town. “A fellow hiking in Utah last year found a herd of goats and noticed one acting strangely. Left at the next light, where that gas station is. Doesn’t take him long to realize the odd goat is a man in a suit. Has horns and a mask and fur. Walking on all fours. You’ll want to stay in the left lane.” Every time I opened my mouth to ask where we were going or try to understand what we were doing, there was another goat man fact.

  At red lights, I looked over to see him fiddling with what appeared to be a microphone in the middle of the fruit. “Hmm? Oh, Bluetooth,” he said when he caught me staring, followed by more about the goat man. “Sightings poured in, some completely ludicrous. Tales of wise prophecies the costumed man had told a group who’d found him in the hills. Can we slow down a bit? Too dark out here to see the deer.” He stopped messing with the fruit finally and texted someone on a phone I didn’t recognize, pausing his monologue as he did so.

  We pulled into the parking lot of a tavern over in Yardley and picked a spot in the middle of a bunch of Volvos. As we got out of the Jeep, I said, “So what happened to the goat man?” As weird as a distraction as it was, I still got sucked in and wanted to hear the end of the story. All tales deserve to be finished, right?

  “The guy comes home to find he’s in the media. His fur-covered posterior all over the web. So he comes out to explain himself: He’s practicing his hunting. Built himself a suit so he could mingle right along his targets, all to better himself in prep for a big goat-hunting event in Canadia.”

  He stopped at the entrance and gave me a look until I opened the door and held it for him. “That’s it?” I asked as he passed me.

  “What? You want a moral?” He stopped, causing a couple girls behind him to skid to a stop in a huff. “If you need to take something out of it, take that the world is stupid.” He looked behind him, and the girls gave him a rude glare. “Case in point. Who do you want to be tonight?”

  “I’ll be Frank McDonnell, and you can be Bill Gaffney.”

  He gave a little sneer at my choice and moved forward. The girls waiting behind him gave me the same glare when I cut them off to follow him.

  Inside, the place was supposed to be a dive bar, but the bartenders and waitresses scrambled to keep up with the beef and beer’s crowd, turning on lights that were typically sanctioned off for the end of the night during clean-up. Richter edged through the crowd until we reached a table in the back with flowers, bowls of chips, and lit candles arranged around the photo of a kid, barely old enough to buy a beer at his own memorial. A print-out for the night’s event said his name was Mike Kressler.

  Richter started frantically looking around as if he’d dropped his wallet, disappearing for a moment, only to come back seemingly satisfied and holding a small trash can. After dialing a number on the cell phone I didn’t recognize, he dumped it in the can and threw some nearby napkins and paper plates on top of it, placing the can under the table with Kressler’s photo. “All set, Frank. Homeward bound, hmm?” he said and set for the exit.

  On the way back, we sat at a red light right around the corner from the complex, and I noticed two joggers—girls—at the intersection waiting for the light, doing that bouncing in place thing runners like to do. When the light turned, this little rice burner comes out of nowhere with a guy in a suit hanging out the sunroof, who pulled out what I thought was a gun until the shots fired and the joggers ran for protection, covered in neon paint.

  Before Richter reacted, I floored the pedal of his Jeep and followed the POS, receiving a few horn honks as I blew through the intersection. He started screaming, “What’re you doing?” and when his voice reached a nearly girly pitch, I finally answered, “The kids. The assholes driving the car. I recognize them. They’re the ones—”

  “That beat you up? And what’re you going to do now, Frank? What do you really think you’re going to do now? You still have the scabs from the last encounter.” All my bruises and cuts lately had mentally run together, so I had to take his word for it.

  I kept the Jeep going, swerving around cars when I could, but after a few miles, I lost them, unable to hear the engine or its stupid turbo anymore. Richter couldn’t tell me where they went, or he refused to. Just paranoid they’d spray his car, I figured. “What’d you really think would happen?” he said when I parked at the complex.

  “I don’t know, Bill, where did we go tonight? What was that all about?” After a few minutes of silently staring at each other, I left the Jeep, his keys still dangling in the ignition, and slammed the door shut. I heard him come home a few minutes later, followed by the drone of the History Channel shortly thereafter. We saw each other in the hall a few times after that. Maybe passed on the stairs. But that was the last night I spoke to the man alive.

  Manny 5

  From: Emmanuel Quinn (emmanuel.quinn@episync.biz)

  To: Rolando Or
tiz (rolando.ortiz@episync.biz)

  Sent: Monday, January 14, 2013 9:32 AM

  Subject: Re: like a chimney stack

  > So what’s the lowdown on this jawn? Who’s the cool kids? Where the

  > empty office a brother can take his hot Latino prince to for a couple mins?

  >

  > This Kim girl supposed to train is out on her 3rd smoke break in the past 2

  > hours and this old man in an office keeps calling people right outside his door

  > from his speakerphone, so there’s this crazy echo going on. But the pendejo

  > yelled at me for playing my headphones too loud the last time Kim was out

  > smoking.

  >

  > When you doing lunch?

  > Thanks,

  >

  > Rolando Ortiz

  > Sample Management Associate

  > t: +1 (215) 680-4968

  > 41 University Dr.

  > Newtown, PA 18940

  > www.episync.biz

  > Please consider the environment before printing this email.

  Miss Kimberly’s one of those ladies who’ve been with the company since it was called Emerson LLC. Most were laid off after Episync came in the place, but the couple who stayed make more than Jesus, have months of vacay stored up (they usually use at Christmas so don’t try to ask for time off unless you’re aiming for next year), and know everyone’s ish in here.

  Bill’s got phone issues. He’s another one. One of the first brought in after Episync took over, but he’s been in the industry for years. Anyone over the age of 30, you want to distract them from whatever they telling you, bring up Johnson & Johnson. They all worked for J&J, no confusion with the temp agency.