by Andrew Post
He watched Felix study the cinderblock of the grocery store’s unremarkable rear wall. “Got to hand it you, Merritt,” he said, “it’s good cover you got here. I’ve got guys like Kerry Kerosene, who’s big cheese at a real estate office during the day, his face on damn near every bus stop bench across the state. Naturally, he doesn’t go by Kerry Kerosene when he’s showing houses. Who’d buy one from a guy named that? But he knows houses. How to sell them and how to make it real hard to get out of them when they’re on fire. I got Amber working from home keeping an eye on the books for me. You can thank her for always getting paid on time. Did you know she’s only got one leg? I’ve known Amber for years and just learned about that last week. Crazy. Anyway, another guy, who I don’t know if you’ve met, Ricky, he’s a dentist. Sees mostly kids. Expert at putting people to sleep – as in expert. Another one, Johnny Jade, owns this pool cleaning company out down in Raleigh, two dozen illegals working for him tax-free under the table and a former Miss America on his arm with a rack on her out to here. All of those are very high-profile covers, a lot of them are pulling in so much they don’t need to work for me, but they do it just because they like it.”
Merritt said, “I—”
“And let’s not forget Brenda. The big, nice house. The fancy cars. The designer duds. Three beautiful and healthy girls. The hubby that could be Gregory Peck’s twin brother. And you know he’s got a trouser snake on him that could swat the head off a tiger with a single swing. I mean, I’ve personally never had the pleasure of seeing it, but Steve’s just got that look, you know? That swagger. That ‘I got ninety-nine problems but not having one massive dick ain’t one’ air about him. Know what I mean? The dreamboat probably planted one of those girls in Brenda’s belly from down the hall and around the corner, never needing to take his eyes off SportsCenter. Anyway, if you can manage to ignore that Southie accent of hers that’s so thick you could stand a spoon up in it, the gal herself, Brenda? She shows up for jobs dressed to the nines, looking like she’s stepped off a runway in Milan or some shit – we’re talking hot to trot. You know. You’ve seen her.”
“I have,” Merritt grunted.
“And then there’s you, SpongeBob Smarty-Pants,” Felix said. “In my opinion, our species may’ve stopped producing geniuses after the sun set on January 27, 1756 – we just have good marketing now – but you’re the only person who I think would come close to qualifying. Living here in Bumfuck, Wisconsin, holding down a job they usually hand to dropouts and halfwits and you live with your fucking mother? You should teach a class on keeping a low profile because from where I’m sitting, it don’t get much lower than this, friend. I mean, just look at you. You’ve got the post-implosion Middle America look down. Perfect example’s that shirt you’re making me look at.”
“This was my dad’s.” Merritt thought he looked nice today.
“Disco never died in Wisconsin, seems. Tell me something.” Felix was still beaming ear to ear. “What do you do with it all?”
“Do with what?”
Felix inclined his head. “The money, Merritt. All that cheddar I have Amber wire you.”
“Oh. Saving up for a rainy day I guess.”
“See? That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Felix said, brightening again. “You don’t let it burn a hole in your pocket like those other jokers. Unostentatiousness, key to maintaining an effective low profile.”
“Thank you, Felix.”
“No, thank you, Merritt. I never need to worry about you – and that, big guy, is a gift that will never stop giving. All of this is to say, I just want to make sure that the unfair assessments about you Brenda passed along to me – and now me to you – aren’t going to negatively impact the quality of work you turn in.”
“They won’t bother me. She’s wrong, but I can live with people thinking incorrect things about me. Been putting up with it my whole life.” Clear as a photograph, Merritt saw himself coming up behind Brenda Stockton and saying something like, ‘If you like backbiting so much, how about giving your own a taste?’ before twisting her head backward and then giving it one sharp downward yank so she’d be kissing herself between the shoulder blades.
“This is ground control to Major Merritt,” Felix was singing, his Bowie not the worst.
Merritt snapped to. “Sorry. Spaced out. Long day.”
“I totally understand. Listen, I got another job in Minneapolis that dovetails with the other one,” Felix said, perhaps repeating himself given his somewhat impatient tone. “That’s why I asked you about your weekend plans. This one’s going to be a bit different, let’s say.” He clucked his tongue. “You know what? If I remember right, you’re a visual learner like myself. Be easier just showing you.”
Merritt dislodged himself from the picnic table to follow Felix to the back of his Escalade. Felix pressed a button on the keychain and the hatch lifted with a slow hiss of its hydraulics. Merritt looked at the items that were piled there, quickly put together what was being asked of him, and then turned to look at Felix, who smiled behind his sunglasses – Merritt, in duplicate, reflected in either dark lens.
* * *
In a dark gray overcoat, cord-knit sweater, cotton slacks, ankle boots, and sunglasses – that she did not forget on the plane this time – Brenda walked the umbilical corridor, pulling her carry-on behind her packed with only clothes for her week-long stay in Minneapolis, things she usually wore while cleaning the house, doing yardwork, or going to spin class, things she wouldn’t mind getting ruined.
Instead of following the crowd down to baggage claim, she got off the escalator on the second floor and entered a restaurant in the terminal, something calling itself the Tofu Pagoda, finding the place empty save for the sushi chef behind the counter picking his nails with a knife. She wheeled her suitcase to a table and seated herself to have her back to the wall. It was four o’clock in the morning here, five back home in Boston. No one was in the mood for sushi it seemed. She kept her sunglasses on, people-watching exhausted, lonely travelers go shuffling past.
Felix came into view, spotted her raising a hand to get his attention, and entered the desolate restaurant on patent leather loafers, his checkered shirt tucked into his dad jeans, a brown leather jacket, and the bill of his White Sox cap pulled low over his eyes. If Brenda didn’t know him, she would’ve assumed he was an undercover air marshal and/or human trafficker.
He sat down across from her and only now, in better light, and taking off his baseball cap to smooth back where he used to have hair, she saw how thin he was. His bulky leather jacket had lent him some dimension, but under this harsh lighting he looked washed out, emptied and haggard, and like he hadn’t slept in weeks – but, despite that, he couldn’t seem to sit still, and kept scratching the side of his neck.
“Hey, kid. How was the flight?” he said, glancing at the sushi chef once, then twice, like the stout Japanese man behind the counter was up to something and was just picking his nails as a front.
“Fine,” Brenda said.
She removed her sunglasses. “You got ants in your pants?”
He kept his sunglasses on. “What do you mean?”
“You’re all squirmy. And you look like shit.”
“Well, hello to you too. You don’t see me in person for the better part of a year and that’s the first thing you say to me?”
“If I looked like shit,” Brenda said, “I doubt you’d hesitate pointing it out.”
“That’s probably not inaccurate,” he said, distant. He put his baseball cap back on, took it off, wrung it in his hands, his left knee bouncing, his shoe knocking a frantic beat on the dirty floor.
“Are you on something?”
“Can’t say that I am but you’re making me wish I was. Listen, I was never that big of a fan of airports so if it’s all the same to you, let’s get to it so we can get you on the road.” He added under his breath, “I
sn’t exactly a short trek back to Illinois.”
“Is driving such a hot idea for you tonight?”
“I got myself here in one piece, didn’t I? And for the second time, I’m not on anything. Sober as a judge.”
A judge who’d taken up bath salts maybe. “All right, you say you’re not on anything, you’re not on anything.”
“Thank you.”
“You seriously drove here all the way from Chicago?”
“Sure as hell didn’t roller-skate.”
“You go through Wisconsin?”
“Last time I checked, shortest distance between two points is still a straight line.”
A loaded silence. She knew that he knew what she was really asking him.
“Haven’t talked to him in weeks. Between you and me, I think Merritt might’ve quietly retired on me. Do try to contain yourself.”
As much as the idea of Merritt quitting would make Brenda happy, she still couldn’t get over how thin Felix was. Last time she saw him he would’ve been perfect as a mall Santa, but now, possibly at half the weight he’d been at before, coupled with his fidgeting and constant nervous glances, he looked prime for spending his days yelling at traffic and writing the end is nigh on every surface he came across. And he smelled. Not exactly bad, but just sort of worn, and when he moved, she’d whiffed this coppery, meaty smell, like he’d been moonlighting at a slaughterhouse or something.
“His name is Chaz Knudsen. That’s the mark.”
“I remember.”
“Got that address I sent you?” Felix said. “I did send that, right?”
“Yes, you sent me it.”
“And the picture of our fella, of Chaz? He’s the mark.”
“As you’ve said,” Brenda said. “I still don’t know why we have to do this in person.”
“As opposed to what? It’s not like you can––” he glanced around, leaned in, “––put someone down emailing an untimely demise to them. Though, fingers crossed, who knows what gifts future science holds.”
“I meant you insisting on meeting me here, in person,” she said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. Why does everyone keep asking me that? First Melanie, now you. That podunk at the gas station, broad at Waffle House with green hair I’m still not convinced wasn’t Ernest Borgnine.”
“Pretty sure Ernest Borgnine’s been dead quite some time, and people tend to ask if somebody’s okay when they don’t look it – which you do not,” Brenda said. “Who’s Melanie?”
Felix smoothed back where he used to have hair and put his cap back on, the bill low. “Nobody. Listen, I’ve been under a lot of stress. Lot of shit on my mind. You know, keeping all you bozos pointed in the right direction takes a toll on a guy.” He waggled his hands about, his watch band slipping down his twiglike forearm to the crook of his elbow. “Who’s going where when to do what job for how much, who’s available what months of the year and who isn’t. It’s a lot to keep straight. Lots of ducks, lots of rows. And now fucking Christmas is right around the corner? Shit. Didn’t we just do one of those?” He smiled at that and his teeth, while never perfect, were now yellow as candlewax and looked over-long with his gums having receded so much, brown at the root, giving him a horselike cast. “But that’s time for you,” he said. “It flies. When you’re having fun, true, but it also flies when you’re really not looking forward to something. Like Christmas, which I personally have never liked that much. You got kids. Sure you’re not exactly over the moon about it either. Goodbye savings, right? That’s the problem with this country – well, let’s be real, one of many. ‘Too much’ does not appear in the standard American’s vocabulary.” He shrugged. “But then again, without unchecked capitalism, you and me would be out of a job, so….”
Brenda was waiting for him to finish. “On the phone, you mentioned the client asked to make a change to the work order. Care to fill me in or should I just start guessing?”
The look he was giving her was as if he was hearing this for the first time. He snapped his fingers.
“Right, sure, okay, yeah.” He leaned forward and his breath, heavy with coffee and something metallic, made Brenda’s jaw clench. “The adjustment. I remember. Why don’t you go get your rental and meet me in the short-term lot? I got the stuff out in my Escalade.”
“You have what stuff in your Escalade?”
From the inside pocket of his jacket, he produced a car rental agreement. She’d barely opened it to see the fake ID tucked inside when the legs of Felix’s chair grated loudly against the floor and he nearly got tangled in them trying to stand. He threw an accusatory glare at the unreliable furniture, told Brenda, “Section 4-A,” and walking with his hands jammed in his pockets, left the restaurant, back out into the terminal, tugging up his too-big pants, his liquidy stroll that of a man desperately trying to hide the fact he was thoroughly tanked.
Brenda remained at the table watching him go, wondering if it’d been a good idea to financially hitch her life to this man. He’d been squirrely before, especially back when he was still big into coke, but this was different, this was worrisome. But it wasn’t like she was about to get on the next plane back to Massachusetts. She was here. She’d come all this way. And as long as the pay got wired reasonably on time, Felix could get hooked on whatever chemical kicks he fancied.
She navigated her way through MSP down to the rental car kiosks and approached the one with the bouncy Dalmatian on its sign, Rover Rent-A-Car. She’d caught the clerk in his polyester vest presumably looking at porn, given how he lividly blushed and scrambled to put his phone away. “Evening.”
“Picking up a midsize for Greta Schroeder apparently,” Brenda said, placing the fake ID on the counter.
She stepped outside and the cold wind raked at her eyes, more ferocious and biting than any Boston could attempt to replicate. Lifting the collar of her coat, steps squeaking through the packy snow – snowman stuff as Judy, her youngest, called that heavy, clumpy variety – Brenda crossed the rental lot and clicked the keychain and the white Ford Escape, license plate AKI-112, pulsed its headlights at her.
Inside, it smelled like the rental cars always do – watered-down disinfectant and the flatulence of traveling businessmen that’d been blasted into the upholstery, haunting it. She climbed the cement corkscrew up to the third floor of the short-term ramp and came upon Felix leaning on the back bumper of his Escalade, drawing on a cigarette like it was his sole source of oxygen. When her headlights swept across him, he shielded his eyes with a raised arm, Lugosi-style.
She swung into the spot next to his Cadillac with its garish pearlescent paintjob and barely had enough room to get out because he’d stepped into the confined alley between their vehicles. The sickly yellow of the parking garage’s lights did his sallow complexion no favors. Looking at her as if he was trying to memorize her face, like he was meeting her for the first time, he nearly turned his head inside-out sucking on his cigarette, his cheeks concaving to the point she could see the shape of his teeth shrink-wrapped by his papery and pallid body casing.
“The adjustment,” he said in low tones, blue smoke curling out with his words, “is that the client wants you, the minute you’re done with them on day seven, to drain whatever blood you can out of them, bag it up, and take it with you for a drop at a second location. The address will be provided the morning of day seven via text. The body can stay there at the apartment they said, they’ll handle the scrub. But everything you can get out of them, bottle it up, take it with you, and keep it cold.”
“The client wants the mark’s blood?” Brenda had encountered plenty of strange special requests, but proof of a job complete was usually a finger in a Ziploc. “Are we taking work orders from Elizabeth Bathory now?”
Though Felix had been looking right at her as she’d asked this, it was like her skepticism had not penetrated the graying lump between
his ears. “The client wants you to go whole hog on this guy,” he said. “Tug out his teeth, scoop his eyes out, rip his pecker off and make him eat it. Whatever you want to do, go nuts, but the client wanted me to reiterate that when somebody looks up total fucking agony in the dictionary, there should be a picture of what you’ll be putting this miserable fuck through.”
“I can manage that,” Brenda said, meaning to sound more confident than it ended up. The echo in the parking garage let her hear the uncertainty in her voice. This didn’t feel right. Felix had changed. Having worked together for as long as they had, it would be more worrying if her work spouse hadn’t changed, but she didn’t expect one so dramatic. Since she’d seen him last June in Santa Fe, he seemed to be mid-metamorphosis to a separate domain of the animal kingdom, the missing link between a chimp and a lizard. “But what’s up with them wanting his blood?”
“Open your trunk,” he said around his cigarette. “I want to do this fast.”
“Do what fast?”
“You’ll need equipment.” He bobbed his head, indicating everything presently standing in her smart boots. “Didn’t bring spikes and tubes from home, did you?”
Brenda said nothing.
“Didn’t think so. So, being the swell guy that I am, I went ahead and did your Christmas shopping for you. The trunk please, Brenda.”
She popped the rental’s trunk, finding nothing in there save for the spare. Felix looked around and pressed a button on his keychain, and with an airy whine of hydraulics the hatch of his Escalade lifted. Inside stood a cooler, much like the kind she’d seen on many a flight bearing bright orange stickers that read live organ. With the cooler, the items having gotten scattered about during his drive here presumably, lay a coil of clear tubing, a package of medical liquid bags, no fewer than ten packaged hypodermic needles bound by a thick rubber band, rolls of medical tape and gauze, and the liver-shaped leather pouch that she assumed contained a firearm. Felix swept the items together into his arms and released the tumbling collection of items into the open mouth of the rental’s trunk. He closed the lid for her and patted the sheet metal, grinning crookedly at her, done and done.