Cube Sleuth

by David Terruso

  “You’re a true mentor. My name was in the paper this week already, that’s plenty.” I was briefly mentioned in several papers as the coworker who rushed to Eve’s aid in the Schuylkill. All of the stories on Eve’s death mentioned that this was the second suicide of a Paine-Skidder employee in the past four months and devoted at least a paragraph to Ron’s demise. “So here’s what I found out…” I tell him about Faith, Mr. Luther, Nick Wynant.

  “Very interesting. Who’d you say you were at the staffing places?”

  “Um, you know, Eve’s long lost son that she gave up for adoption.”

  “Fake name?”

  “Vince Codmist.”

  Capillo howls and I hear a jumbled swishing sound. “Sorry, I dropped the phone. You’re such a cartoon, I love it. Vince Codmist. Where do you come up with this stuff? You should have your own reality show.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. But if Ron slept with Eve and Mr. Luther found out because Eve wanted him to, there’s your motive. Eve figures out what Mr. Luther did, she can’t live with the guilt, jumps off the bridge. Warns me first because I was another guy she slept with. It all fits.”

  Silence as Capillo weighs what I’ve laid out for him. “It does fit. I still think Ron killed himself, but that scenario makes great sense. I’m writing this down.”

  I smile proudly at this praise from a man who just called me a cartoon. “So, if you do—”

  “Sorry, another call. I gotta take it.” Click.

  * * *

  I hate the gym, but forcing myself to go three days a week hasn’t turned out to be as hard as I thought. I’m a cheap guy, so knowing that I’m paying sixty bucks a month has been all the motivation I need.

  I see improvement in myself every time I go. I don’t feel like I might puke up my liver after a thirty-minute walk/jog on the treadmill anymore.

  Today, a guy who looks like the Vitruvian Man walks away from a machine and when I step up to it, I lower the weight from ninety pounds to six ounces. I feel like a wimp. I am a wimp. But at least now I can assign a numerical value to my wimpiness. I refuse to give up, though. The new Bobby Pinker is not a quitter.

  After twenty minutes on the treadmill or elliptical, my head starts to clear. This is when I do some of my best thinking about Ron and Eve. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to find a connection between them that doesn’t involve them sleeping together. Did they both see something at work they weren’t supposed to, just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time together? What kind of wrongdoing could have gone down at Paine-Skidder that would lead to killing witnesses? Could the killer have killed Ron and been planning to kill Eve before she did him the favor? Was Eve part of whatever wrongdoing Ron saw, and knew he was going to be killed but didn’t stop it?

  If someone was embezzling from Paine-Skidder, I’ll never be able to find out who it was. I have no way of finding out if funds are missing. I also doubt that there is anything of value to take from Paine-Skidder other than money, and since it’s a non-profit, there isn’t even much of that.

  As usual, most of my thoughts lead to dead ends. I cross my fingers that my next big break won’t be another dead body.

  * * *

  I call the two women from Staff Something whose numbers I got from the receptionist. They both tell me that Nick Wynant had been obviously in love with Eve, that the two of them had never dated, and that Eve never talked about anyone named Mr. Luther.

  It doesn’t seem likely that both of these women would cover for Nick, so I can safely rule him out as Mr. Luther. Unless he didn’t start seeing Eve until she left Something Staffing. Then it would make sense that neither woman knew about the affair.

  Crap. The only person I can safely rule out as Mr. Luther is Bobby Pinker. Hopefully I don’t start having dreams where I’m having sex with Eve and she calls me Mr. Luther.

  * * *

  After four revisions, I hand in a version of the Survivor parody skit that has nothing Marilyn Gilgamesh finds offensive and doesn’t make her pant like she’s just run up five flights of steps.

  My final draft is completely innocuous: wholesome but sarcastic. Fit for all ages, which is good because Dee Dee’s nine-year-old daughter will be at the retirement party. I even managed to drop in a few jabs at Paine-Skidder that are subtle enough to slip under Marilyn’s PC radar.

  I hold seven laser-printed pages of accomplishment with BY BOBBY PINKER typed just to the left of the staple.

  Marilyn tells me that my actors are three of Dee Dee’s closest friends at Paine-Skidder. I don’t know any of them, and they have no acting experience beyond the Christmas skits the company gave up on in the eighties. Working with three middle-aged strangers who don’t know what upstage and downstage mean will be more a test of my patience than my theatrical knowledge.

  * * *

  I hear the jingle-jangle of change bouncing toward me and automatically tense up. Harry Brody knocks on my cube wall. I roll my eyes and turn to face him as slowly as I can.

  “Hello.” Paine-Skidder starts with pain; all of Harry’s conversations start with hell. His voice sounds the way drinking a glass of cold hot dog water would taste. He holds a small white box in his grubby mitts. I flashback to him holding that model ship and shudder.

  “What’s up, Harry?” I look back at my monitor every few seconds to show Harry that I’m not invested in our conversation.

  “I come bearing gifts.” He extends the box to me. I place it on my desk without opening it.

  “What is it?”

  “Go ahead and open it up!”

  I go ahead and open up. It’s a white porcelain gravy boat identical to the one Harry shoves up his nose at his desk every day.

  “It’s a neti pot.”

  “Not yours, though, right?” I shudder again.

  “No, no. Your very own.”

  “Why did you…?”

  “The other day when I was in here chewing the fat, I noticed the darkness under your eyes when you took off your glasses. That’s sinus pressure. You get a lot of sinus infections?” He tugs on both ends of his squirrelstache.

  “Three or four a year.”

  “Yeah, well, this will help you with that. You fill it up with warm water and sea salt. If you use regular salt with iodine in it, you’ll hurt yourself. Just half a teaspoon. You tilt your head and you pour the water up one nostril and it goes through your sinuses and comes out the other nostril. Want me to show you how to use it?” He reaches for the neti pot.

  “No! I, uh, I’ll figure it out.” I pick up the neti pot, tilt my head, and stick it in my nose, knowing that now the germaphobe in Harry won’t want to touch it.

  “Yep. Just like that. Start out doing half the pot in one nostril, half in the other. After a couple of weeks, do one whole pot in each nostril. You do that every other day and I bet you don’t get more than one sinus infection in a year.”

  “Thanks, Harry.” People who seem not to notice anything obvious or important often see little details that most of us miss. Harry noticing the darkness under my eyes and failing to notice how much I hate him is a good example of this. Though I do appreciate the kind gesture. Harry may seem like a selfish ogre driven mostly by his belly, but I guess he has a charitable side.

  I feel guiltier than usual for hating the big lug, and silently vow to be nice to him for at least the rest of the week. Since it’s Thursday morning, I actually have a chance of keeping this vow.

  * * *

  The next day, thinking about how I’ll never be able to see Paine-Skidder’s financial records makes me wonder how easy it would be to check HR’s files on Ron and Eve. Who knows what I might find there.

  I assume that the file cabinets are locked, but this is Paine-Skidder, so it’s worth checking out before learning how to pick a lock.

  Keith leaves before five that day, which is usually cause for me to leave early, especially since it’s Friday. Instead, I head down to the second floor copy room.

  The security guard does h
is rounds floor by floor, but I’m not sure if he starts on the fourth floor or the first. My plan is to hang out in the copy room making work-like motions until he passes by and leaves the floor, then make for the HR office once no one but the cleaning crew will be around for a while. If the cleaning crew comes in, I can always just pretend it’s my office.

  I write stupid notes on pieces of paper and copy them. One note says BABIES LOOK LIKE THEY’RE SMILING WHEN THEY HAVE GAS. SO IF YOU HATE FARTS, YOU BASICALLY HATE BABY SMILES. After ten minutes, I hear the swish of the guard’s windbreaker. A few minutes later, I hear the click of the stairwell door and know he’s gone.

  My instinct is to crawl to the office and sneak in undetected, but no one is around. And if anyone were around, it would be best to act casual. So I do. I whistle.

  The HR office is empty, lights off. I leave the lights off and the door open. I check the two cabinets marked PERSONNEL, and both are locked. Fair enough. Time to go look up lock picking.

  I stroll out of the HR office and a man’s voice sends my stomach up to my Adam’s apple.

  “Hiya Don?”

  Phew. Just Mumbles. Calm down, Bobby. “Good. You?”

  “Aight. Workeh late, huh?”

  “I work till five-thirty, actually.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  * * *

  Considering the ease with which you can find out how to make a bomb online, I shouldn’t have been so surprised to find not only lock picking instructions online, but demonstrations on YouTube.

  I discover that the locks on the file cabinets are most likely what’s called wafer-tumbler locks. Inside the keyhole are a series of wafer-shaped tumblers that sit on springs in the lock. Springs push the tumblers up and down in the holes like pistons in an engine. There are two sets of tumblers sitting on top of each other. The differing lengths of the tumblers create the unique sequence of the lock. The top tumblers have to be flush with the housing of the lock and the bottom tumblers have to be flush with the inside of the cylinder for the key to turn. The key is designed to poke the tumblers up so all of them are flush at the same time. If any one of the tumblers isn’t flush, the key won’t turn.

  When you see people picking locks on TV, they stick this long thing in the edge of the lock first and then slide what looks like a dentist’s pick all the way inside the lock and move it around. The long thing is a tension wrench; you stick this in and turn it slightly so the cylinder in the lock is off-center. Then you stick in the pick and slide it to the back of the lock. Working from back to front, you use the pick to push up each tumbler. Once it’s flush with the cylinder, it sits on top of it because you’re twisting the cylinder with the tension wrench. You listen for the faint click of the tumbler landing on the cylinder before moving on to the next tumbler. The cylinder twists a little more with each tumbler you drop on top of it. When you get the front tumbler in place, you turn the cylinder with the tension wrench, and the lock is open.

  Fairly simple in theory, but in practice, I bet it’s like solving a Rubik’s Cube behind your back. I order the cheapest locksmith set I can find and this awesome clear practice lock that lets you see the tumblers move while you work, all for about seventy dollars. I can’t wait for my new toys to come!

  * * *

  Nancy calls me that night to see if I want to get together on Saturday. We agree that this won’t be a date. Just two friends hanging out on a Saturday night. Dinner and a movie. And we agree to try our dangdest to keep it platonic.

  I spent a lot of time trying to find an original idea for my re-first date with Nancy and nothing came to me at first. But then I figured out that the best thing would be to take a tour of our important dates from the past. Start at the theater where we met. Have a drink at the pub where we had our first conversation (a pub that let in a nineteen-year-old girl). Have dinner where we had our first date. Take her to the lobby of my old shit-hole apartment, where we had our first kiss, and have our re-first kiss there. Drive to Ocean City, New Jersey, where we went on our first vacation, walk the boardwalk, maybe sleep at the cheap motel we’d vowed never to stay in again. She would love it. A visit from the ghost of relationship past.

  * * *

  I already know what my platonic non-date with Nancy will entail. She’ll show up in the most provocative ensemble she owns without being outright slutty. Boobs pushed up and squeezed together. Butt popping in her skinny jeans. Lips shining and pouty. Perfect makeup with that smoky eye look. She’ll flip her hair and giggle in that bubbly, flirty way she has. She’ll want me to spend the night tortured, strangled by my unwavering erection, dying to touch her. I’m more than willing to play this game. If I win, I prove my self-control. And if I lose, I still win.

  We meet in the parking lot of the Japanese restaurant I chose for dinner. There she stands: boobs pushed up and squeezed in, butt popped, eyes smoked, lips pouted, hair primed for flipping. The tear-shaped crystal at the bottom of her handmade necklace pulls my eyes down to her cleavage. The way she kisses my cheek and hugs me tells me that she intends for this night to conclude in re-consummation. She would only sleep with someone she was in love with so she probably hasn’t slept with anyone since we broke up. Poor thing.

  We sit in the lobby waiting for a table, crammed onto a couch with three other people, our knees crushed together. Nancy’s hand touches my thigh at every opportunity. While we talk, my mind keeps playing memories of how she looks naked and sweaty and above me. I try to block these images out to no avail.

  “You’re gonna learn how to pick a lock? That’s awesome.” Nancy yawns, momentarily resting her beautiful head on my shoulder.

  “Very awesome.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Very illegal.”

  I explain the lock-picking process. She listens intently, her eyes sparkling with interest. We’re smooshed closer together on this couch than we would be if we were dry-humping. Uncomfortably close. And yet, completely comfortable at the same time.

  The hostess calls my name and Nancy and I pry ourselves from the couch with a giant shoehorn and some bacon grease.

  Nancy looks so happy. Dinner flies by, conversation overwhelming the urge to eat. She seems to have forgiven me for cheating, but I know she hasn’t forgotten. I bring the mood down for a minute without a preamble. “So do you think you could ever trust me again?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. I wanna try. I can’t say I wouldn’t be more jealous. More possessive. I’d probably want to know where you are all the time, at least at first. You know?” She frowns, afraid her honesty will push me away.

  I smile. She gave me the honest answer I need. I have to know she won’t say what I want to hear to get me back. I owe her the same honesty. “I’m not a strong person. I have a real problem with will power. I please myself with food, poker, sex, then punish myself with other things. Sometimes with those same things. I get stuck in this cycle of doing what feels good with no thought of the consequences and then hurting myself for my mistakes. I’ve been like this since puberty. Maybe since always. But I’m trying. I really am.”

  “I believe you.”

  “I saw Helen when Eve died, and she tried to kiss me and I wouldn’t let her because of you. So I know that I’m physically capable of denying that urge. I did it to have a chance with you again. I just want one chance. I don’t deserve it, but if you’re giving it to me, I’m taking it seriously. If I were one of your girl friends and you asked me if you should give Bobby another chance, I’d say no. I’m not sure people can change.”

  “I think they can.”

  “So you haven’t met any great guys since the last time we saw each other?”

  “Nope. None. I’m stuck with you.” She winks.

  “I’m afraid I’m giving this another try for selfish reasons. It’s what’s best for me, not for you.”

  “Let me decide what’s best for me. I’d rather try again and end up alone and crying in six months and at least be able to say I tried. Then I’ll be a
ble to tell myself that it will never work. Right now I can’t say that. I need to see. I know how much it’ll suck if we break up again. And if you cheat again, I know how much it’ll suck when I cut off your unit in the middle of the night and throw it out the window of a moving car.” She giggles.

  I laugh at her choice of the word unit. One of the things we’ve always had in common is our love of switching between an endless list of euphemisms for genitals.

  * * *

  Sitting in the back of a half-full movie theater watching the latest X-Men movie, Nancy leans over and kisses my neck just under the jawline. All these girls know exactly where my buttons are. “Let’s make out like old times.” She keeps her nose pressed against my earlobe.

  “Like old times? We’ve never made out in a movie theater before.” I chuckle, my breath shaky from the sensation tickling my neck.

  “Then let’s make out like new times.” She laughs onto my skin and I get a chill, the fine hairs on my neck rising.

  Our row is empty on our side of the theater, but the row across from us on the other side is full, and people are sitting in front of and behind us. I don’t like the idea of people watching me kiss. I’ve done a few stage kisses and they were all weird. “Get outta here.” I smile and tilt my head away from her.

  “You scared?” This is a bolder Nancy than the one I took for granted.

  “No, I’m not scared. Making out in the movies is for thirteen year olds.”

  “Fine.” She shifts her body away from me, her mouth pursed so tightly that her lips almost vanish.

  I mull it over and realize that this is the perfect place for us to kiss. Here, I can be sure that the kissing won’t lead to anything else. I wanted to save our first re-kiss and everything else for the official first re-date, but admittedly I do feel like I’ll implode if I don’t kiss her.

  I touch Nancy’s chin and she jerks away as if I shocked her with static electricity. Before she can stew in her rejection juices, I lean in and take her face in my hands. She tries to speak as my mouth covers hers. Her tight lips relax and we kiss with familiarity, novelty, passion, loneliness.