The Devil She Knows

by Bill Loehfelm

  It’s someone reading you poetry in bed, she told herself, and almost making you come as he does it. A man who can multitask. Be happy.

  Maureen hadn’t harbored any unrealistic hopes for either a future or a genuine gut-busting orgasm with Travis, but she figured they’d wear a hole in the carpet in front of the beach house fireplace pretending there was reason to believe in both. But Mrs. Dr. Travis, mother of their three sons, matron of the home the Travises shared on Todt Hill, had other plans. Mrs. Dr. Travis of the short black hair had found long reddish hairs in that carpet by the fireplace, and that was that.

  In his office, after getting busted by his wife, weeping and moaning like a poor version of a character from the tragedies he taught, Travis offered Maureen an A and the rest of the semester off if she promised not to bring sexual harassment charges over getting dumped. She laughed at him. Like the last time this happened? she’d wanted to ask him. Then she laughed at herself. She hadn’t considered herself his Juliet, and Travis was no fucking Romeo, but she had imagined herself an exception, a powerful if not intoxicating temptation. Instead, she felt revealed as only this semester’s diversion, not significant enough to be tragic or comic.

  When Travis had stood and reached out to embrace her across the desk, the glint of once for old times’ sake in his eyes, Maureen walked out of the office. That afternoon she dropped the Shakespeare class, though she lost half the tuition she’d paid for it. She set her sights on a fresh start in the spring and that night posted a sign in the waitress station at work, offering to pick up extra shifts.

  On the bus now, on the way to one of those extra shifts, she sat slumped, rocking her molars together and thinking of Jimmy’s Rose and Mrs. Dr. Travis. Maybe Jimmy wasn’t such a hot idea. Seen that movie already. It always ends the same. If she stayed out of trouble with Jimmy, maybe the money she lost on the Shakespeare class would end up being worth something after all.

  Maureen rubbed her eyes with her fingertips and unzipped her bag. She picked through her purse, searching for her compact, needing some powder for the outside of her nose. She found the compact and popped it open. Oh, shit, she thought, staring down at her empty pack of birth control pills. When did this happen? When had she taken the last one, yesterday? The day before? She clicked the pack closed and dropped it back in her bag. No problem. Monday I’ll go to Planned Parenthood and get more. Did this mean she’d have to go off and go on again? Start all over? There wasn’t much point. Considering her total lack of prospects, she certainly wasn’t in any danger.

  But still, you hate to break the cycle.

  She repacked her things and stood, grabbing tight to the cold metal pole beside the bus driver. The bus settled to the curb at her Bay Street stop with a groan like it was dying, like its own legs were all but worn out.

  2

  By nine, Maureen, dressed in her four-hundred-dollar outfit, was perched on a bar stool, waiting for the crowd, a second shot of Bushmills and thirty-nine American Spirits next to her elbow on the bar. Good thing I rushed to be here, she thought.

  Upon Maureen’s arrival, grateful she’d picked up the shift, Dennis had put up the money for her two packs of smokes—right after he’d told Maureen that her floor partner wasn’t coming in either. Vic, the owner, had picked her to work a party for some local politico at the reception hall he ran upstairs. Maureen feigned upset over the situation and complained again about Vic never throwing her a catering gig, causing Dennis to plead powerlessness, exactly the reaction Maureen had expected. She bitched to Dennis, something all the girls did, only because he took it so well. He got the shit so the bartenders and the customers didn’t. In reality, flying solo on the floor was a lucky break. She’d run like a dog but she’d double her money.

  She’d already had a few easy early tables. Happy hour had been steady. A little bleed had trickled down from upstairs, early-arriving party guests—high rollers, it looked like—and that had helped. She thumbed through the roll of cash in her apron, guessing she’d already neared the hundred-dollar mark. A good start to the evening. People wouldn’t start showing up in real numbers for another hour. The floor would fill by eleven. The band was set up, sound-checked, and huddled over a table in front of the stage, working out the set list. They’d spend the next hour adjusting the levels of their body chemistry before the first set at ten.

  Most of the regulars, friends of Vic’s, were already in place, as if the bar were a stage and each man had his unchanging mark. Big fans of Maureen’s they were, and a steady stream of cash. They stood at the bar, leaning their arms across the backs of vacant stools, sleeves rolled up over hairy forearms, bellies pouting over their Italian leather belts, their pricey bourbons and top-shelf vodkas clutched in fat hands adorned with rings. Throughout the night they’d grab her elbow, maybe let a hand slide to her hip, while yelling simple requests over the band and into her ear: Got matches? Bring that lady over there a drink on me? She wearing a wedding ring? Excuses, really, these questions, to slip her some cash, the money a warm-up to whatever offers came later in the night: next weekend in the Hamptons, a limo and dinner, a Soho party full of heroin-chic models and D-list actors.

  But holding court over the goodfella parade tonight was a tall wide-shouldered man Maureen didn’t know. His gray suit jacket strained at its buttons, his silver tie bunched at his collar as he opened his arms wide, telling some tale that enraptured his audience. Maureen didn’t know the man, couldn’t hear his story, but she recognized the collective look on the faces of his admirers: greed. Bastards may as well have had drool running down their chins. Mr. Silver had something, or the keys to something, that they wanted. That was obvious.

  Silver finished his story and someone else took the floor, adding on, Maureen was sure, his own complements to the previous tale. Mr. Silver settled half his weight onto his bar stool. Clutching a cocktail tight in his left hand, he stroked the short hairs of his silver goatee with the fingers of his right as he listened. His mouth strained to hold a grin. Misery, Maureen thought. Pained boredom. That’s what that grin is hiding. Mr. Silver needed something in return and was at that very moment putting a down payment on whatever it was. Maureen felt a pang of empathy. I know the feeling, she thought. Whatever it was that had Mr. Silver faking it that hard, Maureen hoped it was worth it. And then it clicked in her head. Silver had to be the VIP upstairs.

  As if he’d heard her good wishes, Silver turned his head ever so slightly her way, his fixed grin never moving. It was hard to tell in the dim light of the bar, but Maureen thought she saw him wink at her after a moment of eye contact. With the wink, the empathy in her died. Like a blush her professional armor rose to the surface of her skin. But of course. We all want something. Isn’t that why we’re here? Maureen raised her glass and polished off her whiskey, turning on her stool and letting her hair fall in a curtain between her profile and Mr. Silver. An authoritative kiss-off, she thought, without being gruesomely rude. After all, she might end up waiting on him later. She couldn’t name the designer, but she knew an expensive suit when she saw one. No sense totally blowing a potential big tip.

  Tapping her foot on the rung of the bar stool, she considered getting one more shot. Better not. Two was the limit before a shift, coke buzz or not. Enough to get her legs through the night and no more. She stared into her empty glass. She jumped when a deep voice rumbled above her.

  “Thought I might see you at the gym today.”

  Maureen swiveled in her seat, craning her neck to look up into the face of Clarence, the Narrows’s muscle-bound, six-eight, black-as-oil bouncer. “Gimme a break, C. I joined yesterday.”

  “I know, I signed you up,” Clarence said. “You told me you wanted to get right to it. I’m just sayin’. You could’ve hit it yesterday, too.”

  With one enormous hand, Clarence smoothed his pink silk tie against his clamshell shirt. Her neck already aching from her head’s steep angle, Maureen wondered as she often did what life was like from that height. Clarence was
so large he had to have his shirts tailor-made. Maureen could wear one of those shirts as a dress, and the hem would drag on the floor.

  “Like I told you,” Maureen said, “I would have worked out, but I had to come here.”

  “That’s two opportunities lost to poor planning.” Clarence smiled. “Two days of pain that could be behind you already.” He set one hand on the bar and leaned down to Maureen, his brown eyes the size of coffee saucers. “Seriously, you need to come in. I told you I’ll train you myself.”

  Maureen tilted her head from side to side, working the kink from her neck. “Weights aren’t for me. I wanna hit the treadmill and run, you know? Maybe hang from the chin-up bar and get taller.”

  “Nah, running ain’t enough.” Clarence rose to his full height, rested his chin in his palm. Sensing the appraisal in his eyes, Maureen fluffed her hair and lit up her best fake smile. Clarence grinned. “We’re gonna take care of you, little girl. Buff you right up. You got good bones, a good frame for hanging muscle on. And I can teach you some things for your back and your legs, get rid of that slouch.” He raised his forefinger from his chin, tipped it toward her. “And you’re not afraid of hard work, I know that. But I can’t get you in there; you gotta make the effort.”

  “Don’t I know it,” Maureen said, laughing.

  Clarence tilted his head, directing Maureen’s attention back to Mr. Silver. “Like that dude over there? Every single morning he’s in there solo, banging it out. Every. Morning. Crack of dawn.”

  “That’s a little psycho,” Maureen said. “Don’tcha think?”

  “That’s commitment.”

  “I’m not up for all that,” Maureen said. “I don’t have that kind of stamina.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” Clarence said. “You’re a powerhouse. We both know it.” He made a fist, held it up. “You’re just compact. Like dynamite.”

  Maureen smiled, lowering her eyes. She liked the way Clarence talked to her, and his training offer flattered her. Half the island’s body-builders wanted to train with him, and here he was carving out time for little ol’ her. She knew there was nothing untoward about his offer; Clarence worshipped his wife, a caramel-colored fireplug not much bigger than Maureen. Maybe Clarence was right, she thought. Running wasn’t enough anymore. Might feel good, Maureen thought, to work toward something other than the rent.

  “Hey, I’m all about the gym,” she said. “It’s where I was headed tonight when Dennis called. Blame him.”

  “Blame me for what?” Dennis asked, stepping up beside them.

  Clarence raised his arm, curling his fist toward his shoulder. A bowling ball twitched in his sleeve. “Pain.” He chuckled and walked away, heading back to his post beside the door.

  “That dude,” Dennis said, shaking his head. “He on you about the gym?”

  “I joined yesterday.”

  “Good for you.” Dennis slid a cigarette out of Maureen’s pack on the bar. He held the cigarette in front of his nose. “Be careful, he’ll be on you about these next.” Dennis tucked his stolen smoke behind his ear, where Maureen watched it disappear into his thick black curls. “If we all listened to Clarence,” Dennis said, “we’d have the healthiest staff on Bay Street.”

  Maureen touched her thin bangs. Dennis wasn’t much to look at, a plain face with tiny eyes and no chin, and his shirts hung on him like he had a cheap hanger for shoulders, but the girls at the Narrows loved his dark, shimmering, curly hair. Tanya touched it every chance she got. That Dennis never did anything to it but wash it only heightened the communal envy.

  “You best be careful,” Maureen said. “The staff gets in shape, we might feel good about ourselves and want to make something out of our lives instead of working here. Then where would you be?”

  “Here with the lifers like you. I’m not worried. Clarence can bench-press a Cadillac, and he’s here five nights a week. Cash in hand is hard to give up.”

  Maureen picked up her cigarette pack, closed the top, and tossed it back on the bar. Lifer, my ass, she thought. This spring everything is gonna change: school, the gym. Hell, I may get crazy and find a decent, sane, single boyfriend. I might go out and get a life. Stop living for this goddamn bar.

  Dennis cracked his knuckles. Maureen hoped he wouldn’t do his neck, which was usually what came next. The pop-pop-pop of his bones always made her queasy. This time Dennis rolled his wrists and thankfully stopped there. He looked around the bar. “Decent start tonight.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” Maureen said. She nodded toward the band. “These guys bring a good crowd.”

  “They always bring him in, too,” Dennis said. “The teacher.” He leaned into her. “Or is it you he comes to see?”

  “Jimmy and his wife come for the band. I work plenty of other nights. He never comes in for those.” She shrugged. “He’s taken, anyway.”

  “Like that’s stopped you before.”

  “I don’t do that shit anymore.”

  Dennis tapped the tip of his nose. “Careful, other shit you don’t do anymore manages to linger.”

  Maureen touched her new nose ring, though she knew Dennis referred to the coke. She considered reminding him that he’d called her in to work over Tanya’s pill habit. Ol’ reliable Maureen. Like a faithful dog or a strong horse. Like death and bills and taxes and middle-aged men who hated waiting for another round. Speaking of, she thought.

  “Who’s the suit?” she asked. “The white-haired guy. He seems pretty popular.”

  “That’s it,” Dennis said, “change the subject. Had your fill of skinny academics? Going more for the beefcake? He is your type; he’s married.”

  “Christ, one mistake and I never live it down. You better hope I never find any skeletons in your closet.”

  “No one, ever,” Dennis said, “has made just one mistake.”

  “Okay, Confucius.” Maureen tilted her chin at Mr. Silver. “Every goombah in the room is kissing his ring. I’m just asking.” She frowned. “I feel like I know the face, but I can’t place it.”

  “You read the papers?”

  “Almost never,” Maureen said. “No time.”

  “Watch TV?”

  “Same as above.”

  “That’s Frank Sebastian,” Dennis said.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s the guest of honor upstairs. Fund-raiser. He’s a friend of Vic’s. He’s running for state senator. South Shore district.”

  Maureen laughed. “Wow. State Senate. I had no idea that the road to political fame and fortune ran through the Narrows. When did Vic get so hooked up?”

  “He and Vic go back,” Dennis said. “They’ve known each other since before Vic took over the bar, ten, twelve years ago. Sebastian, he does the security up and down Bay Street. He’s got every parking lot, from end to end.”

  “He’s a rent-a-cop? He doesn’t look it.”

  “He owns the company,” Dennis said, “that provides rent-a-cops to most everywhere on the island that uses them.”

  Maureen narrowed her eyes, trying to get a read on Sebastian. Something about him wasn’t right or, more to the point, not enough about him was wrong. The cut of his gray suit, his sharp jawline and high cheekbones: he was too cleanly drawn, too intentional, like a CGI special effect stepped down from a film screen. She thought, if she stared at him long enough, his whole body would ripple like a glitch in a hologram.

  “He’s getting a hell of a head start,” she said. “Campaign-wise. Or he’s really late. It’s the end of November.”

  “Special election,” Dennis said, “in April. He’s running for Valario’s seat. The guy who got caught with the suicidal stripper out in Flushing? Twenty-years-married Mr. Family Values? Heard of him?”

  “Nope,” Maureen said. She ran her eyes over the room. “But I can spit on a dozen just like him from here.” She glanced over at Sebastian. “How’s he doing? He gonna win?”

  “Most likely,” Dennis said. “He’s way ahead. Running away with it,
practically.”

  “He’s such a big shot, then what’s he doing down here schmoozing the league of ordinary gentlemen? The fat wallets are upstairs.”

  “I know these things?” Dennis asked with a shrug. “The money down here spends the same as everyone else’s, far as I know. Maybe he’s waiting to make an entrance upstairs. ‘Pomp and Circumstance’ and that shit. Though he probably knows a few of these guys from up on the Hill.”

  “He lives on the Hill?”

  “I don’t know where he lives,” Dennis said. “But remember that rash of robberies on Todt Hill a couple of years ago? All those rich people getting knocked off? It was big news.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You need to get out more.”

  “I get out almost every night,” Maureen said. “But it’s always to come here.”

  “Anyway,” Dennis said, “half these meatheads, their houses were robbed. Got so bad they eventually hired a private patrol. Heavily armed. Soon as that happened, the robberies stopped.”

  “Let me guess,” Maureen said. “Sebastian’s security firm.”

  “For a while, rumors went around that had him contracting the robberies to create the security work. But nobody could prove it. I don’t know how hard people tried.”

  “Savvy,” Maureen said.

  “So you’re okay with criminality as a business strategy?”

  “Only in my politicians.” She waited for Dennis to laugh. He didn’t. “Listen, I’m just saying, if he’s slick enough to pull it off, good for him. Maybe I’ll vote for him. You should, too. Think about it. The guy gets shit done.”