The Things We Do for Love

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  I swallowed the aspirins and left the bathroom. My sweatshirt was on the floor at the foot of the bed. I followed the rise of the blanket up past Sam’s hip to her outstretched arm and then her face.

  “You don’t know how lonesome I’ve been,” she said, pulling back my side of the covers.

  “I’m almost all ears, darling, and please don’t spare the details.”

  Sometime later, we were propped up in bed together. My arm around her, she nestled her head on my chest. Sam stroked my forearm lazily.

  “Do you realize that all of the pictures in your house are of women staring off into space?” She asked.

  “No. Never thought about it,” I said, trying to quell a rumble of defensiveness.

  “What do think it means, Leo? They’re all looking away from the viewer, too.”

  “I don’t know. If you don’t like them we can take them down.”

  “That’s not it. I want to understand you, why you like them. That’s what’s important. Otherwise they’re just pictures.”

  “I don’t know. Let me think.” I hate being surprised about myself and I had to struggle to focus on the picture on the wall opposite the bed. It was a larger-than-life head and shoulders of a woman sitting over her coffee cup, staring out a window. In the glass her reflection stared back at her and at me over her shoulder.

  “She looks like she’s waiting for someone or something. There’s longing and maybe sadness in her eyes. I’m watching her and I know that about her. She doesn’t care that I see that. It’s too big for her to try to hide it.”

  “Do you know her or is she a stranger?” Sam asked.

  “I know her. We’re friends. I’m not the one she’s waiting for, though. I feel sad for her. I hope she gets what she wants.” I began to choke up on the realization that for much of my life I’d been the watcher, never the one waited for.

  I coughed and pounded on my chest dramatically until the feeling passed. Sam raised her head and looked at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m okay. Just a cough I’ve had.” Lying next to her, knowing how she felt about me, that old feeling seemed ridiculous. Ridiculous, but real, frighteningly real, like seeing a two-headed dog on your doorstep.

  I shook off the thought. Over Sam’s head I checked out the clock. “Dear one, I have to get to work. I’ve got a lot of preparation to do before the client gets in tomorrow.” With that, I sat up and started to get dressed.

  “Are you going out tonight?”

  “Yeah, I have to meet someone around eight.”

  “Want to have dinner before you go?”

  “Love to, but we’re meeting at a restaurant.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to make myself something to eat. Mind if I keep working at your desk?”

  “Nah. I’ll work in the living room. I need the VCR anyway.”

  Sam slipped into her underpants and my sweatshirt and glided out of the room.

  When I finished dressing I set up a pen, notepad, glass of beer and the P. R. folder by my easy chair and prepared to meet Jane Doe and the Pleasure Principle. Sam scratched my neck as she walked by and waved as she went into my office.

  CHAPTER 9

  I flipped open the P.R. folder and stared at the pictures of the band. There were portraits of each member and one of the entire group. Turning over the first one I found that I was staring at one Wade Sturdivant, drummer, age thirty-one, born in Tampa, Florida. For his photo he’d turned away from the camera, curled his upper lip in a sneer and flown his lids at half-mast.

  The second photo was of George Rohatan, bassist, twenty-seven, born in Frankfurt, West Germany. George’s sheepdog haircut framed a moon-face split by a slightly incredulous grin. He could have been saying “What am I doing here?” to the camera.

  Next was Axel “Axeman” Andersson, lead guitarist, also twenty-seven, born in Cheverly, Maryland. I could see what set Randi Benson’s heart a-twitter. Everything about his face was intense. Each feature was strong, almost too strong. The squared-off cleft chin; the wide, thin-lipped mouth with its knowing smile; the brooding deep-set eyes; each was almost more than a face could carry. Somehow altogether they achieved a harmony, a synthesis that was arresting. A little more of anything and his looks would have collapsed into a grotesquerie.

  Last was Jane Doe, lead vocalist and rhythm guitarist, age twenty-six. There was no place of birth given. Under a wild mane of hair, it was the heavy-lidded eyes and the pouty underlip that stayed with you.

  The next thing in the package was the lyrics to the group’s album. I set that aside and went on to read a short history of the group. Sturdivant had jointed the group three years earlier, replacing the original drummer Tito Gonzalez. I underlined his name. Perhaps he was jealous of their success. Murderously jealous. Right now he was just the answer to a trivia question and maybe he felt he deserved more.

  I read on. Axel Andersson had first been smitten with the guitar bug while hearing legendary guitarist Roy Buchanan’s stinging Telecaster runs at the Crossroads, a bar in P.G. County. Out of homage to his hero, Axel still played the same kind of guitar.

  The big break for the group occurred when one of its shows was caught by Roxie Jones, another Washington rock ’n’ roll alumna, and the group was invited to open the D.C. area shows on her tour.

  After that came their first record, an EP entitled “Maps for an Uncharted Sea” (OWL DEP-318). I skimmed the reviews from The Washington Post and Rolling Stone. The bottom line was that they were a hot local act on the rise.

  This year they had released their first LP “Nudity, Profanity and Adult Situations” (OWL DLP-179). The reviews were all laudatory, at least the ones in the P.R. package, and they were being touted as one of America’s hot new bands.

  Checking my watch, I set aside the video cassette and the tape and prepared to meet Danny Freeman. The phone caught me going out the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Leo, Danny-boy here. Gonna have to cancel tonight. Me and the porcelain god are as one, and services are every six minutes, if you catch my drift.”

  “Say no more. I want to talk to you when you feel better. Call me when that happens.”

  “You mean if that happens.”

  I shucked off my coat and walked over to my office. Peeking inside, I asked Sam if she wanted to eat again. She said no, but since she’d run out of gas on her writing, she’d sit with me while I did.

  I put some leftover pasta with Sam’s ragù bolognese in the microwave, poured another beer into my glass and set a place at the table for myself.

  Sam came out as I was sitting down to eat and slipped into the chair to my right.

  “What happened to your meeting?”

  “My friend poisoned himself, would be my guess, and he begged off for tonight.”

  “Does that mean you’re finished working for the day?” She smiled hopefully.

  “Wish I were, but I want to look at a video and listen to a tape of this group tonight. The client’s coming in tomorrow.”

  “How will this stuff help?”

  “Anything you know about the target and the potential threats is useful. One group of people is offended by her songs. I’d like to know if anyone else might be pissed off by them.”

  “You said target. What kind of security job is this?” Sam asked, frowning.

  I kept on eating and took the time to mince all the words I’d use but I couldn’t get the pieces small enough to sneak past her. “I’ve been hired as the bodyguard for a rock singer, Jane Doe.”

  “Bodyguard? Did I hear you right, bodyguard? Why does she need a bodyguard, Leo? Is this a usual precaution?”

  “Yeah, she has a regular bodyguard, but he’s not available right now. So I’ve been asked to fill in.”

  “That’s it, Leo? You’re just a replacement?” Sam shook her head. “Hate to deflate you, honey, but you’re just not big enough to be hired muscle. I’ve seen these bodyguards on television. They all look too big to play football. Why you?” />
  “Because I’m a professional, Sam, and this isn’t a job for muscle. Muscle is great if all you want is a presence to scare off nuisances. A serious attacker loves big bodyguards; they’re easy to locate and easy to avoid.” I took a breath and congratulated myself on rising so easily to the bait. Go ahead and tell me I’m too old or too small. Go ahead, I dare you.

  “So there’s been a threat against this woman? Is that right?” Sam’s face was grim.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” I stared straight at Sam, waiting to see which way she was going to go with this.

  “Excuse me, Leo, but what exactly are you doing this for? You’re a detective. You’ve got steady work.”

  “Not at these rates, I don’t.”

  “So what are you getting? How much?”

  “Twenty-five-hundred a day plus expenses. Five grand for the job. It’d take me a month to earn that regularly, that’s why.”

  “Jesus, is it worth it, Leo?”

  “I think so. Look I’ve scoped this job out. I don’t think there’s much risk here.”

  “How much risk is that, Leo?”

  “All right, there’s some but it’s not prohibitive. I wouldn’t take a job that I didn’t think I could pull off. You know me well enough.”

  “Yeah, but what do you know about doing this? Shouldn’t you get some expert to help you?”

  “Sam, I am the expert. I spent five years doing close personal security work for the best private protection team in the country, all ex–Secret Service men.”

  “Okay, expert. How many times did a threat materialize?”

  “Sam, I worked steadily at this for five years, and we had four attempts in all that time. We had blood once. Threats are easy to make, but there’s damn few real doers out there. The idea is to anticipate and avoid high risk situations. If you do your job right, it’s real boring but lucrative work.”

  “You’re telling me the truth?”

  “Yeah, I’m telling you the truth. Now can I do my homework? I want to have a real boring time tomorrow. You’re welcome to sit in. I value your input.”

  “Okay.” Sam got up, went into the kitchen and poured herself a beer.

  I finished my food, grateful that she hadn’t asked me why I’d stopped doing this boring, lucrative work.

  CHAPTER 10

  The videotape Nicky had given me included three songs. Two were from a concert here in D.C. The third song, “Vagina Dentata,” was the video they’d shot in L.A. Sam and I pulled our chairs together in front of the television and I fed the tape into the VCR. After a brief introduction, the band took the stage. Sturdivant and Rohatan stepped out, waved to the crowd, and began to tune up. Next out was Axel. His guitar was hourglass shaped and flesh toned. It bore a startling similarity to a woman’s body. Last out was Jane Doe. I was surprised to find her so tiny. She had to be a good foot shorter than Axel and five feet two at the most. The group continued to tune up. Jane, in a tank top and miniskirt had her back to the audience. She wore high heels and white ankle socks. She ran a hand through her tousled hair. I was pleased that the stage was strictly functional. Just the musicians and their instruments. The more theatrical the group—costumes, makeup, light shows, smoke machines and so on—the more I felt I was listening to Shakespeare’s idiot: tunes full of sound and fury signifying nothing.

  Jane spun around, and stepped up to the microphone. Next to her Axel growled:

  “Welcome to Room 101,

  don’t ask why the walls are red.

  Sometimes things get messy

  where the living envy the dead.”

  A ripple of applause ran through the audience. I scanned the lyric sheet. The song was called “Julia Loves Winston.”

  Jane grabbed the microphone and began to sing, softly.

  “They’ve wired me up

  and shoved a lie detector between my legs.

  My bones are turning to water

  while I try hard not to beg.”

  Andersson leaned toward his microphone and jumped in,

  “Pain is quite a teacher

  and there are no passing grades.

  You will take this class

  until you see the error of your ways.”

  Axel stepped back and focused intently on his guitar. The notes were coming faster and louder. Jane’s voice cut in, stronger now but wavering, tremulous.

  “I’m not a hero.

  What do you want to know?

  They plugged me in anyway

  just to watch the show.”

  Andersson’s guitar cut loose with an earsplitting, feedback-filled note and as it faded away, he murmured the chorus, like a demon’s lullaby. Bent over, Jane’s voice was just a whisper now:

  “I’m too well made,

  my heart it just won’t burst.

  God damn you fucking bastards,

  you will have to do your worst.”

  and then she began to straighten up, her voice getting louder. Behind her the bass line grew, two notes “bum-bum” over and over. There was an ominous hum from Axel’s guitar. Jane, eyes closed, swayed as she sang.

  “I will not give him up,

  his name is welded to my heart.

  But they kept plugging me in

  until I came apart.”

  The throbbing bass line heartbeat grew softer. Slowly all the music faded away, leaving Jane whispering over and over

  “Dear Winston, I could not last.

  It was never if but when.

  Just tell me this: Now that we’ve been broken

  will we ever mend?”

  A rousing drumroll led into an eerily jaunty coda, over which Axel sang like a carnival barker.

  “Thank you for coming to Room 101

  where the walls are always red.

  Anything can happen inside

  when the living envy the dead.”

  After a brief moment of silence the band kicked into a new song. This one was much faster. Everyone was focused on his instrument, all play and no show. No gymnastics routines for the guitarists, no humping the microphone stand for Jane, just tight playing. As I listened to Jane sing I began to appreciate her instrument. She had a big voice, supple and strong. All kinds of effects were done effortlessly. The tone was rich, deep and smoky. The group was doing “Lying Down With Strangers.” Jane was swaying at the microphone. Eyes closed, she sang

  “Lying down with strangers

  is what I do the best.

  My heart stays in the icebox

  and I use what I’ve got left.”

  Axel’s hands were flying up and down the neck of his guitar. Jane grabbed the microphone with both hands and moved her legs apart into a wider stance.

  “You were looking for a girl

  with peanut butter legs,

  smooth and creamy

  and easy to spread.”

  She began to dance, sliding her hips back and forth, turning her shoulders, snapping her fingers, and shaking her head from side to side. Axel was stalking her across the stage, his woman-shaped guitar held low. He was playing the hell out of her.

  “Well I’m just what you ordered

  and you’re just fine by me.

  Let’s keep this strictly business

  I don’t need your pedigree.”

  So we’ve made a crime of passion,

  please don’t cop a stupid plea.

  I don’t want to hear about your wife.

  She sure don’t want to hear about me.”

  The music slowed a bit and Jane sang with a bitter twist,

  “This life ain’t so bad

  I don’t hardly feel a thing.

  My Keogh’s getting fatter

  and I just bought me a big new ring.”

  She sang the next verse with a wistfulness that cut right through me.

  “But there’s this doubt sometimes that just won’t

  go away and the question takes this form:

  What kind of life is this

  when you’ve only strange
rs to keep you warm?”

  Sam slid out of her chair and into my lap. She looped an arm around my neck and said, “I think I know where the danger is in this job.”

  “She’s attractive, yes, you could say that.” I allowed.

  “Attractive, hell. She’s a little fireball,” Sam said. With that she took my face in her hands and kissed me long and hard.

  Finally breaking away, I asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Fireproofing you, silly.” Sam laughed.

  I pointed to another part of my anatomy and said “I think you missed a spot here.”

  After that, all I remember of the video for “Vagina Dentata” was a series of abruptly shifting shots of the group performing the song and then a series of mouths, talking, kissing and drinking. First horizontal and then vertical and with gradually sharper, protruding teeth. The last shot of the video was Axel staring at his guitar with its head bitten off.

  Turning off the tape, I asked Sam if she was staying the night. She said yes and we straightened up the place and went to bed. We were at the point in our relationship where I was confident of the answer but not enough to presume it. Drifting off to sleep I found myself looking forward to meeting Jane Doe. My last thought, though, was something Nelson Algren wrote a long time ago: “Never eat at a place called Mom’s, Never play cards with a man named Doc, And never lie down with a woman who has more troubles than you do.”

  I tried counting my troubles instead of sheep, but fell asleep before I learned how many I had.

  CHAPTER 11

  I awoke, bounced out of bed, and went into the shower. Turning on the water, I caught myself singing one of Jane’s songs. “The Amazon’s Breast.”

  “I no longer nurse my young,

  and they no longer seek my lap

  since I burned off that breast

  thinking it was a trap.

  “I did it to myself

  I’ve got no one else to blame.

  All so I could shoot my bow

  with a man’s deadly aim.”

  Stepping into the spray I could feel the adrenaline surging through me. How much was interest in meeting Jane Doe and how much was anticipation of the job I couldn’t tell. Bodyguard-work comes in two kinds. Hours of boredom punctuated by moments, hopefully rare, of terror. The more vigilant you can stay through the first, the less you know of the second.