Mr. Wonderful

by Daniel Smith

  “That your idea of settling things?”

  “It’s good you never met Dawn or this chump she was porking. If you had, you’d understand what I’m doing.” Then Danny suddenly throws his phone out the window.

  “What are you doing?!” I ask.

  “Meant to get me a burner phone before I drove up here,” he says, “but just didn’t get it done.”

  “Why do you need a burner phone?”

  “So they can’t find me, Pops. Most cells have GPS on them and can be tracked pretty easy,” he says with a condescending tone.

  “You mean Dawn and this guy that are after you will be able to find you?”

  “Well, not anymore.”

  “But you’re already here!”

  “Yeah, well, I guess that makes it an adventure.”

  When I get home, Corinne’s in bed. She looks like she’s asleep. I love the peaceful look in her face. I wonder if I look half that serene when I’m asleep. I doubt it. Corinne’s what I call a professional sleeper. She never has insomnia, never struggles to get to sleep and can’t figure out why someone like me takes Benadryl and Melatonin every night. I get into bed as slowly and quietly as I can. But before I can turn over, the covers move and I feel a pair of eyes staring at me in the dark. Then her night stand light comes on. “I hope to God you made some headway with Danny.”

  “I did. I think we’re all on the same page.”

  “Good,” she says, rolling back over on her back staring at the ceiling. “Because right now things look really bad for you.”

  “Me?” I flip over to look her in the eyes.

  “I know you mean well, Bri, but I can’t have you inviting this kind of turmoil and upheaval into our house. I deserve better and so do you.”

  “He’s our son, for Chrissakes, not some deadbeat we picked up off the streets out of guilt.”

  “He’s not going to get any better with you playing the heroic dad who helps him sort through his life problems. He’s 30 years old, for crying out loud!”

  “I know. I know.” I reach over to kiss her and she puts her hand up. “Look, I’m sorry we didn’t get to celebrate.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she says, her voice softening for the first time.

  “What was your big news?”

  “Nothing special. Just that Elise—that’s my client—she remembered another little detail about the night of the murder and so we may be getting closer to an air-tight alibi.”

  “Great. As long as it’s the truth.”

  “You and the truth. It’s night time, Brian. What does your ol’ friend, Ben Franklin, say about that? ‘In the dark, all cats are grey,’ right?”

  “Yeah. But he was referring to how a man bedding down older ladies in the dark worked just fine for him.”

  We give each other a warm kiss, which seems like a decent ending to a terrible day.

  4 | danny

  What a crazy day! One minute I’m hiding out, sleeping on my friend’s futon in east Arkansas after busting in on my live-in girlfriend doing the nasty with a REALLY nasty guy, then later that night I’m sleeping on the spare bed in my parents’ place in St. Louis. Grabbed me a nice $5K bankroll – that I totally deserve – and, if all goes well, I can start my life over again. America’s the land of second chances . . . or even third ones, right? Hell, yeah.

  This used to be my room back in high school. They’ve got a new bed in here, of course—thank God!—and have remodeled it with cool European paintings on the walls from the Louvre or wherever but I can still see the big dent on the door frame where I slammed a bat after a tough loss. I was going to be a big time baseball player and got some colleges interested in me, but by then, if I couldn’t have a big payday I just didn’t see the future in it. So I sort of gave up The Dream. Probably not the best move I could’ve made. But, hey, I was 18 and too interested in getting laid or getting high to worry about big dreams. Now I’m in the land of decent dreams.

  I figure I’d best steer clear of Mom, if possible. She’s never approved of my career choice, such as I have one at this point. Just because I don’t have the anal work ethic she has. Are all lawyers like that? Just because I like to enjoy my life doesn’t mean I don’t make plans and have goals. Hell, enjoying life isn’t a bad goal itself, you know? I’ve had to bite my tongue around Mom. Some of the trash talking she gave me last night almost made me jump out of my skin.

  I get up a little late—Pops is off to school; I can see from my window that his car is gone from the driveway—and go downstairs to get some breakfast. And there I run into Mom right off the bat. Didn’t realize she was working from home these days, but there she is toasting bagels and making coffee.

  “Good morning,” she says, and not in a really fun way.

  “I figured you be in court or something.”

  “Lawyers rarely go to court, you know. It’s the very last resort, when nothing else works.”

  I notice she’s not making a damn thing for me, so I pour my own coffee and drop a bagel into the toaster.

  “I see you know how to help yourself,” she says.

  “I used to live here, you know.”

  We stand around their big-ass kitchen island in silence as we wait on the toaster to do its business. I know Mom is pissed that I showed up like this, but I do have a bit of a crisis going on. That’s what parents are for, right? Helping you figure things out when you’re going through a rough patch. But the best move, I decide, is to focus on her, not me.

  “So you’ve got a big sexual triangle case,” I say as I lather up my bagel with cream cheese.

  “What? How did you know—?”

  “Pops told me a little about it last night.”

  “Oh, really? Not actually his place to talk about that.”

  “It’s okay. We’re family.”

  “That’s not what I mean—oh, well, forget it.”

  As I sit down to eat my bagel, Mom remains standing for a while, like she’s not sure she should be chowing down with me.

  “You know, Mom, if you need any help on your case—?”

  “‘Help’? From who—you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How could you possibly help me?”

  “Well, not to brag, but I have had some experience with romantic triangles. I could be like a legal consultant.”

  “Really?”

  “So this woman got jealous when the married man she was boning and planning a new life together with, decided he had to go back to his wife, and then the girlfriend decides to off the wife? Something like that?”

  “That’s the charge.”

  “But you think the girlfriend is innocent?”

  “I’m defending her from the charge, Danny. That’s what defense attorneys do.”

  Like I haven’t seen a jillion Law and Orders. But I just make another bite in my lip.

  “So if the girlfriend didn’t off the wife, I’m guessing you think it was the hubby, right?”

  “He had motive, but he also has a solid alibi: he was playing cards with two of his friends that night at their house miles away from the crime scene.”

  “Huh.” Heard that one before. “Did you ever investigate his friends?”

  “They all signed affidavits claiming they were with him that night.”

  “Have you ever thought that maybe they were lying for him?”

  “Why would they do that? What’s in it for them to commit perjury in a murder case?”

  “Did his old lady have life insurance?”

  “Yes. About 100 thousand, I think.”

  “Bingo. They’re gonna split it three ways. That’s 25 grand each.”

  “Actually, it’s 33 grand. But that’s crazy, Danny. You’ve been watching too much true crime television. But thanks anyway.”

  “Just trying to help out.”

  “Sounds to me like you better focus on helping yourself.” With that, Mom pours herself another cup of Joe and walks away. Always gotta have the last word. Probably teach her that in law sc
hool. That’s okay. I’m not here to fight. Just relax and recharge.

  I figure a good long walk is a great start. The old neighborhood looks different, twelve years or whatever after I graduated high school and I take off on my own. Some new houses here and there and a couple of sports bars have been built up at the end of the block, but mostly still the same “we ain’t got a dream so we’re settling right where we are” kind of neighborhood it always was. Which I sort of appreciate. If you walk really far—maybe a mile or so—you run into Grant High School where I did my time. I drove right past it when I came into town and except for a few new out buildings it looks the same: all it needs is some concertina wire and it could be a federal prison. “The place where joy and fun come to die,” we used to say. Dad made me walk to school every day—even though I was about the only “walk-up” nerd who did that—because he says he walked that far every damn day to go to school in the pissant Texas town where he grew up. God, the “lessons” inflicted on the young just to make parents feel like they’re passing along something.

  After a while, I’m working up a good sweat—it’s pretty warm in St. Looey for April—so I stop and grab a cup of coffee in a Kaldi’s I’ve never seen before. Guess it can’t hurt to do a little thinking. I’m 30 and where am I in life? No doubt, my dad would say I screwed myself when I didn’t get a college degree. Of course, he’s spent his entire life hanging out at college, so what else does he even know? I’ve got street smarts and common sense—that’s more than can be said about some of the eggheads he works with. But, yeah, I suppose a college degree would come in handy. But I just got so sick of school. I tried community college, but that was really lame. It was like high school for people with jobs. Once I got out of high school, I was done with all the regimentation and rules.

  So I went for the money. Over the years, I’ve done all kinds of jobs—clerked in hotels, waited tables, sold cars, drove for Uber—and now I’m rediscovering my creative roots: playing music and making art. Not much money in it yet but, hey, all the great artists started out with a struggle. Didn’t Monet at first make money painting peoples’ window blinds? All kinds of great musicians started out as street performers. It’ll come.

  But I guess I’ve got to get myself on a better setting when it comes to women. I just can’t keep letting them slow me down and mess with my head. When Ellen went lesbo on me, man, I never saw that coming. People should at least figure out who they want to sleep with—male or female—before getting married, don’t you think? I’m fine with the gay thing but you can’t be mixing up the teams, not in my world, anyway. And then, Dawn, Jesus Christ, I guess you have to really look at where someone comes from. I knew she had hillbilly origins but the way she talked and dressed, she seemed so above all that southern trash thing. Next thing I know, I feel like I’m a walk-on in Duck Dynasty.

  There’s something I’m doing wrong; I just got to figure it out. But I’m not giving that money back. No fucking way. A man’s got to stand up for what he knows is right. Hell, Dawn wouldn’t have had pot to piss in if I hadn’t insisted she take that waitress job and stay at it. I don’t know. It’s too much to process right now.

  I walk back home, proud of myself for the exercise and the head time. Just as I walk up the driveway, though, a shiny red Infiniti pulls in right alongside me. The window rolls down.

  “You think you’re smart?” says the punk driving the car.

  “Had a solid B average in high school.”

  “Ain’t nearly smart enough, bitch.”

  I get a better look at the guy—short, wiry guy with bad facial hair—and realize I’ve seen him somewhere. Wait, he looks like the guy Dawn was buying dope from.

  “You don’t get behind in payments to Raymond.”

  “What’re you talking about? And who the fuck is Raymond?” Actually, I know who Raymond is. This is not going to end well.

  “I’m Ricky and Raymond is my boss and he sends me to collect from douche bags like you.”

  “Look, I think you’re looking for my girlfriend—my EX girlfriend—Dawn Robinson.”

  He smiles, shaking his head like the complete dick that he is. “Dawn sent us up here, says you have all the money, that you stole it from the bank.”

  “Do I look like a bank robber, dumb ass?”

  I probably went too far with that line as Ricky gets out of the car brandishing a pistol and that shit-eating grin. “I’m not here to negotiate.”

  In the awkward silence where I consider running versus making false promises of repayment, a door slams, and out comes Mom walking straight towards Ricky and me. Ricky quickly slips the pistol into his back pocket as she approaches.

  “Is there a problem, fellows?”

  Ricky eyes me a moment, then decides to play it safe. “No, just lost and asking for some directions.”

  Not believing him, Mom likewise goes for the make-nice scenario. “Well, my son knows his way around so I’m sure he gave you good advice.” I love the fact that she calls me “son” right to numb nuts face.

  “Best of luck in your future endeavors,” I say, just to stick the knife in a little further.

  Ricky gets back into his car, but before he peels off: “I’m sure we’ll run into one another again, Danny.”

  I can feel the heat from Mom’s glare as Ricky drives away. Finally, I turn back to her keeping with the nonchalant tone. “Well, that was weird, huh?”

  “I saw the gun, Danny.”

  I swear, when it comes to me, the woman has zero chill. It’s all accusation and doubt. “Yeah, well, he wanted some really specific directions.”

  “Cut it out. Right now!” She comes over to me, gets right in my grill, like she might want to throw a punch. “Some thug pulls up in my driveway, whips out a gun and you start blathering on like he doesn’t understand google maps?!”

  “OK. He was looking for money.”

  “Drug money.”

  “I don’t know. I guess. I don’t owe him a thing. That’s all Dawn.”

  “Really? Says the man reeking of marijuana.”

  “I might have a joint here and there, but that’s Dawn’s contact so I have no idea why he’s up here.”

  “Oh, let me guess: because Dawn told him you wiped out her bank account and left town!”

  “OUR bank account.”

  “Jesus, Danny, will you stop with the stupid? Dawn knows where you are and now all your enemies are heading this way—and this is OUR fucking house!”

  I hardly ever hear Mom cussing, so I have to fight back a little chuckle. She starts pacing up and down the driveway like a woman possessed. Hell, she’s riled up way worse than Ricky, or maybe even Dawn. What IS it about me that gets under women’s skin so much? Finally, as I try to make my way toward the house, she stops me in my tracks.

  “Look, it’s one thing for you to drop in for another round of freeloading, Danny. But you cannot just show up and lay this criminal bullshit on our front door! Your dad and I will talk but if we hear or see any more of Ricky or Dawn or any other Arkansas deadbeat that may be chasing you, you are OUT of this house immediately! Got it?”

  I stay away from Mom most of the afternoon—she’s blabbing on her cell a lot of the time anyway and punching shit into her laptop—but late in the afternoon I figure it’s time to pull out the ol’ ax and get my music on. First I grab a glass and a bottle of wine—gotta have inspiration—and head out onto the back porch. While I’m busy tuning, I hear someone ring the doorbell. The least I can do is answer the door, so I go open it—only to find facing me an extremely attractive lady, maybe 35 or so, standing there looking all stressed-out, but still hot-looking. Mom quickly comes down from her study to the door and tells me she’s got this, go back to my business, bla, bla, bla.

  Which I do, but not before overhearing that the hot visitor is in fact Mom’s accused killer client, Elise something. When I see they’re going to sit down in the kitchen for some coffee, I make sure to return to the porch and park my ass there just beyond t
he open kitchen door but close enough that I can make out what they are saying, maybe even steal a look here and there.

  It’s obvious that with her trial nearing poor Elise is falling apart. Mom has to provide tissues with all the crying and sniffling going on. I’m amazed at how good Mom is at pretending to care and trying to look confident. “I just can’t go to prison,” Elise says with her crying voice, “not for something I didn’t do.”

  “You’re not going to prison, Elise.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve been hearing a lot of bad stuff lately on the news about how I had motive and opportunity and so on.”

  “Quit watching the news, Jesus. I told you to just stay away from all those negative things.”

  “But Corinne, what if they’re true?”

  Elise has another little crying fit and now Mom has to give her this big “don’t worry, I got this” Mama-bear hug. And then I hear her finally say it: “Listen, Elise, there’s one area we probably should explore a bit: did Jack, did he ever mention Sally’s life insurance?”

  Elise blows her nose again, then after a moment, shakes her head. “Well, wait: one time when we were talking about Sally having a health scare a few years back, he did say that because they couldn’t have kids, her life insurance would all go to him.”

  I sneak a peek at this point and see Mom, kind of wide-eyed at all this, quickly jot down a note.

  “Is that important?” the dumb but still hot Elise asks.

  Hell, yes, sweet girl, I almost shout from the porch. I must have made a sound—or maybe she saw me through the window—but right then Mom gestures for Elise that her little visit is over, and they head back through the living room and out the front door.

  I smile, pop the cork on the pinot, and kick back. Danny to the rescue!

  5 | Brian

  At first it feels great to get to work—anything to get away from the chaos and worry that Danny drags into every occasion like an old pair of smelly shoes. He thinks they’re comfortable, but after he leaves the room everyone else is stuck with the stink. Today I have office hours to meet students who come to complain or beg for mercy, followed by a faculty meeting where faculty comes to complain or feign complete indifference.