When the Sun Goes Down

by Gwynne Forster

  “Well, what do you think?” he asked Medford after introducing him to Cory Benjamin and explaining his idea.

  Medford rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s fabulous, Gunther. What I can’t figure is how you came up with anything this far-out. The ad will be a huge hit.” He looked at Cory. “Let’s see what kind of outfit will work best with this game.”

  Cory looked at Gunther. “Are you going to pay me for this?”

  “Sure. A hundred a day for the work and the going rates for as long as we run the ad. I usually pay twice monthly, but you’ll get your money at the end of the day, since you said you were broke.”

  Cory dropped himself into the nearest chair. “Do you mind if I call my aunt? She keeps the kids for me. Even if this job doesn’t last but two days, at least we’ll be able to eat for a while.”

  Very little time elapsed before Gunther realized that he’d struck a gold mine in Cory. Working together, offering and rejecting suggestions, Cory and Medford produced a video commercial that Gunther thought equally as interesting as the game he’d created.

  “I got an idea, Gunther,” Medford said after they sent the video to the distributor’s marketing firm. “We’ve got a good foothold in the industry now, and we could use another hand. Cory is a genius at ideas, he’s a good actor, and he knows a few things about the computer. What do you think?”

  “I’ve been thinking the same, and since the two of you got along so well, we ought to keep him if he’s willing,” Gunther said. “I like his personality. Ask him to come into my office.”

  “Cory, Medford and I like your work and your attitude. This is a small operation, and we have to get along smoothly. If you’d like to work here full-time, I can offer you fifty thousand a year to start. As we grow, your income will increase. You’ll get a bonus at the end of the year, the amount depending on how we’ve done. What about it?”

  “Gunther, you don’t know how good it is to feel like a man again. I’ll treat your business like it was my own. When do I start?”

  Fate had smiled on both Cory and Gunther. He’d never thought he’d be thankful for having almost killed a man. “The day you came here,” Gunther said. “I’ll draw up a contract to include health insurance for you and your family and paid leave. Welcome aboard.”

  He answered the phone. “What? You’re kidding.” He looked at Cory. “Our marketing people want to enter that video in the annual commercials competition. They’re certain that it’ll win. Well, I’ll be damned.” He looked at the glow on Cory’s face and noted the strength and solid masculinity that the man now exuded. What a difference it made to a man if he had a sense of self-worth.

  What he wouldn’t give to see such a transformation in his brother, to see in Edgar the demeanor of a mature, accomplished, and successful man. He fought back the tears. It would never happen, because Edgar could not envisage that in himself. What a wasted life, and what a pity. He filled in a contract form and gave it to his secretary to type up. If he were in Cory’s place, he’d want proof that he had a job.

  “After you type it, give it to Cory to read and sign,” he told his secretary. He went back to his office feeling good, as if spring had bloomed out all around him.

  However, Edgar seemed anchored in his same old rut. “You know what you can do, don’t you?” Edgar said to the one man who had been eager to hire him days earlier.

  “Now, look, Farrell, you can’t leave me with no music tonight. Without a guitarist, I don’t have a band, and the Charcoal Club has a reputation as a first-class house.”

  “I don’t play with no crappy drummer. Three nights of that two-bit amateur, and I’ve had it.” He turned his back and answered his cell phone. “Farrell speaking. Yeah. What’s up, Gunther? Did Carson come up with anything yet?”

  “He can’t get back on the job until Wednesday. I was wondering if you were still at the Charcoal Club.”

  “Man, this place sucks. I’m getting ready to head out right now.”

  “Really? Where are you going? At least that’s a job. Where else are you going to find work? Not many people can afford to go to clubs these days, so if a club has enough patrons to hire musicians, I’d stay there if I were you. Unless you plan to panhandle on the street. ”

  “Yeah. Well, look, man, I gotta go.” Where, indeed! Maybe it wasn’t too late. He went over to the manager. “Like I said when I came here, man. You’ve been good to me, and one good deed deserves another. Tell that drummer to shape up, will you? All he has to do is maintain the rhythm, and he can do that if he keeps his mind on his work.”

  “Good. Good. I’ll tell him right now,” the manager said, looked toward the heavens, whispered something, and went to find the drummer.

  That Saturday afternoon, Gunther sat on his balcony listening to a CD of Cream’s farewell concert in Albert Hall, London. He’d come of age with Clapton, Baker, and Bruce, and he could still listen to Eric Clapton’s guitar for hours and want more. Mirna came out on the balcony and handed him a mug of hot, spiced, hard cider just as Clapton’s solo on “Spoonful” began. But he knew she wanted to talk, and he could listen to that music whenever he liked, so he shut it off.

  “Thanks,” he said, accepting the cider. “This is just the thing for a nippy day like today. Sit down.”

  She sat with her back to the brick wall. Mirna never seemed comfortable on that balcony. It amused him that she behaved as if it could fall at any time. “I just got a call from Frieda, Mr. G.” At that, his antenna went up. “She act like somebody shot her out of a cannon. I didn’t understand one word she say. I think maybe she coming down with something. I told her to come by here and let me have a look at her. I hope you don’t mind.”

  The words had hardly left her mouth when the doorbell rang. “That must be her now,” Mirna said.

  He finished the mug of cider more quickly than he ordinarily would have. To his mind, cider was something you sipped.

  “What’s come over you?” he heard Mirna ask Frieda, and waited for the answer.

  “Girl, you don’t know what happened.”

  “That’s right, I don’t,” Mirna said with a note of exasperation in her voice. “But you’ll tell me. I hope you ain’t as sick as you sound.”

  “Sick? I never been so happy in my whole life. Mr. Farrell and Miss Shirley got me a job with that cruise line, and they paying me money. We speaking real money.”

  Gunther bounded out of his chair and headed toward the sound of their voices.

  “Are you saying you got the job?” he asked, looking hard at Frieda.

  “Yes, indeed. I tell you I practically flew back here with my own wings. Mr. Farrell, they treated me like I was somebody special. That hotel was da bomb, somebody met me at the airport, and this long black limousine took me back there. It was real special. Dr. Larsen wants me to work in the clinic in Orlando for six months to get used to the way they do things, and then he’ll assign me to a ship. He also said that if I take some courses at the University of Central Florida College of Nursing, the cruise line will pay for that. I am sitting on top of the world. I am going right out of my head.”

  She looked at Gunther. “I’m ... I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to cry, and I never cry. Never,” she said as tears cascaded down her cheeks. “That man said I’m gon’ get forty-five thousand dollars a year to start with, plus my expenses, health insurance, paid vacation, Christmas bonus, and an IRA account. I’m finally gon’ be able to buy me a little piece of property. I signed the contract. Is that contract legal, Mr. Farrell?”

  Her happiness enveloped him. He didn’t know when he’d felt so good about a thing that happened to someone other than him. “If both of you signed it,” he said, “it will stand in any court.”

  Frieda pulled out a chair from the dining room table, sat down, lowered her head, and covered her face with her hands. “I just can’t believe it, but I sure am grateful.” She looked at Gunther. “Y’all never gon’ be sorry you got me that job, ’cause I’m gon’ do my very b
est every single day, and that’s the truth.”

  He walked over and patted her lightly on the shoulder. “I know that, Frieda. That’s why I recommended you. I’m just as happy about this as you are. Shirley should be back this evening, and I’ll let her know you got the job.”

  He made his way up the stairs. First Cory Benjamin and now Frieda saw their ship come in, and he figured that it was about to happen for Shirley. He thought about Edgar. Nobody could make him believe that their father’s spiteful treatment of his will hadn’t exacerbated Edgar’s failings as a man. Leon Farrell had never given his children what he could and should have, neither materially nor in respect to parental guidance. And, in death, he had simply laughed at them and invited them to tear each other apart. It wouldn’t happen. He’d see to that.

  Frieda remained where Gunther left her, almost too overwhelmed to collect her thoughts. “You want some tea or some coffee?” Mirna asked Frieda. “When you supposed to go to Orlando? You got to get yourself together, girl.”

  “I forgot all about putting something in my stomach. I’d love a cup of coffee. I’m gon’ clear out of the dump on Franklin Street. The cruise line will send somebody to pack and ship my things. I’m gon’ leave that stuff in storage and rent a furnished place till I see how things are going. I gotta call Coreen and tell her I’m gon’ be down in Florida. We promised to stay in touch.”

  “You don’t have to justify it to me. Your mother ought to know where you are.”

  “You been a good friend, Mirna, but please don’t push me about Coreen. I’m inching along as best I can with her, and if you were in my shoes, you’d understand that.”

  Mirna held her hands up, palms out. “All right. That’s what I get for not minding my business. Here’s some baked ham and some good old buttermilk biscuits. I just made ’em.”

  Frieda made a sandwich and savored it. “This sure is good. I must have been starving. You just did a good deed.” She finished two sandwiches. “I hate to eat and run, but I gotta start packing my personal things. I ain’t gon’ let those men pack my makeup, toiletries, and underwear. These three biscuits going with me. Thanks. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll send up a prayer for you. This is what you been working for, and I know you’ll make the best of it.”

  Frieda walked into her apartment, closed the door, sat down, and dialed Coreen’s home phone number. “How are you, Coreen?” There! She’d finally called her by her first name.

  “Frieda! It’s wonderful to hear from you. I’m up and about and doing just fine. How are things with you?”

  “Great. That’s why I called you.” She told Coreen about her new job and how she got it. She raved on about it, not noticing Coreen’s silence. “Am I making tracks or am I?”

  “Oh, yes,” Coreen said. “You’re a wonderful nurse, and you’ll do a good job. I’m so happy for you, and I’m really glad you’ll have a chance to work toward your RN.”

  “You know, I was just gon’ take some courses. You don’t know how glad I am that I called you about this. Lord, this is just too much! Maybe I’ll get to see you before I move to Orlando. I’m sure gon’ try. Give my best to your husband, Eric, and Glen. I’ll send you my new phone numbers soon as I get them. Bye for now.”

  Frieda hung up, swung around, and hugged herself. She was going to have a job where people respected her, and she was going to college. If Coreen hadn’t mentioned working on her RN, she wouldn’t have taken full advantage of that opportunity. Something good always came out of the talks with Coreen. She’d have to consider that when she had more time. Right now, she had to get ready for the movers.

  She threw up her hands. “I haven’t even told my boss at the hospital. I gotta keep those irons in the fire, ’cause I don’t know if I’ll need to go back there. Never burn all your bridges.” After writing a thank-you note to Shirley, she began sorting out her clothes and personal items. “Thank the Lord, I never was one to buy a lot of things I don’t need. This is easier than I thought it was gon’ be.”

  Suddenly, she grabbed a chair and sat down.

  Something was not right. Coreen didn’t seem half as excited about her new job as Gunther had been. As much as they’d discussed Frieda’s yearning for better working conditions. . . Perhaps Coreen had been having a bad day and didn’t want to spoil Frieda’s joy by mentioning it. That had to be the reason. What else could explain it?

  “Just my luck,” Shirley said to herself when the door opened just as she turned the key in the lock. “Hi, Gunther. Don’t tell me Mirna’s cooking chicken and dumplings.”

  “That could be it. Good to see you, Carson. How was Broadway?”

  “Great. How’s it going? The two shows we saw lived up to their notices. I highly recommend a weekend theater trip, provided you have all of your reservations and tickets before you leave here. I expect the snow’s thick up there by now.”

  “We had some flakes here yesterday. You’re welcome to stay for dinner if that suits you. I dare not issue you a genuine invitation, lest Shirley gets her back up.”

  “If Mirna’s cooking chicken and dumplings, Shirley can get her back up all she wants to, but I accept your kind invitation.”

  Gunther went to the kitchen and came back with a grin spread across his face. He looked at Carson and spoke as if the two of them were alone. “Mirna told me to tell you that nobody makes chicken and dumplings like she does, and that tonight, she’s outdone herself. Come on in.”

  “I’ve got a lot to tell you,” Gunther said to Shirley, but with his tone and demeanor, he included Carson as a rightful recipient of his news. He told them about Frieda, and that she was getting ready to move to Orlando and that he’d hired Cory Benjamin full-time. “Both of these incidents have given me a great feeling. Let’s have a drink. Carson, I know you don’t drink when you’re driving, but how about a glass of wine. It isn’t often that my spirit soars like this.”

  “I’ll take a vodka comet with lots of ice,” Carson said. “I feel you, man. From what you’ve said, it seems that both of them not only needed a break but also deserved it. You helped, and you have to feel great. Now, if we could only work a miracle with your brother.”

  “He phoned me this morning,” Shirley said. “He’s got a two-week job at the Charcoal Club in Philadelphia beginning tomorrow night. He was on his way to Philly when he called me.”

  “What happened to his job at the Charcoal Club in Baltimore?” Gunther asked.

  “That’s an East Coast chain. He said the Philadelphia club is the parent club and that the manager sent for him. He’ll be playing solo.”

  “Let’s hope he keeps that job for at least the next two weeks,” Carson said. “By that time, I ought to have this cleared up, and it can’t happen soon enough for me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  As Carson was about to leave Shirley, she asked him, “Don’t you want me to go with you to the house to look for the will? I’m not leaving for Fort Lauderdale until the day after tomorrow.”

  That was precisely what he had not wanted to hear. “Sweetheart, I’ve given myself a deadline to find that will, and you would be a distraction that I don’t need. I’ll call you after I get home.”

  She seemed somewhat taken aback, but he couldn’t help it; he had to maintain his integrity to the extent possible. He rubbed her nose with the tip of his index finger. “This job has taken me three or four times as long as I had anticipated, but I don’t quit until I finish. So bear with me, will you?”

  She reached up and kissed him on the mouth. “Okay. I won’t interfere with your work. See you this evening.”

  He’d have a talk with her about that. He respected her right to work on a job that took her from her home station for weeks at a time, so she had to grant him the right to do his job as he saw fit. He winked at her, turned, and headed for the elevator.

  As was his habit, he called Shirley shortly after he got home. “This past weekend may have signaled a change in my life. It won’t be easy i
n the future; it won’t be easy to have days pass without being with you. I still love you.”

  “And I still love you,” she said. “When I’m away from you, I miss you, Carson, but this time, I expect to be miserable.”

  “We’ll work it out, sweetheart. We don’t have a choice.” And they didn’t, he realized after he hung up, because he couldn’t do his kind of work solely on cruise ships.

  The next morning, he awakened early, feeling refreshed and ready to work. Like an itch in need of scratching, he could hardly wait to get to that house and resume his search. He parked in the garage, entered the house, closed the door behind him, and locked it. Then he secured that and the other two ground-level doors with their chains and headed up the stairs to Leon Farrell’s office/den.

  With one press of the button, the panel slid open, and his adrenaline began to pump. Carson knew little about fine art beyond what he’d learned browsing in museums in the United States and abroad. He’d had to learn how to spot certain fake sculptures and wooden artifacts. He pulled up a chair, sat on it, and began to examine the Chinese porcelain vases on the bottom shelf. He’d bet that all seven of them were of considerable value and that unless the two blue and white vases were copies, they might date back several centuries. If they were truly valuable, they would be listed in the will. He handled them carefully. Unfortunately, none of the seven contained the will.

  Neither did a leather box containing Catherine’s high school and college memorabilia, as well as letters from her parents, who hadn’t wanted her to marry the man who had become their son-in-law. Leon Farrell had worshiped a woman who was his social better. Had he driven himself to become his wife’s social equal? And had his in-laws cared that he became very rich? From the letters in his hand, Carson doubted it.

  At about two o’clock, Carson looked at the many items still to be examined, found a shopping bag, and put a dozen of the larger plastic robots in it. He locked the house and took the robots to the police laboratory in Baltimore.