Alex Six

by Vince Taplin

  She always smiled when people stopped by with freshly squeezed babies. Kraya didn’t have baby fever, she had the baby plague. No matter how tired she was, crabby he was, or how many diapers we’d (really she’d) changed, she always wanted more. I was supportive of her infatuation with small, crying things. Even offered to get her another one someday, when the timing was right. She laughed. I didn’t.

  Most (smart) men get the joke. It isn’t really up to us when we have babies. If we ever, for even a moment, believe we have any say in it, do this: think about the last time you didn’t give it to her when she seduced you. Think harder. Remember? Neither do I. They own the show. You just coproduce.

  I put away groceries and threw away the aging, wilting mess of carrots and other useless vegetables cowering in the back of the refrigerator. We made dinner together, played with the munchkin together, and put him to bed together. Watched Netflix and slowly crawled into bed together. I never found the right moment to mention the woman from the store. I read my book, glasses on, with the bedside lamp coloring the room. The book was good, a hard crime book about a guy named Quarry. After about three pages, my eyes closed and the book slapped my forehead.

  Chapter Three

  We were proud owners of several rental properties. I’d snowballed the debt and paid a few of ’em off. I found myself fixing something almost every day. Today, I was busy checking out what she described as, “Ummm, rusty water or something under the big round thing (water heater).” Not a good sign. That tenant was okay. Usually paid her rent on time. No parties and quiet(ish), but dumb as a box of short-bus rocks (not to be confused with public or private school rocks). I caught her trying to weed-whack a small tree once. Selfishly, I just watched. The tree, no less than three inches across, was “in my way” when she was looking out the window. Silly Teresa. Weed-whackers are for adults. I suspected drug use, or a mental defect, but landed mostly on drugs. Not hard drugs, just a bit of pot. I wasn’t into it, but I didn’t care if my tenants were. I’ll take a stoned, responsible Cheetos addict over a mullet-sporting alcoholic any day. Usually the worst thing that happens with a stoner is a few grease stains from pizza or spilled bong water on the carpet. Both, unfortunately, have happened to this property.

  The water heater was dead on arrival. It was spitting sad rusty loogies out the back, leaving a red trail from the heater to the drain. I killed the water line, drained it, and told her I needed to replace it.

  “Do I like… need to pay for it?” she asked blankly.

  “No. You, like, don’t need to pay for it,” I replied.

  She seemed happy she didn’t need to shell out any cash, but it was difficult to tell through the glaze. I cleaned up, wiping my hands on my cool I’m-a-landlord overalls. She walked me out. I gave her a cable company style estimate on when I’d be back to install the new water heater.

  “I’ll be back between noon today and tomorrow. It all depends on how soon I can order one.”

  Which was bullshit. Any goof with a credit card can pop over to Home Depot and grab a heater, some hoses, clamps, and get that thing installed in about two hours. But I’m no goof. I have things to do. People to see. Naps to take.

  I left, heading south toward the clinic. My car was new. Not new-new, but new in the sense it didn’t have rust and I’d only given it about five oil changes. The streets were unusually busy for the morning. A few accidents on the highway were responsible for my tardiness at the hospital. I wasn’t concerned. I’d probably spend most of my time in the waiting room anyhow. I’d received a letter informing me of my annual blood panel. These crooks take every opportunity to get a shot at another insurance payment. I parked, walked inside, and checked in with the attractive nurse at the counter. She was maybe twenty-five with short hair and a tattoo of a star on her left forearm. Was she hiding more tattoos? I’d put money on it.

  After three minutes of waiting, a new high-speed record I might add, I was called to the first set of small rooms. Cotton balls, tongue depressors, and a bunch of tools that looked like pneumatic drill parts lined the small, sterile room. I sat on the butcher paper while the nurse checked my blood pressure. It wasn’t the same nurse from the counter. This one was bigger, no tattoos or sense of humor. Just a curly haired mess of menopause.

  “Do you smoke?”

  Of course not. Not that I’d tell her anyway. I’d quit smoking a few times, but it always snuck up on me like a bad cold or an overdraft fee.

  “Is your address correct?” she asked, but didn’t look up from her laptop.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I’d recently learned ma’am and miss are a good differentiator of age.

  “How much alcohol do you use, per week?” Lifeless eyes turned from the laptop screen to me.

  “Depends on the week,” I chuckled. She didn’t. “Maybe three drinks per week.”

  She typed furiously. “Drug use?”

  This time I didn’t try to be funny. “No,” I said.

  “Sex life?” She stopped typing long enough to glance at me above her glasses.

  “Good!” I mean… what else do I say here? Open-ended questions much, Rosanne?

  “One partner? Do you have any concerns about STDs?”

  “No. One partner. Married.” I wanted so badly to ask her the same question. Ma’am, do you have sex often? I figured it was okay to ask since we’re getting so personal. I imagine her living in a small apartment with her husband, Bill. He’s a retired construction worker with back problems. She’d steal painkillers from the office sometimes to make him happy enough to fuck her. That’s what she’d tell me, I guarantee it.

  “The doc will be here in a moment.” She rose abruptly and left.

  It wasn’t a moment. It was another ten minutes. So much for that world record. I was about to start playing with the blood pressure cuff when the doctor walked in. I stood, shook his hand, and sat back down. He introduced himself and explained what he was about to do.

  “I’m Dr. Filstead and you’re here today for a blood panel, correct?” He sat awkwardly on the side of the desk, peering into a file I was convinced was just a blank piece of paper.

  “Don’t ask me, I come when beckoned.”

  He smiled. “All right, let’s getcha fixed up here…”

  He lifted my sleeve and tied a rubber band around my arm. I made a ball with my fist and watched the needle poke into my forearm. I’ve seen enough blood to make a cheesy horror movie, but it’s different when it’s your own. He released the tight rubber band from my arm and filled the plastic vial. I felt blood slosh back through my veins.

  “You should have the results in a few weeks.” He smiled again, pulled off his gloves, and Larry Birded them into the nearby trash can.

  “What are you looking for exactly?” I asked curiously. I realize I’m no spring chicken, but I’m no fall turkey either.

  He flipped a few pages on the clipboard. “Says the works. Nice of your employer to get these done for you.”

  Employer? Our insurance was under our business. Must be another annual perk of paying premiums higher than most of our mortgages.

  Next stop, a brand-spankin’-new water heater. It began to rain as I walked to my car. I love the smell of rain and the pitter patter of the drops. I picked up the pace and fumbled with the unlock button. The music startled me as I cranked over the engine. I flipped on the windshield wipers and as I was pulling from the parking space, my phone rang.

  Unknown number. I answered. “Am I speaking to Mr. Miller? Mr. Victor Miller?”

  “Maybe. Depends on who I’m speaking to.” Every fourth call I received was some telemarketer. Or worse yet, an automated call with a high-pitched, enthusiastic robot girl telling me I’d won a cruise or the (nonexistent) warranty on my car was about to expire.

  “I see. Mr. Miller, if this is you, I’m calling from Livingston Properties. We’d like to set up a meeting with you.”

  Holy shit. What does Livingston Properties want from me? They’re a huge company, massively intim
idating.

  “Thank you, yes, this is Victor. When would you like a meeting?” I was hoping it wasn’t another lot line dispute. I’d had all my properties checked thoroughly before I bought them. What do they want? A lawsuit? Fuck!

  “Victor, are you open this afternoon? Four p.m.?” He sounded like a pretentious bastard. A cocky middle-management jerk who made less than he wanted but acted like the billionaires he worked for.

  “Four p.m. today? Hmmmm… let me check my schedule.” I crumped a sandwich wrapper. “Looks like I have some time at four, yes. Thirty minutes long, you think?”

  “Mr. Miller, (sigh) I can’t tell you how long it will take. I only set up the appointments.”

  Dick.

  Ch4pter Four

  I’d seen him before. Or had I? Sometimes people recognize faces of loved ones in strangers. Or fall in love with a smell or a taste before they see what it belongs to. I’m no stranger to love, nor is that first feeling of sexual infatuation foreign. I’ve had plenty of relationships and countless partners, but he is different. I feel like a virgin, realizing the first tingle of a strong fetish. This man. Oh, this man! How wonderfully he walks. His gait and his posture are thigh tightening. Did I hear a brave elegance in his voice? His masculinity is intoxicating.

  I sat at the edge of my seat, fiddling with the stem on my margarita. Janet, one of the partners of Daddy’s firm didn’t notice him. She is babbling endlessly about the Waterman project. Only moments ago I was focused on her words, committed to its success. The profitability tables, overhead, and countless other expenses were on the tip of my tongue. And the carpenter and construction crew? Were they slow? Handicapped? What was wrong with these low-class citizens and their work ethic? They’d put this project behind schedule 3 times now.

  A bead of condensation slides down the stem of my glass. “Pardon me a moment, Janet,” I said.

  She hushed and gave an understanding wave. “Oh. Yes, yes. Of course!”

  My entire adult life I’ve been attacking opportunities instead of letting them slip through my fingertips. I wasn’t about to let him slip through mine. I pull my napkin from my lap and toss it on the table.

  I bump into half a dozen gossiping, backpack-laden college girls and dodged a skateboarding punk as I make my way down the sidewalk. I push through the crowd, trying desperately to keep him in view. My heart quickens as I round the cracked brick corner. He stops, looks at his wristwatch, and opens a tall door with peeling red paint. The neon sign in the window says NINE Tavern.

  The bar sat snugly between a bookstore and a closed massage parlor. I follow him in, pulling open the door with both hands. This is crazy, but I can’t deny this connection. I’m drawn, no-no, I’m called to him. I need to figure out who he is, maybe introduce myself? I need to. I feel it. I feel it everywhere. He has gravity — real gravity.

  Is he a student? Doubtful. He is too old, maybe resting gently in his late 20s? Early 30s? I bite my lower lip. The door moans as I enter. It smells of cheap beer and expensive cigarettes. He is sitting down at the bar, pulling out a faded stool with a creak. The bartender, clearly a college degenerate, acknowledged him with a nod and said something I couldn’t hear. I take a seat at a table behind him, heart beating out of my chest. I can hear his voice clearly now. His words rumble with a sexiness I feel in my gut. A wet tingling begins to boil between my thighs. I can smell him.

  He ordered a beer. As did I. I wait, too stunned to stand or try to communicate with him. I stare straight ahead, listening to his conversation and speech cadence with the bartender. The subtleties consume me. The way he laughs and the way he hung his jacket on the chair. The glimpse of his smile behind his jawline. I’m frozen at the table. It’s been a long time since I’ve been speechless. Do I stand? Introduce myself? Bump into him and apologize? This isn’t something I should struggle with. Stress drips down my pits into my dress. I pay them casually with a napkin.

  I pull my phone from my purse, checking my makeup in the camera. I push the red circle, snapping countless pictures of him. Mostly his back, but a few shots of his profile slipped in there, too. I sip my beer, my disgusting beer. I can’t believe people drink this stuff. I bet this is what those fucking construction workers drink while they slack on site. This is why they don’t get anything done. They’re drinking shitty, cheap beer. Animals.

  I hear it. My luck keeps getting better. A sloppy, hunched kid, sitting a few stools down recognizes him. I focus every morsel of my attention on their conversation.

  “Aren’t you Professor Miller?” the kid said, leaning and spitting as he spoke. Clearly too many blue-collar beers for this redneck.

  “I was.” Professor Miller raises his beer with a wink.

  His voice is a heavenly trumpet. What an exceptional, amazing, calm voice. I’ve never heard something so breathtaking. My hands are shaking, hiding below the scratched tabletop. Can I maintain my composure? Does anyone see me? Can they tell I’m sweating and trembling and so nervous I could vomit? I flash a peek over my shoulder. No. Thank heavens, no one is looking. The bartender is serving another glass of swill while Professor Miller watches a TV in the corner of the bar. “Nice to meet you, Professor Miller,” I whisper under my breath.

  Chapter Five

  The Livingston Building was huge, not unlike Mr. Livingston himself. He’d amassed a fortune buying, building, renting, and selling real estate. I’d heard stories about him. Some say he’s a cold, hard asshole. Others say he is a smart, cold, hard asshole.

  I knew a guy, who knew a guy, who bought a few properties from Livingston. Said he was a ruthless negotiator and he always had food at meetings. He heard him say, “America’s gotten too politically correct. Too wimpy and as soft as a grandma’s titty. We should negotiate over a meal, like the Italians.” Based on the size of his beltline, he must be negotiating fifteen hours a day.

  The reception area was bigger than my house. Elaborate marble pillars climbed several stories. The stone floor was polished and shined. It took a while to cross the floor to the big desk with LIVINGSTON PROPERTIES, INC across the front. The desk shadowed the small receptionists behind it.

  “Welcome to Livingston Properties. May I help you?” a gal with unnaturally white teeth asked from behind the desk.

  “Yeah, I’m here for a four o’clock meeting. I’m not sure who I’m meeting or why.” I smirked. “Can you figure that out for me?” She smiled back and clicked through some computer screens.

  “Looks like you’ll be on the forty-third floor.” She paused, raising an eyebrow. “That’s strange — it just says — no further details. You must be Mister…” she paused, scanning the screen, “Miller? Victor Miller?”

  “I am. Is there anything else on the screen? Any more info? I’m not sure why I’m here. Is it a legal thing? Trouble with one of my properties?”

  “So sorry, Mr. Miller. I don’t have access to that information. Please take a seat and someone will be with you shortly.”

  I sat. The chairs were nice enough but left something to be desired in the rump comfort category. Figured with his money he could have sprung for something cozier. A fragile man in a slim suit appeared from behind a massive marble wall. He spoke quietly to the receptionist. Their mumbles echoed in the marble corridor. He turned to me, murmured back to her, and started his approach.

  “Mr. Miller, a pleasure to meet you.” He stretched a hand to mine. His handshake was firm. Practiced. His eye contact confident and his hands well groomed. He said, “If you’ll follow me.”

  I did. I wondered why people never finish that sentence. “If you’ll follow me…” What? What happens if I follow you? We strode past the bank of receptionists behind the big desk. I could see there were crowds of phones and security screens hiding behind that monster. We continued down an equally extravagant hallway. Endless paintings, hundreds of them, stretched down the endless passageway. The little man led me through a few snaking hallways to a platoon of elevators. He pressed the up arrow and entered a guarded
passcode on the keypad. A pair of golden elevator doors opened. We walked onto the elevator and he pressed one of the buttons. It began to move. I coughed.

  “Did I catch your name?” I asked.

  “Oh, my apologies. I am Mr. Needle.”

  “Mr. Needle, do you know why I’m here?”

  I’d bet you a nickel he didn’t. He didn’t seem the type to run the machine, only oil it. He shook his head with a shoulder shrug. We spent the remainder of the elevator ride in silence. The elevator chirped, then slowed. Plants, marble, and a windowless hallway slid into view as the brass doors opened. Mr. Needle extended a pointed hand, the polite, universal symbol for “This is your stop, dude.” I obliged and he didn’t follow. The doors slid shut, sending Mr. Needle back downstairs to wherever he called home. I walked through the eerily quiet hallway to the only door at the end and knocked.

  Chapter 6ix

  Confidence has always been one of my best traits, followed closely by a methodical sense of analyzation. My fashion sense is quite impressive, too, but it doesn’t qualify as an innate ability. Does it?

  I didn’t lack the confidence to approach Professor Miller. I could have done it. I could have turned around in my chair, stood up, and introduced myself. Sure, I could have, and it probably would have worked. I made the decision to improve my chances of success before I approach him. So I began to watch him. Surveillance and intelligence always add to the probability of success, right?

  I watch him from the far corner of a coffee shop he frequents at lunchtime and sometimes I drive behind him when he runs errands. I hacked his password for his social media. I track his finances and monitor the profitability of his investment properties. I even bought a home on his block and had it repaired for two reasons: 1) It improved the value of his property, and 2) I am able to slip in undetected through the garage and watch him work on the landscaping from the small, tinted garage window. He became a study. My study. My angel.