by KUBOA
The only way to know if he’d been bluffing would be to wait around, sit in my apartment, see if the police showed up.
Which they would, I knew they would.
Shaking my head, regardless of how the abrupt gesture looked to the passengers sitting around me, I forced myself to stay focused on my other hypothetical.
If the police didn’t show up.
If they didn’t. Not in the early afternoon, not in the evening, not the next day, the next week, if they never did it meant this would go on and on forever.
Would he change his game? What would he do?
I would never be able to just shrug it off, think it was all done, that I’d outwitted him, outplayed him.
Because I hadn’t, I’d done and was doing nothing.
I could kill him.
The thought laid its wet tongue back down on me, again, went to sleep leaking filth.
If I killed him, I thought, and if I wasn’t arrested, I might possibly feel I’d escaped.
If it went a year or two? How long?
Never entirely free, but I could make less rash plans.
The crowd around me had thinned out. I’d taken a corner seat, separated from the rest of the compartment by a partition, was reading business editorials, not understanding a word, not caring to.
I smiled, reminding myself that it would mean I’d have to get away with killing him, too. Obviously. Which I doubted I would. Not just because police had seen me badgering him, regardless of whatever this trick of the woman being in the apartment was, not just because the old man had seen me, but because I didn’t have it in me to get away with it. I could butcher him, jiggle a long blade up his shuddering gut, I could obliterate him, but I had no idea how to get away with anything.
Hopeless.
I’d not even gotten away with the crime I’d gotten away with.
I’d confess. If I went through with it, killed him, I’d break down, confess to everything.
I switched trains, imagining being caught, imagined my confessing.
And I thought that I might as well kill him, but, like I’d realized before, he still would’ve won, still would’ve caught me, killed me right alongside him.
***
Then I walked and walked and walked around, walked around until almost four o’clock, entirely out of things to do. I was so worn out, I couldn’t quite get it straight in my head if I would be turned in the following afternoon or the afternoon of the day after.
The day after next seemed too long. It seemed he never would give me that much time.
Why not? Because I might escape?
There was no escape.
Escape wasn’t escape.
It was the day after tomorrow. I would have to wait though the rest of the day, the night, the next day, the next night, the next day before it would be done.
No.
Yes yes yes, I nodded. The day after next.
I took some money from a cash machine and checked my balance.
Pathetic.
I wondered if I should call work, apologize, ask them to just mail my last check someplace, hope the police didn’t bother with looking too much into my work situation, seeing as I didn’t have much of a job.
Mail my check where? A post office?
It would be just as risky to show up for it there. The money was just gone, not an option.
I bought more cigarettes and saw that I was only ten blocks or so away from the bar he’d lead me to. I strolled, unhurried, and when I arrived I ordered a bourbon, taking it quickly, ordered another and challenged myself not to drink it.
Nervous about doing it, I asked the man at the bar if he knew a guy, really quite fat, came into the bar all the time, was in last night with a woman. I was adding that I was asking because we’d talked about some business opportunity and I’d lost his card, but while I mumbled all of that the bartender had called behind him to another employee, verifying the name, turned back to me and asked if it might have been Montgomery Fent I’d talked to.
-Montgomery? I asked, speaking slowly, the bartender, nodding like he was certain of himself, repeating the name, the surname, doing a pantomime of the guy’s obesity while he laughed a bit.
Using the laugh as a prompt, I leaned in, swallowing my remaining bourbon shot, asked if the guy was just some loser, mentioned I’d thought he looked sort of shabby but that I’d also been a bit drunk, myself.
-Yeah, he always sort of looks like ass, the bartender said, but people seem to like him, he buys drinks for everyone, so he must do alright.
The bartender had no idea where Montgomery Fent lived, seemed genuinely apologetic, would not have had any hesitation in telling me if he did know. He told me that some of the night staff might know, one of the cooks seemed to know him alright.
***
Two more bourbons, a celebration, before I got morose.
Montgomery.
The name was ill fitting. He had the look of a wet bag filled with dog turd, while Montgomery was a name suggesting dignity, restraint, some sort of breeding. The name made him all the more freakish to me, knowing what he was called sopped up the last of what little humanity I’d allowed him.
I tried to resist having another drink, at least until I’d let the ones I’d downed catch up, saw how far gone they’d leave me. At least until I talked to the cook.
Montgomery.
It made me sick that he was called that, but it made me hate him more fully, too. Now it was certain that he was just trying to make something of himself, rise above the waste he’d become, his name must have mocked him every time he heard it, called him out for the slovenly, misshapen nobody he was.
Montgomery.
My conversation with the cook was brief, no problem, but it did make me uneasy. The cook had said that Montgomery did know what he was talking about, so he was glad I’d decided to give him a chance. This must have been referring to what I’d told the bartended about a business deal or whatever, but that was just some rubbish I’d concocted to have something to say.
Why would the cook mention it? Why would the cook do business with Montgomery? What business?
I stumbled to the toilet, cleaned myself up, wetted my hair and smoothed it back severely with both of my hands, as hard as I could, my forehead aching from the effort. The sag to my face reflected in the slightly chipped mirror was revolting. I turned away, wincing down.
It was a game. All a game. I was to sniff out the clues. Of course he’d wanted me to come to the bar. He would keep me plenty busy, give me a real wild time of it before he drove the last nail home.
All of it was pretend.
But there was nothing else to do.
I tried to feel flattered. I tried to feel anything but self loathing, anything to keep me from focusing on the fact that I was barely smart enough to keep up with his gibbering tricks and that I would keep blundering through this out of spite, out of pride, because I didn’t want him to belittle me for being a fool on top of everything else.
***
I could’ve hopped any of the several buses that passed me as I walked, all of them had at least one stop in the vicinity of the address I’d been given for Montgomery. But I just walked, smoking, discarding the cigarettes before they were halfway through, not caring, hoping to sober up.
Montgomery had come a long way out in order to find me on that bench. It was irrelevant why he’d bothered even though he knew my telephone number, my address, knew where I worked, the telephone number there, but I got drawn in to thoughts about it, frowning, feeling futile, a moron, unable to thread anything together.
Additionally, the address I was walking toward was in the opposite direction, entirely, of the area of the city where Claudia lived and worked, so I found it bizarre that Montgomery would’ve happened on me the night of the murder.
Though he had.
Certainly he
had.
I ducked in to a coffee shop, ordered a double espresso, downed it, thinking that if I was at least a bit more hyper it might serve as well as being a bit more sober.
I wanted my thoughts to stop. I didn’t want to flail, didn’t want to wriggle until I was free or until I was finished, I just wanted to wait quietly, reservedly, but it was impossible to manufacture an inch of calm. I was uncomposed, felt out of myself, disassembled. I’d given up to inertia and if it suddenly all drained, dissipated out and away I would accept that, I’d be over.
If it were an elaborate invention of Montgomery’s, he certainly hadn’t let all of the players in on his endgame.
Or had he? Could everyone, all of these people, actually be creatures like Montgomery, fiends willing to go along with playing pretend when they knew a man was guilty of murder? Could they all be mocking themselves up when they were in front of me, playing parts, nothing like their actual selves? The woman, the old man, the bartender, the cook, anybody I happened to come in contact with, try to utilize to some advantage, had Montgomery thought of it all, thought to have seemingly random people waiting to play each role, direct me, nudge me another hint or two? Did he pay them? Some perverted fascination of a wealthy degenerate?
I despised myself entertaining such obviously farcical thoughts, but what else did I have to entertain? No step I took corresponded to a prior step and I truthfully had the impression that if I stopped any passerby, asked any clerk, walked up to a telephone and placed a call to any number, mentioned Montgomery Fent, I would, as if by accident, have stumbled on someone who knew him loosely, knew someone who knew him, could tell me something that would turn into some other nothing when I squinted to give it a better look.
***
The address I’d been given was a second floor unit of a two story apartment building, long and on a hill. It looked like some of the apartments must be warped, built on downslopes, upslopes, but I knew that wouldn’t be the case. There were numbers on the outer brick by the windows and I saw Montgomery’s unit, the window dark, curtains half drawn.
All I felt like doing was waiting, some squirming fear in me made me hope no one would come to the door if I knocked. I couldn’t see much advantage, at this point, in making contact, the only motivation I had was to present myself, show I’d deciphered what he wanted me to decipher. I’d no idea why it mattered to me, other than he had something over me and I didn’t know how he’d come across it. It was more than I could bear to not show I could at least figure out something about him.
He hadn’t paid the cook. He hadn’t known I was going to go to the bar. He wouldn’t be at home, because it would be dangerous for him. The same reason he’d used the woman’s apartment to hide, called the police.
The old man?
He didn’t even tell the old man what was what. They were friends, but not comrades in this assault on me.
What had happened, then?
He’d gone to the old man’s place, likely just because they had plans from before, so it made just as much sense as any place else. Also, it got him safe from me, got him someplace quiet where he could rest, could gather his thoughts, at least to some degree.
He didn’t know the woman, she’d never seen him, he perhaps knew that the old man had her spare key, so he secreted it, said Goodnight to the old man and then snuck in to the woman’s place, hoping it would be enough for me to think it was where he lived. He wanted to sneak out when he knew for certain I’d gone. Or at least to hide until he could come up with someplace else to go, get away from me for good, leaving me with a false sense of knowledge.
How had he known she wouldn’t come home?
For the exact reason she hadn’t been home. She always spent nights with a lover, or often did. Worked nights. Or some remark from the old man had tipped him off. Maybe that was why he thought to steal the key, in the first place. I’d pounded on the door, though, so his hand was forced. He couldn’t confront me himself, because the old man would wonder what he was doing in the woman’s apartment. The police were a risk, but would get rid of me. Nothing else mattered.
Why would anything else matter?
It was as good an escape as any, from his point of view.
And it had worked.
I found myself grinning, scratching at my thighs while I sat on a bench up the block, mouth limp and open, staring at Montgomery’s window.
I was cautious with believing my scenario, but didn’t test it too strictly.
Plausible.
Plausible that I was the monster and he was shrinking from me, I was an insect who he thought he’d caught cupped in his hand, pinned in a tissue, but when he checked I was gone and now he felt me everywhere on his skin all at once.
***
It must’ve been while I was getting a new cigarette going, taking casual drags, leaning forward to retighten the ties of my shoes, that the window light of Montgomery’s apartment had winked on. I got confused, wasn’t certain I was watching the correct window, but sluggishly walked and within twenty paces from where I’d been sitting was near enough to verify the number on the brick.
With no real resistance, I entered the building, climbed the stairs, stood in front of the door, knocking even while still wondering if Montgomery had been there the entire time, asleep, sitting in the dark, or if he’d walked in while I was distracted, entered through another door.
He was dressed in dingy sweatpants and an open flannel shirt, had a look on his face at first of expectation, but it shifted to confusion almost immediately. He said Hi, sort of squinting over my shoulder down the hall as though the person he’d expected might be there.
I couldn’t move.
His behavior was inappropriate. He wasn’t corresponding, but his little improvisation seemed so natural I just watched it, unquestioning, was struck dumb when he finally gave me a screwy look, impatient, and asked me what I wanted, his features creased, softening, his eyes unsure.
I could hear my own breathing and nothing else.
-Tell me what you want, I said and he took two steps back, slowly, his eyes moving to the side but then recentering, as though afraid of being found looking that way.
-I don’t want anything, he said and puffing himself up, an adjustment at his sweatpants, asked me who I was.
I started to cry. It cracked from me. I felt my face burn with pale then fill with blood, my nose began to run, and I clamped one hand over nose and mouth, thumb over one eye and just asked him to stop. I could feel myself churning, twisting into no shape, hands inside me pulping cold and morbid for me to lunge at him, but I was too shaken to move.
He motioned me to come in, but with his hands at the ready, ensuring a distance between us. He retreated like a door opening in, made a tick of a gesture to touch my shoulder, but halted it.
I spun in place, tightened everything I could to keep my limbs from lashing out madly at any surface, at myself, at his face and I screamed into my hands burying my face, felt hot and salt and slop and when I moved my hands he was still there, back a few more steps, the door open, the look of nonrecognition on his face not slipping so much as a whisker.
***
He let me cry, drunken, let me hiccup and eventually get myself settled, in the meantime pouring some water and then a glass I could wiff a hint of rum in.
I’d no idea how to start. I was exhausted, didn’t know why’d I come to begin with. It was absurd, his standing at his kitchen counter, waiting. But he was nervous, palpably nervous, like he was in a situation foreign, no idea how to proceed, already feeling he’d made a wrong choice letting me in.
-Why haven’t you already turned me in? I just blurted, my voice cracking twice. I couldn’t look at his face for more than an instant without feeling tears well, so I stared at the water glass I had both hands curled around.
Almost whispering, he told me he didn’t know who I was.
I dropped
the glass, on purpose, as theatric a gesture as I felt capable of, tapped it with my shoe tip once, watched it roll not so far, watched his carpet moisten.
-You know who I am. I don’t understand this, anymore. If you haven’t turned me in, you want something. If you want something, tell me you want something.
I was about to tell him I’d kill him, feeling the thuds of the breaths of the words dampening and growing sour in my gut, when he said, still frightened, overtop of me Turn you in for what?
I swallowed. Looked at him.
He didn’t move.
The thought came on me and I let it be a balm.
Was he not acting?
No. He was.
I didn’t care.
Yes, he was acting. Christ, I started to laugh. He looked pale, livid as bathroom tile.
Making calm, more or less condescending, sarcastic rolls of my hands, speaking as though to an imbecile, I told him he’d approached me yesterday, claimed to know what I’d done, threatened to turn me over to the authorities, telephoned me at home, led me around town, he’d called the police on me.
With each word he seemed to grow at once more confused and more sure of himself, his hand finally going up, adamant, just to stop me.
-I don’t remember yesterday, he said. And then his other hand up, both of them in a tapping motion toward me, like a pat to my shoulders to stay seated, calm. He paused and then went on. I sometimes forget things, he said, no inflection, absolutely blank. He told me about some condition he had, some pills he sometimes neglected to take, that sometimes just didn’t work. He blathered, five minutes about this, always calming me, making me stay seated by brushing his hands in the air. He claimed to be ill, to sometimes lapse into states of mind where he wandered around, talked to people, did things he’d later not recall.
-I take medicine for it, he said and slowly, slowly, slowly, his eyes on me the entire time, he opened a drawer in the kitchen, took out a pill bottle and handed it to me, backing away as soon as he had.
I didn’t look at the bottle. I heard it rattle in my hand. I watched his face, childish in its terror as I lunged forward, hurled the bottle at his forehead, stumbled past him out into the corridor and then was down the stairs, out in the late evening air, fell down, was standing, was someplace else, hyperventilating, growling, around a corner then another, blubbering, nothing and nobody.