The Quiet Edge

by Rob Cornell

  After a moment, Jake heard shuffling through the door, then the muffled sound of something hitting the floor, followed by a sharp curse. Finally, Ken opened the door. His normally spiky hair lay flat on one side of his head as if he’d slept on it. He wore a white t-shirt, tight even on his thin frame, with yellow stains in the armpits, and a pair of powder blue boxer shorts. His eyes, though bloodshot, looked especially bright for someone who had failed so miserably as he had today. Same with his smile. What in hell did he have to be so cheery about?

  In his right hand, he clutched the neck of a champagne bottle, one of those bargain brands you find on the bottom shelf at the grocery store. Judging from the way Ken swayed even with his other hand braced against the door jam, he had consumed most of the bottle as well as the one Jake spied on the coffee table inside the apartment.

  Was he…celebrating?

  “Jakey,” Ken said through a slushy chortle. “Was wondering when I was gonna see you.”

  Jake cringed at the smell of cigarettes and cheap champagne on Ken's breath. “I expect you were,” he said, then realized instantly he’d forgotten to use his rehearsed opening. “Mr. Jankowski, your—”

  “Mister? Mister? Me? Don’t be so stuffy, Jakey. The only Mr. Jankowski I know is my father. And he’s no better than a pimple on a penis, so let’s not bring him into this.”

  Jake’s eyelids fluttered. He felt a little dizzy. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only words he could think of were the ones he’d practiced. “Your failure has put me in—”

  “Speaking of parents,” Ken said through a burp. “How’s your mom doing?”

  Another bout of dizzy blinking came over Jake. What in the world was happening? This wasn’t going at all like he’d envisioned. He knew he should have spent another ten minutes in the car downstairs in preparation.

  While Jake scrambled to think what to say, Ken chugged from the bottle and finished it off. Then he peered inside as if to make sure he got every remaining droplet.

  “Ona is fine, I suppose,” Jake finally answered.

  Ken frowned at his empty bottle, but when he looked back up at Jake, his smile came back with a hundred extra watts. “I bet. She’s quite the beast, huh? Can’t imagine working for her, let alone being raised by her.”

  Oh, you only wish my mother would deem you worthy enough to wash her support hose, Jake imagined himself saying with disdain as thick as the glaze on marzipan. He tried to goad himself into saying it aloud, but the moment passed.

  “I guess you’re here to talk about the job, huh?”

  “Quite.”

  “Quite.” Ken bobbled his head mockingly. “Were you a Brit in a former life?” He thumped Jake in the chest with the butt end of the champagne bottle and laughed. “Just messing with ya. Come in.”

  He stepped aside.

  Jake hesitated. If he thought the hallway was filthy, the inside of Ken's studio apartment was a sure host to any number of lethal pathogens. Besides the other champagne bottle, a pile of ash and cigarette butts covered the coffee table as if he’d dumped an ashtray, only there was no sign of any ashtray in sight, bringing Jake to the unpleasant conclusion that Ken did not feel a need for one. A bare mattress with a roughly person-sized brown stain lay on the floor in one corner. One of the cushions in the saggy couch in the center of the space had a patchwork of silver duct tape to repair what must have been quite a hole, though not before the cushion had lost half its stuffing. This explained the crumbs of yellow foam on the floor.

  “Come on, Jakey. Me casa is your casa.”

  Jake adjusted his tie, swallowing down the urge to vomit. “That isn’t necessary. I just need a couple things, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  Ken shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “First,” Jake said, then the words seemed to jumble in his throat.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Jankowski, your failure has put me in a…precarious position.” Jesus, was that the only thing he knew how to say?

  “Look, I’m sorry about that. But this guy came out of nowhere. Wanted to play superhero. I got the purse, like you wanted.”

  “But the job required you to deliver the purse back to me.”

  “That guy took it. Sorry. Not my fault.”

  Did this buffoon really mean to split hairs like this? A ring of heat wrapped Jake’s neck and rose up to his cheeks. “I don’t care how it happened. The fact remains, you did not fulfill your task. Therefore, I must insist you return the advance I paid you.”

  Ken gave Jake an exaggerated clown-face frown. He even dared pat Jake’s cheek. “Aw. I’m sorry little buddy. I already spent that.”

  “You spent two-thousand dollars overnight?”

  “I had some debts to pay.”

  Well, now you have another one, Jake thought, but didn’t say. Why couldn’t he say it? He clenched his fists, his manicured nails biting into his palms. He liked the nip of pain it brought. He deserved more. If he couldn’t stand up to a cretin like Ken Jankowski, he deserved a lot more.

  “You all right, bro? You look like a brain thing is gonna burst.”

  Trying to center himself, Jake inhaled deeply through his nose, only to draw in the stench of cigarettes and sweat, which triggered a coughing fit. He pressed a fist against his mouth to stifle the coughs.

  Ken smirked as he watched Jake struggle.

  Eventually, Jake regained control. Eyes watery, he straightened and looked at Ken head on. “This is unacceptable,” he said, feeding on the anger pent inside of him. Not just anger. Embarrassment. What would his mother think of him if she could see him now, letting a two-bit bottom-feeder like Ken Jankowski get the better of him? What would Jen think?

  “Unacceptable,” he repeated.

  Ken raised his eyebrows. He looked Jake up and down as if seeing him for the first time. “Is that so?”

  “Quite.” Jake stepped forward, concerns of infection and filth gone for the moment, moving into Ken's smelly personal space. “You have two things you owe me now. The money and the item you took from Jen’s purse. I expect them both. Now.”

  “I already told you,” Ken said slowly, his nasty breath pluming into Jake’s face, “I spent the money. And I didn’t take anything out of your old lady’s purse. So fuck off, loser.”

  Jake’s whole body vibrated with rage. “Did you forget who you’re dealing with? My mother is Ona Seelenberger. She could make you disappear with a single command.”

  Ken's mouth cracked open in a yellow-toothed smile. “Yeah, about that. Doesn’t she have her own people to steal purses? Why hire me? What, she wouldn’t lend her only son a goon or two? Or maybe you don’t want her to know about all this for some reason. Because, who the fuck hires someone to steal his own wife’s purse?”

  “That’s…not your concern.”

  “You’re right. It’s not. My only concern is the money you still owe me for the job.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “I got bills to pay, Jakey.” He lifted his empty champagne bottle. “Guy’s gotta keep his whistle wet.”

  “You are making a grave mistake.”

  “You made the mistake, thinking you’re better than me, like I’ll be your little bitch just ‘cause of who your mommy is. But I ain’t dumb, Jakey. You got yourself into some trouble, something you don’t want your mom to know about. I don’t think I need to worry about her.” He curled his lip and waved a finger at Jake. “And I sure as hell don’t need to worry about you.”

  Punch him. Kick him. Tear him down with a sharp retort. Spit in his face. Do something.

  Jake stepped back. “You’re making a mistake.”

  Ken laughed. “You’re such a little twat.”

  Then he slammed the door in Jake’s face.

  Six

  “Matt caught me using my vibrator last night.”

  “Whoa, boss. Too much info.”

  Harrison comfortably slouched in the leather passenger seat of Kamille Bahar’s metallic blue Porsche
718 Cayman. Baby Blue, she had named it. Harrison himself wasn’t much of a car guy—as long as it got him from point A to point B, he was good. But Kamille’s love of her Baby Blue was contagious. He always got a thrill when they used Baby for stakeouts.

  It was after dark. They were parked in the lot of a White Castle across the street from the Kingsley Motel, one of those generic single-story L-shaped motels that catered to clandestine meetings requiring an hourly rate and a tolerance for bedbugs. Funnily enough, they were not here to catch someone cheating on their spouse, but rather to prove that the motel owner’s son, who worked for him, was cheating his insurance company out of unwarranted disability pay. The fact that the young man got such good coverage from a place as skeezy as the Kingsley Motel made the case that much more surreal.

  “I have no one else to confide in,” Kamille said. “I’m too busy for girlfriends.”

  She wore her long black hair in a ponytail with a Detroit Tigers ball cap. Her matching Tigers jersey hung well past her waist, hiding what Harrison knew was a tight, muscular body honed by nearly every kind of martial art and fighting style invented by man. She often wore baggy clothes because she liked it when people underestimated her. At only five feet and four inches tall, she didn’t look all that threatening swimming in an oversized jersey or sweatshirt.

  “Besides,” she said, “details about my sex life never bothered you in high school.”

  Harrison laughed at all the memories of their high school days that poured through him. “You’re my boss now. It’s different.”

  She snapped a backhand at his chest. It stung, but she’d obviously pulled the punch, because nothing had cracked and he could still breathe.

  Harrison rubbed his chest. “Ow.”

  “Pussy.”

  “I’m pretty sure I can sue for that kind of treatment from my employer.”

  “You sue me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize.”

  Across the street, the door to the motel’s front office swung open. A man and woman in their late forties stumbled out together, probably a little drunk, and crossed to one of the rooms. The man opened the door to the room, then carried the woman over the threshold in his arms. Newlyweds? At a place like this? Maybe they were on a budget. A very strict budget.

  “Anyway,” Kamille said. “I’m in the tub, doing my business with this little waterproof number I have. I’m almost there, right? Then Matt bursts in to ask me if I want chicken or pork chops for dinner. I had a bath bomb in. I was under the bubbles. But I guess it was super obvious what I was doing. Like I said, I was close.”

  Harrison pressed his finger tips to one temple and rubbed. “Yeah, I got that part.”

  “His face turns beet red and he’s all like, what are you doing? And I have to stop, right? It took every ounce of willpower not to finish off. But I felt terrible.”

  “You know, a lot of guys would find that hot.”

  “Yeah, well, Matt and I haven’t had sex in five months.”

  “Five?”

  Kamille sighed, nodded. “I’ve always liked my toys. Back in the day, Matt and I would play with them together all the time.”

  “By back in the day, you mean before your kids.”

  She nodded. “You know me. I love Matt. I’m loyal, right? But when he caught me in the tub, I felt like he caught me cheating. I just…” She rolled her eyes and slumped back in her seat. “Forget it.”

  “No. Spill it.”

  “We have six kids. Six.”

  “I am aware. I’ve met them all, remember?”

  “That’s a lot of kids, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “And I love every last one of them. Don’t get me wrong. But between them and running the agency, having one more would break me. Which is pathetic, considering Matt’s the one who stays home and takes care of them most the time.”

  “If you’re worried about your status as a mom, don’t. I’ve seen you with those kids. You are a great mom.”

  She crossed her arms and stared across the street. So far there were only two cars parked at the motel. Slow night for the Kingsley, but the hourly customers probably didn’t start showing up until closer to midnight.

  “You know, there is such a thing as birth control,” Harrison said.

  “You think I don’t know that? Matt’s a strict Catholic. We’ve had exactly one conversation about contraception. Matt’s dead set against it, and I’m not about to push him.”

  “So what’s the plan? Never have sex again?”

  “Can’t be too far off from menopause now. I’ll hold out till then.”

  Harrison laughed.

  Kamille clenched her fist and made like she meant to backhand him again.

  He held his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. But you can’t be serious. It’s only a matter of time before Matt hides all the batteries in the house.”

  This time, she did backhand him, catching him high on the left shoulder. The pain took his breath away for a couple seconds. She hadn’t held back as much as she had before.

  “I’m just saying.” Harrison kneaded the aching muscle in his shoulder. “It’s not fair to either one of you. You need to talk to him again, make him understand where you’re coming from.”

  “Force him to go against his beliefs?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “But that’s what I’d be doing.” She shook her head. “You remember senior year? When I refused to wear my hijab anymore? My parents went nuts.”

  “I remember. They talked about shipping you overseas to live with your grandparents.”

  “They threatened all sorts of things. My father wouldn’t let me leave the house. I missed a week of school, which almost cost me graduating. All because they insisted I believe the way they did.”

  “This isn’t the same thing.”

  “No? You don’t think forcing him to wear a condom is like my parents trying to force me back into my hijab?”

  It didn’t feel like the same thing, but Harrison couldn’t find the words to explain it. Maybe she was right. “I still think you should talk to him. Not demand anything. Just talk. You know, like a healthy married couple?”

  She snorted. “What does the guy who’s never so much as looked at an aisle, let alone walked down one, know about healthy marriages?”

  “Low blow.”

  She made a fist. “I could just punch you again.”

  “No thanks. I prefer the verbal abuse. It doesn’t hurt as much the next day.”

  They fell into an easy silence for a while, both of them watching the motel. Harrison’s mind kept going back to his encounter with the purse snatcher and his would-be victim. Something about it felt off. Not only the woman’s ungratefulness for having her purse recovered, but the snatcher’s behavior as well. Purse snatchers were typically opportunistic. See a purse on the arm of an unsuspecting target, grab it and run. Get caught? Ditch the purse and run. Simple. This guy had wanted to fight for it, though.

  “What about you?” Kamille asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  “What about me?”

  “I saddled you with my problems. You gotta have something to bitch about.”

  His thoughts went instantly to Dylan. He wasn’t sure he wanted to get into it, though.

  Kamille sensed his hesitation. “Come on, Harrison, it looks like Junior across the street might not show for a bit. We’ve got nothing else to do. Confide in your friend.”

  “Are you my friend or my boss? This arrangement is confusing.”

  “Har-har. Quit stalling. I can tell you’ve got something to share.”

  Harrison looked out the passenger-side window. A fat moth crawled up the glass, then fluttered away toward a flickering streetlight. “My brother’s having a hard time.”

  “Harder than usual?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of. His moods always go in cycles. That comes with the territory, I guess. But I’ve been back almost a year now, and it doesn’t seem like he’s made any progress. If an
ything, he’s getting worse.”

  “How is that your fault?”

  “I didn’t say it was my fault.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  He leaned his head against the window. The glass felt moist from the humidity outside. Kamille had run the engine to let the air-conditioner blow only about twenty minutes ago, but the cool air had already warmed. She’d have to run it again in ten minutes if they wanted to keep Baby Blue from transforming into a sauna. “I want to help him, Kam. But I don’t know how.”

  “You still driving him to his appointments?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Still supporting him at home? Talking to him? Making sure he takes his meds and all that?”

  “Of course. But that’s just routine stuff.”

  “Did you think things would be any different for you than they were for your mom? She watched over him for how long?”

  “Ten years.”

  “But you think in ten months you should have discovered the cure for bipolar disorder and made him all better.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  She reached over and took his hand, looked at him hard. Even in the shadows, her dark eyes shone. “You are doing the best you can. You are helping.”

  He gave her hand a squeeze. “Thanks.”

  She laughed. “You’re welcome, even though I know you don’t believe a word I’ve said.”

  He could have argued the point, but she’d see right through him. They’d known each other too long and shared an inexplicable bond almost from the first time they met in Mr. Trenchwell’s Advanced Algebra class in seventh grade. While they’d spent a long while apart after he went away to college and then joined the FBI, they had kept in touch, and when he’d returned to Michigan, with her it felt like he’d never left. She immediately gave him a job at her agency and they pretty much picked up their friendship right where it had left off.

  He didn’t have that kind of relationship with anyone else. Not even his brother.

  “What do you think I should do?” he asked.

  “Keep doing what you’re doing.”

  He nodded. “Okay. But you have to promise me something.”