by Dan Taylor
And there I was thinking about if I was going to use peppermint- or cool mint-flavored mouthwash. Now I’m thinking she might not have put the tomato knife between the sofa-seat cushions because she thinks that’s where I keep it. Rubbing me eyes, I reply, “I suppose it’s cool with me. Sleep tight.”
“Sleep tight, Jake.”
I let Michelle use the bathroom first.
When I’m on the second quarter of my electric toothbrush timer, brushing the backs of my upper teeth, my phone rings. I spit the toothpaste out and take out the phone to see it’s Cole.
I answer. “Brian. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”
He sounds panicky. “I haven’t heard from Michelle in a while. Is she still tailing you?”
“You’re ringing me to find out if the person you hired to tail me to make sure I go through with the marriage you’re forcing between me and your sister is still following me?”
“Yeah.”
“She’s here, about to go sleepy.”
“You’ve poisoned her?”
“No, she’s about to go to sleep on my couch.”
“Why?”
“She’s sleepy, and we’ve got a big day tomorrow. I am too. We’ve had a long day.”
“Not that, why is she in your apartment? You’re not fucking her, are you?”
Brian can be forgiven for jumping to that conclusion, considering I fucked his sister. But out of the thousands of women I’ve met, how many have I shared a bed with? A mere two-hundred and fifteen. They’re odds he’d like if I told them to him.
I sigh. “I’m hurt that you’d think that. I got out the Egyptian cotton duvet cover and finest comforter I own for her, and you think I’m taking advantage.”
“It’s just weird.”
“She was standing outside my apartment building, saying she was going to be there all night, waiting for me to get up in the morning. So I said why not just take the couch for the night.”
“Put her on, will you? I need to speak to her.”
“One second. I need to know that Megan’s still alive.”
“Oh, she’s alive, all right.” Subtext. I bet Megan’s giving him hell.
“I still need to talk to her.”
There’s silence a couple seconds, and then Megan comes on the line. “I’m still alive, Jake, and still pissed that you’re the reason I’m being held captive, you jerk.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
There’s silence a second, then Cole/Brian says, “Happy?”
“Over the moon.”
“Now put Michelle on.”
I go out of the bathroom and through to the living room to find the hit woman pretending to be asleep. Her eyelids are making tiny movements, like a bad actor who’s playing dead. She must be trying to avoid speaking to Brian. Who could blame her?
I try and tell Brian she’s asleep, but he says, “Then wake her up. I’m paying her a fortune.”
I prod her, say, “Michelle, Brian wants to speak to you.”
Also like a bad actor, she opens her eyes slowly, yawns, and stretches, like she’s been asleep for hours.
She takes the phone from me, takes a second to prepare herself, then says to Brian, in the voice that must be recently deceased Michelle Trueheart’s, “Brian, what’s up?”
I leave them to have their conversation while I finish up in the bathroom. Peppermint-flavored got the nod by a nose.
When I go back, the hit woman says, “Yeah, Brian said to kill you if you don’t go through with the date tomorrow.”
I take a seat next to her, sitting on her duvet.
Then I say, “That Brian, he’s a real loose cannon.”
“He thinks you’re up to something. Are you?”
“Would you care if I was?”
“I know you weren’t the entertainer at your nephew’s birthday party this evening.”
“I have the bruises on my shins to prove it.”
“Show me.”
I do, revealing the kick marks left by the babysitter as I ran past her.
Then the hit woman says, “They could’ve been left by anyone.”
“What’s this to you? I mean, you’re not Michelle Trueheart. Why do you care how I got them?”
“Brian thinking I’m Michelle Trueheart for as long as possible means potentially getting paid, money I’ll lose from not going through with killing you and ending my business partnership with Jimmy, a loss of earnings I’ll miss. And I’d feel kinda bad for Julie if you screwed her over a second time.”
“So you’ll be tailing me tomorrow?”
She shrugs. “I was thinking about it.”
“How about we just let Brian think you’re doing a good job?”
“That’ll work, as long as you do actually go through with the date tomorrow.”
“All that small talk with a crazy lady, which will end with me prematurely proposing to her… I can hardly wait.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to marry her, are you?”
“I promise you Julie will be getting proposed to tomorrow.” And I mean it, no fingers or toes crossed.
“Do you double promise?”
Is that a thing?
“I double promise that I double promise.”
“Jake, don’t be flippant.”
“I’m serious about the quadruple promising.”
“So you’re going to marry Julie?”
“Yep.”
This time I crossed my toes, but I don’t think the hit woman saw.
And with my quadruple promise made, I get up and go to bed, more knowledgeable about the knives I own and safe in the knowledge that the woman who’s spending the night in my apartment was only here to kill me and not tail me tomorrow, potentially ruining what I have planned.
I usually do a bit of reading before getting some shuteye, but I skip that for tonight, figuring I’ll need all the energy I can get to convince Brian I have his children locked up in a dungeon. Not to mention coordinate the rest of my plan so that Brian will forever associate the name Jake Hancock with being royally screwed over.
28.
WHEN I WAKE UP in the morning, I’m still wearing my pajamas. I didn’t take them off before I got into bed, just in case I got up for a bathroom break in the middle of the night. My surprise doesn’t stem from having forgotten my choice to keep them on, but from having a woman sleeping on my sofa.
I admit, I feel a little hurt she didn’t come knocking on my door in the night, pretending she’d left something in here before looking for it in my bed, while wearing only her bra and panties.
But I suppose she had Julie’s feelings on her mind as she debated whether she would or not.
I sit up, check my phone. Two messages received and four missed calls. My phone is set to silent. That’s why I didn’t hear them. I check the messages first. The first one is from Julie, received at five-thirty this morning. It reads, “John and Joe slept through the night for the first time in ages! I even managed to get a lie in, so I’m going to be real fresh for our date. Thinking about you x.”
Five-thirty is a lie in? So glad I’ll still be a bachelor when the day is over.
I text back, telling her “John and Joe have got to get up earlier if they’re to catch Uncle Jake snoring. Lol. And looking forward to our date x.”
I get a reply back straightaway: “Lol xx.”
Two kisses. Oh, boy.
Time to read my second message. It’s from Denk, and reads, “I’ve made your sound file for you. Just a quick question. Should I make sure my attorney doesn’t take a vacation anytime soon?”
I text back, telling him everything’s aboveboard and that he’s welcome for my having kept and willing to continue keeping his sex life a secret.
The four missed calls are from Denk and a number I don’t recognize.
When I go through to the living area, it’s empty. The hit woman’s in the shower. Through the bathroom door I can hear the water splashing down.
I have
no idea how long she’s been in there, whether she’s about to finish, so I don’t risk getting changed, and instead put on my slippers and go out of my apartment, into the hallway. The moment I step out, Margaret Hammer opens her apartment door, looks at me like I’ve taken a dump on her doormat.
“Do you think that’s appropriate attire for the hallway of our apartment building, Mr. Hancock?” she asks.
“Relax, Margaret, just going to collect my morning paper.”
“You don’t read, Mr. Hancock.”
“Oh, I assure you I do, Margaret, when I can take my eyes off the pictures.”
She shakes her head at me. I have no idea why.
As I walk down the hallway, the bigger man for not pointing out she’s wearing her robe with the flamingos on it, she calls after me, “And I didn’t see your girlfriend leave last night. Am I to assume you’re going to treat her right this time?”
Neighbors… Margaret sees me escorting a hit woman into my apartment and immediately assumes she’s my girlfriend and that I treat her badly. Next time her son comes for his yearly visit, I’ll go ahead and assume he’s her toy boy and see how she likes them apples.
I take the elevator down to the lobby, open up my mailbox, take out the pistol I left in there, and take out all the bullets and put them in my pajamas pocket.
I put the pistol in the other pocket and go back up to my apartment, waving to Margaret Hammer as I go past her peephole. I can’t keep the gun, as it looks expensive, but it’s a no-brainer that I’ll keep the bullets before giving it back. And I’ll let the hit woman know that I’ve taken her ammo—Yowsa! I’ve just walked in on her naked, in the middle of my living area.
“Sorry, I thought you were sleeping,” she says.
I have my hand over my eyes, even though they’re closed. “Feel free to use my bedroom.”
“No need. Nearly done.”
I count to ten under my breath, then ask, “Decent?”
“Yeah.”
I peek through my fingers to see that she’s dressed, standing in front of me, hands on hips, looking at my crotch. She says, “Been down to get the gun before the postman sees it?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“I can see it poking out of your pocket.”
I take it out. “You can have the pistol back, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep the ammunition. Sorry.”
“Jake, I’m hurt. I thought we trusted each other.”
“Best I can do is mail them to you.”
She raises an eyebrow. “And what address would you send them to?”
She has a point. “Look, I trust you and everything, but…”
“But what?”
“Not enough to hand a loaded gun back to you.”
“And here I was thinking we’d eat croissants together and discuss the morning papers over a cup of joe.”
“We can do those things, apart from I don’t buy croissants or newspapers, just—”
“Just the coffee will go down a lot better without the possible threat of a hit woman putting a bullet in your head?”
“Right.”
She smiles. “I get it. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
She walks over to the kitchen, starts getting to grips with the espresso machine.
I get showered, putting on a robe afterward, while she makes coffee and what smells like pancakes.
We talk about our respective days over breakfast. I tell her some horseshit plan about going through with the date, how I’ll make small talk and charm Julie into accepting my marriage proposal, which I’m not sure she’d accept if it were to happen. She tells me what could possibly be an equally horseshit plan about sticking around Hollywood a couple days, spending the day getting souvenirs for her kids, and how she trusts me to go through with the date, and feels no need to tail me.
“Thanks, it’s appreciated,” I say.
“No problem.” She takes a sip of espresso, raises the silly little cup to me, says, “Mm, great coffee,” super-fake smile on her face.
“You made it!” equally fake smile on my face.
Then I ask, “Kids?”
“Yeah, married too.”
“Does he know…?”
“That I kill people for a living?”
“Yeah.”
“No. He thinks I go on Christian missions, saving people by knocking door to door.”
“God’s work… You think he buys it?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
“Good point.” I think a second. “Hey, I never caught your name. Your real one.”
She smiles again, holds out her hand. “Sandra.”
“You look like a Sandra. Had I guessed, that might have been the second or third name I’d have gone for.”
29.
IF THAT WOMAN’S NAME is Sandra then my name is Snake Adcock, or something else equally dumb. Sandra isn’t an unusual name. I should know: I’ve been on five dates with three different Sandras. But that’s irrelevant. How do I know that woman isn’t called Sandra? I keep a number of magazines in a magazine rack in my living room, which is full of celebrity gossip magazines. I keep them to prevent what I call walkouts. I go out on a date, we get on well, we go back to my place, and to distract my date from getting cold feet about what we’re about to do in my apartment I offer her a magazine while I get drinks from the kitchen. Instead of thinking about whether she should be going through with Date Stage Four, my date reads about what celebrities have been up to, which usually includes sex with other celebrities, drug and alcohol binges, and partying—all fine pursuits. The top magazine in the rack has the headline “Sandra Beaufort Caught in NBA Superstar’s Hot Tub Again!”
And when I asked what her real name is, she comes up with the name Sandra? I’ll never be a member of Mensa, but I can spot a lie when I’m told one.
She could be playing it safe, not wanting me to know what her first name is, or everything she just told me could be a crock of shit, including her not planning on killing me. Why hasn’t she done it already? She’s had the chance. While I was taking a shower, closing my eyes so that shampoo didn’t get in them, I was a sitting duck. If I’m right about her not disclosing her name, she’s probably holding out on killing me for some reason.
So after breakfast, I tell Sandra she has no need to help me with the washing up. My machine will take care of it. She can go off and buy souvenirs for her family. And I need to get changed for my date.
She says bye, wishing me luck for the future, and apologizing again for very nearly having taken my life.
“I’m not one to cry over milk that didn’t get spilt in the first place, Sandra,” I reassure her.
With that, Sandra leaves my apartment, waving one last time as she goes.
Then I listen to the sound file Denk sent me. I hook up my cell phone to my home cinema system via Bluetooth and listen to it as I drink a glass of chocolate milk. Denk’s done a hell of a job. Listening to its three-minute length, I’d have no idea that he’s spliced up about a minute’s worth of sound clips and rearranged and repeated them to make it. Those kids sound terrified, and thanks to Denk’s wizardry they sound like they’re in a dungeon.
Bingo!
It’s eleven-fifteen, and the date I’m supposed to be going on is in forty-five minutes. I throw on some clothes, not date-quality, and head out. I’ve still got my rental, so I drive that to West Hollywood, where Lounge 9 is.
I get there eleven-thirty-five and park a couple blocks away. Then I walk the short distance to the bar, go inside, and take a stool by the bar itself.
A barman comes over, wanting to take my order.
“A bottle of wine and two glasses,” I say.
With bored, lazy eyes, Travis—the name on his pin—hands me the wine menu and then goes off to take glasses out of the steaming industrial glass washer behind the bar, as though I might be awhile. Like any respectable man waiting for a date, I order the second-cheapest bottle. I heard somewhere that restaurants and bars put the chea
pest bottle they buy in that slot, swindling cheapskate customers into buying shit wine for relatively expensive prices. But I’m not paying any mind to that now, as I won’t be drinking it.
Travis takes the lid off the screw-top bottle, goes to pour a little out into a glass, so I can taste if it’s corked. I stop him, not because screw-tops generally don’t get corked, but because I want the bottle to be full.
“You don’t want to taste it?” he asks.
“The lady friend I’m meeting kinda likes to be the person to do the tasting.”
“Whatever.”
I wait for Travis to move away to continue his glass washer emptying duties, and then I take out what Tom John sold me, empty it into the bottle. Everything I have planned could go to shit, if the white powder I put into it sits at the bottom. But then again, I don’t exactly want to be caught by the barman, obviously swirling the bottle of wine I’ll ostensibly be drinking with my lady friend in a little while. Pre-Cosby scandal, I might’ve been able to get away with it. So I let it sit, hoping for the best.
I know what you’re thinking. What am I doing turning up early at the place I arranged to have a date I have no intention of attending? And what the hell did Tom John sell me, which is currently lying in the bottom of a wine bottle, waiting to dissolve? In about fifteen minutes’ time, arriving about ten minutes early, like on our other dates, Julie will arrive. I’ll be gone, but the barman, under the instructions I’ll give him after I tell him I forgot the flowers I was supposed to bring, will serve Julie the wine while she thinks she’s waiting for me. Of course I won’t be coming, and Julie will realize this after waiting for me for a half hour and after phoning me an estimated fifteen times and sending me three unanswered text messages.
How does this screw over my arch enemy in the best possible way? A half hour after I was supposed to arrive for our date, wearing shoes that haven’t been shined and a suit that hopefully doesn’t look like something Colonel Sanders would wear to Sunday Mass, Andre will arrive. He’ll notice the weeping, upset Julie and sit down to comfort her, telling her everything she wants to hear: she’s way too good for the guy who stood her up, he doesn’t know what he’s missing, and the clincher, a woman as beautiful as she is won’t be waiting long for the next guy to ask her on a date.
