The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  Past the man’s shoulder, sunlight again flashed along metal. I glanced up and saw the customer in the Old Navy shirt lifting an object from beneath his folded overcoat.

  I knew that shape.

  A revolver.

  Oblivious to danger, the tweaker continued mumbling, his fingers still tight around my wrist. I twisted my arm from his grip, my bewilderment shoved aside by a sudden desire to stay alive.

  Down! Get down!

  I dropped behind the bar and crammed my body against the wooden cabinetry as the roar of a gun shattered the tranquillity.

  The mahogany reverberated against my ribs, and through ringing ears I heard customers’ screams and chairs screeching against the tile floor. I imagined businesspeople and students jarred from their newspapers and laptops, scrambling for safety. On the metal door of the ice machine behind me, cream, coffee, and blood formed a violent collage.

  Someone had been hit.

  FOUR

  Calm settled over the shop, an eerie pause. Even the red, black, and white droplets on the ice machine seemed to hesitate—wobbling, swelling, before throwing themselves onto the bar mat with a squishy splat.

  A blink of an eye—that’s all it was. Eardrums flinching. Heart thumping.

  I pivoted to glance around the counter, and in the moments that followed, things sprang back into action. Some customers spilled out the door while others crouched in quivering balls beneath the front windowsill; cups toppled from tables and broke into myriad pieces; coffee gathered in shimmering lakes on the floor, then branched into the tile grout.

  Only the victim remained motionless.

  He was still alive, still breathing.

  I tried not to notice the weird angle of his body, the way a primordial shadow filled his pupils and spread outward. I’d seen that look before. Years ago. Almost killed a man. Would’ve done time for it if Johnny Ray hadn’t pulled me off.

  Was I getting what I deserved? Violence back in my lap?

  I met the victim’s eyes, offering support and empathy. Tweaker or not, he was a fellow human being, and I tried to assess the damage without telegraphing the worst of my fears.

  His mouth moved. Gurgling sounds. “Aramis?”

  I recoiled. “How do you—”

  “Turn your eyes from greed,” he told me again.

  I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The guy would’ve been a toddler when my mom was still alive. How did it fit? Did he know about the silk memento in my pocket?

  I needed to understand.

  “Who sent you?”

  “You need—” He winced. On his mouth, blood mixed with saliva. “You need the whip. They’re coming for you next.”

  “Who?”

  “Mary—” A cough cut off his answer, and his eyes locked shut.

  “Who?”

  “Lewis.”

  Lewis? My mother’s middle name.

  I rested a hand on the man’s shoulder, willing him to hold on long enough to provide the details I needed, but he was already gone—his mouth slack, his eyes dark. Watching for broken glass, I pulled myself to my knees, a sense of responsibility propelling me. This was my shop. I had to call the cops, get help. An ambulance.

  Who’d shot this man? Who?

  I recalled the flash of metal, the man with the slightly crooked nose. He was nowhere to be seen, his chair on its side. A pang of fear that he might still be around gave way to logic. He’d already taken down his intended victim. No reason to loiter. Plenty of reason to run like the devil.

  I staggered to my feet. Customers beneath the window flinched at my movements, only their eyes relaxing as they saw me in my green apron, confused and shaken—just like they were.

  I spoke out loud, I think, throwing out reassurances fished from my subconscious. Distinct in my mind was the feel of the phone in my hand, the numbers spongy beneath my fingers as I punched 911.

  “Come over and sit down.”

  I looked up to see the blond girl in the white Vanderbilt sweatshirt. She was one of the few remaining in the shop.

  “Here, take a seat,” she said.

  I was about to protest, but she led me by the arm to a booth with padded black leather seats. Her fingers were warm.

  “Thanks.”

  “You look pale.”

  “I get like that,” I told her. “Trapped indoors all day.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” Inside, I was shaking.

  “The cops’ll be here in a few minutes,” she said. She averted her eyes from the man in the sweater, from the dark, stained section on his back. Her eyes were grayish blue, bright with fear, and she faced me in the seat, her fingers on my forearm. “Did you see who did it?”

  “I saw … this other guy. In an Old Navy shirt.” I pointed at the table a few feet away. “He had a coat folded over his arm.”

  “You saw him shoot?”

  I shook my head. “I hit the deck as soon as the barrel pointed my way.”

  “It’s so … horrible. I mean, why would anyone do such a thing?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  “Did the guy at the bar say anything, give any indication he was in danger?”

  I shook my head, too overwhelmed to go into detailed explanations.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, lost in her own thoughts. “Why this morning of all mornings?”

  “Why what?”

  “I could’ve avoided all this.” She took a deep breath. “All I wanted was a job.”

  “You’re the one who was coming by for an application?”

  “I’m the one.”

  “Brianne?”

  One shoulder lifted as her eyes met mine. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Aramis Black.”

  “Hi, Mr. Black.” Brianne gave a valiant smile. “This job sounded like a perfect match, like it was meant to be. I really need this, and now … now look at what’s happened. I can’t imagine what’s going through your head right now.”

  “You don’t wanna know.” I gazed around the dining area. “Something’s not right with this picture.”

  Brianne’s eyes followed mine toward the dead man, and she broke down. I watched my hand slip across the table to cover hers, then sat frozen while she cried for both of us.

  Live by the Sword … Die by the Sword.

  For reasons beyond me, my past had paid a visit and claimed its first victim.

  By the time the authorities arrived, my head was a mess of guilt and questions, anger and disbelief. Police lights lashed the building. Sirens warned of an approaching ambulance. Less than a half minute behind, a Channel Two news van screeched to a halt at the opposite curb. While two officers began a cautious advance, a third addressed the gathering crowd and issued media instructions.

  “Metro,” announced the first one through my door.

  “How long does it take to drive a couple of blocks?” I barked.

  “You’re upset. I understand—”

  “Upset? One of my customers got shot.”

  “Please lower your voice, sir. We arrived as quickly as we could.”

  While the first officer bent to examine the victim, the second came toward me with hands lifted in a show of nonaggression. “Sir, are you the owner?”

  “I’m Aramis Black. I’m sorry for sounding angry. It’s just—”

  “Fully understandable, Mr. Black. Why don’t we step outside for some fresh air and go over what happened?”

  I followed him outside, my thoughts as scattered as the carnage at my feet.

  “You’re going to be all right, Mr. Black.”

  “Yeah.” I cupped my hand to the back of my neck. “It was all just so … crazy. I should’ve tried to stop it.”

  “And become a victim yourself? I’m sure there was nothing you could do.”

  I was unconvinced.

  Psychologists say it’s natural to take the blame. Guilt transference, I think they call it. Okay, so some cold-blooded ki
ller pulled the trigger, but I was still at fault. I had to be, in some way. Why hadn’t I called out a warning? Could I have thrown my body over the counter as a shield?

  I had failed to act, and now a man was dead.

  What about his last mutterings? Was there any chance of deciphering them? From Mom’s lips so long ago, the same words had sounded like parental guidelines and unfathomable truths. In the months that followed, I’d asked Dad and Johnny Ray for an explanation, but they were equally clueless.

  So I had let it go.

  Until now.

  FIVE

  Aramis? I don’t think you’ve ever called my work number before.”

  “Tried your cell. It wouldn’t go through.”

  “Can’t get service in this building. What’s wrong?”

  “Sorry, Johnny. I should’ve waited till you were off the clock.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll fill you in when you get here.”

  “Here?”

  “Home.”

  “You’re at home on a Thursday afternoon? Now I’m really worried.” Johnny Ray lowered his voice, and I imagined him cupping his hand over the receiver while his thin-as-a-rail boss approached the Ryder Transportation dispatch desk with suspicious eyes. “Is it your anarchist pals from Portland? Don’t tell me they’ve tracked you down …”

  “Nothing like that. When do you get off?”

  “Right now, if you need me. Spill it.”

  “Someone got shot.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t know. Some guy. Took a bullet in the back and died right there on the floor of my shop. Black’s is closed for investigation till Saturday. It’s a mess. I just finished talking to the cops, the insurance people, Samantha Rosewood.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “She’s Sammie. She’s calm. She did sound worried about me, though.”

  “In your dreams.”

  I tried to think of a humorous response, came up empty.

  “I’m clockin’ out,” Johnny said. “When you have nothin’ to say, that means you’ve got lots to talk about.”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “See what I mean?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re a liar. I’ll grab a six-pack and then swing by Michelangelo’s for some pizza. You stay put.”

  Yeasty dough? Cheese and beer? For my brother, that was a major investment in my psychological well-being.

  “I’ll pay you back as soon as I can,” I said.

  “Don’t insult me, idiot. What are brothers for?”

  The homicide led the evening’s local news, with a full report on the victim and possible motives for the attack. They’re referring to it as the “Elliston shooting.” By giving it a name, they create distance, a subliminal buffer.

  Johnny Ray and I watched with morbid fascination. I’d already told him everything that had happened, but it was a whole different matter to see it shoved at us through the TV screen.

  There was my face, filling the picture, talking to the officer. Emergency lights cycling in the background.

  The victim: Darrell Michaels.

  Mr. Michaels looked younger in his photo, in which he was wearing the same pewter and beads around his neck and a scrunched-up, close-lipped smile beneath his dusty blond hair. He was a twenty-two-year-old Caucasian parolee, a drug addict, and a small-time dealer. Memphis police had a long rap sheet on Darrell. Nashville’s finest had nothing on him but a traffic violation.

  The news anchor reported that Darrell’s parole officer, a Mr. Leroy Parker, claimed Darrell’s death was brought about by feuding drug dealers who wanted to keep Darrell in the game. “They’ll be brought to justice for this senseless tragedy,” Parker was quoted as saying. “Darrell was trying to turn a new leaf, but his past caught up with him.”

  I knew that struggle all too well.

  Despite having three grown kids and four youngsters, Darrell’s mother lamented her son’s demise as though he were her only child. She was a heavyset woman, her face weighted by sorrow. “My boy, he was a survivor,” she said. “Weren’t barely four pounds when he was born, but the kid just never gave up. Darrell had heart.”

  Her grief stuck in my throat. That mother-son thing.

  Johnny Ray popped the top on another beer for me, slid more pizza onto my plate. He’d ordered my favorite—supreme, extra cheese, deep-dish. He was nibbling on a salad with sprouts.

  Phone calls started spilling in after the newscast, and I listened to the concern through the message machine: “Oh, it’s just horrible, Aramis …” “What’s this world coming to …” “I can only imaaagine how hard it’s been on y’all.”

  With not even twelve hours between me and the Elliston shooting, I was already tired of the sympathy. Didn’t deserve it. I could feel the shame settling inside me, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t pepperoni causing the ache in my gut.

  Guilt transference. There it was again, as if I’d personally pointed the gun.

  What about denial? Don’t the headshrinkers claim that comes first? So far I’d experienced nothing of the sort, which meant either (a) the shrinks were wrong—an assumption I was willing to make—or (b) they were right on the money, and my denial was using guilt to block the true horror from my mind.

  I chewed through another heap of sauce and dough.

  A woman’s voice on the machine caught my attention. “Mr. Black? I hate talking to these things, but I’m sure you’ve been inundated with calls. Sorry to bug you. This is Brianne … from the shop this morning.”

  “Brianne?” Johnny Ray lifted an eyebrow.

  “I was given your number by Samantha Rosewood,” she went on. “Just thought you’d like to know I’ve reconsidered.”

  “Sounds cute. Haven’t been holding out on your older brother, have you?”

  I shot him a withering look. Although I knew he was trying to leaven my mood with humor, it was the wrong time.

  “I’d still like to apply for the job, assuming the position’s still open.”

  I fumbled for the receiver.

  “Will you be at Black’s tomorrow? Maybe we could talk it over and—”

  I slapped at the buttons, and the message machine deactivated.

  “Brianne? Hi.”

  “Oh. Mr. Black?”

  “Yeah, don’t hang up.”

  “I was just leaving a message.”

  “I heard.”

  “You remember who I am?”

  I thought of her blond hair, the white Vandy sweatshirt, the warmth of her hand on my arm as she found a seat for me—the big, bad dude with tattoos and a list of priors. Of course I remembered. It was humiliating.

  I said, “You’re the one Sammie sent over.”

  “Samantha, that’s right. You’re on intimate terms with her, by the sound of it.”

  “Not really. I mean, yes, we’re friends. But the relationship’s mostly business.”

  “She’s a nice lady.”

  “Listen, Brianne. Thanks for hanging around this morning.”

  “I couldn’t just leave you there, not after everyone else had bailed. Plus, I still need the job and the money in a big way. That is, if you’re still taking applications. You’re not closing down the shop, are you?”

  “No,” I said. “Definitely not. I’ll be back up and running before you know it.”

  “Which means you’re looking to hire?”

  “I can always use reliable people.”

  “Great,” Brianne said. “I’ll take it.”

  I chuckled. “You’re a brave woman. Considering what you saw today.”

  “Sorry I lost it, Mr. Black, crying and all.”

  “Aramis. Just Aramis.”

  She rolled the sounds off her tongue. “Air-uh-mis. I like the sound of that.”

  Behind me, Johnny pretended to serenade the night, batting his eyelids. I sneered at him. When he held up fingers, trying to guess her attractiveness on a scale of one to ten, I gro
wled at him to leave me alone.

  “Hello?” Brianne said. “Did I lose you?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “She’s cute,” Johnny whispered, “or you would’ve let the machine get it.”

  “Was it wrong of me to call you at home, Aramis?”

  “Not at all,” I told her. “Please, don’t hang up.”

  “You really do need the help, don’t you?”

  “It’s a bit much to handle on my own.”

  “I’ll help you get things turned around.”

  She’d been there with me at Black’s, gone through the same confusion and terror. Now the softness in her voice sent my heart on a wild scamper around my rib cage, and I turned away from my brother to hide any reactions he might latch on to. He pulled his Martin guitar from its stand. Time to end this quickly.

  “So, Aramis, you want me to come by tomorrow to fill out an application?”

  “Actually, the shop’ll be closed. An official crime scene, under investigation.”

  “I can drop by your place,” she offered, “if that’d be easier.”

  “Uh, no. Got stuff to do. Let’s meet at the shop on Saturday.”

  “Okay. What time?”

  “Would seven in the morning work? Come ready to do some serious cleaning.”

  “Bright and early, you can count on me.”

  “Thanks for calling, Brianne.”

  “Try to get some sleep,” she said. “Don’t let what happened get you down.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Bye for now.”

  I set the phone down and found Johnny eying me.

  “Spill it,” he said. “A solid eight from the way you’re acting. Or even a nine.”

  “Good night, Johnny Ray.”

  At my window, with twisted tree-branch shadows across my chest, I stood in the wash of an amber-tinted moon. I watched a car leave our brownstone’s lot. Trying to turn my thoughts from the day’s disaster, I lifted Mom’s handkerchief to my face and let the silk play along my cheeks.