The Best of Evil

by Eric Wilson

  Today, however, he was fleeing toward the green coolness of the park.

  I ran my eyes back along Elliston, past popular music venues, a soda shop, and a bookstore. There, halfway down, was a white Camry. It’s a common car, sure. Still, I couldn’t help but recall my brother’s paranoia on Friday.

  Could he have been right?

  And Freddy C … What did he know that he wasn’t telling me?

  I took ten steps down the sidewalk, close enough to see the Tennessee license plate. Muttering the number, I went back into Black’s and scrawled the info on one of my business cards: BHT 588.

  ELEVEN

  Reserved, as always.”

  “Not trying to be, Sammie.”

  “When it comes to emotions, it’s your modus operandi.”

  “Sometimes I also make jokes.”

  “Which,” Samantha Rosewood said, “is simply another way of protecting yourself. By now, I should expect nothing more.”

  Under the guise of business, we “do supper” frequently. I’m the lucky benefactor of her culinary standards, and this night was a perfect example. Restaurante Zola offers great food with exemplary service, and critics from the East Coast and West have praised chef Debra Paquette’s skills.

  “Sorry.” I set down my fork, heard it ping against the plate. The maître d’ looked my way before realizing I was only clumsy, and diners turned back to their entrées. “My mind’s sorting through a lot, I guess. The good thing is, Black’s will be open again tomorrow, bright and early. Thanks to your generous help.”

  “We have insurance. I have no doubt they’ll cover our losses.”

  “You’re a rock, Sammie. I can always count on you.”

  “A rock. Am I safe to assume that was a compliment?”

  “Of course.”

  As she watched me drink my third glass of Pinot Noir, her lips parted to reveal even, white teeth, feminine and alluring. In the candlelight, her hair came alive with honey-colored highlights. Her fingers ran over the tablecloth, then lowered to her lap as her eyes focused beyond my shoulder.

  Thinking of better people to share dinner with, no doubt.

  “You ready to go?” I asked, offering her an escape.

  “Aramis. You still haven’t answered my earlier question.”

  “About Brianne? Seems like she’ll be a good worker.”

  “About you. You seem flighty.”

  “I do?”

  Weighed down by recent events, I had hoped the wine would hide my concerns. Alcohol, in general, tends to be a risky pastime for me—particularly with the opposite sex within arm’s reach—and I’ve been limiting my intake to two glasses. I’d already surpassed that.

  “I’d like to think you can share anything with me,” Sammie said.

  “Nothing to share. I’m fine.” Emboldened by the wine, I added, “If God had wanted you to read my thoughts, he would’ve installed a viewing plate on my forehead.”

  “Actually,” Sammie said, “that’s why you came with vocal cords.”

  “Okay …”

  “I’m willing to venture that you’re not okay.”

  I heard my voice momentarily falter as I leaned forward. “You know, it’s been a rough couple of days, after what happened in my shop.”

  She tilted her head, let a strand of auburn hair unfurl along her collarbone.

  “Our shop,” I corrected.

  “I like to think so.”

  “Things’ll be back to normal in no time.”

  “I have faith in you. You’ve done a wonderful job of creating a loyal customer base.” Her eyes moved to mine, then flitted away.

  I found myself wanting to win her favor, prove myself worthy. I swirled my glass and finished it. Why not be playful? Flirty? I appreciated this woman and wanted her to know it.

  “Samantha, you’re a good partner.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “Business partner, you mean.”

  “Uh. Yeah. You’re the best.”

  “Right back atcha,” she said.

  Her response was so out of character, out of place, that I began to suspect she was surrendering to my suave ways. Johnny Ray was still having his way with women, but it had been a year since my last serious relationship. Felicia.

  I missed the companionship.

  I didn’t care if the alcohol was loosening my tongue, didn’t care who heard it. Not one bit. I felt more talkative, sure—and more confident. Ready to beat the daylights out of any man standing in my way and ready to sweep any woman off her feet.

  Samantha was too good for me, too classy, but experience has taught me most women have a soft spot for the bad boy, even the bad boy under reform.

  “You ever think about us, Sammie? On a romantic level?”

  “Aramis, it’s awfully late.”

  “That’s my point.” I drew an exclamation mark in the air and dotted it.

  “You’re on the verge of making a fool of yourself,” she said.

  “Southern belle’s too good for a Northwest lumberjack?”

  “I don’t believe you’ve ever cut down a tree, have you?”

  “Not exactly.” I squirmed in my seat. “But, hey, have you ever worn a corset?”

  “This is getting silly.”

  I grabbed at my chest in mock pain. “Only trying to have a little fun.”

  She flipped open her cell phone. “Tonight the fun will be on your own. I’m calling you a taxi.”

  “A cab? Samantha.”

  “Please, Aramis.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about us. You woman. Me man.”

  “You drunk.”

  “I resemble that statement.” I laughed.

  She set her napkin beside her dessert plate, then paused, her lips parting, her eyes softening. She drew a finger through the condensation on her water glass, then, in a decisive motion, she swiveled in her seat with the grace of a woman in petticoats dismounting a steed.

  Before striding away, she said, “Good night, Mr. Black.”

  I felt like the proverbial horse’s rear end.

  In no mood for a sympathy taxi ride, I called Johnny Ray while downing another glass of the good stuff. He found me in the foyer—where I’d been directed by the maître d’—and carted me home without any questions asked.

  As he helped me up the steps with his arm linked under mine, I felt like we were united in a family embrace, bonded by past and present. Despite sibling frictions and differences in our personalities, we’re always there for one another. He’s my blood. My brother.

  I dropped onto my bed fully clothed, and in the dark a blanket settled over me.

  “My alarm,” I mumbled.

  “Already taken care of, kid. Get some sleep.”

  In my dreams, my father usually appears in silhouette against a blazing sun. He stands stock-still. I want to reach out to him, because I sense a deep sadness. I’m convinced my face hovers in his sorrow, plaguing him somehow.

  On this particular night, he turns. His hands hang at his sides, quivering.

  “Come here, boy.”

  “No.”

  “Come here.”

  “No!” I take a step back.

  He vanishes. The sun blinds me.

  In the next instant, a gun presses against my forehead, cold and hard. Pungent smells assault my nose, and I realize I’m in Portland again, seconds from death.

  The man with the Glock: Not so tough now, are you?

  My eyes scan the strip of gloomy light at the crown of the warehouse, waiting for my angel of mercy. And here it comes …

  Falling, looming large. An industrial light fixture.

  The gunman cackles and steps back so that I alone remain in the path of impact. My head becomes a target of dark, matted hair and stubble. My dark green eyes grow wide. My mouth opens in a cry for help.

  Propelled by the scream, I whip from the building.

  The wind races by, whittling me into a streamlined projectile. I’m a bullet, rotating at impossible speed
. Scorched by the friction. Hurtling toward a wounded man in a rustic cabin called Grinder’s Stand.

  He cries out: Oh, madam … Heal my wounds.

  But it’s too late for him. He is falling, falling …

  Behind the cabin door, my mother covers her ears and shakes her head, torn with emotions too large for her frame to bear.

  TWELVE

  Every Monday, rain or shine, I observe a ritual on my way to work. My mile walk winds through Centennial Park, and I pause there for ten minutes of silence.

  A time of reflection.

  In the center of the park, on a slight knoll overlooking a manmade duck pond, the world’s only full-scale replica of the Greek Parthenon stands broad and proud. Up close, the structure seems massive, with monstrous rock slabs, tapered columns accentuating the height, and gargoyles leering down from the corners. Behind towering dark doors, a forty-two-foot statue of Athena stares with ominous eyes, and in her palm, Nike, the goddess of victory, stands six feet tall.

  Constructed originally for Tennessee’s centennial celebration in 1897, the Parthenon was meant to underline Nashville’s claim as the Athens of the South, but the building fell into disuse. Years later the site was restored, and it’s now a highlight on every tour guide’s route.

  There’s nothing spiritual about the place for me. In fact, the edifice seems to stand in honor of humanity’s accomplishments alone, a relic of those who diminished their gods by enshrining them in stone and myth.

  I don’t think we can hold God down like that.

  I think it’s more about humility. But I don’t have it all figured out.

  I opened Black’s forty-five minutes later to a long line of supportive regulars. I could have hugged every one of them. Instead I poured their coffee and pulled their espresso shots with extra doses of goodwill.

  Most of them rushed on into the day, but I’d like to think a few of them felt it.

  Brianne showed up as scheduled. I hadn’t trained her in the art of fine coffee, so I had her stock and clean and straighten.

  In the late morning, I called Sammie to report our steady stream of business. Although the conversation was strained, purely professional, she seemed pleased. She did have things to do, she told me.

  “One more thing, Sammie.”

  She waited. She wasn’t going to make this easy for me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “For last night. I think I made a couple of lame comments and a general fool of myself.”

  “The wine was very good. You may have had a bit more than was prudent.”

  “That’s putting it politely.”

  “I don’t think either of us was in the place to continue a reasonable conversation.”

  “You’re always so under control.”

  “Part of my upbringing. Did you make it home safely?”

  “Johnny Ray picked me up.”

  “He’s a thoughtful man, isn’t he?”

  “He is. There must’ve been some sort of genetic hiccup between the two of us.”

  “Aramis, you’re forgiven, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was classy about it, shaming me all the more—and I loved her for it.

  As the day flew by, I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, routines and rituals would carry me through. No need to get involved. Move on.

  “Seems to be a done deal,” Johnny Ray told me later in the evening.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dad’s visit. He should be arriving any day now.”

  “I can’t wait.” I continued stuffing laundry into the washing machine.

  “I know it’s wrong the way he treated you, Aramis, but I think he wants to put things right. I think we ought to give the man a chance.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  “So you’re okay with him coming?”

  I grunted and started the cycle. “What can it hurt?”

  Johnny and I eventually migrated to the couch to watch a CSI episode on DVD while drinking cans of Dr Pepper from the same six-pack. I hadn’t seen my brother glug a soft drink in months, and this sharing of food and entertainment was our way of calling a truce, a moment of solidarity before our father’s upcoming visit.

  “He’ll be sleeping in your studio. Right?”

  My brother stood and cracked his knuckles. I thought for a moment we were going to have a good old sibling rumble—and we both knew who would win. Although he has the butt-kicking boots and the weight advantage, he can’t compete with the fury our father instilled in me. Johnny hasn’t beaten me in a fight since I grew my first mustache and got my first tattoo at fifteen.

  “I was wrong, by the way. I’ve got to tell you that now, Aramis.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have changed. I said otherwise in the truck on Friday, but I was trying to make a point. You have made a turn for the better. Still,” he insisted, “you have to soften up a little.”

  “What are you really getting at? Just spit it out.”

  “Well, first there’s Dad—that’s obvious. And there’s Uncle Wyatt.”

  The name was salt on my wounds.

  “Until you wipe his slate clean, it’s just words, is all. You won’t really be changed, not deep down. Uncle Wyatt’s a good man, and he deserves better than you’ve given him. Sooner or later you’ll have to face it and make a choice.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, big brother.”

  “You do that. The choice might come sooner than you think.”

  My suspicions stirred at that point, but Johnny Ray’s sudden grin diverted my attention.

  “You should’ve seen them,” he said. “They were eating out of my hand.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Tonight at the Bluebird I performed my new song, and they loved it.”

  Located on Hillsboro Pike, the Bluebird Café is a staple of the Nashville music scene. A storefront establishment with a bar, a small kitchen, and no more than fifteen tables, the Bluebird hosts open-mike Mondays for those performing original tunes. No covers and nobody singing Toby Keith or Shania Twain. It’s the real deal, and a number of bona fide stars have been discovered there—from Garth Brooks to Faith Hill.

  Johnny Ray Black could be next.

  I said, “We’re still on for Thursday, right?”

  “I’ll blow the roof off, with the full band and everything.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about.” I slapped his arm. “We’ll pack the place. I’ll pull them in off the street at gunpoint, if necessary.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s not go that far.”

  “Bad choice of words. But you know what I’m saying.”

  “And I appreciate it. I really do.”

  In my bedroom, moonlight sliced through the venetian blinds. I inhaled and closed my eyes. This room was my haven. I reached for the box on the windowsill and traced the ebony surface with my fingers.

  I often end my nights like this, holding the keepsake, thinking of Mom.

  Her voice: Hold on to this for me, okay? … Someday it’ll show you the way.

  As I lifted the lid, the rich scent was a reminder of whispers and smiles and of Cracker Jack surprises she used to place in my stubby toddler hands. The recently returned handkerchief was the closest thing to having her with me.

  A jolt shot through my fingers.

  The handkerchief was gone.

  Another object had taken its place. My fist closed around a clump of brunette hair—human hair.

  In one motion, I let go, pushed at the box, and stumbled back.

  PART

  TWO

  WITH WHIP

  I fight only when forced.…

  But this time … a lady’s honor has been compromised.

  —Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers

  THIRTEEN

  This is important,” Detective Meade told me. “You do understand we’re recording this conversation?”

  Seated in an interview room, I nodd
ed, and my chair squeaked under me.

  “The tape cannot pick up a nod, Mr. Black.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “That’s better.” Meade folded thin hands in his lap. His skin was coal black and smooth as motor oil, his head a patch of short, coarse hair. He seemed to have perfected an expression of bland disinterest. “We appreciate your time here. You may be instrumental in our investigation. Now, speaking clearly, tell me again where you found this hair specimen.”

  “On my windowsill. In a box.”

  “Did you bring the box?”

  I shook my head. Catching the detective’s eye, I said, “No sir.”

  “Okay then, would you please describe it.”

  “Let’s see. It’s made of ebony wood, with mother-of-pearl inlay and a velvet lining. My mom gave it to me when I was a kid. It’s … it means the world to me.”

  “Can it be locked? Does it have a key?”

  “No.”

  “And what prompted you to bring this … specimen to the station?”

  My thoughts were going through the spin cycle. “Somebody robbed me—that’s all I can figure. My mom’s handkerchief was in there. Now it’s gone. And that hair was in its place. It was creepy, the way that rubber-band thing was still attached.”

  “The pink scrunchy.”

  “Whatever it’s called.”

  “So you know nothing about the hair? Is that what you’re telling us?”

  “How would I?”

  “I’m not asking for conjecture, Mr. Black. Only for the reasons that prompted you to turn it in.”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Mr. Black, this is not an attempt to put you on the defensive.”

  “I’m not being defensive. I’m trying to understand your question.”

  “And we’re only trying to understand your motive.” Detective Meade’s disinterested look was a tool, challenging me to impress him or convince him while giving no indication that either was possible. I wanted him to know that I was credible, that he needed to act on this.

  “Why do I get the feeling I’m a suspect here?”