The Big O (A Screwball Noir)

by Declan Burke

  Madge had often wondered how it’d play out on the links, the boys in their baggy pants keeping score on their little white cards. Thinking about how, if she was to casually mention to Frank about Bryan and Doug, it might even qualify as some kind of handicap, Frank putting for par and getting those yips he was always crying about, Frank on the fidget thinking about Doug pouring the pork to his ex-wife….

  Amusing, yes, but Madge had bigger fish to fry. She’d been thinking that maybe it was coming time to push the boat out – like, literally, follow up on a few notions she’d always had, one being a Mediterranean cruise with a toy-boy in tow, something young and rough, Madge had always had a thing for car mechanics and plumbers. The kid screwing Madge senseless 24/7. The way she saw it, it’d be the trip of a lifetime or she’d get it all out of her system.

  Either way, Madge had an itch it was coming time to scratch.

  Because what Madge had finally realised, after screwing Doug, was that she’d been bored for nearly twenty years. Not that she blamed Frank: Frank was just an asshole who actually liked the horseshit, the big-breeze small talk down at the Tennis Club, the Rotarians, the Opera Society – so long as it was some kind of club, Frank was happy.

  Where Madge went wrong was in presuming that being bored was her part of the deal, like out at Oakwood when you ordered a vodka-tonic and got a swizzle stick whether you wanted it or not. Doug was just as boring as Frank, wriggling around on top like he couldn’t decide if he was going to fuck her or ask her to guess his weight. Madge’s problem, she’d started to realise, was not pointing it out, the problem, and doing it early.

  Now she pinched the joint dead, flipped it out the window, as she watched Fiona and Audra totter across the parking lot towards the Crossfire. Wondering, Christ, who wears heels to a fucking yoga class?

  There and then she decided, the next time Doug rang, that she’d tell him how she was feeling bad, Audra being such a good friend and all, and that she’d have to spill, couldn’t live with the guilt. Hey, she thought, brightening up, maybe she could even tell Doug she was feeling, y’know, depressed, suicidal….

  Madge understood spite, for sure. And lately she’d come to appreciate what it meant to be bored. It was where she went after boredom that Madge wasn’t too sure about.

  Ray

  Ray walked straight up to the counter.

  ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘this’ll sound kind of weird, but there’s girl, we’ve been out a couple of times but haven’t got around to swapping numbers yet. Anyway, she went off to work this morning without making any plans to hook up again. But she dropped off her laundry here first.’

  This around noon, the Laundromat quiet.

  The chubby-cheeked attendant was in her forties, wearing faded dungarees. ‘I’m not giving out no one’s phone number,’ she said, ‘for no reason.’

  Ray nodding along. ‘Because I could be a freak, stalking the girl. Plus she already told me she’s busy tonight, so it could be she’s giving me the easy brush. So what I’m asking is if you’d mind ringing her up and telling her I’m wondering if she’d like to get together for lunch.’

  ‘You’re serious.’

  ‘Absolutely. At The Crypt.’

  ‘And you want me to ring and ask her out for you.’

  ‘That way I don’t have to find out her number, where she works, anything like that. If she says no, she says no. What’re we out?’

  The attendant thought it over. ‘What’s it worth to you?’

  Ray patted his pockets, dug out a crumpled twenty and smoothed it flat on the counter. The attendant sighed and pushed the twenty away with the point of her fingernail.

  ‘I’m asking,’ she said, ‘what’s it worth. Like, if she says no, how bad is it?’

  Ray considered. ‘I’m thirty-seven years old,’ he said, ‘and I never felt like this about anyone before. Like I actually want to take care of someone. Except, I get the feeling, she could look out for me too.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t want to be taken care of?’

  ‘Who doesn’t want to be taken care of once in a while?’

  ‘Fair point. But what if she doesn’t?’

  ‘Then I’m disappointed.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘I don’t know her well enough to go join the monks, we’ve only been out twice. But yeah, definitely disappointed.’

  The attendant shrugged, reached for the phone. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Karen King.’

  ‘And you’re saying,’ she said, clicking her mouse, glancing at the computer screen, ‘it’s The Crypt.’

  ‘Already booked. Hey, if she’s not interested, what’re you doing for lunch?’

  ‘I bring sandwiches,’ the attendant said, dialling up, phone wedged between ear and shoulder. ‘Oh, hi – can I speak to Karen King, please?’

  Karen

  ‘I hadn’t realised,’ Karen said, watching Ray fork some linguini home, ‘you’re left-handed.’

  Ray swallowed before he was ready, sipped some water. ‘Just sometimes,’ he said, dabbing a napkin to his lips. ‘For different kinds of things. Like, if I’m using a TV remote, I’m left-handed. Or for eating. But mostly I’m right-handed.’

  Karen took a drag on her smoke while she pushed the vermicelli around her plate. Not hungry, too edgy to eat, and lunch was usually Karen’s biggest meal of the day. ‘So you’re ambidextrous?’

  ‘I think if you’re ambidextrous you can use both hands to do everything. I just do different stuff with different hands.’

  Karen less interested in what he was doing, with which hand, than where he was doing it. The Crypt had its tables in private cubicles under pointed arches, gargoyles on the wall, a spooky gothic vibe. Spooky prices too: six-course lunches and a separate menu for champagne.

  Maybe that was why she was nervy: Karen had never felt comfortable around unnecessary wealth. Or, she thought, maybe it was her period coming on. And maybe she just felt sorry for Ray, the guy dropping a wad to buy her lunch when Karen was thinking about blowing him off. For the time being, anyway, now she’d decided on Tuesday.

  ‘You want to change that?’ Ray said, nodding at the vermicelli. ‘If there’s something wrong, just get it changed.’

  Karen stubbed the cigarette. ‘No, it’s fine. I just don’t eat that much during the day.’ She met his gaze, the hazel eyes, the candlelight picking up on the tigery glints. She wondered if he knew it, if it was why he’d picked the place, candles over lunch. ‘Maybe I’ll just have a coffee instead.’

  ‘Okay by me.’

  He signalled the waitress, and when she arrived he indicated that Karen would be ordering first. And just like that, out of nowhere, Karen felt the butterfly churn, the butterflies getting their signals wrong and coming together in a wild, fluttery mid-tummy tornado.

  She ordered a latte. Ray said he’d have the same, lit a cigarette, smiled across through the flickering candlelight. Karen thinking, okay, yeah, maybe it’s just being around Ray ….

  ‘I used to be all right-handed,’ he said. ‘Back when I was a kid.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Then this guy, I was fourteen, the last day before school breaks up for summer, he snaps my arm. Like, lays it across two schoolbags, stamps down. Like that,’ he said, clicking his fingers.

  ‘Fuck. What’d you do?’

  ‘To him? Nothing. The guy was a foot taller than me, twice as wide.’

  ‘But why?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘He just wanted to do it. Although,’ he conceded, remembering, ‘he did say he didn’t like my name.’

  ‘The fuck was wrong with your name?’

  ‘With these guys? Reasons are bullshit. I mean, if I had the same name and was bigger than him, my name wouldn’t have been such a problem.’

  ‘Yeah, but … What’d you do?’

  ‘Puked up and bawled my fucking eyes out.’

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone?’

  ‘You mean squeal?’ Mocking her now, a gleam in hi
s eye.

  ‘Christ, Ray. He broke your arm.’

  Ray tapping ash, smoking left-handed. ‘That was the first year. Second year, same thing. That time, okay, he caught me out, I didn’t think he’d go two in a row. Third time I was craftier. He had to track me down, grab me in town.’

  ‘And ….’

  ‘Yep. In a parking lot. Between, I think, an SUV and a Ford.’

  ‘But … Jesus, Ray. Why?’

  ‘I told you. He wanted to.’

  Karen sipped some latte. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I spent three summers in plaster. Three on the fucking bounce.’

  ‘I mean the guy – what’d you do?’

  ‘Nothing. He left school, drifted away.’

  ‘And you didn’t ….’

  ‘Stand up to him? He’s a bully so he’s really a coward behind it all?’ Ray grinned. ‘Like fuck. The guy was six-foot plus at sixteen, built like a brick shit-house. Just one of those guys, he liked to hurt people. The year he got held back – in remedial class – half the fucking school cried, janitors too.’

  Karen couldn’t help but feel disappointed, expecting a big finale, Ray finally getting around to stomping the bully. Not liking the way Ray deflected her expectations, sending them off on new tangents. Making Karen rethink, a couple of times already, like Sundance, who is this guy?

  ‘You could have at least fought back,’ she said.

  ‘I did. Caught him some good ones, too, nearly broke my fucking arm for him. You ever punch marble?’

  ‘And that’s it? That’s the story?’

  ‘What do I look like, Rocky or some shit? I’m knocking the guy down in the last round?’

  Karen lit a fresh cigarette. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Ray. I’m not saying it’s not an interesting story. But I’m wondering, you take a girl out somewhere flash, then tell her you’re this six-stone weakling, how you let some bastard break your arm three years in a row ….’ She exhaled to one side, keeping her eyes on his. ‘I think you’re missing the point here.’

  ‘You asked about my being left-handed,’ he said. ‘And that’s how it happened, how I learned to do stuff with my left. Like eat, switch channels, zip my pants. The important stuff.’

  Karen shook her head, not getting it.

  ‘The upside?’ Ray said. ‘I got into this habit, the itching driving me crazy, of just blotting it out. Y’know? Mind over matter.’

  ‘That’s some upside alright.’

  ‘Put it this way. If you can blot out pain, you can blot out pleasure.’ He winked. ‘It’s why I can go all night. Just switching it off.’

  ‘And you’re not using this technique on me – why?’

  ‘Maybe I don’t want to wear you out right away.’

  ‘Take a chance. I mean, if I’m hating it, I’ll let you know.’

  Ray shrugged. ‘It’s your funeral.’

  ‘I’ve always liked the idea,’ Karen said, ‘of dying happy.’

  Rossi

  ‘Ring this number again,’ Rossi snarled into the phone, ‘I’ll track you down and suck out your fucking eye. What’d I tell you last time? Possession’s nine-tenths of the law.’

  Then hung up, grinning at Marsha as he tucked the phone into his breast pocket.

  ‘These guys,’ he told her, ‘don’t know when to quit. I mean, the phone’s stole already, am I right? So get another one, what’s the big fucking deal? Or get the number blocked, fuck me up that way. Only the bastard’s too lazy or stupid to do it. Am I right or am I right?’

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ Marsha said, getting back into it fast after the interruption, ‘but I’m afraid no one is allowed visit without proper authorisation.’

  Rossi had never realised before how many people spend their whole lives apologising to strangers. The security guard yesterday. Then, this morning, the tarts on directory enquiries with I’m sorry, sir, I can’t provide that information. Now Marsha the receptionist in her cute little emerald waistcoat and matching skirt, giving Rossi the fish-eye. Everyone breaking a sweat to keep him out of the loop.

  ‘But she’s mine,’ he protested. ‘I’m not authorised to see my own fucking property?’

  ‘Sir, I won’t tell you again about the foul language.’ Marsha flicking her fringe, the hair straw-blonde and fake as the long nails. Rossi, still hard, maybe from eating decent food again, thought about how he’d like to meet Marsha some night walking home on her own, tottering on high heels and flagging down a cab. ‘If you don’t refrain,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to call security.’

  ‘You want posh,’ Rossi said, wondering how Karen could afford Pheasant Valley, way out in the boonies, a reception area with air-conditioning, leather chairs and can-you-fucking-believe-it real palm trees inside. And, naturally, a snooty tart behind the desk. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Marsha – may I, begging your gracious pardon, see my one and only Anna I haven’t seen in like five whole years?’

  ‘Sir, I’m sorry, but as I’ve already said ––’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, no skangers stinking out the joint. Can I at least ring for a cab to get back to town?’

  Marsha frowned, glancing at where Rossi’d tucked the phone into his breast pocket. ‘What’s wrong, you’re out of credit?’

  ‘No, I just thought I’d ask, see how tight you really are.’ Rossi winking, letting Marsha know he’d get in there deep, turn her dark roots white with fright, maybe match the straw-blonde hair that way. ‘That it, Marsha? You tight? I mean, tight?’

  Marsha flushed and then reached for the cream-coloured phone on the counter; picked up, dialled a two-digit number. Rossi already turning away, heading for the automatic doors, glancing back as they hissed apart. Marsha, watching him go, replaced the receiver.

  Marsha thinking he’d be ringing a cab.

  Rossi strolled out into the early afternoon, across the parking lot, soaking up some sun. Patting his pockets, working out if he had enough smokes to last him a couple of hours.

  Hoping he didn’t.

  Ray

  When Ray joined the Rangers they told him it was like the SAS and Marines combined. Three months in Ray found himself wondering, Christ, how boring was the Marines?

  Hunkered down now over the open suitcase in his lock-up, trying to decide if he should use the Glock or the Sig for the surgeon’s wife, the ex-wife, Ray was pretty sure he’d used the Sig the last time out. Or, shit, thinking about it now, maybe it’d been the USP, the .40 with the P-load option, the extra-large trigger guard that came in handy if you were wearing gloves. The last gig being seven months back, an assistant bank manager, small and tubby with a sand-coloured goatee. His wife’d discovered he was banging some twenty-year-old blonde, a student who came in looking for an overdraft. The wife wanting the girl dead.

  ‘In,’ she’d expanded, ‘her dirty-sheet whore-rented bed.’

  ‘Woah,’ Ray’d said, ‘I don’t do executions. You want the money, hurt him that way, then fine, I’ll snatch her. Otherwise, no go.’

  Ray had heard all the fantasies. Although this one, the wife, maybe she had a point. Her daughter dies of leukaemia and some blonde bimbo turns up at the funeral, draping herself across the coffin wailing about how it was all God’s punishment. The wife telling Ray this on the phone, saying: ‘I’m asking you as a human being to try to understand the humiliation of that moment.’

  ‘Okay,’ Ray’d said, ‘I hear you. But we’re not making movies here. Understand? No one’s dying in anyone’s bed.’

  Ray hearing the wife breathing hard and shallow on the line. Then: ‘Yeah, okay. Take her. While she’s in her tramp’s bed.’

  ‘Fine. Now – one last time, so there’s no mistakes after. Yes or no?’

  ‘Yes. Yes. God, please, yes….’

  Ray, knees stiff from hunkering down, said: ‘Fuck it.’ Eeeney-meeny-miney-moed, picked the Glock, locked the suitcase. Stowed it in the wall-mounted safe, tapped in the alarm code, shut the lock-up. Balled the surgical gloves and lobbed them underhand into
the canal, then drove for home.

  He hit traffic, rush hour building, wound down a window and fired up a smoke. Turned his head to the side exhaling and saw a Ford Celica, two lanes across, one length up. And, yeah, now it came back to him. Three days after Ray’d dropped the bimbo off in the woods, early morning, still blindfolded, the banker had turned the key in his Celica and went up, ka-boom, fried alive in his own driveway.

  Ray had followed the reports for a while after, the cops with a definite line of enquiry, the wife suing Ford for faulty wiring. Far as Ray knew, nothing had come of either endeavour. Ray wasn’t surprised. That Ford Celica was one sweet ride.

  But, shit, now he remembered. For the bimbo? He’d used the Glock.

  Rossi

  Four hours now Rossi’d been waiting. Sitting on a bench, walking away out of the parking lot, coming back from a different direction … all this fucking shit. When all he wanted was a fucking phone number.

  No smokes, either. Even if it was just a straight Rossi could cope, kid himself he was okay. But leaving him without some kind of smoke, even for half an hour, was just asking for trouble – Rossi’d get all sorts of edgy, snarled up inside. And by the time Marsha tip-tipped daintily down the steps in her too-high heels, heading off towards Car Park C, it’d been precisely two hours and thirty-seven minutes since Rossi’d stubbed his last smoke.

  ‘Hey, Marsha? Got a cigarette?’

  Marsha looking around, car keys poised, eyebrow raised and a smile starting. Expecting someone, Rossi realised. One of the vets maybe, the guys in the fly white coats going in and out past Rossi all afternoon, throwing him the voodoo eye.

  Marsha swallowed hard, turned to go. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I don’t smoke.’