At Their Own Game

by Frank Zafiro

“Since when?”

  “Ever since the breakup.” Helen turned away and walked back to the kitchen table to her drink.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Did he actually hurt you?”

  She lifted her glass and took a healthy sip. “No. But he threatened to. And I believed him.”

  “Apparently a judge did, too. But those are usually only good for a year or so, even the so-called permanent ones. How is it still in place?”

  “My lawyer gets it renewed every year.”

  “He’d have to present the judge with some kind of continued threat for that,” I said.

  “My lawyer is very good.”

  I went to the cupboard and got myself a glass. Then I poured a drink from the bottle on the counter. Leaning back against the counter, I sipped and watched Helen. She sipped and watched me back.

  “All right,” I finally said. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your goddamn bodyguard.”

  “Don’t say it like that, Jake.”

  “That’s what it is.”

  “I just don’t have anyone else to turn to.”

  “Great,” I said. “So I’m the bottom of the barrel.”

  Helen put her glass down and came to me. When she drew close, she took my glass away and set it on the counter. “No. You’re all I’ve got.”

  I wanted to say she was full of shit, that she was playing me. But I couldn’t. For one, I wasn’t sure it was true. For another, even if it was, I couldn’t say I didn’t like the notion of being her protector.

  “When’s the funeral?” I said quietly.

  “Tomorrow afternoon.”

  I reached up and touched her cheek. “All right.”

  And then we forgot the world for a while.

  TWELVE

  The pounding woke us up. It was dark. Disoriented, I cast an eye at my clock. The blood red numbers read 11:19 .

  “Whuttizzit?” Helen murmured next to me.

  I pushed the blankets aside and swung my feet to the floor. My head started to clear.

  The pounding resumed. A loud thumping at my front door.

  “Shit!”

  I reached for the nightstand drawer and fumbled around for my gun.

  Helen sat up sharply. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I sure as hell am going to find out.”

  I stood up to go.

  Helen flipped the covers aside and fumbled for her clothing.

  “Stay here,” I ordered.

  “Like hell I –”

  The pounding erupted again, causing her to jump in the darkness. A muffled voice rang out, the shrill tone of anger the only recognizable element.

  I reached for my cell phone on the night stand.

  “Here,” I said, and tossed it to her. She caught it out of the air. “If you hear anything fishy, dial 911.”

  “Jake…”

  “Just do it.”

  She held up the phone. “It’s dead.”

  “What?”

  She nodded.

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “I’ve got mine,” she whispered.

  “Fine. You don’t like what you hear out there, you call the cops.”

  “All right.”

  I reached for my boxers and pulled them on. The cool metal of my .45 brushed against my belly. I had an insane vision of me shooting my dick off and Ozzy or Randall dying of laughter on my front porch.

  Or Falkner.

  Shit.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Helen, keeping my voice low.

  “Be careful.”

  I slipped out of the bedroom and into the hallway. Hunching down, I crept down the dark hallway toward the living room. Ambient light from the clock on the microwave in the kitchen splashed across the hallway wall. I moved quickly past that entry way and into the living room.

  Staying as close to the wall as I could, I moved silently toward the front window. If I could look through the crack in the drapes, I wanted to get a look at who was banging on my—

  Frantic pounding again.

  “Jake! Open this door, goddamn you!”

  A woman’s voice.

  “I know you’re in there. Your car is out front. Open up!”

  Recognition shot through me.

  Cleo.

  I was supposed to meet her at the Davenport hours ago. I completely forgot.

  Shit was right.

  I slid the gun under a nearby couch cushion. Then I took a deep breath and flipped on the living room light. The pounding ceased.

  I thought about how to play this situation. But as I reached for the door, I realized there was no playing it. It was what it was.

  As soon as the door swung open, she barreled through it. She may have stood just five foot one, but right about then, I’d have had better luck stopping my old FTO, Perry.

  “What’s going on?” she yelled at me. She wore a slinky black dress and red lipstick. Her gaze swept through the living room, then landed on me. “Huh, Jake? You were supposed to meet me at 8:30, remember?”

  “I…”

  “I only called you, like, seven million times. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

  “The battery died.”

  She ignored me. “Do you know that I actually called the hospitals? To make sure you weren’t hurt?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Cleo crossed her arms. Her fingers jittered and drummed on her upper arm. The manicured nails clacked together. “Obviously, you weren’t at any of the hospitals. And you don’t look hurt.”

  “I’m not.” I thought of the small split on the bridge of my nose, courtesy of Ozzy.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened? What was so important that you stood me up without even giving me the courtesy of a phone call?”

  “I…”

  Before I could say another word, she let out an angry cry. “God, you piss me off, Jake. I know we’re not married or anything, and maybe I’m just a sometimes fuck to you, but my God, there’s such a thing as common courtesy.”

  “I know.”

  “You have a fine way of showing it.”

  “You’re right.”

  “I dressed up for you. I waited .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  We fell silent for a moment.

  Cleo glared, her gaze boring into me. “Then goddamn it, talk to me.”

  Helen’s voice came softly from the doorway. “Jake?”

  Cleo’s eyes flew open wider. We both turned toward the voice.

  Helen stood in the doorway, one of my dress shirts haphazardly buttoned and hanging to her thighs. She held up her phone. “So…no 911, I’m guessing?”

  Cleo let out a small gasp. She stared at Helen a little longer, then brought her gaze back to me. “You are a son of a bitch, Jake Stankovic.”

  She turned to the door and reached for the knob.

  “Cleo, it’s not—”

  “Not what I think?” she snapped at me. “Please.”

  I didn’t reply.

  Cleo twisted the doorknob and swung the door open. Then she gave me one last baleful look. “The thing is, I don’t even care, Jake. I really don’t. You’re nothing special. You’re not even that good in bed. I just don’t like being treated like a fool.”

  She stepped through door and slammed it behind her. The living room windows rattled with the force of it.

  I stood still and stared at the door for a second. Then I looked over at Helen.

  Her expression was flat and calm
.

  “Well,” she said, “I’m glad we got that out of the way. Shall we go back to bed?”

  THIRTEEN

  I called Brent on Helen’s phone early the next morning while she cooked breakfast.

  “Who’s this?” He asked, his voice wary.

  “Me,” I said.

  He hesitated. “Boss?”

  “Yeah. Who’d you think it was?”

  “I didn’t recognize the number.”

  “My phone’s on the charger. This is a spare.”

  “Okay. What’s up?”

  “I saw our friend last night.”

  “Yeah, I kinda expected you’d call last night, you know?” His voice contained a hint of a reproach.

  “I got busy.”

  “I see. So what’s the deal?”

  “He won’t give us a refund.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I was.”

  “Shit.” He hesitated, then sighed. “I guess we move the merchandise instead.”

  “No.”

  “Aw, come on, Boss. All my money’s tied up on this deal. I’ve got no wiggle room here.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “So let’s do it. Just this once.” He paused. “Unless it works out well. Then maybe we could think about another go round, right?”

  “No,” I said. “You’re not getting me.”

  “I get you. But maybe we should all three meet on this. Because I don’t see that we have much choice other than to do it this one time—”

  “He kept the product, too.”

  Silence.

  I waited.

  Then, “He what? ”

  “He kept the product,” I repeated. “When I told him I didn’t want to go through with the deal, he said fine. When I asked for our money back, he smacked me in the nose and told me we forfeit the money, too.”

  More silence.

  I waited again.

  Then, “Can he do that?”

  I leaned back in my chair and sighed. The aroma of slow cooking bacon filled the kitchen and made my stomach rumble. I watched Helen sway slightly while she stirred the eggs. My dress shirt never looked so good.

  “Boss? Can he do that?”

  “Fuck, Brent, I don’t know. It’s not like we can go to the cops, right? And there’s no trade union to file a grievance with, either. So yeah, I think maybe he can.” I hesitated. “Unless we do something about it.”

  There was another round of silence on the other end of the phone, this one the longest yet. Helen glanced over her shoulder at me and gave me a quick, small smile.

  Finally, Brent asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “And I figure we’ve got two choices. Let it lie. Or take our money back.”

  Brent didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “I can’t afford to lose that money.”

  “Neither can I. Neither can Matt, I bet.”

  “So I guess it’s the other option.”

  “I guess so.”

  Brent sighed. “That’s heavier than anything we’ve ever been into.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you think we can handle it?”

  “I think we have to, or start brushing up on skills as a fry cook.”

  “Yeah,” Brent muttered. “I guess so.”

  “Look,” I told him. “I’ve got something I have to do in a little bit, but after that, I’m going to scout things out. See where there might be some kind of vulnerability. Then we’ll all three meet later tonight, okay?”

  “Yeah, okay. But be careful, huh?”

  “No shit.”

  I hung up, just in time to see Helen scooping eggs onto a plate.

  I tried to remember the last time I was in a church.

  I couldn’t.

  Helen looked stunning in a classy black dress, complete with a dainty veil. I, on the other hand, had to knock the dust out of my one good suit before I put it on. Still fit, though.

  We stood outside the small church on Crestline, apart from the other mourners. I didn’t recognize anyone, but most of them were older women and their husbands.

  “Your mom had a lot of friends,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” I motioned to the steady stream of gray hairs filing into the church. “Are you seeing this?”

  “Maybe going to funerals is just what old people do for fun,” she said testily.

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “That’s a little cold. We’re all going to be that old one day.”

  “Not all of us will make it that far.”

  I stared at her some more. It was hard to see her eyes through the mesh of the veil. Finally, though, she reached out and took my arm.

  “I’m sorry, Jake. It’s just, this whole thing…it’s got me on edge.”

  I patted her hand. “I get it.”

  “Let’s go inside and find a seat,” she said. I heard the rest of the unspoken sentence in the squeeze she gave my arm.

  And get this over with.

  I led her into the church. We brushed past the pastor in the doorway, who didn’t recognize Helen. And why would he? His plastic smile of benevolence lighted on her, shifted to me, and moved on in workmanlike fashion.

  We took a seat in the front pew, on the aisle, and waited.

  A few minutes later, a man passed our pew wearing a deep blue suit. His silver hair was combed immaculately, and his tan skin radiated confidence.

  Helen’s grip on my arm tightened.

  Her dad.

  He started to sweep by, then stopped in front of us. He leaned forward and looked at Helen inquisitively. The odor of his expensive cologne washed over us.

  “Helen?” He asked, his voice both smooth and gruff at the same time, like syrup and gravel. “Is that you?”

  Helen didn’t move.

  He reached out. His hand lighted her on the shoulder. Helen gave a small start at his touch. His hand recoiled as if he’d touched something hot.

  Then he seemed to notice me. He held out his hand. “I’m Peter Trammell. Helen’s father.”

  I hesitated then reached out and clasped his hand. I gave it one short pump then dropped it.

  “She doesn’t want to talk right now,” I said.

  “Oh,” he said. “Of course.” He glanced back to Helen. “I’ll see you after.”

  Helen didn’t move.

  Peter gave us both a nod, and took a seat in the pew a couple of spaces to my right.

  We waited for another ten minutes before the shift in music indicated that things were about to get underway. The pastor moved slowly into position at the front of church. He uttered a solemn greeting, and led the gathering in an opening hymn.

  Helen and I remained silent.

  After that, the pastor said a lot of things about life and death. He said fewer things about Helen’s mother. I sat and pretended to listen. I could feel the stifling presence of Helen’s father to my right. A tingle on the back of my neck buzzed throughout the sermon. I was sure that somewhere in the assembled crowd sat Kyle Falkner. My stomach was tight with anticipation, while at the same time, anger brewed in my chest.

  Another song. Something about eagle’s wings.

  To my left, Helen sat perfectly still. There were no hitches or silent sobs.

  Eventually, the pastor got around to asking if anyone wanted to share a memory of Helen’s mother. This began a parade to the microphone and a litany of banal recollections about what a wonderful woman Helen’s mother was. A small shu
dder went through Helen’s shoulders.

  After a while the tide of memories ebbed and eventually subsided. The pastor reminded everyone once more about the undying love of Jesus and the reception in the basement.

  “Get me out of here,” Helen whispered to me. “Please.”

  I stood, and helped her stand. She seemed a little shaky on her feet, so I kept my hand at her elbow. We took a step for the aisle.

  Peter Trammell appeared in front of us. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  I started to nod but Helen gave a short shake of her head.

  “Good!” Peter gave us both a broad grin. “Come on. Let's get you something to eat.”

  He turned and headed down the center aisle. I glanced at Helen but couldn’t read her expression. Her words from yesterday - some things you just do – rang in my ears.

  She followed her father down the aisle with me at her elbow. At the entryway to the church we took a set of stairs down to the basement. A dozen round tables were scattered around the room. Containers of potluck items filled the counter at the front of the room.

  Peter took a table near the center of the room. Helen reluctantly followed. I leaned in and whispered in her ear.

  “We don’t have to stay for food,” I said. “You did your part. You came. Now let me get you out of here.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t let him think I ran from him. I won’t give him that.”

  I nodded as if I understood, but my head was spinning. Helen seemed all over the map. First she’s fragile and wanting to flee then suddenly she wants to stand up to this guy?

  And what about Falkner? I knew he was here. When was he going to make his appearance?

  Helen selected the chair furthest from her father. I sat next to her. Peter was busy accepting condolences from one of the gray hairs, a gracious smile plastered across his face. His expression screamed sincerity on the surface but to my eyes it was all bullshit. He was one of those guys, though, who could schmooze the masses.

  I asked Helen if she wanted some coffee or water. She shook her head. “Just stay with me.”

  I sat.

  When the woman was finished with the condolences, Peter turned toward us. “It’s been a long time, Helen.”