Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  “When you put it like that…”

  “Ow!” said Tommy, getting the overdue smack from Roger.

  “Anyway,” I said, and I tore open the bag of treats I’d brought, “I got these. There was a dog in the shop who was crazy for them.”

  “God, what is that?” Tommy said. “It looks like the world’s biggest booger!”

  “You’re right, it does. And they’re crunchy, too! Here ya go, Haggles.”

  He sniffed at it, took it, munched it, swallowed it, and then spun in a circle, jumped up, and bonked my leg with two front paws, demanding more.

  “Wow,” Roger said. “That’s a keeper.”

  “What’s in those things, canine cocaine?” asked Tommy.

  “Are you ready for this? It’s little chunks of freeze-dried cow lung.”

  “Ewww!” came the chorus from everybody, even Jeff—everybody except Haggis, who spun one more time.

  “I don’t want to hear another word about that dog’s dignity,” Tommy said.

  “Anyway, Dweeb,” I said, giving Haggis another piece and closing up the bag. “I’m really glad it’s going well with Trevor.”

  “Seriously, Rog,” said Tommy, “it’s just a hoot to see you excited about something. I haven’t seen you this happy since I don’t know when.”

  “Shut up, Tommy,” Jeff said, again without turning from the TV.

  We turned in unison to look at the back of Jeff’s head.

  “I was just going,” said Tommy. “Call me later?” He kissed Roger on the cheek, grabbed his coat from the hook by the door, came back, kissed me on the cheek, made a dismissive gesture in Jeff’s direction, and he was gone.

  “So, Jeff,” I said after a bit—I mean, why pass up the chance to needle your nemesis? “Who’s winning?” I’m not sure I was asking about the golf game.

  In response Jeff zapped the TV off and got up to get his briefcase. Did I mention that’s the kinda guy Jeff is? He’s a briefcase guy. Not a backpack, not a shoulder bag. A briefcase. And golf on TV. He was what—maybe thirty? And the guy couldn’t wait to be a middle-aged fart.

  So, like I said, Jeff went for his briefcase, and I figured he was leaving, so I sat on the living room floor on the opposite side of the couch next to the dog. I pulled the squirming terrier half onto my lap, hoping to hear more about Trevor just as soon as what’s-his-face was gone.

  But what’s-his-face didn’t go. Instead, he sat back down on the couch and pulled out a file folder, which he laid carefully on the coffee table. What was he going to do, sell us life insurance or something?

  “You know, Fletch, I had intended to do this with just Roger, but on second thought, since you’re here and all, and—full disclosure—because you seriously piss me off.”

  “You have been nothing, if not transparent, Jeff.”

  “Thank you. So I’ve decided to give myself a treat and let you stick around.”

  “Jeff, what are you talking about?” asked Roger.

  “A little surprise. And it concerns you anyway, Fletch.”

  “What could possibly concern me?” I asked the dog.

  “Shhhh,” Jeff said to me.

  Shhhh??!!! WTF? I opened my mouth to tell him where he could put his shhhh, and he shhhh’ed me again before he went on. “Roger, I know your firm uses the same investigative agency as our firm for background checks and things.”

  “A private investigator?” said Roger, a little warily, as he sat in the chair instead of on the couch next to Jeff. “Not really a big part of T-and-E work.”

  “Well, it happens in other kinds of law, trust me, and since I had gotten to know one of the associates at the agency, and he sort of owed me a favor—”

  “Was he cute at least?” I snarked.

  “Fletch,” said Roger, “not everyone networks the way you network.”

  “Oh my God, ask him! Just look at his face!” It was true, and Jeff’s face gave him away completely. You could tell from a mile off that he and Junior Sherlock had done the deed.

  “Jeff?”

  “It was a long time ago, Roger.”

  “Good luck with that, Jeff. I tried that one just the other day, and I still got left on a subway platform—”

  “The important thing is,” he interrupted me loudly, trying to get his little train moving again, “I asked this detective guy to look into somebody for me. A certain—Andrews comma Fletcher.”

  Didn’t see that coming.

  What could he have dug up on me? I hadn’t done anything I was ashamed of really. Okay, well maybe one or two things.

  “You hired a detective? Jeff, why would you do that?” Roger asked.

  “Totally for giggles,” said Jeff. “I thought it would be fun.”

  “Since when do you do things for giggles?” Roger said.

  “Well then, think of it as a scouting report. Or due diligence.”

  “Jeff, put that file—”

  “Trust me, Roger. I got this.”

  “You know, I’m flattered, Jeff,” I said, “but if you wanted to know something, you could have just asked.”

  “I learned some interesting things, too,” he went on, ignoring me completely now.

  “Really? What did you and Nancy Drew find out? Let me guess. I bet you clever boys put your heads together—among other things—and figured out my real name. Cool. It’s Frank. Frank Szyfranski. I’d have told you, if you’d ever asked. I needed a name, and who really wants to go through life called Frank Szyfranski? What else? How about my birthday?”

  “It’s not June nineteenth?” said Roger.

  “Kinda sorta, my ma was pretty vague about it, so I just picked one. Hey, here’s one for ya. You know who my dad was? ’Cuz my ma told me she didn’t know, and I was always inclined to believe her. Roger, if you want to know something, ask me. You don’t need a detective, and you don’t need to listen to this halfwit. Whatever you want to know, I swear to God to tell you the truth.”

  “Ohhhhh, I’m sure,” Jeff said all sarcastic.

  I had to ignore him or punch him, so I chose ignore.

  What a mistake.

  “Seriously, Roger, what do you want to know?” I tried to look up at him, over my shoulder, but I couldn’t really see his expression. “That I was in foster care? That I lived on the street for a while? Is that in your file, Jeff? What?” My mind was racing. Jeff looked even smugger than usual, and it was throwing me into a panic. Oh fuck. “Juvie?” I looked from Jeff to Roger. “I never lied to you about any of this, Dweeb. It’s nothing I like to talk about, but you never asked, so I…”

  Why didn’t Roger say something? If not to me, then why wasn’t he telling this tool to go piss himself? That scared me more than this amoeba. Or was this just Roger’s revenge—for all my crap? Maybe it was his turn to smile and watch me suffer?

  “Hey, Jeff,” I said. “I know something you might have in your folder there—you know where my ma is?” Talking about my past, I could hear my accent drifting back. “After I went into foster care, I never heard from her again.” Damn, Roger, say something. “I don’t know if I really want to look her up or anything, but I wouldn’t mind knowin’ where she’s hangin’ out these days.”

  “She’s dead.” Jeff flipped through his file folder. “In Philadelphia…four years ago. Vagrant. Of an overdose.”

  I was an idiot.

  I stepped right into that punch, and it had landed.

  Of course she was dead. The path she was on, it would have taken a miracle for her to survive this long. Even so, I didn’t see it comin’, and I had let this dickwad get one up on me. Roger’s boyfriend.

  And Roger was just sitting there. He was letting it happen.

  The country-club boys. Of course they’d stick together, I realized suddenly. I could forget sometimes, but I was nothing, just like I’d always been.
Who was going to be on my side? I was just the street rat—good for a fuck, and they’d both used me for that—but not somebody you took home to your parents.

  That guy was Jeff. And that guy had won.

  They had planned this together?

  I had trusted Roger.

  Another in a very, very long string of colossal mistakes. Roger obviously wanted to hurt me as badly as I had hurt him. Well, congrats, Dweeb. Bull’s-eye.

  I didn’t know much for certain in that moment, but I was pretty damned sure that I couldn’t talk.

  I picked Haggis up from my lap gently and kissed him on the head, and then I set him to one side. I stood up. In two strides I was at the door, then in the hall, and my old beat-up chucks were flying down those two flights of stairs.

  “Fletch!”

  It was Roger above me.

  Fuck Roger.

  I pulled the street door open, and I was down the steps and walking east.

  Blind.

  Chapter 29

  Detective Story—Part II

  Roger

  Fletch sat on the floor, so pale. I’d never seen him like that. I should have said something but I didn’t. It was all like watching some terrible accident happen, and I just sat there. I’d never seen anyone get the better of Fletch, ever, and I kept waiting for his response. I was sure he’d have an answer, something funny or devastating. Or he’d just haul off and belt Jeff in his smug face, which he so deserved.

  But there was Fletch, looking like he’d been kicked in the stomach. Why didn’t I say something?

  He didn’t move for a second. Then he set the dog to one side, and I started to reach out to him—but with those huge legs of his he was out the door before I could even think.

  I ran to the apartment door—Fletch was already past the landing, but I could hear his feet thumping down the stairwell.

  “Fletch!” I yelled. I heard the front door pull open, the noise of New York washed in, and then the door fell slowly closed behind him, and the street noise was gone again, muted.

  I should have stopped this, I thought. I shouldn’t have let this happen. Why was I such a wuss that I let this happen?

  I turned around and went back inside.

  “Jeffrey for the win!” That was my boyfriend, my utterly loathsome boyfriend, gloating on the couch. How had I ever…

  “What did you say?” I said when I was finally able to answer him.

  “It’s a pity he bolted—I hadn’t even gotten to my favorite part. But I guess it’s a touchy subject for him.”

  “Jeez, did you really think it was going to be funny, telling Fletch his mother’s dead?”

  “Sorry. I guess I didn’t take Fletch for the sensitive type, not with his background. But you know, I was really disappointed there was nothing about prostitution in the file.”

  “Why would you think there would be?!”

  “C’mon, he was living on the streets, and he looked like that. Of course he was turning tricks.”

  “Well why don’t you ask him, like he said—”

  “People like that lie—”

  “You don’t know anything about him!”

  “On the contrary”—he tapped his file—“I know a great deal.”

  “You know nothing important then.”

  “I know he had a meal ticket—you—and he moved on to this rich designer, and he’s screwed that up, apparently. That much I learned from you. And now he’s trying to get back in your pants.”

  “You’re unbelievably wrong.”

  “You’re right—he doesn’t want in your pants, just your pockets.”

  I was pretty sure I knew what Fletch wanted, and it wasn’t just sex, and it certainly had nothing to do with money.

  “If that’s what you think, Jeffrey, then you don’t know a damned thing. Fletch has his faults—believe me!—but greed isn’t one of them. You don’t know him as well as I do.”

  I went into the kitchen just to get away from him.

  “The whole point, baby, is you don’t know him at all!” he said, following me. “Did you even know Fletch wasn’t his real name?”

  “Fletcher Andrews! His name’s WASPier than mine! Of course it’s not his real name. But that was how he introduced himself, and I never needed to know more than that.”

  “Did he tell you his mother was an alcoholic? And an addict, in and out of rehab?”

  “That’s so—I mean, it’s terrible, but it’s—irrelevant. There’s nothing in that file that I need to know.”

  “How about that stint in juvie?”

  “Juvie? Really?”

  “Don’t believe me? It’s all in here.” He tossed the file on the kitchen counter.

  “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I’m not even really surprised. I just feel bad for him. In the end—I don’t know—maybe it explains some things, but it doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters! He was in there for assault and battery! If that’s not a game changer, what is???”

  “Assault?” That made no sense to me. It just wasn’t possible. Fletch? No.

  “That wasn’t easy to find out, either. Juvenile records are sealed, and the copy I got was heavily redacted, but from what I could make out, he put some guy in the hospital. That’s the kind of criminal who has the keys to your apartment. That’s the kind of lowlife you’re so damned infatuated with!”

  “I’m not infatuated! And besides, whatever happened, it was years ago. He’s changed. He learns all the time. I see it. I mean think about it. Literally a kid from the street. Addict mother—foster care—juvie—think how far Fletch has come from that poor kid in your file!” And suddenly I realized something. “He’s not even the same guy he was two years ago. He’s changed, he’s gentler, more considerate and—”

  “Roger, stop being so damned naïve!” he yelled at me. “People like Fletch, they’ll do anything, say anything. It’s how they survive! And you know what else?—and you can trust me on this one, baby—people don’t change!”

  I looked at him for a couple seconds and took a deep breath.

  “I certainly hope that’s not true, Jeffrey,” I said quietly. “If only for your sake.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you’re a prick. And I hope someday you outgrow it.”

  “I’m the prick? You just don’t get it, do you? I’m not the bad guy here. I’m the one looking out for you!”

  “Don’t you dare…”

  At the thought he was now going to pretend that he had somehow done this awful thing for me! For my benefit—I don’t think I had ever been so angry in my life. My whole body was shaking.

  “You should be thanking me!” he said.

  I had to take a second before I could speak, which I did calmly, staring at the lines in the granite countertop.

  “You should go. I can’t talk to you, and honestly, I can’t stand the sight of you right now. Just go.”

  Jeffrey picked himself up, got his things, carefully left the folder on the kitchen counter where I could see it, and snapped his briefcase shut. I couldn’t look at him. He stopped at the door to say something but went without saying it.

  Haggis nudged my ankle.

  Chapter 30

  Riffraff in the Hallway

  Fletch

  I stormed out of there and kept on walking, and I walked all the way back to my flat-sit—yep, all the way to frigging Bushwick. I guess walking fast and far was how I was handling stress. I certainly seemed to be doing it often enough. Stress and anger and frustration—and hurt. Because this one really, really hurt.

  I stopped on the bridge to watch it get dark for I don’t know how long. It was sooooooooooooo cold up there and incredibly windy—only then did I realize I’d left my jacket at Roger’s—but it felt good, too.

&n
bsp; I should cry or something, I thought. After all, my ma was dead. I didn’t have a lot of cozy memories of her, but she was still my ma, you know? There was a time she took care of me, or tried to. Mostly I remembered taking care of her. Seven years old and worried my ma wasn’t eating enough.

  I looked back toward Manhattan through the bridge and watched the sun set on the other side of the city until it was nearly dark. The only tears in my eyes were from the wind.

  Even as a little kid, I didn’t cry. My ma commented on it. I think I freaked her out, like there was something wrong with me. Her little cherub-faced sociopath, I guess, but I had somehow missed the crying gene.

  And here I was.

  I’ve told you how I didn’t believe in love. Trust is another really tough one for me. But I’ll admit to this much: I had loved exactly two people in my life. One of them, I’d just found out, died on a street in Philadelphia. And the other one—one I’d actually trusted, which was something I couldn’t really say about my ma—that one had sat by and watched me get sucker-punched by his fuckstick boyfriend, by this miserable, insignificant, contemptible jag-off.

  I’d loved two people in my entire life, and I’d lost them both in that one afternoon. And even then, I didn’t cry—couldn’t.

  By the time I got to the apartment building, I was done. I was emotionally empty, I was fucking freezing, I was exhausted and shivering, and I only knew I wanted to go to bed. If I woke up again, or if I didn’t, it didn’t really matter.

  I stepped out of the elevator, turned left toward the apartment, and stopped. My door was at the far end of the hall—where there was a Scottish terrier curled up next to a guy with white earbuds sitting on the floor, head fallen forward on his chest, a big shock of brown curls hanging down over his forehead.

  Man-oh-man, I thought. Good thing I don’t cry.

  Haggis picked up his head, and then jumped to his feet and tugged at the end of the leash, tail wagging furiously—which woke Roger up.

  “Hey, Dweeb,” I said, hoarse.

  Looking up, he pulled the earphones out—I could hear the tinny version of a string quartet. What a dork. What an adorable dork.