The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  I wander back into the living room in my boxers and stare at the TV. The weather gal is gone, replaced by two exceedingly happy anchorpersons. It doesn’t seem normal to be quite so delighted at 7:00 in the morning. When the red light goes off over the camera lens, do they slump back in their chairs, full of the same despair and exhaustion the rest of us feel on the morning of a work day? I’d like to think so.

  The grinning male anchor is introducing Howard’s segment. The scene cuts to a woman reporter standing in front of the lab construction site. The sky is blotchy gray with clouds so low they appear to hover right over the reporter’s head. If there’s a breeze, it’s not moving her hair, must be professionally trained hair. She’s wearing a bright yellow squall jacket emblazoned with the station’s logo and doesn’t look quite as happy as the people back in the studio. Probably why she is just a reporter.

  "Thanks, Steve. I’m here this morning with Nesler Pharmaceuticals CEO, Howard Stanich."

  She steps to the left and the camera follows her, revealing Howard. He looks great. Expensive navy suit and red tie pressed to within an inch of its life. Not a hair out of place. Very impressive. He must get up every morning about 4:00 and re-iron all the clothes that have come back from the drycleaners.

  There are thirty or so people in the background. It’s mostly a sea of black and gray suits, with a few guys in suspenders and hard hats adding incongruous spots of red and yellow. I glimpse Lily in the front row. Then the camera zooms in on the reporter and Howard.

  "Mr. Stanich. We’ve heard conflicting stories about how the lab expansion project has been going since the unexpected passing of Michael Rudolph. We appreciate you coming out this morning to talk with us about it."

  "Thank you, Carol. I appreciate you getting up so early to stand in front of a half-finished building."

  Howard chuckles and the reporter echoes with a little giggle. He looks so very sincere.

  "Of course," Howard says, his serious tone returned. "These have been trying times for all of us, especially for Michael’s family."

  He drops his eyes momentarily at the mention of Michael’s family and draws a breath. What a pro. He’d be great at eulogies.

  "Those of us at Nesler who knew Michael best and worked with him day-to-day on this incredible project, well . . . we still can’t quite believe he’s gone."

  The camera creeps back out, and I can again see the crowd and the building in the background. Lily stands at the end of the front row. She’s wearing a gray pantsuit with bright gold buttons. Her hair is pulled back and dark glasses hide her eyes. It’s impossible to read her expression on the little TV screen.

  Damn, my head is throbbing. I really don’t need a headache today.

  "This lab was one of Michael’s dreams," Howard continues. "Possibly his greatest dream. We are lucky he was so involved in all phases of its planning and construction. His early involvement gives us a solid framework to complete the construction exactly as he would have wanted it."

  Someone in the crowd begins clapping and the others quickly pick up on this example. Howard pauses again and waits for the applause to die down. I swallow the last of my orange juice and set the glass on top of the TV.

  The reporter jumps back in the conversation.

  "Can you tell us when construction will be complete and when you expect to start handling patients?"

  "Well, Carol, I can’t give you an exact date. As anyone who has done any remodeling around their own house can attest, construction is a ‘best guess’ kind of game."

  Laughter ripples from the peanut gallery.

  "But we certainly plan to be substantially complete by this summer with the doors opening before the end of the year."

  "That’s quite a bit later than previously expected, isn’t it?"

  "Somewhat later, but we are hoping to accelerate the process where possible."

  Howard should run for office. He can answer questions without providing a shred of information. It’s a real skill.

  The blood is pounding so hard in my temples it’s getting difficult to hear the TV. I hope this doesn’t go on much longer. I need to shower and get into the office. If I don’t get Klein’s shoes to the guys in the lab by 9:00 there’s no way I’ll get them back in time.

  Howard is speaking again. The camera is following him as he and the reporter walk toward the lab building. The image looks a little fuzzy. Someone should tell the cameraman to check focus. I sit down on the couch. Now the picture’s really blurry and the audio is all weird. I wonder why they don’t cut back to the studio. I blink to clear my vision. Nothing. Maybe it’s not the TV picture, maybe it’s the TV. Suddenly, the entire room stretches out like a balloon, snaps back, and then flips end over end.

  Fade to black.

  A phone is ringing.

  Someone should answer that.

  Could be important.

  Is it my phone?

  It’s cold.

  I crack open my eyes. I am face down on the couch, a small puddle of drool under my chin. I’m wearing only boxers and my head feels like someone’s been sitting on it. If I could just lift my head off the couch I could look around. Up. Up. Lift, up. That’s not working. I’m staring at the back of the couch, at an extreme close-up of the fabric’s weave, blue and green and black. Maybe I could just turn my head. Yeah, that would be good. Turn. My cheek rakes across the cushion, slowly, slowly. Cheek, chin, cheek number two, and there we have it, a new view. It’s my TV. A soap opera is on with a pretty girl talking on the phone. Must have been her phone ringing, not mine. Light is flooding through the front window. My eyes dart around the rest of the room. I can actually feel them rotating in their sockets. It’s not a good feeling.

  I try to compartmentalize my thoughts. Where am I? Condo. What is wrong? Collapsed on couch in boxers, having trouble moving. What time is it? Don’t know that one. Afternoon probably, judging by the sun. Why am I here? Million-dollar question with no clear answer at hand.

  I send a command to my extremities to move me into a sitting position. This time there’s a bit more cooperation and I manage to swing my feet onto the floor. Since my head weighs at least two hundred pounds, I have less success convincing my upper body to budge. Finally, my arms respond to repeated requests and push me up into a sitting position. It’s a good news, bad news thing. It’s good to be upright; it’s bad trying to balance my gigantic head on my tiny neck.

  The pretty girl on the soap opera slams down the phone and they cut to a commercial of babies in funny hats. The last thing I remember, Howard was on TV and I was getting ready to go in to the office. Now, Howard is not on TV, babies in hats are on TV, and I’m still in my underwear. I look over at the clock on the kitchen wall. 3:15. I’ve been out for eight hours. What the hell happened? Shit. I’ve lost the whole goddamn day.

  My thoughts begin to fall back into a linear path and the situation becomes clearer. Based on the sorry state of my head, I think it’s safe to say I was drugged. I think I know who, but I don’t know exactly why. Howard and Gavin can’t possibly know what I found in Michael’s computer. I’m willing to bet no one knows about his notes. But I’m sure my first instincts this morning were correct. They believe I know. I was writing Michael’s story, right? I must know everything about him. Everything. If Michael knew all about Nesler, and I knew all about Michael, then I know all about everything. Targeted for murder by association.

  But why knock me out? If you’re going to go to all that trouble, why not just kill me now? I reach for the remote and silence the babies in funny hats. My orange juice glass is still sitting on top of the TV. There was something in the juice. Had to be. I didn’t touch anything else. I stand up. Too quickly. A kaleidoscope of colored shards swim in front of my eyes and I almost go down again. I grab the glass and sniff. No smell. In the kitchen, I retrieve the carton from the refrigerator, open the spout and smell. Fresh oranges, nothing else.

  I hurry back into the bedroom. No time for a shower, just throw on jeans an
d a sweater and splash a little water over my face and hair. Since it feels like bears have been living in my mouth, I do take the time to brush my teeth. I take stock in the mirror as the toothpaste foams. Presentable. Rumpled, but not scary.

  I grab the bag of Klein’s shoes and toss in my glass and the carton of juice. We’re all going to work. 3:45. It’ll take some fancy talking to get the lab guys to stay late on a Friday. I stare at the clock, trying to gauge how long they’d have to work to get everything done. Just below my line of site, invading my peripheral vision, the curtains are blowing around the kitchen window. I drop my eyes and almost drop the bag of shoes and juice. The window is open. Again.

  NINETEEN

  "Who wants pizza?"

  I stride into the lab reception area with four steaming boxes of deep-dish sausage and pepperoni. The room is small and cluttered. Fluorescent ceiling panels throw off a hot greenish light; one tube is flickering erratically, ready to snap and die. Pizza alone won’t sell my case to these guys, but hot, greasy food is a good place to start.

  "Hey there, man," says Brad Trenton, the lab manager. He’s sitting behind a small wooden desk piled high with multi-colored file folders. "To what do we owe the privilege of a visit into the bowels of the building by the famous Charlie Sandors?"

  "Working a case, Brad," I answer, approaching the desk and laying my offering before him. He doesn’t bother to move any of the folders. "Working to keep the world a safer place for righteous folks like you and me."

  Brad lifts the lid on the top box and examines the contents. Nodding his satisfaction, he closes it again and looks up at me. Brad is older than me, not by much, maybe 38 or 39. I’ve always thought he was the polar opposite of what a scientist should look like. No pocket protector and Buddy Holly glasses for this guy: he’s built like one of his own steel filing cabinets, big, square and tough. His blond hair is pulled back into a thick ponytail, revealing an angular face covered with freckles. He’s a great guy, but one of these days, I think the Baywatch gang is going to notice he’s gone missing. Even more than the surfer-dude body and good looks, it’s the freckles that always knock me for a loop. It’s like having Dennis the Menace explain the laws of physics to you.

  "Not that I would ever question your motives, Chaz, but this pizza stinks to me like a bribe."

  "You cut me to the core. A guy can’t drop by with pizzas for his friends without being accused of ulterior motives?"

  "No one comes down here without a damn good reason. We have no windows and no girls."

  Brad’s two lab techs come through a swinging door at the back of the office, most likely drawn by the smell. These guys are a much better fit for the geek role. Justin is short and round with a crew cut and very rosy cheeks, like he’s always slightly embarrassed. Dave is skinny, bespectacled and has '70s helmet hair. He also has a tattoo of barbed wire around one wrist. I’ve never had the guts to ask him about it. There’s either a whole other Dave in there somewhere, or it’s simply proof he has been stupid drunk at least once in his life.

  "Pizza break," Justin announces, making a bee-line for Brad’s desk. "Good to see ya, Charlie. You slummin’?"

  "On a mission. What’s up with you guys this afternoon?"

  "Up to our assholes in bloodwork," says Dave, following Justin over to the pizza.

  "How’d you like a real challenge?" I ask.

  "I’m going to totally regret saying this in about two minutes," says Brad. "But, tell me about it."

  He grabs a pizza slice and kicks back in his chair. Dave and Justin perch behind him on a counter. The fluorescents hum and the dying tube strobes on and off over Justin’s head.

  "It’s a two-fer," I say, trying to sound upbeat. "I’m looking for two different things. One, I’ve got these shoes."

  "Shoes?" Justin asks through a mouthful of hot cheese.

  "Shoes. Men’s leather dress shoes to be exact. I need to prove the presence of buttercream frosting in the fibers of the stitching along the soles of one of these pairs of shoes."

  Dave stops mid-bite.

  "Why would someone have frosting on his shoes? Unless maybe you’re one of those strippers who jumps outta cakes."

  "That’s my problem, Dave. You just gotta prove it’s there."

  "I can’t work on something unless I know the circumstances."

  "That’s bullshit, you work on anonymous stuff all the time."

  "Okay then, I want to know the circumstances," Dave admits. "Your stuff is always interesting, Charlie. What’s with Frosting Man?"

  "Okay. Frosting Man is a Mr. Hugh Klein, slip-and-fall artist extraordinaire. For his latest tumble, I believe Klein had a little help from some cinnamon roll frosting."

  "That sounds almost plausible, but how on earth did you get him to give you his shoes?" Brad asks.

  "Trade secret. Let’s just say I need to return them ship-shape. Make sure you take lots of before photos of all sides and verify all your steps. I’m probably going to have to destroy all the evidence before I bring the shoes back to Mr. Klein."

  "So that’s riddle number one," says Justin. "What’s riddle number two?"

  "Much more pedestrian. I have a glass and an orange juice container I need you to check for narcotics."

  "What kind?" Dave asks, his lips slick with grease.

  "Any kind," I answer.

  "Can you narrow it down?"

  "Then I wouldn’t need you, would I? And, isn’t it good to be needed?"

  Dave rolls his eyes and swallows the last of his pizza.

  "You know, Charlie," Dave says, finally wiping the grease from his face—with his shirt, of course, not with one of the fifty napkins piled next to the pizza boxes. He misses a spot and I stare at the red splotch on his cheek while he finishes his thought. "It is Friday, and it is almost 5:00, and I can hear the call of the wild."

  I think about the tattoo on Dave’s wrist and briefly consider whether or not he might actually have something wild that could be calling to him. Brad interrupts my musings with his own suspicions.

  "Please say you aren’t going to tell us to do this for you now. We’ve been slammed all day."

  "I never tell you anything, I always ask. And, I always ask politely. This time, I’m prepared to go as far as begging. This is really important. The pizzas were just for starters. I’m willing to pull out the greenbacks for this one."

  I reach into my back pocket and retrieve my wallet to put my money where my mouth is. It’s an empty gesture. I’m pretty sure I only have a few dollars on me. I’ll have to hit the ATM at the 7-11 across the street to do the deal.

  "Name your price. I’m desperate. I was planning to get everything to you this morning, honest. Things just got all messed up. Everything’s messed up. I really need your help, guys."

  "Whoa, Chaz, pleading does not become you," Brad says, leaning forward onto his desk and peering at me over the top of the pizza boxes. He looks serious. Well, as serious as someone can look with a face full of freckles. "Let’s put this in perspective. Based on what you’ve described, this is a good six or seven hours of testing."

  Dave moans in the background.

  "Can the attitude," Brad barks.

  Dave shuts up but folds his arms across the front of his lab coat and I can see the tattoo. Justin is eating his fourth slice of pizza, but who’s counting?

  "If we go off the clock for you, Charlie, it’s not going to be cheap. Corporate has come down hard on outside work. They found out last month that a couple of the Chicago labs had full-on businesses going after hours. If we get caught, it’s an automatic suspension without pay."

  "No one will know," I promise.

  I can sense the door of opportunity creaking open. Brad’s mercenary streak is showing. He can make the other guys stay. Justin doesn’t seem to give a shit. Dave’ll make a stink, but he’ll go along in the end.

  "There is no fucking way a single soul can find out about this," Brad continues. "If it was anyone else, I’d say no, wouldn’t even think
twice. But you’ve always been straight with us, and there was the time you house-sat for my sister Leigh at the last minute when she flew off to the Bahamas for that quickie divorce."

  I’d forgotten all about that, but Brad was right. I did stay at his sister’s a couple years ago. Nice place up in the hill district. I’m pretty sure I brought one of my funeral flings there. Stacy? Lacy? No, Tracy. That was it, Tracy. Cute little Korean gal. Just lost an uncle. Amazing tits. You’re backsliding, Charlie. Concentrate, goddammit.

  "Fifty bucks an hour," Brad says.

  I think I missed something during that stroll down daydream lane.

  "Fifty?" I ask, incredulous.

  "Fifty each."

  Dave and Justin both look at Brad. We’re all doing the mental math. Six or seven hours at $150 per hour. That’s over a thousand bucks. Christ almighty, where am I going to get that kind of cash? I try not to flinch.

  "Is that your final offer?" I ask.

  Brad smiles. He has dimples too, did I mention that? Dimples and freckles. It’s freakish really.

  "Take it or leave it, Chaz Man. I’ve got my boys to think of here."

  He gestures to Dave and Justin who are also smiling. I am the only one not smiling. I close up my wallet and replace it in my back pocket. Brad’s smile fades a little.

  "I don’t have that kind of money on me."

  "Of course you don’t," Brad says, grinning again. "If you were carrying around that kind of folding money, I’d charge you double. We can wait until Monday. Banks are open on Monday."

  "I believe you have me over the proverbial barrel."

  "Don’t be so negative. Remember, if it was anybody else, I wouldn’t be offering at any price. It’s a sweet deal."

  "Okay, you win."

  "It’s win-win, Chaz. We get the dough, you get the info."

  The three lab extortionists laugh at their own joke. I turn to recover the bag of stuff I’d dropped by the door when I made my grand entrance with the pizzas. I bring it back to Brad’s desk and set it down at his feet. Brad pulls it up onto his lap and studies the contents.