by Charlie Cole
“Sir, for your safety, it would be best if you let me review any items before you hand them over to--,” His eyes flicked to me, but the word eluded him. Attacker? Charity case?
The agent plucked the knife from the property bag, pocketed the knife quickly, then thrusted the bag in my direction.
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes still downcast.
I took the bag and returned the items to their rightful homes. It gave me a strange sense of normalcy to feel the weight of them back where they belonged. Keys and wallet and phone. They were things that free men carried, not prisoners.
I relaxed a bit at that. Some part of me expected Harrison to let his agents drive me to some abandoned lot and beat me to teach me a lesson. And that would have been okay, too. Not as if I didn’t deserve it. But in the end, I was free. The walls would not close in and would not fall into a dark recess of my mind, sulking about my father and fighting for my life every day, but losing a little bit of hope, of will with each battle until I was crippled or dead.
No, I was free.
“Thank you, sir,” I said softly.
My eyes were moist, and I rubbed the heels of my hands against them. A smile broke out across Harrison’s face, and he clapped me on the shoulder.
“Let’s go for a drive,” he said. “Are you hungry? Have you eaten?”
“I’m famished, sir,” I confessed.
“I’ll get the car,” the other agent said and disappeared out the door.
We followed him out and felt the eyes of the people in the holding room follow us. What did they think? That this was my lawyer? Federal agents come to take me away? It was nothing as common as that.
I walked beside Blake Harrison as we headed for the door. Outside of the facility was a massive carport and a Town Car waiting for us.
The agent at our side, who I now recognized as Walters from the fundraiser event, held the door. I stepped aside to let Harrison in first.
“You’re my guest,” he insisted. “Please.”
I got in the car first, more than a little uneasy. No one was this nice. Were they?
Harrison did not get in the car, though. He held the door and closed it almost to the point that the latch engaged, but not quite. Closed enough that I couldn’t hear what he said to Agent Walters.
I heard the low murmur of Harrison’s voice, a soft lilting tone, but none of the words. Walters paused before responding, weighing his own reaction. When he did speak, his words came in tight groups, measured and careful, but without easy compliance. Harrison jabbed a finger at Walter’s chest and caught a rapid fire sentence still too low to hear.
“Yes, sir,” Walters said and he dropped something into Harrison’s hand.
The Senator got into the backseat beside me. Agent Walters closed his door and took his own position in the front seat, eyes out the passenger window.
“Jeff, let’s go to that restaurant we visited last week. The one with the ribs that I liked. Ask him to make up the back room for us,” Harrison said, his demeanor was sunshine and daisies now, without a trace of the steel he’d had when he dealt with Walters.
“Do you like ribs, James?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, very much.”
“I appreciate the ‘sir’, James,” he said. “Indicates good upbringing, but it’s not necessary. Please, call me Blake.”
I looked up at him and there was genuineness to him. This was not a ploy. Not a tactic. He asked me to address him by his first name. As if I were his friend.
“I…can’t,” I said.
Blake shook his head with a sad smile.
“For better or worse,” he said. “Our paths were meant to cross.”
“Like fate?”
“Like the hand of God,” Blake Harrison said.
“I think I’ve gotten the backhand of God,” I muttered, looking out the window.
“James, this will not work until you’re willing to talk, and I don’t think you’ll be willing to talk, to really talk until you feel whole again.”
He held out my knife to me.
“Don’t do that,” I said.
He gestured, urging me to take it.
“Why would you do that?”
“Let’s discuss it inside, but in the meantime, take it on faith,” he said.
I lowered my eyes, not wanting to meet his. I stared at my knife, the worn stainless steel handles, the battered, flawless beauty of the design. I did feel like a part of me was missing without it. A part of my father, that made me his son.
“Thank you,” I whispered and took the knife from his hand. It disappeared into my pocket.
We stared out our windows for the rest of the ride, letting the silence take its place between us. I was not from his world, nor was he from mine, but there we sat. Two men brought together. I had no explanation. No witty retort. No smart ass comeback. So I sat and absorbed the silence and let the car take me where it wanted. Whatever came, life or death, I took at face value. No lines to read between. The city lights washed over me, and I watched the faces of the people on the street.
I could not help but covet their trials, their troubles. The boss who wanted his report by the end of the day. Missed the taxi and needed to hail another one. The girlfriend who hasn’t called. The cat at home in need of kibble and chance that there may be mice in the apartment. I wished my life was that. Any of that. All of that. But it wasn’t. And the beat goes on. Let it ride.
The Town Car pulled to the curb in front of an understated brick building. I saw the parking lot and the line out front, but we didn’t stop there. The sign above the door said “Inferno” in simple block print, white on black. We drove around the corner and stopped at the rear of the building.
Agent Walters was out of the car before we stopped rolling and opened the back door after a quick survey of the area. Blake stepped out, and I followed behind. Blake did not bother to wait and jerked open the back door to Inferno. We entered through a dimly lit hallway and up a half flight of steps. The building had been a warehouse or industrial space before being converted to a restaurant, and it showed. The floors were uneven, and exposed brick was everywhere.
Blake knew the way better than he let on and quickly led me to the kitchen. It was a massive stainless playground for the culinary elite. Instead of the white coats and toques I expected to find, the kitchen staff was a motley band of pirates, each dressed in their own particular brand of uniform. Chef’s coats were crimson and navy and denim. Most of the staff wore headbands from handkerchiefs. Their ethnicity was as diverse as their apparel, Dominican and African-American and Asian. They barked orders and times to each other like a tactical assault team.
Fire flared to my right and I spun, fearing the worse, only to see a chef flipping his skillet, cooking off alcohol in the pan. He glared at me with a dismissive sneer. Behind him, another chef had hair in braids that cascaded over his shoulders while he sliced meat on a platter. He forearm was seared with burn marks both old and new. He saw me watching and winked. I looked away.
“Jack!” Blake boomed.
I turned and saw a tall, thin man step into Blake and hug him fiercely, slapping him on the back. His hair was a maddening tornado of blackness, without style or care. His face was a couple days past a five o’clock shadow, but somehow I knew it was never going to make it to a full beard. His fingers were scarred from time in the kitchen like some kind of malicious tribal tattooing. The real ink began above that and I could see the beginning of what appeared to be some adapted Jolly Roger featuring knife and fork instead of crossbones on his forearm.
Blake turned to me and held out his hands, ever the showman, to present his newly arrived friend.
“Mr. Marlowe, I present to you, Mr. Jack Dante,” Blake said.
I stuck out my hand and he crushed it in his bony clutch.
“Dante… Dante’s Inferno?” I asked, putting it together.
“See?” Dante said to Blake. “I told you that someone would get it.”
They la
ughed together as if I had just helped them settle a bet.
“Here for dinner, Blake?” Dante asked.
Blake leaned close and Dante inclined his head to listen.
“Chef’s table it is!” Dante said. “Follow me.”
Dante led us through the choreographed chaos of his kitchen. I had never worked in a kitchen in my life, but I felt closer to these people somehow. The ability to ply a trade, a skill, to do what you loved to put a part of yourself out there. I understood that. I got it.
We stopped in front of a booth in the corner of the kitchen. I had never seen such a thing. It was as if the kitchen were some monstrous beast and swallowed the nearest seating assignment while I dined in its belly.
Blake took a seat as if this was the most normal thing in the world. I sat across from him and watched Walters take a position nearby, hand to his ear.
“So,” I said. “Tell me why.”
Blake knew this was coming and seemed to have an answer ready.
“Do you know the story of the Good Samaritan,” he asked.
I did. I’d read it before and told him as much.
“Yes, the man is beaten by bandits and left for dead and no one wants to help him,” I said. “Except this person who wasn’t from his country. That guy takes pity on him and helps him.”
“That’s right,” Blake confirmed.
Appetizers arrived, and we savored French Onion soup.
“What you may not know,” Blake went on, “is that the Samaritans and the Jews…well, they hated each other. It was a dispute over the interpretation of the law and the building of the temple…”
Blake gestured, indicating a big blow up.
“The point is this,” he said. “You need help. Regardless of whether we are friends, enemies or the best of strangers. You need help.”
“So, I’m your charity case?” I asked, taking a spoonful of soup.
“If you were only charity to me, I would have cameras here while I bailed you out and gave you a meal,” Blake said. “Do you see cameras?”
I shook my head.
“Then why?”
“Because no son should miss their father’s funeral because they’re in jail,” he said.
I let that rattle around for a bit.
“Thank you,” I said, finally.
“I can help you with making arrangements,” Blake said. “Don’t worry about money. These things will be sorted out in time.”
“Has there been any word from…” I didn’t know how to say what I was thinking. “Any word from family?”
Blake shook his head. We let our dishes be taken away and then almost immediately be replaced with a rack of ribs and brisket sandwich. We spared no time in getting back to our meal.
“No, I’m afraid not,” he said. “If you have no objection, we could have a wake for your father the day after tomorrow.”
He said this looking up from under his eyebrows, then averting his gaze when I looked at him.
“That would be very nice,” I said. Blake smiled at me.
Somehow, he had gotten to me, and I let him in a little bit. In the sea of madness, he was a safe harbor. It wasn’t that I had not thought about the need for a funeral so much as it was the unwillingness to deal with it in the moment.
“Do you have someplace to stay?” Blake asked.
It was a softball question; one which he already had an answer for, so I responded honestly, without pride or posturing.
“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t know a soul in this city.”
“You do now.”
WE RODE TOGETHER IN THE TOWN CAR, the mood between us relaxed and easy. My belly was full, and my body ached a bit less. I was dying for a shower, a scrub brush, a garden hose, anything. The car pulled to a stop, and I leaned forward to see where we were.
It was in a suburb of the city, with small shops lining the streets and antiquated street lights illuminating the roadway. It looked so small town to me that I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Where are we?” I asked.
“At a friend’s,” Blake said simply.
We got out of the car together, and Blake led the way to the door. He knocked loudly three times then stepped back. The building was the size of a firehouse, I thought. Then after a moment’s consideration, I realized that it was an old firehouse. The door opened, and a powerfully built man stood there. His hands were stained the color of dirty motor oil, but that didn’t stop Blake from giving him a hearty handshake.
“Wallace, this is James Marlowe, the man I told you about,” Blake said.
Wallace stood up straight, but that only made him five and a half feet tall. He was a fireplug of a man who stretched his T-shirt to the full extent of its limits.
“Pleased to meet you,” Wallace said. His voice was a deep grumble that seemed to rattle around in his chest like a kettle drum.
“Likewise,” I said. I felt like I was already firmly in the backseat with Blake running the show, so I let him take the lead, rather than begging after answers.
“You want to show him?” Wallace said. He kept his eyes on me, but was talking to Blake.
“Can’t see why not,” Blake replied easily.
Wallace jerked his head to beckon me inside. I followed, more than a little curious.
We stepped in and Wallace threw the switch to the overhead light. The space was massive; easily four car lengths across and nearly that many deep. A full mechanic’s work bench lined the walls with enough tools to keep a team of technicians well-supplied. Fluorescent lights flooded the area with harsh white light illuminating the only thing in the space.
A tarp was draped over a shape in the middle of the room, and for a moment, I envisioned the trauma room where my father lay under a sheet. My breathing became short and ragged. My fingernails bit into the palms of my clenched hands.
“What is this?” I demanded. There was steel in my voice. My shoulders tense, and a fire smoldered in my gut. “What…is…this?”
“I’m sorry,” Blake apologized. “I thought…”
I stepped forward and grabbed the edge of the tarp. I lifted it slowly, afraid of what I would find underneath.
“You didn’t… you didn’t… you didn’t….” I repeated again and again. I peeled back the tarp and confirmed what I feared.
“I’m sorry, James,” Blake tried to explain. “I thought it would be what you wanted.”
I tore back the tarp in a swirl and revealed the shattered hulk of the Hemicuda beneath. The car that Christopher Beck had given me. Entrusted to me by his father. The car that had been crashed earlier trying to save my dad.
Tears streamed from my eyes, and I fell to my knees. I sobbed and could not catch my breath. I reached out to steady myself, and found the body of the car, creased and crumpled, paint peeling back from the damage. My stomach turned over, and I felt like I’d been stabbed.
“James…” Blake said.
He was at my side, trying to help me to my feet. He reached under my arm and tried to help me up. I jerked away from him, scrambling to my feet, pushing myself back.
“Get away from me!” I screamed at him. “What is this? What IS this??”
“James, I…”
“You, what?” I shot back. “You thought you’d deliver some memento of how I failed? Is that what you thought?”
Blake pulled away, backpedaling, I stalked after him.
“I was given that car because I fucked up,” I said. “I was given that car to help me to make things right with my father. And I failed. I’m a screw-up, Blake. Don’t you get it, man? Please stop trying to help me. Please! Nothing good is going to come from this. Can’t you fucking see that?”
“James, I’m sorry, we’ll take it away,” Blake said. “I thought you would want it. I thought it would help you. Help you take your mind off of…of everything. But if you don’t want it here, I understand that. We’ll take it away in the morning.”
I was pacing, hearing him, but not listening.
&n
bsp; “James,” Wallace spoke now and I turned on him, ready for a fight if that’s what he wanted. “There’s a room upstairs if you want. A bed. A shower. It’s all taken care of. But if you want to leave, then leave. Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. Mr. Harrison is trying to help you here. More than I would have done for an asshole who attacked me in the john.”
There it was.
“I’m a fool,” I said.
“You’re not.”
“I am. I’m sorry, Blake. It’s been a long day.”
“That it has,” Wallace said.
“Everything had been taken care of,” Blake said. “The tools, the parts, the room, whatever you need. I’m glad to help.”
I stepped closer to him and extended my hand. He shook it. And then I hugged him. I never hug people. Not a hugger. Never seemed right. But what Blake Harrison did in that garage separated him from the rest of humanity for me. I saw something in him that I had never seen before.
“I’ll make the arrangements for the wake,” he said. “Is there anything else you require?”
I had no right to ask for anything more and I don’t think that even Blake would have imagined that I would ask for what I did.
“Blake, I need to ask you for something.”
“What is it?”
“When I was in the crash with Chris Beck… there was a semi-truck involved. I need to know who was driving the rig.”
TO SAY THAT I SLEPT DEEPLY IS TO INSULT DEEP SLEEP. I was in a near coma. I was unconscious for twelve hours, without moving and, mercifully, without dreaming. When I finally did rouse, it was like swimming through a sea of cotton. Colors and sounds were muted. My ears felt a pressure from the intense quiet of the place. Sunlight streamed in around a pulled shade and the light was a soft golden color. And the smell…was that…bacon?
I sat up and looked around. The room was a small studio, the furnishings simple and dated, but functional and clean. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes, so there was no need to get dressed. I used the rest room, washed up and followed the smell of breakfast meat down to the first floor.
