Harlan Coben

by The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

  “Did you take it as a sign,” Denny asked, “that you shouldn’t have gotten married?”

  “No, but it put me off cobwebs like forever.”

  She went to serve others, leaving us to each other, to it.

  First he made a superficial inquiry about if things were working out for me on the West Coast, work- and women-wise; and then he made an equally superficial dig about my appearance—my hair had gotten long and hippy-straight and I was long in the beard, too—linking it rather adeptly with that initial inquiry, and how nice it must be that things were so laid back out there in California that I could just let myself go like this. I caught my reflection in the mirror behind; maybe he had a point: I kind of looked like I was living on a Brussels sprouts commune or something. And then it all got to being about him again.

  “Things are good here,” he said, “you’ll be happy to hear.”

  “I’m overjoyed. What did you want to talk about?”

  Denny jacked a smile onto his face and speared the Jim Beam-infused cherry at the bottom of his manhattan with a swizzle stick. When he got it to the glass rim, he grabbed it by the stem and dangled it in front of his mouth forever. It had to be big, and probably dirty. We hadn’t sat together for a good three years. We’d been friends of sorts until I did a favor for him to keep him out of jail. Subsequently, he got leery of our association. Denny could deal with the blood on his hands as long as he didn’t have a daily re minder of it. Shit, it wasn’t all that much blood. And it wasn’t even like someone had been killed. That being said, I certainly didn’t mourn the loss of our friendship. I’d mainlined enough Dr. Phil while unemployed to recognize the toxic people in my life, and when this bastard broke wind, the room smelled of almonds and burned Legos. He finally popped the cherry, chewed, and swallowed. I’d only be guessing if I told you it tasted like anything to him.

  He said, “I wonder where she keeps her ring now.”

  “Denny…”

  “There’s this guy…”

  And if Denny wants some bit of dirty business done, he gets me, Brian Rehill.

  “Christ, Den. Any time you begin a sentence, ‘There’s this guy.’ Christ on a hand truck.”

  “I have no right to ask. I owe you. I remember.”

  He owed me. He remembered. California must be doing wonders for my disposition, because even that didn’t get me worked up. And even though I suspected Denny had quietly put a few bad words in for me here and there, after I did him his little favor, putting the kibosh on jobs I should’ve gotten, including a couple of big sheetrocking contracts that would’ve put me into a whole other tax bracket, I didn’t care now. This pariah’s subsequent relocation westward turned out to be the best move I’d ever made. And L.A., much to the bemusement of my condescending New Yorker mentality, turned out to be paradise—professionally, romantically, and even, God help me, spiritually (I hadn’t done anything I was ashamed of in nearly two years). I was even thinking about buying my first house, although I still needed to somehow come up with a big chunk for a down payment. Somehow…

  I scanned the practically empty bar. No one at the other side was looking past their standard three-foot beer stare.

  “I need to pat you down. Don’t give me that look. I don’t hear from you for two years, and six minutes into my Seven and Seven, ‘There’s this guy.’ Again.”

  He clenched the bar rail, and I moved a hand around his body, quickly, efficiently. “Okay. Finish your fries and let’s go for a stroll.”

  We walked out on Greenwich and headed east to Sixth, passing a bunch of specialty shops, an accessories store with Tibetan fur hats in its window, a mystery-book store, and a novelty shop selling the kinds of cheap, ironic gifts no one ever really needs, bobble-headed Jesus and Dick Cheney dolls. Denny did most of the talking.

  There’s this guy, it turns out, who happens to be the soon-to-be ex-husband of Denny’s girlfriend-slash-administrative assistant. They separated over a year ago, but he won’t stop calling, following her, showing up at her job (Denny’s shop in Brooklyn), and threatening her if she doesn’t take him back. He broke into her apartment a month ago, smacked her around, and she had gotten a restraining order. And things were getting even crazier now that he’d received his walking papers. Threats against her, Denny, and even himself—the ole hat trick of marital rage.

  It was February in the city. I shivered as we walked.

  “I know. Scary shit, right?”

  “It’s freaking freezing, Denny.”

  “Jesus, gone two years and you’ve already lost your cold-bloodedness. Is that a word?”

  “Have somebody look it up for you.”

  We stopped on the next corner, in front of the Jefferson Market Garden, which had been the site of a women’s prison in the 1930s. It was seasonal, and there was a big padlock and chain on the wrought iron gates. Everything’s dead now, thank you, come again!

  The wind was in our face, so we turned back the way we came, passing a graffiti-blighted playground I had not noticed on the first pass because of a fleeting redhead. I pointed out my car rental, and we stood next to it.

  Denny said, “You know how these things go, Brian. If someone doesn’t…”

  “Intervene.”

  “You see it on the news all the time. The victim had a restraining order against her deranged husband. He kills her, himself … et cetera.”

  “I hate suicidal-homicidal guys the most. Make up your mind.”

  He didn’t so much as crack a smile. Despite present circumstances, though, that was more his nature than situational. Denny never had much of a sense of humor. Cheap bastards rarely do. They don’t give it up to charities, they cut corners on jobs at the customer’s expense, if you sit with them during dinner and have only a drink, they expect you to pay for half of their shell steak and garlic mashed potatoes, and they don’t yuck it up, cheap bastards, as if chuckles were something to be hoarded. Hell, ten seconds ago he wouldn’t even let go of a second et cetera.

  “This guy—he found Jesus last year too. But threatening your estranged wife, breaking into her place and smacking her around, this stuff Jesus doesn’t object to.”

  “He’s very understanding that way. That’s why no one else has won the title.”

  “He left messages for her at work, disguising his voice. Saying Valentine’s Day is coming up and he’s got a big surprise for her. He’s ruining our lives.”

  “Well, may I query, how does your wife feel about all this?”

  He bristled. “I don’t need you judging me. This girl—she fills me up. She makes my heart swell. It swells, just like a big red—”

  “Okay, okay. In an ideal world, what kind of restraint would you put on the guy?”

  “A talking-to won’t work. I’m sure of that. He’s proven that. He’s way past…”

  “So, we’re talking about a permanent restraint.”

  His eyes went away from mine.

  “Whatever you deem … most permanent.”

  He peered into my Avis midsize. He probably didn’t want to look in my eyes—looking into mine might be like looking into his own soul, or lack thereof. And I must admit I’m kind of stunned that this is Denny’s lump-sum estimate of me, that I am employable for such a grave task, capable of such a deed—past deeds notwithstanding. I’m slightly less stunned, however, by my agreeing to it—future deeds, specifically the one to the Santa Barbara ranch with the FOR SALE sign on its front lawn and fig tree in the backyard, coming to mind.

  He was done looking into the front seat and moved on to some back-seat gazing.

  “Are you gonna be guessing the contents of my trunk soon? Maybe win a kewpie doll or big comb?”

  “Sorry. You got Wet Ones on the back seat? My hands are sticky from the ketchup.”

  “It’s empty.”

  I was hoping he would beg off when I asked, “Look, I’m going in for another round. And to stare longingly at that nine-finger wonder. You want another?” I lit up a cigarette.


  “I ought to head home.”

  “This isn’t a favor, Denny. You and I are done with favors. Understand?”

  “You’re … like a subcontractor.”

  “Yeah, like I’m doing some facade restoration work for you. Or sheetrocking.”

  “What does a facade restoration cost these days?”

  I gave him my estimate. He flinched but agreed. Rather too easily. I figured that would come back to haunt me, having seen firsthand the way Denny treats his subcontractors.

  Details.

  “He lives in Long Island City, in his mother’s house, alone. She died last year and he moved in. There’s a key. In Sucrete’s purse. She won’t even know it’s gone.”

  “Just tell me his name and where he works and lives. And stay away from the girl—for now, and until things are done. I know she works for you, but don’t be messing around with her in public. Close your office door and nail her on your desk blotter if you have to.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Don’t get crude. I love her. She fills my heart big like a…”

  “Bite me. You want the thing done with savoir-faire, or do you want the thing done?”

  He looked away again.

  “I want the thing done.”

  We were quiet for a bit.

  “Your girlfriend’s name is Sucrete, huh?”

  “What of it?”

  “Nothing.”

  We shook on something. And he left. I unlocked the door to the car and removed the container of hand wipes. It didn’t feel like he had transferred any stickiness to me on the shake, ketchupy and/or ethical, but just in case, I took one out, sniffed at the fresh lemony scent, and sighed. Whatever I deemed.

  It’s a type of fig, Sucrete is.

  And his name was Joe.

  ***

  I drove to the Bronx to say hello to my mother and, unbeknown to her, get the .38 that was stashed up in her attic; over the years there had been a lot of attic-relegated unbeknown-to-her shit stored in that house. I honked to alert her that I was in her driveway, and while I waited for her to show her face, I called a guy I knew in Williamsburg who used to own a crappy white van with tinted windows. He didn’t really want to hear from me again and he still had the van. I honked again and my mother parted the curtains. She opened the window, looking smaller than ever, and threw me down the key.

  I kissed her on her sad, tired cheek, sat with her at the kitchen table, told her I wasn’t hungry, heard the latest on my junkie sister, went upstairs to the bathroom, pissed, snuck up the attic ladder for the gun, went back down to the kitchen, told her I still wasn’t hungry, let her make me a grilled cheese, kissed her on her other equally saddened/exhausted cheek, and was on my way.

  Joe lived in an industrial scab of a neighborhood in Long Island City, a flank of beaten-up warehouses mottled with exhausted sky-blue and lime-green two-family frame homes. It was sandwiched between a crap-drab housing project to the east and, to the west, a monstrously huge power plant with three candy-striped smokestacks that were constantly pluming a gray spool over the whole wound like a bad salve. This was all blocks from where developers were putting up 900K lofts and condos—and yet miles away. All the blocks were numbered out here, 46th Roads and 48th Avenues, as if the NYC planners took one look around and decided the streets weren’t worth naming. Once the warehouses were done for the day, the streets fell into a coma, and the residents were too busy drawing their curtains and dead-bolting out nightfall to be concerned about a crappy, nondescript white van with tinted windows that had been parked on this broken-beer-bottle corner on and off for a few days now.

  Joe’s house was adjacent to a small playground that was always locked by dusk. He would come and go, not greeting any of the few neighbors passing his way; and, for their part, said neighbors usually quickened their pace when they spotted Joe. Several had gone so far as to cross to the other side of the street to avoid any contact with him.

  An ancient minivan had collapsed into his driveway from four slashed tires, probably the result of Joe’s sparkling demeanor, an example of which was stenciled on the side of the vehicle in letters the size of plums: “Notice to Parents: Please do not teach the children that same sex couples is okay. It is Wrong, it is an Abomination before God and Man.” And then he’d added a quote from Leviticus, which went a little something like this: “If a man lie with another, their blood shall be upon them.”

  It was all very, very subtle, but I surmised Joe had some tolerance issues.

  Joe didn’t really need the vehicle. He never went anywhere but a few blocks in any direction. He made daily trips to the video rental, to the Chinese takeout or the pizza joint, and loads of trips to the liquor store around the corner. He hadn’t been to work since I’d been following him. For some people, a broken heart is a full-time job.

  The benefits suck, though, Joe. The benefits suck.

  It was early in the evening and he had been inside with a bottle for a couple of hours when he stuck his head out the side door that faced the empty park. He put his head against the doorjamb, drunk as a skunk, and looked out onto the playground, maybe for ghosts of someone else’s happiness, and a mostly drained bottle of Old Smuggler slipped from his hand and broke on the stoop. From the van, I looked at the other houses. No one came to their windows. They were probably inured to the sound of Joe’s broken bottles by now. He stepped back inside, leaving the entrance and screen door open, and then reappeared with a jacket. He slammed the wooden door shut but didn’t lock it. He stumbled down the steps on the side of the house, leaving the screen door ajar to the wiles of the Queens wind. He made his way to the sidewalk and up the street.

  He needed another bottle, which I ascertained, because as he passed by my van he bellowed to the rest of his inattentive world, “I’m getting another bottle!Judge me!”

  Inside the van, I raised my hand, volunteering for the duty. “Will do,” I said.

  I would have to move fast: if he made no other stops, he could be back in ten minutes. I waited until he turned the corner, waited a minute, and then I crawled up to the front seat. I picked up my satchel, peered up the block, and then down it with the rearview. I had planned on waiting until tomorrow night, but this was an opportune moment and I could see it all transpiring in my mind’s eye: I could get in now without a hassle, wait for him to come home, and before he even had a chance to swill his next swill, come up from behind and stab him right through the fucking heart. Wow, I thought; my la-la land girlfriend was right about this power of visualization crap she was always spouting. I reached for the door handle planning on banging her thankfully and violently when I got back.

  Suddenly headlights were coming at me. A red Camaro, a boy and a girl up front, pulled up across the street from me. He was yelling at her and she was just staring straight ahead, saying nothing. After a while he fell silent and gazed out alongside her. She tapped him on the shoulder, he turned his head, and she gave him the finger. He intensely returned to staring out the windshield, started the car up again, and pulled away. I waited. More headlights, this time from behind. A black Lincoln Navigator passed me by and pulled up in front of the house next to Joe’s. A man and woman got out, slamming their doors in synchronicity. The woman tried to open the back door.

  She yelled at someone inside, “Unlock the door!”

  The man stepped up to the car and yelled, “Stop messing around and open the door for your mother.”

  Nothing happened.

  The husband said, “I can’t get the groceries if she doesn’t unlock the door.”

  “I know that. Do you think I’m stupid?”

  Using telepathy, I messaged hubby: Don’t say, No, I don’t think you’re stupid.

  “No, I don’t think you’re stupid,” he said.

  “Just wouldn’t listen,” I said.

  Mom and Pop had convinced the kid to unlock the door, and by the time each of them had enthusiastically contributed to a round robin of verbal abuse and had finally gotten
the Corn Pops, Pop Tarts, and one-percent-fat milk out of the vehicle, Joe came stumbling back down the street with his black plastic bag. The men exchanged subzero glances, and Joe staggered to the side entrance of his house. He dug around in his pockets looking for his keys but did not find them.

  “It’s unlocked, Joe,” I sighed to the windshield.

  He stepped up the stoop, pushed aside the screen door, and put his fist right through a pane of glass on the other door. He stood there on his wobbly drunk legs, watching, as the door creaked open on its own.

  “You know, Joe,” I laughed, “I think my personal favorite quote from the Bible is, God retards those who retard themselves. You fucking retard.”

  The man with the groceries dropped his bag to the sidewalk and went to Joe’s yard and yelled, “What the hell you doing, man?”

  Joe yelled right back, “Jesus loves me anyway!” and pushed open his door and went in.

  I needed things to settle down a bit and I didn’t want to take the chance of just sitting there while Joe replenished his blood with liquor, so I drove off, figuring he was in for the rest of the night anyway, and the more stewed he got, the better. I went to a White Castle drive-in a few blocks away and got a bag of murder burgers, pulled out of the drive-in lane, and parked in the lot.

  It didn’t really seem that wrong to me, I had to admit. I had always felt a tinge of guilt over the last guy, the one who was going to testify against Denny about bid-rigging. I was only supposed to persuade him to change his story, but at gunpoint the man had grabbed his chest and vapor-locked right in the front seat of his car. He might not have been a bad guy, I don’t know; we really hadn’t had the opportunity for getting acquainted. I remember the fear in his eyes. When the gun was against his left temple, he bit into his bottom lip so hard the skin broke and doused his chin with blood, his hands went clutching at his chest—