The Safety Expert

by Doug Richardson

  “See? That’s the disease talkin’. If you don’t make the amends, then living with that kinda guilt is what makes you slip up and use. And you’ll keep slippin’ again and again until you take care of your business. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  Stew leaned back in the booth and stared down at his untouched cup of black coffee and jelly-filled doughnut. He shook his head.

  “I swear, Tony. It was so long ago I wonder if it ever happened.”

  “But you know there’s an injured party? Somebody you hurt?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Know where to find this person?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Then lay it on his or her doorstep. Put it down, make your amends, and cross the next bridge. Power to forgive can be as healing to the injured soul as the soul that needs forgiving.”

  Big Tony stretched across the table and put that longshoreman’s grip on Stew’s forearm. “And I’ll be there. I’ll be there for ya no matter which way the shit flies. You know that?”

  “I know,” said Stew.

  “You gonna eat your doughnut?” asked Big Tony.

  “Naw,” said Stew, pushing his plate across the table. “All yours.”

  Though Josie “enjoyed” her job, she did get kind of lonesome. Twice a week she would walk to lunch with a couple of the technicians who worked in the laser hair removal office down the hall. Ben was pretty good company—when he was in the office. But even then he was usually on the phone or reading one of the many papers and journals to which he subscribed. There was one week last winter when Josie counted seventy-two hours without actually talking to another human being face-to-face. Her choice of work puzzled her family as young Josie had always been such a people person.

  Ben was just merging onto the I-5 when the new client knocked on his office door. He had arrived twenty minutes early giving Josie ample time to play the perfect hostess. Right off the bat Josie recognized something kind of sexy about him, though his shoes invoked a vivid and unwelcome image of her seventh-grade physical science teacher. It took a certain charisma in a man for a girl to forgive shoes like that. And Ben’s new client had it. Josie popped a plastic “Donut Shop” pod into the coffee maker and in minutes the two were sharing stories like old friends.

  Unsafe, thought Ben, in an endless mental loop.

  The world was unsafe with Stew Raymo living in it.

  In the thirty-six hours since he had made his conclusion, his own words repeated like a mantra. But was it a call to battle? Or a warning, demanding that Ben construct a stronger defense? After all, the caveat that Ben would always lay on each and every client was simple: danger was inherent to the universe. Accidents will surely happen. Surviving was simply a matter of implementing a structured set of proactive and passive safeguards, wisely chosen to fit each and every hazardous circumstance.

  In a shift from his routine, Ben poked his car inside the office building’s small, underground garage. It was early enough Monday morning that luck was on his side as he slipped into one of the three spaces that could not be blocked by another vehicle. Otherwise, Ben would have backed the Volvo out onto the street and attempted to score a two-hour parking meter.

  Ben keyed the garage door that led to a cramped stairwell. As he climbed, his thoughts reflexively turned over the dirt clouding his most passive, defensive option. He could simply change his address, pull up stakes and settle in another state. Then, chances of a dangerous encounter with Stew Raymo would plummet to nearly absolute nil. The notion was ridiculous and nauseatingly weak. Alex would sooner divorce him than uproot her girls. And as much as changing area codes would make life safer for Ben, the world he would leave behind would still have to deal with Stew Raymo.

  That option felt, at best, irresponsible.

  Another defensive maneuver was for Ben to buy a gun. But for that to work Ben would have to carry it illegally, keeping it within arm’s reach at all times. Then he would need time to hone the skills to use it effectively in case the deadly encounter ever happened. Cops were supposed to possess such finesse after months of training. Their abilities, though, were more myth than reality. Ben had cruised through pages of FBI reports on the true marksmanship talent of average police officers. Sure, they could accurately punch holes in paper. Yet when the moment of truth came, the adrenal glands took over, injecting an overdose of survival juice into their bloodstreams—lethal to anybody unlucky enough to step in front of a bullet. It turned out most street cops were not much better shots than your garden variety gangbanger on a drive-by, expending entire magazines of ammunition in the general direction of his intended target before the synapses in his frontal lobes caught up to his fuel-injected trigger fingers.

  Ben rejected the idea of buying a gun for defensive purposes, but couldn’t quite shake the exquisite thought of actually holding some kind of steely equalizer. Something he had never ever done. At least not a real gun. He imagined how heavy it would feel. And masculine. The thought also satisfied the bloodlust that welled inside him. A gun was at its core, a proactive instrument of death. And there was nothing more dynamic in Ben’s new survival guide than the notion of walking up behind Stew Raymo, placing the muzzle of a loud and blustery cannon up against his skull, and splattering his brains into the atmosphere. In Ben’s mind it was, of course, all make-believe and chock-full of special effects. A fantasy ending that lived only in a Hollywood universe. In the real world, Ben knew splashy revenge killings were punished with a ferocity greater than that of the original act. The news headlines usually demanded as much.

  Ah... but revenge.

  The word made Ben’s heart instantly thump with an unexpected, but primal excitement. So much so, that before tilting left through his office door, he felt the need to stall a moment in order to gather himself, his thoughts, his composure. After all he was the Safety Expert. And in five minutes he had his first consultation with the regional health and safety organizer for the Transportation Workers Association, which represented over three thousand airline baggage handlers. Good impressions had to be made. Any lingering thoughts of red-blooded vengeance had to be stuffed and tucked away for a later date.

  To avoid the electrostatic shock which came upon touching the door’s handle after walking along the poly-blend carpeted corridor, Ben shouldered the door open.

  “He’s already here,” said Josie, dispensing with a greeting. “In your office.”

  “My meeting? He’s early,” whispered Ben.

  “Said traffic wasn’t that bad coming up from...”

  “El Segundo,” finished Ben. “T.W.A. offices are next to LAX.”

  “’Least you didn’t have to go down there to meet him.”

  “Offer him anything? Coffee or a Coke?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Sorry,” said Ben, then leaning in so he could whisper. “What’s his first name again?”

  “Keith.”

  “Keith,” repeated Ben with a nod. He ditched his coat and briefcase on the couch and reached for the door to his office.

  Snap!

  The electrostatic build-up stored in the soles of his shoes discharged the instant his skin made contact with the knob. Ben released a slightly audible, “Ouch,” re-gripped the handle, then pushed through.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he began, fully expecting the new client who had been waiting in his office to politely reply with something along the lines of, “No, I’m sorry for being early.”

  But there would be no comeback.

  When Ben pushed the door it hinged open. He crossed the threshold and glanced left, discovering the sofa and chair opposite his desk were unoccupied. Instinct demanded he look right.

  Time suddenly switched into super-slow-motion.

  It was as if Ben’s life was a movie and by tripling the rate of frames-per-second, everything looked as if it was swimming underwater.

  Standing perfectly erect, arms at his side, and facing that wall of framed family photos was none other than Stew
Raymo. His six-foot-four frame filled a navy suit jacket that had been tailored eight years and thirty pounds ago. His feet were fit snugly into a pair of brown, lightly scuffed, size-fourteen Rockports.

  Ben’s legs instantly felt weak and screamed for oxygen, his quadriceps failing like a runner’s at the finish of a marathon. Then as Stew turned a shoulder and swiveled his head in order to meet his host eye-to-eye, Ben knew what it meant to be a deer caught crossing a lonely two-lane at midnight. The car’s headlights, sweeping around a bend. The glare. The on-rushing vehicle. And the legs, glued to the pavement, unable to do anything but twitch in fear.

  “Please shut the door,” said Stew, whose barreled chest rose and fell with a heavy breath. A sure sign of nerves. Not that Ben caught the cue. Ben’s impulse was to retreat backward, nearly stumbling.

  Stew took a quick step forward and gently swung the door closed. Next, he showed his hand, outstretched and open.

  “You seem to know me, friend,” said Stew. “But forgive me if I don’t know you.”

  That’s when Stew’s head cocked a tick to the right, followed by a sudden look of recognition.

  “Wait a sec,” said Stew. “I do know you. You’re the guy with the bicycle helmets. That’s who you are. That was you on my site!”

  Ben answered with a completely involuntary cough, expelling the saliva that was stuck at the top of his larynx. Between fading spasms, Ben hacked out a response.

  “What do you want?”

  “Stew Raymo.”

  Once again, Stew held out his hand in a strangely conciliatory gesture. Ben just looked at the open palm like Superman staring at a lump of kryptonite.

  “Okay, then,” said Stew, withdrawing his hand. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Get to what?”

  Again, Stew’s chest rose and fell with a heavy sigh.

  “Can I sit?”

  Then without waiting for Ben’s answer, Stew sat himself in the chair nearest the floor-to-ceiling, smoked-glass window. “Might be a good idea if you sat, too.”

  Ben nodded, then turned around his desk until his butt found his chair. He looked ahead and saw his hands laying flat on the empty desktop. Near his left hand was the telephone. Ben tried to calculate how long it would take to dial 911. Or hit the intercom button and shout for help. Only his subconscious told him Stew would wrap the telephone cord around his neck before he could utter a syllable.

  Near Ben’s right hand was a coffee mug, hand-painted and kiln-glazed, with lemon-yellow suns and Happy Fathers Day scrawled in Nina’s handwriting when she was five. Stuffed in the mug were an assortment of pens, mechanical pencils, and a sharp letter opener. If attacked, Ben could grab the letter opener and pray he found one of Stew’s arteries before one of Stew’s fists crushed his skull.

  “I’ll start with what we know, okay?” began Stew. “You’ve been lookin’ for me. You been lookin’ for me because you think I did somethin’ to you. Is that about right?”

  “You did somethin’ to me,” Ben acknowledged.

  “Somethin’ about your family?”

  Ben nodded. He felt his face flush with heat.

  “That family? In all the pictures on the wall?” Stew’s thumb pointed back over his left shoulder.

  “They’re not part of this,” said Ben, finding some grit in his voice.

  “Oh,” said Stew with a nod, working over the clues in his head.

  “Why’d you come here?” asked Ben.

  “Cuz you been lookin’ for me,” snapped Stew. “Well, here I am.”

  What followed was a brief, verbal stalemate. Then the slightest look of regret came over Stew’s face. And in those ten seconds—when Ben was between panic and reaching for the letter opener—when he fantasized about crawling up over the desk and plunging the instrument into Stew’s jugular—Ben unconsciously read the body language of the man opposite him. Stew appeared to withdraw ever so slightly into the back of his chair.

  “That didn’t come out right,” said Stew. “And that’s not what I came here to...”

  Stew shifted uncomfortably. He let his fingers slip under the sleeve of his coat to briefly scratch an itch.

  “I used to drink,” restarted Stew. “Had a pretty bad problem for a lotta years. Liquor and pills, mostly... What I’m saying is that I’m an alcoholic. Recovering. Over ten years now, proud to say. Which... well... ain’t too bad considering the failure rate. Ain’t easy, either. Hell, you probably know that from your girlie out there...”

  Ben filled in the pause.

  “Josie?” asked Ben.

  “I was behind her when she opened the door. Saw the one-year chip on her keychain. So you can understand how we—she and myself—got to talkin’...”

  “You’re saying my Josie’s in AA?”

  Stew clocked Ben’s look of surprise. This time, Stew’s regret took form in the shake of his head.

  “My mistake. I owe her an apology. Program’s supposed to be anonymous. Thus the name. Hey...”

  Stew digressed a beat.

  “Might be a good idea to send her out for something,” suggested Stew. “Figure neither of us want this to be any more uncomfortable than it has to be.”

  Ben was still on his mental heels. He couldn’t possibly decipher whether Stew was making a true suggestion, or a demand.

  “And if I’m more comfortable with her here?” asked Ben.

  “Suppose that makes some sense,” said Stew. “But unless you plan to dial nine-one-one or come at me with that letter opener, ain’t nothin’ gonna happen in here but talk.”

  Without thinking, Ben removed his hands from the desktop, instantly noticing the prints left by his sweaty palms. He wiped his hands on his pants, then pressed the intercom button.

  “Josie?” said Ben.

  “Yes?”

  “I uh... I skipped breakfast today. Mind running over to Mickey D’s and getting me a McMuffin or something?”

  “Anything for our guest?”

  “No thanks. I’m good,” said Stew.

  “Nothing,” said Ben.

  “Gotcha, then,” said Josie. “Back in a bit.”

  Josie clicked off. Then both men waited until they heard the door from the reception area thunk shut.

  “Pretty girl,” said Stew. “And I won’t forget to say I’m sorry to her for the anonymity thing. Promise.”

  Ben rubbed his face, hoping he could wipe away the man seated across from him. Yet when he opened his eyes, Stew was still right there.

  “You wanted to talk,” prompted Ben.

  Stew straightened in his chair and began speaking in a cadence that seemed half-rehearsed and half-baked.

  “Like I said. I’m an alcoholic. And part of recognizing the disease is when you discover—or figure out—that you’ve injured somebody as a result of the disease... My case, the drinkin’ and pills and all the shit that drags along behind it. Anyway, as alcoholics we make amends. And that’s why I’m here. To make my amends to you, sir, for whatever I’ve done.”

  “You’re here... to apologize?” Ben made no effort to disguise the incredulity in his voice.

  “I am,” said Stew. “But lemme go on, okay? See, when I used to drink, I did a lot of bad things. Evil things. Shit I did time for. But... and I say this with all honesty, man. Half the stuff I did I don’t remember. Like, ’cept for the day you showed up on my site, I don’t remember you.”

  “It’s not me you should remember.”

  “I know. Was you who had the lady cop come pay me a visit, right? I’m right about the lady cop?”

  For Ben, fear was in sudden retreat. He found he had the reserve to stare holes in Stew with no problem. All the while not answering the question.

  “The lady cop?”

  “I have friends who are police officers,” said Ben.

  “Me too,” said Stew. “Lotsa cops in The Program. Lotsa cops.”

  “You were paid a visit...” cued Ben, desperately wanting to get back to the point. The issue. The murder.


  “Right. Big tall lady cop. Mexican gal. Forgive me, but I was kinda doped up after this surgery thing I had done on my ACL. Drugs, by the way, was the doctor’s deal. Swear to Christ, I wouldn’t let him prescribe me shit. I ate Advil for a month and believe me, the Advil ate my stomach to shreds.”

  “My family was murdered,” said Ben in a tone much flatter than he had anticipated. He considered standing and screaming the fact. Only Stew continued.

  “That’s what she said. She was investigating some old thing down in Culver City. And here’s the part where, after the surgery and I flushed all that Demerol from my system, I got to thinking and trying to remember. And I don’t remember doin’ no job down that way. Not a thing. I don’t remember nothin’.”

  “So because you don’t remember,” said Ben, volume slightly elevated. “That means it didn’t happen?”

  “No, sir. Not at all,” said Stew. “Why I’m here, you see? Somethin’ or somebody led you to me. Maybe I did the thing, maybe I didn’t. Do you know for sure? I mean, I don’t know. I truly don’t know. But if I don’t remember, that doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. So here I am takin’ care of my side of the street. I’m here to offer my hand and say I’m sorry. I apologize for your loss and whatever hand or part I had in it. Sincerely.”

  There it was. Stew Raymo had apologized. Then he stood and leaned across the table, once again offering his open palm for Ben to take, grip, and shake on the promise to forgive and forget.

  “I can’t...” said Ben. “You can understand that—”

  “I understand just fine. That’s your side of the street and you gotta do what you gotta do. That, and I had all weekend to work on what I was gonna say and how I was gonna say it. Take your time. Accept my amends or don’t.”

  Stew stepped around the chair. It appeared that he was considering a quick exit. Instead, he turned to the wall of family photos.

  “This must be your new family,” figured Stew. “You got remarried?”

  “I said they’re not part of this,” Ben repeated.

  “I’m married myself,” said Stew. “Five years ago. Number one, for me. Aside from stepping into my first AA meeting, best thing I ever did.”