The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  I’d never been to a crime scene before, never mind discovered one. First Joe and now this? I couldn’t wait to see what delights post-noon would bring.

  It was the police who arrived next; detectives of the Chicago Metropolitan kind assigned to discover how a business on the thirty-first floor of a security-laden building could’ve been ransacked.

  I distracted myself by watching the detectives scour the trashed workspace for DNA traces. As the scene was dusted with fingerprint powder, I heard only glove marks were found on the overturned tables. Forensic cop shows had been Will’s guilty pleasure, but was there anything worse than procedural cop shows? Hell, maybe.

  Cherry Aherne, my colleague from the Fashionista campaign, had found me among the commotion. She too was visibly shaken by the state of our pristine offices, not that the devastation stopped her searching for an upside.

  ‘Will you be on NBC Chicago?’ Cherry asked, like she couldn’t get the words out quick enough. ‘They always interview the eyewitnesses. You’ll be asked for sure.’

  ‘You make it sound like I saw them do it.’ The police couldn’t think I was in on it, negotiating my cut for the thieves’ passage into the building. Could they?

  ‘Sure, Officer, she’s over here. She’s the blond one in that tartan dress thing.’

  The distinct murmur of Quentin Renaud approached. Perfect. In his mauve Tuesday sweater vest Quentin strode the office floor, flanked by two towering police detectives. The pride and pomposity seeped out of him like rancid oil, his twitching mouth unable to decide which expression to try for next. Stopping short of Cherry and I, he looked up and grinned manically at the officers.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am? I’m Detective Thomasz and this is Detective Reeve from South Area, District 31,’ the officer said as a strong hand indicated his suited partner. ‘We have some questions for you, if that’s all right?’

  ‘Questions?’ Oh, god.

  He shot me a megawatt smile. ‘Don’t look so alarmed, Miss . . .’

  ‘It’s Mrs, actually. Petrozzi.’ I couldn’t be sure, but a flicker of surprise looked like it crossed his lips.

  ‘You were first here this morning, right? You found the place like this?’

  His suit was sharp, Ted Baker or something suitably stylish, paired with a deep scarlet tie. The hair was a dirty blond, almost my shade if I didn’t make my monthly salon pilgrimage. Appearing a little rough around the edges, it more than suited him, the first hint of stubble grazing his chin like he’d woken late and forgotten to shave. He was . . . handsome, a guy who wouldn’t look out of place advertising Men’s Health while walking his Labrador in the park.

  ‘It’s you,’ I said, like I’d disregarded the last twenty-six years of learned normal behaviour.

  Shooting me a smile, he instructed his colleague to go and statement Cherry and for Quentin to go and make himself useful. So, Mr Blond now had a name, and a rank.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered. ‘I just meant you’re the guy from the park. Granter Park? I saw you, with your dog.’

  ‘Granter?’ Blondie paused, stroking his stubble. ‘Oh yeah. You’re Lobster Girl.’

  Whether he was trying for humour or straight humiliation I was already formulating my escape plan, though before I could make a run for it, the detective retrieved a notebook from his inside jacket pocket.

  He jabbed his pen back at Quentin before glancing down at his pad. ‘Mr Renaud over there informed me you were first here this morning.’

  His speech was quick like Nina’s. There was energy to it, and a hint of an accent. New York? Brooklyn?

  ‘Yeah, he asked me to come in early,’ I replied, highly unconvincingly, even though I was telling the truth.

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘We’re behind on one of the accounts,’ I stuttered. If he wasn’t suspicious before, he had to be now. I could barely get my words out.

  ‘Anything different about today?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Like, anything out of the ordinary. Anything out of place.’

  His eyes fell on me again, intense in an unsettling, intriguing way.

  I folded my arms, pursing my lips, unsure whether to tell him. ‘I guess something weird happened in the lobby.’

  ‘Weird? Weird how?’

  ‘It felt like someone was watching me. You know, like people were watching me.’

  Perfectly normal in my head, out of my mouth the words made me sound like a crazy person. As Detective Thomasz eagerly scribbled my ramblings, I was still devising an excuse to get me the hell out of there. I need to collect my dry cleaning? My masseuse called and I’m long overdue my shiatsu? I have to confront my husband about being a secret alcoholic?

  ‘You think they were in the building when you arrived? The perps, I mean,’ the detective asked, I’m sure noticing my inability to focus on anything in the here and now.

  ‘I’m not sure; maybe it only felt like people were watching me.’ I tried to peer over the top of the notepad, but he noticed and angled it towards himself. ‘Do you really have to write all this down?’

  ‘What about disgruntled clients? Can you think of anyone that’d want to target Faith?’ he enquired, ignoring me.

  As he juggled his pen between his forefingers, like a tell, I shook my head. I hadn’t been at Faith long enough to learn everyone’s name, never mind uncover any unscrupulous dealings.

  ‘Look, I have to get back to the station, but you think of anything else Mrs Petrozzi and you give me a call, however unimportant it might be. Deal?’

  Our fingertips connected as I took his card from him, a shot of lighting dancing up my arm.

  Evan Thomasz

  Detective, Second Grade

  Bureau of Detectives

  South Area, 31st District

  As I looked down at the card, Evan re-joined his partner.

  Cherry then approached from the coffee machine, her auburn curls swinging like she was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. ‘Do you know him?’ she asked, playfully slapping me on the arm.

  I gently ran my fingers over the edges of the card. ‘I’ve seen him around.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Mr Gorgeous Detective is turning your head . . .’

  He’s Mr Blond, Cherry.

  ‘. . . and he is gorgeous in case you hadn’t noticed. There was definite chemistry, but then how couldn’t there be? He’s gorgeous, you’re gorgeous . . . it’s like a whole bunch of gorgeousness. Just let me know if you don’t want him.’

  ‘Cherry?’ I grabbed her by the shoulders and moved her aside. ‘You need help.’

  A smear of engine grease ran the length of Joe’s T-shirt as he emerged in the darkened apartment later that afternoon, slouched against the doorframe. He enjoyed slouching and leaning and anything else involving minimal effort. It made his toned torso even more astonishing, avoidance of physical exertion almost a game to him.

  His unscheduled appearance struck me with the memories head on: echoes of the dark, the kitchen, and the vodka. Last night I’d fetched the beer and we’d had a quiet night in, like he’d suggested. We’d laughed at some lame comedian on The Late Late Show and even tentatively discussed the show houses at Summer Pier. Now, after this morning’s revelations, it was like looking into a different face.

  I scrutinised his amble across the lounge to the window. He wasn’t staggering. At least, he didn’t look drunk.

  ‘What’s going on? You sick or something? What’s with the bed sheets?’

  ‘There was a robbery at work. Everything’s trashed so they sent me home.’ I sounded weak. I didn’t like it. It was like I’d forgotten how to speak.

  ‘A robbery? Jesus. You’re not hurt, are you? I should take you to Sacred Heart and get you checked over.’

  ‘What for? Joe, stop fussing. Really, I’m fine.’

  He moved towards me at his standard leisurely pace, and after he flopped down beside me I completed a cursory alcohol sniff test. Result: negative.

  �
��Well, as long as you’re okay.’ It wasn’t long before he began pointing wildly at the TV. ‘Laurel and Hardy? I love this one. Way Out West is my favourite. Where’s the Stetson?’

  It was the most childlike I’d ever seen him: Joe Petrozzi, the closet slapstick fan. He began scrabbling down the side of the sofa for that stupid hat, though soon froze, meeting with my eyes.

  ‘Okay, what is it? Because this staring thing is freaking me out.’

  Doubting my new-found courage, I wrapped the sheets to my face so only my eyes peered out. ‘Are you an alcoholic?’ I murmured.

  He blew out his cheeks, the cigarette almost falling from his mouth. ‘What?’

  ‘I saw you this morning in the kitchen. Your hand was shaking and you were downing vodka.’

  ‘The kitchen? When? I skipped breakfast.’

  With a flurry of amateur dramatics, I ripped away the covers and clambered to my feet. ‘I know what I saw.’

  ‘And I know you didn’t see shit. You need your eyes tested, baby; that’s what I know.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about!’

  ‘Think I’m pretending all you want, but I wasn’t goddamn in there! Besides, I don’t know how I can down vodka when we don’t have any. You want me to show you? Come on, come see for yourself.’

  I didn’t have a choice. He grabbed my arm and pulled me into the kitchen before moving over to the cupboards and flinging open the doors. ‘You see any vodka here?’

  I was pushed in front of a fridge crammed with beer and little else while Joe stood brimming with triumph, his arms folded in stubborn satisfaction as I glared back in my fluffy pink pyjamas.

  ‘It’s not like you never drink,’ I chided.

  ‘And? I let off steam sometimes. Don’t deny me my only hobby.’

  ‘So take up stamp collecting! Alcoholism is not a hobby.’

  ‘Jesus, I’m not an alcoholic! Sometimes I drink, who gives a shit? It’s all I got apart from my buddy’s garage.’

  ‘And your buddy is?’

  ‘Buddy.’

  ‘What, you mean that’s his name?’

  ‘I told you about Buddy, right?’

  ‘No. You didn’t. You didn’t tell me about Buddy, or his garage. Then again, why would I know anything about your life? I’m only your wife.’

  ‘You met my friends at Bemo’s, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, and look how well that went.’

  ‘You starting this again? You want to go, baby? Come on, let’s go.’

  Then it came. His eyebrows furrowed, the mouth tightened, and a sneer grew in place of all those smiles. This was a Joe I hadn’t yet met. As my body stiffened, Joe’s face hardened and I had the sudden urge to flee as he stepped forward so his hot breath bit my cheeks.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he whispered through a sneer. ‘When I woke up it was you who went to the kitchen before I left for work. You dreamed it all.’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’

  ‘Look at me. You think I’d lie? I’m your Joe! You never had a dream so real you thought you were awake?’ Then the fist became a palm that tugged gently on my hair. The eyebrows raised and the teeth unclenched. ‘Baby, talk to me. Please?’

  I was showered with kisses as he pulled me in close, his angst now replaced by the most affectionate Joe to date.

  However certain I was, Joe appeared genuinely offended by my insinuation. For all his faults, the man standing before me, the man that loved me, didn’t look like one ruled by alcohol, obsessing over his next taste of poison. He wasn’t capable of drinking himself to death, never mind hiding it from me.

  ‘No one said this was going to be easy,’ he purred. ‘We’ll fight and I’ll get things wrong. It’s called getting to know each other, right? But as long as we keep talking, we never have to worry. You and me, that’s all that matters.’

  EIGHT

  It’d been three days of niceties and smiles, almost like Tuesday never happened. Two of my three workless mornings (due to a still trashed Faith) were spent watching Joe through the bedroom door slats as he poured coffee by the kitchen counter. Coffee. That was it. Nothing more.

  It would’ve helped if I knew nothing about it, if I didn’t know the signs, but my friend Olivia’s dad had worshipped the drink. At birthday parties, Christmases and family picnics he’d always looked ill, sallow and pale in the face. Over the years the features turned ashen, like the embers of a deadened fire. It was only after he passed away at forty-six I learned he was an alcoholic and I finally understood ‒ the pressure of being CEO at Fullbright Furniture Ltd had made him a shell of a father years before his death. Olivia had already done her mourning.

  Joe wasn’t that man. Not even close. If he was stressed about something, if he had some other secret he was hiding, he sure didn’t act like it.

  The only change was his long hours lengthening. He assured me it was to manage the rent, though no extra funds materialised, and it wasn’t like we needed money either. He was too stubborn. He refused to let me pay anything towards the apartment, saying it was a man thing and he had to provide for me. Countless times I begged to move somewhere at least half decent and I even left out the Summer Pier housing brochures (for the development we’d talked about; sorry, I’d talked about) but I was met by silence. At least he’d relented and we’d bought a wardrobe so I could stop living out of my suitcase.

  It seemed silly to do without. We could have the best of both worlds, though Joe was having none of it. His excuse? He’d miss the neighbours. With junkies across the hall and Stateville Prison being the last posting address of most of our building’s occupants, that felt like a stretch.

  At least tonight marked my first visit to Nina’s apartment. Now she was back from Wisconsin and with work gutted, I’d been summoned to mull over project ideas, though a chance to scrutinise her ‘gargantuan’ pad and meet the infamous Mickey wasn’t going to hurt.

  Left alone on a Friday night with a Shih Tzu for company and cold leftovers in the fridge, I was treating myself to dinner first before heading over to Nina’s. I’d been craving a return to Bemo’s on Harvelle Street since my visit with Nina almost three weeks ago. Well, there had been one other trip. After mentioning at Galvin’s how much I didn’t know about him, Joe arranged a meal to meet his friends ‒ a group of rowdy gym addicts more interested in drinking and gambling than conversation of any kind. I felt bad, and I was grateful Joe had made an effort, but I left post-appetiser.

  What was I going to talk to them about? How many I could bench press (that’d be zero) and the finer points of bluffing? At least I’d met George Bemo, the restaurant’s proprietor, though Joe hadn’t seemed eager for us to make friends, almost panicking as he practically ordered the old man back to the kitchen. But then, that was Joe. Add that to the incident with Detective Thomasz in the park, and I was realising jealousy wasn’t one of his finer points.

  Friday night back in London had meant dinner and cocktails with Olivia. There’d been nothing to trouble us save which vintage to choose with our carciofi in padella. Running shoe totals and newly acquired handbags drove conversation before we pitted Olivia’s dire dates against Will’s boring anecdotes.

  That’d been a life carefree but mundane. At least a little drama (robberies, drug-stealing cops and a possible alcoholic husband) now filled my days, even if I did go for dinner alone.

  Bemo’s was bursting at the seams as I peered through the streetlight-lit front of the yellowed brick building; every table and spare inch crammed with hungry diners. The restaurant’s recent addition to Chicago’s Top Ten Eateries had gone down a storm, it appeared.

  ‘My English Rose has returned,’ George Bemo called as I entered the steamy red-tiled foyer and he hobbled towards me. ‘Wow, I like the dress! You’re like a breath of summer breeze.’

  George was a stumpy man, immaculately clean-shaven in a pressed white shirt, with two bandy legs supporting a little round belly. He was already planting a kiss on each cheek before I c
ould remove my leather jacket.

  ‘We’ve missed you, where’ve you been hiding? And where’s Joe this evening? He shouldn’t be letting you out alone, this is Chicago.’ The elderly man glanced over my shoulder, I’m sure searching for my non-existent chaperone.

  Following him past the crowded tables and waves of voices and chatter, I mounted a wooden stool and rested my elbows on a counter so shiny I could touch up my lipstick in it. ‘Joe’s working again.’

  ‘That courier place is open this late? You tell Joe to take a break. He’s too much like his old man,’ George warned, scribbling my order. ‘He’ll work himself into an early grave.’

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. ‘You knew Joe’s father?’

  George expelled a sigh before gifting me a smile that warmed my insides. I liked George. He began hobbling to my side of the counter, though only as fast as his limp allowed; apparently the result of shrapnel from ‘the War’. Despite snow-white hair and a beach ball smuggled under his shirt, he wasn’t ancient enough to have fought Hitler on the battlefield, a story he’d proudly conveyed at our first meeting. It was interesting, which I guessed was the point, but pure baloney.

  ‘It was forty years ago when Joe’s father and I . . .’ was all he managed before a voice called him to the kitchen. ‘My darling, I’m needed. Paul will sort your sandwich.’ His fingers felt rough as they graced my arm; grafter’s hands, for sure.

  As he moved away and swung open the kitchen doors, I caught a waft of something delicious floating towards me. This was so much better than leftovers, not to mention Sybil whining for them.

  ‘Hey pal, give me a beef, dipped, hot?’ I heard the guy beside me shout at the waiter. Then he turned to me, as if to qualify himself. ‘The service in this place, huh, Mrs Petrozzi?’

  It was the last person I expected to see: Detective Thomasz from Faith, aka Mr Blond, with a bottle of Corona in his hand.