The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  ‘You tried the sandwiches yet? I think they call them heaven.’ He pointed to the antiquated menu boards above the counter before taking a gulp of beer.

  ‘Are you following me or something?’ I asked, semi-joking. First the park, then Faith and now Bemo’s? Chicago was smaller than I remembered.

  He laughed. ‘What? I was here first! Maybe you’re following me. Ever think of that?’

  He was out of his suit, remaining a smart-ass but without the badge like a, well, an off-duty detective. He wore fat, black-rimmed Clark Kent glasses, a cream sweater pushed up at the elbows and a Breitling Chronograph on his wrist. I’d bought the same watch for Will on his last birthday but he’d exchanged it for a Rolex; said it wasn’t his style.

  ‘I see you’re going for the dipped,’ I pointed out. It was always my dad’s favourite sandwich, not that he ever told my mother. In Chicago, sandwiches came in levels of heart attack-inducing potency; dipped taking the crown but for the ‘triple double’. But that was silly. Nobody ordered that.

  ‘Hey, don’t pretend you’re not a beef gravy aficionado. Besides, I’m all about the healthy . . . usually.’

  Watching him take another gulp of beer, I pondered the real reason Evan was spending Friday night discussing the finer points of Italian beef in a place like Bemo’s. At the ill-fated meet-and-greet, one of Joe’s more talkative friends, Peter Abbaticchio, informed me of the Bemo family’s longstanding notoriety with the Chicago Metropolitan Police, and specifically concerning George’s son. Evan had to be on a stake out. Maybe he was undercover, George and his smile not so innocent after all. There could be a whole gang of Wise Guys in the back room eating polenta and counting up the GDP of a small country in laundered bills. Or maybe Evan had read the rave reviews on Chicago’s Top Ten Eateries and thought he’d give the place a try.

  ‘I’m sure I gave you my card the other morning. I’m still waiting for that call.’ He gave me a subtle sideways glance, something blatantly well practiced. Oh my god. Was he hitting on me?

  ‘Call you about the break in? I don’t know anything. I mean, I’ve not heard any rumours floating around, Detective,’ I offered a little too eagerly. I had to be careful. I could still be number one suspect for all I knew.

  After my deli sandwich was plonked down in front of me, I took a cautious bite of pastrami on rye. Naturally, I’d ordered something where mustard could trail down my chin.

  ‘It’s Evan. Just Evan. Only my mom calls me detective,’ he joked. ‘And I meant call to arrange dinner, coffee . . . I’ll let you choose,’ he added, with a casual shrug.

  ‘Dinner?’ I repeated, with slight alarm.

  ‘But I thought . . . in the park you nodded at me and . . .’

  You thought wrong, buster. I extended my left hand. ‘Mrs isn’t my first name, you know.’

  Evan replied with a curt laugh. ‘And judging by that horrified look on your face, you’re faithful.’ He slid off the stool in one fluid movement, leaving a twenty on the counter. ‘I should go, it’s late.’

  I was a little taken aback by his directness. Maybe it was a Chicago thing, but then there was that twang of NY. Nina had hardly been tactful over Joe and his social status, but then she was from St. Louis.

  Barely giving me time to react, Evan was already a shadow, evanescing through the door like he had no use for it. Through the window I watched him hesitate, glance back, then do his best Jason Bourne.

  ‘Where’d he go? I have his sandwich. Dipped, hot?’ the waiter said, plate in hand.

  I shrugged, pointed to the twenty and checked my watch. The fast-disappearing Evan was right, it was later than I’d thought. Taking my phone from my bag and checking the message from Nina, I realised I’d misread the time. I was supposed to there at seven, not nine. Oh well, I was only two hours late.

  ‘Nina, I am so sorry.’

  I slouched in the hallway of her apartment building, ready for the reprimand with my cheeks burning crimson.

  ‘Where have you been? I made dinner and everything.’

  ‘Dinner? You didn’t say anything about…’

  Not letting me finish, Nina ushered me inside her spot lit cream hallway like I was being pulled from a raging blizzard. With our heels clattering over the polished boards, she directed me into the large adjoining living room, a lofty expanse of muted grey and shocking pink accented with bespoke and ornate furniture pieces dotted around for fun. It all exuded one thing: expense. The décor, the fittings and even the faint aroma of money tinged the air. My London apartment with Will had hardly been shabby, but as opposed to the housing bubble of the capital, you could buy a plethora more square footage in Chicago.

  Their place wasn’t a home, more an elaborate set for some moneyed property show. Here’s what you can dream of affording one day, folks. It was a token of all they’d achieved, and although the wages at Faith were decent, they weren’t that decent. How could Nina afford to live at such a five-star, magazine-worthy address? Of course, Mickey and his questionable side employment.

  ‘I was worried. I thought something had happened to you.’ Immaculately turned out in a vermilion wrap dress and towering heels, she shot me a frown as hands graced her non-existent hips. ‘Ah, forget it. Let me give you the guided tour.’

  I was led past an oak dining table (that could comfortably seat twelve) into the subway-tiled kitchen ‒ Hampton’s eatery meets utilitarian culinary chic. Every aspect of the Pinterest-worthy apartment was divine, though nothing beyond what I could comfortably afford, if only Joe would let me. Their lives could be ours, minus the dirty money (just stolen instead), but Joe was too pig-headed to see it.

  Nina trailed a long glossy fingernail over the marble worktop. ‘Look at the units we had fitted last week. Aren’t they just, so?’

  Much to Nina’s dismay, I soon spotted her Chinese takeaway boxes, discreetly tucked behind the microwave. ‘You cooked?’ I asked, after marching over and inspecting an empty white carton.

  ‘All right, I didn’t cook, but you’re still late so don’t think you’re off the hook or anything.’

  ‘I ran into someone.’ I wasn’t lying, technically, not wanting to admit my shoddy time-keeping while propping myself up by the breakfast bar as Nina fixed us both coffee.

  ‘Girl someone or guy someone?’

  ‘How was Wisconsin?’

  Nina narrowed her eyes at me. ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Okay. Guy someone.’ It was silly, but I felt guilty just saying it.

  ‘I thought you didn’t know anyone in the city, apart from me.’

  Oozing with casualness and glancing down at the counter, I replied with: ‘It was the detective who questioned me at Faith.’

  If Nina were ten years younger, she probably would’ve squealed. ‘Now we’re getting down to it. Cherry filled me in on the drama, though you’ll have to get in line. Cherry was . . . what’s the word, obsessed with him? And I bet Quentin was a grade-A fool. Tell me the cops arrested him for being majorly weird, or for crimes against fashion?’

  ‘Why am I getting in line?’

  ‘For the detective, dumb ass. And you ran into him in that?’ She pointed to my floral print skater dress before wolf-whistling. ‘He asked you to call him, didn’t he? The guy has to be blind not to.’

  ‘For the record, again, I’m married! We only talked for a couple of minutes and it wasn’t like we had dinner together tonight. We happened to sit by one another, that’s all. He even left before his food arrived.’

  ‘Sounds like dinner to me,’ Nina murmured. ‘Wait a minute, you ate already? You were supposed to be eating here. Anyway, what difference does it make if you’re married? It’s not like you know your husband.’

  If Nina hadn’t curled up her lips and pinched me in the side, I could’ve sworn she was serious. Even so, I curtly pointed to my hand. ‘Is this ring invisible?’

  Nina smirked. ‘Not with those carats.’

  ‘So what’s everyone’s fascination with this dete
ctive and me? And when would I ever call a random cop I met at a crime scene and invite him to dinner?’

  ‘Calm down, girl. I’m joking.’

  I wasn’t mad, but Nina had a habit of making me feel guilty, and never for anything in particular. I spun on my stool and turned to the windows. The lights burning in the empty buildings and stretching avenues of headlights made Chicago a model city – like the whole thing, the whole world, had been invented for my amusement.

  The view was serene, the city endlessly thrilling. It was the place dreams came true, where countless souls arrived to make their fortune. Though it was also the land of broken dreams, with precious little between having it all and losing everything.

  ‘Honey, have you seen my gun? I’m late for work. Again.’

  I heard Mickey before I saw him, before he emerged in the doorway in a state of undress with his shirt opportunely unbuttoned. I was expecting someone relatively good-looking (naturally, it was Nina’s other half) but Mickey was handsome in a square-jawed, scarred face kind of way. His eyes were small, almost beady, leaving the rest of his face out of kilter with itself. With the dark mass of hair spilling out of his shirt and a hint of a six-pack beneath, he wasn’t lacking in the confidence department. He did work out; he probably detested those squishy frosted treats most cops salivated over at Krispy Kreme. But Mickey was no ordinary cop.

  He reeked of aftershave, the Tom Ford kind, and there was something Batman-esque about him, his mid-length dark hair slicked back with copious amounts of oil. He looked like he could hold his own against, well, anyone. Never had the phrase ‘doesn’t give a shit’ applied to anyone more aptly.

  ‘I didn’t know we had company,’ Mickey murmured, retrieving a cigarette from behind his ear, Joe-style, before looking me up and down as if his fiancée wasn’t standing five feet away from him. ‘How’ve we never met before? You look like summer on a plate, honey.’

  ‘This is my fiancé, Mickey,’ Nina announced, while I struggled to know where to look. ‘My fiancé who’ll only smoke Lucky Strike cigarettes. Mad Men has a lot to answer for. He thinks he’s Don Draper, with longer hair. Go figure, right?’

  Ignoring his blatant flirting, Nina tottered forward to hang off his arm like he was a piece from her collection ‒ Prada peep-toes, glitzy ritzy kitchen and now the all-singing, all-dancing, watch-where-you-walk-or-you’ll-be-lined-in-chalk Mickey.

  He shot me a subtle wink. ‘However much I’d like to chat, I can’t. I’m already late for my shift and can’t find my damn gun.’ Mickey’s slow drawl was too lazy for the likes of words, like he had better things to do than string a sentence together.

  ‘It’s not going to be in there,’ Nina moaned as he investigated the cupboard under the sink. ‘Promise you’ll stop putting it in the cookie jar? I know you’re half asleep after a night shift but Suzanne brought over little Tyler again, and you know how he loves Oreos.’

  As she retrieved the weapon from the jar, I realised I’d never seen a real gun before, not up close and personal. It rested in Nina’s palm like she was holding a grenade, quivering delicately, the cool black metal heavy as she struggled it into Mickey’s holster. I wondered how many times he’d pulled that trigger, any trigger, and how many people lay dead due to Mickey’s lack of conscience – if Nina’s stories were true, of course.

  Mickey frowned. ‘Tyler? That snot-nosed little punk? Tyler could do with a bullet, little brat.’

  Nina turned to me with a mock look of horror. ‘Mickey! I apologise on behalf of my fiancé. He can be totally inappropriate sometimes.’

  That was the understatement of the year.

  ‘I’ll be home tomorrow night; I’m working a double shift. Be good. Both of you.’ Then Mickey grabbed his car keys, kissed Nina goodbye and headed out the door.

  ‘He seems nice – apart from the shooting little kids part,’ I offered, after he’d gone.

  Nina just laughed, arching her back and throwing her head to the ceiling. ‘Yeah. Not bad for a lying, cheating criminal.’

  ‘Why do you think he’s lying?’

  ‘Since when does a double shift mean he’ll be gone twenty-four hours? He’s not going to work.’

  ‘But what else would he need his gun for?’ My words slipped out before I had chance to take them back.

  In the flesh Mickey was a little scary, but he was no caricature villain. At best, he was nothing more than a flirt. No longer a faceless name, it was hard to believe Nina’s fanciful tales. He looked tough, he probably was tough, but then that came with the territory.

  ‘Are you sure, Nina?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the criminal part?’

  ‘At least this way we have money. We’d probably be living in some hole of an apartment on his actual salary. I mean, not like your place, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tactful as always, Nina. I couldn’t marry the two lives; celebrity parties and Mexican villas versus a dirty cop murdering for money. They didn’t correlate, apart from the cash. And besides everything, everything Nina knew about him, she stayed. The grip was tight ‒ Mickey, the thrill she couldn’t surrender. His status, apparent power and money ensured an intelligent woman stayed obsequious, subdued and, above all, silent.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not thinking anything.’

  ‘Sure you are. The money’s not worth it, right? That what I have to do, what I have to ignore, isn’t worth it. I play my part, that’s all. I don’t mind wearing a mask. He wants Nina the model, but I’m twenty-nine now. I’m not the hot new thing he thinks I am. So I pretend.’

  ‘Nina . . .’

  ‘I’ve barely used this kitchen. Three weeks choosing marble and I’ll be damned if it’ll go to waste.’

  She’d do anything to remain the future Mrs Delacro. It didn’t matter. It was irrelevant where the money came from, or that people bled out to keep her in designer shoes. Then again, maybe Nina was making it all up, maybe Mickey was well-endowed. In the money sense at least.

  Nina was my friend; at present my only friend, though she now stood under a different light.

  Underneath that soigné exterior there was a secret, a deception. There was something she was hiding from me, something she was hiding from everyone.

  NINE

  I spent the following weekend indulging in my favourite pastime, second only to eating cake for breakfast; that hallowed diversion known as Retail Therapy.

  It was early evening when I caught a cab home and struggled up the stairs with my couture purchases; sculpted dresses and stilettos I’d be hard-pressed to walk in. Hey, there was nothing like frittering away cash to distract me from my very real life.

  The week since visiting Nina’s apartment had been more than strange, and for days there’d been something wrong with Joe.

  As I placed my purchases in the lounge doorway he rose from the TV chair like a king ascending from his throne, the royal blue throw falling from his shoulders.

  ‘Wow, baby. How nice of you to show. You’ve only been five hours.’ In his hand he perilously swung a bottle of Staropramen beer, spilling a little as he went.

  Anyone else might assume he was teasing me, light-heartedly poking fun at my penchant for shopping, though I knew better. The past week had taught me that.

  He stood to attention in a standard issue vest, the faint aroma of engine grease protruding, presumably from working on the rust-bucket Chevelle again at Buddy’s garage, but there was something else. Like a dream just out of reach, it was like the more I tried to recall, the more it ebbed away.

  ‘I told you about Nina’s party. I needed a new dress.’ I didn’t look at him, not right in the eye, as I moved back into the kitchen.

  ‘Dress? What dress?’ Following me out of the lounge, he flailed his arms until ceasing the charades and pointing to the cooker. ‘I’ve been waiting, you know.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘My dinner? I’ve waited hours, baby, and while you max
ed out my credit card.’

  ‘You don’t own a credit card.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ he replied, sticking out his chin.

  ‘They won’t approve you for credit! As for your dinner, was opening the microwave door too much like hard work?’

  Then he stumbled, the slurs verging on inaudible. With Joe insensibly tripping from foot to foot, beer foamed from the bottle before it slipped and hit the floor, like the oil slicked his hand too.

  ‘Joe!’ I jumped as the shards of glass shot up like a mushroom cloud.

  ‘It’s only glass. You never seen broken glass before?’ After regaining his footing and wiping a sodden hand down his top, he continued barking out orders. ‘I’m hungry. Make me some food.’

  I let loose a cackle. His performance was verging between pitiful and pathetic. ‘I don’t have time for this, I’m supposed to be at Nina’s in an hour.’

  He grinned back like he knew something I didn’t, his teeth forming a crescent moon. Then stepping forward, he grabbed my arm in a vice-like hold. With my skin pinched between his fingers, I tried pulling away, but his hand clamped down further. I was enveloped by the potent stench of beer breath as I wriggled and struggled and negotiated the pain.

  ‘Joe . . . let go of me,’ I whispered, gagging on the fumes. I couldn’t wriggle free. He moved with me, like some macabre two-step, delighting in my confusion with unsettling bursts of laughter. Looking into his face, I saw it, what was hidden behind his eyes. He was enjoying it. He liked it.

  Standing firm, he only loosened his grip once I ceased struggling.

  And then he hit me, slapping me hard across the cheek. As my hand caressed the throbbing above my jaw, I looked into his real face, the one ugly and violent ‒ the face he’d hidden well.

  It was like I’d shrunk, drinking from a forbidden elixir that’d caused the world to double in size. In front of me Joe staggered, his arms outstretched as I instinctively backed to the door, my racing pulse and heightened senses punching home the danger. I tiptoed backwards, carefully, like he was an incendiary device ready to explode.