The Good Kind of Bad

by Rita Brassington

  Behind the counter Shannon was engaged in a heated argument, with who I guessed was George’s son, the infamous Anton, and looked ready to cry.

  ‘No, George, don’t fire her,’ I suggested. ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘Such a silly girl, she’s only been here a couple of months. I’ll take your cheque out of her tips. All on the house, what do you say?’

  ‘I’d rather she paid my dry cleaning bill,’ Nina murmured.

  I shook my head. ‘You don’t have to do that, George.’

  ‘It’s already done,’ he confirmed, slapping his palm on the table top. ‘Now, how is Joe doing? Anton said he was supposed to come by last week, with the . . . about some fish,’ he hastily corrected.

  Joe. My husband. The dead guy.

  ‘Fish?’ I repeated.

  ‘Joe said Peter could get us some great trout.’

  I gave George a blank stare, pretty sure I wasn’t the only one hiding something. ‘Who?’

  ‘Who? Peter Petrozzi! His cousin? He works the lake boats. You don’t know him? Joe never came by. Can you tell him we’re still waiting? He won’t answer his phone. Just goes to a mumbled answering machine message.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll tell him. To come by, I mean.’ My voice was trembling. Now enveloped by full-on panic, I registered where we were. Joe could have connections to every guy in Bemo’s for all I knew. What had I been thinking? After Nina suggested we meet here, it never crossed my mind how dangerously unsuitable this place was.

  Once the commotion settled and George had left our table to have a stern word with Shannon, it was obvious Nina wanted to ask me something, and make that insanely desperate to ask me something.

  ‘What was that about?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You practically having a heart attack when George asked about Joe. Enough avoiding already.’

  ‘I’m not avoiding anything.’ I dabbed my mouth on the napkin, leaving behind a bright stain of crimson lipstick. ‘Actually, Nina, maybe we should leave.’ Yeah, that was going to work.

  ‘Leave? You know they brought us this new bottle for free, right? It’s house wine, but who cares? What’s with you?’

  I glanced down at the table. ‘Nothing’s with me.’

  ‘Nothing meaning something?’

  She sure liked to press. ‘Nina . . . look, I can’t tell you, even if I wanted to.’ People could be listening. People including Anton.

  Nina poured herself an extremely large glass of the free wine, smirking as she did. ‘Ooh, are you going for, like, a James Bond thing here? Because I love the intrigue.’ Nina chuckled until realising how far from joking I was. ‘You don’t want to tell me? Fine. But whatever this is, it’s killing you. You can’t hold that glass without it shaking. Keep quiet if that makes you happy, but . . .’ Nina paused as I let the tears swell. ‘Girl, what is it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Even I don’t believe it.’

  She gasped. ‘You really are pregnant this time.’

  ‘No, I’m not pregnant!’ I lowered to a whisper. ‘God, no way. It’s just . . . it’s . . . not important.’

  She leant back, lowered her eyebrows and crossed her arms. ‘I think it is. How much have I told you about Mickey? How much have I risked? I trusted you, you know things no one else does. Now I’m here for you, and it’s not important?’

  ‘Nina, you don’t understand.’

  ‘No, I don’t understand. Why don’t you tell me? Maybe I can help.’

  I wiped my perspiring hands on the napkin, as though the blood were there for everyone to see. ‘You want to know? You want to know what I can’t tell you?’

  She thumped the table with the butt of her fist. ‘Yes, goddamn it!’

  ‘All right. He’s dead. Joe, Joe is dead.’

  There was more than an awkward pause before Nina’s cackle began as a grin. ‘Petrocelli’s dead? Girl, you almost had me there.’

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking?’ Judging by Nina’s expression, I didn’t want to know what I looked like. Scary banshee woman, maybe.

  ‘Then what the hell happened?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know or you don’t want to tell me?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Innocence or downright deception for starters.’

  My eyes widened. Nina’s if-only-I-had-a-brain stares were a front after all.

  Returning to toying with my wine glass, I knew the answer, or at least an escape from the drama was at the bottom of ten of those glasses.

  ‘Why don’t you start at the beginning?’ Nina offered helpfully.

  ‘No offence, but I just want to forget and move on.’ I didn’t know how true that was, but I still wasn’t thrilled at myself for letting the secret slip already, and in Bemo’s of all places. The conversation needed to end, and immediately.

  ‘Let me get this straight, because I’m confused here. The husband that used to treat you like crap dies in an accident and you’re not celebrating? It’s like the universe giving back to you, karma and all. Let’s throw this dollar ninety-nine pissy wine and get the champagne flowing. You like Bollinger? They do Bollinger here, right? Hey, stop pouting. That man is better off dead. What was it? Freak toaster-in-the-bath accident?’

  ‘Who said anything about an accident?’

  ‘Then how did he . . .’

  ‘He was shot.’

  ‘Like, with a gun?’

  ‘Yes, with a gun!’

  ‘Wow.’ She thought for a moment, then opened with, ‘Mafia hit? Heist job? Ex-ex lover?’

  ‘It was Evan, all right? It was Evan.’ Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

  ‘And who the hell is Evan?’ Nina replied, a little too loudly for my liking.

  ‘Evan is . . . Evan’s the cop,’ I whispered, glancing around for eavesdroppers.

  Nina placed her palms flat down on the table, smiling in disbelief. ‘The cop from Faith? You cannot be serious.’

  ‘Oh, I’m deadly serious.’

  ‘Girl, what are you messed up in? Or did you get messed up in him?’

  ‘No! Nina, he has a girlfriend.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Brandi, the bimbo,’ I muttered, looking down at the table.

  ‘All right, so he arrested Joe? All it takes is a little too much interrogation. Mickey said he did that once and it didn’t end well, for the other guy I mean. Look, I’ve been in Nowheresville, Missouri while this played out. You can’t leave me hanging with half a story.’

  Nina wasn’t close to backing down. I’d managed to keep the secret for a total of eight days, and now that I’d breached Evan’s trust, filling in the blanks wasn’t going to make much difference.

  ‘Joe left for Atlantic City, I guess to lose himself at the bottom of a bottle. He changed, Nina. Try raging alcoholic, wife-beater, knife-wielder and . . .’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And I almost died. I almost fell from the apartment window, no thanks to Joe. Oh yeah, that was after he kicked me in the face. It was Evan who found me and patched me up.’

  ‘And you didn’t call me?’

  ‘I did. There was no answer. Then Joe took my phone, and your number with it.’

  ‘I didn’t see any missed calls. Jesus, what did the police say? Did they write it up as an arrest gone wrong? That’s what happened, right?’

  ‘Police? Nina, we haven’t gone to the police.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Evan said no cops. That we’d sort it ourselves.’

  She paused. ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Jesus, girl, what have you done with a dead body?’

  ‘Evan buried him in a Kane County wood?’ I admitted, exploring a table-top dent with my fingernail.

  Nina shook her head in disbelief. ‘This beats all of Mickey’s stories, hands down.’

  ‘Do you see why I didn’t want to talk about it now?’

  ‘Were you
with him? With Evan when he buried Joe?’

  I nodded, slowly. ‘But I didn’t know where we were going, I swear. I mean, I knew he was in the back of the car, but . . .’

  Nina bit at her lip, eyes full of concern. I wasn’t quite sure if she believed me. ‘And it didn’t freak you out that Evan shot Joe, dug a hole, and then put him in it?’

  It had more than freaked me out. The Evan I knew was kind and caring. He’d bandaged my head and taken care of me. He wasn’t the kind of guy who buried bodies in woods.

  ‘It sounds like he’s been helping you out, and way beyond the call of duty. I wonder why he’s been so eager to?’ Nina asked, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘It wasn’t like that, okay? Evan was worried about me.’

  ‘Evan was trying to get into your pants, more like.’

  ‘Will you stop? He has a girlfriend, Nina. Were you not listening, or . . .’

  She huffed. ‘As if that’s ever stopped a guy before.’

  ‘Look, Evan picked me up from my hotel that night, but not for a date.’

  ‘And Joe saw you two together and made five?’

  ‘Kind of. It was only when we were in the parking garage I realised we’d been followed, followed by . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know this one. Wait, I’ve nearly got it,’ she quipped mockingly, waving her hand so enthusiastically that an aproned Anton appeared by our table, wiping his hands on the dishcloth slung over his shoulder.

  ‘Everything okay for you? What can I get you two fine ladies?’

  Possibly the worst eavesdropper ever appeared, and the one person I never wanted to meet: Anton Bemo. But I already had. Anton was Nina’s hot waiter from our first visit. All this time, he’d been mooching around Bemo’s, and I hadn’t had a clue who he was. Now he stood before me, I was livid at what he’d started, of what he’d stirred in Joe. If it wasn’t for Anton, Frankie would be alive, Joe’s criminal record probably would be non-existent and we might still be married. He might not be dead. Of course, it could’ve been Joe’s past history with Anton that’d turned him into the brooding stranger I’d been drawn to, but whoever Anton was, he had to leave.

  ‘Oh, hi there,’ Nina purred.

  Perfect. Now Nina wanted to flirt with him, but then Nina flirted with everyone. Though what made me almost swallow my tongue was the mark on Anton’s bulging arm ‒ a puncture wound, about halfway up his bicep. It was scarred and faded but there was no mistaking what it was. A bullet wound.

  ‘We’re fine,’ I stuttered. ‘She gets overexcited.’

  A confused Anton left, thankfully, though Nina was not amused. ‘We are not fine. We needed his number. I’ve been eyeing those biceps up for weeks. Months even.’

  ‘You mean the bicep with a bullet hole in it? No, Nina. No. Anyone but that guy.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that guy?’

  ‘Apart from you have a fiancé? How about that Joe shot Anton in the arm because he got Joe’s younger brother Frankie killed? The last thing I want is Anton overhearing I had something to do with Joe’s death, all right?’

  Thankfully, Nina didn’t push the issue. ‘If I promise not to ask for Anton’s number, will you tell me exactly what happened with Joe? And before you explode?’

  ‘What do you want to know? That he kidnapped me, dragged me all over Chicago, threw me out of a moving car and . . .’

  ‘And Evan killed him?’

  I turned to the window. ‘You’re right, Nina. He killed him. I should’ve gone to the police, and now I can’t. I’m trapped because I helped dig Joe’s grave. Evan’s more of a stranger than Joe ever was and I’m protecting him. He murdered Joe, Nina. He killed my husband.’

  Nina paused for a moment, thinking, before taking my hand from across the table and squeezing it tight. ‘Okay, this shallow grave thing is freaky, but, I don’t know? Let’s think about this. What if you had gone to the cops? Who would they have pointed the finger at? The random cop, or the guy’s wife? It’s your husband who’s worm food. Evan didn’t know him. Don’t torture yourself about this, you’re not the bad guy here, and the last thing you deserve is getting locked up for a murder you didn’t do. Whatever Evan is, at least he’s an improvement on the alternative,’ she continued. ‘He’s a police officer. He saved you from the guy. Give the guy a medal already. It sounds like he was trying to protect you.’

  ‘At least he doesn’t call anymore. I mean, not every five minutes like before.’

  ‘Until he discovers you confessed to me.’

  I looked Nina straight on, a woman whose partner was none other than a corrupt police detective. I’d judged it appropriate to confess not only that my husband was dead, but also graciously fill in the blanks on who’d pulled the trigger.

  Stupid girl, anybody?

  ‘Look, thinking about it, I’m glad Evan did it. He saved your life. Who knows what would’ve happened if he hadn’t killed Joe when he did. Hell, I don’t want to think about it. I care about you, and if that means condoning murder? You tell the cops and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, and from behind bars.’

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like Evan,’ I muttered.

  ‘I understand what it’s like. Mickey’s never going to be the poster boy for honesty. You think I haven’t sat where you are now? I know my fiancé is a murderer, but I also know there’s a good man in there somewhere, a man who’d never hurt me. All I’m saying is cut Evan some slack. He’s got to be hurting too, you know.’

  I wanted to mourn for Joe, to believe he’d been a good man and despise Evan for destroying our perfect life together. But that was a lie.

  And now? My confession had come too easily. Nina knew my secret, the one I’d sworn never to tell. Faced with the consequences, I was surprised at how effortlessly the words had come. It was guilt. Pure and simple.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Over the next week, glimpses of happiness returned. Nina was right about Joe. I knew it would take time (not to mention a whole cheque book-worth of counselling), but one day I would walk free from worry, never searching for his shadow. Joe couldn’t hurt me anymore. It was time I accepted he was gone.

  Each morning I awoke alone in my suite (apart from Sybil begging for her breakfast), though it was into a different life. It might’ve been costing more than my daily rate at Faith to live at the Four Seasons, but I still had plenty of the two hundred grand left. For a show-home interior, chocolates left on my pillow every night and nothing short of stunning views across the lake, it was worth it. South Evergreen Street, Joe, my slummy life . . . it’d been exciting once, a novelty. Now grateful I’d emerged on the other side, I could deal with the mark left on my soul.

  However much the guilt bothered me, and however much I wanted the scales balanced over Joe’s death, I knew in time leaves would sprinkle the soil of the wood, withering into the fertile earth. Everything once flesh, limbs, bones and talk, erased. One day, the world would forget Joe Petrozzi ever existed.

  He’d been on the tip of my tongue, Joe the silent conversation I’d never have, but I soon wouldn’t need to. He was being erased. Each day Joe’s face was forgotten a little more, a distinct blurriness now infecting his features. Two weeks after Joe’s murder, I’d decided Chicago wasn’t the place for me. Too much had happened. Leaving behind this, my city of sin, was now only a matter of time.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked with one ear to the phone at work.

  Quentin placed more papers on the already full pile on my desk, and judging by his sweater vest, mauve with a hint of gold, it was Tuesday. Turned out, each day had its own sweater assigned to it. Oh, the joys of being anally retentive.

  ‘This? It’s called work,’ he sneered. ‘The new contract’s been approved, so we have double the workload.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And . . . work.’ Before slithering back into his hole, there was a lascivious smile from Quentin to the approaching Nina.

  ‘What did he want?’ Nina arrived in a vintage Chanel jacket ensemble and slamm
ed her hand on top of the pile. ‘He gave you all this to do? Where does the guy get off? Shelve this, and him. I have news.’

  I leant back in my chair, readying myself. ‘Mickey’s seen the error of his ways and joined the Boy Scouts?’ I asked, my feet swaying the swivel chair from side to side.

  ‘No, silly, I meant news for you. According to Maggie there’s a tall, dark and possibly handsome man in the lobby, and he’s asking for you! Don’t go flirting now. You know how Joe gets.’

  This was our routine at work. Here Joe was not dead and was only ever talked about in the present tense. He forgot to do the dishes. He did the funniest thing down at Carter’s the other night. Joe, within the walls of Faith, was very much alive. It would’ve been easier to say he’d left me, though I don’t think I could’ve handled the sympathy stares and guarded whispers. Only the computerised admin records knew my address was now the Four Seasons and no longer South Evergreen. I never had got round to changing my surname. At least now I didn’t have to.

  ‘Anton Bemo better not be waiting down there for me,’ I warned in a quieter voice, standing and smoothing down my leather skirt. I hoped it wasn’t Anton, here to blackmail me after discovering Joe’s fate. The last thing we’d been last week in Bemo’s was discreet, even with hushed voices, and was hardly the best location for my regretted confession either.

  ‘If it is him, point him in my direction!’ Nina called after me.

  I rode the packed lift to the ground floor, towering over the other women in my heels, most from some office on the twenty-ninth floor. For all my drama, I’d still never swap my shoes for theirs, especially as they’d never heard of Manolo Blahnik.

  The lift pinged, the doors opened and I marched into the lofty lobby in my new lace-trimmed shirt.

  Ahead, a man with an unfaltering posture stood by the reception desk. He was tall and dark, though I wasn’t sure handsome covered it. His features were rough, like a cliff face. A leather coat draped his shoulders while a blue notebook and file sat under his arm. His navy shirt was well-fitting, with lines creating premature age on a thirty-something face. Tawny hair was cropped close to his skull as still eyes looked out from behind a crooked nose. He had a gravitas, a mystery, a pull . . . something ensuring extreme twitching of my derrière. This guy was here for me?