No Good Deed

by Victor Gischler

  “Have a good weekend?”

  Rhonda made a small noise in her throat, which Francis took to mean her weekend had been adequate and ultimately not really any of Francis’s business.

  “I was wondering … I mean, I was thinking…” Francis cleared his throat. He was suddenly so thirsty. “I was thinking we could grab a drink after work today. There’s that wine bar across the street.” In college, Francis had been more of a beer and chicken wings sort of guy, but Rhonda had wine bar written all over her, and Francis had taken strides recently to mature himself. He’d purchased a book on wine etiquette and was halfway through it.

  Rhonda’s eyes slid to Francis, held his gaze a moment before returning to the mirror. “You’re nice, Francis.”

  “Oh. Uh, thanks.”

  “I don’t do nice.”

  Ah.

  Francis opened his mouth, shut it again. He turned around and walked back toward his own cubicle. He thought he heard snickering from Marty’s direction. Francis should have known better. The thin cubicle walls offered only the illusion of privacy. Everyone could hear everything.

  Francis went back to his desk, sat, cheeks burning.

  Oh, yeah, that wasn’t embarrassing at all.

  And anyway, such an obvious approach to forgetting Enid wasn’t exactly Francis’s style. He’d had other girlfriends but couldn’t for the life of him remember anything he’d done to get them. They seemed to come and go of their own accord with no relation to Francis’s intent. They’d sweep through his life and carry him along for a time before moving on. Enid seemed no different now that he thought about it. He should have known.

  A blinking red flag on his computer monitor caught his attention, a message in the in-box.

  I have your office address. I’m coming for the suitcase. Do NOT contact me via this email again.

  Ghost Girl

  He sighed. You do have a way with the ladies, Francis.

  3

  The morning crept by.

  Processing purchasing orders tended to make the day drag. Francis spent the morning stifling yawns and traipsing back and forth to the break room to refill his paper coffee cup. He’d been too rushed to pack a sandwich, so when his lunch hour rolled around, he sat alone at a break room table, eating a bag of vending machine corn chips. At one point, Rhonda entered the break room, saw Francis, turned on her heels, and sashayed right back out again.

  Francis returned to his desk, leaden and listless, and mindlessly crossed tasks off his to-do list. Twenty minutes before the end of the day, Naomi asked Francis to take a stack of papers down to human resources. Francis welcomed the errand. He could run out the clock meandering downstairs and then take his time coming back, shut down his computer, and go home.

  Not that he was eager to return to his empty apartment. Maybe he’d stop at the wine bar himself and try out some of the stuff he’d learned from the book.

  Francis dropped off the paperwork, took the elevator back up to his floor, and walked the hall slowly, hands in pockets. Thai food. He’d get takeout on the way home instead of the wine bar maybe. He’d avoided Thai because of Enid’s peanut allergy, but now—

  Something grabbed him by the collar and jerked him back into another room. The door slammed him into darkness.

  Soft, thin fingers covered his mouth.

  “Don’t talk.” A woman’s voice.

  He didn’t. It was hard to tell much about her in the darkness. She smelled like soap with a little vanilla.

  They stood that way a moment. Francis could see only the vague outline of her in the darkness, but it seemed as if her head was cocked, listening. A few seconds later, she blew out a sigh, seemed satisfied, and flipped on the light switch.

  “I need my suitcase.”

  She wasn’t what Francis had pictured.

  Maybe two inches shorter than he was, slender, Francis’s age, maybe a year or two older. Glowing white skin a sharp contrast to red lipstick so dark it was almost black. A gold ring in her left nostril, multiple studs in both ears. Her neck was long and slender, with a tattoo of a Celtic cross just under her right ear. Her faded jeans were torn at the knees, and she wore a dark green Che Guevara T-shirt under a creased and cracked leather bomber jacket. The scuffed combat boots gave her another inch.

  Francis liked her hair the best. Shaved close up the back and sides with a huge mop of what he thought used to be blond hair now dyed lime green on top. It fell in front of her eyes.

  She blew it out of the way. “You still with us, champ? Hello?”

  “Uh…” Francis rallied himself. “Um…”

  “You Berringer or not?” She pulled a folded piece of paper from her jacket pocket, shook it open, and held it up next to his face. It was a blown-up photocopy of Francis’s driver’s license photo. “Francis Berringer.”

  “Yes. Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Give me my suitcase.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “You said you did have it.”

  “I do. I mean I did. Not with me.”

  “Jesus, why the fuck didn’t you tell me that? I took a risk getting here.”

  “You said not to write you back.”

  “Shit.”

  “Look, it’s okay,” Francis said. “I’ll bring it in tomorrow morning and—”

  “Where is it?”

  “A place near my apartment. It’s perfectly safe. In the morning—”

  “I can’t wait that long.”

  There was a coiled intensity about the girl that put Francis on edge. Her cold blue eyes flashed a manic energy. Francis felt a stab of fascination with her, and it surprised him.

  The door slowly swung open.

  The girl took half a step back, tensed, one low hand forming into a tight little fist.

  Rhonda stood in the doorway, one eyebrow arching into a bored question.

  “Do you mind?” the girl said. “We’d like a little privacy.”

  “Privacy?” Rhonda’s expression downshifted from boredom to disdain. “I just need a hole punch.”

  The girl grabbed Francis by the belt and pulled him into her hip. “We’re going to screw in here. My man needs a taste or he gets the jitters. Come back later.”

  Rhonda’s mouth fell open. Francis could not remember ever seeing her speechless.

  The girl shut the door in Rhonda’s face.

  “Suitcase,” she said abruptly, turning back to Francis.

  “I’ll take you to it after work.”

  “Now.”

  “It’s only like a few more minutes until I clock out.”

  “Then they won’t miss you. Come on.” She grabbed his wrist and tried to tug him along.

  “What’s with you?” Francis asked. “Are you wanted by the cops or something?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  And yet the girl’s eyes pierced him, cool and insistent, and something in her gaze shifted subtly, less brusque command, some of the grit leaking away from her. It almost seemed like please, almost felt like I need this. Almost. Some message her eyes weren’t meaning to send, but it was there.

  “I need to go to my desk.”

  The grip on his wrist tightened.

  “My apartment keys are at my desk.”

  A hesitation.

  She opened the door a crack, eyes darting up and down the hall. When she was satisfied, she opened it wider and gestured him out. “Just hurry.”

  Francis left the supply closet, heart thumping in his chest as he fast-walked back toward the cubicle maze. He regretted ever stopping to look at that stupid suitcase. Why did he have to be so curious?

  He headed into the labyrinth of cubicle space and passed Rhonda on her way out. She eye-shot daggers at him. Without meaning it, a wry smile quirked across his lips, and he winked at her. She did a double take, kept walking, and Francis felt an unexpected surge of self-satisfaction. It was petty and juvenile, and he really didn’t have time to care what R
honda thought about him with a crazy person in the supply closet, but there it was. Not quite pride, nothing like redemption, but something. He felt the smile grow on his face.

  At his cubicle, he grabbed his keys, turned to leave, and almost walked right into a man in a tweed jacket.

  “Francis Berringer?”

  “Me?”

  The guy grinned. “You.”

  Francis took him in at a glance. A big square head with a matching jaw. A thick bunch of red-blond hair, combed back, and matching sideburns. He smiled, showing big Charlton Heston teeth. Brown tweed jacket, black shirt, tan slacks, and gleaming brown wing tips. He looked like a used car salesman, but an upscale one—Audis and BMWs.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?” Francis asked.

  “Benson Cavanaugh,” he said. “Detective Benson Cavanaugh. My associates and I are looking for somebody.”

  At the word associates, Francis’s eyes took a lap around the office. A man in a black suit, with brown shaggy mustache and thinning hair, wandered through the maze, peeking into individual cubicles. Beyond him, blocking the hallway out to the elevators, was another guy, beefy and bald with ruddy checks, fitting awkwardly into a slightly too-small maroon jacket, jeans, and ankle boots.

  Cavanaugh dipped two fingers into a shirt pocket and came out with a color photo, showed it to Francis. The hair was purple and a little longer in back, but it was definitely the girl in the supply closet. “Have you see this girl?”

  Francis opened his mouth and froze. Tell him. That crazy chick has done something. Probably drugs. Who knows? The guy is a cop. Tell him. This isn’t your problem.

  But Francis said, “Why would I know her? Did she do something?”

  Cavanaugh grinned wider, horse teeth looking like they could chomp Francis in half with one bite. But the grin didn’t touch the man’s eyes. They looked right through Francis, those eyes like hard, dark stones as if saying, We both know you’re full of shit, kid.

  “We have some reason to believe you’ve had contact with her,” Cavanaugh said. “If you can help us out, we won’t take up too much of your time. Otherwise, we might have to continue this conversation at the station.”

  How did he know? Had Francis been seen with the girl? Rhonda had seen them together in the supply closet, but even if she’d told somebody, the police could not possibly have made it to Francis’s office so fast. Something was wrong here, and Francis sure as hell did not want to go anywhere with Cavanaugh.

  “Look. Okay.” Francis cleared his throat. “Just to be official here, maybe I should see a badge or something.”

  The hesitation was so slight, Francis almost missed it, but in a heartbeat, the grin sprang back into place on Cavanaugh’s face.

  “Sure. It’s right here.”

  Cavanaugh’s hand went into his jacket pocket, and Francis saw a flash of metal when it came back out again. A split second later, Francis felt something hard in his ribs. He looked down to see the little automatic pistol. It was small and silver and didn’t look like a cop’s gun at all. More like something an Atlantic City pool hustler would carry.

  Like you know what a cop’s gun looks like, idiot. From what, Hill Street Blues reruns?

  “Okay, kid, now we have to do it like this. Happy now?”

  Francis swallowed hard.

  Cavanaugh pitched his voice low. “We’re going to walk out of here nice and slow. You stick close. Everything’s normal. You get me? Let’s not cause a scene. That goes bad for you. Understand?”

  Francis nodded.

  “Say it.”

  “I understand.”

  They walked together out of the cubicle and through the maze. Francis felt cold sweat on the back of his neck. When he passed Marty’s and Becky’s cubicles, he glanced in each time, trying to catch someone’s eye. But both of his coworkers were hunched dutifully over their computers, tying up loose ends before end of day. Francis thought he might call out to somebody or make a break for it.

  The thought of the little pistol stopped him.

  Which was obviously the point of it.

  Naomi barely glanced up as he passed her desk. “Cutting out a bit early, Francis?”

  “Yeah. Just … need to run a couple of errands.” Francis’s voice came out dry and hoarse.

  “Uh-uh.” She scribbled in a daily planner, clearly uninterested.

  Come on, Naomi. Take an interest in current events.

  But Cavanaugh herded Francis past Naomi’s desk toward the hall leading to the elevators. Then they’d go down to the lobby, out of the building and … where? Some abandoned warehouse where they’d tie him to a chair and beat the information out of him like in the movies.

  Just tell him the girl’s in the closet. You don’t owe her shit.

  Francis opened his mouth.

  Bart Resnick’s office door slammed open, and Resnick blustered out. “Jesus H. Christ, Berringer, where in Sam Hill do you think you’re going?”

  Thank you, Bart Resnick, you cranky old son of a bitch!

  “You’ve got nerve, Berringer. You walk into my office late, and now you’re trying to sneak out early? Not happening. Not on my watch.”

  “Stand down, pal,” Cavanaugh said. “This is police business.”

  Resnick blinked at the man. “What?”

  “I got this under control,” Cavanaugh said. “I’m a cop.”

  Resnick looked the man up and down. “Bull-fucking-shit.”

  Cavanaugh sighed, took one step forward, and swung his gun arm from the hip in an upward arc. The barrel of the silver automatic slammed into Resnick’s balls. He went red, mouth falling open, a rough, strangled noise caught in his throat. Slowly, Resnick sank to his knees. In other circumstances, the look on Resnick’s face would have been comical. In Resnick’s world, he was the one who did the ball-busting.

  Naomi gasped, stood up at her desk.

  Cavanaugh swung the gun on her. “Quiet. Step back from that phone. Just stay calm and—”

  A lime-green streak sped past Francis.

  The girl held a fire extinguisher in her hands and swung it hard. It cracked loudly across Cavanaugh’s wrist. He yelled in pain and dropped the pistol. The girl swung the extinguisher the other way into his gut, and Cavanaugh grunted and doubled over.

  The girl tossed aside the extinguisher, grabbed Francis’s hand. “Come on!” She dragged him back toward the cubicle maze.

  Francis hesitated. “But the elevators are back—”

  “No elevators!” She dragged him along.

  Francis risked a glance back.

  The beefy, bald guy still stood in the hallway, blocking the way to the elevators. His hand came out of his jacket with an enormous automatic pistol.

  Shit.

  He let the girl drag him into the cubicle maze.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Stairs!”

  They came to the crossroads at the center of the maze, and the guy with the shaggy mustache leaped at them, smashing into Francis and grabbing him in a bear hug.

  Marty emerged from his cubicle, eyes wide. “Holy cow. What the hell is—”

  Shaggy Mustache grabbed Marty’s face with a huge hand and shoved him back into his cubicle. “Shut it, nerd!”

  Francis wriggled out of the man’s grip, began to run.

  Shaggy Mustache leaped at him, tackling Francis around the knees. Both men went down hard, grunting on impact and rolling into one of the flimsy cubicle partitions. Heads appeared over the cubicle walls, eyes wide with curiosity or alarm. The maze buzzed with speculation.

  Francis tried to kick away from the man without success.

  Shaggy Mustache had Francis’s legs in a death hold. “I got him! I got him!”

  The girl rushed back, kicked Shaggy Mustache in the face with the heel of her combat boot.

  The guy grunted pain, eyes flashing rage. “You little bitch! When I get ahold—”

  She kicked him again, harder. A crack of cartilage, and blood exploded from both nostrils,
dripping gunk from his shaggy mustache. He screamed and let go of Francis’s legs, rolling away and holding his nose, ragged whimpers leaking out of him.

  “Get up!” the girl shouted at Francis.

  Francis staggered slowly to his feet, wincing, favoring one knee. “I think he twisted my—”

  An earsplitting crack of thunder shook the office. Everyone screamed, ducking back down into the imagined safety of their cubicles. Another shot, and Francis felt a violent tug at his sleeve. A quick glance showed the bald one holding his automatic in a two-handed shooting stance.

  “Run, idiot!” the girl yelled.

  Francis followed her at full speed, ignoring the twinge in his knee. More shots rang out behind him. Screams and shouts. Francis ducked his head, heart in his throat, waiting to feel a bullet in the back.

  Francis followed the girl out the other side of the cubicle maze and around the corner. They ran down the narrow hall, past the water fountain and restrooms to a door marked STAIRS. The girl flung the door open, and Francis stayed right on her heels.

  It was the first time Francis had ever stepped foot into the stairwell. There’d never been a need before. The walls were bare cinder block, harsh fluorescent light. They flew down the stairs three at a time. It was ten floors to the bottom, and Francis almost tumbled twice, twinges in his knee nearly taking him down.

  At the bottom, the door opened into another hall Francis had never seen before. The girl sprinted ahead as if she knew exactly where she was going. Fourteen months Francis had worked in this building. He went to and from his desk, with an occasional stroll down to HR. The rest of the place was a foreign country to him. He had no idea where he was. Not a clue.

  “Are you just running randomly?” he asked.

  “I hacked into the computer archives of the architect who designed the building,” she said. “I like to know how to leave a place.”

  He followed her out the door to the sidewalk. A relatively quiet side street, a scattering of pedestrians.

  “Just wait a second,” Francis said, panting. He rubbed his knee. It ached, but would be okay.

  A minute later, she grabbed him again. “Okay, you’ve had your rest. This way!”