No Good Deed

by Victor Gischler

“This is bullshit!” Her frustration was at a whole new level.

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry,” Francis said, his own patience thinning. People had tried to kill him today—which was new—and his knee hurt. He’d probably get fired. “And I’m not keen to discuss it here in the middle of the sidewalk. My apartment is close, and I think we need to talk about—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to talk?”

  “I don’t want to go to your apartment, and neither do you.”

  “I don’t?”

  “If they can find you at work, then they can find out where you live,” she said. “And don’t you think the police might have taken an interest in the little dustup at your office?”

  “So wait. Who’s coming to get me at my apartment? The police or the people pretending to be the police?”

  “Probably all sorts of people,” she said.

  “Okay, then all the more reason to talk, because you’d better believe I have some questions. Let’s just go to a coffee shop or something.”

  “No coffee.” She shut her eyes tight, rubbed her temples. “I need a real drink.”

  “Okay,” Francis said. “I know the spot.”

  * * *

  The girl took the shot of Jack Daniels out of the waitress’s hand before she’d even had a chance to set it on the table. She tossed it back, shivered, then said, “A draft beer. Whatever’s light.”

  “Right.” The waitress left to fetch it.

  Francis took to his pint of Boddington’s more timidly. They’d taken a table near the window so Francis could watch the street and entrance to his building. That way he could see anyone suspicious coming or going.

  “It’s not like they skulk around in trench coats,” she said.

  “Fair enough.” Francis sipped from his pint. “But I can at least identify who’s a neighbor and who’s somebody I’ve never seen before. But forget all that for a minute. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Fine, I’ll call you Ghost Girl the rest of—”

  “Okay, stop. Emma. Just call me Emma.”

  It didn’t suit her. But Francis thought about it and couldn’t think what would.

  “Amanda won’t go back to work until the breakfast shift in the morning, and if I can’t go to my apartment, then I’m open to suggestions,” Francis said. “Maybe we can meet back at the Patty Melt in the morning. I’ll make sure Amanda gives you the suitcase.”

  “If you think you’re getting—”

  She cut off when the waitress arrived with her beer. The waitress gave them both a curious look before departing but said nothing.

  Emma leaned forward and lowered her voice before starting again. “If you think you’re getting out of my sight before I get my suitcase back, think again. You’ll get killed or arrested or something, and then I’ll be stuck.”

  “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you by getting killed.”

  “Funny,” she said flatly. “You’re extremely humorous.”

  “Please remember that I was only trying to do a good deed.”

  The hint of a wry smile from her. “They say no good deed goes unpunished.”

  But Francis wouldn’t be derailed. He fully intended to have his say. “No, listen. Seriously. I was just trying to be helpful. And this is what I get. I don’t owe you anything. You know that, right? There’s obviously something going on with you and something in that suitcase—probably drugs or something—but does anyone tell me anything? No. I get bossed around and nearly killed—oh, and my girlfriend walked out on me this morning; I know that’s not your fault, but still—and I’ll probably lose my job, which I hate, but I still need a job, right?”

  “That’s a mouthful,” Emma said. “Feel better?”

  “Not as much as I’d thought.” He shrugged, sipped. “A little.”

  She put her serious face back on. “Look, I get it. You want answers. Here’s the best I can do. Yeah, I’ve got something going on. I haven’t murdered anyone. Not smuggling drugs, nothing like that. So put your mind at ease about all that. But are there bad people after me? Yes. It’s a long story, and I’m sorry you got dragged into this. My manners are not at their best right now. Help me get my suitcase back, and I promise to get out of your life. Then you can go to the police, explain it wasn’t you, tell them about the crazy girl with the suitcase.”

  “Are you in trouble?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “And what’s in the suitcase will help you?”

  “Yes.”

  Francis went back to his beer, gulping this time. He stifled a burp, then asked, “Okay, so what do we do next?”

  “We need to find the waitress with the suitcase,” Emma said. “Before the bad guys do.”

  Francis rolled his eyes. “How could they possibly know a completely random diner waitress has the suitcase?”

  * * *

  “I have one of my new guys watching Berringer’s apartment,” Cavanaugh said into his phone. “What else do we know about this guy? Anyone else on the lease?”

  “Somebody named Enid Bachman,” Bryant said on the other end of the line.

  “Give me the rundown on her.”

  “Okay. Hang on.” The sound of keyboard tapping. “She gets her paychecks direct deposited to a local bank. She’s a waitress. I have it on the map, some diner just a few blocks away.”

  “What’s it called?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “The Patty Melt.”

  * * *

  NYPD hadn’t been glad to see him.

  Harrison Gunn didn’t much care. As a matter of fact, he rather enjoyed it. Flash his ID, declare federal jurisdiction, and watch the locals steam. Not that he’d want to push things too far. Gunn had been an agent with the National Security Agency for eleven years, and something he’d learned early in the going was that things went a lot smoother with the cooperation of local authorities than without it.

  The officer tasked with bringing Gunn up to speed was a world-weary detective sergeant in a wrinkled gray suit and scuffed shoes. Gunn disapproved of the man immediately based specifically on his appearance. Gunn realized this was a minor failing in himself, but he still took in the detective’s cheap haircut, tie pulled loose, his overall sloppy appearance and pegged the man as unprofessional. It was likely not even true, but Gunn wouldn’t disabuse himself of this impression until offered proof to the contrary.

  By contrast, Gunn’s black suit was perfectly pressed, perfectly tailored, and lint-free. His shoes had been polished to a blinding gleam. He had a standing weekly appointment with his barber, not a hair out of place. He was an intricate, precisely calibrated, well-oiled machine and looked the part.

  “Everybody in the office pretty much has the same story,” the detective said. “Berringer comes in and does his usual. Toward the end of the day, the girl shows up and then the guys claiming to be cops. Look, I know you’ve claimed jurisdiction, but people running around claiming to be cops? We can’t let that stand.”

  “I understand,” Gunn said. “We’ll get them. Let’s focus on the girl for a moment.”

  “Only one of the office workers got a good look at her,” the detective said. “Most everyone went under their desks when the shooting started. She’s this way.”

  The detective led Agent Gunn into the cubicle maze and introduced him to one of the women there.

  Rhonda sat looking bored, painting her nails. “Can I go yet?”

  “Soon,” Gunn said. “The detective says you saw the girl in a supply closet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you describe her?”

  “Green hair. Nose ring. One of those girls that thinks attitude trumps good grooming.”

  Yeah, that is definitely her, thought Gunn. “What was she doing in the closet?”

  “She was in there with Francis. The girl rather rudely indicated they were about to … become intimate.” Rhonda’s expression made it clear she couldn’t imagine why anyone would want
to do anything like that with a girl like that.

  Gunn and the detective exchanged Oh, really? looks.

  “Were they a regular item?” Gunn asked Rhonda.

  “I couldn’t possibly guess,” Rhonda said. “But he’d asked me out earlier in the morning. Seems our little Francis is something of a player.”

  “Uh-huh.” Gunn turned back to the detective. “I want to talk to the manager now.”

  Resnick slumped at his desk. He looked like he’d had a rough day.

  “I already told this whole story to the cops,” Resnick said.

  “I just want to ask a few questions about one of your employees,” Gunn said. “Francis Berringer.”

  “Berringer.” Resnick made a face like the name tasted bad in his mouth. “That fucking guy is fired.”

  * * *

  “I’m the manager.” He was fat and sweaty, thinning hair plastered flat atop his melon head. “You wanted to see me?”

  “I appreciate your time,” Cavanaugh said. “I’m Officer Riggs. NYPD. I’m looking for an Enid Bachman. She’s a waitress here at the Patty Melt, yes?”

  “Is this about the boyfriend?”

  “The who?” Cavanaugh asked.

  “Francis was in here earlier, looking for Amanda,” the manager told him. “He wanted her last name so he could look up her phone number. Is he in trouble or something?”

  “Well, it’s police business.”

  “I knew it. Damn it, I just knew it,” the manager said. “He kept asking about some suitcase, and I just knew that kid was up to no good.”

  “Suitcase?”

  “Jesus, is he a serial killer or something?” The manager glanced around the diner as if expecting Francis to suddenly leap out with a butcher knife. “Next you’ll tell me the suitcase is full of body parts.”

  Cavanaugh took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket. “Amanda, you say? It would really help us if you had an address for her.”

  6

  Amanda lived in a rent-controlled building on 101st Street.

  Francis and Emma climbed the six flights to her apartment. It wasn’t the worst building Francis had ever seen, no graffiti or obvious disrepair, but the halls hadn’t seen a new coat of paint since the Nixon administration. A vague mildew smell in the stairwell.

  Francis paused in front of Amanda’s door without knocking, bent to massage his knee.

  Emma frowned at him. “You okay?”

  “Hurt it earlier. Six flights didn’t help.”

  “Man up, Frankie.”

  Francis returned her frown. “I generally prefer to go by Francis.”

  “Uh-huh. Knock on the door.”

  Francis knocked. No answer.

  “I told you we should have called first,” Francis said. “So we’d know she’d be here.”

  “Yeah, and also she’d know we were coming,” Emma said. “That hasn’t always worked out for me.”

  “That’s not a surprise, actually.”

  “Just knock again.”

  Francis knocked again. This time he thought he heard movement from within the apartment, also a low mutter, a grunt.

  He knocked harder. “Amanda?”

  The muttering grew louder, then finally, “What?”

  “Amanda, it’s me. Francis.”

  “I didn’t order any!”

  “No, it’s Francis. Enid’s … I know Enid.”

  “What?”

  “Is something wrong with her?” Emma asked.

  Francis shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe we woke her up.” Francis raised his voice. “Amanda, it’s me, Francis. I gave you a suitcase earlier today to hold for me. Sorry to drop by announced, but I need to get it. Sort of important, actually.”

  A long pause.

  “Francis?”

  “Yes!” Relief flooded him. “Yes, Amanda, it’s me. Do you have the suitcase?”

  “Come in. It’s unlocked.”

  Francis and Emma exchanged glances. Emma shrugged.

  Francis turned the knob and slowly pushed the door inward on creaking hinges.

  The odor that hit him was a striking mix of VapoRub, cigarettes, scotch, and something deep-fried. The little apartment was crowded with too much furniture, cheap paintings, wallpaper with a tight floral pattern faded nearly to nonexistence. Off to the right, the living room segued into a narrow kitchen with a stove and refrigerator from the 1970s. A dimly lit hall to the left led away presumably to a bedroom and bath.

  Amanda lay fully reclined, in an ugly green, threadbare La-Z-Boy. The arms had been duct-taped where the fabric had pulled apart. The stand on the right side of the chair was crowded with an ashtray overflowing with butts, a crumpled pack of Basics next to it, a two-thirds-empty bottle of cheap scotch, and a Fairly OddParents juice glass with two fingers of booze.

  No lights had been turned on, the living room lit only by the flickering television screen, a game show on with the sound turned all the way down. The movement of the figures on the TV screen cast weird shadows over Amanda and the rest of the room.

  She wore a blue bathrobe and tattered pink slippers. She was a stout woman, and when she shifted in the chair, she seemed like some ancient troll queen on her throne, the La-Z-Boy creaking and groaning like it might come apart any second under her weight. The light from the TV gave her face a haunted look.

  Amanda squinted at Emma, her eyes refusing to focus. “Enid, you changed your hair.”

  “Amanda, this isn’t—” He broke off. Forget it. Not important, and she wouldn’t remember anyway. As far as Francis could tell, she’d been hitting the scotch hard and was only half-heartedly trying to emerge from her stupor.

  “Amanda, I gave you a suitcase at the diner this morning.” Francis spoke calmly and slowly. “You said you’d stash it in the cooler.”

  She blinked, thought about it. “Roy wouldn’t let me.”

  The breakfast shift manager. Enid had mentioned him often in non-glowing terms.

  “I brought it home.” Her eyes shifted back and forth in her head, taking in the apartment around her like she’d never seen it before.

  “We need it,” Francis told her. “Can you get it for us? It would be a huge help, and then we’ll get out of your way.”

  Amanda put her pale hands on the arms of her chair, made an attempt to push herself up. She slumped back, deciding the effort wasn’t worth it. God help her if there were a fire. She waved a hand back down the hall. “You can get it.”

  Emma pushed past him, heading back toward the bedroom. Francis began to follow, hesitated, glanced back at Amanda. The woman was already easing her head back, eyelids drooping shut. In the morning, this would all be some fuzzy dream to her.

  Francis hurried after Emma.

  Amanda’s bedroom was small, a single unmade bed against the far wall, a vanity that might have been an antique or maybe was just old. A closet. A lamp with a dusty shade. Light oozed a dim yellow through the dirty glass of the room’s only window.

  Emma went to the floor, looked under the bed, cursed when she didn’t find the case. She went to the closet, began rummaging, pushing aside shoes and hatboxes. “I don’t see it.”

  “This feels weird being in here, going through her stuff,” Francis said. “I hardly know her. I bet I’ve only said a hundred words to her.”

  “You think I’m having a good time? Help me look.”

  Francis went to the window. Not much of a view, a rusty fire escape and another tenement across the alley. Was this Amanda’s life every night, coming home to an empty, dank apartment? Maybe I’d numb myself with the occasional bottle of scotch too.

  He turned back to Emma when he heard the racket from the closet. She was pulling everything out, throwing clothes on hangers over her shoulder.

  “Stop that,” Francis said. “You’re messing up the place.”

  “It’s not here!”

  “That’s no reason to wreck her closet. She was doing me a favor.”

  “Where the fuck is it?”
/>
  “Jesus.” Francis shook his head, held his hands up in an I’m done gesture. “Okay. I’m going. We tried. But I’m not sticking around to—”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” she said heatedly. “Not until we find—”

  Before the argument could really get started, it was preempted by a knock at the front door. It was loud enough to be heard down the hall with the bedroom door closed.

  Emma and Francis froze. Waited and listened.

  A louder knock. Amanda woke this time, her muffled voice saying something to the person on the other side of the door. A muted voice spoke back to her. Francis thought it sounded like a man’s voice, but he couldn’t make out anything being said.

  Emma looked a question at him. Who is it?

  Francis shrugged. How the hell would I know?

  Amanda said something else, and so did the person on the other side of the door. It was probably a version of the same conversation Francis had had earlier. A second later, he heard the front door creak open.

  Shit.

  The conversation between Amanda and the newcomer was slightly clearer now. Francis still couldn’t hear the exact words, but the tone and sound of the voice was very familiar.

  Emma’s eyes widened with alarm. She’d recognized the voice too.

  Cavanaugh.

  Shit shit shit.

  Francis spun to the window, tried to open it. It was stuck fast.

  Emma waved her hands frantically. Hurry up.

  Francis gestured at the window. It’s fucking stuck, okay?

  They could still hear Cavanaugh and Amanda talking in the living room.

  Francis drew his arm back to bang the window with the heel of his hand and then stopped himself. It would make too much noise.

  He grabbed the frame, pushed up with everything he had. It wouldn’t budge. He kept pushing, face going red, gritting his teeth so hard, he thought they’d break. He leaned in, tried to get under it for the best angle. He pushed hard, arms starting to tremble. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears.

  Come on … come on … come on …

  A loud crack and the window slid upward. Francis’s joy at the window’s opening was blunted by the worry that the loud noise would draw attention.

  “Come on,” he whispered.

  He swung one leg over the windowsill, ducked his head, and wriggled through the small opening. The rusty fire escape outside groaned with his weight, but he ignored it. He stuck his head back in, looked for Emma.