No Good Deed

by Victor Gischler

  Ray groaned. “This guy again.”

  “You’ve already done enough damage!” The newcomer was a stick figure of a man with sharp tanned features; he wore work khakis and a wide straw gardener’s hat.

  “Hey, man, get off my ass,” Ray said. “The guy said to back the trucks up to the house, so we did.”

  “Excuse me. Hello. Me again.” Meredith smiled tightly, attempting to gain control of the conversation. “One at a time, okay? Who are you?”

  “Mason. I’m the assistant groundskeeper, and this idiot backed over the main waterline for the sprinkler system.”

  “The guy told me to back the trucks up,” Ray repeated.

  “The guy?” Meredith asked.

  “You know.” Roy waved back at the chaos behind him. “The guy.”

  “Fussy, slender, organized fellow with nerd glasses?” Meredith said. “Dressed like a Brooks Brothers mannequin?”

  “There you go.”

  “Fantastic,” Meredith said. “Pete Levin. That’s the guy we need as fast as possible so we can straighten everything out, okay? So find him and—”

  “Why were the sprinkler lines above ground?”

  Middleton instantly regretted asking the question. The attention shifted from Meredith to him, all eyes like hot lasers. All of them talked at once, Ray and the groundskeeper each telling their versions of the story, Meredith trying to regain control.

  There had apparently been a problem with a permit or something, and they’d had to dig up the pipes, and the moving trucks had backed over one of them and now the water was gushing nonstop, and they’d sent for the head groundskeeper, who had the only key to the maintenance shed with the water shutoff valve. Another woman—middle-aged, fashionable, carrying her shoes and splashing as she ran—complained loudly that the movers were dragging mud across tens of thousands of dollars of tile and carpet.

  Ray shouted over everyone else at Middleton. “You’re the boss, right? Just tell them to let us unload!”

  “No!” The assistant groundskeeper was vehement.

  Middleton said, “Uh…”

  He felt dizzy, tried to shrink and disappear behind Meredith. Why were they all talking at the same time? What did they expect him to do? It had been nearly a year since he’d had a full-blown attack, had even taken himself off the medication. If these people could all just slow down and calmly explain one at a time, then maybe he could—

  He found it hard to breathe. Why was it suddenly so hot? He loosened his tie, trying to make sense of the babble, the voices blending into a muffled drone. Sweat poured down his back and behind his ears.

  “Pete!” Meredith waved frantically. “Over here. Thank God.”

  Middleton focused, saw the man dart through the crowd, rushing toward them. His hair was slightly mussed—which, for Pete Levin, was a sign of the apocalypse.

  He arrived, panting, holding up his iPhone. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Middleton. I wanted to call immediately, of course, but my phone died. There was a problem with the impact study on the land, and they made us dig up the sprinkler pipes—”

  “Pete.” Meredith spoke the single syllable with such effortless command, it startled Levin.

  His eyes shifted from Middleton to her. “Meredith?”

  “I need you to focus, okay?”

  The briefest pause. “Of course.”

  She kept her eyes on Levin but reached back to take Middleton’s hand. She gave it a quick squeeze. Relief flooded him.

  “Get somebody to bring in some planking and lay down a path to the front door,” she told Levin. “Bring in a bed and some chairs, just enough to get through the night. If we can’t move the trucks, then arrange transport for the movers. They can come back in the morning. Contact a cleaning crew and have them stand by. Maybe we’ll need them tonight, maybe in the morning. But they need to be ready. All the rest of this”—she gestured at the flooded yard, the pipes, the throng of people—“get it fixed. Spend money. Make it happen.”

  Middleton had been listening to Meredith take charge of the situation, and then there were simply a few missing seconds.

  Middleton realized he’d lost track of his surroundings. He drifted through the moment in time, dazed, as if the moment had been lifted from the flow of time and set on a high shelf. His feet were wet and cold. He looked down, saw the water over his ankles. He was gently being pulled along the walkway to the front door of his new home.

  Meredith smiled back at him. “It’s okay. Come on.” Her voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a deep well.

  He turned his head slowly, looking around dreamily, and caught sight of a small block building the size of a cottage. It was surrounded by new hedges, almost as if the hedges were meant to hide the building, or would eventually when the hedges filled out. He didn’t remember that building from the original designs.

  A door opening and closing. The outside racket muffled to almost nothing.

  Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

  The foyer had been designed to make a man feel small. The ceiling vaulted high above them, a gleaming modern chandelier overhead, lengths of metal crisscrossing at odd angles and brilliant globes. Wide hallways led off in three directions toward the three different wings of the dwelling.

  Middleton blew out another long sigh and slowly sank into a sitting position on the cold tile floor. His new house felt immense around him. There was a strange reverence, almost like it was some weird temple. Everything was white and futuristic and sterile.

  Meredith’s soft fingertips on his back. “Welcome home.”

  11

  “I’ve hacked into the rental car company’s computer and removed your name,” Bryant said, “and replaced it with a fake.”

  “Thanks,” Cavanaugh said.

  “How did you happen to wreck it?” Bryant asked. “You got the insurance, didn’t you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “What about the girl?”

  Cavanaugh cleared his throat. “We’re working on it.”

  “You lost her again, didn’t you?”

  “I said we’re working on it. This isn’t like your cushy office job. What are you going to tell the kid?”

  “That you’re working on it, I guess.”

  “Good,” Cavanaugh said. “Call us if you get a hit on her.” He hung up.

  “Pass the wine,” Ernie said. It came out Pad da wine. In addition to the tape across his nose, he now had a bandage wrapped around the top of his head.

  In fact, all three of them had similar bandages around their heads. The trio drew stares, and Cavanaugh felt like a fucking moron.

  Cavanaugh filled his own wineglass from the carafe, then passed it to Ernie. They’d found a family-style Italian joint and had spent the last half hour passing around dishes of spaghetti and sausage and garlic bread. The carafe was full of a decent house Chianti.

  “How many stitches you get?” Ike asked him.

  “Four.” The corner of that fucking suitcase had caught him just right on the forehead. It had hurt like a bitch. “You?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Jesus,” Cavanaugh said. “Although it did look like you smashed the shit out of the windshield.”

  “I don’t even remember it,” Ike said. “One second I’m driving, then the next thing I know, you guys are dragging me through the park.”

  “FYI,” Ernie said. “You’re heavy.”

  They ate, drank wine.

  When the coffees arrived, Cavanaugh sat back and said, “Guys, we need to talk.”

  “So talk,” Ike said.

  “I’m serious,” Cavanaugh said. “Just us three. Okay?”

  Ike and Ernie exchanged looks.

  They understood what he meant. Cavanaugh had hired on some additional muscle for this job. Some of them were watching Berringer’s apartment, others his workplace. More following up on other leads. Footwork that probably wouldn’t amount to much, but they needed to cover all bases. They were soli
d guys with references, but they weren’t inner-circle material.

  Ernie, Ike, and Cavanaugh went back a ways. Cavanaugh had met Ernie in stir when doing a stretch for protection. When they got on the outside again, Ernie introduced him to Ike. So when Cavanaugh said he had something for the ears of the inner circle only, they sat up and paid attention.

  Cavanaugh asked, “You like our current boss?”

  By mutual understanding, they never used Middleton’s name. You never knew who could be listening.

  “Never met the guy,” Ernie said.

  “Just … okay, fine,” Cavanaugh said. “I’m not talking about him personally. I’m talking about our current employment situation.”

  “Oh.” Ernie sipped Chianti, shrugged. “Yeah. I mean hand-holding is easy money. I mean not this particular job we’re on at the moment, but usually it’s low stress and the money is good.”

  Hand-holding was what they called jobs they did for the mega-rich. Men like Middleton—ridiculously powerful and influential billionaires—always attracted problems. They had legions of people at their disposal to handle these problems: lawyers and accountants and private detectives and security guards. But often there were times these people simply couldn’t get the job done. A very pregnant bimbo who needed to be “persuaded” to drop a paternity suit. Newspaper reporters who needed to be “convinced” there was nothing really newsworthy where they were poking their noses and should move on. Business rivals who needed to find another business.

  The rich and the powerful had become accustomed to getting their own way. Bending the rules? Don’t be ridiculous. They paid men like Cavanaugh to bend the rules for them.

  “We ain’t been working for him that long,” Ernie pointed out. “He seems pretty clean.”

  Cavanaugh didn’t mention what he’d arranged to happen to Marion Parkes in the joint. Even the inner circle didn’t need to know everything. The fewer ears that heard things meant the fewer loose lips to squawk. But maybe he would tell them after all. The kid had a ruthless streak in him that wasn’t obvious, but it was there. The kid could be dangerous. But he wouldn’t mention it to the boys unless he thought it would help him make his pitch.

  “Finding this girl is the first real test,” Ernie said. “If this sort of thing is typical…”

  “Then I’d want a raise,” Ike said. “Supposed to be an easy gig for easy money, remember.”

  “He does pay us good,” Cavanaugh said.

  Ike shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “So, okay, you say easy work for easy money,” Cavanaugh said. “So what’s the easiest work of all?”

  “Slapping hookers for a pimp?” Ernie said.

  “Jesus, what? No.” Cavanaugh rolled his eyes. “Try to class it up a little, will ya?”

  “You tell us, then,” Ike said. “What’s the easiest work?”

  “Not working at all,” Cavanaugh told them.

  “What are talking about?” Ernie asked. “Just becoming a hobo or something?”

  “Fuck that,” Ike said. “I have a kid at Dartmouth.”

  “No, idiots, I’m talking about retirement. What if your biggest concern every day was deciding what flavor margarita you wanted while lounging on some tropical beach?”

  “I burn too easy for the beach,” Ike said. “I got Irish skin.”

  “Whatever.” Cavanaugh waved his hand impatiently. “Sucking back some beers on the porch of your trout-fishing mountain cabin. Whatever you like.”

  Ike looked doubtful. “I don’t know. Cabin in the mountain sounds like I’d be in for a lot of snow. I don’t like snow.”

  “Jesus, whatever you want is what I’m saying,” Cavanaugh said.

  “I’d play a shitload of golf,” Ernie said. “I’d need new clubs.”

  “There you go.” Cavanaugh was talking to Ike but gesturing at Ernie. “Whatever your perfect idea of a permanent vacation is. Easy living.”

  “Well, I guess you’d need to bank some serious cash for that,” Ike said.

  Cavanaugh thrust a professorial finger into the air. “Exactly.”

  The light came on in Ernie’s eyes. “The Japanese.”

  Cavanaugh tapped the tip of his nose. “This guy’s catching on.”

  “Well, I’m not,” Ike said. “The Japanese what?”

  “You were busy driving and didn’t hear her,” Ernie said. “The Japanese offered her two million for it.”

  Ike shrugged and spread his hands in a What are you talking about? gesture. “Two million for what?”

  “Hey, hey, keep it down,” Cavanaugh said.

  Ike leaned in, lowered his voice. “Two million for what?”

  “Getting the girl is only half the deal,” Ernie reminded him. “Also she’s got something. Intellectual property and property … uh … propinary…”

  “Proprietary technology,” Cavanaugh finished for him.

  “Right,” Ernie said. “That.”

  “Two million three ways is a pretty damn good payday,” Ike said. “But I don’t smell retirement.”

  “I’m just saying, if the Japanese will pay that much, then maybe the Russians will pay more? The Chinese?” Cavanaugh shrugged. “Big crime isn’t armored car heists anymore. It’s all this cyber shit and high tech and industrial espionage. My guess is that our employer would pay the most of anybody just to keep it from the competition.”

  “If we crossed him, I doubt he’d be our employer anymore,” Ike said.

  “That’s why we have to make sure the payment is big enough,” Cavanaugh said. “We do this, there’s no going back.”

  Ernie stared into his coffee cup. It had gone cold. “I’m sitting here with a broken nose and a bandage around my head. Playing golf every day sounds pretty good.”

  * * *

  The first place didn’t work out.

  The second place was willing to do it cash only, no questions asked. Emma peeled enough hundreds from her bankroll for the entire night. The pay-by-the hour hotel in Queens was called the Wayfarer’s Retreat, and at least three hookers came in and out of the lobby while the bored guy at the front desk handed Francis and Emma their keys.

  The lobby had likely not been refurbished since the hotel had been built in 1970-whatever. The halls were dim and gray. There was a faint smell like stale beer. The muffled sounds of adults at play came from some of the rooms they passed. Francis walked on, looking straight ahead and feeling embarrassed.

  The room itself was surprisingly warm and inviting if a bit garish. The burgundy wallpaper had a fake velvety texture. Paintings in ornate gold-painted, wooden frames depicted nude Rubenesque ladies reclining on overstuffed chaise lounges. A king-sized canopy bed. Lots of tassels and extra pillows. A flat-screen TV hung on the wall opposite the bed.

  “I need to pee.” Emma went into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.

  Francis sighed heavily and flopped on the bed. His wallet dug into his hip. He fished it out of his back pocket and put it on the bedside table next to the phone. He kicked off his shoes. Francis realized he was utterly exhausted, wrung out like an old dish rag. Nonstop stress and fleeing danger and fearing for your life would do that, he supposed. Various aches began to seep into every limb and joint. But the bed felt so good. The mattress was cheap, but he didn’t care. He felt his eyelids sag.

  The bathroom door opened two inches, and Emma put her face against the crack. “I want a shower. You need to get in here first?”

  “Go ahead.”

  The door clicked shut again. Then the sound of running water.

  Francis thought to check his email, remembered his phone had been boot-stomped and tossed into the bushes. He sighed.

  He reached for the remote, flipped on the TV. Apparently, the cost of the room included full porn privileges. He kept flipping channels until he found a local newscast. He watched, thinking maybe they’d mention the car chase and wreck in Central Park, but sleep tugged at him again, and in seconds, he dozed.

  His eyes popped open.
Had it only been a few seconds? Francis realized the water shutting off in the bathroom had woken him.

  Emma emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a fluffy oversized towel wrapped around her, hair wet and slicked back.

  Francis averted his eyes back to the television, began flipping channels. “Listen, eventually we’re going to need some plan to—”

  “Wait! Shut up. Go back to that.”

  Francis blinked. “Go back to what?”

  She crossed the room in two quick steps, holding her towel closed with one hand and snatching the remote away from Francis with the other. She backtracked a couple of stations until she found what she wanted, thumbing the volume up a few notches.

  It was some sort of interview show. A smartly dressed Megyn Kelly type sat across the desk from a young go-getter in an expensive suit. They were already in mid-conversation.

  “—pretty much always happens that way,” the go-getter was saying. “We go through long periods of steady technological advancement, but then wham, we stumble upon a discovery or an invention that takes us forward exponentially. I feel we’re on the verge of something very similar in the computing industry, especially in the way we sort and analyze data.”

  “And you claim you’re going to lead this charge?” the journalist asked. “Some might say that’s a pretty big boast. Especially from someone so young.”

  Polite laughter from the go-getter. “I get that a lot. Trust me.”

  “In fact, some call you ‘the kid,’ yes?”

  Francis noticed a slight twitch in the go-getter’s left eye. More polite laughter. “Well, it’s not a nickname I encourage. I feel my accomplishments have and will continue to speak for themselves, and eventually my youth won’t be an issue.”

  Francis climbed out of bed and left her to watch the interview. In the bathroom, he unzipped, urinated. Her clothes hung on a hook behind the door. When he washed his hands, he glanced over and saw Emma’s panties and socks hanging on the towel rack. They’d been rinsed and wrung out and hung to dry. Francis felt a surprise pang of disappointment that the panties were simple and white and in no way alluring.

  What are you doing here? Are you insane?