Damaged Goods

by Heather Sharfeddin

  To Silvie’s relief, he continued on to Dundee, a town in transition from forgotten to the lucky recipient of new industry. The buildings along the main road were a hodgepodge of derelict houses and businesses with sagging porches and overgrown weeds, standing alongside brand-new bistros, gift shops, and tasting rooms with deep inset window boxes.

  The restaurant was a refurbished Craftsman home with dark fir interior and wavy-paned windows. The dining room overlooked the mini-mart and the gas station, and a low-income neighborhood of small houses and trailers on the other side of the road. Hershel ordered a bottle of pinot noir, and she swirled the pale raspberry–colored liquid in her glass the way she’d seen wine tasters do on television cooking shows. Its flavor was tart and she couldn’t manage more than a tiny sip at a time.

  “Can I ask you something?” Hershel said, breaking the silence. “What happened to your father? I assume … he wasn’t around.” When she didn’t immediately answer, he said, “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s okay if you’d rather not say.”

  “I don’t ever know how to answer that question is all.” She watched the way the liquid in her glass subtly changed color in the light as she swirled it.

  “Is he dead?”

  She snorted softly. “No.” She braced up for the truth. “He left. Started over with another woman. He’s got three kids with her.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Ten.”

  “So you have brothers and sisters?” Hershel peered at her over the bottle of wine, solicitous but trepid.

  “Technically they’re my siblings, or half siblings, but I’ve never met them. They didn’t feel like brothers. They didn’t feel like anything. I don’t know them.”

  Hershel poured himself another glass of wine. There was a strange barrier between them now.

  “My dad just didn’t come home one day. He called Mom from wherever he was staying to tell her that he wanted a divorce. Within a few months, he had a new wife. They had kids right away. All boys.”

  “What about your mother?”

  Silvie could hear her father in that short period before he left. You and your goddamn drinking. How much have you had tonight? Her mother had cried inconsolably when he left. “Well, we lost the house. Mom had to file for bankruptcy. That’s when we moved to town and she started waitressing at the bar.”

  “Didn’t your father pay alimony or child support?”

  Silvie felt tears beginning to rush forward. “You have to be sober long enough to file the paperwork and do all the stuff that’s required to get money.”

  “Yeah, but …” Hershel shook his head.

  “I only saw my dad once after he left. He arranged a visit, like he was supposed to. But it was weird. I didn’t know what to say, and neither did he. He took me for a hamburger and watched me eat it.” Her father had sat across the table at Denny’s, drinking coffee, folding and refolding his napkin until it was a shredded mess. That he didn’t eat with her seemed to be the loudest message. He lived in another world. When he looked at Silvie, he would quickly look away again. “We never said anything.”

  “And that was it?” Hershel was leaning forward now, as if frustrated by the absurdity of what she’d shared.

  “That was it.” She wanted to add the part that had slowly dawned on her over the years and cemented itself at her core, but she knew she would cry if she said it aloud. I didn’t matter.

  “Have the pasta—you need to put some meat on those bones.” Hershel tried not to look too long at her.

  She agreed a little too easily, and he wished he’d left it up to her to decide. Her story grew more tragic by the day. Every time she opened up and showed him a new little piece of her world, he found himself wanting to kill another man. First Jacob Castor, now Silvie’s own father. It wasn’t simply an I’d like to kill that bastard feeling but a genuine fingers-around-the-windpipe death grip that he craved. He could see the reddened face and the bulging eyes. Perhaps he was the killer Kyrellis claimed. He didn’t care at this moment. Silvie, though. Silvie deserved better.

  “What about your father?” she asked.

  The question startled him a little. “He passed away about twenty years ago. Cancer.”

  “Sorry. Were you close?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  She sipped her wine, and Hershel missed his father as if he had only just learned of his death.

  “We hunted together.” Hershel smiled down at his glass. “We didn’t talk as much as I wish we had.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just that … I don’t know. We planned trips, prepared the gear, discussed routes and weather. That seemed to be the extent of it.”

  “Better than nothing.” She swirled her wine as the pause stretched uncomfortably long between them. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” she said.

  “It’s okay.”

  “I mean …”

  “I think there must have been more there that I can’t remember. I must have known more about his life—about him.”

  She picked daintily at the pasta, twisting more noodles around her plate than she put into her mouth.

  He looked for something to convince this woman that those terrible days were over now. “Silvie,” he said. “You’re someone truly special. You’ve made my life a lot more interesting.”

  She laughed a girlish, giggly laugh.

  “Interesting in a good way. I have been …” He reached for her hand and caressed her fingers. “Since my accident life has been … odd. It’s like I woke up a different person. I don’t know who that other guy was, but I think he was lonely and I don’t want to be him.”

  “Kyrellis stopped by to see me today.”

  “He what?” Hershel jerked up from his chair to a near stand. “What did he want?”

  “A name.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  “That man’s dangerous. It’s important you understand that.” Hershel took her hand again, but the spark was gone and she rested it limply in his palm. “Silvie, I don’t think you should be working down there where he can just drop in like that.”

  “What?” She pulled her hand away. “I need the money. Besides, it’s nice to be around other people.”

  “I’ll take care of the money—whatever you need.”

  “You sound like Jacob. I don’t need some guy taking care of me.”

  “Some guy?” Hershel reeled. “That’s all I am is some guy?”

  “That’s not what I meant. Besides, you told Carl about the box. That didn’t feel too good, either.”

  Hershel closed his eyes. His head had begun to ache, and he could feel his temper rising. “I’m sorry. It slipped. I didn’t tell him the details, just that Kyrellis has something that belongs to you. I’ve been thinking about Kyrellis. He knows Castor is a cop.”

  “I know. He told me.”

  “Let him figure it out—”

  “Are you out of your mind?” Silvie leaned so far across the table that he could practically touch her face.

  “Just hear me out.”

  She sat back with her arms crossed tightly, refusing to look at him. Her jaw was set in a hard line.

  “Let him come. Let Castor come after Kyrellis, then we turn him in.” He could feel her foot bouncing angrily under the table. “He’s a felon, and once he’s exposed he’ll go to prison. It’ll be over.”

  “What about Kyrellis? What about the photos?” Her words were sharp and direct. “What about the publicity? It’s not you who’d have to suffer the scrutiny. Imagine how that’ll be for me?”

  Hershel swallowed the wine in his glass and refilled it, emptying the bottle. “Okay, maybe it’s not the best idea. But there has to be a way. We just need to think it through.”

  “Hershel, Jacob is the one who’s dangerous. You don’t know him like I do. He won’t go down easy. It isn’t like calling the police and saying, ‘Hey, this guy is breaking the law.’ He is the law.�
�

  “Sweetheart, he’s not. Not here.”

  17

  Carl stomped the mud and gravel out of his boots on the cement stoop of the sale barn, then ducked inside. He’d throw a hot dog on the cooker and then borrow the apartment upstairs until things calmed down at Campo Rojo, which could be when this group of migrants moved on. That would be six weeks at the earliest.

  After supper, he wandered upstairs and unfolded the sofa bed. The room was spacious and had running water and a flush toilet. He plugged the refrigerator in and tested it to see if it cooled. Satisfied, he unplugged it again. He had nothing that required refrigeration. He tinkered with the television, stringing up coat hangers and moving them around the room until he got a semi-decent signal with audio that he could actually understand, then tuned in to the news. In the last segment the anchorwoman mentioned the raid at Campo Rojo, stating that fourteen illegal immigrants had been detained following an assault. It was news, after all. With thousands of migrants shifting through the valley at any given time, people tended to tolerate their presence as if they weren’t actually there. A raid always made a splash.

  He settled onto the bed, hoping he’d find an old rerun of a seventies western. Maybe he’d get lucky and catch a Clint Eastwood flick. He wondered what Silvie had carried in her car that Kyrellis found valuable enough to keep. And why did she believe he would think differently of her if he knew? She was a mysterious girl. Arriving out of nowhere with a murky past and a guard around her so thick and impenetrable he could practically touch it. Was she a prostitute? He doubted it. She didn’t look the part. Her face was still smooth and soft, the way it ought to be in your twenties. Had she lived that sort of life she’d look years older. She didn’t look like a druggie, either. He could spot a fellow junkie a mile off, and she wasn’t one. More likely a gun, given Kyrellis’s line of work.

  “People’s troubles always seem biggest to themselves,” he said aloud.

  He got up and went downstairs, through the warehouse to Hershel’s office, unlocking the door. He stood in the entryway and assessed the aftermath of his boss’s violent temper. He’d never known the man to behave this way, and it had startled and concerned him that afternoon. And now Hershel was home with Silvie, a sweet girl in need of a rescuer.

  Carl leaned down and picked up a file folder. He thumbed through it and then lifted the cabinet back into place. He put the folder in its rightful drawer and picked up another. Why did he work for this man? Why did he care if Hershel Swift’s electricity was turned off or his house was broken into? What had Swift done for him that was a fraction so thoughtful? His arms began to itch.

  Carl suffered a terrible night, but Hershel’s office was put back together by morning. He had pondered Yolanda throughout the darkest hours, wishing he hadn’t left her behind. He should have insisted that she come with him. He despised himself for abandoning her. He managed a little rest between five and eight, then lay in bed thinking again. At nine he made his way downstairs and put on a pot of coffee. He would go back to camp this morning and see for himself how things were. He wouldn’t run away.

  He had just sat down with his coffee when the doorknob jiggled and the large roll-up door shuddered.

  “Hello?” a woman called from outside. “Carl?”

  He unlocked the door and found Silvie, her shoes muddy and her coat wrapped around her as tight as she could make it.

  “You’re freezing. Get in here,” he said, but realized it was scarcely warmer inside the building. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came through the orchard. It’s farther than it looks. I thought I was lost. You can go in circles out there in all those trees. Maybe never get out.”

  “Well, here you are.”

  “Yeah, it’s due east.” She spied the coffee in his hand. “Can I have one of those?”

  Carl poured her a cup as she sat down at the counter. He wandered into the back hallway behind the concession stand and rummaged through the coats that hung in the closet there. He doubted that she would take one, but he pulled out the smallest three he could find. They weren’t his, but they’d been there, untouched, for as long as he’d worked for Hershel.

  “I left Hershel a note saying I’d gone out for a walk.”

  Carl laid out on the counter a down jacket that was so outdated even he recognized the fact, a firefighter’s turnout, which seemed to weigh about eight pounds, and a flannel-lined plaid work shirt that was at least three sizes too big for her. “You need a better coat.”

  “You think I should walk around looking like I just came from a fire?”

  “It’s warm.”

  She took the plaid work shirt and pulled it on over her jacket. The sleeves hung several inches past the tips of her fingers.

  He began rolling them up. “Better than freezing.”

  “I’m glad you were here,” she said, adjusting the collar when he’d finished. “I forgot that it was Sunday until I was in the parking lot, then I figured I’d have to turn right around and start back.”

  He sipped his coffee, and they were both quiet for a moment. He could feel her working up to something as she fiddled with the buttons of her new garment.

  “Remember what you said yesterday?”

  “Barely.”

  “About not judging. About helping me out with Kyrellis?”

  “Yeah. The offer is still here.”

  “Well …” She swirled her coffee. “That box Hershel told you about, it has a bunch of nude photos of me.”

  Carl worked to show no response, as if this were a common situation that he dealt with daily.

  “Not just nude.” She pushed her hair away from her face and took her time. “Pictures from when I was young. Like twelve.”

  He nodded slowly, unable to hide his surprise.

  “And not just nude,” she repeated. “They’re really bad … if you know what I mean.”

  “Okay, you’ve managed to surprise me.” His declaration hung between them like a hideous spider. Then Silvie burst out laughing. Confused, Carl looked over at her. Was she angry? But when their eyes met he laughed, too. Both were suddenly breathless with deep, bellyaching laughter, until tears crested over Silvie’s cheeks.

  As quickly as it started, it was gone. She looked away, her nose a brighter red than it was when she came in.

  “And what does Kyrellis want with them?” Carl realized it was a stupid question.

  “Well, that’s the thing. He wants to know the name of the man who took them. So he can blackmail him.”

  “That sounds like the Kyrellis I know.” Carl set his coffee down and faced Silvie. “Hershel hasn’t had any luck getting them back?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you want me to try?”

  “Do you think you can?”

  “I can try. I can’t promise I’ll be successful, but I might have something that will persuade him.”

  Silvie breathed a hard sigh and closed her eyes. “Please don’t tell Hershel I asked you to help me.”

  “Okay. You can trust me.”

  The sun was peeking through the trees, a brilliant yellow that promised to scour away the cold. As she picked her way beneath the leafless canopy, she determined that once she had the box of photos she’d drive to California and mail them back to Jacob. Then she’d return here and work for a while. Long enough to save some money, get her feet under her. Jacob was angry with her, she knew, but the idea that she’d never see him again, which she was just now considering, made her heart ache.

  As she emerged into Hershel’s yard, the little orange Porsche still waiting for its new tires, he was standing on the porch looking out across the valley as if trying to see her.

  “Morning,” she said, gaining his attention. A look of relief came over his dark face.

  “Good walk?”

  “Yeah. The orchard is peaceful, but huge and muddy.”

  “I was worried.”

  “No need to be.” She felt the warmth of the sun on her ba
ck now as she walked out into the open space next to the house. “I was just feeling a little antsy.”

  “You’ve been into my closet, I see.”

  She’d forgotten the work shirt, and paused to look down at it. Did he know she’d been to the auction barn?

  He studied her. “You’re very beautiful, Silvie.”

  Carl opened Hershel’s office and left the door standing wide in case anyone came in. He routinely handled the man’s affairs, and Hershel wouldn’t be surprised or angry to find him here, leafing through his papers, but the information he sought today was precisely what he chose to overlook on every other day.

  He easily worked the combination on the wall safe and pulled out a small wooden box. He fumbled through his keys, seeking the smallest one, inserted it into the lock, and pulled back the lid. It was full of various receipts and documents. Special information. Occasionally a seller would inadvertently leave a document that could be used to prove that Hershel sold guns without filing the federal paperwork required by law. Against Carl’s advice, Hershel kept these receipts and documents rather than destroying them. Carl never asked why; he guessed he already knew.

  Carl identified several guns that were sold directly to Kyrellis, marked on the bottom of the pages with the dates and the amounts. They were all cataloged this way, some to other dealers, some that were put through the auction to increase the price because Kyrellis, in particular, was cheap. Near the top of the stack was an inventory list that Albert Darling had filled out for State Farm Insurance, which prominently called out a rare antique Winchester rifle. He estimated its value at twenty-five thousand dollars. Darling had left the expired receipt in his storage unit with the gun, which was where Hershel had found it when he liquidated its contents.

  Carl selected a few good examples and went to the copier, where he made duplicates. He returned the originals to the box and put it back in the safe. Then he called Kyrellis.