by Dan Taylor
Who does that leave?
Six months ago I foiled the plans of a trio of dimwitted criminals, but they’re safely behind bars now. Unless they’ve hired someone on the outside to get to me? But that doesn’t make any sense. If they had, I’m pretty sure I’d be lying in a shallow, unmarked grave, my body so rotten that even the worms would pass on eating me.
Is there anyone else?
I don’t really have any friends. I was even more of a dick than I am now when I was in college, so no one stayed in touch with me. And people don’t really make friends with other people at work. I always felt a little creepy whenever I asked to hang out with Gerry. And making friends in a bar just seems desperate.
I’m clutching at straws. I need to find out what happened to me during the last week and find out what happened after I got drugged on Saturday night. Maybe whatever I did will lead back to the culprit.
I start formulating a plan for investigating this, putting a mental asterisk next to this squash pro job I was supposed to start on Monday, when I hear a slap followed by a scream, coming from kitchen.
6.
I CLIMB OUT of the booth and rush to the door marked KITCHEN. It also reads STAFF ONLY, but I figure this is an emergency, so I go through.
I go down a short hallway and then turn right into the kitchen. Standing next to the oven, a crazed look in his eyes, his forearm wrapped around Grace Black’s neck and one of his hands clamped against her mouth, is the chef and owner of the diner, Grace’s husband.
“You Jake?” he says.
I glance over the pass to the right, into the dining area, noting the absence of any other customer in the diner. “Yeah.”
“Was she flirting with you, Jake?”
“Slow down, buddy. I don’t think we’re on a first-name basis, yet. But if I come here often enough we might get there.”
Grace starts thrashing and his grip tightens around her throat.
Her eyes bulge out and she goes a shade of blue I don’t like. Time to get serious.
He shouts, “Answer the question!”
“I will if you just loosen your grip on the lady’s throat a little, so that she can breathe.”
He does. “Now answer the question.”
I sigh. “I have to admit, we were flirting with each other a little.”
His grip tightens again. “That’s it. You and this bitch are dead!”
“Wait a minute! Don’t you want to hear the details?”
In the movies, the guy finding out about his wife’s infidelity is always obsessed with knowing the details. It seems counterintuitive—the last thing I’d want to know is what positions they’d done it in or if they loved each other—but there must be a reason for all these writers writing the same stuff.
He asks, “Why would I want to know the details?”
Turns out they were wrong, at least about this guy.
I say, “I just thought you might be interested.”
He shakes his head. “You sick fuck. Now back off and wait for me to strangle this bitch, so that I can kill you next.”
I glance down at the hobs to my left. On one of them is a cast iron frying pan. I say, “I’m not going to do that.”
He furrows his brow. “Why not?”
“Now what kind of guy would I be if I let some maniac husband strangle his wife over some harmless flirting?”
He thinks a second. “I know. A sensible guy.” He seems satisfied with his answer.
“A sensible guy who’ll wait for his turn to be strangled and not take the opportunity to smash the maniac husband over the head with a cast iron frying pan?”
Where he went wrong is he’s probably seen this scene in some movie. Some guy with a hostage, having control over the guy confronting him because of the threat of death or great harm to the hostage. But the vital missing ingredient is a gun or some other weapon that could kill the hostage instantly. The only weapons this guy has are his burly forearms.
So without another moment’s thought, and while he’s trying to compute the lengthy last bit of dialog, I take the cast iron pan and smash him over the head with it.
He looks at me wide-eyed, his eyes glistening with confusion, shock, and downright anger, the latter probably from having been hit with his own kitchenware. Then the drowsiness hits. He’s losing his grip on Grace as he sways from side to side. She wriggles out and comes and stands next to me. We both watch his funny little dance.
“Is he unconscious?” Grace asks.
“I don’t think so. His eyes are still open.”
They are, but I wouldn’t exactly describe him as being fully conscious, if I’m to base that assessment purely on the appearance of his eyes. They’re open, sure, and they’re pointing this way at me. But he’s not looking at me.
We both wait for him to go down.
“Should I go over and prod him?” I ask.
“What if he hits his head on the floor when he falls?”
I glance at her. “I think it’s a little late for being concerned about head trauma.”
“Good point.”
“Though we should probably protect him from further damage. You stand behind him, and I’ll push him backwards.”
I put down the frying pan on the stainless steel worktop to my right and go and position myself behind him. Grace counts down from three and then goes to give him a shove, but instead of him falling backwards, he grabs her again, reasserting his strangle hold, though without the same force.
I say, “Now why did you have to go and do a thing like that?” as I pick up the frying pan. I hit him again, producing a sickening clonk, and he falls like a gut-shot bear, nearly crushing Grace.
She wriggles out from under his unconscious body and stands up, puts her hands on her hips. “You could have got him off of me before hitting him.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I tip my imaginary hat at her. “You’re welcome, ma’am.”
She puts her hair back in place the best she can. Then says, “Thanks, I suppose.”
“Okay. Now I’ll be going. I’ll leave money for the pancakes, bacon, and coffee by the cash register.”
I manage to take two steps before Grace does something that surprises the hell out of me. She pulls me over to her and kisses me and slaps my face at the same time.
I pull away. “What was that for?”
She’s breathing heavily. “The kiss or the slap?”
“Both.”
“The kiss was for saving me from that bear of a man and the slap was for trying to run out and leave me with the same bear of a man who’ll wake any minute now.”
“Okay. I’ll help you put him in a storage room or whatever before I leave.”
I realize something, and the look of surprise on her face tells me she’s just realized the same thing. Her hand is on my ass.
It must’ve sneaked there during the kiss.
She pulls it away and brushes down her uniform. Then she says, “I don’t know what came over me. I’m a married woman.” Mrs. Conviction.
I step away from her and start pulling Mr. Black by his arms. “If you don’t mind, we can save the discussing of your marital woes till after we’ve secured your husband behind a heavy storage room door.” I let his arms drop. “Do you have one, like the one in The Shining? One that you can secure from the outside?”
“I think so. There’s one by the back exit.”
“Grab his legs.”
She does and I grab his arms. We pull him laboriously, she directing the way.
Finally she says, “Stop.”
We drop him and his head thumps against the tiled floor. We look at each other and shrug.
I look behind me, find a flimsy-looking wooden door. I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen The Shining?”
She frowns.
“Never mind. At least tell me you can lock it.”
She bends down and pulls a large key ring off her husband’s pants, ripping the belt loop in the process. “I can now.”
<
br /> Upon opening the door, I discover not nearly enough space to store this man. “I don’t think you can fit another can of beans in there, Grace.”
She steps over her husband and pokes her head in. “You’re right. What should we do?”
“Do you have another storage room?”
“There’s a walk-in refrigerator and freezer.”
“Are either of those big enough to store him in?”
“I think so.”
We’re not complete monsters, so we drag him into the refrigerator. I resist the temptation to say that he can “cool off in there.”
With the door secured, I say, “Okay, Grace. Good luck with all your future endeavors. I really should be going.”
I start heading for the back exit, but I’m stopped by Grace again. “Wait. Don’t you want to have breakfast?”
I turn and look at her. “I should really get going. And you should call the cops. Tell them about the domestic abuse and that some trucker helped you out. If they ask if he mentioned where he was headed, say Alaska with a haul of frozen fish.”
“Smart.” She smiles weakly.
Old Hancock has a soft spot for a weak smile on a pretty face.
So I ask, “Do you want to come?”
Her face lights up and she immediately starts taking off her pinafore. “Well, I had planned working here all day, but helping you out in your investigation sounds better to me.”
7.
NOW I’M PRETTY sure we were talking about breakfast. Completely sure, in fact. I wait until she’s locked up the diner before addressing the issue of what I meant by “Do you want to come?” I’ll confront the situation head on, like a man. Tell this woman, even though she’s attractive and everything, that I don’t need a fifth wheel. And that she’s better off spending the day sorting out her own life, not helping me discover what happened during the last seven days of mine.
“Grace,” I begin, and turn her towards me by taking her by the arm. She looks at me with eyes as big as saucers, pretty eyes, like a Chihuahua’s. I scratch my neck, rethinking my wording. “So, what do you think you’ll do after breakfast?”
She punches me on the arm. “Help you, dummy.”
“See, there’s a problem with that. I’m not very good company. And you have a little domestic situation that you need to deal with, and forthwith.”
Forthwith? I really need to stop watching period dramas on BBC America.
She really knows how to use those big, shiny Chihuahua eyes. “You seem pretty good company to me. And I figured I’d just leave him in there. You know, let him cool off.” She chuckles and I can’t help myself.
She just cracked the exact joke I thought about cracking. Shit. We really are made for each other.
“I think we should go and get your story straight while we eat breakfast, and then phone the police.”
“Nah. Don’t think I’ll do that. I never want to see that son of a bitch again. I’ll make an anonymous call to the police so they can let him out, and he can decide whether he wants to tell the police on me. Which he won’t. Don’t worry yourself. Rebel’s a real coward.”
“Grace, I don’t think you’re listening to me…wait, did you say his name is Rebel?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Imaginative parents.” I pause, thinking about how I can put this delicately. “Anyway, Grace. I’m afraid we’re going to have to go with my plan. I’ve got enough on my plate, as much as I appreciate the offer of help.”
“If you appreciate the offer, then why don’t you accept it? I’ve been stuck in that diner for most of my adult life, helping that son of a bitch with his business. We never close. Only for a few days during the holidays. I’ve never been on vacation, and I work double shifts most days, and have to do his cooking and clean the apartment at night. I’ve not had a day’s worth of excitement since I was nineteen. Would you really deny me that today?”
I try and say I would, I have to, but how can I, after that pathetic tale? I sigh, then look her up and down, and say, “Okay. But we’ll have to get you out of that waitress’s uniform.”
She hugs me and kisses me on the cheek. I hope I don’t live to regret this.
8.
UPON ACCEPTING GRACE’S offer of help, I suggest we take a cab to Hollywood Boulevard, which my apartment building is on, and eat at a diner there. I know a great place.
Grace says, “Don’t be silly. We can take the Winnie Pooh over there.”
She points to a Winnebago in the parking lot.
I say, “Is that yours?”
“It was a present from Rebel for my nineteenth birthday.”
We’re driving in it now, down Los Feliz Boulevard. We went over a speed hump half a mile back, and the “Winnie Pooh,” as Grace calls it, shook like we were experiencing a major earthquake.
“I hope you’re not going to regret this, Jake?” Grace repeats.
I say, “Not at all. I’ve never ridden in one of these things before.”
Ignoring what I said, or at least I think she is, she shrieks with excitement at the top of her lungs. “I feel so alive! I was so depressed back there. I finally feel free.”
“That’s good, Grace.”
“Rebel was terrible in bed and had a tiny penis, but at least he beat on me every day.” She giggles.
I preferred her when she had that “aloof from the world” thing going on. It’s just before seven. Maybe by nine I’ll be awake enough to be able to tolerate not-depressed Grace.
“So, tell me more about this investigation,” Grace says, calming down.
“Not much to tell so far, really. I woke up this morning, realized I haven’t a clue what I’ve done for the last week.”
“That’s insane. What do you think happened?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where are we headed after breakfast?”
“As I mentioned, we need to get you some new clothes. I’ll get a shower at my place as you change, and then we’ll head on up to Beverly Hills, to a squash club I was supposed to be starting work at on Monday.”
“You play squash, Jake?”
“Not once in my life, but I decided on a career change. Being a pro at a squash club sounded like it might be fun.”
“Didn’t you get found out straightaway?”
“That’s what my shrink said…” Wait a minute. I’ve just thought of another person who I need to contact. Grace Black might have poor taste in vehicles and men, and she probably has very little disposable income—none, now that she just help me knock out and trap her wage-paying husband in a walk-in refrigerator—but she might be more help than I initially thought. She’ll provide unique perspective.
I look to my right at her and find her trying to wipe away a bug that’s stuck to the Winnie Pooh’s windshield with her thumb. And from the inside. Okay, very unique perspective.
While she’s picking at it, she says, “You have a shrink?”
My relationship with my shrink is a unique one. Before I explain the complexities of it to Grace Black, I offer a few words of advice. “Keep your eyes on the road, Grace! You just nearly hit a pedestrian.”
“I was miles away, silly.”
“I could see that. And that bug’s on the outside.”
She stops thumbing at it. “I knew that. There was something on the inside of the windshield, right where the bug’s at. I’ve taken it away now.”
I shake my head, and don’t point out that if the bug’s impairing her view of that part of the windshield, wiping something away at the same place on the inside won’t help her view any. I remain quiet, choosing to take a rest from Grace’s unique perspective.
But I only a get couple seconds’ break.
“So, tell me why a man like you has a shrink,” Grace says.
“It’s a long story.”
“I got time.”
“She didn’t start out as my shrink. We had a different arrangement before I employed her in that capacity.”
She frowns. “Like
what?”
“Dr. Hannah Rogers is a high-class call girl who specializes in role-play experiences. I paid her one time to dress up as the shrink from The Sopranos, and things kinda went from there.”
“She’s a hooker?”
“Call girl.”
“What does that mean? A whore, but without the disease?”
“That’s a good a definition as any, I guess.”
“Is she good, as a shrink, I mean?”
“Surprisingly good for a woman without a doctorate.”
“Oh.”
If there’s one thing that I’ve learned during my thirty-seven years, it’s that “oh” has a vast range of definitions in a young lady’s vocabulary. I usually avoid peeling the oh-onion, but this time I can’t resist. Grace Black will be the death of me.
“What do you mean by ‘oh’?”
“Nothing.”
“Come on. What is it?”
“You said a woman without a doctorate. That’s quite a misogynistic thing to say.”
“I meant she’s good for someone without formal training. She just happens to be a woman.”
“Oh.”
I leave it this time.
“Anyway, I just remembered. We should probably check with her.”
“Did you have an appointment booked for last week?”
“Good point. I didn’t. I suppose I could have arranged one last week and not remember. Maybe we’ll hit her up later.” I think a second. “Give me five minutes. I need time to think about other avenues we can investigate.”
You’ll be astonished to learn that Grace manages to be quiet for a whole minute. Until she looks out of the window to her right, says, “There’s a homeless man over there. He has no shoes. Can you believe that, Jake?”
Unique perspective.
9.
WE MAKE IT to Hollywood Boulevard without having mowed down any pedestrians with the “Winnie Pooh” and without having bought “not-fancy, but practical” shoes for any bums along the way.
