by Dan Taylor
I bring my knee up and make impact with Andre’s eyebrow, sending him falling backwards. He lands with a bump on his butt.
“I’ll never accept this. As soon as you let me go, my first priority will be to contact Grace and make her remember. I’ll do whatever I can.”
Andre stands up and dabs at his eyebrow with his knuckle, checking for blood, as he breathes heavily through his nose. One of his nostrils is whistling. Under other circumstances I’d tell him to quit with the tenor sax. But this is a grave situation. I’m also breathing heavily through my nose. It’s like the nose-breathing contest at the Summer Olympic Games, only less funny.
“I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this, Mr. Hancock.”
“Come to what?”
He ignores my question and takes what looks like a TV remote out of his pants pocket.
“What are you going to do, make me watch hours of daytime TV until I give in?”
Without saying a word, he points the remote at me and presses a button.
I feel nothing at first, and then a strange sensation in my chest starts to develop. Like heartburn. It intensifies until it feels like a red-hot poker is being jammed into my heart. It hurts so much that I wet myself a little. But that’s the last thing on my mind.
“Make it stop!” I say through gritted teeth.
“It smarts, doesn’t it, Mr. Hancock.”
I lose control totally and wet the bed big time.
“A little.”
He stops pressing the button and the pain subsides.
Andre explains, “Attached to your heart is a device that emits an electrical pulse. Like a pacemaker, but a souped-up version. If I had carried on pressing the button, your heart would’ve exploded, and you would’ve died as a consequence.”
“Yeah, kinda figured that last part out, but thanks anyway.”
Andre continues, “You go anywhere near Grace, or anyone else you’ve encountered today, we’ll find out. And this time I won’t change the channel, if you catch my drift.”
His metaphor’s a little mixed-up, but I do.
“You son of a bitch.” I think a second. “What stops me from getting this thing removed?”
“We have eyes in places that even the sun doesn’t shine, Mr. Hancock.”
There’s gotta be a better way to say that.
Andre finishes with, “Is our arrangement fully clear, Mr. Hancock?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.”
He unlocks the handcuffs and I get off the bed.
“Make sure that remote doesn’t get into the wrong hands,” I say.
“We’ll keep it safe, Jake.”
I start walking towards the door, when I’m there, Andre says, “I take it you will no longer be working for the Agency as a P.I.”
I turn and look at him. “You’ve got to be freaking kidding me.”
“I thought as much.”
35.
THE NEXT COUPLE days are full of bongs, strong Belgian beers, call girls, and endless episodes of Frasier. In short, I make a weekend at Charlie Sheen’s house seem like a family trip to the fairground. I don’t watch the earlier episodes, the ones where he has a mullet long enough even a Canadian hockey player would be embarrassed of its length. Watching those would hurt too much. They’d remind me of Grace, as she’d be equally perplexed at the man’s suspect haircut. Not that I need any reminding. I’m on a mission—not to destroy myself, I’m not one for self-pity—but to forget. And in the best way I know how.
None of it helps. The bongs aren’t packed enough. The call girls aren’t dumb enough. The episodes of Frasier aren’t funny enough. Okay, they are. Frasier’s awesome. But in between the laughing, I cry, I smash plates against the wall, I stagger around my living room, singing ‘Lady in Red’ at the top of my lungs. I never thought a Patrick-heavy episode of SpongeBob SquarePants could be so emotionally taxing.
Truth is, losing Grace has left a gaping hole in my life. I only knew her for one morning. I know I’m being silly, but I can’t shake the feeling that I lost someone special. Would our friendship have developed into something more serious? The not knowing is killing me. The knowing I’ll never find out is driving me crazy.
I wake up on Tuesday very much the same way I woke up in that motel room on Sunday: hungover, squinting because of bright lights, not recognizing the room I’m in. Okay, that last part isn’t true, as I’m in my bedroom, but the rest is eerily similar. I panic a couple seconds, pat the empty side of the bed. Grace isn’t there.
After breakfast I make a decision, one that only Old Hancock would be stupid enough to make.
I go out of my apartment building, under the pretense of going out for more Belgian beer. Sure enough, there’s a car with a black paint job and blacked-out windows parked across the road, containing Agency employees who will no doubt tail me everywhere I go.
I do buy more beer, but when I get back, I don’t start drinking it. Instead, I make a phone call.
35.
IT’S WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON. Right on time, the intercom buzzes. I buzz the guy in and unlatch the door.
A couple minutes later, there’s a knock.
I open it, taking in the guy’s appearance.
“Jesus, this is freaky,” I say. I step aside, letting him in.
“Ugh, is this the right place? Are you Hancock?” he asks.
“No, you are.”
He frowns.
“You know what I mean. Walk over to the sofa and back.”
He does.
I give him pointers: “Your walk’s a little effeminate. It needs more swagger. I want it to say, I don’t have a care in the world and I fuck like a tank. Only with a slight limp, like you were shot in the hip or thigh or whatever a couple days ago.”
“Fuck like a tank? How can a walk say that?”
I demonstrate mine.
“I think I can pull it off.”
He better. He may not know it, but this actor, who I’ve hired for the afternoon and who looks just like me, is going to be completing the most important and challenging gig of his career. He’s going to be playing Jake Hancock, ex-P.I. to the stars.
I say, “Go into my bedroom and select an outfit.”
Before he does, he hands me the things I told him to pick up on the way.
While he gets changed, so do I. Only I’m in the bathroom.
We come out at the same time and take in each other’s appearance.
I say, “I wouldn’t have worn those pants with that shirt, but they won’t know that.” I take in his appearance again. “Jesus, you look just like me. Would it be totally weird if I said you look handsome?”
“A little, I guess. And who are they?”
“Just some guys who’ll be following you. They’ll look like FBI types, but they’ll be so good at tailing you, you won’t even know they’re there. If they stop, phone me immediately and use the code phrase Patrick has left the Crusty Crab.”
“If they’re so good at tailing that I won’t know they’re there, how will I know if they stop?”
I sigh. “You’ve got the looks, but you don’t have the brains. Try not to do anything so stupid you give away that you’re not probably Hollywood’s best private investigator.”
He thinks a second. “What do you mean by nothing stupid?”
“I’m not going to be able to hold your hand on this, Hancock.”
“You can call me Gregory. No need for that ‘Hancock’ stuff.”
“Gregory?” I shake my head. “We do not look like a Gregory.”
“Why not?”
Greg’s not the sharpest cookie in the cookie jar, so I don’t bother explaining it to him.
But I do run the plan by him. Easiest two hundred bucks he’ll ever make. Wednesday’s my midweek day off. Five days is a long stretch, so it’s nice to take a break midweek. When I haven’t got a gig, I hit a few bars, talk to out-of-work actresses, and probably get laid. Failing that, I end up at some titty bar.
Pr
oxy Hancock’s just got to spend the afternoon being awesome. Sound easy? You try being an asshole and still appealing to women. It’s a fine balance to strike.
The agency I hired him from assured me this guy’s good. I wanted a method actor, some guy who commits to the role like a big girl commits to sex. But this guy won’t even let me call him Hancock. I wanted Daniel Day-Lewis, but I ended up with Brendan Frasier.
I remember something my dad used to tell me: when you have apples, make apple sauce.
I have no idea what that means, but now seems like a good time to mention that.
I wish him luck and give him a few extra pointers before he starts his gig.
“I don’t get that last one. How can I ‘exist without existing’?” he asks when we’re at the door.
“You’re the actor. You work it out. And good luck.”
I watch Proxy Hancock limp down the hallway. Son of a bitch. He’s got it, the swagger. Maybe I underestimated Greg, just like his parents did when they gave him that goofy name. Guy’s walking just like me. Like he fucks like a tank. Whatever the hell that means.
36.
I’M SITTING IN FRANCIS’S cab in the parking lot of Greasy Fingers Diner. You remember Francis, right? The cab driver who drove me from the motel to this very diner on Sunday morning.
“Are you sure no one tailed us?” I ask.
He looks around before saying, “If they did, they did a terrible job.”
“How so?”
“There’s not a single other car in the parking lot, apart from that Winnebago over there.”
There it is. My heart aches. The Winnie Pooh.
On the way here, Francis was full of questions about what happened after he dropped me off. Did I find out why I couldn’t remember the last week? Did I find out who that other guy was? And last and probably least, did I get to the bottom of why a seemingly discerning man would go for the breakfast menu at Taco Bell?
I’m staying tightlipped, so I didn’t tell him a word. At least when the risk isn’t worth the reward. Nothing happened, I said. It was all just a misunderstanding. The Agency can have their secrets. But not if it means Grace’s life staying the way it was. I mentioned earlier that I’m the last person you want to tell a secret. I didn’t realize the extent of what I said until now. I’m sitting outside the diner, about to blow the biggest secret I’ve ever known, and with the threat of some lunatic with a remote control—ready to emit a high-intensity electrical pulse directly into my heart, making it explode—if I utter a word of it.
Some secrets aren’t supposed to stay buried.
I tell Francis to wait and get out of the cab and go into the diner.
I get a few funny looks as I go in. There’s a reason why Marky Mark got into acting before middle age. Not even I can pull these threads off, the ones Greg bought for me on the way.
Threads? Still as hip as ever.
I take a seat and look around. I don’t see Grace at first. Some other waitress comes up to me. I’m still choosing, I say. Might be awhile. I wonder if it’s Ms. Full of Shit. The waitress Grace had a few choice words to say about when we first got chatting.
Then Grace comes through the door marked STAFF ONLY. She catches me looking at her, does a double take, but she goes over to a different table. Some guy who’s eating alone. He orders and she smiles the same smile when I ordered on Sunday. She likes him. My heart aches again.
I look over at the kitchen and see Rebel eyeballing them as she takes his order. He’s distracted. Grace must sense it, because she stops flirting and writes down the guy’s order quickly. Then walks over to deliver it to Rebel. He eyeballs her as he takes it.
I go back to looking at the menu. Maybe when Ms. Full of Shit comes back I’ll let her take my order this time.
A couple minutes later, as I’m scanning the menu, the voice that I thought I’d never hear again interrupts me: “Hey, do I know you?”
“No, I don’t think so. This is the first time I’ve been here.”
“No, not like that. Your outfit. Are you in costume?”
“Is it that obvious?” Mr. Sarcastic.
She thinks a second. “Marky Mark, right?” She frowns and then laughs. “I’ve just had the strangest déjà vu. You ever get those?”
“From time to time.”
She nods at the menu. “You’ve been choosing awhile. Nothing on the menu look good?” Eyebrow raise, the type I know well.
“Couple things look like they might be tasty.”
She giggles and then sits down next to me. Just like on Sunday, she asks me to scooch over belatedly. “Let me help you choose.”
“Be my guest.” Old Hancock can’t stop: line after killer line.
“So, where you headed? It’s too early for a costume party.” She pauses. “Wait, let me guess. You don’t look like a cop. You’re probably some sort of private dick. You’re in disguise to stakeout the place or something.”
I lower my voice. “Exactly. Don’t blow my cover.”
She laughs again. “But seriously, why is a handsome guy randomly dressed up as Marky Mark for the afternoon?”
“It sounded like a good idea, but I’m starting to think it was dumb.”
“Is it to impress a lady?” Eyebrow raise again. “Most dumb things guys do are because of a lady.” She nods over at the table where the guy who flirted with her is sitting. “Take that guy.”
“What about him?”
“He was totally flirting with me. Dumb idea.”
“How so?”
“Don’t look, but the guy in the kitchen, that’s my husband. And let me tell you, he’s the jealous type. I had to make a quick exit when taking his order. Rebel—that’s my husband—was probably two seconds away from kicking that guy’s ass.”
“Right. Dumb Idea.”
She looks at the guy with narrow eyes, considering something. “Or maybe not. It would probably be romantic, if he was willing to get his ass kicked for me.” She elbows me in the side, and then whispers, “Just between you and me, my husband’s not up to much. I’m probably better off without him.” She laughs. “Listen to me, telling some complete stranger about my marital issues. And a stranger weird enough to be dressed as Marky Mark without a costume party to go to. It’s just…” Her voice trails off.
“What were you going to say?”
“It’ll sound silly.”
I look down at my ‘90s hip-hop attire. “I think I can handle silly.”
“I was going to say…No, just forget I ever spoke.”
Under my breath, I say, “I’m trying.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘I will.’” I think a second. “Then why do you stay with him? Your husband?”
“I’ve been asking myself the same question the last couple days.”
“And have you come to a conclusion?”
She doesn’t answer, as she’s distracted by the guy looking over at her. Nice type. Kinda guy that settles down and wants the white picket fence in the suburbs, kids, and the guaranteed life insurance policy.
I say, “Looks like that guy might want dessert, too.”
“He’s kinda cute, I guess.” She shakes her head, getting a hold of herself. “Anyway, I should probably take your order.”
“You know what, I think I changed my mind. Would you be offended if I left without eating?”
“Absolutely not.” She lowers her voice to a whisper again. “Between you and me, the food here sucks.”
Grace gets up. “Anyway, it was nice talking to you…”
“Jake.”
“Right, Jake.” She frowns again.
I get up and leave, looking back one last time before I go through the door. Grace has gone back to the table with the nice guy. They’re exchanging a few words. She catches me looking, does a double take again, and then I exit.
I’m nearly at Francis’s cab when I feel something on my shoulder. A hand. I turn around quickly, expecting it to be Rebel.
But
it’s not.
It’s Grace.
She’s breathing heavily, overcome with confusion, panic, something else?
“Jake, right? Are you sure I don’t know you? I have this nagging feeling that we’ve spoken before.” A tear rolls down her cheek, surprising me, and even her. She wipes it away and laughs, feeling silly.
I smile. “Never seen you before in my life.”
“I was going to ask something. But I feel silly for asking it.”
“Go ahead.”
“Geez Louise, I’m going to go beet red when I say this.”
“I won’t mind.”
“I was going to ask if you…” Her voice trails off. “As soon as I spoke to you, I recognized your voice. Like I’d heard it on the radio or something. And even stranger, I can remember you saying, ‘You’re attractive in a strange way, and you’re about the most charming woman I’ve met in a long while.’ That exact wording.”
“The first part sounds like a crummy compliment, which is totally me, but what can I say? It wasn’t. Sorry if I disappointed you, Grace.”
“Oh.”
“Oh” can mean many things when spoken by a young lady. This time I don’t want to think about what it means.
Despite my denying it, Grace doesn’t look totally convinced. “One more question. If I don’t know you, then how do you know my name?”
I smile. “Because it’s right there on your badge, silly dummy.”
She cocks her head to the side at my overfamiliarity, and then looks down. “Silly me. Anyway, that’s about all the embarrassment I can take for one day. I better get back to work, Jake.”
Grace runs back inside. To what? A flirty customer. An angry husband. A walk-in refrigerator that definitely can’t be locked from the outside. They say lightning can’t strike twice in the same place, but I like to think that it can. Six months ago I was saved by a man who was then called Officer Dukes, and pretty much the same thing happened this time. Lightning can strike twice in the same place.
