City of Crime

by Warren Court

  “Where do you want to start?”

  “Let’s start upstairs, work our way down and we’ll end back here. Then I can go over how we’ll do this move for you.” Always speak in the positive, like this move is a done deal. I can hear Ricky Boy in my head.

  She leads me up the carpeted stairway. The walls are papered in pale blue, with matching carpet in every room except the bathroom. I don’t bother with the bathroom; people’s toiletries take a single number two box and towels a couple of number fours. The bedrooms – that’s where the action is. There are four of them. Big place for a lady on her own. One of them is an office. I shine in a home office, being all young and techy. I talk about the care we’ll take with the electronics and tell her that if she wants, we can pack that stuff up for her. She’s noncommittal.

  The master bedroom is like the rest of the house, devoid of character. Absent are any hints about this woman and her situation. On a large, antique dresser are several photos, but they’re all black and white shots of people long gone. The bed is huge, at least a king size. Do they make them bigger? My estimating chart stops at king. The carpet is plush in here and I’m conscious now of my dry but soiled sock. I glance down. There’s a tinge of brown around the toes.

  I stand in the middle of the room and tick off the boxes on my form. Mrs. Lent comes up beside me and presses her body into mine to see what I’m writing. I show her. I can feel the warmth of her body. She’s shorter than me. I can see her curly blonde hair in my peripheral vision. I try to concentrate on my estimate.

  She is attractive. I’d put her in her late thirties, early forties. Intelligent but coy. She has nice firm breasts, and as she led me up the stairs I stared at her tight little arse, which is squeezed into a pair of acid-wash jeans, swishing back and forth. I go over to the closet.

  “Do you mind?” I ask before opening it. That’s my own little touch.

  “No, go ahead.”

  Her clothes occupy almost the entire hanger bar, and there are shoeboxes piled at the bottom. There’s a bit of space left on the bar, and at the end of it is one collared shirt. I assume it’s a man’s. It’s blue with gold insignia on the single breast pocket.

  I quickly mark down two wardrobe boxes and close the closet. Mrs. Lent is still in the middle of the room, waiting patiently. Had I imagined her come-on?

  The next two bedrooms are smaller, nicely appointed but unused. Again, she comes up and stands close to me. I can feel her breathing on my neck. My mind whirls. Does she want it? Do we go back into the main bedroom and go at it on that huge bed? Or here in this nicely appointed, underused room?

  Would I get fired for banging one of the clients? How would they know? It’s not unheard of. The other salesmen and the movers have all got stories. This is my first encounter. Is it an encounter? If I make a play and have misread it, I’ll get canned. Laura will know about it and it’ll blow any chance I have with her.

  With the bedrooms and home office done we head downstairs. I’m picking up the pace, impatient to get this over with. Down we go to the basement. I always do the main floor last. Basement is finished and super clean, sparse, with only a couch and two chairs. A dartboard that looks like it’s been there a long time. Maybe since she moved in? I reckon the house was built in the eighties. It has that garage-forward style. What I wouldn’t give to live here; much better than my one-bedroom apartment in Hamilton. Much better. Maybe I can move in with her in the new house after I become her lover?

  She keeps her distance down in the basement, barely moves away from the foot of the stairs.

  Back on the main floor, head the kitchen. I’m finishing up my spiel; same old routine. The words come out of my mouth automatically. I’m opening the drawers and marking down how many boxes the dishes and glasses will need. All that will translate into an estimated time – the trips the movers will make to and from the truck and then the drive to the new house, where the process is reversed. Normally a house this size would require a twelve-thousand-pound truck, one of our big ones, but the house is sparsely furnished, and with only one occupant I’m thinking we can get away with an eight-thousand-pounder. Still, with the trip out to Brantford and back it’s a really good move. I should be bringing in two of these a week; then I wouldn’t have any problems with Rick and my future would be set.

  “We’ll pack all this up for you if you want,” I tell Mrs. Lent. “At least let us pack the china. You don’t want anything happening to that or the glassware,” I say. “My mother has those exact same Royal Daltons.”

  I take a quick peek out back; there’s nothing to speak of, not even patio furniture. She tells me the garage has a lawnmower, a snowblower and the usual rakes and shovels. I open the adjoining door and look around. There is a shiny brand-new Volkswagen Beetle. Next to it is a sleek blue BMW five-series. Two cars, one woman?

  “Are you on your own here, Mrs. Lent?” I say. If she was going to shock me by getting close, I was going to do a little shocking of my own. Maybe I should even blow this deal; god knows I’ve done that before. Second nature. I’m so good at it I don’t even know I’m doing it while I’m doing it.

  “Yes, most of the time.”

  What the hell does that mean? “You drive both those cars?”

  “The Bug is good on the highway. I just got it for the drive to Brantford.”

  “You’re going to sell the Beemer?”

  “Don’t think so. I’ve had it a long time. I love it, but the gas mileage isn’t as good as the Bug.”

  Great. She’s frugal. Means when I wallop her with the cost of this move, I’m going to get the concerned look as she goes over the numbers, then the smile, and then be shown the door.

  Back in the living room, I resume my seat on the couch. If I had used my head, I would have taken a chair at the dining room table. The lounge chairs in the living room wouldn’t have worked; I need to show her my sales promotion material. Pictures of Jack and his boys. Darryl in a blue suit with thick black lines – he looks like a test pattern. Ricky Boy in a suit way too large for him, big folds in the arms and enormous shoulders. His dad is a big man; maybe it’s a hand-me-down. I could see farmhand Henderson not wanting to throw away a suit. He’s driving a fifteen-year-old rusted-out Jag.

  I sit back on the couch. Sensing I have to go through something with her, Mrs. Lent sits right next to me. I mean right next to me: her thigh is touching mine. The side of her knee is touching mine. Our shoulders are linked. We’re both sitting forward on the couch and I finish up my calculations.

  She smells great. I’m not one for perfumes so I have no clue what it is, but it’s perfect. It blends in nicely with the washed-out pastel look of the room. I can imagine rolling around in the big bed for hours with this little hot-to-trot cougar. Is that what she is? I can’t imagine her hanging out at bars trying to pick up younger men. She’d get eaten alive. Guys who are into that sort of thing would be lining up to take a shot at her. Am I one of those guys?

  I finish my calculation and put the clipboard on the table and turn to her. Our faces are maybe a foot away. Do I have bad breath? I smile at her. She’s smiling at me. Waiting. Seeing if I have the courage to go for it, make a move.

  This is the part of the speech where I don’t even ask for her business; I just tell her I am going to book her a truck for the date she wants. I put the onus on the customer to tell me no, not to do that. Most people do; some don’t. The latter are the ones I want.

  “So, Mrs. Lent, we can definitely—”

  Her phone rings. It’s a land line in the kitchen.

  “Excuse me.” She goes and gets it.

  My feet go cold, like when I stepped in that puddle. I pick up my clipboard and move toward the front door.

  “No thanks, but I’m not interested,” I hear her say, and she comes back into the living room. Sees me at the door.

  “Pesky telemarketer?” I say, and laugh. She gives me a puzzled look.

  “Mrs. Lent, I just have to work this quotation up. I can d
rop it off here later today if that’s all right?” What am I doing – inviting myself over for dinner?

  She sees me to the door.

  I think seriously about driving back to the office and rubbing one out in the bathroom. I’m so jazzed up I might attack Laura in the lunchroom.

  Mrs. Lent distracts me all day. My remaining sales calls in the afternoons are complete bust-ups. I don’t care if I sell them or not. I give them plenty of opportunity to say they’re getting three quotes.

  Around closing time, I look down at my clipboard and see the Lent estimate. The other three estimates I left with the prospects, retaining only the yellow copy. The Lent file is intact, with the white form on top. It just says G. Lent on the file folder; she never gave me her first name. I finish her estimate off in my car and head back over to Fintona Ave.

  She’s gone out; the Bug is in the driveway. It’s getting darker earlier now and her house glows with warm light. With the estimate in hand, I head to her front door. I can hear her moving towards it. Butterflies flit around in my stomach. I put on my best smile. She opens the door. She’s in a bathrobe. Her hair is wet.

  “Mrs. Lent, I’m so sorry for bothering you—” I begin.

  She moves in close to me and kisses me hard. I can smell the Pantene and the Ivory soap, and her skin is warm and wet. I push her back indoors with my lips and my body and kick the door closed behind me.

  THREE

  What’s your first name?” I ask. “All I know is it starts with a G.” I turn on my side and prop myself up on my elbow. We’re lying in the messy sheets on Mrs. Lent’s large bed.

  “Gillian.” She’s on her back, staring at the ceiling.

  “I guessed Gina.”

  Gillian Lent smiles and says, “No, I’m named after my mother.”

  “Do you remember mine?”

  “Stan,” she says and turns to me. Her eyes are beautiful, warm depths of brown. I dive down and kiss her cool lips. They’re as cool as her hand was when we first met. Something stirs down below in me and I fancy another go-around. It’s after seven now. We rushed that first time. There was some foreplay in the foyer, and then I was pulled upstairs. We could have done it on the couch. The drapes were sufficiently pulled. But I was thankful afterwards for the bed. It was comfortable.

  “I assume you’re going to go with Henderson for your move to Brantford?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should get three quotes?”

  “This has never happened to me before,” I say.

  “Really? I seduce just about every man who comes to my door.” She grins. It’s a weird grin and I can’t completely discount what she is saying.

  “I should get going.”

  She grabs my arm. “No, please don’t.”

  “I really do have to get going, Gillian. It’s been great.”

  She drops back down on the bed and puts her face in the pillow. “You’re leaving me.” She pulls the pillow away. Her face is glistening wet and the pillow is damp. I’ve never seen tears come on like that so quick. It’s freaky.

  “Hey.” I say. “I’ll call you. I’m hoping we can do this again.”

  “Is that what I am to you? Just a good time?”

  I start to get scared now. What have I done?

  “I’ve got to get going. I’ve got a long day tomorrow and need some sleep.”

  “You can sleep here.”

  I’m standing now and start to get dressed. Quickly.

  Gillian sits up and pulls the sheets around her. If she hadn’t gotten so weird so soon, I would definitely have stayed for another go-round. I can see her pert nipples through the sheet. She looks at me with a blank stare; her face is still wet. I finish dressing and lean in for a kiss. She turns and presents her cheek and I give it a peck/ I can taste her tears.

  “I’m going to call you, Gillian. I promise. And I’ll book that move for you. I’ll bring by some boxes when I get a chance.” Damn. Why did I say that? I’ve just committed to dropping by her house again. Get out, I scream at myself. Walk out. I carry my shoes downstairs and put them on and leave.

  FOUR

  Next day when I get into the office there is a bounce in my step. I’m grateful that Rick is in Mississauga. I spend the morning making calls on corporate moves, but I get nowhere. Either they’re not interested in switching carriers or they don’t move enough people to spend the time listening to me.

  The sandwich truck’s air horn sounds in the parking lot and I make my way out. I say hi to a couple of the warehouse guys. Darryl comes out the side door. He’s wearing a tan sport coat, in October, and blue pants and suede shoes.

  “Howdy,” I say, and he smiles back. His demeanour is slowly changing when he talks to me; he has probably been discussing my future with the old man and Rick. If Rick was telling the truth, about it being Darryl’s suggestion that I get bumped from the AIC Mutual Fund meeting, then I know he won’t stick up for me.

  I get up to the sandwich truck girl and order a roast beef on white and a Coke. This will be my lunch. It’s cheaper than fast food. She smiles at me warmly and I thank her and wink back at her.

  With my lunch in hand I hang back and chit-chat with Kevin and John, who are having a smoke. No way am I going to go into what happened last night with Mrs. Lent. That’s locked away for a rainy day. We watch Darryl go up to the truck. I see the sandwich girl’s demeanour change. They talk but I can’t hear what is said. She slams a sandwich and a Coke down and Darryl walks away.

  “Doofus,” Kevin says, and Pal o’ Mine laughs.

  Poor Darryl. He knocked the sandwich truck girl up and has a kid with her. She thought she had the key to the Henderson Moving empire, but the old man shut that down quick. To rub it in Darryl’s face, she shows up every day with her truck and blows her horn. At least he doesn’t hide in his office; he goes out and confronts her.

  “Does he get to see his kid?” I ask the guys.

  “Nope. Once in a while, but nothing regular,” Kevin says.

  I secretly feel sorry for Darryl even though he’s helping to swing the axe at my head. A powerless man. I know the feeling.

  I head back up to my desk and scoop up the index cards off my desk. The times on them are not evenly spread out. The women who book these things don’t coordinate our calendars; it’s a long-standing beef.

  I say hi to Ida. She gives me an over-the-top hello and goes back to typing. She’s probably seen failures like me come and go. She coughs and puts her hand to her temple.

  The light on my phone is blinking and I check my messages. Two returned calls from last week, one from a corporate gig I was trying to set up letting me know they aren’t interested in changing suppliers, the other from a prospect who says they’ve gone with another mover.

  I have a list of companies in Southern Ontario that I’ve been working relentlessly, calling their purchasers and HR departments, trying to get my foot in the door. Several of them have many check marks against them, indicating the number of times I’ve called. I made the chart up on my own and showed Rick one time when he was hovering over my cubicle. He said “Good, good,” then put his hands on his belt and just stared down at me.

  On the chart is a column I put there to indicate the last time I called them and when they suggested I call back if I made contact. If I don’t make contact, I call them at least three times a week. I should sit down and start making some calls, but with Rick out of the office I’m just inclined to get out on the road.

  I check my appointments; first one is at 10 am. I could leave now, get there early and do the presentation and get back here for lunch. I leave the Coke and sandwich on my desk and head out, clipboard in hand.

  My sits this day go amazingly well. I score two moves without even really trying and one very real possibility. Since I’ve been at Henderson, I’ve never signed on more than one move a day. “It’s a numbers game,” Pal o’ Mine told me about two months into my year probation. “You do enough sits you’ll get your moves and make your quota. ’Cou
rse, you got to be doing sits until eight p.m. every single night, including Fridays.”

  On my last call I swing by Fintona Ave. I don’t go down it; I just get to the corner of the cross street and look. There’s no car in her driveway. It’s still light out; I can’t tell if she’s there or not. I speed down the cross street back to the office. I’ll have to call her at some point to confirm her move date is doable. But that’s over the phone. Will that piss her off? Maybe I should just pop in and tell her with no upstairs action. I can still smell her on me and can still remember how she felt pressed up against me, under me.

  When I get back, I hear Rick in his office, that surprises me. Usually on Tuesdays we never see him and the atmosphere in the office is noticeably more pleasant.

  I hurry upstairs. More messages on my phone. One is from Mrs. Lent. She sounds urgent and seductive at the same time. Wants me to call her. I put the two sales orders I bagged on my desk. Dispatch office is closed now; I’ll get down there first thing tomorrow and secure the trucks. I update my day planner, writing the details of the move beside each entry. This is how I track my own moves. At the end of the month I flip through the pages and count up the number of moves, the total estimated time and the dollar figure.

  I see a shadow come over my desk and look up at Rick standing there, hands on his hips, glaring down at me.

  “Hey, Rick. How’s things in Mississauga?”

  “Can you come down to my office, please? Something I want to talk to you about.”

  Damn, is this it? End of day and I’m getting walked out? Why’d they make me work all day if they were just going to get rid of me?

  I follow the towering Rick Henderson downstairs. Instead of his office, we go into the meeting room. There’s an open file folder on the table. This is it, definitely. Darryl isn’t in the room; Rick has to swing the axe solo.

  “Take a seat.”

  I sit in the middle of the table; he sits in his dad’s spot.