by Warren Court
“Thanks, John. “
“Want to grab some lunch?”
“Can’t. I got to get on the road.”
“The busy world of the moving consultant.”
“Thanks, Pal o’ Mine.”
“You look different, Gustav. Anything the matter?”
“No, John. Everything is fine.”
I call up Christopher Waltz. I want to get the addresses of the two moves coming out of Brantford. Want to seal those up.
“Mr. Waltz, good morning. It’s Stan from Henderson Moving.”
“Good morning.”
“I thought it prudent, Mr. Waltz, if I arrange a time to go out and see the houses of the two executives you’re moving down to California. I have their phone numbers from the info you sent, but I just wanted to keep you in the loop. Also, I thought I might pop in to see you, seeing as we’re going to be doing a lot of moves for you.”
“Uh, yeah. About that. I think we’re going to have to hold off on that for the time being.” My gut drops through the floor. What have I done? She’s wicked, that one. She giveth and she taketh away.
“Is there a problem?”
“This whole thing is so complex. Timelines are getting pushed around. Who’s going first down to LA is up in the air. You know how it is.”
“I’d still like to come out and meet you. Go over Henderson and how we work. Maybe get a sense of who will be moving after these two initial moves. I punched those first two into the computer last night.”
“You haven’t processed them, have you? I think you should just put those two on hold for the time being.”
“I can’t finish them until I get some signatures from you and the parties being moved. I just have an application that shows customs and all that’s necessary for a cross-border move. It’s easy for you, though; no hassle on your part. Why don’t I drop by and explain it all to you?”
“Uh, yeah. Why don’t you give me a call next week and we can set something up.”
“Okay, thanks, Mr. Waltz. I will do that.” I resist the urge to slam the phone down. Motherfucking vindictive bitch. Why? Because I wouldn’t hit her in bed? I’d belt her right now. Or maybe Waltz is being truthful. “It’s complex.” Those two executives could be getting packaged out, not moved down south. It did sound kind of crazy from the start, moving all those people down to the States.
Go and see her, I tell myself. Smooth things over, try and swing this back into your court. In the meantime, leave those two moves on the computer. They’ll show up on our sales chart and Jack Henderson is bound to ask about them at the next sales meeting. Yeah, just go and see her. Everything will be fine.
I go see my one call in the afternoon. I’m so distracted I don’t even approach a place where I ask for the sale. The decision maker isn’t home anyway; it’s an idiot son who was left in charge to open the door for me and let me do my thing. Normally I would have made an arrangement to come back and go over my calculations with his parents, but I just buzz through the count-up, thank the kid for letting me in and leave him the estimate.
I wait two blocks down from Mrs. Lent’s house. I’ve already driven by twice. I don’t think she’s home. I saw a quartet of black people dressed in their Sunday finery working the street, probably for a church or something. They went up to Lent’s house and were back down on the sidewalk in thirty seconds. No one home.
At five thirty she pulls in and pops the trunk of her car. My engine is still running; it’s getting colder out and I wanted the heater and radio on. I pull up slowly to one spot just before her house. She is ferrying in grocery bags. I get out and approach her. She stops and looks at me coldly for a second, then smiles.
“Can I give you a hand?”
“Last bag.” She slams the trunk closed.
“Can we talk?”
“About what?”
The same woman with the same white-haired little dog is coming down the street. I quickly glance at her. Lent sees her too.
“Come inside.”
I step into the foyer and wait while Lent goes to the kitchen to drop off the final bag.
“Are you pissed at me?” I say when she comes back.
She gives me a funny look.
“I guess I didn’t do what you wanted me to. Are you taking it out on me? I mean, I called up that Christopher Waltz who works for you. He says the two moves he had for me are now on hold. And I thought—”
“You thought I wouldn’t be that petty.”
“Can I have a drink? It’s been a long day.”
“I only have wine.”
“That’s fine.”
She sighs and moves to the sideboard in the dining room. Make things right with her, I say to myself. Whatever it takes.
“Won’t you join me?” I say.
“My head is killing me. Wine is the last thing I need. I think you should have that and go.”
“What if I don’t want to go?” She looks at me, a little shocked. I pick up the wine. “No, I mean what if I want to stay make this right with you? I thought… you know.”
She softens a bit and sits down on the couch. I sit next to her but a respectable foot away. She rubs her neck. I reach over and start to massage her. She lifts her hair.
“Hmmm. . . That feels nice.”
I rub until my fingers tart to ache, then I break off and take a sip of wine.
“I think I might have a glass,” she says.
I get up and fix her one. I turn around, glass in hand, and she’s standing up, removing her blouse. She lets it fall to the floor. She stands there in her dazzling white bra. I stutter and smile and go over. I hand her the glass and move in for a kiss. She puts her hand on my chest to stop me and takes a drink. Then we kiss and it tastes like Cabernet Sauvignon. Like rotten grapes. Like the whole thing is rotten.
She takes another drink then puts the glass down and starts to unbutton my shirt. I put my hands around her waist and wait. Then she’s rubbing my skin, and she leans in on to my chest.
“Are you going to be a good boy?” she asks.
“Hope so.”
She pulls my shirt off, hard, almost ripping it. A button pops off. Nice – thanks. Ruin my damn shirt.
I let her strip it off me. Then she’s working at my belt and I run the zipper down the rear of her skirt. We’re undressed; the only thing between our uglies is a pair of her panties. I’m ready to go and she grabs a hold of me and squeezes. She pulls me along, back onto her couch.
Fine, let’s do it here, I think. Easier for me to make my getaway after I patch this up. Still not sure if I’m going to hit her or not.
We begin the act. I’m on top. She starts to moan, just like last time. I’m not pulling up; instead, I bury my head in a pillow and shut my eyes tight. I don’t want to see her. Don’t want to give her a chance to speak.
“Hit me.” I hear in my ear, soft and indistinct. Is she saying that?
“Hit me!”
Yup, she wants me to belt her. I slap her ass like last time. Really hard. As hard as I can. My hand is stinging. There must be a huge mark on her butt.
She pushes me up so I can see her.
“Do it,” she says. I can’t. I plead with my eyes. She digs her nails in and rolls me over. We almost fall off the couch. We right ourselves.
“What’s the matter with you? Can’t you do what I ask? I just want this.” She slaps me hard as she rides me. It’s no turn-on; it bloody well hurts.
“Like that.” She slaps me again.
“Fucking bitch.” I punch her right in the mouth. I hear something snap and she goes back.
“Goddamn,” she says, holding her mouth. There’s blood. It’s on the carpet already. “You asshole.” She comes at me crazy. Swinging her fists. We’re nude and start to scratch and punch. She even tries to bite. All I can do is fend her off.
The wine glasses go flying. She gets her teeth into my shoulder and bites hard. I yell. My hands go to her throat. She’s got an intensity in her eyes that scares the hel
l out of me. She’s strong and uses her weight on me. Still scratching at me. I grab her by the throat and I choke her. And choke her. And choke her. Her eyes bulge out and finally she stops fighting. Her face is frozen in rage. I see spider lines of red in her eyes. I release her.
“Christ, no.” I push her down onto the floor, then I’m overtop of her. “Mrs. Lent. Christ, Mrs. Lent, wake up.” She’s moving spasmodically but she can’t breathe. I slap her hard. Just like she wanted. Snap out of it. “Gillian,” I shout. I slap again. Her head rolls lifelessly to the side. The convulsions stop.
No. I push away from her and crawl on my hands and knees to the middle of the room. I put my head between my forearms. “Fuck!” I look up at the window, half expecting that old lady with the dog to be on the porch peeking in.
I look back at Mrs. Lent and sigh. Her head is thrown back and she’s looking at me with horror. No, not horror. I can’t tell what it is. I sit cross-legged and look at her. Then I get it. That look on her face. It’s satisfaction. Whatever she wanted, she finally got it. Why did I have to be the guy to give it to her?
I hear a buzzing sound form across the room. It’s my cell phone. I check it. It’s Laura.
SEVEN
“You standing me up, Stanley?” she says in that beautiful, authoritative British voice. I can picture her leaning up against the bar, pint of bitters in front of her, hand on her hip.
“Hi, Laura. Sorry – was just about to call you. I think I’m coming down with something.”
“That old one. How many times have I heard that?”
“Not a lot, I suspect. Really, I think I am getting sick. Don’t want to pass it on to you. Can we postpone till tomorrow?”
“Fine. I was coming here anyway. It’s nine-eleven night. Plenty of young firefighters and ambulance attendants to keep me company.”
I laugh, then I fake cough.
“Oh, please,” she says.
“I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Have a good one.”
I end the call. Can they trace where calls are made from? Wait – I didn’t make it. She called me. My mind starts to race and I stare down at Mrs. Lent. I shake myself. “No,” I say out loud. Not loud enough for anyone outside to hear, though
I get dressed. The one button she ripped off – where is it? I look around but to no avail. I check myself in a mirror in the hall. There are no scratches on my face, thank god. But my body is covered in them. My chest and the lower part of my neck. They’re all hidden now by my clothes. None of them drew any blood. I remember that I didn’t finish inside Mrs. Lent, but there still could be traces. I am not a stranger to the many forensic-based crime shows on television, and I have been known to crack a Harry Bosch novel once in a while.
Finally, I go back over to Mrs. Lent. I see that her once flush and pink-hued body is starting to grey. It’s fascinating how quickly that happens. I see the blood on the carpet from her mouth where I hit her. There are wine stains and splatters from our glasses; they look like blood too. I look for the button again. So what? I think. This shirt is history even if they do find it. My shirts are plain, store-bought ones from The Bay.
Prints. I take the wine glasses, both of them, to the kitchen and smash them in the sink. Then I take a tea towel and, with it wrapped around my hand, I extract a meat pulverizer from Mrs. Lent’s utensil jar and smash the glass bits up to tiny fragments and leave them there. I put the wooden mallet back in the jar and rehang the tea towel.
The groceries are still on the counter. I trace back in my mind what I touched. Nothing I remember. Just Mrs. Lent and the couch, of course, and my wine glass. She opened the door, she closed the trunk. She carried all the bags. I look at the tea towel again. Can they extract prints from flesh? Should I wipe her down? No, I tell myself, don’t be silly. And besides, you could no more touch Mrs. Lent now than you could slit your own wrists.
My mind is amazingly clear. I can see things in a different light. I’ve killed someone. In self-defence. She was attacking me. Had to stop her. Just wanted to knock her unconscious and then leave. I could call the cops from the street. I’m all scratched up; that should be proof.
I stand in her kitchen a while longer, then finally I shake myself. It’s pitch black out now, a very dark night. I go to her front door and grab hold of the hem of my shirt and lock her door. On my way out, I hit the light switch in the living room with my elbow, plunging the rapidly cooling Mrs. Lent into darkness.
I leave by the back door, using my suit jacket to avoid leaving prints. I scan the street; there’s no one about. A light rain is falling. I drive away slowly but not too slowly to avoid attracting attention. I maintain the speed limit on every road going home.
EIGHT
I’m up until four in the morning and have only a couple of fitful hours of sleep before I wake up from a nightmare about a prison cell. I take a hot shower and scrub my body clean until the dozens of scratches on me burn with irritation. I think of Mrs. Lent stiffening up over in Burlington. This is serious, I tell myself. I say it out loud and it reverberates off the mildewed tiles of the shower. “This is some serious trouble you’re in, Stan.”
I get dressed. I choose a white shirt, the only one I have. I put the one with the missing button on my bed. Don’t have time to take care of it now, but I’ll ditch it later. I would burn it, but I live in the city and that would draw attention. I’ll probably just toss it in the garbage or maybe out the car window.
I pop into the office and pick up my cards. I have two; one for later in the day and one this evening. I don’t look at the details, just the times. I think about the date I have with Laura. I have no desire for her now but I must keep up appearances, I tell myself. I figure Mrs. Lent won’t be missed today, but people from work will start checking up on her Monday, possibly by Tuesday. Phone calls and whatnot.
I need to get out of the office and get moving. A long drive will give me time to think. My first appointment isn’t until three. Plenty of time. I use my work computer to find Midi’s address in Brantford and I write it down. It’s off Wayne Gretzky Boulevard. That’s nice.
Midi is a fairly large company with an impressive steel and dark glass building stretching across several acres of technology park. There’s a thick iron gate around the entire property and a ditch with water in it. A moat? A security gate at the front is unmanned and there are plenty of parking spots for visitors near the doors.
I walk in beaming a smile, carrying my briefcase full of Henderson Moving and Storage promotional material. The lobby is impressive. Some weird-looking statue made of smooth red stone is in the lobby and there are other works of art on the wall. The whole space is ultra-sleek, with modern chrome and leather couches and tables.
The couches are occupied by several older, more professional-looking businessmen tapping on laptops and phones. An attractive young woman is seated at the front desk, and she looks up from a magazine as I approach. Beside her stands a security guard who regards me impassively. Another one is over by the elevators at a stand-up desk. There are cameras everywhere.
I have my business card ready and ask to speak with Mr. Christopher Waltz. She asks if I have an appointment.
“Sort of,” I say. “I told him I’d made plans to drop by depending on my schedule, and he said that was fine.”
She studies the card and dials in a number, talks briefly to the person who answers. She hangs up and turns back to me.
“Someone is coming down to collect you, Mr. Rogers. Please have a seat.” She hands me my card back and I go over to the meeting area. The other businessmen ignore me, and I make a serious attempt to read a business magazine sitting on the coffee table, one that features a cover story on Midi. I wait fifteen minutes until, finally, a woman, older than the receptionist but equally as attractive, is there calling my name. I collect my stuff and follow her.
After a quick elevator ride to the third floor, she leads the way through a cube farm of pastel colours punctuated by garish posters extolling the virtues o
f hard work, flexibility and diversity. I soak in the corporate brainwashing and arrive at a cubicle surprisingly not much bigger than the one I have at Henderson. The woman does an “ahem,” as its occupant, the man I presume is Christopher Waltz, is on the phone. He holds his finger up for a moment’s pause. He says a few more “ah-hah’s” and then winds it down. “Yeah, true, true. I think we should circle back on that. Ping me in about a week. Okay. Thanks.” He hangs up and the woman melts away and I shake his hand.
“Christopher Waltz.”
“Hi, Chris. Stan Rogers from Henderson.”
“It’s Christopher.”
“Sorry. I was in the neighbourhood. I know we said we were meeting—”
“I thought I said give me a call next week. Rather busy at the moment.”
“I understand, but I was in the area. Thought I’d drop by and go over Henderson with you and how we’ll be handling this relocation of yours. Incidentally, I was reading up on it. It seems like a huge operation. Will you be moving down yourself?”
Waltz ignores me and grabs a note pad and pen. “Let’s grab a room.”
He leads me past a half-dozen small meeting rooms. Most are occupied. We wind up in a large conference room not unlike the one we have at Henderson.
He assumes the head of the table. I take up my usual nine o’clock position, click open my briefcase and start pulling my material out. I have brochures that show our guys packing stuff, loading stuff. There’s a picture of Kevin with a clipboard talking to a beautiful waspish woman of about forty, not unlike the greying and stiffening Mrs. Lent back on Fintona Ave.
There’s shots of Darryl and Rick and the old man with his huge head. Rick is in his oversized suits and Darryl is wearing an actual matching set of coat and pants that I’ve never seen him in.
“Like I said on the phone.” Waltz tries to interrupt my presentation. He barely glances at the material. “These moves are on hold. We have some figuring out to do.”
“I understand, but there’s no harm in going through our services, how we can help your company accomplish this transition as smoothly as possible.” Who is this talking, I wonder? The words coming out of my mouth are so full of confidence.
