by Warren Court
With my stuff laid out in front of him, Waltz leans back and sighs. I launch into my spiel. The words are coming out of my mouth smooth and strong and slow. I ask the right questions, trying to elicit his needs.
He says nothing at first, and then on the next page of the brochure there’s a picture of Laura and the girls with Jack Henderson going over a spreadsheet. This catches his eye and he leans forward and looks at it. It’s my favourite pic of her. She’s wearing a loose-fitting blouse and leaning forward, her dark hair cascading down one shoulder as she points earnestly to something. Jack Henderson is looking at it intently. The heading on this page is Customs Clearing. I jump at this and start explaining how Henderson Moving can make everything seamless for everyone.
An inspiration comes over me. Make it personal. “Are you yourself being moved to California, Christopher?”
“That’s the plan. It’s all up in the air. One day they tell me I’m going, then the next…”
“I know that Gillian is getting ready for a move of her own – out here to Brantford, that is.”
Waltz shrugs.
“I was at her house the other day, going over how Henderson will handle all of her belongings.” Why did I just say that? I just placed myself at her house. I start to sweat. Suddenly my face becomes very hot. “She said she was sick of the commute,” I continue gamely.
“That’s interesting.” Waltz says, and he starts to look beyond us at the glass wall that fronts onto the hallway. I am aware of people passing by and he watches them, but I focus on him. Then I notice the symbol above the breast pocket of his shirt. Where have I seen that? I’m still talking, sliding easily back into “move speak” – what corporate clients we have, how long they’ve been with us – flipping the final pages on my brochure.
I look again at that symbol. Where have I seen that thing? Then it hits me like a bucket of cold water. The shirt hanging up in Lent’s closet. Same shirt, same size. Same symbol. Why would Waltz’s shirt be in her closet? My god. They were having a fling. A wave of calm comes over me, like I’m sitting on the world’s most dangerous secret.
I relax even more, slow my words down. “I’ve got those two moves booked. I need you to sign this paperwork to put them through and dedicate the trucks to them.” I pull the two work orders out; I already have Christopher Waltz’s name listed as the corporate signer. The one who’s going to make the payments on behalf of Midi. He looks at me and wilts. I hold my pen towards him and he grabs the paper. Makes a pretense of reading it quickly, then signs.
“Now, for the other moves, I’ll need to know the schedules, rough times. Just to pencil them into the computer. And the two we’re moving: I’m going to call them to arrange to go out and see their houses.”
Waltz opens his mouth to object but I cut him off. “I know they’ve been visited by other movers, but I want this to go as smoothly as possible. I won’t intrude on them.”
“Very well. Yes, call them. I’ll send them an email giving them a heads-up.”
“I’d appreciate that. Say, is Gillian in today? I’d like to pop in on her if I could.”
“No, I haven’t seen her.”
“Okay, next time. Nice lady.”
“Yes, she is.”
I pack my materials up. I slide one of our brochures to Waltz and we shake hands. He walks me silently back to the lobby, where we shake hands again, and I’m out of there. I resist the urge to jump and click my heels in the parking lot.
I sit in my car in the Midi parking lot and think, Waltz was banging Gillian. He was wearing a wedding ring. Did he take it off before he banged her? How long had that been going on? Of course, he had to be seeing her. Why else would one of his shirts be in her closet? Maybe they were canoodling on the couch and some wine got spilled and she sent it out for dry cleaning. Or maybe it’s his back up-shirt. He’d spend the night and they’d both travel in their own cars to the office and he’d at least not be wearing then same shirt as he was the day before.
I make my way back to the office, occasionally glancing down at my briefcase and the treasure I know it holds.
There’s a car in the Henderson lot I don’t recognize. Could be a client coming in to settle a bill or file an insurance claim or check out the storage facility. We offer heated long-term storage. Costs a pretty penny but it is really good.
The car looks odd to me. It’s monotone and bare-bones Crown Victoria. A fleet vehicle with dog-dish hubcaps. I change my approach to the employees’ entrance so I can get a better look at the car. There’s a wire contraption on the package tray, some sort of antenna.
I swing by Laura’s desk. She looks up. “We still on for tonight?” I ask. Gone are the thoughts of cancelling on her; I want her more now than ever.
“Sure thing, dahlink.” She draws out her British accent nicely. My loins stir and I wink and head upstairs. Before going up, I can hear Jack Henderson in his office.
“Twelve thousand out of the Berkshire account; transfer it over to Mutual. Yeah, that’s right.”
I laugh a little. Big man playing at moving money around. Why couldn’t he make those phone calls from home and just stay there? Maybe he doesn’t want his wife to know how much money he has?
I drop my briefcase on my desk with a bang and take out the Midi contracts. Ida is typing away and humming. She listens to an easy-listening radio station while she works. Does she realize I’ve stopped saying hi to her? Let her spy on me now as I confirm and finalize twenty thousand dollars of corporate moves.
I log into my computer and try to open the moving application. I get an error message. Fine. I’ll try later. They must be doing an upgrade on it. I’ll check on my finances instead. I click on a browser and it’s slow to load and another error message pops up. My computer is not online. The internet must be down for the whole place.
No problem. I can log these contracts the old way. I go over to our scanner and scan in the contracts and fax them in to the 800 number listed above the machine. At least the phone lines are not down. There’s no one else on the floor, which is typical this time of day. Kevin and John are both out working their chits from the girls last night. I have an hour until my first sit.
I return from the scanner and Rick is at my cubicle waiting for me. He has a serious as hell look on his face. I have the hard-copy move confirmations in my hand.
“Yo, what’s up, Rick? Good afternoon.” I smile and wave the contracts. “Got two huge moves – twenty thousand cross-border. Just faxed them in. Tried my computer. Something’s wrong, though. It’s offline, but I’ll upload them as soon as it’s back.”
“I need you to come downstairs. There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
NINE
Panic hits me in the stomach and I have to steel myself to prevent from falling over onto my knees and puking. I have to fight every instinct not to turn and run out the back way. It’s the cop, the one who owns the Crown Victoria. He wants to talk to me about Gillian. They’ve found her – but how? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet. I was just there last night. I got no indication that she had anyone she was close to, other than Christopher Waltz. If he had dropped by her place last night, would he have thought to peer in the window? I don’t think so; he’d probably just think she wasn’t home. And same for anybody else dropping by. Who would do that? A person doesn’t answer the door so you walk up on the lawn and look in the bay window? I wouldn’t. I’d think, “They’re busy, maybe asleep. Maybe in the shower.” “Maybe dead on the front living room carpet” is the last thing I would think.
“Okay, sure, Rick.” I put the papers on the desk and follow him down. Each step down to the ground floor is filled with doom. I see the girls; they’re standing up now, heads over their cubicles. Even Laura is watching. They’re watching me march into the meeting room. The old man’s door is open and his office is empty. He’s in there now too. Waiting.
I step into the meeting room and Jack Henderson is sitting in his usual spot, looking down at the t
able. On the other side of the table is the cop. There’s no pretending now that he might be an agent from the carrier come here to train me on some new sales technique for offshore moving services. The man is bulky, like a couple of Lego blocks stacked up with arms and a head attached. His hair is slicked back, shiny and black; his eyes are dispassionate like a grizzly’s.
“I’m Detective Marco from Halton Regional Police.” He flashes a badge real quick. I see just a glint of metal and then it’s gone. He has some papers in front of him.
“Just want to talk to you a bit. It’s Stan, right? Stan Rogers, like the singer?”
“Uh huh.” I say. I force myself to relax just a little. My back is now completely covered in sweat and I can feel my white shirt sticking to it. Good thing I’m not wearing a blue shirt as usual. It would show right through. Then I think about my shirt back at home, the one with the missing button. How I haven’t thrown it out yet. Great. Those papers he has are probably a search warrant. I’m done.
“Mr. Henderson, I’d appreciate it if you and your son would leave us for a while. This shouldn’t take too long.” Jack Henderson stands up to go. “But you never know,” the cop says, and he turns and smiles at me.
Both Hendersons leave and the air seems to grow a little thinner. I am aware of my breathing; it sounds raspy, though I feel fine. The sweat has pooled at my lower back now and is waiting for me to move forward ever so slightly so it can run down to the crack of my ass.
“How long have you been with Henderson Moving?” Marco asks.
“Coming up on one year.”
“And where did you work before that?”
“Small advertising agency in Hamilton.” Marco raises his eyebrows in irritation. “The Plumber Stone agency.,” I add quickly, and the eyebrows go back down.
“Did you have access to a computer there? To the internet, I mean.”
“Yeah, sure. I was in business development.”
“What’s that?”
“My job was to go out and establish a rapport with potential clients of the firm and set up meetings for the boss to go in and pitch them. I used the internet to do research.”
“I see. Where were you last night from six p.m. to nine p.m.?”
I swallow hard – is it noticeable? I realize that I have a human lie detector sitting across from me.
“I was out on a call until about five, then went and grabbed a bite to eat. Drove around for a bit and went home.”
“So you weren’t here in the office.”
“No,” I say. “I did my call. Let me think. I can’t remember if I came back here or not.” I’m guessing now at what he wants to hear.
“Less than twenty-four hours ago and you’re not sure?”
“I wasn’t with anybody.” My mind was kind of wandering. “I’d have to think. I did that call and…” I hope that Marco goes on to something else, but he just sits there and stairs and me, twiddling his gold pen. A cop with a gold pen. Is he trying to hypnotize me? This is crazy. When’s he going to ask me about Gillian? I am steeling myself for that. I don’t know if I can bluff my way out of it. My only saving grace is Christopher Waltz. Maybe I can steer Marco in that direction.
“Were you here, or weren’t you? This is a very serious matter.”
“No, I was definitely not here.”
“You like porn, Stan?”
The question floors me. “Porn?”
“Yeah. Don’t bullshit me. You heard me. Porn. Pornography. You ever beat your meat to pictures of nude women? Maybe nude men?”
I’m disgusted now, not sure why. I’ve beaten off to porn plenty of times.
“Yes, I know what you meant. Yes, I have on occasion looked at pornography.”
“What about kids? You like looking at pictures of little kids, Stan?”
“No.” I say. Even I believe the sincerity in my voice; he must believe it. Put me on a lie detector right now. Just don’t ask me if I’ve ever killed anyone. “Have I seen it? Yes,” I say.
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“You know, you’re surfing around looking for something to pleasure yourself. And it pops up. It’s almost unavoidable these days. It’s very sad.”
“What do you do when it pops up?”
“I close it immediately. I can’t imagine what it must be like to be a parent and have that happen to your kid. Although I know sometimes the parents are involved.”
“So back to last night. Were you here at your computer upstairs looking at child pornography?”
“No, I most certainly was not.” That goddamn computer. I get angry. “I know what this is. Yes, I have a computer on my desk that has internet access. But I’m not the only one who uses it. Kevin uses it. John uses it.”
I cringe when I drop these two names; they’re both people I like. Especially Pal o’ Mine, but I know it couldn’t be him. For one thing, he’s never back in the office after two. ‘I like to plan my sits out so I’m home by five, Gustav,’ he told me once. He gets the cards from the girls and the first thing he does is check their addresses in a book he has on his desk, and then he calls them up and rearranges them. He’s good at it, real charming. He can get any housewife or college professor to say ‘Yeah, sure’ instead of ‘Eleven o’clock this morning? Why don’t you come by at four? That’ll be fine.’ I’ve heard him do it dozens of times.
For another thing, watching John work a computer is slow torture. When he enters in the few cross-country or cross-border moves he does get, it’s like watching a slow, dim-witted, hesitant chicken pecking out the details. I have to help him every time. I’m happy to do it, mind you.
“There’s Tom, the office manager,” I tell him now. “I’ve seen him on it too. And he was using it for personal use.” Tom’s all right; he doesn’t talk to me much. He knows I’m on my way out for lack of moves. “Even Rick has access, I think.” I have no problem throwing Ricky Boy in with the lot. I’d throw Darryl too, but I know he has a computer of his own in his office.
“All right, calm down,” Marco says. “You say you weren’t here. We’re going to check into that. You say you don’t use the computer for personal use. We’re going to look into that too. But someone here is using that computer upstairs to surf child porn, and the Hendersons are pissed. Do you have any idea what that kind of news in the paper or on the radio would do to a company?”
“I can imagine, Officer.”
“Detective.”
“Detective Marco, I swear to you I would never be that stupid. Rick came to me with a list of websites that someone had punched into that computer up there and I saw the porn sites on that list, but I didn’t realize it was child porn. Like I said, I’m not stupid. I know all of that stuff is tracked.”
“Okay, Stan. You can go, but I can’t promise you we won’t speak again. Understood?”
“I understand.”
“Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“No.”
Marco just goes back to his paperwork as I leave. Rick is in his office. I resist the urge to go in and start throwing things at that enormous noggin of his. The euphoria I had from logging twenty thousand moves has evaporated, replaced by the grim certainty that there’s now another massive nail in my coffin, thanks to being dragged in for questioning by a cop on company property, and for something I didn’t even do. If they only knew the thing I did do.
I look at my watch. I have enough time to make it to my 3 p.m. appointment, but just barely, and I’m low on gas. I trudge back to my office, grab my coat and my car keys and head out.
When I get to the gas station, I realize I don’t even know where I’m going for this first sit. Marco has me all discombobulated. I pull the cards out of my jacket. Bugger it – the first one is for a listing on Fintona, Gillian Lent’s street. It’s farther down the street by at least a dozen houses, but what the hell? All I need right now is to show myself on that street. Let that old lady with the dog get another look at me. The busybodies in their houses can get ano
ther refreshed look at my car and me, so when the cops eventually do come knocking, canvassing them about whether they’ve seen anyone out of place lately, they can say, “Yeah, the douchebag with the clipboard. You should find him. He was at her house. He was here yesterday too, around suppertime.”
I think about Marco rooting around in my computer at my desk. It’s Henderson’s computer, I tell myself. They just put it at my desk. It will be occupied by another salesman in a couple of weeks, no doubt. I laugh when I realize that if I had gotten laid off last month, I would be free and clear.
Marco asked me about my previous employer, that advertising agency. He’s probably calling them up now. Asking them what I got up to. Asking them if they have computer logs from a year ago. Go ahead, take a look. I got nothing to hide.
I hustle my ass over to Fintona. The house is twenty houses down from Lent’s. I can see her car in her driveway. The street is starting to fill up with people coming home early from work, getting a jump on the weekend. Kids are playing ball hockey in the street. They yell ‘Car!’ and pull back as I drive by, and I smile.
The woman selling the house is about the same age as Gillian Lent. I want to ask her if she knew Lent – what am I, self-destructive? Do I want to go to jail and get pounded in the ass for the next twenty-five years? I have no illusions now about the self-defence theory I thought I could use. The scratches are fading quickly and within days they’ll be gone. I should have taken a selfie of them.
I zip through the woman’s house, barely asking questions. Just jotting stuff down. I would probably have been this nonchalant anyway coming off a twenty-thousand-dollar move. I wouldn’t care about his little fish. I remember the feeling of euphoria I had this morning from those two Midi moves. it was like a huge wave coming up under me and my surfboard. A wave so big you don’t even have to start paddling; it just cups under you and you’re up and riding high.
