Authors: Don Bruns
“Why?”
“James, I just told you. We need some supervisors.”
He glanced up from our computer, with it’s $40-a-month access fee that I usually ended up paying. “Me? A supervisor?”
“I was thinking.”
“How much does it pay?”
“Got to be more than you get boiling crab. And you won’t come home smelling like shellfish.”
“How much, amigo?”
“Twelve an hour. Eight hours a day. One hour for lunch.”
He gave me a big smile.
“Makes you happy, eh?”
“No. I’ll do your supervisor job, Skip, but that’s not why I’m happy.”
“What then?”
“Remember the movie Ten?”
“The little guy who played in Arthur? Dudley somebody?”
“No, a Belgian movie, came out about 2002.”
Usual obscure movie from James. While I watched most of the movies with him, I didn’t remember all of them. “What about it, James?”
“There’s a line in there. Two ladies are talking. One says, ‘You are wholesalers, we are retailers.’ ”
The movie didn’t ring a bell. James saw a lot of films and remembered a lot of quotes. To be honest, I didn’t have the interest in remembering everything about those movies. Sure, I saw
the movies with him, but memorizing movie quotes happened to be a somewhat useless talent. I didn’t want to be reminded. “Get to the point, James.”
“I’ve got Sarah’s picture.” He nodded an exaggerated head bob and pointed at the screen.
“How did you find that?” On top of being a movie quote buff, James was also a whiz on Google and Yahoo.
“You just keep plugging in words, pard.”
“Give me a break. You found her?”
“Words like, Miami, date, executive, services. Stuff like that.”
When I needed information, James was always on top of it. “Sarah? She still has a profile?”
“No, Alexandra has a profile.”
“Alexandra?”
“Look.”
I took a swallow of beer and leaned over the screen. There she was, smiling back at me. There were face shots, upper-body shots, full-figure shots, and some casual shots of her in tight jeans and a halter top. God, she looked good. Sleek, tan, showing off a lot of smooth skin.
“Says here her name is Alexandra, Skip.”
She’d been a little cagey when I asked her about the dating service. And, when I’d asked if she knew Sandy was married, she said something like, “It wasn’t important.”
So she didn’t want anyone to know who she was. That’s no big deal.”
“You’re right. She didn’t want anyone to know who she was. Why do you think that is?”
“Don’t know, James.” With my roommate it was like playing Twenty Questions. He wanted to play it out to its conclusion.
“I’ll tell you, friend. This isn’t a dating service.”
“Then get to the point and tell me what it is.”
“The Empire Club.”
“Empire Club?” I took another swallow of my Yuengling, waiting for James to finally spit it out.
“It’s an escort service, Skip. The prostitute says to the housewife, “You’re in the wholesale business, we’re in the retail business.’ Your Sarah is a high-class prostitute. A hooker.”
“Sarah, you remember James?”
She did. “James,” she reached out and took his hand. His eyes were wide and slightly out of his head. He was thinking about this hot Sarah, and the Sarah he used to know, and the Sarah now who was for hire. I only hoped he’d just shut up and do his job. Knowing James—
“Sarah, James is going to be one of our supervisors. As I told you and Mr. Walter, there will be seven guys who are doing the installation. It shouldn’t take over five days, and we will be as unobtrusive as possible.”
She gave me a sly smile. “Skip, does he know?”
He did. Em didn’t. “Yeah.” He knew I was the pretend boyfriend. He didn’t know anything else. At least he couldn’t prove it. And even if he could, he’d better keep his damned mouth shut.
“Sarah, if I was Skip, I’d play any kind of role just to be around you. You’re even better looking than when you were in high school. And I thought you were hot back then.”
She giggled. “Thank you, James. This,” she spread her
perfectly manicured hands out, as if to emphasize the massive lobby of the building, “this is only temporary. I told Skip, probably a month. Sandy and I are out of here. Out of this crappy community, out of this state, maybe out of this country. But you can’t say anything, James. I’m really relying on you two to keep this confidential. Just between us, okay?”
Sarah the looker. Sarah the hooker. I can’t describe the feeling, but it was kind of cool and kind of creepy to know that I’d dated a girl who had become a high-class prostitute. A hooker. I mean, as a kid—maybe in junior high—we used to talk about hookers. Girls who made money having sex. There were jokes, stories, rumors, and legends about hookers. And now, I was the pretend-boyfriend of one. Too strange for words. God, I wanted to ask her all kinds of questions, but I knew if I let her know what I knew, it would all be over.
“Ralph will be by in a little while to walk you guys through the building. He wants everything to go as smooth as possible.” She pointed at the entrance door to the company’s inner sanctum.
Ralph Walters was Sandy Conroy’s right-hand man. As VP of the company, he pretty much ran things as he saw fit, and he’d let me know he was in charge from the second I’d met him.
“Nothing happens in here that I don’t know about. Got that Mr. Moore? Nothing at all.”
First words out of his mouth, swear to God. I’d just been offered twenty grand, so I wasn’t in a position to argue. “I won’t do a thing without consulting you, Mr. Walters.” My mother wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t a great mother, but she taught me to be nice to people who signed my paycheck.
“We’ll get along fine then.” The short, balding man gave me a curt nod, glanced at his watch, and walked away.
And now James was about to meet the second in command. I just hoped he’d use his charm, and not revert to the smartass he
could easily be. “Twelve bucks an hour, James. Just suck it up and agree with whatever the man says.”
Ralph Walters had been with the company for ten years. He told me that he’d been born to work at Synco Systems. “Let me tell you something, young man. The first thirty years of my life were simply preparation. This company is the final result.”
I’d nodded, not wanting to say anything to jeopardize the financial situation. Nothing to jeopardize what would amount to over $20,000 in my pocket. I know, believe me, I know there are more important issues than money. I haven’t found them yet, but I’ve been told by so many people, I have to believe it.
We sat in the expansive lobby, studying the artwork on the walls. Abstract paintings, appearing to be originals, with flashes of bright colors, bold strokes of pastel colors, and solid scrapes done with palette knives. Em had explained those things to me on a tour of her parents’ mansion. I couldn’t appreciate the talent, but I had the feeling that they were expensive pieces.
“She’s hot, amigo.”
“James, you know and I know. But you can’t let on. I’m serious, man. You tend to wear your feelings on your sleeves. Don’t.”
“She’s hot, Skip. You don’t want to bring Em into this, trust me.”
“No.” I agreed with him. The minutes became an hour. The hour dragged on twenty more minutes.
“Guys, I am so sorry.” Sarah stuck her pretty head into the lobby, like a nurse in a doctor’s office. “I’m going to find out what’s taking him so long.”
“If he’s in his office, why don’t we just come on back with you?” James, being the pushy son of a bitch that he can be.
She hesitated. “Okay.”
“Sarah. We don’t have to.”
“It’s okay.”
We stood up and followed her lead. Through the lobby
doors, down the hall into a large room with computer stations, workbenches, and several dozen employees, all quietly working at their stations. Some ran small machines at the workbenches, but most were glued to their computer screens. I swear you could hear a pin drop. Five offices opened into the room from the far wall. Each office was numbered.
Sarah paused, turned and looked at us, and smiled. Bright white teeth, perfect in every dimension. Whatever she made in her escort life, she spent wisely. On cosmetic dentistry to start with.
She knocked on door number five. Knocked again, then louder the third time.
“Must have stepped out.”
“Should we come back? Later this week?”
“Skip. We set the appointment. He’ll be here.”
She knocked again. Nothing.
“Here.” James, the pushy S.O.B, reached beyond her and pushed on the office door. It swung inward smoothly, showcasing three-quarters of the spacious room. I looked over his shoulder and could see the massive oak desk, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, some more art that I had no interest in, and two visible skylights that bathed the room in early morning light.
“Mr. Walters?” Sarah gave James a dirty look.
James just smiled. “The door was open. It must have been the Lord’s will.”
It probably wasn’t the smoothest thing to open someone’s office door. But James didn’t have an office, and he was good at sticking his nose into other people’s business, so it didn’t seem that strange to him.
“Mr. Walters?” More timid this time. Sarah reached for the doorknob to close the door, but once again James barged up to the doorway. He stepped into the office as Sarah whispered loudly, “Stop it. You can’t just—” she followed him in two steps behind.
“James, it’s time to go.” I’d just gotten the job and I didn’t want to lose it already.
“Pretty nice office. Guy must be pulling down some serious jack.”
“James, please.” She nervously looked around the office.
I stepped in. Not to see if Mr. Walters really was there or not, but to escort my good friend out. “James, I’ve met Ralph Walters. He’s a no-nonsense kind of guy, and he’s going to be pissed off if he finds us in his office. I can’t afford to lose this job, and neither can you.”
“Yeah,” he hesitated, obviously taken with the surroundings. I could tell he was picturing himself working in a fancy office like this. James was always dreaming about hitting the big time.
“James. Let’s go.”
“Okay, we’re out of here, pally.” James gave it one last look, turned, and exited. I was close behind. Sarah followed, backing out and starting to pull the door shut. I saw her stumble and stop.
“Oh, my God.” Her eyes were riveted on Walters’s desk.
“What?” She spun around, and in that hushed whisper she said, “Somebody’s feet are under his desk.”
“Where?”
“Under the desk.”
James and I both turned and looked. Sure enough, the soles of someone’s shoes, socks, and the cuffs of brown trousers were visible under the desk.
I looked at James, and he shrugged his shoulders. In his own hushed voice he said, “Maybe the guy takes naps there? Or maybe, just maybe,” he glanced at Sarah, “he has a mistress and they meet under the desk.”
She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Walters?”
No answer.
Finally James did what James does best. He barged back into the office and walked behind the desk, involving us again in
a truly messy situation. I should never have involved the son of a bitch.
“Holy crap, Skip. Come here.” He grabbed the edge of the big oaken desk.
Sarah took several steps in his direction.
“Sarah, I don’t think you want to see this.”
The two of us reached the rear of the desk at the same time. Ralph Walters’s body had slid from the desk chair and was on the floor, his legs protruding from the front of the desk. In his right hand was a blue steel revolver and the left side of his head was blown away, remains of brain, bone, and blood spattering the veneer of the desk drawers.
I’ve seen dead bodies before. I could never get used to that. But what about a coroner or a funeral director? Someone who dealt with dead bodies every day? They must have a cast-iron stomach and nerves of steel. Me? I ended up shaking and thinking I was going to be sick. I suppose I should have put my arm around Sarah and comforted her. Some pretend boyfriend I turned out to be.
So we waited while the police did their investigation. They interviewed each of us separately.
“You broke into the office?”
“Um, the door was open and my friend sort of pushed it.”
“You didn’t notice anything unusual when you entered?”
“Not the first time.”
“You mean you went back a second time?”
“Well, when we saw the feet.”
“The feet?”
“Under the desk.”
I don’t think any of us were really suspects, but they asked us a lot of questions. It wasn’t too bad. We checked with each other
afterward and we’d all told the same story. It had happened so fast, we didn’t have time to make one up.
“How bad would things have to be?” James sipped his coffee. The three of us were sitting in the break room, sterile white tiled walls on four sides, and a stainless refrigerator, microwave, and coffee maker.
“Bad.” I couldn’t fathom the feeling. What the hell would cause me to take my own life?
“Ralph was—well, I haven’t been here that long, but he was like the rock. I mean, he loved this place and he loved his job. And I think he had an idea that Sandy might be moving on, so he was in line to take over.” Sarah’s color had come back to her face, and she was on her second cup of high-voltage coffee.
I couldn’t drink the mud brown liquid. My stomach was still churning, and I kept seeing that head covered in blood. “Guys, girls,” Em hated being called a guy, “this man must have had some serious problems.”
“Well, as the song says, suicide is painless.”
I nodded. “Mash. Donald Sutherland, Sally Kellerman, Elliot Gould. Nineteen—”
“Seventy.” James stirred his coffee with his finger. “Before we were born, amigo.”
Sarah looked back and forth at us, trying to figure out where the conversation had gone south. It always did.
A man with graying hair stuck his head in the door. From the shoulders up I could see a loosened tie, a stiff collared shirt, and tanned face with just the slightest hint of a five o’clock shadow. I took a quick guess. Sandler Conroy.