Trade Secret
Bob Strother
I waited in the landing until my chest stopped heaving, then I entered the dim fourth-floor hallway and stumbled down to my office door. Sunlight penetrated the translucent pebbled glass, and sent daggers through my bloodshot eyes. Helluva day for the elevator to be out of service. I used a handkerchief to wipe sweat from my face and chanted my usual Monday morning mantra: Never again. Never again. The telephone jangled on the far side of the door and tripped another pain switch in my whiskey-glazed brain.
Carla picked up the phone as I dragged myself through the door.
“Scanlon Investigations.”
She glanced my way, then swiveled her chair to face the window. I couldn’t blame her. Who’d want to see this ugly mug? I tossed my snap-brim at the hat rack and missed – the hell with it! I slunk past Carla’s desk into my private lair, peeled off my wrinkled trench coat and flung it at one of the two guest chairs. Another miss. Hell with that too!
The desk chair protested noisily as I collapsed into it. The lower left drawer of my battered desk produced a half-full bottle of Old Grandad. Fingers trembling slightly, I unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. Then I fished a fresh deck of Camels out of my shirt pocket and lit up. Closing my eyes, I let the alcohol and nicotine work their wonders. Five minutes later, my pulse still pounded between my ears but I began to think I might live.
When I opened my eyes again, the object of my dreams was standing in the doorway. Carla leaned back against the doorjamb and stretched, giving me a profile that almost made me forget my hangover. Her long, dark hair parted down the middle and hung loose, covering the left side of her pretty face.
“Good morning, Precious.” My voice rasped like Linda Blair’s demon in The Exorcist.
“Want some coffee?” she asked.
I started to nod, then thought better of it. “God, yes.”
She disappeared and returned a moment later with a steaming mug. I spiked it with a liberal dose of Old Grandad and shook out another smoke.
Carla picked my coat up from the floor and hung it on a wooden rack behind the door. “Rough weekend?”
I slurped the coffee and ventured a half smile. “The usual.”
She gave me a concerned look. “I wish you’d stop drinking so much.”
“Marry me and I will,” I said, already knowing the depressing answer to that familiar refrain.
She tried smiling – to make a joke of it – but couldn’t pull it off. Her sea-green eyes went misty. “You’re too late, Rick. Sorry.”
.....
We’d all been friends in high school: Dennis, the football team’s star quarterback; me his favorite receiver; and Carla, captain of the cheerleading squad. After graduation, I was drafted. Dennis had a football-related knee injury and scored a 4-F with the local draft board. He started his own print shop business and married Carla while I worked military police duty in Da Nang. Her letter reached me six weeks after the ceremony. That’s when it finally dawned on me that I was in love with her.
After my discharge, I parlayed my army experience into a private investigator’s license and had my name lettered on the door of a five-story office building in the downtown’s low-rent district.
Dennis turned out to be a better quarterback than a businessman, and even with the print shop open seven days a week, Carla had to work to make ends meet. I hired her two years ago. I thought it would be enough just to have her around. It wasn’t.
.....
I nodded slowly. “You’re too late, Rick. Sorry.” The last shot of alcohol had numbed the hammering behind my eyes but hadn’t done a damn thing about the hollowness in my chest when I looked at her.
She turned to leave and the hair fell away from her face. A purplish-yellow bruise decorated her left cheek.
“Carla?”
She stopped, turned back to me and stared at the floor. I went over to her, brushed her hair back and touched the discolored patch gently. “That son of a bitch,” I whispered.
It had started just over a year ago and at first she’d been able to conceal it with clothing. A couple of times, though, he’d gotten a little sloppy and left a visible mark. Carla had begged me to let it go. Said she’d have to quit the agency unless I let her handle it her way – that his business had picked up and she was sure that’s all it was – that he’d been better lately, less angry.
That’s when I started spending my nights and weekends submerged in whiskey river.
My jaws tightened and my heart rate doubled. “Leave him,” I said through clenched teeth.
A tear rolled down her damaged cheek. “I tried to. He lost a big contract on Friday and came home drunk. We argued. I called a cab and threw some clothes in a bag and ...” She leaned her head against my chest. “And it was worse ... than before. He hurt me bad, Rick – said he’d kill me if I ever left him.”
My breath came out in a low hiss. “Let me see.”
“I don’t want you to. I ...”
“Let me see, damn it!”
She hesitated, then stepped back and pulled the blouse out of her skirt. Her middle was covered with bruises where he’d pummeled her.
My fists clenched and unclenched at my sides. She saw the look on my face and shook her head violently.
“No, Rick!” she sobbed. “I know what you’re thinking and I can’t take that! You’re the only friend I’ve got now. I can’t take a chance on losing you too.” She melted into my arms and I felt the wetness of her tears soaking through my shirt.
I willed the tension from my body and stroked her back gently. “All right, Carla. It’s okay.” I tilted her face up toward mine and brushed her cheek lightly with my lips. Her scent filled my nostrils as a cold resolve filled my heart. “Really, it’ll be okay. I won’t do anything.” My eyes locked onto hers. “I promise.”
.....
That afternoon, I called Patrick Kelly, a retired cop who owned a small tavern over by the river. He answered on the third ring. In the background I heard muffled conversation and the clink of glasses.
“Rick! It’s good to hear your voice, Lad. How’s the investigating business?”
“Sucking wind at the moment, but my money’s on crime and greed prevailing. How’s Fiona?
“She’s great! Married now to a nice boy – an accountant, if you can believe it. I’m to be a grandfather in three months.”
“That is great.” I smiled. “I need a favor, Pat, ... a big one.”
His voice lowered an octave. “Just say the word, Son. I owe you.” The phone went silent for a beat. “I’ll always owe you.”
Two years ago, Pat hired me to find his junkie daughter, gone missing for six weeks. I followed her trail into the porno business and snatched her out of a snuff movie at the last minute. There was some carnage left at the scene but it didn’t garner much attention from the cops. It seldom does in that kind of environment. Fiona went through rehab and came out a winner. It was the kind of thing that kept me going, blood on my hands or not.
“You’re closed on Sundays aren’t you?”
“That we are. Irishmen drink at home on the Good Lord’s Day.” He chuckled. “Or anywhere else they can find a bottle.”
“Good,” I said. “Here’s what I need ...”
.....
Late Sunday afternoon, I parked down the block from the print shop and waited. Dennis came out at five-thirty and bent to lock up. I pulled my heap up to the curb and tapped on the horn before he could get in his car. He looked up as I opened my door and leaned out. He’d put on a few pounds and he needed a haircut.
“Dennis! Hey, Man. Long time, no see.”
He stood frozen, his hand on the car door handle. I could tell he was nervous seeing me pop up that way.
I got out, walked over and extended my hand. “How you been, Buddy?”
He shook my hand and his expression relaxed a little. “I ... I’m good, Rick. What about you?”
I shrugged. “Business could be a lot better. Some months it’s hard to make the rent. But what the hell; we’re all struggling to get by aren’t we?” I put a hand on his shoulder. “Say, you in the mood for a drink? I was just on my way to a little tavern over by the river. I know the owner and if we play it right, he’ll give us call brand booze at house prices.”
“I don’t know. I’m pretty beat.”
“C’mon, just one or two and you can be on your way.” I faded back a few feet and made a throwing motion with my hand. “We can relive our glory days. Remember the Wheeler game, Denny? You threw for four touchdowns. I had twelve receptions.”
“It was five touchdowns. And you never caught twelve balls in your life.” He grinned. “One or two drinks, okay? Any more and we’ll be doing a play-by-play.”
He followed me to the tavern where Pat Kelly welcomed us graciously and complained bitterly at his lack of other patrons. Three hours later, Dennis was telling me – for the second time – how his knees had kept him from getting a college scholarship.
“I could’a been somebody, Ricky.”
I neglected to point out that he could have been drafted like me and might never have been lucky enough to marry Carla.
He shook his head sadly and stared at his sixth bourbon on the rocks. “Could’a been somebody.”
We sat there for ten minutes with neither of us saying anything else, then I slid out of the booth. “C’mon, Denny, let’s get you home.” I helped him to his feet and we stumbled toward the door, my arm around his waist. On the way out, I nodded toward Patrick, who nodded back and locked the door behind us.
I dug the keys from Dennis’s pocket, opened the door to his car and poured him into the passenger seat. I told him that I’d drive him home and catch a cab back to the tavern – but I don’t think he heard me.
.....
It’s been two months since they found Dennis’s body in the burned-out hulk of his Chrysler, at the bottom of a canyon off Route 32 north of the city.
Carla is smiling more these days. She took a week off to deal with the funeral and the official paperwork associated with sudden, accidental death. Then she came back to work with a vengeance. Since then, she’s sniffed out a half-dozen new clients and talked the super into new carpeting for the office.
I’m doing better too. I’ve eased off on the booze, cleaned up my pad, even bought a new sport coat and slacks. After work last Friday, Carla and I had an early dinner and caught a movie. It’s still too early to say for sure, but I think it’s working for us.
Do I feel a twinge of guilt? Not really. Two lives full of new hope and promise, for one miserable, wretched existence. All in all, I believe it wasn’t a bad trade.
I may think about it once in a while, but then Carla will smile sweetly at me – and I’m reminded that I’ve never been one to dwell much on moral absolutes.
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