To the Quick

by Gabriel N. Gregoire

   The first thing I noticed about Chuck Martin’s wife Romy when she came downstairs into my office was that she wore too much perfume. I didn’t recognize the scent. I just knew she smelled like a flower shop. She walked with difficulty in high heels on the uneven basement floor, leaning on her husband for support.

   When he wasn’t holding up his wife, Chuck followed a step behind her like a beaten dog.

   I swept the playing cards in front of me into a pile, jammed them into the box and set them aside. Then I told my nephew Joe to clear out of the seat in front of my desk to make room for the nice lady. It was a shame. I was winning at Go Fish. Romy sat down and Chuck remained standing. Joe stood staring at them with a wrinkled nose. I could tell it was still raining outside from the dark splotches on Chuck’s Red Sox windbreaker. Romy’s clothes, a cream-colored dress with a matching hat, were untouched. She held her purse with both hands and looked at me like she was the one behind the desk.

   We exchanged pleasantries and I introduced Joe, who grabbed my cell phone and booted up the Tetris game.

   Mrs. Martin smiled primly at Joe.

   Chuck said, “How ya doin, buddy? Little young for a cell phone, aren’t you?”

   Joe shrugged and turned his ankles in for a second, his thumbs busy on the keypad.

   “How can I help you today?” I said.

   Romy sniffed. “Go ahead, Charles. This was your idea.”

   Chuck shuffled his feet. “If you don’t mind, I’ll cut right to the chase, Mr. Jordan.”

   “Please,” I said. “Call me Nick.”

   “I’m a real estate agent, Nick. I have an office over in Brookline. An America’s Best branch.”

   I nodded.

   He went on, “My brother works for me, and I noticed a couple of weeks ago that his expense withdrawals lately haven’t matched his receipts. I keep very strict books, but I only update them every so often. Like when taxes are due, or you-know-who here gets on my case.” He bobbed an index finger in his wife’s direction. She looked at her nails. Chuck went on, “I checked back over the three years he’s been with my office, and I found a few more discrepancies. I don’t know how they got past me. But I don’t want to accuse Gary unless and until I’m absolutely sure he’s embezzling. I’m hoping that’s where you come in.”

   I leaned back in my chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “You think your brother is skimming off the top for his own personal gain, but you want to be certain. Interesting. Other than the bookkeeping discrepancies, do you have a reason to suspect him?”

   “Well, no,” he said.

   “I told you,” said Mrs. Martin, “this is a waste of time. God knows you can’t even balance a checkbook, Charles. ‘Strict books.’” Then, to me, “I’ve always had to take care of our finances. I offered to keep the realty records too, but he insisted on doing it himself.”

   Chuck’s face turned red, but he held his tongue. I had a feeling he was used to doing that. I opened a drawer in my desk, which was an antique cherry number, sturdy and worn. My office was in the basement of Pearl Street Antiques. It was just a bare stone room containing my desk and computer, two chairs and a single window just above eye level if you were standing up. It was pretty crowded if you had a few clients and a nephew in there all at once. The room was off to the side as you came down the stairs, surrounded by other rooms full of armoires, ancient bedsteads and handcrafted bookshelves. It wasn’t much, but the rent sure beat anything downtown. The side benefit was that the furniture in my office represented some of the best that my landlord had to offer. Plus, I lived two flights up, so the commute wasn’t bad. Joe was staying with me for four days while my brother attended a seminar in Chicago. I took a legal pad and a fresh Bic out of the drawer.

   Joe put my phone back on the desk. “Can I draw?” he asked.

   I tore off a piece of paper and handed it to him along with the pen. “Sure, pal. Knock yourself out.”

   He began to sketch out a house. His lines were quick and short. “What’s embezzling?”

   Mrs. Martin sniffed again. Probably had sinus issues from all the perfume. “Maybe we should come back when it’s more convenient for you, Mr. Jordan.”

   “No, no,” I said. “Joe was just about to try out drawing on some of the other desks in the showroom, right Joe? Just use a book so you don’t mark the wood. Go on, just stay where I can hear you.”

   “I don’t want to, Uncle Nick. I want to stay here with you.”

   I ruffled his hair. “Uncle Nick’s got to do some business, Joe. I’ll take you out for ice cream later. Any flavor you want. Okay?”

   “Can I go outside and play with Ralph?”

   “No. No going outside without me. Besides, it’s raining. Ralph’s in his doghouse and he’s probably asleep. Just draw me a nice picture, okay?”

   Joe nodded, sullen, and trooped out of the office. I knew that eventually he’d grow out of accepting bribes. But he’d be safe in the rest of the basement.

   I dug out another pen, uncapped it and scribbled a few loops on the legal pad to make sure it worked. Mr. and Mrs. Martin were watching me like I was onstage.

   I cleared my throat. “I’m going to need addresses, e-mail addresses, cell and house phone numbers, and pagers if you have them. License plates and vehicle descriptions will help, too. Plus any other details you can remember that might have anything to do with the case.”

   Chuck smiled for the first time since I’d met him. “Thank you, Nick. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

   Romy crossed her arms and looked away, her lips thin and tight.

   “Please,” I said. “Call me Nick. Here’s a schedule of my rates.” I opened the drawer again, found the chart and wrote a figure on it. I handed it to Chuck. “That should cover my expenses for the first week. The rest of the fees are non-negotiable.”

   Romy snatched the schedule away from her husband and glared at it. “You certainly get down to business, don’t you, Mr. Jordan.”

   “Like the man said,” I said. “Cut to the chase. I’ve been doing this for quite a while, and trust me, it’s better for all of us if we get the details ironed out right up front. I have a success rate in the high eighties. I earn my money, Mrs. Martin.” After that, I bit my tongue. Usually people didn’t get under my skin.

   Chuck said, “Of course, we understand. You’re doing us a favor, and that means compensation. Nothing could be simpler. Right, darling?” He put a hand on her shoulder.

   “If something seems simple, you haven’t seen the truth yet,” she said.

   I had to agree. But I didn’t let her know that. Instead, I started taking down all the information I’d asked for. Chuck also volunteered that Gary was in charge of showing a house in Duxbury, a nice place with a pool. It was his first in that price range, and he was eager to find a buyer. I wrote down the address. I looked up when I turned the page of my notebook, and I noticed a bandage on the heel of Mrs. Martin’s left hand. It was the large, square kind. She caught me looking and put the hand behind her purse.

   I cleared my throat. “I accept cash and checks. I hope that’s not a problem.”

   Chuck smiled like a kid who was about to pass in his first homework assignment. “Of course not. I brought my—our checkbook.”

   I handed him my pen. While he was writing the check, I turned to the old Hewlett Packard and fired off an e-mail to Llewellyn, my young assistant:

Llew-

You were right about the Martins. Good work. Run Gary and Charles Martin through NCIC. Might as well check Romy Martin, too, under her maiden and married names. Also find out all you can about the America’s Best office in Brookline. Stop by when you get something.

-Nick

   I hit ‘send.’ I knew Llewellyn checked his e-mail like a madman. I took the check from Chuck. “I’ll start as soon as this clears,” I said. “Is there anything else?”

   Chuck rubbed his chin and shook his head. “This is quite a place the owner has here,” he said. “How long has he been in business?”

   I said, “Frank? As long as I’ve known him. Years. Feel free to take a look around. He just got a few nice pieces in last week, and I don’t think he’s moved them yet.”

   Romy shuddered. “I want to go home, Charles. I’m getting a chill in this damp basement.”

   Chuck’s face reddened. “Yes, dear,” he said.

   I showed them out of the office. As we went toward the stairs, Romy leaning on Chuck, I saw Joe at a walnut roll-top, toiling away with his nose an inch from the paper. The Martins and I went upstairs. Frank was with a couple of customers looking at a set of chairs when we went through the ground-floor showroom. I nodded at him. Outside, the rain had slackened, maybe enough to walk to the ice cream stand with Joe and Ralph. I shook Chuck’s hand and watched the Martins walk away. Before they turned onto Putnam, Mrs. Martin pulled an umbrella from her purse. She handed it to Chuck, who opened it and held it over her head as they walked. He dug out his car keys with the other hand, let his head fall, and ushered his wife around the corner.

   When I turned around, Joe was hanging out the front door, holding onto the jamb with one hand and gripping my phone with the other. “It’s Lacey,” he said.

   I took the phone and put it to my ear.

   Lacey and I had been going out for nearly a year, which was a record for me. She was divorced, full of stories about her deadbeat ex-husband, which set an easy standard for me. Lacey was a business student at UMass and she wanted to start her own record company, so we were always going to see live music and trying to get backstage to talk to the bands. It was easy for her, but I often ended up waiting at the bar while she took notes and drew stares from people who probably thought she was some kind of groupie. The good part was, she was always making me mix CDs that kept me on the cutting edge of the Boston scene, such as it was. Lacey’s sister Jackie played bass for a band called Gomorrah, so when she wasn’t studying, Lacey booked shows for them and fielded calls from interested parties. She was pretty busy. Usually, I was the one to call her.

   “Hey, Lace,” I said. “Everything all right?”

   “Nick. I’m glad I caught you. What are you doing?”

   I told her about the Martins, mentioning the figure on the check Chuck had written.

   She said, “That’s awesome, honey. Congratulations. Hey, if you get a few more cases like that, you might be able to afford a ring.”

   I knew she was kidding, but I also knew there was a reason for the joke. “I’m going to the bank in the morning,” I said. “Want to have breakfast?”

   “That would be nice. I have something I want to talk to you about anyway.”

   “Good or bad?” I asked. I watched Joe, who had moved to the stoop and was now dropping an acorn into a puddle on the sidewalk.

   “Remains to be seen,” Lacey said. “Don’t worry.”

   I didn’t say anything.

   Joe had already forgotten about his puddle project. He tapped my arm and made a pretend phone with the pinkie and thumb of his other hand.

   To Lacey, I said, “Hold on. Joe wants to say hi.”

   “Okay.” She made a kissing sound.

   Joe took the phone and said, “Hi, Aunt Lacey.” He called her that even though he knew we weren’t married. Kids. He went on, “We’re going for ice cream. Want to come?”

   Frank’s customers were finished shopping, and they looked happy. I’d probably be lugging a piece or two to the van for Frank in the morning. It was the least I could do. I motioned for Joe to move away from the stoop. I couldn’t hear what Lacey was saying to him.

   He stood on one foot and hopped in a circle. “Okay. Want to talk to Uncle Nick again? Okay. Bye.” He pressed the ‘end’ button with deliberation and put the phone in his pocket. Then he hopped over to me. “I’ll answer the next one, too,” he said.

   Now it was Frank’s turn to stand in the doorway. He raised his eyebrows, and I knew he wanted to talk. I knew what it was about, too. I told Joe to go get Ralph’s leash and meet me in the back yard in five minutes. He ran for the stairs, and Frank and I stepped into the ground-floor part of the showroom.

   He sat in the chair he had set up by the plate glass window. He took off his hat, a moth-eaten gray wool cap with a red band, and placed it on his knee. He mopped his face with his hand. “So, how’s it going?” he asked.

   “Not bad,” I said. “Going to the bank in the morning.”

   “That’s good. And you’re still seeing the girl? What’s her name?”

   “We’re having breakfast after I deposit this check tomorrow. You’re welcome to come along. Joe will be with us.”

   Frank touched his hat absently, then rubbed his beard with the same hand. “That’s all right. Bonnie and I will probably be at the doctor’s by the time you wake up.”

   “Everything okay?” I asked.

   “She’s been having stomach pains.”

   “Could be something. You’re right to check it out. Give her my best.”

   “Tell her yourself,” he said. “We’ll stop by in the afternoon. After you’ve gotten your money out of the bank, that is.”

   “Sure.” Frank was giving me a deal on the rent because he and my dad had been on the same rowing team at Stanford, and because he was a genuinely nice guy and I wasn’t exactly rolling in it. He would expect at least part of what I owed him tomorrow, if I was reading his subtleties right. Which I was. “Joe and I are going for ice cream. Bring you back a sundae?”

   “Have you heard from his dad?” Frank asked.

   “Joe senior? He’s due at Logan tomorrow night. He’s parked there, in the daily lot.”

   “Expensive.”

   “Yeah, well, that’s Joe. Champagne taste, champagne budget,” I said.

   Frank took out his timeworn wallet. “Let me pay for your ice cream.”

   “You don’t have to do that. We’re fine. Just come by tomorrow.”

   Frank chuckled. “I want some mint chocolate chip, Nick. Here.”

   I took the ten-spot. “Sprinkles?”

   He smiled. “What do I look like to you?”

   “You don’t want to know.”

   “Get out of here.” He folded his wallet, put his hat back on and patted his breast pockets.

   I pointed to his glasses on the table by his chair. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

   I went back down to my office and sat in my chair for a minute, wondering about the Martins. The surprising thing was, I was thinking mostly about Romy. I put their check in an envelope, then filled out a deposit slip for my bank and put that in the envelope too. I put on my jacket, a sharp brown leather one that Lacey had given to me, and put everything in the inside pocket. As an afterthought, I checked my email. Llewellyn had already written back:

Nick-

No time to come by. Promised dinner with mother tonight. But I did get in some computer time. Charles and Gary Martin don’t have any priors, but Charles declared bankruptcy ten years ago. He had a bike shop with a college buddy. Bad location, and the friend turned out to be an a******. Charles’ credit score is somewhat respectable now, though. The America’s Best office is doing well for him. Thing is, I couldn’t find any business loans from when he set up the franchise. So I figure his wife’s pretty well off. I had a friend over at the Globe check their database for me, and I found out that her father was an oil shipping magnate until he died at sea. Body was never discovered. His name was Douglas Horn. According to the article, little Romy Horn was on the ship with him the day he died: August 30, 1976. They were pretty close. He did everything for her. The funny thing is, nobody really knows exactly what happened. There was some rough weather, but the ship was as close to a supertanker as you could get during the 70s. Horn was the only one that didn’t make it back to shore. Anyway, Romy never really recovered from her father’s death, until she went away to college. Her mother died of lung cancer the same year she graduated. That’s all I’ve got so far. You’ve got my number.

-Llewellyn

   I closed out the screen. I was on my way back up when I noticed Joe’s drawing on the roll-top. I picked it up. The house he’d begun was now complete, and it had eyes in place of windows and a big smiling mouth instead of a door. There was an apple tree in the yard, with three people standing under it. Their heads were too big for their bodies. They were labeled, ‘Me,’ ‘Dad,’ and ‘Uncle Nick.’ I folded the picture and put it in my jacket pocket with the envelope, intending to magnet it to my fridge later. I headed to the back of the basement and unlocked the delivery door, which led directly to the back yard via a broad but dark staircase.

   I stopped at the top of the stairs when I heard someone talking. Joe was saying something to someone. They were at the gate to Putnam Street and my view was blocked by the tall hedge by the back of the building. On my way to the gate, I heard Ralph growling.

  Then, a man said, “Okay, kid. You just tell your father what I said. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut that dog up.”

   I threw open the gate. Joe’s face was pale, damp with tears, and his grip on Ralph’s leash was loose. The man saw me and turned away, striding across the street between cars that were waiting for the light to change.

   “Hey!” I shouted. “You! Get back here.” I told Joe to go inside and lock the door, and then I ran after the man. The light had changed, and a silver SUV almost hit me. The driver honked and flipped me off. The man, who had been walking quickly with his head down, broke into a run when he saw me coming.

   I chased him. I felt for my phone, then remembered that Joe had it. I yelled again, this time to a couple of skateboarders who were hanging out on the corner. “Stop that guy!”

   One of the teenagers took a step forward, but the man who had been talking to Joe bowled him over and kept running. He was a block ahead of me when he stopped next to a black Lexus and scrambled to get the driver’s side door open. He fumbled with the remote, giving me the extra second I needed to close the distance.

   He was climbing into the car. He reached for the glove compartment. I didn’t know what he had in there, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t a bouquet of roses. I grabbed him by his suit coat and hauled him out of the car into the middle of Pearl Street. “Who the hell are you?” I demanded. I swatted his sunglasses off his face, which was sunburned and pinched with a sparse goatee. I shook him by the lapels.

   My mistake was in letting his feet touch the ground. He swept both arms between mine and up and around, breaking my grip on his jacket and grabbing my right hand in the process. Somehow he got behind me and twisted my arm. He wrapped his free arm around my throat and squeezed like a weightlifter.

   We had stopped two cars, and one of the drivers had gotten out. Now, he shouted, “Hey, let him go.”

   A couple of pedestrians had stopped to watch, and the skateboarding kids stared from a few yards away. One of them pulled out a cell phone and started to dial.

   I could feel the man breathing heavily. I was starting to see spots. Then he shoved me forward. I caught myself on a parked car. The man had jumped into the Lexus and started it. I rolled out of the way as he gunned the engine, leaving a thin blue cloud of rubber-smoke as he screeched down the block, running the light and disappearing.

   I leaned on the car next to me and let air into my burning lungs. Someone came up and patted my back and asked if I was all right. I nodded. It was the skateboard kid with the phone.

   “Who was that a******?” he said.

   I shook my head. “Do you have a pen?”

   He shrugged and took a step back.

   A lady with a bag of groceries crossed the street to get to me after looking both ways. She put the bag on the curb and opened her purse. She handed me a pen with a shy smile. “Your jacket is torn.”

   “Thanks,” I said. I took Joe’s picture out of my pocket, turned it around, and wrote down the license plate number of the Lexus.

***