Dark Sky (The Misadventures of Max Bowman Book 1) (3 page)

“So why’d you take the job?”

That’s when I removed the big, fat envelope from my pocket. Her eyes almost came out of her head.

“HOLY FUCK.” Then, because she’s Jules, “Those aren’t all ones, are they?”

I shook my head slowly. “I gotta look at some files on the computer and see what this is all about.”

“You’re buying me a nice dinner tonight, right?  OFF this godforsaken island, right?”

“Do I get sex?”

“Oh, when don’t you, asshole?”

I shrugged with a smile. The commercial was over and she was back eyeing real estate, the kind neither of us would ever buy. We could never be suburban. Or stable, for that matter.

Jules was nice, but I didn’t know if it would go much past where it was. She kept her hair blonde even though it was brown and her weight went up and down more than the stock market, but she was cute, if a little snarly. Then again, I liked unreasonable women, maybe because I needed somebody to shout in my fucking ear to make me feel something. She had been a cabaret singer with some limited success, then her acute acid reflux did some damage to her vocal cords – which made her a singer who couldn’t sing. However, yelling wasn’t a problem.

Even though she had lost her singing voice, luckily she wasn’t stupid and got a job as an assistant at a law firm. She hated it, but the medical plan covered her meds and the salary allowed her to save up for the operation that would restore her instrument. She was close to having enough money, but I wasn’t sure why she was bothering. She was in her forties now and wasn’t about to become a star, especially since her repertoire stopped at 1963 with Eydie Gorme and
Blame It on the Bossa Nova
. She claimed not to listen to any music that came afterwards, except for some Broadway shit.  That’s why we got along; I loved Sinatra and knew all the standards. But I also loved the Beatles, the Stones, Nirvana and even Kanye West, which drove her insane.

“After what that asshole did to Taylor Swift?” she’d shriek at me.

I’d reply, “Listen to their music side-by-side. You’ll know who deserves to have an award taken away.”

That was another problem - she lived in the past and wanted both of us to get a condo there together. Despite Howard’s opinion of me, I still wanted to pretend maybe something new might work, but she wasn’t budging. In her words, “The passage of time can kiss my ass.”

Whenever she said something like that, my heart sort of melted. Nothing like misanthropes in love.

Even though it was only Saturday, I knew she’d be there all weekend. She was already making noises about giving up her place in Harlem and officially moving in with me. We’d both save money, right? I returned the noise with quiet. It was a good trick – Howard wasn’t the only one who knew it.

I went to the second bedroom, which was what I used for an office even though there was still a queen bed taking up most of the room. I sat down at the IKEA desk, pulled out the flash drive Mr. Barry Filer had given me and shoved it into the USB slot. Of course, it shoved right back because I was holding the fucking thing upside down as usual. Unlike many things in life, with a USB you can only be wrong once, and after I flipped the thing, the screen came up on my computer with the contents.

More weirdness.

There was exactly one document on the flash drive. One. It was a massive 11.3 kilobytes. And when I opened up the document, it contained exactly one small piece of information – an address.

In other words, I still didn’t know who or what I was after. To find that out, I had to go to Virginia.

I hated Virginia.

The address was located in Virginia Beach, where a lot of D.C. elites settle down once they rape the taxpayers enough to afford the admission price. There were no instructions telling me to go there, but I didn’t know what else I was supposed to do. I just wondered if I had to pay for this trip myself out of the cash I had been supplied with. But when I got around to emptying the hotel envelope to see just how much green was in there, I discovered that Mr. Barry Filer had thoughtfully included a credit card with my name already on it. Attached to the card was a Post-It Note with neatly handwritten instructions (I suspected Mr. Barry Filer’s fine penmanship at work) to use the card for traveling expenses. I called the credit card company to check on the credit limit and was told there was none. I could charge however much I wanted. So I guess somebody trusted me.

Somebody with excellent credit.

I lived up to that trust - I didn’t go put a Lamborghini on the card. Instead, I charged a flight down to Richmond, a lousy sandwich from an airport kiosk and a car rental.  It was another hour-and-a-half drive to get to Virginia Beach, but that was okay with me. The longer it took the better.

Because I wasn’t in good shape.

Even though the address came to me without a name attached, it wasn’t very hard to find out who owned the property. And when I did find out, I started sweating and still hadn’t stopped, even though it was only about fifty-five degrees out.  A cold front had hit the Eastern seaboard and had cooled things off considerably for everybody but me - I was in the middle of my own personal heat wave. Why the fuck was I so nervous?

After a curt female voice at the intercom buzzed the gate open, I wheeled my rented Taurus through it and around the perfectly maintained circular driveway leading me to the foot of what was to all intents and purposes a big fucking mansion.  Looking at this monstrosity with windows, I suddenly wasn’t just sweaty, I was shaky too.  And deep down, I knew why I was so fucking nervous.

The truth was I had gotten lazy.

I had not only lost my edge, I couldn’t remember what it was like to ever have had one. I didn’t want to see it, but, over the years, the agency had been feeding me an increasing number of crap assignments, stuff a Boy Scout who knew how to use Google could have handled. The decline was obvious, but I ascribed it to Howard’s trajectory, not mine. Yeah, he was in a senior position at Langley, but, at every opportunity, I knew they were shoving him further to the side of the real action, preparing him for his final severance package, which would be a nice bundle after all those years. That meant in turn that whatever jobs he threw my way weren’t going to be anything earth-shaking. We were getting old and things were winding down, that was my excuse for allowing things to slide without a fight.  The reality was I wanted shit to be easy. I didn’t want drama. I had had enough of that in years gone by.

Unfortunately, when there’s no drama, there’s nothing to prevent you from going completely to hell.

I didn’t stay in shape. I had too much Jack Daniels at night. I had too many burgers at the sports bar. And I watched too much HGTV with Jules, instead of checking out whatever quality television the internet was demanding I take in. Nor was I reading great literature or compelling nonfiction. No, I was only reading new compilations of old comics I bought when I was a kid. I told myself I was only doing it to laugh at how much sense they didn’t make. How the hell did two-inch-long wings on the Sub-Mariner’s ankles make it so that he could fly? How did the Thing, who was made of rocks, have a girlfriend? Wasn’t intimacy an issue? All the lube in the world wasn’t going to help the entrance of a cock made of rocks feel less than traumatic, right?

These kinds of inquires weren’t the kind of thing a grown man should occupy his time with, but, as long as I made enough to get by, I felt okay about throwing my ambition into storage and filling my days with whatever didn’t threaten me. But a dozen years of coasting was catching up to me – because I now had to deal with the fucking guy who owned this monster mansion. Why the hell would someone hand me an assignment that involved him? And why were people already treating me like I fucked up before I had done a goddam thing?

Nothing made any sense, which made me sweat even harder.

As I got out of the car, I eyed the estate and the beautifully manicured lawn that went on until it met the beach and the ocean put it all to a stop. I mopped my brow with the back of my hand and climbed the steps up to the massive double front doors that had matching American Eagles on them. Then I hit what I guessed was the doorbell. It was a button in the middle of a beautifully sculpted American flag and I thought to myself that there must be a special doorbell store somewhere in a special rich people mall that only they knew about.

And then the door opened.

“You look pale,” she said.

“Hello to you too,” I replied.

She flinched as if she wasn’t used to anybody talking back to her, which she probably wasn’t if she was a part of this household. That meant I had to grope for my bedside manner fast.

“Sorry, I’ve been a little under the weather.”

She still didn’t know what to make of me, but then again, she was in her bathrobe and slippers and looked like she just rolled out of bed, even though it was close to three p.m. But she still looked good, kind of like Cate Blanchett if she ate a little. She was in her early forties but you could’ve realistically guessed five years younger. I already knew who she was, but I didn’t want to give the game away.

Meanwhile, she gave me the onceover. I was wearing my usual T-shirt, leather jacket, jeans, with Converse black sneakers. I did accessorize for this special occasion by wearing a Mets cap. I loved a loser, if it wasn’t obvious by now. Maybe I should’ve worn a coat and tie for this special occasion, but my Sunday-Go-To-Meeting clothes were all in a corner of my closet buried under five pounds of dust.

“Okay,” she finally said, “get out from under the weather and tell me who the hell you are.”

“I told you over the intercom at the gate. My name’s Max Bowman. I was told to come here by Mr. Barry Filer.”

“Who the hell is Mr. Barry Filer?”

“I wish I knew. The internet’s never heard of him, as far as I can tell.”

She blinked.

I said, “You don’t seem to have any idea why I’m here. So why’d you let me through the gate?”

“Because nobody dares push that intercom button unless they really should be here.”

“So – let me in.”

Having been hoisted by her own petard, she threw open the door and waved me in. I walked into what seemed like a Four Seasons hotel lobby, only nicer and without a reception desk.

“I usually don’t answer the front door, but the help’s off today.”

“Good for them,” was my answer.

“So why are you here?” she finally demanded as I walked around enjoying the smell of the fresh flower arrangements.

“I don’t know, I was sent to this address to talk to somebody who presumably needs a job done. That’s about all I know.”

“That’s not a lot.”

“I’m painfully aware.”

A long pause, the kind of a pause a pizza place takes when you ask if they’ll deliver to Roosevelt Island.

Finally, she said, “Hmmm,” if you can actually say “Hmmm.”  She walked towards the entryway to another room. I assumed I was supposed to follow, so I did.

“You live here?” I asked. “Or just visiting?”

Her back provided some more information.  “Living here. I just got divorced.”

“He got the house? You must have had a shitty lawyer,” I said and immediately regretted it. Jules always said that neither of us should be let out into public.

“No, I
chose
to move back here.” She looked over her shoulder back at me. “Any other questions?”

“Give me a little time.”

“I’d rather not.”

I followed her through the lobby area into some sort of sitting room with the type of furniture you’d find in a funeral home and the kind of old art hanging on the walls that you’d find in a museum in Florence.

“Any of these valuable?” I said, eyeing the paintings.

“You don’t recognize the artists?” she said.

“No.”

“Surprising. You look old enough to have been around when they painted these.”

I smiled at the jab. “You did just get divorced, didn’t you?”

“Yes, a wounded animal is the most dangerous kind, don’t you think?”

She motioned for me to sit down, and I did. She remained standing and stern.

“Do you want some water? Or something a little rougher?”

I looked at her and considered my options for a few moments too long.

“You’re not answering, which means you really want a drink but you’re afraid you’ll look like an alcoholic since the sun is still up.”

“Jack Daniels, all by itself with a couple of ice cubes.”

“Good boy.”

Then she was gone and stayed gone. It didn’t take that long to pour a shot of Jack. I mentally shrugged and turned on my phone to distract my nervous system - and I found there was plenty of distraction to be had. Jules’ dirty little secret was that she was a psychic – a fucking witch, to be exact - with the very specific but very powerful gift to instantly know when I was in a room alone with a strange woman.

There were 50 texts from her, the highlights of which included:

THERE’S NO FUCKING FOOD IN YOUR REFRIGERATOR.

BTW, the boring fat couple picked the ranch house with the shitty pond.

You still buy PLAYBOY? WTF???

I’m BORED. Come the fuck HOME.

Just saw commercial for older women having dry painful intercrs & it made me horny. Is that wrong???

COME THE FUCK HOME

The texts went on like that for a while, then things took a somber turn:

Don’t have to worry about your newspaper

anymore

Leg Sore Larry?

Went to get Starbucks,

EMS was pulling him out of apt

              Sheet was over head.

              Fuck, have you ever looked inside his rat nest?

              On the next episode of Hoarders…

I stared at the phone with an expression of disbelief. Leg Sore Larry was gone. I couldn’t be happy about it. Neither could Jules.

             
Kinda sad tbh

I looked up, almost having forgotten where I was, as my hostess returned. She was out of the bathrobe and wearing slacks and an expensive top that probably cost more than my rent. She also didn’t have my drink, which I needed now more than ever. Not getting it pulled the rug out from under my brain.

“I found out why you’re here,” she said flatly. “And it would be best for everyone if you weren’t.”

Back in the fucking principal’s office.

I got up, feeling a little sick again. No Jack, dead Larry, and getting treated like shit all combined to create a minor explosion in my head. “Maybe I
should
go. Everyone associated with this thing is more interested in abusing me than getting it done.”

She felt my pain and softened a little.

“You know who my father is.”

“You’re Angela Davidson.”

“Yes.”

“Then I know who your father is.”

“Well, I’m very protective of him.”

I was getting more than a little tired of being questioned. “Do you think I want to hurt a living legend? What, you think I’m going to sucker punch him? Make fun of his wrinkles? Force him to advertise reverse mortgages? What do you think I’m up to here? Give me a hint, because, again,
I don’t know
.”

“No, no, no, I didn’t mean…” She trailed off. “It’s just…he…he’s losing his mind.”

She let out a big breath.

“What should I do? You tell me,” I said a little too harshly.

She looked away and then turned back to me. In spite of the bullshit, I think she actually liked me.

“I’ll take you to him. Everything’s gone too far. You’ll find that to be a recurring theme.”

She walked, I followed.

After hiking about fifty miles through the house, we arrived at a big set of double doors that she opened for me. I walked inside and found myself at the back of a screening room with four rows of seats, seven across. In the front one, dead center, was a very old man watching a very old film about a cavalry outpost in the old West. Angela nodded her head down towards him and indicated I should go on and introduce myself.  It kept being clear she wanted no part of whatever was going on and was desperately struggling not to take it out on me.

I carefully made my way down the darkened aisle as my eyes adjusted to the lack of light. On screen, an ancient Native American chief was telling John Wayne, playing older than he was at the time with grey hair and a moustache to match, that they were too old for war.

“Yes, we are too old for war,” answered Wayne. “But old men should stop wars.”