Nothing You Can Do
I was still sitting at my desk at seven-thirty. I'd been sitting there for almost three hours, looking out over the same gray chunk of Cambridge skyline, watching the color drain out of the sky and sink into the Charles. The phone was still in my hand after all that time. I hung it up.
I was sort of numb. Even when she'd said, "There's nothing you can do about it," I didn't flinch or object. All my life the phrase "there's nothing you can do about it" has been a call to action, a challenge to prove someone wrong, to prove there's always something you can do. But for some reason, tonight I just let it go.
The elevator bell rang and around the corner and into my office swaggered Diana, my administrative assistant. She'd left and gone downstairs to beer hour, a weekly Friday after-work ritual. For everyone but me, that is. I always had a family I had to get home to.
"I was headed out and saw the light on in your windows," she said, carefully pronouncing each word, "and figured I'd stop by and see if you needed anything before I left for the weekend."
She smiled that dazzling smile of hers, and I managed to eek out a smile of my own. I'd always found her attractive, but the little golden band on the third finger of my left hand had kept me from dwelling too long on the fact. Tonight, though, I said "What the hell." I went ahead and dwelt.
She was five-four, with long reddish blonde hair in sort of a Jennifer Aniston cut. Wild eyes and a killer smile. What I really liked, though, was that she had not joined the "America's Top Model" concentration camp set by streamlining to the point of asexuality. Instead, she was the picture you'd see in the dictionary beside the word "curvaceous." Very respectable cleavage she wasn't afraid of putting out there, a real waist, hips and, as the kids say, junk in the trunk. Tonight, the junk was filling to perfection a short, black skirt. High heels showcased strong, sexy calves. She swayed a little and leaned against my desk.
"I...I guess I had a few too many Heinie's," she apologized.
"There are some things it's impossible to have too much of," I said. "Good beer is one of them."
"What are some of the others?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.
After all these years of marriage and being faithful, I still hadn't lost my ability to pick up a vibe. She was flirting, all right, but I could tell there something else, some sadness she was trying to hold at bay. I could empathize.
I stood up and got in front of her.
"It's been one lousy night so far," I said. "How about for you?"
She started to say something, but stopped. Her eyes teared up and she looked away. I didn't plan to, but I reached around and turned her face toward me, then leaned in and kissed her. I put my arm around the small of her back and pulled her hard into me. I felt our teeth knock as we kissed each other—wildly and desperately, like two people drowning, trying to keep each other afloat. After a long time, I gently pulled away.
"I don't know about you, but I'm gonna need a little sustenance if we're going to continue down this road. Will you let me buy you dinner? Any place. Your pick."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"What about your...I mean, don't you need to get home?"
I laughed a little, and shook my head.
"I think I'm okay tonight."
We took the elevator to the first floor and turned right on Broadway. I suggested Legal Sea Foods, but Diana wanted to walk. She said she could use a walk to clear her head. I stopped her on the sidewalk and kissed her again.
We picked a little restaurant up around Central Square. We had a gay waiter, who looked at Diana, then looked at me, and smiled approvingly, as if to say "not bad, old man, not bad at all." They might not desire them, but gay men always seemed to appreciate beautiful women. We got a bottle of Chenin Blanc and a dozen oysters on the half shell, which came with some fresh bread. We finished both the wine and the food at around the same time we ran out of small talk. We ordered steaks and Cabernet.
"So I'll tell you my tragedy if you tell me yours," I said. Diana smiled sadly.
"You first."
"Well, after 20 years of me giving my life completely to Jane and the kids, she called and said she was on the way back to Memphis, that it was over, and that she'd send movers for her and the kids' stuff. And that there was nothing I could do about it."
It came out just that easily. Boom. Diana got teary eyed again.
"Wait," I said. "I'm not even sure I'm all that upset about it. I'm just in shock. I haven't had time to process it yet. It's not like we've had a wonderful, idyllic time of it or anything like that. I'm just processing right now. So it's your turn."
She took a sip of Cabernet and swirled the burgundy liquid in the oversized wine glass.
"Mine's a long story compared to yours. My little sister Mary has been in a bad relationship for about six months. The guy is a real loser. A deadbeat who does steroids and lives to lift weights. A couple of months ago, she showed up with a black eye...."
"Abusive relationship?"
Diana nodded.
"The first time I said something, she blew up, defended the bastard, told me to mind my own business. But in the past couple of weeks, she's been calling when he was at the gym, hinting about getting out of it, of finally getting away from him..."
She drank some more wine.
"But now I haven't heard from her in over a week. I'm afraid...."
"So she's ready to be out of it?"
"Yes, but...."
"But he's keeping her from talking to you?"
"Yes."
"So that's easy enough," I said. Diana waited for me to go on, but instead I finished my steak. It wasn't bad. She sat, poised, waiting for me to explain. I motioned for the check. On the way out, she got tired of waiting for me to explain.
"How do you think it's easy? I can't even talk to her. I don't even know if she's alright. What's so easy? What the hell can I do?"
"I think it's time for an intervention. An extraction. Time to remove her from the problem."
She laughed, sadly, and shook her head.
"That's so you," she said. "Let's just set things straight. Maybe it works in corporate America, but this is the other America. My father's an old man and we don't have any brothers or cousins. I don't have anyone who can help."
We walked out onto the dark street. When we passed Rudy's Bookstore, I stopped and looked in the window.
"I can help," I said.
She stopped and looked at me with that raised eyebrow look of hers.
"I really appreciate you being willing, but this guy's a badass. And he runs with a tough bunch...."
"And I'm not a badass?"
She laughed again, hesitated, then kissed me.
"You're a corporate badass. I mean, you know how to make things happen in the business world, but this is...out of your league."
She watched me to see if she'd stepped over the line and somehow insulted me. It was my turn to smile.
"A problem is a problem. You use the same steps to solve it, regardless of the nature. The issue here is one of securing the necessary resources."
I had always dreamed of what I was contemplating. You grow up in the 70s, watching Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood, and you can't help but dream a certain way. We took the Red Line to Park Street and walked over to China Town. In the past decade, I've probably walked this route a hundred times. I knew an Asian market that sold fresh fish and groceries, as well as a large assortment of various and sundry items. I'd always known, without ever witnessing it, that they sold whatever a man was willing to pay for. I yanked off my tie, started to fold it so I could put it in my jacket pocket, but suddenly tossed it in a trash can.
"What are you doing? That's an expensive tie." Diana said.
"It was a gift," I answered, remembering the giver. "Never cared for it."
I stopped at an ATM machine on the way over and took out five hundred. Diana followed me into the market, and we walked all the way to the back where there were shelves of woks, cleavers, brass statues of Hindu deities—almost anything you could think of with the slightest Asian connection. There were five men standing in a far corner. I sized them up, something you get very good at in business. I had learned to do it in college, where I raked it in playing poker on the weekends, and I perfected it after a decade of scraping my way up the corporate ladder.
I decided who the leader was and walked straight up to him. The others looked ready to pounce should the need arise.
"I was told you could get me some hard-to-find merchandise."
He looked around at his cronies, all at the ready.
"And who told you this?"
"Does it matter? You come highly recommended, and I was told I had nothing to worry about."
He had to make a choice: believe me and he might be walking into something; doubt me and he might piss off someone he didn't want to piss off. I was carrying myself like someone with authority, someone who usually gets want he wants. It was an act I'd mastered over the years. And since he was still around and still in business, he was obviously good at telling shit from shinola. I watched his eyes and I could see he had bought the bluff.
He looked from me to Diana, then back to me.
"Diana," I said, "See if you can find us some interesting noodles?"
She nodded and walked into the busy part of the store.
"I need a revolver," I said. "Nothing fancy, since it's going to disappear shortly after I use it. I'm looking for something in the three hundred dollar range."
"I'm sorry," he said. "I deal in Asian merchandise...." Posturing, since he had already decided I was legit. It was like a dance, now. We both had to go through the motions.
"An Asian handgun, then. And I can go four."
He smiled and started to say something, so I cut him off.
"Let's cut the shit, you and I. You know I'm not a cop and I know you're not some stupid immigrant. I'm a man with a problem, and you're the man with the solution. And I won't forget to mention to the powers that be that you helped a friend in need."
I reached in my pocket, removed the five hundred and handed it to him. Instinctively, he took it, and I put my hand back in my pocket before he could hand it back.
"My contact," I said, making it up as I went, "the one who recommended you, is big enough to stomp us both down or raise us both up, so if he says you're okay, I'm not worried. You don't need to be either. I'm sure you've got something along the lines of what I need nearby, so I'll do a little shopping and you can have one of your associates find me in the store."
I turned around and joined Diana. It was a ballsy move, if I do say so myself, and fairly risky, since he could just walk off with the five, but I spend most of my time playing the same sort of games, only without guns, so I can usually tell how it will play out. Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, one of the four sidekicks came down the aisle with what looked like a fish wrapped in wax paper.
"Here," he said. "fresh, clean, and ready to cook." He was an up-and-comer with a future in this business. You could tell.
I took the package and reached out and shook his hand.
"A pleasure doing business with you," I said.
Out on the dark street, I peeled back a piece of tape and opened the paper. A short Smith and Wesson .357. I popped the cylinder—no empty beds. Diana looked scared and impressed at the same time.
"Don't worry," I said, stuffing the piece into my right front pocket, "I'm just happy to see you. Now where to?"
We rode the Red Line back to Cambridge, got out at Central Square, and walked North. Some parts of Cambridge are nice. Where we were headed wasn't.
Diana stopped in front of the building. It was old and dilapidated. The iron railing on the porch had broken in several places and swayed slowly when I touched it. The wooden steps needed a paint job and a few boards sank precariously when I stepped on them.
Inside, the hallway reeked of cooking from a dozen different countries spoiled by the less intriguing stench of mold and mildew with the faint tinge of urine.
"They're on the third floor," Diana said without meeting my eyes.
We walked up the ancient stairway and I patted my front right pocket for reassurance. I could feel the fatigue creeping into my legs. Now that I had some free time, I'd have to get back in shape. Finally, we stopped in front of 302, and Diana nodded at the door.
I contemplated a variety of approaches and remembered an old boss always saying, "Direct is best."
I stepped back and kicked the door in.
The kitchen looked old and filthy, like something out of a film about the slums from the 50s. A huge, muscle-bound man sat at an old kitchen table with tin trim, wearing a guinea shirt, as my dad used to call them. I've also heard them called wife-beaters. Ironic.
A young woman with a purplish black eye and a swollen jaw was about to place a plate of food on the table, but when the door crashed in, she let out a short, sharp scream and dropped the dish on the floor. He shot her a look at her for dropping the dish.
"Mary!" Diana said and ran to her sister. The musclehead at the table started to get up, so I slipped the revolver out of my pocket and held it where he could see it.
"It's not polite to get up without permission," I said to the sleazeball. To Diana, "Take Mary and go to your place."
"Mary..." He said.
I leveled the gun at his chest.
"I am not feeling particularly charitable tonight," I said. "So either you sit down and shut the fuck up, or I am liable to do something ugly."
"What about her things?" Diana asked.
"Leave them," I said.
Diana looked at me questioningly, and I smiled to reassure her. She and Mary went out the door and I could hear their footsteps fading as they descended to the street.
"Well, I guess that's a wrap," I said, backing toward the door.
"She'll come back," he said, sneering at me. "And when she does, you can count on it that she's gonna regret this."
"Is that so?" I said, feeling the anger crawling up the back of my neck like a hundred little, poisonous spiders.
"You know it as well as I do," he went on. "And it won't be pretty, man. It won't be pretty."
I thought about what he was saying. I'd addressed a symptom, but ignored the root cause. The reason most solutions fail.
"And you know what?" he said, gloating. "There's not a goddam thing you can do about it."
That decided it. He'd just said the wrong thing to the wrong guy on the wrong night.
"That so?" I asked, taking aim and squeezing the trigger. The sound of the gun startled both of us. The impact knocked him out of the chair onto the soiled linoleum. A patch of red appeared in the center of his teeshirt right below his solar plexus.
"Truth is," I said, coming close and standing over him, "there's always something you can do."
"What the fuck?! Are you fucking crazy?!" He grabbed at his stomach as if he could staunch the flow of bright red blood.
"No," I said, matter of factly, "just a problem solver."
I squeezed out five more shots, each an inch or so higher and further to his left than the first. He was dead long before the ringing in my ears had grown silent.
I put the gun back in my pocket where I could feel the warmth against my leg. Then I left the room and took my time going down the stairs. No doors opened. No one said anything. In a few minutes when the police came, I was sure they'd find that no one had seen anything either.
I walked to Mass Ave, but instead of getting on the Red Line, I walked all the way down to the Harvard Bridge. There was a nice breeze. Nice night for a walk. I stopped at what felt like the exact center of the bridge and stood there between Boston and Cambridge, waiting till there were no walkers or joggers close enough to see me in any detail.
I took the gun out and looked at it in the dim glow of the streetlight. So much power in such a small chunk of blued steel. It was a shame I couldn't keep it, but you learn over time that it's best not to leave loose ends. I tossed it out and away from the supports. It splashed and sank to the bottom.
I watched the lights from the two cities play across the surface of the water for a long time and thought of all the secrets that must be buried at the bottom of this old river.
Mine wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last.
-END-
