The Best American Mystery Stories 2000

Geary Danihy Jumping with Jim

From Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

I’m looking for a parking spot. I’m also laughing at myself. I feel like a character out of a novel written back when honor was still a believable, even compelling, motivation, and I’m not sure if I want to feel this way, or even if it’s safe to, given my line of work.

Yesterday, after I had my last lunch with Nora Davison, I went home, sat down, and just thought. What she had said, especially about the captain on the ship, kept coming back to me. All I could think of was a book I had read back in college called Lord Jim. It was mainly about a guy, an officer on a freighter, who tries to live down something he’s not even sure he actually did.

He thought the ship he was on was sinking. There were all these pilgrims on board, trying to get to Mecca, and one moment this guy Jim’s up on the ship and the next he’s down in the lifeboat with the rest of the crew, and he’s not sure how he got there. Did he jump? Did he fall over? Was he pushed? He just doesn’t know. Bad enough, but then the ship doesn’t sink. When the crew finally gets into port there’s their ship, already back and safe. Jim gets cashiered or something, and he goes off and tries to atone, to get his honor back. People did that back then.

I finally find a place to park my car. I lock it, then open the trunk and pull out the briefcase. I slam the trunk closed and head for the office complex where Mr. Bradley Davison works. As I walk, swinging the briefcase, I can feel the weight of the gun inside shift back and forth. I start to laugh at myself again.

I normally don’t handle maritals. Too messy, often too confusing. Insurance fraud I understand. People running away, not wanting to be found, as natural as the sun rising and setting. Industrial espionage? Hey, it’s the American way. But maritals, well, they just take too many zigs and zags; no one’s ever sure what’s happening or why, least of all me.

However, this one was different. This time the wife didn’t want to nail the husband, she wanted to protect him. Different. Enough so that after several moments of listening to some part of my brain scream, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it!” I agreed to take the case.

The fact that I really liked how Mrs. Bradley Davison looked and spoke, how her eyes seemed to absorb what I was saying, as if she truly believed I had something interesting or important to say, might have had something to do with it. Some women look at a man and calculate the quickest way to make him feel small. Other women make their men feel they can go one-on-one with Michael Jordan, and maybe even win. Later, when I thought about our first meeting, I realized she had stirred something in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I wasn’t sure exactly what that was, but it felt good.

After I agreed to take the case, I let her tell her story. It appeared Bradley Davison was being blackmailed, or at least that’s what Nora believed. She had found a briefcase hidden in the garage when she had gone looking for some paint thinner. She had opened the briefcase and discovered a lot of money: hundred-dollar bills, banded, neatly arranged.

“It frightened me at first, like I’d just found a dead rat, or something that had plague virus spread all over it,” she said, rubbing her hands against her skirt. “All that money in our garage. It was like I was an actress in this weird movie, standing there with the briefcase open, all that money just pulsating, and meanwhile in the background I can hear Rosie O’Donnell on our TV, making wisecracks. And I can hear the audience laughing. It was surreal.”

She didn’t ask me if I knew what surreal meant. I was liking her more and more.

She had put the briefcase back where she had found it, then debated the rest of the day whether to question her husband. Undecided, she had let it slide that evening. The following morning, after Bradley had left for work, she had gone back out to the garage. The briefcase was gone.

“I think he’s in trouble, Mr. Taylor, and I want you to help him. He’s been a good father, a good provider. I don’t want to see him hurt.”

She didn’t complete the thought. Nothing about him being a good husband, or about her loving him. I had a feeling Nora Davison had learned not to lie about things that were really important to her.

I’m sure Bradley Davison started out a good man. We all do. Where we end up, well, that used to be determined by character. These days, I’m not so sure what it’s determined by. Maybe the Fates, maybe the Dow Jones. Who knows.

Bradley Davison was a senior vice president of an international communications company, one of those high-profile, charm-the-investors-with-technology kind of companies that barged into second-, third-, and tenth-world nations and helped them upgrade their internal phone systems from the can-and-string level so drug dealers and arms traders could communicate more efficiently.

He traveled a lot, mostly to Eastern Europe, which meant that his mind had been broadened and that he’d probably also had a lot of opportunities to dip his paw into many of the lucrative polluted streams that flowed over there. Chaos always breeds opportunity, and more chaos.

Given the fact that we’re all now global villagers, people in my line of work need to know other people in the same line of work all over the world. We do things for each other, saving on travel expenses and the embarrassment of ordering the wrong dishes in foreign restaurants. I had contacts in South America, the Far East, Australia, and Europe; all very helpful, plus their phone numbers made my personal phone book look very sophisticated.

I placed a call to Frère Jacques (Jacques Chevalier, my very own Continental Op) and gave him the particulars on Mr. Bradley Davison and his company. Jacques was busy, but he said he would look into it as soon as he could. Merci, mon frère. Then I started the process of checking up on Mr. Davison back home in the good old U.S. of A., my stomping grounds.

Ah, sweet information. Today it’s all available, if you know the right people (most of them nerds you wouldn’t have spoken to when you were in high school) and are liberal with your checkbook (in this case, Nora Davison’s checkbook). It turned out that Mr. Davison had made three recent visits to his hank, where he had a safe-deposit box in (significant point) his name only. Each visit had been made (another significant point) on the fifteenth of the month. Today was the thirteenth (a significant possibility immediately arose).

More information. Mr. Davison’s phone book (or, most likely, his electronic organizer) was apparently even more sophisticated than mine. His phone records showed that he had a lot of acquaintances in Bulgaria, Albania, Romania, and a couple of the “-stans” that hadn’t even existed several years ago. These acquaintances apparently preferred being called in the morning, while they were chomping on goat cheese and dunking their peasant bread in cups of ox-blood tea, or else Bradley suffered from insomnia. He had made most of these calls from his home between two and four in the morning. I faxed the permanent phone numbers to Frère Jacques and then set out to get a better look at Mr. Bradley Davison.

He was a good-looking man, a little over six feet tall, with the kind of prep-school hair that easily slipped down over his forehead, giving him a boyish, pixie kind of look women used to adore. He dressed a little too conservatively for my taste, all tailored grays, power ties, and always correct, if a bit retro, wingtip shoes. But then again, I wasn’t pulling down the same bucks he was.

I picked him up several blocks from his house and followed, two cars behind. Traffic was fairly light on the four-lane suburban artery we were traveling on. I knew the address of the executive complex where he had his office, so I wasn’t really concerned about losing him. My eye was briefly caught by a gaggle of geese flying in bomber pattern, heading off for winter vacation. I looked back down and Bradley was gone. Damn.

I eased over into the right lane, then into a doughnut shop’s parking lot. I got out, scratched my head, and looked in the four cardinal directions. South did the trick. There was Bradley’s dark green Ford Expedition parked in a lot two buildings down. Frank Taylor, ace detective, strikes again. I locked my car and walked.

It was a long, two-story building, with stores on the first floor, offices on the second. Kartuchian’s Oriental Rugs; above it the Delaware Casualty Company. Scandinavian Accents; above it, PharmPhresh Foods, Inc. (I bet). Shoes 4-U; above it, TMG International Trading. I chose door number three.

I went into Shoes 4-U and immediately became interested in a line of lady’s black heels arranged near the window. I’ve always loved the way heels shape women’s calves. I spent five minutes on my inspection and was starting to get worried that the store manager might have me ejected for having a too-obvious shoe fetish when Bradley came out the door that led upstairs to TMG International Trading. He walked to his Expedition and opened the driver’s door. Then he placed his hands on the jamb above the door and rested his head on them. He either had a very bad hangover, or very big troubles.

He stayed that way for several seconds, then pushed himself upright and got into his car. He pulled out into traffic and drove off, leaving me holding a stylish, open-toed, sling-back model with a three-inch heel. Lovely. I reluctantly put it down, went outside, and copied down what TMG International Trading particulars there were, then walked back to my car and headed off to Bradley’s office complex.

It was time to make my first report, something that could probably have been done over the phone, but that’s not why I had taken the case. Phones are so impersonal.

I met Nora Davison at one of my watering holes, The Rusty Bucket. Local, good steaks and burgers, waitresses who knew what I ate and drank and also knew when I was working and left me alone. I took a booth in the back and waited. I was early.

She was on time. I had described her to Frank, the day manager, so as soon as she came in he greeted her and escorted her back to my booth. She slid in opposite me and gave me a tentative smile.

“Drink?” I asked.

“Too early for a martini?”

“It’s never too early for a martini,” I replied. I ordered, and then considered my client. Short brown hair in a cute cut; large brown eyes in an oval face that seemed made to support a smile; slightly bowed lips and a chin some might consider a bit small but I thought was just fine. She had on a simple white dress with matching white jacket, its sleeves rolled up several times to reveal thin porcelain forearms.

Our drinks arrived. “Cheers,” we both said and clinked. She took a decent pull, then set her glass down and looked up at me.

“Gory details?”

“Not yet, just some slightly smudged information.”

I quickly told her what I had found out — the withdrawals, the phone calls — and what I was preparing to do. She listened quietly while I spoke, her eyes never once looking down or away. When I finished she sat back and sighed.

“Oh, Bradley, you dumb cluck,” she said, sadness rather than anger in her voice. I remained quiet, fingers on the stem of my glass.

“About a year ago,” she began, sitting forward and taking possession of her glass, “he started to change. It was like he got on an emotional roller coaster. He’d come back from a trip and he’d be way up there. He was signing deals and making a lot of money. Then, a few days later, he’d start to slide, and by the end of the week he’d be down in the dumps, sitting in his chair in the den, drinking double scotches and staring into the fireplace. Sometimes, he didn’t even have a fire on. I tried to talk with him, but he kept on saying he was okay. Working too much, maybe, but he was okay.”

She took another sip, then sighed again.

“What about in the last few months?” I asked.

“Worse. There weren’t any more highs, just lows. He used to be really involved with the girls, go to their soccer games, go out bike riding with them. He’d even take them out to movies sometimes, said it was going on a date with two of his best girls. That all stopped. Now, he hardly even speaks to them.”

I nodded. I was beginning to dislike Mr. Bradley Davison a great deal. Nora brought her hands to her forehead and kneaded the skin, then she dropped her hands and looked at me.

“Mr. Taylor, you’ll help him, won’t you? He may be a little weak sometimes, but he doesn’t deserve what he’s going through. He doesn’t.”

“Mrs. Davison,” I said, “I don’t know what your husband is involved in yet. Some things I can do, others are out of my control.”

She nodded. She understood. There might not be any salvation for her husband. Her eyes got very bright. I had to look away. Some guys just don’t know how lucky they are.

When I got back there was a message from Frère Jacques on my machine. I checked the time. Late evening in Paris. I dialed his number and he answered on the third ring.

“Bonjour, mon frère. How are things in the city of light?”

“Bonsoir, mon ami. They are delightful, as they should be. I assume you received my message.” I told him I had. “Well, it seems that your Monsieur Davison is not a very nice man.”

“Do tell,” I said, not too surprised that I was glad to hear this. “What’s he been up to?”

Women. Women down on their luck because the countries they lived in were down on their luck. Women with few talents or skills who needed to eat, or who had families, elderly parents, young children who needed to eat. Women who had only one thing to sell, themselves.

It seemed that, on the side, Bradley Davison was a glorified international assistant pimp, an arranger, the man with the money, the guy who paid the bills and made the arrangements so the girls could fly out of their countries and travel thousands of miles to end up posing for nude pictures to feed the Internet’s voracious appetite, or working as crib girls, or even worse, just disappearing. Big business, a lot of money, and a whole hell of a lot of suffering.

I mentioned TMG International Trading to Jacques. He said he hadn’t come across the name yet but would check it out. It probably didn’t matter. I had a feeling I knew what TMG traded in. I asked him if the police over there were interested in Davison and Jacques replied that as far as he knew, not yet. Jacques had gotten his information from other sources — the competition, in fact. To them, Davison was a small fish in a sea where only sharks mattered.

I thanked Jacques and we wished each other a good evening, but I wasn’t sure if I would be able to oblige; I was thinking about Davison: a nice home, a wonderful wife, apparently two great children. and still, he becomes a misery peddler. Go figure.

It was the fifteenth of the month. I followed Bradley when he left his house. He drove straight to his office. I sat in my car, keeping an eye on his Expedition but not really expecting him to go anywhere. The bank he did business with had a branch right in the office complex and that’s where he had his private stash. Mr. Davison was a man who liked things convenient.

Around eleven-thirty I got out and walked through the parking lot, taking my time. Inside the complex I stopped at a news kiosk and studied the magazines and papers. I purchased the latest Time, then walked over to the shoe-shine stand that faced the elevators as well as the indoor entrance to the bank, sat up on the throne, and gave my shoes a treat.

Eight minutes later, as I was appreciating the rhythmic snapping of the soft cloth as it put a final high shine on my right shoe, the elevator doors opened and Mr. Bradley Davison appeared, briefcase in hand. He went through the bank’s glass doors, turned right, and headed for the small room that contained the safe-deposit boxes. Five minutes later he was back out, briefcase still in his hand. He walked to the elevator doors. As if cued, they opened and Bradley disappeared. I paid for the shine, stepped down, and walked over to a bank of phones. I dialed Nora Davison’s number. When she answered, I identified myself. She paused. I could hear her take a deep breath, then she asked what she could do for me.

“Did your husband tell you that he’d be late tonight?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “he called just a little while ago. He said there were a couple of people in from Bulgaria or somewhere and he had been asked to take them out this evening. He said he probably wouldn’t be back until after midnight.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Is something happening?” she asked. “Is Brad in any danger?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “I think he’s going to make another payoff tonight. He’s made them before and apparently nothing happened. No reason to think anything will this time.”

“No reason to kill the golden goose,” she said, her voice fragile.

“Something like that,” I said.

“You’ll be watching him, won’t you?” she said, her voice rising.

“Yes, I’ll probably be around somewhere.”

“Don’t let anything happen to him, Mr. Taylor. Please.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t like Bradley Davison. I didn’t like how he made his extra pocket money. In my mind, it was simple poetic justice that someone was blackmailing him. He was getting what he deserved. Maybe he deserved a lot more for all the pain and suffering he had helped to cause.

“Nothing will happen to him,” I said before I even knew the words were out of my mouth.

We were in a Ruby Tuesday’s about a mile from Davison’s offices. He sat at the bar, working on his third scotch. I was at one of the small stand-up counters along the wall, sipping on my Coke, watching him. He was an unhappy man who obviously didn’t want to be late for an appointment. He kept on checking his watch every few minutes, and in between he’d cast worried glances up at the large neon clock that hung over the bar’s cash register. When he wasn’t busy with the time, he kept patting the briefcase that sat on his lap.

Ten minutes later we were out of there. I had a tight tail on him. The evening traffic was still heavy and I didn’t think there was any chance he’d catch on that I was behind him. I was just another set of headlights in his rearview mirror. We got on the expressway and headed east. I turned my radio to a jazz station and settled back, following Bradley’s lead. We swept through the city on the elevated portion of the expressway and look the service branch that led to only one place: the airport. When the airport’s exit came up I followed him down the ramp and into short-term parking. He pulled a ticket from the machine, the gate went up, and he drove through and turned right. I followed and turned left, keeping an eye on his car in my rearview mirror.

I actually got to the terminal before him. I was studying the Arrivals board when he walked through the automatic doors, briefcase in his right hand. Years ago, I would have assumed I was about to see a drop made in one of those public storage bins, the ones you feed quarters, shove your bag into, then lock with a little red key. However, these days, most airports have done away with them. Too easy to stash a bomb and just walk away.

I followed Bradley. He stopped at a Chik-Filet stand to check the time, then proceeded down the hall and stepped inside a bar area called The Flight Line, where everybody took off before they took off.

The bar was crowded. A lot of airports have also banned smoking, fearing, I guess, that people’s lungs might explode right there in the lounge and there’d be a nasty lawsuit. Our airport was still this side of smoker civility: it allowed people to light up in the bars. Hence, the crowd. Added to the usual number of people who needed a couple of pops just to get on a plane were the smokers, some stoking up on nicotine prior to boarding, others just having gotten off and reacquainting their lungs with carbon monoxide and other valuable gases.

Bradley looked around. Several tables were open, but there was no room at the bar. This apparently didn’t please Bradley. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looked at his watch, then glared at the occupied stools. I was less demanding. I went to one of the tables. A woman with tired eyes and varicose veins came up and took my order. I had been good long enough. One beer and some popcorn wouldn’t dull my keen detecting skills. As the lady walked away, a man in a leather bomber jacket punched out his cigarette and pushed his stool back from the bar. Bradley was next to the stool before the guy could turn. The guy said something to Bradley, who took a step back, then hopped up onto the stool as soon as the guy cleared.

The waitress brought my beer. I paid, then grabbed a basket, opened the glass doors of a red and yellow popcorn cart, and scooped up a healthy helping. Back at my table, I commenced crunching and sipping as I wondered how Bradley was going to make the drop. Airports don’t like storage bins, and they don’t like packages, bags, or briefcases left around unattended. Security people are very paranoid these days.

I was enjoying my fourth or fifth handful of popcorn when Bradley stood, a scotch in front of him on the bar, the briefcase at his feet. He said something to the bartender, then turned and started walking in my direction. I almost choked on my popcorn.

He never glanced my way. Instead, he went directly to the popcorn cart, grabbed a basket, and opened the doors. He scooped up some kernels, waited a second, then dropped them back in. Then he scooped up some more, and dropped them in again. Picky eater. I was so fascinated, I almost missed the pickup. Just in time, I realized Bradley was stalling. I jerked my eyes back to the bar and Bradley’s briefcase was in the hands of a small man who was moving briskly out of the bar. I stood and passed Bradley, who was still sifting. Out in the corridor I looked for my man. He was halfway down the hall, moving with the flow. I followed.

There was no way I would be able to tail this guy once he got to wherever his car was, but there probably wasn’t any need. From the quick look I’d had of him, with his Eddie Bauer windbreaker and his cord trousers, I had a feeling I wasn’t dealing with a crime cartel here. If I could get his license plate, I had him.

We were outside. I followed as he walked toward One Hour Parking. A real sport, but then, he had twenty grand in the briefcase. I took out my car keys and held them in my hand. We were in the lot; I let him go down a row and followed down the next. He stopped once, looked around, stared at me, then looked away as I kept walking, jingling my keys. He stopped at a Lexus, beeped off the anti-theft, tossed the briefcase inside (what the hell, it was just another twenty thousand), and got in. He drove by me as I was leaning over attempting to unlock the door of an ’88 Mustang.

ZBE 976. Thank you very much. I straightened up when I saw him pull up to the exit booth. I was standing at a terminal pay phone, punching in Nora’s number, when I saw Bradley go through the exit doors and out into the night.

She answered and I said, “He’s all right. He’s heading home.”

“Thank you,” she said.

I hung up, then stood there questioning my motive for making that call. Did I want her to think I was responsible for her husband getting home safe tonight? That I was some kind of hero? What did I want from Nora Davison? What did I want from myself?

The following day I had the information I needed. Mr. Franklin Saunders. 1229 Columbia Boulevard, apartment 2G. One of the city’s newest luxury condos. Mr. Saunders was doing quite well for himself. Then again, he was being subsidized.

Unauthorized entry into these luxury condos is tough. Again, with nerds and money on your side, anything’s possible, but in this case neither was necessary. The gods have a funny way of working.

A Ms. Melissa Parker, only daughter of Mr. James Parker, a major player in the commodities market (very big into pork bellies) had gotten herself into a little trouble involving some cocaine and a boyfriend who eventually turned state’s evidence. I had assisted the lovely Ms. Parker in extricating herself from a fling that could have turned into a nightmare. Her father had been very thankful. As for the gods? Well, Ms. Parker, bless her soul, just happened also to live at 1229 Columbia Boulevard, in apartment 3B.

I placed a call to Papa Porkbelly. A half-hour later I received a call from Ms. Parker, inviting me over for cocktails.

At seven-fifteen I walked through the condo’s front entrance carrying a red and green shopping bag from the high-priced specialty market a block up from the condos. Sticking out was the top of a wine bottle and an impressive baguette. I gave my name to the front security guard. He called up to Ms. Parker’s luxury apartment and was informed that the lady couldn’t wait to see me. He gave me a wink as he indicated where I could find the elevators.

I was quickly deposited on the third floor and greeted by Ms. Parker, resplendent in red hair blown dry by a windstorm, a tight-fitting green cocktail dress, and heels the likes of which I hadn’t seen since my foray into Shoes 4-U. She smiled and stepped aside. I went in and set the bag on a table, reached in, and pulled out a Ruger Redhawk .357 with a 7.5-inch barrel.

“Oh, my,” Ms. Parker cooed, a smirk on her face.

“Don’t even start,” I said. “There’s some pate in there, as well as some good-looking Brie. Enjoy.” I waved at her as I went out the door, slipping the Ruger into my jacket.

Down to the second floor via the fire stairs: I found apartment 2G, rang the bell, and stepped to the side so the little security camera set discreetly above the door didn’t have a good angle on me.

“Who’s there?” a voice crackled over the intercom next to the door.

“Really sorry to bother you, Mr. Saunders,” I said, trying to get as much contrition into my voice as I could. “Peterson with building security. We’re checking all the units. We’ve got a report about a possible gas leak.”

I didn’t know if he was going to buy it. Frankly, I wouldn’t.

“Only take a minute,” I said, not sure whether I was gilding the lily. I heard several locks click, then the door handle turned and there was Mr. Franklin Saunders in the doorway, the original trusting soul.

I personally don’t like big handguns. Too unwieldy. Too noisy. Too messy. But everyone’s seen Dirty Harry, and there’s no sense not taking advantage of the Eastwood mystique. I didn’t own a .44 Magnum, Dirty Harry’s choice, but I didn’t think Franklin Saunders would know the difference. He didn’t. When I pulled out the Ruger Redhawk he was immediately impressed. When I suggested a conversation, he readily agreed.

I left Mr. Saunders’s apartment thirty minutes later. In that time we had become quite intimate. For one thing. I’d learned how he’d stumbled onto Bradley Davison’s little sideline: he’d been part of it.

Saunders was a pilot. Before coming into his newfound wealth, he had flown for one of the charter outfits that used to ferry the women out of their homelands. He had twice seen Bradley Davison deliver women to the airport. He had taken pictures. He had made notes. Definitely a man who planned for his future.

I collected the photos he had surreptitiously taken of Bradley and some of the girls, as well as copies of photos of the same girls he had downloaded from several of the Internet smut sites. I also liberated a newspaper article showing photos of a dead Romanian girl who had been found in Marseilles with her throat slit. Saunders had a shot of Bradley standing with the same girl, arm around her shoulder, apparently wishing her bon voyage.

What Franklin Saunders had that I couldn’t take away with me was what was inside his head, plus his obvious inclination to use it to better himself. I explained to Mr. Saunders, displaying the Ruger Redhawk for emphasis, that I had been given an option by my employer. I could test how Saunders’s head responded to a .357 round, or he could keep the money he’d already received and give me a “Swear to God and hope to die” promise to cease and desist. It was Mr. Saunders’s option. Not surprisingly, he chose the latter. I complimented him on choosing wisely, switched the Ruger from my right hand to my left, and drove my fist into his stomach. He doubled over, then dropped to the plush white living-room carpet.

As I kneeled down, the gun barrel resting in front of his eyes, I whispered into his ear: “You go near Bradley Davison again, call him, write him a letter, send him an e-mail or even a singing telegram, I’ll come back. I’ll hit you, Mr. Saunders. I’ll hurt you, and then I’ll kill you. Do you understand me?”

Curled in a fetal position, he was still able to nod. I patted him on the shoulder, stood, and gathered up my little cache of blackmail goodies. On my way out of the building, I visited Ms. Parker long enough to collect my bag and drop in my gun, then I rode the elevator down and wished the security man a good evening.

We met again at The Rusty Bucket. Our booth. She was wearing a red turtleneck tucked into jeans that favored her immensely. Two martinis stood between us. I watched her pick hers up and sip at it.

“It’s all over, Mrs. Davison,” I said, my left hand resting on the briefcase that sat next to me on the banquette. Inside was my haul from Franklin Saunders’s apartment.

She put the glass down, her brown eyes investigating my face, perhaps trying to read something more than I was willing to show.

“What was it all about?” she asked, her eyes still on me.

I fingered the briefcase lock. She needed to know. What she did with the information was her business, but I couldn’t let her walk out without knowing what her husband had gotten himself into, the kind of man he was, what he was willing to do for money. I put pressure on the lock and it clicked open. This was going to hurt her, but in the long run she’d be better off. That’s what I told myself.

“You know, it’s funny,” Nora said, pulling the glass toward her. “When you first get married, you don’t realize how important history is, the history you and your husband are going to make.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, my hand still on the top of the briefcase.

“You ever been married, Mr. Taylor?”

“For about fifteen minutes.”

She shook her head. “Then you never had time for the history to kick in. See, you start out thinking you have everything in common. Then time goes by and you realize you have nothing in common, but you go along with it anyway because the memories start building up. Your first apartment, your first fight, some vacations, some holidays. A mother dying, a father going through cancer.”

She played with the base of her martini glass.

“Brad saw both of our children being born, saw them even before I did. We’ve been through chicken pox and broken bones and even a car accident. It all starts to add up and become something more than just two people, just a marriage; it becomes, I don’t know, maybe like a museum, where all these things are on display, things that you expect to have around, maybe even need to have around. They tell you who you are.”

She stopped, took a sip of her martini, then just looked at me.

“Your husband’s no prize,” I said, “but I guess you know that.” My stomach was churning.

“I’ve known it for a long time, Mr. Taylor.”

“But there’s history, right?”

“Yes, the museum, and I’m one of the caretakers — no, maybe one of the trustees. Whatever. Anyway, there’s responsibility there. The kind you might not really want, but there you are. You’ve got it. Like the captain of a ship, maybe. Even though you think the ship might start sinking, you stay aboard. You know what I mean?”

My hand fell away from the briefcase. I knew what she meant. I didn’t agree, but I understood.

So now I’m walking toward Bradley’s office complex, briefcase in hand. Inside is my little treasure trove and the Ruger. I’m about to drop in unannounced on Mr. Bradley Davison and have a little chat. I don’t know if he’ll listen to me, or if he will even care about what I have to say, but it’s the least I can do for Nora.

Franklin Saunders has been neutered. But he was never really the threat. He wasn’t what Bradley was worried about when he rested his head against the side of his Expedition after he came out of TMG International Trading. Those boys play a rougher game than Franklin Saunders. They’re right up there with Attila the Hun and Vlad the Impaler. You irritate them, like I think Bradley has irritated them, and they’ll come after you, your wife, your kids, and your canary. They don’t care. There are no rules in their world, except the ones they make up right before they pull out their knives.

Earlier this morning, I went down to my basement and pushed around some old boxes. I found my college copy of Lord Jim. I blew the dust off, wiped away some cobwebs, and brought it upstairs. I poured some coffee and sat at the kitchen table thumbing through the book, noting passages I had underlined back when the world was simpler and I didn’t have so many scars. I thought about what I would have done in Jim’s place. Jump? Who knows. And if I did, would I then seek redemption? Find my lost honor? Did such a thing matter anymore, or even exist?

I’m still thinking about that as I stand in front of the elevators, waiting for a brass door to slide open and whisk me up to where they cut deals, not throats. Will Bradley Davison listen? Does it matter? I don’t think he’s cut out to handle his playmates with the knives. It’s not his type of game. And sooner or later, they’ll come after him and his family. They’ll come after Nora.

There are only two ways to stop them. One is to make Bradley Davison go away, permanently. The other is to make TMG International Trading go away permanently.

You never know what you’ll do when you think the ship’s sinking. Some people jump, others stay. The thing about staying is, you never get a chance to do it again. You just go down once. Maybe that’s the point. If you’re going to stay, going to go down, you might as well do it right, with a little class.

Maybe, after my little talk with Bradley. I’ll price out some leather boots, the ones with those killer heels that remind you there’s always a little pain mixed in with love. Yeah, as I remember, Shoes 4-U is having a sale. Then maybe I’ll go upstairs and show them to the boys at TMG. Find out their opinions on love, and pain.