The Best of Evil

  I could vouch for its effectiveness. In the past I’d dreaded those pesky neighbors who felt obligated to inform the authorities of every shady transaction.

  Funny the way things turn around. Now I was hoping for such a report.

  The detective said, “I paid a visit to the director in your complex.”

  I sat up. “We have a narc in our building?”

  “A caring neighbor, Aramis, not a narc. It’s all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Her name’s in the public record.”

  “Mrs. Vaughn?”

  “She did have something to report.”

  “Should’ve known. She’s always walking her dog, working in the gardens—”

  “Sounds mighty dangerous.”

  I laughed at that. “Okay. What’d she say?”

  “She’d already documented some of Monday’s nonresident activity in and around your building. That evening, while out with her dog—”

  “A bulldog. The thing scares me.”

  “Apparently it scared a middle-aged male exiting your building. He looked down and tried to hurry past Mrs. Vaughn. She caught him coming from your entryway and shoving something into his coat pocket. She marked the time as 5:18 p.m.”

  “Before Johnny or I get home from work.”

  “Hence her concern.”

  “Could she identify the guy?”

  “She described him in detail. She’s been very accurate in the past.” Meade ran a grooved fingernail down the report. “In her words, he had ‘an angular face, crow’s-feet around dark eyes, and black hair with spots of gray near the temples.’ ”

  “That could be a lot of people.”

  “He wore ‘peglegged blue jeans and a cowboy shirt with pearl buttons and white stitching, and his boots were scuffed at the toes.’ ”

  “Sounds like Uncle Wyatt.”

  “Wyatt Tremaine. Yes, I’d have to agree.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Detective Meade leveled his gaze, tapping a finger on the phone book. “He was here earlier, filing charges of a physical assault. Somebody punched him. He brought witnesses, as well as photographic evidence.”

  I jolted to my feet. “Did he tell you his part in the deal?”

  “So you admit to it?”

  “Is that what this is all about?”

  Meade held up pale palms to settle me down. “Please take your seat, Aramis.”

  I ran through my options. Paced. Then eased myself back into the chair.

  “Don’t misunderstand my intentions,” the detective said. “Family comes first. I believe you and your uncle have some grief between you, and it may be a good time to air it out. Face it, deal with it, and put it to rest.”

  “Am I free to go, Detective?”

  “You are. But I should mention that Mr. Tremaine’s willing to drop the charges.”

  “If?”

  “If you agree to face him on the television show.”

  “Blackmail. I’d expect nothing less from the man.”

  “Well, it’s also an opportunity, the way I see it. There must be a reason he wants that handkerchief. This might be your one chance to put all the pieces together. Not to mention, Aramis, that years of unforgiveness get old—for you and for everyone else. It really is a matter of maturity, isn’t it, when all is said and done?”

  NINETEEN

  Forgiveness? Maybe it comes easy to some people.

  Not to me.

  So why, standing in Black’s this morning, did I dial Loews Vanderbilt Hotel?

  Aside from my desire to avoid assault charges, I hoped to corner Uncle Wyatt and get some answers.

  “Carla Fleischmann’s room, please.”

  “Fleischmann? Thank you, sir. I’ll put you through.”

  A short pause, two rings, and there she was. Even at six o’clock, she sounded composed and professional. When I explained the purpose of my call, she expressed cautious optimism. “Really? So you’re interested in doing the show.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Glad to hear it, Mr. Black. I’m sorry if you feel coerced in any way.”

  “Oh, that? A little blackmail never hurt anyone. No worries.”

  “For the record, it was Greg’s idea. He’s well intentioned, in a subversive way. He believes in the passion of your story—really owns it on a heart level.”

  “I’m touched. Now do you need me to sign those papers you left?”

  “Yes. If we can go over them together, that’d be optimal.”

  “I can’t guarantee my response on the show.”

  “Any more violent outbursts, Mr. Black, and you will face criminal charges.”

  “Of course. What I meant was, I don’t know if I can forgive my uncle. Don’t know if I can actually say the words. Is that a problem?”

  “All the better, actually. Good editing can streamline or sanitize the show, but it all comes down to human drama. It’s the bread and butter of reality television. Oftentimes the unpredictable episodes are the most effective.”

  “And they get the highest ratings?”

  “That too.”

  “When do we—what’s the terminology—shoot the segment?”

  “The actual filming will take place next month. If you’re selected, we’ll fly you to an undisclosed location and lead you through the process. Expenses will be covered as well as a per diem for meals. First things first, though,” said Carla. “We’ll want to do a recorded interview and go over the eligibility requirements. You’ll fill out a nine-page questionnaire—”

  “Nine pages?”

  “There’s also an authorization and release form as well as certification of veracity. If any provisions of the certification are breached, you agree to pay the network one hundred thousand dollars per breach, plus disgorgement of any money or valuables received in connection with the breach.”

  “You’re scaring me now, Ms. Fleischmann.”

  “We’ll also have complete access to your public records, credit reports, and such. It’s legal protection for both parties.”

  “Uh. What about minor blemishes?”

  “Meaning?”

  “My record. It’s not squeaky clean. Got a few drug-related issues, but that’s not who I am. Not anymore.”

  “There’s actually nothing to fear so long as you’re honest and uphold your end of the agreement. It’s all in print, in black and white for you to see, and you’ll receive a copy for your own peace of mind.”

  “Well, in that case …,” I said with exaggerated enthusiasm.

  “Still want to proceed?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to talk me out of it.”

  “On the contrary,” Carla said, “I’m setting the hook. Once you take the bait, we don’t want to lose you.”

  Brianne was punctual and cheery, a real angel. Although five years separated us, twenty-two didn’t seem too young to me. Not when we were together. She carried herself with confidence that conveyed she knew what she wanted and wouldn’t let obstacles stand in her way.

  I like that in a woman. Particularly if I’m what she wants.

  Brianne’s desires, so far, remained unclear.

  Bottom line? She was good with customers, satisfactory with espresso drinks, and a reliable employee. Brianne Douglas: better-than-expected employee. Aramis Black: better-be-careful bossman.

  “Here you go, sir.” She handed a blended coffee drink to the last person in line. “Thank you, and have a great day.”

  “You too. Don’t lose that smile.”

  On his way out, the man nearly bumped into my packaged whole-bean display.

  “Brianne.” I nudged her hip with mine. “He was into you.”

  “He was just being nice.”

  “Right.”

  “It’s the way guys are, you know? Flirty and charming as long as they’re waiting to get what they want.”

  “Like girls are any different?”

  Bri
anne shook her head. “They’re totally different.”

  “Says who?”

  “Once a guy gets what he wants, he’s bored. Challenge over, ready to move on to the next thing.” She was wiping down the espresso machine. “Girls, on the other hand, are harder to read.”

  “No kidding.”

  “It’s true.” Brianne twisted the knob so that steam hissed and curled. “Once girls set their eyes on something, they’ll do just about anything to keep someone else from cutting in.”

  “I’ve seen guys like that.”

  “No you haven’t. Not to the same degree.”

  “You lost me.”

  “Guys,” she clarified, “can usually let go and let a relationship slowly die. Girls will almost die before letting the relationship go.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m convinced you know exactly what you mean.”

  “Aramis, you are a hopeless cause.”

  “Is that any way to speak to your employer?”

  “Ahh, he’s playing the boss card.”

  “Get to work,” I said. “I’ve got errands to run.”

  “Ha ha.”

  “No. Seriously. I’ll be back in a while, so feel free to make yourself a sandwich and a drink. I’ll have my cell. I won’t be far away.”

  “Where’re you going this time? Aren’t you going to tell me what all this hush-hush stuff’s about? It’s driving me crazy.” “Sorry, Brianne. All top secret.”

  “You’re determined to keep me in the dark, aren’t you?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it when I return. Let me just say this.” I placed a hand on my chest. “Brianne Douglas, you may be in the presence of a future star.”

  “Hey, not fair.” She stomped one foot in mock petulance as I moved away. “Aramis, come back.”

  I threw my sweatshirt over my head, winked, then headed out the back door.

  Carla Fleischmann and I agreed to meet for an early lunch at the hotel restaurant. I headed to Loews on foot after a detour into FedEx Kinko’s for the required copies of my driver’s license as well as digital photos of family, friends, and yours truly. I pulled a travel-size cologne from my pocket and slapped some on my face, under my sleeves.

  Carla met me in the lobby—in a charcoal gray slit skirt with black nylons.

  “Quick question, Mr. Black, before we get started.”

  “Sure.”

  “Have you or any of your immediate family ever been a member of SAG?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She tossed her red hair to the side. “The Screen Actors Guild.”

  “Uh. No. Doesn’t seem to run in our genes.”

  “Wonderful. We can’t allow any conflicts of interest. How about civil-action suits? Any filed by you or anyone related to you?”

  “Off the top of my head, the answer’s no.”

  “Good.”

  Greg Simone joined us for the meal, clipboard in hand. He was all business. Before I’d finished my first bite, he was guiding me through the paperwork trail, verifying that I would subject myself to all network obligations, stipulations, and heretofore undisclosed gyrations.

  After the forms were explained and completed, signed and sealed, he and Carla led me to a private meeting room where we rendezvoused with the camera crew. They’d arranged some of those shiny, silvery panels to help with the lighting and set up two plush armchairs at an angle to each other to give the interview a cozy, we’re-here-in-so-and-so’s-living-room feel.

  “Will I have to face my uncle again?”

  “We have an interview with him later today. But you? No. Not until the filming next month, assuming you are selected.”

  “Okay.”

  “We prefer to capture that first encounter with no script, no coaching.” Greg leaned closer, as though divulging a trade secret. “We can always go back and make changes.”

  I curled my lip. “I’d say Uncle Wyatt and I already had our first encounter.”

  “Yes, well. We got that on tape, didn’t we, Roger?”

  One of the cameramen answered Greg Simone with a nod.

  “And the charges? They’ve been dropped as part of our agreement, right?”

  “Absolutely,” Greg assured me.

  I played it cool. Eased into an armchair while staring at the cameraman. Wedged my sleeves up onto my elbows, displaying my tats for all to see. Over the years I’d figured out how to spend my coins of attitude and intimidation, and it felt good—downright intoxicating—to know they still bought me instant respect.

  Every man yearns for and needs respect in the same way that women need love. But just like love, respect can come in guises so tainted and deformed that we risk damage by embracing it.

  For example, some might think fear’s the same thing as respect. It’s not.

  I learned that from my father.

  TWENTY

  Sitting on our couch that evening, feet propped on the coffee table, my father didn’t have the courtesy to get up or the thoughtfulness to offer sentiments about how long it’d been and how he’d missed me and that he hoped my shop was faring well after the Elliston shooting.

  “ ’Bout time you dragged yourself in. I been waitin’ here since the beginning of Star Search.”

  “You watch those old reruns?”

  “And I been thinkin’ of your brother every minute it’s been on.”

  “Yeah. He’s gonna be a star.”

  “Got that right. Just a matter of time.”

  “Is Johnny here?” Hoping for a buffer.

  “Stepped out. He’ll be back with some sorta ethnic food—Thai, Vietnamese, or what have you. Told him to pick us up a case of beer so we can celebrate.”

  “What’re we celebrating?”

  “His gig tomorrow.”

  My dad lives in the suburbs of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Since my move to Nashville, he’s visited twice, and on both occasions he failed to set foot into Black’s. However, now that the favored son was performing, it’d be different. Good to know where things stood.

  “Well, Dad, I’m gonna go change.”

  “Do whatchu gotta. Don’t worry about your old man.”

  “Okay. Just, uh … make yourself at home.”

  He folded his arms behind his head and sank another inch lower on the cushions. “Already taken care of.”

  “I can see that.”

  On my way down the hall, I inched open the studio door and sighed with relief when I spotted Dad’s stuff sack. He’d be in here, as agreed.

  “Yeah. The spare floor space will suit you just fine,” I whispered.

  They carried on deep into the night, Dad and Johnny Ray.

  Dad had said he needed to talk with me—something about my mother—so I pried him for answers. As usual, he was more interested in talking about himself.

  After two beers I bowed out of the conversation. From experience I know the third beer is where discretion begins to dissolve. I just wasn’t ready for the easy banter that passes between Johnny Ray and Kenny Black. I don’t hold it against my brother. It’s just a melancholy thing that twines around my chest and throat and leaves me incapable of decent conversation.

  Except that being out of sight but within earshot is almost always worse.

  I threw aside my covers and stomped along the floorboards.

  “Does anyone in this house, anyone at all”—I pierced each man with a glare—“give a rat’s tail that I have to be up at five o’clock?”

  “Sorry, kid.” My brother’s face was a picture of contrition. “We’ll keep it down.”

  “You go back to bed, Aramis, and show some respect for your old man. We’ll behave ourselves. Ain’t that right?” My father bumped Johnny’s knee with his own. “Just sittin’ here with a few long-necked friends. No harm in that.”

  “This, Johnny—this is what I warned you about.”

  Johnny Ray wobbled forward. “Here on out we’re quiet as church mice. Promise. Scout’s honor and hope to die.”

  “You swear?”


  “Swear?” Dad’s voice had gone raspy. “Johnny, did the boy say ‘swear’?”

  Before my brother could respond, Dad burst out with laughter and slurred through a stream of epithets and curse words that nearly exhausted my own hefty list. Johnny acted horrified, before collapsing over his knees in a fit of giggles. My father, offering up the pièce de résistance, slapped his left hand down over his right elbow and lifted a single-fingered salute to the only man in the room who had dared to interrupt the party.

  I’d like to say I was the better man.

  I wasn’t.

  Dad and Johnny watched my tantrum, amused as I swept their bottles from the table in a spray of beer and foam. Shiny caps spun through the air. One bottle hit the wall, shattering. I kept the focus of my wrath on things inanimate and nonhuman—rising above the standards set by my father.

  Or so I told myself.

  Their giggles turned into wonder and then indignation.

  “Hey, boy, what’s your problem?”

  Johnny put out an arm. “Lemme talk to him, Dad.”

  My father started to rise, then fell back. “He ain’t changed a bit. Same whiny little runt!” His eyes were bleary, but deep at their core an old fire burned.

  I was shaking. Ready to establish a new pecking order.

  Before I could give his drunken carcass a beating, I swiped my keys and headed out the door.

  Tranquilized by the sound of tires on wet pavement and the warmth coming through the Honda’s vents, I drove. And drove.

  My soul called out for a listening ear, for assistance.

  When dawn peeled back the first strips of Thursday morning, revealing pink-tinged grays and ruffled clouds of orange, I sensed a shift inside. More than anything I suppose it was a weariness. A surrender.

  Same whiny little runt?

  There was a truth here I’d have to face. I couldn’t run forever.

  The needle on the Honda’s gauge was nearing E, so I headed down Eighth Avenue to a favorite economy gas station. While the tank filled, I ate a chocolate cream-filled doughnut and guzzled a Purity orange juice.

  From there, I followed Eighth until it became Franklin Pike. I knew now where I was headed. A few minutes later I turned onto Tyne Boulevard. The road here dips and curves, hugging the hills between beautiful homes set far back among the trees. It was only the fifth time I’d been here, only the second time uninvited.