The Best of Evil

  “Johnny Ray? Aramis?” Dad’s voice boomed through the answering machine, rumbled down the hallway. “Pick up if you’re there.”

  “Leave your message already,” I said aloud.

  I was in my bedroom at my computer, tapping away on the keyboard. My heavy-handed typing shook the Nashville Predators bobblehead atop the monitor, and the deformed shadow leaped all the way to the ten-foot ceiling.

  “Johnny Ray, you listenin’? Son?”

  I marched down the hallway. “No, Dad. Your firstborn isn’t here right now.” With one poke of a finger, I muted the machine. I’d listen to it later.

  Johnny Ray had called some numbers stored in his Palm Pilot—“If you don’t do your networking, you’re lost in this town,” he says—and had gotten a date. Another Friday night out.

  Clubbing? Honky-tonking?

  I didn’t know, didn’t care. I had the house to myself and a package of Oreos too.

  I browsed eBay and found a vintage, autographed Kurt Cobain poster. I’ve always felt a kinship with this wild brother of the nineties, felt there were lessons to be learned from his misplaced idealism and resulting demise. He was haunted by doubt, yet refused to believe. In an act of desperation, the drugged-out grungemeister swallowed some of his own shotgun soup.

  What a waste.

  I split the last Oreo, ate it in sections, then placed a bid and hoped the poster would be in my hands by next week. Love-hate relationships—they define my generation.

  I wandered to the fridge.

  Blink-blink-blink … The answering machine beckoned. I guzzled milk from the container, stared at the machine, then caved. Hit the mute button again.

  There was Dad’s lazy drone—as if he wouldn’t raise a finger, as if he wouldn’t hurt a fly. “Seen all about the Elliston shooting on the TV. Sorry to hear it. Tied up with work, but I’ll be down to visit when I get a chance.”

  Great. Just what I need.

  “Johnny Ray, you keep playin’ that guitar. You got what it takes, boy. Don’t let no one tell you otherwise.”

  The room grew hot with my hatred of this man.

  His closing words: “I want to talk with the two of you, but you in particular, Aramis. Regarding your mother. This whole shooting mess—well, it’s got me thinking. You be careful now. Try not to go poking your nose into places it don’t belong. You do that one too many times, and you’ll get a snout full of buckshot.”

  Another sliver of sympathy from my father’s rod of wisdom.

  “Dad called. Left a message.”

  Johnny was humming when he got in at two in the morning. He propped his Stetson on the hall bookcase, beneath his shrine of framed country-star photos. Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings peered down with troubled eyes.

  “You listening? He’s coming to Nashville.”

  Johnny waved me off. “Don’t know what you’re missin’, kid. A beautiful night.”

  “What was her name? Wait, scratch that. I don’t want to know, don’t want to think about it. Did you hear what I said? About Dad?”

  My brother nodded. “Go on, play it for me.”

  I braced myself and punched the button.

  Johnny shooed away a fly, then reached for his Martin six-string and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved down the neck. His face split into a grin when our father’s voice spilled from the speaker with words of encouragement: “You keep playin’ that guitar … Don’t let no one tell you otherwise.”

  “Wait,” said Johnny. “That part about Mom—play it back for me.”

  “I’ll have to start it all over again.”

  “And your point is?”

  I hit Repeat, then watched for Johnny Ray’s reaction. When Dad brought up the subject of our mother, Johnny’s brow knotted, making it clear that I’m not the only one still toting family baggage. Through the years we’ve begged Dad for details of Mom’s death and received sketchy answers at best. Now the crusty old scoundrel was volunteering information? I hated the way he thought he could waltz into our world and deliver the goods on his own terms.

  “If he comes, he’s not staying with us,” I said.

  “Of course he is.”

  “I pay half the rent. I don’t want him here.”

  “Don’t be juvenile.”

  “He can find a motel. There’re plenty close by.”

  “Well, it’s my name on the rental agreement.” Johnny flipped his guitar around so that it hung on his back like a weapon of war. “And I say he’s staying here. Is that clear?”

  “Not in my room. Is that clear? He can have your precious studio.”

  “Give him a break. He’s just a lonely old man with a lot of regrets.”

  “Poor old Dad.”

  TEN

  Elliston Place was quiet. Saturday morning in Music City.

  I took my usual path through the park, past Rotier’s Restaurant, to Black’s. An officer handed over my keys, apologized for the trouble, and wished me the best. Metro would stay in contact, he assured me; they had some leads, and I might be called upon as a witness.

  Alone on the curb, I eyed my shop. What a disaster.

  I posted signs letting my regulars know we’d be open again on Monday. “Money to be made, and bills to be paid,” I said under my breath. I filled a mop bucket with water and bleach.

  This first day back was tough.

  On Thursday, the police hubbub, the media frenzy, and the general sense of chaos had served to override my short-term memory; the flurry of news-in-the-making had kept me distracted. I’d given a statement, but I don’t know what I said. A detective wrote it all down, then had me read it over before signing. Somehow my coffee-stained hand had remained steady.

  I do remember being proud of that.

  Now, back at the scene, I saw images in my head, heard words reverberate in my ears—my mother’s words, but someone else’s voice.

  No wonder Johnny Ray was suspicious.

  I thought of Darrell in his tattered sweater. In the grasp of methamphetamine, his mind had been tweaked beyond repair; he was on his way down before the pull of the trigger.

  But I wasn’t one to judge, not now. Some mercy was in order.

  The same as I’d received in that Portland warehouse.

  “Aramis?”

  A hand touched my arm. The touch seemed familiar, comforting.

  “Oh, hi, Brianne.”

  She grinned, freckles dusting the bridge of her nose. “So you remember me.” She was tall and slender, with her blond hair pulled back in a clasp. She wore black sandals with a pair of beige shorts and a black blouse with netted sleeves. Downright dangerous for a guy committed to a new way of life.

  “After what we went through together? Be hard to forget.”

  “I’m here to work, if that’s still okay with you.”

  “Yeah. But I should have you fill out an application. Samantha likes things by the book.”

  “I can do things by the book.”

  “Gimme a few minutes. The paperwork’s somewhere in this mess.”

  “I could start cleaning, unless you prefer that I wait for the official decision. You never know—I could be a hardened criminal.”

  “It’s all good. There’s a bucket over there, already filled. Mop’s in the closet.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Black.” She held out her hand. “I mean, Aramis.”

  I found my hand in hers, shaking it awkwardly. “Glad to have you on board, Brianne.”

  Brianne was industrious, handy with brooms, mops, cleaning rags, and industrial supplies. She was also sensitive to my moodiness.

  “Been getting any sleep the past two nights?”

  I wrung a cloth. “Hasn’t been too bad. I keep thinking I’ll be up all night, thoughts running wild and everything. But as soon as my head hits the pillow, I’m out.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “It’ll hit me later. Too many other things to think about right now.”

  “Emotions, Aramis. They can take a lot ou
t of you.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Keep on bottling.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “I’m an expert in these things.”

  “Of anyone, you would understand what it’s been like. What about you?”

  Brianne wiped an arm across her forehead, then set a hand on her hip. “Mostly hangin’ in there.” A wave of hair drooped in front of one eye. She separated a strand and set it between her lips, nibbling. “It’s a cliché, but it’s like I’ve got a movie playing over and over in my mind. I keep seeing him hit the floor. His eyes … that look before he … you know. Why would anyone do such a thing? There must’ve been a reason.”

  Gazing into the wood patterns in the counter, I relived my part on the macabre stage. My body twisting, dropping. The explosion of the gunshot.

  “I should’ve tried to warn him,” my mouth blurted out.

  “The what-ifs,” said Brianne.

  “I might’ve saved his life.”

  “You can’t let it torture you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I was lying, of course.

  I removed flavoring bottles from the tiered plastic shelf and continued wiping them down one by one.

  Tucked into the corner of the shop, the artist stage is covered in maroon carpet, boasting hookups and wall jacks and rising a foot above the tile floor. A velvet shroud drapes the back wall, with strings of beads hanging over the upper left corner and a potted evergreen standing by the lower right.

  Poets gather on Tuesdays for open-mike sessions. We hear from all types: jilted lovers, urban revolutionaries, postmodern thinkers caught up in the zeitgeist, and shy geniuses who hang their heads as they read, doubting their own heartbreaking magic. I love the gamut of emotion. It’s depressing and challenging, even inspiring.

  On Thursdays, the stage belongs to local musicians.

  Nashville’s multitude of singers and songwriters have a hard time booking a paying gig. Everyone plays guitar. Everyone’s hoping for a shot. Those who earned respect in their hometowns get lost in the crowd here, and a musician’s tip jar fills up slower than a Death Valley rain bucket. I’ve never told anyone this, but I always throw in twenty percent of the night’s earnings. Seems only right. It’s my way of giving back to those who lay their hearts and souls bare through song.

  This coming Thursday will belong to Johnny Ray Black. I’ve already placed in strategic spots inside the shop and out the eleven-by-seventeen-inch color posters he gave me to advertise the event.

  I dream of Johnny being discovered in my shop. Someone’s got to take notice, right? He’s already got the name. He’s a country star just waiting to happen.

  Then there’s me. Aramis.

  The question begs to be asked: who would name their kid such a thing?

  I never understood the rationale behind my brother and me getting such incongruous names. It’s always nagged at me, like it deserved an explanation. I mean, my mother could’ve stuck with something simple like, oh, Jimmy Dean.

  Here they are, folks—Johnny Ray and Jimmy Dean!

  We could’ve formed a duo, gone on the road, made it big. Consider yourself lucky the world’s been spared my singing voice.

  But Aramis?

  When I was nine or ten, I asked my father about it.

  “It was your mother’s fool choice for a name,” he told me. “Who knows what went on inside that woman’s head? Just one more secret she took to the grave.”

  I never asked again.

  Brianne and I agreed to finish our work on Sunday.

  “Are you a churchgoer?”

  “Not much of one,” I said. “I believe. I just don’t fit in, I guess. One look at my tattoos, and most of that crowd turns away. I have to wear long sleeves, or I get the Not Welcome mat.”

  “I hear you.”

  “What about you?”

  “I used to go. With an ex.”

  “Husband?”

  “Boyfriend.” She hesitated. “But he …”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, he’d been in trouble in the past, and he was trying to ‘get back into heaven.’ He said he’d had a premonition—a vision, he called it—that he would die young. From then on, he toed the line as if he were being graded every moment.”

  “And that’s what broke you up?”

  “Not exactly. He became such a freak about it that he shoved away all his friends. At first it was his, well, his fervency that was so annoying. Like a guy who thinks he’s in love and bows at the feet of his woman. It’s cute and all, but it also gets kinda scary. Well, you can guess where it was headed, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.” She looked up through her blond bangs. “It was like that with him and the church, like this fanaticism.”

  I knew what she meant. I’d noted before the similarities between high-school romances and some of the born-again enthusiasts. In either group, the ones who impressed me most were those with the deeper, less splashy commitments.

  “So what happened?”

  “His old life wouldn’t let him go. Started getting its hooks back in.”

  I nodded.

  “He tried to keep up the church facade, but it wasn’t working anymore, not around me. I saw right through him. He’d become such a little hypocrite.”

  “We all have our issues, Brianne.”

  “That’s what I tried to tell him. He was so caught up in playing the game, though, that he just wouldn’t fess up.”

  “That game can only last so long before somebody loses.”

  “Oh, he lost, all right. He’s gone for good.” When she looked away to hide the moisture in her eyes, an angry tone cut through her words. “That was one game nobody could win.”

  Afraid to delve further, I gave a noncommittal grunt.

  “I shouldn’t have dumped that on you, Aramis. Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  “About tomorrow’s schedule. How’s nine o’clock?”

  She was waiting at the front door when I arrived at Black’s.

  In my hand, I carried worthy compensation—a bag of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, fresh off the rollers, glazed and still warm. Fortified with sugar and coffee, we attacked the day’s chores with vigor, and the place started shaping up.

  Later in the evening I’d be dining with Samantha Rosewood—our usual business meal. Or supper, as Sammie called it.

  I hoped to have a good report for her.

  Time passed quickly. Brianne and I talked about family and friendship, favorite pets and first kisses, and the fact that neither of us had been to Disney World. She had a way of drawing things out of me, and it felt good to turn my thoughts from my worries.

  So she was a few years younger than me. I liked her energy.

  Careful, I told myself. She’s an employee.

  It was early afternoon when I opened the door to air out the place, and my friend Freddy C strolled in.

  Freddy’s a harmless old guy who sees himself as a crusader against urban sprawl. Maybe that’s what the C stands for; I’ve never asked.

  I can’t help but like the old coot. His eyes are deep-set and watery. Close to his scalp, his hair is brushed back like dune grass flattened by an ocean breeze, and I swear you can almost smell the sea salt. Not an unpleasant odor—a mixture of sweat and bread and deep-fried hush puppies. Sounds strange, but there it is.

  He knocked on the wall. “Anybody home?”

  I turned from cleaning the ice machine. “Freddy C, my man.”

  “Artemis.” That’s how he pronounces my name, and after trying twice to correct him, I’ve let it slide. “That was some nasty business you ran into,” he said.

  “I’m hangin’ in there.”

  “Knew you would be, knew you would.”

  When people repeat themselves, I wonder who they’re trying to convince. I thanked him for thinking of me, asked how he was faring.

  “Better than you,” he said, “better than you.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, wo
uld you? You can give it to me straight.”

  Freddy combed a hand down through his beard, a tapered curtain of gray. In different clothing and circumstances he could’ve been an executive pondering a pivotal decision, a man comfortable in his own skin despite the cutthroats lying in ambush.

  “Got any cardboard?” he asked. “Any boxes I can take off your hands?”

  “You know I do. Bagged some empties for you too.”

  I gathered a garbage sack from the storage area, and it clinked with cans. He took it with stoic approval, set it atop his cart.

  “That should do it. You’re a good man, Artemis.”

  With both hands gripping the cart handle, Freddy C let his gaze wander toward the pizza joint down the block. I knew he wasn’t hinting at a donation for a meal—he’d never taken advantage of our camaraderie—but he did seem to be avoiding my eyes.

  “S’up?” I asked. Barely interested—that was the way I knew I had to play it.

  “You stay alert. You hear what I’m sayin’?”

  “Alert. You bet.”

  “We got ourselves a problem.”

  Foreboding spread in a prickly rush through my shoulders. “Yeah? How so?”

  He shuffled in his worn shoes, rolled his neck. “Later.”

  “Why not now? This sounds important, Freddy.”

  “Not very,” he said. “Not very.”

  “I’ve got time. Try me.”

  “No one believes. Best if I stayed out of your hair.” Large and wet, his eyes wobbled beneath sandy eyebrows. They roved down the street from one side to the other, then he turned and shoved off in the direction of Centennial Park, his cart rattling along. “Yep, that’d be best,” he mumbled again. “Out of your hair.”

  For the second time in a week I knew I’d misread someone standing in front of me.

  Freddy C hadn’t been trying to avoid my eyes; he’d been watching someone or something down the block, and now he was hurrying away.

  Which worried me.

  I’ve seen Freddy stand his ground while another homeless man with an ice pick tried to snag his flattened boxes. I’ve seen him confront a businessman who’d tossed a Jack in the Box wrapper on the sidewalk. Word on the street says he was involved in government covert ops in the early eighties, though he’s never confirmed it, and I suspect he started the rumor himself. Either way, the guy’s no slouch.