Braht
“You’ve reached Hank Miller,” the voicemail message says. I take a deep breath, preparing for a long and confusing message. Then I hear, “This is Hank Miller. You called me, Braht. What do you need? Is that fucker messing with you? I’ve got some people who could deal with him. I could do some outsourcing.”
Huh. Not a message at all. “Ah. Outsourcing! Good idea.”
He grunts. “Yeah. I went to this CEO retreat where everyone had to do trust falls and write up action plans. My takeaway was that I needed to outsource more often. Busting up people’s faces doesn’t have a good rate of investment for me currently.”
I’m not sure how to respond. “No, I don’t need his face busted. Mostly I’m looking for advice.”
“Okay. Shoot.” I swear I can hear him lean back in his squeaky office chair and take a deep drink of Scotch. And is that the faint sound I hear of a saxophone solo in the distance? He’s classic detective noir.
“I’m still able to track him and I think I want to approach him.”
“Approach him?” Hank sounds genuinely baffled. “But not to bust his face?”
“No. I was thinking more of making a deal between two gentlemen. If he lays off Ash, then I won’t…I don’t know exactly.”
“You won’t turn over a heap of evidence I’ve uncovered for you that will get his tweedle dick put back in jail?”
That’s quite the suggestion. “You are a prince among men, Hank.”
He snorts. “Look, you wanted my advice. If you approach this guy, grab onto his balls like you’re trying to make a pancake sandwich, rough up his face, give him a wedgie, wrap him up all Christmas-y in duct tape, and then you throw his ass in jail. Preferably after you’ve set him on fire.”
“Well…”
“Too gruesome for you? You could always outsource it.”
Hank is full of good ideas. “Not really my style.”
There’s an awkward silence. Then Hank says, “Or you could play it your way. Be all friendly like. Make a gentlemanly deal with him. I just have one word of warning for you.”
“Okay. What’s that?”
“That Dwight Engersoll ain’t no gentleman.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Watch for the email I’m sending over. It’s full of evidence. And have a great Christmas!” Hank says and ends the call.
An hour later, I’ve parked my car and I’m bundled up in my Burberry coat and Icelandic scarf. I’ve followed the dot on my phone app into a seedier part of downtown Grand Rapids. It’s a formerly industrial area down by the arena, with bumpy streets and bad lighting.
But the parking is super cheap. So I’ve got that going for me.
Dwight’s car is parked outside of a noodle shop called Pho Queue. I stare up at the sign and try to decide whether or not the shop owner knows how that sounds.
It could really go either way.
My target is easily visible just inside the nearly empty storefront. He’s sitting at a bright orange table looking grumpy.
I’d planned to confront him privately, but maybe this is for the best. It’s starting to snow on me out here, and it’d be really picturesque if I weren’t pissed. So I decide to just get it over with, right here in the noodle shop. Besides, if Dwight turns out to be more than I can handle, the owner of Pho Queue might call 911.
Or not. When I walk inside there’s only one big man behind the counter. His nose is pierced so many times I wonder how he can pass through a metal detector. Also, he looks even grumpier than Dwight.
On the plus side of things, the place smells amazing. There’s a spicy, meaty scent in the air, and a hint of basil. And now I’m starving. Grief is sort of exhausting, and I really could use the calories.
“What do you want?” grunts the scary dude behind the counter.
“Spicy tonkotsu,” I hear myself say. “With braised pork belly.”
“Twelve fifty.” The guy gives me an evil gaze that my pedicurist would envy, and then disappears in back.
Well. If I die tonight, at least I’ll be well fed.
Instead of finding a table, I stand at the counter, so Dwight won’t notice me. He hasn’t made a sound since I walked in. I put my money on the counter and wait.
A few minutes later, this establishment’s only visible employee comes back with a tray. “Not for you,” he says, just in case I was about to feel any pleasure.
“Right.”
He sets the tray down in front of Dwight and then returns to the kitchen. But he only keeps me waiting another two minutes. And the tray he sets down on the counter for me is mouth-watering. “Hey, thanks.”
He grimaces.
Okay.
I take the tray and turn around. Dweeb is tucking into his meal. In a burst of bravery, I carry my tray over to his table and set it down opposite him. He looks up at me, the noodles spilling out of his mouth like he’s Cthulhu in man-form. “Dwight!” I say. “How’s it hanging?”
He slurps in response. “Low,” he says. I nod and shovel some of this meaty heaven into my mouth. It actually warms me from the inside out. I’m feeling downright congenial.
We eat together for several long minutes. I don’t know whether he doesn’t know me or he’s really just pretending. In the meantime, I’m enjoying some excellent soup.
“I know you,” he says eventually.
I nod, but don’t say anything, because of pho.
“Don’t you bag groceries at that Martha’s Vineyard deli place?”
“No,” I say.
“Sure you do! You’re always wearing one of those holiday sweaters you can get at Meijer!” He’s excited about this.
“I assure you, I don’t wear holiday sweaters from Meijer.”
“Huh. Then you must be that douche that’s fucking my wife.”
Wait a minute! Douche? His wife? I feel a swelling and realize it’s my testosterone levels. They’re rising from the normal range right into Rambo territory.
“Ash is not your wife. Not anymore.” It’s hard to say this calmly, but I manage.
He seems to deflate a little and pushes his bowl away. I keep eating my pho just to prove he hasn’t affected my appetite. This is a battle of wills and I am winning.
“Yeah, I know. I really fucked that one up. I’m not so hot on relationships, you know? My therapist says that I’m trapped in old-school patterns of hostile masculinity, and I need to break out of that. This fucking pansy had the cojones to suggest I take up knitting. Knitting, can you imagine?”
It’s not a bad idea, actually. Maybe knitting would help Dwight tap into his nurturing side.
“I’m trying, man. To be better. But prison does things to you. I’m glad Ash is happy. You treating her well?”
“Yeah,” I say, starting to feel like I stepped into a parallel universe where Dwight isn’t a dick and actually has a heart. “But here’s the thing. You need to back off.”
“Back off? What do you mean?”
I don’t hide my eye roll. “You’ve been following her. Calling her. Scaring her. Trying to approach her. That shit’s got to stop.” I’m done with my pho so I push my bowl away. I do this firmly. I’m channeling Jackie Chan right now, and it’s working for me.
“Christ. I’m not trying to scare her. She’s got something of mine. It’s mine, and I need it. I’ve tried to talk to her with emails and then phone calls. I ran into her once in the parking lot. I just need this one thing and then she can have her life and I’ll have mine.”
That sounds almost reasonable. “What do you need from her? Maybe I can get it for you.”
Dweeb leans back and smiles. It’s an oily smile. It has charm on the surface, but I know better. Though I can totally see how Ash might’ve been sucked into his charm. Underneath that charm is a real, live snake, and I’ve just glimpsed him slithering.
And now I’ve had enough. Of the Pho. Of Dwight. Of this night. “I came here to give you a message, okay? You’re going to back off, or I turn in the stack of evidence I have against you.”
“Evidence? What evidence? Of my volunteering at the homeless shelter? Of me working cleaning carpets and being on time every day? You don’t know shit.” He laughs. That fucker laughs.
Then I decide to lay my cards on the table, because Dweeb is not a good guy. Not at all. “My PI photographed you going in and out of a certain pawn shop seven times in the last week.”
His face twitches at that. “So what? I need a TV.”
“This pawn shop is run by a mobster who has an office in back. He followed you inside and took your picture chatting with that guy. Every few months his henchmen get thrown in jail for grand larceny, so he’s always on the lookout for new meat.”
Dwight makes a face like he tastes something sour. “I was asking for his advice. I got a little technical problem I need to solve, and he knows a lot about, uh, home security.”
I just shrug. “The police will be very interested in these photos, right? If you come within two hundred feet of Ash, I will take a pair of chopsticks and skewer your balls, one on top of the other. And then turn you and my photos over to the cops. Are we clear?”
He actually gulps.
My work done, I stand up and wave to the big dude at the counter.
He gives me a big smile, exposing a rack of gold teeth. “Respect,” he says.
Then I’m gone.