“I’ve been saving seed money for a school. Teachers, students, a full ESL outfit. You said it yourself: Overcharging students and underpaying teachers is an easier way of stealing. Before you said that, I was just taking money from people and putting it away, for nothing. Retirement. It was empty stealing. But I took your money and your idea to make it into something. I was going to get in contact with you when you weren’t upset with me anymore. I thought you’d make fun of the idea if I just told you.” Her face was earnest, her voice caffeine- and adrenaline-infused. It took some effort to laugh in her face again, but I did.
We walked to her bank in silence and went to her deposit box in the company of a teller. The room was caged and marble. The teller left the room as Grace was opening the lid of the box. It wasn’t quite full.
“You can take your money now, or you can stay with me and be part of my school,” she said. I laughed, savoring the cold aluminum echo of the sound coming back from the walls at us.
“It’s a cute plan, I have to say. But I don’t really think we have the basis for a business relationship, do we? Trust and all that.”
“Aren’t you sick of doing all of this?” She made a circling motion around the deposit box. “It’s disgusting.”
“What you do is definitely disgusting, Grace. I’d like to think I’m a little more in the gray than you are.”
“You’re not.”
“Give me my eight thousand and you can win the argument.”
Grace angrily doled out the cash and popped a bonus thousand on top. “For medical expenses,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, tossing her thousand back in her box. I started walking out, putting the wad of bills into my bag. She stopped me. There was a lilt and softness in her voice this time, even a trace of the accent that she put on in class.
“I just need things to end on a better note than this,” she said. “If they have to end at all.”
“Why would I want to spend another second with you?”
“I told you, because of the school. I need you for this. It was your idea, and I trust you, and I want you to forgive me, at least.” Her voice was getting louder, in danger of being overheard. “What do you need to trust me? What?”
“A lobotomy?”
Grace laughed even though she didn’t want to. That’s the best kind of laugh to get. “How about a key to this box?” she asked.
“For what?”
“So you know that I trust you, absolutely. That has to mean something.” Her eyes glossed up a little, like she wanted to believe that. Like she needed me to say yes so we could both believe it.
Grace signed a few papers upstairs at one of the tellers, and I did the same while she chatted on her cell phone by the bank doors. It was raining harder than before, so I took someone’s enormous umbrella from the steel cylinder by the door. It covered both of us as we walked back to her apartment. It certainly wasn’t the glass tower that she’d had when we’d been together. Although, I thought, we were technically together again, at least for the next few hours. Until I could go out for a beer run that would take me back to the bank before closing time.
“This is kinda small compared to my last place,” Grace said, apologetically. “That actually belonged to an old teacher.”
“Where is he now?”
“Japan. He’s back soon. Said I could use his place while he was off.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling jealous despite myself. I suspected that I wasn’t the only exception to her method of taking money and goods off guys without actually sleeping with them.
We walked through the lobby and up to her door. Instead of opening the door, though, Grace knocked.
“Who’s in there?” I asked her. She smiled and took a step to the side. The door opened to reveal Bruce, in all his paunchy glory. He slammed a fist into my face before I had a chance to laugh. It wasn’t much of a blow, but it was enough to knock me off balance and tilt me into the back wall of the hallway, where my head smacked into the fire alarm. It didn’t go off, but my legs gave out as I felt a hot stream start down my neck from the rip in my scalp.
“I know what you do, you bastard,” Bruce said, exultant that his punch had had such a dramatic effect. Grace was staring at the streak of blood on the wall, a little shocked, but not so shocked that she couldn’t shake it off in a couple of seconds and relieve me of the key and my cash, once again. Bruce pulled me up and dragged me outside before any neighbors could come into the hall. He slumped me against a potted plant just outside the front doors of the place, and both he and Grace stooped down to talk to me.
“Is he still conscious?” asked Grace, with sweetly alarmed concern.
“Don’t worry, he’s fine. Look, his eyes keep moving. Open them all the way, creep, you’re scaring Grace.” He sounded plenty scared himself, now that the rush of bringing down a younger man had faded a bit. I opened my eyes to oblige him and to take some final looks at Grace.
“She called me from the bank to tell me what you were up to. And I’ve known about your filthy life for a while, now. We’re going up to Bellingham for the weekend. And when we get back, I’m gonna call the cops on you.” Grace prodded his shoulder and shook her head.
“I mean, I’m gonna call them if you don’t stay away from my apartment and—” Bruce kept on babbling out qualifiers. I didn’t care. I’d had enough of this job, and it seemed that my sense of people was fading as quickly as my last wisps of consciousness. I kept my eyes on Grace while he babbled on, taking all the warning and all the reward I needed from her stare. I shut my eyes, knowing at least that I’d wake up again soon enough, and that she’d be gone.
Bedside Manners
by Martin Edwards
Martin Edwards wears several hats in the mystery field: He’s the editor of many anthologies, he’s a blogger, reviewer, and columnist, and he produces stories and novels, both series and nonseries, historical and contemporary. His 2009 novel Dancing for the Hangman is a fictional retake on Crippen, one of true crime’s most notorious figures. His new book, The Serpent Pool, is the fourth in a series set in England’s Lake District. Says Booklist: “Certainly the most labyrinthine of the Lake District novels, but perhaps also the best.”
“I’ve never done anything illegal before,” the woman says, fiddling with her necklace.
This seems unlikely to me. She is forty-five if a day, and works as an accounts manager for a motorcar dealership. But I am accustomed to the little ways of my clients. Clients, yes; it is five years since I last cared for a patient. Now I have found my true vocation. Yet there is this about serving clients: They are always right.
So I treat her to my reassuring smile and say, “Trust me, there is nothing illegal about going out to the theatre.”
“You deserve a break,” the red-faced man tells her. “After all you’ve done…”
“This is all about freedom,” I say, in my best bedside tone, as I glance at the clock on their mantelpiece. “So you will be leaving in five minutes?”
“Yes, yes,” the man says. “We need to make sure the girl on the desk gets a good look at us when we pick up our tickets. If any questions are asked…”
“There will be no questions.” Again I smile, exuding confidence. “Trust me.”
“Of course, Doctor. But just in case… if anyone does ask, there will be witnesses. We were in the foyer of the theatre before seven o’clock. Like I said before, it’s a fall-back position.”
Absurd. But I humour him with an approving nod.