Dan and Frankie and the End of Everything Read online

  Then, when my hands had finally stopped shaking, I slipped the key into the slot and went to work.

  ***

  Back in high school there’d been this physics teacher, Mr Philtrum. He’d been a tall man, with horn-rimmed glasses and that constant five o’clock shadow all teachers who aren’t women seem to have.

  As far as teachers went, he wasn’t too bad—he never tried to make me climb rope, for example, and he never once fingered me—but he had taken his physics very seriously.

  So one morning we go in there and he’s got this physics conundrum set out on the blackboard for us. Something to do with mass versus velocity... I forget. Anyway, nobody in my class had been able to solve it. Because, you know—physics. That shit’s complicated.

  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve thought about that physics question of which I can’t remember more and more, and what I’ve come up with is this: all of reality is based upon a certain set of principles. Call them rules. A person cannot simply float off into outer space because of gravity, for instance. That’s one rule. There’re probably a lot more.

  Sometimes, though, things happen that go against these principles, that violate these rules to which we must all adhere in order to maintain balance in the universe.

  Which brings me, squarely, to Steve.

  I found him in his office, standing on his desk and stabbing at an AC unit with what looked like a stapler. Steve was the Office Manager, and unlike my last boss, a thoroughly nice guy. He was also human, which helped. Still, there was something about him I just didn’t trust. I knew it was possible I was simply being paranoid—and what with my recent history with managers, you could hardly blame me. But I couldn’t help it.

  He was just so... nice.

  ‘Oh! Hi, Dan!’ he chirruped as I stepped into his office.

  He was a short slender man in bifocals with a goatee of the style that just screamed pedophile. Today he was wearing tweed trousers and a white sleeveless work shirt that had what looked like flecks of old coffee stained all down the front of it. From his neck hung a tie bearing a picture of Big Bird from Sesame Street, posed in a thumbs-up, or whatever the equivalent was when you had wings for arms.

  It actually summed Steve up pretty well.

  He gestured at the AC with the stapler. ‘Don’t mind me—just doing a little DIY. Damn thing won’t turn off. It’s nine below outside, and this stupid machine wants to blow cold air down on my head! Technology, am I right?’

  ‘Sure, Steve.’

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ he said, hopping down from the desk in what was a surprisingly graceful little soubresaut. ‘Would you like a drink? A coffee, perhaps? Some lemon water?’

  ‘Actually I just—’

  ‘How about a mint?’ He handed the bowl out to me. Looked like Mentos.

  I took a closer look.

  They were Mentos.

  Bastard.

  I shook my head. ‘No, thanks—look, I was just wondering if I’d be able to take next week off. Tonight’s the night I’m supposed to do that thing with Abby, see, and if things go well I want to take her away somewhere. Maybe Atlantic City. Or Vegas. Somewhere with lights.’ I hesitated. ‘I, uh, know it’s late notice and all, but—’

  Steve held up his hands. ‘Nope, say no more. Consider it all arranged—shoot, why don’t you take the rest of the day off, too?’

  I frowned.

  Even for Steve, this was unusually nice.

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Absolutely! Endeavours of the heart are no laughing matter, Dan. When something like love is presented before you, you must grip it with an iron fist, lest it slip out of your grasp forever. Believe me—I know.’

  I looked at his Big Bird tie and tweed pants again.

  He did.

  ‘Right. So... we’re good, then?’ I said.

  ‘We sure are.’ He reached across the desk and thrust out his hand. ‘Now fist me, partner.’

  ‘Uh, I think you mean “fist bump”, Steve.’

  ‘Yes. Right. Of course.’

  We bumped our fists together. It felt dirty and wrong, like a lingering kiss on the mouth from a close relative. I mean, unless you’re from the South. Then it’s just called “Saturday”.

  ‘Now go get her, tiger.’

  ‘Okay, well, thanks—’

  ‘Because as George Sand once said,’ he went on, ‘ “there is only one happiness in life, to love and be loved”.’ He was facing the window now, gazing out of it with his hands on his hips and his mind set firmly in the past, the sheer injustice of it all.

  ‘I really have to go now, Steve.’

  ‘Yes. Go. Plant your flag in love’s fertile soil, my friend!’

  I got the fuck out of there.

  ***

  It wasn’t until I got back to my cubicle that I realised I had mail.

  It was sent to my personal account, from an address I didn’t recognise. The subject heading was two words.

  READ ME!!!

  I frowned.

  For most people, receiving an email is not a cause for alarm. People get emails all the time. Big deal.

  Unfortunately for me, however, I am not most people.

  Like the burritos, it had started in those first few weeks following the Belmont Grove incident. Little things at first. Random late-night phone calls from private phone numbers, emails from bloggers and media websites requesting my take on what had really gone down that day. Then later had come the stalkings, the spontaneous visits, the ambush tactics whenever I went to the store to buy groceries, or, as in most cases, beer.

  I don’t know how they found out about us, or our involvement. It’s not like we put out an ad, or anything. I only know that since then, I am very wary whenever opening mail—of the digital kind or no.

  To this day, I still have no idea why I even bothered opening that email. I mean, sure, we humans are curious creatures, and so I guess that probably had something to do with it. Or perhaps it was something more sinister, like sadism, like how sometimes when you pick at a scab, even though you know you should leave it alone and let the damn thing heal already. Really, I should have deleted it at once. Surely nothing good could ever come from an email with that amount of unnecessary exclamation points.

  But like the idiot that I am, I didn’t do that.

  Instead I grabbed the mouse, manoeuvred the cursor over, finger already clicking away—

  My breath caught.

  It was a photograph, taken from the website of an insurance company whose name I knew only too well. Inside the photograph was the face of a man—one I recognised instantly, not least of which because I’d been the one who killed him (although, in my defence, he was already dead at the time, so “killed” may be a bit strong).

  Below the photo, in bold red font, the words I KNOW glared back at me like the very angry, all-knowing eyes of justice itself—along with yet more unnecessary exclamation points.

  Time stopped. I realised suddenly I wasn’t breathing, and forced myself to take a breath.

  Was it true? Was it really possible somebody had found out about what Frankie and I did, and was now using said information against me in order to, what... blackmail me? Torment me? How was that even possible? We’d been so careful.

  At the bottom of the email was an address and a time.

  I didn’t think.

  I grabbed my things from my desk and left.

  TWO

  TWO STRANGE THINGS HAPPENED whilst on route to the meeting with my new mysterious blackmailer.

  The first was that my Accord wouldn’t start—which was actually not that strange, given the state of it. The electrics failed constantly, and the footwell was always wet for some reason. Also, the blinker only worked when it wanted to. It really was a piece of shit, now that I think about it.

  The second thing that was strange was the thing I saw whilst strolling past the Rolling Falls shopping centre on East and 29th—or, I should say, “things”.

  To put it into so
me kind of perspective, it is not unusual to occasionally see the odd military vehicle driving past when out and about in town—especially considering the Pennyfield Air Force Base lies only a couple miles outside the city limits. On more than one occasion I myself had watched in star-spangled awe as a military vehicle of some indistinguishable make or another had shot past, showering me in its fleeting, authoritarian superiority. One time as a child, a kid on my street—Jimmy Howser—had told me he’d even seen a Hummer (though to be fair, he also thought “chow mein” was a breed of dog, so—you know. Take that as you will).

  But what was strange about the vehicles I saw whilst on the way to my meeting that afternoon was the sheer number of them. I counted twenty, in all. A genuine convoy of them—all driving at speeds that would have put Vin Diesel to shame.

  I reached the Wendy’s twenty minutes later, stepping though the doors under a bluster of snow-laden wind.

  The Wendy’s itself was pretty empty, given what time of day it was, and that it was a Wendy’s. Aside from myself, there were only a handful of other customers, all spread out as far away from each other as they could get, in what was the universally agreed upon distance whenever you found yourself in a chain restaurant with little to no customers. Guy in a Yankees cap and paint-stained overalls by the front, head buried in a newspaper. A young couple in not-quite-matching outfits over by the back, sipping milkshakes whilst staring deep into each other’s eyes.

  Not knowing what else to do, I found myself a table and began going over what I knew so far of this guy.

  Though I wasn’t entirely convinced whoever had left me that email had any proof I had murdered the manager from my old place of work, Baxter & Klein, what was beyond doubt was the guy knew something—at least enough to taunt me. The question was—how? And why? Why contact me at all? Why not go to the police? Wasn’t that what you were supposed to do in situations like these? It just didn’t make any sense. Unless he or she didn’t know anything, of course, and were just bluffing—which was somehow even weirder.

  I was still procrastinating over these things when a man the size of a small car flumped down into the seat directly across from mine, startling me and causing me to cry out in surprise.

  He was a heavy-set guy. Possibly Latino, or maybe just really tanned. He had long raven-black hair that he had gelled back on his head, giving his entire head a shiny look, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, or the ocean maybe. Covering his rotund belly was a battered and stained Ramones shirt that I knew without having to ask had been a hand-me-down—from an older sibling, or a cousin, perhaps. Along his forearms were tattoos of things like anarchy symbols and words like TRUTH and MONEY IS THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL—which may have gone some way to explaining why the guy looked as if he really didn’t have any.

  He smiled at my obvious discomfort as he went about wedging himself into a seat. ‘Mr Pratt. Good of you to come. I’m Wesley Chang. I’ll be your blackmailer this evening.’ He extended his hand and waited for me to shake it. When I didn’t, he grinned. ‘So. You probably have some questions for me,’ he said, leaning forward against the table—or at least, as forward as his stomach would allow. I caught a whiff of something that smelled suspiciously like Brute. Of course it did.

  ‘You could say that,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘As I thought. And, seeing as you’re probably a busy guy, let me just get straight to it.’ He reached into a satchel hanging from one meaty shoulder that I hadn’t even registered yet and pulled out a plastic file.

  He flipped it open.

  It was another photograph, like the one the email I’d received earlier had contained—only this time the quality was far, far worse. It was that kind of grainy, indecipherable quality, like something filmed on a turn-of-the-century cellphone, or a potato. There was no mistaking the origin—this was surveillance footage.

  ‘The hell’s this?’ I said.

  ‘Oh—you mean you don’t recognise it? Take a closer look.’

  I returned my eyes to the photograph. I didn’t see anything, however. It was just some car, one that, on second glance, actually looked kind of familiar. Funny; it almost reminded me of—

  I suddenly went very still.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  ‘Aaaand here’s a photograph from the station’s other cam,’ said Chang. ‘As I’m sure you’ll agree, the quality here is much better.’

  It’s a very particular sensation, having your world collapse beneath you. All of a sudden, I couldn’t speak. Like all the air had been knocked from my lungs. Suddenly the lights seemed too bright, the walls too close. I wondered if I was about to pass out. I’d never passed out in a Wendy’s before.

  The photograph was of my own face.

  I slumped back against the booth’s plastic seating like a deflated balloon.

  So right here you’re probably wondering why a simple photograph had such a profound effect on me. And the truth is there’s no easy answer to that. Well, I mean... technically, there is, but if I’m honest it doesn’t paint me in the best light. The long and short of it is that I really had no business being behind the wheel of that car—not least because it had the decapitated body of my now ex-boss in the trunk (who was neither dead nor my boss, seeing as we’re on the subject). Yeah—don’t even. In my defence, though, he totally deserved what happened to him. And all the things we may or may not have done later, the details of which shall remain vague.

  Whole “body-snatcher” thing aside, the guy was kind of a douche.

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, I get the compulsion,’ Chang went on. ‘Murdering one’s boss, and all. Hell, I’ve had a few bosses myself I’d have liked to have seen put under the ground—if you take my meaning. It was a good plan, too. It was the stopping for gas where you really screwed the pooch—see the time stamp there?’ He cupped a hand round one side of his mouth and leaned forward. ‘And, not to be a dick or anything, but that was honestly pretty retarded of you. I mean, taking a joyride in the car of the person you just murdered—and on the very night of his “disappearance”, no less?’

  He gave a disapproving shake of his head.

  When some semblance of reality returned, I pushed myself up in my seat. ‘What do you want, Chang?’

  ‘Not justice, if that’s what you’re worried about. I could care less about the people you may or may not have killed.’

  ‘Then what do you want? Why am I here, and not locked up in some prison cell somewhere?’

  Probably having all sorts of unsavory things shoved up in my fun-zone, too...

  ‘Well, see now, that’s simple. You have something I want. And I have something you want. Ergo, what I propose is a trade.’

  ‘A trade?’

  He leaned forward again, his face now all stern and serious. Well, serious, anyway. It’s hard to make anything firm when your body is ninety per cent gelatin. ‘I know you were there, Mr Pratt. You and your accomplices. At Belmont Grove. And before you start, I already know it wasn’t any gas leak, or terrorist attack, or whatever else they’re saying it was now, so don’t waste my time—and, more importantly, your freedom—by pretending otherwise. What I want is the real story. I want to know what really went down that day.’ He pointed a plump finger in my direction. ‘And you, my intellectually challenged friend, are going to give it to me.’

  Suddenly, everything clicked into place. It was so obvious. How hadn’t I realised this before?

  I almost burst out laughing.

  The guy was a fucking journalist.

  ‘You want an interview?’ I scoffed.

  And here I thought I was supposed to be the intellectually challenged one.

  ‘An exclusive interview,’ he corrected me.

  ‘But I—’

  He held up a hand. ‘No—don’t answer now. You’ve had a nasty shock. You’re not thinking clearly. It’d be foolish to make a decision in your current state of mind.’ He pried himself loose from the table and stood. ‘You have one week. If you haven’t made
a decision by then, I’m going to the cops.’

  He flipped a little white card down onto the table—his phone number.

  Then, without so much as another word on the subject, he suddenly turned and waddled himself over toward the exit, leaving me staring dumbfounded after him and wondering absently if my life could possibly get any worse.

  I had no fucking idea.

  ***

  Abby’s work had a Christmas party, so that’s how I got to know Eric.

  Eric worked part-time at the juice bar where Abby and her gaggle of new friends worked—a little, hidden away place down at the Rolling Falls shopping mall, aptly named “Juice Bar”.

  He was a handsome-enough guy—providing, of course, your definition of “handsome” is a man with a face the literal equivalent of a smashed-in ham. I think he must have played football in college or something. It was really startling.

  And yet, despite this, the ladies loved him. Sure, the fact he’d just returned home from the Middle East after having successfully taught poor, orphaned children how to read might have had something to do with it. Personally, I like to think—and often do—that they were all simply humouring him; the same way doctors humour patients’ families about their loved ones’ chances of survival, even though deep down they know they’re fucking doomed.

  Whichever the case was, one thing that could not be denied of Eric, was that the guy was a goddamn magnet when it came to women.

  Naturally, I hated him.

  ‘I just can’t believe how unsympathetic some people are, you know?’ he was saying as I struggled to hear him over my own startling lack of interest.

  We were at a bar down on 23rd and Wesson called the Quivering Lips—which I thought was a sex-thing, but apparently wasn’t. The people all wore suits, the men with their ties pulled loose, the women with the buttons of their blouses undone, revealing more boob than a Kardashian home video. The music was too loud, and everybody seemed to be having a great time—everybody except for me, that was. What was worse, the surface of the bar—and granted every other surface I’d touched thus far this evening—had not so much as a splash of spilled alcohol on it.

  This was definitely not my kind of place.