Don Bruns: Stuff to spy for

I’d nodded, not wanting to say anything to jeopardize the financial situation. Nothing to jeopardize what would amount to over $20,000 in my pocket. I know, believe me, I know there are more important issues than money. I haven’t found them yet, but I’ve been told by so many people, I have to believe it.

We sat in the expansive lobby, studying the artwork on the walls. Abstract paintings, appearing to be originals, with flashes of bright colors, bold strokes of pastel colors, and solid scrapes done with palette knives. Em had explained those things to me on a tour of her parents’ mansion. I couldn’t appreciate the talent, but I had the feeling that they were expensive pieces.

“She’s hot, amigo.”

“James, you know and I know. But you can’t let on. I’m serious, man. You tend to wear your feelings on your sleeves. Don’t.”

“She’s hot, Skip. You don’t want to bring Em into this, trust me.”

“No.” I agreed with him. The minutes became an hour. The hour dragged on twenty more minutes.

“Guys, I am so sorry.” Sarah stuck her pretty head into the lobby, like a nurse in a doctor’s office. “I’m going to find out what’s taking him so long.”

“If he’s in his office, why don’t we just come on back with you?” James, being the pushy son of a bitch that he can be.

She hesitated. “Okay.”

“Sarah. We don’t have to.”

“It’s okay.”

We stood up and followed her lead. Through the lobby doors, down the hall into a large room with computer stations, workbenches, and several dozen employees, all quietly working at their stations. Some ran small machines at the workbenches, but most were glued to their computer screens. I swear you could hear a pin drop. Five offices opened into the room from the far wall. Each office was numbered.

Sarah paused, turned and looked at us, and smiled. Bright white teeth, perfect in every dimension. Whatever she made in her escort life, she spent wisely. On cosmetic dentistry to start with.

She knocked on door number five. Knocked again, then louder the third time.

“Must have stepped out.”

“Should we come back? Later this week?”

“Skip. We set the appointment. He’ll be here.”

She knocked again. Nothing.

“Here.” James, the pushy S.O. B, reached beyond her and pushed on the office door. It swung inward smoothly, showcasing three-quarters of the spacious room. I looked over his shoulder and could see the massive oak desk, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, some more art that I had no interest in, and two visible skylights that bathed the room in early morning light.

“Mr. Walters?” Sarah gave James a dirty look.

James just smiled. “The door was open. It must have been the Lord’s will.”

It probably wasn’t the smoothest thing to open someone’s office door. But James didn’t have an office, and he was good at sticking his nose into other people’s business, so it didn’t seem that strange to him.

“Mr. Walters?” More timid this time. Sarah reached for the doorknob to close the door, but once again James barged up to the doorway. He stepped into the office as Sarah whispered loudly, “Stop it. You can’t just-” she followed him in two steps behind.

“James, it’s time to go.” I’d just gotten the job and I didn’t want to lose it already.

“Pretty nice office. Guy must be pulling down some serious jack.”

“James, please.” She nervously looked around the office.

I stepped in. Not to see if Mr. Walters really was there or not, but to escort my good friend out. “James, I’ve met Ralph Walters. He’s a no-nonsense kind of guy, and he’s going to be pissed off if he finds us in his office. I can’t afford to lose this job, and neither can you.”

“Yeah,” he hesitated, obviously taken with the surroundings. I could tell he was picturing himself working in a fancy office like this. James was always dreaming about hitting the big time.

“James. Let’s go.”

“Okay, we’re out of here, pally.” James gave it one last look, turned, and exited. I was close behind. Sarah followed, backing out and starting to pull the door shut. I saw her stumble and stop.

“Oh, my God.” Her eyes were riveted on Walters’s desk.

“What?” She spun around, and in that hushed whisper she said, “Somebody’s feet are under his desk.”

“Where?”

“Under the desk.”

James and I both turned and looked. Sure enough, the soles of someone’s shoes, socks, and the cuffs of brown trousers were visible under the desk.

I looked at James, and he shrugged his shoulders. In his own hushed voice he said, “Maybe the guy takes naps there? Or maybe, just maybe,” he glanced at Sarah, “he has a mistress and they meet under the desk.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Walters?”

No answer.

Finally James did what James does best. He barged back into the office and walked behind the desk, involving us again in a truly messy situation. I should never have involved the son of a bitch.

“Holy crap, Skip. Come here.” He grabbed the edge of the big oaken desk.

Sarah took several steps in his direction.

“Sarah, I don’t think you want to see this.”

The two of us reached the rear of the desk at the same time. Ralph Walters’s body had slid from the desk chair and was on the floor, his legs protruding from the front of the desk. In his right hand was a blue steel revolver and the left side of his head was blown away, remains of brain, bone, and blood spattering the veneer of the desk drawers.

I ’ve seen dead bodies before. I could never get used to that. But what about a coroner or a funeral director? Someone who dealt with dead bodies every day? They must have a cast-iron stomach and nerves of steel. Me? I ended up shaking and thinking I was going to be sick. I suppose I should have put my arm around Sarah and comforted her. Some pretend boyfriend I turned out to be.

So we waited while the police did their investigation. They interviewed each of us separately.

“You broke into the office?”

“Um, the door was open and my friend sort of pushed it.”

“You didn’t notice anything unusual when you entered?”

“Not the first time.”

“You mean you went back a second time?”

“Well, when we saw the feet.”

“The feet?”

“Under the desk.”

I don’t think any of us were really suspects, but they asked us a lot of questions. It wasn’t too bad. We checked with each other afterward and we’d all told the same story. It had happened so fast, we didn’t have time to make one up.

“How bad would things have to be?” James sipped his coffee. The three of us were sitting in the break room, sterile white tiled walls on four sides, and a stainless refrigerator, microwave, and coffee maker.

“Bad.” I couldn’t fathom the feeling. What the hell would cause me to take my own life?

“Ralph was-well, I haven’t been here that long, but he was like the rock. I mean, he loved this place and he loved his job. And I think he had an idea that Sandy might be moving on, so he was in line to take over.” Sarah’s color had come back to her face, and she was on her second cup of high-voltage coffee.

I couldn’t drink the mud brown liquid. My stomach was still churning, and I kept seeing that head covered in blood. “Guys, girls,” Em hated being called a guy, “this man must have had some serious problems.”

“Well, as the song says, suicide is painless.”

I nodded. “Mash. Donald Sutherland, Sally Kellerman, Elliot Gould. Nineteen-”

“Seventy.” James stirred his coffee with his finger. “Before we were born, amigo.”

Sarah looked back and forth at us, trying to figure out where the conversation had gone south. It always did.