Steve Martini - The Enemy Inside

I cross the street under the oak and head up the long circular drive to the front of the house. The walk hasn’t gotten any shorter since the last time I was here. Finally I climb the white brick steps leading to the front door and ring the bell. A few seconds later the door opens. A tall man with dark hair and black horn-rimmed glasses is standing in front of me. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Connor.”

“Ah, you must be Mr. Madriani.” He runs the fingers of his right hand through his forelock, brushing a few stray hairs from the rim of his spectacles. “I’m George Connor.”

He offers his hand. We shake.

“Nice to meet you. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

“Not at all.” He welcomes me into the house and closes the heavy oak door behind me.

“I assume you had no trouble finding the place, being as you’ve been here once before?”

“No problem at all. I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I have the declaration here.” I start to open the file. “I brought a copy for you and one for Mr. Becket. I thought that since the party was at his house he might want one for his files.”

“Good of you to think of it. I’m sure he would.”

I start to pull out the documents.

“Why don’t we go into the study? Mr. Becket’s not here at the moment. I can read it and sign there if you don’t mind.”

“Whatever.”

“Can I offer you something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

I follow him across the palatial oval entry. A checkerboard pattern of large black-and-white tiles covers the floor. There is the strong scent of lemon in the air, a smell as if someone has just polished the furniture. It’s difficult to say if anyone else is here, a huge house, but it appears to be empty.

He leads me to the study, opens the door and we go inside. The walls of leather-bound volumes are as I remember, two stories high and looking like Dolittle’s study. He closes the door behind us.

“Why don’t you go ahead and take a seat over there by the desk,” he says. “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

The large partner’s desk is still there with just enough minuscule grooves and gouges in its heavily waxed surface to certify its antiquity. I see one new item in the room, and like a discordant note on a sheet of music it is out of place. A large metal rolling box, the size of a large suitcase, with what looks like a checkered finish, either aluminum or stainless steel, is standing next to the desk. There is some kind of a design etched into the metal, perhaps the logo of the manufacturer. The case wasn’t here the last time I visited Becket.

The French doors off to the left side of the desk lead out to the acres of manicured lawn and gardens behind the house.

The only thing on top of the desk is the antique brass desk lamp and the matching business cardholder from which Becket handed me one of his cards on my last visit.

When I turn to look behind me, I notice that Connor has disappeared. One of the bookshelves on the far back wall is swung open. The leather book spines are real, but they conceal a false-fronted door. I’ve seen these in movies. I’m tempted to go and take a closer look, to see where he went. What money can buy. It’s a good thing I don’t have a study like this. I’d never get anything done, playing with the toys.

I settle into one of the client chairs on this side of the desk and take out my pen when I notice a dark stain on my fingers along with a smudged dark streak on the palm of my right hand. It looks like the grime from motor oil after I’ve worked on my car. Whatever it is, it’s penetrated deep into the skin of my hand.

When I look down I notice that I have tracked this onto the outside cover of the file folder. “Damn!” I open the folder with my left hand. There are black fingerprints on two copies of the declaration. “What the hell?” I am wondering if my pen has leaked. I examine it. It’s fine.

I cast about looking for some Kleenex, anything to wipe off my hands. There is nothing. If I can get to a restroom I can at least wash my hands. I stand, turn, and look behind me. The concealed door is still ajar and there is no sign of Connor.

Where the hell did he go? “Hello!”

There is no answer.

As I turn back I end up dragging the file folder over the corner of the desk. It sweeps the brass cardholder and business cards onto the floor. The brass clatters as it hits the hard Spanish tile, business cards all over the place.

This is not my day. All I want to do is get Connor’s signature and get the hell out of here, back to the office.

I bend down, grab the cardholder, and go after the cards on the slick hard tile. This is like trying to grasp a razor blade from the smooth glass surface of a mirror. My fingernails aren’t sharp enough. I wrinkle a couple of the stiff cards as I grasp them, leaving a smudged black fingerprint on a third card. I start to stack them back into the holder. Not paying attention at first, finally my eyes focus on one of the cards in my hand. The name printed on it is not Rufus Becket. It’s upside down. I turn it over.

As I stare at it the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as if suddenly freeze-dried. The name on the card is Joseph Ying.

What in the hell? I stand there for several seconds trying to process it. A voice behind me shatters the silence.

“I guess you’re wondering what Ying’s business cards are doing on Becket’s desk.”

I snap around to look at him. Connor is standing there ten feet away.

“What do you mean?” I shake my head as if I don’t understand. I could tell him I didn’t see anything, but I’m holding the evidence in my hand. My brain is racing, trying to figure some way to get out of the room, out of the house, and back to my car.

“Foolish mistake on my part,” said Connor.

“I don’t understand. I’m sorry. I knocked the cards onto the floor. Here, let me get them.” I start to go down onto one knee.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

When I look up at him again he is pointing a pistol at me, something big and black, semiautomatic, with a bore the size of a railroad tunnel.

“I mean, here I go to all the trouble, dye my hair, and what do I do? I end up leaving Ying’s business cards right there in plain view on the corner of the desk. I’m getting as bad as some of my help. Or maybe I’m just getting too old. That’s the problem when you have too many names,” he says. “It’s hard to keep them straight.”

“Who are you?”

“Pick a name,” he says.

I could throw the brass cardholder at him and run, but he’d put a hole in me before I got three feet. So instead I stand there like a statue and ask another stupid question. “Where’s Mr. Becket?”

“Who? Ah, you mean the short fat guy? The one you met the last time you were here?”

I nod.

“That was Nick, my gardener. Man’s a frustrated actor. He does some summer stock at the community theater. But still, he did a pretty good job on short notice, don’t you think?”

“Fooled me.”

“You want to know the truth? You scared the crap out of us that day. Showing up at the door like that unannounced. You should have seen us scrambling. By the way, how do you like the hair?” he says. “Since I did it for you I’d like to know what you think.” He absently runs the fingers of his left hand through the dark locks while he holds the pistol trained on me in his right.

“It’s OK, except I wouldn’t go swimming.” I show him my dirty right palm.

He checks his left hand. There is nothing. Then he shifts the gun and checks the other one. “You’re right.”

From where I’m standing I can see a stain like motor oil on his fingers and the heel of his right palm as he looks at it. “You transferred it when we shook hands.”