BEGINNING
(And thanks to you who have no appreciation for story telling)
THE END
I met the devil on a Tuesday. Except back then, he went by Saint.
Goodness, where are my manners? All riveting stories start with a tragedy, or so the devil—apologies, Saint—always said.
This one is no different.
It was precisely a quarter after one—ante meridiem—and I was contemplating murder.
Oh, wait. I see how that sounds given I said this would start with a tragedy.
It was precisely a quarter after one—ante meridiem—and I was writing a penny dreadful featuring a rather peculiar woman stuck in a web of murderous misfortunes. Hence the contemplation.
Is it important to mention I was terribly drunk? Yes? Very well then, I was terribly drunk.
The dreadline (that’s what we call the deadline for the penny dreadful, do keep up) was in nineteen hours. I’m a creative by nature, prone to procrastination and then wondrous revelation, and you simply cannot rush either.
So there I sat, soaked to the bone—from the rain and the whiskey—waiting for something extraordinary to happen.
What do you mean “get to the point?” This is an official criminal investigation, and I’m giving an official statement. If you anticipated me leaving out critical details to why I decided to aid and abet the devil, you are sorely mistaken.
Apologies. Saint.
So, there I sat on the corner—I was sitting on a bench, not the ground, that would be heathenistic in this city—of Fifth and Maple. It’s taxing, mind you, awaiting brilliance, and I worked myself into a delirium. Money is a construct, and as a creative, I do hate being boxed in. Yes, of course that is relevant.
Now, as promised, the beginning of the tragedy.
Cut to the tragedy? Are you mental? How could you possibly be affected by the magnitude of it if you don’t understand how it began?
As I was saying, the beginning—my good and holy Lord, did you truly threaten life without parole for me attempting to tell this whole story?
Fine. I’ll tell you the end before the beginning. But don’t blame me if you feel absolutely nothing by my confession.
Here’s the tragedy: I did it.
###
Fortune favors the bold.
Which is precisely how I coerced myself into spending my entire life’s savings on a 40-millimeter luxury chronograph watch for a man I met five months ago.
The Rolex Cosmograph Daytona—in Oystersteel because any other shade would’ve been tacky on his complexion—was a limited edition. Yes, in retrospect, platinum would’ve worked fine too but that is hardly the point here. The point is, if I’d known anything about luxury watches, I would still have one hundred thousand dollars in a High Yield Savings Account and a moral code.
I digress.
Back to the man.
He was gorgeously average, as I prefer them, with the onset of bilateral jowls. Mentioning bilateral is necessary because I once studied under a professor who had unilateral jowls—excuse me—jowl. There was also the perpetual cowlick on the back of his balding head (I’m talking about the man, not the professor) which gave him, in my expert opinion, an unscripted and spontaneous aura.
And he was good in bed.
Ah, fine, you got me. Average in bed.
Now, here is where things get unfortunate. His name was Chet. Yes, I should’ve seen it coming, but if I had, there wouldn’t be any story here, and for a creative that is unacceptable.
So, on Monday I proposed to Chet Clemens with the Rolex Cosmograph Daytona while waiting for the subway.
It would’ve been romantic if I hadn’t knelt on a damp—let’s assume with water—hotdog bun, and my Ann Taylor pencil skirt split up the side. Thank God I wasn’t wearing underwear. That would’ve been embarrassing.
Ever the gentlemen, he eyed my substantial asset and said, “Yes.”
I was elated, although a bit cold since the October breeze was making itself right at home between my legs, and reluctantly asked Chet for his trenchcoat (Brooklyn is hardly the place to walk around naked. I’d choose the Library of Congress). Yes, right. The coat. It smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and lemons, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, quite like our relationship. Regardless, it fit me rather well since I was tall for a woman and Chet was—you guessed it—average.
My first drink of the night was a glass of Cabernet.
“Lovely choice,” the waiter said—he was speaking to Chet about the watch, not my wine.
Chet slurped his spaghetti—mind you after he cut it with a knife, the heathen—and managed to still splatter red sauce all over his wrinkled shirt. “Thank you.”
I was delighted, if not a bit prickled. My entire life’s savings weighing on his wrist deserved more than an overused platitude.
Trivial, I’m aware, but the devil is in the details.
It was a dime before nine—post meridiem—and I was three glasses into the Cabernet when I recalled a plot hole in my penny dreadful. Chet was unconcerned and shoveled tiramisu into his lopsided mouth (TMJ, I suppose) while I was distraught.
The submission—to the Dreary Diaries of London, a prestigious fiction journal, may I add—was due in twenty four hours at eight post meridiem on Tuesday. I was heating up from the wine and the nerves, and like most poised women, I loath sweating. Naturally, I stood up and took off my coat.
This was precisely when Chet started choking.
If the typical restaurant goers had any sort of imagination, a woman wearing only a mock-turtle neck and loafers lunging across a plate of half-eaten tiramisu to stick her hand down her fiance’s throat should’ve deserved an applause.
If you hate spoilers, apologies. There was no applause.
Chet was a rotund man—not a criticism, a fact—and likely the only person in history to choke on moist lady fingers. The tiramisu’s lady fingers, do get your mind out of the trench, this is serious.
Thankfully—I would not be so gracious later—the waiter, did I mention he was painfully handsome, pulled me off Chet and proceeded with the heimlich.
It was then that I noticed the pale man at the table beside me unabashedly staring at my womanhood currently eye-level with his veal saltimbocca.
Ah, right.
I donned the trenchcoat again and was relieved—although a bit disappointed the excitement was over—to find Chet no longer choking. Unfortunately, he was going into anaphylaxis because he’s allergic to hazelnuts.
“Is this authentic?” I was speaking to the waiter, but he was gone. What sort of heresy was happening in the kitchen to allow Nutella mixed in with mascarpone cheese?
Chet’s face matched the spaghetti stains on his shirt and I phoned an ambulance.
Time of death was pronounced a nickel after nine—I’m not going to say post meridiem again, you get it.
So I sat on the bench of Fifth and Maple as the ambulance honked at a taxi, taking Chet Clemens to the morgue. The restaurant sent me off with a bottle of whiskey and the bill.
It’s worth mentioning I’m a lonely woman. This is not a statement to invoke your empathy or pity, but one to help you understand why I stayed on the bench in the rain and got drunk.
I enjoy the solitude of having very few attachments. It allows for complete focus on my writing—oh, the plot hole, yes I’ll have to fix that—and the freedom to do whatever I please. Not that I do much, I was fired last week. No need to be surprised, it’s hardly the first time. Hotel reception is rather bland for someone as riveting as I.
Apologies, this is meant to be about Chet. We met at the Marriott—my former employment establishment—when he got locked out of his room on the tenth floor. I let him in of course, that is—sorry, was—my job. Our encounter was all a bit breathless. Not in the swooning romantic tension sort of way, but we needed to take the stairs since the elevator was being repaired.
I accepted his invitation inside, and you could imagine what happened next.
Well, maybe I’ll spell out the beginning. His toilet was leaking, and at that time, I was devoted to customer servicing. Naturally, I had to hike up my skirt to avoid the puddle and (as we’ve already noted) underwear is extraneous.
Now you can fill in the inevitable blanks.
This long-winded explanation of the origins of our lackluster relationship is two-fold. First, I was drunk, and whiskey makes me melancholy. Second, I owed some sort of meager eulogy for his passing since I would not be hosting any sort of funeral. I neither had the money nor the time for such things.
Ah, there it is. The money.
This revelation happened when the passing transit bus drove through a puddle, splashing me considerably when it turned the corner. Not that I cared—I was already wet—and I finally solved my plot hole for the penny dreadful.
Every good story is driven forward by something. In mine—I’m speaking about my penny dreadful, not my personal story—I had no driving force. Pages upon pages of lovely, haunting prose. Gruesome crimes. Terrible and indulgent romance. All wonderfully written of course, but the issue was motivation. Or lack of it. My story had nothing at stake.
Money was as good of an evil as any.
I spent the next hour contemplating how money could lead to the slew of murderous misfortunes in my story, and when I finished the bottle of whiskey—feeling rather good—I had another jarring realization.
I bolted—fine, teetered—upright, searching the street for the ambulance with Chet in a bag. It wasn’t there of course, that was hours ago, but that didn’t stop me from looking.
Because at half past one—ante meridiem—I remembered there hadn’t been the Rolex Cosmograph Daytona strapped to Chet’s thick, hairy wrist.
###
I returned to the restaurant the next morning—wearing a pair of lilac trousers and the trenchcoat (now doused in Chanel No. 5 to mask the cigarettes and lemon)—to inquire about the waiter.
It was the only probable person of interest who could have stolen the watch. He did have his arms around Chet and called it lovely—the watch, not his embrace. Unfortunately, when I got off the bus at the corner of Fifth and Maple (I eventually went home last night in case that wasn’t clear) the restaurant had burnt down.
There was plenty of commotion in the streets—more than the normal bustle of the city—and I overheard a news reporter commenting on the series of events that took place here. I’m an embellisher in recountings, it’s the creative in me, but this poor woman’s overview of what transpired here hours ago was horribly incorrect.
For starters, she referred to me as a prostitute.
I do consider it to be a compliment. I’ve always thought myself rather mysterious and inviting (in the sexual sense) and it’s affirming to hear that from a stranger. However, when she proceeded to state my attempted murder of Chet by strangulation, I simply had to intercede.
“At times he enjoyed being choked after significant amounts of tequila.” There was a long, and yes terribly awkward, pause. I added, “Never after Italian, and never for murder.”
Many say hindsight is twenty-twenty, but I’m farsighted with an astigmatism in my left eye, so rarely is anything that clear. Nevertheless, I should’ve refrained from verbally confirming on live television I had at one point in time choked a dead man.
I politely excused myself, and hoped the tangerine umbrella I was holding obscured my face. Not because I was guilty of murder! Goodness, don’t misunderstand. My mother is a devout NBC 4 viewer and I’d rather not give her another reason to chastise my tumultuous lifestyle.
Now would be a good time to mention I was armed with a small revolver. It wasn’t loaded—please, I’m a creative not a criminal—but I needed some means to intimidate the waiter into returning my Rolex Cosmograph Daytona. I’m a reasonable woman. Chet was wearing the watch when he started choking and wasn’t when he was dead. Yes, it could’ve been any of the first responders, but my money was on the waiter.
All I could accurately recall was his calloused hands bracing my hips when he pulled me off of Chet. Unhelpful. But like any good detective—which to be clear I’m not a detective, but I was motivated to retrieve my life’s savings—I cornered the restaurant owner once the crowd dispersed and took out my gun.
“I apologize for your establishment.” It was meant to be kind, but between the gun and last night, it may have sounded like I was responsible. No matter. “The name of the waiter, if you would.”
His name was Saint.
It was horribly inconvenient that I found this irony endearing, alluring, and dare I say it, hysterical. Regrettably, Saint was filling in a shift for Enzo—whom I didn’t know—and the owner had nothing more than a name.
I was on a tight schedule. I had twelve hours to find Saint, retrieve my Rolex, and submit my penny dreadful. Much to accomplish, but I never deviate from a goal. I did, however, detour for a pastry and a black coffee. While fueling myself with carbohydrates and caffeine to cure my hangover, I was fixated on Saint’s hands.
Yes, yes, they were delightfully strong, but that’s not the point. The point is, I eventually fantasized enough to recall he had a tattoo on his right hand. A magnolia flower. I’d seen it when he was performing the heimlich, only to have forgotten in the midst of shock and intoxication.
Here’s where things get interesting. Chet had the same one on his thigh.
“We all have one.” That’s what he said about it and I assumed the nondescript “we” was something frivolous like a fraternity or all men named Chet.
As a creative, I don’t believe in coincidences so I took the subway to Chet’s apartment. He never gave me a key, but like most average men, he kept the spare under the mat. I expected the familiar aroma of cigarettes and lemon to greet me, and it did but it was accompanied by something richer I couldn’t name.
I never had been in the flat, and it was briefly sad remembering the first time I stood outside this door. Chet had gotten furiously drunk at the arcade—don’t laugh, this is serious—and phoned me to pick him up.
Out of respect, I did the Sign of the Cross before stepping inside. Neither Chet nor I are Catholic, but entering the home of a dead man is rather bleak.
Although nothing about this apartment was bleak.
It was luxurious.
I took off my loafers because I was raised right, and the linoleum freshly dusted. There were hints of Chet I recognized here, but they were out-of-place. Ash trays atop marble coasters. Instant lemonade packets littering the zebra-skin run. A pile of dirty laundry tucked behind the plastic wrapped couch.
Fascinating.
As previously mentioned, I’m not a detective, but I am a woman with a knack for the details. Which is how I found the hidden safe behind the framed photo of Rocky Balboa in the bathroom. I laughed because the safe was unlocked. How convenient!
It was ludicrous to hope my Rolex Cosmograph Daytona would be inside. That is neither reasonable nor logical, yet I still found myself anticipating it when the small metal door creaked open.
The watch wasn’t there, but I did find something far more peculiar. A little black book—no, I’m not kidding—with pages of finely printed names.
This was monstrously grotesque—for me to be wrong in my assumptions—and I considered shoving the book into the toilet to eliminate all evidence that my dead fiancé Chet Clemens might have actually been—oh god—interesting.
I made myself a bag of microwave popcorn and sat on the midnight blue chenille love seat, one of the finer pieces in the apartment, and got butter on the herringbone patterned pillow. No matter. It wasn’t like Chet was going to mind. Apologies, that was crass. I tend to slip into that mood when I am either constipated or frustrated. More of the latter, currently.
Names I didn’t recognize—not that I expected to, we only knew each other five months—filled the cheap paper in gorgeous script, much unlike his chicken scratch I was familiar with. Numerous explanations swarmed my mind, each more elaborate than the next.
A subtle stalker?
A swindler?
A hitman?
Perhaps it was the creative in me, but I was getting oddly swooned by this mystery, and for the first time in months, I actually wanted to talk to Chet.
So when the floorboards groaned down the dimly lit hall, I was truly hoping it would be him.
What a tantalizing spin it would’ve been if it was! It wasn’t, of course, he was currently chilling in the morgue on Eighth, but a woman could dream, couldn’t she? And perhaps if I wasn’t romanticizing the hidden life of Chet Clemens, I would’ve been more excited to see Saint standing in the entryway.
A dashing man, have I said that already? Truly villainous in his disposition. His Prada suit was pristine, and he looked far more menacing in it than he had in the red apron last night. Although there is something temptatious about a man in an apron…
I digress.
“Ah, you must be Sinthia.”
Was I enamoured—albeit a bit surprised—that he knew my name? Of course. Was that the moment I decided to throw all caution to the wind and assist the devil? Not at all.
“And you must be the man who murdered Chet.”
He joined me on the love seat, the cushions depressing under his weight, and his cologne—a sensuous mix of sandalwood and gasoline (which was the smell of the apartment, I was then certain)—overpowered the microwave popcorn.
“Sadly, Chet murdered himself.” Saint scooped a handful of corn, tossing the kernels casually into his mouth. “He ordered the hazelnut tiramisu on his own. Unless that was your request?”
“Hazelnut tiramisu is sadistic, and I am very particular about what I put in my mouth.”
Saint coughed.
That was when I took out my gun, and it should have been alarming that Saint smiled when I pointed it at his suit pocket. “But you did steal his watch.”
“Chet owed me a significant amount of money.” He draped his arm over the back of the couch and his fingers lingered near my shoulder. I’ll admit I enjoyed it, that’s no crime. “And I didn’t steal it, he gave it to me.”
I was curious—and still suspicious, I’m not a fool—but I did lower the gun. “Do tell.”
“Chet is, was, my cousin, and he’s been borrowing money from me for the last thirty years. I’m a generous man—I let him stay here in my flat since I’m often elsewhere—but I do collect on my debts.” Saint laughed, and I joined in because the sound was enchantingly delicious. “He made me aware that he succeeded in convincing you to attain a certain asset that would settle his tab.”
Perhaps I was a fool. How many times had Chet mentioned he wanted a Rolex Cosmograph Daytona? Numerous! Over the phone, watching television, after sex—sometimes during sex—I was livid.
I never should have alluded to my life savings account over Indian the week after we met. Why did I? Well, I’m a single woman who spends ungodly hours on her computer and have lost six jobs over the past six years. I was hardly the stable type, but I am—was—very good with money. It was a selling point, I assumed.
“So you decided to collect the debt while he was choking?”
“Ah, Sinthia.” Saint patted my shoulder. “What would you have thought if the next morning Chet no longer possessed the watch? That is not something one simply misplaces. And, ha, I do enjoy theatrics. It was a marvelous plan we crafted. Chet pretends to choke, I, the good samaritan waiter saves him while conspicuously stealing his watch. Brilliant!”
It was brilliant. “Then why is Chet dead?”
Saint, to his credit, did look significantly sad. “He truly ordered the tiramisu by mistake.”
“And the magnolia tattoo?” I pointed to his hand still on my shoulder. “He had one as well.”
“We grew up on a magnolia farm. He didn’t tell you?”
Of course he didn’t. He was too busy taking advantage of my good will. “I do appreciate the clarification, but I am now broke and you owe me one hundred thousand dollars.”
Saint took off his jacket and naturally, I took off mine. “I can’t give you the Rolex back.”
“A check works as well.”
“I can’t do that either.”
“Then how are we going to settle this debt? Because you and your cousin owe me a significant one.”
“Well, you could work for me?” he offered.
I recalled the news reporter mentioning I was a prostitute, and wondered if he was referring to that. It wouldn’t be the worst profession. I did have excellent experience in customer service.
“I’m available for the next ten hours. Is that enough time to settle this?”
“Absolutely.”
Now, as promised, this was the moment I decided to throw all caution to the wind and assist the devil.
As previously mentioned, I rarely deviate from a plan, and I’d already accomplished the first on my list of finding Saint. All that was left was replenishing my life’s savings—which I was in the midst of doing—and submitting my penny dreadful.
I was making fantastic progress and doing great on time, so I decided one small addendum could be allowed.
Should I mention Saint was unbuttoning his shirt? Yes? Well, he was unbuttoning his shirt. It wasn’t a difficult choice to unbutton mine. I mean if you saw this man, you would too, I’m certain of it.
Wait. Does this incriminate me more or less admitting to our romantic endeavor?
More? Well, then nevermind. Remove that from the record.
We were both feeling refreshed after leaving the apartment, and I was eager to learn what sort of work we’d be doing to settle the debt. Saint was a fantastic business man, I had no proof but his aura radiated with success, and I was happy to share my tangerine umbrella with a man of his position, and therefore elated when we walked into TD Bank on Graham Avenue.
Of course! A withdrawal directly from his account, I should’ve considered cash or wire transfer as forms of payment I accepted.
Alas, when we reached the clerk, things got…heated.
We—yes, I know that’s incriminating but I was there—proceeded to rob TD Bank on Graham Avenue, loading my trenchcoat pockets with stacks of crisp hundreds. Initially, I was having a great deal of fun until he started lighting things—papers, upholstery, flags—on fire.
Not fun!
It was a bit concerning, hindsight of course, Saint’s propensity for arson. Covers all tracks, he told me. And could I argue? He was the one holding the flask of gasoline and a matchbox very close to my lilac trousers.
He helped me climb out the back window like a true criminal, and I would’ve enjoyed it a bit more if I wasn’t starting to feel like a true criminal. We made it back to the apartment covered in sin and soot, and I was starting to develop a migraine.
“How exciting.” Saint poured Blantons over several cubes of ice. “Care for a drink?”
It looked refreshing and expensive so I agreed.
“Let’s count it, shall we?” Saint gestured to my overstuffed pockets. I laid the damp stacks across the zebra-skin rug wondering what Chet would say about all this.
Saint counted the bills with practiced precision, and I couldn’t quite ignore the acrid smoke clinging to my clothes. I would’ve undressed, but there was a sickening chill in the air that made me wrap the trenchcoat around myself tighter.
“Ah! Would you look at that.” Saint clinked his glass against my own. “Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine dollars.”
It all swooped over me then, and I went from cold to hot in a matter of seconds. What had I been thinking? A thief! An accomplice! A woman stuck in a web of murderous misfortunes!
Sirens wailed. Close, too close for my liking, and Saint for the first time in hours, looked deeply troubled. He ran to the window, peering through the chiffon curtains, and gasped.
“How did they find us?” He still managed to look dashingly handsome in his distress. “I’m untraceable in this city.”
Unfortunately, I, Sinthia Martin, with my lilac trousers and tangerine umbrella, was very much identifiable thanks to this morning’s news.
“I can’t go to prison,” Saint said. “Truly, you must understand my regret to leave you in this mess, but my entire life’s work would be undone if I’m apprehended.”
It occurred to me I didn’t know what his life’s work actually was.
“Ah, well, I suppose all riveting stories start with a tragedy.” He pocketed the little black book currenlty under the couch after we partook in—well, never mind—and kissed my cheek. “It’s not in my nature to ask forgiveness, Sinthia, but I must say it’s been a hell of a day.”
He dashed from the apartment as the heavy footfalls of the police charged up the stairwell to arrest me.
And after all of that, I was still a penny dreadful and a dollar short.
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