A Woman of Her Word

Philosophy is the science of understanding what makes people do things. Politics is the science of making people understand why they should do things. Blackmail is just the intersection of the two. In that way, at least Penny thought of herself as a Renaissance woman. It was the Italian High Renaissance, and her archetype was Peitro Aretino, but a Renaissance woman was a Renaissance woman, and if she was in the mould of an erudite, bisexual pornographer, so much the better. She sat back on the sofa she rescued from the curb, lit a thin, menthol cigarette, and stared at the small, leather bound journal.

Penny’s entire life had been spent chasing the crumbs of someone else’s crumb sandwich, stitching bed sheets into cocktail dresses, and spit polishing shoes that had been resoled so many times St. Peter wouldn’t recognize them. She always got by though. A half full belly and a hard eyed smile would take you places. Usually a no-tell motel off the nearest freeway and occasionally a Waffle House with mussed hair and $200 dollars in your handbag. It wasn’t much, but it was more than she had growing up.

So here she sat, in her best black velvet curtains, on a rescued sofa, trying to listen to a worn out recording of Cosi Fan Tutti on a hi-fi older than she was, but instead listening to the ticking of the granddaughter clock on the side table by the door. Upon the coffee table cobbled together from a broken chair and a packing crate sat her ticket out of this life if she had the guts to see this through.

She could just return the book, forget the names, apologize for the inconvenience, and hope that he might want to schedule another appointment with her.

Her stomach growled, and she steeled herself.

The first call was made, and now it was just a matter of waiting. She kindled a fire in the age blackened wood burner that occupied the corner of the drafty little apartment, and threw a couple pieces of an apple crate, or maybe it was a pallet, on to the tiny, guttering flame. It was a long wait until midnight, but Penny thought it was a natural choice for a deadline. It turned this whole thing from a silly little farce, into a scene from a golden age thriller. Though she had never fancied herself as the villainess before.

He was tall, square jawed, and well dressed when they met, a neat coif of grey hair sitting over chilled cheeks. He was a war hero, or at least claimed to be one from time to time. He didn’t with her. All he had been able to say was ‘Yes ma’am’, ‘No ma’am’, and ‘Thank You ma’am’. A model client, with simple tastes, at least in her line of work. He had hang ups, sure, but Penny didn’t complain, especially at a first meeting. In fact he was probably the best client she had ever met with. No rotten teeth, or unspeakable odors dripping from oily orifices. No propensity for violence, or war flashbacks. Just a man who couldn’t get what he needed elsewhere.

The fire had caught on now, and the Cossi recording had finished spinning. She removed the record, and gingerly replaced it in the crumbling jacket before leafing gently through her crate of albums. She selected Hiefetz, playing Sarasate, and put the needle to the groove. Her father had been a fiddler, between bouts as a roofer, a plumber’s apprentice, and a shade tree mechanic. Untrained, but with the kind of talent that made a student violin sing like an instrument worth ten times as much. Penny had always wanted to learn, but a hard slap from a harder hand was all her father ever taught her about music.

Ziguenerwisen made Penny cry every time, especially Hiefetz’s. Not tonight though, tonight it was just background noise, something to keep her thoughts from spiraling in time with the ticking clock. She settled back onto the sofa, and found herself staring at the book again. It was a lovely journal, nicer than any six of her tattered library sale novellas put together, and far more interesting. It felt expensive, luxurious even, and it contained names, and phone numbers, some of which Penny knew, but most that she didn’t. It wasn’t just a list. It was a journal, a catalogue that told the reader just exactly what each name and number had led to, and might lead again. There was more than one hand evident. Some entries were in pencil, as small and neat as if they were typewritten, others were loopy contrivances that Penny imagined were done with a special fountain pen. Maybe a Monte Blanc, owned by Nixon, or Noel Coward. The entry that bore her name was done in neat, formal cursive.

He had a wife, this man with the neat, formal handwriting, but so did most of her clients. It was easy not to think of them usually, but tonight was not usual. The B-side of the record saw Penny ask herself why she was doing this. Not the job, of course. That never bothered her, nor did the wives. This was a step beyond the job. The job required discretion, and tact, and this was an exercise in neither. She should call him back, tell him she was sorry, that she couldn’t do this to him. That her mother had raised her better than this. Penny’s mother hadn’t raised her better than this, but it was the sentiment that counted. She stared harder at the book, and it seemed to stare back, black cover threatening to spread out and consume the room in nothingness.

Penny’s stomach growled again, and she tore her eyes away from the book.

She swapped Hiefetz for Oistrahk’s Sibelius, and took to the rickety chair near the wood burner, but felt no warmer. It was 9:35 on a chill night in the late autumn, the kind that brought mist, and memories, but little comfort. The smells of decomposing leaves, left to rot by the negligent property owner drifted through the cracked panes of glass, and twisted itself up with the concerto.

Her grandmother loved this piece. She said it reminded her of Finland. It reminded her so much that she remembered to be grateful that she was in America come the winter. This was a land of little snow, and many opportunities. Though Grandmother had never met one of those opportunities in her half century in the States she still believed, like a young girl chasing after fairies in the summer twilight.

Penny’s stomach growled, louder this time.

The clock on the table ticked ever closer to midnight. It was 10:00, now 10:30, and the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the wood burner, the hi-fi playing low, and the interminable tick tock. The book was still lying on the table, and Penny had puffed her way through two packs. She poured herself a cup of wine from the glass Gallo jug, and let it sit, untouched.

The tick, and tock, worked their way deep into her chest, until her whole being was full of the sound, and everything became tock or tick. It was 11:00, and 11:30. He wouldn’t call. Tick. He knew it was a bluff. Tock. Girls like Penny made their bones on discretion, and tact. Tick. She wouldn’t blow that up. Not on a crazy whim. Tock. She didn’t even know anyone at the Gazette-Register. Tick. Penny retrieved the book, and went into the kitchen. Tock. She found the last entry, the one about her. Tick. Ever so carefully Penny took up a well sharpened kitchen knife. Tock. The old steel blade neatly separated the filled pages from the binding, leaving less than half of the book between the now floppy covers Tick. Penny opened the door of the wood burner, and crouched before it. Tock. She stared into the dancing flames, and thought about what she was about to do. Tick. Finally, painfully, Penny cast the best meal ticket she was likely to see into the cleansing flames, and waited for the last ‘Tock’.

It never came. Instead, her telephone blared out its harsh, one note song. With trembling hands she lifted it off of the cradle.

“The arrangements have been made, and everything will be settled by close of business tomorrow. I am a man of my word.” The voice on the other end was not harried, or frantic, but smooth and businesslike.

“And I am a woman of my word. It has been disposed of, as I promised.” Penny said, surprised that her voice did not shake like the rest of her body.

“I thank you kindly for your discretion.” The caller said, sounding relieved.

“And I thank you for your tact.” Penny replied to a dead line.

She picked up what remained of the book, turned up the stereo, and retrieved a pen from her junk drawer before returning to the sofa, and draining her cup of wine. The Tchaikovsky Violin concerto was scratching its way into life when she stretched out on the lumpy cushions. She opened the little journal, and began to make a list, not of names and numbers, but of things that she had needed for a good long time.