Forgive or Forget

“Got your text. What is this? Who are you?”

“Are you Jenna Carney?” the voice asked.

“You said this was urgent. You’ve got five seconds.”

“Does the date December 5, 2006 mean anything to you?”

She closed her eyes. Breathed in. Out. In. Out. I am calm. I am calm.

“It does,” she said, hating how she sounded. “That’s why I called. I already told you in the text.”

“I may repeat myself because I need to be sure. My client would like to make amends for that night.”

Her heart fluttered, a bird in a cage, a cat’s paw reaching in.

“Amends? How? Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you much more than I have a gift for you. From my client.”

“I’m not interested.”

“It’s their way of saying sorry.”

“Bullshit.”

Her breaths came faster.

She was losing it.

Remember your therapy, she thought, remember what Doctor Karras said.

If you must, get away from the situation. Exit gracefully.

“Text me the time and place of your choosing,” the voice said. “I’ll deliver it there.”

“Go fuck yourself! Tell your client, too.”

She hurled her phone across the room.

Something on her desk crashed, but she didn’t see what it was.

She was sobbing, face in her hands.

So much for a graceful exit.

* * *

Jenna was sitting alone in the small cafe.

As they had agreed by text. A public place. With people around.

She watched customers coming and going.

Not too busy, not too empty.

Perfect.

She looked up at the security camera. Stared at it. Just in case.

She watched the customers, wondering who he was.

“I’ll find you,” he had texted. “I know what you look like.”

After, she had deleted all her social media accounts.

She had no idea about his appearance, but she knew when he arrived.

Dark suit. Gold trim. Brown hair slicked to the side.

Handsome, but in an antiseptic way, a model for business casual clothes.

Sunglasses on, even though they were inside.

Douche chic.

In her left hand was her grandma’s handkerchief. She clenched it in her fist then pushed it in her jeans pocket.

He scanned the tables and came for her.

Her back was against the wall. She pressed herself into the cushioned, long booth-style seat.

He would have to sit in the crappy wooden chair, back to the store.

He stood silently. A moment too long.

“Glad you changed your mind,” he said finally, pulling out the chair.

“I still don’t know your name.”

“Call me Mike.”

“Fine. Mike,” she said, making quotes with her fingers.

He looked around.

“I’ve gone by this place hundreds of times. Never came in.”

“No small talk, please?”

Mike shrugged as if he hadn't heard. “It’s cute If you’re into chain knock-offs trying too hard. I see the usual diverse hipster staff. Lots of ink.”

Jenna ignored his words and controlled her breathing.

“And of course, the buff bearded barista,” Mike said, nodding toward the big guy behind the counter.

“Can we just do this?” Jenna asked.

Mike didn’t have a chance to respond.

A server approached them.

“Can I get you two anything?” she asked.

“I’ll have a green tea,” Jenna said. “And he’ll have…?”

“Nothing,” Mike said.

“And nothing for him.”

“Be right back,” the server said and walked away.

Mike turned his head the tiniest bit.

“When you’re done checking her out,” Jenna said. “Let’s talk.”

“As you wish,” he said. “My client-”

She cut him off.

“Hold on. I have questions.”

“I told you. I can’t say much.”

“How many of these meetings have you had? For your client?”

“I am permitted to tell you they did not have the easiest life. They’re comfortable now. But they harmed people on their way up, and-”

“I’d like to see that little black book. How many names and dates does it have?”

Mike shrugged.

Jenna continued. “And now he wants to make nice? After what he did?”

“Okay. Stop.” Mike leaned forward, right hand up.

“Did your client talk at all about what happened that night?”

“They did not.”

“They? Do you mean plural? Or-?”

Mike mocked surprise.

“Here I took you for a modern girl. I use ‘they’ as a singular third-person generic. Don’t assume anything.”

He continued. “About that night, I know.”

“I want to tell you my perspective.”

He snapped his left arm out to reveal a large silver watch. He glanced at it.

“Fine. But I don’t have all day.”

Jenna’s words came out in a rush.

“The night of Shelly’s bachelorette party. My friends offered to walk me home. It was two blocks. I laughed. I’ll be fine. I didn’t wake up until afternoon the next day.”

Mike didn’t react.

“Does your client know I missed a whole semester of school? That I’m deaf in my left ear? That I can’t go anywhere alone? If someone comes up behind me, I still scream? What’s your client got that will fix that?”

Mike reached into his jacket and pushed an envelope across the table. Just like in the movies. A small manila packet.

“They want you to have this. Twenty-thousand dollars.”

Jenna reached out and touched the envelope.

It felt like a thick wad of cash should feel.

Not that she’d ever had the pleasure.

She left it on the table and pulled her hand back.

“Do you accept the gift?” Mike said.

“I’m not sure.”

He reached out for the money.

She put her hand on the other end.

Both their fingers rested on it.

Mike spoke.

“My client would like to make amends for anything that may have happened the night of December 5, 2006 to a Miss Jenna Carney. For that they offer this.”

“Then what?” Jenna said, her voice cracking. She winced. “This counts as no admission of guilt? I can’t talk about it? That I free them from any other damages in purple-tuity perpet-unity…”

“In perpetuity,” he said.

“Yeah. That.”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

“Take it.”

“Only twenty-thousand? They could be a billionaire for all I know.”

They each moved their hands forward on the packet, fingertips almost touching.

“Besides, what will twenty thousand get me?” she asked.

“It’s tax free,” Mike said. “It’s more like thirty thousand.”

“I don’t care if it’s a million. This isn’t how you get forgiveness. He’s – they’re – setting all the terms.”

“I would argue it’s noble,” Mike said. “They didn’t have to do this at all.”

“Maybe. But if they are sincere, why not come in person?”

“Miss Carney-”

“You’re a private detective, right?”

“We’re not talking about me.”

“What do you charge for a job like this?”

“I’m losing patience.”

“Suppose I take the payment then give it to you. In exchange you tell me who your client is.”

Mike leaned back, arms at his sides.

She kept her hand on the money.

“They have to be paying you more,” she said. “Or else that might work. Or you’d take it and run. Say I accepted.”

He folded his arms.

She pulled back, leaving the packet alone again.

“Now what, tough guy?” she said.

Now she liked how she sounded.

“Do you want it or not?” Mike snapped. “Yes or no?”

She was dizzy, as if looking down from a skyscraper.

She was doing it. She was able to speak and think clearly. She wasn’t crying. Yet.

“I haven’t decided.”

“I need you to. I don’t have all day.”

Jenna paused.

“Ohhh,” she said, drawing out the sound. “You need an answer. That’s why you’re still here. Otherwise, you’d just drop it and go.”

“I can still do that,” Mike said. “I’ll count down. At the end I will assume the answer is yes. And you keep the money. Or leave it here for that cute waitress to get more than she makes in a year.”

Jenna pounded her fist on the table.

“Where the hell is my tea?” she yelled.

Mike ignored her and began counting down.

“Five.”

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

She reached out and snatched the envelope.

Mike smirked. He was gloating. “By taking the money you have agreed to the client’s terms,” he said.

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

A loud click filled the café. One of the baristas was locking the door, as if closing for the night.

The server was rushing over.

She didn’t have Jenna’s tea.

Mike jolted.

Something wasn’t right.

He recalled the server’s nametag: Michelle.

Shelly.

Mike’s instinct kicked in.

He shoved the chair back and leapt up.

Tried to.

But the other barista, the burly bearded guy, was already behind him.

He wrapped his left arm around Mike’s neck and drove his right palm against the back of Mike’s head.

Mike struggled and kicked but couldn’t break free. His sunglasses clattered to the floor.

“Please…” he gasped, face flushing, then turning purple. “Please…”

Shelly grabbed his arm. The other barista – name tag DeVon – grabbed the other.

“Bryan?” Jenna said.

“I got ‘im,” the bearded big guy said. “I’ll loosen up so he can talk, but no more.”

Mike gasped, his face fading from purple to splotchy red.

DeVon bound Mike’s wrists with a plastic tie used for organizing cables.

Shelly patted Mike down, pulling out a gun and a cell phone.

She set it on the table.

“That’s all,” Shelly said.

“Tell me about your client.” Jenna said.

“This is stupid,” Mike said, his voice raspy. “They’re sorry and wanted forgiveness. Redemption.”

“Maybe I’ll give it. Who is he?”

“Way to go. Spitting on an offer of peace.”

“Oh no,” Jenna said. “I’m still open to all that. What I’m not open to is this shady deal.”

“Scissors coming in,” Shelly said. She snipped a lock of Mike’s hair and dropped it in a plastic sandwich bag.

Mike squirmed.

“Don’t,” Bryan said, squeezing again.

“What are you doing?” Mike asked.

“Hold still.”

Shelly stabbed Mike’s fingertip with the pin on the back of her nametag.

She squeezed his finger and collected the blood in the cup. She taped over the spot of blood with masking tape.

“Now,” Jenna said. “We were discussing what twenty thousand will get you. It’s plenty to identify a DNA sample. We’ll find out who you are. Then we’ll go to the police. Or you could avoid the trouble and tell me who your client is. Your choice.”

“Fuck you,” Mike said. “Dumb kids playing cop. I’ll go to the police myself. Say I was attacked.”

“Go ahead. Let’s bring them in to start asking questions.”

Jenna took out her phone and snapped his picture.

“Shelly,” Jenna said. “That water boiling?”

“Sure is.” Shelly moved behind the bar.

Mike stared at Jenna.

“Torture? Really?”

“Fine,” she said. “Call my bluff. We’ll do this the hard way.”

She nodded to Bryan.

“Toss him.”

Bryan lifted Mike up by his neck and half-carried half-dragged him away.

DeVon held the door open. Bryan shoved Mike outside, causing him to crash into a waiting customer.

“Hey,” the stranger said. “Do you know why they’re closed?”

“Fuck off,” Mike said. He wrenched his wrists out of the plastic tie and stomped down the street.

“Sorry,” DeVon said though the door. “We’ve got uh, plumbing problems. Come back later.”

The customer went away.

Inside, Jenna sat down.

“Thanks guys,” she said.

Shelly sat next to her, rubbing her back.

Jenna held her hands out, fingers spread, palms down. She was shaking.

She waited until her heart settled, her fingers stopped trembling.

Bryan was wearing plastic cleaning gloves, checking Mike’s phone.

“It’s a burner,” he said. “Nothing on it but one number. Dialed an hour ago.”

He handed the phone to Jenna.

She pulled on gloves and punched redial.

“Is it done?” a man’s voice answered.

“Oh no,” Jenna said. “It’s just getting started.”