Rage From the Edge

Melissa Bayden had, at one time, been a very beautiful and alluring woman; she was the type capable of turning men’s heads, the both of them, as she strolled purposely down the sunshine laden avenues of her youth. She always appeared to be going someplace, her long porcelain legs stalking out and back as her feet, encased in the finest of leather, click-clacked along the lusting concrete of the sidewalk beneath her. That firm and decisive stride had given many a lover the impression that she had had other places to be, that she was always leaving. Her hair, besides being the fashionable shoulder length bob, was also the fashionable straight and black, as if she willed the mane to stay perfectly still, shiny, and in line; as if it were yet another persistent servant at her languid beck and call. Her choice in clothing was also focused. Her attendants would often be found in the area’s finest clothiers, no price tag was too high (one must not balk when hunting lest the pursuit go foul), no cloth to dark or sumptuous (chosen, no doubt to match her resolute coif), no overtly plunging neckline too deep. Miss Melissa Bayden had been all of these things in her youth. A recently departed youth, as it seemed, the day she stepped into my office, blood red lipstick stains smeared with the casualness of a lover’s peck on the end of her impossibly long and incredibly thin European cigarette.

Now, as she prepared to sit in the chair before me, I realized that I could get a better look at her and could see that whatever charms or charisma she had held in her youth were now gone, eroded downward into the creases in her once-dangerously beautiful face. She smoothed the front of her dark burgundy dress, pressing the fabric into her still firm body. She sat and kicked one leg over the other as she flicked an ash into a nearby ashtray with all the care of a bored and jaded teenager. The skin of her white neck was loose and moved in a funny manner as she spoke, the hollow of her throat surrounded by flaps of old, once prized and desired flesh.

“Mister Sims,” her voice was a sneer and a croak. The years of high living and late nights had taken their toll. “As you may or may not know,” she flicked another ash. “My husband has recently passed away.”

I gave a quick cough to clear my throat and nodded. I had read about the late Mr. Bayden on the front page of the local newspaper, which in a roundabout way, had speculated on the suspicious manner of his passing as only a local tabloid could. “Erm, ah yes, Mrs. Bayden, such a shame…” I lied. The old bastard had lived to be 93 years old and had managed to either outspend, blackmail, or bully his competitors into bankruptcy. Mr. Bayden was not a well liked or respected member of the community. In fact, part of the hearsay attached to his death in the papers speculated that the fall was what killed him not the heart attack, and that he was pushed and had not tripped on a lose piece of Persian rug.

“Never mind that,” she gave a cursory wave and pursed her lips around the obnoxious looking cigarette. “I have hired you, as you know, because while capable, you are not a high profile law firm. I have need of secrecy, not reputation or notoriety.” A cloud of blue smoke surrounded her head as she blew smoke out through her dark net veil. “This is business best taken care of in the dark, so to speak,” she ended.

I absentmindedly played with the folder in front of me. Yes, this was dark work. Dark work like the kind where you sneak into offices in the dead of night, dark work where money is handed back and forth under the sticky tables of wharf-front taverns, dark work that uncovered the secrets, lies and character flaws of even the greatest of men. The folder I know toyed with was a veritable dictionary that defined every nasty, spiteful, and wicked word, in details that left no imagination, of the late Mr. Bayden’s contemptible existence. This folder, which detailed back street abortions, bastard sons, patricide, and, dare I say it, unkind dealings with a younger sibling, long dead, this folder could set me up for the remainder of my life.

“The agreed upon price?” I looked hopefully at the almost lizard-like woman in front of me. Her greedy eyes and sullen movements taking on the alien qualities of an alligator just before the jaws snapped shut. “I assure you that I am discreet and that our confidentiality will never, ever be breached.”

“I expect no less.” The word less escaped her mouth in a hiss, like wind blowing through long dead autumn branches, drawn out and yet abrupt at the same time. Final. “You shall be well pleased with the arraignment, and once I take possession of the file and its contents, the agreed upon price shall be wired directly to your accounts, in any way you see fit.”

I clumsily handed the folder to her; she reached out, almost lethargically, and took the thick paper bundle from my moist hand. I licked my lips as they had become suddenly dry. I doubted that anything could actually surprise this woman into reaction, but at the same time, I did also know what the folder contained, what Bayden had kept hidden all these years. I watched her with an enormous amount of concentration as she opened the file for the first time, and began to flip through its pages, reading here and there.

Finally, with a curt nod, she closed the file with a leisurely and drawn out flip and closed her eyes sluggishly for a brief moment. Those eyes that had seen a thousand places that I would never see, had witnessed a thousand things that I could only dream of, did I see in those eyes an infinitely small, yet unbearably fresh and wounding bit of sadness, a tiny mote of regret? They quickly snapped back open and I could see her working in a measured and deep breath, all emotion had left those eyes once again and it seemed as if she had made a grand decision and was now ready to speak of it.

“Ah yes,” the hiss was now a sigh. “Mr. Sims, yes, our confidentiality must be kept at all costs…this document never existed. As she finished her sentence, she fixed me with a dead stare, her eyes as straight as a drill bit’s bore. Her mouth was reduced to a paper-thin line, her words grave, serious, and allowed for no change, no doubts. She made to get out of her chair and I blundered out from behind my desk to help her up.

She waved me off brusquely; I was nothing but an annoyance as she reached down and ground out her cigarette in the glass ashtray on my desk. In an elegant maneuver, she moved around the chair and myself; striding towards the office door, again in her decisive way. As she placed her hand on the door’s knob, her shoulders, once arrogantly straight, hunched a little. For the briefest of seconds, one could see the little girl inside the conceited and stern woman. She peered over her shoulder at me, only one eye meeting mine; her voice trembled just a tiny bit.

“At all costs, Mr. Sims.” She reiterated as she opened the door and exited the office with no more flourish or action, the door closed quietly with a small click and I never saw Mrs. Melissa Bayden again.

One month later, to the very day, I entered my office and sat at my desk to peruse the day’s fresh newspapers, laid there by my secretary along with a cup and saucer of coffee. I opened the first paper and was greeted by a huge headline detailing the tragic suicide of the wealthy, powerful, and once beautiful Mrs. Melissa Bayden. That first story was a short blurb, supplemented with a picture of Mrs. Bayden that had to be at least thirty years old, taken at the epic height of her beauty. Looking over the rest of the papers, I read with great interest the similar headlines and their accompanying stories, a small smile on my face and a small thought. There was some small speck, some trace of providence in this world.