Hi Everyone! The premise for this fic is loosely borrowed from an old movie called The Goodbye Girl. The basic set-up is taken from the film, but doesn't necessarily follow it. After the first few chapters, it will take off in an entirely different direction. Any lines lifted from the film (more or less) are marked with an asterisk.
Updates will be once a week, possibly more. We'll see.
As always, what is begun will be finished.
I hope you like Motley Fool, and if you do, please take a little time to tell me so.
Obnoxiously long disclaimer: I own nothing of William Shakespeare, PotO, The Goodbye Girl, or any of the delightful music contained herein. Or for that matter, my house, my car, uh...my new living room, the washer and dryer, the dog. Oops! Forget that last about the dog. We do own him. Anyway...well, you get the picture. I'm not making a red cent (or a blue one for that matter) from this potboiler, or whatever the hell this is. I just know that every author inserts this little thingy in here, just in case. I think I've made it clear that I own nothing. 'cept the dog.
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players... (William Shakespeare)
She tugged on her daughter's hand, nearly dropping the shopping bags she held gripped in her other hand. "Come on, Min, shake a leg! We've got things to do yet before we leave."
"Like what?"
"Well, like hauling all those dirty clothes out from under your bed, not to mention those empty chips bags someone put there."
"Oh. That stuff. I don't know how it got there."
"I'm not naming names, you understand, but the one who made the mess can clean it up. Wanna help me out by taking care of it for your poor old mother?"
The seven year old chewed on a finger as she thought about it, and finally nodded. "Can we have mac and cheese for supper, Mom?"
Christine looked into her daughter's wide blue eyes and shrugged. "Don't see why not. We'll make a salad too. All right?"
"Sure, but do I have to eat it?"
The glance she gave her daughter was one of long suffering. "That's the whole idea! Eat your veggies and you'll grow up to be a chip off the old block."
Min rolled her eyes at that. "I'll stick with the mac n' cheese then."
Christine pulled the girl close and gave her a one armed hug. "You're a twerp, ya know that?"
"Yeah, you tell me that all the time."
Min hopped up the steps of their building, holding tightly to her own shopping bag. She spied Mrs. Turley, their landlady, sweeping the entry and stopped. "I got a brand new swimmin' suit and a yellow dress, Mrs. Turley. Wanna see?"
Christine, a little out of breath, caught up with her daughter. Oh, to be a seven year old again.
"Florida, here we come, Mrs. Turley! You'll be the first to get a postcard from Miami Beach."
The stout landlady, her skin a warm mocha, looked the other woman over with a jaundiced eye. "Uh huh. Just make sure you get everything that'll spoil outta there. Two months for food to sit in a warm fridge? No, ma'am! No sense leavin' it runnin' and eatin' up 'lectricity, is there? Should sublet it for that long a time."
Christine stubbornly shook her head. "I don't want a stranger pawing through my things and doing God knows what on my couch! The rent will be paid on time just like it always is."
"That man of yours around? Haven't seen much of him lately."
"Well, no you wouldn't have. He's already in Miami and hard at work."
"Doin' what?"
"That's the exciting part, Mrs. Turley! He finally landed a part in a TV show."
"Uh huh," she repeated, unimpressed and wondering how Nadir Khan got an acting role when he never left the apartment. "What's the part?"
"It's a new show called Dread the Walking Dead."
"You don't say? What part does Mr. Khan have?"
Christine mumbled something, and Min piped up, "Nadir's a zombie! He doesn't say anything, he just groans a lot.
"And eats people!" she added importantly.
"It's a pivotal part in the show though," Christine said hastily. "He attacks the leading man and nearly kills him...and...and everything," she finished lamely. Taking her daughter's hand, she went inside and collected the mail before climbing the stairs to their apartment.
"I know you dig the fact that Nadir is a zombie, Min, but ease up on the eating part, 'kay? It grosses me out."
Her daughter laughed and skipped ahead, waiting impatiently by the door for her too slow mother. "Can I try on my new dress again, Mom?" as she tugged off her red hoodie and ran to her room.
Christine dumped her bags just inside the door. "Go ahead, but first clean that junk out from under your bed!"
She filled the tea kettle with fresh water and put it on the stove. Running a hand through her hair, she rummaged through her purse for her phone. She had tried calling him, but he hadn't answered back yet. A text message would have been welcome right about now; maybe something along the lines of... miss you, wish you were here. They hadn't been on the best of terms lately, but a couple of months somewhere different, might bring the old spark back. She hoped. Christine texted him anyway; nonsense stuff, followed by a line of big red emoji lips, before sorting through her mail, giving a little squeal when she spied Nadir's familiar writing. An uneasy sense of disaster was flirting on the edge of her perception, and determined to think only good thoughts, she ignored it, slitting the envelope open and peering inside.
What were you expecting, Christine, huh? A single sheet of paper. Nothing else. Cathedral bells were jangling a racket in her head. "Not a freakin' letter, that's for sure," she muttered, removing the short note and reading. Now a pipe organ playing Toccata and Fugue joined the cacophony.
Min, on hands and knees beside her bed, had her things in two piles. Good stuff in one pile, odds and ends of discarded food in another. She stared in disgust at a wrinkled apple core covered in gray fur. "Yuck," and with the tip of one finger, pushed it into the throw away pile. She was about to fish out a lavender Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs sweatshirt. "Ooh, my favrit!" when she went still at the sound of harsh sobs.
Frightened, she raced out of the room, nearly colliding with her mother, who grabbed her and squeezed her tight. Way too tight.
"Oh, baby, baby! This is awful." The rest of her words made absolutely no sense to the little girl, swallowed as they were by hiccups and gasping.
"What's wrong?" her own eyes tearing up at her mother's grief.
"He's left us for good!" Christine paused, her breath hitching in her chest, eyes and nose leaking, and childishly, she wiped them on her sleeve. "Oh, baby! He couldn't even call me, the damned coward! H-He's f-found Someone Else!" and collapsed into sobs, clutching her daughter close.
"Shit," Min said beneath her breath.
The cabbie's eyes kept returning to his lone passenger. The man was on the phone, his voice cycling between irritation and amusement. Something off about this fare. And that was saying a hellava lot. The dude's face glowed whitely in the back seat as he slouched on the worn upholstery. He had been surprised when he picked the man up at the bus station, and found his gaze returning to the back seat often, hastily averting his eyes when they met those of his passenger in the rear view. Curious, he listened in on some of the one sided conversation.
"All right. I get it. I get it. You have a new lady and need the other half now." He drummed long fingers on the worn upholstery, keeping an invisible beat. "I know that. What? I told you...I am between gigs, so my money is tied up at the moment." The man glanced into the driver's mirror and met the bright interested eyes of the cabbie. He pulled some well worn cardboard rectangles out of his coat pocket, never ceasing his conversation as he held them up one by one in weary resignation.
The cabbie's eyes widened as he read the large block letters on each of the five flashcards presented to him.
1- I AM NOT A THIEF BENT ON ROBBING YOU
2- I AM NOT A TERRORIST WHOSE INTENTION IS TO HARM ANYONE
3- I AM A FAMOUS COMPOSER IN NEED OF PRIVACY
4- THANK YOU FOR YOUR UNDERSTANDING
5- WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING
The cabbie's mouth had sprung open, before returning his eyes to the street. "Shit!" he cursed as he slammed on the brakes, just missing the bumper of the car stopped in front of him.
Thrown forward, the passenger curled his arm around the battered violin case in his lap as though shielding an infant, and braced a booted foot against the back of the driver's seat.
"Sorry 'bout that," the cabbie mumbled, seeing his tip evaporating. "You okay, man? That was a close one. It..."
"I'll live," Erik said dryly. He held up his phone and pointed to it for good measure. "If you don't mind..."
"Sure, sure. Flashcards, huh? Get asked nosy questions all the time, do ya? Cool mask, but couldn't a fake beard and wig do the job?"
"Too pedestrian."
"Right. Say, fella...which one? Composer, I mean. I'm really into music."
"George Frideric Handel."
"Say, no kiddin'! I know some of your stuff. Eighties, right?"
"Yes," Erik agreed, but thought privately that the man would almost surely know the NBA's MVP for 1980 without even thinking about it. After all, why would anyone remember one of the greatest baroque composers in the world when Handel couldn't have done a jump shot to save his life? "A little hang time, maestro?" he muttered.
"What was that, Mr. Handel?"
"Nothing," and peered out the grimy cab window as the first fat drops of rain started to fall.
The cabbie flicked his wipers on as the rain came down harder, the world outside his car, smoke and silver as color melted away into the drear of a soggy late afternoon. Through the windshield, pavement shone wetly as though covered in a viscous slime. He chanced another glance at his passenger. "I get all kinds of fares in my cab, but I ain't never..."
Erik pointed to his phone again in annoyance.
"Yeah, right right. Well, we're there, Mr. Handel," he announced as he pulled over to the curb, wondering why in hell a famous composer would stay in a dump like this one.
"Have to go, Khan. No!" Erik despised repeating himself more than anything. "And no again. "You will get the rest when I have it to give. Or shall I rob a bank for you?" and winked at the cabbie, who was now giving him a suspicious look.
He stuffed his phone in a coat pocket and grabbed the scruffy violin case, before unfolding his lanky frame from the cab. He stepped out onto the wet pavement, becoming soaked before half a minute had gone by. He hadn't known there was so much water in this part of the world, and it was all suspended over his head. Erik tugged his collar up against the chill of the early spring rain, and eyed with distaste, the decrepit row of brownstones across the street.
To him they appeared like relics from a past whose heyday had long ago come and gone. They were left to usher in new eras and newer neighbors in their peeling paint and worn bricks. They were like antiquated old ladies wearing out of style black bombazine, and smelling heavily of the camphor crystals the garments were stored in. Prior glory always slowly and inevitably crumbled away.
He should know.
The building's better days were far behind it, and jingling the loose change in his pant's pocket, Erik considered the fact that his erstwhile friend had managed to rip him off. Digging into his shrinking funds, he held out a twenty and a ten to the driver.
The cabbie had opened his trunk and removed the battered olive drab duffel bag. Turning, he looked up and up at the man standing in front of him, making him feel as small as the little leprechauns on the box of cereal his kids scarfed down every morning. If music ever became the pits for the guy, he would damn well be smart to give basketball a shot.
"Keep the change."
The cabbie took the proffered money and his two dollar tip, not sorry at all that the long sip of water in front of him was getting a good soaking. He nodded at the row of tired brownstones. "Couldn't get you closer to the building- those toe jammers over there hog all the parking."
In spite of getting wetter, Erik had to ask. "What is a... toe jammer?"
"Aw, that's just some stupid game my kids play on the computer. It's 'bout little monsters. Watch yourself when you go out at night, Mr. Handel. The neighborhood ain't all that safe."
Erik watched as two men loitering on the street corner across from them, began to argue. Loudly. One man gave the other a hard shove backward. "You don't say."
He entered the building to the squeal of rusty hinges, the odor of stale cooking and old plumbing assailing him. He shook himself like a wet dog, running a hand through his dripping hair and took inventory of the first floor. It was as tired and seedy looking as the outside of the building, graffiti spread liberally over the drab walls, although the place appeared to be fairly clean. He read a message penned in what appeared to be orange lipstick, informing the reader that Rita was more than capable of providing a man (or woman) with a good time- for a price. He spied the manager's office to the left of the stairs and a door at the end of the hall proclaiming the laundry to be in that direction. First things first. He would investigate his apartment, then check in with the building's super. Wouldn't do to have the other tenants becoming alarmed at his presence before he even opened his mouth.
He took the steps two at a time until he found his apartment number, breathing out a sigh of relief. Almost there. He would take a hot shower first thing to warm up, closely followed by some of that brandy wrapped in a sock in his duffel. He slid the key home in the old fashioned lock and turned the knob. The door swung inward, and abruptly stopped.
"What the hell..." Mouth grim, he pushed at the door which refused to open all the way, hearing the rattle of a chain bolt and the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching the door. A body shoved hard against it, slamming it shut in his face, followed by the click of the lock.
Erik winced as what sounded like a wooden chair was dragged across the floor and shoved under the knob.
Fort damn Knox.
He stared at the door as a bloodshot blue eye appeared at the peep hole.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" the eye raking him up and down. "Whoa, wait just one damned minute! Why are you wearing that thing?" The blue eye widened as it regarded the tell tale signs of the mask.
A sharp eye always spotted it. He remained calm. "Why else? I need it."
"What for? Robbing people? You've come to the wrong place, buddy. Nothing here to steal, so move along unless you want trouble from the cops!"
"That is a tasteless utterance, miss." For a moment he considered getting out his flashcards. Next she would ask if he was a terrorist. "I assure you it hides a birth defect only. Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
"Yeah? !'ve never seen you before in my life! Why should I take your word?"
Erik bit the inside of his cheek, and turned on his five hundred mega watt smile of uneven teeth, wishing only to put her at ease. He accomplished the exact opposite. He was not well versed in the social niceties, and this was a woman with a normal suspicion of strange men. "Didn't Nadir tell you I was coming?"
"Nadir? That son of a bitch! He decided to take a powder after I spent days planning a move to Florida to be with him! Now he's with... Someone Else." She stopped for air. "Who the hell are you?"
Obviously he hadn't, Erik thought glumly. That son of a bitch. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket and removed a photo, holding it up in front of the peep hole between two white and very long fingers.
Christine squinted at the image of her much younger ex wearing a sloppy grin, one arm around a nubile young thing, the other slung over a scarecrow. Apparently this scarecrow. Her eyes rose from the picture to the expanse of silicone now regarding her uneasily. "How do I know you're actually this guy?" she said, eying him narrowly.
He stepped back, raising his arms out from his thin body. "Lady, why would I impersonate someone like me?"
She continued to stare at him, before finally nodding. "Good point. Who's the bimbo?"
Christine knew she had made a mistake when the eyes observing her flashed a warning. "That is no bimbo. That is my sister," he replied quietly, now with a colder note to his voice.
Grudgingly, she backed off. "I'm...sorry. You've obviously caught me at a bad time. She must take after your mother."
"Actually, I take after my mother. I have her ear lobes."
At any other time she would have laughed. The man was quick. "So what do you want?"
He waggled a finger at the door. "My apartment. I now hold the lease and a key mailed to me by my ex-friend who happens to be your um...significant ex-other. So...may I come in?" He stared at his soggy self and shrugged. "I am rather soaked, and I would like to discuss this somewhere other than this hallway, if you don't mind."
"Well, I do mind!" Christine made a noise that could only be classified as a rude snort. "Wish in one hand, buddy and shite in the other. See what you get first."
Crude. The woman was crude. He opened his mouth for a withering reply, and closed it when he heard another voice chiming in. A very young voice.
"Who is it, Mom? Is Nadir back?"
"Not that...that... No, he's not," Christine answered, forcefully calming down.
Good thing too. Wonder how his sweet young thing would like him missing a few choice bits? "Run along, Min and take your bath."
He heard a muttered expletive quickly cut off, and the bloodshot eye was zeroing in on him again. She sniffed loudly, clearly in need of a tissue. "I know this must be vastly annoying for you, ma'am, sick as you are, but if you would just give me a few more moments of your precious time, I would be forever in your debt." There! Not so very bad. He had kept the sarcasm to a minimum.
"I'm not sick. Unless heartsick counts as an illness. Look, Mr. Whateverthehellyournameis, there's obviously been a huge mistake. You trusted your good buddy when you shouldn't have. Hell, I trusted your good buddy when I shouldn't have." She sniffed through a clogged nose, the blue eye blinking furiously as it sprung a leak. She dabbed the offending orb, before turning it back on him. "But I'm on the right side of the door, and you. are. not. End of story. Good night to you and have a lovely evening."
"You have a child?"
"That's none of your business," she seethed.
He knew it was not, and he would swallow his own tongue before mentioning that uprooting a mother with a young child from their home, would no doubt work in her favor. She was correct. It was none of his business.
Erik stared at the blank door, half of his mind wanting to kick it down. Well, he would if it was possible without breaking a toe. Or a foot. Besides, it was his door and he didn't want it open to all and sundry when he did move in. He could have used his key if she hadn't barricaded the damned door with a chair. Not to mention, if he had succeeded in getting in, the cops would have arrived forthwith. No doubt about that. They might yet. The woman was stubborn. He cocked his head. And bitter. A bad combination.
He should know.
He fumbled out his phone, hoping the battery didn't die on him as he placed a call to Nadir your-ass-is-grass Khan. He muttered curses under his breath, one in particular aimed at Khan's reproductive organs. Something to do with a jar of honey and a thousand soldier ants let loose. Erik viciously punched in the number and held his breath.
It rang. And rang, his message going to voicemail. Khan would no doubt return his call.
Someday.
He spoke in a clear concise tone, his voice almost pleasant. "You have left me with a nearly impossible task, my friend. Removing an enraged female from my apartment. One with a little child. I shall hunt you down, Khan. Never fear. Perhaps I will accomplish it with your murderous ex-girlfriend in tow."
He dropped his now dead phone back in his pocket, squared narrow shoulders and knocked on the door.
"You still here?"
The woman spoke with weary resignation, and he felt a tiny surge of hope worm its way into his gloomy thoughts. She was caving. "I have nowhere else to go," he said simply.
"Look. Can't you find a cheap hotel? They're out there, you know."
"In this town?" he replied in irritated disbelief.
"All right. No hotel. How 'bout the Y.M.C.A?"
"Why would I want to? I have an apartment! You are the squatter, and Erik can have you evicted from it," he said in a prickly manner that Christine could only consider arrogant. "Perhaps you should take your own advice and move to the Y.W.C.A!"
She ignored that. After all, she wasn't the one in the hallway dripping wet and shaking like a nun at a biker convention. "Erik? He your lawyer?" this said suspiciously.
His scant patience was nearly gone. No wonder Khan dumped her. He held up a soggy piece of paper and waved it in front of the peep hole. "Is it or is it not Nadir Khan's writing? He wrote this, giving me the direction to this building plus the key to get in. Recognize his hand?"
Christine did, and a red haze momentarily blocked her vision. "Could have been forged. I don't know you, and I can't trust just anyone! Now if you don't mind, I have to get up early for work," she lied.
"So I will just park myself on this nice landing until you go to work, and then with my key in hand I shall move into my apartment and keep you out."
Shit. He had a point.
He ran a skeletal hand through his lank hair and bent to retrieve his things. "Better yet, I am going downstairs and talk to the super. I should have done that first and by-passed the melodrama." He sneezed miserably. "I think I'm coming down with pneumonia. Does that satisfy you?"
"Mr. um..."
"Erik."
"Lawyer Erik?"
"No," he returned, keeping hold of the itty bitty amount of restraint he had left to his name. Sorry, Your Honor. She was standing behind the door when I knocked it down. "That was your contribution. Not mine. Erik is my name."
"Erik what?"
"Girard."
"Girard? You seem familiar to me for some reason."
"Well, you are not familiar to me," he said stiffly.
"Girard, Girard," she muttered.
He could almost picture the woman's head beginning to smoke as her muddled brain formed itself around an additional problem. "Could you perhaps continue that line of thought at another time? I am frankly tired of conversing with an eye."
"Okay, Mr. Girard. I can see that aside from giving my heart to an asshole, I might not have a place to call home tonight. We may have to discuss this further," she at last conceded.
Oh, happy day!
What have I been explaining to you ad nauseam, you ridiculous woman? Or did he mean ridiculous eye? He would have rubbed his bony hands together in satisfaction, but he wasn't home yet, and schooled his voice to be pleasant. "In that case, may I come in?" and again flashed his mega watt snaggle-toothed grin.
And did himself no favors.
Christine, seeing that disturbing smile, immediately thought of Hannibal Lecter, and eyed him with slight disgust. Black hair more or less parted in the center, skirted just past his bony chin, hanging wetly around a narrow face, and looking like the wings of a particularly scraggly crow. Said crow wore down at the heels motorcycle boots, black jeans, black shirt, black coat. Definitely has a raging phobia for color. She grinned evilly, imagining the nightmares he would have picturing himself in something say...pale blue. They wouldn't be simple nightmares. Oh no. He would be in therapy for the rest of his life.
Her gaze kept climbing, to the skinny Adam's apple that bobbed nervously, the only outward sign of unease. The oddest thing about him aside from the mask, which almost...almost passed for normal, were his eyes. Yellow. Far and away yellow. And not so mellow. She giggled, and heard a note of hysteria present.
They glowed.
She shook her head. Nah. Can't be. You're just tired, Christine. Tired of feeling like the place where everyone dumps their junk.
Another peek at Mr. Erik seemsfamiliarsomehow Girard, and she was convinced that he had phosphorescent yellow eyes. No doubt about it- there's a sign post up ahead. You have entered- The Twilight Zone.
"Why didn't your good buddy ever mention you, huh?"
He spread his hands. "I wouldn't know," he said quietly.
"I have a gun and will not hesitate to use it if you pull something funny, but yeah, you may as well come in. I can't expect to keep you out forever. That bastard sublet our home; his home, since it's his name on the lease. Which means I really don't have a friggin' leg to stand on."
"No. You certainly don't," he said somberly, privately gleeful.
If his socks hadn't been soaked, his boots being a little too worn; if his face hadn't been sprouting sores like weeds in an abandoned lot, well, he might have empathized with her. But it wasn't often he felt sympathy for others. He saved that emotion for himself.
"Well?" he finally responded. "Stand off over? Can we perhaps work something out?" Like helping you pack?
He waited another full minute, his lips tightening into a grimace. Christine thought it scarier than the creepy smile. Nevertheless, with a weighted sigh reaching fathoms deep, she slid the bolt off the door and flipped the lock.
The door slowly opened. "Get in here," she spat. "You have five minutes to state your case.
"And no funny business, mister," she warned. "Remember, I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."
Yes, yes. Hands up, Calamity Jane. Erik raised both of his in appeasement. "You won't have to, lady. I just want what I paid for." He waggled his fingers. "Trust me."
"Then we might not get along. Last man who said those words, screwed me over and then some. Seems I have no choice though."
The door opened wider, and with a deep breath, he took a step towards it.