No Good Deed

The lights of Walmart flickered. Jars of preserves shuddered against one another as thunder cracked and rumbled off like a departing locomotive. Rain pelted the roof as though ten thousand cloggers tapped overhead.

Shoppers uttered a collective moan as they realized the storm predicted for nine o’clock had marched ahead in quick time. Although he was still passing items across the scanner, Tony Calafiori pulled the hood over his thinning hair, his annoyance at the premature arrival of the deluge tempered by his gratitude at having dressed for the occasion.

He slapped his credit card onto the terminal and jammed the receipt into the pocket of his jeans as he walked toward the exit. Lights ringing the parking lot traced the path of a river gushing down the asphalt as it sloped toward the street. His boots would help him make it to his truck. What awaited him on the road was another matter. In the South Hills, flooding was a common occurrence. Cars had been swept away during downpours like this. Pickups, not so much. He’d take his chances.

As he prepared to dash for it—he’d never decided whether you got wetter running or walking in a rainstorm—he saw a woman leaning on a shopping buggy, staring at the waves lapping ever closer to the entrance. She was already a sight—tousled brown curls in need of a brush and youthful skin betrayed by lines of worry around her eyes and dark circles beneath them. Getting drenched wouldn’t improve her appearance, especially when her only protection was a light cotton jacket.

“You planning on running to your car?” he asked.

She didn’t return his smile. “I took the T,” she said, referring to the light rail system that ran from Pittsburgh’s sports stadiums through town and out to the suburbs.

The nearest station was on Lytle Street, a fifteen-minute walk. “Why don’t I take you there?”

“No,” she said. “I’ll just wait til this ends.”

“Miss…” he said. “Ma’am, it won’t stop. This is what’s left of Hurricane Kathleen. It will pour like this all night.”

She frowned and blinked as her eyes swept over him like the scanner at self-checkout. “Yeah,” a voice behind them said. “We’re in for it.”

Tony turned toward a woman who matched him in height, rewarding her confirmation with a chuckle. “Newsflash: the drought is over.”

She snorted, clicked her fob, and sprinted toward the flashing taillights of her car. “How about it?” he said to the stranded woman. “Let me give you a lift.”

She looked behind her at the other marooned shoppers as though seeking their advice. She knitted her fingers and her brows as she turned back toward him. “I guess I’d better,” she said, “but just to the T platform.”

Tony couldn’t recall whether the station was covered or out in the open. She might have a long wait in the rain. He’d made the offer, however, and had to follow through. He walked to the truck, not because he’d settled the debate about how to stay dry, but to avoid his feet sliding out from under him on the slippy pavement.

Two minutes later, he eased his truck as close to the entry as he could, reached over, and pushed open the passenger door. The woman rushed toward the truck, hefting two grocery bags out of the cart and onto the floor. She reached for a third bag and kicked the buggy toward the entrance, where it stopped and rolled back into the lot, colliding with something that could be heard but not seen in the lashing rain.

How the hell could she carry three stuffed bags up the hill to the station, even in fair weather? She sat immobile alongside him, her heavy breathing raising a cloud on the windshield. He flipped on the defroster, which blew cold air toward them. “Sorry,” he said, and turned the dial to boost the temperature. She shrugged and made a small grunt.

“South or north?” he asked.

She took a moment to process the question. “Southbound, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s what I mean,” he said.

The rail line bisected two roads, Brightwood on one side and West Library on the other. Tony crossed the track at Highland and continued three blocks. The wipers slapped ineffectually across the windshield as he drew alongside the platform, searching for the entrance. He rolled down the side window, but couldn’t spot a stairway.

“You’re on the wrong side,” she said.

He opened his window again and studied the layout as rain blasted his face. The only entrance was across the track. To travel south, a passenger first entered on Brightwood, then crossed at a grade-level walkway. Not only would she get drenched as she did so, but the shelter on that side was little more than a narrow arc of roof. With wind driving the rain at a horizontal angle, it would afford her no cover.

As he inched his truck forward, he saw trailing red lights disappear in the downpour. “We missed it,” he said. “When’s the next one?”

“It runs every half hour.”

“You can’t stand here all that time. Let’s chase it down.”

She didn’t respond but bit her lip and resumed twisting her fingers as he pursued his quarry. A stoplight halted his progress, and a slow progression of vehicles at the intersection blocked any attempt to run it. By the time he crossed the track and paralleled it along Brightwood, the train’s lights had disappeared. A few blocks south, he came upon a line of traffic and flashing warning lights of a utility truck. Drivers reversed course in driveways and returned the way they’d come. “Tree must be down,” he said.

The woman sighed, but made no comment. Tony executed a U-turn and joined the parade of retreating cars, once again trapped at a light. Once it changed, he made his way to Route 88, which would bring him back to the rail line a mile south. Meanwhile, however, they’d lost more time. “Where do you live?” he asked.

She hesitated. “It’s a long way.”

“How far?” They passed the point where Brightwood merged with the highway. The track lay to their right, but he could see no lights either ahead or behind them.

“I’ve lost the train,” he said to her silence. “I’ll drive you to your station.”

She sighed and scratched the top of her head like a cat sharpening claws on upholstery. The woman seemed upset, and he started to regret playing good Samaritan.

To put her at ease, he said, “Name’s Tony Calafiori. I live in Bethel Park. I’m retired, my wife’s passed on, and my kids have moved away, so I’m not missing anything by helping you out.”

She displayed no reaction. He might have been talking to his dog. Did she fear him? He reached into his jacket pocket and flipped open his wallet to reveal his driver’s license. “Would I show you this if I intended to hurt you?”

“No one’s accusing you,” she said, but she looked out the passenger window and gnawed at her fingernails.

“Tell me where to drop you off, and I’ll take you there. What else am I going to do on this lovely evening?”

“Sandy Creek,” she said.

Finally, he thought. Proof of life.

The rain drove relentlessly as he crept down the highway. Water cascaded down a bank and gushed across the roadway.“You can’t be too careful,” he said as he eased through it. “You know that low stretch as you exit Liberty Tunnel? Becky got stuck there during a storm like this. Fire department had to rescue her.”

“Hmm,” she said.

“You make this trip often? It’s a hell of a long way to pick up groceries.”

“Walmart is cheaper than our local store,” she said. “Fresher too.”

“Don’t you have a car?”

She sighed, signaling annoyance. Had he asked too much? “Boyfriend does,” she said.

This left a logical follow-up question, but her tone closed the door, and he didn’t attempt to pry it open. They rode the next three miles in silence, interrupted only by the wipers and the torrent beating on the roof of the cab. The Sandy Creek station was nothing more than a ten by fourteen concrete slab along the highway. “Leave me here,” she said. “I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“Nonsense. I can’t put you out on the street in the middle of this flood. Where’s your place?”

“You can’t do that. I’ll be fine.”

“No, Iet’s get you home safely.”

She glared at him and shook her head as though he were an exasperating child. “All right, but drop me off at the door and leave. Got it?”

“Sure,” he said. Does she still suspect my motives? What’s wrong with people? What have we come to?

“Turn left here and follow the driveway to the back.” She extended her right arm, pointing him in each direction as he threaded his way past a line of apartment units and continued up the hill to the row above. “Down near the end,” she said. She kept waving her arm, urging him forward. “Here.”

“Can I carry your bags for you?”

“No!” She almost screamed the word. “You’ve been kind, but you have to leave now.”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Okay.”

She swung the door open and gathered her bags. “Go,” she said, but he remained in neutral, making certain she would make it to the door. “Oh, shit!”

Tony looked up to see a bull of a man lumbering toward them. “Take off before he sees you,” she whispered. In a louder voice, she called, “Thanks, Becky.”

The figure ignored her and came to Tony’s side of the truck. An instinct told him to back out and get the hell out of Dodge, but her door remained open as she grappled for a bag that had fallen to the pavement. The man yanked the driver’s side open. “Hello, Becky,” he said. “That your name, honey?”

“It was my wife’s. She got confused—” Tony realized he didn’t know this passenger’s name as he began concocting a story.

“Was your wife?” he said. “So you were out for a little entertainment tonight and found Belinda here.”

“George!” she said.

“George!” he jeered. He leaned into the cab, which suddenly smelled like a brewpub. He unlatched Tony’s seatbelt with a practiced swipe, pulled him from the truck and marched him toward an apartment door. “Let’s sort this out.”

He tossed Tony onto the floor like a sack of flour, his forehead connecting with a can of Iron City that had been tossed aside. “Leave him alone,” Belinda said. “I was caught out by the storm, and he tried to help me. Make yourself useful. Grab a bag.”

George planted his hands on his hips and looked down at him. “What are you, a Boy Scout? This your good turn for the day?”

Tony figured anything he said would be wrong, so he kept quiet. This too turned out to be a mistake. George kicked him in the ribs. “How much did you pay her, Becky? Huh?”

Covering both sides to protect himself, Tony croaked a response. “Nothing. I swear. It wasn’t anything like that. We were trying to catch the train…”

Turning to the woman, George said, “A little pin money? Earning a few bucks for lunch with the girls?”

“Stop this. You’re drunk.”

He staggered as he turned, slapping her so hard she crashed against the wall. Instead of looking at him, however, she fixed Tony with a stare that seemed to say I told you so.

“You can’t hit her.” He struggled to his feet. George struck him in the chest, sending him sprawling. He straddled him and drew back a fist. Tony had done enough boxing in his youth to cover his face with his hands, but the man was unrelenting. I’m done for, he thought.

“George!” she shouted. When he continued to pummel Tony, her voice took on an assertive quality that seemed out of character. “Look at me.”

The man glanced up and tried to stand, as Tony coiled into a ball. “What’s that you got? A gun? Playing Superwoman, are you? Gimme the damn thing.”

Tony gaped as the drama unfolded. George still crouched as he struggled to regain his balance. Belinda smirking as he rose to his feet. Holding her ground as he advanced on her until separated by only a few feet.

Then a single shot. A spray of blood from George’s head as he toppled over Tony’s body. He went still. The only sound was the rain lashing against the front window of the apartment.

Tony crawled out from underneath the body. “I can’t believe…” He leaned over and peered into George’s remaining eye. There was no flicker. He turned toward Belinda, who wore a crooked smile.

“I’ll call the police,” he said, reaching for his cell phone.

She placed the revolver on the kitchen counter as though it were an empty coffee cup. “I’ll take care of it. You need to leave.”

“No, we have to notify the county and wait until they arrive. This was self-defense. I’m your witness.”

“Leave,” she snarled. “You’ve paid no attention to anything I’ve said. Do it now. Get out and let me handle this.”

He held his sides as he stared at her, trying to find the words to change her mind.

“Look at you,” she said. “You can barely stand. You’re covered in blood. Go!”

He backed out, looking wildly around the apartment as though she might turn the gun on him. A mile up the road, he knew he’d made a mistake, realized he should have held his ground and stayed until the cops came. He replayed the events as he drove, his mind becoming clearer as the shock wore off. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. But it was too late. He’d left the scene. There was no chance of a mulligan.

He arrived home and stood in the driveway, letting the rain wash away the blood. Seconds turned into minutes. He didn’t recall how long he remained there, nor did he remember stripping off his clothes and throwing them in the washer until he traipsed nude into the bathroom and showered.

He gobbled acetaminophen tablets and climbed into bed, telling himself he’d be unable to sleep. It was his last conscious thought before the doorbell rang and fists pounded on his door. “Police,” a voice demanded. “Open up.”

In a fog, he obeyed, stepping back as a pair of uniformed officers drained their raincoats on the living room rug. “You’re under arrest for the murder of George Lassiter. You have the right—”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Murder? Guys, I didn’t kill him. His girlfriend did. And she was protecting me. He—”

“She says you picked her up at Walmart and drove her home. Once there, however, he assaulted her. Lassiter interrupted you. You grabbed a gun, shot him, and pushed her against a wall, threatening you’d come back if she spoke out.”

“That’s not what happened,” he cried. “You’ve got it backward.”

“Tell it to the judge,” the officer said.

As they bound his hands behind him and led him to the cruiser, Tony recalled Belinda’s smile as she held the gun. She’d let George get within a few feet of her so he was standing tall when she fired. He pictured her changed tone, her look of satisfaction as she laid the weapon on the counter. As he rewound the scene, he saw her mental wheels spinning, calculating.

A phrase popped into his mind. A line he’d heard in a TV show or read in a book. He couldn’t recall the source, but the words played across his memory in neon lights: No good deed goes unpunished.