By Any Chance
Chapter 9 Open Sesame
By Nicholas Nocketback

An envelope dropped to the floor in front of Evan’s feet, priority mail. His heart pounded violently, his breathing rapid and staccato. The urine turned from warm to icy in his jeans. Waiting several minutes for the postman to leave, Evan picked himself up and stared down at the envelope on the carpet. It was addressed to him with no return. He retrieved it and flipped it over, nothing. With Janelle’s address, street, zip, and to: Evan Chance, he broke the seal. Inside was a Hewlett Packard DVD—no label, no writing. Evan blew into the opening and peered onto the corners; he picked out a brass key with an Orchard Supply Hardware stamp and slipped it into his front shirt pocket, crunching the envelope into a small ball. It was too risky to investigate at Janelle’s so Evan opened the front door, palmed his keys and was in his Jetta with the stealth of a piss laden ninja.
}[(~^~)]{
At Denny’s Evan ordered a hot tea and sat at the bar fingering the key in his pocket. Scattered patrons mulled about reading and typing on laptops. The grisly image of Janelle’s mutilated body was tattooed on his brain. He picked up his backpack from the red vinyl bench and stepped into the restroom, locking the door behind him. He took off his pants and splashed water on his legs, soaping up with the pearlescent liquid. It was easy enough to clean himself, but the jeans were ruined. In only underwear, he unlocked the door and peered out. A young man, no more than eighteen approached the restroom, Evan scurried to the stall and closed the door. He heard a zipper then the stream. The man let out a sigh of relief and hummed a tune.
“The Devil Went Down to Georgia?” Evan offered.
“Yeah,” the man responded, “Charlie Daniels.”
“Hey, listen, this may sound a bit off but hear me out. You see those jeans in the waste paper bin?”
“Hey, Homeboy, I ain’t into that, Bro.” The man zipped up and flushed.
“No, no, no, look, I pissed myself. I don’t have a change of jeans.”
“How’s that my problem?”
“I’ll give you one hundred dollars for your pants.”
“Fuck off…”
Evan heard the restroom door open and close with a thud. Not one minute later a man walked in calling on Evan.
“Sir, you need to leave this restaurant as of now. We have families out there. Do you understand? Please. Thank you. Bye, bye,” the voice was unmistakably Spanish with a light lisp and an affectation accustomed to flamboyantly open homosexuals.
“Okay, okay, but I need some pants. I had to go really bad and the bus driver wouldn’t stop. So by the time I rang the bell and he dropped me off, I finished in my pants. Alright? I was just asking that young man for some jeans. I meant no harm,” Evan feigned a muffled sob and opened the stall door a crack. The employee donned black slacks and a white button up dress shirt two sizes too small and untucked. His black belt had metallic studs three rows deep, as did his tie. The yellow oval nametag read Moses.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. You poor guy. Don’t even trip, I got you,” with that, Moses left the restroom.
Evan didn’t want to attract this kind of attention, but there wasn’t another way. He had to view this DVD. Why would someone use his name at her address? No one even knew he was there except Buckley and his boys from Boston. But they didn’t know he met Janelle, nor would they contact him like this. With mind spinning and brow sweating, Evan felt relief when Moses walked through the door. He had a pair of brown corduroy slacks with orange rectangle patches on each knee.
“You like? There are different pants in the lost and found, but these was the only ones that fit your body. So, you like?”
“Ah, ya, they’re okay,” Evan searched for an appreciative tone but came up short. “People lose their pants often at Denny’s?”
“You’d be surprised…uh…what’s your name?”
“Evan.”
“Well, Evan,” Moses, smiled broadly with the pants still draped over his left arm, like a waiter confirming an order. “Here ya go. Sorry for the trouble. Maybe next time you go before you leave the house, no?”
“Sure. Here, for your trouble.” Evan dug in his Jansport pack and pulled out a single hundred bill, handing it to Moses.
“Oooh, boy, with money like that what you need my help for? Macy’s is right down the street. You better go get you some Perry Ellis Portfolio’s and get it right.”
“Good idea. My head’s a mess right now, sorry. I really do appreciate it, though. Here, please take the money. I insist.” Evan folded and stuffed the bill into Moses’ breast pocket.
“Thanks. Now I suggest pulling up a stool out front. I’ll get you all set with some coffee and some breakfast. You like French toast? Of course you do.”
He waited until Moses had left before he gave himself a final check in the mirror. Evan smoothed his hair with some water and parted it to the right. On second thought, he regretted giving Moses the money. That’d make him suspicious most certainly. Nonetheless, what was done was done, recent history. Tossing the bag over his shoulder, he smoothed the front thigh of his newly acquired pants. They fit far too snugly on his rear and flared at the bottom like a funnel, a roadie for Night Ranger.
Exiting the restroom, he spotted Moses. He gestured to Evan where he’d placed his order. Evan took a bar stool next to a man who was reading the BBC news on a Gateway notebook computer. He sipped from his coffee mug and dug into the French toast. Evan was famished. After all the cleaning at Janelle’s he’d worked up an enormous appetite. Toast, hash browns, and orange juice were consumed in less than four minutes. A new record, Evan thought. A small Asian woman cleared his portion of the bar and freshened his coffee mug with Yuban. Evan hunched over the counter, leaning on his elbows for support. He fingered the key in his pocket and eyed the DVD in his backpack. He needed desperately to view it and the opportunity came when the man sitting next to him answered his cell phone.
(^~^)
The ring tone was Sinatra’s “Got the World on a String.” The man opened his phone and darted out of the restaurant grinning. I can’t believe it’s you. I haven’t talked to you in ages, Bro. Evan caught only that much until the front door closed. Looking through the window he witnessed the man in question rolling a cigarette, sitting on a metal bus stop bench. He looked to be in his late twenties, shoulder length dark brown hair, jade green ear plugs at least an inch in diameter, and light brown skin. He wore a black hooded sweatshirt that had an image of the twin towers in white. On the left tower was written BUSH in black lettering. The right tower read KNEW. His pants were a couple sizes too big and he had on grey Circa skate shoes with blue shoe strings, each knot was doubled yet they still dragged behind. Evan decided to name him Bam. He figured Bam would be preoccupied with his reunion of sorts on the phone, so he decided to commandeer his laptop in order to view the DVD.
Evan slid over one seat and minimized the BBC news page. The story Bam had left on the screen involved the death of a Cincinnati man who’d been strangled by his pet boa constrictor. Apparently only now were they suggesting that having a deadly snake as a pet was perhaps a bad idea. He pushed a silver button in the front of the computer and its tongue opened. Evan took a quick look outside before placing the DVD on it and shoving it closed. Bam was now exhaling large clouds of smoke. His head nodded, as if he was agreeing whole-heartedly with the person on the receiving end of the phone. The restaurant continued to be a restaurant. Diner noises emanated from the establishment: silver ware versus dish, people laughing, arguing, and a single baby screaming for a straw that had dropped to the floor. Evan looked for anyone suspicious but found not a soul returning his glance, as if he were invisible.
The screen went black then a grainy image of a clock appeared. The clock face was white with black Roman numerals. The time on the clock was 6:15. The significance of which hadn’t slipped by Evan. That was the exact time at which Jeanie, his pregnant wife, was killed by a steel construction beam in Cambridge. Evan flashed back to that morning. She’d made him late by sleeping in and he forced her out of bed. The beam had sliced through the car with such ease. She’d been literally smashed to a pulp. His mind then flashed back to only an hour ago when he’d found Janelle, murdered. Why? The camera panned from the clock to a sign that read Fresno Train Depot. Dropping to the ground, the camera angle showed the cement sidewalk. It then entered the train depot, doors opening, shoes scuffing the floor. This lasted about a full minute before the camera pulled back up to reveal a grey metal locker. The number on the locker was 114. A leather gloved hand came into view of the camera, picked up the lock attached to locker 114 and zoomed in on the writing: Orchard Supply Hardware. Then, as abruptly as the video began, it ceased. Evan tried selecting various keys on the computer, but the DVD had come to fruition. There was nothing more on it. He slipped it in once more and began watching again. At the locker scene Evan felt a hand on his back.
“How’s it coming? Pretty shitty quality, huh? I can assure it’s not the computer. You mind sliding over?” Bam had materialized, smelling of tobacco and hair oil.
“Ah, man, look, I am sorry, it’s just I needed to…”
“Don’t worry about it, Man. I like your pants. Those pants alone make it alright for you to use my stuff. My name’s Matt.”
“Evan. Evan Chance. Nice meeting you. I already saw what I needed thank you.” He extracted the disc from the computer and dropped it in his bag.
“I’m sure it’s none of my business, but was that some sort of student art school film, or are you a connoisseur of train station lockers?” Matt’s face held a gaze that gave Evan the impression this man was far smarter than he appeared.
“My guess is as good as yours. You know where that place is?”
“The train station? Oh yeah, been there at least a hundred times.” Matt usurped his seat and sucked down the last bitter cold ounce of his coffee. “You’re not from here are you?”
“Nope. Just passing through, really.” Evan himself couldn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. Who the hell was he, Clint Eastwood?
“I can write you directions if you like,” Matt offered. “In fact, I am on my way to the courthouse. It’s right next to it. You wanna follow me there—ten minutes tops?”
“You in some kind of trouble? Wait, let me guess, jury duty?” Evan winced at the irony of his statement.
Matt’s laugh was more of a suppressed snicker. “Naw, I’m a criminal defense lawyer. Don’t let this get-up fool you; I’m just going in to write a brief. Not that it’s any of my affair, but that video, from what I gathered, could do one of three things: make you rich, get you in serious trouble, or you will probably just open that locker door and find a Tufts University sweatshirt inside. Follow me--I’m right outside in the dark green Accord.”
After a brief drive down First Street he pulled into the train depot. Matt waved Evan in and continued down the street to the courthouse. He exited the Jetta, black knapsack on his back. The sidewalk looked the same as the video. He followed the trail to the locker stall, not a soul populated the floor. A single family waited outside by the tracks. A Caucasian mother with ratty, strawberry blonde hair held a small child in a blanket. Two teenage boys shared ipod earplugs, sitting on the cement walk. Evan reached locker 114. A slight ping of apprehension embraced him. He shook it off and slid the brass key into the lock. A quarter turn to the left and a hollow click later, Pandora’s Box opened.