No means No

Aaron stood in a lounge that looked torn from the crisp pages of Harper’s Bazaar. Windows sparkling, floors gleaming, cushions plumped, coffee table styled perfectly—the sun streamed in through the plantation shutters laying dappled light.

Music blared from his stereo system. He air-guitared along with Gary Clark Jr., dancing around while swigging his beer. Finally, his palace was ready for sale, and he was happy—the happiest he’d been in a long time. The depression from losing his job lifted by all his hard work renovating and styling. Yesterday it was captured in high-resolution photography for the world to see; his space had never looked so good.

He was proud of himself for another reason, he had finally told Larry NO.

Aaron’s celebrational morning beers had gone straight through him. At the toilet he lifted the lid carefully and directed the stream with grace. Sprinkling the gleaming tiles or his shoes was unthinkable. He nodded to the music, then the song cut off.

That’s weird, Aaron thought. There must have been a power outage.

He finished up and carefully wiped the rim of the toilet, washed his hands, tried the bathroom light. It worked—not a power outage. I’ll go check the circuit breakers.

Beside the front door was a perfectly organized storage room. Like a Tetris puzzle on steroids, every item had its perfect space. The circuit panel there showed no switches had tripped.

Very strange.

He stepped back into the lounge and nearly tripped at the sight.

“What the fuck—” he gasped.

Larry stood there, looming like a specter in black motorcycle gear. Helmet down, visor reflecting the morning light. His padded jacket, pockets bulging with unknown contents, made him twice his size. He filled Aaron’s pristine space, a dark monument of leather and metal. Silence stretched.

“Oh. Hi, Larry,” Aaron managed.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve just popped round for a cup of tea.” Larry’s visor stayed down.

“Oh. Right. Okay. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I turned off your music.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.”

Aaron went to the kitchen.

“So, tea—you said you wanted tea?”

“Sure… Actually, make it a coffee.”

“Cool, okay. I’m actually out of coffee. I’ll whip down the road and buy some. I’ll go to the Vietnamese place, get a takeaway.”

“Okay, no problem. But go to 7-Eleven—get the coffee from there.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I get coffee from the Vietnamese people up at the bakery.”

“No, get the coffee from 7-Eleven. It’s cheaper.”

“Larry, it’s my shout. I go to the Vietnamese place all the time.”

Aaron patted his pocket to check for his wallet.

“Actually, I changed my mind. I’ll have a cup of tea,” Larry said.

“English Breakfast?” Aaron asked.

“Yeah, that’d be fine,” Larry replied.

Larry took off his helmet and shouted to Aaron in the kitchen, “I came for my nails.”

Aaron popped his head out of the kitchen. “Nails?”

“Yes, the box of nails I lent you.”

“When did you lend me nails?”

“When I kindly lent you my nail gun so you could do the trim work.”

“Oh, okay—the brad nails. The box of brad nails. I know. I didn’t give you those back already?” Aaron replied, acting dumb.

“I’d like my nails.” He stared intensely at Aaron.

“I don’t know where they are,” Aaron said. “I’ve got the house ready for sale. I’ve tidied that storeroom within an inch of its life. They’re likely in there somewhere but where, god knows. I can’t pull that apart now—I’ve got an open for inspection in two days.”

“I want my nails,” Larry said, staring at Aaron half out the kitchen. “I’m in no rush. I’ve got plenty of time to wait.”

Aaron retreated to the kitchen, There’s no way I am dismantling that storage room. What the heck is his problem?

“There you go. There’s your tea.” he placed the mug on a coaster.

“Oh, thank you. I actually wanted it black, but I’ll drink it with the milk in.”

“Yeah, okay, sorry. I should have asked. Also, sorry I couldn’t help you with that job. You know, with selling the house, I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

“That’s fine. If you want to blow opportunities that are gifted to you, then blow opportunities. You know, I just got an Indian guy to do it for $50—I found him on Airtasker. So no skin off my nose. Easy work. I keep all the future profits. No helping some people”

Fifty dollars more than I wasn’t getting paid, he chuckled slightly.

“All right, okay. Well, you did say that I had specialist skills,—not everyone could do what I do” Aaron said.

“Yeah, depends on your definition of specialist, I suppose. Sometimes a little compliment goes to people’s heads, they get too big for their boots”

“Anyway, gonna find those nails?”

“Well, as I mentioned before, I’m not gonna go searching through that cupboard. How much were the nails? I’ll just give you the money.”

“Well, that means I have to go and buy the nails. You know, that’s my time I’m not getting back when my nails are here.”

Aaron took a swig of beer in the kitchen and went to the storage room and looked to see if he could remember where he might have stashed them. The shelves looked perfect—everything had found its home.

Geez, this might take a while. Fuck, I really don’t want to do this. This prick turns up like he owns me, clicking his fingers—do this, do that. “Do it for free, when I make money, you make money”… bullshit. I’m not falling for it anymore.

“I’ve got to go out soon,” Aaron shouted from the storage room.

“Well, you’re not driving,” Larry shouted back.

“Huh? What makes you think that?”

“Because you’re five beers down already,” Larry stated calmly.

Okay, these hundred-liter tubs at the bottom. If I start on those, I can just slide them out and have a quick look. Hopefully they’re in there.

Aaron pulled out the first green tub and looked inside. Even the tub was full, perfectly packed with items. He started taking the items out and placing them on the floor, thinking, How the hell can I get rid of this guy? He won’t take money.

“Larry, any chance you can come back next week?”

“No, I need them now. I’m doing a project at home. I need my nails now.”

Aaron carried on pulling items from the box. Where can I say I’m going? Just need to think quick. Brain is foggy. Beers aren’t helping. Can’t think quickly, can’t think on my feet.

The doorbell rang.

A short step, on the doorbell cam. Two men in dark caps with checkered bands—police.

“One second, Larry. My neighbor’s at the front gate.”

He hit the door mic. “I’m coming!” and dashed out.

Aaron rushed to the driveway gate and slid it open. Two police officers stood by the front gate. A third examined Larry’s motorcycle.

“Good afternoon, sir. We’re looking for a Larry Flowers,” the first officer said.

“Yeah, Larry’s inside—just having a cup of tea.”

“Right. And your name, mate?”

“Aaron.”

“Thanks, Aaron. Mind if we go in and have a word with him?”

“No, by all means. The front door’s open.”

“Appreciate it. I’ll need you to stay here with my colleague,” the officer said, nodding to the other.

The first officer walked toward the house. The third kept circling the bike, talking into his radio. Through the door-cam mic Aaron caught faint voices inside.

“Hello, Larry Flowers?” the officer said in a loud voice from the front door.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to ask you about Stavros Pappas?”

“Yeah. What’s the problem?”

“We’re conducting a missing-person inquiry. Mr. Pappas hasn’t been seen for several days. We have reason to believe you made threatening remarks toward him—remarks captured on his home security. We’d like you to assist with our inquiries. You’re not under arrest, but we need to speak formally. Will you come to Newtown station with me now?”

The second officer turned to Aaron. “Do you know Stavros Pappas?”

“Yeah. We all worked together. Stavros is a chemist, like Larry. We were all made redundant in a restructure a year ago. I used to have coffee with him, but something happened between him and Larry. He stopped taking my calls months ago, dunno how I upset him. Shame, really.”

Larry strolled out followed by the officer carrying his helmet. He walked past Aaron with a smirk.

“You can get back to your beer now,” he said, and climbed into the open back door of the police car.

The cars pulled away. Larry’s motorcycle stayed.

Weird. How did they know to come here?

Back inside, Larry’s backpack sat by the couch. With a hint of guilt, Aaron opened it. On top lay a small zip-lock bag of pepper-like powder and a new box of brad nails. The bag caught the light, a fine dust clinging to the plastic like ash.

He needed a drink. Something stronger. He reached for the whiskey, then stopped. Backed up. Stared at the open beer can on the bench.

Why had Larry sprinkled pepper on his beer?

He poured the beer down the sink, wiped the immaculate stone benchtop, and poured a straight whiskey.