No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

By William Brinn

Mike Grissom is an easy going fellow, enjoying the sun and laid-back lifestyle of Southern California. His married neighbor, Stephanie, is constantly trying to set him up with her friends, believing that he doesn't get enough opportunities to meet women. Despite her best intentions, they never seem to work out.

Veronica "Ronnie" Lange is an actress whose fianc gets cold feet two weeks before their big Santa Barbara wedding. Distraught, she inadvertently puts herself in a perilous situation, and it's Mike who saves her from danger. His helpful attitude and good-natured charm appeal to her, but a communication mix up with her best friend Jessica leads her to assume that he's a deceitful liar. Upset at believing that she has been misled, she vows that she never wants to see him again. But a chance meeting with him gives her the opportunity to get revenge through a spiteful deed, leaving Mike downhearted.

Upon discovering her mistake, and realizing that she has treated him badly, she is afraid to apologize to him. But she knows that if she doesn't find the courage to make amends, she'll be left with nothing but regrets. Through a good deed that he does for another person, she may discover a way to regain Mike's trust before it's too late, with the hope that he can find it in his heart to forgive her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493176137

Book preview

PART I

The Deed

CHAPTER 1

As the Boeing 737 lifted off Runway 25 at Denver International Airport on the blustery, late spring morning, everyone on board expected a bumpy climb over the Rocky Mountains. For one first-class passenger, though, it was just a minor nuisance compared to being away from her lover for days. After placing the early morning phone call from back east, her plane change in Denver was an inconvenience. However, it was the best connection available on short notice to get into Burbank for an early Friday afternoon arrival, just in time for the weekend.

As she gazed out the airplane window at the mountains below, her long blonde hair obscuring her mischievous expression, she contemplated the two amusing months that she had spent exploiting his vulnerability and enjoying his undivided attention. Working so closely together, he had been an easy target, the result of being separated from his woman. She just couldn’t resist taking advantage of the situation.

He had headed back a few days earlier, but she would be hooking up with him soon, because she knew just the right buttons to push. It would take only two more unbearably long hours until the plane landed—until the itch was scratched.

*

Midday Friday was overcast on the Santa Monica Pier, but the sun was starting to burn off the clouds as Mike Grissom walked up from the parking lot. Most days in late spring were like that. Mornings would be sunny in the valley, but along the coast, the clouds that had settled in overnight might take half the day to dissipate. The breeze from the ocean could tickle your eyelashes, with the light taste of salt and just enough humidity to cool the skin. Jackets were common as people walked on the beach and rode bicycles on the walkway. As usual, the pigeons and seagulls were everywhere, and the amusement park was running full blast with a steady hum of music.

Mike enjoyed coming down to the pier, even on days like this. What with living and working in the San Fernando Valley, he didn’t get down here often, at least not as often as he would like. But he never passed up an opportunity to meet a friend for lunch or spend the day walking the beach and the pier, especially during the week. Today was one of those lunch days.

As he began to walk out on the pier, he spotted Fred Morrison, his friend and old college roommate, leaning up against the railing, looking out over the beach. As he approached, Fred looked his way, waved his arm, and yelled out, Yo, Mikey.

Mike smiled and shouted, Hey, Fred. They shook hands as they met, and then they strolled out on the pier with the crowd, past the balloon man making animal shapes for a family with two children. As they walked, the constant drone of the traffic on the Pacific Coast Highway segued slowly into the rolling sound of the ocean waves.

A psychic reader announced, I’m here ’til four, be back at five.

At the end of the pier, they stepped inside the souvenir shop to check out the tourist trinkets. There was the usual assortment of pencils, shot glasses, postcards, and key chains. While many of them touted the sunny Santa Monica beaches, most chronicled the pier’s history as the western terminus of old Route 66. I always enjoy coming down here to the other end of Route 66, Fred said as he looked over the souvenirs.

Hey, it only took moving two thousand miles to do it, replied Mike.

Yeah, but it was worth it. They perused the shop for a few more minutes, and then they stepped outside and found an open spot against the railing.

It sure is peaceful out here, Fred said as he watched the surfers trying to catch a decent wave. Thanks for meeting me for lunch. I needed the break.

Hey, it was a great idea. I haven’t been down here in ages.

Fred was enjoying an extended, relaxing break because he had been working endlessly on his company’s Y2K computer issues. Mike didn’t need a reason; he was always happy to take a nice, leisurely lunch. Besides, he had worked late the previous evening to finish a scene for a computer animation project, so after cleaning up a few loose ends in the morning, he didn’t need to go back that afternoon. He and his coworkers often worked late if they were in the middle of something and were on a roll to finish it.

Mike and Fred took in the view from the end of the pier for a while, and then they started walking back. At the hamburger stand, they stopped and ordered a couple of cheeseburgers, fries, and drinks. Sitting at the picnic tables eating their burgers, they watched the pigeons scurrying around the pedestrians and under the tables, scavenging for any scraps that were scattered around. That’s when Fred noticed something strange. That one has something around its neck. What is that?

They both stared at the pigeon. It looked like the bird was wearing a white bib with a golden brown collar. I think it’s an onion ring, replied Mike. How did it get an onion ring around its neck? He could think of several possibilities, and each one seemed more absurd than the one before.

I don’t know, but I can hear his buddies now, said Fred, and he chimed in his best falsetto voice, let’s go find Skippy. He has lunch hanging around his neck. The other pigeons didn’t bother the walking onion ring while there were scraps of food on the ground, but once the easy pickings were gone, they would surround the hapless bird and try to chip away at it. From all appearances, they had already been successful in pecking away at the breading on the front. Fred and Mike sat there a little while longer, finishing their lunch, enjoying the show, and watching people walk past on the pier.

You know, by this time I expected a lot more women would be wearing black berets, Mike said, referring to the previous year’s big political scandal.

I thought so, too, but I’m glad I didn’t buy stock in the company that makes them. It’s a fashion that just didn’t pan out.

Yeah, everybody expected them to make a ton of money.

Having had enough of the pigeon-and-people show, they started back to the parking lot. Walking slowly along the pier, they blended in with the rest of the crowd. Definitely not an NBA prospect, Fred claimed to be a six-footer on a good day, and he kept his dark brown hair a little on the fashionably shaggy side, belying his sometimes geeky disposition. He was a former competitive swimmer, but his body suggested an athlete who hadn’t been practicing enough lately. The recent pressures of his job had taken a toll, what with the long hours and the constant diet of fast food. However, he was working his way back into shape.

Mike was about an inch shorter, and his light brown hair was styled by Laurie at the salon. He was reasonably fit, but not as though he spent most of his waking hours playing volleyball at Venice Beach. He tried to maintain a steady regimen of racquetball and jogging, enjoying the solitude of an early-morning run several times a week.

On the way back to their cars, they could see sunbathers staking their claims on the beach, anticipating a sunny afternoon.

This sure beats the weather back in Chicago, said Fred.

Yeah, I talked to my parents last weekend. They’re getting tired of the cold. After their trip out here in February, I think I just about have them convinced to retire to Palm Springs.

Or they could move in with you.

Mike gave him a mock look of horror. They’d love Palm Springs.

For Fred and Mike, this lunch break had been a good respite from a long week of work. As they walked through the parking lot to their cars, Fred admitted, I needed to get away this afternoon. We’ve been working on this Y2K thing so much it’s driving me crazy. Everybody’s so uptight about it.

You know me, Mike said happily. I’m always up for a break whenever I can join you.

Yeah, and this is a good way to get an early start on the weekend. I’m heading down to Huntington Beach later for dinner with my cousin.

That sounds like fun.

Should be. Just take your time getting back to the valley.

Oh, I will, Mike promised. Hey, and don’t forget about Stephanie’s birthday party tomorrow night.

I wouldn’t dream of missing it.

Yeah, it’ll be great. John is taking her out to dinner, and that’s when we all get into their house to set up everything. People will start showing up at seven o’clock, but you have to make sure that you’re there before nine. Won’t she be surprised to come home to a big birthday bash?

That’s brilliant, laughed Fred, shaking his head.

Sure is. And I just know that she’s going to try to hook me up with another one of her friends.

Well, you’re not exactly Don Juan when it comes to women. But give her credit, at least she’s trying.

Mike knew he was right. His dad had mentioned something about how he was shy around girls while he was growing up, and he attributed it to Mike being one of the youngest kids in his class. But he had come out of his shell during his college years. Yeah, I’m her project he said with a laugh.

And what’s wrong with that?

Mike gave him a deadpan look. Her track record isn’t that great.

The traffic back to the valley was heavy. Friday afternoons could be that way. On other days, everything might move quickly, and he could be back over the Santa Monica Mountains in half an hour. But Friday was a different story. It could take at least twice as long as any other day. Mike recalled the math lesson that Fred had taught him when he first moved there: the 405 + 3:00 p.m. Friday = 1 big parking lot. It would be a slow drive, but there was no rush. He might even get off the freeway and take the side streets back to the valley, or stop someplace that looked interesting. He often found some fascinating places when he wasn’t in a hurry: pawn shops, cafés, music stores, antiques, quirky museums. That was one of the attitude adjustments that he had learned to make to get around. Progress was sometimes slow, so plan ahead, start early, and be flexible. At least most of the drivers were on the same page. They all had a mission to get somewhere, and there was no advantage in being a highway jerk. They all just got along.

This particular afternoon, Mike enjoyed the sun on the slow drive home. The radio was blasting a tune from one of his favorite groups of his former home, We don’t even care, to shake these zipper blues… He drove what he considered the perfect car for Southern California, a Saab Turbo convertible. Even though it was four years old, it still had gobs of power for the mountains. On days when he didn’t need the air conditioning, he could put the convertible top down to soak up the sun and, of course, the top was down almost every evening. He rarely had to worry about rain.

As he worked his way back to the valley, he thought about the circumstances that had brought him to this point. It’s all Fred’s fault, he would jokingly tell anyone who asked. Clarence Frederick Morrison, named after his two grandfathers, was Mike’s roommate at the University of Illinois. Fred had dreamed of living in So Cal ever since his family took their first trip from Chicago to Disneyland and the Pacific Ocean when he was seven years old. His family would spend their vacation there every three or four years, and he looked forward to every trip. During his college years, he would spend his spring break heading to the West Coast instead of the usual Florida and Texas beaches. So it was no surprise that, after graduation, he followed his dreams and moved to where he could live the laid-back lifestyle, leaving his snow shovel, boots, and gloves behind. He worked as a computer software engineer, but he bypassed the lucrative career path available in Silicon Valley, and he never regretted it.

Michael Grissom, on the other hand, had returned home after college. He had grown up in the Chicago suburbs, the second of four children. His parents often remarked that they were challenging the name gods. Never name your son Michael, everyone told them. He’ll bring you nothing but grief. Luckily, they had dodged the bullet for almost three decades. Growing up, he had become accustomed to the hot, sweaty summers and the cold, biting winters. Character building was the usual expression. As a kid, he enjoyed whatever the current seasonal sport was, though he wasn’t exceptional at any particular one. And he was smart in school, enough to get into one of the best public universities around. He did well, being something of a computer wizard, but not a total geek. So he felt comfortable moving back to his friends and family. It was a fun place with an endless variety of things to do, and he and his friends knew many of the best places for entertainment and meeting people. Anyone who complained of being bored just wasn’t trying very hard. He found a job as a computer animator with a small graphics firm, and it was a relaxed, friendly atmosphere. But a few years of those cold, wet winters, and a distressing break up with a serious girlfriend, convinced him to look for a different, more temperate environment, and he was swayed by Fred’s sales pitch for the laid-back lifestyle. He found his niche in the computer animation side of the industry. With four demo discs, the colorful résumé, and two outstanding interviews, the cutting-edge animation studio took a chance on him. It was one of the best decisions they ever made. Fred would often say that Mike had a dream job, working in computers doing creative animation. Mike would just reply, It’s all the same, just moving electrons. But he never complained. He loved what he did.

He arrived back at his Encino home late in the afternoon. The area consisted mostly of post-World War II ranch houses, remodeled and expanded over the decades. It wasn’t a fancy neighborhood, but the homes were quaint, comfortable, and affordable. Mike’s was typical, a three bedroom selection with dining room, two baths, and an attached garage. The master bedroom had been enlarged to accommodate a king-size bed, and Mike used one of the bedrooms as a den, but what had really impressed him when he was shopping for a home was the cozy backyard with a small swimming pool and patio, great for entertaining. This was his castle.

As he pulled into his driveway, he saw Stephanie McAllister getting out of her car two doors away. Stephanie was athletic, as were many of the people in the neighborhood, and her activity of choice, along with her husband, John, was bike riding. She wasn’t particularly tall, but in a pair of three inch heels, she could look Mike almost straight in the eye. Her hair was golden blonde, shoulder length. She had grown up in the San Joaquin valley of California and, after college, had found a job doing research for a biomedical company. John hailed from the great state of Texas, had gotten his degree in accounting, and accepted a position with a major accounting firm in Los Angeles. They were an enjoyable pair, but their tastes didn’t always run in sync, hers leaning toward popular tunes and dramatic movies, while his light-hearted nature preferred alternative music and comedies. But they could always find common ground for dinner and a date. They were the first people Mike had met when he moved into the neighborhood almost three years earlier, and the trio had become good friends. Stephanie often tried to set him up with women she knew. She was just looking out for him, she would say. And John, a little on the conservative side, loved sparring good-naturedly about politics and taxes. Mike was always happy to stop at their place for a beer, a friendly chat, and to play with Rex, their border collie. Rex would satisfy his pet fix for a while, and Mike always volunteered to look after him when they went on vacations or long weekends. Mike really liked the neighborhood and felt lucky that he had found it. It was a friendly, sociable place, and it wasn’t unusual for someone to have a spontaneous party, inviting anyone who was available and in the mood.

Being in an especially good mood this afternoon, he immediately walked over to greet her. Hi, Steph. How’s your day going?

I am glad this week is over, she declared in an exasperated voice. We’ve had so many deadlines to meet that it’s driving me crazy. Whatever happened to making a plan and sticking with it?

Oh, c’mon. That’s so old school, Mike joked. Nowadays, you just try to be the first one to put anything out and see if it flies. You can always fix it later.

The look on her face said pure frustration. Yeah, so fixing all of it will be the subject of next week’s deadlines.

Well, settle back with a glass of wine and relax. You deserve it.

You bet I will, she said with resolve.

Oh, by the way, I heard about a Mexican restaurant over in Burbank or Glendale that’s supposed to be fantastic. Some of the folks at work have checked it out and said it was excellent. We should try it sometime.

Especially if they make great margaritas.

Mike was about to turn and head back to his place when he saw John round the corner and drive up the street. Deciding to stick around to chat, he waited as John pulled into the driveway and got out of the car. A tall, dark-haired, slim but muscular fellow, he could easily pass for a tennis pro. He smiled as he spoke. Hi, honey.

Hi, honey, I hope your day has been better than mine, Stephanie said as she kissed him.

Mine’s been good. He turned to Mike and extended his hand. Hi, Mike. What have you been up to?

Hi there, John, Mike said as he shook his neighbor’s hand. Fred needed a breather from work today, so I met him at the pier and we had some burgers. He paused for a moment. You know, if I had the money…

You’d buy a place down there just so you could walk along the beach every day, John said laughing.

I guess I say that every time I go down there, huh?

Yeah, but you can keep on dreaming, said John. If you save your money, you could probably afford something just about the time you’re too old to enjoy it.

Then just prop me up in a sand chair on the beach, and let me watch the waves roll in, Mike said with a dreamy look on his face. I’m easy to please.

Stephanie had more practical and pressing things on her mind. I hate to interrupt the big retirement plans, but what’s for dinner? she asked John with anticipation.