Chapter 8 #3
“Good. I’ll do that.” Still giving me his grin, Quinn reached over and grabbed his jacket from the booth. “I’ll walk you back.”
Quinn carried Betty’s lunch as we walked the short distance back to the Fairbanks Building.
I was in the middle of explaining a potential improvement to the billing structure of Guard Security to Quinn as we approached the security desk.
Dan, the security guard with neck tattoos who’d escorted me on my non-interview first day of work, nodded at Quinn. Then Dan winked at me.
I smiled and waved warmly in return, and then I finished explaining to Quinn the impetus for the cost analysis I was working on.
“The best thing about the proposal is that the software is free.” I glanced over at Quinn to gauge his reaction to this great news, but to my disappointment, he was frowning at me.
We stopped in front of the elevator, and I turned to face him. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”
Quinn’s expression was rigid, and he looked past me to the lobby; he motioned toward the security desk with his chin. “How do you know Dan?”
“Who?” I glanced over my shoulder to follow Quinn’s gaze and found Dan looking at us, at me, and I gave him a closed-mouth smile then turned back to Quinn. “Oh, Dan the security man; just from the building. On my second day at Cypher Systems, he helped me bring up my box of paraphernalia.”
“You two talk much?” Quinn still wasn’t looking at me and, for that, I was glad. He looked like a hawk about to devour a mouse and, standing this close, I could see that his eyes were a fiery cerulean.
I shook my head. “Not really. Just every once in a while when I arrive in the morning or go get lunch. Why? Should I be worried?” I hesitated, frowning. “Is there something I should know about him? Is he a bad guy?”
Quinn returned his attention to me and it sent warmth from my nose to my toes; his expression softened, and he seemed to debate what to say next. Finally, he sighed and said, “You read too many comics.”
“What?” I thought about denying the accusation, but instead I asked, “How can you tell?”
The elevator opened and he held the door then followed me in. “Bad guy, good guy—most guys fall somewhere in between.”
I lifted an eyebrow at his assertion. “I don’t think that’s really true. I think you can say someone is good or bad based on their actions.”
This was a subject I spent a lot of time considering.
Both my sisters were criminals. My mother was a serial cheater who had abandoned her family.
I liked labels; I liked putting people and things into categories.
It helped me calibrate my expectations of people and relationships.
If I didn’t label my sisters as bad, I would be an enabler of their behavior, just like my father was.
I didn’t plan on spending my life as a doormat, or living in the waiting room of perpetual disappointment, hoping they would change.
“So, does one bad action make a person bad?” Quinn placed his palm against the five-point fingerprint screen; he then punched in the code to call the elevator.
“No, a person is the sum of his or her choices, and therefore, is largely defined by his or her actions.”
“No one makes all good choices, and everyone makes mistakes.”
“Ah, ha! Yes, that’s why I also consider intentions as the defining denominator in my good-people, bad-people confidence interval.”
Quinn’s mouth pulled to the side. “What does that mean—your good-people, bad-people confidence interval?” He leaned his shoulder against the wall of the elevator.
“Well, obviously, everyone makes mistakes, but if you only see it as a mistake because you’ve been caught, then that’s bad.
However, if you realize that you’ve made a mistake because you recognize the error of your ways and you make an effort to change, then that is good. There is a big difference.”
“So, really, you think a person is the sum total of his intentions and not his actions.”
The elevator opened and I stepped out as I continued my philosophizing. “No. Without action, even good intentions are meaningless.”
I was abruptly struck by the comfortable progression of our conversation.
Strangely, the ever-present pins and needles I usually felt around Quinn seemed to dissipate the further we ventured into this topic.
I felt almost relaxed. We walked past Keira, who nodded at me but then suddenly stopped typing when she saw Quinn.
Before I could do a double take and ask Keira if she were ok, Quinn asked, “What would a person be if he had good intentions and no actions?” His free hand pressed against my lower back, and we continued down the hall to my office.
“Lazy.”
Just inside my door, he pulled me to a stop with gentle pressure on my elbow. “And what do you call someone who has bad intentions and good actions, or good intentions and bad actions?”
“Stupid.”
He considered me for a long moment; his brow was furrowed, but there was a small smile on his lips. “Let me get this straight; according to you, there are four kinds of people: good, bad, lazy, and stupid. Is that right?”
My eyes drifted over Quinn’s face as I contemplated his summary of my philosophy. “More or less; that’s about right. Think of it like a four-quadrant scatter plot graph.”
He blinked at me. “Use a different analogy. I don’t work much in four-quadrant scatter-plot graphs.”
I laughed and walked to my desk. “Ok. Imagine a map of the United States. Divide it into four quadrants: north, east, south, and west. Let’s say I typically always take trips due north but sometimes I go east. Sometimes I go northeast and, on rare occasions, I go south.
Each trip I take is a dot on the map. The quadrant with the most dots represents my personality. ”
“Therefore, someone could be a good person with a tendency to be slightly stupid.”
I nodded slowly. “Yes, precisely. Take me for example. I feel confident saying I’m a good person with a tendency to be slightly lazy and a precipitous tendency to be stupid, especially when it comes to non-work related decisions and actions.”
“And what kind of person do you think I am?”
My gaze met Quinn’s as he leisurely crossed to stand in front of me; his features were set in a detached mask of indifference, but his eyes were piercing and steady. The pins and needles immediately returned; my heart quickened and my neck was hot.
“Uh, well.” I let out a slightly unsteady breath and rested my fingers on the desk, mostly for balance. He stopped less than a foot from me so that we were both standing behind the desk. I had to tilt my head backward to maintain eye contact. “I don’t think you’re stupid or lazy.”
“Hmm.” A whisper of a smile briefly passed over his face. “So that leaves either good or bad.”
“I tend to think good.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you helped me at the club, and you put in a good word for me here.” I licked my lips; my mouth felt dry. “I still need to return your sister’s clothes, and I didn’t get a chance to thank you for arranging the interview.”
His eyes lost focus and he frowned. Abruptly he took a step back and affixed his attention to the floor; he lifted the hand that held the take-out order.
“I’m going to get this to Betty and stop by Steven’s office about your training this week.
I’ll…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Suddenly I remembered my promise to Elizabeth regarding the Canopy Room incident and some unknown person’s alleged inclination to drug women. Without thinking, I took two steps forward. “Wait; before you go, I need to ask you something.”
He stopped, lifted his eyes once more, and waited with patient interest for me to continue.
I attempted to swallow, but my throat felt tight.
I didn’t know how to bring this up so I just started talking.
“So, about what happened at the club last week; I wanted to ask you…what I mean is…what happened to the person who, you know, who dosed me with the benzodiazepines?”
“He was arrested,” he answered matter-of-factly.
I couldn’t cover my surprise as I gaped at him. “He was arrested?”
Quinn nodded. His expression was neutral and unreadable.
“But, do I need to do anything? Should I file a report?”
“No. He wasn’t arrested for drugging you. He was arrested for something else.”
“Oh.” I frowned, then sighed as I thought about that. “Who is he? What was he arrested for?”
“Just some guy. Don’t worry; he won’t have the opportunity to bother you again.” With that, Quinn turned and left my office.
I stared at the door, confused and relieved, but mostly confused, not really sure what to make of the last part of our exchange.
Before I could dwell on it with any exactness, Olivia Merchant stepped into my office.
She wasn’t looking at me but rather down the hall in the direction of Quinn’s departing form.
“Was that Mr. Sullivan?” Olivia sounded as befuddled as I felt.
I’d interacted with Olivia, as Carlos’ administrator, a number of times.
She didn’t strike me as good or bad or stupid.
She wasn’t terribly efficient with her work, but she seemed to make a good show of it whenever Carlos was around.
I didn’t mind her; I just needed to figure out a way to improve her responsiveness to my requests or discover a work-around for her work-lethargy.
“Yeah, that was him.” I stood next to my desk and leaned against it, somewhat dazed. If I hadn’t been so dazed, it might have occurred to me that this was the first time Olivia had ever gone out of her way to speak to me.
“What was he doing here?” She turned to me, placing her hands on her hips. Again, if I hadn’t been so dazed, I would have noticed the accusation and suspicion lacing her tone.
“Taking lunch to Betty.”
She straightened and let her hands fall to her sides. “Oh. Well, that was nice of him.”
I nodded. It was nice of him. It was nice of him to sit with me at the deli, it was nice of him to walk me back to work and indulge me in my silly philosophies. He didn’t exactly look safe, nice, or approachable, but Quinn Sullivan was a nice guy.
He was a good guy.
Olivia mumbled something about checking in with Keira, and then she left, but I didn’t pay much attention to her. I was excited, nervous, and disoriented.
I would be spending some part of tomorrow with Quinn.