by Jeff Johnson
“I was circling back, man. Off of 82nd. Three blocks from the Walmart.”
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Quiet. “Okay.” He took a deep breath. “I heard you were rollin’ hard these days, man. But this is blown-up car territory.”
“Sorry, dude.” I took a deep breath too.
“Not ready to turn pussy just yet. I’m ah, I’m gonna go chill with the police.”
“You’re wearing the right clothes.”
I picked up Chase almost an hour later. By then my car had been reduced to a blackened skeleton. Most of the emergency services vehicles were gone, and a lone fire marshal wagon and a single cop car remained. Chase didn’t say anything when I pulled up, just squinted through the windshield to see who was driving the van, then came around and got in. I pulled out and we headed toward Burnside. Eventually, he spoke.
“If this was a real job, I’d ask for a raise about now.”
“Real?” I kept my eyes on the road.
“Real world. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah. And?”
“I guess I want a raise anyway.”
“I can see that.” I was relieved. People had quit for far less, and quit as in they went far away and changed their phone numbers.
“Let’s get some coffee at a drive-through,” he suggested. “Then we chat. Okay to smoke in here?”
“I didn’t ask,” I replied, wondering for the first time. “But it’s too late now.”
We both lit up. I hit a Starbucks drive-through and we both got double espressos. There was a police car in the small parking lot, the cop behind the wheel taking a break. I pulled up next to him and turned to Chase.
“Let’s have it.”
“I want in.”
I raised an eyebrow. Chase smiled.
“There’s some next-level shit going on at the Lucky, man. You went from small time to rich in the last year or two. Now, don’t say anything. This is what I know. Nigel is out. Doing time because he slipped mid-crime. Big Mike works at a car parts place or some shit. Delia, and dude, here I gotta say I love that gal, but Delia is leaving. You need me, man.”
“I always liked you, Chase. Delia likes you. I remember how nice you were to Obi when he first started out.”
“Your old apprentice Obi.” Chase laughed. “Love that guy too. Got him that job in Monterey. Those six months we worked together were smooth and cool, dude. But you see my point.”
I glanced over at the cop. He was five feet away, sipping coffee and looking at his phone. Then I looked back at Chase. “Exactly where do you see yourself in the shady side of my operation?”
“In the shade.” His smile widened into a grin and he cocked his head.
“Here’s the deal, man. It’s not like I run a criminal empire on the side. But Old Town—fuck, man, this whole city—as money pours in, a tide of shit moves with it. And every time some kind of burning scam rips across my part of that desperate place, I take a piece out of the fucker who lit the fire. So in the strangest possible way, the Lucky is Old Town’s immune system.”
“Rad.” He liked that. I could tell. I smiled back at him.
“You really actually want a piece of that action? Look at my face, man. Sometimes you pay a high price.”
“Sign me up, my brother.” He didn’t even need to think about it.
I stuck out my hand and we shook.
“Right on, Chase Manhattan. Welcome to the party.”
Whatever kind of tail Chase had been leading around had moved on when my car was vulcanized and they realized he wasn’t me. Either that or they were using drones. I saw no sign of them, but after I dropped Chase off at a MAX stop with instructions to go home and change, I ditched the van in a parking garage and headed out on foot. I didn’t want to face Gomez or Flaco yet. I was going to be hard, telling them how bad I’d screwed up with the entire Santos deal. What was I going to tell them? He’s fine. He has money and a car and he had a good lunch before he set off to become a weed dealer in Idaho. Don’t worry. Oh, and he killed and buried a guy. It was too painful to even think about.
I still didn’t have a shirt, having left the last one out in the field with the goddamned hornets, and Chase had been unwilling to give me mine back, so my first stop was clear. I took a cab from the parking garage to the Ross Dress for Less below Pioneer Square. It was going to be a complex start to a complex operation.
The register lady gave me the same look the cab driver had flashed in the rearview. Mild shock, then business as usual. The bee sting on my chin wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but it wasn’t good either. Plus, I was muddy. Under the glaring lights, I walked to the men’s section with my head down, pretending to look at something on my phone. The security guard stationed at the door followed me, but for once I didn’t feel like making an issue out of it. I picked out some twenty-dollar fake leather shoes, bargain black waiter slacks, a white dress shirt, and a made-in-China dinner jacket with irregular sleeves and paid in cash, then went straight to the nearest Starbucks.
It was just getting dark by the time I made it into the restroom with a double espresso. I changed quickly. The filthy jeans and the boots filled up the trashcan. I put my muddy jacket in the Ross bag and then studied myself in the mirror. Not bad. Not great, but not terrible. I washed my face and hands and then rubbed some soap into my hair to simulate gel, knowing from experience that Starbucks bathroom soap is the next best thing, and from there I went to the Mallory for a chat with Jane Shannon, the bartender.
The bar was what I thought of a bar standard when I ducked in—not too dark to make out all the faces, but not bright enough to see the bags under anyone’s eyes. The Mallory was high end, rivaled by maybe fifteen other hotel bars in Portland when it came to the glamour of the drunks. Jane was tending bar with one other jockey, smoothly working the upper-crust winos with practiced charm. Her eyes flashed my way as I came in, then moved on. I took a solitary stool at her end of the bar, as far away from everyone else as I could get. A few minutes later, she headed my way with a glass of scotch and a smile. Jane made good money off of me, especially when I messed up.
“Fighting with bees, Darby?” She beamed and set my drink down, leaned out to pat my hand. “Or was it a spider?”
“Hornets.” I tasted the scotch. “Wanna make some money?”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” She gestured at the bar. “Top of the world and all that. You don’t need stitches again, do you?”
A year ago I’d been left for dead in a dumpster and she’d nursed me back to a semblance of health. I shook my head.
“Fuckin’ no way, psycho. Your stitching is crazy bad.” But I smiled when I said it.
“So’s my ketchup and bagel pizza roll. But you eat anything, don’t you, my wittle snookums.” She tried to pinch my cheek and I pulled my head away.
“So, ah, I need you to check this guy out. Scumbag, but my instincts tell me this is high-end scumbaggery.” I took out Oleander’s wallet and passed her the driver’s license. She looked at it, shrugged.
“Can’t say I recognize him.”
“You and the concierge still pals?”
“Barry? Sure.” Her eyes lit up. “You want me to see what the concierge network reveals? Good idea, but expensive.”
In the two weeks I’d been holed up at Jane’s we’d played endless card games and watched countless old movies. I’d listened to many of her stories, too. She’d been constipated with them, it turned out. A life of listening with no one to listen back had come out of her on those long winter nights. One of them was a funny story about the concierge network. The high-end hotels were in communication, after a fashion, to keep track of guests who tipped big, guests who were dangerous, and where to get opera tickets.
“How much?”
“I don’t know.” She frowned. “I don’t even know if Barry will do it.”
“What if you feed Barry a line. Tell him something like—”
“Darby, don’t ask me to
lie to a friend of mine.”
“—like your friend Darby, owner of the Lucky Supreme Tattoo Parlor in Old Town, co-owner of Racy, and big investor in Alcott Frond, is being stalked by the guy in this photo. Even hundred for you for asking. Even hundred for him for asking his pals. Even five for whoever gets me a room number in the next hour, plus free dinner at Alcott for you, Barry, and the lucky concierge.”
“Barry likes blow.” Jane wiggled her eyebrows.
“And a gram of blow for Barry. I can have some delivered in the next ten minutes by bike messenger.”
“I bet he goes for it, except the driver’s license photo. That’s a weensy bit too sketchy.”
I took my phone out. “Texting you a picture now. Taken by another bartender, actually.” I found the photo and sent it to Jane.
“Be right back.”
She took her apron off and had a quick word with the other bartender, who glanced my way and smiled. I drank and tried to unwind. I’d always liked the Mallory. The first time I’d ever gotten shitfaced in the place was more than ten years ago, on one of those nights where the rain had turned to ice. I was with a guitar player in a heavy metal band, a poor choice for both of us, and the only reason Jane had served us was because the bar was totally empty. After the guitar woman got a call from her real boyfriend and split, I’d told my miserable story to Jane, who laughed and laughed, and by last call we’d not only bonded but I’d managed to acquaint myself with one of the clerks from the hotel, Brenda. My smile faded when I thought about her. Thinking about her made me think about Suzanne.
It would have been great to see her. Way better than hunting through expensive bars all night in a crappy disguise. Cheaper, too. Probably less dangerous. I stared across the bar at the mirrored backsplash. The gold light and the glitter of the bottles didn’t hide the expression on the face that was pointed back at me. I missed that woman. I missed my old life, too. I missed the boots I’d just thrown away in a Starbucks bathroom. I thought about that, and gradually circled back to the train station. That dumbass Dessel bumming cigarettes off of me. He was going to be as pissed as Gomez.
I signaled the lone bartender for another round of whatever it was I was drinking and finished what remained in the glass in one smooth move. She nodded and was pouring when my phone rang. I looked down at it. It came up as “private” so I answered on the evasive.
“This is Dan.”
“Holland, you dumbass,” Dessel spat. “Where the hell are you? I need you to come downtown right the fuck now.”
“I don’t have time to join a lineup,” I replied. “Ask someone else. I didn’t do it no matter what it was, and even if I did, recall your record when to comes to—”
“Holland.” Dessel’s tone went icy cold. “Listen to me. For once, listen to me. Your little stunt today, burning your car with that buddy of yours in it? That was cute. But it shook something loose. I need you to look at something and I need it to happen right now.”
“Oh, so now you believe me.” The bartender set my drink down and I winked at her. “Dessel, I can’t tell you how impressed I am. But I’m busy.”
“Where are you?” He paused and said something muffled to someone else. “I can come to you.”
“I’m doing the kind of shit you wouldn’t approve of,” I said honestly. “You have your lead and I have mine. Be a big boy and do what I’m doing. Run it down like they do on TV.” I hung up.
The phone rang three more times before I turned it off. I was just about to flag the bartender down again when Jane returned, a smile on her face. She swept back behind the bar and put her apron back on, then drifted in my direction like we were spies.
“You got yourself a deal, mister,” she whispered. “But that coke? You better get it fast.”
“How fast?” I asked, taking my phone back out.
“Soon as you want that room number,” she replied. “Barry already came through.”
I dialed Paco. He picked up on the first ring. Ten words later he was his way to the Mallory at top speed. Jane watched me operate out of the corner of her eye. When I hung up and gave her the thumbs up, she nodded.
I’d met Paco five or six years ago. Most ranking tattoo artists knew a Paco, or knew how to get one, but my particular Paco was something else. He was a bike messenger for one thing. He was also one of the more successful drug dealers I’d ever known. I’d had a hand in his rise to power in a way, and he felt as though he was in my debt, which was convenient from time to time, as it was now.
Paco moved from San Francisco to Portland to pursue a career in weed smoking, banjo, food cart tourism, and hairy women, in that order. He was a bike messenger by trade and by necessity he kept that job. In the first year of plying the rainy streets he delivered something to the Lucky, I forget what, but he liked the place well enough to get a tattoo a few weeks later. It was shortly after that that his life changed in many ways. I happened to be along for part of the ride purely by accident.
Paco discovered that one of the other bike messengers had established a drug delivery system for the downtown executive class. The other messenger approached Paco, as a cool guy and potential dealer/helper, and they struck a deal. Messenger one picked up the money, messenger two dropped off the goods ten minutes behind him.
Paco was into fitness and so was the other dude, so there was no danger of them getting sucked up in their own product, at least in the beginning. The spiral down began when they increased their product line. In addition to weed and coke, two standard, easy-to-sell staples, they added pills. Shortly thereafter, things got complicated. Paco’s partner got popped, but got off with three months in county. They had money by then, enough to get a pretty good lawyer, and it paid off.
I entered the scene when I ran into Paco outside of the Radio Shack on Fifth Street. I was buying a new soldering iron, he was going in to buy a new burner phone. We chatted and he told me about his wheeling and dealing over a couple beers at a bar down the street. He knew I wasn’t a druggie, but reasoned that I might know people who were. A few days later I ran into him again, just as he was about to sell to a cop I’d tattooed a year or so before. I warned him off, and it turned out it was the very cop who had busted his partner. Small world.
So Paco owed me, which is why he showed up so fast. Plus, a guy like Paco needed guys like me as much as I need guys like him. I never knew when it was going to come in handy that he owed me. He didn’t know when it would be good news for me to feel the same way about him.
Eleven minutes after I called him, Paco came through the bar door, dressed for the Mallory in a way I wasn’t. He was wearing a suit, tailored by the look of it, and he had a stunning blonde on his arm. She peeled off to the bartender at the end and Paco runway-strutted up to the stool next to me and took a seat. He flashed Jane two fingers and pointed at my scotch, almost blinded her with his smile, and then turned to me.
“My brother.” His eyes narrowed when he took in the scar on my cheek, the bee sting on my chin. “What’s up?”
“Same old,” I replied. Jane set our drinks down and drifted out of earshot. Paco and I toasted each other. I leaned in a little closer to him. “Gotta bribe this dude. Your blow any good?”
Paco smiled. “You know it.” He passed me a bundle under the lip of the bar. I took it and dropped it into my jacket pocket. “Gram sets you back forty, but get me and my chick over there a comparable bottle of bubbly and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal. What’s up with the suit?”
“I wear ’em all the time now,” he replied. “I still sling hard, but I have a couple side operations. Crime has a high burnout rate.”
“Hear, hear.” We drank to that.
“Biz is what it is.” Paco shrugged. “What about you? I heard you got hurt last year, saw some shit in the news. What the hell happened?”
“All kinds of crazy,” I replied. “But today I got stung by a fuckin’ bee. Can you believe that?”
“Might be the last day of the year that can
happen, too,” Paco observed. “Cold out there now. Me and Tabby there are headed to dinner.” He glanced over to where she had just taken a seat and blew her a kiss. She blew one back.
“You’ve upgraded all around,” I said. He turned back to me and smiled.
“I did. We good?”
“Your bottle is on the way.”
“Keep in touch,” he replied. He finished his drink and went back to Tabby. I watched them, smiling, until Jane came back over.
“Janie, send a bottle of sparkling wine to my pal and his gal there,” I said. I slipped her the bundle. “I’ll pony up, too. Got people to fuck with.”
A minute later she came back with my check. I tipped big and added two hundred. While I was counting she delivered the bottle to Paco, who saluted me one final time.
“Always so good to see you, honey.” Jane tucked the money away. “Stop by for movie night sometime. You still haven’t seen my new carpet.”
“I will.”
She lowered her voice. “I’ll give this to Barry in a sec. He’ll meet you in the upstairs lounge in front of the elevators. Five minutes.”
“Tell him quicker the better. Trail goes dead fast.”
Five minutes later, a dapper man with a runny nose gave me a complimentary magazine containing Portlandia trivia and restaurant reviews. He left without a word, so I opened it. The ad on the first page was for the Heathman. It was circled in red and “ROGER” was written across it in red. The Heathman was close, a five-minute walk. I buttoned up my new coat and made it out just in time for full dark and the rain.
Fall was definitely in the air again, and for the hundredth time I cursed the luck that had brought me into contact with hornets, a crazy Mexican kid, and a dead dog. The rest of the people on the sidewalk were hurrying in one direction or another. I took my time, checking reflections as I went, but if my car bomber was with me I couldn’t make him. Oleander’s wallet and his phone felt warm in my pocket.
