by Jeff Johnson
“It’s a masterpiece,” I whispered. My voice caught in my throat.
“One of my parting gifts,” she said. She put her arm around my waist. “I’m glad you like it, Darby. The boxes arrive next Wednesday. Hoodies, too.”
“Awesome.”
“All right,” she said finally. She went to the lounge couch across from my desk and fell into it. “Chase Manhattan, employee evaluation. How you think he did on his first Black Op?”
I lit a post-taco cigarette and sat down on the edge of my desk. Chase Manhattan. She still didn’t know about the car bombing. I had to tell her, of course, but the evaluation of Chase was important, especially now.
Some people are at their best when the music is deafening, the lights are blinding, all the fevers are contagious, when the car is going way too fast and the tires just blew. The joy comes from being the lone minnow who shot the gap, who flitted through the fiery chaos untouched. On the opposite end of the spectrum are monks, who have no variables at all. Sometimes you can tell where a person falls in between those two poles. Delia watched me consider, patient. She belonged nowhere on that scale, maybe above it.
“Not bad,” I said finally. “He talk to you yet?”
“Called this morning, said he’d be on time, shit went down but it worked out.”
“Huh. It went down all right. Someone blew up my car. Almost killed him.”
She didn’t seem surprised, which surprised me.
“I picked him up in that van. Dessel and Pressman are eager to talk about it. I was busy.”
“I’ll miss this,” she said. “All the madness.” She meant it, too. I went and sat down next to her, patted her knee.
“Careful what you wish for.”
“Never. So, Chase.”
“He’s Nigel’s replacement, if you see what I mean. We give him opportunity and a little safety, as in back his outside plays, and we’ll get results. Most of the time.”
“Darby, if having money has somehow compelled you to understand people in the same way people understand mutual funds, I will consider it the most polluted irony of all time.”
“Huh? My point is this. Chase rolls with whatever, no questions asked. You think that’s a good thing?”
“I see your point. He’s been around way too long to be a dummy. Guy like Chase stayed in the game because he knows how to move. Look at our old guys. Big Mike. Cracked, went pussy, and that was that. Nige got busted because he played a little too fast and a little too loose for a little too long. My guess is that Chase is a little more like we are,” she said.
“So that’s a good thing.”
“I think so. He probably won’t burn us, for one thing. I’m smarter than he is and he knows it. You’ll beat him to death and he knows that too. But that isn’t it. I think Chase is the guy we’ve been looking for. Old School is a foul fuckin’ concept in the tattoo world, ’cause you’re talking nasty old perverts who were big on the con, but in the broader sense of it, like in how it’s applied everywhere else, Chase has it. He’s solid. Guy isn’t turn-n-burn, isn’t a prima donna either. He’s set on glide.”
I thought about that.
“He totally freaked out someone blew your wheels?”
“Just the opposite. He wants in.”
“In what? Like in in?”
“Yep. He says he noticed that the Lucky keeps going no matter what happens, and the people here either crack and go down or they get rich. He wants to try his luck.”
“Interesting.”
“Yeah. He asked me right after the whole thing. Gotta admit, I was impressed. With you on the way out, I’ll need him. He pointed that out, too.”
“He’s right.” Delia looked down at her hands. “You’ve been wondering how all the pieces will fall into place once I’m gone. Picture’s coming together. I’m glad.” I looked sideways at her. She didn’t sound all that glad. I patted her knee again.
“I know why you have to go, sweetie. We’ve been over this. Your art . . . grew. It kept getting bigger. I get that. What I’m wrestling with, if there is anything, if you really want to know . . .” I trailed off. She gave me a wry smile.
“I know. Mikey gone off to nowhere, traded his boots for Birkenstocks, Nige in the slammer. Now this new shit. Your car. And here I am, movin’ on up like The Jeffersons. You’re wondering if the fear got me at long last, or if common sense did.” She shrugged. “I’m wondering something, too, if you really want to know. I’m gone, it’ll be just you. Sure, you’ll have Chase now. Flaco. Gomez. My backup emergency dildo, Santiago. That’s a life. But Suzanne isn’t coming back, and Old Town is part of the Portlandia set now. So I’m wondering why you still think you can hold on to your old life. I mean, don’t you?”
I didn’t say anything.
“That long road,” she continued. “So romantic, really. You’re on it for life. I always wanted to be, too. Just keep on walking and walking, until you become fearsome and fearless, and I swear, right then is when you want to stop and smell the roses. I can see it in you these days, Darby.” It was her turn to pat my knee. “But the road never ends, and now, here in the City of Roses? All the roses come from Safeway and they smell like fabric softener.”
“Fuck. You’re depressing today, Delia.”
“Yeah.” She crossed her hands behind her head. “Maybe. But back to you. I don’t know what you should do, Darby. I don’t think you do, either. But you have to do something. What I do know is that no matter what it is, you ever need me, I’ll be there.” Then she looked over at me and winked.
“That was the worst pep talk ever.”
“But you listened to the whole thing now, didn’t you?”
Before I left the Lucky, we were able to find out where the remains of my car had been towed. It turned out that having your car bombed was enormously expensive. Almost five grand already, and the bill was rising. Other cars had been damaged in the explosion, from cracked windshields to blistered paint, and there was also the matter of my insurance, which had almost certainly been canceled. I had no idea how that angle would shake out, but it was sure to be bad.
On the plus side, I was half drunk and in a reasonably good mood when I got in the drippy Alfa and it failed to start. I locked it up and struck out on foot, headed for nowhere in particular. The afternoon and evening were blank in many ways, as in I was making it up as I went along, but it had a promising feel to it. On foot, it was easy to peel off anyone behind me, so there was that. I was five moves away from clear. Or I could lead my little parade around and give them time to catch each other. Productive. But more than all that, I had a rare lightness in my chest.
Even Delia thought I was due for a new tune. She would have spontaneously spit out a toad or a roach if I told her Suzanne had said the same thing, but it was good to know. The tacos had cleared my head a little and the wet wind was cold and clean. On impulse, I decided to visit Santiago and display my relative cheer.
Alcott was in the twilight between lunch and the early dinner rush. Table presentations were being changed, the menu was being printed (a different one every night) and busy prep work was steaming away in the kitchen. Santiago was drinking an espresso at the bar and looking at something on his laptop. He smiled when I came in and I returned it.
“Heard you got stung by a bee,” he said. “Flaco.” He scrutinized my chin when I sat down next to him. “Not bad. Not bad. Not good, but it could be worse.”
“The kid got it worse,” I replied. “But he’s tough.”
“You two hit it off, Flaco tells me.” Santiago chuckled. “Knew you had it in you.”
“The kid did most of the heavy lifting. He, ah, he mentioned that he might like some restaurant work. He was talking about Idaho right then, but—”
“Mentioned?” Santiago’s giant face darkened. “Idaho? Darby, there was some prevarication in that statement.”
“Can’t help it.” I looked at the bartender. He was doing inventory and checking a wine shipment. Santiago followed my ey
es.
“Let’s grab a table. I have a few minutes.”
He went around the bar and had a quick word with the bartender while the espresso machine burped and sputtered, then we carried our cups over to a two top by the windows.
“So the kid. Santos is his name?” Santiago watched my face carefully.
“Yeah, man. Dark shit happened out in the woods. Hard to put it all together just yet, but my stalker guy showed. He wanted to take me for a ride in the trunk of his car, I had other plans, shit got out of control, the kid got involved. Anyway, done. But here’s the deal. The kid took the guy’s car, which is clean clean, FYI, as in no record of it exists, and he was headed to Idaho to start a new life. He changed his mind, which happens, but part of that new life was doing something better than pushing a mop at a hospital.”
“I see.” Santiago sipped. “I’ll offer a tentative no.” He raised his hand before I could object. “Darby, do you and this young man have anything in common other than a shared experience in the woods, where, I quote, ‘dark shit went down’?”
“We do.” I sat back. He nodded.
“Then absolutely not.” Santiago gave me a curious look. “You make a good partner, Darby. Loyal, trustworthy, insightful at the strangest times. Brave. But you’re also reckless, barely housebroken, and you fight too much. Be honest. Would you hire you?”
“Fuck you,” I said, offended. The bartender glanced our way, so I lowered my voice. “Fuck you,” I whispered. Santiago laughed.
“You make my point for me!” He shook his head. “I’m glad you’re who you are, my good friend. But you keep the young lunatic. Bring him around and I’ll feed him. The best possible use for a protégé of yours would be to get him a job at the bistro I hear is opening down the street. Let him fuck all the waitresses and drink all the booze. Beat the shit out of the owner for a social injustice or a matter of honor.”
“There’s another bistro opening down the street? Who in the fuck are they?” I glared out the window and Santiago laughed again.
“Attaboy.”
“All right. And he’s not my protégé, dude.”
“How’s the wedding?” He changed the subject before I could try a different angle.
“Ah, man. Dark shit there, too. But it’s still going down. I took that piece of shit Hank to get his tux earlier.”
“Ah, Hank.” He frowned. Hank had rufied Santiago when we were working on opposite sides. “I’ll always owe him. If you ever decide to mail him anywhere, I’d love to help.” He looked up at me and squinted. “You know that little fucking zit actually winked at me? If it weren’t for Delia, well . . .” He trailed off and looked out at the rain.
“Interesting.”
He glanced at me and said nothing. I nodded and rose.
“I’m outta here. Thanks for nothing.”
He smiled. “You hungry?”
“Nah. Full of tacos.” I stretched. “I think I’m gonna go fuck around down on the waterfront till dinnertime. Lead my tail around.”
“Party on.”
My phone rang almost the moment I stepped out on the sidewalk. Private number. I answered.
“Speak.”
“Darby,” Dessel began, “before you hang up, listen for two minutes.”
“Talk fast, dude. I’m still pissed you blew your cover to bum smokes off me.”
“Good for you.” He sounded tired. “I understand you had a chat with Agent Lopez.”
“She hates you, little guy.”
“We have news. You’re coming in today, right?”
“Just tell me. I don’t like your office.” I took a left and headed for the bus mall, sticking under the awnings.
“No can do. We have photos for you to look at, names to run past you, all kinds of shit. Did something change? I mean, you still want to know who’s following you, right?”
“You’re fishing, Dessel. You want to know what I’ve already figured out, and you want it for free. Is that right?”
“Trade. I’m proposing a trade.”
“Interesting. But just barely. Dessel, I always figure this shit out without you. We both know it. I’m using you to flush out another tail and we both know that, too. You found out enough about whoever is after me to become interested. All that means is that, just as we both guessed right from the start, we have another scumbag with a big plan that involves fucking up my world. Show some cards or I’m hanging up.”
“Fine.” He paused, and I heard part of a muffled conversation. Then he was back. “Darby, we’ve never seen anything like this.” He cleared his throat, like he was about to say something of great importance. “It appears that you’re in a play of some kind.”
“What?”
“A play. You’re an unwitting actor in a drama. It’s unfolding right now.”
“Are you, are you speaking metaphorically? Dude! We’re all actors in a play all the time, you fucking idiot! That’s it, I’m—”
“Someone is filming you right now, Holland,” Dessel said soberly. “They have been for we don’t know how long. I’m talking about an actual play, you cretin. You have been cast as a player. You have a role. You’re acting out a part. We’re trying to figure out who the playwright is, and we need to locate the main character before the play is over. The last act is not something we want to happen.”
I stopped walking.
“You just stopped walking,” Dessel said. “You don’t have a physical tail while you’re downtown more than half the time. I’m watching you on the city center traffic camera system.”
I looked up at the nearest light pole. The Old Town nightworld had been aware of the cameras for the last year, but word was that the PPD needed a warrant to track you with them. Anything they saw at random was inadmissible. I raised my middle finger. The pedestrians around me reflexively added a foot to my personal space.
“Someone else has been using the system,” Dessel continued. “That same someone might be able to hack your phone. So come and look at the pictures, idiot.” He hung up or the line went dead. I looked at the phone and then broke it in half, walked to the nearest trashcan, and dropped it in. Then I stood there in the rain, thinking.
I had been cast in a play.
The strange horror in Dessel’s voice, the impossibly odd nature of the notion, had combined to freeze me in my tracks, and I wondered then if that was part of the script, so I unfroze and headed for the first bus. I paid and took my ticket, then went to the back and sat down. My mind was racing. I stared out the window at the rainy streets that had become a stage, and the haunted feeling washed over me in a great, gripping pulse of cold.
The hair on my scalp felt like it was full of static. A play. I had been cast in a play.
In the last few years, I’d dealt with terrible men with terrible agendas. First there was Nicholas Dong Ju, an art collector, pimp, and criminal of the highest order, who had come for some of the Lucky Supreme’s oldest artwork. The flash of Roland Norton had been used to smuggle treasury bills, property deeds, bearer bonds, and assorted other financial tools through Panama after the Second World War, and all the remaining pieces, the ones that had vanished when Norton died unexpectedly, were still loaded. We never knew until Dong Ju came for them.
Dong Ju was a genius. He played several games of chess in his head. His servants claimed he owned their souls. In the end, I’d killed him in a fight to the death on the underside of the Steel Bridge. The whole experience had changed me in many ways, all of them bad. Dong Ju’s body was in the river, wrapped in rotten concrete and fencing, and the entire ordeal had made Dessel and me enemies for life. He knew I’d killed Dong Ju, but he’d never be able to prove it.
Then came Oleg Turganov, the Russian real estate developer who blew up part of Old Town, the Lucky Supreme with it. Dessel and Pressman had tried to pin the blame on me, and in the hunt for the truth I’d gotten the scar on my face and another one on my ass. Santiago had worked for Turganov, and in the end I’d mailed the Russian back where he
came from in a transmission box. In the aftermath of that, I’d become rich.
Now this. I had a terrible feeling that whoever had sent Oleander, the Mineral Man, to collect me was not like Dong Ju or Turganov. He or she was worse. I played back everything that had happened, and as I did, the color drained from the world around me.
The city passed and I didn’t really see any of it. I had no idea where the bus was going, but it was time for emergency maneuvers.
By six, I was deep in Beaverton.
Traffic was terrible, which worked in my favor. I hopped off the 4 bus and went into action. The first thing I did was duck into a Radio Shack and buy a flip phone and a card with a hundred minutes. Once I was outside, I called the Rooster Rocket. They’d had the same phone number for twenty years and it was one of the only numbers I could remember. Many of the rest were in a tiny three-page phone book I kept in my wallet for these occasions, but it wasn’t very up to date.
“Rooster Rocket.” Short, clipped, male, hard to tell who it was.
“This is Darby Holland from the Lucky next door. Gomez around?”
“Nah. This is Kenny. What up, dog?”
Kenny was a night hipster, new. “What about Cherry?”
“Hang on.” The phone was bumped around and then I listened to what sounded like the Ramones for three or four minutes.
“Darby?”
“Cherry! You got a pen?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Can you do me a solid? I lost my phone. I’m in a great big rush and the number at the Lucky has been busy for a fuckin’ hour. Copy this down and maybe shoot it next door real quick?”
“Sure. Give it to me.”
I read the number off the back of the box and she repeated it back.
“Thanks,” I said. “If Delia is there, tell her to call me from her cell. Best if she calls from her cell.”
