Lake of Darkness

by Scott Kenemore

  The barman had another puff of his pipe.

  Flip turned back and said: “My old friend Rotney Nash. . . Has he been in tonight? He owes me twenty dollars, and I intend to collect.”

  The barman searched what was left of his memory.

  “Rotney. . .” he said. “Has he been around recently? Let me see?”

  Flip wondered if the barman was angling for a bribe.

  The barman glanced over and saw that Tark had already drained his glass. Flip glanced over too. The barman brought down the green bottle and refilled it.

  “So wait. . .” Tark said. “I thought you only let high-class Negroes in this place.”

  “That’s right,” the barman said, replacing the bottle.

  Flip looked at Tark hard, asking what he thought he was doing.

  “And you telling me someone like Rotney Nash qualifies?” Tark continued.

  “I see that you all truly know him,” the bartender said, giggling.

  Tark shrugged.

  “But Rotney Nash is the highest-class customer of all!” the barman declared. “He’s one who spends his entire paycheck within these four humble walls. That’s as high as you can get.”

  Abruptly, Sally began tapping Flip on the thigh. He looked over. She indicated with a nod that he should follow her glance across the room. There, a lone woman lingered, very strange.

  The woman was tall and pale and thin almost to the point of boniness. At first glance and at a distance, she seemed possessed of beauty far too great to be working at a place with “Bucket” in its name. Yet, as Flip trained his eyes more carefully, other aspects became clear. The deep scarring across the cheeks and neck. The subtle but unmistakable positioning of one eye higher than the other. The hairline that went jagged on one side of her scalp. These could only have been the result of terrible injuries—of being burned, and having one’s face broken and healed and broken again.

  The woman was looking at the trio of newcomers with a curious expression. After a long moment, she made her way over. While she walked, she screwed up her face, as though the effort it took to move in a straight line was very great indeed. Flip had seen this kind of walk in those who had suffered an injury to the inner ear.

  “You are looking for Rotney?” she said in an accent that was impossible to place, but definitely not Chicago.

  “That’s right,” Flip replied. “He owes me twenty dollars.”

  “That’s funny,” the woman said. “He owes me twenty dollars, too.”

  Flip looked the woman over and inclined his head to the side.

  “Seems like maybe we have something in common,” she continued. “Perhaps you’d care to discuss our mutual interests somewhere a bit more private?”

  She took Flip’s four fingertips in her hand and eyed one of the many dark passageways leading away. It was framed by red velvet curtains—smokestained, ripped, and rubbed filthy. (No sign above it promised torture, but that counted for almost nothing.)

  “You misunderstand me,” Flip said. “I actually am looking for Rotney Nash. That’s the long and short of my agenda.”

  The mutilated courtesan made a point to glance down at the crotch of Flip’s pants after he said ‘long and short.’

  “I think you misunderstand me,” she whispered.

  The courtesan leaned in close.

  “Do you know what your man there just drank?” she asked, nodding ever-so-slightly at Tark.

  Flip did not know. He looked back to the bartender for guidance. The bartender had taken another puff of his pipe and was lost in a world of his own.

  “Chartreuse,” Flip said. “Or absinthe.”

  The courtesan smiled and shook her head no.

  “That was fermented ramp juice,” she whispered. “That’s why it smells so awful. And why it’s so green. Most men get nothing from it. But some men are, let’s say, receptive. The drink is one of Rotney’s favorites. The barman here . . . He only serves it to Rotney . . . and to Rotney’s friends. I wonder how he knew you were friends with Rotney.”

  “Like I said,” Flip replied—even as he began to grow uncomfortable, “the man owes me twenty dollars.”

  “Yeah,” the woman said. “And like I told you, he owes me the same amount.”

  She looked at Flip—one eye a half-inch above the other—hard and fierce.

  “You know, I believe we should go and compare notes. My friends here will be safe at the bar, yes?”

  Without glancing, the courtesan said: “The madam of the Palmerton House knows how to handle herself anywhere in the city—even if she doesn’t want to let it show.”

  Sally did not respond.

  “The other one. . . Buy him another ramp juice and he’ll be fine, I expect.”

  Flip tossed a coin down and nodded to the barman. Then the strange woman took him by the fingertips, and pulled him deeper into the Bucket of Blood.

  They walked down a dark passage framed by red curtains, then through a second hallway that led to a side room. Outside the room was a spent-looking man lying across a small settee. His clothes were fine but rumpled. Pinned to his chest was a six-pointed metal star. He was in a deep narcotic haze. Unnatural amber drool depended from the corner of his mouth. Flip let his fingers drop from the woman’s and stooped down to take a look.

  The star had been issued by the City of Chicago, but was not a policeman’s. It was engraved to read: “FOR VALUABLE SERVICES RENDERED TO THE CORONER.”

  “Don’t mind him,” the woman said. “He’s always like that.”

  “A deputy coroner,” Flip said. “Work for the damned to do. Eastland Disaster? Nine-hundred bodies all at once like that—all bloated and burned by the sun? Make any man need to forget himself, I s’pose.”

  “A normal man, yes,” the courtesan said. “But not this one. This one misses it. The days after the Eastland were the finest of his life. Nothing he ever does will capture that feeling again, and he knows it. So he numbs himself here. . . waiting, hoping for another catastrophe. Come on.”

  They went into a bedroom and the strange woman shut the door.

  Here, she was like an actress stepping off stage. She relaxed. Her face fell. When it did, it became even more crooked. Her eyes appeared even less aligned. She was like two faces sewn together.

  “So. . .” the woman said. “What do you want with Rotney Nash?”

  “He owes-” Flip tried.

  “What really?” she growled. “Come on. You didn’t come to a place like this to play games.”

  Flip was unflappable and stern.

  “It’s something serious, I’ll tell you that much,” Flip said loudly. “Whether you’re a friend of Rotney’s, or whether he really does owe you money—and you want him to live long enough to pay you—you ought to help me out. I’m interested his safety. The safety of some other people too. You’re right, I didn’t come here to play games. I’m here on a matter that is deadly dire. If you know where he is—whether it’s here or somewhere else—you better tell me.”

  The room had a bed and a small chest of drawers. The broken courtesan walked to the chest and took out a cigarette. She lit it and held it between her lips, considering.

  “You’re not like the others,” she said, looking Flip up and down. “And that’s just a matter of fact, not my opinion.”

  “What ‘others?’” he said.

  “The others who come here and ask after Rotney,” she replied, taking a long drag. “His friends. His enemies. Whoever they are. I don’t know. But the others are odd. Very odd. Odder than you, even. And you are odd. Anybody ever tell you that?”

  “I don’t understand,” Flip said. “People come looking for Rotney? Wait. . . One of them wouldn’t be a white man—thin and balding? Kinda mean-looking? Goes by Durkin?”

  He pulled out the photograph of the hitman smiling in his pinstripe suit.

  The courtesan shrugged.

  “Maybe,” she said. “Some people who come in—their faces get obscured by the shadows. It’s so dar
k that maybe I don’t see.”

  Another angle for a bribe. Everybody was the same. But Flip was not about to start doling out cash. Not until he had a better sense of whether this woman could truly be of help.

  “I’m not with vice and I’ve no interest in shutting this place down, but I’ll tell you plainly that this is a police matter,” Flip said.

  “What in here ain’t a police matter, potentially?” the woman said with a shrug.

  Despite himself, Flip smiled.

  “I tell you one thing,” she continued. “You flash a star and a gun out there, your chances of finding Rotney go to nil.”

  “I know that,” Flip told her.

  The courtesan sat down on the bed.

  “Now then . . .” she said. “What can I tell you about Rotney Nash? He comes in here, drinks himself insensible, and winds up on the floor most of the time. They have to carry him out. He usually starts with the fermented ramp juice, but he’ll switch to whiskey or beer after a pace. Drinks like there’s no tomorrow, that one does.”

  “How often does he come in?” Flip asked.

  “Maybe once a week,” answered the courtesan. “And I hate to tell you honey, but Monday is not his night. He likes Fridays and Saturdays, when the joint is really hopping.”

  Flip sighed. So he would not have his man this evening after all.

  “What else?” Flip pressed. “Anything you can tell me while I’m here?”

  “He . . .” the courtesan began, hesitating between puffs. “He. . . always wears the same clothes. They’re not nice clothes, and they’re always the same. Dirty trousers that smell like shit. Rumpled shirt. Muddy shoes. Bowler hat pulled low . . .”

  “Does he-”

  And then Flip stopped speaking because he realized he had spoken over her. The courtesan had said something more.

  “What was that?” Flip demanded. “What did you just say?”

  “Huh?” the woman replied, confused by his insistence.

  “Tell me what you just said under your breath?” Flip pressed. “When I cut you off. It sounded like-”

  “He keeps his bowler hat pulled low. . . to hide his deformity,” she clarified. “Rotney Nash is like me, all right? He looks different. He has a hole in his head, like a scoop taken out. That’s one reason I protect him—one reason I look out for him when people like you come around. I can relate to him. He and I are alike. Rotney wears that hat all the time because a piece from his head is missing.”

  Tark was still on his third glass of fermented ramp.

  Halfway finished with the drink, he let his tongue linger on the lip of the glass, savoring the strange salty taste. Sally, despite her tobacco-stained clothes and general deshabille had had to turn three men away already. (A lack of eye-contact and a stern “Keep walking” had done the trick so far, but she knew they would be less likely to take no for an answer as the night progressed.) Sally thought that Tark’s green drink smelled horrible. Now and then she got a whiff of it, and turned up her nose.

  Flip barged out of the back, trailed by a courtesan who appeared both alarmed and confused. He looked around wildly for his friends. The brothel had become busier, with new patrons filing inside every few moments. All the seats at the bar were taken.

  Flip found Sally and Tark, and moved in close between them. He spoke in low, intense tones.

  “Rotney Nash is our man,” he said.

  “What?” said Sally. “We know that. We’re here looking for him here, aren’t we?”

  “No,” Flip said, putting his hands on their shoulders to urge them off their barstools. “I mean that Rotney is our suspect.”

  “For the. . .” Tark said, setting down his drink.

  Flip nodded.

  “We need to go,” Flip said. “I don’t believe there’s a good chance of catching Rotney here tonight.”

  Tark and Sally gathered themselves and headed for the door.

  As he turned, Flip felt something hard and stiff hit him in the side of the chest. He glanced up and saw the broken courtesan, her fingers square against his ribs. Her face was drawn into a sneer.

  “You see that man there in the corner?” she hissed. “And the one standing behind the couch? All I have to do is say a word, and they can keep you from walking out of here. Or from walking ever again. You follow me?”

  Flip reached out.

  Slowly, deliberately, he moved her hand down from his chest.

  But the woman put it right back on him.

  Flip saw the shadows nearby begin to shift. The confrontation had been noticed. Flip kept his hands at his sides.

  “What do you intend to do with Rotney?” the woman asked.

  “What I intend to do . . . is save lives,” Flip replied. “Look into my eyes if you doubt me. See if you think I’m not telling you the truth. Go on.”

  For a moment, nobody said anything. Nobody moved.

  The broken courtesan lowered her hand. And she did look into Flip’s eyes. She looked longer and harder than Flip could remember anyone ever looking into his eyes. Not a lover. Not his own mother. He allowed it to happen. He tilted his head slightly, so his own eyes might line up more directly with her crooked sightline.

  Other patrons of the Bucket stopped to watch, or to watch patrons watching. (Stranger things took place within the Bucket, to be sure, but this wasn’t bad for early on an off night.)

  Eventually, the broken courtesan said: “I believe you.”

  Flip brushed past her and marched outside.

  Back on Nineteenth Street, a man had been stabbed. He did not seem badly hurt and was limping away from his attacker (another drunk who seemed as astounded as the victim that the altercation had occurred). The hypnotized lummox of a man guarding the Bucket’s door had not noticed the fight. He stayed watching the space on the wall. Watching something invisible and irresistible. Flip began to wonder if he was even employed by the brothel. A handful of men had gathered to see if there would be more violence between the two drunks. When it was clear there would not, the onlookers shuffled off.

  Flip, Tark, and Sally stood alone on the sidewalk, not far from the patch of fighting men’s blood.

  “What’s happening, Flip?” Tark asked.

  “That woman,” Flip explained. “She said that Rotney Nash was missing a piece of his head. Said he conceals it under a hat.”

  “So . . .” Tark began, gears turning.

  “So, like I said, Rotney is our man,” Flip continued. “That woman told me Monday isn’t his night to come to the Bucket, and I believe her. Men are creatures of habit. They stick to certain calendar days, or only come out when a girl they like is dancing, or a drink they like is pouring. Rotney’s days are Friday and Saturday, but I don’t want to wait that long. I think we go back to his garage in the pigyards and try to pick him up. I have a lot of questions right now. Foremost, I’m wondering why Ed Nash lied to us. Why he didn’t say it was his own brother who attacked him. But experience has taught me you can’t wait to act until you have all the answers. You’ve got to move when you have the scent. And right now, I have it.”

  Before Tark or Sally could object, Flip turned east down Nineteenth Street at a brisk pace.

  “Welp,” said Sally. “At least I’m wearing the right clothes this time. Though, two baths in a day isn’t a wonder for anybody’s skin.”

  Flip did not respond. The smells they might accumulate over the course of the night were the least of his worries.

  He thought of telling Tark and Sally that they didn’t have to come along; not for this part. That they were not needed-needed, not really. He had always had his greatest successes apprehending criminals when working alone. But Tark spoke before Flip could articulate any of these things.

  “Do you think he was born with it?”

  “Hmm?” Flip called back distractedly.

  “The thing in his head,” Tark clarified as he jogged to keep up with the striding policeman.

  “I don’t know, kid,” Flip said. “You could g
et something like that in an accident, or from being shot in the head just right. More people are shot in the head and live than you’d imagine. Though they are always changed after. It might explain Rotney’s need to drink fermented ramp juice at the direst brothel in Chicago every weekend. To live like he does.”

  “I dunno,” Tark said thoughtfully.

  “You don’t know what?”

  “The fermented ramp didn’t taste half bad. It was different—don’t get me wrong—but I wouldn’t say it was awful. You sure can taste the living plant in it, just like you can taste the berries in gin. I can, anyway.”

  Flip wondered if he should send the magician and the madam home.

  “Well I think he could have been born with it,” Tark continued. “Rotney, I mean. Hey. . . What if they both have it!?”

  “Both?” Flip said, not seeing the idea.

  “Yeah,” said Tark. “And then that would explain why Ed Nash had that hairpiece.”

  Flip.

  Stopped.

  Walking.

  Sally, following close, ran into his back.

  “Ow,” she said. “What are you. . . Flip?”

  The policeman acted as though she were not there at all. He turned his entire attention back to the magician.

  “What did you just say?”

  Tark looked around the empty, filthy streets for anything, anyone to account for why his words had left Flip so astounded.

  “I . . . said that it would explain the hairpiece, is all,” Tark replied. “I was just thinking—’cause they’re identical twins, right?—what if they were both born with a piece missing from their heads.”

  Flip leaned in so close to Tark that he could smell the horrid fermented ramp on his breath.

  “What do you mean, hairpiece?”

  “Oh, it was a fine one,” the magician said. “No doubt there. But it was a hairpiece. My line of work, you get good at spotting fakes. You spot fake eyelashes on women. Fake bosoms or fake figures entirely. And on men? There you spot all manner of fakes. Some men wear girdles. Some men dye their hair. Some wear fake hair altogether. And Ed Nash does, sure as I’m alive. At the time, I only thought he had it ‘cause he was bald. I thought it was a regular wig. But if you had the money—and he probably does, if he runs his own insurance agency—it would be nothing to commission something special. A toupee that has a ball of felt, say, that goes down into your head-hole. Plugs it up so you look normal again. It would probably help the toupee to stay on, too.”