“I would guess that three hundred dollars a month is the reason he doesn’t garage it. Didn’t he try to convince some of the other tenants to trade with him for one of the covered spots?”
“Yes he did, right after he moved in. That would be about a year ago now. I doubt that Jimmy’s negotiation skills are very polished. Since then he’s pissed off nearly everyone in the building.”
“Wait, you didn’t call him Jimmy yesterday did you?” Sonya loved a juicy gossip session and this was no exception.
“No, not Jimmy. I’m saving that one for a special occasion. I did manage to call him Jim during our little talk.” Quinn’s wide grin burst out all over his face.
“You did not! Really? And how did our retired academic react to that?” asked Sonya, leaning in over the white surface of the table.
“Twas a hit, a very palpable hit. Seriously Sonya, I don’t think I’ve ever met a more sanctimonious or self-righteous human being. When he wasn’t getting anywhere with the parking issue, he decided to threaten me about my cigar smoking. Said he was going to call the building management. The bastard.”
“Hi, how are we doing this evening? Do we need to look at some menus or do we know what we want?” Having materialized out of nowhere, the waitperson hovered at the table.
Sonya turned her dazzling smile on the young man, freezing him in place. “We’ll have the wild mushroom pie, extra large, two house salads, both with the vinaigrette, a large bottle of sparking water, and a glass of the darkest driest red that you have.”
“Um, we have a lovely Barolo by the glass,” stammered the waiter, frozen in the beam of Sonya’s smile.
“That will do nicely, thanks.” She disengaged the poor man and turned back to Quinn.
“I’ll be right back with those drinks.” Unmoored, the waiter headed off in the direction of the bar.
“Do you have to do that S? You practically high-beamed that poor kid.”
“At least he managed to dredge up a second pronoun. Okay, c’mon, on with your tale.”
“Yeah, well, it got a little heated, at least on his side of the coin. He threatened to call the management. I enlightened him to the fact that we have a slum lord, not a home owner’s association.”
“So, what, he’s going to call Lewis? Lewis is an old friend of yours. Doesn’t James know that?” Sonya drew out the ‘James’ in an awful British accent.
“I would guess he is clueless about Lewis, but it’s just a guess. He’s a busy little boy, our man James. Complaining is his raison d’ etre.”
“Who cares about his raisin? And your accent is atrocious. So how did this lovely conversation end, if I may ask?”
Quinn dropped his gaze as a sheepish look crossed his face. “He insulted my writing, said he had read my articles and that they were shit. His words. So I offered to have a couple of meth-head friends come up from Felony Flats, steal the Saab, and burn it to the ground. That was pretty much the end of our little talk.”
Sonya burst into peals of laughter just as the waiter appeared. She watched him deposit the drinks, her laughter still ringing across the adjoining tables. The young man disappeared without a word.
Regaining her composure, Sonya took in Quinn’s face. “Well my Darling, subtlety has never been your strong suit. I would have paid five dollars to see the look on his face after that.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t too pretty. That shot at my writing was a clear step over the line.”
“True enough, Q. But you should probably be a bit more circumspect with this guy. He could cause you trouble, deserved or not.” Sonya cast Quinn a serious look.
“You’re right, of course. But you know, looking back on it, I wouldn’t really change a thing I said. That bastard deserved every word. I didn’t get angry and I didn’t shout at him, even though I wanted to. I just told him what was what and left it at that. Anyway, to hell with him.”
“Should I be worried about this Q? Do you still have any friends down in the Flats? You wouldn’t really do anything to his stupid car, would you? I mean, no matter what this asshole says or does, he is not worth getting into any hot water over, right?”
Quinn pondered the air over her head before he answered. “No. Yes, pretty sure. No. You’re right.”
Sonya pushed out an exasperated sigh. “You know I hate it when you do that, right.”
“Oh, sorry, I thought you wanted answers to your multiple questions. Oh, yeah, Girl Talk. Sorry.”
Sonya responded with a clearly threatening look, a look that hit home squarely.
“Jeez, okay, not The Eye. Let’s see. No, there is nothing for you to worry about. Jimmy just needs to bitch to make himself happy. I will try to keep things on an even keel with him if I can. I probably do still have some favors I could call in from a few folks down in The Flats, but I never would. I can’t imagine trying to explain that to Scotty B. And I’d have to, sure as we’re sitting here. No, I would never touch his car, since that would be stupid, not to mention against the law. I’m Joe Good Citizen now, remember? And yes, you are absolutely correct, nothing that asshole says is worth anything, much less any grief for me or you.”
“Thank you for that reassurance. Things are going really well for you Q, you know that, right? I just don’t want you to do anything stupid, no matter how justified it might be.”
“Scouts Honor, gorgeous, nothing to worry about. Damn, the smell of all this pizza is making me ravenous.” Quinn craned his neck looking around for their waiter, but he was nowhere in sight.
“Patience, My Love. Good pie comes to those that wait. Hey, speaking of neighbors, I saw that creepy guy up the street from you, the metal worker guy.”
“You saw Mo? What were you doing at Mo’s?” Quinn forgot the pizza altogether, shooting Sonya a sharp look.
“Easy there my little cave man. I wasn’t at Mo’s, as you put it. I was walking by on a public sidewalk. I had to park the car clear over near 21st. It’s not like parking spots are easy to come by in your neighborhood. Since I was right there, I stopped by that cute little boutique near Irving. You know the one I’m talking about.”
“No My Beauty, I do not know the boutique you’re talking about. There must be at least fifty trendy little shops on 21st and another fifty on 23rd. You can’t throw a rock without hitting one. Anyway, what does that have to do with Mo?”
“I was early for our lovely pizza date, so I thought I might get in a little shopping time. Since I was already parked, there was no sense wasting a good spot, right? I bet by now I’ve spent hours of my life circling your block looking for a place to park. You should be impressed that a girl would go through so much aggravation for a fella such as yourself.” It was Sonya’s turn to smirk.
“Yeah, I know, the northwest can be a real bitch for parking. So, I’m still curious, how does this get you to Mo’s?”
“Walking from shopping to your place got me to Mo’s, silly man. I had to walk right by his shop. Just as I was passing the place, he steps out from that dark hole he works in and reaches up to pull down the rolling door. I was about five steps away from him. It’s not exactly like I could cross the street at that point. So anyway, he just stops what he’s doing and looks at me. Not leering, not smiling, just looking. And he’s not checking me out, if that’s what you’re thinking. He just stops, one hand raised over his head, and he looks me straight in the eye, as if I’m the first person he has ever laid eyes on in his entire life.”
“And then what happened?”
“He said two words: Good Evening. That was it, just Good Evening. He said it in a quiet way, but somehow not quiet, like he was an actor onstage. Sotto Voce, but clear and strong. Then he turned his back on me and started tugging that steel door down, as if I never existed. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but the look he gave me was so intense, and the way he spoke to me was so quiet and polite, the two things just didn’t add up for me, you know?”
“Wow, it sounds like Mo made quite an impression. Should I be worried?”
“No, seriously, it was nothing like that at all. It was as if, for that moment, he focused all of his attention on me and me alone. Like nothing else existed. And just as quickly, he turned the switch off. It wasn’t so much creepy as eerie. I have to admit, he shook me up a little bit.”
“So what did you do?”
“What else could I do? I said Good Evening to his back as I walked by. Using the far side of the sidewalk I might add. I didn’t feel threatened or unsafe, but as I said, it was intense. I made sure not to look back, but it was as if he never gave me a second thought. What do you know about him besides his name?”
“Wow, that’s weird. I’ve never actually met Mo, but I know a little bit about him and his shop. He’s had that place since before Lewis rented me the apartment. I don’t know how long he’s been in that place, but his shop is a fixture in the neighborhood. It’s sort of a throw-back to what it was like before the northwest became trendy. This was a hardscrabble working class neighborhood before all of your cute little boutiques came along. Mo has a reputation as a wizard with metal, an artisan. I know the place doesn’t look like much, but the word is that he is a genius with a cutting torch and a welding machine. He makes one-off pieces for whoever needs them, fancy things for artists and architects. He also deals with bikers and gear-heads. Custom parts for old motorcycles, old cars, that sort of thing. Mo also has a reputation as someone you never want to get on the wrong side of.”
“Wow, okay, I’m not surprised to hear that. And I’m all ears. Tell me what you know.”
“There is a story about Mo and some poor bastards that decided to break into his shop. I’ve heard a few different versions, so I’m not sure how much is true and how much is bullshit. Anyway, the story goes something like this. About ten years ago, not too long after I moved into the neighborhood, a couple of clowns decided that they would rip off the shop. I’m sure Mo has a lot of expensive tools in there and that sort of stuff is easy to unload. It turns out that they weren’t that good at thievery. Mo caught them in the act. There are a lot of versions to the story, that Mo did this or that Mo did that, but everyone pretty much agrees on what happened at the end. Mo calls the cops and tells them that he has apprehended a couple of thieves and would the cops kindly come down and pick them up. Three carloads of Portland’s finest show up armed for bear and ready for trouble. What they find is Mo standing guard over the two miserable rip-off artists. Both of these guys are beaten to a fare-thee-well, and they are trussed up in steel banding straps, almost suffocating.”
“Wait, what are banding straps? How did Mo stop these two guys? What did the cops do?”
“You’re doing it again. Stop that.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Please. Continue.”
“As to how Mo stopped these guys, that explains the reputation. No one knows, but he did it. Banding straps are those thin steel straps that attach things to pallets, like boxes or big crates. The steel bands get wrapped around whatever you want to hold down. Then you use this clamping thing to pull them tight. When the bands are tight, they get dogged off with steel bits that are crimped onto the bands. A real good way to hold a crate together and a very unusual way to subdue someone. And not a fast way either. Mo seems to have gone about his business in a methodical manner. The other thing about the steel bands is that they have sharp edges. The damn things will cut you like a knife. Not the most comfortable way to be tied up.”
“Okay, much respect to Mr. Mo. Wow. So what about the cops?”
“There wasn’t much for them to do. There were the two perps laying on the floor of the shop, trussed up like Christmas geese. They question Mo, but all he’ll tell them is that he owns the shop, he caught these two thieves in the act, and he stopped them. End of his story. When they ask him about the beating that these clowns obviously been subjected to, he shrugs his shoulders and says that they resisted his efforts. Most versions of the story have the cops laughing at this point. So they haul the two bastards away before they suffocate and no one ever breaks into Mo’s shop again. End of story.”
Two plates of carefully arranged greens appeared in front of them as if by magic. “Here are our salads. I see we’re still good on drinks. That pizza should be right out.” The waiter beamed at Sonya and vanished.
Quinn watched the waiter’s back. “I do believe that our guy is fishing for more than a tip,” he quipped. “It’s like I don’t exist.”
“Relax Q. Little hipster boys are not my style. Eat your salad, it’s good for you.” Sonya leered at him as she poked at her plate. “Besides, you might be more his type,” she said, waving the leafy fork at him. “Hey, did you call your editor yet?” Sonya shoved the hovering blob of salad into her mouth.
“Criminy, S, you look like a starving rabbit.” Quinn was often disconcerted by the way Sonya demolished food.
“That rabbit’s dynamite!” she giggled while chomping on radicchio and arugula. “What can I say, I love my food.”
Quinn pushed the leaves around the plate. “Yes, I couldn’t put it off any longer, so this afternoon I had a talk with Gloria, La Editora. And of course I was surprised. I told her about the material Susan has dug up and she was really excited about it, said to follow up on it and get back to her.”
Sonya washed down the greens with a healthy sip of the Barolo. “Damn, that is good. No wine too red or too dry. I bet dust came out of the bottle when they uncorked this one.” She looked over at Quinn. “Sorry.”
“No need to be, you know that. I’m glad you’re enjoying the wine. Anyway, believe it or not, Gloria not only gave me a time extension on the piece, she said she was going to push an expanded article to the chief editor.”
“Quinn, that’s great! I’m so proud of you. And here you thought this was going to be a boring piece of fluff. You did think that, right?”
“I did. Shows how wrong I can be. But it also means I have a lot of work to do on this article. How personal do I make it, how much of my own family history do I put into this, that sort of thing. It’s going to be a bit of a puzzle.”
“And you like puzzles, My Love, so this should make you happy.” Sonya glanced across Quinn’s shoulder at the approaching waiter. “And I do believe you should hurry up with that salad, Q. Here’s our pie.”
Chapter 9
Lewis
Quinn was having trouble with the door to his building. Twelve years clean and Quinn still struggled to deal with the concept of morning. So here he was, eyes bleary and seemingly unable to focus. Had someone been messing with the lock, or was it his key? How do people cope with getting up this early, much less rushing off to work? People like Sonya. Not only could she rise and shine at the crack of dawn, she was able to do it cheerfully, which was doubly annoying. She had kissed him hard and pushed him out of her car, driving off to the shiny downtown tower she worked in. Quinn stood on the sidewalk watching her go, more than a little dazed. “Damn early mornings and damn this stubborn door,” he said aloud. One more attempt and the key connected with the lock. Quinn was inside at last.
He was pressing his second cup of java when he remembered his phone. Sonya had a hard and fast rule about devices and dating. No devices allowed unless they were sex toys. Every other electronic gadget was to be shut off for the duration. If Quinn so much as looked at his phone during a date, Sonya would unleash more than The Eye. Powering the phone up, he ran through the messages that had accumulated. A meeting for tonight, yeah, okay, I’ll call him back. Susan, okay, that can wait. No one calls anyone this early. It wouldn’t be polite. It’s what, not even nine AM yet.
A third message caught Quinn’s eye. Lewis. Why was Lewis calling him? And why at eight forty-five in the PM? Not exactly regular office hours. Of course, one never knew with Lewis. Quinn thumbed the speaker button and hit play. A deep scratchy voice filled the small kitchen.
“Hey Q, Lewis here. Listen, I got a couple of things I want to talk to you about. Tomorrow is a slow day for me. I figured I’d burn a few sticks in the a
fternoon, back of the office, pretend I’m working. Be good if you could drop by, say about two? I’ll have the heater on. See ya then.”
Would have been nice of you to ask if it was a slow day for me. Quinn laughed and pressed a button to silence the phone. Just like the old bastard to assume Quinn would drop everything and show up as requested. No, it’s not like Lewis made an assumption that Quinn would show up. He knew Quinn would show up. The java was working its magic. The second thick cup of Guatemalan medium roast was easing Quinn towards a feeling of benevolence, even at this early hour. “Okay Lewis, you’re on.” Four hours to work on the piece, try to sort the new material. That would be a good day’s work. If he left at one, he could walk down to Goose Hollow, grab a couple of reubens at the Inn, and still be at Lewis’ office before two. That would soften Lewis up. Hell, it might even get the old boy to pry open the lid of that special humidor of his. Carrying the cup of coffee, Quinn headed for the clutter of his tiny office space. He paused at the door of the cave. Breathe in, breathe out. He cleared his mind of everything including his meeting with Lewis. Time to work. He sat down and flipped open his laptop.
A gentle electronic chiming broke into Quinn’s brain. He punched a finger at his phone and the tiny robotic orchestra ceased. Damn, that went quick. How could four hours disappear like that? Well, what have we wrought? He looked over his progress on the article, nodding with satisfaction at the flow of ideas. There was still a good deal of critical balancing to work out. Some of the basic threads needed to be streamlined and clarified, but that was a good sign. Always better to be editing down, rather than trying to fluff a piece up. He could bring this in at five thousand words, a full length feature article. Sure, La Editora would chop at it a bit, but that was okay. Quinn liked working with Gloria and recognized her skills. She was a cooperative editor, willing to listen to the writer’s point of view. While he knew that La Editora was hard as coffin nails when she had to be, the two usually came to a compromise before she had to show the hard side of herself.
Blood Rust Chains Page 6
