Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

“Did you use last night? Up there on the roof, or before? If you did, I need to know about it. Right now. I am not bringing this into my life again, not after what happened with my father.”

  Quinn pushed out a sharp breath. She had not let go of his hand, but he felt her grip tighten.

  “No Sonya, I did not use last night. Nothing. Just me and the rooftop and a cigar. Nothing else.” He felt her grip relax ever so slightly. “For whatever reason, I just can’t remember the last part of last night. But I did not have a drink and I did not use.”

  Quinn watched the firm line of Sonya’s mouth start to quiver. He felt the shaking through her hand. Before he could say a word, she held up her other hand. Quinn bit his words off before they could leave his mouth.

  “Okay. Thank you.” Sonya paused, tried to speak, paused again. “I can go through anything with you, Quinn Boyd. And I will. Anything except another user in my life. One was enough. I love you very, very much. But I won’t go through you using dope. I won’t go through you drinking. You said I would never see you do that, said I would never ever have to experience that. We have a deal, right? You use, I’m gone. No hesitation, no long goodbyes. Gone. Those were your words to me, remember?” Tears were pooling in her almond eyes, breaking Quinn’s heart into a thousand shards.

  “That’s still the deal Sonya, and it still hasn’t happened.” Without another word, she fell forward on top of him, wrapping herself into him. Her dark hair engulfing his head. Sobs broke out of her, wracking her body. Quinn held her tight while hot tears fell onto his face. He held her for a long time, conscious of their precarious balance.

  Chapter 15

  Coffee

  Quinn stopped on the sidewalk. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the opening of the walkway alongside his apartment building. The late morning sun warmed Quinn’s back as he stared past the fluttering plastic tape. The sunlight angled into the narrow space between the buildings, defining a sharp line of shadow just inside the walkway. Beyond the shadow’s edge, he saw a dark stain on the pavement. Quinn shuddered, despite the warmth of the autumn sun. His eyes climbed up the side of the building to the fourth floor balcony. The edge of the balcony hovering above the stained concrete. He turned away and entered the building.

  Inside his apartment, Quinn kicked off his shoes at the door. He slipped the messenger bag off his shoulder, dropped the black hoodie over the arm of the couch, and threw himself down. Stretching out full length, Quinn felt his leg muscles twitching from the long walk. The dark stain on the pavement was fixed in his mind. So much for a sunny morning walk. What did you expect? You thought maybe everything would be washed clean in the light of day? Real life Bucko, real life. Quinn sighed and raised himself upright, swinging his legs to the floor. He slouched back against the cushions.

  Okay, right, real life. But the walk had done him good. Talking Sonya out of calling in sick, they shared a quick breakfast. Quinn even managed a modicum of morning cheerfulness. No, go to work Baby, I’ll make it back on my own. They had walked together to the promenade along the river. After fierce kisses, Sonya let him go, heading north. Quinn watched her disappear into the sunlight and turned west.

  He was in no hurry. Quinn watched the busy Portlandians scurrying off to work. He let his steps carry him to the Park Blocks, seeking some green space amongst the downtown buildings. Just opposite the Portland State campus, he allowed himself two slow americanos to bring the morning into focus.

  The Park Blocks offered a clear wide avenue of grass and trees that bisected the city from south to north, from PSU all the way up to Burnside and beyond. No, he wouldn’t be going that far, not into the Pearl. Quinn wandered the pathways, kicking at the fallen leaves. Reaching the Art Museum, he paused at the fence of the sculpture garden, peering into the open space. He could see his two favorite pieces, the Calder and a gloomy piece by Henry Moore, a mottled bronze shape in the morning shadows. Quinn looked north, shook his head, and turned west, walking towards the rumble of freeway traffic on the 405. By twists and turns through Goose Hollow, he made his way home.

  Sitting on the couch, Quinn wondered what real life had in store for him today. Certainly nothing as weird as yesterday. Yeah, you need to watch those expectations. The words from the old joke echoed in Quinn’s head: Don’t worry Bubbie, it can always get worse. Hey, earth to Quinn, earth to Quinn. Let’s go with less weird, how about that?

  Sonya had been reassuring. Routine questioning, typical for an investigation of a death in the building. Nothing to worry about. Being open with the detective was a good thing, shows you have nothing to hide. Okay, inviting him in for coffee might have been a little much, but you’re not at your best first thing in the morning, are you Quinn? If anyone from the police calls, make careful notes and be mindful before opening your mouth, okay? Good advice on any day, thought Quinn. On the coffee table, Quinn’s phone lit up and chirped at him. Not Sonya’s tone. Who would be texting him at ten-thirty in the AM? Quinn scooped the phone off the table.

  Unknown

  I hear you like coffee. We should talk.

  Vivace. 23rd & Pettygrove

  2 pm

  Quinn stared at the screen. He felt his patience with the universe dissolving into dust. You see? You see? Ask for just a little slice of normal and what happens? Some cryptic text from the unknown. And just how am I supposed to respond to you, you mysterious fuck? Huh? Quinn felt a very strong urge to hurl the phone across the room. Before he could do anything he and his limited bank balance would regret, the phone chirped again.

  Unknown

  Don’t worry I will recognize you

  Burner App. Cool tech, yeah?

  Great, a mysterious smartass. And a mysterious smartass who knew him. Quinn shook his head and tossed the phone onto the table, hoping only for silence. No more, not one more bit of input, okay? Who the hell was texting him? Think, man, how long could the list be? Quinn grabbed up the messenger bag from the floor and rummaged through the mess. Pulling a notebook and pen out of the jumble, he let the bag fall to the floor.

  With his inherent trust for the written word, Quinn began scribbling names into the notebook. Behind each name he scrawled a note.

  Lewis. No way. Never texts - No Games.

  Cops. No. No need for burner phone tricks.

  Sonya. Don’t be an idiot.

  Scotty. Not possible.

  James. Dead.

  Paul H. Yeah, this is getting stupid.

  Quinn tossed the notebook next to the phone and threw the pen after it. The pen bounced off of the table and skittered across the floor. So much for trust in the written word. Unless. A horrible light bulb of thought went off in Quinn’s brain. Unknown. Who remained unknown? No one except whoever had killed James Watson. Assuming someone had killed his neighbor. But why else would the cops be running around the building waking people up? Of course someone had killed the old bastard. So, was this the killer? What the fuck had he gotten himself into? Look, I just went up on the roof to smoke a damn cigar and think, okay? Why the hell is this happening? There was no answer, not from the universe, or the silent apartment.

  Okay Smart Guy, now what? Quinn rolled the thing over in his head. So first things first, to go or not to go, that is the question. Maybe this could lead to some answers. Answers might make this whole horrible nightmare go away. Okay, show up and maybe get some information. That is option number one. Or get killed. Hey-Zeus, Bucko, you’re getting way too dramatic. No one kills people in a hipster coffee bar at two o’clock in the afternoon. Probably not anyway. What was option number two? Go not, Yoda. Right, just don’t go. And then what? Call the hard-ass detective cop and tell him what was going on? No way. No more talking to the cops. That sucked. Still sucked. Yeah, but did it suck as bad as having his body dumped in some backwater slough of the Willamette River? Not so much, no.

  He needed a plan. When this sort of crazy shit happens in a book, the character with the plan survives. All the other bastards without a plan
, they end up at the bottom of the river. Calling Sonya was out of the question. She would freak out and tell him to call the cops. That would be the end of any chance to clear this whole mess up. Ditto Lewis or Scotty B. They would both say the same thing with less freaking out. But what if something bad did happen to him? No one would ever know. Okay, a note, that would work. He would leave a message laying out the details of his plan. Small cold comfort from the inside of a heavily weighted bag at the bottom of the river, Bucko. Yeah, but better than nothing.

  Quinn took up the notebook and turned to a clean sheet. He reached for a pen, cursed, and fished another one from the messenger bag. Switching to the block lettering he used when he needed other people to read what he was writing, Quinn penned a message across the page. When he was satisfied, he placed the open notebook on the coffee table.

  Quinn Boyd

  Friday

  I am going to meet an unknown person based on texts that I have received.

  The meeting is to be at Vivace Coffee on Pettigrove, 2 PM today.

  This may be connected with the death of my neighbor James Watson.

  If anything should happen to me, this may be useful to the Portland Police.

  He looked at the note on the table. Hey Zeus, what are you letting yourself in for? You better come back alive, or Sonya is going to kill you. Okay, do we have a plan? Yeah, such as it is. Eleven o’clock now, three hours to kill and it’s not raining. Quinn pulled on his hoodie, picked a cigar out of his humidor and stepped out onto the balcony. The rasta boys in 402 never complained, and he felt like he was done with the roof for a while.

  Quinn made sure that the security door closed behind him and stepped down to the sidewalk. He thought for a moment and then crossed to the far side of the street. No sense tempting fate. He threw the hoodie over his head and set out west on foot, bound for the heart of the northwest district’s boutique row. As he walked, he glanced across the street. The two-storey cinderblock building that housed Mo’s Metal Works was just ahead in the next block. Taking Lewis’ warning to heart, he stayed on the far side of the street, head down and minding his own. As he came abreast of the grey building, he looked over, despite himself. Flashes of light danced behind the darkened windows of the roll-up shop door. The flash of lights suddenly ceased. Quinn focused on the sidewalk in front of him, walking a little faster. He hadn’t gone ten steps when a high pitched grinding noise spilled out of the shop building. Quinn forced himself to not look back.

  By the time he reached twenty-third, Quinn allowed himself a look over his shoulder. Forget it, we have bigger fish to fry today. He checked his phone. Twenty minutes. Plenty of time. He slowed his pace, strolling north along the shops, bars and eateries that lined the avenue. There was no ethnic food that wasn’t represented here, no item of clothing or jewelry forgotten. As long as a person had plenty of spending money, any item of desire was probably available in one of the many boutiques. Quinn continued along his way.

  The coffee shop was a converted wooden building, one of the surviving two storey family homes that had been the norm in the neighborhood before the wave of gentrification. Quinn stopped on the sidewalk. Above him, the maple trees were sporting their autumn colors. He eyed the wooden stairs leading up to the front door and drew a breath. Steeling himself, he set his foot on the first step and began climbing.

  The warm air met Quinn as he entered the old house. He was enveloped in the smells of the coffeehouse, the pungent aroma of ground beans, the sweetness of crepes on a hot grill, and the steamy scent of heated milk. Turning from the barista station, he scanned the patrons in the first room. There were about twenty people in the place, nineteen of them hunched over laptops or tablets. The exception was a single man sitting at a table looking directly at Quinn. A huge Black man. So much for the mystery, thought Quinn. He walked across the room.

  “Officer Perkins.” Quinn stopped just short of the table.

  “Quinn. Right on time I see.” The man looked up at Quinn with an inscrutable face the size of a cartoon character. Even without his uniform and weapons, Perkins was a formidable sight.

  “Um, yeah.” Quinn was at a loss.

  “Coffee’s over there,” said Perkins, not moving his eyes from Quinn’s. “I’ll be right here.”

  Quinn shrugged and turned back to the barista station. Well, so much for solving the mystery on my own. He realized a strong shot of coffee was a very, very good idea.

  “What can I get started for you?” chirped the young woman behind the counter.

  “Double macchiato please, for here. I’ll be over there if that’s okay,” said Quinn, pointing vaguely towards the huge cop.

  “Sure thing, I’ll bring it over. We’re not busy right now.”

  Quinn thanked her and made his way back across the room. Perkins marked his progress. Quinn seated himself at the table, unsure of what to do with his hands.

  “Thanks for showing up. I think we need to have a talk.” Quinn watched the man’s huge hand reach for a demitasse on the table. Grasping it delicately between one finger and a thumb, the man lifted the diminutive cup to his lips. Quinn could not help but stare.

  Perkins set the tiny cup down in its saucer. “First off, no quips about my tiny cup of coffee, hear?”

  Quinn struggled to regain a shred of his composure. “Wouldn’t think of it Officer Perkins.”

  “Stan. This is a very, very unofficial chat. I want to stress that. Unofficial.” Perkins folded his enormous hands on the table.

  “Excuse me, your name is Stanley Perkins?” Quinn was having difficulty finding a starting point for this conversation.

  A massive smile illuminated Officer Perkins’ face. “Yes, Stanley Perkins. Hell of a name for a Black man. Stan will do.”

  “And the texts, um, Stan?” This was a lot to take in, but Quinn needed answers, even if the weirdness factor was off the charts.

  “Like I said, unofficial. I can’t have texts of mine traced to your phone, you understand me?” The smile was gone. “Now, Quinn, do you mind telling me why I had to spend an extra hour before my last shift talking to two detectives?”

  Three conversations with the cops in four days. This had to be a new record for Quinn. And now one of them was pissed at him. The good one, he had managed to piss off the Good Cop. Holy cripes, his shit was weak.

  “Uh, yeah. I’m guessing that this had something to do with my neighbor Mr. Watson.”

  “You would guess correctly. Quinn, I don’t like talking to detectives. They work in their world and I work in my world. Do you understand me?”

  Quinn nodded his head. Where in the hell was this going. He was granted a momentary reprieve when the barista arrived with his macchiato.

  “Here you go, enjoy.” She sauntered back to barista land.

  Perkins nodded. “Good choice.”

  Quinn looked down at the shot of espresso atop which stood a delicate dollop of milk-foam steamed to perfection. The crema of the espresso was swirled into the foam in a just-so pattern. “Yeah, this is one of the few places where I trust the baristas.”

  “So how long have you been clean Quinn?” The question landed on the table with an almost perceptible thud.

  Quinn was startled. It was a question that was generally asked only by new guys, guys who would soon know better if they stuck around the meetings long enough.

  “Just over twelve years. Stan.” There was a note of anger in Quinn’s voice.

  “Sorry to have to ask, but I want to make sure you’re not some ninety-day guy.”

  “Because if I was…” Quinn let the question trail off.

  “Because if you were,” answered the big man, “I would throw off the rest of this fine shot and leave you to whatever troubles are coming your way. Since that is not the case, we talk a little more. But we never had this conversation, correct?”

  “I think you’ve been clear on that point,” said Quinn, reaching for his cup. Okay, steady on lad! He asked the obvious. “Does that same underst
anding apply to me?”

  The big man smiled. “Yes it does Quinn. Anything said here would be hearsay anyway. Not admissible in a court, you understand. Besides, I would be in deeper shit than you can imagine. Hence the burner phone number.” Perkins straightened back in his chair and held out two fingers. “Okay. Two points. First, I know that you had nothing to do with your neighbor’s car because I checked up on your alibi. I know alibi sounds a bit harsh, but whatever.”

  “You checked up on me, what, with someone at my meeting?” Quinn was all ears.

  “I know who I know. Let’s leave it at that. Second point. This same neighbor is dead and our Detective Barnes, a good man by the way, is eyeballing you. So he comes to me, looking for answers. Now I’m in this thing up to my neck and I am none too pleased about it. That leads us to the obvious question. Can you tell me that you followed my advice and steered wide of your neighbor, Mr. Very-dead Watson?”

  “I can tell you that I took your advice to heart and followed it to the letter.”

  “Which leaves me with one disturbing piece of news from the detectives. They say you were vague with them about the timing of your comings and goings on Thursday night. Would you care to enlighten me?” Perkins folded his hands back onto the table and looked Quinn in the eye.

  Quinn came to a decision. “Why are you doing this? I’m guessing you’re breaking about a hundred rules by even talking to me. Before we go any further, I need to know why.”

  Perkins smiled again. “A very astute question Quinn. Okay, cards on the table. Then you can decide if this conversation goes any further. The man that named me Stanley, his name was Stanley. He let that bottle cut him down in his prime. I had a brother, his name was Herbert.” He caught Quinn’s look and paused. “Yeah, my father, he had a thing for names, what can I say?” The man raised the tiny cup to his mouth and threw off the rest of the contents. “They do pull a fine shot here, don’t they?”