by Kathy Reichs
She shrugged and blew a puff of air, then turned and resumed her slow pelvic swing. I fell in beside her.
“You still looking for your friend, chère?”
“Actually, I was hoping to find you. I didn’t expect you this late.”
“Kindergarten’s still open, sugar. Gotta do business to stay in business.”
“True.”
We walked a few steps in silence, my sneakers echoing her metallic clip.
“I’ve given up on finding Gabby. I don’t think she wants to be found. She came to see me about a week ago, then took off again. I guess she’ll turn up when she turns up.”
I looked for a reaction. Jewel shrugged, said nothing. Her lacquered hair moved in and out of shadow as we walked. Here and there a neon sign blinked off as the last of the taverns closed their doors, sealing in the smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke for another night.
“Actually, I’d like to talk to Julie.”
Jewel stopped walking and turned to me. Her face look tired, as though emptied by the night. The life. She pulled a pack of Players from the V in her halter, lit one, blew the smoke upward.
“Maybe you should go on home, cutie.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re still chasing killers, aren’t you, chère?”
Jewel Tambeaux was no fool.
“I believe there’s one out there, Jewel.”
“And you think it’s this cowboy Julie plays with?”
“I’d sure like to talk to him.”
She took a pull on her cigarette, tapped it with a long red nail, then watched the sparks float to the pavement.
“I told you last time, he’s got the brains of a liverwurst sandwich and the personality of roadkill, but I doubt he’s killed anybody.”
“Do you know who he is?” I asked.
“No. These morons are about as scarce as pigeon shit. I pay them about as much mind.”
“You said this guy could be bad news.”
“There really isn’t much good news down here, sugar.”
“Has he been around lately?”
She considered me, then something else, turning inward to an image or remembered thought at which I could only guess. Some other bad news.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him.”
I waited. She drew on her cigarette, watched a car move slowly up the street.
“Haven’t seen Julie.”
She took another pull, closed her eyes and held the smoke, then sent it upward into the night.
“Or your friend Gabby.”
An offering. Should I push?
“Do you think I could find him?”
“Frankly, sugar, I don’t think you could find your own butt without a map.”
Nice to be respected.
Jewel took one last drag, flipped the butt, and ground it with her shoe.
“Come on, Margaret Mead. Let’s bag us some roadkill.”
JEWEL WALKED WITH PURPOSE NOW, HER HEELS CLICKING A RAPID tattoo on the pavement. I wasn’t sure where she was taking me, but it had to beat my cement perch.
We went east two blocks, then left Ste. Catherine and cut across an open lot. Jewel’s apricot sculpture moved smoothly through the dark while I stumbled behind, threading my way through chunks of asphalt, aluminum cans, broken glass, and dead vegetation. How could she do that in stilettos?
We emerged on the far side, turned down an alley, and entered a low wooden building with no sign to indicate its calling. The windows were painted black and strings of Christmas lights provided the only illumination, giving the interior the reddish glow of a nocturnal animal exhibit. I wondered if that was the intent. Rouse the occupants to late night action?
Discreetly, I glanced about. My eyes needed little adjustment, since the amount of light inside differed only slightly from that outdoors. Staying with the Christmas theme, the decorator had gone with cardboard pine for the walls and cracked red vinyl for the stools, accessorizing with beer ads. Dark wooden booths lined one wall, cases of beer were stacked against another. Though the bar was almost empty, the air was heavy with the smell of cigarette smoke, cheap booze, vomit, sweat, and reefer. My cement block began to hold more appeal.
Jewel and the bartender exchanged nods. He had skin the color of day-old coffee and heavy brows. From under them, he tracked our movement.
Jewel walked slowly through the bar, checking each face with seeming disinterest. An old man called to her from a corner stool, waving a beer and gesturing to her to join him. She blew a kiss. He gave her the finger.
As we passed the first booth a hand reached out and grasped Jewel’s wrist. With her other hand, she uncurled the fingers and laid the hand back in front of its owner.
“Playpen’s closed, sugar.”
I shoved my hands into my pockets and kept my eyes on Jewel’s back.
At the third booth Jewel stopped, folded her arms, and shook her head slowly.
“Mon Dieu,” she said, clicking her tongue against her upper teeth.
The booth’s single occupant sat staring into a glass of watery brown liquid, elbows on the table, cheeks propped on curled fists. All I could see was the top of a head. Greasy brown hair divided unevenly along the crown and hung limply to either side of the face. White flecks littered the area of the part.
“Julie,” said Jewel.
The face did not look up.
Jewel clicked again, then slid into the booth. I followed, grateful for the meager cover. The tabletop was slick with something I didn’t want to identify. Jewel leaned an elbow on its edge, jerked back with a wiping gesture. She dug out a cigarette, lit it, blew the smoke in an upward jet.
“Julie.” Sharper.
Julie caught her breath and raised her chin.
“Julie?” The girl repeated her own name, sounding as if she’d been roused from sleep.
My heart slipped in an extra beat and my teeth grabbed for my lower lip.
Oh, God.
I was looking at a face that had lived no more than fifteen years. Its color could be described only in shades of gray. The pallid skin, the cracked lips, the vacant, recessed eyes with their somber underlining looked like those of someone long deprived of sunlight.
Julie stared at us without expression, as if our images were slow in forming in her brain, or recognition a complex exercise. Then.
“Can I have one, Jewel?” English. She reached a trembling hand across the table. The inside of her elbow looked purple in the room’s muted glow. Slender gray worms crawled across the veins on her inner wrist.
Jewel lit a Player and handed it to her. Julie pulled the smoke deep into her lungs, held it, then blew it upward in a Jewel pantomime.
“Yeah. Oh yeah,” she said. A tiny scrap of cigarette paper stuck to her lower lip.
She drew again, eyes closed, completely absorbed by the smoking ritual. We waited. Double tasking was not within Julie’s capacity.
Jewel looked at me, eyes unreadable. I let her lead.
“Julie, darlin’, you been workin’?”
“Some.” The girl sucked another long drag, blew two streams of smoke from her nose. We watched them dissolve, silvery clouds in the reddish light.
Jewel and I were silent while Julie smoked. She didn’t seem to question our being there. I doubted she questioned much of anything.
After a while she finished, stubbed out the butt, and looked at us. She seemed to consider what benefit our presence might hold.
“I haven’t eaten today,” she said. Like her eyes, her voice was flat and empty.
I glanced at Jewel. She shrugged and reached for another cigarette. I looked around. No menus. No blackboards.
“They got burgers.”
“Would you like one?” How much cash did I bring?
“Banco does them.”
“Okay.”
She leaned from the booth and called to the bartender.
“Banco. Can I get a burger? With cheese?” She sounded six years old.
“You’ve got a ta
b, Jules.”
“I’ll get it,” I said, sticking my head out of the booth.
Banco was leaning against the bar sink, arms folded across his chest. They looked like baobab branches.
“One?” He pushed off.
I looked at Jewel. She shook her head.
“One.”
I turned back to the booth. Julie had slumped into the corner, her drink held loosely in two hands. Her jaw hung slack, leaving her mouth partially open. The paper still rode her lower lip. I wanted to pick it off, but she seemed unaware. A microwave beeped, then hummed. Jewel smoked.
Shortly, the microwave gave four beeps, and Banco appeared with the burger, steaming in its plastic wrapper. He placed it in front of Julie and looked from Jewel to me. I ordered club soda. Jewel shook her head.
Julie tore the cellophane, then lifted the top to inspect the contents of the bun. Satisfied, she took a bite. When Banco brought my drink, I stole a peek at my watch. Three-twenty. I began to think Jewel would never speak again.
“Where you been workin’, sugar?”
“Nowheres special.” Through a mouthful of bun and burger.
“Haven’t seen you lately.”
“I was sick.”
“You feelin’ better now?”
“Mm.”
“Working the Main?”
“Some.”
“You still doing that little creep with the nightie?” Casual.
“Who?” She ran her tongue around the edge of the burger, like a child with an ice cream cone.
“Guy with the knife.”
“Knife?” Absently.
“You know, chère, little man likes to stroke his tallywacker while you model his mama’s sleepwear?”
Julie’s chewing slowed then stopped, but she didn’t answer. Her face looked like putty, smooth, gray, and without expression.
Jewel’s nails clicked against the tabletop. “Come on, sugar, let’s turn it up a notch. You know who I’m talking about?”
Julie swallowed, glanced up, then returned her attention to the burger.
“What about him?” She took a bite.
“Just wonderin’ if he’s still around.”
“Who’s she?” Garbled.
“Tempe Brennan. She’s a friend of Dr. Macaulay. You know her, don’t you, chère?”
“Something wrong with this guy, Jewel? He got the gon or AIDS or something? Why you asking about him?”
It was like interrogating a magic eight ball. If answers floated up at all they were random, not tied to specific questions.
“No, honey, I just wondered if he’s still comin’ around.”
Julie’s eyes met mine. They looked uninhabited.
“You work with her?” she asked me, her chin glistening with grease.
“Something like that,” Jewel answered for me. “She’d like to talk to this nightie guy.”
“’Bout what?”
“Usual stuff,” said Jewel.
“She a deaf-mute or something? Why can’t she talk for herself?”
I started to speak, but Jewel wagged me silent.
Julie didn’t seem to expect an answer. She finished the last of the burger and licked her fingers, one by one. Finally.
“What’s with this guy? Jesus, he was talking about her, too.”
Fear surged through every nerve in my body.
“Talking about who?” I blurted.
Julie regarded me, jaw slack, mouth half open as before. When not speaking or eating she seemed unable, or unwilling, to maintain its closure. I could see specks of food in her lower teeth.
“Why do you want to turn this guy?” she asked.
“Turn him?”
“He’s the only steady bang I’ve got.”
“She’s not interested in turning anybody, she’d just like to talk to him.” Jewel.
Julie sipped her drink. I tried again.
“What did you mean, ‘he was talking about her, too’? Who was he talking about, Julie?” A look of bewilderment crossed her face, as if she’d already forgotten her words.
“Who was your regular talking about, Julie?” Jewel’s voice was growing weary.
“You know, the old lady that hangs around, kinda butchy, with the nose ring and the weird hair?” She tucked one of her own lank strands behind an ear. “She’s nice, though. She bought me doughnuts a couple of times. Isn’t that who you’re talking about?”
I ignored Jewel’s warning squint.
“What was he saying about her?”
“He was pissed off at her or something. I don’t know. I don’t listen to what a trick says. I just fuck ’em and keep my ears and my mouth shut. It’s healthier.”
“But this guy’s a regular.”
“Kinda.”
“Any particular times?” I couldn’t help myself. Jewel gave me an “Okay, you’re on your own” gesture.
“What is this, Jewel? Why’s she asking me all this?” Again, she sounded like a child.
“Tempe wants to talk to him. That’s all.”
“I can really do without this guy getting busted. He’s a creep, but it’s regular money, and I need it real bad.”
“I know, sugar.”
Julie swirled the last of her drink then tossed it back. Her eyes avoided mine.
“And I’m not going to quit doing him. I don’t care what anybody says. So he’s weird, so what, it’s not like he’s going to kill me or nothing. Hell, I don’t even have to fuck him. And what else would I do with my Thursdays? Take a class? Go to the opera? If I don’t do him some other whore will.”
It was the first emotion she’d shown, the adolescent bravado a contrast to her previous listlessness. I ached for her. But I feared for Gabby, and wouldn’t let up.
“Have you seen Gabby lately?” I tried to sound softer.
“What?”
“Dr. Macaulay. Have you seen her recently?”
The lines between her eyes deepened, reminding me of Margot, though the shepherd probably had better short-term memory.
“The old lady with the nose ring,” said Jewel, emphasizing the age indicator.
“Oh.” Julie closed her mouth, then let it drop back open. “No. I’ve been sick.”
Stay cool, Brennan. You almost have enough.
“Are you better now?” I asked.
She shrugged.
“Will you be okay?”
She nodded.
“Do you want anything else?”
She shook her head.
“Do you live close?” I hated using her like this, but I wanted a bit more.
“At Marcella’s. You know, Jewel, over on St. Dominique? A lot of us crash there.” She refused to look at me.
Yes. I had what I needed. Or would, very soon.
The burger and the booze and whatever else she’d taken were having their effect on Julie. The bravado ebbed, the apathy returned. She slumped in the corner of the booth, eyes staring out like the darkened circles on a gray-faced mime. She closed them and took a deep breath, swelling her bony chest inside its cotton tank. She looked exhausted.
Suddenly the Christmas glow was gone. Fluorescent brightness filled the bar and Banco was bellowing its imminent closing. The few remaining patrons moved toward the door, grumbling their dissatisfaction. Jewel tucked her Players into her halter and indicated we should follow. I checked my watch—4 A.M. I looked across at Julie and the guilt I’d been beating back all night surged up with full force.
In the unforgiving light Julie looked like a near cadaver, like someone slowly shuffling toward death. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and hold her for a moment. I wanted to take her home to Beaconsfield, or Dorval, or North Hatley, where she would eat fast food and go to the prom and order jeans from the Lands’ End catalog. But I knew it would not happen. I knew Julie would be a statistic, and, sooner or later, she would be in the basement at Parthenais.
I paid the bill and we left the bar. The early morning air was moist and cool and carried the scents of river and
brewery.
“Good night, ladies,” said Jewel. “Don’t y’all go out dancing now.”
She wiggled her fingers, turned, and clicked rapidly up the alley. Without a word, Julie departed in the opposite direction. The vision of home and bed pulled like a magnet, but there was one more bit of information I had to have.
I hung back and watched Julie scurry up the alley, assuming she’d be easy to follow. Wrong. When I looked up the alley, she was already disappearing around the next corner, and I had to race to catch up.
She took a zigzag path, cutting through lots and alleys to reach a run-down three-flat on St. Dominique, where she mounted the stairs, fumbled for a key, and disappeared through a peeling green door. I watched the tattered door curtain sway, then settle, barely disturbed by her indifferent slam. I noted the number.
Okay, Brennan. Bedtime. I was home in twenty minutes.
Under the covers, with Birdie at my knee, I formed a plan. It was easy to decide what not to do. Don’t call Ryan. Don’t spook Julie. Don’t tip the little cretin with the knife and nightie act. Find out if it’s St. Jacques. Find out where he lives. Or where his current hidey-hole is. Get something concrete. Then bring in the clod squad. You are here, boys. Bust this place.
It sounded so simple.
I DRAGGED THROUGH WEDNESDAY IN A FOG OF EXHAUSTION. I HADN’T intended to go to the lab but LaManche called, needing a report. Once there, I decided to stay. I sorted through old cases, sluggish and irritable, clearing those that Denis could discard. It’s a task I hate, and one I’d been putting off for months. I lasted until 4 P.M. Once home I ate an early supper, took a long bath, and was under the covers by 8 o’clock.
When I woke on Thursday, sunlight was streaming into the bedroom, and I knew it was late. I stretched, rolled, and looked at the clock. Ten twenty-five. Good. I’d recouped some lost sleep. Phase One of the Plan. I had no intention of going to work.
I took my time getting up, running through a checklist of what I intended to do. From the moment I’d opened my eyes I felt charged, like a runner on marathon day. I wanted to set a pace. Control, Brennan. Run a smart race.
I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and read the Gazette. Thousands fleeing the war in Rwanda. Parizeau’s Parti Québecois ten points ahead of Premier Johnson’s Liberals. The Expos out of first place in the NL East. Laborers working during the annual construction holiday. No kidding. I never could understand the genius who thought that one up. In a country with four or five months of good weather for building, construction stops for two weeks in July while the workers go on holiday. Brilliant.
