by Merry Jones
Actually, the Loot looked pretty messed-up. Her clothes were muddy and her hair was all clumped. But she was so into the bike guy she was with that she walked right past Larry, didn’t even notice him sitting just a couple of booths away. The babe in the corner didn’t seem to notice him, either. Just as well. He didn’t need anyone to remember him being there, not if he was going to get his hands on those numbers. Damn Graham. Couldn’t he at least have handed them over before he took a leap?
Larry glanced at the Loot’s back, wondering if she’d found them, if she had even a clue what they were, if there was a way to get the bag from her. Shit. Shit shit shit. He reached in his pocket, took another pill from an almost empty vial, popped it into his mouth, felt his anger building. The chick, meantime, was annoying him. She was the kind who knew she was hot, wearing tiny cut-offs and fancy jeweled flip-flops, leaving her long legs bare. Flaunting that damned tattoo. She was playing him, telling guys like him: Look at me, want me, but don’t even think about getting close.
He was, though, thinking about doing exactly that. Getting close enough to bite off her little mole. The idea tickled him, and he was picturing it when the waitress came by, changing the other chick’s entire future.
See, there was something about waitresses. He’d studied them, had become an unofficial expert, and he’d discovered that waitresses were like spiders, luring you into their fine, almost invisible traps. Supposedly, they were there to take care of you and bring you food, but really they were trying to entice you so you’d give them your money. They teased, wagging their hips, batting their eyelashes, pretending to be your friend. Until they got what they wanted.
‘Hi, I’m Chelsea,’ this one announced. ‘I’ll be your server.’
His server? He smiled, imagining it. Indeed, Chelsea, you will be my server, but not yet. Asking, ‘What would you like?’ with her eyes opened all round and innocent, as if she had no idea what he would like, even though she wore a tight black skirt with a shirt unbuttoned to her cleavage. She did it on purpose, using her tits to tease him so she’d get a big tip. Well, the teasing worked. He had a big tip, and he’d give it to her. But not now.
Now, he ordered a root beer float and took one more pill while he watched her waltz from booth to booth in her black leather sneakers. Her hair was the color of straw, and she had it pulled back off her face, maybe trying to keep cool. But forget being cool. This one generated steam, enough to power a factory. The idea amused him; he chuckled out loud as she put the float in front of him.
‘Anything else, sir?’
See how she was messing with him? Calling him ‘sir’. As if she were the cat and he the mouse, not the other way around. Her eyes were blue, her lashes blonde, almost white, so they glistened. Her lipstick was faint, almost worn off, and when her mouth moved, he could see the tiniest chip on her front tooth. She stood beside him, and he wanted her to stay there, so he pretended to be thinking about her question, but really he was smelling her, inhaling her. He took in a breath, analyzing it. What was in her scent? Something powdery. And vanilla? He shut his eyes briefly, concentrating, penetrating the superficial aroma, seeking her underlying, genuine scents. Finding them. Yes, there they were – dark, musky, sweaty – the smell of tired skin bound up in tight, confining clothes, of hot and aching feet snug inside black leather. Of private places, simmering, festering, never exposed to light.
Clearing his throat, stalling, he snuck a peak at her chest; it was right there at eye level, and he saw a swelling of flesh, a tiny edge of beige lace. Freckles. But he couldn’t linger there, didn’t want her to notice him yet. So quickly, deftly, he moved his eyes to her hands. She had long nails, probably fake, painted dark, decorated with rhinestones. Seriously? Rhinestones?
She was so close.
‘So, you’re all set?’ She was taunting him.
Again, he cleared his throat, counting the gold rings on each of her fingers, even her thumbs, rings spattered with small colored stones that sparkled when her hands moved, flashing red, yellow, blue, purple, as she waited for him to answer.
She was, after all, his server.
Stop, he told himself. Be cool. He wanted to take her right then, but instead he raised his glass and took a long suck on his straw, reminding himself to stay invisible. Not to draw attention. So he gave her a casual, forgettable smile. ‘Yup, Chelsea. That’ll do it.’
‘Thanks.’ She scribbled on her notepad, ripped the page off and dropped his check on to his table. ‘Have a great day now.’ With that, she pivoted, showing him her backside, working it just a little as she approached a guy in the booth behind his teacher and the bike man. Seeing them made him think of his predicament. The problem of getting Graham’s bag. Damn. He had to make a plan, had to get out of here and think. Teacher’s back was to him; no chance she’d look his way. Time to move.
‘Hi, I’m Chelsea,’ he heard as he stood and moved behind her, unable to resist brushing her body lightly as he passed, feeling her heat, inhaling a final deep breath of her. ‘What can I get you?’
Her body swayed slightly, sensing him, moving in response. Excellent. He lowered his head, walking swiftly, pretending he wasn’t there. On the way to the cashier, he passed the dark babe in the corner and slowed, grabbing one final gander at her legs. Her skin was tawny, but by no means as tantalizing as Chelsea’s. No contest. He’d made his choice.
Her smell was still in his nostrils as he left the coffee shop and walked across the lobby, invisible, blending in, waiting. Planning all the stuff he had to do.
Half an hour later, Harper sat at her desk in the cramped, tiny office she’d been assigned for the summer. Olive Tjaden Hall was on the corner of the Arts Quad; her small window on the top floor provided a skinny view of the hills, the edge of town and a sliver of Lake Cayuga. She gazed at the thin slice of calm water, thinking positive thoughts, imagining being out there, sailing away from suicide, narcolepsy, flashbacks and blistering heat. But she wasn’t out there. She was here on the blistering fourth floor, and she had email to answer and a eulogy to prepare. Christ. A eulogy? Here? This wasn’t a war zone. Kids weren’t supposed to die in Ithaca.
Email was easier, so Harper started with that. Her adviser, Professor Schmerling, had written from Peru; he and the research team still regretted that she’d been unable to join them on the dig. He hoped her husband was recovering and that she could accompany him next time. Photographs and notes related to her dissertation were attached.
Lord. Her doctoral thesis? Was he serious? How was she supposed to do a dissertation? Dr Schmerling, the dig – her career plans – everything seemed out of reach. Harper closed her eyes, felt the rush of air from her office fan. Saw Graham’s eyes locked on to hers as he hung from the ledge. Would that image ever fade? Would her flashbacks ever stop? Would life ever feel normal again?
Actually, for a little while that day, it had. In the coffee shop with Dr Kendall – Ron. Sitting in the booth having coffee, talking, tasting each other’s pie, she’d felt almost normal. Like part of a couple. Harper felt a pang, missing Hank. She pictured him puttering in the kitchen, grinding beans for coffee so strong it had blasted her out of the house, made her talk fast and tremble for hours. Now, without it, she drank chai. Man, that had been good coffee.
But, today, coffee had been with someone else. Ron had been easy to talk to. Not just about Anna’s narcolepsy or the pills in Graham’s bag, but about anything –careers, sports, education. Good Lord, she’d even talked about her father. The only topic they hadn’t touched on, actually, was the most obvious one, the one that linked them.
Well, of course they hadn’t. They hadn’t mentioned Hank because they had already discussed him a thousand times. It wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong. She’d had a piece of pie; that was all. OK, not all. She’d had whipped cream on top. But whipped cream wasn’t the issue. The issue was that, for almost an hour, she hadn’t had to struggle to be thankful or positive; she’d simply enjoyed herself. Was that so wr
ong?
No. Except enjoying herself wasn’t the issue, either. The real issue was neither food nor fun; it was that she’d had both with a man. A man who wasn’t Hank.
Ron wasn’t even close to being Hank, didn’t remotely resemble him. Yet, when he spoke, Ron’s easy words underlined Hank’s inability to speak. The lightness of his eyes brought to mind the darkness of Hank’s, and his elegant, smooth hands emphasized the roughness of Hank’s hairier, calloused ones. Everything about Ron was un-Hank-like, and his presence across the table from Harper screamed of Hank’s absence. Sitting with him, chatting and eating pie, Harper had fought the heart-wrenching sense that she was glimpsing her future: going places Hank couldn’t, doing things he couldn’t. Without him.
Harper drew a breath. She needed to write a eulogy. To think about Graham’s loss, its affect on her students. Anna, apparently, was OK; she’d awakened, been checked out and left the clinic before Harper had finally looked in on her. But what about the others? What should she say to them? Maybe she should consult Dr Michaels, the 101 lecturer. But, to him, Graham had been just one of a hundred students. He hadn’t even known his name.
No, never mind Dr Michaels. She was on her own. She needed an opening sentence: Graham’s life was . . . She searched for a metaphor. A glimmer of light? A breeze? A brief but gentle touch. She thought of Ron’s hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the coffee shop. No, Graham’s life wasn’t like that. It was like something else – a tease, a riddle . . .
‘Loot? You in there?’ Someone knocked at the door. ‘Loot? It’s Larry.’
Larry? Good. Poor kid, seeing his room-mate kill himself. He probably wanted to talk. She hurried to the door. ‘Larry. Come in.’
Larry didn’t. He stood in the doorway, cracking his knuckles. The heat of the day hadn’t improved his scent; sweat stained his T-shirt.
‘Are you OK?’
He shrugged, eyes averted. ‘Yeah. It’s . . . weird.’
Harper agreed. Yes, it was.
He stood silent and awkward, looking past her into her tiny office.
‘Come sit down.’
He stepped inside but didn’t sit. His gaze darted around the room, scanning the shelves, her desk. ‘I saw you before, coming in. I almost didn’t come up, though.’ He fidgeted, had a nervous twitch in his cheek.
‘I’m glad you did. It might help to talk—’
‘Oh. No, I don’t want to talk. What’s the point?’ He paused, eyes darting. ‘Actually, I came up because I saw you carrying Graham’s book bag. Is it here?’
Yes, it was. Under her desk, ready to go to the police. But she didn’t tell Larry that. Instead, she said, ‘Why?’
Larry looked away. ‘He was my room-mate.’ As if that answered it. ‘Do you have it?’ He tried to sound casual. Failed.
‘It’s right here.’ Harper reached under her desk, pulled the bag out.
‘Oh, good – I have some stuff in there.’ He eyed it, one hand a fist at his hip, the other against his flat belly. ‘Can I look inside?’
‘What stuff?’ A gun maybe? Or money?
‘Just stuff.’ Larry stared at the bag. ‘Actually, some money.’
‘Money?’
‘Yeah. Graham owed me for rent.’ He met her eyes. ‘Is it in there?’
‘What’s going on, Larry?’
‘What? Nothing.’ Larry watched her with unblinking, innocent eyes. ‘He said he’d stop at the bank and bring it to class.’
‘How much did he owe you?’
Larry rolled his eyes. ‘Like, six hundred thirty.’
Bingo. The amount matched. Graham must have been carrying his rent money. Otherwise, how would Larry have known how much was there?
‘What am I supposed to do, Loot? The rent’s due, and I need his share.’ He blinked at her with large, pleading eyes.
Harper studied Larry. Neither handsome nor homely, he was average in height, light in weight. A wiry, dark-haired, Brooklyn-raised kid with mild acne and eyes so sad they tore your heart. She glanced at the clock. Almost time to meet Detective Rivers.
‘Problem is, Larry, I can’t help you. I don’t have the right to disperse Graham’s possessions—’
‘But Loot. The money was mine—’
‘If you want something from the bag, you’ll need to talk to the police. Meantime, talk to your landlords. With Graham’s death, I’m sure they’ll give you a break.’
Larry crossed his arms and gazed resolutely at the bag.
‘Is there something else?’
‘Not really.’ Still, he lingered, didn’t leave.
Poor kid, Harper thought. She should encourage him to talk about what happened. Maybe he had an idea about why Graham killed himself. Or why he was taking those pills.
‘Larry, was Graham healthy?’
‘Yeah, I guess. Why?’
‘Was he taking any medication?’
‘Medication?’ Larry chewed his lip. Stalling? ‘Well, just for work.’
‘Work?’
‘He worked on a drug trial at Cayuga. The Neuro Bureau. You get paid to test drugs. You take some pills, give some blood. Fill out some questionnaires. Graham and I are – were – subjects there. That’s how I met him.’
‘So you take the drugs, too?’
‘For the trials. Sure. Lots of us do. It’s easy money.’ He scratched his head, dark eyes wavering. ‘Loot. Here’s the deal. Graham was our section leader. He kept all the pills and gave us our weekly doses. So it’s not just the rent – I’m looking for the pills, too.’
Larry cracked his knuckles again. Loudly. Shifted his weight. Couldn’t stay still. Harper wondered if the experimental drugs were addictive. If Larry needed a fix. But that was ridiculous; the Center wouldn’t run drug trials that created addicts.
‘So, did you find any pills in his bag? Or a record of where he kept them?’ Larry’s sorrowful eyes tugged at her. ‘Because I’ve looked everywhere. You know, for the subjects in our group. So, we can continue to work. Did you—’
‘Sorry. No.’
He glanced at the bag. ‘Can you look again?’
‘I need to leave everything as it is, Larry. For the police.’
‘But you’ve already looked inside. What harm would it do?’
‘Sorry.’ Why was he so insistent?
‘Man, Loot—’ Larry ran a hand through his hair, stifling a curse.
‘Look, I’m sure the Center will replace the pills. What study were you involved in?’
Larry’s face went blank. ‘Oh. They don’t tell you. You’re just divided into groups.’
‘But you must have some identifying code numbers or something.’
‘I don’t know. I was in Graham’s group. That’s all I know. Graham was in charge of it.’ Larry’s weight moved from leg to leg, an edgy dance.
‘Researchers keep records, Larry. They’ll know what study Graham was working on and they’ll decide how to proceed.’
Larry stiffened. ‘Right. So . . . I’ll just talk to them.’
‘I think that’s best.’ Then she added, ‘And also to the police.’
‘The police?’ His head cocked. ‘Why the police?’
Harper paused. ‘About your rent money?’
‘Right.’
‘And about the drugs Graham was taking when he died.’
‘The drugs?’ Larry popped his knuckles. ‘Why? Wait. You think they had something to do—’
‘No, of course not.’ Damn. Why had she mentioned it? Rumors could get started – exactly what Ron was trying to avoid. ‘But the Center will want to make sure—’
‘No way. Loot, if those pills caused suicide, Graham wouldn’t be the only one. Everyone in the our group would be jumping out windows.’
Larry had a point. ‘Who else was in your group?’
‘Like forty of us. Esoso. His room-mate. Monique and me. Graham. I don’t know all the other names. But nobody’s dead except Graham. We went to pick up our paychecks today, and everyone was still br
eathing.’
That was reassuring.
‘So, you’re sure you won’t give me my rent money?’
Harper narrowed her eyes. ‘Larry—’
‘OK. I’ll ask the police.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, wait –’ he ran his hand through his hair – ‘Did you find a list of numbers?’
A list of numbers? Yes, Harper had seen a piece of paper with numbers written on it. It had fallen off Graham’s desk.
‘I mean, it’s no big deal. But Graham – he borrowed my study sheet. For Economics. It’s just a list of pages to study. Was it in his bag?’ Larry waited, working his knuckles.
‘No. There was nothing like that in the book bag.’ It wasn’t a lie. The paper was in her leather sack. Harper wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t going to tell him that.
Larry blinked rapidly, looking around as if something was still on his mind. But all he said was, ‘OK. Later, Loot.’
Harper stood in the hall, watching Larry disappear into the stairwell, wondering why he was so charged up. Wondering about the pills. Unsettled, she checked the clock again. She was still early for her meeting with Detective Rivers, but she was too bothered to sit and write a eulogy. So, grabbing her leather sack, she hoisted Graham’s hefty book bag on to her shoulder and headed out the door.
With time to spare, Harper took the scenic route, allowing herself a short detour to her favorite spot along the Suspension Bridge. Halfway across, resting her leg, she slowed to look down at the rocky walls and gurgling water, vaguely noticing a guy on a mountain bike coming up behind her. A couple of girls approached from the opposite side, chatting. T-shirts with tiger-striped letters that read ‘Delta Gamma’. Sorority sisters.
‘It doesn’t matter why—’
‘No. I agree.’
Harper had never pledged a sorority; she’d pledged ROTC. What would college have been like, going to frat parties and playing drinking games instead of repelling off rooftops and spit-shining shoes? Having sisters-in-play instead of brothers-in-arms? Who would she be now if she hadn’t gone off to war? She wiped sweat from her forehead, nodded at the girls as they walked by and momentarily imagined spinning around and joining them. Going back in time. Starting over. The thought made her head hurt; Harper strolled on.
