Hex: A Ruby Murphy Mystery

by Maggie Estep

  Oliver and I go into the station. A light wind is singing through the entrails of the place and follows us up the stairs.

  There’s a D train waiting, doors open. We get on and sit down. Oliver rests his head on my shoulder.

  “You’re not losing your hair at least,” I say, staring at the top of my friend’s head.

  “Yes, I am. Look.” He rakes his fingers through his hair, producing loose strands.

  “Oh. Well. It doesn’t look like you’re losing it,” I say, wondering if I should express the gloom I feel. Gloom tempered by the fact that Oliver is one of the most resilient, indestructible people I know and has rebounded from things that would have felled most folks a thousand times over.

  We get off the train and emerge onto Emmons Avenue. Oliver takes in a deep breath and looks pleased at the twinkly garish sight of Sheepshead Bay.

  Moored powerboats bob in the water to the accompaniment of Frank Sinatra, whose crooning emanates from a waterfront restaurant’s outdoor speakers. Old people and teenagers amble along, peering into the mostly empty restaurants.

  “So? Which restaurant?” I ask Oliver.

  “That one looks horrible enough.” He motions at a big white building with breast-shaped stucco implants sprouting from its sides. The shrubbery flanking the entrance is decorated in throbbing Christmas lights that keep time with the Frank Sinatra song.

  Oliver and I walk inside the place—which isn’t doing much business right now. We’re greeted by a thickset man wearing black pants and a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a carpet of chest hair.

  “Two? Dinner?” he demands.

  “Yes, please,” I say brightly.

  Chest Carpet escorts us to a table at the far side of the dining room. He tosses two huge laminated menus at us then lumbers away.

  “He likes us,” Oliver comments.

  “Yeah, he especially likes you, of course,” I say, referring to Oliver’s service hex: Waiters, copy shop attendants, salespeople, all are invariably hostile to Oliver. For no apparent reason. He’s a good-looking man. He’s polite. But evidently he radiates retroactive traces of youthful insolence, and if there’s neglect or abuse to be heaped on someone, Oliver will be the recipient—and weather it with masochistic pleasure.

  By the time our waitress—a gum-snapping white-lipstick-wearing princess in pink platforms—neglects to bring Oliver’s soda after three requests, Oliver lets loose on her.

  “Do you hate me?” he asks as she stands pressing one lazy hip against the edge of our table.

  “Huh?” she sneers, and snaps her gum.

  “You refuse to bring me soda. I take it you have something against me. I’ve offended you in some way.”

  The girl stops in mid-chew and stares at him. “Soda?” she finally utters.

  “I ordered a soda. Maybe you should sit down here and I’ll go get it,” he says, standing up, offering her his chair.

  Our fellow diners start eyeing us.

  The waitress looks from them to us. “All right. Okay. I’ll get your soda,” she says, teetering away.

  A few moments later the waitress slams a glass of soda in front of Oliver and resentfully takes our order.

  After an interminable wait we finally get our food and start digging into the doughy raviolis and greasy escarole. Oliver is inhaling the stuff. And though it’s fairly disgusting, I shovel it down pretty quickly myself.

  “Hey” I say to Oliver after we’ve both ingested most of our food, “I got a job.”

  My friend squints at me. “I thought you had a job.”

  I explain about Ariel and her unlikely decision to turn me into a private investigator.

  “You’re being paid to stalk someone,” Oliver says with wonder, like it’s what all sentient beings work for all their lives.

  “I’m just following him.”

  “Life likes you,” Oliver segues.

  “What?”

  “Good things happen to you. You go around minding your own business and strange women offer to pay you money. Why doesn’t that happen to me?”

  “But it does.”

  “Strange women, yeah, paying me money, no.”

  “Speaking of which, what happened to the married lady?” I ask him.

  After Oliver and his long-term girlfriend Isabelle broke up, he started seeing a married woman. All I know about her is that she routinely turns up on his doorstep wearing a raincoat, fuck me pumps, and nothing else. Just as I attract strange and interesting life circumstances, Oliver attracts strange and interesting women.

  “Nothing. I’m not seeing her. I have no sex drive. She visits me sometimes. Brings me presents. She tried to blow me the other day but my body wouldn’t respond and it just freaked me out. You realize I might never have sex again?”

  “Yes you will.”

  “Not if I die.”

  “You won’t die.”

  “I’m supposed to.”

  “Not now. Not soon,” I say. “You can’t die before me. You’d miss the wedding.”

  We long ago vowed we’d marry each other when we’d given up our respective search-and-destroy missions of love. Both of us have a possibly stupid blind faith that eventually we’ll either get it right and stay with someone—or else simultaneously discover that we actually want to be with each other.

  “Yes, baby, I’ve gotta be your ball and chain.” Oliver nods and his impish smile turns sad.

  We continue eating.

  We make it through dinner without being murdered by the waitress or the maître d’. Emerging from the restaurant, we start walking in the general direction of Coney, ambling down back streets lined with modest houses. We go slowly, savoring the ripe night.

  “You’ll spend the night with me?” I ask Oliver when we eventually reach Stillwell Avenue.

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “Oh yes.”

  X

  RAMIREZ’S DOOR is open and he’s sitting at his kitchen table, chin resting in his palms as he stares ahead, dazed.

  “Hey,” I say softly.

  “Ruby,” Ramirez utters without enthusiasm.

  “This is Oliver.” I gesture at Oliver.

  “Oh,” Ramirez says.

  “What’s the matter?” I ask my neighbor.

  He hesitates for a moment, then: “Elsie got medical problems. Come in,” he adds, “both of you.”

  Oliver and I enter. There’s a smell of cheap olive oil and café con leche.

  I stare at my neighbor’s ordinarily welcoming face. It’s all bunched up now, black eyebrows knit tightly.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  Ramirez scowls. “Sit down, Ruby. You too.” He motions at Oliver, who obediently takes a seat.

  “I fucked up,” Ramirez sighs, looks down at his stubby hands. “I thought it’d be nice for her,” he says. “I bought her some new breasts.”

  “You what?”

  “New breasts. Titties,” he says, putting his palms to his own flat chest. “You know, she make better money dancing that way. She said she wanted that. I found a doctor said he’d do it for two thousand dollars. Nice Dominican doctor.”

  “You mean breast implants?” Oliver asks.

  “Yeah. That’s what I mean,” Ramirez concedes, “but this doctor, he talk nice but he don’t cut so good. My lady’s all messed up now. Her breasts are swollen and she don’t feel good.”

  “When did she have the surgery?” I ask him.

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Maybe that’s normal. For them to be swollen, I mean.”

  “I don’t think so.” Ramirez shakes his head sadly. “She’s down at her sister’s place now in New Brunswick. She called me; she’s in a lot of pain.”

  “I bet she’ll be fine,” I tell him, but I can see he’s not convinced.

  “You go on to bed now,” Ramirez says after a while, “I’ll let you know what happens.”

  I feel so badly for him that I shock us both by actually hugging him. Ramirez and I definitely have affection for each ot
her, but we’ve never gotten physical. Now we’re both mildly embarrassed—but possibly pleased—by my gesture.

  Oliver and I retreat into my place. He plunks down on my couch, stretching his legs and leaning his head back. Stinky and Lulu immediately materialize and climb all over him, both cats unfailing in their tendency to gravitate toward alleged cat haters.

  “Can you please get these off me, I have cancer,” Oliver says unconvincingly I roll my eyes at him.

  A few minutes later we get into bed. We spoon our bodies together. In seconds Oliver’s breathing grows smooth and even with sleep.

  The bedroom is cold and quiet. I prop up on one elbow to stare at Oliver. He looks about twelve; all the creases relaxed from his face, his mouth open a half inch. I want to touch him, run my finger over his lips, but I don’t want to wake him. Maybe sleep will save him.

  I get up and softly pad into the living room. I stare at the piano, needing to play but not wanting to wake Oliver. I walk to the window. Lulu jumps up into the windowsill and makes a chirping sound. I run my hands down her back as I stare across at the subway platform where a train is waiting, its digital window panel announcing its destination, its doors open like luminous jaws.

  Lulu arches her back and chirps again.

  After a long while I go back into the bedroom and climb in bed. I drape one arm over Oliver. Stinky is nesting at my friend’s feet. Lulu jumps up and curls near my pillow.

  My eyes close. Sleep comes.

  Oliver Emmerick

  8 / Bewitched by Beasts

  I roll onto my side and collide with a body. Which scares the hell out of me. Until it all floods back. I’m at Ruby’s place. There are cats all over the bed and Ruby is curled on her side, red nightgown jacked up around her ass, exposing her stuff. I gently tug the nightgown down, feeling a little indecent ogling her goods—which are certainly ogleworthy but which, at this stage, I can’t do much with.

  The large cat regards me with wide green eyes, then in slow motion opens his mouth and emits a moaning sound. I frown at him. He appears to frown back.

  I get up and go into the bathroom to wash my face. I don’t feel that bad today, although I don’t look all that great. My face is gaunt as hell, crevices like ravines etched into it. I wash it again. The crevices remain.

  I put my pants on and go into Ruby’s weird green kitchen to see about some tea. Had I known I’d end up here, shacking up for the night, I’d have brought some of my vast tea resources with me. This girl clearly doesn’t think too highly of tea. There’s coffee up the wazoo but only one pathetic little box of Lipton’s.

  I boil water and stare out the window at the train platform across the street. Business as usual over there. The trains like long silver snakes, coming and going.

  I’m just pouring myself a cup of dreaded Lipton’s when Ruby stumbles into the kitchen. She’s thrown a puffy white robe on over her red nightie, and the cats are at her heels, both of them meowing and weaving between her legs.

  “You sleep okay?” she wants to know, and I nod, then watch her pull a package of raw meat out of the fridge.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I like a girl with meat on her hands, but what the hell are you doing?”

  “Feeding the cats. They eat raw food. It’s supposed to help them feel more like cats. I mean, more like cats in the wild. Catching their own food or whatever.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  The phone starts ringing but Ruby steadfastly ignores it.

  A woman’s voice speaks into the machine: “Please, Ruby, I know you’re there, please pick up.”

  I watch Ruby screw up her forehead and scowl at the phone.

  “Who is that?” I ask her.

  “Ariel DiCello, my new employer.”

  “Shouldn’t you talk to her?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I guess it’s a bit obnoxious of me but I’m dying of curiosity. I pick up the phone. A breathless woman asks for Ruby. I hand the phone to the dear girl, earning another scowl from her.

  Ruby talks to the woman for quite a while. And doesn’t look so happy when she hangs up. The woman apparently wants Ruby to start her stakeout of the nefarious boyfriend now.

  “She’s got some friend there at the Chelsea. I’m supposed to go hang out at this friend’s place, wait there for Ariel to call me.”

  “Let’s do it,” I say, suddenly feeling completely enthralled with this whole harebrained thing. Leave it to Ruby to find herself ensnared in some bizarre but highly interesting mess.

  She seems cheered by the idea that I’ll actually come with her. With me urging her to hurry, she rinses the meat off her hands, gets dressed, and about half an hour later we’re heading into Manhattan.

  I haven’t set foot inside the Chelsea Hotel in years. Last time was for a tryst with one of my married ladies. I attract married ladies like no one you’ve ever met. Even now. When I’m a walking skeleton. It’s incredible.

  There’s a pack of giggling Japanese girls in the lobby, looking at the paintings there, most of these handed over in lieu of rent from the various artists who live in the place. Some of the works are good, in particular a huge horse face that sort of looks like a sexy woman.

  Ruby and I go past the reception desk where two big guys look at us but don’t say a word. We catch the elevator up to the fifth floor and get lost a few times before finding 501, the room we’re supposed to go to.

  We ring the bell marked F. LIVINGSTON. The door cracks open and a man’s face looks out. “Ruby Murphy?” he asks, looking at her, then at me.

  “Frederick Livingston?” she says. The guy nods and opens the door. He’s a small, handsome guy with bright eyes and short hair. He looks at me with interest.

  “This is my friend Oliver,” Ruby says, introducing me, and the way the guy continues to look at me, I get an indication as to what his sexual preference might be. I feel sort of flattered by his apparent approval of my countenance. I mean, I am, after all, not at my best right now.

  Ruby and I follow Frederick inside the room, which turns out to be several rooms and much more sumptuous than I’d have expected. There’s a lush red carpet and big fluffy furnishings. In the corner stands a magnificent grand piano. I hear Ruby asking the guy if he plays, and the guy looks a little ruffled. He peers from me to her and back and then explains that he’s a concert pianist. A rather well-known concert pianist.

  Ruby and I both make apologetic noises for not knowing that the guy’s famous. I’m sure he thinks we’re Philistines.

  “Can I get you anything?” Frederick asks us, and both Ruby and I, wanting to be polite after failing to know the guy’s a big deal, claim we don’t need anything—even though, in truth, I’m parched.

  Thankfully, Frederick is an intuitive host and insists on refreshing us. He disappears into some sort of kitchen area, reemerging with a bottle of Pellegrino and two glasses. I gratefully gulp mine down as Ruby sips genteelly, propped at the end of one of the blood-colored couches.

  There’s an awkward silence, and I can hear Ruby swallowing a sip of her water. The girl has something weird going on in that throat of hers, can’t seem to drink quietly. Maybe left over from her days as a drunk.

  Eventually, Frederick starts talking about how glad he is that Ruby’s going to help Ariel. “It’s quite touching how you two met,” he says, and Ruby does a little double take, like “touching” might not have been how she’d describe it.

  “I’m really not sure I’m gonna be of help at all,” Ruby says then, “but I’ll try, I guess.”

  Frederick gives us a thumbnail sketch of the situation, how he himself is sure that the nefarious boyfriend is up to no good and he hopes that Ruby will prove as much conclusively. Force Ariel to move on. Ruby looks worried. And then changes the subject by blurting out that she’s a fledgling pianist.

  “Really?” Frederick looks totally delighted. “Who’s your teacher?”

  “A Juilliard student. Mark Baxter. He’s sort of impossible
but I like him.”

  “You must play” Frederick tells her, springing up from his chair and going over to grab Ruby by the hands, trying to force her to the piano.

  She won’t budge, though. “Oh no, I can’t. I can barely play in front of Mark. No.” She’s flushed bright red. Which I find impossibly sexy. If only I could get my body to work, maybe we could renegotiate the sexual aspect of our liaison.

  Frederick and I both try to convince Ruby to play, but even though she shoots lustful looks at the piano, she won’t. Instead, she gets Frederick to serenade us. At first he demurs, saying he’s already played for three hours this morning, but Ruby makes a beseeching face which no one could possibly resist and Frederick finally agrees. He even asks for requests, though when I mutter something about Prokofiev, he looks peeved.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Prokofiev, but the piano music isn’t my favorite. Bach?” he offers.

  Ruby and I both agree that Bach would be swell.

  We settle next to each other on the couch and watch Frederick at the piano. He sits surprisingly far from the keyboard and his small arms suddenly look long. His back is straight as a rod, eyes at half-mast as he sort of bows his head to the instrument then brings his small well-made hands over the keys.

  I don’t know what he’s playing, other than it’s definitely Bach and it’s definitely beautiful. A few minutes in he’s interrupted by a ringing phone. Frederick doesn’t seem to miss a note, but both Ruby and I look around, trying to locate the offensively ringing instrument. It takes a couple of moments for Ruby to realize it’s the damned cell phone Ariel gave her. She starts to furiously forage in her bag, grabbing for the thing like it’s a grenade then springing up from the couch and walking into the kitchen area to talk.

  I just lie there, eyes closed, letting the music wash through my body in a pleasing manner. After a while I feel Ruby come back to sit on the couch. I open one eye to look at her, and with the way the music is going through my body, taking away all the discomfort, I feel glad to be alive.