Castle Danger--Woman on Ice

by Anthony Neil Smith

  “Just tell him to get the fuck out.” Parr, always the humanitarian. “Fuck up his whole night, put him in the squad, tell him we’ll toss him in the Lake.”

  “I don’t want to wash out the puke. It’s bad, man.”

  An idea ambushed me and before I could think better of it, I hopped up from the booth. Remembered to raise my pitch. “You said he’s sick? You’re sure?”

  They both turned my way, still didn’t recognize me. Juice said, “Oh, I’m telling you, drunk off his ass. All over the floor.”

  I started for the back, then stopped, said, “He really didn’t drink all that much. Okay, it was, like, five beers? Six? But he’s always good after that. No, I think he ate a bunch of burritos.” I started back again. “Baby? You alright? Baby?” and pushed into the men’s room like I owned the joint, while Parr shouted after me, “Hey, you can’t—”

  Inside, it stank for days. No word of exaggeration, there was puke splattered all over the floor, and amid the bodily fluids was a pair of heavy boots, sticking out from under the door of the filthiest stall. Joel seemed to be kneeling.

  “It’s me, Joel. What the fuck?”

  “They gone?”

  “No, no, one of them might come back, play along.” I knocked on the closed stall door just as Parr pushed inside. “Baby? Please? You okay?”

  “No,” boozy, worn-out. “No, no. Real bad.”

  “Was it the burritos?”

  “I think I shit my pants.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Parr slipped his hand around my arm. “I’m sorry, let me talk to him. I can’t let you in here.”

  “There’s no one else here. Why not?”

  “It’s the law.”

  “Baby, come on, pull it together.”

  Parr was courteous, but definitely a dick. “Think we need an ambulance?”

  “Jesus!” Joel, clearing his throat with the word. “It’s just, god, just food … poison … oh man.” Another retch.

  By then the manager had stuck his head inside, a guy fresh out of community college, as greasy as his sausages. “Excuse me? Is there a problem? Oh, wait.”

  He backed out when the smell hit him. “Oh, hell no!”

  I told Parr, “Let me help him. We’ll clean him up and get him out.”

  “Shit.” The manager. “Paul! Paul, get the mop and bucket.” He turned to Juice, “I’m sorry, it happens a lot, we can handle it.”

  “Are you sure? Do you want us to, you know, help him, or … remove him?”

  I yanked my arm away from Parr. “He’s just sick! I swear! How would you feel if it happened to you? Let me take care of him. There’s no one else here right now! Please!”

  Parr shook his head, sighed. Looked at me. Really looked at me. Still no flicker of recognition. Nothing. It shouldn’t have worked. It shouldn’t have been that difficult for him to see it was me. This was the ‘Clark Kent wears glasses’ cover, and it was fucking working in real life.

  “Hurry it up,” he finally said. “We’ll check back in a little while.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” I spun and knocked on the stall door again. “Sweetie? Can you reach the latch?”

  “Jesus, baby, I’ll be okay.”

  I kept knocking. “You sure? Baby?”

  The cop backed out, mumbled “This is fucked up,” as the door closed. Through the door, I heard them talking to the manager, but nothing clear.

  Joel whispered, “Safe?”

  “Not yet. How did you—”

  “Finger down the throat. I watched you guys through a crack in the door until Juice got up. Had to do something.”

  I moved back to the door, pulled it open a tiny sliver. Parr was talking to Robin, but Juice was urging him along. A minute later, they were gone, and I saw a guy pushing a mop and bucket towards the bathroom. I stuck my head out and said, “Just a few more minutes, please? He’s almost done. Thanks.”

  I leaned against the sink with my arms crossed. Joel pushed himself up, flushed, and rolled off some TP.

  “You really shit your pants?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Alright, just asking.”

  He opened the stall door. He’d obviously gotten most of the mess on the floor on purpose, and his knees and thighs had absorbed some of the sick. He wiped his tongue. Bit of paper stuck to it. “Neither one of them recognized you? Really?”

  “Seriously.” Then I remembered. “Parr flirted with Robin though. I think she gave him her number.”

  “Fuck.”

  We waited a few more minutes until we were sure the coast was clear, then went back to the table. The stink wafting from Joel was especially bad this time of the morning when we were delirious and goofy from lack of sleep and surging adrenaline.

  The manager gave us a long hard stare. His employee pushed into the bathroom and immediately shouted, “Fuck, man! No way!”

  Robin rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “My savior.”

  “You’ve got a thing for cops, don’t you?”

  “Cute ones.”

  Joel shook his head. Next time they got around to fucking each other, I was pretty sure she’d bring this up again. He looked a little deflated. “Now what? Got anything?”

  Robin said, “Look at this, before those clowns interrupted, whoever helped Hannah with this, Jesus. Look.”

  More hospital records, these from a university hospital in Chicago. Bills, paid in cash, no insurance involved. And the names, the names were neither Marquette nor Hans. Nor even Phillip.

  The patient was one ‘James Smith’. Obviously a fake name.

  He was twelve years old.

  The surgery: sexual reassignment.

  “Twelve years old?”

  Robin said, “He didn’t know, did he? He didn’t remember, or he couldn’t prove it all this time.”

  “Or what if he didn’t know what it was for? Maybe good ol’ Mom and Dad, who would never lie, told him it was for, like, something else? Cancer? Or something else to help Andrew, even though they’d already taken so much marrow?”

  Joel shook his head. “Disgusting.”

  “Yeah. They didn’t give him a choice.”

  “No, I mean, it was better than living as a freak. Gross. His parents did him a favor.”

  Joel could still surprise me. I’d almost forgotten who he really was. Robin gave him a look, but it wasn’t the kind that would have put her on my side.

  I said, “Why didn’t they ask him? Why not say, hey, sport, you know how things down there are a bit confusing? And then give him some birds and bees talk inviting him into the wonderful world of whichever one felt right. Why lie to him?”

  Joel made a face. “Because they’re Republicans, true to their bible? Plus, just common fucking sense, dude.”

  Robin jumped in. “Fine, fine, disagree, but this isn’t about that right now. I still don’t get what it tells us. So this Hannah person figured it all out, but what was she going to do? Send it to the media out of spite? Or was this blackmail? Was this why she died? And where the fuck are we going to find answers to these questions?”

  I kinda knew where we needed to go. But it wasn’t a great idea. I’d even say it was stupid and would probably only work in a movie where nobody ever did the logical thing and nobody ever got it wrong.

  “So, does either of you know anybody who would lend us a car at three in the morning?”

  Sure enough, Joel did.

  5

  One text to his younger brother at three-twenty in the morning, and Joel had some new wheels. I tried to remember how late I had stayed up at fifteen, although none of us had smartphones and wi-fi back then. Staying up late meant either tying up the family phone line talking with friends or using a modem for our one family computer hooked up to the wall. I mean, once I hit college, everything changed, but life on the hobby farm was lagging behind by a few years, thanks to my dad selling it as ‘rustic’.

  But Obie was not only fully awake, he was even able t
o leave the house without attracting any attention, get a friend to follow him over to the SuperOne parking lot, and hand Joel the keys to his 2009 Nissan Altima like it was no big thing. He was dressed in baggy cargo shorts and a hoodie, looked as if he hadn’t bathed or slept in a week. The car behind him, a Hyundai, was full of kids, too. Jesus.

  Joel took the keys. “Dad?”

  Obie nearly growled, “Fuck him.”

  “What’ll you say?”

  “Left it at a friend’s house, will get it later.” Never making eye contact with Joel. I figured they didn’t need to. It was like watching two inmates with the same sadistic guard communicate by ‘kite’.

  When he did look up from his phone screen, he seemed pretty interested in me. Not actually interested, but, like, I was some sort of sideshow freak.

  “You’re a guy,” he said.

  I tilted my head. “Dunno.”

  Puzzled eyes. “You ever see that South Park where—”

  “Jesus, Obie!” Joel shoved the kid back. “Serious.”

  Obie nodded. “I’m cool. I’m just saying.” Shrug. Screen. Tap tap. Headed off to his friend’s car and squeezed into the backseat with four other phone-staring kids. They looped away and braked badly at the stop sign, before rolling off into the cold-ass night.

  Joel shook the keys, asked where to.

  I told him. “Hermantown.”

  Robin claimed shotgun like a middle-schooler, so I sat in the back. Whatever fool notion I’d had about being part of the conversation was rebuked mighty fast. I couldn’t hear them much over the radio, but they were arguing about something; me or this trip, or her cuckolding him with this cop, Parr, I had no idea. So it was a lonely ride. I supposed I should just be thankful that they were both on my side and let the pleasantries go, but that shit wasn’t fun.

  (I curse a lot for a ‘woman’, don’t I? If you think so, you haven’t met any Minnesotan farm women.)

  Besides, Robin cursed more than me. Or maybe it just seemed that way because she could make normal words sound like she was cursing at you.

  Thankfully, with the roads clear that late, and us in a car no cop was looking for, it didn’t take long, although my stomach must’ve thought otherwise.

  We pulled into the driveway, no cars parked out to the boonies this time. Whatever had gone on at the barn that night was over. Instead, we headed for the actual house, definitely one for the magazines, some sort of rich person’s idea of rustic, totally different from my dad’s. Distressed woods, immaculate windows, dim candle-style LED lights on the front porch, beautiful paving stones leading us to the door, directed by more of the candle LEDs. We all got out — I mean, by that point I wasn’t going to suggest that Robin keep out of it; no reason she should. Careful to escape notice, we quietly closed the doors, just far enough to turn the interior lights off.

  Joel leaned down, spoke into my ear. “This is where you got beat up?”

  “Round back of the barn.”

  “No shit?” Still beer puke on his breath. “If this is bull—”

  “You see me? You think this is how I wanted my coming out party to be? Are we having fun and sharing feelings?”

  “Alright, man, chill already.”

  “I’m pretty sure the guy who lives here owns that barn and knows Paula.” Paula. Where was she? “It all comes back to this place. They all know something more, or they wouldn’t have beat up on me so bad.”

  “We just knock on the door?”

  “Sure, I guess.”

  Up the path, slippery, up the steps, icy, and at the door. I wondered if I should give Robin her revolver back. She’d probably do a better job with it than me. None of us wanted to do the actual knocking. I hissed at Joel, “Tell them you’re a cop.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, I get that. Do it.”

  He gave it a hard one, two, three, “Police!”

  One, two, three, “Police!”

  The side of his fist. Shaking the whole front porch. Several more.

  The porch light candles burned brighter. Someone on the other side of the door shouted, “What? What is it?”

  “Police, ma’am. Need to talk to you.”

  “What? Why?”

  “We need your cooperation. Please comply and open the door.” He shrugged. I had forgotten he’d only been a cop for a couple months.

  “Why?”

  Another round of Joel slamming the side of his fist into the door. “Open this door now!”

  When all else failed, scare the shit out of them.

  The door opened, not all the way. The face that peeked out was familiar, not as glossy and made-up as last time, but I would never forget the little gymnast who gave me a beatdown. Jelly.

  And whereas the cops I’d worked with for nearly two years couldn’t recognize me in a skirt and wig, this bitch sure could after only one encounter. She started to slam the door, but Joel thundered his shoulder into it. It whipped the wall and came back. Jelly tripped and slid across the polished wood floor. Joel stepped inside first, getting his gun in hand while I followed, cutting left and trying to get the lay of the land. Foyer light on, but everything else was dark. Stairs led to the bedroom, I guessed, a trail of lights to follow. I almost sprinted up on my own, but, I don’t know, I couldn’t. Four steps up and I couldn’t. I was afraid of what I might find.

  Below, Jelly tried to scrabble away, but Joel had his pistol trained on her while Robin grabbed hold of the transwoman’s hair and gave it a twist. Jelly screamed.

  I was frozen.

  Joel turned to me, then back and forth between me and Jelly. “What do we do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Jesus, Manny, the fuck do we do?”

  The unknowns: Who was upstairs, loading a shotgun? How many people? How many guns? How long had it been since whoever it was heard the commotion and got on the phone to Nine-one-one? What had we done?

  I looked up the stairs one more time — a shadow up there, I could swear. Freaking me out. So I climbed down and went over to Joel, whispered, “Someone upstairs,” and wrapped my fingers around the revolver in my pocket.

  Jelly, held tight by Robin, was trying to scratch the fingers from her hair. No go. “How dare you. How dare you dress like that. You’ll never be one of us. Never, you hear me?”

  I wasn’t thinking. I lifted the gun, held it against my cheek. Damn, it was cold. Why would I do that? Like suddenly it wasn’t a deadly weapon? They told us in the academy never to point our guns unless we were prepared to fire. I guess I wasn’t. Joel was already tromping up, calling out “Police!” into the unknown. I was more worried for him than for myself. I knelt down in front of Jelly, just outside the reach of her legs. She wore a light silk robe and some fluffy socks, covered in cat hair. Mad, scared, all of it. I could see that. I understood. She’d looked into my eyes not so long ago.

  “Hi,” I said. “Where’s Paula?”

  Major league hate radiating from her. She shook her head as well as she could, Robin having such a tight hold. “Why would you do this to us?”

  “You do remember what you did to me, right?”

  “Why didn’t you learn? Why didn’t you understand what we were trying to say? Now, Jesus.”

  A shout from upstairs. Joel. “Manny! I think you need to come up here.”

  I didn’t want to. I wanted him to do his soldier thing and bring me stuff on a platter. What a terrible time to have regrets. I shouted back, “What about Jelly? Robin needs help with her.”

  A different voice shouted down this time, an older man’s voice. “Just … just, bring her along. Jelly, behave for them, dear.”

  That calmed her down some. Still the fire in her eyes and lips, but she hissed back at Robin, “I’ll be good. Promise.”

  Robin stared at me for a moment, until I gave her the nod. She let go of Jelly’s hair and backtracked right quick. But true to her word, Jelly didn’t pounce. She grunted as she pushed off the floor and shook her aches away, then sta
rted my way, Robin close behind her. I felt the fear all over again. She’d taken me by surprise before. She was a fucking cobra as far as I was concerned, so I backtracked, too, slowly, matching her steps, until she turned her back on me, walked towards the stairs and said, to no one in particular, “Let’s go.”

  Skeptically I followed, but halfway up I couldn’t help myself anymore. I said, “I think I owe you this,” and gave her a two-palmed shove that tripped her up. Then I stepped over her. “Sorry.”

  Robin followed too, after giving her a kick up the ass. A mean streak in that one.

  Upstairs, Joel was standing half-in a bedroom doorway, pistol obviously aimed. When I peeked around him, I saw a gray-bearded man, maybe in his early sixties, who looked like a college professor. He wore actual pajamas, pin-striped navy, and sat very primly on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap, his bare feet one on top of the other. The room was painted red, but the furniture, curtains, comforter, lamps, pretty much everything else in the room was a sunflower yellow. It confused our eyes. A lot of blinking for those of us not used to it.

  When the professor saw me, he grinned as if he had sad news to deliver. He rubbed his feet together. “Manny, look at you. Embracing it. The girls didn’t believe me, but I knew. Titus convinced me.”

  “You know Titus?”

  Wider grin, but no less sad. “Of course. He’s my son.”

  I stepped past Joel, patted his gun arm, and he brought the pistol down. Jelly shouldered past me, too, and went back to the bed, sat next to the professor and crossed both her legs and her arms. Sulking.

  Behind the two of them, surprise of surprises, was none other than Lucifer herself, Jelly’s partner in my beatdown. Judging by her semi-recumbent posture, she was either settling down for a nap or recovering from a double helping of whoop-ass. Either way, she was nowhere near as awake as a girl with a gun pointed at her should be. Damn, I had almost trusted her. The three of them, sharing a bed. Might as well be looking at the Hugh Hefner of transwomen.

  “So, who are you?”

  “Do you know the companies who want to mine for sulfide here?”

  Didn’t we all? Bastards. I nodded.

  “I own the law firm that keeps them out. Or has done so far. I’m not sure how much longer we can resist.” He shuffled his feet.