Nica of Los Angeles

by Sue Perry

  "Hey, darlin'," Miles called to a push mower as it did graceful pirouettes around a flowerbed. "Those are smooth moves! I bet you never need oiling." And the lawn mower's blades scritched with a sound very much like a giggle.

  Crap. Anya must have meant 300 paces round trip, because we had circled around and now approached the short Towers, the ones that were mere structures. Anwyl stood like a lighthouse watching our return. I waved my inhaler to show I was ready to obey; he flashed some teeth.

  "When in an unfamiliar Frame, never set out on your own," he advised me.

  Anya agreed. "That is a most important rule for the beginning Traveler. Also know that, except when pursued, you should arrive and depart from the same position." She brandished her inhaler.

  "But remember you can always find a path even if no path exists," Monk advised.

  I repeated this to myself to see if I could get it to parse differently. Anya and Anwyl exchanged a laugh, and the air filled with friendly static charge, which made me bold enough to tease, "Did anybody else get that? I mean, on a scale of one to ten, ten being clear and one being what Monk said, how would you rate that?"

  "My brother's a one's and two's guy." The air brightened with the energy of Miles' laugh.

  "His words are easier to comprehend without speech," Anwyl agreed, to which I had no snappy reply.

  "Accept my words as objects, don't construct abstract structures with them," Monk advised.

  "Dude, put a cork in it," Miles replied. "Nica, you got the picture already. This cat won't make sense no matter how you twist his words, so leave 'em be." Affectionate static charge warmed my shoulders as I marveled at his ability to jumble slang.

  Monk ignored Miles. It made sense that they were brothers. Their disagreements had the familiarity of sibling rivalry. "Safe Travels." He vibrated the -vels.

  "Catch you later, Nica," Miles bid me goodbye. "Take care and we will meet again."

  Before you could ask Are we there yet?, we were back in my Watts, where the Towers are silent, immobile and fenced.

  At the time, I didn't have the vocabulary or understanding to say that I had just completed Travel to a new Frame, using a Travel novice's Guide, the inhaler that Anya and Anwyl had specially created to make my Travels smoother.

  On the return trip I felt little of the disorienting sideways plummet. It turns out the return trips are always easier. Something about home turf having extra pull on us. It also turns out that elapsed time can differ from Frame to Frame. It felt like we'd been with Monk and Miles for an hour. But we returned to my Watts only minutes after we left. In fact, the last of the cop cars had just departed and turned a distant corner about the time I removed the Guide from my clenched teeth.

  Anwyl and Anya jumped atop the fence and reached arms down for me. With their strength to propel me up and over, I nearly flew to the other side and trotted to match their long strides, away from the Towers. Dim light slivered the window of the nearest house, as the occupants parted blinds to observe the conclusion of our illegal break-in.

  Given that we departed the enclosure of our own accord, did that erase our crimes of breaking and entering, trespassing, and so forth? Not sure I wanted to test that as a legal defense but feared I could have a chance to do so, as high beams approached us at three times the speed limit. Crap! Had the cops only pretended to leave? No, it was our cabbie, returning as bribed.

  And here we were in the mundane back seat of the cab.

  I was exhilified and terrirated by my evening. And above all I was stoked. My companions said nothing on the return to downtown Los Angeles, giving me an opportunity to relive and reflect. I had just Traveled to some other dimension; or my mind had jumped the thin gray line into stark raving territory. Either way I was having a blast, despite or because of the danger that surrounded us like picnickers in a minefield.

  If they were not figments of an inexplicably fevered imagination, then Anya and Anwyl had chosen the right Earth Framer to join their adventures. I don't spook easily. It's one of my best qualities.

  The way Miles and Monk had talked, my visit wasn’t a one-night stand and already I was eager to see them again, but when the taxi deposited us back at the Henrietta, Anya and Anwyl said nothing about next time. I could feel their haste to be gone, but couldn't bear to say goodbye. Anwyl stuck out his hand for an odd horizontal handshake or - crap - he wanted the Guide.

  If I were Lincoln Rhyme, I would already have sent it back to the lab for testing. Of course, I had no lab - but I still wanted to keep the Guide. I fished it out of my pocket in slo' mo', letting my reluctance show.

  "It is not safe for you to Travel alone," Anya said gently.

  "So long as I get to keep Traveling," I said, almost as cooperative as a fifteen-year-old.

  "We are pleased that is your view," Anwyl said. He gave my Guide a tug to free it from my fingers and I watched it disappear into a fold of his tunic.

  Obviously farewell was next. I said the only thing that might snare their interest and keep them with me. "Something bad may have happened on the roof here. What would make dirt smell like blood?"

  It worked. They wanted to see for themselves.

  As I led them to the roof garden, I explained about Jay and his disappearance. Anwyl looked bored, Anya noncommittal, until we reached the second stairwell, the one that only goes to the penthouse and roof. They spent a peculiar length of time examining the stairwell's connection to the building.

  In the garden, the blighted patch was more extensive than it had been earlier in the day. Anya stared at newly withered tomatoes while she stooped to gently rub a stalk. She touched the leaves like an examining doctor would.

  "There's something else," I surprised myself by saying. I don't know why I told them about my bizarre waking nightmare, in which I couldn't see, but my other senses experienced a terrible attack on a shadowy Jay. I felt sheepish talking about it, but they treated me like a witness, not a kook. "Was that a dream or did it really happen?" I concluded.

  "Yes," Anwyl replied, and they resumed their inspection of the blight.

  While Anya explored each leaf and stalk, Anwyl dropped to his knees and sniffed like an ill-tempered police dog. When at last he stood, he looked at Anya for a long moment then said something I couldn't understand. Anya sagged like a velvet curtain.

  Now I was extra worried. "What happened here? Is there blood in this soil? Is it Jay's blood? Is there any way he can be okay?"

  "Thank you for bringing this to our attention," Anya became a bureaucrat, making it clear that my questions would remain unanswered. I threw out several more. Who did this? What was this? What did they do? Where was Jay?

  "There are too many answers. We must eliminate questions before we can discuss this." Anwyl almost sounded sympathetic, for once.

  Back in the hall outside my office, I again tried to stall them from leaving. "Come in and tell me more about your case. I can help you."

  "You will help. That is the reason we came to you."

  "Why me? Why did you seek me out?"

  "You are a Traveler, not a Neutral," Anwyl replied, and the words gave me shivers of recognition and anticipation, even though I didn't understand.

  Anya watched me and added gently, "But it is not yet your time."

  "When will that time come? How long until you come back?" They looked at each other. Did they not understand me? Why didn’t they answer? "Uh, how many moons?"

  They repeated the question to themselves and one another. Eventually, Anwyl flashed an endorphinating smile and Anya giggled. At last, they understood me.

  "Within 24 hours we will return," Anya said.

  "And perhaps as early as oh nine hundred hours - approximately one sixtieth of one moon from now," Anwyl mocked me.

  Still smiling, Anya swept open my door and ushered me inside. "Stay inside this night." From out in the hall, she slid her hand along the door frame in a ritualized way and then the door was locked between us. I didn't hear their long strides down the
hall, but I knew they were gone. I stared at the inside of the door, watching gravity make the glass flow.

  I obeyed Anya and stayed inside until sunrise, so I cannot say why - so often that night - I heard the refined ding that announced the elevator opening on my floor, and I heard faint distant dings on the floor below, although that floor is unoccupied; nor can I explain the noises outside my door, which sounded like someone wheeled barrels of metal chickens down the hall.

  I spent the night restless, uneasy, and left out.

  7. His Immobile Axis

  The next morning, by the time I usually would have folded away the futon for the day, I had gone for a run twice my usual 3 miles, pumped iron, showered at the gym, and stopped for my bagel with fresh-squeezed juice. Today was pumpernickel with cucumber-ginger-carrot-apple. The roads were still relatively clear of droopy commuters, so it was easy to avoid a flesh-versus-auto incident. I only needed two evasive maneuvers.

  Today would be a good and productive day. I would wrap up my other cases so that I could serve Anya as soon as -

  Serve Anya. I had really just thought that. Well, if it sounds weird, you never met Anya.

  I confess to confusion of intent, however. I also wanted to lock in more cases unrelated to Anya and Anwyl, the better to anchor me to my world.

  In the lobby of the Henrietta, waiting at the elevator, I touched my hand to the wall's black marble wainscoting. "Thanks for the referral," I said to the wall. If I hadn't distracted myself watching for a reply from a building, I might have noticed that the elevator took longer than usual to arrive, which meant it descended from a top floor. Or I might have noticed the stale medicinal smell in the elevator, which I had encountered for the first time yesterday.

  In the doorway from the hall to my waiting room, I collided with her and when I took a step back, he appeared behind me to shove me forward again. Mathead and Scabman, hours before their expected time of return. They must have changed their meds. They were not vacant like yesterday. Their aggression surrounded me like hornets in a sandstorm.

  "Hey, good morning! You folks are earrr-ly! I'm impressed!" Breaking Bad had confirmed what I saw in Ben’s worst friends: tweakers were unpredictably violent. I wasn’t sure how to handle these two, but instinct suggested that I strive to be their village idiot - they have to understand somebody's words before they know whether those words piss them off, right?

  I busied myself unlocking the inner office door. With a few more seconds, maybe I could formulate a desperate escape attempt. I retreated behind my desk and pantomimed a burned finger, as though my coffee cup was hot and that's why I hurried to set it down.

  "We got all your money so now we want you to find our duffel bag. This one." Mathead sliced a photo through the air. It hit my chest above the heart and fell to my lap. I studied the blurred image. It was a pink and orange bag with some designer label. I had seen this before and recently. I frowned, until Mathead noticed.

  I exaggerated the reaction to distort it. "Yesterday you said the bag was black."

  "We weren't sure we could trust you back then."

  "And now you can? What the hell, nothing has changed!?" I shrilled.

  She reached for the photo, I yanked it back, it ripped, I sobbed, "Awww, nooo!"

  Her next reach was tentative, like a child comforting an alkie aunt. My emotionalism had thrown her. I felt on top of the situation, until I remembered where I had seen a bag like that before: among Ben's stuff now stored in my closet. Oh Ben, what did you get yourself - and me - into this time?

  "We're paying you to find this bag. Start by asking everybody you know, have they seen it?"

  Scabman stopped the little sucking sounds. The future depended on my response.

  I made no response. Instead, I obsessed with using desk tape to repair the photo, making a big show of removing tape from the dispenser. The plan was that the movements would disguise the shaking of my hands. They knew Ben had the bag. They didn't want a detective, they wanted Ben, and they were here because they thought I could lead them to him.

  I needed to convert my fear to useful emotion. I pulled free a length of tape. It stuck to itself. I wadded it with fury and tried to throw it across the room. It stuck to my hand. Mathead unfolded a thick wad of bills and began laying out hundreds like she was setting a table using only knives.

  I slammed my hand to the desk. "Oh. My. Fucking! GOD! There is only one explanation!" I yelled to Scabman. He resumed sucking pensively.

  I had to stare down Mathead and I couldn't give her room to reply. "What is so important about that stupid gym bag? What have you got in that bag? Drugs, right? There is no fucking way I am helping any more druggies. I was married to one. He took everything from me. EVERYTHING! No fucking way. And then he went for more! I cut him out of what's left of my pitiful life, I can sure the shit cut you out. Oh. My. Fucking! Look at this place! Everything I own came from a garage sale. Get out! Take your money and get out before I completely lose it. Oh, whoops!" I shrieked sarcastically as the desk light hit the floor. By now, I was pacing the room and backhanding stuff onto the floor for punctuation.

  Mathead only partially bought my freakout - she stepped back but looked skeptical. I gave a rage-filled stomp, too close to where the glass base of the desk light had shattered, which stomped my sandal onto an evil claw of broken glass.

  We all watched my foot ascend, streaming blood, as I raised my leg and yanked free the impaled glass. The pain in my foot was so intense that for a time it was outside the range of human perception. Then it shot up my leg. And the blood. It splashed the side of the desk and pooled on the marble floor like a vampire had spilled a Grande.

  I didn't need to fake hysteria now and I was making enough noise to echo in the subbasement. Scabman retreated to the hall but Mathead held her ground at the door. Through my howls, she demanded to know where Ben was.

  "You tell me! I'd love to fucking know!" I shrieked, "If you find him before I do, you tell him that THIS time I'm - holy fucking shit. Ow ow ow OW OW." I had tried to wrap a towel around my foot and the increase in pressure detected another shard of imbedded glass. While I struggled to hold still to extract it, the musty medicinal odor receded. Mathead and Scabman were gone.

  They weren't gone forever but my display of emotional instability had bought me some time. Village idiot might have worked better, but I had been too stressed to pull that off. I collapsed onto the futon and worried the glass shard free. Suddenly, I was wiped and it took my remaining energy to hold my gaze steady. I couldn't be sure Mathead and Scabman had left the building, so while I focused on my foot, I continued to issue bursts of expletives in what I hoped sounded like soul-torn venting against druggie ex-spouses but, when I tuned in, sounded more like a parrot with Tourette's.

  I cleaned my foot, I cleaned the glass, I cleaned the blood. No one was in the hall. I locked my office door and unpacked the closet. It was in the bottom box. The designer duffel bag that was an identical twin to the one in Mathead's photo. Rage and terror hit me like toxic fumes. Removing the duffel from the box, its handle caught on something and I yanked it harder than Ben jerked my chain. This propelled me in a backward ricochet from closet to futon frame to desk.

  Immediately, I had a welt on the back of my skull and pain that helped me forget about my foot.

  I was starting to fear that this was not going to be a good day after all.

  The duffel bag was empty and its interior held no residues or odors. I was tempted to stick it out in the hall, maybe over by the elevator, or down in the lobby. But that wouldn't necessarily get rid of the tweakers. If the bag was a McGuffin, as I suspected, then their real intent was to use me to get to Ben. In that case, the worst thing I could do was acknowledge recent contact with Ben.

  Luckily, Mathead and Scabman had come by too early to cross paths with Ben - unless he had stopped by after an allnighter. Was he still pulling allnighters? Who the hell knew? Cared? I dared not rely on luck though. Ben had to stay away from this buildi
ng. I had to warn him. But I refuse to save his phone numbers nowadays, so I didn't know how to reach him. So he needed to stop by the building. But he had to stay away from -

  My mind was on its hundredth loop of this circular racetrack when the light flashed above the door, indicating entry to the waiting room.

  At first, the waiting room seemed empty, then I discovered Hernandez, sitting as relaxed as an ice sculpture in the chair behind the door. Without a word, he came into my office and sat again, with his stiffness from pride or injury or military training.

  "Thank you for coming back. Did you talk with Karina? That's nothing, just an accident with some broken glass."

  Was it a custodian thing? He had immediately zeroed in on the wastebasket full of bloody paper towels. But he wasn’t reacting to my words. "Do you need an interpreter?"

  "I don't. Do you?" He sneered without curling a lip.

  Conversation with him was like walking an alley at night. It was dark and uneven but I sensed there would be light at the other end.

  Yesterday afternoon I had done a little digging at the Henrietta's office and learned a couple interesting facts. "I understand you used to work for the school district, as do the Garcias. Did they have anything to do with your getting fired?"

  "I didn't know them. I'm just a custodian, they are important people."

  Farther down the alley is an abandoned pit bull.

  "Now here they are bothering you again, this time at a job that is probationary. You could lose this job if any trouble arises. Is that why you hate them?"

  The pit bull sniffs the food you throw to it. "You ask me whether I hate your clients and if so, why. What's the benefit to me if I respond?"