Blood of the Albatross

by Ridley Pearson

  “No. I cannot. Please.”

  “Okay. You think about it. I’m doing what I’m doing because I have to, Marlene. Just like you. I have to. I worked my butt off for my department and they gave me a bum deal. They owe me. I still have friends over there, Marlene. You don’t work twenty-one years without making some friends. When this is over—soon—I will probably have to leave the country. I will hide. But what about you, Marlene? My friends could help you. They could protect you. But they will need something from you. This for that, you understand? I will have to have something to trade with. You think about it carefully.”

  Without saying a word, she picked up the briefcase he had brought and left the table.

  “Don’t screw it up, Marlene,” he called after her.

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She felt so alone. She had felt her best around Jay, but Jay was gone now. She was alone again. And here was another person reaching out to her—the very person she was supposed to be compromising. She was strongly tempted to tell him everything she knew, which wasn’t much. Marlene needed a friend.

  Kepella bought a pint of Papa from a bartender on 47th. It had been nearly a year since he’d bought a bottle here, but the man behind the bar pretended it had been last week. He put the bottle in the glove compartment and drove slowly over to Jay Becker’s loft apartment, hoping to drop off the key he had taken earlier. The sooner the better. The lights in the loft were on and a fairly new van was parked illegally in front of the entrance. He drove around the block so he could park on a corner with a good view of the apartment.

  ***

  “I’m shitty with women.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “I’ve always been shitty with women.”

  “That’s bullshit. You’re a stud. They fall all over you.”

  “Let me tell you something, Jocko. I always feel that women think I’m an ugly egotistical son of a bitch.”

  “I feel the same way. I just don’t think about it much. I see some single, beautiful girl and I figure she wants company as badly as I do.”

  Jay said, “But we’re different, you and I. You go after women physically. I’m scared of the physical. I go after the romantic, or the challenge. The truth is, women know how to handle the physical approach. They can say yes, or no. They can read books on body language and start batting their eyes or crossing their legs. The romantic approach throws them off. They think, Jesus, this guy is strange. They don’t understand it when I don’t go for their clothes. I should have been born a hundred years ago.”

  “You’re right. We’re different.” Jocko paused. “The problem is that women have been told to look out for the serious relationships. That used to mean the guy wanted in their shorts, but over the years it’s been lost in translation. Now everybody wants in everybody’s shorts. They just don’t want anything serious. You’re a freak, that’s all. You write songs about your women, you put the name of their cats in songs; you take them to museums, to fancy dinners—and when it comes time for a good night kiss, you fall apart. You’ve told me so. You fall so head-over-heels for them that you start coming unglued—and you mess up all the signals. Believe in yourself. I’ve seen you go through three heavy relationships. In all three the girl was hooked on you, not the other way around.”

  “You’re twisting what I meant to say. You have a way of doing that.”

  “Thank you.” Jocko lit a cigarette, and Jay didn’t complain. “They fall all over you, Jay. You just don’t see it.”

  “Not true.”

  “You see? You don’t believe it. It’s the truth. I’m envious, man. Sure, I get a girl in the sack from time to time—but you get women who have something upstairs. You’re sensitive. There aren’t many sensitive males left in this world. It’s mostly Marlboro Men drinking Miller beer and driving four-wheel-drive trucks.”

  Jay smiled. “But I met Marlene on the job, not at a gig. She doesn’t look at me that way.”

  “Bullshit.” Jocko grinned. “You carry it on your face like a sign: It says, ‘I’m intelligent, handsome, and sensitive—inquire within, girls beware.’ Your problem is, you’re a much more powerful person than most people expect you to be. Your modesty won’t accept that. The sooner you get used to that, the better.”

  “I walked away from her.”

  “You tend to dive into things before you test the water.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning when you like something you go after it, often without knowing much about it. Also meaning, if I were you I’d hire a private detective.”

  “You’re worried. I’m touched.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Jocko, you are anything but serious. You’re a good-looking Jew who has too much money and too much time. Never too serious.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “True. I, on the other hand, am broke, without credit, and I owe the city a wad, and it’s driving me batty.”

  “You can borrow from me. I really don’t mind a bit.”

  “No.”

  “How much have you saved?”

  “A few hundred.”

  Jocko yawned. “I gotta go.”

  “You just got here.”

  “I got here an hour ago. It’s late. I’m beat. Come over with me. Spend the night. Play it safe.”

  “Nah. Thanks anyway.”

  “Come on.”

  “What happened to your redhead, anyway?”

  “I got her phone number.” He hesitated. “I’ve got a bottle of Scotch at my place.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Don’t go see her. Don’t be stupid.”

  “Sure.” Jay shrugged.

  “If you change your mind…” He stood. “I’ll be up drinking Scotch and dreaming of redheads.”

  “Don’t stain the couch.”

  “Funny.” Jocko pulled the door shut behind him.

  Jay heard him clomping down the stairway—Jocko never used the elevator. He took out a pad of paper, thinking of the rich party-goers on The Lazy Daze. The strong, overhead light bothered him. He switched it off and sat back down. The light from the street was enough to see by. If he had one steady companion in this world, it was his music. He began scribbling:

  I see you with your long dress on,

  drinking from your fine, fine crystal.

  Sipping your white wine

  thinking everything is fine.

  But there’s one thing you’re missing…

  It’s a real good kissing.

  Go on, go on: call me a liar

  But you don’t know me.

  I am the Lord of Desire

  For tonight,

  I am the Lord of Desire.

  Ray Bans and suntans

  and co-co-nut lotion.

  Stories you’ve never lived but

  wished you had.

  You can say and he can hear,

  but no one listens.

  And don’t forget, no don’t forget

  I know what you’re missing…

  For tonight, I am the Lord of Desire.

  He had a good strong tempo and nice melody going in his head. He sang it through a couple of times and then worked out a last verse, thinking of Marlene.

  Bat your eyes

  turn your head,

  But you let me see.

  You may be fooling someone

  honey

  But it ain’t me

  For tonight

  I am the Lord of Desire…

  That did it: he had to see Marlene. Now.

  ***

  Kepella saw the young guy drive the van away, and then a minute later, the light in Becker’s apartment window went off. Kepella thought Becker had gone to sleep. Good time to replace the “borrowed” key. A bearded man wearing a T-shirt and sweat pants ran by in a full sweat. Strange to see a man jogging at damn near three in the morning. Takes all kinds.

  Kepella had put away close to half the pint of Papa by
a few minutes before three. He had given Jay plenty of time to fall asleep. Kepella didn’t want any more trouble. He slipped out of the borrowed car and decided to walk around the block once, just to check things out. The lap took five minutes; he walked right past Freddie hiding in a doorway.

  Kepella climbed the stairs to Jay’s apartment. He planned to slip the key quietly under the crack, leaving it on the floor. The loose change on the floor shouldn’t arouse too much suspicion. As he knelt by the door to the loft apartment, Kepella heard the shower running. First a guy jogging at two-forty-five in the morning, now a kid in the shower at three. He slipped the key under the gap in the door and shoved it in further using a folded dollar bill. He walked quietly back down the stairs.

  As Kepella walked across the street, he noticed the skinny bum in the doorway. He didn’t want to be mugged at three in the morning.

  The fire took quickly. Before Kepella was half a block away, he turned and saw the blaze jumping from the rear of the building. Becker! he thought, pressing his back against a wall and watching the fire grow. What to do? If he allowed Becker to fry, then what was the purpose of any of this? He had to move. Fast.

  He had enough sense not to use the stairway, even though, as he ran past the front door, the fire seemed not to have reached the front of the building. He hurried around to the alley and the fire escape. He was huffing by the time he began to climb the ladder. He reached the first landing. From here it was obvious the fire would consume the building within minutes. He pulled himself up the rusted fire escape. Sweat broke out across his forehead. He felt the booze in his veins. Dizzy. He stopped. He looked down, feeling even more dizzy, and then started to turn back, torn between up and down: the story of his life.

  Jay had showered off the cigarette smoke he collected every night playing the bars. He had changed into fresh jeans, a clean pair of socks, and his running shoes. He noticed the Shilshole pass key lying there. Had that been there before? He was just buttoning his Hawaiian shirt when he smelled smoke. Then he spotted a faint curl coming under the door. Smoke! He picked up the key and ran to the phone. Nothing. Dead. Just like he would be in another minute if he didn’t do something. He ran over to Larry the Lizard’s repaired terrarium and fished Larry out. A window broke behind him. Glass flew into the room. Jay dropped Larry and ducked behind a group of ferns.

  “Kid,” a gravel voice called out. “The building’s on fire. Becker?”

  Jay stood up and shouted, “Who are you?” He could see half a face, its skin orange from the flames. A pushed-in face and a bulbous nose. It was him. No doubt. The same guy. The guy who had broken into the apartment. The guy on the videotape the Chinaman had called “Roy.” “What do you want?”

  Kepella peered through a hole in the jagged glass. “The fire!”

  Smoke was filling the room quickly. Jay switched on a light. He could barely see. “Larry!” he called hopelessly. “Larry!”

  The fire built quickly across the side of the building. Kepella shouted, “Kid, use your head. Get outa there. Now!”

  Jay panicked. He removed the police bar and opened the door a crack.

  “No, kid. Don’t be stupid…”

  Thick smoke. No flames. An orange light danced in the shaft of the freight elevator. Jay took hold of The Streak, hoisted its light frame above his shoulder, and ran through the smoke toward the stairs.

  Kepella hurried down the fire escape. Stupid kid. The building was going up like tinder.

  Jay reached the bottom of the stairs. As he opened the entrance door, he turned, remembering the Kramers. He ran into the corridor and pounded on their apartment door. No answer. Vacation, he remembered. He ran to the front of the building. Smoke poured from the freight elevator. Jay took one last look. As he came out onto the street carrying The Streak he saw the guy running up the hill. He shouted, but the guy kept running. He climbed on The Streak and pedaled hard. The guy got in a car and slammed the door.

  Jay had the bike really moving by the time the second-story apartment blew. The force of the explosion knocked him off. He looked back at the flames. His home was destroyed. He had scuffed his right arm, but managed to get back on the bike. At the corner he tripped a fire alarm.

  The car raced off. Jay tucked his head low, shifted gears up, and started gaining on him. He was only twenty yards behind him, pedaling hard along the flat, head tucked low, hidden by the darkness and his aerodynamic position. The car turned right. Jay turned right. The car turned left. Jay turned left. The car sped up. Jay sped up. They traveled this way, car and bike in tandem, for a few minutes. Then they hit a red light. Jay braked, dismounted, and jumped the bike up onto the sidewalk to avoid being seen in the rearview mirror. He watched through the car window as the guy chugged from a pint of something. Who the hell was this guy?

  Five blocks later, the car pulled into a short driveway on Cedar, up near Broad. Jay pedaled past and pulled over, noting the address. Jocko’s place was three blocks away. He waited ten minutes. A light went out in a lower window. Jay thought of his loft—the jungle—all of it gone. Burned. He saw before his eyes all that he would never see again, and sighed: no tears, no tight throat, just one deep sigh.

  Burned. All of it gone. Forever.

  31

  Jocko delivered a cup of tea, poured himself a Scotch, and sat on the springy couch opposite his friend, who had a blanket draped over his shoulders.

  “I left Larry up there.”

  “You left a lot of things up there,” Jocko responded. “You can do what about it? This I would like to know.”

  Becker tried to smile. “You sound like your father.”

  Jocko just smiled.

  “You know, when I found that videotape, I thought, Shit, this is exciting! I really enjoyed it for a while.” He tried to laugh. “I don’t know if the guy on the fire escape was trying to save me or kill me, but this stuff has got to stop.”

  “You’ll have to talk to the cops. We should go down there now.”

  “Now maybe they’ll listen. What if there’s nothing they can do about it?”

  “There has to be something.”

  “What if there isn’t?”

  “Then I pay off your debt and I fly you the hell out of here, until whatever this is is over. Should have done that in the first place.”

  “If I got the cops the tapes, then they’d listen.”

  “Don’t even think about it—”

  “But it might involve Marlene. I have to get Marlene out of this.”

  “You have to get yourself out of this first.”

  “I’m sick of that attitude! When do we think about the other person? I care for her, damnit!”

  “This is no time to get righteous.”

  “What if I got the videotape, got Marlene off The Lady Fine, and told Holst to leave us alone? What the hell could he do?”

  “Kill you.”

  “I’m serious. I leave the tapes with a lawyer… in the event of death, and all that.”

  “Too many flicks.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve been watching too many flicks.”

  “Look who’s talking. You’re the tube freak, not me.”

  “We settle your debt. You get the hell out of town. No more ‘I Spy.’”

  “But it might work,” Becker thought aloud.

  “The first thing we do is rig you up with a piece, laws or no laws.”

  “I’d end up shooting myself. We’ve been over that.”

  “Then a blade.” Jocko reached down and pulled a switchblade out of a small leather strap fixed around his calf. “You can use Mildy.”

  “What about you? You can’t sleep without that thing.”

  “Let’s not get testy. I have Mildy’s predecessor around here somewhere. I retired it in favor of Mildy’s ebony handle and safety catch. You’re better off with Mildy. She’s a safer model.” He opened and closed it twice to demonstrate how it worked, and handed the strap and knife to Becker.

  Jay tried it a
nd did fine. “I don’t know. This seems ridiculous.”

  “Better safe, and all that. Remember, if you have to use it, make sure you pull it back out. You don’t leave a blade in an opponent. They can use it on you.”

  “That’s disgusting. You’re the martial arts freak. I don’t know anything about this stuff.”

  “Stab the other guy, pull it out, and run like hell. That’s how you use a blade.”

  Jay sipped the tea.

  “How are you feeling?”

  On the couch, in front of a lamp, Becker’s face was in shadow and his hair glowed. The frustration in his voice could be seen in the twisting of his hands, the nervous tapping of his right leg, his knee jumping, as if he was listening to the beat of a fast song. Jay leaned forward and the harsh light flooded the right side of his face, throwing the shadow of his nose across his left cheek. “We’ve been in the business ten years, and what have we got to show for it?”

  Jocko blew cigarette smoke away from Becker, and didn’t answer.

  “How much money have we brought in?” Jay asked.

  “You mean over the last ten years?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Somewhere around four hundred grand, I’d say. Maybe a little bit more.”

  “I’ve never had more than two hundred dollars in my account. You know that? Never topped two hundred bucks and we’ve made damn near half a million.”

  “There’s been a lot of us, Jay.”

  “I make what, six to eight grand a year? It costs me that much to squeak by. I’ve washed dishes, I’ve tended bar, I’ve played duo gigs with Jimmy, I’ve taught sailing lessons…”

  “I know what you’re saying.”

  “Not really. Not really, Jocko. I don’t mean to sing the blues, but you and I have different situations. You don’t need the money. I do.”

  “I know that. What am I supposed to say to that?”

  “I don’t know. How should I know? I don’t expect you to say anything. I’m just complaining, that’s all.” He moved and his face returned to shadow.

  “Am I supposed to talk you into playing?”