Shade City

by Domino Finn

  The police dragged me into the Hollywood station in handcuffs. Steel, not that it mattered. I didn't know what happened to the kid. Never found out. I told them he was the one who started it. I tried to explain what happened. They didn't want to hear it.

  "Hey man, I got smacked in the head with a skateboard. I probably have a concussion or something."

  "Yeah?" asked the younger cop, strutting me down the hallway as if he was walking to theme music that only he could hear. "If you're hurt, I'll take you to County. Get you looked at. But trust me. You don't want to go there. They won't treat you as nice as us." I clenched my jaw. It sounded more like he didn't want to go there.

  They chained me to a long wooden bench with a metal railing that sat in an even longer hallway. And they just left me there. All alone. Why was the bench so long?

  The cuffs were tight. I was surprised at how fast thirty minutes passed and how quickly my arms became sore. Still, I sat quietly, deciding not to say anything else. I wasn't getting any help here. Maybe I could get Mr. Glickman to get me out of whatever jam I was in.

  As I mulled over my future options, an officer opened the door at the far end of the hallway and announced, "It's time!" The boys in blue all laughed and crowded around the side rooms, leaving the hallway clear. Then the officer nodded and a girl walked in. Two steps inside and she stopped, raised her hands, and spun in a circle. Everyone laughed some more. Jeers and whistles were added to the mix.

  Then another girl came in after her. And another. It was a line of prostitutes, but most of them were treating this like a modeling show. As the girls walked closer to me, I realized the rub. They weren't girls at all. Every single one of them was a guy in drag. There must have been at least ten of them and they all filed in and were handcuffed to the bench next to me.

  "Oh, hello handsome," said the nearest guy in a thick Latina accent with a lisp. He slid flush to me and leaned his head onto my shoulder.

  "Come on," I appealed to one of the cops walking by.

  "I think she likes you," was all he said in return. A few of them had a chuckle at that and I wished I had finished that Jack and coke.

  The rest of the night was kind of like that. Ridiculous, bureaucratic, and pointless. My possessions and shoelaces were stripped from me. When they took the pocket watch, I thought about Finlay losing it for fifteen years in a similar manner. They put me in a holding cell where I was allowed to use the phone. I tried to call Trent but he didn't pick up. I briefly thought about Eva, but I didn't want her to know. There was no one else so I just waited. Eventually, they threw me in a small cell with other guys. The cops weren't really telling me much, but I assumed this was the drunk tank. I was hoping I'd spend the night in jail and be released in the morning. No harm, no foul.

  I collapsed on a thin mattress and closed my eyes.

  Dream

  The dizziness followed me into the dream.

  It was difficult to see. The night was pitch black, the street lamps ineffective. I drifted aimlessly along the only path I could make out. The street here wasn't too wide. I didn't recognize it but it was somewhere downtown. The unmistakable buildings surrounded me, threatening to close in.

  I had proven before that I could master the haze. Solidify the mist. Where once I was a passenger I had become the captain, guiding the environs at my pleasure. But not this time. The storm clouded my senses. My thoughts. Was that panic over my shoulder?

  I spun around. "Violet?"

  There was no answer. No movement. I trudged along the lonely streets and it seemed I was the only thing not frozen in time or fog. I walked backwards for a short while, making sure no one was following me. I didn't see or hear anyone else. I turned again.

  Were the buildings closer to me now? This wasn't a main thoroughfare. An alley, maybe. Why was I here? What was I looking for?

  What was looking for me?

  I forged ahead. Not so much out of a sense of purpose, but of dread. Keep moving, I told myself. Focus. Put my shoe to the street. Feel it. Touch it. Press it. Press on.

  The glamour of the haze made me weak. I tried to fight against it. I tried to push it away. But I wasn't a man. Not here. This wasn't my world. I didn't belong.

  What was that?

  A shadow where the world was dark. A lapse where the rumbling in my head was silent. Was that my mind? The pain. It came back. Perhaps it had not yet arrived. But now my skull felt like it was about to burst.

  I tried to scream but I was one with the nothingness. All about me, the shapes were out of focus. Transitional. Shifting, yet still. No one was around to hear me so I made no noise.

  I failed. I released the tension in my mind. I unclenched my jaw. I let go of the fight because my fingers were too weak to make a fist. If this world would have its way then I would not protest.

  Nothing else worked. I had nowhere to go. Sometimes clarity can only be gained by looking inward. Relaxing. Sometimes, to hear what isn't there, you just have to forget about everything else and stop.

  But it was there. And it spoke.

  You are not alone.

  Sunday

  This Sunday morning started out very differently from the last. A week ago, I woke up after a successful hunt. I had banished Nero. Hung with Trent. I'd even had a one night stand with... What was her name again?

  I rubbed my head. It throbbed with a dull pain that lingered in the background. Well, that part was about the same as last Sunday. Except I didn't have any aspirin or glasses of water, and the only toilet was a pitifully dirty bowl without a cover (or privacy) in the corner of the room. It was currently being used by a large Samoan man.

  So I was in jail. Besides the headache, I had none of the comforts of a lazy morning in my apartment. Or the desire to sleep in. But even worse than wearing shoes loosened by their lack of laces was the fact that I didn't have the pocket watch with me.

  "You okay, bro?" The voice came from a young Hispanic guy, about the same age as the kid who had clocked me with the skateboard. I nodded. "You looked pretty shaky last night. What'd you do?"

  I sat up on the bed and examined the small cell. It wasn't like the movies. There were no metal bars, just a glass wall set against painted brick. Six beds were stuffed in the cramped quarters and every one of them was taken. The other five guys were awake and staring at me, waiting for my answer.

  "I got in a fight on the subway," I said dispassionately. "And then I puked on the guy."

  Everybody laughed. I admit, it made me smile too. It was pretty funny.

  "What did he do?" asked the kid.

  "Hit me in the head with a skateboard." They laughed again but saw that I wasn't joking. I wondered what I looked like. There was no blood on my hands. I didn't feel it caked to my skin either.

  Another kid, this one younger, nodded. "We thought you grabbed a bike or something. Tried to fight the police."

  "Grabbed?"

  The older kid spoke up. "It's bullshit. I was walking down Hollywood and I see a bike lying in the middle of the sidewalk, you know? So I picked it up to, like, put it against the building, out of the way. Next thing I know, cops be jumping out from everywhere, telling me to put my hands up on my head."

  The younger kid agreed. "Me too. I wasn't gonna creep it. I was just moving it a little bit. That's all."

  I chuckled, more to share their pain than poke fun. "You guys got caught in an organized bicycle sting?"

  "Yeah man," answered the original one. "Like I said. Bullshit. If you were walking down the street and you saw a penny on the floor, you would take it, right?"

  Hell no, I thought, but I didn't want to interrupt his story.

  "It's the same thing. I saw a bike. No one else had it. It was just... there."

  I shook my head in feigned disbelief. "Bullshit."

  "I know, right?"

  I thought of all the prison movies I'd watched. The scene came to mind where the prisoners traded stories about what they were in for: "I killed a man for looking at me funny." That t
ype of thing. Granted, I was only in jail, but I had never imagined how ridiculous the stories could get.

  There was a white guy in a grungy Eagles jersey lying on his side, paying attention with tired eyes. "You guys are lucky," he said with an accent that suggested he was raised in a trailer. "Tomorrow morning you'll go to court and be cut loose." He heaved himself to a sitting position and shook his head with resignation. "Not me."

  I wasn't sure if anyone else had heard his story yet. I asked anyway. "What happened?"

  "My girlfriend's got a restraining order on me. But, see, I was living with her for the last seven months. You know how that is." He said it as if I had likely been in a similar position. I just nodded. "Well, we had an argument a few nights ago because I forgot to record her show and she called the cops. They said there was nothing they could do. She had the restraining order so I got arrested."

  "Even if she had welcomed you back in?"

  "Doesn't matter," he said. "The bitch of it is that this was the second time they caught me on it. I can pay a fine or I can serve ninety days. But I don't got no three thousand dollars." The man leaned back against the brick wall, as if he had exerted enough energy for the day. "Nope. Better to just wait it out in here."

  There was some other small talk but I paid less attention to conversation from that point on. I had thought I was in the drunk tank or something. That I would be kicked loose this morning. But everyone else here was talking about bail and court and staying long-term. What had I gotten myself into last night?

  I began planning a course of action. I decided I needed to make a phone call and get out of here today, not tomorrow. That meant calling Trent again, probably. I had some money in my account. I could pay a fine. But I didn't feel I needed to. I didn't do anything wrong last night.

  Before I could get past that stage of thought, a police officer walked up to the clear plastic wall. "Who's Dante?"

  "That's me."

  "Let's go."

  The others in the cell looked at me with a combination of envy and pride. I was just with them for a short time but they were happy that somebody was getting out. I was too. It's weird, the type of camaraderie that can be built up in special circumstances. It's always better to be a victim in a group. I shook their hands and followed the officer.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Bailed out. Walk through that door, sign up front, and pick up your belongings."

  "What was I charged with?"

  "I don't know. But I'm sure they told you. If you weren't drunk, you'd remember."

  "I wasn't drunk. I got hit on the head with a skateboard."

  The officer furrowed his brow. "That some new slang with the kids these days?"

  I let out an audible snort. If there was a definition of doing the bare minimum, this guy was doing less than it.

  "Who bailed me out?"

  The man just looked ahead and shrugged. I doubted whether he still remembered my name. Shit, of all people, I guess I couldn't hold that against him. I stopped asking questions.

  I gave my signature at the desk and turned to see Emilio leaning against the wall. His hardened expression seemed at home in the Hollywood police station. I sighed. This was turning into a hell of a morning. I gathered my scattered articles into a heap and held them in my hand.

  There you are.

  "I don't want to talk about it, Violet."

  The strongman held the front door open and motioned outside with his head. Yeah, no shit, dumbass. He led me down the sidewalk to a nearby red limo. The engine was running and Emilio invited me in. I decided to get this over with as soon as possible. I was hungry and needed a shower.

  * * *

  The seats in the car were a deep burgundy and did a decent job of matching the paint color of the exterior. The rest of the trim—carpet, felt ceiling, tints—was black. I'd never seen a limo quite like it. Marquis sat across from me, wearing a soft yellow shirt and gray vest. Once again, his collar was raised like some sort of one man fashion statement.

  "I assume you need a ride?" he asked.

  I nodded and dropped my belongings on the seat beside me. The car pulled out and headed north. Emilio was also inside, but seated at the other end. With us but separate, as I'm sure Marquis preferred. I couldn't see the driver. Nobody said anything as we headed up Cahuenga and got on the 101. By then I was almost finished lacing up my shoes.

  "I don't think there's much to the assault charge," said Marquis, watching me. I've spoken with my lawyer. He'll call you tomorrow. I'm sure you can plan on the DA dropping the charges altogether."

  I wanted to tell him that I didn't need his help. That I could handle it. But it sounded like a good deal. "I don't want to owe you anything."

  "But you already do," he said firmly. "I'm just protecting my investment. Don't worry about the lawyer. It will only be an hour of his time and he's on retainer. The only matter I want you to concern yourself with is my soldier. Tell me about Soren."

  "He's off the table."

  "Unacceptable."

  "I'm telling you, Marquis. He's come into money. He doesn't need a job with Red Hat."

  The man rubbed the wiry gray scruff on his neck. I couldn't tell if he was disappointed or pleased. "That is your choice, then?"

  "It's his choice."

  "I'm afraid you're confusing Soren's deal with the one you and I made. In our arrangement, you have a choice. To make up for banishing Christian, you are to deliver Soren to me. Or you may deliver yourself." Marquis nodded to Emilio. The strongman leaned forward and locked his hands together menacingly. "If you refuse one, you are implicitly agreeing to the other."

  "There's another option." I finished with the laces and rummaged through my belongings. No money appeared to be missing. I still had Soren's ring. Everything was in order. I returned the items to my pockets, one by one, but I kept the watch in my hand. I waved it to catch the attention of Marquis.

  "The Hamilton pocket watch," he said, "I've seen one like it before. It is your crutch, is it not?" I peered at him with questioning eyes. He immediately explained himself. "Your conduit to this world. Is it the watch?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  He studied me plainly. "You do have a conduit between both worlds, do you not? The Dead Side draws us all. The watch is what strengthens your bond here."

  I sighed, already fed up with the man. "I told you. I'm not like you."

  He brought his lips together in a frown. "I understand your hesitation, Dante, but you are too wary. Trust is the foundation of relationships."

  "Listen," I said, holding the timepiece up, "you're telling me you don't recognize this exact watch?"

  "I recall one similar to it, ages ago. I forget who it belonged to. I've lived a great many years, Dante. Small details elude me."

  "Dude, this was Alexander Ambrose's railroad watch. His daughter held it as he killed her. Seeing as how you had a hand in that, you should have the decency to remember."

  He thought in silence for a minute. I figured he was surprised, even if he refused to show it. "I see," was all he said.

  "That's it? That's all you got? I say that name and you're pretending not to be interested?"

  A loud squealing sound interrupted us. Emilio was sliding closer to me and his leather pants rubbed against the seat. Marquis waved him off. I shook my head, impatiently, thinking I was being jerked around. Marquis saw my reaction and explained. "Alexander was an associate of mine at the turn of the last century. He was a headache to maintain but he paid his dues. At the end of his life, we parted ways amicably. He may not have been my best investment, but he completed his contract. Unlike you." The man suddenly leaned forward and glued his eyes to me. "Tell me, you're not Alexander, are you?"

  "What? Me? No, man."

  He rested against the seat again. "No, of course not. You don't act very much like him, barring the headache. Besides, that would be impossible. But yes, I do remember the watch now."

  I scoffed. I wasn't sure what he
meant, but it didn't seem as though anything was impossible these days. More likely that Marquis had been oblivious to Ambrose all these years. But the man still knew more than I did. "Maybe you could fill me in then. Tell me about him."

  "I'd prefer not to discuss my business."

  "Why don't you look at it as the foundation of our relationship?"

  Marquis smiled and nodded his head in acquiescence. His tenor made it clear he was humoring me, but he talked. "Alexander was an ambitious man. He came from poor stock, like myself. Unlike me, however, his skin color did not hold him back." I wondered exactly how old Marquis was but I didn't interrupt him. "Given a shave and a bath, a fresh coat, and proper parlance, he could come across as a gentleman. But I was never fooled by the veneer. Alexander was a hustler. An opportunist. He climbed the ranks of the Southern Pacific Railroad, a company more corrupt than any other at the time. And that's saying a lot. Pay-offs, dirty deals, blackmail—the monopoly influenced many State interests. The railroad controlled growth. They decided which cities were prosperous—wealth was literally carted along the tracks. Los Angeles was not above the extortion. But eventually the public backlash and rise of regulation called for a number of scapegoats, and Alexander was among them. He spun the plates for as long as he could but they were bound to shatter. He was a proud man who desperately needed a way out, and I was happy to oblige."

  "What's special about the watch?"

  "Perhaps I should tell you a little bit about myself," he said. "Many in this world have gifts. And many have curses. Some men die and look to ascend into the ether. Others yearn to return to their old lives. Neither is possible, as we both know. The majority die and leave their fate to chance, arbitrarily drifting where the Winds take them. But I was never a strong proponent of chance."

  "You can control it."

  "I have a special gift. A Touch. It is with this that I can snatch a spirit from the aimlessness of freedom. My grip bolsters a singular focus. A single desire."