The Drifter

by Nick Petrie

  10

  Twentieth and Center was an easy walk from Shorty’s, the bar where Jimmy had worked. Dinah didn’t know which building, or even which block. Peter thought he could narrow it down by knocking on doors.

  Jimmy was a friendly guy. Someone would remember him.

  Or so Peter hoped.

  Driving, he continued to check his mirrors, but saw no sign of the black Ford SUV or anything else. Although, in the dark, one set of headlights looked a lot like the rest.

  Vacant lots gaped like black holes where the city had torn down derelict housing. The remaining buildings were duplexes built in the twenties, when factory jobs were plentiful. Once they were tall and proud. Now, even with half the streetlights dark, Peter could see the crumbling chimneys, asbestos siding cracked and falling, roof shingles slipping downhill, revealing the worn layers beneath.

  Peter understood why Jimmy didn’t want Dinah to see where he lived.

  He circled the block twice before finally parking. Getting out of the truck, he thought about taking the .45 with him. It was a Colt 1911. This one had the serial numbers filed off, which under the current circumstances he didn’t mind. He’d bought it in the parking lot of a gun show in Washington State, not because he thought he would ever need it, but because for a soldier who’d spent eight years at war, not owning a weapon was like a writer emptying his house of pens.

  As handguns went, the 1911 was big and heavy, but it was very similar to the sidearm he’d had in the service, and he was used to it. It felt like an extension of his hand. He didn’t have a holster for it, though, and the gun tucked into the back of his pants was awkward. He didn’t want to have to do a lot of walking like that, always adjusting, making sure it didn’t fall out. So he left it under the seat. How bad could the neighborhood be?

  It was full dark now, and getting colder. The wind murmured in the leafless maples and locusts. One thing about Milwaukee, the streets were lined with trees.

  Three young men stood on the far corner, talking in low voices and passing a skinny hand-rolled cigarette. They watched Peter get out of the truck but didn’t stop the conversation or the progress of the joint. One of them pulled out a phone and poked at it. In Iraq, this would have made Peter worry about an ambush or an IED. He told himself this wasn’t Iraq.

  The dog whined in the cargo box, so he let it out and took the rope in his hand. The animal was excited, ears up and tugging at the leash.

  Peter figured he’d let the dog pee, then put it back in the truck before starting to knock on doors. Nobody would talk with this ugly monster beside him. But rather than sniff the bushes, the dog pulled him eagerly down the darkened street.

  “Mingus!” Ahead, a woman stumped along the sidewalk, bent with age. She had a furled umbrella in one hand, using it like a cane, and a plastic grocery sack in the other. Her hair was tied up in a tribal scarf, the bright colors muted by the night. The dog pulled harder, a hundred and fifty pounds of determination. “Charles Mingus, that you?” Her voice was a scratchy shout. She was two houses away.

  “Ma’am?” Peter called. He had never been mistaken for a dead black jazz musician before.

  “Not you, fool,” said the woman scornfully as the dog launched itself forward at her. Peter was pulled nearly off his feet before the rope leash slid, burning, from his grasp.

  Shit shit shit. He dove after the dog, thankful for the stick occupying those murderous teeth, trying for a grip on the wood or the rope while the dog lunged at the woman and blows from the umbrella rained about Peter’s head. The old woman was stronger than she looked. Most of them are.

  Finally he had the dog in a headlock, down on his knees with the leash wrapped around his hand, but she was still swinging the umbrella like a samurai on acid.

  “Who the fuck are you?” said the old woman, not even breathing hard as Peter wrestled with the dog. “And what have you done to poor Charles Mingus?”

  Oh, thought Peter. She wasn’t crazy.

  Charles Mingus was the dog. She knew the dog.

  She knew the dog.

  He caught the umbrella in one hand and held it still. It was harder than he expected.

  “Ma’am? How do you know the dog?”

  She turned toward a small duplex house. “I need a goddamn drink.”

  She didn’t look to see if he was following.

  —

  Her name was Miss Rosetta Phelps, and housekeeping clearly wasn’t a priority. Her kitchen was a narrow blue clutter of unwashed pots and empty bottles.

  The white static foamed up and the smell of the dog filled the room, although Peter couldn’t entirely fault the dog. He stuck his head through doorways to see the layout and find the exits, the static always looking for more ways to get outside.

  Miss Rosetta didn’t leave the kitchen. The grocery sack she’d been carrying held a plastic half-gallon of Early Times, undamaged in the scuffle. At a small corner table crowded with dirty dishes, she poured a long, dark splash into a stained water glass and drained it in a gulp.

  She smacked her lips. “Oh, that’s nice.”

  Four fingers of cheap whiskey and she drank it down like iced tea. Peter made a mental note: don’t fuck with old ladies.

  She reached for a boning knife. “C’mere, Mingus, you poor bastard.”

  The dog sat at her feet, wagging his tail. “I’m glad he has a name,” said Peter. “I was thinking of calling him Cupcake.”

  “Huh,” said Miss Rosetta, looking sideways at Peter. “You don’t look like no retard,” she said. “But I been wrong before.” She took hold of the dog by the upper jaw, ignoring the snorts and the inch-long teeth, and started sawing at the Kevlar rope holding the stick in place. “Hold still, dummy.”

  “You sure you want to do that? This dog tried to kill me once.”

  Miss Rosetta ignored him. The knife was very sharp. She was already unwinding the rope. The dog dropped the chewed length of handrail on the cracked linoleum with a surprising delicacy, licked his chops experimentally, then put his paws up on the woman’s lap and licked her chin.

  “Mingus, behave yourself,” she said, rapping him on the nose.

  When he slurped her right ear, she leaned in and wrapped her arms around his neck, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Dog, you ain’t even bought me dinner.”

  Eventually the dog came to Peter and nosed his hands.

  Peter pushed the nose away.

  The dog came back.

  Peter pushed him away again.

  When the dog returned a third time, he moved so fast that he had Peter’s wrist between his jaws before Peter knew he had done it.

  The pressure of the teeth was perfectly calibrated. The hardest grip possible without quite puncturing the skin. The hot, wet tongue like a rare steak fresh from the pan. The wolfish eyes locked on his face.

  The dog wasn’t letting go.

  Peter sighed. “Okay, Mingus,” he said, and rubbed the massive head with his free hand. The stink rose up like a poison cloud. He really had to wash this damn dog. “You win. I’m yours.”

  The dog released his wrist and licked up his arm to the inside of his elbow. Peter stood and rinsed a cereal bowl, filled it with water, and set it on the floor. The dog drank noisily.

  As if on cue, Miss Rosetta reached for the Early Times again, this time filling half the glass and pouring it down her throat without seeming to swallow. He’d better get some answers before she fell off her chair.

  Peter said, “Ma’am, how do you know this dog?”

  “Poor Mingus,” she said. She didn’t seem drunk at all. Maybe she was like one of those experimental cars that ran on alcohol. Just topping up her tank. She looked at Peter hard. “Where’d you find him?”

  “Hiding under a porch a couple miles from here. The family was afraid he was going to hurt one of the kids. I think he was just hungry.”

>   On cue, the dog looked up, long tongue hanging out, dripping water on the linoleum. “Don’t look at me, Mingus,” she said. “I ain’t feeding you. That Jim might have something upstairs, if the rats ain’t got it.”

  “Miss Rosetta,” said Peter. “How do you know the dog?”

  But he already knew.

  She rested her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table. “My tenant,” she said dreamily. “Lives upstairs. Mingus’s his dog. Been gone awhile. Went on a trip, took the dog with him. Paid rent three months in advance, cash money. Can you beat that?”

  Cash money. “What’s your tenant’s name?”

  “Jim,” she said. “Handsome Jim. Big, tall man.” The bourbon was catching up. Her speech was still clear, but her face was starting to look a little blurred. “Real sweetheart, that boy. Was a time I’da showed him something. . . .” Her voice crackled and faded, a radio losing reception.

  Every Marine knows not to drink on an empty stomach. “Miss Rosetta? Can I make you some dinner?”

  She blinked at him slowly. Then smacked her lips, her head sinking down toward the table and onto her folded arms. After a minute, she started snoring. Peter looked in the fridge. Bread, eggs, hamburger. TV dinners in the freezer. She’d be okay.

  She seemed to have some practice at this.

  The static was flaring in the small cluttered space. Peter endured the tightness in his chest long enough to neaten the kitchen and wash the dishes, which took some scrubbing. Making sure the door locked behind him, he left with Mingus bounding ahead.

  11

  The entrance to the upstairs apartment was at the side of Miss Rosetta’s duplex. The lamp outside was dark, so trying Jimmy’s keys in the lock was difficult until Peter pulled out his penlight.

  After a little jiggling, the tarnished old lock turned just fine.

  The steps were steep and narrow and complained underfoot. He pushed down the cramped, jittery feeling and climbed.

  The dog galloped up ahead of him.

  —

  At the top, two doors. The original upper apartment was subdivided into two smaller units. The dog nosed at the right-hand door. Peter tried his keys again. The latch opened without fuss, as if waiting to be unlocked.

  The white static rose up. One deep breath after another. He told himself he’d be out of there in ten minutes.

  Jimmy had lived in one room tucked into the eaves at the back of the house. The cracked plaster ceiling angled down to the floor, following the rafters. A rag rug covered most of the battered pine floor. The small bed was neatly made with a green wool Army surplus blanket. Jimmy’s feet must have hung off the end.

  A small television sat atop a small bookshelf filled with war memoirs—Erich Maria Remarque, Ernie Pyle, Philip Caputo, Tim O’Brien, Nathaniel Fick. Facing it was an ugly plaid armchair that was wide enough for Jimmy and looked pretty comfortable. In the corner, a small maple desk.

  There was a closet with wash-worn shirts and pants on plastic hangers. A bathroom was shared with the neighboring apartment. The window looked out to the backyard and alley. No lights to be seen. It was dark as death out there.

  For a kitchen, Jimmy had a short counter, a bar sink, and an old chrome single-coil hot plate that belonged in a museum. Atop a clean dish towel stood a shining plate and bowl, a mason jar doing duty as a glass, a green ceramic mug with U.S. MARINE CORPS on the side, and a fork, knife, and spoon. No piece matched any other, but each was clean and at rest in orderly progression.

  Peter thought of Dinah’s description of Jimmy asleep on the couch with the dishes still dirty from breakfast.

  Maybe he didn’t want his wife to see how he was living. But the man had nothing to be ashamed of.

  Shelves held cans of soup, spaghetti, pork and beans. Store-brand coffee in a half-pound tin, nearly empty. Salt and pepper shakers. Under the counter, a mini-fridge with a folded dish towel laid over the door to keep it from closing. It was empty, clean, and unplugged.

  This wasn’t how Jimmy had lived every day, not with his fridge unplugged. He was preparing for something.

  He’d told his landlady he would be gone for a while.

  He’d paid his rent three months in advance.

  Peter thought about how Jimmy had made a point of saying please and thank you. Thanks for the coffee, brother. Please pass the hand grenades. It was funny, and Jimmy knew it, but he was serious about it, too, schooling the younger guys. A real man treats others with respect, and demands respect in return. It was an odd habit in a war zone, but because of Jimmy’s natural authority, it was also contagious. They had the politest platoon in the war.

  Maybe Jimmy was the polite kind of suicide.

  The kind who cleaned his apartment and paid his rent first.

  Because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone.

  Oh, Jimmy.

  —

  The dog nosed at the kitchen cabinet. It was still disconcerting to see him without the stick tied into his mouth, but Peter was getting used to it. He opened the door and found a few pans and an old coffee percolator, and two big metal bowls stacked atop a sealed plastic bin with a few cups of dog food scattered on the bottom. Peter set out the bin for the dog, who immediately hoovered out the contents, licked his sizable chops, looked at Peter, and whined.

  “It’s okay, Mingus,” he said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  Mingus went to a worn corner of the carpet, turned around twice, and lay down, nose to tail, watching as Peter went through the closet. There was nothing in the pockets of the hanging shirts or pants; nothing slid between the jeans and sweaters folded on the shelf. Nothing was hidden in the old black suit that Jimmy would have worn to weddings and funerals. Underwear folded neatly in a shoebox, socks paired up in another. Peter emptied the boxes but found nothing but clothes.

  The static had begun to crackle and rise, and his shoulders were getting tight, but Peter put each item back the way he’d found it. The man was dead, but it was still his home. And Peter wanted Dinah to see it the way Jimmy had left it.

  There was nothing hidden under the bed or under the carpet. Jimmy had taped snapshots of Dinah, Charlie, and Miles to the wall by the bed, but there was nothing hidden behind them. There was no access to the attic or the knee walls where the roof slanted down.

  He went through the desk last. It was small and its finish was peeling, but it was made of actual wood, from the days before particleboard turned furniture into disposable objects. The top was empty. There were three drawers down the left side. The bottom drawer was empty. The middle drawer held pens, a scattering of plain envelopes, a half-sheet of stamps. The top drawer held a big manila envelope from the VA, with a thick sheaf of papers. Peter pulled the envelope out to take with him.

  Under the manila envelope was a yellow paper flier. HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? Looking at it, Peter thought it was the same as the flier folded up in Jimmy’s belt when he died. The photo showed a very young man with cropped black hair, smiling for the camera. He wore a striped button-down shirt. It might have been a high school graduation photo.

  This time, Peter read the smaller print. “Felix Castellano, decorated Marine, missing. Please contact his grandmother, Aurelia Castellano.” It gave a phone number and date, just a few weeks before Jimmy’s death.

  There was something about this flier. Peter felt it in the pit of his stomach. The urgent growl of pursuit.

  But he didn’t know why.

  He was down the stairs and out the door with the VA papers and the flier in a paper bag, the key in the lock, the dog crowding him on the stoop, the white static dissolving in the relief of the open air, before he realized it.

  It was more than a flier. Jimmy was trying to find the missing Marine.

  It was part of Marine culture, part of the lore.

  You pick up your wounded.

  You carry the dead.

>   You never leave a man behind.

  And here was Peter, doing the same damn thing.

  Trying to find the real Jimmy. To carry him home.

  Jimmy, with his suitcase full of money and four slabs of plastic explosive.

  Oh, Jimmy. What did you do?

  12

  Stepping out into the darkened street toward his truck, with the bag of Jimmy’s papers swinging at his side and Mingus ranging ahead, Peter felt the puff of wind on his neck and heard the unmistakable zhip of the bullet passing before the flat crack of the gunshots reached him.

  It was familiar, the loose rattle of an AK-47, the way the world slowed down while his mind sped up. The granular glow from the few functional streetlights. The damp autumn breeze on his exposed skin. The coppery flavor of adrenaline in his mouth. He didn’t want to like it. But there was something unavoidably delicious about that taste.

  Automatically, he turned his head to look for the muzzle flash and saw the man in a Bulls jacket standing beside the open rear door of a sedan stopped at the intersection fifty yards away. The long gun was at his shoulder, but his eye wasn’t down to the sight.

  With the crystal clarity of stopped time, Peter thought the guy should be ashamed for missing at that distance. Even with an AK, which was notoriously inaccurate. It was like the early days of the insurgency, deposed Baathists full of the false confidence that came from running a dictatorship, walking into the street like action heroes, firing from the hip. This was before they learned to hide, and aim, and blow shit up.

  The world popped back into motion when the gunman fired again. The AK clattered and a window broke behind Peter. A car alarm howled. Out in the darkness, Mingus started barking like something out of a caveman’s nightmare.

  Stepping behind the cover of his truck, Peter couldn’t see the dog, but he didn’t have time to look. The gunman paused, probably changing clips. Peter fished his keys from his coat pocket, opened the passenger door, reached under the seat and found the .45. Shoved the bag of Jimmy’s papers where the gun had been. Mingus kept barking, now from somewhere above him.