by Kim Fielding
Neither Qay nor Jeremy said much during their walk to the restaurant. Rhoda, though, had plenty to say, most of it concerning the dire parking situation in this part of town and the city’s refusal to do anything about it.
“You know what the problem is? Portland lets money-hungry developers tear down houses and build condos in their place, and it doesn’t make the builders provide any parking for the people who move in. So instead of one family with a garage, now you have four, maybe six families and nada. Nothing but street parking.”
“I think they want people to bike or use buses,” Jeremy said, more to keep her going than because he had any real feelings on the matter.
“Well, goody for them. Except the people who move into the condos are too snobby for buses and only bring out their bikes on weekends, when they can wear their cycling clothes that show off their asses. When they go to work or shopping, or when they’re schlepping the kids to Cantonese lessons or raku class, these people drive. So they all have cars, and they park the cars on the streets so that customers or visitors have nowhere to go.” She turned her head and pointed at Qay. “Where do you park?”
He looked embarrassed. “I don’t have a car.”
“Good. People like you should live in those condos.”
“People like me can’t afford them.”
Rhoda laughed. “Hell, neither can I. I think they’re all transplants from California anyway. They get Oregon plates as soon as they move here, but you can tell. Californians.”
“I live in a condo and I’m not from California,” Jeremy pointed out.
“Yes, but you bought when prices were reasonable and you have a parking garage. Besides, you’re still a foreigner.”
He knew she was teasing, so he stuck out his tongue. “I may have been born in Kansas, but I’ve lived here over half my life. I think I’m a naturalized citizen of Portland by now. Where are you from, Qay?”
Qay looked uncomfortable. “Nowhere in particular. I’ve moved around a lot.”
Because Jeremy was looking at Qay, he tripped over an uneven spot in the sidewalk. “Damned tree roots,” he muttered as Rhoda and Qay laughed.
Rhoda knew the owner of Diablo Verde, so even though it was Saturday night, they were seated at once. “Interesting,” Qay said, craning his head to look around. The décor included local scenes and buildings done in the style of bright Mexican folk art: skeletons dancing on the lawn of the Pittock Mansion, smiling multicolored suns hanging over Mount Hood, giant lizards and winged hearts crossing the Fremont Bridge. It was hard not to be cheerful in this restaurant, especially with the wonderful smells wafting from the open kitchen.
Their waitress had purple hair and several facial piercings. “What can I get you to drink?” she asked.
Rhoda glanced around the table. “Pitcher of margaritas?”
Jeremy was going to agree, but Qay winced. “Um, just water for me, thanks,” he said.
Without batting an eye, Rhoda nodded. “How about we compromise with agua fresca? Guava?”
“Sounds good,” Qay said, looking relieved. He waited for the waitress to leave, then ducked his head. “I, uh, guess I should tell you, I can’t drink. I got a black key tag a few years back.”
Jeremy wasn’t really surprised. Qay looked like he’d gone more than a few rounds with life and had sometimes barely made it back to his feet before the bell rang. He admired a person who kept on fighting, as Qay clearly had. “No problem,” Jeremy said. “And good for you for sticking to it. Donny—that asshole I patched up last night—never could. Never really even tried.”
Qay stared at him for a moment and then, having reached some kind of decision, nodded slightly and took off his leather jacket. He hung it on the back of his chair and seemed to relax a bit more, his shoulders loosening and his back growing straighter.
The three of them studied the menu until the waitress returned to give them drinks and take their orders. After that, the conversation had a surprisingly natural flow. Rhoda went on another small tirade, this time against something she saw on Fox News while sitting in a doctor’s waiting room. Qay asked Jeremy about his job and appeared interested in the answers. But Qay generally sidestepped questions about his own history, so Jeremy stuck to safer subjects like school and food.
By the time Jeremy was halfway through his mole, he’d figured out that Qay was really smart in a self-effacing kind of way, and that he was at least three times more interesting than Jeremy had hoped. He was funny too, although sometimes he hunched his shoulders as if he hadn’t intended to let certain words slip out.
And dammit, Jeremy knew him. Something about the fall of his black hair streaked with silver, or maybe the way the corner of Qay’s mouth would lift in a lopsided grin.
Over a shared plate of mango sopapillas and a second pitcher of agua fresca, Qay sat back in his chair and gave Jeremy a long look. Then he turned to Rhoda. “How come you want to fix his life? Sounds to me like he’s doing pretty well.”
While Jeremy groaned theatrically, Rhoda grinned from ear to ear. “No, honey. I know he’s flashy on the outside, but believe me. He’s a fixer-upper.”
“Because of, um, that guy?”
Rhoda opened her mouth to answer, but Jeremy beat her to it. “Donny. And I hadn’t heard a peep from him in five years. Until last night.” He said the last sentence with a heavy sigh.
“So he just shows up all beat to hell, trusting you to put him back together?”
“I’m guessing he had nowhere else to go. Look, here’s the thing. Donny is a nice guy.” Jeremy held a hand up to silence Rhoda’s protest. “He is, at his core. He just…. He drinks. A lot. And he won’t—or can’t, I don’t know—do anything about it.” That had been the worst of it, really. If Donny had been a through-and-through asshole, Jeremy would have dumped him much sooner and never looked back. But it hurt to see such potential in a person traded away, drop by drop.
Qay nodded knowingly. “We’re all nice guys when we’re not using, man. But if it’s been so long—and he obviously hasn’t cleaned up his act—why did you help him out?”
“He didn’t have anyone else,” Jeremy replied, knowing it sounded lame. Qay probably thought he was a patsy who rolled over for any sad sack who knocked on his door. Jeremy wasn’t like that. But Donny, well, he was different. Jeremy had been in love only twice. The first time was back in college, when they were both too young to settle down and had gone their separate ways after graduation. The second time was Donny.
“It’s cool that he has you,” Qay said after a brief pause. “Most addicts run through their friends pretty fast, and then there’s nobody around when shit gets rough. Maybe he’ll even dry out this time.”
“Maybe. Did you run through your friends?” He knew it was too personal a question to ask someone he’d met only two hours before.
But Qay didn’t even flinch. “Never really collected ’em to begin with.” He kept his chin up while he said it and looked Jeremy right in the eyes. And dammit, Jeremy was so close to placing him.
Rhoda’s voice was uncharacteristically soft. “So when shit gets rough for you?”
“I bootstrap it.”
Jeremy wasn’t close to his parents, but he’d never been completely, absolutely on his own. Mom and Dad did what they could, given their limited worldview. And he’d always had at least a couple of good friends he could rely on—good enough to help him move, listen to his troubles, give him a ride to the airport when he needed one. If he’d ever been desperate for a place to crash or a loan to tide him over until next payday, they’d have done it. He couldn’t imagine being all by himself in the great big world.
“You’re hella strong,” Jeremy said.
To Jeremy’s surprise, Qay laughed. “Hella? Really?”
“Two of his rangers are from California,” Rhoda said. “They’ve taught him bad habits. That’s what happens when you hang out with Californians.”
They finished off the last of the sopapillas, and Jeremy snagged
the bill, bringing protests from both of his companions. “Hey, this is my intervention. I ought to pay.” And he could afford it. Rhoda could too, but he guessed it might be a stretch for Qay. Besides, Jeremy was the one who’d extended the invitation to begin with.
The waitress took Jeremy’s credit card and hurried away, but Qay stared at Jeremy. “I still don’t get why you need an intervention. Donny showed up, you gave him a hand, he left, end of story. Right?”
While Jeremy wished the waitress would return quickly so they could leave—and end this discussion—Rhoda leaned toward Qay. “I had tonight planned before the Donny thing. Donny was just the icing on the fucked-up cake.”
“Mmm. Fucked-up cake. My favorite.” Qay shot her a wink. “I’ve had more pieces of that than I can remember.” And he rubbed his belly, which was almost too lean.
“Jeremy is deep in the abyss of ennui,” Rhoda continued, as if Jeremy wasn’t sitting right there.
Qay snorted. “Is that worse than the Cliffs of Insanity?”
“Much. Because Westley is not waiting at the top for our Jeremy. Instead, he—”
“Okay, enough with the Princess Bride metaphor,” Jeremy interrupted. “I’m not Buttercup. And I’m not eating bad cake. I’m just… I don’t know. Midlife crisis?”
Rhoda shook her head. “No, honey. That’s when you buy a Corvette and date someone far too young for you. Your problem is that you’re lonely and a little jaded. You see the same problems day after day at work, no matter how hard you try. And then you come home to an empty apartment. Maybe that would be fine for some people, Jer, but not you. You’re the kind of man who needs… connections.”
“I have friends,” Jeremy said, although he knew that wasn’t what she meant. She just raised her eyebrows at him, and he looked down at his napkin, which he’d been methodically tearing into strips. He set it on the table.
Qay had been listening and watching intently. “Do you have a solution for him?” he asked Rhoda. “’Cause that’s kind of the point of an intervention.”
“Ah. But the first step is admitting you have a problem, right? That’s where we are tonight. Fess up, Jeremy.”
Squirming under their combined scrutiny, Jeremy stared at a colorful cut-paper banner that hung near the ceiling. “It’s not a problem. It’s a situation. Nothing I can’t handle.”
Rhoda huffed at him, and Qay remained silent.
As they walked back toward P-Town, Rhoda changed the subject completely and kept up a running commentary on the condition of the front gardens they passed. She disapproved of anything too formal, and she was also antiweed. When Jeremy pointed out that some weeds were both botanically interesting and potentially useful for food or medicine, she reached up to pat his cheek. “Always rooting for the underdog.”
The café was open late on Saturdays, and from the looks of things through the big front windows, it was a hot spot tonight. Ptolemy had help from two other baristas, but still Rhoda said, “I think I’ll see if they could use a hand. Thanks for dinner, Jer. Think about what I said. And Qay, I’m really glad you went with us. I hope you come around often.” She hugged Jeremy and patted Qay’s shoulder before heading inside.
Qay and Jeremy remained outside, Qay gripping the strap of his backpack and shuffling a foot on the sidewalk. “Thanks for inviting me,” he said quietly.
“I’m glad I did. But I’m sorry you got subjected to the Pathetic Jeremy Cox Show.”
A smile curled the corner of Qay’s mouth. “I’m just relieved to learn you’re mortal.”
Standing there, Jeremy felt not just mortal but big and dumb and clumsy. He scratched his head. “Um, do you think…. After what Rhoda said, you probably think I’m going to chain you up in my closet or something. I promise, I am not as needy as she made me sound. But I’d like to get to know you better. Another dinner, maybe? Without Rhoda and her attempts to fix my head.”
Qay didn’t immediately refuse or run screaming down the street. Instead, he looked conflicted. Then he squinted at Jeremy. “You want to go on a date with a junkie after what you went through with Donny?”
“I want to go on a date with you.” It was an honest answer. If Qay was telling the truth, he hadn’t used for years. In any case, there was clearly a lot more to him than a history of addiction. Something about the guy made Jeremy’s heart beat a little faster, made him want to find a way to peel away the grief and wariness so evident on Qay’s face and reveal the man inside.
“A date.” Qay gave a small laugh. “I’m not sure I’ve ever been on one. I sort of skipped that developmental phase.” He briefly chewed on a hangnail. “The thing is, I’m not just a junkie. I’m also an ex-con. Nothing earth-shattering. Just got caught holding a couple of times over the years. And that’s not the worst of it. I’m crazy too. Spent time in more than one mental hospital. I’m just bad news, Jeremy Cox. You ought to walk away. Fast.”
Taking a gamble, Jeremy instead took a step closer to Qay, then another. “Don’t want to.” He pushed the hair away from Qay’s face, leaned in, and brushed their lips together. Not a passionate kiss by any means. It was more of a nibble, a little taste to see if they suited each other. Which maybe they did, because Qay rested a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder and squeezed.
Then the kiss was over. Qay dropped his hand, Jeremy took a step back, and they looked at each other solemnly. “Fine,” Qay said. “A date. But I pay, all right?”
“Deal,” Jeremy said. He wanted to do a celebratory lap around the block but stood his ground. “When? I’m free every evening.”
“Saturday. That’ll give you a week to change your mind. We can meet here at seven, all right? And if you want to back out, that’s cool. I’ll understand.”
“I won’t want to.”
Qay didn’t look convinced, but he nodded slightly. “Saturday at seven, then.”
“Good luck on the test.”
That made Qay shoot him a quick, surprised grin. “Thanks, man. I’ll need it.” He tapped his head. “It’s all up here, but getting it back out again onto paper, that’s a struggle.” He strolled away in the direction opposite Jeremy’s loft, his lanky frame throwing shadows in the pools of light from lamps and shops.
Rhoda was watching from inside the café, a mug in one hand. She waved at Jeremy with the other, and he waved back. Thought about going inside but decided not to. A walk, he concluded. That was what he needed.
He’d strolled all the way to the curve near Mt. Tabor when his phone rang. He fished it from his pocket hesitantly, knowing late-night calls were never good news.
“Chief Cox?” said the gruff voice on the other end. “Captain Frankl here.”
Jeremy knew Frankl from his time at the bureau, and they’d interacted numerous times since Jeremy joined the park department. They were hardly best buddies, but they got along. “What’s up, Captain?”
“I need to see you. Got a body for you to ID.”
Chapter Six
IT WASN’T like in movies or TV shows, where some horrified spouse or parent gets dragged into a morgue and a stony-faced guy in scrubs peels back a sheet to reveal a corpse’s face. Fact was, few bodies needed identifying to begin with, because even when people dropped dead by their lonesome, they usually had something on them to say who they were. Jeremy had been to the coroner’s office a couple of times when he was still with the bureau, but it wasn’t really set up for public viewings. He was relieved to be meeting Captain Frankl at a McDonald’s this time.
Frankl got there first. That was also good, because if Jeremy had been forced to wait, squirming on the plastic seat and pretending to drink bad coffee, his stomach would have had time to twist into several extra knots. As it was, he already felt as if a Russian gymnastics team was practicing in his gut.
“Sorry to do this to you,” Frankl said as soon as Jeremy sat opposite him. Frankl was thin-faced and a few years short of retiring. He had droopy eyes that always looked sad.
Jeremy nodded his gratitude for the sentiment.
“I know it’s not your favorite part of the job.”
“Never gets any better.” Frankl sighed noisily, slurped at whatever was in his paper cup, and pulled some photos from a jacket pocket. He set them facedown in front of Jeremy. “This is pretty much a formality anyway. We know who he is. But he didn’t have any ID on him, and without any family members nearby….” He shrugged.
During the short drive over, Jeremy had tried to steel himself for this. His first thought when Frankl called had been of Toad, the kid he’d recently pulled off the street. Sure, Toad had seemed happy enough with the welcome he’d received at Patty’s Place, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t rabbited a short time after. Didn’t mean he hadn’t OD’d or gotten jumped or pulled a psycho trick or just leaped in front of a bus.
But almost immediately—and with a good dose of relief—Jeremy had rejected that notion. Frankl wouldn’t call him if Toad showed up dead. Hell, the bureau didn’t even know Jeremy had ever met the kid, and the staff at Patty’s Place would be a much more logical direction to turn for recognizing a teenaged corpse.
No, Jeremy knew perfectly well whose face he was going to see when he flipped over those photos.
“Where did you find him?” he asked quietly.
“River.”
“Shit. How—”
“Take a look first, okay?” Frankl sounded exhausted, but his voice held compassion too.
Jeremy turned over the topmost photo.
Donny looked… bad. But he’d looked that way when he left Jeremy’s house with his face swollen and bruised. He didn’t look much worse in the picture, although his closed eyes were slightly sunken and the pale sheet under his head didn’t do anything for his grayish complexion.
