Never Go Alone

by Denison Hatch

  “Screamo” was Jake’s specialty, an aggressive genre of rock akin to ordering a vodka shot and chasing it with Everclear. His style was ferocious and completely unapologetic, and that fit well with the rough characters that he brushed shoulders against on a daily basis. At first, maybe a guy like Hector had thought it strange that Jake had microphones and amplifiers in his apartment. And maybe he would have asked a few more questions if Jake had popped up with Dave Matthews Band or—even worse—Coldplay. But when he opened his mouth and the screamo came out? No more questions. Jake was obviously off his rocker. There was no way that a man like that could ever be a pig. Right?

  As the last year had progressed, Jake had learned that the social life of a criminal could be nothing short of awesome. Jake loved hanging out with the rough-and-tumble types of the world. He wasn’t exactly sure why; he just knew how he felt. He felt better. He felt like he fit in. Perhaps that was because he’d grown up Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes and it had done absolutely zero for him. It could be the fact that Jake had spent his later teenage years rejecting convention, and so had Hector and the rest of those boys. Or maybe it was because these people would make his own father quake in his boots—a sensation Jake could never accomplish himself. There was, however, one aspect of Jake’s undercover job that he steadily regretted: band time. Every few months, he’d be able to get out of the house and go practice down at the studios in the south end of the city. But it wasn’t enough, and it was making the loose collection of musicians and friends that called themselves a band upset. Now that Hector was in jail, maybe he’d have time to go hit the mic hard again. Goddamn it was killing him to let the band down.

  Jake passed by the rest of his musical paraphernalia and headed into the second bedroom, which doubled as an office. He flipped open the laptop on his desk. The bright computer screen was the only source of illumination in his apartment. He wasn’t sure where to begin with the cat burglars, but he had his suspicions. The selfie, all that photography equipment—it wasn’t random. He suspected that while this crew wouldn’t be stupid enough to memorialize themselves at the scene of any crime, perhaps they were still out there in the digital sea. Most people, especially the younger ones, liked the Internet to know who they were.

  Jake started with Google. He typed in “cat burglar.” The only results were videos of actual cats engaging in mischievous deeds, and trailers from movies whose subject matter was fictionalized cat burglary. Jake thought for a moment. The person that he’d seen on the surveillance video looked and acted like a climber. But he hadn’t been climbing rocks . . .

  He typed in a few more words on YouTube: “crane climbing.” The results piled up from all over the world. Jake selected one of the videos and played it. A group of Italian youth ascended the inside of an old rusted crane standing in a long-abandoned construction site. About to click away, Jake became entranced when he saw the kids arrive at the top of the crane. A few hundred feet in the air, they hung from the rusted behemoth with just a hand. One of them did a backflip. The third balanced on one leg. None of them seemed to care that they were one slip, one sweaty palm, one rusty break, away from certain death. Jake couldn’t pull his eyes away—the insanity was just too much to comprehend. The video finished and a number of hashtags popped onto the screen.

  As Jake browsed through the block of hashtags, he noticed one that the user had repeated three times: #urbanexploration. Jake clicked on the hashtag and was greeted with another long feed filled with urban exploration videos.

  “Urban exploration . . . Hell is that?” Jake muttered under his breath. He selected another #urbanexploration video: GoPro footage of a group of German youth in Dusseldorf. They were pacing steadily through a drainage pipe, seemingly underneath the city. The beams from their head-mounted flashlights illuminated an eerie pathway down the drain. As they chattered in German, the growing sound of industrial machinery could be heard, growing steadily until it drowned out their words altogether. The group turned a corner to discover a large gear turning above the water, powered by a huge turbine beneath the surface. All of a sudden, one of the kids in front was swept off his feet—caught by the unseen turbine. The machinery whipped him around in a circle once, then again, as he flailed wildly in an attempt to grab a breath between dunkings. The other members of the crew screamed. One of their braver souls stepped forward—ostensibly a few inches from the radius of the gear—and extended his arm into the dark water. The explorer pulled his friend to safety, and the rest of them ran the other direction down the sewer, yelling and chattering.

  “What the—” Jake exclaimed and gasped. He realized he’d been holding his breath the entire time. Jake kept clicking. On videos of various urban explorers around the world. On illegal infiltrations. On skyscraper toppers. On tunnel sledding. He eventually found himself watching another pulse-pounding cut of a climber in Europe, nicknamed “Spiderman,” free climbing the side of a glass skyscraper—no rope or harness in sight. As that clip ended, Jake observed the name of the uploader. He’d noticed the same user on a few of the more remarkable videos he’d just witnessed. Another derivation of #urbanexplorer, the username was “NYCUrbex.” Jake clicked through to NYCUrbex’s profile page.

  NYCUrbex’s profile was connected to an independent social media site called UrbEx. Jake explored the site. Although fairly haphazard and old-school in construction—not mirroring perfectly formatted sites of the moment like Facebook—UrbEx appeared to be a social hub for urban explorers around the world. This was their digital locus point, the place where they gravitated and discussed locations for exploration, analyzed tactics for infiltration and safe passage, and posted their latest experiences via videos and photos.

  In the photos section, Jake was greeted by a number of self-submitted galleries. He found the gallery titled “NYCUrbex”—again mirroring the name that he’d noticed on the YouTube videos. Jake swiped through photos of urban explorers all over Manhattan. Most of the people in the pictures were wearing masks. A few were not, including a red-haired woman in her twenties who consistently appeared within. Something about her face appealed to Jake. Her eyes—they were vital. They spoke to him, ripping all the way from server to server, arriving on his laptop and attacking him from the screen itself. He saw the fanciful sense of adventure associated with a child who has not become numb to the world. He wasn’t sure why she struck him so deeply, but perhaps it was because what he saw in her expression he missed in himself. Then again—he shook his head in a wobbly circle—he probably wasn’t the only guy in the world who’d seen this woman and liked her. She was magnetic. His charge wasn’t unique.

  When Jake scrolled to the very last photo in the album, the hairs on the back of his neck flew straight up. The last photo. The same red-haired girl. She was standing on the top of a roof with the skyline of Manhattan behind her. But that wasn’t the important part. In the bottom corner of the photo, she held her hand down towards the camera. Her two fingers and hand contorted into an upside down peace sign—a reverse V.

  “Well, hello there . . .” Jake grinned. He clicked on her profile.

  It was private—locked.

  Jake spent the next hour creating his own profile on UrbEx. He already possessed a cache of images for this use. For the last year, he’d populated and constantly updated Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter accounts as Eastie. Unfortunately, most of the photos of Jake with Hector and Jonny wouldn’t fit naturally on the UrbEx site. But a few would do. Jake yanked a couple clips from Occupy, and even a band photo. He uploaded all of them onto the UrbEx website. He tapped out a brief biography. Even though Jake had never done a lick of “urban exploring” in his life, he purported to be a beginner who’d already done a few runs. He was looking to get more involved in the community. He hated authority. He was down for anything. Hit him up for adventure; he was avail. After Jake finished creating his profile, he attempted to add the red-haired chick again. This time he was allowed to submit the friend request. But her profile was still private. Oh well
. Now he’d wait. Anyway, Hector was in the pen, and it was time to celebrate the way he liked it—all by himself.

  ▪

  Jake pulled up to the side of the Silver Pickle, a small bar in the Bronx. A half-illuminated neon sign distinguished the place from the storefronts that surrounded it. The sign didn’t say, “Silver Pickle.” Instead, it read, “Bar.” But only the “B” and half of the “a” were visible. The only way that one would ever know the real name of this watering hole was by sitting at the bar for a few evenings over the course of a few weeks—and hearing it referred to as the Pickle. The Silver Pickle did not advertise. It was not Web 2.0 savvy. Its only “savvy” was in magically transforming a one-ounce pour into three or four ounces. You went to the Pickle to get sawdust in your shoes and emerge shitfaced.

  Jake walked through the long, thin bar filled with smoke and shadows. The Pickle was the type of place where you mind your own business unless you’re a regular, and even then, it might be best to not pay too much attention to the guy next to you. Jake sat by himself at the bar. The bartender, Nikki, glanced at his broken-in face with a raised eyebrow, a rail-thin hourglass with tattoos rising up the sides of her neck. She sauntered over in Jake’s direction.

  “Business?” Nikki asked.

  “Pleasure.”

  Nikki snorted in response. Exactly what she expected out of Jake Easton.

  “At least they were cops . . .”

  “Bullshit,” Nikki flashed a grin at Jake, as if to indicate that she was in on the joke. “See ya never.” She jammed her middle finger in the air at Jake, who couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Ea-Eastie . . .” a voice stammered from behind him. Jake turned and was shocked to discover Jonny Diaz approaching with a cousin, José. They hurriedly rushed towards Jake and sidled up at the bar, nervously glancing in all directions.

  “Bro? What up? You seen Hector?” Jonny asked.

  “No bail for him, man,” Jake leaned in and spoke conspiratorially. “That was some gnar gnar. How’d you get out? You hear about Shrek?”

  “Guy’s an idiot,” Jonny replied.

  It takes one to know one. But Jake held his tongue as Diaz continued.

  “I got first-timer too, homie. Figured all y’all were goners. Made some plans . . . José and I are gonna jet. You think that’s a good idea?”

  “A hundred percent,” Jake replied.

  “Head south till the heat’s over. Boca or somethin’ . . . You wanna roll with us, homie?”

  Jake acted as if he was contemplating the notion. He glanced at Nikki for a moment. “Nah. I gotta stick here and risk it.”

  Diaz stuck his fist out to Jake, who pounded it.

  “You a loner, dawg. I give you shit for that, but I guess it’s what a man needs sometimes.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All right, we out,” Jonny said.

  “Wait a minute. You gonna have a burner? Gimme the number.”

  “No way. Hardcore underground. Till next time, kid.”

  Jonny and his cousin exited the bar.

  Jake glanced around. Nikki hadn’t even served him yet. The second bartender was at the far end of the bar, but Jake preferred Nikki. He rotated on his chair to spot her serving a rowdy group of white greasers at a booth across the room. She was flaunting her stuff, leaning down low as she served them beers from a tray. One of the guys slapped her thigh. She didn’t stop him. So he grabbed it again, harder this time. This time she twisted out of it with a smile. She shook her finger at the greaser, not quite admonishing him. It was almost a come-on. Jake grimaced as she returned behind the bar.

  “Why are you such a tease?” he asked.

  “I’m a bartender,” she said. She noticed Jake trying to open his mouth to retort. “Everybody has to make their money somehow. Sort of like that face you got on right now. You’re not going to preach to me about the merits of good behavior, hunny bunny.” Nikki slammed down two shot glasses in front of her and Jake. She poured a shot of 151 into the two glasses.

  “One fifty-one?” Jake asked.

  “Don’t complain. It’s on the house.”

  “In that case, I’ll take a beer too.”

  Nikki grabbed a beer for Jake. She popped it open and slid it across the bar.

  “So what’s happenin’?” she asked.

  “Nothin’.”

  “What happened to you? For real . . .”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “You don’t care about anything. I know that. Mr. Nihil. But you wanna know the truth? I care. I care about you, Jake. Just a little and I would never tell anyone else that. But sorry for asking.”

  “Got in a fight,” Jake shrugged.

  “You better drink up then, honey. It’ll wipe away the pain.”

  “Never does.”

  “At least take a double,” she said as she topped off his drink.

  “Thanks,” Jake grinned. The two of them noticed the greasers motioning for Nikki to come back. “Why don’t you go flirt with those pricks a little more?”

  “Yeah, I will,” Nikki said. Nikki and Jake tapped the shots together and chugged them. She slammed her shot glass down on the bar. “And the whole time I do, I’ll be thinking about the gift I’m givin’ you after close,” she said. Nikki walked away from Jake mock-shaking her butt at him. He couldn’t help but grin as he sipped his beer.

  ▪

  A few hours later, the Pickle’s neon sign was extinguished. All the clients were gone. But two humans still lingered inside. In the back room, Jake banged Nikki from behind, next to the refrigerator while she held onto a sink.

  “You want to come over?” Nikki asked him.

  “Uh . . . Nah . . .” Jake said between gasps.

  “What about your place?”

  “This is fine.”

  She said nothing.

  “Right?” he asked.

  “Just shut the fuck up, Jake.”

  ▪

  Completely plastered, Jake pulled himself up the stairs to his apartment. He dropped to the floor and passed out.

  An hour later, Jake woke from his dead slumber with a panicked shake. What was that? He listened carefully. He could distinctly hear something buzzing.

  “Dammit,” Jake grumbled. Even in his wasted state, he knew exactly where the noise was coming from. He sighed. He crawled through his apartment, the world still wobbling around him. He crouched down to the right of his desk. He pushed one end of a small piece of hardwood flooring. The wooden unit levered upward—revealing a small safe that had been installed, faceup, in the floor. Jake spun the safe’s lock. He opened it. His police badge, two cell phones, a wallet, and a few documents lay in the safe. He pulled out one of the phones, turned it over in his hands. One new voicemail. Jake sighed. His Mom—the real one. He played the message, and the voice of his mother rang out from the speakerphone.

  “Hi, honey. It’s your mother. Haven’t heard your voice in a while, and well, Dad’s asleep now. Sorry that I didn’t call earlier. We miss you up here. Anyway, you know why I’m calling . . . Happy birthday, Jakey.”

  Then Jake Rivett collapsed back into unconsciousness.

  FIVE

  THE MORNING AFTER HIS BIRTHDAY, Jake had even more missed calls to swipe through. But they weren’t from friends or family. It was the job. He was required at headquarters.

  On his ride into the heart of the city and One Police Plaza, while ripping south on the FDR and obeying no traffic laws at all, Jake thought about his mother. His relationship with her was complicated. With his dad, it was very simple. He hated the moron. His mother was different. He loved her, but he couldn’t help but blame her for some of his circumstances. No human can escape the building blocks from which he or she developed. Life is a pyramid in a multitude of ways, and the structure at the bottom of Jake’s personal temple had always been shaky. Not that the message he’d received didn’t ping somewhere deep down inside heart. It did. It reminded him of how vulnerable his mom was—how alone. The irony was that a
fter all these years of cohabitating with Jake’s father, she was still by herself and so was Jake. At the same time, it could have been worse. The best thing that Jake ever did for his family was leave. But that didn’t make it less tough. He wanted to call her back. He really did. But he wouldn’t.

  ▪

  Jake paced along the familiar corridors of One Police Plaza. He padded across the detective bullpen and past his old office. A clean-shaven man, about his own age, stared back blankly at Jake. Rivett didn’t even recognize the guy who now occupied his former workspace. That wasn’t the nature of most police departments, but it certainly was in New York. The volume of crime was astronomical and the volume of new detective recruits equally high. In fact, many beat cops spent their entire careers trying to become detectives, only to burn out or transfer out within a handful of years. Jake had once been a boy in blue as well. He’d spent the minimum time required—two years—out in a patrol car. He’d gotten his gold shield ten months after that; primarily due to the sources he’d managed to scrounge up while on patrol in Chinatown. While Jake’s ability to measure people was strong, his ability to split them open was legendary. As was his chutzpah. He was like a pit bull when it came to everything, cases not excluded. That was why, during his first few years as a detective, not a single one of his cases went unsolved. But his discipline was another thing altogether. The department was half squares and half circles, but he was four-dimensional. It was a simple as that. Although they appreciated that he was on their side, no one really understood Jake, nor wanted to emulate him.

  He was a free spirit, and his ability as a detective went hand in hand with his lifestyle. If a night of watered-down beers with his frenemy and Chinatown contact, Sunny, turned into a weekend bender that ended at a strip club in Long Island with Sunny completely naked and covered in menstrual blood? Fantastic. Jake had a Triad chief on speed dial. What did Tony Villalon and the other grunts have? A worn-in couch from Pottery Barn. No—the other detectives didn’t really get him. None of them did, except for one. Jake had recently concluded that although Tony tried his damn best, the only person who had really figured Jake out was that evil bitch—