“Zip it, Swolski. We’re doing this my way.”
“Can your way involve maybe not hitting every fricking pothole in Chicago?” He banged his head against the passenger window as the car jostled violently.
“How about you help? You see a cart, you tell me, got it?”
Gene blew a puff of air up through his mustache. “Christ almighty.”
She rounded the corner in time to find two garbage pickers pushing loaded shopping carts across the street and into another alley. “Gotcha.”
He fingered the door handle, figuring they were going to pull up and bust them red-handed, pushing stolen garbage. Sharon hadn’t exactly spelled out the plan, other than to insist on driving.
She did slow down a bit, only to allow the pickers to completely cross the street and enter the alley. Just as Gene was about to throw the door open and shout, “Freeze, dirtbag,” she gunned the engine and sent the car roaring up the street.
“What the hell, Meier? We had ‘em dead to rights!”
Sharon looked over with an astounded look on her face. “We’re not cops, Gene.” The car struck another pothole and bounced them around in their seats.
“Oh really? ‘Cause you coulda fooled me, driving like we’re running down public fricking enemy number one.”
She got control of the car and made a sharp right. The tires screeched a bit as they rounded the turn. “Come on, come on!” She gunned the engine again and made another sharp right down the next parallel street to where they had encountered the pickers. Gene saw the pickers walking down the block, pushing their carts along with dogged determination. Sharon slowed down and waited for them to enter the next alleyway. Rather than gun the engine again, she slowed down to a more moderate speed. She took the next left turn slow and easy.
Gene rubbed his forehead in exasperation. “Pick one, crazed maniac or Sunday driver.”
Sharon gripped the wheel and craned her neck over the dashboard. “Relax, Gene, I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got what?”
She skipped the next turn and drove a few more blocks, then turned left, and found a spot to parallel-park the car. Gene fingered the door handle. She waved him off. “No sense in freezing your ass off, Gene. Sit tight.”
Gene drummed his fingers on his lap. Whatever Sharon was up to didn’t seem to involve him. Like she said, he might as well stay warm and get paid for whatever it was they were doing.
Roughly ten minutes later, a pair of pickers with empty carts emerged from one of the right-hand alleys. The other pair appeared from the left side. They passed each other in the street without comment. Sharon watched the proceedings with a look of fascination. She cupped her right hand over her mouth. “Huh.”
Gene sighed. “Yeah?”
“We’re getting closer.”
“To what?”
“That,” she said, pulling the car into gear, “is what we’re going to find out.”
“Fricking wonderful.”
Sharon drove to the next cross street, turned right, and then went a few blocks before turning right again. Sharon sucked in her breath. Gene looked at her, then out the windshield.
“What?”
“I think I see where they’re taking all of it. I still don’t get why.”
Gene looked around. It seemed like a run-down industrial area to him. Maybe some small-time operator had some sort of cash-for-trash scheme going on, except they usually were more discriminating, like only taking cardboard or scrap metals. As they drew closer to where the carts were headed, they began to realize this was no small-time operator.
The building stood seven stories high, by Gene’s count, and was topped off with a square extension that he assumed contained some antiquated elevator equipment. It appeared to stretch for easily a third of the block. As they passed the building they both gawked down the service alley and saw a two-story warehouse extension that seemed to stretch back for at least half a block. Sharon pulled into a vacant lot and parked the car haphazardly. Gene fingered the door handle again but watched for cues from Sharon before opening the door. She flung aside her seat belt and opened her door. Gene followed suit and blew a puff of air vapor. “You sure you wanna do this?”
“Damn right.”
“Alrighty then.”
Gene stuffed his hands into his coat and braced against a chill wind. Sharon pulled her coat tightly against her and doggedly marched toward the mysterious building. As they got closer, they noticed that it bore no markings: no company name, no building name, nothing. Despite its anonymity, it seemed to be the neighborhood hot spot. Loaded shopping carts approached from three directions. Empty carts fanned out in reciprocal patterns at loose intervals.
Sharon pointed to something in the distance. There was the man she saw earlier, directing the pickers. She decided to zero in on him. Gene nodded and squinted against the wind.
The man had a lot of energy, that was for sure. He was a bundle of activity, directing carts this way and that, nodding along as full carts entered the warehouse and waving another pair of pickers with empty carts to walk in the direction from whence the others came. He appeared to be in his mid-twenties, dressed in all black, down to his dirt-spattered shoes. Gene and Sharon were close enough to hear his voice.
“Route Oh-One, lookin’ good. Go to your zone. Yo! We need empties on Oh-One! Who’s got Oh-One?” A pair of empty carts appeared in the warehouse bay door. The supervisor waved them out into the alley. “One more on Oh-One. Oh-Three! Who’s got Oh-Three?”
Gene tried to keep up, but as he expected, Sharon walked furiously toward the supervisor. “Excuse me.”
“Yes ma’am. Be right witcha. Oh-Three! Come on, we need to move on Oh-Three!”
“Excuse me!”
“There you go, Oh-Three, outbound. Let me know if we need one or two more.”
He patted one of the pickers on the back and looked around for bottlenecks in the process. Sharon was up in front of him, in no mood to wait for anything. “Excuse me. Exactly what the hell is going on here?”
“Aw, we doing business, ma’am, ain’t nothing but business. Oh-Four! What you doing?”
“And where are you getting those carts?”
“Aw, ma’am, they said y’all was gonna be all up on us, but we cool. Missah Syed, ma’am, he buy all these carts. He say, don’t let nobody say we stole they carts, ‘cause they ours.”
Gene caught up with Sharon. “And who the hell are you?”
“Me? I’m just Alphonzo, Sir. I keep things moving. Like this here.” He raised his voice sharply. “Oh-Five! Go to your zone! I ain’t playin’!”
“Alphonzo.”
“Yes sir.”
“What exactly is going on here, some kind of recycling outfit?” Gene squinted against another chill breeze.
Alphonzo gave a toothy smile. “Aw, we just gettin’ paid. Like I say, we doing business here.”
Sharon scowled. “Where is this… Mister Syed? Can we talk to him?”
Alphonzo shook his head. “No, he busy.”
She reached into her purse and flashed her ID badge. Gene rolled his eyes. What was this about not being cops?
“We’re with the city. How about you take us to Mister Syed and we’ll get all of this straightened out?”
Alphonzo puffed. “That badge ain’t nothing, ma’am. The Po-Po don’t got beef with none of us, neither. Missah Syed busy.” Alphonzo bounded away, running down some errant pickers.
Gene squinted into a gust of wind. “Okay, chief, what’s the plan?”
Sharon pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the building, then pulled up their location on GPS. She took a screenshot of the map, blackened the screen, and shoved the phone back into her purse. “We get back to some goddamn heat.”
Gene stuck his hands in his pockets and braced for the walk back to the car.
CHAPTER 55: BUZZED
The stylist spun Gracie around in her chair to face a plate glass mirror lined with painted porcelain masks. Red an
d black velvet were the primary decorative elements in the salon—a two-seater that could either come off as impossibly cramped or, as Gracie thought of it, beguilingly intimate. “Derby cut, huh? What’s that entail?”
Gracie looked up at the stylist and tried not to stare. “Something fast.”
“Right, we have about a half an hour before I have to do some more color work on her,” she said, motioning to her other customer, who idly flipped through a magazine.
“No, I mean something… fast. Lead jammer, coming through!” Gracie ran the palm of her hand over the side of her head.
The stylist stooped down and squinted one eye. Gracie felt a thrill when she leaned into her ear and whispered, “I’ve got just what you’re looking for.”
Gracie wanted to fan herself. She also wanted to pull the stylist onto her lap. She caught a glimpse of Agnes in an accent mirror and cooled off. “You do? I mean... yes, you do, you’re the expert.” She let off a nervous laugh.
The stylist stood up and stepped on the height adjusting lever. She teased Gracie with a coquettish smile, then tossed a smock onto Gracie’s front, pinning it in the back.
“No shampoo?”
The stylist ran her fingers down Gracie’s scalp. “Massage costs extra.”
Gracie bit her lip. “We… I can afford it.”
“Doubt it.”
The customer giggled from behind her magazine. Gracie felt her cheeks burn. Before she could press the issue, the stylist flicked on an electric clipper.
“Buckle up, buttercup.”
“Huh?”
The stylist ran the clippers up the right side of Gracie’s head, over and over, filling her ear with a steady electric hum. Gracie tried to close her eyes, but that meant missing out on seeing… her, whatever her name was. The buzzing stopped, and a damp towel brushed along her scalp. The stylist bent over and steadied herself on Gracie’s shoulder. She gave her an intense stare before continuing the haircut. “Don’t move. You bleed, you suck. Got it?”
Gracie nodded slightly. The stylist made precision nicks with the clippers.
“That’s better. Fast.”
The stylist ran her fingers over Gracie’s shaved and faded scalp. Gracie felt herself dampen, much lower. The stylist put the clippers back on the shelf and reached for a spray bottle. Water vapor shrouded Gracie’s head, then the stylist pulled a long purple comb out of a jar and a pair of round-handled scissors. She pressed up close to Gracie and gave her a scissor cut on her left side.
Gracie enjoyed the nearness of her. This must have been what lap dances were for guys, she thought, looking, and not touching. Her fingers twitched, aching to touch any part of her, but taking care not to offend She with the Scissors.
The stylist bent down and peered into the mirror with Gracie. “Is that what you had in mind?” Gracie nodded, dumbly. “That’s right, you did. I can read minds, you know.”
Agnes opened one eye.
“Really?” Gracie looked up at the stylist in awe.
The stylist smiled seductively and stepped around to Gracie’s left side to finish the cut. “Obviously. You wanted your hair to look like this, and now I’m making it happen.”
Agnes closed her eye.
The stylist laid her implements down on the counter, then used a whisk on the back of Gracie’s neck. She leaned forward again and traded the whisk for a hand mirror. She held it up behind Gracie’s head, proudly. “You like?” Gracie nodded. The stylist leaned into her ear. “I meant the haircut.”
“Oh, yeah. Fierce.”
The stylist removed Gracie’s smock with a flourish. “Let’s ring you up.”
The stylist strutted over to her cash register. She punched in the cost of the haircut, then totaled everything up. “89.74.”
Gracie pulled Marc’s wallet out of her back pocket and found his credit card. The stylist plucked it out of her hand and swiped it through the card reader. She read the front of the card and let out a small laugh. “Marc?”
“Short for Marcie.”
“Marcie.”
“That’s me.”
The card reader beeped. Gracie’s stomach leapt into her throat. Don’t say declined, she thought, anxiously. The receipt printed out, and the stylist tore it off the machine. “Sign here, Marcie.” Gracie signed it “M Morris”, as messily as possible. The stylist pouted. “No tip? Was I really so bad to you?”
Gracie pulled a $20 bill from Marc’s wallet. “I thought you’d like cash instead.”
The stylist pooched her lips, folded the bill into thirds, slipped it under her bra strap, and slid it slowly down, watching Gracie stare, dropping all pretense. “I don’t like to carry cash. It cramps my style.”
Gracie needed to lie down. She waved Agnes on to leave the salon, and the stylist called after her. She put her business card in Gracie’s palm and folded her hand closed over it.
“Next time, you’ll make an appointment, and you’ll get more… personal attention.”
Gracie nodded. She walked robotically back to Marc’s car but wasn’t exactly sure where she was going.
CHAPTER 56: INDUCTION
For someone in his late 20s, Marc wondered why he felt like a child that’s been threatened with what will happen when Father comes home. Inanna was cold to him for the remainder of the day. The servants tended to their chores and seemed to be preparing for Tobias to return as the afternoon wore on.
Marc tried to keep a low profile, sitting on a white leather sofa and trying to enjoy the buttery smoothness and the sensation of sinking into the furniture. A sinking feeling of dread overpowered him instead.
He didn’t want to turn on the television. Inanna wouldn’t understand what it was and would probably think it was a method for communicating with others, presumably to arrange a ride home. To leave Dubai was to leave Inanna; that much was clear. He didn’t know how much more of the silent treatment was necessary to reinforce that point.
He stared out the balcony window and looked out at the water in the distance. White sails flared, waves lapped the sandy shore, and palm trees swayed in the breeze. Under different circumstances such sights would have been relaxing and gotten him in a vacation frame of mind. Now, it was all alien terrain, and he was effectively a prisoner.
Relief finally came by way of the front door clicking and swinging open. A burly guard entered first, followed by Tobias, then his other guard. The door closed behind them. Tobias saw Marc standing by the balcony window and gave him a genial nod. He disappeared down the hallway. Marc wasn’t sure if he should follow and try to proactively give his side of the story. Tobias seemed reasonable. He’d understand homesickness and the desire to return to normalcy. He wasn’t dumping Inanna, he just couldn’t stay here.
He held his position, however, as he heard Tobias and Inanna speaking their strange language and hearing the sharp tone in her voice. This was not a good report. Maybe the best he could hope for now was that Tobias would allow his family to have an open casket funeral. Tobias spoke sharply as well, to her. He heard her voice rise, and be dismissed with a guttural growl, followed by footsteps further down the hallway. Inanna hissed and spat.
Marc wasn’t sure if he should intervene. Maybe some sort of mutual understanding could be reached. Tobias returned to the front room, still wearing his dress clothes but a bit more casually. His white dress shirt was minus a tie, untucked from his trousers, and unbuttoned a third of the way down. His vest and suit coat were missing as well. He walked around in stocking feet. He smiled at Marc and motioned for him to sit on the white leather sofa. “Please.”
Marc obliged as Tobias sat at the opposite end, on the edge of the cushion.
“Inanna told me you are unhappy.”
Marc shook his head. “Not at all, sir. I’m very, very, very… very happy.”
“Inanna told me you are unhappy living with us.”
Marc smiled weakly and shrugged. “It’s not that I’m unhappy here, but…”
Tobias looked concerned. “Ina
nna has displeased you? Or my servants? Show the one to me, at once.”
Marc shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no… no, no, no… not at all. She’s, um, she’s really great. The servants are, uh, great too.”
“But Inanna says you are unhappy.”
Marc sighed. “Please don’t get me wrong. This place is, well, it’s beyond my wildest dreams. And I couldn’t have gotten any luckier with Inanna. And you’ve been an amazingly generous host. But… I miss… home.”
Tobias listened pensively, then nodded slowly. “Your home, it is far from here?”
“Chicago, yeah.”
“It is… more pleasing to you than here?”
“Well, uh… I don’t know about that. To be fair, I haven’t seen much of this place. But Chicago is where I live, you know? All of my things are there.”
Tobias nodded. It wasn’t immediately clear if he was fully understanding what he was being told. He clapped twice. “Inanna.”
Inanna padded into the room, dressed in her black robe. She gave Marc a rotten look and knelt at Tobias’s feet. Tobias spoke to her in their native tongue. Inanna did not react, choosing to maintain a hard stare in Marc’s general direction. After further words from her brother, Inanna appeared to acquiesce to his request.
“Sou-ri.” Inanna looked down, ashamed.
Marc looked perplexed. “Sorry? For what?”
Tobias smiled. “Inanna was afraid that you wanted to leave her, no matter where your path might lead. We plan to leave this place, and we wish to take you with us.”
Marc’s jaw dropped. “Really? Where? When?”
“Soon. It is far from here, perhaps near your homeland. For now, it would make us happy if you would stay.”
Marc nodded, trying to comprehend this news. “It would be my honor.”
The Spaces Between Us Page 21
