by Rob Hart
This is not an auspicious start to the investigation.
Crystal apparently had a light breakfast, so cleaning her mess out of the sink was easy enough. The shower took a little longer, and I could only do that after Thaddeus and I had properly cleaned off and I could get him into a borrowed pair of dry clothes.
I figured him puking a bunch would clear some of the garbage from his system, make him a bit more useful. Instead he fell into a catatonic state, like he’d been awake for a few days straight and it finally caught up with him.
Crystal and I move around the apartment like ghosts. Thaddeus’s words hang in the air.
Dirk selling Rose.
That dredges up all kinds of imagery that’s almost too horrifying to acknowledge, and I think we need to steel ourselves before having that conversation.
Crystal’s phone buzzes on the counter. She picks it up and nods. “Cab.”
I take Thaddeus by the arm and bring him outside and down the stairs, shove him across the back seat of the cab, lean down and give the driver the address of the DXM lab and a couple of bills. Hopefully enough to get him home. It must be, because the cabbie takes it and slowly pulls away from the curb before I’ve even got my arm all the way out of the window.
I climb the stairs to my floor, where at the end of the hallway there’s an alcove overlooking the sidewalk. There are two beaten office chairs and a bucket full of sand filled with drowned and crushed cigarette butts. Crystal is in the chair on the right so I sit in the one on the left. She holds the pack of smokes up without looking at me.
Stay strong. I wave her off. Take a deep breath. The world smells that way it does right around when it rains. Sweet and earthy and heavy and alive.
“Do you smell that?” I ask. “That rain smell. I love that.”
Crystal snaps back into focus. “Petrichor,” she says.
“Petri-what?”
“That smell. It’s called petrichor. It’s an aerosol mix of oils put out by plants to protect their seeds. It gets absorbed into the soil.”
“I didn’t realize you were such a nerd.”
“It can’t be true,” she says, looking up at me. “Dirk wouldn’t just… sell our daughter.”
“Thaddeus is not a reliable source.”
Crystal slides her finished cigarette into the bucket of sand and puts her head in her hands. “I know I should call the cops. I know I should call the cops. I just...”
“What?”
She leans forward, eyes drifting away. “When Rose was a baby, there was this one night, she wouldn’t stop crying, and Dirk got so mad because he couldn’t sleep. At me, not at her. He didn’t understand why I couldn’t make her stop. He thought I wasn’t trying. We got in a fight and he hit me. Split my lip.” She presses her finger to her lower lip, tugging it down, showing her teeth. “The neighbors called the cops. So they show up and they hear the baby screaming and see the blood on my face and you can see they don’t want to fucking deal with this. One cop goes in to talk to Dirk and the other takes me outside, and he gives me some empty spiel about my safety and shit. And he asks me if maybe I wasn’t overreacting. Being a new parent can be stressful and my lip didn’t look too bad. That’s what he said. I was bleeding because Dirk hit me in the face but it didn’t look too bad.”
“What a dick,” I tell her.
“They left.” Her voice catches. “They left me there. Bleeding. Screaming baby. Like maybe it would work itself out.”
“What did you do?”
“Dirk made some big fucking show in front of the cops about being sorry and apologizing,” she says. “A little while later Rose started crying again and he started yelling so I pulled a kitchen knife on him. And the fucked-up thing is I felt safer with the knife than I did with the police at the door.”
“I know that feeling.”
“Do you?”
Deep breath. I don’t want to play the sharing game, but I’m in it now. “Maybe that was a fluke. Maybe the cops in this town are on the level. I don’t know. All I can tell you is my experience. Six months ago I got dragged into a police station and nearly got my brains bashed in by some asshole detective who was trying to make an arrest quota. So between that and what Chicken Man said, I’m going to back your play on this. If you have a bad feeling, then it’s a bad feeling for a reason.”
“So what now?” she asks.
“We find Dirk.”
“I don’t know where he is. I called him on the way over. He’s not answering his phone.”
Crystal sticks her thumb into her mouth, contemplates chewing, then unfurls her fist and reaches down and pulls out another cigarette. Her sweater moves up and flashes a pink strap of underwear, peeking out from her jeans. I feel like a jerk for looking.
“When you call, is it going straight to voicemail or is it ringing?” I ask.
“Ringing.”
“I have an idea.”
I head back to the apartment, grab my laptop, place it on the counter, fire up Skype, and see that Bombay is logged on. I ring him up and his face appears on the screen, fish-eyed and from a low angle, blue from the glow of the computer screen, square reflections on his glasses.
Bombay is growing out his hair, which is a little jarring, seeing him like that, because he’s been shaving his head for so long now. The second you look away, things start to change.
We started junior high together. On the second day of school I came across a bunch of kids calling him a terrorist and shoving him into a locker. I made them stop. I’ve never liked bullies. We’ve been friends since.
His real name is Acaryatanaya. That’s a vicious thing to put on a kid, so I took to calling him Bombay, because there’s where his family is from.
Technically Mumbai, but Bombay sounded better.
He’s my closest friend back home. The only person beside my mom who I truly miss on a profound level. Mostly because I lack the survival mechanism of a conscience, and he’s good at pointing out when I am about to do something incredibly stupid.
He’s also a computer technician, which is often helpful.
“Hey, brother,” he says, a big smile stretched across his face. “Long time.”
I’m not sure whether to look at him or the camera, distracted by the little picture of me in the bottom corner of the screen. “Everyone happy and healthy back home?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?”
“I hate to do this, but as long as everyone is good, I don’t have time for pleasantries. I’m looking for a little girl…”
“That’s sick, dude.”
“Hey,” I snap and he recoils. “Don’t make jokes. There’s a kid and she’s missing and I have to find her. I need your help.”
The smile disappears off Bombay’s face. He’s all business now. “Got it. What do you need?”
“Say we have a cell phone number. The phone is still on. Can you track it? Get a location?”
He tilts his head. “I’d have to call a guy. That’s not even something I can do myself.”
“I thought you were a hacker.”
“I’m a computer nerd with a deep yet narrow set of skills. Phishing isn’t one of them. I can’t magically conjure up information you need at a moment’s notice. Dude, you should call the cops.”
“No cops. Not yet.” I look up at Crystal, ask her for the number to Dirk’s cell. She rattles it off. Bombay picks up a pen and writes it down.
“No promises,” he says. “I’ll see what I can do. But really, please, don’t trust I’m going to come back to you with an answer.”
“Okay. Have you been by to see my mom?”
“She misses you. You should call her more often.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You should actually do it instead of pretending like you will.”
I close the lid of the laptop, cutting off the chat.
Crystal asks, “Your brother?”
“No. Why do you say that?”
“He called you ‘brother.’”
; “He meant it more like ‘brethren.’ He’s a friend from back east. Figured it was worth a shot.” The coffee maker is still on, the carafe radiating heat when I put my hand near it. I pull a mug out of the cupboard, open the freezer, drop an ice cube into it, and pour some coffee. The ice cube snaps and crackles. I hold the pot toward Crystal and she shakes her head. “So what’s this about Dirk’s Mexican? What does that mean?”
Crystal shakes her head, staring out the window. “I have no idea. Dirk was into some shit but he always kept me out of it.”
“I fucking hate this,” I tell her. “I don’t know anything about this city. I feel so lost.”
“One thing at a time,” Crystal says. “We need information, about something of an unsavory type. Where do we get that?”
We both nod, not needing to say it.
Not to stereotype, but a strip club is a good place to start.
Hood is looming outside the club. It’s daytime, overcast, the street empty. Probably empty inside. He doesn’t look like he’s rushing through the cigarette. It’s warm and even a little muggy but Hood is wearing a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up.
Crystal kisses Hood on the cheek and heads into the club to say hi to Tommi and I lean against the wall next to Hood and say, “I need some help. I’d appreciate it if this could stay between us.”
Hood looks around to make sure that the street is clear. Whether he wants to be safe or he’s mocking my cloak-and-dagger routine, I can’t be sure.
“What do you need?” he asks.
“Crystal’s ex, Dirk. Did you know him?”
“I know he was a fucking dummy.”
“That seems safe to assume, yes. I don’t know if this means anything but I’m trying to find information about a Mexican that Dirk might have had an affiliation with. Does that jingle any bells for you?”
Hood’s eyes narrow. “Are you asking me this shit because I’m black?”
“I don’t even know what Mexican means.”
“You don’t know what a Mexican is? How white are you, exactly?”
“C’mon. Stop. This is serious.”
Hood tosses his cigarette to the curb, looks around again. “Are you into drugs? Is that it? Because I don’t touch that shit. And I’m not comfortable having this conversation. So maybe look for someone else to help you, okay?”
He turns to walk away and I step forward and put my hand on his shoulder. It’s so big I can’t get a grip on him.
“Fuck, man, I’m not looking for a hookup,” I tell him. “Dirk took Crystal’s daughter. Pulled her out of day care and disappeared. We’re trying to find her. I’m coming up empty. I know he was going to see someone I only know as his Mexican. That’s all I have.”
Hood pauses. His face drops and he shakes his head, slowly. “Fuck. What about the cops?”
“A few reasons. The big one is the cops might not look kindly on Crystal and her employment situation, and they might assume she’s caught up in whatever bullshit game Dirk is running. She doesn’t want to get wrapped up with child services. The cops are last resort. I’m trying to find her first.”
“Cops in this town aren’t so bad,” he says. “I would know. I was born on the law enforcement shit-list.”
“No cops. Not yet.”
He nods. “Fine. I don’t really agree, but fine. So, years ago Portland made pseudoephedrine illegal. You know what that’s used for?”
“Meth.”
“Right. So when it became illegal, there was a void to fill, and the Mexican cartels moved up from the south. Most of the drug game here is run by the cartels. They’ve got weed and scrips, too.”
“So if Dirk had a Mexican, it would be like his contact in the cartel?”
Hood nods. “They set up in legit businesses. Auto shops and food distributors and restaurants and shit, places where there’s a lot going on and things moving around and chemicals and shit. Places they can hide what they’re doing.”
“Okay. That’s something. I can work with that.”
“I want you to understand the reason I know this shit is because I saw it in a documentary. Discovery Channel or some shit. So don’t think I swim in these circles, okay?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I tell him.
“Good. Now, I don’t have to tell you that cartels are bad fucking news, right? Chop you up into little pieces and mail them to your family bad news.”
“I read the paper sometimes.”
“Well, whatever you’re playing at, you really should rethink your strategy of not calling the police.”
“Can’t.”
“The fuck is wrong with you, then?”
“Just… can’t. Got a thing. Need to do it.”
Hood shakes his head.
Back inside the bar I relay to Crystal what I learned from Hood. As soon as I mention auto shops those blue-green tempered glass eyes get a little brighter.
“Dirk had me drop him off at an auto shop sometimes, but he would never tell me what for,” she says. “He called it a business thing.”
“Well then. I guess that’s where we’re going.”
We head for the car, neither of us saying anything. Not really wanting to. There’s a black cloud on the horizon now.
Sell the kid.
What does that even mean?
We climb into the car and Crystal tears away from the curb, whipping around someone going too slow in front of us. I tell her, “You aren’t as bad as the other drivers around here.”
“I’m from Chicago. I learned how to drive in a tougher place than this.”
I laugh a little at that.
“What?” she asks.
“Chicago is the only city in America where if you say you’re from there, then no one can tell anything about you.”
“Really?” She says it like a challenge. “What exactly does that mean?”
“You’re from New York, you’re a type-A asshole with boundary issues. From Portland? You eat organic and everything you own is vintage. Seattle? You smoke too much pot and wish you were from Portland. Los Angeles? You are dead inside. Any city in Texas or Arizona? You’re either trapped or right at home, and either way, I’m sorry. Philly? You live in an open-air frat and your only claim to fame is a sandwich I could assemble from food in a freezer case. Boston? Same thing except you have no signature dish, so you drink too much to compensate. Most cities in middle America and you carry a chip on your shoulder because you come from a long line of people who lost their jobs to machines or Mexico. Any city in Florida, then you are guaranteed to have seen some really weird shit, and you’re a sadist, living in heat like that.
“But Chicago? What the fuck is in Chicago besides shitty pizza? If you tell me you’re from Chicago I don’t know if you’re going to hug me or jam a pen in my throat.”
“Wow,” Crystal says, laughing, not nicely. “Okay. A few things. First, that’s the most you’ve talked since I met you. Which I guess isn’t surprising, because isn’t that a typical New Yorker thing to do, to shit on everything that’s not their precious little city? And second, Chicago pizza isn’t shitty. It’s a meal. Two slices of New York pizza and you’re hungry ten minutes later.”
“No you’re not. You’re satisfied with the appropriate amount of food that you’ve eaten.”
“You’ve never had good Chicago pizza.”
“There’s no such thing. Chicago pizza shouldn’t even be called pizza. It takes everything beautiful and amazing about pizza and warps it into a mess of gluttony and bullshit.”
“So you are passionate about something,” Crystal says. “And you’re right about one thing. New Yorkers are type-A assholes.”
She stops at a light, pulls out a smoke, lights it, and takes a drag. She doesn’t offer me one this time. She cracks the window so the smoke can get sucked out. When she ashes out the window, the two flat rings on her finger click against the glass.
“Have you even been to any of these places you’re shitting on?” she asks.
<
br /> “Some. Others, you meet people from around. Gets easy to see the patterns.”
“So all this clever posturing is just assumptions.”
“Well, that was the nice thing about living in New York. I didn’t have to go far to see a lot.”
“So why’d you leave if it was so fucking great?”
“Trying something new.”
“Where are you headed next?”
“What do you mean?”
Crystal throws a quick glance my way. “I saw the map in your apartment. Are the x’s places you’ve been?”
“No. Places I don’t want to go.”
“There were a lot of x’s,” she says.
“I don’t want to go to a lot of places.”
“What are you looking for?”
“What is anyone looking for?”
Crystal sighs. “How very existential of you.”
Shrug.
She takes a deep breath, blows it out. Makes a hard left, cutting off the car that was already trying to make a left but was afraid of crossing in front of a car that’s so far away, I can’t even tell the color.
“Why are you helping me?” she asks.
“I need to get reimbursed for my cell phone,” I tell her.
She shakes her head and sighs again.
We lean against the hood of the car, Crystal smoking a cigarette, and already I can feel adrenaline pumping hard through my blood. I’d like a cigarette too, something to wash the adrenaline out, but I don’t ask. Together the two of us stare at the auto shop down the block.
It’s a blank industrial stretch. Quiet and out of the way. Concrete and graffiti. So anonymous you can barely make out where the buildings stop and start. We’ve been sitting here ten minutes and haven’t seen a single person. I am not a drug dealer but this seems like a great place to be one.
Crystal finishes her cigarette, drops it to the curb, and crushes it with the toe of her sneaker. She asks, “So what’s the plan?”
“You stay here. Maybe keep the car running. I go in and ask for Dirk.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Sounds like a really terrible plan.”
“It’s better formulated than other plans I’ve had.”
