City of Rose

by Rob Hart

  I feel like a walking oxymoron. I go on and on about wanting to live a nonviolent life and now here I am, charging after a man who has literally tried to kill me. For a living, I work at a place where I am expected to hurt people as a problem-solving tool. I have no prospects, no thoughts on what I want to do when I grow up—who the fuck knows when that’s going to happen—and I’ve made a promise I’m afraid I can’t keep.

  What if I can’t find Rose?

  What if I’m a fraud, leading Crystal down a disastrous path?

  Crystal doesn’t deserve this and Rose doesn’t deserve this.

  What Dirk deserves, I haven’t figured out.

  What do I deserve? I have no idea. I don’t know that I deserve anything.

  I drink my coffee, smoke my cigarettes, doing that thing I promised I’d stop doing because I’m supposed to be a different person now, which I’m not. We’re always the same person.

  Change is a fun thing to talk about, even more fun sometimes to take a stab at it, but there’s still that coding, deep down in the bottom of us, that says what we’re going to do when confronted with a crisis situation.

  Fight or flee.

  I want to flee, or be smart enough not to fight.

  But I think I know what my coding says.

  The sun dips down and it’s night. I start to doze, and occasionally punch myself in the thigh to keep myself awake. For a little while I consider heading back to Tommi’s house and catching a nap. Just as I’m pulling out my phone to text Crystal to see where she is, the door of the campaign office swings open. A man in a carefully pressed button-down pink shirt and navy slacks comes out. He looks like a catalogue model. Swimmer’s build. Tall. Golden blond hair, like Crystal said.

  Gotcha, fuckhead.

  For all my hemming and hawing over the truth of my nature, you know what? I am pretty damn good at this kind of work.

  He disappears into a Starbucks across the street from the campaign office, and I wonder if this might be a good time to confront him. He can’t shoot me in a Starbucks. And it’s important to note he’s an asshole for going into a Starbucks. Their coffee is shit and this town is full of great coffee shops.

  Probably better to wait. Maybe I can find out where he’s keeping Dirk, follow him back there. That would make this whole thing a lot easier. After a few minutes he comes out with a giant cup. He crumples a piece of paper and tosses it into a trash can at the curb, walks to a dark sedan. It’s the car he forced me into the night we first met. It’s parked five spots in front of me, which I didn’t notice.

  Maybe I’m not so great at this work.

  He pulls away and when I’m sure he’s gone, I get out and cross the street. Linger at the trash can until it looks like the street is clear. When there are no cars and no people I push open the top and stick my hand in, straight into something sticky. I pick up the lid, see that my hand is halfway stuck in a melting ice cream cone, and the receipt is a little over to the left.

  I pick it up, head into the Starbucks, and go straight for the bathroom, where I wash up and unfold the paper. He bought a large peppermint mocha—six fucking dollars!—and paid with a card. There’s no name on the receipt. I was hoping there would be. The only identifying detail is that his card is a Visa, and the last four digits.

  I walk to the register. The surfer-dude barista with white-guy dreadlocks nods up to my hat and says, “Yee-haw. What can I get you?”

  “That blond guy who was just in here,” I tell him. “I saw him come out and get in his car and drive away. I think I know him. Do you know his name?”

  Surfer dude nods. “He comes in here a lot. Works nearby. His name is Chris.”

  “Last name? Anything else about him?”

  The guy shrugs. “I don’t know, man. He’s a bit of a dick.” His eyes go wide. “I’m sorry, man, I shouldn’t have said that about your friend.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s not my friend.”

  That didn’t pan out. I turn to leave and notice a fishbowl sitting next to the register. There’s a sign on it: Drop your business card to win a free coffee.

  “Hey, did he drop a card in here?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but I don’t think you can…”

  Before the guy can stop me I reach in and pull out the card lying on top. It has a logo for the Fletcher campaign and the name Chris Wilson.

  Hello, Chris.

  A little bit of Google-fu between the names Mike Fletcher and Chris Wilson reveals a big fat nothing. I should have followed him. I know where he works, and that’s nice, but now that I’m on a roll and I’ve hit a wall, I’m feeling antsy.

  I dial up Molly Rivers. She answers on the second ring. “What?”

  “Do you know a guy named Chris Wilson? Works for the Fletcher campaign?”

  “Who the fuck is this?”

  “Ash. The guy from earlier.”

  “I have enough shit to do. I was not put on this earth to act as your assistant.”

  “The faster the pieces fall into place here, the faster you get your story. Maybe you land someplace nicer than Wichita.”

  “God, if only.” There’s clicking on the other end of the line. Finally she says, “I met Wilson outside a fundraiser for Fletcher. Came by way of DC, but I don’t know who he is or what he does and I didn’t have a reason to dig. He was a cagey asshole and didn’t say much more than that. It’s all I have in my Fletcher file and that’s all I remember. Don’t bother me again until you’ve got something to give me.”

  Click.

  Fair enough. I call up Bombay. He answers on the third ring.

  “What up, brother?” he asks.

  “Need a favor.”

  “You and the fucking favors, man! No ‘How are you.’ No ‘I miss you, buddy.’ You call me out of the blue asking me to do shit for you. C’mon man, can’t we pretend like we’re still friends here?”

  “We are still friends. You’re my closest friend.”

  “Make me believe it.”

  “Bombay… man. In all this world, there’s no one I trust more than you. I love you. You know that. I would call more but… I’m not a phone guy.” I climb out of the car, light a smoke. “I don’t want you to take this personally or anything. I’m a little jammed up right now, and I need a hand, and the reason I call you is because I trust you to help me.”

  Bombay laughs. “Man, I was fucking around. But it’s nice to know you love me.”

  “Asshole.”

  “What do you need?”

  I don’t want to play pay phone roulette again, so I choose my words carefully. “There’s this guy I know I’m trying to meet up with. I was trying to find his address. His name is Chris Wilson. He’s in Portland via Washington, DC.”

  “Chris Wilson? Are you kidding me? His name may as well be John Smith.”

  “Visa. Last four digits are six-six-two-three.”

  Pause. “Is this going to get me placed on a watchlist?”

  “I ran into him, he left his Starbucks receipt behind. But I lost his phone number. Don’t worry. We’re pals. He’ll be happy to know I found him.”

  Keyboard keys click in rapid succession. Bombay asks, “Did you hear about Tibo?”

  “He okay?”

  “Fine, yeah. You remember how he wanted to build a commune someplace? He did. Down in the woods in Georgia. It’s a full-blown hostel and he’s the manager.”

  “No shit.”

  “Yeah, man, and he’s one of many. This place is really starting to empty out. You go into Dymphna’s now, there’s not a single familiar face.”

  “Who else is gone?”

  “Well, me and Lunette moved out to Brooklyn. Bad Kelli is up in Astoria now. Dave is still in Manhattan, but that dude always has money and no one can figure out why.”

  “How’s Margo?”

  “She’s good. I don’t see her much anymore, but she’s liking school, living the NYU college kid life.”

  “That’s good. How are you holding up?”

  Pause.
“Good. Just bored, man. It kinda sucks not having you around.”

  “Aww. Do you miss me?”

  “I do. Even though you’re a fucking idiot and you’re constantly getting yourself in trouble and you got my apartment trashed… at least you were fun.”

  “Sure, let’s call it that,” I tell him. “Let’s call it fun.”

  “You think you might come back soon? Or you still on your journey of personal discovery?”

  “Christ, don’t say it like that. I’m doing a little traveling.”

  “Right. What’s with the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “The girl in your apartment the other day. The one you’re helping out. You dig her?”

  “Yes, I dig her.”

  “Did you do it yet?” he asks. “Did you do sex to her?”

  “None of your business.”

  “So, yes then. You’re not going to move there permanently, are you?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do.”

  “Man, you’re digging on her hard, aren’t you?”

  “You got anything for me, Watson?”

  The keyboard strokes fall silent. “In fact, I do.”

  He reads off an address, says, “I’ll send it to you in a text.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  Click.

  The address appears on my phone, the text of it highlighted blue. I click on it, and it dumps me into a map that shows a nice, clean, direct route to Chris Wilson’s house.

  Wilson’s car isn’t on the block. I sit there for a little while, really make sure. Maybe he’s out looking for me. Joke’s on him.

  I get out of the hatchback and walk toward the house, looking for signs of movement. It’s small, one story. Light blue with yellow shutters. There’s a tiny front yard and a large backyard that goes pretty deep. I can barely make out the rear fence from the bottom of the driveway.

  I’m exposed where I am, standing out like this. Anyone in one of the houses across the street could see me, so I head toward the back, keeping an eye on the windows. No movement. No light.

  The yard is empty. A little overgrown. There’s a shed toward the back, and next to a sliding glass door there’s a folding chair and a coffee can that’s filled with swollen, brown cigarette butts.

  I check the back door, press my finger against the handle. It slides without much resistance. Way to keep your door locked, dummy. I get it open, step into the kitchen, and close it behind me.

  The kitchen is sparse. There’s nothing but a toaster and a case of cheap whiskey sitting on the counter. Next to me is a recycling bin that’s full of more bottles of whiskey, all of them empty. This guy likes to drink.

  I case the house, but it’s clear. Everything is very neat and arranged. There are no pictures, just small piles of personal belongings, a travel bag of toiletries on the bathroom counter. Like how someone would treat a hotel room.

  The only books he has are by Ayn Rand. So I know for sure he’s a degenerate.

  I finish up in the house and step into the yard, unsure of what to do next. I could wait for him. Hole up in the house and ambush him when he comes in the door. The only reason he’s had an edge on me twice now is because he’s had a gun on me. Take the gun away and I think it’s more than a fair fight.

  There’s a blue dancing light, like a television left on, in the sole window on the shed. That’s weird. I cross the grass, keeping an eye behind me, making sure there’s nobody who can see me, and get up against the white door. Listen. There’s definitely sound on the other side.

  This door isn’t locked. I open it slowly and get smacked by a wall of stench. I breathe through my mouth. There’s a pile of magazines, a case of beer, and a camping toilet propped up against one wall. A couch along the other, and a small battery-operated television on a milk crate.

  And a sprawled figure on the couch.

  I move in and find that it’s Dirk, twisted up and snoring away.

  He’s out. Doesn’t stir as I cross the shed to him, my boots echoing on the wooden floor. I stand over him and kick the couch. He wakes up with a start, looking around until finally his eyes lock on mine, and they go wide with terror.

  “Been looking for you,” I tell him.

  I grab Dirk by the collar and drag him outside. He doesn’t put up much of a fight. There was a used needle lying on the floor next to him, which seems to indicate why. I figure on interrogating him in the yard because it reeks in the shed, but the neighbors could see, so I lead him to the house, toss him onto the couch in the living room.

  “Not supposed to be in here,” he says, mumbling like he’s half asleep.

  “Shut up.” I pull a chair over and sit across from him. It’s dark, the light from the street streaming in through the curtains. I reach over and turn on the lamp next to him and he recoils from the amber glow.

  He doesn’t look good. Eyes glazed over, skin sallow. He looks like a sorry piece of shit and that little black part of my brain, tucked away and hidden, wants to hit him. Not because I think it’ll get me answers quicker, but because I think he deserves it.

  I push that away.

  “Let’s start at the top,” I tell him. “Where’s Rose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know where your daughter is?”

  “I met the family who took her. They were a sweet family, man. I wouldn’t send her off with a bunch of freaks.”

  “So this is a question for Wilson?”

  Dirk nods slowly, a look of fear dancing across his face.

  “I want to see how much I know,” I tell him. “This is what I’ve figured out. Wilson is paying you to leave town, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And part of that payment was to pick up Rose so that she could be sent away with another family. An off-the-books adoption? There’s probably no paperwork, so she can’t be traced back to Crystal. Correct?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And this scare campaign against Crystal and the club is tied up in that?”

  He cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

  “The rat nailed to Crystal’s door. The threats to the club.”

  “Man, I don’t know shit about that. I only know I’m supposed to lay low and Wilson says when the time is right he’s going to drive me out of here. He said he had to drive me because you were too close to finding us.”

  I pull out two cigarettes and light them both, hand one to him. He stares at it for a minute, like it might be a trap, before he snatches it out of my hand and sucks at it greedily. He says, “We shouldn’t be smoking in here.”

  “Wilson tried to kill me. I don’t care if he loses his security deposit. Hey, also, quick aside, why the fuck did you rip off a cartel? That almost got me killed.”

  “Yeah… I fucked that up. I think it was three grand or something that I owed them?”

  “The guy who tried to violate me with a high-pressure air pump said it was ten.”

  Dirk’s eyes go wide. “Shit. That’s fucked up. I’m pretty sure it was three though. Maybe four. They tack on a fat interest rate.” He shudders. “They are going to kill me when they find me.”

  “They got shut down. Another domino that fell because of whatever the fuck is going on with you and Crystal. Which leads me to my next question: When did you learn Fletcher was your dad?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Fletcher. He’s the old man, right? Your father? He’s clearing you out of here so he can run for Congress.”

  “Man, you got that one wrong…”

  I’m about to prod him for more when his eyes settle and focus on something over my shoulder. Something hard presses against the back of my head.

  I am a fucking idiot.

  Three times now. You’d think I would learn.

  “You’re light on your feet,” I say.

  Wilson laughs a little, and the gun retracts. “Get up,” he says.

  He’s wearing the same outfit I saw him in
earlier. Pink shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled up, every strand of hair spackled in place. A bemused smile stretched across his sharp face. He nods to Dirk to get up and leads us both into the kitchen, where he gets us into a corner, boxed in at a right angle by the counter and cabinets.

  Wilson stands a couple of steps away, holding the gun between us like he can’t decide which one of us to shoot first.

  “How did you find me?” he asks.

  “If I tell you, will you let me live?” I ask.

  “Nope.”

  “Well, if I’m going to die either way, then you can go fuck yourself.”

  “Tell me, die fast,” he says, moving the barrel of the gun from where it’s pointed at my chest, down to my crotch. “Don’t tell me, die slow.”

  I need to buy some time until I can figure out how to not get shot, so at this point, there’s probably no harm in giving a little up. “The cell phone. It was registered under Ellen Kanervisto’s name. The address was the campaign headquarters. You should have used a burner.”

  “Burners come with their own risks,” Wilson says. “I thought having a name attached to it would obviate the problem, but I guess not. Good lesson learned. Thank you for that.”

  “You’re welcome. So what are you, exactly?”

  “A fixer.”

  “You fix... what, exactly? Dumb fucking assholes who want to run for office?”

  “Essentially, yes,” Wilson says. “I make sure nothing can come back to bite them in the ass. It’s incredibly lucrative.”

  “And why did you come after me so hard? Throwing me in the trunk was a little much, don’t you think?”

  “Your history,” Wilson says. “I ran a background check on everyone who works at the club. Routine thing. I wanted to know what I was working with. I found out you were tied up in some shit back in New York. That you were something like an amateur private detective.”

  “How did you even find that out?”

  “That’s my job. Finding things out. So that night she tried to hire you, I needed to shut it down quick.”

  “We were alone when she spoke to me.”

  Wilson nods his head back and forth. “I’m good at my job. Important thing is I heard you. I figured you were smart enough to back off.”