by John Hook
It was bustling but not overly crowded inside. I noticed that I wasn’t sure what day of the week it was, but that often happened to me. The life of a freelancer who didn’t have the regular rhythm of a 9-to-5 job. The warmth of the café was seductive. There was a line of counters where you queued up to get coffees and pastries. There were a few booths and then a large area with tables. It was Little Italy without leaving the East Village.
I stood in line and finally ordered a mocha latte and a cannoli to go. Trouble was, I did not feel like leaving the warmth or the comforting buzz of people talking and laughing. I didn’t want to go back out into the cold. I didn’t want to go back to my building. I needed to think.
I took my bag with a cannoli shrouded in wax paper and my paper cup of latte and moved towards the back. Suddenly, I saw someone who immediately caught my attention. I had a powerful feeling I knew him and that it was important, but I couldn’t place him. He was thin and tall, balding, but with frizzy hair on the sides of his head. He wore a T-shirt that said “Rockvale Raiders,” whatever that was, and jeans. He was bent over a notebook that he seemed to be scribbling numbers in. Next to him was a half-full cup of coffee, probably cold, and a plate empty of anything but a few cake crumbs. He looked up at me and caught me staring at him. He gave me a quizzical but friendly look.
“I know you, don’t I?”
“I was thinking the same thing. Sorry I was staring.”
I sat down across from him. It was good to have someone to talk to, and for some reason I felt instantly comfortable with him.
“Sorry to say I can’t remember where we met.”
I took a sip of my latte and then pulled out my cannoli.
“Would you like some?” I asked, motioning with my hand.
“No.” He paused. “And I can’t remember either. Do you live around here?”
“East 14th Street,” I said between bites. “You?”
“Used to. I live in Brooklyn now, but I am teaching a seminar at Cooper Union.”
“I’m Quentin Case.” I reached over and shook hands. I shrugged out of my coat as it was quite warm in the coffee house.
“Israel Steinmetz. I prefer Izzy.” He paused, studying me quietly. He seemed quiet and deliberate, sorting through and considering everything. For some reason, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Finally, he said: “You seem to be a little agitated.”
I almost spit out my latte, but caught myself.
“Shows that much?”
“I’m a pretty keen observer. Most people probably don’t notice.”
“I don’t know. I’m beginning to think I’m just crazy.”
“Lot of that going around. What flavor is yours?”
I didn’t know why I so completely trusted this man who, although compellingly familiar, I had no recollection of meeting. There was something incredibly natural in how we fell into conversational rhythm.
I told him about falling asleep and having very intense dreams I couldn’t completely remember. Actually, it was more like I couldn’t verbalize what I remembered, because every so often I would get snatches, but as soon as I tried to weave them into a narrative, they were gone. I told him about the strange flood of memory that came over me and the panic attack. I was, in fact, amazed at the detail I still held for what I saw. That my landlord might be a serial killer and that I had both watched and felt myself die at his hands.
Izzy sat quietly, absently taking his thick-framed glasses off and wiping the lenses and replacing them. The only thing missing was tape on the nose bridge.
“That is pretty intense. It’s odd, because I also had a nap this afternoon. I woke up in the Cooper Union library. I also had the impression that I had experienced very busy and complicated dreams that I couldn’t remember. I felt a very strong sense of dread. That’s why I came over here.”
“Was your landlord in it?”
“I own my brownstone.”
“I feel like an idiot. I don’t believe in things like premonitions.”
Izzy shrugged. “I’m beginning to wonder if I might be recognizing you from my dream.”
“That’s crazy,” I said without thinking.
“Look who’s talking.” Izzy looked amused.
“What am I going to do? The thought that Janovic has someone down in that basement is eating at me.”
“You are probably going to have to find out. You’ll go down there and probably find out it is nothing, but it is the only way to get it out of your head.”
“And what if I’m not wrong?”
“I’ll come with you, in case.”
I looked at his thin body. I did notice that the arms were more tightly muscled than I would have expected. Not bulging like he lifted weights, but with well-defined muscles. Maybe he was a swimmer.
“I feel safer already. So what will you do if I’m right?”
“Run.” Izzy grinned. “But at least you’ll have a witness.”
I heard a familiar voice and looked over at the counter. There were two New York City police patrolmen. One was an older man, maybe late forties, with a surprising tanned and leathery face for the city. His hair was sandy turning white and he had piercing ice-blue eyes. The lines on his face told you he had seen a lot, but he seemed to take things in stride. The cop with him was a younger patrolman, in his thirties, a little more overweight.
“That’s Johnny Speedo.” I indicated the older cop. “I did a feature for a magazine with him once.”
“You know a cop named Johnny Speedo? No one in real life has a name like Johnny Speedo.”
I looked at Izzy and shook my head. “I know, but it’s what they call him and he won’t give out his real name.”
I looked back. Johnny saw me. His face warmed up. He picked up his coffee and walked over.
“Hey, writer man, how have you been?”
I shook his hand. My hands were cold. His were strong and warm. I introduced Izzy.
“Quentin here spent some time riding around in my car with me for some magazine article he was working on a couple of years ago.” Johnny nodded.
“You read it?” I asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “Learned a long time ago it was only frustrating to read what the press wrote about you. You were a good Joe, though. I bet you tried to be fair.”
“Can I ask a favor?” It just came out of my mouth. I knew in the back of my mind I had considered involving the police, but I had also thought I had dismissed the idea as too dramatic.
Johnny looked at me with a friendly but guarded expression.
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“I’m going to sound crazy.”
“Most civilians do.” Johnny laughed.
“I’ve become convinced—based on no evidence and possibly the memory of a dream—that my landlord is torturing women in the basement of my building.”
Johnny’s partner, who had come up, snorted. Johnny looked at him sharply and turned back with softened features.
“I see. And you want me to take a look.”
I spread my hands. I couldn’t think of what to say.
Johnny turned to his partner.
“Suspicious dreams are probable cause, right?”
His partner rolled his eyes.
“Come on, Quentin. Let’s have a look.”
“I really hope I end up looking foolish.”
“Yeah, me too.” Johnny grinned.
I got up and looked at Izzy.
“Want a ride in the back of a police cruiser?”
Izzy’s eyes lit up.
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
Izzy stood up, stretching.
“Who are the Rockvale Raiders?” I asked, looking at the T-shirt.
Izzy looked down for a moment and shrugged.
“I’m not sure. Just an old T-shirt I picked up somewhere.”
We left the coffee house and joined Johnny Speedo and his partner on the curb next to their patrol car. Izzy and I climbed in the back and Johnny closed
the door. They climbed in the front and we drove over to the East 600 block on 14th Street, between Avenue B and C. The patrol car pulled up to the curb. I was glad the ride was short. The back seats of patrol cars are not built for comfort. They are designed to be easy to clean if you throw up.
Johnny let us out since you can’t open the back of a patrol car from the inside.
We started to head for the entrance to my building, but Johnny stopped me.
“If I do this I need a favor in return.”
“Sure, anything.”
“I want your typewriter.”
It was such an odd request, I couldn’t even think of what to say.
“Sure,” I answered without really thinking.
Johnny smiled and we went in.
The door to the basement was still ajar. Johnny pounded on Janovic’s door after I pointed it out, but no one answered. He took his flashlight off his belt and he and his partner walked over to the basement door. He pointed to the stairs going up.
“You two wait here. If there is anything going on, I don’t want civilians getting in the way.”
I saluted. Johnny waved and down the stairs they went.
“This is going to turn out to be nothing, isn’t it?” I offered.
“Probably. Might get you kicked out and you can look for a place that isn’t so run down.”
“There is that. Shame to miss insider pricing on some Manhattan real estate.”
“On the other hand, if it is true, you can turn it into a museum and charge admission.”
I chuckled.
We heard shouting coming from the basement. I instantly alerted, all my senses focusing. Silence followed. Then there were a few more shouts. I thought I heard Johnny’s voice. Finally I heard footsteps.
Janovic, handcuffed, was in the lead. He was shirtless and sweaty with suspenders, workpants and boots. His arm was being firmly held by Johnny’s partner, pushing him along. Janovic’s eyes met mine. They were dark and vicious and his mouth twisted in a scowl, spittle at the corners.
“You,” he said in deep tones. “I should have done something about you long ago.”
“Yes.” I winked. “You should have.”
Next Johnny came along with a woman. I was immediately struck by her beauty, although it wasn’t classic Hollywood beauty. The face was exotic and complex, her eyes and her hair black. There was also pain in her features and, where her clothing had been torn were signs of torture. I felt funny thinking of her beauty in the circumstances, but I felt a powerful attraction. Her eyes met mine and she mouthed the words “Thank you.” As she passed she held something out to me. I took it. It was a postcard with a ribbon tied to the corner. On the ribbon was attached a strange key. I looked up and she looked back for a moment. Her beauty almost made me cry. She mouthed the word “Remember.”
Johnny now looked back at me.
“You did good today, writer man. Her name’s Rox. I’ll get her to the ambulance I sent for. Go wait for me upstairs.”
I took Izzy upstairs. He looked around the apartment, mostly interested in my books. A few moments later there was a knock on the door and Johnny came in.
“I think that kid had some pretty horrible stuff done to her, but I think she’ll be okay. They took her to Beth Israel.” Johnny winked. “Maybe you should visit her.”
“Thanks, Johnny.”
Johnny shrugged. “Glad to do what I can. But now I need you to keep your end of the bargain.”
“My end?” I had already forgotten.
“Your typewriter. I need your typewriter.”
“I don’t get it. What do you want with my typewriter?”
Involuntarily, I looked at my writing desk. I suddenly realized the typewriter wasn’t there. Inexplicably, panic set in.
I looked at Johnny. His gaze had followed mine. He now looked back at me and a fury I had never seen before filled his features. I started backing away, guiding Izzy back with me. Unfortunately, this was a railroad flat and Johnny was between us and the door. For a moment I had another vision of a man in blue crushing my typewriter. I had no idea what it meant, but I somehow realized it meant my typewriter was gone.
“Where is it?” Johnny shouted. “You’d better get it for me right now.”
Johnny’s lips curled back in a snarl. He was about to charge us. For just a moment I saw the woman whose name was apparently Rox mouthing the word “Remember.”
I brought the postcard up. It was a scene of snow with two figures in black. As Johnny roared and charged, I grabbed Izzy’s arm firmly and locked my gaze on the card.
In a moment of chaos, everything dissolved around me.
12.
I landed in the snow with a soft shuff sound. I was back in my “regular” clothes. I had on my yellow shirt and tan chinos. I should have needed warmer clothes, but just as I didn’t get too hot when I first crossed the desert right after I got here, I didn’t feel the full intensity of the cold. Probably the same reason these glamour bodies didn’t feel hunger.
I knew who I was now. I wasn’t sure where I was or where I had been. I knew that it had looked like New York, but it wasn’t. I assumed we were still in Hell now but I couldn’t remember how I got to New York. Or here for that matter, except it had to do with the postcard with the key that I still held in my hand.
Izzy picked himself out of the snow and sat up. He was luckily wearing a parka over his T-shirt. He looked a little bewildered.
“Life always this interesting around you?”
“Afraid so. You don’t remember where you know me from yet?”
“I get impressions. Nothing clear.”
“I don’t remember everything myself yet. I’m pretty sure that I didn’t have a premonition that prevented my death.”
“What do you mean?”
I held Izzy’s gaze for a minute. I saw the gears turning behind his eyes and then his expression softened just a bit.
“Ah. We’re dead. This isn’t a dream. Makes sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you found me at the coffee house, I was… I thought I was waiting to go to Beth Israel to find out the results of my biopsy.”
Izzy looked up. There was just a hint of moisture at the corner of his eye that didn’t seem to be a snowflake on warm skin.
“We weren’t really in that coffee shop either, were we?” Izzy said it as much to himself as to me.
“What was it?”
“Leukemia. Very aggressive, they suspected.” Izzy raised an eyebrow. “Guess they were right.”
“I wish I could remember more. Things are coming to me, but it is very slow. I don’t know what this place is or what the New York City place was. I think we know each other from being, well, dead together.”
“What did you do to get us here? After you grabbed me.”
“Don’t know exactly.” I held up the postcard. It was a scene of snow with a small cabin in the back. The cabin seemed to have a thatched roof. It was hard to tell if it was a photo or realistically rendered artwork.
“I just looked at this card. The woman, Rox, gave it to me. I’m pretty sure I knew her too. I feel like I loved her and the loss seems to be eating at me.”
“Did you really know a cop named Johnny Speedo?”
I laughed.
“A pulp character I made up for a story a long time ago.”
Izzy shook his head.
“So now what?”
“I’m guessing we should look for that cabin. Maybe the key works there.” I began moving through the snow.
“How come we aren’t freezing?”
“Sorry. I don’t have all the answers.”
“Damn.”
It actually didn’t take us long to find the cabin. It was set further back in the woods, but we had landed in the vicinity. It looked like there were footsteps in the snow, but they had mostly been filled in by new snow. Everything was quiet. It was impossible to tell if there was anyone inside. The roof was tightly thatched, but
in the middle smoke was rising so there had to be an exit for it. There was no chimney that I could see.
We walked up on the porch. I knocked. I heard something stir inside. I opened the door.
The inside of the small cabin was sparse, a single room with two wooden benches, a bed of hay in one corner and a stone fire pit in the center. Other than that, there were a few wooden supports for the frame that held up the thatching. The walls were old wood, unadorned. There were what appeared to be oil lamps set about, but only one was lit, near the fire pit. At the fire pit, stirring the embers, was a very old man. He was oriental with skin that looked like parchment paper and coarse, white hair. He had maybe a day or two of white bristles on his lower face and wore a gray and black robe, pulled tight against the winter cold which I hardly felt.
The old man looked up and studied us.
“If you are traveling, come by the fire. There is tea here. If you are robbers, I have nothing of value, but take what you want.”
“Tea sounds good,” I said.
We sat down. The old man handed us small, handleless tea cups. There was a grace and economy in his motions like it was a ceremony. I took a clay pot from the embers and, using its wooden handle,poured tea for Izzy and myself. I motioned with the pot to the old man. He smiled and shook his head no and I put the pot back.
“Do you know us, sir? Do you have any idea why we might have been brought here?”
“I don’t know you. Of course I can’t see very well these days. Perhaps my daughter will know you.”
“Your daughter? Was your daughter named Rox?”
I was grasping. It made no sense since this man was oriental and Rox clearly wasn’t.
“Rox? Strange name. No, my daughter is Kyo.”
The name resonated in me. I almost thought I was going to remember something.
“How did you get here?” the old man asked.
“This,” I said. I showed him the card.
“Well, then you have found what you were looking for. I’d hang on to that key. It looks important.”
