The Fifth Floor

by Michael Harvey

  I made a mental note to get the locks changed and took a seat behind my desk. My notes from the historical society and the County Building went into a drawer. Then I booted up my Mac and checked my e-mails. I could feel the girl waiting, watching, assessing. I thought she might get a little antsy. I was wrong. After a minute or so, I looked up and across the desk.

  “Let me guess,” I said. “You’re Taylor Woods.”

  “How did you know?”

  “You look a lot like your mom.”

  Taylor held up the volume of Catullus I had shared with her mother less than a week earlier. “I borrowed a book.”

  I got up and walked over to the shelf by the door. Felt for the Smith and Wesson, a .38 caliber snub nose I kept in a space behind the Iliad. The gun was still there. Loaded and, thankfully, not in the hands of a teenager. Then I sat back down behind my desk.

  “I showed that book to your mom the other day.”

  “She told me,” Taylor said. “I study Latin in school.”

  “What grade are you in?”

  “I’m fourteen. Freshman in high school.”

  “So you can translate?”

  “A little bit.” She looked down at the title and then back to me. “I hate and I love. That’s pretty easy.”

  “You like Catullus?” I said.

  Taylor weighed the pros and cons of a poet who wrote two thousand years before she was born. Took all of five seconds.

  “Seems pretty cool. Kind of romantic.”

  I could have told her all about romance. About how it was sometimes better read than lived. But I figured people, even fourteen-year-old people, had to figure some things out for themselves.

  “What’s up, Taylor?”

  “My mom told me you were going to help us.”

  “She did?”

  “Yeah. She told me if there was trouble, I should come find you.”

  Taylor held out my business card. A name, address, e-mail, and phone number. Not much more than that to a business card. Until it’s in the hands of a kid. Until it offers you up as a savior.

  “Does your mom know you’re here?”

  She shook her head and hair fell over the lower half of her face. She pulled the tresses back behind her ears and settled herself in her chair.

  “You came on your own?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “At home, I guess.”

  “So she’s not in trouble right now?”

  “No. Is that what I have to wait for? I mean, before we can come and see you?”

  “No, Taylor. It’s okay to come and see me whenever you want.”

  We sat for a moment and I thought about things. Taylor picked through the pages of Catullus, then looked around the room. Waiting, apparently, for my plan.

  “Who’s that guy?” she said. I followed her finger to a couple of old volumes that sat on the edge of my desk.

  “That’s a Greek playwright by the name of Sophocles. Ever heard of him?”

  She shook her head. I picked up a book titled The Oedipus Trilogy.

  “He lived in the fifth century b.c. Any thoughts about the fifth century b.c.?”

  Taylor just looked at me so I kept going.

  “Sophocles wrote three plays known as the Oedipus trilogy.”

  “What were they about?”

  “That’s a big question.” I opened the text and found a line from Sophocles’ Oedipus at Colonus.

  “What’s that?” Taylor said.

  “Ancient Greek.” I pointed her to the translation: “Man is born to fate a prey.”

  “Is that supposed to be a puzzle?”

  “Sort of. Sophocles believed each man was born to a destiny he couldn’t escape. And that anyone who thought otherwise was a fool. Like Oedipus.”

  “Oedipus was a fool?”

  “Oedipus was a king. A man who thought he was the master of his fate. A man who thought he could solve any problem through the force of his own intellect.”

  “Let me guess,” Taylor said. “That didn’t work out.”

  “Oedipus asked a lot of questions. Problem was, he didn’t always get the answers he wanted.”

  “Was that the point of the play?”

  I smiled and closed the book.

  “There are a lot of points to the Oedipus trilogy, but, yeah, I guess that’s one of them. Don’t ask a question unless you’re sure you can handle the answer.”

  Taylor ran her hand across the frayed cover and pulled it across the desk.

  “Mind if I take this one too?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I showed her the book’s layout. Where the English translations were for each Greek passage. How the comments in the back of the book worked. She took it all in, then stacked Sophocles on top of Catullus.

  “Thanks. I kind of like this stuff.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Makes you think.”

  “Want to know what I was thinking just now?”

  “Shoot.”

  “I was thinking, I wonder if he has a girlfriend?”

  “How interesting,” I said.

  “So do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have a girlfriend?”

  “What did I just tell you about asking questions?”

  The girl smiled. For the first time since she sat down, she seemed 100 percent kid.

  “What do you want to know?” I said.

  “Why don’t you date my mom?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She says you two used to go out.”

  “Your mom’s married. For the second time.”

  “Yeah, we know about that.”

  “Move on, Taylor.”

  Now she laughed a little. Bounced a bit in her chair. I noticed a tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Looked like some kind of fruit. Maybe a peach, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Want to know what she said about you?” the girl said.

  “We’re old friends.”

  “I know. Want to know what she said?”

  I tipped forward in my chair and slid my elbows onto my desk. “No, I don’t want to know. How about you, Taylor? You got a boyfriend?”

  The girl dropped her eyes to the floor and pulled the two books I’d given her close to her body. The part in her hair was straight down the middle of her scalp. Just like her mom.

  “I don’t mix too well,” she said.

  I knew I shouldn’t have asked the question. As usual, about ten seconds too late.

  “You got friends,” I said.

  “I have people I talk to every day.”

  “What do you call them?”

  “I call them people I talk to every day.”

  Her eyes crept up toward mine. There was a touch of annoyance in her voice and hard color rising in her cheeks.

  “I like to be left alone. Sort of like you.”

  I looked around the office. “Like me?”

  “Sure. You’re not married. You work by yourself. Looks to me like you’re alone a lot.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was attacking me. And if she was, whether it was out of spite or just plain old hurt. Either way, it was okay. She was a kid. And I’d been alone long enough to deal with any accompanying sting.

  “Looks can be deceiving, Taylor. Let me ask you something else.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You like ice cream?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a reluctant yes. But a yes, all the same. Ice cream usually helps to turn the page for kids. Adults aren’t so easy.

  “There’s a great spot down the street,” I said. “Best hot fudge sundaes in the city.”

  I got up. The girl got up with me, Sophocles and Catullus in tow. I turned out the lights and we left. We were halfway down the hallway when Taylor spoke again.

  “You forgot to lock the door.”

  I almost swore but caught myself. Instead, I went back down the hall and locked up. Then the two of us headed out for some ice cream.
<
br />   CHAPTER 16

  The Bobtail sits at the corner of Broadway and Surf. It’s a throwback place with a long marble counter, soda jerks dressed in white out front, and hand-cranked ice cream made in the back. Taylor ordered a chocolate ice-cream soda. The guy behind the counter took a glass with a Coke logo on the side, fitted it into a metal holder with a handle, and cranked a good amount of chocolate into the bottom. Then he dropped in three scoops of ice cream, filled the glass with seltzer from a black-handled dispenser, and stirred with a long spoon. Real whipped cream and a cherry went on top and the whole thing was slid down the counter. Taylor pulled the paper wrapping off a straw and, for the second time, looked like a kid.

  “Aren’t you going to get anything?” she said.

  I ordered a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a cup. Taylor seemed happy with that and dug into her soda. Three minutes later, she hit bottom with her straw. I got her a spoon and she scooped ice cream from the depths of her glass.

  “Pretty good,” she said.

  “Told you.”

  Taylor pushed her glass away and turned toward me. “Are we going to talk about my mom now?”

  “Sure.”

  I got up and walked us over to a table by the window. We sat in chairs made of thin white wire. The fourteen-year-old with the ice-cream soda got left at the counter. Taylor Woods was back. A kid with the problems of an adult.

  “You think your mom’s in some kind of trouble,” I said. “Tell me about that.”

  “Mom said you knew.”

  “About your step-dad?”

  “Yeah.”

  For the first time, I sensed a crack in the façade. It ran like a shiver through her voice and across her lower lip, finding a home in her eyes as her gaze slid to the floor.

  “You like your step-dad?” I said.

  A narrow set of shoulders offered a single shrug that said enough.

  “You scared of him?”

  She shook her head.

  “You scared for your mom?”

  Nothing.

  “It’s okay to be scared for your mom, Taylor. And it’s okay to be scared for yourself.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m not scared of him. You wouldn’t understand.”

  I thought about the guy who once called himself my father. The death of quiet inside an apartment. A footfall on the doorstep and voices down a hallway. A quiet, dangerous sort of rumble. Something you developed an instinct for. Ten years old and creeping through the kitchen as the voices got closer. Out the back door and into the fading sunlight. Melting into the streets, into the safety of the neighborhood. I’d wait until well past midnight before heading home. Marking time with whoever was around. Listening to Bruce, walking the streets, drinking beer as I got older, fighting anyone and anything. Believing it was just another day of normal. I understood more about “Dad” than anyone would ever want. More than the kid in front of me probably ever needed to know. At least, that’s what I thought.

  “What’s he doing to your mom, Taylor?”

  She looked out the window and onto Broadway. A couple walked by, arms linked, a stroller filled with a baby in between. They looked pretty happy, but I didn’t think it registered with my young friend.

  “He’s killing her, Mr. Kelly. Bit by bit, he’s beating my mom to death and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop it.”

  Taylor wiped at a tear as it slid down her cheek and seemed angry over it.

  “When was the last time?” I said.

  She pulled at a napkin. I looked across at the ice-cream guy behind the counter, another teenager, this one on his cell phone and in another world.

  “It’s all the time. Every day, sometimes. Then it’s quiet for a while. Then it’s bad again.”

  I wanted to reach out, maybe touch the girl’s hand. Instead, I settled for more conversation.

  “Okay, Taylor, go on home. Don’t say anything to your mom. I’ll come by and have another talk with her.”

  “When?” The tears had stopped as quickly as they started. She dried her cheeks, folded up the napkin, and put it on the table.

  “When is he gone?” I said.

  “He’ll be gone next week. Wednesday or Thursday night, for sure.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He’s staying downtown. Some city event for the mayor. My mom is supposed to go with him, but she’s too sick.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Taylor narrowed her eyes and never looked more like her mother.

  “It means he came home last night and busted her face open. Now she can’t be seen with him and his work pals.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  I nodded. “Okay, I’ll stop by next week. We’ll get a plan together.”

  “I already have a plan,” she said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You kill him.” The girl looked up as she spoke, and I felt a chill.

  “No one is killing anybody, Taylor. You got that?”

  “You’re not inside that house. You don’t know.”

  I pulled my chair a little closer and muscled into the girl’s space. “You think it’s that easy to kill someone?”

  A shrug.

  “Trust me, it’s not. Have you told your mom any of this?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Okay, I’ll talk to her next week. Till then, we just let things lie.”

  I thought she was going to cry again. Or embroider her case for putting a bullet in Johnny Woods. Or maybe both. Instead, Taylor got up and walked out onto the street. I paid for the ice cream and found her waiting at the corner. There wasn’t much more to say so I put her in a taxi. Gave the cabbie her address and the fare plus twenty. Then I wandered down Broadway. Thought about my young friend and her developing taste for murder.

  A lot of folks wouldn’t see the threats of a fourteen-year-old as anything but idle. I wasn’t one of those folks. A kid can pull the trigger just as smooth and easy as anyone else. Sometimes even easier. I knew that, mostly because I’d lived it. Or close enough.

  The worst times were always late at night. The times I’d make the mistake of falling asleep and he’d get home, come looking for me. It was better when my older brother, Phillip, was there. Even if he’d been kicked quiet.

  Either way, the old man would eventually get to it. Stand me up in the living room and take a good look. Close enough so I could smell the liquor—what I know now was liquor. Back then it just smelled like a beating. Mingled with cigarettes, sweat, and fear. My old man was afraid of most every big thing in life. That’s why I was out there in the first place. In the living room. At three in the morning. No fear here for Dad. Only control.

  He’d pick a topic. Didn’t matter what. Maybe it was just the way I looked at him when he pulled me out of bed. Didn’t matter. I’d try to stand tough. He’d walk back and forth. Ask me questions.

  Did I think I was a tough guy? He’d show me tough.

  Did I think I could get away with the bullshit I pulled with everyone else?

  I wasn’t that goddamn smart and he damn well knew it. School. Sports. Whatever. I half-assed everything. Goddamn faker.

  He’d move close on that last word and wait for me to flinch. Who the Christ did I think I was fooling, anyway?

  Didn’t matter the question. Didn’t matter the answer. There was no right answer. Nothing, nobody worth answering to. I knew that. Still, the questions got louder. The old man got closer. Finally, I’d try something, some sort of response. When I got older, I realized that was a mistake. Just what he was waiting for. He’d stop pacing, hover close.

  “What did you say?”

  From the corner of my eye I could see my mom, virtual rosary beads in hand, half praying, half asking my dad to go to bed and forget about it. Not much fucking chance. I’d answer again. And wait. I knew it was coming, but it never failed to amaze. The speed. The ferocity. Whip-fast. Lo
ud and fierce. In my ears first, then exploding across my face, slamming my eyes shut, scorching white bursts just underneath the lids. It was just an open palm to the face. But it was the first shot and it always shocked me, scared me, hurt far more than whatever followed. When I was nine, I cried. When I got a little older, I just stood there and took it. Either way, it didn’t matter. Whatever my reaction, he always followed up with another shot, probably so he didn’t have to think about the first either. It was usually a half-closed hand to the head. Then he’d bring his fists to the party. Once, twice, as much as it took until I went down. After that, it was okay. The old man was sated. He’d grumble something to my mother and go to bed. My mom would come over and ask if I wanted a cup of tea. I’d say no. Then I’d go down the hall and get back into bed. I’d hear him next door, breathing already heavy, nothing else between us save a layer of drywall and a lifetime of regret.

  No one would talk about it the next day. Or the day after that. None of us, not even Phillip. Instead, we’d just wait. Until we were old enough where we could leave. Or kill him. It was the last part that stayed with me today. The killing part seemed real to me back then. It seemed real to me now. Maybe even a little bit right. I’d take what Taylor said seriously. And do what I could to make sure she stayed a kid.

  CHAPTER 17

  I woke up the next morning, looked at the clock, and allowed myself a smile. Then I picked up the phone and dialed.

  “What?”

  Fred Jacobs sounded like he might have been asleep all of five minutes.

  “Wake up, Fred.”

  “Kelly?”

  There was a fumble as he dropped the phone. Followed by a curse or two. Then my favorite reporter came back on the line.

  “Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “What?” I said.

  “It’s six-thirty on a Saturday morning. People like to sleep on Saturday mornings.”

  “Get out of bed, Fred. Take yourself outside for a nice run.”

  More fumbling, then the line cleared.

  “What do you want, Kelly?”

  “Vince Rodriguez and Dan Masters.”

  Jacobs didn’t respond. I allowed the silence to thicken and congeal before I continued.

  “Saw them over at Belmont and Western the other day. Asked me what I knew about Johnny Woods.”