As Dark As My Fur

by Clea Simon

  ‘Blackie,’ she says at last, having brushed back that shock of hair with a hand now scabbed over. ‘I think I know what I’ve got to do. I’m going to report back to Gravitch. I don’t know for sure what he was playing at – I don’t know why he hired me, or if he was trying to set me up. But it’s been three days – and he owes me. Besides, it’s too much of a coincidence. That label and the sweater Big Al had for me. I need to check out his place again, maybe get inside. See if I can see more than a grimy couch. Maybe that little guy, Eddie, got a job there. Maybe someone there can clue me in.’

  I look up at her, the warmth of the night draining from my bones. I cannot tell her of the scent on that sweater. Of the blood and corruption that I smelled there. But surely she remembers the stench of the bin where we found the label – the perfume of old blood and decay?

  I stare, aware again that my face appears impassive to her. Aware that my cool eyes cannot convey the urgency I feel. I share with her the need to hunt. The need to track and understand. But she will put herself at risk, I fear, and I would have her shelter or retreat. I blink, willing her to question, at least, her process.

  She is no fool, this girl. For while I fear the danger she may find herself in, she too appears to weigh the risks. I hear her murmuring to herself as she makes her rough toilette, availing herself of a dripping drain pipe to not only wash her face but to slick back and darken that distinctive mop of hair. She pulls the fraying sweater from her bag, regarding it for utility as a scarf. And when she rejects it, shoving it deep in her bag again, I realize that she does understand the value of concealment. She would disguise herself, I see, but that garment may reveal more than she intends.

  I am heartened, as well, by the path she takes. She is not a cat, and the stealth and byways open to me are not options for a girl even as lithe as she. However, she does her best, avoiding both the open roads and those alleys that, closed off, may serve as traps to travelers unaware. She cannot take to the rooftops, as I would. But she can climb and does so, working her way through the rubble as we approach the harbor and such ruined buildings become more common. She does not emulate me consciously, I do not believe. But she has learned from those around her, me and others, and chooses her path well. Care she calls herself, and it is a name well chosen. She is mindful, this girl, and I begin to hope.

  That hope fades as we near our destination. The sun has risen above the buildings by the time she slows, and at first I believe she has picked up the same traces I have. Dust and oil, and that odd chemical reek – like the hot breath of a mechanical monster – and under it all that strange rumble that shakes the street beneath us.

  I glance up at her, uneasy, willing her to notice the vibration, so like a growl. The essence in the air. Something must reach her, for I note how she waits before approaching. And when she does, she skirts the grey stone before this squat structure to peer, once more, down the alley that runs along its far side.

  The flagstone doesn’t reach here, and what paving remains is pitted, holding traces of those who have passed. The walls as well are porous, their brick softened by the damp and the winter past, and from them I get traces of those who have passed. That woman, Gina: her perspiration and cheap perfume, although I do not believe she has plied her trade out here. The refuse left by passersby. The fresh kill of one of my own, and the less fresh stink of the corpse that we ourselves had found, only a few streets away. To these are added other, more familiar scents: the chemical bite of fuel and oil, which slick the roads and no rain can wash away. The sting, as well, of cheap food, badly cooked, a reminder of the desperate souls abiding here, even if they do not now appear. And that curious mixture of dust and oil. Of steam and something I do not know what to name.

  That residue – as well as the low thrum of these walls – serves to warn me; the girl is in danger here. I do not believe that the discovery of that body was an accident, not when the authorities followed so closely on our heels. I know the girl teeters in her belief. Know as well that she would that it were otherwise. She needs the custom that this Gravitch promised and wants him to be true, despite his unsavory manner. I do not believe she will let emotion sway her, but of this I am not sure. She is young, for all her untimely experience, and she had placed great importance on this commission, particularly now that she has lost those bills.

  At times like this, my limitations gall. If I were other than I am now, I would be able to advise her. To explain the importance of patience. The value of the careful wait. I lash my tail in frustration, wishing even that she were other than she is. That she would observe how I hunt, with stealth, yes, but with perseverance and restraint as well. Then again, were she other than she is, then I could provide for her, in my manner, as I may have provided for others in the past.

  The alley appears empty, quiet now but for the sounds of the low creatures that call it home. The streetlight at its far end is blank, its sickly yellow light extinguished by the dawn. But as she creeps along the alley’s length and peers around the corner, we see the reason for its presence – perhaps for the traffic that drew Gina, as well. An open area, its paving better and less marked than other streets nearby. And backing up – a truck, its rough engine growling like some unwieldy beast, as it slowly makes its way across the street. Toward the building. Toward, I realize as my fur bristles, the alley where we stand.

  The girl pushes back against the wall, the morning sun still low enough so that the low brick building casts dark shadows.

  ‘Hey there!’ A man yells and jumps from the cab, its open door blocking, for a moment, the driver’s line of sight. A grating noise, the movement of metal, and the air changes again. Dust and something musty, an overlay of sweat. Unlike the girl, I can explore unseen. I inch out toward the street, my belly low to the wet ground.

  Behind me, I hear her intake of breath. ‘No,’ she calls in alarm. ‘Blackie!’ I pause and glance back, willing her to understand. She cannot do as I do, but I may discover what there is to be seen in this turmoil of scent and noise.

  ‘Blackie!’ Her voice is louder now, and only the rumble and thud around the truck keep the men from hearing her. ‘You can’t— No—’

  I hesitate, fearful that in her concern, she may follow and that the driver will step out from behind the cab door. But I am beyond the alley now, near enough to the curb so that I may press myself low. Unless one seeks me, I will appear no more than a shadow or – I force myself to admit – one of the lower vermin, fur slicked dark with oil. From here, I spy the source of all the tumult: where the truck has backed, a bay of sorts has opened. The metal barrier is rolling up, its mechanism creaks and groans. And as it does, the ever-present rumbling grows to a roar. A fiend is being unleashed. A monster. I flatten myself to the ground, heedless of the filth – waiting for the inevitable attack.

  Which does not come. Although as I dare a look, I see that the driver is waiting too. He leans on the truck, apparently unconcerned with whatever lies within the building’s gaping maw.

  ‘You, boy!’ The driver, standing, shouts. His voice is barely audible above the clangor. But even with the tumult that issues forth without a break, I hear a gasp nearby. It’s Care. She has followed me, but mimicked as well my lead, staying low to the curb. She is too large, of course, to hide behind it. But with the arrival of the truck and the rolling of the gate, her presence is not noted. Indeed, even I had barely registered her movement, intent as I was on an incipient attack.

  ‘Come here!’ The man gestures, and I see what must have elicited the girl’s response. Tick, the scrawny boy, jumps from the dock and runs toward the truck. In his haste, I see not eagerness, but fear. The manner in which he stops just out of reach, the way his head draws back, speak of blows and lessons learned.

  ‘You got a delivery for me?’ It is not a question, but Tick nods, his slender body shakes with the fervor of his assent.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he yells, and then turns and pulls himself back onto the dock and disappears into the hellis
h noise.

  ‘What’s that about?’ The girl crouches behind me, her breath warm on my back. She does not speak expecting an answer. I know her process by now. She talks to give her thoughts free rein, to visualize the possibilities. It is a useful exercise, as long as she keeps her voice low, and, whether she is aware or not, I appreciate the insights that it gives. ‘That truck …’

  Besides, it is a question I too ponder, as the boy disappears inside. Other boys, older but not yet men, have appeared. Together they push a palette from the dark interior out toward the truck. I raise my nose, questing for traces of drugs or other contraband. But all I get is that dusty, oily scent. Cheap fabric, packed for shipping.

  ‘Care!’ The girl whips around at the sound of her name. It is Tick, standing by the alley, his eyes wide with surprise. No, with fear. He is gesturing, his hands low to the ground.

  ‘You can’t be here.’ He mouths the words, his voice scarcely above a whisper and nearly inaudible against the din. ‘The shop— You can’t.’

  The girl begins to rise. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. ‘I’ve got business—’

  He motions for her silence, the desperation on his face stilling her words. Back behind us, in the alley, the blind metal door has opened. Men, burdened, are emerging slowly. I look up at the girl and at the boy. If I growl, I will distract her. If I do nothing, she will be caught.

  ‘Go!’ He mouths the word, and then he turns. ‘Can I help?’ He speaks loudly, addressing the alley behind him, and by some instinct Care reacts. Not crouching down, as I do, but with a fast survey of the landscape, she races into the street. All eyes are on the building – on the bay – and she makes her way around the front of the truck and crouches by a tire. It’s a smart move – between the shadows and the commotion, she’s beyond their range of sight – and I settle in my gutter to keep watch. There is a marking on the truck, on its cab. Writing, of the sort I once could read. It is familiar …

  ‘You, boy!’ A male voice, breathless. ‘Get over here.’

  Tick sprints to obey, his cheap shoes slipping on the wet pavement. Grunts and a muttered curse. Two men, I believe, as well as the boy, who now sounds like he is burdened with something past his weight. Care must hear this, too, and I hear her adjust her position. Surely, she has the sense not to come to his aid, but no, she is sidling back as the truck’s driver saunters over.

  ‘What?’ she asks. I raise my head above the curbstone. The men have emerged from the alley. They carry a roll of that same, cheap cloth, only this bundle is different – it is poorly packaged and sags in the middle, where Tick now shoulders the thickest part. I smell the dust of the workplace, the sharp chemical smell of the fiber and something else – something sharp as iron. I recall the sleeve of the sweater Care was given. How it carried the taint of blood.

  ‘No, no way.’ The driver has his hands up, as if he would block the progress of the porters and their bundle. Between them, Tick staggers and the man behind him curses under his breath.

  ‘I’ve got a delivery to make,’ says the driver, shaking his head. He points to the cab, where a picture – no, a letter, the word comes back to me – is inscribed. Two peaks threatening, like tall men leaning forward. I stare, looking for the third. The one who looms over all. The one in command. Tick, meanwhile, has recovered, has gotten his shoulder under the drooping midsection of the bundle.

  ‘I can’t have that on my truck,’ says the driver. His arms are crossed. ‘Not when I cross the border.’

  ‘You won’t.’ The man in front motions to Tick, who slides up to take the front of the bundle, while he steps toward the driver. He keeps his voice low, but I have grown almost accustomed to the roar beyond and my ears pick up everything – from the words, to the strange inflection, part promise and part threat. ‘Just drop it by the piers. In the water, if you can. Roll it out. It’s worth an extra hundred, Hugo, and I know how much you like your toys. Besides, the boss will hear about it.’

  His voice sinks lower. Serpentine. ‘Hear it if you don’t, too.’

  The driver glances up at that last bit, his mouth goes slack. ‘Oh,’ he says, and blinks. ‘Yeah, sure. Sure I will,’ he says again, as if he can erase his earlier reluctance. I do not need to see how he shifts to understand the balance has changed. How he now holds himself tight in readiness of violence.

  ‘Here.’ The man before him reaches into his pocket, and the driver cannot help himself. He stumbles back, his hands rising in a plea. But when a roll of bills emerges, those same hands wave in dismissal.

  ‘No, that’s not – really.’ He looks at the money as if it were indeed a weapon.

  ‘Come on, Hugo.’ The man peels off two bills and holds them out. He’s smiling now, relishing the power of his role. ‘The boss would want you to have it. We reward our own, don’t we?’

  ‘Oh.’ Hugo blinks again, reduced to a scared rodent despite his bulk. The man holds the bills out, pushing them into the driver’s chest until he reaches up to take them. Until he shoves them in the pocket of his begrimed pants, uncounted.

  ‘Boy.’ Transaction made, the first man turns toward Tick. ‘Make yourself useful. Help Hugo here get that rubbish loaded.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Tick steps forward, but the bundle is too heavy and he’s been standing under it too long. He stumbles, falling to his knees on the wet pavement.

  ‘Watch it.’ The man behind him, silent until now, barks. ‘You,’ he raises his chin to the driver. ‘Get up there. Help the kid.’

  The driver does, clambering into the bed of his own truck and reaching down for the bundle. It’s an awkward handoff, Tick too short and too weak to properly lift his end. Hugo, the driver, has to reach, grabbing the edge of the fabric. It pulls loose, releasing more of its strange metallic bite. But as I raise my face, eager to find out more, I hear a quick intake of breath. Care, in her hiding place, has seen the handoff. The accident. But it’s not Tick’s stumble or his struggles now with the oversize load that has shaken this sound from her. Not the boy, whose torn pants leg reveals a skinned and bloody shin, to whom she reacts. No, as the driver pulls on the end of the roll, with a final heave levering the bundle at last into the truck bed, she has seen what the cloth conceals. It is the face of the man she had given the apple to, cold and bloodless and bereft of life.

  NINETEEN

  She may be startled, but she does not lose her wits. As the package is bestowed with more curses and grunts, Care makes her way around the far side of the truck. And so when the man in charge – the man who has dispensed the bills – pulls the door down and slaps its side, Hugo mounts the cab without further incident. Still glassy-eyed, still shaking, he may not have noticed one slight figure darting into the shadow, but one of his colleagues might have, and I am grateful that Care has the sense to make herself scarce.

  I lay low, watching as Tick is herded back inside, the bay door closing with a clang, lowering the volume of the roar as it cages the beast within. Care must have witnessed this exchange as well, but when I find her behind a pile of rubble – her scent accentuated by distress – she is poised, crouching, as if waiting. Staring, still, at the building across the street into which Tick has disappeared.

  ‘That poor man,’ she says when I make myself known, rubbing the length of my body against her knees. ‘I wonder if it was the sweater, the one he asked his friend to give me? I wonder if that’s what …’

  I have no response to this, nor would she understand if I did, and so I brush against her once more, butting my head against her leg. She places a hand on my back, and I feel her pulse slow and steady.

  ‘We – I – have got to get Tick out of there,’ she says, after a few moments of silence. ‘It’s not safe.’ I lean against her, willing her to relax. It is difficult to relinquish control but it is the only sensible response. She needs to be thinking of shelter and of food. I trust she has given up the foolish notion of confronting Gravitch, of seeking the remainder of her fee; the man is a predator, with the scruples of a rat.
She continues speaking, softly, to herself, and I pitch my ears for any mention of his name. Today was to be the day she reported back to him. Surely, she must realize that the contract is void. Bodies are accumulating. If any reason could excuse him of culpability for this most recent corpse or that of the one we found, it must surely implicate him in the ill-timed raid that nearly caught us in its net.

  ‘Tick.’ She says the name again, only this time with an intake of breath that makes me look up. Yes, across the street, a movement in the alley. A small form, his face pale despite the dirt smudged across his cheeks. He is looking around, furtive and lost. ‘Tick!’ the girl calls, rising slightly. Her voice is quiet, but clearly audible on the deserted street.

  He looks up and nods, and she sinks back down. We don’t wait long. The boy runs fast and low, like a sprinter.

  ‘You’ve made it.’ The girl embraces him, despite his filth. ‘You got away.’

  ‘I’m going back,’ says the boy, pulling himself free. He steps back slightly, although she still holds him, and stares into her face. ‘I’ve got to, but I had to warn you, Care. Warn you off.’ His eyes are wide and shadowed, his expression too serious for one so young. He stares into her eyes, and she stares back, dumbfounded.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she manages to ask. ‘What do you mean, you’re going back?’

  ‘I have to,’ he rushes to explain. ‘I only – there’s a space. The door’s bent from when one of the trucks backed into it. I’m small enough so I can squeeze through. That’s how I get out sometimes. How I got out to warn you before. But, I can’t – they’ll notice I’m missing soon enough. And, Care, you’ve got to get out of here. Fast.’

  ‘No.’ The girl keeps her hands on his arms, ignoring his words. ‘You’re not— We’ve got to run. Together. That man – the one you put on the truck? Tick, I knew him.’ She bites her lip, her struggle to find the right words evident on her face. ‘He gave me something, and I think that’s why he was … you know.’