by Karen Hayes
A green OPEN sign flashes over the café's doors. Through the window, I can see a long room lined with tall desks and bar stools. The street is nearly deserted. Can I walk around freely or am I already wanted by the cops? Did they see me back in that alley? Were there any cameras there? If there weren't, how come they arrived so promptly? Someone must have called them. They must have received a call when I was still unconscious. Alternatively, some passerby might have seen me standing over the body holding that lump of steel and called 911. If he or she managed to describe me to the police, they must already have my details on file.
I shake my head. I'm getting paranoid. What is NYC population - eight million, nine? With all the constant robbing, killing and scheming going on, they won't raise a general alarm for a guy like me.
With that thought, I get out of the car, beep it locked and head into the café.
Yawning, I look around, then choose a place by the window which offers a good view of both my car and the street.
The café isn't busy. On the opposite side of the room, a black kid of about sixteen years old is passionately typing away as if arguing with someone. Opposite me, two older girls share a computer, drinking their cocktails and giggling as they stare at the screen, scrolling the mouse wheel. Nothing at all to set my alarm bells ringing.
Is it my imagination or is the kid casting surreptitious glances in my direction? The girls too... one of them is leaning toward the other, whispering something; the other shoots me a quick glance, then lowers her eyes. They both laugh.
I look away. This isn't normal. No good me being so paranoid. I don't even know who might have sent them to spy on me. I need to concentrate. I came here for a reason, and that's what I should be doing now.
The air smells of coffee and fresh buns. My stomach begins to rumble, reminding me it hasn't been fed in a while.
A girl with jet-black hair walks over to me. She's wearing a short café uniform with her name embroidered on her apron pocket.
"Hi," she openly checks me out. "What'll it be?"
I hide another yawn in my clenched fist. "The kitchen's closed, isn't it?"
"It closes at eleven," she replies, playing with a strand of her hair and putting all her weight on one silky smooth leg. She looks... not exactly sluttish, no. Provocative, rather.
"I can get you a sandwich," she says. "Or a croissant. Or a salad. Take your pick."
"A sandwich and a croissant, please. Two croissants. And a coffee. Two coffees."
She lingers as if she expects me to say something else. Finally, she nods, turns round and sashays off.
I get up and head over to the restroom. I turn on the tap and splash some cold water on my face, rub my eyes, slap my cheeks and blink until finally I feel more or less awake. I wipe my face with a paper towel and stare at myself in the mirror.
I've already checked my face in the car's rear view mirror but the lighting is much better here. Now I can understand why the girls giggled and why the waitress fiddled with her hair.
I'm tall, strong and rippled. I have a chiseled face and bespoke clothes. You're quite a dandy, Chris Brana, whoever you are.
Shame you've killed a man, though. That's on top of memory loss, a childhood trauma and problems with your father. Every girl's dream.
I go back to my table. My order's already there: two steaming coffees, a warm sandwich and a couple of sweet-scented pains au chocolat.
I wolf down the sandwich, washing it down with the piping hot, sickly sweet coffee.
As I pour three packets of sugar into the second coffee, I boot up the computer. The girls are already gone. The kid opposite is still typing away. The waitress hovers behind the bar, casting occasional glances at me.
A car engine rumbles outside. I look up. A police car pulls up by the café.
I choke on my sandwich and freeze.
Sarah
Jeez, what's wrong with me?
A crimson haze floods my eyes as this particular memory returns. I shrink back and clench my teeth, trying not to scream. I shouldn't attract attention. The passersby must be thinking I'm drunk. I don't care. They can think what they want. The horror of the vision flooding over me makes me want to vomit.
I can see myself here, on this very street. Three figures surround me... no, four. They're burly like that hospital nurse.
One of them is holding my hand tight. I swing round. It's Chris. He frowns and squints at the attackers. Veins bulge on his neck. He's ready to fight back.
A deep droning sound assaults me. I clutch at my head. The sound drills through my skull, enveloping my brain and turning it into hot jelly.
It makes me crazy. My vision blurs as if I'm indeed drunk. A hot surge of fury rises in me. I've never felt anything like it before. I need to hit someone hard, otherwise I'll just die.
I turn to one of the thugs and shout something in his face. I can't make out the words - but they seem to launch our attackers into action. One of them pulls out a gun, presses the barrel to his own chin and pulls the trigger.
Blood goes everywhere. Fragments of his skull rattle down onto the bed of a pickup truck nearby.
Chris lets go of my hand and lunges forward, taking a swing. The sound which is still boring through my head grows stronger. Gunshots resound nearby. I glimpse a movement out of the corner of my eye. Someone's running toward me.
I take a swing and-.
The vision is gone. The street returns back to normal. The street lamps cast a blurred light onto the wet road, the parked cars and the occasional passersby. The air is filled with the buzz of a big city.
I feel sick. I might actually spew in a moment. I double up, leaning against a wall, and retch, spitting bile on the ground. The passersby walk cautiously around me, giving me a wide berth.
Soon the bout of sickness calms down. I feel marginally better. I peer at the street signs and at the steel tubes of scaffolding. I've definitely been here before. This is where Chris and I were attacked. What did they want from us? Why did one of them shoot himself? I still shudder whenever I think of the crimson slush showering the pickup truck's paintwork.
I might need to check this Oshumare place out and ask them a few questions. Without drawing attention to myself, of course.
The air fills with a pulsating rhythm. I start walking, following the deep drone of a bass guitar until I turn the corner.
A long restless line of hip people snakes along the roped-off entrance to the club. The building is faced with tinted glass; a sign overhead says, Oshumare.
So that's where it is! Some place, I tell you. It reeks of money. I can't believe someone could invite me to a place like this. I don't belong here; I can't even imagine myself standing next to it.
I elbow my way along the rope, trying to ignore the indignant voices. Someone cusses. I get to the entrance - and hit a brick wall, sort of. A burly bouncer looms over me, taking in my backpack, my hooded jacket and my scanty frame. His face dissolves in a lopsided smirk.
"Hi beautiful," he raises a puzzled eyebrow as he touches the edge of my hood. "Not looking our best today, are we?"
"Hi," I mumble, not knowing what to do next. I have to use the situation; I have to find out something. Wonder if he also knows this Chris person?
A deafening bout of music escapes the club doors. I raise myself on tiptoe and yell, "Is Chris here?"
"Chris who?"
"The guy I came here with!"
He shrugs. He unhooks the end of the rope to let out a couple and let in another who disappear into the velvety depths of the club.
"If you mean that posh dude you came here with, last time I saw him he was with you. You know that, don't you? When was that, actually?" he wriggles his fat fingers in the air as if playing an invisible piano. "It was when the cops closed the club."
How interesting. "Why, what happened?"
"Don't you remember?"
I fake a drunken giggle. He nods his understanding and grins back, flashing a silver crown in his mouth. "There was
a shootout round the corner. Some local hoods, so they say. The two of you had just left. I actually wondered if you were okay."
Yes! I'm so happy I'd love to grab him by the ears, pull his huge head close and plant a big kiss on the forehead. Finally I know something! This was probably why I remembered that horrible attack scene. Wonder if we became accidental witnesses to something?
Then again, our own behavior was admittedly strange. We should have called for help. But we didn't even try to escape. Even when one of the attackers shot himself in front of us...
"Listen, this guy, I need to find him. Do you know where he lives?"
He guffaws. "I don't ask no one's addresses! I'm a human turnpike," he slaps the rope with his hand. "My job is to let 'em in and let 'em out."
"Wonder if someone else might know? Chris used to come here often, didn't he?" I adlib, not sure whether he knows anything at all.
"I dunno. You'd better ask Morti, the manager," he waves his hand at the dark recesses of the club. "He called the car service for him a couple of times."
"May I?" I point at the front door. He hesitates, then unhooks the rope and nudges me in.
The line buzzes its indignation. I whisper my thanks even though he's unlikely to hear me over the music.
I scramble down the slippery marble steps (definitely not made for heel-wearing ladies!), walk through the metal detector and find myself in a large, long room. Its walls are draped with red fabric which lends a crimson tint to the blue-streaked gloom. The air is close, reeking of sweat and alcohol fumes.
The place is packed solid. Everybody's dancing after a fashion, rubbing shoulders and shaking their booties, waving glow sticks in the air. Wide beams of light slice through the darkness, fanning out. The DJ at the far end of the room is shaking his head in synch with the music.
The sound of the bass guitar reverberates in my stomach. My ears are blocked with the noise. Strangely enough, I feel like dancing. Despite all the horrific recent developments, my body begins to sway to the music. Dancing has always been part of me. I'd love to show these dorks how to dance!
Still, it's not what I'm here for.
The manager, Morty, is standing by the bar talking to some sleazy office rat type. I elbow my way through the crowd toward him. He sets his glass onto the blue transparent neon bar and stares down at me as I try to explain myself over the music.
"Brana Jr.?" he drawls, raising a surprised eyebrow.
Yes! That's the name! One more brick in the wall of my past. The name reminds me of something... but the flashback escapes my memory before I can concentrate.
Morty gives me a pained look. He doesn't seem to like my hooded jacket. "So you want his-"
"His address," I repeat patiently.
"Sorry. Can't help. Even if I knew it I wouldn't have given it to you."
"But it's important!"
"That's what they all say," he leans closer to me so I can smell the tobacco smoke on his breath. "Guys like him don't need girls like you. If he didn't give you his number," he snaps his fingers in the air, "just forget it. You've had your chance with him."
That hurt. Really. Still, deep down I knew he was wrong. This wasn't a one-night stand. Chris and I - we were a team. Yes, sir!
"We witnessed that shootout a couple of days ago," I say. "I lost contact with him. He might have been hurt."
The look he gives me!
"If he's hurt he's probably in hospital. So there's no point looking for him here."
"Please..." I hate the sound of my own voice.
Morty purses his thin lips. "Enough of that."
"But I-"
"I think you'd better leave. Don't make me call security," he turns back to his glass and the sleazy guy.
The DJ starts a new track. The crowd dissolves into screaming. I force my way to the exit. So much for my Friday night.
Actually, Morty might be right. I need to check the hospitals. Or the morgues. He might not even be alive.
In any case, what makes me think he wants to see me?
I scramble out and offer my face to the cool breeze. It gets under my clothes, chilling my sweaty body. A heavily made-up blonde girl shoves me aside, impatient to get in.
"Found something?" the bouncer asks me. I shake my head, feeling tears welling up in my eyes.
He gives me a sympathetic shrug. He seems all right. Probably the only person in this goddamn city who seems to care.
He looks pensively around. His face brightens up. "I know! You need to ask the cabbie," he nods at a black vehicle parked up across the road.
This a cab? The driver is an unshaven man in a leather jacket. He seems to have walked right out of one of those Italian mafia flicks: a disheveled head of curly hair, a square chin and a watchful stare focused unblinkingly on the club's exit in search for potential clients.
"He might know," the bouncer says. "Morty used to use him a lot."
"Thanks!" I dart across the road, barely avoiding a collision with a speeding vehicle. Shrugging off a torrent of f-words, I dive into the cab. It smells of expensive leather. A turned-down radio is whispering the news.
"I'm looking for someone you might know," I address the driver's face.
"Can I see your badge?"
I shake my head. "No, you don't understand. I'm not a cop. I'm looking for Chris Brana."
He gives me a sarcastic squint. "I would never have guessed!"
"He's just over twenty years old, Caucasian, tall, dark hair," I don't know how else to describe him. "He used to come here a lot. I need to know where he lives."
"And you're saying you're not a cop?"
"Do I look like one?"
He shrugs. "Chris Brana? I might know him. Then again, I might not," he leans toward the steering wheel, watching the club's exit. A group of girls takes the cab in front of his. "Are we going? If not, you'd better get out."
"I am. I want you to take me to Brana's place. Morty told me you used to drive him."
A dull, uneasy silence falls, disrupted by the droning music and the clamor of the crowd.
The man frowns. He isn't in a hurry to make up his mind.
"Actually..." he scratches his chin, checking me out with a sleazy stare. Come on, say it! Don't drag it out!
"Sorry, miss. I don't think I can help you."
Does he mean he can't remember Chris? I look up at the bouncer looming over the club entrance with his powerful arms crossed on his burly chest. He couldn't have sent me here just to get rid of me. He couldn't have lied to me. He's not the lying type.
Mechanically I close my hand around my wrist. The metal is warm to touch.
The watch. Of course.
I unbuckle it and show it to the driver, "How about this? Can you help me now?"
He looks at me, then at the watch dangling off my finger. He isn't a quick thinker, is he?
"I want you to take me to Chris Brana's place," I say pointedly in a strangely low, heavy voice. "Now."
What's wrong with me? Normally I'm never rude like this, am I? It's as if I'm used to ordering people around.
His face clears. His eyes momentarily lose focus. Then he looks normal again. I watch him with bated breath, expecting him to throw me out of the car.
He doesn't. Silently he takes the watch from my hand, throws it into the door pocket and starts the motor. The car pulls off slowly and turns round the corner, leaving the club music behind as Oshumare disappears in the maze of night streets.
I turn away to the window and nearly jump at seeing my reflection. I look scared shitless. Which is only natural. Firstly, I don't really understand what's going on. And secondly, the dull look in the cab driver's glazed-over eyes could scare anyone.
Chris
The door of the police car opens, letting out two cops. They look comical: one is long and lanky, the other short and fat. They linger by my car, studying it, then peer through the café window. I'm sitting half-turned away from them facing the monitor: this way I can watch them inconspicuously out of
the corner of my eye. They seem to be discussing something; the short one is pointing at the café, the taller one is shaking his head. He closes the car door, leans his back against it and crosses his arms.
What now? Should I make a run for it? But they're standing right opposite the door, guns and all. Did they see me through the window? They don't need to. All they have to do is enter the café and check everyone.
A back door? Not a good idea. If I get up and start searching for it, they'll see me straight away. All I can do really is stay put and wait for something to happen.
So I might just as well get on with what I came here for: Google my own name. Or father's.
I type in James Brana tycoon, expecting to see pages of search results.
No such luck. The results are few, mainly about other people who share the same name.
Still, I manage to locate a couple of pages about my own father. He even has a small Wikipedia entry. Small being the operative word: born in 1964, his father an insurance worker. A Massachusetts graduate, Brana entered business early in life with an interest in cutting-edge armament technologies.
His company is called Brana Technologies. The name makes me cringe. I've definitely heard it before, and not in the best of circumstances.
Today's events have already taught me to trust my gut reactions. My memory hasn't really come back to me, so I have to rely on these sudden impulses to find out how I feel about things. Or people. Every time I think about my Mom, I have this sad, warm yearning. She comes across as someone calm and good-natured albeit a little lethargic. She loved me.
This isn't what I feel when I focus on my father. Two-Face indeed. We've never been close. It's as if he was already born grown-up incapable of either playing with other children or of striking up friendships with them.
I remembered our estrangement after Mom's funeral. Finally I left for college and never came back. I didn't take a penny of his money even though he was more than willing to help me out. She left me a small trust from which I could receive a monthly allowance starting at eighteen until twenty-one when I was to have full control of it. She seemed to trust my judgement.
