by Bill Cameron
“Are you going downtown?”
“Just getting out of the rain.”
“Ah.” The woman hesitated. “There’s a nice café up the way.”
Ellie fixed her gaze across the street at the white lap-sided building hugging the opposite corner, the wide glass windows adorned with posters advertising color copies for 79¢, overnight shipping with FedEx, UPS, or DHL, and private mail boxes for rent. The Ship Shop. Not the destination she’d imagined when she fled Givern two days before. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
The woman stiffened. “I just thought you might be more comfortable.”
Ellie had seen the café earlier. Hot tea would be nice, but she hesitated to spend the money until she knew how things would work out. And in any case, she needed to keep an eye on the Ship Shop, needed to see if Luellen arrived to pick up her mail.
“I’m fine right here.” None of the previous Ellies would have been so blunt to a stranger. Not Givern Ellie, no. But now she was different. Not herself—a new self. Bus Stop Ellie. Ship Shop Ellie. Waiting and Watching Ellie.
Hard to believe a week before she’d been someone’s wife.
The bus arrived, groaned to a stop. The woman threw Ellie a sour look and climbed aboard. Ellie pressed herself against the bench as the rain began to fall harder. She’d sent a letter to Luellen from Klamath Falls, but she had no way of knowing if Luellen had received it and no other way of getting in touch with her. There was no Luellen Granger in the phone book.
Earlier, when she’d first arrived at the Ship Shop, the boy behind the counter had cleared his throat and fiddled with a silver hoop that hung from his eyebrow. “I dunno ... I’m not supposed to ... you know.”
Ellie didn’t know. “I’m just trying to get in touch with my friend. Can’t you tell me how to reach her?”
The kid seemed to be only a teenager. He wore a green polyester vest over a wrinkled white dress shirt, his name DYMO-taped to a tag on his chest. RAAJIT. Ellie didn’t want to guess how to pronounce that. His dull brown hair, matted into long ropes, hung down past his shoulders and tattoos snaked up his neck from under his shirt collar. Shecaught a whiff of nutmeg and cedar shavings.
“You see, the thing is ...” He looked past her, eyes blank as if he’d just awakened from a long sleep inside the shop. Rip Van Raajit. “That’s the thing, you see.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“My manager will be here soon.”
Yet when the manager arrived, he was even less helpful. “We don’t give out personal information about our customers.” His manner was as focused as Raajit’s was vague. He fixed Ellie with a hard stare from behind metal-framed glasses and adjusted his tie. No green vest or name tag for him. Ellie felt self-conscious about her own appearance. She’d arrived in Portland the previous evening after a long, anxious day on the bus. Armed with a Tri-Met transit map, she’d made her way across the river, found a cheap motel on East Burnside. She might have done better to sleep under a bridge. The motel, a decaying concrete and pressboard box called the Travel-Inn, tended to noisy shouting matches in the parking lot and frequent sex broadcast through the thin walls. She got almost no sleep, and the lukewarm shower in the morning did little to refresh her. Someone had stolen her duffel bag when she dozed off on the bus. This made the third day running in the same clothes. Luellen, she hoped, would have something clean she could wear.
“Maybe you could call her and let her know her friend Ellie is here from out of town.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that your friend has a personal mailbox here. Customer information is private.”
“I don’t have to know what number you call.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Would you at least put a note in her box?”
“Only regular mail or deliveries from shipping services go in the rental boxes.”
“I’ll buy a stamp.”
“And you can put your note in the mail pickup bin. It’ll get back here tomorrow or the next day, when it can be properly sorted and delivered.”
Ellie looked away. There were no benches. Just a row of self-service copy machines and a couple of counters. Staplers and paper cutters. The rental mailboxes lined the side wall. Nowhere to sit, but Ellie could stand until Luellen showed up. She’d stand all day if necessary. She moved toward the corner, took up a position next to a rack of office supplies.
The manager turned to the kid. “I’m going to get a latte.”
“Okay, Mister Blount.”
“I want her gone by the time I get back.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Ellie saw the boy squirm. The manager glowered at her as he pushed through the door. Ellie turned to Raajit, pressure building in her chest.
“Ma’am, I’m sorry—” Ma’am. She was only a few years older than he was.
“It’s been over a year since I’ve seen her.”
“You can’t stay here.”
“I don’t know how else to reach her.”
The boy looked out the window, watched until his boss was out of sight. “Okay. Give me the note. But you can’t wait around here. Most folks don’t come in every day to check their mail.” And so Ellie made her way out to the bench, to sit in the rain, to dodge offhand conversation, to wait and to watch.
The bus pulled away, carrying off the woman and her thick makeup. Across the street, Ellie saw a man in front the Ship Shop. He looked back at her, hands at his sides, a settled quality to his stance as though he’d been there all along. Big fellow with a round head propped atop his barrel trunk, sun-bleached crew cut capping his wide face. He wore jeans and a canvas jacket, stood tall and indifferent to the rain. Grass fed and pasture raised, so the stolid, pious folks back home might say of him, seeing the devout and steadfast in his obvious resolve. Ellie knew better. As she met his stare, she felt her face go slack with fear. The man belonged to Hiram Spaneker.
November 9
Local Farmer Found Dead
WESTBANK, OR: Local police in Westbank report the discovery of the body of Immanuel Kern, a Givern Valley farmer, in his home Friday night. Cause of death has not been determined, pending the post mortem examination. Responding officers, however, report no evidence of foul play. Kern was 64.
Almost Four Months Before
Get Yourself Some Sandpaper
In over twenty-five years as a cop, I only shot one person. Mitch Bronstein was angling hard to be number two—and my first fatality. Shortly before seven o’clock on a Friday morning my doorbell rang and I knew it would be him. Since I retired, no one else would dare.
I opened the door in a sleeveless t-shirt and boxers, cup of coffee in my hand.
“Kadash, I got a problem.”
“So do I. Standing on my porch at the crack of fucking dawn.”
“Someone painted my house.”
I sipped my coffee. Ruby Jane had given me a French press a few weeks before, a birthday present months before my birthday. I was still figuring it out, still getting the grind and portioning right. Even short of perfect, the coffee was pretty damn good. “So what happened? Painter overcharge you?”
He threw up his hands. “No. Jesus.” He turned and waved toward his place. “I mean, like, graffiti. My goddamn front door might be ruined.”
“Sorry to hear it, Mitch.” Mount Tabor isn’t Felony Flats, isn’t Eastside Industrial or Portsmouth, but we get our share of taggers, especially in the summer when too many kids have too much time on their hands. Hell, my own house has been tagged once or twice over the years. As the ancient philosopher suggests, paint happens.
“The thing is, I was hoping you could help me out.”
“I’m not much of a handy man.”
“No, not like that. I mean, help me find the guy who did it.”
I knew what he was going to ask as soon as he mentioned graffiti, but I’d hoped my attempt at willful witlessness would derail his intent before I had to tell him to blow me. “Sorry, Mitch. Can
’t help you.”
“You’re a cop though. Aren’t you?”
“I’m retired, Mitch.” He looked at me. From his expression I might as well have been speaking Klingon. “I don’t work for the police bureau anymore.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Well, what you want is a cop. I’m not a cop.”
“I just thought—”
“Listen. What do you do for a living?”
“What difference does that make?”
“Indulge me.”
“You know what I do, Kadash.” True. “I’m a marketing consultant. I develop campaigns, do some creative direction and copy writing. Media, you know.”
I nodded. “Sure. Makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I bet you have a half-finished novel or screenplay tucked away on your hard drive. You work on it weekends, or when Lu takes the kids out for ice cream. But you’ve got this busy life keeping you from giving it your all. Am I right? So you tell yourself when you retire you’ll finally dedicate yourself to who you really are. Not just copywriter, but author with a capital A.”
He regarded me for a moment, his expression a mix of bewilderment and restiveness. I guessed I’d hit pretty close to the mark. Mitch wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Early forties, fit. He kept his dark hair cut short and combed back. He’d obviously been up a while, was coifed and dressed for casual Friday at the office: white polo shirt and tan Dockers. “What’s your point?”
“It doesn’t work that way for guys like me. I was a cop. Being retired means not having to be a cop anymore. If I wanted to still be a cop, I’d still be a cop. But I’m not. I sit on my deck. I watch the birds. I read vampire novels and rent movies.”
“But—”
“Mitch, listen to me. I’m not sitting over here itching to investigate your shitty little vandalism. Do you hear what I’m saying?”
From the moment he moved in, Mitch exuded a hail-fellow, well-met bonhomie I had little patience for. He might show up at any time, invite himself in for a beer or try to drag me over to see his latest toy. Stainless steel gas grill, high def television, margarita blender. I tried to be polite, but the extent to which Mitch and I knew each other was mostly dependent on his own need to be seen and heard.
“What am I supposed to do?” The hurt added a wobble to his voice.
I sighed. “Go back home, pick up the phone, and dial the Southeast Precinct non-emergency line. They’ll take your report right over the phone. Hell, I’ll give you the number if you like.”
“Kadash—”
I stuck up my free hand. “Your graffiti problem is not a novel on my hard drive. My hard drive is for Audubon Society newsletters and internet porn, okay? You want someone to do something about your door, you do what I told you. In a week or a month, an actual cop might stop by. Or not. Just in case, take a picture of the tag before you clean it off so they can add it to the file if someone ever shows up.”
“What’re you, Kadash, fifty-something? Fifty-five, tops? That’s too young to go limp, man.”
I imagined his polo shirt drenched in coffee. Ruby Jane would decry the waste of a good cuppa joe. “Mitch, I’m retired.”
“But, Jesus, man. Look at the front of my house. You’re the neighborhood cop.”
No one would blame me if I shot him. Goddamn seven o’clock in the morning over some spray paint. The fact I was up and fiddling with the French press was beside the point. A man needed boundaries. But then Mitch turned and flung his arm out, like he was pointing at a heap of bodies. I looked across the street. His place was bigger than mine, a nice two-story faux Victorian with a wide front porch. When he and his cute little wife moved in a few years before, they’d painted the joint an overly lemon yellow with blue and white trim, had the yard landscaped. Pulled out the rusted chain link fence and installed cedar pickets.
The tagger had hit the oversized oak front door: the black symbol stark against the blond wood and inset stained glass. A deft touch with a spray paint can.
“What the hell am I supposed to do about that?”
“Get yourself some sandpaper.”
“I thought you were a police officer.”
I was talking to a houseplant.
“I mean, you still know people. Right? You know how to do this. I sure as hell can’t do it. What the hell do I know about tracking down a criminal?”
“Southeast Precinct. Non-emergency line. Report.” I waved tata with my cup, took a step back, started to close the door.
Mitch stuck a Topsider across my door jamb and stood before me, arms crossed, lips pressed out. I sighed, shook my head. My coffee was getting cold, but Mitch was oblivious. I suppose I could have told him I already knew who did it; I recognized Eager’s tag. I didn’t know he was back in town. He was supposed to be living with his mother in Spokane. And while I didn’t want Mitch to know it, I had to admit I was a wee bit curious why he chose the Bronstein door as a spot to plant his flag.
Three Years, Three Months Before
None of Your Concern
Just before sundown, a man showed up on the front porch of the duplex, hollering and banging. He appeared during summer evening twilight, front windows open to let some air in. Eager had just got his sisters into the tub. They’d laughed at his dumb joke about how you could grow tomatoes in the dirt caked on their fingers, something he’d heard some granny say in Fred Meyer. He left them splashing in the bubbles and was sitting in front of his mother’s TV flipping between Spongebob and Scrubs when heheard the voice boom through the house. “Charm! Hey! Open up!” Eager looked down the stairs and caught a glimpse of the man’s bulk in silhouette through the narrow window beside the front door.
“Who is that?” Eager tried to talk to his mother as she swept through the hallway from the kitchen.
“You’re supposed to be getting your sisters ready for bed.”
“They’re taking a bath.”
“Mmm.” Charm Gillespie forgot Eager in an instant, went to the door and flipped the porch light switch.
Eager crouched on the stairs. Charm had her chef’s knife in one hand, a cigarette in the other. She called through the front door. “Who’s there?”
“Hey, baby. How you doing?” The man’s voice echoed.
“Big Ed?” She opened the door as far as the chain would allow, peered through the gap. “For chrissakes, what the hell are you doing here?”
“Come on, baby. Open the door. I came to see you.”
The girls appeared at Eager’s back, their skin soapy and slick. He raised a finger to his lips, then started sliding down the stairs, butt cheeks bumping one step at a time. Gem and Jewel, wrapped in towels, pressed their faces between the uprights of the banister and dripped onto the worn carpet. Below, Charm had one foot jammed against the base of the door as if she expected the man to pop the chain. She was slapping the knife blade against her thigh, the gesture increasingly wayward. Eager hoped she didn’t slice through the shiny denim and open a vein. He’d have to clean the blood up.
“You got no business here. Get lost.”
“Don’t be that way, baby.”
She dragged deep on her cigarette. “Drop dead, and when you do, make sure it’s not on my fucking porch.”
“Jesus, Charm. You’re so dramatic. I happened to be in town and wanted to see you and the kids.”
“Ever think I don’t want to see you? As for the kids, I doubt you could pick ‘em out in a room full of monkeys.”
“They’re that wild, huh?” The big man’s laughter rattled the window frames.
“No, asshole, you’re that stupid.”
“Aww, come on. I thought we could spend some time together.” He reached through the opening, grappled her breast with his meaty hand.
She swung the knife up so quickly the big man barely yanked his hand clear in time. “You are out of your fucking mind if you think I’m letting you or your septic cock anywhere near me.” She brandished the bl
ade. “Grab my tit one more time and you’ll wake up in a body bag.”
Eager reached the bottom of the stairs and slipped up behind his mother. “Who’s that?” He caught a glimpse of the man’s big face and crew cut through the open door.
“Nobody.” Charm spat smoke through the gap in the door. “Fuck off, asshole. I squared my debt with you and Hiram ages ago.” She pushed the door shut in his face, flipped the deadbolt as he shouted out on the porch.
“Charm, goddamn you! Open the door, you skanky bitch!”
She swept into the front room and closed the windows, muffling the shouts of the big man on the porch. Eager followed her through the dining room into the kitchen. The air in the house seemed to condense behind her.
“How come he wanted to see us kids?”
“Shut the hell up.” She grabbed the phone off the charger and punched the number pad like she was trying to poke out someone’s eyes. “Police, yes, goddammit.” She looked like she wanted to swallow the handset. “There’s a goddamn psycho screaming on my porch and I want to know what the hell you’re gonna do about it.”
The guy beat feet long before the cops arrived.
Next day, Eager asked his mother about him while she drank her coffee at the kitchen table. “Just some crazy asshole who overreacted to a misunderstanding a long time ago. None of your concern.”
“Why was he yelling like that?”
“What did I tell you? I’ll kick your balls up into your belly you don’t shut up about it.”
He shrugged and munched cereal. Charm was a big talker; he got worse from bullies at school. The girls came down, poured cereal and spilled orange juice on the kitchen table. They started flicking Cheerios at each other. Charm ignored them. She sat haloed in smoke and stared into her coffee cup until her cigarette burned down to the filter. Then she dropped the butt into her cup and got up.
“Eddie, Gem, Jewel, I expect you all to get this shit hole cleaned up while I’m at work. And don’t you dare leave this house.”
