The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  “I never thought of myself as a kid,” she repeated. “You always thought of me that way.”

  We sat through another strained silence while I thought about what she said. It was true; I had thought of her as Peter Knight’s shy kid sister. I watched her lips circle the cigarette and felt something stir. She didn’t look like anyone’s baby sister now.

  Melanie broke the quiet. “What are you doing here?”

  “I don’t really know,” I finally answered. “I was walking around the neighborhood and wound up at the scene of the crime.” I saw her startled look and added, “I mean here, where I used to work. Is the storefront only used as a school?”

  “During the day we provide advocacy services for community people fighting with bureaucracies. At night we become a school.” She appeared relieved by my question.

  But there was a resolute note in her voice. I was glad I wasn’t one of those bureaucrats. “High school kids?” I asked.

  “Most, but not all. We have kids who dropped out long before high school and older people as well.”

  I nodded absently, and a look of annoyance darted across her face. “You aren’t interested in the school, are you?”

  I smiled stupidly. “I don’t know what I’m interested in. It’s as if I know who I’m talking to, but it’s been so long that I don’t know you at all. It seems very strange. When we knew each other I didn’t have to shave and you barely had breasts.”

  I wanted to carve out my tongue and eat it alive. My face grew hot and I quickly stubbed the cigarette into the ashtray. Unfortunately, the motion toppled the ashtray onto the floor, spreading ashes and butts around our feet. Both of us bent over and we bumped heads. I avoided looking at her as I dropped to my knees, wondering whether to sweep up the mess with my hand or just crawl out the door.

  A shrill, reedy voice wafted over the stall’s eight-foot wall and through the space extending up to the building’s twelve-foot ceiling. “Are you all right, M? Is everything okay?” I looked up well past Melanie’s corduroyed legs to her smile. I hoped it was the question she found amusing.

  Melanie stepped back a couple of inches and gave my face more room to look dumb. “Therin, please get a broom and dustpan from the closet.” She motioned for me to rise.

  We stood quietly while I prayed that my earlier subconscious lunacy had scattered with the ashes. At the sound of a tentative tap, Melanie opened the door, and I saw the same kid I’d met out front. This time I took a closer look. Despite the cold weather, he was wearing torn jeans and a dirty short-sleeved tee shirt. I hoped he had a warm coat. His hair was very straight, very long, with a very black gloss. He pushed his way into the tight space, whacking at my toes as he swept. I backed over to the filing cabinet and swung onto it to get my feet off the floor. Melanie moved to her desk.

  Without looking at either of us the kid swept furiously, and was about to disappear with the broom, dustpan, and ashtray when I reached toward the ashtray, only to have him pull it away.

  “Leave that here, will you?” I asked.

  He ignored me but glanced at Melanie, who nodded and said, “It’s okay, Therin, leave it. This is Matt Jacob, an old friend who used to live in the neighborhood. Matt, Therin Whitehawk, a student at the school and a more recent friend.”

  The kid handed me the ashtray, but kept his eyes on the dustpan as he backed out of the office. “M,” he said, “if you need me for anything, call.”

  “Therin.” There was a hint of sharpness in her voice. “I’m perfectly fine. Why don’t you work on your GED with everybody else?” His head shook an emphatic “no” so Melanie suggested, “Well, you could cover the front door and answer the phones.” Therin shrugged, and backed the rest of the way out of the cubicle.

  I stayed perched on the metal cabinet and lit another cigarette. “An Indian?” The End was a hidden reservation for the Northeast Indian poor.

  Melanie put her glasses back on her face. “He’s half Native American.” She rummaged under the pile of papers on the desk, pulled out a pack of Camels, lit one, and looked up at me. “He’s spent his entire life in The End, raised by his mother to dislike almost everything about Native Americans.” Her mouth snapped shut.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  She said quietly, “I identify with him.”

  I wanted her to say more, but we sat silent while the office filled with smoke. “What about you?” I finally asked. “Have you been here all this time?” Julius’ words about never getting out whispered in my memory.

  Melanie gave me a guarded look. “This is my home,” she said simply. “Where did you get the degree?”

  “The University opened a community program and Jonathan helped get me in.” “Jonathan?” Damn, she was pretty.

  Another tight smile and a quick shake of her head. “You really haven’t kept up, have you?” “I told you, I have a lousy memory.”

  Melanie put her cigarette out and tinned her face away. “Memory has nothing to do with it. You got married and left before Jonathan moved into the neighborhood. He’s my stepfather. He’s also the Director of Hope House. He had quite a bit of influence with the University program.” She nervously poked at the cigarette stub in the ashtray and switched subjects. “How is Megan? I’ve neglected to ask.”

  Again I was surprised by her ability to recall ancient details. “I don’t have a clue. She walked out on me a long time ago.”

  Melanie scratched her cheek with unpolished nails. “I’m sorry,” she said, still not meeting my eyes.

  I let myself drop down from the cabinet. “Don’t be. It was one of my luckier breaks.” “I’m sorry about that too,” she said carefully.

  I zipped up my jacket. “We’ve spent a lot of time apologizing, haven’t we?” “Are you leaving?”

  I couldn’t think of an excuse to stay. “Well, it’s late…”

  She pulled another smoke from her pack and lit it. “I suppose I’ll see you in another hundred years?”

  I smiled. “Sooner than that.”

  Melanie’s eyes focused on a spot somewhere over my shoulder. “Twenty years is a long time.” Her voice sounded as if she was talking to herself.

  I felt bad that my presence recalled a painful period in her life. In both our lives. I put my hand over my heart and tried to skate past my discomfort. “I swear to god I’ll be back sooner than that.”

  “I only believe in the devil, Matt,” Melanie said with a small smile. “Then I’ll definitely keep my promise.”

  The inches between us leaped alive with a sudden taut sensuality. I found myself appreciating the richness of her looks, the comfortableness of her clothes, even her lack of makeup. It was an exciting contrast to Boots’ sleek fashions. I almost asked if she was married, bit back the words, and opened the office door.

  Therin shot us a suspicious glance from behind the front desk as we walked into the hall. The sensuality disappeared, leaving in its place a sudden distance. Melanie reached out and grasped my elbow. “Do you remember the Harrigan sisters?”

  I was too aware of her fingers to remember anything clearly, though vague faces drifted into my head. “I don’t know, the name sounds familiar.”

  She pulled me toward the back room. “You’ll recognize the fights. Why don’t you say hello?” Melanie’s voice was inviting, as if reluctant to part.

  As we walked through the open door Melanie pointed toward the back of the room. Two middle-aged women flanking a card table looked up as we entered. They did look familiar—just a generation older than I’d imagined.

  “Janice is on the left, Margaret the right.”

  I nodded gratefully. The Harrigans either remembered me or were just plain curious, because they immediately walked in our direction. Janice, the larger of the two, got to us first.

  “Look what the end of Indian summer brought.” Her face was open and friendly.

  Margaret arrived and Janice lost some of her friendly when she glanced at her sister and saw an unspoken criticism.
“Stop looking like that, okay?”

  She pointedly turned her back to Margaret and went on, “I saw your picture in the paper a while ago. I thought it was you but the name was wrong.”

  Margaret started to chime in but Melanie interrupted, “What paper?”

  By now the few remaining kids were paying attention. “Can we get out of here?” I asked.

  The four of us crowded into the skinny hall. Margaret turned to Melanie. “It’s that rag she reads. Janice devours anything that has gossip in it.”

  “Marge thinks reading anything other than the %ew York Times is déclassé. Don’t you, dear?” “You two never stop, do you?” Melanie said wearily. “Just tell me what you’re talking about.” Janice waved at me. “You’re that Matt Jacob, no doubt about it?” She didn’t wait for a response. “He was in the paper about a year ago. He tried to prevent a suicide. The story had you with a different name, but I never forget a pretty face.” She leaned closer and poked my side. “A little softer than in the old days, huh?”

  “I use my first name now. Matt,” I said uncomfortably.

  “I don’t care what name you use,” Janice said. “I never met a private detective before.” She grinned. “I love reading about them, though.”

  Melanie looked at me with clouded blue eyes. “You didn’t mention you were a detective, Matt.”

  Margaret looked scornfully at Janice. “You see, Jan. You just don’t know how to keep quiet. Maybe he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s on a case.”

  “Is that true?” Melanie asked.

  I shook my head. “No, of course not.”

  “Did you hear him, Marge? You always think I screw up. Get with it girl,” Janice said.

  “Will you two stop this? I’m sick of it!” Melanie’s voice was suddenly harsh, and the words burst out in rapid-fire staccato. “I brought Matt back here to say hello, not to witness your constant bickering.”

  The two sisters looked at each other, before Margaret said, “You’re right, Mel. Our quibbles are quite a bore.” Janice nodded, struggling to keep down a smile. Margaret pursed her lips and took her sister’s hand. “Come on Jan, let’s finish up.”

  Melanie turned on her heel and took a step toward the front of the store. “Will we see you again?” Janice asked me.

  “I hope so.” I smiled at the two women and hurried to catch Melanie at her office door. But when she looked at me, there was no mistaking the suspicion in her eyes. Her lips were drawn across her teeth as she said coldly, “I’m glad you dropped by, but I have work to finish before I can leave. It’s been good to see you.”

  Therin sat at the front desk biting his lower lip, openly watching the two of us. I considered telling her that my detective work consisted of protecting designer finery, but the idea embarrassed me. I pulled my leather tight around my body. “Listen, Melanie, if it’s possible, I really would like to see you again.”

  She had her hand on the door to the partition. She hesitated, then looked back at me and conceded somberly, “Anything is possible. Matt. If you work in The End, you have to believe that.”

  “Anything is possible.” I didn’t feel the nasty November on my walk to the car, during the ride home, or in the alley by my apartment. Though we’d ended off-key, my meeting with Mel left me exhilarated. And the Harrigans, their fighting unchanged since the old days, were a fireman’s pole to the past. I didn’t feel the bitter wind until the key was in my apartment door, and I thought of Boots. Then I felt iced. I shouldered the door open, then slammed it on the cold.

  I left my jacket on and sat at the desk in the quiet dark of my office. I lit a cigarette and dragged deeply. Before I exhaled I drew a circle in the air with the glowing red tip. Inside the bull’s eye I placed an image of Hal’s wrinkled face. Boots and I had no papers on each other.

  I retreated to the living room couch and channel-surfed with the remote. Ten minutes later, frustrated, I settled on a paid half-hour stain remover infomercial and promptly fell asleep.

  The night was city hot and sweaty humid, heat that made you drip even when you were still. We sat on the fire escape that overlooked the small concrete park with the parched red brick fountain. Music blared from slowly snaking cars along the street beneath us, every other song the theme from Shaft. We sat quietly listening as Isaac Hayes filled the summer night.

  Melanie rested her head on my knee and her fingers danced on my calf. It seemed odd for us to be naked but unconcerned about being seen. I reached down between my legs, stroked her heavy breast, and saw her nipple stiffen. The heat created a damp salty pool where our skin touched.

  “We shouldn’t be doing this,” I said.

  “Why not?” She nuzzled her face on top of my thigh, and her loose blonde hair tickled my erection.

  “You’re a kid and I’m supposed to be a social worker.”

  I could feel her lips move on my skin. “That’s why you didn’t notice me twenty years ago.”

  “It is twenty years ago.” I raised my arm and pointed to the street. I tried to show her the cars, billboards, stores, even the clothes pedestrians wore. I tried to show her that everything was the same as it had been, but she kept her face buried. %one of it mattered.

  Finally she lifted her head and slowly stood up. “Do I look like twenty years ago?”

  She lifted her breasts, then slid painted fingers down her hips. She stepped forward between my spread and naked legs. My face was level with her round, soft stomach, and I watched it move with her breathing. Her navel was surrounded by a light film of perspiration I desperately wanted to lick. I heard myself groan and tried to keep from looking up or down, but the top of her pubic hair kept crawling into my line of vision and pulled at my head until I stopped fighting. The humid air exploded with the cacophony of sirens… sirens organic to The End’s summer nights. I followed a bead of belly sweat crawling through her thin, light brown patch while we waited for the noise to quiet and the music to resume. But the shriek refused to die, and instead changed into an insistent bell. Melanie touched my cheek with her fingernails, her movement squashing the little ball of sweat. I reached to keep her near, but her body changed—thinner, smaller breasted. A body I knew but couldn’t recognize. I squinted, but no one was there…

  My eyes opened to the telephone racketing in my ear. In goaded self-defense I grabbed the receiver.

  “Are you sure you’re not on the fucking government tit? It’s ten-thirty in the morning.”

  The hairs in my ear bristled at the sound of his voice. I pulled the phone into a position that enabled me to twist my body into human form. My neck felt like it had spent the entire night in a headlock, and the lead keepsake in my leg ached its usual morning hello. I shook myself out of my jacket. “I don’t remember leaving a wake-up call, Blackhead.”

  “You didn’t, asshole, but it don’t seem like you have too good a memory anyhow.”

  My mouth was dry and my body screamed for caffeine. I sat back on the couch, propped the receiver next to my head, and settled for a smoke. For a second I thought he had called to change his mind. A second later and I knew I had thought wrong.

  “I told you to stay the fuck out of my business,” he exploded. “Now I hear you’re all over The End. Going to the damn school. What’s the matter with you? Leave my shit alone!”

  “Back off, Emil. My visit to The End had nothing to do with you.”

  “Right. And your visit with Melanie had nothing to do with Peter!” His voice was sarcastic-thick, but there was no mistaking the rage underneath. Or the tremble of fear.

  “What’s eating you? You’re not the center of my universe.” But I was starting to occupy a substantial portion of his. It set me wondering.

  “I’ll tell you what’s eating me,” Blackhead answered sharply. “You don’t come around for twenty years, then you won’t fucking go away!”

  “I was curious about The End, that’s all,” I replied, annoyed. “You brought back memories and I wanted to see how people were doing.”


  “Isn’t that sweet? The detective with a social work interior. The last thing this place needs is another fucking wet-nurse. Melanie’s old man got a big enough udder…”

  “Boyfriend?” I interrupted.

  “Are you for real? I’m talking about her fucking stepfather, Jonathan Walk-on-Water. I don’t care if he stays in The End the rest of his life; fact is, he can always get out—the jerks that kiss his ass can’t. I’m tired of visitors to the zoo. And that includes you.”

  “Since when were you appointed neighborhood guardian, Blackhead? Anyway, you invited me.”

  “I disinvited you, remember? I don’t want you in my face, you understand? You in The End means you in my face. I’m warning you, stay away!”

  When I hung up the telephone I wanted to wash the side of my face that had cradled the receiver. Instead, I went the whole nine yards and dragged myself into the shower. While the water soothed my knotted muscles, I thought about the call. Blackhead was probably nervous that I’d bust him for dealing. Still, his edge of hysteria intrigued me. Had he already cut a deal with his mystery letter writer? And what kind of deal? He’d never have hired me if he had a guilty connection to Peter Knight’s death.

  I stepped out of the shower and rubbed the steam off the medicine chest’s mirror. My reflection was stained with tears. The image disturbed me, though I knew it was only due to my hasty swipe across the glass. I was curious about Blackhead’s sudden change of mind, but digging into Peter’s death would surely dredge up painful memories for Melanie. And for me. Peter’s death had already triggered a chain reaction about my own shackled past.

  I shook away the hesitations with my original suspicions. Even before Julius’ suggestion, I’d believed Emil’s story was an invite to some drug-related hustle. Perhaps a hassle between him and another dealer. If any deal had been cut, nickels to dime-bags it had to do with turf.