“That’s right.” I suddenly realized I hadn’t planned anything beyond getting to him. He leaned forward, no trace of amusement left on his face. “Why?”
I started groping for a lie, when there was a sudden hard rap on the door. Before Jonathan had a chance to respond, one of the men from behind the plywood graffiti helpline had the door open and was talking. “Jonathan, I have to see you for a minute.”
Barrie stood and turned his wiry frame toward the boy. “Can it hold? I’ve got a visitor.”
The kid pushed long sandy hair off his forehead. “I don’t think so. We’ve been getting complaints all morning about Dennis and his friends hanging out on the steps.”
Jonathan glanced toward the front door. “And no one wants to tell them to move?” he said without intending any insult.
The boy nodded and lifted his shoulders. “No one from here is going to tell Dennis what to do. We’ve been talking about calling the police.”
Jonathan shook his head sharply. “No police without clearing it with me, remember? Let’s see if I can help.”
He moved calmly through the front door and I followed him out. One of the motorcycle jackets looked up and leered. “Leaving so soon, Jon-a-than? Too much do-goodin’?”
Barrie flashed a friendly grin in the jacket’s direction, but spoke to the tall tough with a dirty-blond whiffle. “What am I supposed to do with you, Dennis? You know you can’t hang out on the steps.”
Dennis blinked, and drawled, “Don’t do nothing, my man. Bad enough you threw our asses out in the cold.”
Jonathan nodded his head. “You didn’t give me much choice. The counselor said she didn’t have an aspirin and you threatened to club her with your dick.”
The guys on the steps had trouble keeping the grins off their faces. Dennis’ lips curled downward in what passed for a smile. “She was afraid she’d faint if she saw my iron.”
Everyone laughed and the tension eased except for the black guy at the bottom of the stairs, who muttered something indistinguishable. Jonathan tensed, looked at him intently. “What did you say Shakespeare?”
Shakespeare turned away, and gazed at the street. “Nuthin’. I didn’t say nuthin’, Jon-a-than,” he mumbled with a lisp.
“Good, Speare. I’m glad you said nothing.”
One of the other guys piped up. “Who’s your bodyguard, Jon-a-than?”
Jonathan turned and pointed at me with his thumb. “A friend of mine, Matthew Jacob. He’s a private detective.”
Dennis looked like he had noticed me for the first time. “He hire you to shoot us if we don’t move?” he asked.
At least I knew where I’d start my conversation with Barrie. I grinned at the Whiffle. “Only if he asks.”
The situation threw me back to countless face-to-faces I’d had at the storefront years before. Conversations more pleasant to remember than they’d been to have; especially since many of them were with Blackhead. Who knew, maybe twenty years from now I’d get a case from Dennis?
“Look, Den”—Barrie’s voice was serious—”I had to give you the boot and, if you insist on staying here, I’m going to raise the stakes. Here’s a better idea: go somewhere else for the week. Everyone will have time to forget about it.”
“Jesus, Jon-a-than, I wasn’t gonna do nothing to the broad.”
Barrie cocked his eyes. “I know that and you know that. Unfortunately, the volunteers didn’t. Let’s face it, I can run this place without you, but not without them.”
Dennis grumbled, but elbowed himself away from the railing. “Shit man, I thought you’d let us back in.”
“I can’t Dennis. Now, what will it be?”
“Keep it in your pants, dude. You got any smokes?”
Jonathan reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of Kools. Suddenly there were hands everywhere. Jonathan glanced at the pack, then handed it to Dennis. “Enjoy. But I want that week.”
Grabbing at the cigarettes, the group sauntered down the steps. Jonathan and I stood watching as they pushed and shoved their way down the block. Shakespeare was looking back over his shoulder, and yelled, “Fucking fag!”
Barrie smiled and showed me his palms. “The kid has trouble with his sexuality.”
And I had trouble with Jonathan knowing my occupation. But before I could question him he looked at his Timex. “There went our time. I’d really like to talk with you but I have a meeting I can’t miss. If you come back in a couple of hours we can talk.”
He stared hard at my face. “Please try. I definitely would like to chat.”
I started to protest but Jonathan was already inside the door. My two-for-one had become oh-for-two. I stood cold and suddenly lonely on the vacated steps. I cursed myself for having worn my denim jacket and wondered what to do. I considered calling on Boots, but walked down the steps and headed toward the storefront instead. No law said I had to go oh-for-three.
When I got to the storefront I thought I’d added another zero. Although lights were on, the place was quiet and seemingly deserted. I was about to walk back to my car when, for the hell of it, I tried the door and found it unlocked. Almost immediately Melanie appeared from inside her cubicle.
“Matt. This is a surprise,” she said neutrally, though her voice was accompanied by a strained look.
“A pleasant one?” It still felt like oh-for-three.
She showed a quick smile and raised eyebrow. “Of course, just unexpected.” “Predictability isn’t one of my virtues.”
“Isn’t it?” she asked. “Not even a little?”
I flashed on my daily routines, my highway of habit that ran from morning to night. “Maybe more than I’d like to admit.”
“Admit?” She shook her head. “I crave predictability. Working here, you never know what will happen next.”
I didn’t think I agreed with her. You might not know the beginning or middle, but you always knew The End. Somebody was going to lose. I shrugged and said, “The building seems quiet after the other night.”
She smiled and pulled a cigarette from her sweater pocket. The tan cardigan hung open halfway down her khaki-jean-covered thighs. The sweater’s sleeves were bunched just below her elbows, her white cotton shirt cuffs poking out from underneath. I felt a wave of comfortable familiarity.
“It’s the calm before the storm,” she said. “An hour from now, the school will be humming.”
I walked to the big front desk, hauled my rump onto it, and lit a cigarette of my own. Melanie moved to one of the reception chairs and sat. This time I handed her the ashtray. “You really love it here,” I said.
“This is my home,” she said quietly.
“You said that the other night, but your home could be anywhere. That makes The End your choice.”
“‘Choice’ is an interesting word.” She inhaled on her cigarette and looked at me. “What about the things that are predestined?”
For an instant I hoped she meant us, then forced my mind to another direction: I’d had too many wrong turns to imagine the best now. “I’m not too religious,” I said.
She laughed, stubbed out her cigarette, and handed me the ashtray. “That wasn’t the predestination I had in mind.”
I watched as she pulled her chair close to my leg. “I’m glad,” I said.
Melanie’s voice remained light, but she kept her eyes on my face. “I hope you really are glad and not just here because you’re investigating something?”
I didn’t want to admit my original return to the neighborhood had to do with Peter’s death. “I’m not working for anybody,” I said. “I ran into somebody from The End a week ago. That’s what got me curious in the first place.”
“Who did you run into?” she asked. Though she didn’t move, she suddenly seemed to have put a lot of space between us.
“Blackhead Porter. I knew him from the old days.”
Melanie’s glance went past my head, a small ironic smile on her face. “Blackhead?” “I mean Emil Porter: I knew him
as ‘Blackhead.’ I still think of him as that,” I added. She looked back at me. “So do I.”
“You know him?”
She hesitated. “You really do have a lousy memory. My brother and I lived with him when we were kids.” Melanie looked down at the floor, carefully picking her words. “That made it easier to accept Jonathan’s offer. It was difficult for me when Peter died. Living alone with Emil…”
“That’s when Jonathan adopted you?” I asked. “It was him or the State.”
“You made a good choice.”
“There’s that word again.” A sudden frown, then, “How do you know it was a good choice?” I was caught short. “I don’t, really. I met him this afternoon…”
“You met Jonathan? How did you meet him?” A hint of suspicion glinted from her eyes.
I floundered toward an answer while she lit another cigarette. “Between running into Blackhead and meeting you, I wanted to reacquaint myself with the neighborhood. After what you said about Hope House, it seemed like a good place to begin.”
Her face had a sudden tired, hang. As if she anticipated trouble. I appreciated the philosophy. “And Jonathan met with you?”
“Not really. Something came up.” Her questions put me on the defensive; I didn’t feel comfortable telling her I’d been invited back. “He’s a busy man,” I said, wishing for a return to our conversation’s brighter beginning.
“He is very busy. The End owes him a lot.” She spoke with an air of finality, finishing the subject. I was relieved.
“We’ll have to watch ourselves, you know?” Melanie spoke in a soft voice, the weariness gone from her face.
“About what?”
She smiled slightly. “About staying out of the past.”
I had a brief, uncomfortable image of Chana skim across my eyes. I watched it fragment as I shook my head in agreement. But before I could speak, Melanie glanced at her watch and got up.
“I should be busy too,” she said tersely. “Pretty soon this will be a madhouse.”
I reluctantly pushed myself off the desk. My foot had cramped and I gingerly pressed my toes against the floor.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
I looked at her and felt fine. “I’m more than all right. I hope you are too?” She walked over to me and kissed my cheek. “Go now,” she said quietly.
For the rest of the afternoon, I had a good time living my lie to Melanie. Although the streets were November-empty, I explored many of the old alleys, buildings, and spots. An occasional bout of paranoia kept me glancing over my shoulder, but wrote it off to Megan’s ghosts trying to jump me from behind. It was good to know I could outpace them.
But I couldn’t outpace the increasing cold or the darkening sky. I cursed myself for wearing the thin jacket, and plotted a course to my car. No return to Hope House for me; I’d spent enough of the day in the past.
I walked to the end of the block and had just turned the corner when someone pushed hard against my shoulder. He was wearing a black biker’s jacket with lots of metal. His brown hair had a streak of lime painted along one side.
“Can I help you?” I asked. He had a long cross dangling from his left ear; but I didn’t think he wanted directions to the Cathedral.
He did a lewd raising of his eyebrows. I started to walk past. He grabbed my arm, and I let myself be pulled back. “You want something? A cigarette?”
He leered. “I figure you’re the one wanting.” I stood still, wary and confused.
Looking at me, he spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Sixty for mouth, one-twenty-five for the tightest ass in The End.”
Well, at least now I knew what was going on. I might feel like a resident, but I clearly wasn’t mistaken for one. The hustler’s age surprised me. By twenty, they were usually doing day labor or time.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested.” I started to move away when three or four more punks stepped out of the shadows and blocked my path. I had a sudden urge to run, but I found myself surrounded.
“He’s trying to drive down the price,” a young-looking kid with bad teeth and spotty whiskers suggested to the biker.
No one seemed to be in any rush. “Look,” I began, “it’s fucking cold out here…”
One of them laughed onto the side of my face. “He don’t like that we’re disturbin’ him in the cold.”
“I prefer the cold to your stinking breath. You want to give me a little room?”
Laugher grabbed my arm but I shook his hand off. The biker was staring at me with slits of eyes. “If you ain’t jewing, what are you doing?”
Why didn’t I look like a cop to them? Laugher grinned. “Maybe he ain’t a fag, Sludge. A fag be crying by now.”
“Don’t you guys belong in school, or jail, or something?”
“We got ourselves an uptown comedian.” Sludge gestured toward me and bowed. On his way up he slapped my face with the back of his hand. Hard.
The sting of the slap brought tears to my eyes, but I kept my head stock still. It bothered me that I hadn’t noticed his fingerless gloves until one of them was on my face. I felt my own fingers curl, though I restrained myself from kicking him in the nuts. The odds weren’t with me. Not until I had enough room to run. I noticed that the kid who stood by Sludge didn’t look as comfortable as the rest. He kept peering down the street, worried about someone spoiling the fun. Sludge rubbed his hands. “Well, shithead, if you ain’t a fag then you must be lost. Do you need directions?”
I started to open my mouth but somebody from behind shoved me into Sludge.
“You clumsy bastard,” Sludge said. He balled his fist and powered it into my stomach. “We don’t like strangers in this part of town.”
The air rushed out of my lungs, and I doubled over. I stayed bent until my breath returned, along with a hot rage. The odds were still lousy but now it didn’t matter.
My leg came up hard, and caught Sludge just right. He started to crumple but I grabbed his jacket and smashed him on the side of his face. I let him drop, then turned my attention to the rest of the group. I was lucky; if one of them had had a gun I’d have been dead.
I wasn’t quick enough, though, to dance around the knife Laugher shoved at me. I heard it rip through my jacket, then the sting as the cold blade slashed across the top of my arm.
My arm went numb; I saw my blood spurt. Someone grabbed my throat from behind, but I kicked back and caught him in the knee, loosening his hands. I grasped Laugher’s knife arm and yanked it up belt-high. Behind me I sensed someone move, so I tore to the left and watched as a length of heavy metal pipe cracked into the knife arm I was holding.
Laugher didn’t waste any time dropping the blade and I kicked it away from the fight. Unhappily, that gave the lead pipe time to catch me with a glancing blow on the back of my head.
On my way down, I prayed I’d kicked the knife far enough away and that none of them had another. As I kissed concrete I tried to roll, but a dark brown boot in my belly stopped me. I curled to cover my head and groin, then heard someone shout and saw the offending foot scuttle away. The party was over. I raised my head long enough for Sludge to warn me out of the neighborhood. At the moment, it seemed like pretty good advice.
I saw the reason for my friends’ sudden departure as a group of people approached from the opposite direction. The newcomers stayed across the street. As they got close, they avoided looking in my direction, but I wasn’t insulted; if I looked as bad as I felt, I wouldn’t want to see me either.
I thought about shouting my thanks, but it seemed smarter to use the energy to stand. It wasn’t easy; I crawled to the light pole and dragged myself up. I pulled at my jacket, then ripped off the rest of the sleeve to look at my arm. It was bleeding enough that I couldn’t tell how deep the cut went. I bunched and pressed the torn sleeve against the wound; a little messy, but it would staunch the flow. When I felt the back of my head I was surprised to pull my hand away dry. Everyone had always told me I was a hardhead; this wa
s real proof.
I took off the jacket, used it to clean myself as best I could, then walked slowly, very slowly, back to my car. I was scared silly of meeting anyone before I got to my parking spot. Although my attackers were long gone, I still felt like I was being watched.
But no one jumped me from any abandoned buildings, or from anywhere else. I kept the blood-soaked jacket sleeve pressed onto my arm and started the car. Sludge’s advice rang inside my pounding head. I wanted to make good as fast as I could.
That I understood. What I didn’t understand was why I wound up in Boots’ hallway leaning against her bell.
“I didn’t think you were coming,” Boots said, her hand rubbing sleep from her face. “I ate and went right to bed.”
I nodded and leaned my head against the doorframe. Her eyes widened as she noticed the bloody jacket. “What the hell is that?” she asked, anxious and afraid.
“Me.” I held the denim away from my arm.
“My god, what happened to you?” She leaned forward, grabbed my hand, and pulled me into the room. She kept hold and started toward the bathroom but I yanked her to a stop. As I waited for the dizziness to subside, I looked at the spectacular view of the city pouring in through her living room’s window wall. As usual, the glittering lights surrounding the ink of the river left me speechless. Nowhere else were the town’s blemishes so well hidden.
“What happened to you?” Boots repeated, letting go of my hand and walking between me and the apartment’s glass face. She wore a pair of men’s black-on-black silk paisley pajamas, a couple of sizes too large. Framed by the magnificent wall, it was as if an advertisement from Vogue was superimposed over the city.
Most of the time I would have grown excited. Tonight, I saw myself in the picture and felt like a bum who had slept through his train stop.
I started down the short hall to the bathroom without answering. Boots followed and leaned against the doorway while I cleaned and bandaged my arm. The wound was deep; I worked to keep the tears in check. Our silence gave me time to question why I’d come. Unfortunately, there wasn’t going to be enough time to figure the answer.
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 36
