by Clea Simon
I wait for him to look down at us. I anticipate his face. His eyes.
‘Boss?’ The guard’s voice is soft. He holds the door ajar with his leg but one arm reaches out. The other – I sense the movement as much as see it – disappears inside his jacket, waiting for the command.
He doesn’t get it. Without a word, the man turns and disappears inside the door. The guard waits a moment, looks around at the still streetscape then follows him inside.
‘That was something.’ The girl beside me exhales. Her voice is light, almost laughing. She has been scared, I can tell, and now seeks to rebalance herself – regain her nerve. ‘I wonder if he’s the dealer. He seemed pretty posh.’
That wasn’t the word that came to my mind, but I cannot offer another. Instead, I clamber from her lap as she shifts and then stands. I do not feel good about this, about her plan to confront these men – to turn them on each other. But the die is cast.
We wait for another dozen heartbeats. I watch the moon break through the clouds, sketching out silhouettes that stretch along the iron-grey street. I think about the man who has arrived, about his silent appraisal. The face I couldn’t see. There is something on the tip of my consciousness, an impression as fleeting as one of those moon shadows. A faint memory. This place, that man …
I’m on the tip of recovering it – the thought, the image – when the girl stands up.
‘I’m going in,’ she says. She has steeled herself, her declaration a final push. With footsteps not much lighter than the strange, tall man, she jogs up the stairs and – taking a deep breath – pulls the latch. The door opens easily, silently, and, my own courage faltering, I dash by her ankles into the dark antechamber of Bushwick’s riverside warehouse.
‘Blackie?’ Her voice trembles and I press against her, reassuring her of my presence. Although I can make out the details of the empty space – the discarded papers in the corner, the rodents exploring the garbage by the stairs – I can tell she is hindered by the dark. She waits a minute, letting her eyes adjust, and when she proceeds she does so carefully, feeling the floor with each step before committing her weight. It is a slow process but I respect her caution and stay with her as she moves toward the stairwell. Surely she must see the glow from above. The meeting, for surely those men have come to talk, to seal their deal, on a floor above.
Yes! She has, and now she moves like a cat, taking the last few feet toward the stairwell so quietly the rats barely pause. Then she hugs the banister, working her way up. Her face slants upward, toward the light, and I see once again how young she is. How frail. A growl begins deep within me. This girl should not have to be here. She should not be on the street alone. I take the steps ahead of her, trusting that she knows I am here, with her, as she climbs.
I pause before the landing, my size giving me the advantage of stealth as I peer over the last step. To my left, a door, outlined in light, must be where the meeting is taking place. Two men stand guard outside. But before I can explore – before I have a chance to warn the girl – she is behind me. She crouches behind the banister and puts her hand on my back. She shivers slightly – nerves or the chill night – but her breathing is quiet and deep. She is acknowledging me, seeing what I have seen, and is readying herself for what lies ahead. Once again, I think that someone has trained this girl well.
But where is the other guard?
She takes one more deep breath and starts to stand. She will go in that door. She will brazen this out, despite a fear that has made my fur stand on end. She stands – and whips around as footsteps approach from down the hall.
‘What’s this?’ AD appears, a cigarette hanging from his long, filthy fingers. ‘Care? My darling, your timing couldn’t be better.’ He flicks the ash on the floor. ‘You want to join the meeting, don’t you?’
‘I’m here to talk to Bushwick,’ she says. Pulling herself to her full height, she faces the gang leader, chin up. Her voice is steady. ‘I have intel for him. Something he can use.’
AD smiles and takes a drag. ‘Good thing I came by to escort you in then, isn’t it? ’Cause this is an invitation-only event.’
He reaches out, as if to take her arm, but she turns and starts to walk. Keeping one step ahead of him, she marches toward the office. The guards are smiling, more relaxed than earlier, and one of them knocks on the door and pushes it open without waiting for a response. Not hidden in the carryall this time, I have stayed behind, but I can see Bushwick as well as Diamond Jim inside the cavernous room. It’s luxuriously appointed in a masculine way – and in stark contrast to the rest of the building, brass nail heads glinting out of leather furniture and a freestanding humidor of some exotic hide.
Both Diamond Jim and Bushwick are seated as the door opens. The jewelry dealer is slouched in a leather-backed chair, angled toward a desk and, beyond it, a grimed-over window that reflects the room’s harsh light. His posture, if not his belly, makes him look like a deflated balloon. To his right sits the importer. Not behind the desk, which is the centerpiece of the office, large and dark and substantial, as if it itself were in charge. Instead he reclines on a small sofa, his legs extended over the worn carpet. The desk they both face is empty. The third man, I realize, has left. I do not know if this is his office or by what authority he assumed the central position. I only know that the meeting has already taken place.
Care looks from one man to another. Surely she notices the absence of the third man. Surely, she understands its import. Then I realize, for her purposes, it does not matter. She is not concerned about that other boss, anonymous to her. A businessman. What she has been pushing for is to get Diamond Jim and Bushwick in the same room. She seeks to expose Diamond Jim’s hypocrisy, to avenge her mentor’s death. But something is amiss. Something I cannot explain.
‘Look who I found poking about.’ AD has come in behind her, and with a moment to decide I barely slip in before he closes the door. ‘Little hood rat, she is.’
He reaches for her. To claim ownership, rather than to move her, here in this room of leather furniture and big men, but she pulls her arm away in a brisk motion. Pulls herself up to stand as tall as she can. She inhales and nods at Diamond Jim. It’s a warning, one the fat jeweler doesn’t understand. He merely chuckles as she turns to address his partner.
‘Mr Bushwick.’ She starts to lick her lip – I can see her tongue dart out between the chapped lips – but she catches herself. Stops before she gives herself away. ‘I’ve been wanting to speak to you again. I know you doubted me before, when I came to visit. But now that you have Diamond Jim here, you can ask him yourself. You see, I know about the deal. About the marker, which AD here has reclaimed for you.’ She nods toward her former gang leader. I know she is wondering about Tick, wondering if he is on the premises, but she keeps her focus.
‘I know that the price of admission was the necklace.’ She stops, this time for effect. ‘But what I know, and what you don’t, is that Diamond Jim was the one who reported it stolen. He was the one who called the old man in, to make it look legit – to get his money back. He cheated you, wanting to play it both ways to get in on the deal, and then, when the old man figured it out, he had him killed. Either way, you’re both responsible for his murder, and all for some stupid necklace.’
The room is silent. The men all stare at Care, and from my vantage point, behind the edge of the sofa, I cannot tell if their faces are angry or surprised, or some combination of the two. I hear a sharp intake of breath and I prepare to leap. Humans tend to lash out when they are in a rage, and they do not always attack those who most deserve it.
What I do not expect is the hiss as AD lunges forward. This time he succeeds in grabbing Care’s arm and dragging her back toward him.
‘The necklace? Stupid girl.’ AD is spitting, he’s so angry. ‘The fee wasn’t the necklace. It never was.’
‘Shut up.’ Bushwick sits up, struggling with the soft sofa before he can stand. He turns toward AD, his voice curt and tight. ‘We got
the marker. The ship’s mate has it, so we don’t need this one anymore.’
‘She’s one of mine.’ AD pulls Care closer. She stumbles against his body and looks around, confused. ‘She’s been getting above herself for a while now. Just like the old man, but I can use her.’
‘I told you we should have taken better care.’ Diamond Jim is on his feet now too, moving quickly for such a fat man. ‘They’re still unloading—’
‘Shut up!’ Bushwick’s voice ratchets up as he steps forward, one arm out as if to block the jeweler from advancing. It’s plain to see he’s scared, and, turning from him to AD, Care suddenly grows pale.
‘He wasn’t just cover. For the necklace,’ she says, her voice soft but clear enough to carry as she turns from Diamond Jim toward Bushwick. ‘You hired him – and you vouched for him. The two of you together. It was a plan … You set him up. You set him up to be killed.’ She swallows and licks her lips, no longer caring who sees the emotions plain on her face. ‘You were afraid he would interrupt this – interrupt your deal.’
The two men turn toward each other. One quick glance, but it’s enough. The girl doesn’t have it right, not quite. But AD isn’t giving her a chance to catch on. He’s dragging her toward the door.
‘Come on, darling. You’ve had enough for tonight.’
‘Wait.’ Bushwick raises his hand. ‘We can’t – don’t make it messy.’
‘I know better than to draw the heat,’ AD calls over his shoulder. He pulls his gun from under his shirttail and places it on the desk. ‘Besides, she’s still good for some coin.’
He has her arms behind her now and frogmarches her out of the office. I am torn. These men – the bond between them means something. Something that Care has missed. Something I dearly want to know. And yet … As the door swings shut, I dart through, startling the guard who has begun to close it.
‘What the—’ He kicks and misses.
His companion laughs. ‘Bad luck for you, Randy!’
It’s a bad place for me to stop, out in the open, and AD is already pulling the girl down the hall. I’ve heard this lackey speak before, never laugh, but as I whip around he falls silent, his mouth hanging open.
‘Hey, maybe it’s you he’s after.’ His companion snorts. It’s bluster, not a real laugh. His friend can’t stop staring at me. ‘The way he’s looking at you. It’s like he knows you.’
He’s right. I’m staring. That laugh. These two, here, now. I feel on the tip of a breakthrough – on the edge of making sense of all this – when a scream interrupts me. Care. In danger. I turn as the two men behind me laugh once more. The larger one has a particularly nasty chuckle, his words making the situation clear.
‘About time he broke that one in,’ he says. ‘Make her earn her keep.’
I race down the hallway to their echoing laughter, the sounds of a struggle somewhere up ahead.
‘No!’ I hear her voice, loud and clear, followed by a grunt. Shock or – no – pain, and I leap the last few feet to find a door closed against me. I remember the room inside. A showroom of dead pelts. A couch.
‘Bitch!’ AD, angry now. The sound of a slap clear even through the barrier, as is the thud of something heavy falling to the floor. A body, I think, as I throw myself at the door. It does not budge. I howl. I am howling. My heart is breaking. Behind me I hear the humorless laughter of evil men.
And then, suddenly, a different sound. Different footsteps, fast and light, from the far dark recesses of the hallway. Tick, breathless, looks at me. Looks at the door.
‘AD, you in there?’ he calls. His voice is reedy and he reeks. Scat. Too much. More than any one boy could smoke and still live. ‘AD?’ He bangs on the door and calls again, his voice breathy and nervous. But not, I think, high. ‘You there? We have a problem.’
‘What?’ The door opens and AD leans out. His cheek is bleeding, and I recognize scratch marks. The hand on the door frame is bleeding too, the mark of teeth clear along the inside of his thumb.
‘One of the pallets broke and we’re not sure what to do.’ The boy shifts from one foot to another, uncomfortable with bearing bad news. ‘I mean, nobody wants the product to get wet and the ground out there, well, you know …’
As he speaks, my ears pick up movement. Behind AD, the girl is stirring. She is standing.
‘Hell.’ AD runs his bloody hand over his face, leaving a trail like warpaint on his filthy cheek. Tick sees it and stares. Even for this world, the look is dramatic. ‘AD …’ he starts to ask, then stops. I hear more movement. A step. She is up. She is approaching, but slowly. I hear hesitation – perhaps a limp.
She needs my help.
I look up at the boy. He is staring nervously at AD, trying to see beyond him. He has picked up something – a shift in the light, a shadow, a sound – and in a moment he will alert the gang leader.
I consider my options. Time is short, but … I think of the girl. Of what she has done. Of who her allies are. My allies. I throw myself at the boy, rubbing my body against his thin legs. It works. He looks at me in surprise and makes a sound of pleasure. A hand reaches toward me. A boy’s hand, looking to pet the kitty.
‘For pity’s sake.’ AD glances down, distracted. And in that moment, stumbles forward into the hall, Care’s small knife in his back.
‘Tick.’ She’s blinking, tears on her face. She reaches for the boy but AD grabs him first, pulling him backward like a ragdoll. With his other hand he pulls the small knife from his flesh, barely wounded by the makeshift weapon. It clatters to the floor as he lunges for the girl.
He hasn’t figured on me. I leap and bite, latching onto that outstretched hand with my fangs and two front claws, an unholy growl whining from my throat.
‘Blackie?’ Care steps back then stops as AD shakes his arm – shakes me – loose. I hit the floor awkwardly. My left hind leg is numb and I scramble to position myself, to attack again.
‘You need some help?’ The men on guard seem amused by the proceedings. A girl, a child and a cat. They are reluctant to leave their post. One of them, laughing, tosses AD his pistol.
‘Nah, I’ve got this.’ AD catches it and scowls, his face dark. He holds Tick close with one wiry arm as he tucks the gun back into his pants and eyes the girl. ‘You really want to do this the hard way, Care? After all we’ve meant to each other?’
‘Let Tick go, AD.’ Her voice cracks. She steels herself, says it again. ‘Let him go.’
‘And?’ That greasy smile. He thinks he’s tamed her. He’s got the boy. He’s got the gun. I see it, and my fur stands on end.
‘Let him go.’ She steps forward.
The boy is staring at her, shaking his head. ‘I belong here, Care. I stole the marker. It’s my fault Fat Peter was offed.’
‘Your fault?’ She pauses, confused.
‘I was supposed to bring it here. It was the signal.’ Tick is pleading. Willing her to understand. ‘I knew they’d blame him – blame Fat Peter. I knew when the old man showed up. But he was awful. He was …’ He hangs his head.
She mouths the words. ‘Oh, Tick,’ she says. ‘No.’
And AD makes his move. He grabs for her, one hand still on the boy. It’s an awkward lunge and he misses. Care seizes the boy’s hand and pulls him free.
‘Run, Tick!’ She sets off, still holding his hand. ‘Run!’
It’s too much. The boy is not as agile as she is, not as fast. He stumbles and AD snatches at him as Care whirls around – only I am there. I am between them. Fur extended, tail aloft, a growl like a demon wind filling the hallway. I wait for the shot. For the pain, the noise. But AD has halted, transfixed. Even Care freezes.
‘Run!’ I don’t know whose voice it is. Mine. Tick’s. The voice of a ghost long gone. It breaks the silence and Care takes off down the hall as the impact catches me squarely in the ribs. I am flying, I am falling, but it is a boot, not a bullet, and with a ragged, painful breath I manage to right myself and run after her, blinded by pain into the dark, down
a long passage, the back stairs and into my own version of a nightmare. Into a room that I know all too well.
FORTY
We are in a large space, unheated and noisy with motion. It’s a storage bay off a loading dock, the roll-up door open to the cold wet night and to the train tracks beyond. The pallets are no longer piled high. Instead, they sit on the floor, as children – AD’s gang – labor over them, carrying crates from the back of a truck to stack them against the wall.
Care has stopped short at the sight of this industry. At the sight of her former comrades. But they don’t notice. They’re too busy, and the men watching over them stand and smoke and watch.
I catch up to her, my sides heaving. I taste blood in my mouth. She feels my warmth and lifts me, and I try not to whimper in pain. She steps backward, slowly, and I remember my dream. Hiding here was easy when the pallets were piled. Easy until it wasn’t. Those men, dragging me out.
Care is small, though, and the bay is dark, the headlights of the truck only illuminating the constant chain of carrying and stacking.
‘So much,’ Care says, more to herself than to me. ‘I’ve never seen so much.’
She has inched back to the wall and begins to move sideways. Just then AD breaks in, tumbling out of the stairwell.
‘Where is she?’ he yells. He is dragging Tick by his collar. ‘Where’s the girl?’
‘You having problems with your crew?’ One of the guards drops his cigarette. He grinds it into the pavement as he takes a step forward, his tread heavy.
‘No.’ AD shakes his head. I can hear his voice tremble, his tone change. ‘No problems. Here.’ He throws Tick forward. The boy stumbles but catches himself. ‘You sent this slacker to find me?’
‘Those pieces of crap.’ The guard gestures with his chin to a pallet, its slats splintered as he lights up another cigarette. ‘They’re breaking.’
‘I’ve got more.’ AD steps forward, eager to please. ‘Hang on.’
Beside me, Care flattens herself against the wall, sidling deeper into the shadows. Her breathing is shallow, quiet. If she could become part of the wall, she would. But AD is occupied and doesn’t even notice as I limp forward to examine the wood risers. I do not remember this smell, raw wood mixed with damp, which puzzles me. Curious, as well, is my perspective. Despite my pain I reach up, standing on my hind legs to examine the stack. The structure is haphazard, these rough constructs thrown on top of each other with little thought for balance or stability. And yet the pile appears so much larger than in my dream. More formidable, if not more solid. But there is something else. Something beyond the scent, the size …
