Flesh and Blood

by E. A. Copen

  I crunched what was left of the sucker between my teeth. “So, what’ll it be?”

  He pulled out his wallet, thumbed out two twenties, and slapped them into my waiting hand. “Damn whore.”

  “Takes one to know one. At least I get paid to get fucked.” I snapped my fingers and gestured.

  He clenched his teeth and handed me another twenty. “Now beat it.”

  “Not for free, honey. Never give for free what you can sell to make a living in this city.”

  He slammed the door closed. Another voice murmured something I didn’t catch, but a moment later, as I was walking away, the van rumbled to life and rolled away.

  “Got a name,” I announced once I reached Josiah. I flashed the three twenties in a fan. “And I made pizza money.”

  “Give him a wristy for your supper, did you? Must’ve been a quick one. That was fast, even for you.” He reached to take the money.

  I jerked it out of reach and let it flutter to the ground in front of him. “Fuck you, Josiah. You’re such a prick.”

  “Not like I ever made that a secret.” He squatted to collect the money. “What’s the name?”

  “Gentry Hall.” I tugged my jeans up. “He had a business card with his name on it for someplace called Flesh Factory in the clear plastic part of his wallet. Maybe a studio?”

  “Maybe. Question is, why were they casing the place?” He folded the bills in half and tucked them in his pocket.

  “I don’t know, but they hadn’t been here long. Back seat bled air conditioning when they opened the door, even though the van wasn’t running.”

  His answer was a grunt before he pointed to the metal balcony above. It looked like a set of metal stairs had once been attached to it, but they were long gone. Now the only way into the apartments above was to go in through the shop below. “Lights are all out. AC unit in the window’s not running, and it’s bloody hot.”

  “No one’s home. You think maybe they were waiting for her to show?”

  “Probably. Could be they were the trouble she called about.” Josiah walked to the edge of a ripe dumpster and pulled the plastic lid down.

  I saw what he meant to do and followed. Climbing up using the dumpster was no easy feat, and exiting that way would be a gamble, so I hoped he opted to go out the other way. From the way he moved, I could tell he was stiff in the joints. Plane rides always made Josiah stiff, although it was worse going west to east. When he jumped up to catch the bottom rail, his hands slipped the first time, and he let out a string of curses. It was all because the knuckles on his right hand were swollen and bruised. If he wasn’t going to acknowledge it, I wasn’t going to point it out. With him, it was just wasted breath.

  Once we’d both pulled ourselves up onto the little balcony, he pressed his ear to the door and murmured a quick spell. I didn’t know the specifics of it, nor did I bother asking. He was already in a bad mood from everything else. The last thing I wanted was to piss him off more by asking for an explanation. As much as I loved him, he could be an ass, especially when it came to magic. The man simply couldn’t understand how easily it came to him compared to others. If anyone stopped him to ask a question, he’d just get angrier.

  Sweat trailed down my collar. I looked at the orange-creamsicle-colored sky above. It wasn’t going to be any cooler inside, and we couldn’t start the air conditioning in case someone else was watching the place.

  The door popped open, and we slipped into a dark, sweltering kitchen. It was small and simple but sufficient. I’d seen and definitely lived in worse places. She didn’t have a table to eat on but had several folding trays in front of the loveseat, the kind I used to eat frozen dinners from.

  “Mail here.” I picked up a stack of open envelopes from the counter. “Power, water, internet, all past due.”

  Josiah tried the light switch, to no avail. “Looks like the power’s already been cut.”

  I unfolded the power bill, scanning for dates. “Shut off was yesterday. Same day she called you. Maybe her trouble was monetary. A loan isn’t the sort of thing you discuss over the phone with a friend.”

  Josiah nudged an empty recycling bin on the floor next to the sink with his foot. “Doesn’t make sense. You don’t quit your steady job if you’re having money problems. And the bartender said she got into a Bugatti. You’d think her rich boyfriend would keep her power on for her, even if he’s a prick.” He opened the fridge and covered his mouth and nose before quickly shutting it. “Christ, that’s foul.”

  I moved from the kitchen to the loveseat, standing over it. The efficiency apartment didn’t have a bed, and the comforter draped over the back suggested she slept there. If she slept on the loveseat, where did she keep her clothes? An aspiring starlet had to have a wardrobe to choose from, even if she was dead broke. That was her dream, after all. Want something badly enough, and you’re willing to go hungry just to brush up against it.

  There. The wobbly metal rack was tucked up against the wall with a black covering on it. I pulled it out and lifted the cover to find three t-shirts, a sundress, one formal dress in black, and several pairs of jeans. An apron bearing the Daily Bread logo was also there. Guess she’d never bothered to turn that in. “Clothes are all here.”

  “No shoes, though,” Josiah pointed out.

  I looked around before dropping to reach under the back of the loveseat. My search yielded a single red canvas shoe without a shoelace. It was one thing for her tennis shoes and sandals to be gone, but she had to own at least one pair of heels to go with that little black dress. Searching, I found a collapsible tote full of underwear that I showed to Josiah. “She left her underclothes.”

  “Not all of them,” he said, digging through it. “These are all worn. Look here.” He held up a bra and pulled on the band.

  I shrugged.

  “Elastic’s frayed. Clasps bent. The underwear is torn and practically worn through.”

  I shrugged again, not knowing what else to do. “Why would I know anything about women’s underwear, Josiah?”

  He dropped the frayed bra back into the box. “You had a sister and a mum. You were the only male in your family, surrounded by women. How do you not?”

  I held up a finger. “One, in the world I come from, underage male and female interactions are policed very strictly. Second, they were family. Digging through their underwear would’ve been weird, and third, not something that interested a very gay teenage me. I loved my family, but I did everything in my power to stay away from them.”

  “Why?”

  I took the box from him and put it back where I’d found it. “They wouldn’t have understood. Fran tried, but she was worried it would get me hurt. I had a second cousin, Miranda. She tried to come out to her folks. In the organization, they don’t send you to a conversion camp if they find out about you. Her fears weren’t unfounded. That only changed when the Oracle title passed to me, and I became indispensable. Georgie chose to look the other way as long as I didn’t make waves, so I didn’t make waves.”

  I studied his face for a response and found none, which left me feeling slightly hollow. He thought he was the only one who had a rough time growing up, that I’d had it easy because I’d lived in another time. It just wasn’t the case. “Being unapologetically who you are is always dangerous.”

  He grunted. “Let’s keep looking.”

  Josiah continued to circle the living room while I went to the kitchen to open the cabinets. They held everything I’d expected to find, cheap plates, and a few chipped coffee mugs. It wasn’t until I opened a drawer containing knives, forks, and spoons that I had my big break. I picked up a spoon at random and turned it over. Black scorch marks.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Josiah. Sweat dotted his forehead as he pulled the cushions from the loveseat. It’s not a smoking gun, I told myself, even though I was sure I was onto something. Question was, did I tell him my hunch? This was his daughter, his only child. Though he’d never admit it, Josiah was beside hims
elf with worry over her. I put the spoon back and shut the drawer. Telling him would just make him worry more, and the more worried he got, the more frantic he’d become to find answers. Frantic Josiah took unnecessary risks, and I wasn’t going to let him do that. Not again.

  “I’ll take the bathroom,” I announced.

  His answer was a distracted grunt.

  Maggie’s medicine cabinet held no clues, just over-the-counter pain relievers, mouthwash, cotton balls, and a pharmacy discount card. There wasn’t anything under the sink either, except cleaning supplies and feminine products, so I turned to the tiny plastic trash can shoved behind the toilet. It mostly held empty toilet paper rolls, but there was something at the bottom. Hello, what’s this? I pulled out a thin cardboard box that had once contained a pregnancy test. The test was missing.

  I turned the empty box over in my hands. Pregnancy scare. That might warrant a panicked call to a friend, and maybe even quitting her job at the bar, but the timing didn’t line up. The bartender said she’d quit three weeks ago. There wasn’t enough garbage in the can to suggest three weeks of use.

  It also didn’t explain her disappearance or the surveillance van outside with the studio assholes, and it didn’t get us any closer to finding her. I put the box in my pocket and stood. One more thing to check, just in case.

  Carefully, quietly, I removed the lid on the tank of the toilet to fish around in the cold water. I found the baggie of hypodermic needles clipped to the chain, and my heart sank. Everything was coming together, the pieces of a life I knew all too well. The unpaid bills, the missing shoelace, the needles, and the burnt spoon all pointed to one undeniable fact. Maggie was a heroin addict.

  A floorboard creaked, and footsteps came closer. I dropped the baggie into the tank and slid the lid back in place just in time.

  “Find anything?” Josiah asked from the doorway.

  “No,” I lied, and hit the flush to make it look I’d just been taking a piss. “You?”

  He shook his head. “Mind helping me move some furniture?”

  “Sure. Let me wash my hands, and I’ll be right out.”

  He nodded and left.

  I pushed the knob up on the sink but paused to stare at my reflection. Why had I done that? Lie to him about his daughter? It seemed important. Maybe her addiction had something to do with her disappearance. Telling Josiah would help us find her, wouldn’t it?

  Probably not, I reasoned. He’ll get pissed off, and heads will roll. That will only close doors for us, charging in with both barrels like that. If people knew we were looking for her, her dealer would go to ground, and so would any friends she was using with. Addicts were twitchy. I should know.

  Tracking that angle would require a level of finesse Josiah just didn’t have. Maybe I could run it down. All I needed was an excuse to slip away. Considering the mood he’d been recently, I’d have my opportunity sooner rather than later.

  We moved the loveseat, where Josiah spotted a strip of plastic poking out from under the edge. He glanced at it and tossed it to me.

  It was a visitor’s badge with a broken clip. “SNK Productions?” I held up the badge. “What’s that?”

  “No idea, but she must’ve been there. What do you say we go find out?”

  Chapter Three

  Josiah

  Modern technology never ceased to amaze me with its usefulness, nor did Stefan’s ability to sift through it. While I was still trying to pull up an answer on my phone as to what SNK Productions was, he already had an address and its business hours.

  Who would’ve thought a porn studio had business hours?

  SNK’s office was closed until tomorrow morning, and Maggie’s trail had gone cold, save for what little information we’d dredged up in her apartment. We needed a break to eat, sleep, and process, but I didn’t want one. I wanted out of that bloody city as soon as possible.

  With nowhere else to go and nothing to do, Stefan decided he wanted to go back to Daily Bread. Maybe someone else there knew more about where Maggie had gone and what sort of trouble she’d gotten herself into, but I doubted it.

  The bar wasn’t quite as full when we returned. We showed ourselves to a booth in the corner of the room, facing the door. Big flat-screen televisions all around played various channels. The closest one to us held a plastic-faced anchorwoman captive as she recited the nightly news. With all the shootings, stabbings, and car wrecks, it almost seemed as if she were reading a casualty list.

  While Stefan ordered drinks and food, I watched footage crawl by of a car chase downtown and went back to another chase in ‘95, the white Ford that had captivated the nation. The Simpson murders happened before I came to the States, but I was in LA during the trial, and yet somehow, I’d barely noticed it. While the rest of the city hung on every shred of evidence presented by the prosecution, I sat on Skid Row with my drumsticks, trading dignity for pocket change. I’d learned how to make them play on their own—a parlor trick, really. At fifteen, I’d had no idea how powerful I truly was.

  For eight long months, I slept in the sun and rain, with nothing but a scavenged tent and those two drumsticks to my name. It wasn’t so bad, really. You hear horror stories about young homeless boys who get hooked on heroin, or who wind up trading blow jobs for a warm bed. Never happened to me. In fact, the crew I fell in with made me something of their darling, the homeless Aussie kid with magic drumsticks.

  A cold night, uncommonly so for LA It’d dropped below thirty, and the gray sky threatened to spit snow on the City of Angels. I shiver in the dark, watching the empty streets. No one went anywhere Christmas day in the States. They were all home in their warm houses, eating Christmas dinner, opening their prezzies, laughing without knowing the extent of their good fortune.

  I wonder how Mum’s doing? Fifteen-year-old me banishes the thought from my mind. She’s better off without me, and I was better off pretending she was already dead.

  My stomach growls. I hug myself tighter and tuck my head between my knees. Nowhere was open Christmas to buy food, and even if they were, I hadn’t earned any money. No foot traffic meant no change, and no change meant no food. If only my stomach understood the calendar. Sadly, all the signs hanging around were right. Hunger knows no season.

  “Hey, Ozzie!”

  I lift my head. It was Sarge, the grizzled veteran, and his loyal Labrador Mike. Nobody on the Row knows Sarge’s real name, just like no one knows mine. The Row isn’t a place where names matter. You earn your name on the Row according to where you’re from or what you’ve done. Sarge was in the Army, Desert Storm. A good man.

  He grinned at me, showing all his rotten teeth. Somehow, that just makes him more of a character. “Brought chu somthin’.” Sarge sits next to me and Mike takes the other side, leaning heavily against my shoulder as if he knows how cold I am.

  I wish I had fur like Mike.

  But it’s Sarge who has my attention now. He opens his moth-eaten jacket and produces a plastic container full of egg drop soup, a whole quart of it. My mouth waters at the sight of it. “Go on,” he urges, shoving it at me. “Me and Mike already had ours.”

  I’m still new to the Row at that point. I’ve barely earned my nickname, but even I know you don’t refuse food when it’s offered. I take the quart, pop the lid, and gulp down the soup. It’s hot enough that the first touch of it burns my lips, but I chug it down anyway. The soup is more than I’ve had in a week, maybe longer.

  When the quart is nearly empty, I lower it, wipe my sleeve over my mouth, and ask, “Where’d you get it?”

  “My daughter took me to a Chinese place. You know they don’t close for Christmas? Anyway, she was havin’ a big thing at her house and offered to take me there, get me all cleaned up and feed me, but chu know I don’t like crowds, Ozzie. Too much noise. I ain’t no good with noise and people.”

  I nodded and finished off the soup.

  Sarge looked up as if he could see the stars. He couldn’t. No one could, not with all the city l
ights. The city drowned the stars. “Do me a favor, Ozzie. You ever have a daughter, don’t let her down. A little girl needs a dad around. If a man can’t be around, he ought not to have any kids. That’s what I say. Maybe if I’d been around more, she’d have done better.”

  “I’m sure you did what you could, Sarge. Your country needed you.”

  He sighed. “I can’t help but think maybe my little girl might’ve needed me more.” He rose. “Anyway, glad you enjoyed the soup. And come by later. I’ve got an extra blanket you can have. It’s cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra tonight, and I don’t want you freezin’.”

  “Josiah!” Stefan waved his hand in front of my face.

  I blinked, and I was back in the present. “Huh?”

  “I said you haven’t touched your food. You need to eat. You can’t just drink your calories, Josiah. Not while I’m with you.”

  The bottle sat not two inches from my fingers, sweating on the table, right next to an empty one I’d already drained. Meanwhile, the bacon sandwich he’d made me order got cooler by the second.

  I sighed. “Guess I’m just not in the mood for bacon.”

  “What do you want, then? I’ll call the waitress over, and we’ll get it.”

  “Nothing I can get here, mate. Just leave it.”

  He seemed put out but accepted the explanation. “Okay, then. Do you want to hear what I found on Flesh Factory?”

  “Sure.” I picked up the beer for a long pull.

  Stefan put his phone flat on the table and spun it so I could see the screen. “It’s another studio. Both Flesh Factory and SNK cater to the same niche of the porn industry, which effectively makes them rival businesses. But that’s not all. Get this. The CEO of SNK and the CEO of Flesh Factory used to be a couple. They co-ran another defunct studio back in the ‘90s called Sixty-Nine Stories.”