EAST VILLAGE NOIR

by Russell Atwood

closer, he sang out, "Hey, buddy, spare change for beer and drugs?"

  I had to laugh. I looked down at him. His flesh was pale, almost translucent. A front tooth was missing from his grin and there was a brass ring pierced through his nose like a bull.

  I placed the change from my cab ride into his waxy hand and offered him a cigarette.

  "Awesome, man."

  I gave him three.

  "Nice ring," I said. "You get it done at that shop around here?"

  "Naw, did this one myself. Ugly, huh?"

  "Oh, very." I admired it. "But there is a body-piercing place around here, right?"

  "Sure. My man Lyle's place over there." He jerked his head, not taking his eyes off me. "If you're thinking about getting plugged, it's the place to go. Tell Lyle 'Poker' sent you."

  "Poker. Right."

  It was a second-floor walk-up over a used-CD store, past a bar spilling over-amped heavy metal and the yeasty stench of stale beer. The front sidewalk was crowded with young people passing a paper bag, smoking, laughing, singing. Sometimes you get lucky; I looked them over carefully and they met my scrutiny with stonefaced tolerance. None of them was Missy.

  Posted on the shop's door was an anatomy chart pinpointing the thirty-odd places (some odder than others) where a human being could conceivably be pierced. One, called a "Prince Albert," hurt me deeply just to look at. Inside, a dull buzzer announced my entrance.

  "We're closed," a gravelly voice bellowed from behind a red velvet curtain at the rear.

  Along one wall of the store was a glass display case filled with an array of exotic body jewelry: studs, rings, ear clamps, miniature chains, and collars. What caught my attention, though, was the wall by the cash register, covered from baseboard to tin-paneled ceiling with hundreds of Polaroid snapshots. A visual record of satisfied customers.

  I gravitated toward them, but the velvet curtain parted and the gravelly voice stopped me.

  "Yeah, whadaya want?"

  He was fireplug stocky with a hard Buddha belly. His head was bald but not entirely hairless, a black Kentucky-colonel beard sprouting from his chin. He tugged it, assessing me with his leaden eyes.

  I told him Poker sent me.

  "Poker? What's a poker?" He crossed his arms, his manner as pedantic as a professor emeritus.

  I tried another tack. "My editor at the Voice. He said he'd call ahead."

  "The Village Voice?"

  "Yeah, I'm putting the finishing touches on this article that was started by this other guy who o.d.-ed last week and now's in rehab till October, and we're going to press in two days."

  "Article on what?"

  "A season round-up on the newest innovations in your craft. You know, design, equipment, method."

  The leaden eyes melted a little.

  "That's a great idea," he said. "You know, you came to the right place. I've trained with some of the masters like--"

  From behind the velvet curtain a man's voice screeched, "Lyle, I'm bleeding here. What the hell are you doin'?"

  "Oh, shut it!" Lyle yelled over his shoulder, then said to me, "Look, I've gotta finish up with this dork. Can you hang?"

  "Sure, no problem. I'll just check out some of your work." I motioned to the wall of photos.

  He grinned, slapped my back, and went back behind the curtain.

  Studying the snapshots was like screening applicants for the Coney Island freak show. There were men and women, young and old, some with rows of tight rings threading their eyebrows or studded silver balls cleaved straight through the center of their tongues. Some photos were only body shots of elaborately impaled nipples and bellybuttons. I almost missed what I'd been scanning for--a tight row of barbed-wire rings on a girl's bottom lip--but there it was low to the floor.

  The flash camera had been too close to the subject, bleaching out her face, her eyes glowing orange, but she fit Celia Janssen's description of the girl who had taken her purse. I tried to match the face with my photo of Missy, but the Polaroid's quality was too poor for comparison. I could make out what she was wearing though: a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket with green-flaming skulls painted down the sides.

  I pried loose the staples and walked out of the shop with the Polaroid cupped in my hand.

  Once on the sidewalk I lost myself in the slow parade of people, hoping my quick departure didn't make Lyle suspicious.

  Turning the corner onto Second Avenue I ran into an impromptu flea market being broken up by the cops, two officers ordering the people to pack up the clothes, jewelry, appliances, and books they'd laid out on the sidewalk for sale. I crossed the street and stopped for a Coke and a greasy slice of pizza. I chewed and considered my options.

  I had a picture of the girl--or at least someone I thought was the girl. Celia Janssen could've told me if it was the same one, but it was too late to call her--even if she had put her phone back on the hook. I'd done a lot for one evening, I could've called it quits (maybe should've), but I felt like I was on a roll. And there was still one other place I could check: the scene of the crime, the first crime. The Outsiders Cafe.

  It wasn't far away. I followed St. Marks east, past First Avenue toward Avenue A. While I was waiting for a light to change, a man with ashen-black skin came up to me, made eye contact, and asked, "Sense, man? You want some good sense?"

  He was trying to peddle weed, but sense---common sense--was really what I needed. I was fresh out, otherwise I would've looked behind me, just once, and noticed that there was someone dogging my trail.

  A row of gleaming Harleys was parked in front of the Outsiders Cafe on the corner of East 6th Street. The tables out front, surrounded by a low white fence, were all occupied. A line of people waited anxiously for one to open up. I went inside where it was less crowded.

  The harried woman making margaritas behind the bar pointed me to the manager, a young black man dressed in blue jeans and a green silk shirt open at the collar. He was ordering a busboy to clear a table for four as I came up to him. I asked if he knew anything about the purse-snatching on Tuesday, maybe the names of any waiters who'd witnessed it.

  "It happened on my shift," he lamented. "Stuff like that always happenin' on my shift. You know, I once had a guy die of a brain aneurysm just as I came on."

  "Tough."

  "Not that it was his fault, but...well, take this lady. Just stupid. Comes down here, looking fine, flashing presidents. You'd think she had something on the ball, you know? But she goes and puts her bag down by her chair, right near the fence. Asking for trouble, you know? And I told her so, but she just shrugs, like, 'Big deal.'"

  "See it happen?"

  "I saw. Just didn't believe it right away the way she just sat there watching this kid take off. Where I grew up, if somebody stole from you, you let the whole world know."

  "Was this the girl?"

  I showed him the Polaroid snapshot. He took his time.

  "Yeah, that's her. Same clothes and everything. You a cop?"

  I shook my head, thanked him, and left somewhat distracted by an idea that was taking shape in my mind. I was trying to smooth its edges when I glanced to my left and saw Melissa Strich on the opposite corner of Avenue A.

  I don't think I could have recognized her from either of the photos in my pocket if she hadn't still been wearing the leather jacket decorated with burning green skulls. Her dreadlocks had been chopped off and the remaining bristly hair dyed India ink black.

  She stepped off the curb and cut across to my side of the street, but walking away from me. I followed.

  Passing a fruitstand outside a Korean deli, she casually grabbed two oranges and kept walking at an even stride. I didn't bat an eye until the owner came running out after her, then suddenly all three of us were running up the avenue. The deli owner gave up at the first corner, but Missy didn't slow her pace, and neither did I. She hopped the short gate closing off the path into Tompkins Square Park and fled into darkness.

  I went in after her.

  The t
ar path snaked smoothly past trees and junglegyms and dry fountains reeking of urine. Irregular shadows cast from the arching branches whipped around my head. I couldn't see her anywhere at first, but a soft breeze blew up, carrying the sweet fragrance of orange. I stood sniffing the air like a golden retriever. As my eyes adjusted, I made her out, slumped on a park bench a few yards ahead. I crept toward her as she chewed.

  Softly, I said, "Missy?"

  She sprang up and spat out orange, barking a swear, but standing her ground.

  "Don't come near me."

  "It's okay," I said. "I'm a friend. I was hired by your parents."

  She laughed.

  "Yeah, my parents would have to hire friends."

  "They hired me to find you."

  "My parents? You're nuts."

  "They're here. They want to take you home."

  "Yeah, right."

  "It's true," I said. "But first, we have a few things to sort out. Tell me about the purse, what did you do with the keys?"

  She stiffened, tensed for either fight or flight.

  She said, "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Look, I don't care about the purse. I just need to know who you gave the keys to."

  She started to say something, then checked herself. In the dark I couldn't tell what was passing over her face.

  "Wise up," I said, "if I found you, the cops will too. Maybe I can help."

  She swore. "You're not 5-0, so what's it to you if I lifted that bitch's purse?"

  "The keys, Missy?"

  "What keys? There weren't any. Not even a wallet, just a wad of bills, no change, not even a stick of gum. No friggin' keys, mister!"

  I was starting to get a bad feeling about