No Going Back

by Sheena Kamal

  I sense the hatred rolling off Nolan because I feel it now, too. Whoever he is, I feel a certain level of disgust for this man who lets a weeping woman he has taken to bed walk alone in this state of distress. That he is somehow the cause of her distress and that the power he emanates, one that seems somehow inherent, is part of why she went to this boat with him in the first place.

  “After your friend came to see me, I called my guy at the club and asked if there was a shift for me tonight. They’d wanted me to work, but I didn’t really want to come here no more. But your friend got me thinking, so I asked for the shift. I need the money, anyway.”

  I wonder where this is all going, but I don’t have it in me to interrupt. I don’t have to wait long. “There’s a man who’s always at these parties,” he continues. “I recognized him the first day I started working events at the club,” Nolan says. “He didn’t recognize me.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Drove Jimmy to some restaurant in Richmond once, one of those ritzy spots by the casino, then went inside to use the men’s. Saw him with that guy. Got a good look at him, too. But when I went over to talk to Jimmy, he pretended I didn’t exist. After Jimmy left, I went into a different line of work altogether. Worked construction for years; then I get some gigs working the doors.” He shrugs. “It’s okay money. Easier than breaking my back all day every day. A friend recommends me for the Van Club, and first night on the door, I see him. The guy from the restaurant.”

  “Who is he?”

  He doesn’t answer. I feel him wavering, regretting perhaps that he’s said this much. Or maybe he’s remembering what it’s like to be a snitch. It’s already familiar territory, so I give him a little push. “I have a kid sister, too. Along with my daughter. I know what it’s like to have to protect the family.”

  He considers this, looks in the direction we saw both the woman and the man disappear. He could be feeling melancholy at the memory of the weeping woman, or perhaps his years doing backbreaking labor have sloughed off some of his hard shell.

  “His name is Peter Vidal,” says Nolan. “He’s a lawyer. Married into some money a while back. Then, lucky for him, the broad died. That’s his boat we’ve been watching.” He pauses. “You wanna know something, lady? I don’t give a damn who you are. You could roll up on Vidal tonight, for all I care. Question him all you want about Fang. I bet he knows something. Guys like Fang were always protected by their lawyers who knew enough about their operations to make sure they never got any time for what they did.”

  He jerks his head in the direction of the club. Then grips the railing tight.

  “You know what bugs me the most about Vidal? His shoes. I can always see my face in that shine. Yeah, I’d bet he’s never worked rough a day in his life. Every time he comes to those events, he’s got different shoes on, and they all scream money. Guys like that, they don’t know what it’s like to freeze your balls off watching doors, killing yourself doing hard labor. They’re criminals, too, just a different class of them. Those assholes deserve the swift hand of justice, and I hope to God you’re it.”

  For a second, he looks at me like I’m some kind of warrior saint. But he’s got the wrong sister.

  I hand him one of Leo’s cards I lifted from the office to keep from having to speak. In case he remembers anything else. He barely looks at me when he takes it. It’s too cold to be standing here by the ocean, but he doesn’t seem likely to move anytime soon. This is why I’m the one to leave first. Wondering if I’m the instrument of his vengeance or if he’s the instrument of mine.

  When I reach the gangway leading to the marina, I look around.

  Peter Vidal is long gone.

  Part 2

  15

  When I close my eyes the pulse of Detroit comes back to me. A man’s hands on a guitar, his mouth in front of an old-fashioned condenser mic. He takes a deep breath, fills his diaphragm with air, and then his lips pucker as if he’s expecting a kiss.

  Instead, a hymn escapes.

  He warms up to “Amazing Grace,” and so do I. We’re singing together now and I’m in my head voice, a tone I haven’t heard out of my mouth since I was a kid in youth choir. Buck-toothed and scrappy but with a voice like a lounge singer just months away from a lung cancer diagnosis.

  Those days are long gone. I’ve since found the blues to fill the space in my soul, but I remember what it was like to sing up high like that. Reaching for the cracked paint in the ceiling, then past it, too. A gospel, a prayer. Never a celebration.

  But it’s a nursery rhyme that was stuck in my head while that abandoned building in Detroit burned down, while a man who’d been stalking my mother for decades included me in his death wish. He’d become obsessed with her, blamed her for ruining his life.

  Are all women destined to become their mothers? Even the ones who didn’t know their mothers past childhood? For Bonnie’s sake, I hope not. My mother lived on the outskirts of a Palestinian refugee camp in Lebanon before she fled to Canada. My father was displaced in a whole other way. An indigenous child scooped up in the sixties, taken from his community and his culture just as sure as my mother left hers.

  I have never had a home or good memory of family, other than a sister who doesn’t speak to me.

  Poor Bonnie. She can do better, even if I can’t.

  I’m sitting in the dark, feeling persecuted. If I hear Chopin again, I’ll smash something against a wall. I put on some Leon Bridges instead. He’s singing now about coming home. About wanting to be around. Hell, I want that, too. It’s not only the people who have sweethearts waiting for them at the door, holding an aperitif and wearing nothing but a silk robe, who deserve a peaceful homecoming of some sort. People like me, the ones with terrible luck, who don’t own a scrap of silk and make poor life decisions—we deserve some semblance of home, too. We may have nothing but horny dogs who wait for us to do their bidding, but our lives must mean something.

  Maybe this is what I’m fighting to stay alive for.

  In my imagination the city has turned against me, so I close Leo’s curtains and sit with my back against the wall. The neon lights still shine through. Whisper understands my mood. She comes over to me and forces her ears into my hands. I massage behind them until she falls asleep on my lap, her deep snores lulling me into a state of tranquility.

  When I get to the office the next morning, I’m careful to linger outside for some time, to make sure no one is watching, then use the back entrance. Whisper goes ahead of me into the office Brazuca shares with Stevie Warsame.

  Stevie isn’t there, but Brazuca is at his desk, staring into his computer screen.

  Whisper gives him a look that neither of us seems to be able to decipher. Is it tolerance? Is it . . . affection? I think it’s acknowledgment, personally, but before I can dwell on the subject, she turns away from us both and spreads herself across the floor.

  “Any more tails yesterday?” I ask.

  “No. And I was paying attention.”

  We mull that over. Brazuca seems well-rested. His eyes are no longer bloodshot, and when I go into the kitchen for some coffee, there’s at least half a pot left. He’s pacing himself today. I think he can handle a surprise or two, so I tell him about my conversation last night with Nolan. Before I get to Vidal, he interrupts.

  “Damn it, Nora,” he says. He buries his face in his hands. “We were supposed to talk to him together.”

  “Where did you go yesterday? After you dropped me off.”

  He looks away, and I see now that it’s back. The ability I used to have, the one that let me figure out when people are lying, has returned in full force. Brazuca was the one man I could never read, but he has changed. He has become transparent to me. Whatever pedestal I’d put him on when he’d been my sponsor has crumbled to dust, and now here he is. Limping along with his secrets.

  “You went to Nolan’s house, didn’t you?” I say.

  “Yes, okay? I did. I started to doubt the tail, so I dro
ve around for a while to clear my head, and then I found myself back on the highway.”

  “And at his house.”

  “He wouldn’t talk to me, though.”

  It’s because he still looks like a cop, even though he isn’t anymore. He just has that face. I don’t say this, though. There’s something unbearably fragile about him right now. “You ever hear of Peter Vidal?” I say.

  “I worked a security detail for him once at WIN Security. Some economic forum. Why?”

  “That’s the name Nolan gave up. Said he saw Vidal with Fang, getting cozy at a restaurant.”

  This gives him a pause. “Peter Vidal is rarefied company for the likes of those two.”

  “Now he is. But maybe he wasn’t so high and mighty back then.” And maybe he’s still not all that high and mighty. Maybe he’s just gotten better at faking it. “According to Nolan, he married well. Though that doesn’t mean his past is clean. He was a lawyer, after all.” I decide not to tell him about the woman on the boat. He doesn’t look like he could handle it.

  He puts up a hand, which tells me I might be right. “Okay, we’re doing this wrong. Vidal may have something on Fang, but the Jimmy-Fang-and-Three-Phoenix line is only one part of getting to Dao. The second has to be Dao himself.”

  “All we know is he’s connected, worked for Ray Zhang. I didn’t mention this before because I didn’t think it was relevant, but he was having an affair with Jia Zhang.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “I saw them together on Vancouver Island. The night I went to get Bonnie. They were definitely intimate.”

  He meets my eyes briefly, then clears his throat and shuffles some papers on the desk. “Okay.”

  “Rumor has it he was a mercenary of some sort, but who is he? Where was he born? What was his life before Zhang?”

  “Exactly. And if he went into hiding, we need to know where he would feel most comfortable.”

  “All we’ve ever known about him is a single name,” I say, because this has bothered me for a long time.

  “We need to look at this like someone hired us to do it. Except you’re the client and, Nora, you’re too close to Dao. I think you should take Three Phoenix and Vidal. I’ll see what I can come up with on my end.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  He blinks. “Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s a good idea.”

  He frowns. “I know.”

  He’s unsure about this drastic turn of events, that I’m agreeing with him, but since it’s what he wants he lets it go.

  The only lead to Dao is Three Phoenix and, now, Peter Vidal. But to pursue it, I need Brazuca and his shaky nerves out of the way.

  He may never know it, but it’s better this way. For him.

  16

  It’s times like this that I wish I had a place of my own. I would settle for a room. The cost of rentals in this city are downright Dickensian, and there are two cities here. The people who make up the first cohort are spending their winters somewhere warmer and aren’t around to hear the complaints. The second batch of folks are those who are actually getting screwed. Such as Leo and myself. By his living conditions, I can tell the business isn’t doing too well. His heart isn’t in private investigations right now. In his medicine cabinet, I find three empty bottles of sleeping pills. Tacked on the fridge are invoices from his therapist.

  I am drowning in sad men.

  The saddest men I see yet are those at the gym in the middle of the day, which is where I am now. The girl at the front desk makes me wait ten minutes to see a sales rep, and I spend another ten minutes explaining to him that I only want to take advantage of the free day passes advertised on their website. Who commits to a year without trying it out first?

  “People who are serious about their goals,” the sales rep tells me. His muscles are fighting to burst out of his shirt, to confront me about my goals in person. I try, but I can’t respect a man who can’t at least steal a better-fitting T-shirt. Like I have. Leo’s workout wardrobe is top-notch, and it’s not like he’s going to miss a T-shirt and a pair of sweats.

  The sales rep gives me a tour of the gym, which is full of serious people. They lift efficiently, with just the correct range of motion. Their knees never go over their toes on squats. Their grunts of exertion fill the rooms the sales rep leads me through. His sad mouth explains to me the gym rules along with the benefits of regular exercise while his bulging muscles try to intimidate me into submission. I nod every so often and pay close attention to the personal trainers working with other, more serious women. I’m not interested in the women. I’m looking only at the men.

  The sales rep notices. “Do you want a consult with a trainer?”

  “Not right now.”

  The sad mouth turns even sadder. “Don’t wait too long. Beach season is right around the corner. If you want that bikini bod, you have to start now.”

  If I ever want that bikini bod, I’ll throw myself off a cliff and maybe take a personal trainer or two with me. I store my jacket and wallet in the locker room and then get on a rowing machine with a good view of the main room.

  It’s midafternoon, just when the yummy mummies and the trophy wives have an hour or two to themselves before they have to take the kids to violin classes or stop in for a quick Botox injection before dinner. It’s their playtime, and their playmates are the hard-bodied men who show them how to work their muscles efficiently. How to lift, squat, push, and pull. All with a helpful hand on the shoulder or the small of the back to assist.

  I watch the sexual politics at play from the rowing machine while I hope for a rare sighting.

  Peter Vidal keeps a low profile, but he was once tagged in a social media post in this gym, and I’m hoping to catch sight of the reclusive millionaire. Waiting around for Nolan to get in touch isn’t an option. There must be another way to get to Vidal.

  In the end, I row, but I go nowhere.

  All this effort turns out to be for nothing. Vidal doesn’t show up.

  Leo is at the apartment when I get back, opening a can of beer. I see now what has replaced the sleeping pills. Watching him take that first sip is almost physically painful. I’ve been sober now, yet again, for over a year. I don’t begrudge him this liquid courage, but there’s only so much I can take.

  “Leo,” I say softly. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  His eyes are red-rimmed and puffy. He shakes his head.

  I leave him and go to an AA meeting. My first in a long time. There are some old faces and quite a few new ones. Nobody minds me. I choose not to share today, and everyone here understands. Whisper lounges at my feet until the meeting is over. I feel unsettled, but I don’t understand why until after. I had hoped to see Simone, but she hasn’t made an appearance.

  When I call, I get her voicemail. Again. “Mmm, I’m busy, boo-boo,” she purrs. “But I’ll call you back. Maybe. If you’ve been good. So be good. And leave a message.”

  I haven’t been good since childhood—and probably not even then—but I leave a message for her anyway.

  Whisper and I go back to the office, where I find Stevie Warsame uploading photos from his high-tech camera to his computer.

  We’ve worked well together in the past, Stevie and me. He doesn’t get personal, which is my favorite quality in a colleague. Once, Leo had asked him about his childhood in Somalia, and Warsame said he didn’t remember much before the refugee camp in Kenya. Which shut Leo up real quick.

  Warsame looks me over. “So you’re still alive?”

  “I’m shocked, too.”

  He nods. We leave it at that.

  I put on some coffee and hear the phone ring in the other room. A moment later Warsame sticks his head into the kitchen. “It’s for you,” he says.

  “Who is it?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t ask. Says he wants to speak to the lady that works here. You want me to tell him to go fuck himself?”

  “Let’s see what he wants first.” When I pick up the phon
e, Nolan’s voice comes through, low and urgent. There’s some excitement to it, too, which throws me more than the fact that he’s calling me. Belatedly, I remember slipping him a business card. But I never expected him to use it.

  “Lady . . . what was your name again?”

  I hadn’t given it the first time. “Nora,” I say.

  “Yeah, so listen, Nora. I got called to work an event at the club tomorrow night. One of the other door guys cancelled. It’s no guarantee, but it’s put on by the Devi Group—that’s the family Vidal married into. If you want, I can get you inside. You can meet him face-to-face.” He laughs, and I’m again thrown.

  “Okay,” I say, after a moment. “What time should I be there?”

  “Eight p.m.”

  I agree to meet him at the doors tomorrow. When I hang up, I spend a good five minutes slumped in Leo’s empty waiting room. Since last night, Nolan had a change of heart. He must have gotten home, considered his options, and thought: “You know what I need? A little adventure in my life. Some light detective work would be nice.”

  This is something I’m somewhat familiar with. The amateur detective. I have unintentionally woken the Hardy Boy inside him and now he wants to help. Christ.

  But isn’t this what I wanted? Vidal might lead me to Three Phoenix and Dao. So why, then, do I feel so uneasy about this?

  It must be Nolan. The way he sounded on the phone. The excitement, yes, but there was also something beneath it. A kind of smugness, maybe. It could be that I don’t like that he’s my only lead to Vidal. It’s hard to trust people in the best circumstances, and it would be a stretch of the imagination to consider this a good circumstance.

  But what choice do I have? My background check on Vidal turned up nothing.