by B A Black
“Sure,” Houston says. He turns off the phonograph and the burner under the percolator, rinses his cup in the bathroom sink and picks up his coat and hat.
On the street, Miss Wentz smiles her goodbye and Houston puts the change from his pocket into the palm of the homeless man still singing O Holy Night.
◆◆◆
They had spent the long weekend together before Monday’s interview scared them apart, a sort of discovery of each other; of all the things they've been neglecting to learn. Sal was not so mysterious a creature with his pulse bare. Houston did his best to lay aside his reservations that he was about to be another one of Sal’s ember-bright hobbies. Houston has endured such things before, survived what it’s like when someone leaves with a part of him, and for Sal he’d do it again. There's honesty in both these admissions.
On Monday morning they roused early, well recharged from an indolent weekend of recovery before heading out to the police station to give statements and gather information on Mrs. Winsome’s behalf. As they made ready for work, Houston asked, “What do we do now?”
He'd known that the time in his life to wear this open like a risk, to say “hell with the consequences” and make his decision with his over-eager heart were past. They'd flown out with Lucas, and Houston has metamorphosed since then. Grown and changed.
“We do what everybody else does,” Sal had responded, reaching up to scatter Houston's hair with his strong fingers. “Hide it. Keep it as quiet as we can. Our secret.”
Houston's not sure that's a functional solution in the long term, but it was a place to start.
Sal hadn’t been in yesterday, and Houston still feels his absence. Christmas Eve makes more sense to miss, but Houston wonders what pace to take this at. Will it burn bright in embers, scattered over the landscape of their working relationship, or was the match struck, burnt out, discarded? He’s not sure he wants to know, yet. For Christmas Eve, he can pretend there’s still miracles.
Houston walks home, stops at the cafe and eats breakfast for a dime, sitting until the evening comes on at barely 4:30 before he backs from the stool and steps back out into the drifting flakes that pale the sky and dull the darkness. He lights a cigarette. It's cold, quiet, all the sound muffled by the falling snow.
Climbing the stairs to the front door of his building, he’s mindful of the ice below the thin cover of snow. He pushes open the door, the shattered glass paneled over with plywood and awaiting more permanent repair. Inside he kicks the snow off his shoes on the mat.
“Mr. Mars!” A voice greets. He looks up to see the friendly face of his neighbor. “You're coming in at a decent hour for once.”
“Merry Christmas, Miss Malone,” he says.
“And a fine holiday to you too, young man.”
“Have you decided to stay?” he asks, remembering their last conversation.
“It'll take more than a couple of thugs to chase me out,” she says, proudly. “And what about you?”
Houston looks around at the tired old building, at the the peeling wallpaper and the mess of slush melting on the floor. He smiles. “I guess someone's gotta mop the floor down here, ma'am.”
She hisses an amused sound between her teeth.
“Let me have a look at that revolver of yours sometime,” he offers, thinking of the danger the rusty old gun might pose.
“I'd like that, Mr. Mars. But not today. Just come in for a cup of coffee, won't you? Tell me how your arm is feeling.”
Houston obliges, after borrowing a mop and bucket from her to clean up the foyer as best he can with only one operational hand.
“You still think I'm a tomcat?” he asks, rinsing the bucket in her sink before she presses cookies into his good hand. They're plain, golden brown sugar cookies that speak of all the best that sparsity can offer, shaped like little trees.
“Well, I never did know a cat who didn't get into a real fight now and again,” she says.
Houston knows when to accept the truth.
◆◆◆
Houston opens his mailbox to reveal an empty space with one card in it, hand lettered. Houston turns it over in his hand, once, inspecting the gold seal on the back before he heads into his apartment.
It's cold and dark inside. The clock says it's well past nine. Houston wonders if he should celebrate. It doesn't seem like a year for decorations or a tree, not with so many people who will spend the evening out in the cold. Still, there are changes in his life, recent developments that mean he can't wholly discard his sense of holiday cheer.
“Well,” he tells the empty space, setting the card down unopened. “Let's have ourselves a merry little Christmas Eve.”
He turns on the light in the main room, flooding it with anemic yellow illumination from the bulb in the paper lantern overhead and gives the radiator a crank to warm the place up. In the kitchen, he pours himself the last shot of pre-prohibition whiskey he has, and rinses the bottle in the sink.
The empty cat bowl catches his attention, and Houston looks up at the kitchen window. Snow is falling hard enough that no one in the city will have to dream of a white Christmas. Too cold out, even for tomcats.
Houston opens the window to look out onto the fire escape, calling, “Chop Suey?”
It's the only name the cat has. Nonsensical. Houston's hoping the sound of his voice will entice the animal.
The snow is piled high on the rails and stairs of the fire escape, leaving a stark pattern of white and black where it falls through the voids in the iron. One place catches his eye, a pile of snow that disrupts the pattern with a dark place underneath.
Houston's heart sinks. He climbs out onto the trembling landing through his kitchen window, taking three vibrating steps forward and he looks down at the still, cold body in the snow.
Under this much snowfall it could be a frozen shirt or a discarded bag. Aside from the outflung limbs, from one ear protruding out of the snow in the dim moonlight, Houston wouldn't be sure what he is looking at.
Something about the image pulls up a worry in his mind. A slow, illogical certainty.
He picks up the limp cat and presses it to his chest, cradling the body between his slung up arm and his body to free his good hand to get through the window and back into the kitchen. He puts one foot into the two inches of dirty water in the kitchen sink as he goes over the counter, soaking through the thin leather of his shoe.
The cat is very cold and still. Houston sets the animal down on his bed. He can't shake the premonition, can't put out the image of all the black limbs covered in snow and outstretched.
Houston jams on his hat and coat and rushes down the stairs and out into the killing snow on the silent street. There are no cabs to be had; it's Christmas Eve and every window is lit warm and glowing.
Houston runs over the quickest route in his mind and heads for Southside, praying that he's a paranoid fool. He doesn't often appeal to God, doesn't usually have occasion to believe the prayers of a career sinner could be considered by any higher authority.
But now, if ever, there's good in what he wants.
When he reaches the Levee, life returns. Even past eleven, far closer to Christmas day than Eve, there's jazz pouring out of the clubs and into the street. Vital and alive, like a pounding heartbeat that helps Houston forget his half-frozen sock biting his foot in the wet shoe.
Too, he forgets the ache in his arm and shoulder. He forgets everything but the drive and pulse that the music gives him. He wills himself on in the cold, good hand deep in the pocket of his coat and ears stinging numb in the wind. He can't guess the temperature.
When he looks up from his feet he can see the place. Lee-Lee's. A big, plain building that should be plenty warm inside. Houston remembers the hot breath of the place, and he can see grey smoke from the chimney. For a moment, he feels like a fool.
Then the flash of blue and red paints the snow from just out of sight beyond the corner of the building, a slowly turning light that has nothing to do with holiday fes
tivities.
Houston forces his exhausted muscles into a run. The snow pours around him, vicious and heavy, and in the spaces between the flakes he sees the black fur of the cat under the snow.
There is a police line strung up a block away, past Lee-Lee's and at the Diner. Yellow painted saw-horses block access, with uniforms standing guard at the barrier.
Houston rushes the line.
“Sir, this is a crime scene, you can't just—“ a uniformed officer steps in front of him, putting both hands up to block Houston’s progress.
“Who is it?” Houston asks, desperate to know, not wanting to ever know. “Please, you gotta tell me who it is.”
The officer shakes his head. “I don't know that yet. Just somebody who had too much party, pal. We see it a lot down here when it's-”
“Who is it?” Houston demands again, stomach lurching.
“Pal, you can't just come in here,” the officer protests, surprisingly gentle. He hasn't been down here long enough to lose all of his compassion. “Go home, sober up.”
Houston realizes that cold and desperation are making him seem nearly delirious. That the verge of panic is very close. He leans over and around the officer, straining to see down the alleyway. A white sheet covers the body, which must be sitting up against the wall behind it. Two ambulance drivers wait at the other end of the alley for the all clear from the officers on scene.
A familiar, solid figure seems to stand lost in the swirling snow, poised still with a pencil braced wordlessly against a steno pad in his hands like he doesn't know where to start.
Houston lunges forward against the officer holding him back, trying to get the detective's attention.
He has to be wrong. It's just a feeling, they are wrong all the time.
“Detective Exeter!” he calls out.
Exeter responds like a man coming out of a dream. He looks up and around slowly. Houston sees him lift a hand to his side, pressing the heel of his hand there as if to hold a breech in a boat hull. His eyes lock with Houston's and there's some bright spot of misery. A reservation. Hesitation.
Knowing comes on Houston like a sharp strike. Almost dizzying. There is no mystery under the sheet.
“Let him through,” Exeter says in a quiet tone, as if he found himself in a confessional. The officer steps out of Houston's way at last, giving him an apologetic look.
Houston's gaze fixes on the clean, white sheet. Snow has begun to accumulate in the folds and uplifted surfaces, filling out the hollows. He shuffles through the snow like a man in a daze, fighting his instinct to run away, wishing he'd wake up in his own bed. The world is too cold and penetrating to be a dream.
Exeter intercepts him with uncharacteristic gentleness, putting big hands on Houston's shoulders. Steadying him and stepping between Houston and his goal.
“Christ, Mars,” he says, looking down at him with a strange expression. “The things that happen around you have the worst timing.”
Exeter stops and his hesitation cuts Houston's determination to move forward, almost takes him off his feet. Crazily, Houston notices he’s not in uniform. Of course he wouldn’t be back to work already, but the Sappho’s just over there. First responder.
“I sent a car for you,” Exeter says. “How'd you get here so fast without it?”
“I just knew,” Houston says, not sure he can make sense of his premonition. It seems ridiculous to say that he'd known because of a cat, even if—even if it hasn't taken him on a wild goose chase.
“I had a bad feeling,” Houston continues. “I want to see him.”
“I don't think—“ Exeter tries to temporize, to push Houston back a step.
“Ex,” Houston says, trying to convey every desperate ounce inside him. To let the sincerity of his need to be sure pour out in one small syllable.
“Are you sure you don't want to do this downtown? The morgue, someplace private?”
Houston shakes his head. “Please.”
Exeter takes a big deep breath and nods once, solemnly. With a slow step he turns around. His voice carries back over his broad shoulder. “He was just found here about an hour ago when it started to get very cold.”
Houston crouches down by the body, looking into the sheet-shrouded features. Above and behind him, Exeter continues on.
“It's hard to know how long he was here before that. Most times down here there's no one willing to call anybody. Leastways, not before they've taken the watch and wallet.”
There's no blood on the sheet, no sign of scuffle or violence. Houston reaches out and curls his hand into the sheet, trying not to feel like he’s pulling the lid off of a basket full of cobras.
“No sign of foul play. The girl inside said he'd come in earlier with a buzz—he had two cups of coffee but he couldn't pay, so she had to run him out.”
The sheet slides away and Houston's expecting to see Sal's black hair so strongly that when the blanket reveals dirty blonde and matted hair, a soot-streaked face with a ragged several-months growth of beard, he has no coherent thought. It's deeply unexpected, and Houston sits back on his heels, letting out a deep breath like a hurricane. It feels like a storm changing course unexpectedly, without capsizing his small boat on the sea.
“Why'd you call me down?” he asks, looking up at Exeter—the detective is watching him with intent, looking for a reaction.
“Any idea why he was carrying your picture?” Exeter asks. “We found it in an inside pocket. No wallet, of course.”
Houston looks back at the blue and frozen body, peering close. Something about the features is familiar, something under the rough grime and matted hair. Suspicion begins to creep in, and Houston feels slow certainty start to pin him in place. Then, in the light of the police vehicle, he sees it. His heart sinks again, his relief that it wasn't Sal souring into guilt in his belly.
“Why'd you come down?” Exeter continues, in a more speculative tone. “It's like you expected this.”
“I was worried about a friend,” Houston says, numbly. “Sal wasn’t at work today.”
“Nobody’s at work Exeter says, ignoring the obvious irony. “It's Christmas.”
“Guess so,” Houston agrees. He puts the sheet back over Lucas’ face, his whole body feeling cold with shock. It’s a vibrating, hollow sensation, like the way the church bells must be feeling as they ring mass uptown. Far away from here.
Houston stands up, away from the Ghost of Christmas Past.
“You know him?” Exeter asks.
“Can I see the picture?”
Exeter produces a well-worn photo from his coat pocket. The edges are folded and crumbling, but the center is carefully preserved.
The sepia tones show Houston from years ago, dressed up in a well-pressed military medical officer's uniform. He can see—or thinks he can, with the hindsight of years—the anxiety and concern behind his own winning smirk.
It was the last picture of himself that he ever sent to his family.
“His name is Lucas,” Houston says. His thumb sits over a greasy, stained-in print on the corner of the picture, a sign that it was held often. “Lucas Harcourt. I haven't seen him in a while.”
“Looks like he's been living rough,” Exeter says, making a note on his stenography pad.
“He was okay when I saw him last. That was before the collapse.”
Exeter looks up over the top of his pencil, first at Houston, then at the picture in his hand. On this, he makes no comment, reassembling his expression into something professional.
“Family?” Ex asks. He returns his eyes to the notepad as if the words require all of his concentration to form.
Houston racks his brain. They made it a point to avoid such discussion—and for that small era, they were the only family each other needed.
“He's got a sister in New York,” Houston remembers. “May, I think? She was a stage girl.”
Exeter looks up at him expectantly.
“That's all I know about family. It was a long time ago. H
e didn't like his father, so we didn't talk about that.”
Another note on the pad, this one short. “Anything else?”
“Yeah,” Houston says apologetically. “He was a company man.”
No note for that.
“You need me to lid it over for you?” Exeter asks, looking away. Houston can see how tense his jaw gets, how much it costs him to extend the offer. “Is it gonna put you in jail if it comes up?”
“We're past statute,” Houston says. “It was a long time ago. May not come up.”
“Probably not,” Exeter agrees. “I think he just froze. You know anybody who meant him any harm?”
Only the whole world.
Houston shakes his head. “It's a hard life, these days. Maybe he owed some money, but not to anyone who'd kill him for it.”
He was too smart, Houston thinks. Too smart and too proud.
“Alright, Mars. I'll take it from here,” Exeter says. He tucks the picture into his notepad over the page of notes. “Don't leave town. If anything hinky turns up, I may have more questions for you.”
Houston assures Exeter he's not going anywhere. He's a lifer.
◆◆◆
Houston pushes the door open, uncertain what to think or feel. His mind is wrapped in white cotton, like the war wounds he staunched. His key does nothing in the lock—he forgot to lock the door on the way out. Small Christmas miracle that no one seems to have broken in.
He remembers the cat as he trips the lock behind him and his heart sinks a little. He'll have to find a place for the body. A shoebox, maybe, to start.
“Hey,” a voice calls from deeper in his apartment. “Merry Christmas, Hobbes.”
Houston startles, then cautious relief creeps in at the edges.
Sal appears at the kitchen archway, peering out from the old yellow light that fills the space with what seems like an unearthly glow to Houston's tired eyes. A smile curves around his eyes, shows the whites of his teeth in an easy, casual motion. “Your door was unlocked, so I figured you'd be home again fairly quick, and I didn't think the neighbors would care for me hanging around on the stoop.”