“No.”
Kaz is getting angry. This guy is ruining his delivery. “Would it be hard for you to work around parasitic insects that feed exclusively on blood?”
“No,” Greene says with an unsatisfying lack of animation.
“Okay. Well, we have three vans. I drive one. Jackson drives the second. The third is Allen’s. You’d train with Allen. Allen is a convicted criminal.” Kaz slows down. “He’s rough around the edges, but a good worker. Loyal. Could you work with someone who’s been in jail?”
“I could do that.”
“Even if he killed someone?”
“Yes,” Greene says firmly.
“You could let someone who doesn’t have a bunch of degrees tell you what to do?”
“Yes.”
“We use dogs that can smell an infestation. If needed, we use heat and natural, nonchemical sprays to address the problem. We check and treat every room. Every crew checks a set of rooms every day. If there’s an outbreak, we take care of it. If word gets out that a hotel has bed bugs, it kills business. You see? We do vital work for the economy. Very important.”
“I see.”
Kaz is sick of this guy and wants to move it along. “That’s basically it. But there is a lot to learn. Do you think bed bug abatement is the right career for you?”
“Yes. Thank you so much for sharing this information.” With that, the little freak tips his lifeless gaze on Kaz for the first time and says, “When do I start?”
A True Friend
When his interview with Kaz is over Calvert has nowhere to go. He starts his career in bedbug abatement in a few days. Until then, he only has to eat and sleep and take his medicine as a living person might do. He lifts the empty tumbler to his lips and tries to slurp the wet foam that clings to the side. Gravity is too weak to overcome the surface tension. He looks sadly at the reluctant remnant of his cortado.
Two women push the door open and tap their high heels toward the counter, where Rosa greets them. While they order, a round, young man with an overstuffed backpack holds the door for a bent old lady pushing a dog in a wire cart. They queue up behind the others.
The women in heels leave with drinks, heads together, talking in happy, hushed tones about a concert that night. As they go, a short, dark man enters with a miniature version of himself riding on his shoulders. The old woman’s cart dog grabs the toddler’s attention; the boy lunges for the dog and comes sideways off his father. The father reaches out his arms to scoop the boy before he hits the floor. The round man with the bulging backpack applauds the father’s quick catch. They exchange pleasantries about Bear’s football. The little boy is hoisted back on his dad’s shoulders, unaware of the trauma he nearly suffered.
The old lady slow walks her coffee, her movements labored. She leans heavily on her cart. Her expression is pained as she sits with her furry friend. Calvert considers the woman’s need for companionship in her last years. Should I have a companion?
A luxury of death is that Calvert has no reason to be hasty. Living Calvert was forever trying to accomplish something. Dead Calvert enjoys watching people come and go. He especially likes seeing Rosa do the work of three people: taking orders, making drinks, and counting change. Every customer gets a genuine smile as she gracefully crafts complicated drinks. Rosa is doing what she was made to do.
Calvert has a sense being a professor was like that for him. He relished preparing a talk, he’d become excited discussing a specific passage, and in return a few students would get equally excited. A good life while it lasted.
The old woman totters back to the front counter and asks for a spoon. Three men in dark suits order blender drinks. They are tall and speak in loud, deep voices. The worried dog, left at the table shivering, whimpers for fear of abandonment, agitated by the self-important men. Rosa passes a plastic spoon across the counter. The old woman’s drawn shoulders don’t want to extend that far. Rosa stretches until the aged hand can grasp the utensil. Looking at the men’s clothes, Calvert realizes how shabby his suit is, how coarse the weave and how slick the slacks are worn at the knees.
At her table the old woman scoops froth from her cappuccino and holds the spoon for the dog to lap. Spoon after spoon, the dog makes a snuffling sound and a snarly smile with sharp teeth poking from the side of his muzzle. Flecks of foam speckle the dog’s dark nose. The woman’s face is content and relaxed, as if her pain is gone.
Two of the men in suits argue the relative merits of a potential property acquisition. The third man sticks his hands in his front pockets and surreptitiously fiddles his genitals. Three frilly drinks piled with whipped cream and sprinkles are set on the counter. The genital fiddler puts a five-dollar tip on the counter. The old woman struggles with the door. Calvert begins to rise to her aid. A passerby on the sidewalk takes a moment to help her. On the way through the door, the cart dog looks drunk on dairy fat, his expression sleepy-eyed and satisfied.
Being deceased was easy enough while institutionalized. At New Horizons many of the patients inhabited alternate realities. Christopher, a bearded man in his fifties, snickered incessantly at dirty jokes whispered in his ear by an invisible Benny Hill. A woman named Edie proclaimed herself the secret Queen of America and demanded people kneel as she passed on her way to the communal shower. King Reo, so named because Queen Edie believed they had been married, often wept, explaining in desperate gasps, “My hair screams when they cut it. But they cut it anyway.” When Reo wasn’t worried about his screaming hair, he liked to eat things that were inedible—for instance, all the vowels from a box of foam letters kept in the common room. Among the coterie of diversely afflicted at New Horizons, Calvert’s slow-speed death felt rather mild.
Sitting at Coffee Girl, watching seemingly emotionally healthy people, makes Calvert fret about exactly what happened to him. It’s becoming important to him that he discover his past before his mind loses function. He does not view these thoughts as either good or bad. Still, the emotional complexity of the associated feelings challenges his limited capacities.
Rosa hurries into the café to wipe the front table. Back behind the counter, she organizes and cleans. She hustles to the backroom and comes out with a couple gallons of milk. Calvert approaches the counter.
“You got the job,” she says with certainty.
“I got the job,” he confirms.
“I had a good feeling.” Calvert sees Rosa has foam splashed on the side of her nose. “When do you start?”
“Monday morning.” Calvert lifts a napkin from a stack on the counter and puts it in Rosa’s hand. “You have something on your nose.”
“Do I?” She opens the napkin and tucks her nose in its folds. She turns away to blow her nose. Turning back she asks, “Did I get it?”
“You got it. It’s gone. It was only a speck of foam.”
“That’s embarrassing. You are a true good friend. Thank you.” She gives a shy smile, then washes her hands and dries them on her apron.
He likes being called “a true good friend.” He knows friendship is important. To connect with someone is one of life’s few joys. Before he loved Mere, they had been friends. I did love her. She loved me. She must have.
A memory of his past life comes to him, as vivid as if it just happened.
He stood next to the bed, pleased to see the comforter, pillows, and sheets shoved on the floor during the vigorous encounter. Mere’s flushed body was crosswise on the mattress. She was oblivious to the two corners of the fitted sheet creeping toward her with each exhale. She smacked her damp abdomen saying, “If that didn’t impregnate me it wasn’t for lack of trying.”
“I aim to please.” Calvert kicked a pillow out of the way, looking for his clothes. He couldn’t stop grinning. “Give me a few minutes. Let’s go again. For medical reasons.” He slipped his T-shirt on and stood there with no pants.
She turned over and tugged at his damp penis. “Lookie there. It didn’t even take a few minutes.”
That
had been in the early days of the relationship, Calvert remembers. After the frustration and expense of a decade of failed fertility treatments, their love morphed into a dependable thing, static and strong with the passage of time. Their relationship was as reliable as a German engine, running smoothly with little need for attention, all the parts of their life continuing to churn while giving off little heat.
What he feels with Rosa is different from that. There is an electric charge that tingles through his mind when she smiles. My dead brain is still receptive to certain inputs.
Rosa’s voice brings him back, “Let me make you another cortado and some food.”
She wants to care for him. Like the old woman cared for her little dog. Does a dead man make a good pet? Looking into Rosa’s kind face, he doesn’t mind the idea. He thinks again of how only a dead woman would be fit to love him.
“I’m going to make you a bagel. Do you want it toasted?
“Yes. Please toast my bagel.”
Rosa looks amused at his phraseology. She gets to work grinding fresh coffee. After a few moments, she says, “My day started badly. How can I explain? I have a little boy, Thomas. He’s in second grade. He keeps getting notes home. They say, ‘Dear Mrs. Zhang, Today Thomas made it clear you don’t know how to parent.’ Just kidding. But that’s how it feels. He came home with a new note yesterday.” She fishes in her pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and hands it to him. He opens it and reads:
Dear Mrs. Zhang,
Your son has been recruiting for a club for children of mixed ethnic backgrounds. He called it Patchwork Kids. We have a strict policy of not allowing clubs based on race, ethnicity, or belief. Some children may feel excluded, which can damage self-esteem and lead to conflict. We can’t allow this. We fully expect your support enforcing these rules.
“How stupid is that?,” Rosa asks as he finishes the note. “He got in trouble for trying to find people like him. Trust me, there are no other Chinese-Mexican Americans in his class. The other kids say things like, ‘What are you?’ It makes him feel bad.” She pats her hand over her heart as if to tamp down pain. “That was yesterday. Last night I tried to talk to him. Thomas didn’t understand. He felt picked on. He cried. Not a little cry—a big cry. It broke me. He finally wore himself out and fell asleep. I stayed up most of the night, sad for him. Worried for him. Mad and wanting to do something but unsure what I could possibly do.
“I worry I’m messing up. I do my best. Lots of kids grow up without a dad. I didn’t have a dad at home. But Thomas is a boy, and maybe that makes it different. Thomas’s father was not a good man. His attitude about women—I want Thomas to have more respect.”
“I never met my dad,” Calvert volunteers. He’s pleased with the natural way older memories have started percolating from his dry synapse. “He was deployed to Vietnam when my mother was pregnant with me. Missing in action by the time I was born.”
“Your mom made it work. You turned out okay.”
“My mother went swimming in Lake Michigan when I was in kindergarten. They never found her body. Her father, Harry, raised me.”
Rosa looks pained by the news. “Oh no. I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
“People make their way as best they can. There is no right way.” He shares the rote wisdom with no idea of its source.
She seems saddened by the turn of conversation.
Calvert says, “You were talking about your son.”
“This morning Thomas was angry and exhausted and pretended to be sick so he could stay home. I was tired too, but the grand opening. I practically had to drag him to my mother’s. Bless Consuela. I couldn’t do this without her. I needed a hug or a smile from him. But he wouldn’t cut me any slack. What a mess. It’s a cruel trick how easily loved ones crush us. Don’t you think?”
Calvert wants to squeeze Rosa until her worries are gone.
Rosa puts a toasted cream cheese bagel and a fresh cortado on the counter. “This morning I was afraid no one would like my coffee. You eased my mind. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He hadn’t thought of his parents since his death. In high school, Calvert learned the paradox of Schrodinger’s cat, had determined his father was both alive and dead until proven otherwise. His mother, he imagined, was adrift in a vast cold void, her existence suspended. Perhaps my undead status is hereditary, I’m genetically predisposed to linger after life in a poorly defined state.
A pack of customers walk through the door. He takes his items and returns to his table. His injured shoulder throbs but doesn’t really hurt anymore. He nibbles food he can’t taste and chews carefully with teeth he can’t feel. The cortado, once again, fires his numb taste buds as nothing else can. He wonders if Rosa is a sorceress. He doesn’t know how else to explain why she’s able to give him sensations he thought his body was dead to.
Relative Diplomacy
Moe lingers out of the way as Sophia and the cameraman try to elicit any usable response from Michael Jordan. They give up and take a few long shots of the scene. Finally Sophia struts back to the van. Moe watches surreptitiously when Sophia takes off her heels and slides into the passenger seat, waiting impatiently to be chauffeured to the next location.
Moe texts so Vivian knows she’s working the story. She lets her know Channel 13 is at the scene and promises to get in touch soon.
It takes a while for Officer Chapman to return from speaking with Whistler. He lifts the yellow tape and allows Moe to walk a few yards closer to the victim.
“Wait there,” short Michael Jordan orders.
It’s not long before Whistler trudges toward her. “Hey, cuz. What do you want?” He gives her a quick hug.
“When’d you get out of uniform?” Whistler looks suspicious, doesn’t answer. “Off the record, Whistler. No joke. Two cousins chittin’ the chat. What could be more innocent?”
Whistler looks skeptical, but he relents. “I’ve been doing mandatory bullshit for weeks. I started today. It’s a bad time for chitchat. I gotta get back.”
“They threw you in the deep end, huh? Puttin’ a lot of faith in you.” She ignores his attempt to end the conversation quickly.
“It’s a bunch of stuff. The squad is putting a big case to bed. The boss wants to test me. Maybe a little faith, though Inspector Ruther doesn’t strike me as religious.”
Moe grins. “Still, this is what you wanted, right?”
“Listen, it’s good to see you, but seriously, I need to go.”
“I understand. But what if I had information? Something solid? Could you give me background, off the record? Anonymous source. I’d protect you.”
He opens his mouth but doesn’t speak. Shuts his mouth. Checks to see how closely the two patrolmen are watching.
Moe voices the things he must be thinking. “Detectives develop sources. Why not your cousin? You know me. You can trust me. Plus, I have connections all over the city. If I don’t know someone, I know someone who knows someone. Theoretically, some people might not want to talk to a man with a badge, but they will talk to me. I could be a vital go-between.”
“You have something?” Whistler allows himself to be interested.
“I’m not sure yet. Let me get back to you.”
“I’m not saying yes. Depends what you have. If it’s real, I’ll share what I can. Off the record. Right? That’s the only way.”
“Of course. Isn’t that what I just said? We have a deal, then. Let me buy you a cerveza to celebrate your promotion. Tonight? It’s Friday night. RJ’s Hot Shrimps?”
“If you have something on my case, don’t be shy. I have to report to Inspector Ruther when I get back. I’d like to have something worth saying.”
Moe can’t help but smile. Whistler wants to impress Ruther. She can work that. “That’s fair. As soon as I have something, I’ll call. But see you tonight either way?”
“Okay,” he says, stepping away. “If I have time.”
“TV13 claims the woman’s death was the result of
a vicious attack. They’re running it on the noon broadcast. Is that accurate? Can you tell me how she died?”
Whistler gets close to Moe’s face, “A woman was murdered. Cause of death was manual strangulation.” Whistler looks shaken. He loosens his already loose tie. “Finger-shaped bruising.” He unbuttons another button on his baggy shirt. His complexion goes gray.
She’s pushed as much as she can. She doesn’t want to take advantage of Whistler’s big-heartedness. Not yet. She doesn’t want to ruin a potential source. Uncharacteristically, she holds her tongue. She thanks Whistler and lets him lead her away.
No Accidents
After leaving Coffee Girl, Calvert can’t remember where he’s going and finds himself standing in a cluster of strangers anxious to traverse Congress Avenue. He’s preoccupied. His body is trying to tell him something important. After careful consideration, he recognizes the nagging pressure under his waistband as the need to urinate. Too many cortados. He would’ve refused anyone else’s generosity, but not Rosa’s.
The pressure is becoming urgent. But urgency is in the eye of the beholder. Calvert is not overly concerned. Death has taught him you can get used to anything. Sometimes giving up leads to answers faster than making an effort. Take, for instance, his desire to know the circumstances of his accident. The doctors and staff at New Horizons would never give him details, no matter how often he asked. He stopped asking. In the relaxed state that followed, memories of his life with Meredith began to surface. His theory is, not dwelling on his full bladder may eliminate the necessity to pee.
People around him begin to cross the busy intersection. His feet move automatically. The short woman with high hair directly in front of him dictates his pace. After a dozen jostling strides, he knows his attempt to ignore his bursting bladder is futile. He needs to find a place to relieve himself. High Hair turns east at the next corner. Calvert continues to follow her.
Half Dead Page 7