Half Dead

by Brandon Graham

  The professor’s pallid skin goes almost lifelike. “Rosa is awake?”

  “Yes. Well, she’s sleeping again. I guess comas are tiring.”

  The professor doesn’t restack Lyla’s images. He absconds with the photo that proves his boss is a killer. Whistler follows Greene to confirm the evidence gets safely to the professor’s apartment. Then he trots down the steps and fast-dials Moe. It goes to voicemail. He stops walking to speak. “Moe. If you aren’t at your meeting with Gladsky, don’t go. If you’re already there, make an excuse and get the hell out. It’s him. He’s the killer. I have the proof. We were off base. It’s Gladsky. I’m heading there to make the arrest.”

  He starts moving again, scrolling for Suzuki’s number, and steps onto the busy sidewalk. A woman is there with two snuffling French bulldogs, fat as dumplings. They scatter when he stomps into their midst. The woman tugs on their leashes. “It’s okay. It’s okay, Bert. Calm down, Ernie. It’s okay.”

  Whistler realizes too late what he’s blundered into. The dogs weave around his legs. He’s snared in a cat’s cradle. He clutches his phone, trying to protect it as he tumbles sideways. He lands on one of the dogs. The impact is hard on both of them. Whistler grunts loudly. His phone flies from his hand, hits the sidewalk and skitters off the curb and under a parked car. The dog yelps and runs from under him, which causes Whistler to hit the sidewalk. His ribs flex. Something pops in his clavicle. He has weak clavicles.

  Whistler tries to stand. He nearly falls again.

  “Oh my God, you okay?” the woman asks.

  “I’m fine.” He notices two things. First, Woman-with-Dogs was not speaking to him but to the dog Whistler landed on. Second, the woman is every kind of attractive. His feet work themselves free.

  “Is Bert okay?” he asks. She’s very near him, patting the dog that seems physically uninjured, but deeply insulted, grunting and snorting and wiggling and blowing bubbles of snot from his nostrils.

  “Ernie,” she says, to correct Whistler, as if it’s obvious which dog is Ernie. As if to say, “Does he really look like a Bert? Asshole.” The silent “asshole” is emphatically communicated.

  “Is Ernie okay?” The other dog, Bert, wanders in a circuit around the group, nearly tripping Whistler again. He hops over the trailed leash. His sudden movement startles Bert, and the dog shits on the sidewalk.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  This isn’t going the way he’d like. He says, “I’m on police business. It’s an emergency. If you and your dogs are fine, I need to go.” He begins to macho-jog to his car with great urgency and purpose. He makes it thirty feet before he remembers his phone and has to jog back, less macho.

  The woman watches his return. “Big emergency, huh?” She demonstrates her vast capacity for facetiousness while unbraiding the tangle of leashes.

  He goes down on his belly and reaches around under the car. He gets a hand on his phone, pulls it out and shows it to the woman as proof. “My phone.”

  She smiles and says, “Your screen.”

  He looks at his phone. The screen is fractured with jagged chunks missing.

  “City issue,” he says real cool. Projecting he’s a laid-back guy.

  “Our tax dollars at work.” She takes her mutts down the street, baby-talking to them as she goes. He thinks he hears her say “Keystone cop,” but he might have imagined it.

  “Shit,” Whistler says. He runs for his car.

  Something to Lose

  Calvert takes Lyla’s photo into his apartment and closes the door behind him. He looks for a secure place, slips it under the foot of his mattress.

  Before he found Rosa unconscious, as he walked into the dark volume of space that was Coffee Girl, fine hairs on the back of neck had stood on end; a basic animal warning from his evolutionary past. He felt, briefly, as if he had entered a mausoleum. Did I know Rosa was being choked to death? That Kaz was bending his lean face over Rosa to watch the light leave her eyes, panting his breath onto her cheek? Had he known he was in a room where a murderer was murdering? Could some dormant corner of his lizard brain have engaged and rather than flee, he had chosen to press forward into danger? Was I brave?

  The thought of Kaz, his severely tidy hair, sharp features, and vise-like fingers, causes Calvert to snap the dead bolt on his apartment. He wants to preserve himself so he can see Rosa one more time. Locking his door is a tacit admission he has something to live for, that he’d prefer to be a living person rather than a near-dead golem.

  He takes Syed’s card from his pocket and taps his phone.

  “American Taxi.”

  “Syed. This is Calvert Greene. We drove to the hospital. Can you drive me there again?”

  “Yes. Visiting your friend again already?”

  “Yes.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, a woman.”

  “Such good news. A man should have a family. Where are you?” Calvert gives the address.

  “The veterinary hospital?” Syed asks.

  “I live upstairs.”

  “Ah. I know it. I know it. My wife gets her cat’s teeth cleaned there. She loves her cat more than me. Matina the cat. Matina, Matina, all day Matina. Fifteen minutes, Mr. Greene. I’ll meet you at the curb.” He ends the call.

  Calvert leans against the table and kicks off his shoes. He unzips his Bug Off coveralls and lets them bunch in a pile around his feet. He breathes deeply through his nose and thinks he can smell soap, a sour smell from his garbage under the sink, and a musky odor coming from his body.

  He digs his phone and wallet out of the pile and sets them on the table. He picks up his watch; it reads 6:12. Fifteen minutes, he tells himself. He tugs off his socks, feels a chill as his sticky feet press into the gritty floor. He quickly gets the shower going and lets the water run as he prepares to shaves and brush his teeth.

  Through the bathroom window, the light has a bright, warm quality. A forceful orange. Can color have intention? I’m undermedicated. He scans the floor’s darker corners for the fugitive pill. It doesn’t materialize. New feelings, or old feelings he’s having anew, ping brightly across his mind. This is your brain on Pop Rocks. He gets back to preparing to see Rosa.

  Ten minutes later, he’s clean, standing in fresh underwear with his hair combed, applying deodorant. He dresses in dark jeans and the T-shirt he printed with Barney. He tops it with an optimistic mint-green button-down. He finds the slip-on shoes issued by New Horizons. He straps the watch to his wrist and grabs his phone and wallet. Time to go.

  The Worst Realization

  Despite her desire for coffee, Moe hesitates. She never liked letting people do things for her. Hated to feel indebted. To anyone. But especially a source.

  Gladsky, apparently taking her inaction as insecurity, approaches Moe and offers his arm, as if they are a paired couple in a wedding party. Like she is his prom date. She finds it amusing, maybe even sweet. If she weren’t so exhausted, she’d take issue with it. But in this case, she allows him to escort her to the office.

  He introduces Moe to his wife and explains, “She rides a motorbike to us and it breaks. You will take care of her, yes? I go to empty the van.”

  Pregnant Svetlana smiles at Moe like a very fertile Florence Nightingale. “Of course. Leave her to me.”

  Gladsky takes his leave.

  “I’m happy to meet you, Moe, of course. But I regret your troubles.” Svetlana is poised, tall and fair, despite her condition. She’s the anti-Moe.

  “It’s good to put a face to the voice on the phone. Thank you for letting me speak to your husband for my story. I’m sorry to have caused your husband work,” Moe says.

  “It’s nothing.” Svetlana walks away for a moment and returns with two small plates. She sets one in front of Moe, the other on a nearby desk.

  Moe looks at the pastry on her plate.

  “Placek,” Svetlana says slowly.

  “Plazek,” Moe repeats.

  “No. P
lacek,” Svetlana enunciates.

  “What is it?” Moe asks to avoid the language lesson.

  “Is Polish coffee cake. Very delicious.” She pinches a bit and pops it in her mouth. “Delicious.” She gestures for Moe to try.

  Moe tastes hers and has to agree. “Delicious.”

  “I put water on to boil. Should be ready. I make you Inka or Polish coffee? Do you know Inka?”

  “Isn’t it instant coffee? Like Sanka?”

  “No. You stir it in hot water. Polish grains, very nutritious.”

  “Sounds interesting. Coffee would be heaven.” Moe never says things like “Coffee would be heaven.” I must be in shock.

  Moe watches Svetlana scoop grounds straight into a mug and pour scalding water over it. She carries the pungent brew over and places it in front of Moe.

  “Now,” Svetlana says, “we wait.”

  After drinking the gritty Polish coffee with no dairy, Moe thanks Svetlana. She does feel better. Calm and warm and capable of dealing with the mechanical money pit Taibbi seems to have become. Maybe it was the coffee cake that helped.

  Svetlana says, “Now you have tour by my husband.” It was more of an order than an invitation. Svetlana calls Gladsky into the office and speaks to him in harsh Polish. He bends his head under the instructions.

  “Come,” Gladsky says.

  As they walk around the warehouse, Gladsky pointing out details he thinks are most significant, she notices his gold chains and wristwatch. She isn’t a good judge of authenticity, but if they are real, he dropped some cash and wants people to know it. New money syndrome, she thinks.

  When the warehouse tour is over, Moe asks, “Mind if I use my recorder when I ask questions?”

  “Not at all.” He seems flattered.

  “Allen Schmidt and Calvert Greene both work for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “They were both at the scene of the attack at the coffee shop. Mr. Greene reportedly ran off the attacker. Does that seem like something he would do?”

  Gladsky smiles at the question. “To me, this Greene is not a man that could run off anyone. He is barely a man at all.” It seems like a strange reply. Moe guesses his attitude lost something in translation. She asks more questions, but Gladsky doesn’t have much to offer. Her heart really isn’t into this line of inquiry after her conversation with Vivian. She turns off her recorder and tucks it away.

  Interview over, she waits while Gladsky drags a long, heavy board to use as a makeshift ramp to get the Honda into the back of his van. He takes the handlebars of her bike and shoves Taibbi over, puts the front wheel to the plank, and asks Moe to give him a hand.

  She stands at the back of the bike. “I can’t thank you enough. You and your wife have been so gracious. I’ve been nothing but trouble.”

  “My pleasure,” he says. “I—”

  Moe’s bleating phone cuts him off. “Sorry. Give me a second. I keep the volume high when I ride. Probably my boss.” She twists her bag and digs out the phone. It stops ringing. “Missed it.”

  “If it’s important, he’ll leave a message,” Gladsky says.

  Moe notes the hardwired misogyny. The phone pings loudly. She sees the message is from Whistler. “Must be important.” Moe makes an apologetic smile and puts the phone to her ear. Gladsky holds Taibbi while she listens:

  Moe. If you aren’t at your meeting with Gladsky, don’t go. If you’re already there, make an excuse and get the hell out. It’s him. He’s the killer. I have the proof. We were off base. It’s Gladsky. I’m heading there to make the arrest.

  The message is loud. Moe feels like she’s been doused in ice water. Gladsky’s back is to her. Under his shirt, his shoulder blades slide closer to his spine. She can’t tell if he’s preparing to shove the bike or if he’s tensing because he overheard the message. She can’t gauge how far Whistler’s voice traveled.

  “Ready?” Gladsky asks. His tone gives nothing away.

  “Almost.” Her brain starts to work. “I need to send a text.” She turns her volume down and thumbs a message to Whistler: I’m with Gladsky. My bike died. I can’t leave. Hurry. When she puts her phone away, she reaches around her bag for some kind of weapon. She wants to clench her keys in her fist, like a makeshift gouge. But they’re dangling from Taibbi’s ignition switch next to Gladsky. She grabs the only thing she can find and tucks it in the front pocket of her jeans.

  “Ready?” Gladsky asks again.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.” She considers running, doubts she’d get far on her short legs and clunky boots. All she can think to do is stall. Her hands find something solid to shove at the ass-end of her ruined bike.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she says.

  The two of them force the bike up the ramp and into the tight interior of the van.

  Mad Dash

  Before leaving for Syed’s American Taxi, Calvert digs under the sink for a roll of garbage bags and tears one free. He carries it to his bed and pulls Lyla’s incriminating photo from under his mattress. He puts it in the bag and leaves, locking the door behind him.

  On the sidewalk, he hops over a pile of dog shit on his way to the back seat of Syed’s taxi.

  Syed turns down the music. “Hello, my friend.”

  “Hello, Mr. Syed. Rush Med Center, quick as you can.”

  “You look nice, my friend. She will be impressed. Very handsome.”

  Calvert buckles himself. Syed turns up “Satisfaction” by the Rolling Stones and drives.

  The ride isn’t bad. The taxi finds green lights and steadily flowing traffic until they near the University of Illinois at Chicago. “Roller Derby. Very popular. Big rivalry. One of my fares said it’s the national flat track championship. So sorry. We must go around.”

  Calvert nods. Anxiety blooms in his chest. He interprets the sensation as impending denouement, the nature of which he can’t fathom. He looks at his watch, at the numbered ring and the mysterious buttons. He twists the ring counterclockwise, willing it to give him the time he needs.

  The detour takes less than ten minutes. They come at Rush from west on Harrison. Syed parks and points to a stairwell outside the parking garage. “You take the stairs and cross the glass foot bridge at level four. It’s the best way.”

  Calvert gives Syed all his cash and goes straight for the stairwell. It’s getting dark out.

  “Goodbye, my friend,” Syed calls.

  Calvert bangs the rusty exterior door open. The smell of urine is overpowering. He leaps the offending puddle and jogs eight switchback half-flights to exit at the door with the foot-tall numeral four. He finds a corridor to the glass bridge. The red taillights of the American Taxi hover a block to the east, waiting for the signal to change.

  A brief snippet of a dream journey to an intersection with an unchanging traffic light comes to mind, an imagined trek during a sudden storm. A blues man named Robert Johnson met the Devil at a crossroads. Looking at the dark cityscape, Calvert recalls Johnson died mysteriously without ever making it to Chicago. Then Calvert is over the footbridge. The automatic doors open as he approaches the abandoned atrium where a man on a gurney called him “trash” only hours ago. The space is vast, hard surfaces and high ceilings. He finds the orange dots and follows them to the correct bank of elevators.

  Two floors up, the hallway is dim. Hospitals have visiting hours, and he’s past the preferred time. He walks without making noise, thankful he changed footwear. He moves past the empty nurses’ station and ducks into Rosa’s room. No one is there except Rosa. Didn’t Detective Diaz promise to send his partner? I must have made good time.

  He moves to her bedside. Rosa snores softly. He slips his hand under hers, cradles the weight of her warmth in his palm. She doesn’t stir at his touch. Her face is lovely, restful. She’s not unconscious, only resting.

  He doesn’t know what the big hurry was. He feels the heat coming off his body, his heart pounding, and his jaw clenched. He exhales, lets his teeth unclamp.

&n
bsp; When his breathing slows he whispers, “I’m here with you.”

  A Weak Serpico Moment

  Whistler’s car has no flashing lights to help him cut through traffic; it has no radio to call dispatch. Stopped at a traffic snarl, he tries to make his phone work. The touch screen is ruined. He can read the first line of a pop-up text from Moe: I’m with Gladsky now. He tries to read more of the text with no luck. Traffic moves. He pitches the phone aside. Low sunlight coming across the lake forces him to narrow his eyes until he turns south.

  * * *

  In the back of the van, Moe watches Gladsky use a ratchet strap to secure the front of the bike. He passes her a strap. She hooks it to a tie-down and starts to fish it through the frame.

  “Not like that,” Gladsky says. “Run it over the seat and hand me the other end.” Not as cordial as earlier. He has an edge; maybe he’s impatient because she doesn’t know his system. Or something else.

  “I’m going to fish it through the frame.” She’s trying to waste time and sound casual.

  “No talking. Only listen. Hand me the end.”

  She passes the strap to him. He hooks it and works the ratchet to squeeze the play out of the shocks. Moe looks around. She sees a box of black rubber gloves.

  “There,” he says, tugging on the bike. “Things are better when you listen.” He hunches to get around the bike and steps out the open side door. Moe climbs out the back.

  Gladsky is next to her. He has a floral smell.

  “What is that scent?” she asks lightly. But she recalls Whistler talking about a phantom smell. She feels the blood leaving her face.

  Gladsky smells the back of his hand, his eyes on hers. “The spray we use for Cimex lectularius remediation. I mix it myself. Lavender oil is natural repellent. Svetlana gets it from Washington Island. Do you know Washington Island?”

  “I’ve never been. But I’d like to. Tell me about it. I hear it’s nice.”