Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  I finish off my coffee and take care of any remaining bits of pie left on the plate. My tongue does a couple laps around the inside of my mouth to take care of any specks of food trying to find a low-rent spot for the night.

  “Care for another cup? Or maybe one for the road?”

  I don’t turn to look at the woman behind the counter, but our reflections make eye contact in the window. “I’m all right, thanks. Too much of a good thing, you know?”

  “That’s fine. You take care.”

  I tip my hat, still without turning. “You do the same.”

  Despite Fate’s best efforts, I don’t believe in Fate. I think whatever happens in a person’s life happens either just because, or it happens because someone—usually that person himself—makes it happen. Fate, I believe, is for suckers. But what’s that thing people say about the devil’s greatest trick? About how the craftiest thing old Lucifer ever did was convince the world he’s not real? Sometimes I think maybe Fate’s like that. Like its life work is making guys like me think it’s all a crock. And most times that works just fine, but every now and then, you see, Fate slips up. It goes and stumbles over its own feet, and then I notice it, and next thing I know, I’m considering its existence for those few seconds it takes to dust itself off and run back into the shadows. Sometimes it takes a little longer than a few seconds. Just as I’m about to get up and leave, Andrew appears in my head. My reflected transparent head. At first he’s tiny, so I think my eyes are screwing with me, but then the traffic light changes and he starts crossing the street, moving toward the drugstore, getting bigger and bigger, and by the time he’s halfway here, he’s so big that he can’t fit inside my head and I know for sure it can’t be anyone but him that I’m staring at. For a second, I’m worried he’ll spot me, but as he steps up onto the curb, I notice he’s not looking in my direction. His hands are stuffed into his pants pockets and eyes are on the ground, like he’s trying too hard to look inconspicuous or he’s avoiding someone. He turns and walks up the street, past me, past the drugstore. I give him five seconds and then walk outside and begin following him from a safe distance.

  Every now and then, he turns around and takes a look behind him, but he doesn’t spot me. Or if he does, I just look like another someone, so he keeps going. There are plenty of people out and about right now, and I make sure to keep close to the storefront side of the walkway because the streetlights have trouble reaching there. I follow him down West Eager Street, then across Cathedral and up Morton.

  A squeal of delight escapes me when I notice he’s approaching East Chase Street, but I turn it into a cough when I notice its pitch catching the attention of a man passing me by; last thing I need right now is to draw attention to myself. He rounds the corner onto East Chase and I waste no time thanking my lucky stars.

  He’s heading toward the Bellingham.

  Careful to maintain my distance, while at the same time keeping close enough, I follow Andrew up the street. His pace quickens as he approaches the hotel. He jogs up the steps, passing the doorman without dropping a penny in his upturned palm. I quicken my pace. I’ve got one hand in my pants pocket, sorting through the few coins I’ve got jingling around in there in search of a nickel. The game’s called incognito. The doorman is sure to remember a man who doesn’t tip as well, and he’s sure to remember a man who tips exceptionally well. A nickel is a good tip. Standard. Forgettable. Just right.

  I walk up the steps, nod without making eye contact, and hand the nickel to the doorman. He thanks me, and I don’t respond. Inside, I spot Andrew snaking toward the elevator. I make my way to the front desk.

  “Good evening, sir,” the man behind the desk says. He’s standing with his arms stretched out, his fingers splayed on the desk, reminding me of a blackjack dealer waiting at his table. “Checking in?”

  “No,” I say, “I’m meeting a friend of mine here, and I can’t remember what room he’s staying in.”

  “I see.”

  “His name is Easton. Andrew Easton.”

  “I’m afraid, sir,” he starts, sounding, actually, a little afraid, “that we can’t give out the room numbers of any of our guests. What I can do, though, is call his room on your behalf and let him know you’re here.”

  Before I have time to protest, he’s got the directory out and open. He slides his finger down one page, flips, repeats. “You said the name of the fellow was Easton, sir?” he asks, his eyebrows warping into a confused scrunch.

  “Yeah, look, pal, that’s okay. Forget it. You don’t need to disturb him in his room. I’m sure he’ll be right down. I can just grab a drink and wait for him in the—”

  “There doesn’t appear to be a Mister Easton checked in here, sir. Is there perhaps another name he may have checked in under?”

  “Nope, he…um, he wouldn’t do that. He said he was staying here at the Albion.”

  A closed, condescending smile steals across the man’s face. “Sir,” he says, “this is the Bellingham. The Albion is on Cathedral Street.”

  “Ah, hell!” I let out a big laugh. “Well, that explains that. Cathedral Street, you say?”

  “Yes, Cathedral. Not far from here. You go down North Charles, right onto West Eager, and then Cathedral will be your second left.”

  I repeat his directions. “Sounds easy enough,” I say.

  He smiles at me and I walk away from the desk, but before going far, I stop and turn back to him. “Say, pal, I don’t suppose you’ve got a restroom here I could use?”

  “Why yes, it’s just down that way.”

  “Thanks. You have a good night now.”

  I walk in the direction he’s pointed, but then zip over to the elevator. The kid operating is a different kid than before. When he spots me, he straightens up and pulls his finger out of his nose, in that order. He puts his working hand in his pocket and a flush splotches across his cheeks. “Good evening. W-what floor, sir?”

  “I’m not actually sure,” I tell him, stepping in close. “A friend of mine just came up here a second ago. I forgot his room number, though. Maybe you remember him? He’s about my height, wearing a burgundy suit with a matching hat. You must have just taken him up.”

  The kid clears his throat. Before he gets a word out, I lift up his goofy little pencil-eraser hat and pop a dollar underneath it. “Come on, kid. He’s a pal,” I say, at the same time giving my glasses a little push up the bridge of my nose to draw attention to them.

  The kid looks to his left, then to his right, probably letting both devil and angel plead their cases. He gulps, then reaches past me and pulls the gate shut. “Floor ten.”

  We ride up in silence and I exit without a parting word. The gate clacks shut behind me, and a moment later, the elevator begins its cacophonous descent. The lingering silence that follows freezes me where I stand. My heart thumps double time. My breaths become fast and shallow.

  What am I doing here?

  At the end of the hall, a doorknob turns, clicks, and a door squeaks open. A woman steps out from the open door. An electric shudder spreads through me. Genevieve? The hallway is so dim. Is it her? She closes the door and locks it and starts walking toward me. I’m paralyzed. Little puddles of light pour from the lamps mounted outside of each door, giving the darkness in between a grainy texture. She steps through light and dark, light and dark, becoming dimmer and clearer, dimmer and clearer as she nears me. Does she recognize me? Will she? Of course she will. The tap of her heels grows louder. The short void between each step is filled with the frantic thumping of my heart. I can feel it pounding in my ears, pulsing through the vein on my forehead like an angry river. She’s two light-puddles away from me.

  Tap tap tap.

  One puddle. Her hair, not the inky black I’m used to.

  Tap tap tap.

  Her hair is a deep, dark red. Thank Christ. Not Genevieve.

  She—whoever she is—passes me without so much as a glance and pushes the elevator call button. My heart slows down half a notch
. I start down the hall in the direction she’d just come from, moving slow because it occurs to me that I have no idea which room Andrew is in, and if she doesn’t step into the elevator before I reach the end of the hall, well, that sort of thing might look suspicious. A man walking down a hallway, pausing, then turning around and walking back… that’s the sort of thing you might mention to whoever’s at the front desk while you’re on your way out for a night on the town.

  I’m three rooms from the end of the hall when I hear the ding of a bell, followed by the metallic slide and clamorous halting of accordion doors. A second later, I hear the same two noises, then the familiar fading ruckus that accompanies a descent. For now, I’m alone.

  At the end of the hallway is a window looking out on an alley. Making sure to keep quiet, I try lifting it open. It doesn’t budge at first, but a few upward jerks crack it and I’m able to get my fingers between the window and the sill. I pull up, not opening it all the way, but just enough for me to fit through and get out onto the fire escape. Once I’m out, I slide the window back down, leaving only enough space for me to fit my pinky in on my way back.

  On my way back from ending a man’s life.

  It’s cool outside. My eyes need a minute to adjust to the darkness. Once everything takes shape, I scan the alley a few times. No one else is here. From where I stand, I can only see one room’s window—the room that the redhead came from—and its lights are off. To get access to any of the other rooms on the tenth floor, I’ll have to climb over the fire escape railing, onto the stone ledge that stretches around the building, and shimmy around the corner where I hope to find more fire escapes waiting for me. The ledge sticks out about eight inches. The bricks that the outer walls are made of look like they’ll allow me a little bit of grip, but what’s most important is that I make sure to keep my chest pressed as close to the wall as I’m able to. There’s a breeze, but only a light one. Nothing I can’t handle.

  I step over the fire escape gate and wipe my hands off on my pants, one at a time. Some chalk would be great right about now, but if I was going to stand here and list off everything that would be great right about now, well, I’d be here until the second coming. I reach out with my right hand and find a good spot on the wall to press my fingertips into, keeping my left gripped around the rail of the fire escape’s gate. I extend my right foot onto the stone ledge, which is about half a foot lower than the fire escape, and once I’ve got it safely on there, I let go with my left hand and begin to ease my chest against the wall, carefully moving my other two limbs out to join me.

  Looking at a ledge and standing on a ledge are two very different experiences. I don’t start moving right away. I need a moment to situate myself, to get used to the ledge. The breeze feels colder out here than it did standing on the fire escape. My hands, stiff and white, are already beginning to feel the chill. I dig the tips of my fingers into the wall and start shuffling along, my toes and the balls of my feet flat on the ledge, my heels standing on air; ladies and gentlemen, Mister Angel!

  The cold nipping at my hands rushes me a bit; I make it to the corner of the building pretty fast. Rounding the corner, though, that’s a move you don’t want to be hasty with. I press my body harder into the wall and, once my right side runs out of wall to lean on, reach one foot and one hand around the corner. My hand finds a spot, no problem, but the tip of my foot scrapes the ledge. Before my brain has time to realize the ramifications of such peril, I shove the foot forward against the wall. I’m hugging the intersection of two different sides of the same building. I then slide my left half around the corner. Not quite a cake walk, but almost.

  The window closest to me is dark. It’s the redhead’s, too. The windows after that go lights on, lights off, lights off, lights on. Andrew’s got to be in one of the lit rooms. Each window has a fire escape outside of it. The fire escapes aren’t connected, but I won’t have any trouble taking the ledge from one to the next.

  So that’s just what I do.

  Shuffle, hoist, climb, shuffle.

  I crouch low when I reach the fire escape outside the first lit room. I can hear people talking from inside, but the closed window and the soft whoosh of the breeze muffles the voices so I can’t make out what’s being said. Keeping low, I move past the window, so that I’m right against the gate of the fire escape. From there, I sit up—just a little—so I can get an angle on the place. In the sliver I’m privy to is the animated torso and arms of a heavyset man in his undershirt. He’s moving his arms around like he’s trying to make a point, and his gut, which looks host to a couple of bowling balls, is bouncing along with each movement. There’s a woman standing in front of him, but the glimpses of her that I see are subject to the whims of the man’s moving arms. The next lit window is two rooms down. I hop the gate onto the ledge and make my way to the next fire escape. Just as I’m about to hoist myself up, the window of the dark room comes open a crack.

  “Get some fresh air in here.” The words are almost carried off by the swirling night air, but the voice…I know that voice! One second later—just one measly second!—and Andrew would have opened the window right in time to see me climbing over the gate! My feet are still on the ledge, but both hands are wrapped around the lower part of the fire escape gate. I stay dead still. I don’t know if he’s still by the window, but if he is—even the slightest movement of my hands could be enough to catch his eye and…

  And I won’t even think about that.

  Dead still. Dead still for a minute. Two. Five. More.

  My hands are entirely numb when I finally get the nerve to pull them from the gate and back to the wall of the building. Who was he talking to? Anyone? No one? I didn’t hear any response when he spoke—not a peep—but who’s to say that meant a damn thing at all?

  I wait a minute longer and then place my hands back on the lowest of the gate’s three horizontal bars. Slowly, I pull myself up so that my feet are on the floor. On all of the previous fire escapes, I’d gone over the top bar of the gate. This time, I poke my head in the gap between the second and top bar and then snake through, bringing myself inside the gate.

  The window is only open a few inches. It’s still dark inside, and I’ve heard nothing since Andrew opened the window however many minutes ago. I don’t know where I found the courage to sit up enough to peer in, but wherever inside me that courage came from, I knew it was the sort of thing that a person could use once and once only, the sort of thing that’s plucked from soil that turns salty and barren the instant the lone vine feels a tug.

  In the half-second glance I take, I see a bed with the lump of a person on it, a nightstand with a half-empty bottle of something on it, and a chair in the corner with a suit draped over it. The bathroom door is closed, but the light has been left on, and the beam it casts touches just enough of the corner chair to show me that the suit resting there is the same one Andrew was wearing when I spotted him outside the drugstore earlier tonight. I sink back down, out of view, and wait.

  Minutes pass and not one sound comes from the room. When I sit back up and take a quick look in, I see that nothing has changed. The bathroom light is still on, the door still closed. The shape on the bed is moving up and down with the sort of steady breath that comes from someone in a deep sleep. My eye moves to the bottle on the nightstand. The dumb bastard was probably half drunk when I spotted him earlier. He probably came back to the room, took a few swigs, and passed out like a bag of bricks. It’s a wonder he managed to get himself under the covers.

  I give the window the slightest push up, moving it only about an inch at first to make sure that it doesn’t squeak or anything. A light snore drifts out through the widened gap. I push the window up a bit more. Then a bit more.

  I’ve got to be quick about it. In and out. I’ve got to be quick so that the bubbling mass of fear—and maybe reason—in my stomach doesn’t have time to climb up to my brain.

  In and out.

  The window is open wide enough for me to cra
wl in. So that’s what I do.

  I’d gotten used to outside the building—the October wind’s shushing, the clamour of cars from the street around the block, the infinite hum that every city seems to have if you know to listen for it—so the quiet that greets me once I spill into the room is a bit jarring. Steady breathing accompanied by an intermittent snore, the faint whir of a ceiling fan left on in another room. I’m down on all fours. With my right hand, I reach into my jacket and take out my flick knife. Light from somewhere behind me, somewhere outside, catches the tip of the blade when I open it. For a second, I’m mesmerized by the tiny shining star glinting on the steel in my hand. But then…

  In and out.

  I stand up and move over to the side of the bed, my hand tightening around the knife handle. Andrew is sprawled across the bed, lying on a sort of diagonal slant. His head, covered by the bedsheet, is barely touching the pillow closest to me. His feet poke out from the covers on the bottom corner on the opposite side. Sunnyside down, his back rises and falls with each deep breath. I plant my hand on the back of his head and plunge the knife into the side of his neck. His body jolts. Every limb thrashes. He tries to roll over to face me, so I put more pressure on the back of his head and dish out three more stabs: two in the side, as close to his stomach as I can reach, and one square in the back.

  His body tenses, but he’s shaking like he’s plugged into a generator. Pools of blood expand across the blue bedsheets. A sickening, desperate gurgle that I know I will never forget for as long as I live escapes him. I give him another one in the side. Then another, and another. In and out.

  How the hell is he still moving? Tremors race through my arms. For one second, I’m lighter than air. My grip on the knife slackens. The pressure I’m putting on him goes down. Andrew is jerking about like a fucking spastic, tangling himself up in the sheets.