Only Pretty Damned

by Niall Howell

  My God, all the blood.

  How the hell is he still moving?!

  He manages to roll over onto his back. I hammer the blade into his chest twice. I’m on top of him now. When the hell did I get on top of him? His arms have found their way up from under the covers. I feel his hands clasp my shoulders, but they’re weak, useless. I swing my arms out, whipping his hands off of me. They fall away, limp.

  I push myself up from the bed. The sheets move with me; I’ve managed to get myself tangled, too. When I twist free, I see his face for the first time. His mouth gaping, blood trickling like water from a broken faucet; his tongue pokes out and his face is frozen in a rigid expression of terror.

  And I’m being stared at. The eyes on me are wide and confused. They are misty—wet with tears from a well that will never be pumped again—and they are lifeless. They are also not Andrew’s.

  The bathroom door clicks open.

  FAST AS HELL. THE STAIRS ARE STEEP. THEY'RE HALF- ladder. I’m surprised I don’t trip over my feet and tumble down face-first.

  I have two flights to go. I’m halfway down the first set when I hear the scream. Andrew’s scream. It spears me. I jump down to the last balcony, landing with a metallic rattle. Fuck the stairs. I hop the railing. The drop is longer than it looked pre-jump. When I hit the street, I tumble and roll, shoulder to concrete. I know how to land. Shoulder to concrete: it hurts, but I know how to land.

  He’ll be looking out the window now. He’ll see me getting to my feet. I get up and charge left, toward the street.

  “Help! Jesus Christ, somebody help!” His scream is sharp, cutting. It makes the night that much colder. “STOP HIM!” His voice cracks into a sob: “Somebody fucking stop him!”

  Together, the Bellingham and the brown-brick office on the other side of the alley frame the street. I force myself to slow down when I get close. Rushing into a crowd isn’t the sort of thing you do when there’s someone screaming for help in the darkness behind you. The infinite city din greets me when I cross the threshold between street and alley. It’s not much noise, but it’s enough. I can still hear Andrew screaming in the swelling distance, mind you, but I’m listening for it. The street isn’t busy, but it isn’t empty. An older man standing across the street shoots me a look. I go to pull my hat down.

  Fuck.

  No hat. It would have either fallen off in the alley or in the hotel room. Either one is bad news. But one is worse news. I try to push the thought out of my head.

  I notice my hands shaking.

  What the hell is that old man staring at?

  I turn my foiled hat adjustment into a forehead scratch. I check to make sure my glasses are still there and then turn left as nonchalantly as I can and start down the block, toward the front of the Bellingham.

  The door is opened for me when I hit the first step. The doorman smiles and says, “Good evening, sir.” I don’t want to appear in a hurry, but I don’t know how fast word will reach the lobby. If it hasn’t already.

  I nod and smile, accept a good evening and wish one back. I’m halfway up the stairs when I notice the wetness on my right hand. I shove the hand into my coat pocket, then use it to open the coat so I can reach into the inside pocket with my shaky left. My hand doesn’t go in too far. The knife is taking up most of the pocket space. I forgot to close it, but at least I remembered to take it with me. One less thing to worry about.

  There’s a small group of five or six men and women chatting with a bellhop. I walk around them, using their uniformly plump suit and gown-clad bodies as a curtain so I don’t have to walk directly past the front desk. The man behind the desk is on the telephone. He’s not talking, he’s only listening. His expression is grave.

  I slow down a bit when I see that the elevator door is open. Two guests and the same operator who took me up earlier stand in the doorway. A bell dings a moment later. The door closes. I quicken my pace and push through the door that leads to the staircase.

  I half expect to run into Andrew on my sprint up to my room on the sixth floor. But I don’t. I don’t run into anybody. A quick look left, then right, and I rush to my door, fumbling—and nearly dropping—the key twice before I get in and close the door behind me. I twist the deadbolt and slide the chain lock. I push the sick feeling that’s been creeping over me back as far as I can and rush to the bathroom.

  These goddamn shakes won’t let up. When I lift the lid off the toilet tank, I nearly drop it against the sink—Christ, what a thing to do! Hello? Front desk? I don’t know if it has anything to do with the murder a couple floors up, but a loud crashing sound jut came from the room next to me. It sounded like something breaking. I place the lid on the bathroom floor, then start undressing. My clothes are pasted to my body. I peel my shirt and pants off like half-set wallpaper, then place them along with my glasses and jacket into the toilet tank. The lid doesn’t go on all the way, so I take both hands and give everything a hard shove down. That does it.

  Instinct takes me to the shower, but common sense gets me out. A shower during a time like this? All that noise? Water rocketing up, from the boiler room to the sixth floor, through a maze of metal pipes, hissing so loud it can be heard from the end of the hall. If the cops haven’t arrived at the hotel already, they will any minute now. The sound of a shower might be just the kind of thing that’d tip them off. I turn the bathroom sink tap to a drizzle and give it a minute to warm up, then I wash my hands, my face, and my neck, working up a foamy lather with the cheap hotel soap. Why is it that even nice hotels have the cheapest, shittiest soap? I dry off quickly and put my fresh suit on. I move to the mirror and check myself over. No blood. I’m quite pale, and anyone who knew me might think I look maybe a little tired, but there’s no blood. I double and then triple check; definitely no blood.

  The elevator doesn’t show. I didn’t want to take the stairs down—thought it might look shifty, a guy avoiding the elevator after someone had just been…

  During a time like this.

  I give it another minute and then take the stairs.

  That sick feeling’s a persistent bastard. Something about the echoing tap of my footsteps bouncing around the concrete stairwell makes it worse. I’m thankful for railings.

  The lobby’s buzz can be heard two flights up.

  Because I have to, I pull myself together before pushing through the door.

  Holy hell, what a scene to walk into!

  Newspaper men. A horde of gossips bouncing around like molecules. A medic tending to an unconscious woman who looks to have fainted in her husband’s arms. I spot two police officers, notepads out, interviewing guests on opposite ends of the lobby. The front desk clerk is pacing back and forth, back and forth, like he’s supposed to be tending to something but he’s not sure what. I move through the crowd, not rushing, but not slow enough to rouse suspicion, taking in snippets of chatter on my way.

  “…and in a classy place like this. My God!”

  “…heard it was a suicide.”

  “…resisting arrest. They’ll probably drag him through here any minute.”

  A bunch of curious men and women are peering in the front window. For the moment, the door to the street is unattended. My first thought is that the doorman is being interviewed by police. You’d think he’d be one of the first ones they talk to. Who came in? Who came out? But as I near the door, I see the doorman is out on the street, doing his best to shoo away all the nosy folks congregating outside.

  Another black-and-white (there are two that I can see already parked) pulls up in front of the hotel as I step out. I make my way down the steps, doing my best to look like I’ve no clue what all the fuss is over, like I’m rather annoyed by all this racket. The cop who just pulled up steps out of his cruiser, kicking the door closed with such force that the vehicle gives a little wiggle when door meets jamb. He looks at the gathering crowd. His face is a carved hunk of wood that someone gave up on. His hands are clenched into fists, and his neck is hunched forward in a
way that reminds me of a wolf getting ready to pounce. He looks at me. He opens his mouth to say something, but then someone from the crowd shouts, “Hey, officer, you want to tell us what the hell is going on in there?”

  The cop doesn’t like that one bit; he’s the one who asks the questions. He turns in the direction the voice came from. Looking at the bunch, it takes about two seconds to figure out who the smart ass is. He’s wearing a checkered suit and a face full of regret. Everyone is looking at him in a better-him-than-me way. That’s my out. I weave around a few scattered onlookers and head up the street. I don’t look back once.

  After walking a couple blocks, I flag a cab. “Where’s a decent place to grab a drink?” My voice cracks as I speak. The way the words tumble out, forced, rigid, I sound like a Martian taking his first stab at earth chatter.

  “There’s a bunch of decent places around here. What kinda—”

  “Not around here. I’m sick of this area. You know anything on the other side of the expressway?” This time I sound more natural. The driver scrunches his face. You can tell the gears need some grease.

  “There’s a nice little place on East Lafayette,” he says a moment later.

  “Sounds perfect.”

  He shrugs, turns around, and pulls into traffic.

  He’s not the chatty kind of cabbie, which suits me fine. No small talk bullshit, just one man taking another from Point A to Point B. No need to exchange life stories, or even pleasantries. No need for any exchange beyond the two dollars I hand him when we reach my destination. The sign outside the place casts a sickly blue neon glow on the sidewalk. I think about baptism as I pass through it and enter the tavern. It’s neither busy nor dead. A waitress smiles at me and tells me I can sit wherever I like, so I head to a small corner table. I look the drinks menu over without actually reading it. When a different waitress comes by a moment later, I order a double gin on ice.

  By the third drink, my nerves begin to settle. But with the settling of nerves, my mind begins to race.

  How long do I wait? Will cops be scouring every inch of the hotel, knocking on every door and interviewing every man, woman, and child registered? Did anyone spot me? Yes. Yes, someone did. There was an old man staring at me from across the street when I came out from the alley. I remember. He was staring at me when I went to pull my hat down, only to find it gone. Where did that damn hat end up, anyway? I was wearing it when I climbed out onto the fire escape, wasn’t I? Yes, I’m sure of it. So where did it go? Had it blown off my head? It’s possible. There was a breeze, and if the hat blew off, I might have been too preoccupied to notice. Or maybe it fell off when I was in the room. Christ, if that were the case…

  Maybe I’m worrying about nothing. A hat in a room. So what? What’s so suspicious about a hat in a room? A hat seems pretty inconsequential when you put it next to a dead body. A dead body and a live one, too. A hat is the least suspicious part of that picture. And that’s if the hat is even in the room at all. It’s got to be in the alley, and in that case, so what? A hat in the alley: it blew off some guy’s head—any guy’s head! A hat in an alley means jack.

  But then there’s the matter of my clothes. Crammed into the toilet tank in my room. I need a bag. A sturdy plastic one. But where would I get one at this hour?

  “Can I get you another?”

  I look up at the waitress. She looks like she’s reached that point in her shift where even the faintest smile is too much of a burden. “Another drink?” she says, gesturing with her head at my empty glass.

  “Yes, thank you. I’ll have another.”

  Without responding, she turns and heads toward the bar. Something about her walk is funny. She’s not quite limping, but the way she moves, you’d think she were walking across hot coals. My eyes move down her backside, down her legs, to her feet: there’s the problem. The high heels she’s wearing are the source of the torture. A plastic bandage pokes out of the back of each shoe.

  The room has thinned out a bit now. Everyone in here looks distinctly middle class. There are a few dates, a few double dates. A few other lone drinkers like myself, men and women who don’t look happy to be here, but who also don’t want to leave just yet; wherever they’re from or wherever they’re going, here is better than there for the time being. A few tables down from me, a salesman type is dabbing at his tie with a napkin. There are a couple little puddles on the table in front of him and a larger puddle around his half-empty beer glass. Something occurs to me.

  “Miss!” I shout, “Excuse me, Miss!” The waitress whips around and shoots me an irritated look. She comes over and stops at the edge of my table in a way that reminds me of the way a hockey player comes to a stop. “Yes, what is it?” Her tone is the accompanying spray of ice.

  “I’m sorry, but could I please change my order?”

  “I’ve already placed the order,” she says. “Eddie’s probably already poured the gin. The double gin. If you can’t make up your mind about—”

  “That’s fine, I’ll still take the gin. I’d just also like to order a beer.”

  She regards me for a moment, then: “Sure. I’ll bring you a beer. What kinda beer you want?”

  “Something good,” I tell her.

  “Sure. One of those, coming right up. With your double gin.”

  She brings both drinks over a minute later. I tell her thank you and she gives no indication that she hears me. I down the gin in quick mouthfuls. Once I’m down to ice, I slide the glass out of the way and take a sip of the beer. Whatever the hell it is, it isn’t the something good I’d asked for. I take a few more sips, then take a quick look around the room to make sure no one’s paying attention to me. No one is. Everyone sharing a table is chatting away and everyone sitting solo is staring down, either into their glass or at the empty chair across from them. The waitress is standing at the bar, leaning on the counter with her back to me. I take my glass—still at least two-thirds full—and pour it on my coat.

  “Aw, goddamn it!” I groan. “Isn’t that just great?” I look up at the waitress. She’s already on her way over, cloth in hand. She’s got this expression like she knew I was going to spill that drink five minutes before I even walked in here.

  “Geez, I’m sorry, Miss.”

  “You forget where your mouth is?” She tosses me the cloth.

  “I guess I must have.” I take the cloth from her and start dabbing at my coat, where I’d tried to get all the beer. Some got on my lap, and, naturally, the table, and a bit got on my shirt, but my coat got most of it.

  While I dab away, the waitress walks back to the bar. She returns a minute later with another cloth—this one wet—and starts wiping down the table. “You know,” I say to her, raising the now sopping cloth she’d given me, “I appreciate this, but I’m not sure the cloth is going to do much good here. Do you think I could bring me a plastic trash bag to put my coat in?”

  “I suppose so,” she sighs. “And I think I’ll bring you your cheque as well.”

  I check my watch. “Are you closing up soon?”

  “I wish.”

  I pay my cheque and leave her a dime for her trouble.

  I’ve got this queasy feeling in my gut the whole cab ride back. Relief washes over me when we round East Chase and I see that there are no black and whites parked in front of the Bellingham. The man at the front desk assures me that they will have my jacket cleaned for tomorrow morning when I leave. I ball the plastic bag up in my hand while he finds a hanger for the jacket. He makes no mention of what happened here earlier tonight. And, really, can you blame him?

  When I get back to my room, I remove the lid from the tank, take out my dirty clothes, and place them in the plastic bag. I tie two tight knots and place the bag next to my suitcase. After a few hours and a few handfuls of rocks, it’ll be sitting at the bottom of Druid Lake, out of my hands and out of my mind.

  IT'S EARLY, AND STILL DARK WHEN I RETURN TO Rowland’s World Class Circus. I notice the unfamiliar car as my lift pulls
into the lot. It’s parked on a sharp diagonal, the way people park when they’re in a rush and simply can’t be bothered. I step out of the clunky old pickup that brought me back and go to take a closer look at the car, but Julian’s voice pulls my eyes away from the car. I look up and see him charging toward me, a man possessed.

  “Toby,” he shouts, waving his arms at me. “Holy hell, Toby!”

  I quicken my pace to something just shy of a jog. When I meet Julian, he is hunched forward, hands planted on bent knees, supporting his upper half. “Toby…my God, you…you wouldn’t believe…”

  “Easy, pal,” I say, giving him a light pat on the shoulder, “it’s a lot easier to speak when you can breathe.”

  Julian nods and then takes a few seconds to catch his breath. “The police are here, Toby,” he says a moment later. “There…there’s been a murder!”

  “Jesus Christ!” I say. “You better not be pulling my—”

  “I’m not, Toby!” Julian insists, straightening up and looking me in the eye. “Two plainclothes officers got here about an hour ago. That’s their car right there,” he points out the mystery car, the black Chevrolet behind me. “They’ve been going around questioning people. I know they’ve spoken to Genevieve, and—”

  “Julian,” my voice comes out louder than I intend it, “are you saying someone from here was murdered, or someone from here is a murderer?”

  “Both!” he shouts, grabbing my shoulders and giving me a light shake for emphasis. “Both!” he repeats.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “That Syc,” he tells me. “What’s his name…Reuben. No. Raymond?”

  “Rupert?”

  A spark of recognition flashes in Julian’s eyes. “Rupert!” he says. “That’s him!”

  “Rupert was—”

  “Killed, Toby! Rupert was stabbed to death last night in Baltimore, and they think your pal Andrew did it!”

  I can feel the colour leave my face, as though a plug hidden beneath my chin has been tugged free and all but the sickliest white comes spilling out onto the dirty ground. “Did you say they were questioning Genevieve?” I manage after a moment.