by Steven John
I got to Watley’s building, double-checked my info, and went up to the outer door. To my surprise and relief, it was unlocked; I hadn’t really made a contingency plan. Well, that part was easy. I stepped into and through the vent chamber and into just what I’d expected: a large, well-appointed lobby. A few oil paintings, an ornate—albeit unoccupied—reception desk, carpets with dark floral patterns: the works. No one around. It was silent save the hum of the ventilation system.
His apartment was on the second floor. I bypassed the elevator and jogged up a wide spiral staircase. My footfalls echoed off the granite steps as I took them two at a time. When I got to his floor, I was momentarily dazed. There were only two apartments on the whole floor. I’d assumed the place had been gutted and packed full of little rat’s nests. But no—this place was pristine, elegant; it was lost in time. There was no way he could afford this working for Vessel.
I lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, then crammed it into the corner of my mouth. Three deep breaths. I punched each fist into the opposing palm a few times. Get angry. Get ugly. Then get answers.
I hammered down on the door marked 2 with the heel of my hand five times. Waited about ten seconds. Three more loud knocks. Then it opened.
Watley stood framed by the large doorway wearing a rich, embroidered robe over slacks and leather slippers. His middle-aged face looked more intrigued than confused beneath carefully combed graying blond hair. His lips parted slightly as if to speak, but he did not.
I took a long drag of my smoke. “John Watley?”
“Yes,” he said, answering my rhetorical question flatly.
“Vale. Remember me?” I jammed my palm against his chest and gathered folds of his robe and shirt into a fist, pushing him back into the apartment as I entered. I kicked the door shut behind me. Watley wrapped his hands around my wrist but did not so much struggle as he did lead me a few more feet into the room. He backed up against a crimson leather chair and sat down roughly, shoving my hand away from him as he did so.
“This is very improper, Mr. Vale. Not done well at all.”
“Don’t talk, Watley.” I looked around. This place was a palace. I stood in a room the size of my apartment and then some. Twenty-foot ceilings. Plush carpets covering a polished hardwood floor. Intricate moldings and massive bookshelves and ornate brass lamps … leather furniture … marble … There was even a finely appointed bar set into one corner, bristling with bottles and glassware. Down one of two halls connected to the living room, I could see what looked to be a dining room. The other hall was darkened. Faint big band music drifted through the bright, crisp air from somewhere.
“So how much does Eddie pay you again?” I asked, picking up a large clothbound book from the mahogany table by his chair.
“I think a better question might be how much is he paying you?”
I snorted out a little laugh. “Never enough.”
“No, I doubt it will be.”
I poked around through the room a bit more, trying to look like my efforts were concerted, but frankly, I was in awe of the opulence. I hadn’t seen a place like this in years. Eventually, I began my little speech.
“Well, John, let’s get into it, huh? Last time I saw you, you were wearing a blue button-down shirt and a pair of ill-fitting khakis. Now a fancy robe. Ed gets robbed, you live rich. And you don’t seem all that surprised by my being here. See, what I do is not what people tend to think of as detective work, per se.…”
I tapped my cigarette ash onto the wooden floor; Watley winced, looking pissed. “What I do is more like a research scientist. I make some observations—like, for example, I can see that someone has been robbing a warehouse. Then I make a hypothesis … like, say, I think maybe that someone is in this room and wearing slippers and a robe … then, I test my hypothesis.…”
I took a few steps and stood right before him. “I test it and make sure it tells me if it’s true or not. It’s pretty easy to do that. I have a lot of experience, see?”
Watley barely batted an eyelash. His skin was still a healthy tone, his breathing steady and calm. What the fuck? Most people are at least a bit on edge by now. Asking questions and talking fast. Not this guy.
“So I can start my line of questioning, or you—” Watley stood up and raised a palm to quiet me. Surprised, I actually fell silent. He strolled to the sideboard bar.
“Care for a drink, Vale?”
I sputtered for a second and then, trying to sound like a tough guy, growled: “Yeah, a strong one.”
“Well, do come over and pick what you’d like.”
On autopilot, I walked toward him and stared vacantly at the many foreign-looking bottles before me.
“No scotch worth much, I’m afraid. Here … try this cognac.” He pulled a bottle from the front row and poured two fingers into a tumbler glass. He added three large ice cubes from a pewter bucket and handed the drink to me, shaking it from side to side so the ice clinked against the glass.
He held the bottle in his hand, looking down at the French label absentmindedly. I took a sip. It was delicious. Absolutely amazing stuff. He poured himself a glass, neat.
Watley looked up at me. Smiled warmly. He looked over at a bookshelf next to us. I followed his eyes to a pistol lying on the shelf. A revolver. I looked back at him, and he nodded imperceptibly, and then raised the bottle a bit in his hand.
“There’s plenty more where that came from,” he said, his tone grave. “So drink up. Enjoy, Thomas, enjoy. Now come have a seat, and let’s talk with a bit more civility. Let’s keep it just two gentlemen chatting.”
As if hypnotized, I complied and sat down on a soft, luxurious couch across from him. I sipped at the cognac.
“Now, you said you liked to conduct your affairs almost like a … What was your metaphor? Like a research scientist? Fascinating! I’ll wager there are scientists who like to think of themselves as detectives too. Much more romantic. Detectives searching through layers of data for clues. Scientists in the lab searching for answers and the detective out in the foggy streets searching for—” He took a long sip from his glass. “—answers as well. So, tell me about yourself. Tell me about your case.”
“Why don’t you tell me about my case instead,” I said evenly. It was not a question. I needed to regain the power, to not be cowed by his demeanor or liquor or even the pistol, though I’d not actually been threatened with a handgun in years. They’re fabulously illegal. Extremely rare. The bullets alone cost a fortune, no less.
“What could I tell you? I obviously have no need of increased wealth. I want for nothing, really, other than perhaps a few more days of blue skies.” He smiled a coy, reptilian little grin at me. His eyes flashed. I could have smashed my glass against his teeth if he’d held my gaze a second longer than he did. He looked away, his eyes drifting around his home. “So why would I take silly little things from a silly little place?”
“You wouldn’t. That’s part of the whole mystery here. See what I find the most … oh, not suspicious, of course … intriguing question, if you will, is why are you there in the first place?”
“Working for Edward, you mean?”
“You know that’s what I mean. Cut the shit. I came here for answers. I’ve known you were dirty since I first laid eyes on you, Watley. Rich, fat, and happy—I didn’t expect that, and it doesn’t make sense. Yet. But what does make sense to me is that a wealthy man needlessly working a dead end job likely has just as much reason to steal as a poor, desperate man in the same place.” I knocked back the last of my liquor and rose, stepping around the coffee table that separated us. I got between him and the gun, glancing over at it to let him see I knew my options.
“Mr. Vale, please…”
“Drop the polite shit! How did you know my first name? Talk fast or this fine cut crystal is in your forehead!” I wrapped my fingers tightly around the highball glass and raised it slightly, near his eyes. Calm as a lazy river. He almost looked melancholy, disappointed by my aggressi
on.
“You really know much less even than you think you do. You really should practice more tact.” He was looking past me into space. Watley idly raised one hand as if about to wave or gesture and then sighed, studying his fingernails before looking up at me.
Then it hit me—we weren’t alone. He hadn’t been looking into space at all. The dark hallway … he’d said something about “keeping it the two of us” when he’d first revealed the revolver earlier … calm when tacitly threatened with it. And then, as Watley sighed again and my thoughts began to race, I realized something else: The music had stopped. Shit.
I stepped away from him and calmly set my glass down on the coffee table. I sat back down on the couch. Forced a smile.
“I guess I can leave the streets outside when I step into this parlor, hmm?”
“One would hope so.” His eyes were cold.
“Tell me, Watley, I was under the impression you had a wife, children. Where are they?”
“I don’t spend all my time in the—” He paused, shifting slightly in his chair. “—in this residence. I have many.”
“Must be nice.”
He didn’t answer, and I racked my brain to keep the conversation going long enough to make a smooth exit.
“What did you do pre-fog?”
“I gathered wealth about me. Many things. I did many things, and I gathered a life around me.”
“Okay … I won’t pry. In fact, I’ll go. I don’t get you. I don’t get this—” I waved my hand around at the room. “—but I suppose it’s true: Why would you rob a little guy like Eddie? No reason for it when you don’t need wealth or items.”
“Stay awhile. Let’s hear your other theories on this mystery of ours.”
I rose and walked straight for the door. Behind me, I heard Watley begin to rise quickly but then settle back down into his chair. I turned the knob, half-expecting to find myself locked in, and then pulled open the door.
In the hall, I paused and turned back. I waited to see if he’d say anything. He held my gaze. I watched his eyes for any movement … observed his breathing … his skin … any nonverbal response.… “John,” I said quietly. He tilted his head to one side receptively. “I know it’s you. I know it.”
Nothing. The picture of tranquility. His lips curled up into that same smug bastard smile. “You know nothing,” he whispered. I broke eye contact, grabbed hold of the massive door, and slammed it behind me.
* * *
My apartment was more depressing than ever. A tiny cell with a few cans of government-issue food and some cheap liquor. My stained and scratched-up pressboard coffee table. The bed with its never-changed sheets. Rust all over the bathroom. I looked around the place as if seeing it for the first time, as if I had stepped into someone else’s home and thought, How do you live like this? How is this your life?
On top of my newfound loathing of the place, I also didn’t feel safe there. There was no way everything today had been coincidence. You’ll figure it out, Tommy. You’ll figure it out. Always do. Always have, anyway. I muttered some of this out loud; some I repeated in my head as I paced around my little home. I grabbed a bottle of scotch from under the sink and started taking small pulls from it.
My mind was racing but going nowhere. I knew it was a bad plan, that I wasn’t secure in my own place and that I should have my wits about me, but getting a little drunk sounded divine. I had thrown my button-down shirt into a pile in the corner and now stripped off my T-shirt. The cloth stuck to my skin, damp from mist and perspiration, and it took some wriggling and twisting before I was finally free of it and bare chested. My breath came quickly and I stepped before the window and looked out into the gray black evening. My lips parted and eyes blazed, and for a while I felt as if something were about to happen—something outside of me or from within.
I looked over my shoulder at the small room. Nothing, of course. I pressed my forehead against the glass, but all I could see was the faintest outline of the street below in the pale yellow glow of the shitshop. My hands were trembling, and I realized I was still holding the T-shirt balled up in my left fist. I dragged it across my brow and then violently threw it to the floor. After a large gulp of scotch, I slammed the bottle down on the table and returned to the window.
I pushed both palms against the pane, arms raised above me. Slowly I leaned forward until my chest pressed against it too. The cold glass was soothing, comforting even, tangible. My life had been so stable, in its own way, for so long that these few days spent stumbling into the unknown were taking their toll. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Did I just wait and see if Rebecca showed up tomorrow and politely ask what the hell she’d gotten me into? Rebecca whose last name I didn’t know. Becca the lovely chameleon, the frightened lover, the little rich girl …
I pressed the side of my face to the glass. The skin by my right eye stretched and my vision blurred. The world was one half my living room, one half a swirl of yellow and gray. Then … I thought for just a fleeting second I had seen a man wearing a fedora on the street below me looking up. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, scanning the haze. A trick of the eye? Must have been …
Then I bolted for the door, grabbing the whiskey bottle—it being the only blunt object that came to hand—and leapt down the stairs, taking them four and five at a time. I burst out onto the street and stopped just off the sidewalk, my feet wide, arms up, looking from side to side. Silence. A faint breeze stirred the evening, swirling about me. I was still for a long time. Scarcely breathing. Nothing.
Then, from very far off, came the faint sound of receding footfalls. Not those of anyone trying to flee or be stealthy—just a man walking away. I craned my neck from side to side, trying to determine from which direction they came. I was sure it was right and then left. I stood upright, looked down at the whiskey bottle in my hand. The amber liquid was dark in the pale light of the shop’s sign. I backed up against the bricks and felt them on my skin, cool and crumbling. I took a sip of scotch. It wasn’t so foggy tonight. I could see three orbs in either direction. They shone like angry eyes, frowning at me half-naked and frightened and alone in the night.
I went back inside. I poured a tall glass of liquor and a small glass of water and placed three pills on the table. I gathered up the papers strewn about the place and stacked them in an uneven pile in a corner. As I rose, looking down at my notes and observations and scribbled theories, I thought that maybe I’d never touch them again. “Can’t help you now, Eddie,” I said in a slow whisper. Can’t do anything but try to help myself.
I gulped scotch and took little sips of water and tried not to think about anything. Every time I made a connection, it only confused me further. The man in the blue suit with the piercing eyes … he had looked at me like one stares across the ring at his opponent, not like one examines something new. Watley hadn’t seemed the least bit surprised by me showing up at his door. He seemed more like he had been waiting for it. Becca was lying about her lover. I was just trying to survive each day. Just trying to have a few dollars and a bed.
Before I joined the army, I had tried my hand at a few other things and failed like a champion. I worked in an office for a few months once. Or maybe it was weeks. Strapped to a desk and making phone calls and filling out forms, trying to get a few orders filled each day. Paper. The company sold raw paper to manufacturers. We’d sell the pulp that they would turn into cardboard boxes or posters or toilet tissue or whatever else. The management used to extol the virtues of our lowly enterprise, pouring aphorisms about greater good and necessary service and other such bullshit down on our heads. “Remember, everything you buy comes packaged in paper. Every idea is written down before it’s carried out.” I was twenty-one years old when I took that job and twenty-one when I quit.
I was a cog. I couldn’t take it. If everyone in the company were essential to every part of the company as they would preach, fine, but anyone could be one of those everyone, and I could not. I stole pens a
nd a coffee mug and left. Everyone wants to think of themselves as honest and good, but Number One comes first. Always. The person who tells you they are truly honest, truly pure—that person has just lied and torn their own ethos apart. Sure, I don’t want to hurt anyone who doesn’t hurt anyone else, but I’ll take your bread if you won’t realize it’s gone. I too must eat bread.
For months I did nothing. My parents would call me and ask how life was and I would be as pleasant as I could force and then get off the phone. I lived not fifteen miles away from home yet hardly ever saw them. It was not for lack of love for them that I became a recluse; it was because of the confusion and disgust I felt with myself.
On my darkest days in those early years, nothing filled me with more revulsion and ennui than the knowledge that my self-loathing and listlessness were entirely not unique. My father had given me his old car. It was a reliable but wretched gray sedan with scratches all along the left side and a muffler that coughed and wheezed until I got into fourth or fifth gear. But it was my home on wheels. My room with a view. I would stuff a few beers and a pack of cigarettes into the glove box and drive out of the city into the fields and just roll along for hours. Sometimes I’d go fifty, sixty, a hundred miles in one direction before I realized I had to turn back.