Three A.M.

by Steven John

  I closed my eyes tightly, pressing the tip of a forefinger and thumb against each eyelid. Walking in a small, aimless circle with my eyes still closed, I began mouthing my thoughts silently.

  The phone rang.

  It seemed deafening in the otherwise silent warehouse. Eddie’s eyes opened wide, and he jumped up from his chair. He started toward the office as the ringer clattered noisily for a second time, but stopped short off my hard look.

  “Hardly ever get calls?” I asked.

  “Hardly ever.” He shook his head solemnly.

  I held his gaze for a beat, and then rushed for the door. “Lie for me, Ed—I wasn’t here.” I clapped him on the shoulder as I passed him. I stopped in the doorway to the office and turned back, saying over my shoulder: “It was Watley, by the way. I don’t know exactly how and much less why, but he’s the one. We talked.” Eddie looked away, nodding slowly. I burst through the office door and leapt down the stairs, leaving Eddie standing there alone in a big empty room, hands limply by his sides and his eyes on the floor.

  * * *

  I had half expected them to be waiting in the stairway. Whoever the hell they were. As I roamed aimlessly about the city at midday, on every face that appeared in the swirling mist, I saw the black-suited man from Research. Dark piercing eyes, dark skin. Close on my trail, and me not even certain what I was following that made my trail so hot.

  I wanted to go home and pore over my old notes from the weeks I’d spent working for Ed. See if anything popped out at me. But I knew it wasn’t safe. Couldn’t go to the office either, I figured. The safest place to be was in the middle of the street, surrounded by gray, and where everyone keeps their eyes on their feet. I came to a corner and ran my hand along the cement of a building until I found the brass street plate of Cathedral Street.

  Years ago, this was a wide, beautiful road lined with white birches spaced evenly along a broad brick sidewalk. The cathedral at the northern end of the street still stood, but was barred from public access. Its spires that had once challenged the sky had succumbed to the mist. It was effectively just a few large, moldy doors and old damp granite now. I’ve never been religious, but I used to go in from time to time. I still remember the smell of the stale, musty air. The smoke from candles mixing with incense and curling upward through colorful shafts of light … I wished I could have gone in again. Even without the brightly lit stained glass, I would have loved to sniff the air and just to be in a place so tall and wide that was free of fog. But the doors were barred and the windows boarded.

  I was standing at the corner, absentmindedly tracing my finger through the letters of the sign over and over again. I stopped and stepped back, then once more ran my hand across the cool, wet metal. Turning on my heels, I headed up Cathedral Street at a clip. If I couldn’t get inside, I could at least stand outside, feeling sorry for myself.

  Parts of the sidewalk still bore the original brick. Cracked and crumbling now, there were still a few in good shape that led me along the way with their chevron pattern. Most of them had been ripped out and replaced with ash-colored cement. You can’t go home again, I muttered to myself for the ten thousandth time. I passed a four-by-four square that was unpaved—just a loose mix of pebbles, dead soil, and refuse, and realized that a tree must once have grown there. Now not even a weed braved life.

  I stopped walking altogether and lit a smoke. I needed to get out of the fog for a while. I made up my mind to go briefly home and grab a few things, and then head somewhere safe. Some dive of a restaurant or obscure shop or even just a blown-out street with my head kept low—anything to spend a few minutes out of the dampness.

  * * *

  I changed my route, and in about fifteen minutes, I was approaching my door from the south side of the street. Part of me wanted to overshoot and see if the old woman was in the shop window, but another part of me was gripped by fatalism: If someone was waiting for me, he would get me eventually. I went through the vented chamber and upstairs to my little home. It seemed fine. Just as I’d left it: a mess. I went immediately for the cupboard and a bottle of whiskey. The vodka sat next to it, and I smiled ruefully to myself. “Rebecca, may I offer you a drink?” I said aloud in a gentlemanly way. “Or would you prefer to just crack me upside the face?”

  I took a sip of scotch from the bottle before grabbing a glass and pouring a few fingers’ worth. I wandered around the place, into the bedroom, back out, and a moment later in again. If no external force ever made me change things, I would go on like this for another five years or ten or until I was dead. How else could I live, really? Nothing else made sense to me.

  I went to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass, peering out into the midday haze. Not so bad out today. I could see the street below. I could almost see the intersection off down to the south. I took a gulp of scotch and put the glass down still half-full. I needed to get to open space. Claustrophobia had been slowly wrapping its fingers about me for hours, and once it had me, it would be enough to trump my usual xenophobia. How people could ever have lived at sea—or even beneath it—or how every prisoner did not go mad … these things were beyond me. Four walls turn from sanctuary to cage with the slightest change in temperament.

  I walked into my bathroom and pulled out the little white board by the toilet. I reached into the exposed hole and wrapped my fingers around a few wads of cash. As I stood, counting the bills, I realized that until I knelt to retrieve the money, I had not consciously decided to get it. Either intuition or paranoia led me to take almost two thousand dollars and stow the rest of the cash back in its nook.

  I replaced the board and went into the kitchen. I grabbed a half-stale piece of bread and forced it down while rummaging about. A few pills—five or six, which I tossed into my jacket pocket loose. Some pens and a few sheets of yellow paper torn from one of my last two pads. I looked all over for knives with folding blades. I knew I had a few of them. So few things, yet still I could never find what I needed.

  After digging for a good ten minutes, I relented and settled on a little paring knife. I wrapped the blade in paper and put it in one of the outer pockets of my coat. It would be next to useless, but at least it offered me a semblance of protection. Unless I was due for a bullet in the back. Either way or neither way, I wasn’t going to stay caged in here. I started for the door, then stopped and turned around. I grabbed Heller’s Chopin cassette and then left, slamming the door shut behind me.

  I hit the street with purpose in my step, deciding arbitrarily that St. Anne’s Boulevard was my first destination. I’d mill around by one of the blowers, smoking and watching for a tail, and enjoy a bit of dry air. I passed the shitshop window; it was empty. A ripple of unease went through me, and I moved as if to enter, but then shook my head and gathered my resolve. I was out to make something happen today, not to read into little things like the old woman’s absence as baleful portents. I had a few stops to make, but my path was going to end in one place: Watley’s. It was time to force a crisis.

  7

  Three or four cigarette butts lay next to the one I had just dropped. St. Anne’s was almost empty and was nice and clear. The fog had been growing thicker in the afternoon hours as the temperature dropped, but it still lingered fifteen or twenty feet above my head, dancing in the blower’s wind. At first I had kept my chin tucked into my chest, my eyes down, warily watching for any signs I was being followed. None came and I was now leaning casually against a cement wall, feet planted wide apart and my head cocked to one side.

  A bit more of the city was visible—almost a full second floor on many buildings. Some of those windows were boarded, but most still had their glass. I wondered what it must be like to live along a street with blowers. Looking down on pedestrians shopping and chatting and wandering along must’ve almost made it feel like old times. As long as you never looked up.

  A family walked by, and as they drew near I straightened up to stand in a more “normal” position. All four pairs o
f their eyes stayed glued to the ground as they passed. I leaned back against the dry cement and spread my legs wide again. Strange that I cared what these strangers thought of me.

  I absentmindedly fiddled with the loose pills in my pocket. Once it was dark, I’d be paying a visit to John Watley. I figured I could kill an hour or two at Albergue. My plan was to show up late and rouse Watley out of bed, drag him out of his little palace, wipe that smug grin off his face in a hazy alley.

  I started walking at a clip toward the bar. Just a glass or two to get up my courage. Just a little while spent in a familiar place.

  * * *

  I pulled shut the heavy interior door, and as the hum from the large vents was muffled I was met with the familiar soft music and musty leather-and-smoke smell of comfort. I walked up to the bar and took my old seat. There were two or three other guys sitting there, all of whom I recognized and none of whom I’d ever talked to. Adam wasn’t there, but I had seen the bartender often enough, and he nodded in recognition to me and set down the glass he was wiping dry. Heavyset guy with small teeth he flashed around a lot.

  “How you been?” he asked, stepping over.

  “Just like always. Scotch, please.”

  He turned and scanned the selection of bottles, and then looked under the bar for a while. “Looks like we’re out, my man. Sorry. What’ll it be, then?”

  I didn’t like that. “Bourbon, I guess.”

  He poured a generous glass and I put a few bills down. He gave me a half smile and walked away, knowing it was enough for several rounds. I sipped at my whiskey and looked at myself in the smoky mirror behind the bar. Something caught my eye. I turned around on my stool.

  There in the corner sat the old black fellow I’d passed on the street two days before. The same light gray suit and hat and dark sunglasses. I rose immediately and walked over to the booth where he sat. He didn’t look up. He didn’t even move a muscle as I stood glaring at him. Finally, I set my glass down roughly and slid onto the bench across from him.

  “Howya doin?” he asked quietly, his voice barely above a mellow whisper.

  “I don’t know how I’m doing.”

  He nodded slowly and lowered his head, wrapping his gnarled fingers around a half-full bottle of beer. I waited for him to speak but he did not.

  “I’ve seen you before. But not here.”

  “Hm.” He grunted. “I’ve never seen you.”

  “You have, though. No one new comes here, and yet here you are. On the street one day and in my bar the next.” I was resolved to drop any tact and get at the truth. He was here because of me, I was certain, and I had to know why. “What’s your name?”

  A smile slowly crept across his face. He sipped at his beer and then raised his chin. “People call me Lucid Jones.”

  “Lucid? That your given name?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Well, what are you doing here, Lucid Jones? I’m too tired to deal with any bullshit. Just talk to me, man. I saw you on the street and now you’re here. It’s because of me. It must be.”

  “Well, maybe it is, Mr. Vale.” My blood went cold. He smiled again and took a long pull off his bottle. “Maybe it is.” Lucid slid the empty beer to the end of the table and raised his hand, one finger extended, for a long moment. As if reading my thoughts, he pulled off his dark glasses and looked up at me. Or rather raised his eyes to me. They were milky white. No pupils at all. Lucid Jones was blind.

  “What are you having, Tom?” he asked as the bartender approached. I stuttered and he laughed a bit, putting his glasses back on and sniffing the air. “Whiskey? Let’s have another round,” he rasped to the bartender, who nodded and walked away to comply.

  “A blind man called Lucid, huh?”

  “It’s the fog, Vale. The fog. Been blind since birth. Never seen a damn thing. So when the fog settled in on us, see, it didn’t change much for old Jones. Now I can get around better than anyone, in fact. I practiced all my life.”

  “A blessing for some,” I said sardonically.

  “Oh, no. No, not at all. I miss the sun on my shoulders. I hate the way the air smells and tastes now. I’m always damp … cold. But it made a leg up out of a leg down, I suppose.”

  We were silent for a while. Our drinks arrived and he nodded his thanks.

  “Why are you here, Jones?”

  “Just a place to get a drink. Be out of the damp.”

  “Bullshit.” I stared hard at his face before remembering that it was useless. Leaning back into the leather of the bench, I let my shoulders sag. “Bullshit. You’re following me. Why?”

  “Why does any man do anything?” he asked matter-of-factly.

  I nodded to myself. “I have money,” I said quietly.

  He shook his head almost sadly. “Not enough, sir. Not enough, I’m afraid.”

  “Just tell me what you know. I promise you I have money. Thousands of—”

  He held up a hand to silence me. “Just don’t bother, Thomas. You ain’t got enough tucked away down by your toilet to make it worth my while. I got nothing against you. I pledge that. But a blind man has to take care of himself, and so that’s what I do.”

  We were silent for a while. But then it occurred to me: Why the honesty? Why tip his hand like this? The only thing I could figure was that old Tom Vale was near the end of his rope.

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “Long time.”

  “Weeks?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Who’s paying you, Lucid?”

  “Oh, Tom … I can’t say that.” He smiled brightly. “I mean … I got to get paid first, you know? I don’t wish you any harm. I do not. I just don’t ask too many questions, and I do what I need to get paid. To get by.”

  “So why are you here now? You must have known I’d find you … see you here.”

  “My work is done, Vale. I just got to bide my time.”

  “Can’t I offer you something? Offer you cash on top of whatever … whoever else is out there?” My voice was tight, higher pitched than normal. I was expressing more of my growing fear than I wanted to but couldn’t help it.

  “I’m sorry. You really can’t afford it. Or rather I can’t, I suppose.” He lowered his head and removed his gray hat, setting it on the table beside his beer. He had yet to take a sip. “It’s all done now, anyhow. Wasn’t an accident that you saw me on St. Anne’s. I got no reason left to hide.”

  “Was it you watching me from the street outside my apartment? All those nights?”

  He nodded slowly, solemnly. “Well … maybe not watching, exactly … but I always knew where you were.”

  “Jones, I … I never hurt anyone. Anyone innocent … I never tried to do wrong.…” I felt bile rising in my throat. “Can you just tell me—if not who or what—can you tell me why? Why me? What the hell did I do?”

  He was silent. Still. Then, slowly, he put his hat back on. “I can’t tell you a thing, Vale. I wouldn’t go home if I was you, though. I just wanted to say that it ain’t personal. That’s why I came here. Knew you’d be by. I been following you long enough to, well, hell … I feel like I know you a bit. Wish no harm on you, but I always have to think first of Jones.” He rose and nodded to me. “Good evening, Mr. Vale. Good luck.”

  He walked toward the door. I was stunned and didn’t move at first. As soon as I was on my feet, he turned and said back over his shoulder, “Don’t try to follow me, Vale. It won’t help you a bit.”

  Lucid Jones stopped before the door. He reached up slowly and put a hand on his fedora. I couldn’t tell if he was tilting it toward me or just readjusting it. He left and I sat back down, numb. His beer sat untouched on the table before me. None of the few other patrons seemed to have paid a bit of attention to our exchange.

  Not knowing what else to do, I walked to the bar and ordered a double. I don’t know if the bartender saw my trembling hands.

  * * *

  Hours later, I was lost and drunk and stumbli
ng. When I had left the bar, I turned away from home and walked aimlessly north, through streets and down alleys I had rarely if ever traveled. I was near the high chain-link fences and razor wire that marked the edge of my world. They hummed and occasionally crackled with electricity. Beyond them lay concrete walls and beyond that, the exclusion zone—the sickness. Who knew what it looked like anymore. Probably all gray, everywhere.

  There were no residences at this far corner of the city. It was all warehouses and factories and greenhouses. Most of them had sat derelict for years. There was no longer either the material supply or the population to demand all they once produced. Not a soul was around. As I walked aimlessly, I was mumbling aloud, singing bits of songs I could remember, blubbering. Watley was nowhere in my mind. I had no plan. No idea what to do at all.

  I vaguely remember reaching into my pocket and drawing out several pills. Caressing them in my hand. Holding them close to my face and then finally choking two or three down with the bit of saliva I could muster. Soon I was against a brick wall. Legs giving out. On the hard, cold ground. Fading and shivering and weeping. Entirely alone.

  * * *

  In the morning, I wandered through the vacant streets of the industrial northern quarter. My head ached from the pills and booze, my body from sleeping on the concrete. My mouth was dry, throat raw. I needed water. I needed to bathe and get some real rest.

  I walked beside the long, windowless brick wall of an old factory. It may have stood there for a century, for all I knew. The doors I passed were all boarded shut—mismatched sheets of plywood and scraps of planks thrown hastily together. Didn’t have to be pretty, just had to keep people out, I guess. The fourth doorway I passed looked different, though. The wood was much the same, but as I leaned in to study it, I could tell that the door had been used more recently.

  I gave the largest sheet of plywood a pull and stumbled a bit as the whole mess of wood pulled away from the door. It had been merely leaning there. I pushed it aside and tried to peer into the charcoal gray interior. I could see nothing. Shrugging to myself, I entered the factory.