by Jack Lively
I entered just in time to see Chapman closing the door to a stall halfway down the left side of the room. The guy at the door was openly examining everyone coming through it. I blanked him and went straight in. I tried the door next to Chapman’s but it was locked. A guy came out of the one just over, two stalls down from Chapman. I slipped in behind him, closed and latched the door.
The stall was thick plywood, sturdy and tall. But not quite tall enough to reach all the way. A three-foot gap remained between the top of the wall and the ceiling. I didn’t waste time contemplating my action, I guess I had already done that in the back of my mind. I stepped up on the toilet. From there it was only a short hop to get my hands gripping the top edge of the partition. I pulled myself up and over. Only took a second. Then I was rolling over the edge, high up. Gripping the partition with my knee and my arm and hand. Balanced up there like an acrobat. I could see down into the next stall, but not over into the room. Which was a good thing, because it meant the hard guy at the door couldn’t see me either.
The guy sitting on the toilet had a good-sized bald patch on the top of his head. I could see a beard below a reddened drinker’s nose. His remaining hair was thin and long, the strands pulled back into an aspirational pony tail. I swung down so that my legs were right above him, hands gripping either side of the stall. He had his pants around his ankles and wore a biker’s leather vest over a blue and white flannel shirt. The leather vest made a perfect landing spot for my feet. I said, “Don’t freak out, but I’m going to use your shoulders as a trampoline.”
The guy jerked and looked up at me. But, by then I had both boots on his shoulder. I said, “Hold strong and keep your mouth shut.” He sat up straight, on command. A real trooper. I used the guy’s shoulders to bounce up again, gripping the other side of the stall. Like before, I gripped the top edge and rolled over so that I was balanced up there, peering down into the next stall.
Chapman was below me, unaware. She was crouched in front of the toilet, fiddling with something. It was a piece of white paper, and she was folding it over into a tiny little package, pressing it with her fingers. She slipped the wadded paper into the narrow gap where flush tank meets wall.
Like a secret message.
And the first thought I had was that it might be for me. But the thought after that discarded the first and found it naïve and ridiculous, of course it was not a message for me. For all Chapman knew I was still in jail. I watched her finish the job of hiding her little message. She pulled her hand back and turned around.
I wanted to think about what I had just seen, but it wasn’t the proper time for thinking.
I leapt down, like some kind of jungle predator. Aiming to land just in front of her, clear of the door. Chapman was startled, which was not surprising. Anyone would have been startled, unless they were blind and deaf and even then, the vibrations might have freaked them out.
But most people would have been startled to the point of blind panic, what we call condition black, like a deer in the headlights. Shivering and shaking and recoiling. Maybe climbing up on the toilet in fear, like she had done way back in the Porterhouse Bar, when the bearded giant had attacked her. But not this time. This time, Chapman jerked up from a crouched position. But not innocently, like a surprised civilian in condition black. It was a practiced move. Meaning practiced in heels, not in combat boots. She came up with intent and aggression, like a trained fighter in condition orange, full awareness and knowledge, body reacting from repetition and drill.
Chapman hinged at the waist, transferring weight from her right heel up through her lithe body until the fist was coming at my throat with enough snap to take down a sumo wrestler. I couldn’t tell if she was going for the trachea or the carotid. Either way, Chapman was acting with intent, hair swinging into her face, obscuring her vision. The fist was moving accurately and quickly. I hadn’t really expected her to react in that way, but I was condition orange myself.
I stepped in and blocked the attacking arm out. Her fist snapped wickedly in the air next to my left ear. Chapman’s face was flushed red and focused, but she was alert and then she recognized me. She didn’t say anything, but there was an adjustment in her pupils, from pin-sized cold dots to welcoming orbs. Her right arm made a transition. She was able to soften the strike, and move her arm forward, over my shoulder, while her left came up around the other side. I was already near her, physically speaking, and then the gap was closed entirely.
Her arms went fully around my neck and her body fit perfectly against mine, like that was a natural way of things, like the way clouds are white and sky is blue. Her nose nuzzled into my neck. “You shaved. I didn’t recognize you. I thought…”
I said nothing.
She spoke softly, lips close to my ear. “I had no idea. How did you get out of that?”
I said, “Long story.” I pulled away. “What’s going on here?”
Chapman gazed at me evenly. “I got in through the cruise ship.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t know what had happened to you. You understand. I didn’t like leaving you there, but I had no idea what else to do. We had already connected the boat and the people George was mixed up with. Jane had.” She looked at me, as if gauging my level of belief.
I said nothing. I neither acknowledged the fake name Jane, nor disavowed it. I was unsure what to think about Amber Chapman. Hostile or friendly, I was leaning towards benevolent and mysterious, if not necessarily friendly. Maybe undercover law enforcement, which would account for her need to lie to me. I decided to go with whatever bluff she was pulling.
She said, “There’s a guy. An older man who is some kind of liability to them. Like some kind of evil clown. Bald, but not in the normal way. Zero hair on him, like a birth defect. They keep him distracted with girls and drugs. I got in that way, by getting close to him at the casino on the cruise ship.” She came back to me, close in. I could feel the heat of her breath caressing my skin. And the heat of her body everywhere else. It was nothing that I had issues with, pretty much the opposite. She said, “I think they’re going to take me inside, Keeler. Tonight. And I’m goddamned scared.”
The fingers of her left hand dropped down the back of my neck and moved gently. My right hand came up and wrapped around her waist, fingers gripping at the small of her back. I know scared, and she wasn’t. She was excited.
I said, “What’s inside the property?”
Chapman said, “I’m not sure. Nothing good. The evil clown guy says it’s the big night. Maybe I’ll be able to find out what happened to George.”
I thought of the rental boat coming back without George. I decided not to mention it to Chapman.
I said, “What’s your plan?”
“I’m improvising. No plan.”
“Do you have a phone?”
Chapman said, “No phone, they took it away.” She laughed sharply. “When I agreed to hang out with the clown off the boat.” Chapman looked past me at the door. “I have to go, or they might come looking for me. How are you going to get out of here without them seeing you?”
I said, “I’ll take my chances. If the guy sees me, I’ll just kill him.”
She blinked. “Can’t kill him, Keeler. I need to get in there, into the property. If you kill him, they’ll lock down.”
I took Hank’s phone from my pocket, pressed it into her hand. Told her the password. Told her to use Ellie’s number.
She said, “Who’s Ellie?”
I said, “Police. If you want to get hold of me, call her.”
“Port Morris police are incapable of tying their own shoes, Keeler.”
“Not Port Morris. Ellie’s Tribal police, and she’s one of the good people.”
Chapman’s eyes narrowed. Then she pulled at my jacket. I saw again, in her eyes, a flat placidity. It was a confirmation that she was not freaking out. She was calm and excited, all at the same time. Not like a brave civilian going into the unknown, more like a veteran warrior going into combat.
I d
ecided to push her some. I said, “You aren’t not going to tell me, are you?”
Chapman’s tone switched immediately. “Can’t do that.” She put a hand on my chest. She said, “I’m happy to see you, Keeler, but I hope you never figured that you were more important than the mission. Glad to see that they cleared you of charges. Makes sense, since you didn’t do it. But hey, you never really know right?”
The woman was in control, which was obviously her preference. I liked that. There was an incredible energy between us. Like some kind of chemistry experiment. Anything could have happened, but what did happen was the phone buzzed in Chapman’s hand that wasn’t touching me. The hand that was felt warm and the fingers relaxed and pressed gently. She held the phone out and I took it.
I pressed the green button.
Silence. Then Dave’s voice, low and conspiratorial. “Keeler.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Okay. Notable event. Just watched a guy come walking down from town and give Fred something. I guess it was money.”
“Why is that notable, don’t people give him money sometimes?”
“People do. I’ve seen him take charity on multiple occasions tonight. It’s notable because Fred gave him something back, change I’m assuming. Like the guy gave him a twenty or something and Fred gives him a five back.”
“Anything else?”
Dave said, “The guy himself was notable. Huge guy.”
I said, “Bearded?”
“Bearded. Came walking down, went over to Fred Granson and did the little exchange. Then walked back up into town.”
I looked at Chapman. She was looking at me. Our faces were about ten inches apart. I looked away. “You sure they exchanged money?”
Dave said. “I couldn’t see exactly. I think it was cash, yes.”
“That it?”
“Yeah.”
I hung up.
I looked up at Chapman. Our eyes locked and we were back in the bubble.
I said, “Shit happens.”
“Way of the world. But now here you are.” Chapman leaned in and kissed me quick. A dexterous and athletic movement. A light and delicate kiss. Which became less light, but even more delicate and complex, and eventually resulted in our bodies coming together again, like opposite poles of a magnet. Her hands went up to the nape of my neck once more, and mine went in different places. Then she pushed herself away, squeezed past me, and went out the door. Opening it just wide enough for her slender frame to pass through.
I locked the toilet door, counted off a long two minutes.
I considered two things. Hagen at the cruise ship, Chapman in here. One making an exchange with a drunk bum, the other stuffing something behind a toilet. Collecting, depositing. One deposits, the other collects. That’s how I saw it.
I squatted down and removed the folded paper from behind the toilet tank. It was a white cocktail napkin. Not a thick and fluffy napkin to wipe dirty hands on, but a thin and elegant serviette that belongs under a martini glass. I unfolded it. In the middle of the white square was an eight-pointed star drawn in blue ink by a felt tipped pen. I folded the paper and slid it back behind the tank. Then I left the toilet.
The symbol was a message. I didn’t have any idea what it meant, but I had a pretty good idea who it was for.
Out of the bathroom, I was facing the other hole in the wall. From which the smell of barbecue emanated. The other hole in the wall went back to a small outdoor area surrounded by cheap fencing. There was no grass, only dusty rock and a couple of picnic tables. The entrance fee had included barbecue, so I got barbecue and another beer. The big man at the grill handed me a plate of ribs on a slice of white bread. No fork, no napkin. I balanced the plate and the beer in two hands and went over to a picnic table. The other guy at the table grunted between fistfuls of pork and white bread.
I took a bite of mine. Spicy, which is what the white bread was for, in addition to being something you could wipe your fingers on. The food was good, great even. Barbecue ribs are not a complicated thing to eat, provided you don’t mind using your hands. These had been cooked slow and long, so there wasn’t much work to do. But patience would be important, and not easy under the circumstances. Barbecue ribs are not like burgers. You don’t need three bites to get to the heart of the matter.
But it was three bites before I came up for air.
Which is when I saw Deckart and Willets. They were sitting at the other picnic table. Willets was grinning with a beer in his hand. Deckart’s face was red, as if he was concentrating on something. He held a Bowie knife in his right hand. His left was splayed, palm down on the picnic table. His knife hand was stabbing the point into the wood, between his own fingers. Stabbing fast. Willets was counting the hits. While Willets counted, Deckart was softly speaking to himself.
Then Willets looked up, saw me, and stopped counting.
Forty-Three
When Willets stopped counting, Deckart lost concentration. Not a good thing if you’re playing the knife game.
And Deckart was good at it. The tip of that Bowie knife was flying fast and furiously from the number one position to the number six and back, not necessarily in that order. The first position is back of the thumb, off to the side of the hand. The six position is the other side of the pinkie. In between you’ve got the spaces separating each finger. The basic game is played in a 1-2-3-4-5-6-5-4-3-2 sequence. Start off back of the thumb, work your way up past the pinkie, then back again. But Deckart wasn’t doing the simple version. He was showing off with the Australian version, 1-2-1-3-1-4-1-5-1-6. Alternating between the first position and the others.
I had seen this game played quite a few times, in all kinds of weather and altitudes. Sometimes it ended well, sometimes it did not.
Deckart was moving fast, and he was singing. That didn’t surprise me. The best knife game players perform a chant, like a knife mantra. The words are chanted counterpoint to the hitting of pointy steel on wood. One syllable, one knife hit. Fast as you can.
I have all five fingers.
The blade goes chop chop chop
If I miss the spaces in-between my fingers will come off
And if I hit my fingers
The blood will soon come out
But all the same I play this game cause that's what it's all about
Oh, chop chop chop chop chop chop
I'm picking up the speed
And if I hit my fingers then my hand will start to bleed
Each time Deckart started the chant again, he got faster. The concentration was so intense that when Willets stopped counting the hits, Deckart didn’t notice at first and kept on working the knife. But then he noticed the missing link in his rhythm. The knife was flashing in the weak outdoor lighting. The movement of the blade through the fingers was complicated by the shadow cast from the bare bulb. All of this was mesmerizing. And then the Bowie knife stabbed straight through Deckart’s ring finger.
He grunted in surprise and looked up, saw me, then looked down. The top of his finger was separated from the rest of it. I was getting to the end of the barbecue plate. Mopping up the red sauce with the remaining white bread. Willets and Deckart huddled over the severed finger tip.
At that moment, a great roar came from inside.
It was the sound of a pent-up crowd releasing their tension. I figured the game of bloody knuckles was over. There was a whole lot of movement. People from outside going back inside, to see what had happened. People from inside going outside to get barbecue. One of the contestants had won ten grand. Both of them had lost the full use of their dominant hand. Was it worth it? I figured it wasn’t up to me to decide that.
Deckart was cursing. I walked over and sat down at their table. I said, “Super glue. That’s what you need buddy. Just glue that thing back on and it might heal. I’d say you have a five-minute window.”
But Deckart was not happy with me. Neither was Willets. Deckart was holding the tip of his finger on, as if it would stay there by
itself. Willets was distracted, alternating between me and his injured friend. Deckart looked up at me, and I saw murder in his eyes.
Deckart said, “I’d as soon look at you as kill you.”
I said, “Why not both?”
Deckart was barely managing to hold his anger in check. I looked at Willets, who was looking at me under hooded eyes. I saw calculation in them, but not necessarily the intelligent kind.
I said, “What?”
Then Willets launched himself at me, which is what I had been expecting. He came up out of the seat and over the top of the picnic table. His boot gripped the edge and then he was flailing for my neck, trying to get a height advantage. But I was already gone, slipped under the table and out the side again. When I came up, Willets was spinning around looking for me. He came at me another time. A flurry of fists and elbows, like he’d been watching videos of highly paid fighters. I deflected a right-handed head strike, stepped inside and took control of his arm. I used his own movement to leverage him over my shoulder, heaved, and threw him through the fence surrounding the barbecue area.
The guy serving barbecue nodded to me in approval. He said, “What happens outside the perimeter doesn’t happen.”
I stepped through the broken fence. Willets was getting up and dusting himself off. I surged into his space and open-hand slapped him hard on the ear. The strike put him back down. He coughed and spat.
Willets opened his hands wide. He said, “Alright. You win. Calm down.”
But I had already seen him glancing over my shoulder. He was trying to lure me into dropping my guard. I had a pretty good idea of what it was that he’d seen behind me. I side-stepped, lowered into a crouch and swiveled on the balls of my feet. Deckart was coming with the Bowie knife.
A Bowie knife isn’t a normal knife. For one thing, it is bigger. I needed to even the odds. So I put a right hook into Willets’ jaw. He dropped straight down. No hands out to stop the fall, he tumbled like a plank, flat on his face.