Blood Rust Chains

by Marco Etheridge

  Outside the building it was a respectable northwest autumn day. The sun made no inroads on the grey that hung over the city like dull cotton batting, but there wasn’t any verifiable precipitation either. Quinn phoned in a to-go order as he walked, thus avoiding a long wait at the Inn. At this time of day it would be packed with the lunch crowd, all dressed in their outdoor chic or button-down casual. He made his way across the ugly four-lane slash of Burnside Street and walked downhill towards Goose Hollow. Lewis’ office was within sight of the suicide bridge over Jefferson, just blocks from the Inn. The reubens would still be warm.

  The office was in an old bungalow tucked up off of Jefferson. What this piece of craftsman Americana must be worth, Quinn hated to guess. Cindy was guarding the entrance, as always, the gatekeeper of Lewis’ realm. Before the door could close behind him, Quinn fired off the first salvo. “A fine good afternoon to you Ms Jeffers.” He tried to lead with his most charming smile.

  “Good afternoon, Quinn. I see you’ve brought bribes. He’s already out back. You know the way.” She turned her coiffed silver head back to a pile of papers with a careful meticulousness.

  “Nice talking to you Cindy,” said Quinn, easing past her desk into the hallway that led to the back of the old house.

  “Mmmmm.”

  Quinn stepped out the back door of the house and into an oasis of northwest landscaping. Behind the bungalow the city disappeared, screened by tall stands of bamboo. The bamboo swayed in a gentle breeze. The thick lower tubes of the giant grasses were hidden behind banks of rhododendrons. Everything was trimmed and pruned to be just wild enough not to look trimmed or pruned. Clutching the bag of sandwiches, Quinn wondered what the gardener’s payroll added up to.

  “Quinn, glad you could make it. And you stopped at the Inn. Reubens?” Lewis sat on a the covered patio, reclining in a cushioned Adirondack chair. The heavy wooden beams and wrought iron supporting the roof were perfectly matched to the bungalow, echoing the lines of the American Craftsman school. The older man motioned to a matching chair on his left. “Take a load off, Kid.”

  Sitting down on the edge of the proffered chair, Quinn began spreading the contents of the bag on the low rustic table that split the patio flagstones. Two infrared heaters cast rays of warmth down from the overhead tongue and groove cedar.

  “You had lunch yet Lewis?” Quinn eyed the man next to him. Grey hair cropped close to his scalp, clean shaven, Lewis’ face was heavy and calm. There was more than a touch of Native American ancestry in his profile. He wore a grey suit over an open collared shirt. Every item of clothing on the man was rumpled, but of a fine cut and cloth.

  “No, I haven’t eaten yet. Figured you might bring some lunch.” The man sat still as a sphinx. It was sometimes unnerving, his stillness.

  “And what if I had showed up empty-handed?”

  “I guess I would have sent you packing. But you didn’t. Damn, the boys at the Inn do make a fine reuben, don’t they?” He leaned forward in his chair and picked up the heavy sandwich. His gleaming white teeth tore a great hunk out of the corned beef and rye.

  Quinn watched the big man ripping into the sandwich. He took a bite of dill pickle before attacking his own sloppy reuben. What had been worse, meeting Lewis the first time or the second time? Second time, for sure. The first time Quinn had been in the custody of Portland’s finest. A stupid move, coupled with his inept abilities as a thief, had gotten him pinched. Lewis was the man he was thieving from, but Quinn didn’t know that at the time. The only thing he knew was that some fat cat had decided not to press charges. Lewis never said a word at that first encounter. He stood quietly as the detective laid into Quinn. Mr. Penn has decided not to press charges, against our advice. I am telling you flat out if I see you again, if you so much as look crosswise at someone else’s property, it is not going to go well for you. Am I making myself clear to you Mr. Boyd?

  That was the first time. The second time, well, that was just an example of Quinn’s higher power having a sense of humor. Not even two years clean, Quinn’s sponsor suggested that what with his string of jobs and decent sobriety, it might be time for him to get his own place. Quinn’s credit record was nonexistent, as was his rental history. Before he got clean, abandoned squats and couch surfing had been where he hung his hat. His sponsor gave him a number to call, told Quinn what was what. Scotty B’s gravelly voice had laid it out for Quinn.

  “This guy has some apartment buildings in the northwest. He also has an understanding attitude toward friends of Bill W., but I’m warning you, do not fuck with this man. Play it straight or he will see right through you. I vouched for you, but that will only carry you so far with Lewis Penn.”

  So then there was the second meeting with Lewis. Quinn was through the door of the office before he recognized the fat cat from the cop shop. Too horror struck to run out of the office, Quinn had been pinned in the chair by Lewis’ hard look. Those dark eyes boring into him, a fear sweat started to roll down the nape of his neck.

  “So, Quinn, may I call you Quinn? Our mutual friend Scotty tells me that you are in need of an apartment.”

  Stuck like a bug on a pin, Quinn had no idea what to say. Surely this guy recognized him. What was his game? He wanted to scream ‘Throw me out already and be done with it!’ but he seemed to have lost the power of speech. Quinn would never forget that impassive face that anchored him in that uncomfortable seat, drenched in sweat.

  His voice had sounded like slow truck tires on a gravel road.

  “Okay Kid, relax. Yeah, I remember you. Never forget a face. Let’s get clear on this, shall we? I believe in second chances. I do not believe in third or fourth chances. Are we good so far?”

  Another long look. Quinn had managed a feeble nod.

  “Okay then. Scotty vouches for you. That carries a lot of water with me, which you do not. I have a vacancy in one of my buildings, a little one-bedroom. You pay the rent on time, every month, got that? You don’t cause me one lick of trouble, right? Remember Quinn, it’s not your reputation on the line. You don’t have any reputation that anyone cares to know about. It’s Scotty’s reputation that’s at stake here. Are you good with that?”

  Regaining his ability to speak, but not believing his ears, Quinn had managed a marginally firm “Yes Sir.”

  “Okay then. Cindy will have some papers for you to fill out. Don’t worry about the rental references and such, just leave it blank.”

  Freed from that awful gaze, Quinn had scuttled from the room.

  Shaking loose the anchor of memory, Quinn watched his benefactor destroying the huge sandwich. Ten years was a long time if a person put it to use. He had done exactly as Lewis demanded, paying his rent on time, working hard at two shitty jobs, writing at night and on weekends. This was his life; work, go to meetings, write. And in the background, there were men like Scotty B and Lewis, quietly pointing out the handholds and footholds Quinn might use to keep climbing. The big man pushed the stained sandwich wrapper to the edge of the table and mopped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  “Damn fine that was. Well then, what did you bring to smoke?”

  After wiping his own hands, Quinn fished two cigars out of his shirt pocket. He held them out for Lewis’ approval.

  “Fine sticks, no doubt, but I wonder how they will pair with that hearty meal. I’m thinking more along these lines.” Lewis laid two long cigars on the table. Their gold embossed labels wrapped around a box-pressed vitola with edges so sharp they were almost square.

  Quinn’s face broke into a broad grin. “Okay, consider me one-upped. Yeah, I guess those will do nicely” He reached for one of the cigars and lifted a cutter from a small lacquered tray. Clipping the end carefully, he tested the draw on the stick before toasting the end. The draw was, as he expected, perfect. Completing the ritual, Quinn played the butane flame across the end of the cigar, mindful to keep the invisible tip of the hot torch far enough away from the precious tobacco. Exhaling a cloud of smoke rich with luxury, h
e leaned back in his chair. Quinn watched Lewis perform exactly the same actions.

  For a time, the two men attended to their cigars in silence, watching the smoke clouds drift towards the bamboo at the edge of the garden. Occasionally Lewis would send a perfect smoke ring floating up to the roof. Quinn knew better than to try to match him. His attempts at smoke rings were usually dismal failures.

  “So, how goes the life of the author?” asked Lewis, giving him the look.

  “Author is one of those words that just sound pretentious, you know? I think we should save the title of author until that fine day when I have a novel published and receiving rave reviews. I think I’ll just stick with writer for the time being.”

  “Have it your way. I read your last piece. Good stuff. What are you working on now?”

  “Big piece. It could be good. A feature article on the genealogy fad in America. All those folks tracing their family trees, looking for famous ancestors. Or at least that’s what I thought it was going to be.”

  “And it’s not?”

  “Long story. The short version is that my sister is pretty involved in this stuff. I decided to interview her as a source. Low hanging fruit you know? But she threw me a curve ball in the form of two of my own ancestors. The thing is, both of these ancestors are killers. It’s a bit on the creepy side, to tell the truth.”

  Smoking and talking, Quinn related the stories of the two killers, the murderer and the defender of his land. Lewis listened, adding attentive grunts and nods as he did. When Quinn had brought him up to date, he asked Lewis for his thoughts.

  “Damned interesting stories, that’s for sure. Killers on both sides of your family tree. I guess it has to happen to folks, they look for royalty and find highwaymen instead. The sins of the father and all of that. Still, it was generations ago, more like school book history than family history. What’s interesting to me is how the thing changed direction on you, and you followed. Good instincts Quinn.”

  “Thanks Lewis, but the piece isn’t complete just yet. We’ll see when it’s done.”

  Lewis nodded at this and adjusted himself in the chair. When he was satisfied, he turned back to Quinn.

  “Last night I had a call from one of the tenants in your building. James Watson. You know him?”

  Quinn felt the heat radiating down from above him. Damn. That son of a bitch!

  “Yeah Lewis, I know James. Not my favorite person in the building to be honest.”

  “From my conversation with Mr. Watson, I gather that the feeling is mutual. But this isn’t the first call I’ve gotten from this guy.” Lewis exhaled a long slow stream of smoke. “Truth is, this guy is a real pain in my ass. I’m sorry I ever rented to him. Every landlord has got one of these malcontents. Right out of the gate he was bitching. He hadn’t been there two months and he was harassing other tenants, trying to get them to switch parking places with him. Then it was the dumpster smell, or someone making too much noise. Blah, blah blah, always complaining about what other people are doing.”

  “Well, cards on the table Lewis, I had a run in with him a couple of days ago. It got a little heated.”

  Lewis snorted. “Yeah, he didn’t have much good to say about you, that’s for sure. This time his main beef was cigar smoking on the premise. Specifically your cigar smoking.”

  “He said something about calling you. I figured it was just hot air on his part. Guess I was wrong.”

  “Look Quinn, no worries okay? I know the guy is an asshole, and you know the guy is an asshole. I doubt we’re both wrong. But the putz might call the health department or tenants union or some crap like that. Like I said, I’m sorry I ever rented to this James Watson, but right now I’m stuck with him and so are you.”

  “I’m listening Lewis. I probably don’t want to hear this, but what is it that you want me to do. Or not do.”

  “Hey, I’m not asking you to kowtow to some stuffed shirt. Never going to happen. There is nothing in the rental contract for that building that prohibits smoking on the balconies. The rooftop, well that’s not in the contract either. That’s just between you and me, right? What I’m asking you to do is keep this on the QT. Don’t antagonize this guy or give him any reason to make trouble. Try to avoid him if you can. If you can’t avoid him, do that overly polite thing that you do so well. Tell him Mr. Penn called you and that if he, Mr. Watson, has any further issues, would he please phone Mr. Penn. End of story.”

  “Okay, got it. I will put the Mr. Rodgers on him, no problem.” Quinn hoped it could be that easy.

  “Yeah, you do that, okay. And don’t worry about it.” Lewis pondered the shortening length of his cigar with quiet satisfaction. He slipped his hand inside his suit coat pocket and fished around for something. Retrieving what he was after, he held them out to Quinn.

  “You need to rush off, or have you got time for one of these?”

  “Damn, if I didn’t have time, I’d make time. You’re spoiling me Lewis.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. Here you go. So, tell me, how’s Scotty B? I don’t see him nearly enough these days.”

  The two men settled into quiet conversation as the afternoon wore on. Their faces alternated between the lengthening shadows and the glow from their cigars. The twinge that Quinn had felt at the mention of his neighbor’s name retreated into the background, but would not disappear completely. No, you’re not going to ruin another good smoke, you bastard. Pushing those aggravating thoughts aside, he focused his attention on the conversation at hand. A good day of writing, a fine afternoon herf, and then dinner with friends followed by his favorite meeting. It couldn’t get much better than that.

  Lewis’ voice pulled him back from his reverie.

  “Sorry, drifted off there. What did you say?”

  “I said, how is Sonya? Is she still managing to keep a leash on you?”

  Quinn laughed. “Yeah, she’s managing just fine. I’m no match for that girl and that’s the truth.”

  “Good, good. I’m glad to hear that. I like that girl. You better hang onto her.”

  “You’re right Lewis. Hey, speaking of Sonya, there’s something I wanted to ask you. You’ve been around that neighborhood a long time, right?”

  “You know I have. That building you’re in was my first one, given to me by my father. How he ever got the money to buy that place on a pipefitter’s wages, I’ll never know. Property in the northwest was cheap back then, but still. That man watched his money close.”

  “So what can you tell me about that guy Mo? The one with the machine shop up the block from me?”

  Lewis’ attention was suddenly riveted on Quinn, his voice gone hard and quiet. “Mo Evans? What do you have to do with Mo?”

  “Hey-Zeus, Lewis, I don’t have anything to do with Mo.”

  “And you see that you keep it that way, you hear me Quinn? Why are you asking about him if you don’t have any interest?”

  “Easy, Lewis, I’ll tell you. Sonya mentioned that she ran into him outside his shop. She said it was sort of a strange encounter, that it rattled her a bit. You know Sonya, she doesn’t rattle easily. So she mentioned it to me, asking me what I knew about Mo. I told her that old story about Mo capturing those two would-be shop thieves. That’s all I know about the guy. I don’t even know if any part of that story is true.”

  Lewis leaned in close to Quinn with that hard look in his eye, a look that Quinn had not forgotten. “You listen to me Quinn Boyd, and I want to know that you are listening to me good, okay?”

  “Shit Lewis, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to piss you off.”

  “Don’t be sorry, just listen to me. You keep far and away from Mo Evans, you hear me? And you keep Sonya even farther. That man is no one to get anywhere close to and no one to be trifled with, you understand me? Whatever the worst version of that old story you’ve heard, it’s all true, word for word. And those two mutton headed rip-off artists weren’t even a moment’s work for Mo Evans. That little party he threw for those two,
that’s just the tip of his iceberg. And by the way, you didn’t piss me off, you scared me.”

  “Lewis, I…”

  “Look Kid, you just remember what I said, that’s all. Now finish up that cigar. I know you’ve got a meeting to go to, but it would be a pity to waste it.”

  Until he said goodbye, Lewis said not another word.

  Chapter 10

  Saab Story

  “Man, I hate the Banfield.” Paul steered up the sharp off-ramp from the Banfield Expressway, punching the accelerator for a fighting chance at the absurdly short merge onto I-5. He gave the obligatory polite wave after fighting for a space to merge into. “Just another horrible traffic vortex of Portland.” Surviving the merge battle, Paul piloted the car northbound.

  “Well, we’re off the Banfield now and hate is a strong word to use right after leaving a meeting, dontcha think?” Quinn tried for his best angelic look, but Paul H scowled at him from the driver’s seat.

  “It’s going to take more than a single meeting to make Portland freeways bearable, even at this time of night. Where are all of these people going anyway? It’s almost ten o’clock.” Paul H kept his attention riveted on the tight lanes ahead of them. “It was a hell of a good meeting though. Has to be a good meeting to drive clear over to the Hollywood. Hell, I remember when that whole neighborhood was just a shit hole. Now it’s all trendy.” Paul shook his head as an SUV cut in front of him.