Nameless Night

by G. M. Ford

  He lay with his cheek nestled up to the cold concrete of the walk. He croaked and wheezed for breath, dry-heaved a couple times, and then lay in a heap, rocking slightly, hiccuping air…until the heaves returned, and he pushed himself to his knees and yakked up a small pool of yellow bile.

  His head felt as if somebody’d driven a steel rod in one ear and out the other. He groaned, lowered his face close enough for the odor of his own discharge to straighten him right back up. One foot beneath him and then the other. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then wished he hadn’t, as the act allowed his brain sufficient time to process the pain screaming up from his ankle.

  He hopped on one foot and looked around. The backyard suddenly seemed enormous, the fence miles away. He put the toe of his injured foot on the ground for balance. Pain lanced through his lower leg. He bent at the waist and massaged his ankle.

  He groaned and then dropped to one knee. That’s when he heard the shouts.

  “There he is,” someone yelled.

  When he looked up, a head and a pair of dark-clad shoulders were sticking out of Shirley’s window, pointing at him and yelling for backup.

  Paul struggled to his feet and limped across the yard toward the back fence, an unadorned cedar-planked affair separating Harmony House from the big green-and-white mansion on Howser Street, a house and yard with which Paul was quite familiar as the owners were longtime customers of Suzuki Landscaping.

  Paul pushed off his good ankle and managed to propel the top half of his body up onto the top of the fence, which rocked and swayed from the addition of his weight and the power of his momentum. Using his heavily muscled arms, he hoisted himself up and over, landing on one foot in the soft bark of the cut flower garden that Paul had, last summer, helped to build. A deep growl scattered his thoughts like litter.

  Then he remembered. The big white German shepherd with the bad attitude. Used to follow him wherever he went in the yard. What was its name? Something about…and then it came to him. “Blanco,” he said, holding out his hand. The dog put his teeth away, ran his pink nose over Paul’s knuckles, and wagged his tail. Paul patted him on the head a couple of times and then limped across the yard as quickly as he was able.

  He made it to the rear gate and was lifting the latch when he heard somebody scrambling over the fence behind him. Unfortunately for his pursuer, so did the dog.

  The guy probably would have been all right if he’d been quicker with his feet or better yet hadn’t tried to kick the dog in the head at all. As it was, Blanco sidestepped the flying shoe and bit the guy in the crotch. A high-pitched yowl rose above the rush of wind in the trees. As Blanco lowered his hindquarters and began to shake his head from side to side, the pitch of the scream rose to operatic heights.

  Paul closed the gate and limped out toward Howser Street. He could still hear aria al castrado wafting through the trees as he hooked a quick left and gimped it south beneath the canopy of century-old oaks, festooned now with new-grown leaves, glowing ad-glow green in the sun and quivering like virgins in the breeze.

  He crossed the street, moving diagonally toward the big gray stone house halfway down the block, another of Ken’s customers, whose name he could not recall. He’d rounded the corner of their porch when he heard the squeal of tires and the roar of an engine. He ducked between a pair of massive rhododendrons whose tightly folded purple blossoms threatened to explode their spring encasements. He stood motionless as one of the black Lincoln Town Cars came roaring by, squealing all the way to the corner and turning left, running back toward Arbor Street in a cloud of burning rubber.

  Paul moved along the side of the house, crossed the yard, and stepped through the gate. He found himself in a wide unpaved alley running the length of the block. Here on the true crest of the hill, the backyards of the mansions did not abut one another.

  Instead, the practical needs of the households were serviced by a communal alley running along the rear of the dwellings, providing surreptitious trash collection, ease of delivery, and ample space for garages, in many cases spacious garages which had once, a century ago, housed the last remains of the horse-and-buggy era, a mews, as it were, where the care of both animals and of leather coexisted in ironic harmony in those halcyon years before the advent of the internal combustion engine.

  Paul leaned back against the thick ivy and caught his breath. His head throbbed to the rhythm of his heart. A dull roar filled his ears, and for the first time since he’d regained consciousness in the hospital…for the very first time…he wished he could go back to who he was before…the shuffling specter they called Paul Hardy, the unresponsive guy so completely lost in his own little world of half thoughts and repeated phrases as to render himself virtually invisible, a state that at the moment held great appeal.

  His ankle was on fire as he hustled north along the alley, working his way up the hill toward the bright lights of Landon Street, a place where he thought he might be able to lose himself in the crowd. He got about a third of the way down the alley when the sound of an engine snapped his head around in time to see the silver Town Car slide into view, its tires churning up a maelstrom of dust, closing the distance in a big hurry.

  The speed at which the car was approaching greatly limited Paul’s options. He dodged to the right, into a shallow indentation in the brick retaining wall, throwing his back hard against a pair of green Dumpsters, as the car slid to a halt about a foot in front of his face. From within the massive cloud of dust, a running figure appeared. The apparition circled the front of the car, arms extended in the combat position, gun pointed at Paul’s face as he stiff-legged his way over to where Paul stood.

  The barrel of the gun looked as big as a tunnel. “Don’t move!” the guy yelled over and over. “Don’t move!” He held the gun an inch from Paul’s face. “Turn around!” he shouted. When Paul didn’t move, the agent reached out with his left hand and tried to move him manually. Paul stood his ground. The guy mashed the gun barrel into Paul’s forehead. He repeated his command to turn around. Again Paul ignored him.

  And then Paul Hardy seemed to relax, almost to resign himself to his fate. He smiled, and then he reached up and slapped the weapon aside as it if were a fly, sending the automatic flying end over end through the air, banging off the fender before finally falling to the ground, where it discharged on impact.

  That’s when everything seemed to go slow motion. The agent froze. The grip on Paul’s shoulder relaxed. He cast a quizzical look Paul’s way and then used the hand he’d had on Paul to search the back of his thigh. That the hand came back red seemed to puzzle the guy no end. He dropped to one knee and allowed a low moan to escape his throat. A sticky-looking pool of blood was forming on the ground. The agent’s eyes bulged at the sight of his own fluids seeping into the ground among the patchwork of oil stains. His look of astonishment changed to something more akin to fear.

  Then his G-man training took over. He pivoted on his knee and made an all-out dive for the gun. Paul jumped completely over the straining body. He clamped a boot onto the stretching arm and kept adding pressure until the G-man stopped straining to reach his weapon and began to yell, “Okay…okay!” over and over, at which point Paul bent and picked up the automatic and then released the guy’s arm from beneath his boot.

  The black steel felt hot in his hands. The feel told him he’d had one of these in his hands before. He looked down. On the ground, the G-man had pulled off his belt and was applying a tourniquet to his upper thigh. Paul reached to help but the guy cringed out of reach.

  “Your radio thing work?” Paul asked, pointing to his own ear. The guy didn’t answer, just kept twisting the belt tighter and tighter without ever taking his eyes from Paul. “Better call yourself some help,” Paul said.

  The guy started to reach for his collar and then hesitated, as if Paul’s suggestion might be some kind of trick, a ruse designed to get him to do something stupid as an excuse to injure him. His hand wavered in midair.

  Pau
l nodded down at the guy’s leg. “That’s pretty ugly,” he said. “You better call for some help.”

  The guy’s eyes were locked on Paul’s as his hand crept to his call button.

  “Agent involved shooting,” he said. “This is fourteen seventy-three. Agent down, requiring emergency personnel.” He kept his gaze glued on Paul. “I’m…”

  “You’re in the alley between Howser and Bradley. Three hundred block,” Paul quickly added.

  The G-man frowned and cleared his throat, then repeated the location into his microphone. Somebody on the other end must have asked for a clarification because he sighed and started over with the “fourteen seventy-three…agent down” stuff and went through the whole thing again, talking slow and loud and speaking clearly, like there was an idiot on the other end of the line. By the time he finished talking and looked up again, Paul was gone.

  10

  The desk sergeant looked like he hadn’t moved in a month…like under the uniform, he might be covered with bark. The facial expression said he’d seen it all; the boatload of flab hanging over his belt said he’d managed to inhale a few meals while observing life’s rich pageant.

  He rocked himself off the stool, scowled, and then leaned his badge out over the counter. “Lemme see some ID,” he said to the little man in the gray suit.

  The little guy used an exaggerated sweep of the arm to pull a black leather case from the inside pocket of his impeccably tailored suit jacket. Using only one hand, he flopped the case open and was about to similarly snap it closed when the big cop reached down and plucked it from his fingers.

  He brought the ID up in front of his red face and held it there for a long minute before lowering it to the desk. The little man reached for his case, but the cop pulled it back out of reach. “And you want me to what?” he asked.

  Gray suit told him again…slower this time, like he was talking to a child. The cop winced at the guy’s tone of voice. “I’m gonna have to bounce it by the watch commander,” he said.

  The little man opened his mouth to speak but the cop waved him off. The matter wasn’t open to discussion, his big hand said. He extracted a handheld radio from among the menagerie of cop equipment hanging from his Sam Browne belt. He brought the black box to his mouth and pushed the button with his thumb.

  “You there?”

  “Ramey,” squawked the static voice.

  “I need you at the desk,” the big cop said.

  Ramey didn’t bother to answer. The radio clicked silent. The cop returned it to his belt. “How many?” he asked.

  The little man gritted his perfect teeth and told him for the third time. “Two.”

  “Where are they now?” the cop asked.

  The little guy seemed relieved. At last they were covering new ground. “Outside in the car,” he answered, tilting his head toward the street.

  A nearly inaudible electronic buzz was followed by the sharp snap of a lock. From a door built into the wall behind the booking desk, a uniformed officer stepped out into the lobby. A sergeant, Hispanic, maybe five ten, nearly as wide as he was tall. Every bit as kinetic as the desk officer was languid. A few more cop decorations and he risked being mistaken for a rear admiral.

  “So?” he snapped.

  The desk officer handed him the ID case. Ramey looked it over like there was going to be a test, then, seemingly satisfied, handed it back to the man in the gray suit, who made another show of feline grace as he stashed it inside his jacket.

  The cop’s thick black eyebrows met in the center of his face like ardent caterpillars. “So?” the sergeant said again.

  “Sergeant…?”

  “Ramirez,” the cop said. “Sergeant Hector Ramirez.”

  Gray suit opened his mouth to speak, but Ramirez cut him off. “And you need what from us?”

  With an air of bemused forbearance, gray suit went through it again.

  “And you want the SPD to lock them up for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “On what charges?”

  “Interfering with a federal officer.”

  Ramirez held out his thick hand. Gray suit looked down into the leathery palm and cocked a quizzical eyebrow in an almost comical gesture that was from hours of practice before the mirror.

  Ramirez answered the silent question. “Paperwork,” he growled.

  “We don’t require paperwork,” the little guy said.

  The two cops shot each other a quick glance. Ramirez’s eyebrows ended their kiss. “The prisoners are foreign nationals?” Ramirez ventured.

  “No.” Gray suit pulled a couple of pieces of plastic from his pants pocket and dropped them on the desk. Photo IDs. Driver’s licenses.

  Ramirez picked them up, shuffled from one to the other and back before handing them to the desk cop, who extracted a pair of half-glasses from his uniform pocket before reading the documents, front and back. Another glance flew from cop to cop.

  “They’re outside, you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring them in,” Ramirez said.

  Gray suit hesitated for a beat, as if testing the wind for irony. Discerning none, he tried to read Ramirez’s face but found himself looking into the unblinking gaze of a stone idol. The little man put on an air of bemused resignation as he turned and headed out the precinct door. On either side of the double doors, filthy windows ran from knee to ceiling. On the right, the windowsills were black, blistered by long-ago cigarettes and littered here and there by half a dozen magazine carcasses, twisted and torn, separated from their once-glossy covers, pages dog-eared and cemented together by substances best left unimagined.

  On the left, a thirty-year-old jade plant meandered, long and leggy, out of hand, its arid stalks twisting in every imaginable contortion, filling the grimy windows with its thick leathery leaves, furry beneath a quarter inch of dust.

  Sergeant Ramirez spoke into his collar radio. The desk cop stifled a smile. A minute later, a trio of uniformed officers arrived through the door behind the desk. Two men and a woman, their eyes full of questions that didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

  Both front doors opened. The sounds of the street mingled with the dust and the desperation as a pair of men in dark overcoats led a pair of manacled prisoners into the precinct. The man in the gray suit brought up the rear. He was wiping his hands with a crisp white handkerchief as he shouldered his way through the double doors.

  The prisoners were middle-aged. A Japanese man and a Caucasian woman, both in their late fifties or thereabouts. Both looking defeated. Her hair had come loose from the clip at the back of her head and was blowing about in the breeze. The man tried to pull away from his captor but failed. Both looked up at the same time. Both of them tried to speak. The cops behind the desk flinched in unison. Both prisoners had a piece of silver duct tape sealing their mouths.

  Ramirez blanched. His hand shook as he pointed. “Take the prisoners to separate interview rooms,” he said. “And get that goddamn tape off of them.” He turned his attention to gray suit. “Keys for the cuffs.”

  Nobody moved until it got real awkward. Finally the little guy gave a nod and one of the overcoats stepped forward to drop a set of keys into the female officer’s outstretched hand. After that, everything happened at once.

  Two of the officers led the prisoners away. Gray suit and his minions turned to leave but found the doorway filled by a pair of massive SWAT officers, boots, helmets, body armor, and all. A futile attempt to flank the pair made it plain: nobody was going anywhere, anytime soon.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Ramirez gestured to the battered collection of chairs lining the room. “Nobody’s going anywhere until we get this thing sorted out.”

  Gray suit’s face was the color of oatmeal. His voice was a whisper as he began to protest, “We are federal officers and pursuant to the Patriot Act of—”

  “Have a seat,” Ramirez repeated, louder this time. “I’m calling for an A.D.A. We’ll let the D.A.’s office work their mag
ic on this thing.”

  “I had an officer shot this afternoon. At this moment we are—”

  Ramirez stiffened his spine. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Was one of them the shooter?” he asked.

  “No.”

  The cop waved disgustedly. “Then have a goddamn seat.”

  “ME AND MY MOTHER never got along,” she said. She caromed a gaze off the mirror and caught Paul’s eyes. “Two strong personalities, I guess,” she added with a wan smile. “That’s probably how come Mona and I always get in each other’s faces.” She waved a safety razor in the air. “Mona owns the shop. Her daughter, Sue, and I…we run the place. Mona just comes in every afternoon to collect the cash and bitch about anything she can think of.” She waved the razor again. “Her and me go at it like cats and dogs. Good thing I’ve got some vacation time coming. It’s been getting bad lately. Another week or so and I’d be telling her where she could put her shop and then I’d need to find another job, which wouldn’t be easy since I wouldn’t have a reference from my last job.” She pretended to check the room. “I use Mona’s certificate number,” she said in a low voice, and then stepped back to admire her work. “Soon as I close up tonight, I’m out of here. Gonna go back home and try to reconnect with my parents. Already got the car packed and ready to roll. Good-bye.”

  Paul watched her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was three separate shades of red, none of which existed in nature. She was dressed like a cartoon character, something between Raggedy Ann and the Cat in the Hat. All kinds of multicolored beads all over her, some of which looked like they might be made of candy, an impossibly short denim skirt over red-and-white-striped leggings, knee-length boots laced up the front.

  She bent close again, working her way slowly around Paul’s left ear. “I never shaved a guy’s face before,” she said. “I’ve like, you know, shaved myself in all the…you know, all the places where girls do that kind of thing.” She wiped a spot of shaving cream from his cheek with a small pink towel. “Hell…I even shaved my head once back in high school…back when Sinéad O’Connor was all the rage, but…” She rinsed off the razor and stepped back again. Satisfied, she pulled a larger pink towel from a shelf beneath the counter, wet one corner in the sink, and used it to remove the remaining daubs of white foam.