The Mercy of the Night

by David Corbett

  “What about the most recent thing? The one that brought her to you.”

  She glanced at the distant wall, its array of plaques and commendations, as though to reassure herself of something. “Six months ago somebody spotted Jacqi wandering around in Browner Park, no shoes, just a tank top and cutoffs, cranked out of her skull. Paramedics took her to ER, and they piped her so full of droperidol and olanzapine it’s a miracle she didn’t slip into a coma. Turns out she had her gear with her when she was found and that just enhanced the parole violation. She was looking at lockup but juvie probation came in, contacted me, we got her diversion instead. That’s how she ended up here.”

  My star pupil, he thought, bit of a joker but quiet, attentive, pencil chewer, all bouncing knees and awkward elbows. “It seemed to be working out,” he said. “At least, from what I could tell. She was working hard—”

  “She got scared. Scared enough to turn the corner. Cleaned up, stayed clean the whole time she was here. I was proud of her. And I’m worried for her now. I hate to think she’s falling back into the life. She really is a sweet, strong, pretty girl. And smart. Wicked smart.”

  Interesting way to put it, he thought. “You still haven’t told me what went wrong. Why she left.”

  Lonnie sat there a moment, looking at him with that same sad, helpless concern. It was beginning to seem a bit like a mask.

  “She couldn’t deal with group. The girls and me, we sit in a circle, we talk. It’s not enough to be honest with yourself. You have to learn to be honest with others. But Jacqi couldn’t go there. Ask her what was going on, she’d say she was fine, maintaining, whatever. Try to delve into what happened with her, the abduction, how she’s dealing with it, she’d rattle off details like she was reciting her trial testimony. Ask her about why she used or tricked and she’d say it was behind her now, so no big deal, and don’t waste your breath asking about her family. Nothing to tell, she’d say. I mean, really. Finally some of the girls called her on it. I called her on it. Tonelle seriously got in her face.”

  “So no secrets,” he said. “No privacy.”

  “That’s not how it works. Privacy is one thing. But secrets are for users.”

  She stood up suddenly, idly searching through papers on her desktop, as though in hope of some kind of validation. Proof. He wanted to tell her to sit back down, it was okay. There are a thousand ways to get greedy, being greedy for the truth is hardly the worst. But before he could say that her hands fell still. The mask of concern fell away.

  “I should have stepped in,” she said. “Protected her better.”

  4

  Of all the things I saw coming, Jacqi thought, this wasn’t one of them.

  Still sitting close beside her on the hotel bed, Verrazzo rummaged around inside his jacket, searching the pocket over his heart, then dug out a little felt box and handed it to her. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Open it.”

  The box was soft, furry to the touch like a hamster, warm from the drunken heat of his body. The hinge was tight but Jacqi worked open the lid, snapped it back.

  White satin inside. Gold chain with a hummingbird charm.

  She knew what gifts meant—you ended up paying for them one way or another—still, she smiled. It was pretty.

  “Jeez,” she said. “Thank you.”

  She held up her hair and he put it on her, fumbling with the clasp at her nape, and she indulged a momentary daydream of being rescued by him somehow.

  “Maybe you can come down, Jackalina. Visalia, I mean.”

  She said, “I don’t know where that is,” feeling a need to stall.

  “What difference does it make? It’s down south. Got my own condo—sauna, steam room, pool. You can keep me company.”

  She tucked her hands under her thighs. “And your family?”

  “Family’s not coming.” His eyes went flat, then he rechecked his flask, like it might have magically refilled. “Family’s staying put. I’ll come back up on my off days.”

  Not likely, she thought, judging from his tone.

  So why not say yes? Why not let him get you out of this town, put you up for a while, take care of you?

  Because it’s not the plan. The plan’s not to get kept. You already know what it means to get kept.

  “Here’s the thing,” he said. “Me and you, Jacqi, we got something in common, know what I mean? All those people out there”—pointing with the flask—“they need us. Need us to hate. They hate me because I refused to buckle under. I refused to cave. I was stronger than they were, until, you know. And they hate you because . . .” He turned to look at her. “Well, you tell me.”

  I got tired, she thought, tired of proving I deserved to live.

  “Nothing the losers would love to see more,” he said, “than to watch us dig our own graves. So they can push us in. I’m not sticking around for that. You shouldn’t either.” He reached up and gently stroked her chin with his thumb. “So what d’ya say?”

  “Can I think it over?”

  “I leave next week.” He took back his hand. “And what’s to think over? You like selling your cooze? Just another corner cunt.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that.” The tiny gold hummingbird quivered against her breastbone. “It’s not polite.”

  He smiled like he couldn’t believe she’d say such a thing, and yet his eyes warmed. “Sure,” he said. “My apologies.”

  “It’s just that I’m saving for something.”

  “Yeah?” Flicker of mirth in his eyes. “Saving for what?”

  “Something important. To me.”

  “Don’t tell me it’s a sex change.”

  Oh, you wit. “Yeah. I’m getting neutered.”

  “You want money.” Nodding, like he should’ve seen it coming. “Not enough I offer you a safe place, roof over your head, food in your belly.”

  “That’s not it. Look, don’t get mad, okay?”

  “You’re shaking me down.”

  “I’m not—no, no.”

  “I’m trying to be a nice guy here.”

  “Stop, okay? It’s just . . .” She stuffed her hands in her hair as her voice trailed away. She swallowed. It felt like a rabbit’s foot lodged in her throat. School, she thought. Tell him it’s for school. “I’m just saving for something, okay?”

  “So you want, what, an allowance?” He stood up from the bed. “Pocket money, mad money. And once you’ve saved up a nice tidy nut, what then? ‘Tough luck, sucker. Adios.’ That how you show your gratitude?”

  “I just asked if I could think about it.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Do that. I’ll think about it too.”

  From inside his jacket his cell went off. He patted his pockets, searching out the hum, found it, pulled out the phone. He read the text he’d just received, eyes hardening. “You sorry fucks . . .”

  Slapping the phone closed, stuffing it back in his pocket, he spotted his reflection in the mirror over the desk and ran his hands through his bristly hair, tightened the knot of his tie. Looking for his hat, finding it. “I gotta go.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, I just gotta be somewhere.”

  “Is this those same guys from back east?”

  He’d taken a call once before when they were together and gone into a mood like this. A couple of union jefes from DC had come out here to monitor the bankruptcy and they were hammering him over something.

  He snapped his head toward her. “What was that?”

  “I just wondered—”

  “Look at me.” He waited till she glanced up, then locked on her eyes. “Let’s get one thing straight. Whenever we’re together, whatever gets said, if it don’t involve you and me?” He ticked his finger back and forth. “You forget about it. Never happened.”

  Then don’t tell me, she thought, but just murmured, �
�Okay.” Unconsciously, she’d started knocking her knees together, then crossed her legs to make it stop, a whisper of nylon from her tights. “So you wanna rain-check on tonight?”

  Patting his pockets for his keys. “Yeah, sure, whatever.”

  “And what about the room here?”

  “It’s paid through till morning. Spend the night, you want.”

  “You coming back?”

  “No!” Like he was sick of her, done with her. Pest. Then just as quick, the eyes warmed again, a hint of regret. “What’s tonight, Tuesday? I’m all booked up tomorrow but I’ll call you Thursday morning, I’m wide open then, we’ll go out, have breakfast. Talk about what we just talked about. You coming down. Visalia.”

  Once he was gone, she went to the curtains and looked out the window to make sure he made it to his car okay. The storm was already blowing in. Date palms lining the hotel grounds, lit from below, rattled and swayed in the wind.

  Two men got out of a car. Verrazzo turned as they slammed their doors. They wore blues but didn’t look much like firemen. They looked like muscle.

  How did they know he was here?

  The men converged. One guy crossed his arms and held back, the other got up in Verrazzo’s grill, spearing a finger into his chest. Jacqi glanced around the room for the phone, in case she needed to call down, get security out there, then turned back to the window and chewed away her lip gloss, watching the three men go at it.

  They barked and snarled, toe-to-toe, till finally Verrazzo with his mitt-sized hand shoved Mr. Finger out of his face. The guy tumbled back like he’d been smacked by a wrecking ball, windmilling into his buddy, but just like that he caught his balance and charged forward again, fist clenched, arm cocked, till the buddy reached out and snagged him, wrapped him up and spun him away.

  Some more gestures and yelling, spittled with hate, but no punches. Saving it for later, she thought, someplace else. Then as sudden as it started the thing broke up. The two sides parted, crowing at each other across the parking lot. Verrazzo dragged himself to his car, got in, the others did likewise. Then the screech of tires as they all drove off.

  She was turning away from the window when another guy appeared, drifting into the frame like an afterthought—hooded sweatshirt, jeans, emerging from the shadows somewhere along the hotel’s front. Like he’d been waiting out of sight.

  He stopped at the edge of the parking lot, gazing at the cars as they tore off, like he was trying to memorize their taillights, then thumbed at his phone. So what’s your story, she wondered, just as he turned and glanced up.

  Like he knew exactly which room.

  She stepped back quick from the window and crouched. Close the curtains, she thought—no, it’ll just give you away. Feeling behind for the bed, she found it and perched on the edge, waiting for what felt like forever, expecting any minute to hear a fist at the door, pounding like a sledge, a voice demanding she open up.

  And in time she did hear voices—a pair of men somewhere down the hall—so she crept to the door, pressed her ear to the wood, trying to catch words. She thought about peering through the fish-eye peephole but feared someone might be right outside, staring back. Then they’ll know for sure you’re here, she thought. And whatever they started with Verrazzo they’ll finish with you.

  She stood there, flush with the door, light-headed from taking shallow breaths and listening to the murmur of voices, then a pair of doors clattered open and promptly boomed shut. The voices trailed away.

  She stood there a moment, wondering if that was that, when she felt it—an eerie silent presence, just outside. Only the door between them.

  She stared at the door handle, expecting it to move—he’d test it, see if she’d left the thing ajar—but nothing. She considered reaching up, throwing the security latch, but again feared the telltale sound it would make, no matter how careful she tried to be. Meanwhile, that same strange gravity, the sense of another body inches away.

  She closed her eyes, wishing it would go, thinking of a thousand ways to say it: please please please just leave.

  In time she felt it, like a loosened grip. Whoever had been there drifted away.

  She went back to the bed and sat on the edge, watching the digital clock on the desk blink through the minutes. It felt like a lifetime before she relaxed. Venturing up from the covers finally, she inched toward the window, peered out from the edge. Whoever the guy in the sweatshirt had been, he wasn’t out there anymore either.

  What now? Before hooking up with Fireman Mike she’d cleaned up at Bettye’s, the hair salon where she’d been staying the past week, let in the cat for the night. Nothing to do on that front till morning. Why risk getting followed—or worse—just to go back to a strip of foam in the storage room?

  It’d been a week since she’d left Casa de Crackhead, slept in an actual bed.

  And despite all the extracurriculars, there was still a chance Fireman Mike might come back. One big moody dude. He might want company, everybody does, specially after a fight. If he did show up, she’d want to smooth things over, make peace.

  Visalia. Just a temporary stopover. Or a major mistake. How to tell?

  She got undressed. Clutching the hummingbird to her chest, she tucked herself between the sheets, so crisp against her skin they felt like paper. She was stuffed inside an envelope, a letter headed somewhere south.

  5

  Tierney’s headlights carved a tunnel in the rain, the windshield hazed with fog. The clock on his dash read quarter past twelve—noon, not midnight—the storm front draping itself across the green coastal hills, shrouds of mist hazing the marshlands and the dull black gash of the river.

  He slowed to the curb, smearing the wet glass with his hand, wipers a rhythmic thump and squeak as he peered out at the women huddled inside the bus shelter. Three of them—stomping their feet for warmth like ponies, clouds of breath veiling their faces.

  One seemed ancient, rail thin, a comical black wig perched atop her head. Mattie, if he recalled the name right—Lonnie Bachmann had mentioned her—oldest woman working the streets in the North Bay, something of a local legend.

  The second was thirtyish, hefty, big-thighed, raking her Afro with a pick.

  He recognized the third with a twinge of grateful sadness, lowering the passenger-side window, waving her closer.

  She leaned down, framed by the open window—raccoon eyeliner, neon lipstick, a glob of concealer lathered over a pimple on her chin. She seemed thinner in heels and was going at a wad of gum like it’d hurt her feelings.

  “Jacqi, hey. I heard you left the center. Thought I’d make sure you’re okay.”

  She stood there frozen. Like he embodied some thoughtless mistake.

  “Lousy day for being outside,” he said. “Want to join me for coffee somewhere?”

  She cheeked the gum, pushed the wet hair off her face. “How’d you find me?”

  “It wasn’t easy.”

  “She send you?”

  “Nobody sent me. Lonnie told me what happened, yeah. She feels bad about it, feels like she let you down. But I’m here because of you, not her.”

  Fifty yards ahead a streetlight flashed red above the rain-swept intersection like a robot in distress, its copper wiring gutted by thieves. “That’s nice, but you still gotta pay for my time.” Her hands did a quick wet tom-tom on the windowsill—she was like a performance piece, part awkward teen, part juvie-hall hustler, part street pixie. “Twenty-five for lunch, fifty for dinner. Don’t wanna eat in the car, room’s on you.”

  How many ways, he thought, is this girl going to break my heart? “Sorry, that’s not even close to happening.”

  “Then we got nothing to talk about.” She straightened up, turned to go.

  “Jacqi, you’ve violated a court order by leaving the center.” Easy, he thought. Don’t scold. “If the next car that stops has two guys
from SCU inside? It’s not going to be the catch-and-release you’re used to. More like ninety days in county, minimum.”

  The city had finally scrabbled together enough money from federal and state grants to reassemble the Street Crimes Unit, which meant working girls and corner crews were back on the radar.

  “If money’s a problem we can talk about that. I don’t want anything and I’m not paying for anything. But maybe I can help out if you’re strapped.” He leaned across the car, opened the door. “Come on,” he said, “get in. Cup of coffee, lunch, whatever.”

  Jacqi shot sidelong glances at him as they drove back into Rio Mirada proper, trying to crack the code, figure out the real reason he’d come looking for her. Not that she minded his company.

  The last joker on the scene had pulled up in a rust-bucket Dodge, seventy if he was a day, all wrinkles and bones, yelling out his lowered window, “I’m gonna tear that pussy up!” Only Mattie had the stomach for him, and she came back quick.

  Tierney resembled an actual man, even if he was, in fact, Lonnie Bachmann’s errand boy. He had the voice of a professor but the shoulders of a goalie and those eyes, Christ, malamute blue with sleepy lids. Reminded her of the kinda guy you see in a movie, not the star, the guy just beneath the star, the wily sidekick who takes a bullet for the home team and everybody cries.

  He pulled into a parking lot just off the main drag, a place called Javarama—smart choice, she didn’t get shunned like a leper here. The place offered a kind of homespun funk, free Wi-Fi, an oasis in the ghost town called downtown. He nosed the car against a wall of whitewashed brick and killed the engine.

  “Look,” she said, “before this goes anywhere, let’s get something straight. If this is about me going back? Ain’t gonna happen.”