Spider’s Cage

by Jim Nisbet

  While she held the shoe, Windrow pulled the thin sheet of luan off it.

  “Just like the old neighborhood,” she said, replacing the shoe. She took the piece of wood out of Windrow’s hand and tossed it back into the office behind them. It fluttered to the floor in front of Lobe’s desk. “ Merde all over the place.”

  As they came to the stairhead, Windrow heard Lobe dial the last digit.

  He thought it might have been a zero.

  Chapter Twelve

  WINDROW AND SISTER OPIUM JADE WALKED TOGETHER down Market street, 3 blocks from Lobe’s office. The sun brightened the air that blustered cool around them, full of gum wrappers and pigeons. They entered the tableau of poverty and addiction that spills out of the mouth of Sixth Street onto Market, so carefully displayed on the new bricks under the restored streetlamps. While they waited for the light, they watched a man on the other side of Sixth who stood with a frozen expression, moving his hands back and forth in front of his face as if he were climbing an invisible rope. He would climb for a while, hand over hand, then stop and plait invisible strands, top to bottom, neck to waist. Then he’d give the rope a stout tug, as if to snug up his work, and begin to climb again.

  Across the sidewalk from the rope climber, a man wearing a sandwich board completely covered with tiny red and black writing waved a Bible and orated invective. Next to him, a young man with matted hair and a vacant stare strummed a ruined Spanish guitar with three strings and sang the one line ‘bringing in the sheep’ over and over. Not ‘sheaves.’ ‘Sheep.’

  The light changed. Office workers, bike messengers, businessmen, bums and tourists thronged between the stationary attractions. Two trolley cars released their brakes, rang their bells and rolled in opposite directions, each as if it were plumetting helplessly downhill. Sister Opium Jade slipped her arm through Windrow’s and eyed the street corner characters.

  “Pour peu que tu te bouges,” she whispered, clinging to Windrow. “Renaissent tous mes désespoirs. And how.”

  “Honey,” Windrow drawled sincerely, “I can’t tell if you’re ordering frog legs or snails, but we can’t afford either one.”

  “I got enough for two, baby,” Opium Jade said warmly, squeezing his elbow into the curve above her thinly sheathed hip. “Nothing but Willies up and down this street,” she added.

  “No Johns?”

  She gave his hip a bump with hers, nearly knocking him over. “I already got one a them,” she said huskily.

  “You’re barking up the wrong eucalyptus,” Windrow said softly.

  Opium Jade pouted. “Aw, Marty. Just one little kiss?” She bumped him again and winked. “On the cheek?”

  Windrow smiled and cleared his throat. “I’m on a case,” he said sternly. He shot his cuffs. “Best to keep my mind between my ears.”

  Opium Jade looked sideways at him. “Is that where you keep her? In your mind?” Her tone caught between teasing and serious.

  Windrow looked at her. Their eyes met. Hers were big, almond shaped, with brown, almost black irises.

  “Cause that’s the only place you’re going to keep her,” she said quietly.

  A drunk teetered into Windrow and exhaled the pheromones of a terminal corruption into his face. Windrow gently but firmly brushed the man away without taking his eyes off Opium Jade’s.

  The drunk stumbled a couple of feet, embraced a newspaper box and toppled over with it. Several people on the sidewalk gave Windrow stern glances and a wider berth.

  He ignored them. “You’re telling it,” he said to Opium Jade.

  “You want her too bad,” she said simply. “It’s affecting your judgement. I thought you were going to rip Lobe’s arm off for making that cheap crack about her. Did you think that was chivalrous, or something?”

  Windrow rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t chivalry, it was fun.”

  Opium Jade made a face. “It was weakness, Marty. Lobe saw it before I did. He saw your throat and jabbed at it. With him it’s instinctive. He’s an unctuous fat pimp, but that just makes him better at cheap shots. You should have seen your face.” She touched his arm. “No, I thought you were going to kill him for it.”

  A bus roared away from the curb beside them, making talk temporarily impossible. A man ran alongside banging on it and screaming curses. After a hundred feet or so the bus outran him and he gave up, walked to the curb and furiously kicked the back of a news kiosk. An old, grizzled newsie stuck his head out the front and looked around the side, but said nothing.

  “She needs help,” Windrow said. “She asked me for it.”

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Opium Jade said, shaking her head, “but I might be able to rope it into my theory later.”

  Windrow looked at her and smiled. She frowned.

  “Look, Marty. It’s none of my business, but what’s a slick item like Jodie Ryan doing with a fuck-up like you?” She held up her hand. “Don’t tell me: you’re good in the sack?”

  Windrow shrugged modestly. Opium Jade nodded.

  “Okay, you’re good in the sack. Here’s a woman’s got a record out, maybe a hit tune on it, and talent to back them up with. On top of that, her granddaddy just died and left her Southern California. Five years ago—if she was walking then—she needed an agent. She signed on with Lobe. She won’t whore for him, but she hits the hay with Lobe once in a while to keep him happy.”

  Windrow bristled and stopped. “I don’t buy that.”

  “Even if it’s so he’ll do what he can for her?” She shrugged. “So maybe she doesn’t. Either way, he gets her exposure and keeps her working. That’s good. After all, she’s trying to make it in show business.”

  Windrow buried his hands in his pockets and watched his feet as they took their turns in front of him on the sidewalk. He didn’t like what he was hearing, but he listened.

  “But now she’s just about used Lobe up. Like, she could probably sing the same song at the Grand Old Oprey every Christmas from now until the end of her life. Ain’t that what it’s about?” Opium Jade twirled a finger. “Anyway, the point is, she doesn’t need Lobe anymore. His connections get her into a truckstop casino in Stateline, Nevada, on any Tuesday night—maybe—but no more. He couldn’t do a television deal if his life depended on it, all the sharks in that game are five or six times bigger than he is. Not only that, he’s a pimp. Nobody legitimate would even let him into the elevator.”

  “So the deal is,” Windrow interrupted her, “scare Lobe so bad he’ll simply do nothing until her contract expires. Or until he sells out.”

  “Right. But the kicker is, Jodie Ryan herself has the heaviest motive for wanting that to happen. Right?”

  They heard a distant explosion. Opium Jade looked behind them. Windrow, in midthought, paid no attention. A few of the people milling around them looked to one side or another as they hurried along the sidewalk, but no one gave any indication of seeing anything. An old man with white hair and a nicotine-stained beard looked up and held out his hands, palms up, muttering to himself. No fiery debris or chunks of concrete rained out of the sky onto his hands. The old man shrugged and clasped his hands, one over the other in front of him. He resumed pacing an obscure pattern of little steps back and forth on one portion of the sidewalk, muttering.

  “But that’s a pretty bad scare,” Windrow said. “If she’s that talented and that on the way up and that successful, his earnings off her contract could save years of subservience to Lobe. Even if he completely mismanages it, he should be able to sell it to somebody for a considerable amount of money.”

  Opium Jade considered this. “My man had to leave town once,” she said after a pause. “He sublet my action to a friend of his for a percentage.”

  “Yeah,” said Windrow bitterly. “Something like that. There are precautions against stuff like that, a clause to make any changes contingent on the artist’s approval and so forth. But I’ve seen the contract Jodie signed with Lobe.” He held up his thumb and forefinger. “It’s about this t
hick. He could do anything he wanted, and it would probably stick.”

  They passed a beat cop who stood in a doorway pressing his radio’s earplug tightly into his ear, listening intently. He recognized Windrow and raised his chin at him. When he saw Opium Jade he wagged his eyebrows, but continued to listen to his earplug.

  “The thing is,” Windrow continued, “it’s a performance contract. Lobe gets a cut of her performance work, and anything that grows out of it—a broadcast made of a performance, for instance. But he sees nothing from anything else. As far as I know, he receives no proceeds from her record—if there are any. If she doesn’t perform, he doesn’t earn anything off her.”

  “So what? That’s to her advantage, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is good for her. But it would put the heat on Lobe to cash in on her before their contract expires. He probably thinks it’s his natural-born right and duty to cash in on her. That’s what employees are for, right?” He raised an eyebrow at Opium Jade.

  “Lord, tell it,” she sighed. “It’s enough to make a body vote CWP.”

  “I thought you carried a card,” Windrow said.

  Opium Jade shook her head. “Just the one for the clinic, honey. One day Marx couldn’t get it up anymore. A girl just don’t know what to believe.” She stopped and eyed a dress in a store window. Windrow stood beside her. Muzac drifted out of a speaker hidden above their heads. Opium Jade watched the dress quietly for a while, then focused on his eyes in the reflection in the window.

  “I repeat. What makes you think somebody like her would have any need of a bum like you?” she said. “You don’t think there’s somebody hanging around the top of the heap can give her what she likes, how she likes, and shave every day in the bargain?”

  Windrow looked through his reflection at the plastic legs of the coy mannikin. The feet had high heel shoes on them. A thin gold chain with tiny links twinkled on one ankle.

  You’re a cool drink in August, he said to himself, remembering Jodie Ryan’s voice as she said it, her eyes two inches from his. But he didn’t speak. His eyes snapped into focus with the image of Opium Jade’s eyes in the window. She looked at them for a minute.

  “Oh boy,” she said. “The dumb eyes of the helpless victim. You look like a deer caught in the highbeams on 101.” She put her arm through his and pulled. “Come on, I’ll buy you a glass of betadyne.”

  They entered the first licensed premises they came to. It was a big one. The bar went from Market Street entrance all the way to the back door, which opened onto Stevenson, the alley fifty yards south. It was an old place, with a backbar proscenium of carved mahogany pillars supporting a dignified architrave that framed three shelves of bottles nearly as long as the bar. It all looked and smelled just like 2 A.M. in 1923, in the little bit of smoky, ochre light allowed to penetrate. They had principles, too, to go along with the atmosphere. A beer with a shot went for eighty cents. Opium Jade bought two each. She laid a two-dollar bill on the counter and told the huge red-faced Irishman on the other side, complete with starched collar, pinstriped shirt, vest, sleeve garters and a wrap-around apron hysted to his armpits, to keep the change. He rapped his knuckles twice on the bar and went away with the bill.

  Opium Jade clicked her shot against Windrow’s.

  “Here’s to love, goddamnit.”

  They drank.

  A while later she went away and funded the jukebox and came back. The antique Wurlitzer dated to Babbage. A lot of electromechanical ruminations transpired before it got down to playing a tune. The music itself filtered through scratches and static after a loud thump and four introductory notes presaged the melody’s imminent arrival.

  John’s in love with Joan

  Joan’s in love with Jim

  Windrow looked sideways at Opium Jade. She sipped her shot and stared straight ahead.

  Jim’s in love with someone

  Who’s not in love with him

  Windrow cleared his throat and tried to suppress a smile. The bass thummed and buzzed in the old box, lugubriously, yet with undeniable finesse.

  What was meant to be must beeee

  C’est la vie, c’est la vieeeee

  Windrow’s smile had turned into a grin. He put his hand on Opium Jade’s shoulder and was about to speak when she shrugged it off.

  Life’s a funny thing

  When it comes to love

  Windrow frowned. He put his hand up to her chin and gently turned her face towards his.

  You don’t always conquer

  The one you’re thinking of

  He was startled to see a tear fill the corner of her eye and glisten down her left cheek.

  As they say

  In old Paree

  She moved her chin away from his fingers and stared over her shot at her own reflection, just visible in the mirror between the top and bottom of two rows of bottles.

  C’est la vie

  C’est la vie

  “Fuck you, shamus,” she said softly. He looked away from her face to her reflection. Her eyes shone there, in the gloom among the bottles.

  C’est laaa vieeee…

  Chapter Thirteen

  AS WINDROW NEGOTIATED THE STAIRCASE THAT LED TO his office, gibbering voices held a conference in the shadows within and around him.

  He couldn’t make a lot of sense out of the chatter. He heard Opium Jade rendering bits of Verlaine, though she was now across the street, working, and he understood no French. He could hear Bdeniowitz berating somebody for a lousy job, no—wait—it was Bdeniowitz berating Windrow for doing a lousy job of being alive, snatches of a lecture delivered and received in the early seventies, when Windrow had still been a cop. He chuckled. He could still taste the humiliation of that night. The strains of a tune passed through his mind. He hummed to himself inaccurately. C’est la vie, c’est la vie. Aha. That laugh. Sal had laughed like that as she had removed her fist full of quarters from his stomach, in preparation for the blow that had rendered him unconscious. Had some quirk of her conscience chided her for decking this total stranger, and she’d laughed it off? Just as Windrow had guiltily laughed off Bdeniowitz’ derision, years before?

  Naw, he thought to himself. The laugh had been a byproduct, a genuine expression let slip by mistake in the moment of enjoyment. Like a cry of love. Sure, that’s it. Then had come the blow of redoubled ferocity that sent him over the desk. The laugh was extra, a filagree, an emotional tip.

  He leaned on the bannister and breathed deeply. Nine dollars, sixty cents, plus tip. That’s twelve of them. Six for Opium Jade, six for Windrow. Plus the round she bought. That made seven. Whew. He frowned. Beer and a shot, eighty cents? Crime. That’s real crime, like taking brain cells from babies… He tried to remember whether or not he’d dipped into the two hundred dollars given him by Woodruff. Probably. Likely. Nine dollars, sixty cents. That’s a lot of money. Plus tip. Have to fondle the resources, weigh carefully… Get that cash in the bank, cover that check to Bruce… .

  His head drifted with the smoky fumes of cheap Irish whiskey and draft beer.

  He’d intended to extort information rather than money from Woodruff. But the fabrication about another will, that had meant something to the man.

  “Here’s a little something on retainer,” he’d said, and winked. “You’ll let me know the moment you find anything, of course.” He’d damn near patted Windrow on the back. Golden retriever.

  Windrow pulled one of the crisp hundred dollar bills out of his watch pocket. He couldn’t read it but he stared at where its dim shape crackled between his fingers in the dark.

  Not a lot of money. Just enough, maybe, to insure the loyalty of a shifty detective. That is to say, if you do find such a will, Mr. Windrow, be sure to let us be the first to see it. OK?

  Windrow turned and sat on the edge of the second floor landing and stared down the dark stairwell, softly popping the C-note between his two hands like a shoeshine rag.

  It seemed likely that somebody, somewhere would have to
know about any last will and testament for the document to be of any good to anyone. If old man O’Ryan had composed such a statement, there must be a lawyer holding it somewhere, or it must be someplace where it would be found. Anybody with a stake in it would apprise himself of its contents, which, if not already a matter of public record, would certainly come to light immediately upon the decease of the testator.

  Maybe Woodruff had simply swallowed Windrow’s story; could it be that simple?

  Windrow made the hundred dollar bill snap, once, twice, and then it snapped neatly, accidently, in two.

  He reconstructed in the darkness beneath him the living room of Pamela Neil’s house. He remembered the panelling, the maid, the piano, the red gemstone, the deafmute—and the paintings, each a portrait or an abstraction, with the single exception of the yacht over the mantle, and the oil well, on its way out. He saw the polished table covered with bottles of liquor, the sofas, the high windows in the western wall, the intricate rugs, the light on them.

  He could see Pamela Neil, pretty but tired and thin, nervous and childish. Her button nose wrinkled when she sniffled. She sat with her knees drawn up and her legs to one side, held her drink beside her face in a hand whose elbow rested on her hip, the fingers straight up on the glass. She had told him nothing.

  Nothing.

  Here was a woman who had managed to marry herself an oil tycoon somewhere between two and three times her age, then divorce him. She liked cocaine, brandy, sailboats, had an aesthete for a boyfriend, a big house to keep him in, servants to wait on them. All she had to do was stay unmarried, so the alimony might keep rolling in.

  Then the benefactor dies, she remarries, immediately her stepdaughter disappears, and a blackmailing detective shows up. What does she want? An explanation? An investigation? Paperwork? Security? A payoff?