The Fever Dream

by Sam Jones

  “Fair enough.”

  She tossed the butt of her cigarette onto the pavement and stepped it out with her heel, then pulled out her phone, fiddled with it, and pocketed it.

  “Thirty seconds away.”

  She extended a handshake. “Cassie,” she said.

  “Pleasure, Cassie. Martin.”

  They shook. Twenty-eight seconds later a blue Ford compact with a ‘U’ sticker in the window pulled up, and they piled in. Black buttoned his coat as the car took off, worried that the Beretta might peek out at some point.

  Don’t want this girl to freak. That’s the LAST thing I need.

  The driver was a larger man with a head so big that his glasses barely reached his ears, which forced him to adjust them every few seconds; he never said a word to them. For a few minutes all that was audible were the sounds of his labored/asthmatic breathing, a side effect from his lack of consistent exercise. It was the same kind of breaths that babies drew when they sat on their doughy haunches and stared at you with dazed curiosity, only a little deeper.

  Cassie finally broke the silence—

  “What do you do, Martin Black?” she asked.

  “I’m an English teacher,” he said.

  “That’s not true.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Teachers don’t dress in greasy suits.”

  Black looked down and saw that daylight wasn’t doing the clothes he got from Hoot any favors. They looked a little more yellow in the sunlight. “Just had a rough night, that’s all.”

  “What grade do you teach?”

  “Ten through twelve.”

  “What are you guys reading right now?”

  “Currently on summer break,” he said with cheerful delight.

  More time passed. Maybe a minute. Black spent it looking out of his window at the roaming green and tan hills surrounding the 10 Freeway as they blended into bumper-to-bumper traffic. It was a signature, horseshit trademark of Los Angeles.

  “Which bar are we going to?” Black inquired.

  “This dive place in Sherman Oaks I know. British themed. Cheap prices. They always open at noon, so that’s a plus.”

  Reality caught up with Black. He knew he should have been hustling, making his rounds and figuring out how to track down Amanda. If he didn’t he’d be standing tall before the man, or in this case: the woman, and that woman was a rigid dictator who seemed to be itching at the chance to snuff him out like a restrained pit bull being teased by an infant.

  If he wanted to stay ahead, he needed to get to work.

  Yeah… But I need a drink.

  Another fifteen minutes ticked by, and they arrived at the bar. The establishment was nothing noteworthy. Faded white colors. Crisscrossed two-by-four boards in X-shapes were molded around the building like scaffolding that had absorbed into the paint. A deep blue sign hung on a post. From the thick, dried, paint tears, the thing looked like it had been coated over more than once. A Union Jack flag was in the middle of the sign and gold letters across the top spelled out the not-so-clever name: Blimey’s. The place reminded Black of the pub from An American Werewolf in London.

  What was it called…? ‘The Slaughtered Lamb,’ that’s right. I love that flick.

  Black was a classic horror cinema type of guy.

  Cassie opened the door for Black. It would have been a frivolous thing to report, but the door was made of thick oak that usually required a certain amount of leverage to throw open in the casual way she did.

  It was right then that a click went off in Black’s brain. Something about how easy it was for Cassie to throw the door open caused his sixth sense to stir—

  The stiffness in her highly toned forearms as she grabbed the door handle.

  The way she pivoted her foot as the door flew open like a breeze was carrying it.

  Black inhaled, exhaled, and gave a pleasant smile.

  Nice job, asshole…

  He winked at Cassie.

  She’s one of the bad guys.

  Cassie winked back.

  Cassie motioned a hand out and bowed, mimicking some sort of old doorman you saw in ‘50s movies, back when stereotypes were more easily enforced.

  Cassie wasn’t a classic cinema type of gal.

  Black tipped a fake hat and entered.

  Play it cool.

  The bad guys just lead you STRAIGHT to them.

  Cassie caught glances with Black as he entered the bar.

  She’s got information.

  Play along for now.

  Black looked around. The place was empty and the interior of the bar was just as un-noteworthy as the outside: plain, dark wooden chairs, countertops, and walls. Cassie and Black turned to the right towards a scattering of roundtables, chairs, and booths with no cushioning or backing.

  The bar sat to the left. A balding man with thinning white hair, (close to a mullet style) and a ‘too irritated to be here’ scowl was pretending to pass the time skimming through a hardcover, hunched over on his elbows and never bothering once to greet Cassie or Black.

  Behind him, in-between shelves lined with semi-dusty liquor bottles, was a spiral staircase that led up to the second floor.

  Must lead up to an office or some sort of apartment. Excuse me, I meant ‘flat.’

  Sorry, Chap.

  The only deterrent to taking a peek up top was a chain tethered across the handrails on either side of the first step with a cheap sign saying ‘DO NOT ENTER’ written in blood red.

  Cassie chose one of the roundtables. Her and Black popped a squat, Black felt his back muscles relaxing. He kept his left hand close to his Beretta.

  Stay sharp. Talk her down. Get what you can out of her.

  Don’t start shooting.

  …Yet.

  “Can’t believe they’re not here,” Cassie said.

  “Your friends?” asked Black.

  “Yeah. They’re never on time. Like I said: assholes.”

  “Why do you hang around with them then? You seem like a nice enough lady.”

  “I’m not. Believe me.”

  A waitress approached the table from the direction of the spiral staircase with the same, unbreakable scowl as the bartender’s. She wore a black t-shirt that was fading from its umpteenth ride in a dryer, faded denim jeans, which were baggy at the ankles, and white sneakers that were impeccably clean and caught the light like trophies. She was a stocky woman. Had a puffy, 1990s PTA mom hairdo that was holding strong, thanks to the grape scented hairspray that she was no doubt buying in truckloads at her local Costco. Her just shy of leathery and pink-hued skin flagged down the fact that this was the kind of woman who’d rather smoke for forty-five minutes than stretch out on a yoga mat.

  More power to her. She’ll probably live to be a hundred.

  She waited for them to place their orders. Never muttered a word.

  “Whatever’s on tap,” said Cassie.

  “Same,” said Black.

  The waitress turned and headed to the bar. Cassie leaned forward and looked at Black’s suit with inquisitive eyes. “Where do you buy something that crappy, anyway?” she asked.

  “Men’s Warehouse. Quality’s gone downhill, I’m telling you,” Black replied.

  Cassie scrunched her nose.

  “Not funny?” Black stated with chagrin.

  “Not really,” she responded.

  “Damn. My one-liners only land about half the time.”

  “Don’t force personality. It’s unattractive.”

  “I have a forceful personality, for better or worse.”

  “Born under a bad sign, huh?”

  “No… I was just born in the wrong decade, I think…”

  “You’re decent-looking. I’m sure you do alright,” Cassie said with a hidden smirk.

  “You’d be surprised,” said Black as he exhaled a breath to help soothe his bruised ego.

  “The pity party isn’t attractive.”

  “It’s not deliberate. I have a lack of social graces.
Something I’m working on.”

  Cassie brushed fake dust off the table to buy herself a few seconds to switch gears—

  “So, what did you do last night?” she asked.

  “Long story,” he replied.

  “My friends are late. We got a few minutes. Please don’t fill it with awkward silence. Please?”

  Her ‘friends’ are probably a couple of beefed-up goons strapped to the teeth.

  “My apologies,” Black said. “Think I’ve just had one of those nights.”

  Cassie squinted, like she was thinking of something. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’m going to pop off to the bathroom. I figure with the amount I’ve stored up in my bladder, I’ll be in there about three minutes. That should be enough time for you to rally, get your head on straight, and hold a conversation with me. Deal?”

  “You definitely lack the societal ‘norms’ that a woman tends to have.”

  “I’m not a normal woman.”

  “Then this should be fun.”

  The waitress returned with two, piss-flat beers in glasses and placed them on the table – one in front of Cassie, one in front of Black. Then, it appeared she had gotten confused, and switched back the glasses.

  Oh, boy…

  You slipped up, sweetheart.

  Know I know you laced the drink...

  Black smiled as he stared at the beverage, wondering what substance it had been tainted with.

  Play it cool.

  Black looked to Cassie and picked up where the conversation left off.

  “Three minutes?” he asked.

  Cassie held up three fingers.

  Black gave a thumbs-ups.

  “You got it,” he said.

  Cassie gave him the thumbs-up, spun on her heel, and headed towards a pair of double doors, off to the left, which led to the restrooms. As soon as her back was turned Black switched his drink out for Cassie’s.

  All yours now, babe.

  Wonder what’s in it.

  Maybe it’s poison.

  Maybe it’s a sleeping agent.

  Either way the girl is about to take a nap...

  Cassie returned, sat down, and dove right back in without skipping a beat.

  “You’re off in the stratosphere, bud,” she said. “Your eyes are darting around like hummingbirds.”

  “I was just wondering how to go about finding someone.”

  “Ominous. Who?”

  “Some girl.”

  Cassie perked up at the potential gossip. “See. You do have something fun to talk about it. Who is she? Your girlfriend?”

  “No. Just a friend. I lost track of her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “That’s the thing: I have no idea.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Yeah. I’m not too thrilled about it.”

  “Don’t think I would be, either.”

  Black looked at Cassie’s hand, still resting on her un-touched beer.

  C’mon. Pick up the drink…

  “Am I drinking alone?” he asked her.

  Cassie smiled, picked up her beer, and held it out in a toast.

  Black picked up his own glass and clinked it against hers.

  “To living another day,” Black said.

  “You’re hopelessly optimistic,” Cassie replied with a devious grin.

  They both drank. Black held his eyes on Cassie as he watched her down a hard swig.

  Yatzi!

  Black held back a grin. It was only a matter of time before whatever was in her drink would take effect.

  Maybe I’m not as off my game as I think I am.

  I almost feel bad for her.

  Black’s mind wandered as he watched Cassie lips pressing against the rim of her glass as she took another drink. Her toned neckline took Black off guard for a beat. Part of him felt like he was on a date.

  There was something about Cassie (aside from her looks) that lured Black in. The vibe of a worldly traveler. A woman on the move. Nothing tying her down. In one place and out the next with the same hotfooted swiftness she had when she walked into a room or sat in a chair.

  Focus.

  She’s about to pass out.

  Get ready...

  “Where did you get your tan?” Black inquired, trying to keep things light while he checked his watch. “LA’s been a little overcast lately, so it wasn’t here.”

  “Portugal.”

  “Why were you in Portugal?”

  “Work.”

  “And what do you do for a living?”

  Cassie leaned back and crossed her arms, genuinely befuddled by the question. “Not sure how to describe it.”

  Black took another swig of his beer; the bitter yet slightly sweet liquid coated his stomach and digested into his system with swift timing. He felt the effects of his buzz setting in fairly quickly, being that he wasn’t a hard drinker. A bit of lightheadedness hit him. He rubbed his eyes, popped his ears, and breathed. He was getting more buzzed, and Cassie seemed to be smirking at his reaction.

  “You look stressed,” Cassie said.

  “No, I’m good. What were we talking about?”

  “What I did for a living. But that’s not interesting. Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Touchy subject, huh?”

  “No, just boring. What kind of a music do you like?”

  “You couldn’t have asked a more cliché date question, could you?”

  “Kind of music someone listens to says a lot about them.”

  “You first,” he said to Cassie.

  “Okay,” Cassie said as she picked up her glass.

  “The Clash.”

  Black nodded his head, but to the side, kind of cock-eyed. “I can dig it. Any particular song?”

  “Death or Glory.”

  “The reggae bits in their music always did it for me. Dunno why.”

  “I never really listened to anything but Gladys Knight & The Pips until I was nineteen.”

  “What’s wrong with Gladys Knight & The Pips?”

  “Nothing. I love Gladys Knight & The Pips. I just never branched out for a good stretch of time. It was my dad’s fault. His tastes were sort of… stuck on a time loop. My dad was stubborn.”

  “What about you? Favorite music.”

  “Godfather of Soul.”

  Cassie seemed pleased at the answer. She leaned forward and pushed her glass to the side like a child she wanted out of earshot from the adult talk. “James… Brown…” she said.

  “It’s my go to,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  “Slow rhythms. Easy beats. My mind spins in every direction at any given point, so… I guess music like that calms me down.”

  “You think too much, huh?”

  Black nodded. Took a swig.

  “I thought you were a little mopey at first, but I’m starting to like you,” Cassie said.

  “It’s not just James that I like. I guess Motown or anything with soul in general tends to get me. True soul music. Not this bullshit they pass off on the radio now.”

  “So… The Spinners is a primo choice for you, I imagine?”

  He nodded.

  Cassie then thought of something.

  She smiled.

  “What’s your batting average?” she asked.

  Black cocked his head like a curious canine.

  “As in?”

  She shook her head in a ‘come on, dude’ fashion. A psh sound evacuated through her lips.

  “Two,” he said.

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  “Is there a standard?”

  “For good-looking guys such as yourself, yes.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Well, maybe not preposterous. If you’re being truthful, and I think you are, then it’s at the very least a pretty low average. For a guy like you.”

  “What’s your number? Excuse me: batting average.”

  “Nine.”

  “Good for you.” He meant
it. “Probably isn’t hard for you to pull off,” said Black.

  “Because I’m a chick?”

  “For starters, yes. But you’re not sore on the eyes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Seriously,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper as if the bartender or the waitress gave two shits about them from the second they walked in. “Why only two women?” she asked.

  “Those are the only ones I felt the need to do it with.”

  She nodded, his answer confirming some theory bouncing around her skull. “You put your heart into it when you do,” Cassie said.

  What? I work about three hundred and twenty-two days a year. I don’t have TIME for it!

  “How do you know?” he asked.

  “One of them broke your heart. That’s why you petered out at two.”

  Oh… That’s right.

  “Maybe I broke hers…” Black suggested, hints of forced sarcasm in his voice.

  “I buy it,” said Cassie, as if she just agreed on leasing a car.

  Black took another swig.

  You win.

  “What was her name?” Cassie asked.

  “I don’t want to play this game,” Black said.

  “C’mon. You said yes to the beer.”

  Yeah, because you’re in with the bad guys. I need to know what they know.

  …Yet I’m getting distracted with a frivolous conversation with one of them about sex and Motown.

  Christ, Marty, pull it together.

  “I didn’t agree to a psych evaluation,” he said to Cassie.

  “Seriously, dude, you really do think too much. Maybe that’s why you have those silver streaks in your hair.”

  She twirled a finger through her own highlights, the twisting of her fingertips somewhat aroused Black.

  STOP.

  “You don’t dye yours like mine,” she said. “Or do you?”

  “Nope. Maybe it’s just genetics.”

  “No… I think it’s stress.”

  She might be right.

  “Can I make a suggestion?” Cassie asked, her tone a little less relentless.

  “By all means,” Black replied.

  “Sleep around a little bit. Don’t get bogged down too much by one person.”

  “That what happened to you?”

  “This isn’t about me, Marty. I’m just saying; should you live through today, embrace life a little bit more. Have some fun with it. It’ll take the gray out of your hair…”