by Sloan, J. P.
When I got home, I poured myself the last of my Talisker, sat on my couch, and for the first time in over a week, actually bothered to turn on my television. It wasn’t long before I realized why Julian wasn’t picking up his phone.
A news reporter stood in front of City Hall as the banner beneath her name proclaimed Breaking News and Sex Scandal in City Hall. I turned up the volume and leaned forward as the reporter droned on.
“―for the past three years. His name has been withheld out of respect for his family, but our sources confirm that the victim was under the age of eighteen when he began an ongoing sexual relationship with Deputy Mayor Bright.”
lease tell me it’s bullshit.”
“Of course it is.”
“Then you can fight this.”
“That’s not the point, Dorian. I can’t let this hang around Sully’s neck. The damage is already done. It could only get worse.”
I paced with my phone in my front room, trying to sort my thoughts. “Look, this is obviously McHenry. It’s slander. It’s criminal. You can use this against him. Maybe finally have a smoking gun we can put him away with.”
“There’s no smoking gun,” Julian explained, barking into his cell phone over a din of voices in the background. “I made calls. If it’s McHenry, then he covered his tracks.”
“Of course he did. We just have to dig deeper.”
Julian sighed. “Well, that’s what I have you for, right?”
My stomach balled into a knot. “Uh, well. About that.”
“What now?”
“Julian? I’ve made a deal with some powerful people today.”
“Look, things are a little insane right now. Can we talk about this later?”
“We can’t talk after this phone call.”
After a space of background noise, Julian coughed, “Huh?”
“I have to get out of politics. Off your payroll.”
“Dorian?”
“It’s something I have to do.”
“McHenry?”
“No. This is bigger. Look, it’s up to you to make sure Sullivan stays in that building. You can’t resign over this.”
“It’s done, Dorian.”
“Oh, please don’t tell me―”
“What do you think I was going to do? I can’t help him anymore. I’ve become a liability.”
“They can’t get away with this. They can’t ruin your life with lies like this.”
“I’ll be fine, Dorian. This only has to stick long enough to win Sooner the election. Then I bet this will all magically disappear, and we’ll all go about our lives, or whatever resembles our lives when this is over.” He sighed. “I guess we couldn’t win this one, huh?”
I chewed on my lip. “Look, uh, Julian. After the fall, when you’re in your new resemble-life, call me up then. We’ll get a drink.”
“Maybe talk about old times, something like that?”
“Something like that.”
He held his phone aside to make a few comments to someone in his room, then muttered to me, “I have to go. But I just wanted to say thank you, Dorian.”
“Don’t think I did much, Julian.”
“You did. We did. I’ll see you.”
After he hung up, I was left with the distinct impression I wouldn’t ever see him again.
And just like that, McHenry had won the election. Rather, Sooner would win in a few months. But the final nail had been driven. McHenry’s grip over Baltimore would be final, and there was no telling how long it would take to remove him. I thought about McHenry for a long time that evening. I considered running out for more Scotch, but something about leaving my house at that moment just felt terrifying to me. I needed something to be solid, constant. I needed something to be the way it was.
But there was no one to call. I couldn’t call Edgar without having something definitive for him, and I wouldn’t get that until tomorrow morning. I couldn’t belly up to Big Ben’s bar and spend some time receiving my share of abuse from him. And as weak as I was that night, I couldn’t call Ches. It wouldn’t have helped.
So I sat in my house with nothing to do with myself beyond stewing over the way McHenry had just screwed Julian’s entire life. My anger built and redoubled, and I found myself pacing. At some point I spotted the envelope on my desk, still sitting there, still waiting for my signature. There was a time not too many hours ago it seemed to be a set conclusion that I would sign those documents and sell my properties directly to McHenry. It made sense at the time. It made all the sense. But now? Fuck him. I was willing to hold onto those properties out of sheer vicious spite. It was the most I could do; it was perhaps the only route available to me.
I snatched the envelope from the desk and hucked it into the waste basket under my window. My nervous energy remained unabated, however, and I continued to pace. I made a pass through the house trying to tidy up, though I hadn’t been around enough in the last couple days to really make a mess. By the time I had rinsed and hand-dried all of my glassware, I was already re-thinking trashing McHenry’s offer. The lure of the money was potent. My brain tangled with possibilities and options that money could open up for me. I wouldn’t simply catch up on my bills. I could build on something new.
I looked back down at the envelope in the trash. With a quick teeth-clench, I reached in and pulled it back out. When I slipped it back onto my desk, the paperwork slid out a little, taunting me. I thumbed the first few pages free of the envelope and snapped them in front of my face.
An intelligent man would put these papers in front of an attorney’s nose, or at the very least an accountant. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be McHenry’s attorney. My eyes rose to the letterhead, curious who was washing McHenry’s financial blood off their hands.
Grey and Lisle.
By God, that son of a bitch had Grey and Lisle on retainer.
I took a seat, and let the thought simmer for a moment. When the plan finally landed, I reached for the brochure Sullivan had given me, and my phone.
And I called Ari Leibnitz.
“Hello?”
“Ari? It’s Dorian Lake.”
“Hmm? Oh. Oh! Hello, Mister Lake.”
“How are things in the office?”
He muffled his voice a little. “Much improved, thanks to you.”
“That’s good to hear. Listen, I have a matter I need some professional advice on.”
“I don’t know how much use I’d be in your line of work.”
“No, no. This is a matter of dollars and sense, and real estate.”
“Ah. Well, our office hours are Monday through Friday―”
“I want to deal with you, Ari. We’ve done business, and I trust you.”
“I take it this is a sensitive matter of real estate?”
“You could say that.”
“Well, Mister Lake, I’m unsure if we clearly stipulated whether any further professional dealings would be owed to your services rendered.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay you. We’re both professionals. Professionals get paid. Can we meet tomorrow?”
“Lunch time is the best time for you?”
“Let’s make it early,” I countered. “I’m expecting a busy day tomorrow.”
“Can you meet me in my office at nine a.m.?”
“Done.”
I hung up with a sense of forward motion. This offer would come in handy after all, just not in the way McHenry had intended.
I took some time to step out of my house and walk down to the café. It was closed, now well past lunch. The patio chairs were turned up on the tables, and the windows inside were dark. I kept walking, making it to the MLK. The first waves of cool evening air drifted off of the harbor, and I kept walking. People passed me on the street, not noticing me, not really caring. I was a shadow, completely innocuous. I dropped a fiver in a panhandler’s bucket, and managed to catch a woman engrossed in texting before she stepped into traffic. The deeper I plunged into the heart of the city, t
he more I felt like my feet were calling the steps.
I looked up around me, and realized I was passing beneath the University of Maryland Baltimore campus. This was Ches’ turf, her destination after work. It was remarkable how we even found one another. It was mostly by virtue of my location. Had the bus line dropped her off two blocks away, she may have taken a job in some Cuban deli or a packaging plant. Instead, she found the bus stop two blocks from my house, so she took a job at my café. Well, it used to be my café. It was just a place now.
Both McHenry and Curtis the Toad Face were correct about one thing. I was still an outsider in this city. Part of me felt smug owning those properties. They granted me a sense of ownership, not only of the real estate, but of the city. But the truth was I had lived here for a decade, and never walked anywhere. I only ever drove. I only wanted to be somewhere; I never wanted to go there. I had hidden in the Club, retreated to the Swains’ in Frederick, bunkered down in self-storages and basements to perform my craft. For all of my secret knowledge, I lacked a meaningful understanding of Baltimore itself. As I walked into downtown, I regretted that ignorance profoundly.
Ten or so blocks into my sojourn, I hooked a right and paused beneath the Belvedere Hotel. My stomach dropped when I realized where I was. Not seven months ago, I had witnessed a suicide here. A man had jumped in front of a bus. He was a desperate man who had sold his soul, and couldn’t see any point in continuing this life. Just beyond this hateful patch of asphalt lay a dark alley, threading down the shadow of the Belvedere. I stepped slowly down this alley, sidestepping a few dumpsters, checking for potential muggers behind each. When I finally stopped, I stood at the top of a flight of stairs leading down to a basement door.
This had been Osterhaus’s office. For years this had been the destination for people out of luck and out of options, willing to sell their soul for two years’ comfort. I had ended that, and not well. Osterhaus was dead, and the souls he had collected were now in the hands of foreign mystics. I remained the last man standing, sans one soul. The “For Lease” sign screwed to the door gave me at least a flutter of satisfaction, but ultimately the affair was a failure.
And here I stood, on the precipice once again, wondering if I would fail. This time there was so much more at stake.
The shadows in the alley were scurrying into my periphery. I stepped back out onto Light Street, and looked up and down the avenue. I spotted a bar two doors down. Rich red carpentry adorned the front with leaded glass windows. It exuded Old World charm, and that simply called to me. I had spent enough time in old London pubs during my time studying under Emil. This was precisely what I needed.
I stepped inside the bar, which was largely empty. The elderly gentleman behind the bar gave me a tired nod, and I elected to sit right up front. Out of habit, I checked the taps in case this place had something approximating a decent English bitter. Alas, I found little more than the usual bland American lagers, so I ordered a Scotch.
The old man poured me two fingers of rail Scotch, and I tried to be cordial as he set it in front of me.
I gave him a nod as I pointed to the ornate woodcarvings adorning his backbar. “Gorgeous place you have here.”
He shrugged. “Like it?”
“I do. Nice, dark. Comfortable.”
“You’d be the only one.”
“Business slow?”
He pulled a stool from under the bar and settled his frame onto it. “Slow for five years, since they fixed the harbor.”
“Shame. If I worked downtown I’d probably be here every afternoon.”
“Want to buy it?”
I smiled and took a sip. When he kept staring at me, I realized he was serious. “Buy it?”
“Been on the market for years. No one’s biting.”
“Tempting, but I’m not really the management type.”
He smiled and folded his hands.
I muscled through the cheap Scotch as I turned on the stool. The line of booths along the side wall made for cozy little conversation pits. The row of leaded glass windows sent prismatic light glittering along the manicured ceiling tiles. The whole place smelled of wood soap and leather.
I ordered another, this time specifying a reasonable single malt. A couple businessmen stepped into the bar and grabbed one of the booths. They hunkered down over a couple beers and pulled out some paperwork to argue about. They must have been regulars, as the old man just brought them their drinks without their asking. I imagined what the energy of the place would have felt like with a dozen more regulars colluding over beer and whiskey.
I wasn’t seriously considering this.
Really.
The sun began to set, and I took my leave of the place just as the old man lit a few tabletop candles for guests who would probably never arrive. The pall of resignation hung on his shoulders, sad and lonely as he went through the motions. Either the Scotch or the look on his face as I stepped out of the bar dropped drowsiness on me like a warm blanket.
I walked back home beneath the streetlights and illuminated signs of the city, hustling quicker past the unlit blocks. When I reached the MLK, the sun had long set behind Shipley Hill, though a splash of orange in the sky remained as stars made their appearances. I took in the view for one brief moment of peace before my phone rang.
“Hello?”
“What do think, mate?”
“Carmody?”
“How’s our schedule lookin’? Am I on the block yet, or do I have some time to win you over?”
“Look, I don’t have a lot of options here.”
“Oh, right. You’re the one who wasn’t given any options. I almost forgot.”
“I know you don’t have the skills to fix my problem, and I don’t have time for you to find a solution.”
“Yes, very nice. Shall we ask your friend, the deputy mayor, what he thinks about my skills?”
I blinked through the question before it dawned on me. “That was you?”
“Behold the power of information, chum. Information is my trade, and you backed me into a corner. I had to push back.”
I shook my head in bafflement. “You ruined an entire mayor’s race for this?”
“Yeah, fuckin’ right I did! It’s my life on the line, isn’t it?”
“You have dirt on everybody, why him? Why not me?”
“Because, you daft little terrier, I’m trying to save my life, not end it. I hit you, you hit me. Bang. Gone. See, here, I have your attention.”
“That, you do,” I snarled.
“And it doesn’t end with your government friend. You said it best. I’ve got dirt on every bloody body. Whose life do I have to ruin next? Or can we call a halt to all of this?”
“There’s dirt, and then there’s slander.”
“Oh, I don’t deal in falsehoods, mate. They’re dime-a-dozen. The only real value is in the bonafide, genuine choice cuts.”
I lowered my phone and stared out over the highway at the last full rays of daylight. I’m not one to judge one’s lifestyle choices, but Julian had lied to me.
I picked up the phone slowly to my face and stated, “Just remember. You started this.”
“Lake?”
“Goodbye, Carmody.”
“Lake. Lake!”
I hung up and crossed the highway with the light.
found a café not far from Light Street the next morning, and took a leisurely breakfast there of a bagel and quite a serviceable cappuccino. It was close enough to walk to Grey & Lisle, and left me with enough time to arrive early. I signed in at the front desk, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and signed in at yet another desk. Most of the offices behind the receptionist were dark. Sunday was clearly not a popular day to work in this office. Yet there came Ari, upright and confident. It was quite a switch from the last time I laid eyes on him.
“Good morning, Dorian.”
“Ari.”
He led me to his office, which was somewhat cozy and crammed with file boxes, but at least it w
asn’t a cubicle. He pulled aside several stacks of papers to make room for me.
“So, what is it I can help you with?”
I set McHenry’s envelope on his desk and leaned back in my chair. “I own some rental properties, and I’m looking to sell them to my tenants.”
“I see. Your lease terms?”
“Month to month, mostly. The one still on contract is up at the end of the month.”
“You intend to give thirty days’ notice?”
“Yes, if needed.”
“It’s required by law.”
I leaned forward in my chair, trying not to bump my knee into his desk. “If they want to close, then they can move faster?”
“Naturally, but you’ll have to be careful not to imply any haste in their decision.”
“That’s not my intent.”
“Very well. What are the properties?”
I pulled some extra plot documents I had stuffed into McHenry’s envelope. I had purchased the properties for a steal back when I first moved to Baltimore. The entire area was slated for a major renewal at the time, and I was banking the property values would rise sharply. Then the urban renewal project hopped across the expressway, and my side of the street ended up with nothing. Ironic, now that I had a fat offer on the properties, and I was trying to sell them off quick.
Leibnitz reviewed my parcel info and nodded knowingly.
I set down the pamphlet Sullivan had given me and slid it forward. “There’s an assistance program available. My tenants aren’t exactly upper income. I’m hoping to steer them to a participating bank, get them a zero down mortgage.”
He took the pamphlet and smiled. “I wish every landowner was as courteous as you. I’m sure we can find several banks who offer a product that would work. However, by what you say and from what I glean from these street addresses, there may be an issue with the program.”
“What issue?”
“Fair market value for these properties might not be what you’re hoping for, and you’re not allowed to exceed market value if your tenants are going to be eligible.”
I chuckled. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”