Lydia said nothing, just sat in silence in the chair beside mine, absently drumming the heels of her sneakers on the linoleum. Her mere presence was a comfort. So much so that my guard dropped, and I blurted out the words, “I think I’m fucked.”
She turned to me with a look that was part wiseass grin, part affection. “It ain’t over till it’s over. I’m sure you’ll bounce back.”
“Right. Is that your professional opinion?”
“You can’t afford my professional opinion.” While she said it with a smile, I could tell she was utterly serious…and I realized that anytime she’d exchanged a cut of the deck for a cigarette, she could have just as easily gone across the street and bought her own pack. “But I’ll take a look just to satisfy my own curiosity.”
She pulled her deck from the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and began to shuffle. I put my elbows on my knees, parked my chin on my fist, and watched the laundry spin. “See if your cards know where my rent is coming from.”
Lydia cut the deck. I was doing my damnedest to act like I wasn’t looking, but my curiosity got the best of me. She was smiling to herself. “Looks like your best bet is to move.”
“If I knew the Mother’s Basement card was lurking in your deck, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Oh no, nothing like that.” She turned the image toward me. A blond guy in armor stood in a chariot pulled by two dog-sized sphinxes, one black, one white. “This move would be more of a victory. Not a retreat.”
There were several more months left on my lease, and signing a new one with no job and no money for a security deposit was about as likely as me sprouting a pair of wings and learning to fly, but I kept that opinion to myself. I knew going in that Lydia at least claimed to believe psychic powers were real—if the big neon sign wasn’t a clue, I don’t know what was—so I kept my mouth shut. Lately, I needed a friend a hell of a lot more than I needed the satisfaction of being right.
“Your old salon will be back on the market just as soon as they’re done ripping out the plumbing they auctioned off,” Lydia observed.
“The place that was shut down by the Board of Health…if living there didn’t make me a badass, nothing would.”
“It’s zoned both business and residential.”
“I’m not even remotely optimistic enough to launch my own salon. I just watched someone fail spectacularly, and I’m a pretty quick learner.”
“Who says it’s gotta be a salon? That inspector cites the manicure joint down the block every few weeks, but he’s never once come through my place. The Board of Health won’t bother you if you’re not doing anything that can transfer communicable diseases.”
“Well, that’s no fun at all,” I said listlessly.
The washer spun fast for a few seconds, paused, spun the opposite way a few times, then settled to a stop. Lydia carted her hangings to the massive wall of dryers, then came and sat back down. “How much is your rent now?”
Too much. I shrugged.
“The place upstairs was going for seven-fifty.”
My ears perked up. Surely I’d misheard. “Dollars? Are you sure you’ve got the decimal point in the right place?” Good luck renting so much as a closet for anything less than a grand.
“They’re not the most hands-on landlords, but you can’t beat the price. I’d put in a good word for you.”
I closed my eyes and allowed the soothing whoosh and tumble of the dryers to wash over me. “Thanks, but no thanks. One thing at a time. What I need right now is a source of income.”
Chapter 19
Lydia ended up agreeing to try and sell off some of my herb bags for a 25% cut. She might be a friend, but she was a businesswoman first. Since anything was better than nothing, I’d agreed, but it was tough to hide my disappointment. A ping on my Craigslist aquarium ad was as good an excuse as any to head home.
I had little hope of actually selling the thing—hell, I had little hope for much of anything these days—but I was relieved the guy who showed up to look at it didn’t mention the FancyFish sale. He was kind of adorable in an understated way, too. A saddish sincere look about the eyes. A wistfulness to his smile, albeit somewhat passive in the sack. Not that he didn’t ooh and ah in all the right places, but for the most part he just laid back and enjoyed it while I did all the heavy lifting. The shower afterward was actually more fun than the main event. He gave shameless utterance to the world’s worst puns. I laughed at them just as shamelessly.
Afterward, I watched as he circled the tank, wet-haired and barefoot, shirt untucked and pants a little rumpled, running his fingers along the wooden base. “This is just what I’m looking for. But how firm are you…on the price?” He winked.
I rolled my eyes.
“Sorry, gotta ask. I’m told it’s weird if you don’t barter.”
“I guess I could come down a hundred bucks.” It wasn’t as if anyone else was hounding me for it. Besides, we’d just enjoyed some quality time together that really lifted my spirits.
It must’ve been the way the daylight streaming through the windows glanced across the sheen of his damp hair that stirred up my tender domestic feelings. I wanted to card my fingers through the wet strands, and not just to check the angles of his most recent cut. Guys look more wholesome in the light of day than they do in the bleary wee hours after last call. I can picture them doing things other than dropping trou, like maybe watching TV. Or grocery shopping. Or joining me for Sunday brunch with Maxine.
“And you’re selling it because you’re moving?” he asked.
I cut my eyes to the stacks of boxes piled up against the living room walls. Moving would’ve been an ideal reason to sell, but I wasn’t about to lie. Now I’d have to get into the whole faulty heater incident and hope he didn’t think I was trying to unload a leaky tank on him by distracting him with my charms.
“This is such a great neighborhood,” he went on. “Restaurants, bars, shopping, all of it right here. And the layout is fantastic. Mind if I take a look at your kitchen?”
“Be my guest.”
He strode through, caressing everything. Countertops, cabinets, even the high-arched faucet. Was this the sort of guy who knew how to cook? I could see it. The type who’d make me dinner—or even breakfast in bed. Framed by the cabinetry, he turned to me with his melancholy smile and said, “My boyfriend would absolutely love it.”
What?
I didn’t say that aloud, of course. I was too stunned to make a sound.
Oblivious to my utter lack of response, he went back to his fondling—now his greedy fingers were all over my stove—while I reminded myself we’d never actually discussed whether or not we were single.
Normally I wouldn’t have presumed. My mistake. Clearly he’d happened upon me in an aberrant state of vulnerability.
If I didn’t have a bunch of payments coming due, no income to pay them with and no job prospects either, I might have told him to keep his hands to himself, put on his shoes and get the hell out. Funnily enough, though, I was suddenly so sick of my life, I found myself saying, “Well then, maybe I can interest the two of you in a sublet.”
* * *
The legalese of moving went smoothly enough, and even though I was jobless, my new lease got approved. I put the cost of the movers on one of my credit cards, piggybacked off Lydia’s wi-fi, and set up my bedroom in the middle of the vast gutted space that used to be a salon. Living room, dining room, everything else, too.
The open plan setup looked edgily chic, at least if you weren’t facing the wall where the CUTTERZ shampoo station used to be. I supposed the hole-riddled plasterboard and capped off plumbing served as a cautionary reminder: it might be tempting to set up a salon here, but don’t do it. You’ll never get away with it.
Cos the roaches? They were persistent little fucks.
I hired a pest control service. They came out and sprayed once a week. “I’d be careful around all that hazardous stuff,” Lydia cautioned—through a haze of cigarette smoke
—but it wasn’t like I could just sit back and do nothing. Unfortunately, a few days after the exterminator did his thing, I’d invariably find an interloper wriggling its antennae at me from the kitchen counter or the bathroom sink. Unless we sprayed the entire building from top to bottom, and then our neighbors on either side, and then the rest of the block too, my six-legged friends would keep on coming back.
Eventually I switched to glue traps. They were a lot cheaper and no less effective. Plus I didn’t have to worry about poisoning myself.
Or my guests. Because while I had no desire to open a salon while the watchful eyes of the Board of Health were on my building, who was gonna stop me from throwing parties? It was a tradition as old as Tupperware. Painting parties, beading parties, candle parties—I’ve suffered through many a retelling during my Sunday visits with Maxine. I had inventory to unload, and I had a phone full of people who’d be willing to come visit me on a Friday night, share a few cocktails before bar time, and take some charm bags off my hands.
I dubbed the parties Sticks and Stones Soirees. The booze flowed freely on its inaugural night, so my first party only netted me about a hundred bucks once I factored in the cost of the liquor. Still, that was a hundred bucks toward my car payment I didn’t have before. I tried some different times. People still expected wine, even on a weekday right after work, and even boxed wine adds up. Daytime Saturday, though, I could get away with serving coffee and cookies. Initial attendance was sparse, but I couldn’t argue with the profit margin. I scored a hulking, old-school percolator at a thrift store and offered my party-goers a 25% discount on my psychic tchotchkes if they brought a friend.
They brought friends. And I’ve always been a people-person. Especially when that person is Vibing.
My Saturday was winding down and it was just a couple of pierced and pastel-haired girls on the couch exclaiming over the latest racist dumbassery on Twitter, and a guy who wanted to adopt a pet rock but couldn’t decide which one was “perfect.”
A stone was a stone. But the thing I was actually selling people went beyond hunks of tumbled mineral. I sold them an idea. A story…a hope.
I’d scavenged several long, thin folding tables from the alley. Enough black spray paint will make anything look new again, as long as you don’t brush up against it and scuff off the enamel. The tumbled rocks and crystals sat on velveteen cushions that were an ottoman in another life. I might not know which end of a needle to thread, but I can wield a hot glue gun with the best of them. Beside each stone stood a simple piece of cardstock, folded in an inverted V and hand-lettered with the purported properties of each stone.
I sidled up to the guy and said, “Was there anything in particular you were looking for?” He turned the full weight of his Vibe toward me. He wasn’t what I’d call conventionally attractive, but there was something endearingly boyish about him. “Maybe I can help you…find it.”
“I hope so.” He stared at my mouth as I talked, and he blushed a little. He’d never felt a tongue stud flicking against the underside of his dick. And he wanted to. Badly. “The other day at the gas station I saw air fresheners that are supposed to enhance psychic powers. Clairvoyant Mindset. Telepathy Trance. And as far as I could tell, they just smelled like vanilla and pine. It’s hard to know what to think anymore.”
I eased closer. “Totally hard.”
His blush deepened.
“So,” I said, “have you gone through the whole rigmarole of having your ESP tested?”
“No. Not yet. I want to. At least, I think I want to. It’s expensive. My company’s HR department has some preliminaries, and if you do well enough on those screenings, they’ll foot the bill. But I’d want to practice first so I don’t blow my chance.”
“I don’t blame you.” I assessed the level of his Vibe—body stance, eye contact, tone of voice—and decided to go in for the kill. I put my lips to his ear and said, “Besides, I can think of far more interesting things to blow.”
Normally I don’t encourage people to stray into the series of phenomenally small rooms beyond the far doorway unless they’ve really gotta use the john. And even then, I’d prefer they hit the taqueria down the block. But all signals were go. If I didn’t strike while the iron was hot, this guy would slip through my fingers. Maybe he’d buy a rock or two, but unless I really sold him on my personal wares, I’d probably never see him again.
I cranked up the tunes to cover any untoward noises we might coax out of one another, caught him by the sleeve, and led him deeper into my web, through a cramped office filled with boxes and into the world’s narrowest galley kitchen. I backed him into the countertop, and soon it was all a blur of roving hands and hungry mouths.
The music cover turned out to be unnecessary. He wasn’t a moaner, though his face did contort into the most exquisite mask of strained disbelief. He held my head while I sucked him off, and stared down at me like he couldn’t quite fathom what was happening while he prayed that it didn’t end anytime soon.
Sure, I did treat him to a few barbell flutters, but it wasn’t the hardware he found titillating, it was the idea. The dirtiness. Never mind that it was just a piercing and a tiny ball of surgical steel. He got off. Hard.
Twice.
And I was straining against my fly waiting for my turn to come around, rock hard from all the squirming and gasping. Once he’d recovered from his bonus round, I stood, shoved down my jeans, and held myself ready for his forthcoming reciprocation. Except…there was no forthcoming. Not even a third, for that matter.
He didn’t quite meet my eye when he said, “Do you have a condom?”
“For a blowjob.”
“Since we don’t really know each other….”
“After you shot in my mouth. Twice.”
His blush went scarlet. “You could have asked. I would have worn one.”
The thought of getting my dick sucked was quickly losing its appeal. I yanked up my jeans and shimmied my ebbing erection into its usual position. “Never mind. I’ve got a party to see to.”
I headed back out to check if I should put on another pot of coffee. The couch was empty and the women were gone—in fact, other than me (and the hookup who really needed to leave) no one was in my apartment at all. I noticed that. Then I noticed the front door was slightly open. So were random drawers in my dressers and desk.
My heart sank.
I checked my desk first. That’s where I kept the cash. It’s best to have lots of small bills around so you don’t end up losing a sale because you can’t make change. And I’d had more than just small bills. I’d sold well that day, and there’d been a fat stack of twenties I’d earmarked for my car insurance, with enough left over for groceries. Gone now. All gone.
Not only that, but my tablet and laptop, too. And my wallet? Fucking hell, my wallet too. Only one piece of plastic was in there—I’d stashed the rest in my freezer on the advice of some crackpot money management website—but there was my drivers license, my photos…sonofabitch, my only picture of Miss Mattie. Every time I’d thought about tacking it up at my station, it felt too private to put on display. But now I regretted keeping it to myself. All the other pictures I’d rescued once CUTTERZ closed were in a pile on my desk, but the most important photo I owned was gone.
I stared in dismay at a pile of books splayed across the floor. Red’s book was among them…as if it mattered. But somehow I was relieved it hadn’t been taken from me too.
I turned off my stereo. The guy whose dick I’d just sucked piped up. “Aren’t you going to help me pick out a crystal?”
Without even looking at him, I closed my eyes, shook my head, and said, “Get out of here. Go.”
While I had precious little to be grateful for, at least I still had my phone. I cancelled the charge card, pulled up an app and disabled my tablet and laptop so no one could hack into my bank accounts. Not that they’d find any money there, but it would add insult to injury.
I’d never been robbed before. And whil
e initially I wanted to hunt down those two women, hold them upside down and shake them until my money fell out, it occurred to me it was doubtful they were the ones who’d ripped me off. I had their contact info. We ran in the same social circles. It was just as likely someone had wandered in off the street and cleaned me out. I even called one of them to see if she’d make up some shifty story, but she answered my call right away and sounded genuinely unconcerned when I asked her when they’d left, and whether there’d been anyone else in my apartment when they did. But no. She didn’t say anything incriminating. And she didn’t know anything helpful.
I called Lydia. She came upstairs and joined me, and even canceled the rest of her appointments to sit with me in my sorry apartment, which no longer felt particularly safe. “Tough break, kiddo.” She helped herself to what was left of the cheap cookies. “So what’s your next move?”
“I have no idea. What should I do now?”
“You could call it in, file a police report. You’ll need that for your insurance claim. But since you say they made off with mostly cash, and you earned that cash doing something under the table…how useful would it really be to report it? You’re not paying taxes, you don’t have any retail paperwork filed—and even if you did, you’d never see that money again. Five years ago a kid with a handgun came in and grabbed my cashbox, and the pigs didn’t do squat to catch him. Since it was cash and I didn’t have receipts, my insurance weaseled out of the claim too. And that was business insurance. Do you even have business insurance?”
I sighed.
“And let’s say they catch the guy, and miraculously, he hasn’t sold off all your stuff. You think you’re getting it back? Ha! Think again. It sits there in some evidence locker, and it rots.”
Fuck. “Then what? I just do nothing?”
“Live and learn.” She crunched through a stale chocolate wafer. “And think about installing a nanny-cam.”
Skin After Skin - PsyCop 8 Page 15