Smoke and Mirrors

by Lillian T. MacGowan

  The seven hours that Deck was gone felt like seven years.

  The weather made the long drive to and from Brooklyn longer, and Naim had no choice but to wait.

  He shook on the balcony, frozen in the thick falling snow, when he finally saw Deck’s car turn the corner carefully and pull up in front of what would soon be their home. Naim went inside, turned the thermostat up and the gas on the stove under the teakettle to warm the water he’d already boiled and turned off eleven times. He heard the front door close and Deck’s footsteps, heavy and slow up the stairs. He poured another shot of bourbon into the giant mug he’d already prepared with one generous shot, tea, a thick glob of honey and some lemon.

  The kettle started to whistle just as Deck opened the door. Naim took it off the stove and poured, looking up, silent and hesitant as Deck dropped his keys on the table and just stood for a moment.

  Naim stirred the toddy, looking at Deck’s red, tearstained face, dry and chapped from being wet in the cold. His raw hands and puffy eyes broke Naim’s heart, and he looked tired and defeated but still tried to smile at Naim while he took his coat off and hung it up. His wet jeans dripped on the floor, and Naim pressed his lips together to keep from asking anything. He just went to the bedroom to grab a pair of Deck’s sweat pants, a fresh, heavy thermal, socks, and a hand towel from the bathroom.

  He approached Deck with the clothes as Deck sat on the floor working his boots off, and Naim rubbed at his wet hair with the towel. Deck tossed his boots onto the mat, sighed, and turned his face into Naim’s thighs, wrapping his arms around his knees. Even his socks were soaked.

  They stayed that way for a minute. Naim held Deck’s head in his hands, and he could feel him tremble as he sniffed. He petted Deck’s head, then finally pulled away, taking Deck’s arm, signaling for him to stand. “Give me your clothes,” he said. “Put these on.” He indicated the bundle of dry clothes and placed them on the hall table. Deck nodded and stripped, handing Naim his heavy dripping jeans and socks, and his T-shirt and sweatshirt, dry but cold.

  Naim took them to the laundry closet and threw them inside while Deck dressed, stopping in the bathroom again to run warm water on a flannel cloth and grab some cream for his hands and face. When he came back, Deck still stood in the hall, looking lost.

  Taking Deck’s hand, Naim led him to the sofa, then went to kitchen for the toddy.

  When Naim put the toddy in Deck’s frozen hands, he realized that he’d not had the heat on in the car. He cursed in his head as he sat, facing Deck cross-legged on the couch and gently wiping at his face with the flannel. Deck gave him his face and a trembling half smile.

  “Drink,” he told him, dropping the wet flannel on the coffee table and rubbing cream in his hands, then onto Deck’s face after he took a few sips.

  They were both silent as Deck drank the toddy and started to warm, his tense shivering finally abating. Naim tended to his raw, cracking skin, his chest and throat tight. Deck’s eyes were dry and red and painfully swollen, feverishly bright.

  “Better?” Naim asked, petting his head and his back. Deck looked at Naim, silent, sad, and sweet, nodded and finished his toddy. Naim reached for the soft woolen blanket he kept on the arm of the sofa, pushed Deck to lie down, and covered him with the blanket, and cleaned up the coffee table.

  Deck reached out and took his hand gently as he moved to bring the mug into the kitchen.

  “Come back,” Deck pleaded, his eyes full of sorrow. “Okay?” he whispered, the day and the bourbon hitting him. Naim looked down into his drowsy, bright gray eyes and knelt next to him, holding his face and pressing his lips to his forehead.

  After a long minute, he pulled away and touched Deck’s face gently.

  “Of course.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  With the exception of the one day that Deck wouldn’t speak of once it was over, he spent three weeks packing and filling out a wretched bitch of a mortgage application. Naim still argued with him about the property; he insisted that he agreed to moving in because he wanted to, not because of the clinic, and he didn’t like the idea of Deck purchasing a piece of property that would net him exactly nothing. Deck argued that once they had the clinic back up and running and the whole mess sorted out, the nonprofit under which Naim had started the whole thing could rent or buy it from him. This was merely a temporary solution to the property problem.

  Meanwhile, they did a fairly good imitation of ignoring the Play-Doh thing. Laura scavenged for information from every single person she knew or who owed her a favor, but either no one knew anything or no one wanted to know anything. She had the feeling that Doheany had known Rizel before the breakin and shooting; there was a whole lot more to all of this than met the eye, but she couldn’t do much with nothing more than a gut instinct.

  That feeling became a full-out suspicion when she realized that his file had vanished, not even an arrest record left in the systems. Whatever deal Play-Doh made with the DA, it was big. Laura just wondered how many more people it would hurt.

  “My guess is he has things on Rizel.” She brushed her wild curls back into a ponytail before their food arrived.

  “That would make the most sense, but he’s seriously a two-bit street thug. The fuck could he have on a high roller like Rizel?” Deck frowned and looked over his shoulder for the waiter. He fidgeted with nerves and hunger. He loved this restaurant, but the food beat the hell out of the service.

  “What could he have on anyone that would inspire the DA to make this kind of a deal? Not just Rizel.” Liebgott made a face around a mouthful of bread.

  “You’d be amazed at what someone at the bottom of the heap could know about the real players.” Naim twirled his fork twines against the cheap oil cloth on the table. “But most of them are smart enough to keep their mouths shut.”

  “Will you put that down.” Deck threw Liebgott a filthy look when he helped himself to another chunk of the warm Italian loaf. “You’re gonna fill up on bread, then what the fuck are you gonna do with the potatoes?”

  Everyone looked at him.

  “Eat them?” Liebgott cocked his head.

  “Not if you fill up on bread. God. It’s chicken Vesuvio, asshole. You can’t not eat the potatoes.” Deck sneered at Liebgott.

  Laura looked anxiously for the waiter.

  “Well, it certainly was a…thorough fire.” Naim grunted, outraged at the state of the burned-out clinic property. He’d avoided the property since the fire, knowing that it would serve no purpose to upset himself that much. But, determined to rebuild, he also knew that he had to start writing the new grant, and the committee would want photographs of the site. He just didn’t expect this…mess.

  The city still hadn’t demolished and cleared the remnants of the building, and what remained was sad, pitiful, and dangerous. Naim wanted to make some calls and yell at some people to hurry it along, but the board discouraged him, trying to put off the bill from the city that would follow the cleanup.

  So the back quarter of a three-story skeleton remained standing like a dirty, crumbling skull, and the rest lay in treacherous piles where the building had caved in on itself months ago. Naim couldn’t decide if the snows had made it more or less hazardous as bigger piles of detritus collected, most of them well over Deck’s head.

  It depressed him, and the piles of rubble and debris only served to remind him how no one with any real power concerned themselves with leveling the playing field when it came to the people who lived in areas like the Bottom.

  “Can you go stand over there?” he asked Deck, disgusted and angry. “Next to that pile of…crap.”

  Deck cringed and twitched. “Um. But…”

  Naim let out a long-suffering sigh at Deck’s rat phobia. “Okay fine. I just need something in the shots for perspective. So they can see what we’re facing with this bloody cleanup.” He shoved the camera into Deck’s belly and picked his way across the lot himself, muttering about how it would probably look small next to Deck an
yway. “Make sure you get more than one and from a couple of different—”

  “Hey, hey. Ain’t it Superman and the Boy Wonder.” A sneering voice interrupted Naim, and he glanced up to see a short, skinny figure climbing gingerly out of the passenger side of a parked car on the street opposite the one from which they’d come.

  The kid moved carefully toward the pile that Naim had just reached but stopped a good ten feet away. His jerky movements told that he was still tight and in pain, and Naim had to grudgingly give him credit for even being out of bed.

  The kid had rocks.

  “The Boy Wonder is Robin, you fucktarded piece of shit.” Naim heard Deck coming up behind him, moving with more aggression than he felt okay with. “That’s Batman,” Deck clarified in a tone that did not suggest a conversation about superheroes.

  “You got too much time on your hands, sidekick.” Play-Doh laughed at Deck. “Catchin’ up on your schoolin’ since you been”—he squinted and smirked—“laid out?”

  “You fucking bag of dicks—” Deck moved toward him, but Naim put out an arm and stopped him.

  “Deck, don’t,” he whispered. “Just…ignore him.”

  “Aw, Doc. I’m hurt.” Play-Doh laughed again and took two steps closer to them, confident now that Naim had Deck on a tight leash. “Why you wanna ignore me? I’m just tryin’ to be friendly and shit.”

  He was a small kid. Fully grown at seventeen, and Naim still had a good two inches on him. And while Naim was slim, Play-Doh was downright skinny. Naim wondered if he even broke a one-thirty. Under the circumstances, however, that wouldn’t stop Deck from smearing the kid all over the cast-iron bathtub he was eyeballing about fifteen feet away. Deck didn’t care that the punk was still recovering from a gunshot wound, and Naim needed to keep that in mind.

  “If you wanted to be friendly, you wouldn’t have set my clinic on fire, you idiot,” Naim said to him, against his own advice. He was calm, almost resigned as he spoke.

  “Dunno what you talkin’ ’bout, Doc.” Play-Doh shrugged, and Deck growled, prompting him to smirk harder as he cut his cold, shrewd eyes to Deck. “Goddamn tragedy, this shit right here,” he tutted, scanning the detritus. “Real fuckin’ loss to the community.” The smirk was planted on his face, but Naim could see the hateful glare behind it. His eyes were dead. Like a shark. And he seemed to be waiting for something.

  Naim knew what Play-Doh wanted him to ask, and he wouldn’t. He shook his head, wondering what the expression on his face looked like. He tried to school it into the nothing that he’d once been so skilled at, but he knew he probably looked sad.

  “I ain’t did it.” Play-Doh laughed at Naim, and then Naim knew he did look sad. Just not for the reasons Play-Doh thought.

  “The fuck is the point in lying, you shit-stain motherfucker?” Deck snarled. “You’re on fucking film.”

  Play-Doh took another step forward, slitted his eyes, and grinned widely, just a little too close to Deck. “Ain’t nobody chargin’ me with shit. Ask the fuckin’ DA, bitch.” He cackled again and Deck lunged.

  “Deck, stop.” Naim threw himself between them, catching Deck in time, but not before he accidentally rammed Naim and sent him stumbling barely a foot away from Play-Doh.

  Play-Doh didn’t take a single step back. He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Lost your touch now, ain’t you, Doc?

  Naim stared at the ground at the kid’s feet, unsure what he meant and not wanting to speculate. He kept himself between Play-Doh and Deck and didn’t answer.

  “You ain’t no young bull no more, huh? Can’t fight no more, can’t roll a bitch or pick a fuckin’ lock or nothin’ no more, can you?”

  Deck finally went still. “The fuck are you talking about.”

  Play-Doh laughed again. “Your lil’ girlfriend got folk nice and fooled, but I ain’t folk.” He gave Deck that frozen, ugly stare. “Think I ain’t see what’s back of all them classy digs and snot talk.” He took another step closer, and Deck’s hands shook as he fought to keep them from Play-Doh’s throat. Naim still stared at the ground, but he didn’t back up. “Used to be just like us, ain’t you, Doc? Think I ain’t see you like us? I ain’t know what you is?”

  Naim finally lifted his eyes and let them meet Play-Doh’s. He also knew, somewhere in his mind, that he’d finally wiped his face of expression, blank and dead. Old skills came back to him quickly.

  Play-Doh laughed. “Yeah, boy. Ha! There it is.” He wagged a finger in Naim’s face. “Fuckin’ criminal. Piece-of-shit corner trash, Doc.” He squinted, right in Naim’s space. “Just. Like. Me.” He sneered.

  “Back up,” Naim finally whispered, frightening in his absence of feeling or tone. “Just back up.”

  Play-Doh grinned but took a small step backward and assessed them both again.

  Deck had taken a short step away too and watched Naim and Play-Doh, enraged, confused, and a little scared.

  “Thing is, Doc, you still a fuckin’ criminal.” Play-Doh shrugged and shook his head. “Buyin’ yourself nice place to live, nice car, them fancy digs.” He waved a hand to indicate Naim’s clothing. “Makin’ money off people sick and fuckin’ dyin’, then you give ’em a shit-hole clinic to come to free so you can feel like a righteous man.” His face twisted, and he curled his lip, the humor gone and his face ugly and vicious. “Fuckin’ criminal,” he drawled. “You ain’t get paid ‘less they sick and dyin’. Like a fuckin’ whore.” He spat and leered.

  Deck snarled again and moved forward, but Naim slammed back against him, jamming his elbow into Deck’s side hard enough to hurt. The air whooshed out of Deck, and he inhaled sharply, not even sure he knew whom he wanted to punch anymore.

  He knew Naim believed what Play-Doh said, and he hated Naim for it just a little bit.

  Play-Doh howled with laughter, speaking to Deck through his cackling. “You his bitch now, ’cause he took you too.” He clapped his hands together. “Got fuckin’ paid to cut you open and keep you the fuck alive.” He stopped laughing but still grinned. “Got fuckin’ paid, big bull.”

  “Time you fucked off, Doheany,” Naim murmured, quiet and dangerous. He cut his eyes to the rubble around them for a second, then looked back at Play-Doh, Deck’s breathing harsh and painful to his ears. “Private property and all. Hate to see you get in any trouble.”

  “Can’t get me in no trouble, Doc. Fuckin’ Batman now.” He stuck out his chest. “Fightin’ the fuckin’ criminals like you. All them types like you. Look good, got cash, think you somebody.” He wiggled out something like a victory dance where he stood. “Takin’ you bitches out, make you remember you just street punks. All you bitches. Ain’t none of you better than nobody.” He glared then, and Naim squinted, wondering what he meant by it. Who else was Doheany going to hurt?

  His expression never changed into anything as Play-Doh kissed his fingertips, then waved at them as he turned to walk back to the car he’d come from. “Peace out, bitches.” He laughed.

  “Naim, stop.” Deck could hear Naim thinking and brooding over the confrontation.

  “Stop what?” Naim threw him an irritable look as he took his jacket off and headed for the kitchen.

  “Brooding. Thinking you’re fucking like him.”

  Naim glared, rifling through a drawer in the breakfront for his cigarettes. Deck tensed and decided on a beer. Naim lit a Camel and stepped out onto the balcony but turned toward Deck as he was snatching a beer out of the fridge.

  “Deck. I’m not fucking Tinker Bell. You can’t believe me into a life that’s not mine.”

  “And just because you think you’re right doesn’t mean you are.”

  Naim rubbed at his head as he smoked, frowning and tense, and Deck drank his beer, waiting for Naim to say something more. He knew better than to yell and have a fit, no matter how much he wanted to shout at Naim and shake some sense into him. He struggled to keep his temper in check, but it helped that Naim’s beliefs baffled him, and he at least wanted to try to understand.
>
  Deck sighed when he realized that Naim had already disappeared inside his head and wasn’t going to say anything else. “Naim, I understand where you’re coming from—sort of—and if this were fifteen years ago, then I’d say maybe. But you haven’t been the kid you were in a really long time. You know you’re a different man now.”

  Naim looked up at him with a blank expression, but something in his eyes scared Deck. “What makes you think that? What makes me different?” Naim asked him. “That I’m educated now? That I have a home and earn a legal living by—”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what? He was right, Deck. I have to be paid to help people, and it’s—”

  “Jesus Christ, Naim. If you’re gonna go there, then so do I. It’s no different. I mean we have to fucking eat.”

  “You don’t put people into hock or bankruptcy to help them, and you don’t worry about if they can pay for it before you put the fucking fire out, Deck. It is different, and you know it.”

  “So you’re really going to take personal responsibility for the fact that we don’t have socialized medicine in America?”

  Naim grunted with frustration and gritted his teeth.

  “And don’t try to tell me that you opened that clinic because you felt guilty,” Deck continued. “You did it—”

  “How do you know? How the fuck do you know that I didn’t do exactly that?”

  “Oh Jesus, fuck.”

  “Deck, you want to think that I’ve grown and changed and learned some shit, and all of a sudden I’m this compassionate person that uses my past to relate to people who’ve been screwed over by the world or the accident of their birth. Right? That’s how you see me, isn’t it.” Naim lit another cigarette as he spoke.

  “I see you that way because that’s who you are.”

  “But Doheany just told us that he wants to see the world burn and drag me back to where I belong. In the fucking gutter. He could tell, Deck. He sees it on me. If he can see it in me now, after this long…”