Concrete Underground

by Moxie Mezcal

  When I was done, I leaned back in my chair with a cigarette and a bottle of scotch, my sense of smug self-satisfaction overshadowing the near certainty that I had just signed my own death warrant. The first rays of sunlight were just starting to stream in through the cracks between my venetian blinds, and I knew it was only a matter of time before there was a knock my door.

  Then there was a knock on my door.

  I jumped up from the chair – and nearly jumped out of my skin – then ran to look through the peephole to see who it was.

  Fucking Axelrod.

  I opened the door to find the detective accompanied by two uniformed officers. "Gentlemen, what a pleasant surprise. Can I offer you some joe? Or maybe hair of the dog?"

  "We're not going to be staying long," Axelrod replied. "Neither will you, for that matter. We're taking you in for questioning in the murder of Lilian Lynch."

  I was taken aback but tried not to let it show. Had Lily really been killed?

  "I'd love to help you out, detective, I really would, but I've got to get to work."

  Axelrod's eyes dropped to the nearly-empty bottle in my hand. "You always go to work drunk?"

  "Dedication to duty, detective. It's what separates great men like us from the rabble."

  I heard the creak of a door opening behind me.

  "D, is something wrong?" Violet asked, red-eyed and hung-over, wearing only her tank top and completely naked from the waist down.

  That could have been timed better.

  A wry grin spread across Axelrod's lips. "Is she the one who drives that Volvo parked out front?" Without waiting for an answer, he instructed the other cops, "Bring her, too."

  * * *

  29. Ghosts

  Axelrod set a series of photographs on the steel table in front of me. The first one showed Lily naked and sprawled out on her shower floor, lying in a pool of her own blood. The second one was a close-up of her lifeless face, her lips parted slightly, her eyes staring off vacantly. The third was pulled back, showing more of the shower, the walls streaked with bright red blood. The last two were close-ups of her wrists with large, jagged gashes sliced deep into the skin.

  I picked up the first one and pretended to study it closely, then screwed my face up into a sour expression. "Jesus, Axelrod, are these cum stains? Do you beat off to pictures of dead naked women?"

  I flung the print back onto the table and smiled at the detective, who was leaning back on his chair and running his tongue along his teeth.

  "Funny guy. I got one for you, stop me if you think you've heard it before. A faggot and a whore walk into a bar. But half an hour before that, this same faggot walked in and out of a dead woman's condo, right around the estimated time of death, walking right past the surveillance cameras in the front lobby."

  "That's not very funny," I replied. "I mean, the material's good enough, but comedy is all about the delivery."

  "How's this one? Earlier this week, a vagrant who got picked up for urinating in the middle of a 7-11 told the arresting officer that he had seen a Mexican man and a woman with purple hair get out of a light blue Volvo and dump a dead body into the San Hermes River. Of course, no one thought anything of it, at least until we found a corpse washed up on the riverbank.

  "So we started asking around about this corpse, had anyone seen him, and it turns out, earlier that same night, he was seen walking into your apartment building. Two corpses, and you were the last person to see either of them alive."

  He paused to see if I would react. "What's the matter, D? No witty come-back? No sophomoric vulgarities?"

  I sucked on my teeth. "I want a lawyer," I said. "And a phone call. I know my rights. I'm an American, dammit, and an esteemed member of the Fourth Estate."

  Suddenly there was a knock on the interrogation room door. Axelrod opened it and poked his head outside. A rapid exchange took place, but I couldn't make out clearly what was being said. After a few seconds, Axelrod stepped fully outside and shut the door behind him.

  Five minutes later the door opened again, but it wasn't Axelrod who entered.

  "Well played, D," Max applauded. "Well played, indeed."

  He grabbed Axelrod's seat and dragged it around the table to sit beside me. Then he pulled a flask from out of his jacket and offered me a drink.

  "Are you here to kill me?" I asked as I took a swig.

  "Yes. The flask is poisoned," he replied.

  I paused, then took another sip and passed it back to him. He took a healthy gulp himself.

  "I should kill you, you know," he continued. "You've given my P.R. department one hell of an a-bomb to deal with, and on the same day that you saw fit to deprive them of my chief flack."

  "What – you think I killed Lily?"

  "Didn't you?" he asked.

  I shook my head. "Shit, I was about to ask if it was you."

  That got a smile out of him.

  "Well the police seem pretty convinced of your guilt. After all, you were the last person there last night, and you have been snooping around her apartment and her office a lot recently. Also, they found her cell phone in your apartment. Add to that the number of heated public exchanges that the two of you were known to have, most recently at your sister's wedding, and things do not look good for you at all, D."

  "You set me up," I spat. "You killed her and you set me up to take the fall, you son of a bitch."

  "No. Well, maybe yes. I certainly intended to. And part of the reason I hired you was indeed so you'd be an easy scapegoat if her death ever got traced back to me. But alas, I did not kill her. Someone else be me to the punch. And if it wasn't me, and you say it wasn't you, then the question is, who?"

  I took a deep breath, then nodded. "Your blackmailers would be the obvious guess. Lily was working with them, as you know, but when she realized you were onto her and you started turning up the pressure, she got cold feet and tried to back out. So it stands to reason that her conspirators decided she was too big a liability to keep alive. I mean, since we're assuming it wasn't me. Or you."

  "So who are they?"

  "Well I don't have any names yet. There are two of them I know about for sure. The first is about average height, medium build, and wore a gunmetal mask every time I saw him, like the ones your servers at the Highwater party had. He was the one who tortured me, and then attacked me again Friday night at the party. I stabbed him in the neck with my pocketknife.

  "The second man is shorter with a slighter build. He's got a very ruddy face with a bulbous nose and a scar along his cheek. He's the one that drives the old blue Chevy Del Rey."

  "The one that you said drove McPherson out to meet Anthony?"

  I hesitated, "Yeah, that's the other thing. I still haven't figured out what that was all about, or how Anthony fits into this – but as for McPherson..." I trailed off. "The thing is, these guys are good, but they're amateurs. The one who interrogated me didn't have the slightest idea what he was doing. I've seen Anthony in action, so I know what a professional looks like, and these guys don't make the cut. So for them to have lasted so many rounds in the ring with you, they have to be getting help from someone. Someone with resources.

  "Now McPherson, he'd been in contact with Lily before she disappeared. And I found his shoe print in her apartment the day she went missing. I had a chat with him last night about this stuff, and he got very agitated. Then as soon as I leave, this guy in the blue car appears out of nowhere and runs me off the road. So I ask you, would McPherson have any reason to want to see you taken down?"

  Max took out his iPhone and tapped a message into it, keeping his eyes downcast. "Well thank you for that, D. I obviously picked the right man for the job. Should you ever need a reference, I'll be happy to have my secretary type up some flattering lies."

  He stood to go.

  "Hold on," I said. "Where does that leave us?"

  "You just publicly smeared me, D. Where do you think that leaves us? We are done."

  "What do you mean done?"
/>   "Done. As in I walk out this door, and that's the last you ever see of me. I'll make sure you are released; I can do that much in return for the information you've given me. But after today, we don't exist to each other."

  "Strangers when we meet?"

  "Not even that. Like ghosts. If I walk past you on the street, I won't see you wave or hear you say hello. As far as I'm concerned, you don't really exist."

  "And I'm supposed to just forget about all the rest of this?"

  "Yes. Forget about Lily and Jacinda Ngo and Patrick Cobb. Forget about me and the Highwater Society and McPherson. Forget about men in blue cars. Certainly forget about Saint Anthony, and if you have the slightest bit of sense left in that thick skull, you'll forget about that wife of his, too."

  * * *

  BOOK FOUR

  The Man in the Blue Car

  PLAYLIST

  Convinced of the Hex | The Flaming Lips

  I Will Possess Your Heart | Death Cab for Cutie

  A Good Man Is Hard to Find | Bessie Smith

  Lua | Conor Oberst + Gillian Welch

  Still Burning | Lydia Lunch

  Blood Part 2 | Buck 65 + Sufjan Stevens

  * * *

  30. Payback Is a Bitch

  Max made good on his promise, and within twenty minutes I was back on the street, wondering if I really could write off this whole convoluted mess and pretend that the last two weeks had never happened.

  On my way out of the station, I tried to stop by Nick's desk to say hi. I stood in the open doorway of his office and rapped a couple times on the inside of the jamb. He didn't even look up to acknowledge my presence; he just stayed hunched over his desk, filling out some paperwork longhand. I gave a couple more knocks, but still no response, so I just stood there watching him, waiting for him to cave. After about five minutes or so, I gave up and left.

  Once outside the station, I realized I had the whole day to myself, and I didn't really know what to do with it. I tried calling Columbine, figuring she'd be good for killing a few hours, but she wasn't answering her phone.

  Then I tried Jenny to see if I could smooth things over after last night, but she didn't answer either. A few seconds after I hung up on her voicemail, a text message appeared: I feel like I don't know who you are anymore. Don't call – at least not for a while.

  Bored, alone, and restless, I just started walking.

  As I meandered aimlessly through the city streets, I realized that I was being followed by at least two different vehicles. One was a white Crown Victoria tailing me at a hamfistedly indiscreet distance. The driver and passenger were both obviously cops; no one wears mustaches like that but cops and '70s porn stars.

  The second one was a white Asterion van who was doing a much better job of hanging back. Which made sense – obviously Max would hire only the very best.

  Eventually I ended up at the Concrete Underground office, as if led there instinctively or drawn by some powerful inevitability. I was not looking forward to the conversation I was about to have with Sharon, but I knew it had to happen. There was really nowhere else for me to go.

  "You are so fired, I can't even describe how fired you are in words. It's like, even if you somehow managed to get re-hired again, the entirety of space-time itself would bend over backwards in order to course-correct and make sure you stay fired. That's how fired you are."

  "Ah, so I take it you've seen what I posted on the website," I said.

  "Yes, and so did Abrasax's legal department. Would you care to guess how that is working out for us?" Sharon replied. She was sitting behind her desk with She-Ra the intern at her side, wagging her tail like a good little lap dog.

  "Why do you always look more beat up every time I see you?" She-Ra chimed in. "Are you in a fight club? You seem like the kind of pseudo-macho douche-bag who'd be in a fight club."

  I groaned, "Seriously, where do you dig these chicks up? Do you explicitly state that their bra size has to be bigger than their IQ? Would it kill you to bring on an actual reporter for once?"

  "Be nice," Sharon reproached. "Amy's technically more of a reporter than you are, now. I just gave her your beat."

  "What's an Amy?" I asked.

  Sharon pointed to the intern, who raised her hand.

  "Perfect. Give my job to the Princess of Power. I always wanted to strike out on my own anyways. Print is dead; I am starting a blog called 'Irresponsible Voodoo Sex Imperative' and I'm going to make my logo the picture from the Christmas office party when I stapled the Xerox of Ann Coulter to my face."

  ---

  As I walked outside of the office and jaywalked across the street to the Light Rail station, I noticed the Asterion van and the Crown Vic idling within eyeshot. Even after I boarded the train, I'd occasionally glance out the window and catch sight of them following alongside.

  Some days I liked riding public transportation, and some days I didn't. On a good day, it was fun in a voyeuristic sort of way. On a bad day, though, it could be a nerve-wracking, paranoid experience. Those were the days when I realized that I was just on display just as much as everyone else.

  This was a bad day.

  I scanned the strange, uncaring faces of the other passengers, wondering if any of them were on Max's payroll. Then I looked up at the opaque black half-domes mounted at either end of the car and realized they didn't need to be.

  I curled up into a ball on my seat in the back row, wishing I could disappear into the speckled blue pattern of the seat upholstery, like a chameleon.

  ---

  When I walked through my front door, I noticed a blue flash coming from behind the air conditioning vent. I climbed on top of the couch and used my pocketknife to work the screws out. Removing the grate, I saw the blinking LED of a Bluetooth video camera.

  I threw it onto the ground and stomped on it repeatedly with as much force as I could muster, so much force that I could feel the burning from my strained muscles shooting up my leg. As I stood doubled-over, rubbing my sore thigh and staring at the shattered bits on floor, my first thought was: there must be a server hidden around here somewhere to pick up its feed. The second thought was: there are probably more cameras, too.

  I spent the next three hours dismantling my tiny apartment with an exacting and meticulous attention to detail. I pulled up floorboards and ripped out vents. I took every piece of furniture or cabinet or drawer that had been picked to pieces by the blackmailers and tore them into even smaller pieces. I punched holes in the dry wall. I never found any server or other cameras or hidden microphones.

  Maybe it wasn't feeding to anything, was my first thought. Maybe they just put the one in a visible place to fuck with me, knowing I would find it and go crazy with paranoia.

  My second thought was: or maybe I'm just not looking hard enough.

  I shook my head; I was tired and not thinking clearly. I laid down on the decimated mess that could no longer rightly be called my bed, hoping that the solution would become obvious after a little rest.

  I laid there for an hour, unable to fall asleep, just staring up at the ceiling and imagining Max watching me and laughing.

  This is stupid, I thought to myself. I need to get out of this disaster and get some perspective. Maybe some fresh air will help me clear my head.

  I went outside and got as far as the front of the building, where I found both the Asterion van and the cops still parked and waiting for me. As soon as I appeared, the Crown Vic fired up its engine, and the driver of the van started talking into a walkie-talkie.

  I turned around and went back to my apartment.

  On the way in, I noticed a blue envelope sitting on the floor under the front door. I wondered if it just appeared in the brief time I was gone, or if I had somehow missed it before.

  Careful not to look at it too long, I quickly stepped all the way inside and shut the door before picking it up. Even then I kept it closed. Finding my light-pen among the rabble around what used to be my desk, I took the envelope into the now-empty
coat closet. Keeping the closet light off, I opened the envelope in the dark and used the light from my pen to read the note inside: Payback is a bitch.

  Clearly Max's blackmailers weren't happy that I had stolen their thunder by going public with the dirt they had on him.

  Stuffing the paper into my pocket, I realized I had to find a blacklight bulb to see if this one had a hidden message like the others. I couldn't risk the tails following me, though.

  I walked back into my bedroom, opened my window, and worked the mesh screen out of its frame. Then I jumped, letting the hedges below do what little they could to cushion my two-story fall. I quickly hopped the back fence behind my building and into the apartment complex on the next street over. I ran out into the middle of the street and looked around. Seeing no sign of the van or the cops, I decided it was safe to proceed.

  When I walked into the head shop on Delany Avenue, there were two customers and one clerk inside. Luckily, all three were preoccupied as the clerk was helping the other two pick out a glass pipe. As surreptitiously as possible, I moved over to the blacklight display and held the new note underneath.

  Like the others, this one had a hidden message, a single hand-written name: Natalie McPherson.

  I took out my cell and tried calling her again. She still wasn't answering.

  * * *

  31. Good

  As soon as Violet opened the front door, my blood began to boil.

  "What the hell happened to you?"

  She shied away from the doorway, trying to hide the swollen purple bruises on her face. "Don't be dense. What do you think happened?"