by Andrew Post
“Excuse me?”
Paige turned to a rack of hanging, bagged garments. “What is your name, mister?”
“He look for girl,” Mama Wash informed her. “Fired girl.”
Paige turned away from the rack of clothes. “You a cop?”
“No.” Did he look like a cop or something?
She unfolded one arm to wipe sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “I haven’t heard from her in a couple of weeks. Sucks, too, because without her I have to do all the pressing myself.”
Her mother glared at her. “I do press.”
“I know you do,” Paige said dismissively.
“Did she happen to mention anything about the military or going somewhere?”
Paige nodded. “She’s what you’d call a searcher. She talked about signing up all last month, but I didn’t think she’d actually go through with it. The month before that, she talked about joining a convent, so who’s to say what her aspiration of the week might be. Are you an MP?”
“Family friend,” Brody said, sick of the guessing game.
Mama Wash looked back and forth between the two like a tennis ref watching the ball bounce from one side of the net to the other. Finally, she gathered up the armload of laundry she had dumped on the folding table. She asked Paige in Russian if she would be okay alone with this man. Paige nodded and Mama Wash went back to work. Immediately, Paige’s demeanor loosened, but she kept her arms folded over her ample bosom.
Brody had to give her something, a little insight to what this was all about. Honesty was the best policy when trying to pry information out of people. If they knew you weren’t a stalker boyfriend and your intentions were seemingly good, they’d be willing to offer a little bit more. Brody told her he was an old friend of Nectar’s brother.
“Thorp,” Paige said, shaking her head. “That was the last motherfucker Nectar should’ve been going to for advice. I mean, no offense or anything.”
Brody smiled. “None taken.”
“I guess he must’ve talked her out of it if she didn’t sign up, so he can’t be all bad, right?”
Brody felt the trail getting cold. Paige was meandering, the urgency in her voice tapering. He asked, “Are you and Nectar friends?”
“Yeah, we hung out pretty regularly. We’d go to the movies, hit the bars.” Paige stepped forward and unfolded her arms.
Brody noticed tiny blue bruises on the insides of Paige’s arms. Track marks. He met her eyes again so she wouldn’t get suspicious of his staring. “Did you ever happen to notice someone watching her when you guys went out? Any calls to her cell she wouldn’t take in front of you? That sort of thing?”
“She had guys falling all over themselves to get her number or to buy her drinks, but she never really kept a boyfriend. And the guys she hooked up with were always into whatever interest she was currently taking on. If she was in the I’m-going-to-join-the-convent mood she was all about those cue ball-headed monks in the orange robes. If she was in the itching-to-make-the-Bears-cheerleading-squad craze, she’d be all about the jocks. But never did I see her with any black eyes or anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“You don’t seem too concerned that she’s missing,” Brody said. He hoped this might upset her if she were hiding something. Bluntness, like honesty, was a skeleton key to people with information. But Paige took him for a surprise: she wasn’t offended at all. Instead, she smiled.
Paige, showing crooked white teeth, “If you knew her, you wouldn’t be, either. She’s probably down in the tropics, taking lessons to become a hula dancer. Give it a couple of days. She’ll be back.”
Brody felt as if there was more to unearth with Paige, and he knew he wasn’t going to be able to with her wanting to get back to work. He checked his watch. It was noon. “Do you think I could possibly convince you to get a cup of coffee with me?”
Paige refolded her matronly arms. “Okay. That sounds pretty good, actually. One second.” She went into the back, and Brody listened to her talk to her mother in Russian. When she reemerged, she was wearing a long cotton jacket and a stocking cap that had a couple of round teddy bear ears sewn onto the top. She pointed at Brody as she came around the counter, sliding on mittens. “You’re buying.”
Paige guided Brody halfway up the block to a diner that was retrofitted out of an old train car. The outside was rounded and covered in panels of stainless steel, seemingly patchworked together haphazardly. Inside, the smell of fryer grease and artificial meat on the griddle made Brody’s stomach twist. After the ham he had last night, the real ham, not the soy protein byproduct most places featured, he felt spoiled.
The diner was old-fashioned, and he was thankful it wasn’t equipped with front door scanners to verify he had the credit to pay. It was crowded, but a booth in the back corner opened up. Brody and Paige slid onto the vinyl seats, and a human waitress came to their table. Brody ordered a coffee, and Paige ordered an egg white omelet with cheddar cheese and mushrooms, hash browns, toast, a strawberry milk shake—and coffee.
Brody glanced at the scrolling menu on the wall at their booth and did some quick math: her order plus his coffee would come out in the ballpark of ten credits. He smiled at the server as she walked away. He’d worry about paying for it later when he had the information he wanted.
“You and Nectar are close, then?” Brody asked.
Paige shrugged. The teddy bear ears on her knit cap made her incredibly hard to take seriously. “As close as you can be with the girl, I suppose. She’s always changing her hair or clothes. She’d push all of these books on me, too. Shit about living with your spiritual side at the forefront, only taking baths on Sunday, or how to build a freaking birdhouse. It was always something. You could see her do the hippie thing with the puka shell necklace on Monday, and by Friday she’s wearing cut-up fishnets and rape paint.”
Brody grimaced. “Rape paint?”
“Yeah, you’ve seen those chicks who do that, right? They draw a line of red with henna down the inside of their thigh to look like they’ve just been raped or had their period or got a back-alley abortion. Sick, I know, but Nectar’s always looking for the next thing she can temporarily sink her teeth into.” Paige talked loudly. He assumed she had hearing damage from spending so much time among loud washing machines.
She cracked her knuckles, looked around. “It’s pretty dead in here,” she commented, despite there not being a single booth or stool open. He wondered if she was referring to the clientele. Almost every patron had a suit and a tie on, no one else with her youthful cut-and-paste style of dress worthy of acknowledging.
“Have you ever visited her place?” Brody asked, trying to get her back on track.
“I crash there when I don’t have money for a cab or if I might puke if I got on the train.” Chuckle.
“Did you ever notice any pamphlets or literature on any sort of hobby or anything? Any indication of what she might be trying to do with her life next?”
“Like I said, she’s always reinventing herself. She’s like the Material Girl or whatever her name was. You know who I mean; you’re old. That singer who was someone different every time she put out an album. That’s Nectar, the Material Girl.” She turned away. “Fuck, what was that chick’s name?”
“Madonna,” Brody said curtly. “Listen, this might be more serious than you think. She might be in trouble.”
“Why? You don’t know her. You’re just her brother’s friend. He’s probably filled your head with that conspiracy bullshit he was always filling her head with and set you loose on a snipe hunt. She’ll be back. With a new haircut and maybe a tattoo, but she’ll be back.” She frowned. “Was that it? I thought it was like Madam Google or something …”
The server slid a cup of coffee and plastic plates of steaming fake eggs, toast, and hash browns in front of Paige and set a cup of coffee down in front of Brody. “The milk shake’s gonna take a minute. The machine is on the fritz,” the server said, didn’t wait for a re
ply, and walked off.
Paige unrolled her silverware out of her napkin and picked at the rubbery mass of what was supposed to be an egg white omelet but resembled a puddle of melted packing peanuts.
Paige forked up some of the hash browns, talking toward her plate. “I think—and this is just my opinion here—you should milk whatever you’re getting out of her brother and wait it out till she gets back.”
Brody cut to the chase. “Did she ever give you a spare key to her apartment?”
Paige’s expression turned hard, with a small twist of disgust reading in her pursing lips. “I don’t know what your game is, but breaking into someone’s apartment when they’re out in the world trying to find themselves isn’t very cool.” She pointed her fork at Brody. “I don’t think that’s right.”
Brody sighed. “If I could get in touch with her, even if it was on the phone for a minute, it would make all the difference. Did she have another cell she used when travelling? The number Thorp’s been trying is still active, but it always goes straight to voice mail.”
“The number she gave me is the same number she gave my mom when she first started working for us. I’ve tried calling her to see if she could come in to help me out, but like I’ve already said how many times, this is pretty common for her.”
Brody wondered if Paige, someone who apparently knew Nectar pretty well, was feeding him lines. Maybe Nectar was trying on different walks of life to see what she wanted to explore next. He thought about Thorp and his paranoia-riddled theories and hysteria when a new possibility of what happened to his sister cropped up into his balding head.
Brody sipped his coffee and thought for a moment. Paige ate as if she were alone in the booth, humming to herself.
The bells jingled on the door, and the server told whoever had walked in to sit where he pleased.
The man said, “No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll only be a moment. Just looking for someone.”
Paige ducked slightly, her eyes widening, visibly shrinking like a crushed squeezebox.
“What?” Brody asked.
“Shit,” Paige said, pulling her stocking cap down over her eyebrows. “Shit, fuck, shit.” She hunched and scooted over toward the wall of the booth, folding herself up.
Brody heard heavy footsteps approach. Behind him, the conversations at the surrounding booths momentarily quieted.
A looming figure stopped at the end of their table. Brody had to crane his neck to look all the way up at him, the top of his head nearly hitting the ceiling of the diner. He had a chiseled face with sunken cheeks, a plain slice of a lipless mouth, a set of round, bovine eyes that on anyone else would look welcoming but on this man just looked like portholes cut through a wall that peered directly into hell.
He glared at Paige, ignoring Brody entirely. “Miss Tolsky,” he said, his voice as flat and hard as waste metal being dumped on stone. “What, may I ask, are you doing here?”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “I’m just having lunch.”
“In your favorite little feed bag, I see. Good thing I’m not here to kill you because all a hitter would have to do is follow you for one day and get your routines down pat.” He put his massive hands on the tabletop and leaned forward.
Beneath the table, Brody slid his hand into his pocket and found his knuckleduster. He placed his fingers through the loops and fanned out his hand to allow it to slide all the way down his fingers. His fist balled around it.
The man still hadn’t looked in his direction. He was leaning halfway over the table, the end of his leather tie dipping into Paige’s plate of unfinished hash browns. Brody studied the man’s profile; he bore a striking resemblance to the stone heads of Easter Island.
“Your mother tells me she can’t make her deposit this month. And since I’m not typically in the business of slapping around old, dried-up cunts, I figured I’d pay you a visit instead.”
Everyone in the place was now listening. All that could be heard was the golden oldies station playing “Mr. Sandman” softly from the retrofitted Wurlitzer in the far end of the room.
Brody looked at what he had at his disposal. Paige’s silverware, the fork and knife. His knuckleduster ready in his pocket. His own hands and feet. The swaying length of black tie that hung from the man’s neck like a flaccid, boneless tail.
“Seb, if you let me get to the shop, I’ll give you everything in the register,” Paige whimpered. “Please don’t make a scene. I like to come here. I want to be able to come back. Please.”
Seb leaned closer to her, his voice lowered into a rumbling purr. “I’ll make a scene if I want to make a scene. I’ll beat your ass in front of all these fucking people if I want to. Don’t tell me what to do.”
“Leave her alone,” Brody said, his voice even.
The massive man shifted around so his face was mere inches from Brody. They were nearly touching noses. This wasn’t anything uncommon for him, going toe-to-toe with big galoots who didn’t know when to stop. The tie was now hanging directly over Brody’s cup of coffee.
“Excuse me, friend. I didn’t catch that.” Seb turned to Paige, who was smashed completely against the wall and trembling. “Who is this dap, anyway? Your lard ass finally land a boyfriend?”
This was his opportunity. Brody grabbed the man’s tie. Seb immediately had a fist ready. Still sitting, Brody ducked the punch, brought his brass knuckles out of his pocket, and delivered one strike into Seb’s lantern jaw.
The vibration radiated down Brody’s arm, and Seb reeled, lurching and stumbling backward a few feet from the booth, holding his bleeding mouth. He made muffled gasps behind his hand and looked entirely surprised. Not hurt, not offended, but almost appearing impressed.
Brody told Paige, “Go. Now.”
She scrambled out of the booth, knocking her plate of uneaten lunch onto the floor. She stepped through the faux eggs and was out the door in a flash.
Brody stood but walked backward, facing the giant.
Seb kept his distance. His eyes flared even brighter, the lower half of his face clamped underneath his massive paw. Blood dripped off his wrist to the floor. In a strange display, Seb lowered his hand and allowed his face to bleed freely.
Brody saw this sometimes. Men who would rather bleed right there in front of him than cover it up or rub at a sore spot while he was watching. Even though it might hurt, they didn’t want him to know that he had caused them any pain. Brody, too, remained where he stood, opening and closing his fist, waiting for Seb to come closer. He wouldn’t go to him. He didn’t want to go to him.
The server, from behind the safety of the counter, shouted: “Take that shit outside!”
Brody took another cautious step backward, his hands out and ready if Seb thought otherwise and decided to charge. Brody removed the knuckleduster from his hand and put it back in his coat pocket. He glanced at the server and said, “Sorry,” then bolted for the door.
Outside, Paige was nowhere to be seen. Brody looked up and down the street, searching for a hat with ears sewn onto it. He picked a direction and started running to the corner, heavy blasts of steam shooting out of his mouth with every breath. He came to within a few yards of the Mama Wash storefront, but Paige wasn’t heading toward it. He looked the other way and saw no one. Seb was not pursuing him.
A rusty Ford Fairlane pulled up to the curb next to him, and the passenger window shuttered down in dysfunctional, squeaking jerks. “Hey!” Paige shouted with a trembling voice from the driver’s seat.
Brody didn’t think twice; he clambered into the car.
She got back into traffic just as the light at the intersection turned green. He looked into the passenger side mirror and saw Seb exiting the diner, still holding his face. He glanced around at the collection of cars in the parking lot and started kicking at the air. Inhuman roars, a mishmash of every curse ever uttered.
They were a few blocks away, moving quickly with luckily timed lights. Brody’s heart rate was calming, and he surveyed his hand
and saw red marks the knuckleduster left on his palm and fingers.
Paige had a locked hold on the wheel. Her eared hat was askew, some greasy curly hair loose and hanging in tendrils.
He regarded the inside of the car, the set of what looked like meatballs on a string hanging from the mirror, both encased in hard, clear plastic. The dashboard was covered in bumper stickers for various heavy metal bands, with images of skulls and zombies and screaming faces. Something didn’t add up. “This is his car, isn’t it?”
“Fucker deserves a whole lot worse than this.” Even though her face still held the expression of fright, her voice was bitter with rage. She checked the mirror as if expecting Seb to sprint up and dive headlong through the back windscreen.
They stopped at a red light, noon traffic now in full swing. The car was a beater, and it made sounds of automobile indigestion when idling. The whole interior of the car vibrated when the gas wasn’t pressed. Brody worried about it dying right then and there and the lummox catching up to them and crushing both of their heads with his bare hands.
“What the hell was that about? And why was it necessary to steal his car?” Brody was once again thankful that the diner didn’t have scanners. No one knew he had been there. Without a doubt, the server was calling the cops and everyone on the premises would be questioned. Chiffon would be none the wiser for the time being. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, slid down on the cracked vinyl seat, and exhaled clouds of gray. “Jesus Christ.”
“He owns the storefront me and Mom rent. He owes money all over town, and he pays off his own debts by adjusting our rent whenever he feels like it. The guy is a piece of shit.” Paige stopped at a red light and let go of the wheel to get the phone out of her pocket. “Excuse me a minute,” she said and dialed.
Paige started breaking down as she recounted the events to her mother in Russian. From what Brody could make out, she told her mother to close and lock the front doors immediately and get back to their apartment.