by Rowan Casey
I sat up and swung my bare feet onto the floor, restless. In the corner my iPhone was on, brightness setting turned down low. I got up and shuffled over toward the tiny kitchenette, walking past the tired sofa and chair set. As a rule, unless it was uptown, furnished rentals are shit. This is most true in the Tenderloin. In between the pieces of rundown furniture sat a battered old side table with a copy of yesterday's paper lying forgotten next to an unused ashtray.
My computer was open and on the website of that paper, the Chronicle, and the headline read COUNCILMAN FALLOWS UNDER CORRUPTION INVESTIGATION in a bold, gigantic font at the top of the feed. Technically speaking, I thought, that's not really "news" so much as common knowledge.
Erica had a thing for bad boys and expensive living. In Fallows, it seemed she got both. I entered the claustrophobic kitchen space; featureless white refrigerator on one side next to a little sink and a tiny range oven on the other. I opened the refrigerator and looked inside. A quart of milk. A six pack of Blue Moon, the Budweiser of microbrews, with two missing.
Sitting on the second shelf below the little light bulb, was a massive .455 caliber Webley Mk II revolver. Once upon a time, a British military attaché had dropped it in Managua during an ambush by Sandino's guerillas. Since he'd dropped it, I figured he didn't need it back. At the time, I'd rather hoped the pompous ass would drop his wallet and gold pocket watch as well, but there'd been no such luck.
I pulled a beer out and closed the door. Using the counter to knock the cap off, I stood for a moment and looked out the little window. This view was south, instead of west, and I saw not even a hint of ocean. All I saw was tenement buildings, as nondescript and unappealing as rows of headstones in a cemetery.
I still saw the sky, however, and dark gray was giving way to a purple the color of fading bruises. I took a long drink of beer. Rain began falling in a steady drizzle, drops smearing on the glass. I took another swig of beer.
"You better not be a metaphor," I warned the storm.
How long I stood like that, watching the rain fall, I couldn't say. That's the thing about loops; they don't really begin or end. At some point, I went to take another drink and discovered the bottle was empty. I stared at the empty bottle in surprise. I knew I'd been lost in a memory of her, just like I knew that was a bad habit to get into.
I set the bottle down and scratched my forearm where the Eagle, Globe & Anchor tattoo lay inked. There was a raised seam of flesh where a knife scar bisected the USMC emblem. I stood there wondering if I should have another beer while outside the rain continued pouring.
There was a small knock at the door.
I jumped a little, though part of me had been waiting for it since seeing Cynthia and Euryale. While this craphole served as my base of operations, no place in the Tenderloin was really a ‘safe house.' Setting the empty beer bottle down, I walked across the room. The person outside knocked again, more urgent this time, and I was fully irritated by the time I reached the door.
There was a coat hook in the wall next to the entrance and my jacket, a heavy canvas garment by Carhart, hung there. Inside the pocket was a switchblade. I pulled it out and held it down by my leg. I was only sort of expecting trouble. I hadn't pissed off any serious people on behalf of Grimm in months, but I'd also just gone to considerable lengths to announce my presence in certain circles.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Let me in," she said.
I looked at the door dumbly for a moment. Not here, not now, I thought out of reflex. Then I realized the absurdity of the statement. I'd taken an ass beating and confronted my rapist precisely so it would be here and now. Still, I'd figured it'd take another week of beating the streets to flush her.
I looked at the door, considered not opening it. Fucking rain, I warned you, I thought. I still had a choice. Screw Grimm. I'd told him no before, though so rarely we'd both forgotten the last time. Mostly.
“Please,” she said. Her voice was soft.
Oh, goddamn, I thought. Oh, goddamn you.
I closed my eyes and sighed. I felt something unhitch in my chest leaving an ache behind my sternum. I’m stupid. I slid the switchblade in my pocket. Opening my eyes, I undid the chain, threw the safety bolt, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
She stood in my hallway, sleek black overcoat dripping rainwater. Her hair hung wet from the downpour and despite her expensive black heels and stockings, she looked bedraggled, vulnerable, dark eyes huge and red from crying. I hated her a little bit.
“Hello, Erica,” I said.
“I need your help,” she said.
I stepped back and let her come in. Outside, the rain came down.
She came in looking beautiful and uncertain, glancing around the weekly rental. I doubt it met her standards.
“Give me your coat,” I said. My voice was rough as I held out my hand. “You’re dripping all over.”
“Sorry,” she said.
She looked at me as she shrugged it off. She didn’t sound particularly sorry. She wasn’t exactly ruining the décor. Under the coat she wore a modest, currant-red slip dress and what I took to be Jimmy Choo Gladiator sandals. There was nothing modest about how she filled out anything. She could have worn a nun’s habit and seemed seductive. I knew the dress was a Coco Chanel couture, I’d seen her in enough of them to know Karl Lagerfeld was a favorite of hers.
She caught me staring and I looked away.
“Sit down,” I told her and hung up the coat.
I continued ignoring her dubious, disapproving looks at the furniture and walked over to the bed where I picked up a short sleeve button up shirt and shrugged it on. I stood in front of the nightstand and fastened my pants. Quietly, I put her picture in the drawer.
“For Christ’s sake, Erica,” I finally said, to be saying something. “This is just a base of operations. You know that, you goddamn snob.”
“Base of operations for what?” she asked, voice almost casual.
“Drink?” I asked.
“Please,” she said.
“All I have is beer,” I warned her.
She laughed and it caught in her throat, not a sob, something subtler than that. I pretended not to notice and clicked off the iPhone as I passed it. I got the beers, opened them and handed her one. She drank down half and I saw her hand shaking.
She was more used to a Gimlet, or maybe a Manhattan, but I’d seen her put back working man’s beer before. Always in private, and only ever with me. She could be very adaptable to the men she was with. Even when she was slumming, I suspect.
I drank, watching her. Still beautiful, I thought.
It was an obvious observation, almost a requirement with a woman like that, but that didn’t make it any less true. Her dress, supposedly cut modest, fit well enough that I had to keep my eyes consciously focused on her face. Which meant I had to look in her in the eyes, which killed me a little bit to do.
She noticed me staring at her and I suddenly realized just how off her game she must be, because her cheeks colored. The queen of black diamonds blushing? I thought. I got angry with himself then for caring, and took a quick drink. Playing me.
“Cigarette?” she asked, obviously unwilling yet to bring up why she was here, in this neighborhood, now, after all this time. After the way we parted five years ago. I knew, but I still wasn’t sure she knew I knew. Much like looking, there’s always a lot of knowing going on in matters like these. Find my logic circuitous?
She has to know I know, I thought. Such obvious ploys as taking punches from nocturnal predators in known cannibal-corpse hangouts were designed, by their very nature, to do away with ambiguity. They said ‘I’m here. Look at me.’ Loudly. But still, with her, I didn’t truly know. So now I was confused by all the knowing. And looking.
“I quit,” I said out of force of habit. Then I pointed my chin at the side table. “There’s a pack in there.” I had cut back a lot.
She nodded, set the beer down and opened the drawer. She looked insid
e for a moment, then allowed herself a wan smile. Reaching in, she lifted the Beretta up by the handle in a finger and thumb. Her nails looked sharp against the worn grips of the handle.
She looked over at me. “This is new.”
“No it’s not,” I said. “Had it for years, I’m holding it for Chekhov.”
“That mean it’s going to go off?”
“Stick around for the third act and find out.”
She set the gun back in the drawer and pulled out the open pack of cigarettes. I drank again, a long pull. It was a strange sensation seeing her holding a gun again, not a pleasant one. She put one of the cigarettes between her lips and tried lighting a match.
I blinked away from how the cigarette looked pressed between her full lips and saw her struggle striking the match. I set my beer on the floor and leaned over, carefully taking the paper matchbook from her trembling hands.
I struck one of the matches and she inhaled, drawing the smoke into her. She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly then offering me a little smile.
“You were always coming to my rescue,” she said. She opened her eyes, “until you weren’t.”
I looked away and put the match in the ashtray. It’s not empty anymore, I thought, but didn’t know why that should matter. I picked up my beer, studied the bottle.
“What do you want, Erica,” I asked. “Why are you here? I have business of my own.”
“I told you,” she said. “I need your help.”
“I’m not killing anyone,” I said at once. At least not for you, I thought.
“My,” she said in mock outrage. “What you must think of me.”
She managed to make the words sound dirty without trying. It was a gift she had, I reflected. I looked over at her, unamused, and she leaned back in her chair and took a drag off the cigarette. She crossed her legs for my benefit and blew smoke at the ceiling. She made it look resplendent and slutty at the same time. That’s not an easy trick.
“You dropped the lost little lamb angle pretty quick,” I observed. I drank.
She eyed me. “It’s not an act,” she told me, voice calm. “I am lost, I do need you. You just make me feel safe, I guess.” We locked gazes. “You always did.”
I didn’t look away. “I was the one who wasn’t safe.”
She turned from me and ground out the cigarette. I’d made her angry. I felt a little better.
“What I have concerns you, but I guess coming here was a mistake.”
“When was the last time you were in a neighborhood like this?” I asked.
She seemed caught off guard by the question. “I guess since the last time I was with you,” she answered after a moment. We had kept electric company, that was true enough.
She’s lying, I realized. Nothing new there. “You drive yourself?” I asked out loud.
“I took a taxi.”
“A taxi brought you here at this time of knight?”
“An Uber, I mean. Jesus, Berk,” she snapped, using her old abbreviation of my first name. “I need your help!” She stood, I stood with her. “You think it was easy for me to come here, after everything that happened?”
We stood toe-to-toe, glaring.
“Did you really think,” I asked, jaw tight, “that I was going to jump just because you showed up here? That you were going to come in here and I was going leap at the chance to be your fucking thug again?”
“Did you ever care about me?” she demanded, almost shouting. She played jab and duck as well as anyone.
“I did in bed,” I replied. I’m better at rope-a-dope, but I can jab.
She slapped me. I saw it coming and let her have the blow. I grimaced against the sting, mesmerized by her beauty. I felt the pull of the glamour, a distant part of my mind trying to fight it and failing. I was breathing as hard as she was.
She lifted her hand to slap me again. I caught it. We were a fucking Bogie and Bacall cliché’. Except Bogie and Bacall was exactly what it looked like when you hated as much as you loved, when the tension was wound that tight. She swung at me with her other one and I took that wrist into my hand as well. The motion pulled her up against me and we stood there, straining for a moment.
“Goddamn you,” she said.
You know why things are cliché’? Because things happen in patterns, patterns everyone is familiar with. Patterns everyone’s lived to one degree or another or seen lived. In loops of memory and reoccurring flashbacks. Endless loops, continuous flashbacks. Life gives you PTSD.
I let go of her arms and kissed her hard. She resisted for a moment, then softened. She began kissing me back and I felt the connection, the inability to tell where she ended and I began. Her lips were soft, mouth hungry, as the kiss grew more passionate.
This is bullshit, I thought. I didn’t stop kissing her.
I broke it off and the empty ache behind my sternum filled with a hard, sharp sensation as my heart pounded. She looked up at me, expression yielding and uncertain. My body flooded with adrenaline and I snatched her up against me.
Her arms came up around my neck and I crushed her curves into me. There was a part of my mind, somewhere far in the back, screaming at me, telling me it was a trick, a lie, a trap, she was a dark illusionist. Reason did not win out.
Glamour, I thought. It didn’t seem to matter. My tatts were only warm because my skin was flushed. Her magic was real, but this energy was something else. Then I managed to resist and pulled away.
She turned and stood with her back to me, not looking up. “I need to use your bathroom,” she said in a quiet voice. I ran my hand through my short hair and answered her.
“It’s over there.”
She closed the door harder than she needed to and I thought about smoking a cigarette. I decided to drink the rest of my beer instead, but when I went to pick it up it was empty.
What the hell just happened? I wondered.
I heard running water from behind the bathroom door and I walked over into the kitchen to throw the bottle away. She didn’t have a purse, I thought. The observation came abruptly. One-minute I was struggling with the complicated knot of how I felt, and the next a clinical, detached voice pointed that simple, but telling fact out to me.
No purse, no handbag, no stylish clutch. That didn’t sit right with me and I felt my predator awareness stirring. I left the kitchen and went over to the window above the radiator. It was still raining and the low cloud cover left the city overcast and gloomy.
The city was a port built over several rivers, sitting in a shallow basin surrounded by low hills. It was a perfect condition for frequent temperature inversion effects, and the city suffered perpetually from rainy weather and heavy coastal fogs. It was part of the San Francisco legend.
I stood back a little way from the glass. It wasn’t a conscious act. One of the first men I’d seen killed during the Nicaraguan counter-insurgency was an Annapolis graduate who took a sniper round through the throat standing in the window of a cantina. I didn’t think there were snipers out there, but my subconscious didn’t seem to have a relax switch.
There was, however, a big black Mercedes touring car parked on the curb. A Mercedes in the Tenderloin. Fallows seemed as capable of subtly as Donald Trump. Even from across the street, in the rain, the driver looked like a thug. A thug all dressed up, but a thug. If I knew Fallows, the guy was probably a plain clothes agent of SFPD Flying Squad.
“You want to tell me what just happened between us,” Erica asked from behind me.
I didn’t turn around. “I don’t think we have time. Your ‘taxi’ is waiting for you.”
She didn’t answer and I did turn around, placing the empty beer bottle on the windowsill. She stood, legs spread and arms crossed, not looking at me. I let the silence grow between us. I didn’t feel the need to fill it.
Finally, she said, “sonofabitching Albert is a moron. I told him to circle the block.”
“Good help is hard to find,” I allowed. If I were driving Grimm, I would have circled.
I leaned up against the wall. “Which is, I guess, what must bring you here to me.”
“Why the fuck don’t you have any liquor in your place?” she demanded.
“Because, if it were here, I’d drink it.”
“It’s the whole goddamn point of having it in the first place.”
“You always curse this much after kissing someone?”
“You tell me,” she shot back. After a moment she added, “Asshole.”
“Christ, you’re high maintenance. Drink your beer.”
“It’s warm by now.”
I sighed. I wasn’t in upheaval anymore, I realized. It wasn’t just the tension breaking of the sex. It was that we’d fallen right back into our rhythms. How does that happen with some people? The shtick was so established, so utterly natural between us I couldn’t stay caught up in my angst for long around her.
I went to the fridge, got the last two beers, opened them and carried one over to her. We sat at my little kitchen table, me lounging in a loose sprawl, her leaning casually back in her chair. She took a long drink of beer, looked good doing it.
“I take it Fallows knows you’re here,” I said.
“He has a problem,” she admitted. “But I wasn’t lying. I need your help, too.”
“Pretty damn big problem if he sends you down here to flirt with me. He doesn’t seem like the kind who enjoys sharing.”
“And you enjoy sharing?” she snapped.
“I’m not currently sharing,” I said. “I’m hijacking.”
“You never change.”
“You do?”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“Where are we supposed to be going? I’m the one in the dark here.”
“Then shut the hell up and let me finish!”
Yep, I thought, I definitely still enjoy making her angry.
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Whatever it is, the answer’s no. I’m not doing shit for your boyfriend, Erica. Let him get the Flying Squad boys to run his errands.” I squinted at her, “you didn’t think sleeping with me would somehow force me to say ‘yes’ automatically, did you?” I took a drink. “I know you’re not that naïve, and I’m sure the hell not.”