Lou found out about the perfume through his museum connections. That’s what Rebecca told me a week later, when she appeared at my door again. She’d heard Lou speaking of it on the phone, invoking my name more than once to John and others she didn’t know. I listened to her, weighing the veracity of what she said. I doubted Rebecca would tell Lou or John about my having the perfume; she wanted it for herself, and ratting me out wouldn’t accomplish that. No, given the opportunity, she would steal back the perfume. Probably it was the only reason she was here now. I told her as much.
“I won’t have to resort to that,” she said, stepping close. “I think you’ll give it back.”
“Why, because John and your uncle are hot on my heels?” I said, cockily.
She considered it. “Maybe because you like me?”
I watched her eyes for sarcasm, but she closed them and burrowed her face into my neck, running me through with chills.
“And because I like you,” she added.
One thing nagged me: if Lou had spoken with John and learned of the perfume, wasn’t it likely he’d also heard of Rebecca working with me in the storage room? Uncle Lou knew plenty of the staff—hadn’t anyone put his niece with me? We were careful, but there’s only so much one can do. It’s a small city. By Rebecca’s account, though, Lou was clueless about us.
In bed we made love. She pressed herself close and said, “Smell. Not as nice, is it?”
I smelled rose, but it was sugary and cheap. She wanted the real stuff, just a drop—a molecule.
When I took the perfume from my dresser drawer, she said, “Not much of a hiding spot.”
“That’s what I thought of yours.”
Then she grabbed for it. I held tight and we crashed back onto the bed. She was giving me a good fight, biting my ribs, pulling my hair. When exhaustion wore us down, I tipped the vial onto my finger and applied it to her neck. We lay in bed deep into the night, the perfume high upon the dresser. She was in my arms, and I knew I had to hide the vial before I fell asleep. Then I heard her voice, low and hypnotic.
“I’m going to turn you in.”
I roused, tightened my embrace as though it was lovers’ talk.
“You can’t. I didn’t steal it.”
“But you have it.”
“Darling,” I said, “if you turn me in, I’ll tell them the real story. Then John knows you’re a thief, and your kindly uncle knows you’ve been cavorting with the likes of me. You lose both ways—and you don’t get the perfume.”
“If I turn you in, your life becomes a living hell.”
I pinned her, gripped her neck with my hands. “I could kill you now,” I said. “And that would be the end of this nonsense.”
There was a flash of real fear in her eyes, but only a flash—something had come to her. “I’m at Trina’s tonight,” she said. “When I don’t come home, Lou calls Trina.”
“And?”
“And then Trina tells him about you.”
I was suddenly so pleased with her, with her cunning and forethought, her tenacity. I lowered my head to kiss her, all the while feeling that I was losing myself to her, about to give her something she hadn’t even asked for. I snatched the perfume and took her to the basement, where I pulled boxes away from the wall. When I removed a section of the fake wood paneling with a screwdriver, she laughed and said, “So, you’re going to brick me up back there. I should have figured.”
Then she saw the vault. She stood wide-eyed, the sheets in which she’d wrapped herself slinking down her shoulders. The dial spun swiftly under my fingers, right-left, left-right, and then there was the clean, cold click of the lock giving way. The massive door opened noiselessly. I reached into the darkness and drew out what was inside.
“I knew it!” she screamed. “You sneaky bastard!” She hurled a string of delightful profanity at me, then reached out to touch the painting. She held it while I flicked on a series of mounted spotlights that came together on the opposite wall. I hung the portrait in that pool of radiance—it was alive now, the woman who raised Edgar Allan Poe. She was depicted young, and had a small nose and mouth, large dark eyes and roseate cheeks; her black hair was pulled up, and long strands of it curled past the edges of her eyes down to her jaw. There was a ghostly light about her long neck and her gauzy white dress.
I lost track of how long we stared into it.
Eventually, Rebecca asked, “What’s the point? I mean, it just sits in there. In the dark.”
“What should I do,” I said, “put it up in the living room? Rebecca, having this painting in the vault is dangerous enough. But it’s worth it. It does something to me. Every morning I wake up and remember what’s here, in my house. I’m sitting upon a great secret, and it makes everything . . . vibrate. But it’s a crime.” I brought my fingers to her neck. “And you don’t wear your crime.”
I put the painting back and the perfume in with it—now she couldn’t rat me out without exposing herself as an accomplice who knew where the secret vault was. I swung the door shut and met Rebecca’s contemptuous gaze. She apparently got the point.
“I want to trust you, Rebecca. And you to trust me. This assures that trust.”
“That’s not trust,” she said. “That’s mutually assured destruction.”
* * *
The longer the perfume stayed missing, the more my hours diminished. The museum’s auxiliary technicians were increasingly around, assigned to projects that ordinarily would have gone to me. I was not outright expelled, but more like a child faced into the corner. The cloud of suspicion that had loomed over me eight years before was above me again, and it was dark.
When I confronted John, he said, “Emery, there’s just a lot of talk.”
“Since when do you believe talk?”
“Let’s give it some time,” he said, “let it blow over.”
“Is it Hamlin? Are you listening to Lou Hamlin now?”
“Emery,” he said sharply, “you were the last one with the . . . People are suspicious.”
Christ, I thought, he defends me when I’m guilty, and condemns me when I’m not—not completely, anyway.
The only bright thing in my life was the source of my troubles. I found it strange that Rebecca’s uncle didn’t try leashing her. Was he duped so easily, believing she spent all her nights at Trina’s? In the basement I’d retrieve the perfume from the safe and trace the oil along her curves. We’d sleep upon the daybed with rose and sweat in the air. Rebecca was surprisingly agreeable to the situation, washing off the perfume dutifully before she left my house each morning, not arguing when I put it back in the safe. If we didn’t make love, or study the painting, Rebecca would pose and I’d manipulate the lights so that I’d swear she floated in them, my treasure.
* * *
Rebecca’s internship was nearly complete; she’d be leaving for Cincinnati in a matter of days. It struck me hard, and maybe her too, but neither of us spoke about it. Following my first day of work in four days, Rebecca, walking home beside me in the alleys, presented me with an idea.
“Would things be better for you if they found the perfume?”
I supposed they would, but the small red vial had been so long in our possession, and become so important to us, that I couldn’t imagine being without it.
“I want you to give me the perfume,” she said evenly. “I’ll plant it in a box in one of the storage rooms.”
Her face was confident and serene, and I wanted to kiss the little notch upon her lip for her offer. But it was too dangerous—besides, neither of us had access to the rooms. Then she handed me an envelope. Inside was a key she’d stolen, copied, and returned the day before.
I held onto the key. “It’s too dangerous, Rebecca. If they catch you . . .”
“Then what? They send me home?”
“Or prison.”
There was the Summer Celebration gala the next night, a fund-raising party for members, staff, and interns. I could do it then, slip in and out amidst th
e crowd.
“Why do you suddenly want to get rid of it?”
“For you.”
I looked all around at the alley we were in, one of a thousand veins through which coursed the blood of our city to its heart, where a great and mysterious history seemed preserved for us.
“Poe should have died here,” I said, “in these alleys. Not on some bench in Baltimore.”
That night was our last with the perfume.
* * *
We took my car. At the museum, Memorial Hall was bustling with ritzy summer gowns and tuxedoed bartenders, colorful spreads of hors d’oeuvres, live jazz. Rebecca and I spent only a few minutes together—the Hamlins were expected shortly—and gulped down our wine in a corner. She was especially striking, having spent so long with her compact mirror as we dressed in the basement, painting on her dark eyes, making her face radiant.
“Rebecca . . .”
“You have to,” she said. “You can’t lose everything because of me.”
“No, I mean, will you still . . .”
I was conflicted, afraid that returning the perfume was tossing away the only card I had, tossing away Rebecca herself. I couldn’t finish, but she seemed to know what I meant, because she pulled me to her by my waist and gave me a slow, full-hearted kiss.
“Do it soon,” she said. “I’ll meet you later. Goodbye.” And she disappeared into the crowd.
* * *
I waited, put crackers into my dry mouth, said quick hellos, then made my move. I was fueled with wine, sliding through back hallways, full of love for Rebecca. It wasn’t fair that we couldn’t keep it—I hadn’t been fair, keeping it from her. Wouldn’t it all blow over sooner or later? The old case of the missing perfume, just like the painting, which was by now a tired page on an FBI website. In the storage room I stood still, feeling the weight of the vial in my jacket pocket, and Rebecca’s hands still around my waist. I had my treasure—not the painting anymore, but Rebecca. And she, such the devoted student of Poe, deserved to have the perfume. If it was time to return anything, it was the painting. With a wild surge of clarity and elation I rejoined the throngs of people, who had begun dancing as if to emulate my joy. I couldn’t wait to tell Rebecca, to see her face; I’d have liked to see her uncle’s too, just to show him my pleasure and confidence. But I found neither. Someone tugged at my elbow. It was Trina.
“You looking for Rebecca, Mr. Vance? She left a little while ago.”
I stared at her, baffled, then said, “No, Trina. I’m not looking for Rebecca.”
The row of magnolias was empty so I circled back to the parking ramp. She’d be waiting for me, my getaway driver. At my parking spot I discovered three things almost simultaneously: Rebecca wasn’t there, my car was gone, and my keys were no longer in my jacket pocket. I ran home through the alleys trying to keep my mind blank, trying not to remember that last embrace with Rebecca, her hands snaking around my waist. Lou’s house was dark, as was mine. My door was unlocked. Inside I called her name.
Then I read the note:
Please forgive me. But you must see the bright side. The cloud of suspicion above you is lifted—evermore.
R.
I had my shot of whiskey, felt my body shudder, and then it came, the mean bang of fists against my door and the wave of blue uniforms through the halls. I heard my name from the lips of one officer, a young sergeant, who explained his warrant for search and seizure. I saw John in his suit, straight from the gala, and Lou Hamlin dressed in black like some prowler.
The young sergeant said solemnly, “Mr. Vance, is there a safe in your basement?”
I managed to ask if that was illegal.
“What you’ve got in it is,” said Lou, sneering.
They ushered me into my basement and Lou coughed with laughter when he saw the safe in plain view. The sergeant tried the handle.
“Open it up, shitbird,” said Lou.
The sergeant raised a finger to quiet Lou—this pleased me—and said, “You’ll have to open the safe, Mr. Vance. That, or it’ll be opened in the lab.”
I felt my cold body rise and fall with my breath; I waited, but nothing came to me: no idea, no plan of escape. I was done.
“No need for that,” I said, and went to open it.
“No,” said the sergeant, blocking me. “Just recite the combination.”
It was an unoriginal set of numbers, the poet’s birthday: 01-19-18-09. As I recited them I remembered spinning the dial earlier in the evening to retrieve the perfume, Rebecca behind me on the bed doing her makeup, mirror in hand. The click of the lock woke me. The flashlights came out like swords and the beams ferreted through the dark, but where the light should have by now found the black hair, the thin nose, the quiet eyes, there was nothing but more dark, and more light chasing in until the beams struck the rear wall of the safe.
All eyes—and the beams of flashlights—turned upon me.
“Where is the painting, Mr. Vance?” asked the sergeant.
I looked at Lou’s face, white and fishy, and kept my eyes on him when I said, “What painting?” It came out weak, unconvincing, but what did it matter? The empty safe was proof—the empty safe would hide my crime. Only John was touching the brackets on the opposite wall, and looking at the spotlights.
Lou erupted, snatching me by the collar and heaving me into the wall for some of his paternal policing. He got in one blow to my face before he was restrained by the officers. He fought at them too, and when he was finally subdued and handcuffed on the floor he was nearly foaming at his white mustache.
“She said!” Lou spat. “She said the painting was here! She saw it!”
Rebecca. His spy all along. I let this sit on my thoughts for a moment, as if seeing how long I could hold an ember.
The sergeant looked beat. He shook his head at Lou. Then his face brightened. “Mr. Hamlin, where is your niece?”
“She doesn’t have it,” he said. “She made this happen!”
Oh, treacherous Rebecca! But her note was coming into focus. She’d duped me good, but she’d gone to great lengths to dupe her uncle too, and leave me protected.
The sergeant peered at me. “Where is Rebecca? Does she have the painting?”
I said nothing.
That’s when I heard John: “Rose. I smell rose.”
Suddenly, I could smell it too, as if it had exploded in my pocket; it was all over me, all over the bed and the walls and the safe. I looked away from John.
“Mr. Vance,” the sergeant continued, “if you can help us, it’ll be good for you.”
John leveled his gaze at me. “The perfume is here. I smell it. I smell the rose perfume!”
The sergeant patted me down and found the vial. He took a disinterested sniff, handed it to John, and turned back to me.
“Now there’s this,” he said, like a tired parent. “We could forget this altogether if you cooperate.”
I looked at the sergeant and at Lou and I savored it, my chance to turn the tables on her, to beat her at her own game. And then I let it go. “Sergeant,” I said, “Mr. Hamlin. Respectfully, I don’t know where Rebecca is and I have no idea what painting you’re talking about.”
“Arrest him,” Lou barked, sandwiched between officers. “Arrest him for the perfume!”
And they might have. But there was John again, the vial in his hand. “This isn’t it.”
“What?” I shouted, unable to stop myself.
John held up the vial and pointed to an unblemished lip. “No chip,” he said. “Anyway, smell it. Putrid!” He placed the vial on a cabinet and made sure I saw the great disappointment in his eyes.
I was berated for another hour by the officers. What kind of game are you playing with us? Do you think you’ve gotten away with it? Don’t you know it’s just a matter of time? Do you really think this is going to end here, tonight? I just stared into a corner, hardly listening. I was thinking of Rebecca on westbound 64, driving fast with my car into the night. The questions weren’t fo
r me; they were for her. And when I found her, I would make sure she heard them.
When I was at last alone, I found the forged bottle where John had set it. Rebecca must’ve made the switch during our final night together. The vial rolled around on my palm. I was so disappointed that she’d forgotten to add the chip, I didn’t have the heart to remove the cork and smell the candy spray she’d put inside.
AMAPOLA
BY ALBERTO URREA
Paradise Valley, Phoenix
(Originally published in Phoenix Noir)
Here’s the thing—I never took drugs in my life. Yes, all right, I was the champion of my share of keggers. Me and the Pope. We were like, Bring on the Corona and the Jäger! Who wasn’t? But I never even smoked the chronic, much less used the hard stuff. Until I met Pope’s little sister. And when I met her, she was the drug, and I took her and I took her, and when I took her, I didn’t care about anything. All the blood and all the bullets in the world could not penetrate that high.
The irony of Amapola and me was that I never would have gotten close to her if her family hadn’t believed I was gay. It was easy for them to think a gringo kid with emo hair and eyeliner was un joto. By the time they found out the truth, it was too late to do much about it. All they could do was put me to the test to see if I was a stand-up boy. It was either that or kill me.
You think I’m kidding.
* * *
At first, I didn’t even know she existed. I was friends with Popo. We met in my senior year at Camelback High. Alice Cooper’s old school back in prehistory—our big claim to fame, though the freshmen had no idea who Alice Cooper was. VH1 was for grandmothers. Maybe Alice was a president’s wife or something.
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