by Rob Hart
I shake my head, lean my shoulder up against the gate. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“I’ve heard things about you. Like you used to work as a private eye when you lived in New York?”
Ah, fuck. Tommi must have told her.
How I got the job at Naturals is, when I made a mess of my life in New York and decided it best to see the world—or flee, depending on how you look at it—I found it’s hard to get a job in a place when you don’t know anyone. It’s even harder when you don’t have any marketable skills. So I called around at the bars back home, figured someone might know someone and I could get myself a gig bartending or dishwashing.
So my friend Dave says he knows somebody who’s opening a strip club and is looking for a bouncer. I don’t want to take a job as a bouncer, my attempt at pacifism running counter to that. But I hear that Portland is a pretty chill town and my bank account is full of dust and dashed hopes.
Not that I’m called a bouncer, officially. I don’t have an unarmed bodyguard permit, because who cares. I’ve got enough work to busy myself with that if anyone asks, I can say I’m a custodian. Tommi likes to keep things simple. I tend to agree.
So I go in for the job, and Dave wanted me to sound like an asset, so he told Tommi more about what I used to do than I would have liked.
And here we are.
“I wasn’t like a licensed private eye or anything,” I tell Crystal. “I didn’t do it professionally. I was more like a blunt instrument. People asked me to do things and I got them done and sometimes they paid me or gave me stuff in return. But I don’t do that kind of work anymore.”
Crystal takes a long drag and blows out the smoke hard. “I need some help. I know I don’t really know you, but I don’t know who else to go to.”
“I’m sorry, but…”
“It’s my daughter. She’s missing.”
The words vibrate in the yellow mist between us.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What happened?”
“My ex-boyfriend, her father, took her from day care. He’s not supposed to have her.”
“This sounds like a custody issue.”
“Dirk and I were never married. No divorce. There’s no custody or visitation or anything. Just, he’s not supposed to have her.”
Shrug. “Go to the cops.”
She looks into my eyes like she’s trying to burn a hole through them. Like she wants me to know the thing she’s about to say is something she’s not ashamed of. I know this look well, even though I’ve never been able to replicate it.
“I used to use,” she says. “I stopped soon as I got pregnant and promised that I would never touch it again. But the cops see an ex-junkie stripper, they’re going to take my daughter away. Do you know what kind of terrible shit can happen to kids in foster care?”
I nod. “No offense, but are you sure you’re not overreacting?”
“This isn’t an idle fear,” she says, like I’m an asshole, which, probably. “I know a girl, same situation as me, single mom who dances and she doesn’t have any family. Some shit went down and some holier-than-thou caseworker decided she wasn’t a fit mom. So the caseworker made her get a legit job as a waitress, which she had to take a huge pay cut for. Then the caseworker said she wasn’t making enough money. She has supervised visits with her son until this shit gets worked out. That’s horrible. I’m not going to risk that.”
“Okay. That’s not an unfair point.”
“All I need is someone to find him and get her. I’m not saying my ex is dangerous, just that he’s more apt to listen to someone his own size. If I go… it’s not going to end well.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s hit me before. I’m going to hit him back. I don’t want my daughter to see that. And I’m not even totally sure where he is.”
Something sparks in my chest. As a rule I really don’t like guys who hit women. Still. “I don’t do that work anymore. And if he was hitting you this is something worth solving soon. If she’s not safe…”
“He wasn’t good to me, but he was good to her. If he wasn’t such a fuck-up he might even make a good dad. I’m sure he wouldn’t hurt her, but that doesn’t mean he should have her. He’s not someone you have to be afraid of.”
The way she says it is like she’s trying to reassure a frightened child.
The thing I want to say is: If you only knew.
Instead I tell her, “Talk to Hood. Call another friend. I’m sorry. I’m not the kind of person you want to put your trust in. Best of luck. Truly.”
Her face contorts into something sharp so I turn to leave and walk in the direction of my apartment. Don’t give her the chance to say anything.
I turn onto West Burnside, past the long line of homeless people camping out on the sidewalk. I don’t know why they’re always here. Maybe there’s a shelter nearby. Maybe it’s where they gravitate. A few bug me for change, but most of them know me as a person who never hands any over, so they ignore me.
That’s not a moral stand. I just don’t have money to spare.
It’s a nice night, teetering on the edge of summer, so I can wear a T-shirt this late at night and not feel like I should have dressed smarter.
The air gets a little chillier as I approach the Burnside Bridge. There’s no one on the pedestrian pathway, with only the occasional car interrupting silence so deep I can hear the lapping of the Willamette down below me.
Halfway over, even though the wind is whipping and raising goose bumps on my skin, I stop and lean on the rail and look out over the river. At the gentle sprawl of the city, the lights dim and the buildings not tall enough.
This is the junior-varsity version of a city.
Truth is, more than anything, it reminds me of home home. The West Brighton neighborhood on Staten Island where I grew up. A mix of suburban and urban that came down too hard on the suburbia side for my taste. You could still walk to things, it just took a while. The streets eerie quiet after dark.
In fairness, that familiarity breeds a bit of contempt.
A big part of me still feels like a tourist. Six months now and any moment I’ll have to pack my bags and catch a flight, go back to the things I know as normal.
Everything outside my East Village apartment was always moving, always alive, always flashing. So big it blotted out the sky, so bright at night you’d swear it was day. Here, though, it’s just silence and damp, and everything is green and shadow. Quiet houses and people who seem to always be half asleep.
My rhythm and the rhythm of this place don’t match up yet. Maybe with time it will, if I stay, which, probably not. This isn’t the place for me but I don’t know where to go next. Maybe Europe. I’ve never been to Europe. Though to pull that off I’d need to stow away on a freighter or something.
Until then I jump every time I hear a creak, because there aren’t sirens or roaring trains or people screaming to drown those sounds out anymore.
I get back to walking and the smell of citrus lingers after me. I’m sorry for Crystal and her daughter. But I don’t want to feel that feeling anymore, of flesh pulping under my skin and my fingers slick with blood, slipping on each other as I clench them into a fist.
It’s pretty nice living a life without that feeling.
Tonight is the first night I’ve gotten hit in a long time, and even now it takes me a second to remember exactly which side of the face that dummy clipped me on.
Going headfirst into a situation where I might very well have to start swinging again? No. That’s not me. Not anymore. The path of the righteous man, et cetera, et cetera.
I hang a right on SE 7th Avenue, a few blocks from my apartment now, and a car jets past me and coasts to the curb a half-block ahead. The driver gets out and darts across the street, into the cover of some trees.
I keep walking. Not wanting to think about Crystal and the kid, doing it anyway.
That’s the thing tugging at me: There’s a kid involved. And Crystal is right. I
don’t trust the cops either.
My dad’s words come back to me, the thing he worked so hard to hammer into my head. There are good guys and there are bad guys, and the good guys need to stand up for each other. The bad guys only win if you let them. They’re words that have gotten me into trouble, but that doesn’t make them untrue.
As I come alongside the car that pulled to a stop, the trunk pops open with a soft thunk, gaping at me like a yawning mouth. I stop to look at it, because there doesn’t seem to be anyone around, and for a moment I wonder if I did something to make the trunk open.
Behind me there’s the crunch of footsteps, and before I can turn there’s an arm wrapped around my neck, pressure on my throat, something hard poking into my back. Good money on it being a gun. Given the height and location I hope it’s a gun. I feel spittle in my ear as a raspy voice whispers into it. “Hand over your phone. Reach for it slow. And don’t look at my face.”
It’s a man. Strong. About my height. Can’t tell much more than that. A few scenarios run through my head. They all end with me being shot. I am more than happy to give up my phone if it means this guy will fuck off, but the open trunk indicates this is more than a mugging. Still, I reach down to my pocket, slow as I can, pull it out, and hold it up.
The arm wrapped around my neck comes loose and snatches it away. The hard thing in my back presses harder.
“Now climb in,” the man says. “We’re going for a ride. I detect the slightest bit of tomfuckery and I will shoot you fucking dead.”
I take off my hat, toss it into the corner of the trunk, and climb in, face down. The lid slams closed on top of me.
Here’s something I find a little funny, even though I probably shouldn’t: This is not the first time I have been forced into a trunk. So I’m way less nervous than this asshole probably thinks I am.
Not that I’m excited about it.
I try to memorize the turns we’re making, but I don’t even really understand how to get around this town, so I give up and feel around for a weapon. The trunk is completely empty. I even manage to prop myself up and reach underneath the mat and into the wheel well, and nothing. Not even a spare.
Wish I had seen the plate before he pushed me in. Something so I’d feel less useless. Oh well. I stretch out and get comfortable.
Who this could be, I have no idea. I haven’t fucked with anyone in this town yet. Everyone I pissed off in recent memory is three thousand miles away, and enough of that got settled I didn’t feel the need to look over my shoulder.
Maybe this is karma come to collect.
I’ve done a lot of bad things in my short life, and those things don’t get wiped clean because you want them to. Eventually there’s a toll that’s got to get paid to the universe. Maybe this is mine.
Time comes untethered in the dark. I really have no sense of how long has passed when the engine cuts off. I listen to the sound of the hot car making ping noises and the crunch of footsteps crossing around to the back.
The trunk comes up and I swear I am hallucinating, that the guy pointing a gun at my face is not wearing a grotesque, poorly painted rubber chicken mask.
But he is. Red and yellow and white with dead, black eyes, staring at me.
He’s wearing a charcoal sweat suit. An expensive one, too, from the cut and quality of the fabric. I can’t see anything but the tanned skin of his hands. One of which is holding tight to a small, silver revolver. He grabs me and hauls me out of the car, strong for his size, and says, “On your knees.”
I get down on the asphalt. He has me turned away from the car so I can’t see the plates. That would have been nice.
We’re behind a warehouse. The sun is beginning to lick at the bottom of the sky, but it’s overcast, so it’s cycling shades of gray. Raining now, too, but light enough to be pleasant, that you wouldn’t be so upset if you got caught outside without an umbrella.
The world is so beautiful when it’s like this. Seeing it filled with sunlight, every detail in sharp relief, no place to hide, it’s too much. The rain makes the world feel manageable.
I tilt my head back, let the raindrops peck my cheeks, taste the clean water on my lips. If this is the universe come to collect, if this is my last moment on earth, I want to be thinking about the rain when a bullet snatches my life away.
The man taps me on the side of the head with the gun. I look at him, annoyed at being snapped out of my happy place, and he says, “Pay attention. You are not to help the girl. Do you get me?”
Athletic. White guy. No visible scars or tattoos, though I can only see his hands up to the wrist. Can’t place his accent, but it doesn’t help that the mask is muffling his voice. And he moves on intel quick, considering I only blew off Crystal twenty minutes before he grabbed me.
“Take that thing off and threaten me like a man,” I tell him.
I can’t see his face so I can’t get a read off him, but he seems to freeze a little at that. He shakes his head. “Shut up. Just listen. Stay away from the fucking girl. You get mixed up in that, I’m going to put a bullet in your face. I can find you anytime, anywhere. The cops can’t help you. We own the cops. Do you get me?”
I ask, “Is the mask a matter of convenience, or a commentary on the nature of your personality?”
Am I goading him into shooting me?
Maybe.
The man steps forward, into me, and he smells like aftershave. Antiseptic. He presses the muzzle of the gun against my forehead, indenting my skin. The metal is cold and hard and indifferent.
It’s stupid of him to get this close. I could dive for his legs and be under the barrel before he has time to fire. He might not even get a chance to pull the trigger. My hands aren’t tied. All I have to do is knock him down. Then it’s a party.
But I don’t.
Instead I focus on the rain. It’s picking up. Cool, but not too cool, and the air smells green, and there’s no sound but my own ragged breath and the water striking the pavement. Gravel is biting into my knees and the chain-link fence surrounding us is rusty, but the clearing behind the warehouse is bordered by lush trees, their leaves heavy with water and hanging down, swaying as if to get our attention.
There’s a sharp inhale of breath, like a sniffle.
Asphalt crunches as he sets his feet.
My life doesn’t flash before my eyes, and for that I am thankful.
A dynamite blast explodes across my face, no sound, maybe it was too loud and it blew out my hearing, and I’m not happy, because my death is by no means swift.
As I fall to the pavement I wonder when the world will go black.
But the pain keeps on going, throbbing away at high volume.
My cheek collides with the pavement. Not shot. The bastard pistol-whipped me. My face is half-submerged in a puddle and I try to breathe in, end up with dirty water burning my sinuses. Over the sound of my coughing and choking, Chicken Man says, “Here’s your phone back.”
Sharp crack.
A car door opens. The engine roars. The car blows exhaust in my face as it peels out of the lot. I twist around to try and see the license plate, something specific about the make of it, but it’s already turning onto the street.
It gets real quiet.
At this point I’m soaked, and my face hurts, so I roll onto my back and lie there for a bit. Listen to the rain. It’s suddenly a lot less calming.
Well. I’ve got one thing going for me, at least: A solid blow to the head and I’m still conscious. I’d be pretty happy to get out of this without a concussion.
Not that I can do much more than lie here. I’m dizzy, and I want to vomit, and my brain feels like there’s a small goat on the inside trying to kick its way out.
The rain stops, or stopped. The sun is really getting up there now, but not too high, high enough that the sky is a lighter shade of gray, like filthy snow. Did the rain stop now, or when the car left, and I’m only just noticing? My thoughts drift like tufts of smoke. Impossible to get a grip on.
>
It takes a bit but I manage to get to my feet, steady myself. Still feels a little like I’m falling. Okay, so actually, concussion, maybe. Which would not be great, because while I know what health insurance is, in theory, I can’t say with any confidence how to engage with that sort of thing.
I run through the things I know.
My name: Ashley McKenna.
Where I am: Somewhere in Portland still, probably.
I close my eyes and try to recall the lyrics to “Thunder Road” by Bruce Springsteen. The first song I ever memorized the words to, so I know it’s in there deep. I get through the first couple of lines and figure that since my brain is working, I’ll be okay, at least for a little while.
Next, I look for my phone. It’s a little hard to find because it’s roughly the same color as the asphalt, but after a little while walking in a circle I find it lying in a puddle. I check the face and it’s shattered, spider webs spun across the glass.
Son of a bitch.
At least the motherfucker left my cowboy hat. It’s been sitting in the rain awhile, but it’s rugged for a straw hat. It is a little lopsided, so I bend it back into shape and stick it back onto my head.
My legs are fine, but I limp anyway, not even realizing that I’m doing it, pain having taken up a big residence in my body. Like at any moment something might rip. I try to guess at where I am, but I don’t know anything other than that I’m in a parking lot behind a warehouse that looks abandoned.
Empty wallet, dead phone, and I have no idea where I am.
Man, fuck today.
Between the cold that seeps into my skin from the rain and generally walking around, the bad feelings fade. The dizziness does, at least. I’m still a little nauseous. And my face hurts.
This neighborhood is mostly garages and warehouses and I don’t recognize any of the street names. I watch the flow of traffic, where the stray cars that pass me are headed, and I follow them until I find NW Yeon, which I think puts me somewhere in the Northwest District. That’s about two or so miles northwest of the club. I call that walking distance.