City of Rose

by Rob Hart

  Sitting on the fire escape of my apartment, looking out over First Avenue.

  Wandering around the East Village in a haze, ducking in and out of bars.

  Working jobs for people, acting like a private eye, pretending I was the King of New York. The thing I didn’t know then that I know now is that you can’t own a town like that, no matter how much it feels like you do.

  You’re a detail. A cog in a grand machine, not valued, easily replaced.

  Still. I miss it.

  Christ, I get precious when I’m melancholy.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, don’t recognize the number, nor do I care. It stops. There’s a sound from inside the apartment. Tapping? I climb up and listen. Knocking. The phone starts ringing again. I answer and Crystal says, “Let me in, please.”

  Her voice sounds panicked. I climb in through the window and open the door and she’s standing there with her shirt half tucked in, her hair mussed into a tight nest, her left hand hanging limp at her side, covered in blood.

  Crystal’s eyes are phased out, like she’s looking through me. I grab her arm and pull her into the apartment, pry open her fingers to find there’s nothing in there, no open wound, just the blood, so I bring her to the sink.

  I put her hands under the running water, and I hate to be thinking it, but it’s the first time I’ve touched a woman here in a way that’s not a handshake or accidental brush, and I’m taken by how warm and smooth her skin is. I put that out of my head and take the dish soap and squirt green globs of it onto her hands.

  She snaps out of it a little and begins to rub her hands together, the blood turning the water red-pink, the white-pink of her skin showing through. Definitely no cuts or nicks on her hand. I ask, “What happened?”

  “There was a rat nailed to the wall inside my house. It was… still alive.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  When her hands are clean I give her a dishtowel and pull a beer out of the fridge, crack the top, put it in front of her. She looks at the beer and instead walks to her purse, takes out a white legal envelope, and places it on the counter. Then she picks up the beer. “There was this, too.”

  I open the envelope and place the items inside onto the counter.

  A letter.

  Two pictures of a happy little girl on a play set.

  And a wad of cash.

  “Five thousand,” Crystal says. “I counted. Read the letter.”

  It’s one paragraph, typed in small print on crisp white paper.

  Dirk wasn’t lying. The girl is safe. She was placed with a family who was very carefully vetted and she will be well cared for. We are not monsters. She’ll have a good life. Take the money and leave town. If you stay, if you go to the police, if you continue to run around with McKenna, we cannot guarantee your safety—or hers.

  I read the letter four times, put it aside, and pick up the pictures. They’re black and white. Rose is wearing a dress and her long hair is splayed out by the wind as she swings on a swing. There’s nobody else in the photos.

  The play set is anonymous, with nothing that betrays a location—no cars, no landmarks, no sense even if it’s a private yard or a public playground. The photos were taken from far away. Across the street, or sitting in a car.

  There are timestamps on the photos from earlier this afternoon.

  That’s something. That could mean she’s close.

  Crystal takes a long swig of her beer and puts the can down, folding the money and photos into the letter, sliding it back into the envelope. She places it on the counter and picks up her beer again.

  The silence builds between us, filling up the room like smoke. I tell her, “Air would be good. Want to go sit outside?”

  Crystal nods, and I climb through the window that leads out onto the roof, offer my hand, pull her through. We settle on the tar paper and light cigarettes and sit there for a bit, each of us pulling on beers, staring off into the night sky. The only sound is the wind and the quiet.

  Finally she says, “I know it says to stay away from you but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “I don’t even know what to make of this. Who am I, that someone would do this? This is… none of this makes sense.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why me? Why Rose?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m going to find who it is. I’m going to get her back.”

  “They threatened us. And her.”

  “I know.”

  Crystal stubs out her cigarette on the rough surface of the roof, places the tip of her thumb between her teeth and chews. She looks up at me, then away, then at me again. “Why did you leave New York, Ash? And tell me the truth. Please.”

  “Why?”

  “Because right now I feel like you’re all I’ve got and I still don’t know anything about you. I don’t know if you’re worth putting my faith in.”

  So much of me wants to hold it back, but I feel it pressing out. Really, the way her eyes get big and the way she’s looking at me right now, like no one has looked at me in a long time, is what makes me want to tell her, so I do. “The woman I loved got killed and I went after the person who did it. I made a lot of mistakes in the process.”

  “What happened?”

  “It’s a whole thing. Short version is he’s in jail now. I found him, turned him over to the cops.” I linger on the kicker and figure, may as well. “I really wanted to kill him and I got damn close, but I couldn’t go through with it.”

  “Why?”

  “Blood doesn’t wash out blood.”

  “The woman. Was she your girlfriend or something?”

  Pause. “No. Not that I didn’t try. I mean, I loved her. I would do anything for her. She wouldn’t love me back. Not the way I wanted her to.”

  Saying that out loud makes me feel like I’m shrinking.

  Crystal makes a noise, like she’s clearing her throat, or she wants to make a comment on the thing that I said but she also doesn’t want to offend me. I ask, “What?”

  “Just… I don’t want to be a dick, but all that ‘friend-zone’ bullshit. It’s such a fallacy. It’s predicated on the idea that it’s the woman’s fault for not liking you.”

  “I gave her everything. Everything she could have wanted.”

  I hate the sound of my voice when I say it. The words are so much sharper than I mean them to be. Crystal shrugs.

  “Women aren’t slot machines,” she says. “You don’t put in good deeds hoping a prize comes out.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “What was it like?”

  Her eyes poke at my exposed skin like needlepoints. I stub out my cigarette, take a long pull of beer, light another smoke. Use the things in my hands to fill the holes in the conversation. Try to formulate some clever retort and realize I can’t.

  “Let’s not wallow in shit that’s done,” I tell her. “You should stay here tonight. Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  Crystal makes another sound like she’s clearing her throat, or like she’s noting the fact that I am forcefully and quickly changing the subject. She says, “I couldn’t take your bed…”

  “I fall asleep on the couch more often than I fall asleep in the bed. The bed has a little more privacy anyway. This is not a debate.”

  Crystal takes a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to say something to upset you. About the girl.”

  “It didn’t upset me. That part of my life is far away and a long time ago.”

  “What was her name?”

  Inhale, exhale.

  “Chell. Like cello, minus the ‘oh.’”

  “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ash… what are we going to do?”

  “Sleep on it. Tomorrow morning we come up with a plan.”

  I get up and offer her my hand, pull her to her feet, but she’s small and I pull her almost into me. The smell of
her, that citrus scent, fills my head. We look away from each other, climb back into the apartment, and I point to the far end, where the bed is pushed against the wall and piled with blankets. “Top drawer, there’s some T-shirts and shorts, if you want to change into something comfy to sleep in.”

  She nods, wanders over to the dresser, and pulls open the drawer. With her back turned to me, she pulls her shirt over her head, revealing her bare back, not wearing a bra, and she roots through the pile of shirts. As she turns I catch the swell of her breast, and I realize that even though I’ve seen her naked plenty of times, there’s something about this that seems very inappropriate, so I duck into the bathroom and brush my teeth, take a piss, drink some water, wonder if the sheets are an appropriate level of clean.

  When I get back out she’s waiting for her turn, in a black T-shirt and my shiny blue basketball shorts. The clothes are so big on her it makes her look thinner than she really is. She’s barefoot, one foot planted, the other drawn back behind it, toes spread on the floor, her hair tied back into a tight ponytail so that it shows off the part of her head that’s shaved down to stubble.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  “No problem. If you need anything in the middle of the night and you can’t find it on your own, let me know.”

  She nods and disappears into the bathroom. I pull off my shirt, pull on a tank top, jump into a pair of shorts, and turn on the small lamp next to the bed, switch off the overhead. Just enough light for me to get to the couch. I try to settle in. Truth is, it’s not terribly comfortable, and it’s only two cushions long, but I’d feel bad sticking her onto the couch. It seems rude.

  When Crystal is finished in the bathroom and walks past me I pretend I’m already asleep, although it seems a little absurd I would fall asleep that quick. I listen to her settling into the bed, and then the sound of her breathing.

  Think about what she said about Chell.

  I know the way I chased after Chell wasn’t the right way to handle that. And I know that when she died she was upset with me because I let how I felt poison me. But no one’s cut through me like Crystal just did. Made me feel so silly about something so big.

  And it’s not even a bad thing.

  Task at hand. I consider the new puzzle pieces. Can’t figure out how they fit into the picture. But I do remember what Chicken Man said.

  I can find you anytime, anywhere.

  When I’m sure Crystal is sleeping I get up and put on a pot of coffee and hope he was bluffing.

  A clatter in the sink brings me out of sleep. Crystal is standing by the coffee maker, her hair slicked back and wet. She doesn’t see that I’m awake. For a second I think she’s staring out the window, but I see her reach her hand up to the spot over the sink where I keep the photo of my dad pinned. The picture of him in his bunker gear, standing outside his firehouse in Bensonhurst.

  She touches the photo. After a few moments of looking at it, she turns and disappears into the bathroom.

  When she comes out a minute later I’m sitting up, but haven’t committed to standing, even with the promise of the coffee she set to brewing. My back feels like it was twisted into a knot.

  I stayed up until morning light poked through the window, and something about seeing that made me feel a little safe. Safe enough to sleep. So I got two hours, maybe.

  Crystal says, “I hope you don’t mind. Took a shower.”

  “It’s fine. How long have you been awake?

  “Not long. How’d you sleep?”

  “Good.”

  I head into the bathroom to clean up, climb into the shower. Think about the beautiful woman on the other side of the door, because I can’t help it. How could I not? It’s been a while.

  After the shower I towel off, find a crumpled pair of jeans in the corner, recycle my shirt, head out, and she’s got a cup of coffee waiting for me, steam curling off the top of it. She’s leaning up against the counter, asks, “No cream or sugar?”

  I open the freezer and pull out the ice tray, plunk a cube into her coffee and mine. “I don’t usually entertain.”

  “No food either.”

  “There’s a loaf of bread in the fridge. Toast is food.”

  She puts down her cup. “So. What’s the plan?”

  The ice cube is melted so I swirl the mug a little and take a long draw on the cup. “We both have to work tonight. So how about until then we drive around. Look for people Dirk knows, or places he might be hiding out.”

  “What about the letter?”

  “I don’t think they’re going to hurt her. Us maybe, not her.”

  Crystal puts the mug down. “I’m not going to gamble with my daughter’s life.”

  “Chicken Man could have killed me. He could have waited in your apartment and killed you. Instead he threw five grand at you and tried to set you at ease. So there might be a line he’s not willing to cross. All he has so far is threats. Nothing more than that.”

  “And you’re still on board.”

  I smile at her, thinking maybe it’ll make her feel better, to pretend like I’m not a little scared right now. “I told you, that douchebag still has to reimburse me for my phone.”

  Crystal nods. Takes a swig of her coffee. “Okay, wiseass. Can we get something to eat?”

  Down the block there’s a place that does egg sandwiches. Not the egg sandwiches like back home, where you get a smashed white roll with an over-fried egg, a slice of American cheese and some paper-thin bacon, served up at the back of a bodega from a griddle that hasn’t been cleaned since the place was built.

  These things are beasts. Artisan bread, fluffy eggs, some kind of molten fancy white cheese, like gouda. Real actual bacon, thick as a piece of heavy cardboard.

  The whole walk there my head is on a swivel, watching the block, the cars going by. There’s not much to see. This neighborhood is generally empty in the morning. Even the people who are out, no one pays us any undue attention. Inside the restaurant there are a dozen people in line ahead of us, which means it’s going to be a while. Rather than make several sandwiches at once, like an employee at any normal business, the girl at the counter with a shaved head and a brain full of THC first takes an order. She gives that order to the sandwich maker, a pale kid covered in nautical-themed tattoos, who makes the sandwich and sends it out.

  They do this one at a time.

  “So,” I say to Crystal. “How did you and Dirk hook up?”

  “We were both doing a lot of heroin. So, like that.”

  She doesn’t volunteer any more information, which seems unfair, considering how much she wants me to share my feelings. But I let her have it.

  “What if he left town?” she asks. “Maybe we should have stayed at the rail station.”

  “Shit, I forgot to tell you. Bombay tracked the signal. Not specific enough to get a location, but he’ll know if the phone leaves city limits. If it does, he’ll call me.”

  Crystal punches me in the shoulder. “That would have been nice to know.”

  “I got a little distracted by you showing up at my door covered in blood.”

  “You could have texted me.”

  “I didn’t have your number programmed into my new phone.”

  She laughs. “I’m starting to understand why you say you’re not a professional private eye.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  She smiles.

  We get to the counter, and girl gazes at the two of us like she’s expecting us to break into a dance. We place our orders and I reach for my wallet, and as my hand is in my pocket, Crystal puts her hand on my wrist, her grip tight, and says, “If you’re not going to let me pay you, at least let me buy breakfast?”

  The clerk tilts her head at that comment but doesn’t say anything about it, just accepts some bills, makes change, puts the order in. Crystal gives her name and we pour ourselves some coffee from the self-serve station. We grab an open table and wait.

  We sit there, the expanse of the red-and-white checkerbo
ard tablecloth between us. I pull out my phone and look at it, not knowing what to expect. Maybe a message from Bombay, or at least a distraction, but there’s none to be found.

  “So,” she says. “Ashley.”

  The way she says it is the way everyone says it when they’re trying to figure it out.

  “It used to be a boy’s name,” I tell her. “Good Irish name. Until Ashley Abbott in The Young and The Restless. It first became popular as a girl’s name the year after I was born. So, bad timing.”

  “Really? Because it sounds like your parents had a sick sense of humor.”

  I don’t mean to, but I can feel my face twist into something unpleasant. She asks, “What did I say?”

  “I’m sorry, it’s nothing.”

  “I saw the picture of your dad. I know it was your dad. You two look alike. How did he die?”

  The words leap from my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. “The towers.”

  Crystal arches her eyebrows. “The World Trade Center?”

  I nod, not looking at her.

  “Oh god, Ash. I’m so sorry.”

  “I hate when people say sorry. No offense. You didn’t kill him, you know? What do you have to be sorry about?”

  “Because it doesn’t take much to see that you loved him,” she says. “And I’m sorry that he’s not here. He was a firefighter? Was he working that day?”

  “He was off. But the FDNY issued a total recall. Everyone had to report, whether they were working or not. He got there in time to die.”

  Crystal nods. “Wow. Fuck.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s just… wow.”

  I don’t know why, but I keep going.

  Maybe it’s because I haven’t spoken about this with anyone in a while, and it feels good to get it out, acknowledge it as a real thing that happened, and not some thing I have to carry hidden inside me. “It’s a weird thing, being a kid, getting used to the idea your dad might not come home from work. Anyone’s dad could not come home from work, you know? An accountant can get hit by a bus. But my dad went to a job where the chances of him not coming home on any given day were much higher. He put his life at risk so someone else would get to keep their dad. And the way he died, it was just… no reason. Mistakes other men made and he’s the one who paid for it. It’s a big, fucked-up thing. I don’t know where to start with how I feel. Even all this time later.”