City of Rose

by Rob Hart

  We’re both on our feet, squaring off, and he looks like he can handle himself. Like maybe this won’t be easy.

  At the same time, my body is telling me to hold back.

  To not give myself over to that feeling.

  Control your anger before it controls you.

  Inhale…

  Brillo Head charges. I sidestep. The punch he throws glances off the side of my head. It hurts, but I’ve had it worse. I get behind him and use his momentum, push him into the wall. He spins around and I duck, but not well, and he body-checks me. I hit the ground and curl up as his foot slams into my ribs.

  Something shifts that shouldn’t shift and breathing suddenly becomes so difficult I think it’s better to not do it.

  I roll onto my back, try to brace myself, and that’s when I see Crystal, reassembled in her sheer outfit. She’s above us, lifting one of the bar chairs above her head, and she brings it down on Brillo Head. The chair splinters but doesn’t break.

  Same with Brillo Head. He splinters, doesn’t break.

  But it distracts him long enough that I can throw my fist into the back of his knee, and he buckles, almost comes down on me, and it would be a little funny if that’s the thing that ends up killing me. Big dude falls on me. Hell of an epitaph.

  But he stays on his feet, and Rat Face, blood cascading down his face, is grabbing at him, pulling him toward the front door. They stumble through it, nearly pulling down the black velvet curtain in the process.

  Seems they’ve had enough of kicking my ass.

  I stare at the ceiling.

  It’s made up of tin panels. They look nice.

  There’s a huge crashing sound and glass is raining down toward me. I squeeze my eyes shut, turn over, and roll away, right over the brick they threw through the window.

  I keep rolling, until there’s dirty purple carpet under me and I can get up without slicing myself on something, my body knitted together with bolts of pain. When my feet are sturdy underneath me I turn and find Tommi on the phone, Crystal holding the broken bar stool, everyone pushed up to the far corners of the room, as far away from the mayhem as they can get.

  The mirror behind the stage that isn’t broken shows that I’ve got blood smeared around my face. The mirror that is broken shows me how I feel right now.

  The changing room for the dancers feels like an overpacked storage closet. Which is essentially what it is. Since there are only three girls on rotation at any given time, it’s outfitted with three crumbling vanities and a desk that was salvaged from a curb somewhere. The vanities are for the girls and the desk is for me and Hood to split, not that we keep anything there.

  The vanities are overflowing with feather boas and see-through underthings and messy piles of half-used makeup. Each one has a mirror that Hood attached to the back with scrap wood and assorted screws.

  As I’m sitting at the vanity farthest from the door, I try not to look at my face in the mirror across from me. Crystal dabs at it with a towel, her tits showing through the sheer thing she’s wearing. It strikes me as not cool to stare. Can’t look at my face, can’t look at her tits. I don’t know what to look at. On the makeshift desk Hood and I split is a box set of Battlestar Galactica. I focus on that.

  “That was some beating,” she says.

  “I’m a popular guy.”

  “You were holding back.”

  “I did the best I could.”

  Tommi peeks her head through the door. She can’t come in because there’s so little room. She looks at Crystal and asks, “How’s my delicate little flower doing?”

  Her words are so drenched in disdain it’s dripping off and pooling on the floor. That hurts worse than anything else.

  “I’m fine, Tommi,” I tell her. “Guy got in some lucky shots. And there were two of them.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, just ducks out.

  The wet towel in Crystal’s hand comes back from my head pink.

  “Do you think that has anything to do with what’s going on?” Crystal asks.

  “Those two assholes? Maybe. I think maybe. They were looking for a fight.”

  “Why?”

  “It looked planned. Like they were specifically looking to stir shit up.”

  Crystal leans forward to get a look at my face. She puts her hand on my chin and pushes my face to the side to look at my cheek. Says, “Want to make sure the glass didn’t get you.”

  She leans in close, and her red red lips on white skin are close, and there’s a tug of gravity between us. I can feel her breath on my face. I stop just shy of pressing my lips to hers, because it feels wrong, what with everything going on.

  Crystal verifies that wrong feeling when she turns her head away from me. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Don’t apologize. I’m sorry.”

  She turns back, looks me in the eye. “You’re a good guy, Ash. I like you. It’s on the radar.” She looks down and laughs. “I don’t know what it is about me and guys who are so good at getting in trouble.”

  “Guess broken people are just attracted to each other.”

  Crystal’s blue-green tempered glass eyes frost over. She punches me in the chest, hard. She sticks a finger in my face. “You think because I’m a stripper I’m broken? That’s a shitty thing to say.”

  “I didn’t mean it like—”

  “Yes you did. You meant that because I made some mistakes in my past and I take my clothes off for money I’m, what, it takes me down a couple of notches? I make good money and I own my decisions. I own my body. Don’t fucking treat me like I need fixing.”

  Before I can say anything, and it’s not even like I can think of anything to say, Tommi pokes her head back in. “Cops are here. Do not use the word ‘bouncer,’ okay? You don’t have a license and I don’t need the trouble. I’ve got some people ready to back you up that it was all self-defense.”

  I nod, turn to Crystal. “How do I look?”

  She doesn’t say anything, just stares at the back of the room. I get up and squeeze past, make my way through the silent bar, a slight breeze wafting in from the broken window. On the way I take a sip of my water, the ice melted, and pop my cowboy hat on.

  The two cops waiting for me out front are young guys. Tight buzz-cuts. Their nametags say Queally and Kurtz. Other than the color of their hair—Queally’s is jet black, Kurtz’s is sandy—it would be hard to tell them apart at a quick glance. They carry themselves wound up, ready for what’s coming next. Like two young Marines home from the front. They look me up and down and they don’t bother to introduce themselves.

  Queally says, “You’re the guy.”

  “I’m the guy.”

  “Want to walk us through this?”

  I recount the story, give them a rough approximation of what the two guys looked like. Leave out the information about how maybe they’re connected to some insane fucking conspiracy about a missing kid and a cartel and the blown-up house of a drug manufacturer. I wonder whether I should come clean and tell them about Rose—and if I was smarter, probably I would—but I keep that card hidden in the deck.

  The two of them listen but don’t move. I can’t get a read off them and it makes me uncomfortable. When I’m done Kurtz says, “So you’re hanging out, they attacked you, that’s it.”

  “I got the sense they were here to cause trouble. I got up in between them and the girl.”

  “Why do that?”

  “I’m nice.”

  “Want to hand over some identification?”

  I pop out my driver’s license and hand it over to Queally. He looks at it, says, “New Yorker.” He pokes his buddy. “Dude’s name is Ashley.”

  “I’m the modern-day boy named Sue,” I tell them.

  They both look at me with mixed-up expressions.

  “Forget it,” I tell them.

  Fuck, man. You can’t trust anyone who doesn’t get a Johnny Cash reference.

  Queally hands back the ID, asks for some contact info, so I rattle of
f my cell phone number and he writes it down in his palm-sized leather notebook. I ask, “Any of the other clubs dealing with problems like this?”

  That was a stupid question. Their antennae go up.

  Kurtz puts his hands on his hips. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m a curious guy.”

  They know I’m not curious. That there’s something bigger in there. I suddenly am extremely not thrilled about them having my contact information. That puts me on a record somewhere. In a file. Findable.

  They don’t dig, thankfully. Queally shrugs and says, “Haven’t heard anything.”

  Kurtz looks around to make sure it’s the three of us standing out on the sidewalk. He leans close, and in a quiet voice says, “Well, you must be looking forward to a nice night.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You saved that girl, that’s worth at least a blowie, isn’t it?”

  “That’s not why I did it.”

  Kurtz smiles. “Right, man.” He turns to Queally. “Maybe we ought to come by after shift? The gashes always go nuts for a badge.”

  Queally forces out a smile. The kind of smile that says: I need to agree but I kind of don’t want to. So I figure he’s not a complete scumbag. Emphasis on the word complete because he chooses to say nothing. Leaving me wide open to make this worse.

  Kurtz sees something in my face because he says, “Aw, I was just messing around. Don’t be so sensitive. Save it for a better class of pussy.”

  Control your anger before it controls you.

  Inhale, exhale.

  I take a small step toward Kurtz and say, “Doesn’t matter if you’re kidding or not. That’s a shitty sentiment.”

  His face darkens and his voice gets heavy with authority. “You have a problem, kiddo?”

  “I have a problem with people saying disrespectful shit.”

  “Who the fuck are you, talking to me like that?”

  “I’m the kind of guy who doesn’t hide behind a badge or a gun. That’s who I am.”

  Kurtz purses his lip and steps toward me. I tense my shoulders, waiting for whatever he’s planning—a shot across the jaw or a pair of handcuffs. He’s ready to do something. It’s it in his eyes. He’s used to the respect that comes with his position, and doesn’t like when that respect isn’t bestowed upon him.

  Queally pushes into the space between us, puts his hand on my chest, tells me, “Back away.”

  To Kurtz he says, “He’s not worth it.”

  Kurtz looks over Queally’s shoulder. “Maybe I should dump the badge and gun in the car. See if you’re still a tough guy?”

  “You’re setting a sterling fucking example for the local police force. I hope you know that.”

  “Motherfucker…”

  Queally pushes Kurtz hard. “Get in the car. Two strikes, remember?”

  Kurtz huffs, gives me some stink eye, and walks away.

  Queally looks back at me. “You didn’t need to provoke him.”

  “He doesn’t need to be a dick,” I say.

  He starts to say something and stops, clamps his mouth shut. I turn to the bar, feeling much better for not having brought up Rose.

  Naturals is empty now, just Tommi cleaning up and Carnage and Calypso sitting in the corner at a table, pulling on glasses of wine. I sit at the bar and Tommi says, “Some hell of a bouncer you turned out to be.”

  “Tommi, look…”

  She puts her hands up. “It is what it is. Can’t help it if those two hammerheads are intent on trouble. You didn’t bring them here.”

  I’m not so sure that’s true, but it’s still nice to hear.

  “Want me to do something about the window?” I ask.

  “Hood is out getting plywood and we’ll get the window covered up. That’ll have to do for the night.”

  “I’m not fired?”

  “No, you’re not fired. But whatever you said to Crystal back there, be sure to make it right. You getting your ass kicked is one thing. You fuck with the girls here, that’s for sure I’ll beat on you worse than those two idiots. Then I’ll fire you. Then I’ll kick your ass again. Now take off. Go home and clean up.”

  I head for the back room. Crystal has changed into a black T-shirt and purple jeans, lacing up her sneakers. She looks up at me and her face is a flat line.

  “Want to get out of here?” I ask.

  She walks past me like I’m supposed to follow her. I think. Maybe.

  As we get outside the front of the bar my phone buzzes. I pull it out and it’s Bombay.

  As soon as I answer he says, “I’m going to text you a phone number. Get to a pay phone and call me back from there.”

  “Fuck do you mean? Tell me what you found.”

  Crystal stops midway to lighting a cigarette, watching me.

  Bombay says, “Ash, I’m serious. Pay phone.”

  You don’t know how hard it is to find a working pay phone until you actually need one.

  Crystal trails after me as we zig-zag through Chinatown, where the occasional crowd stands outside the occasional bar, but otherwise the area is deserted.

  Neither of us speaks.

  What is there to talk about?

  I know what I want to say. It starts with an apology and spirals downward from there. What I said was shitty. I thought it was clever or thoughtful, like I found a common thread connecting us. But she’s right: It was an unfair assumption to make.

  At the corner of a half-empty parking lot I find a bank of three phones. The first, the receiver is missing. The second seems to work but I pick it up and it screams static at me. The third, there’s no sound. There’s still a mess of adrenaline built up in my blood and I slam the phone against the receiver and Crystal jumps. The handset cracks and, satisfied I’ve made my feelings clear, I place it back in the cradle.

  She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Relax.”

  Control your anger before it controls you.

  Inhale, exhale.

  We walk some more.

  Crystal struggles to keep up. “You walk too fast,” she says.

  “I walk normal.”

  “Fucking New Yorkers.”

  “Making jokes now? Are we friends again?”

  I slow my pace a bit so she can walk alongside me. She doesn’t speak for half the length of the block. We stop at a corner to let a car drift past and she says, “It was a dumb thing to say.”

  “I know. And I’m sorry.”

  “Good.”

  We turn the corner, and there, lit by a streetlight like a beacon, is a single pay phone on an otherwise empty block. I grab it off the receiver and get a dial tone, dig into my pocket.

  No change.

  I’m about to slam the phone against the receiver again when Crystal holds out a handful of quarters. “For laundry.”

  I plug them in, dial the number Bombay texted to me. The phone rings. Across the street there’s a mural, big bright rainbow-colored cartoon characters working on a community garden. Christ, even the graffiti here is lame.

  Bombay picks up. “Dude! The fuck took so long?”

  “Do you know how hard it is to find a working pay phone? Anywhere in the world?”

  “There’s one right down the block from me. I’m on it now.”

  “How does that help me?”

  “Admittedly, it does not.”

  “What did you find out?”

  Bombay clears his throat. “Couple of things. I got some information on the cell phone. There’s this guy I work with who owes me a favor and doesn’t ask questions. Though, truthfully, he likes the challenge and probably would have done it anyway. But I figured, if there’s a kid involved, I’d do what I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let’s not make a habit of this. It makes me uncomfortable. So the cell is in Portland. I can’t tell you exactly where, only that it’s pinging between a couple of local area codes. I’ve got an alert set up so that if it leaves those area codes I’ll get a notification. Good so far?�
��

  “I got that much from your weird coded nonsense earlier, yes.” I kick the metal base of the pay phone. “What else?”

  “There’s a phone number that’s been calling this guy a lot in the past week. Two dozen times, about. The number came back to a woman named Ellen Kanervisto. She’s a local activist with a group called Keep Our Water Clean.”

  “That is… strange.”

  “I can only tell you what the numbers tell me. I found something about her in one of the local papers. She’s speaking at a civic meeting tomorrow. Something about a chemical the city wants to add to the water supply.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it. I’ll text you the time and address,” he says.

  “Oh, now you can text me? Why not do that in the first place, instead of sending me trekking through fucking Mordor to find a pay phone?”

  “Dude, first off, you’re being melodramatic. Second, you do know we had to break a whole bunch of laws to do this, right? You understand that because I come from a Muslim background and I work with computers, the chance of my phone being tapped is not outside the realm of reason, right? This is called being safe.”

  I kick at the metal base of the pay phone a little more. “Fair enough. Thank you, Bombay. I really appreciate this. I know it’s a lot to ask.”

  “Don’t go killing anyone.”

  “That much I can promise you,” I tell him.

  He pauses. I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. Then he says, “That’s good. That’s very good to hear.”

  “Okay. Love you, brother.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Click.

  I hang up the phone and run through the new information with Crystal. She doesn’t recognize any of it, or have any ideas of why an environmentalist might be trying to get in contact with Dirk. We light cigarettes, stew over things for a few minutes, and I shrug. “So we go to the meeting tomorrow. Maybe talk to this Ellen woman and see what’s up?”

  Crystal exhales a cloud of smoke. “I have a better idea. We steal her cell phone. Maybe we can trick Dirk into telling us his location. Because what if we talk to her and she doesn’t want to give him up, or tries to warn him or something?”