City of Rose

by Rob Hart

Crystal is making her way to the seats just as Ellen says, “I know you’ve already made your decision and this whole thing is a charade, but if you have any decency you’ll consider what everyone has told you tonight. We don’t want this. Thank you for your time.”

  Fuck. I was hoping she would talk longer.

  She turns as Crystal sits in the seats behind where Ellen was sitting. Crystal disappears from view, presumably to reach underneath and dig through Ellen’s purse, but Ellen has finished walking along the front row and has turned down the aisle. The moderator is sifting through the cards so I climb up onto my seat and put my hands in the air.

  I scream, “Attention, everyone!”

  Everyone in the auditorium stops and looks at me, including Ellen. The top of Crystal’s head appears and disappears again. Good girl.

  “I am a clever diversion!” I yell.

  The man in the poncho starts clapping and smiling. I look back at him and he throws me a thumbs-up. I bet he’s high.

  The moderator looks desperately toward the back of the room, at a heavy-set rent-a-cop who’s struggling to get out of his folding chair and is furious he’s been called upon to do something.

  Crystal pops up from behind the seats, cradling something in her hand, close to her body. She looks at me and nods. Seems like something finally went our way. I tell everyone, “That will be all. Please continue.”

  I hop off the chair and head for the back, everyone in the place staring at me.

  It’s turning to night when we get outside. That place in twilight when it’s not dark enough for your eyes to adjust, but not light enough to make things out. Crystal is holding a small black thing in her hand. “Got it. What the hell was that?”

  “What was what? My clever diversion?”

  “That.”

  “I had to give you more time. Ellen was headed back to her seat.”

  “Did you have to say it was a diversion?”

  “Does it matter? Let’s do this quick.”

  We get to Crystal’s car and climb in. I leave my door open so the dome light stays on and take the phone, press the button on the top. A grid of icons slide into place over a picture of a sunset. It’s not password-protected.

  “We ought to buy a lotto ticket later,” I tell her.

  I click into the recent calls, and then into contacts, but don’t see Dirk’s name. Same with the texts. I click through deleted messages. Nothing.

  “That’s weird,” I tell Crystal.

  She takes the phone out of my hands, checks a few more things. “No deleted voicemails. Nothing. But this is the phone.”

  “Is it?” I take it from Crystal and check for the phone’s number. I find a pen and a scrap of a receipt in the center console and jot it down.

  Crystal sighs. “Now what?”

  “Take the phone back. When the forum is over she’ll be looking for it. Hand it to her and tell her you found it between the seats and that she must have dropped it.”

  “Why do I have to do it?”

  “I look way less trustworthy than you.”

  Crystal squints at me, says, “Yeah, you do.”

  We get out of the car and I’m rooting around in my pockets for my smokes when Ellen and another guy come around the corner. They’re not looking at us, they’re both looking down at a phone, their faces glowing with a faint blue light. There’s a soft chime on the phone in Crystal’s hand. She looks at me, looks down at it, and holds it up. There’s a text message that says: Stay where you are. We’re tracking you, asshole.

  “Great,” I tell her, taking the phone out of her hand. “Get in the car and go. I’ll figure something out.”

  Crystal hands it over and heads toward the driver’s side. I don’t wait for her because Ellen and her friend are turning toward us, and I don’t want them to make the connection to her. Crystal pulls away in the opposite direction and I dart down a side street and start jogging. Good thing I started smoking again.

  Now what?

  I really want to get her phone back to her but would rather not have the conversation about why I have it. Something about her melodramatic performance at the forum tells me she won’t accept it quietly. I get to the corner and turn. I’m in a residential neighborhood, all houses and cars and bikes and square angles. I have no idea where I am. I hate not knowing where I am.

  Another block, and down the way I can see a yellow bike rack that’s shaped like a giant pair of eyeglasses. There are a dozen bikes chained up to it. I bet there’s a coffee shop nearby. I trot toward it and find that, yes, there’s a little café tucked into the street between the homes.

  I duck inside and grab a napkin from the counter with the milk and sugar, wipe down the phone, and place it on the counter. A girl with a black trilby on her head and a smattering of facial piercings turns to me and puts on a forced smile.

  “Found this right outside on the sidewalk,” I tell her. “Maybe the owner will come back for it.”

  She reaches for the phone and I spin around and practically run out the door. She calls after me but I don’t want to stop so she can get a good look at me, and hopefully Ellen and her friend can track it back to here.

  Not ideal, but she’ll have her phone back and I’ll feel like less of a dick.

  The street is still empty, so I run off and turn the corner.

  Straight into Ellen and her friend.

  Fuck. Wasn’t thinking. Should have gone the other way.

  I put my head down, mutter an apology, and keep walking. But I hear them mumbling behind me and Ellen yells, “Hey.”

  My clever diversion, it seems, was not that clever.

  I keep walking but there’s a crunch behind me, and the fall of footsteps, so I take off without looking back, because I know I’m in the wrong here and I don’t have too many other options than to get away as quick as possible.

  Something hard hits me in the back and throws me forward and I hit the ground, skid across the pavement, arch my back to keep my face from bashing into the sidewalk. My knee comes down hard. I try to roll over but there’s something on top of me, crushing my lower back and my stomach so that I want to puke and can’t breathe at the same time.

  A male voice yells, “Where’s the phone, motherfucker?”

  My face is pressed onto the sidewalk so I twist and try to push the words through my compressed sternum. “Coffee shop.”

  He pauses. A little bit of the pressure comes off and it gets easier to breathe. He says, not to me, “Go to the coffee shop. I’ll hold him until we know he’s telling the truth.”

  Footsteps recede and enough pressure comes off that I’m able to get out from under the guy and scramble to my feet. He stays close to me, holding onto my wrist, and he’s strong. Trained in something, because he’s not exerting a whole lot of effort and my arm hurts like crazy.

  I still can’t get a good look at him, since he’s mostly behind me. He says, “Whether she comes back with the phone is irrelevant. I can’t decide between calling the cops and kicking the shit out of you. One of those things is going to happen.”

  “Look. I know you’re pissed. You have every right to be. It’s a long story but I promise you we were about to bring the phone back. This got a little out of hand…”

  The pressure increases. I bite my lip and twist my body to follow the arc of my shoulder. Feels like something tears. He gets close to my ear and I can feel his hot breath exploding on my skin. “Shut the fuck up, asshole. You keep talking and you’re going to get that beating.”

  “Man, it’s just a phone. C’mon. Control your anger before it controls you.”

  “What kind of Buddha bullshit is that? You know what? Some people need to get smacked around a little. It’s the only way they learn to not do stupid shit.”

  “I got the phone!” Ellen calls out from the bottom of the block.

  The guy releases his grip on me a little so he can turn to look, and I take that opportunity to spin around and plant my elbow into his eye socket. He backs up, fold
ing in half at the waist, his hands up at his face, but doesn’t drop. I tell him I’m sorry, then I step back, put my boot into the crook between his shoulder and his neck, and push. He goes sprawling back and I’m running in the opposite direction before he hits the ground.

  My lungs feel like papier-mâché, ready to shred. I stop in the shadow of a tree that hangs down and creates a shade of black deeper than the night sky. There’s some movement at the end of the block so I duck through a high wooden gate, into someone’s backyard. Put my hands above my head to give my lungs room to expand. Take big, greedy breaths.

  Stupid. So incredibly, monumentally stupid.

  That guy was doing what I would have done in that situation. What he thought was the right thing. But a beating wouldn’t have turned out well, and calling the cops would have been even worse. The latter being the more likely conclusion. I can’t afford to end up sitting in a cell. Too much to explain now, and too few good answers to actually explain them.

  As per usual, I am the cause of my own suffering.

  Once my heart has slowed to acceptable levels and my eyes have adjusted to the darkness in the backyard, I can make out a rail-thin old man in a gray sweat suit and black wool cap doing yoga. The backyard is sunken, and he’s a couple of tiers below me, down big concrete steps framed by hanging branches. Legs spread, back arched, and hands spread up to the night sky. There’s a koi pond gurgling next to him. I have no idea how the hell he hasn’t realized I’m here.

  So of course I cough. Not on purpose.

  He turns and looks at me. I look back at him.

  “Get the fuck out of my yard,” he growls.

  I know in my bones this guy is from New York, which makes me want to laugh. It’s right there, in the accent, the attitude, the steel gaze. I want to make a comment about us having this kinship, but I realize me intruding on his yoga time is not a great ice breaker.

  So I say, “Okay.” Back out of the yard, close the gate, and find that the street is clear. I should probably call Crystal but instead I call Bombay. Get that clarified first. He answers and I tell him, “Your intel was bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It wasn’t her.”

  Silence on the phone. “Look… maybe we should have this conversation another time…”

  I’m so deep in the burbs right now, there probably isn’t a pay phone for miles. And anyway, I don’t want to spend the night trying to find one. I walk to the corner so I can figure out where the hell I am, and tell him, “I think I copied that phone number down wrong. The one for your friend I’m supposed to get dinner with. Can you read it off to me?”

  Silence. Then he catches on and tells me the number.

  Definitely not the one I saw in Ellen’s phone.

  “That’s a start,” I tell him. “It seems I copied the address wrong, too. The place I went to, my friend wasn’t there. Do you think you can get me the correct address?”

  What I mean is: What’s the address where the phone is registered?

  More silence. I’m really hoping Bombay will indulge me here. There’s a difference between being paranoid and being safe. I’m generally in favor of being safe, but right now I feel like he’s being paranoid. I get to the corner and there’s not a car or a person out, and another stretch of homes and trees, and I wonder if I’m going to have to comb all of Portland to find another pay phone. There’s a shuffling of papers and he says, “Here it is.” And he reads off an address that I repeat to myself a couple of times so I can commit it to memory.

  “Thanks. And did you ever find out about my friend’s family? I had asked about relatives and stuff?”

  “Nothing solid. I need more to go on.”

  “Got it. Okay. I’ll see what I can get. And Bombay, listen…”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I have to finish up something for work. Let’s talk soon.”

  He’s annoyed with me. The edge of his voice is knife sharp. It nicks off bone, even through the tiny speaker.

  “You know I’m trying to do the right thing here, right?”

  Bombay sighs. “The problem is the same as it always is. Your definition of the word ‘right.’”

  Click.

  The cab drops me off in front of Naturals. Across the huge piece of plywood over the front window, spray painted in sloppy green letters, is: Yes, we’re open.

  Inside it’s quiet. I think it’s a weeknight so that makes sense. Calypso is dancing for the three sole patrons to Janis Joplin singing “Son of a Preacher Man,” wearing a little white thing that doesn’t cover up a whole lot. Tommi is behind the bar straightening up and when she sees me, I can’t tell in the dim light if she’s smiling or frowning.

  I sit on the bar and she pours me a glass of ice water without saying anything. I stare at it for a little bit and want to ask for a Jameson, but I don’t want to feel too much like I used to. Like if I drink a Jameson right now on top of everything I’ll be admitting to something. So I ask for a tequila rocks and she shrugs. “You’re not working.”

  She places the small rocks glass in front of me, poured from the well bottle. It tastes like it ran down the back of the bathroom wall on its way to the glass.

  Still no answer from Crystal. I’m hoping she’s on her way. I dig a handful of bills out of my wallet and toss them on the bar. She says, “I can get you a drink.”

  “I stopped in last night and grabbed a bottle of Jim to take home.” Tommi’s face points south. “I’m sorry. The liquor stores were closed. If that’s not enough, you can take it out of my paycheck.”

  “You know there’s another option than just taking liquor from the bar?” she asks. “Don’t drink. If you’re the kind of person who has a drinking problem then I don’t need you working here.”

  “Tommi… I don’t have a problem. I’m making good on it. You know… just, sometimes you need a drink.”

  “You’ve been working here months now and you haven’t touched anything but ice water to your lips,” she says. “Now you want the hard stuff. I’ve been around the block, kid. That smells a bit like a relapse.”

  “I do not have a problem.”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you. But I’ve got enough shit going on here. What I need is your help. I don’t need you diving into a bottle or crapping out on me.”

  Tommi picks up the wad of bills and looks at it, and sighs as she begins to straighten them out and place them in the register. She turns them so all the bills are face up, the presidents looking toward the front door.

  She turns to do something else and I say, “I don’t see Hood. I wasn’t supposed to work tonight, was I?”

  Over her shoulder Tommi says, “Quiet night. I sent him home. I’m trying to save a little money now that I’ve got a fucking window to replace.”

  “Any new developments on those assholes?”

  Tommi’s shoulders slump and she comes back to me, puts her thick arms on the bar. “Son of a Preacher Man” ends and “Atomic Dog” by George Clinton starts up. Calypso is naked now save her four-inch glittery heels, reflected in the mirror over Tommi’s shoulder.

  “I got another phone call,” she says. “They said last night was a preview and it’s only going to get worse. I called the cops. They don’t seem to give a shit. They told me it’s probably nothing and to call if anything happens. Fucking assholes. I’ve got a cot in the back so I can sleep here tonight. I have a bad back. I don’t want to sleep here. But I’ve got so much money dunked into this fucking place. Do you know how that feels, kiddo?”

  “Let me stay here tonight,” I tell her.

  She pauses. “Why?”

  “I’m stressed out, and when I’m stressed out I don’t sleep well and… I’m not going to be sleeping much tonight anyway, I may as well do it here.”

  She pauses, stands up a little. “I can’t pay you overtime or anything…”

  “Not asking for you to pay me. I want to help.”

  She nods sl
owly. “Okay. Okay, thank you.”

  “And I’m sorry about the booze.”

  The song ends. It gets real quiet in the bar. In the mirror over Tommi’s shoulder I can see Calypso picking up her clothes, two of the three guys picking up their stuff to leave. Their chairs scuffing against the floor. Calypso is speaking in Spanish. It’s mostly gibberish, not that these guys know, but it sounds sexy as fuck, and they toss an extra couple of bucks on the elevated dance floor.

  Tommi says, “It’s been a rough week. I’m sorry if I was short with you.”

  “Don’t apologize. Lots of fucked-up shit going on right now.”

  She looks at something over my shoulder. The third patron is getting up to leave too, so that the place will be empty. Tommi walks over to the iPod hooked into the speaker and turns Elvis Costello on low and goes back to wiping down the bar.

  Calypso waves to me as she ducks into the back and Carnage comes out in a studded leather bondage bikini and looks around before disappearing back inside. Within a few minutes both the girls come out in thin robes and sit at the bar. Tommi pours white wines for both of them.

  Calypso and Carnage set off into a private, whispered conversation. Sergio comes out of the kitchen with a couple of plates. He places one down in front of each girl, one for Tommi, and the last plate in front of me. It’s a cupcake, dark body under a white cap of frosting.

  “Vegan red velvet,” Tommi says. “Let me know what you think.”

  I take a bite. There’s an odd sourness to the icing, and it’s also grainy. The cupcake itself tastes like sawdust with some chocolate flavoring. So dry I have to take a big swig of tequila to get it down, and the tequila tastes like shit, so this whole thing is not turning out well for me. I put the cupcake back onto the plate and push it away.

  Sergio comes out again and looks at the half-eaten plates, does a full-body sigh. He comes over to take mine.

  “Too dry,” I tell him. “Sorry.”

  Tommi takes a bite of her cupcake, frowns, and pushes it away.

  “I swear, my fucking kingdom for a good vegan cupcake,” she says.

  “You know the trick to vegan cupcakes?” I ask her.