Silent Echo

by Rain, J. R.

  I take a deep breath and hold it, feeling my lungs swell painfully. I watch her closely until she finally settles comfortably.

  “Hi, Jim,” she says brightly. Always brightly. She tears free her Velcroed pen and clicks it on. She makes a notation on a paper clipped to the clipboard. I suspect she’s noting the time and date of her visit.

  “Hi, Mary,” I say. “You look very beautiful today.”

  She’s about to lean back into the loveseat when she pauses in mid-lean. I’ve never been so forward with her before. “Well, um, thank you, Jim.”

  I can see she’s a little discombobulated. She wasn’t expecting a compliment. She’s been here three months now without me giving her a compliment. Hell, I am nearly as surprised myself.

  But she’s a pro, and she’s certainly cute enough to have gotten her share of sweet compliments. I wonder if she feels self-conscious about her nose. Probably not. I suspect Mary the Grief Counselor is a very even-keeled, well-balanced late twentysomething woman. My guess: twenty-eight. Eleven years younger than me.

  Too young, I think.

  “What would you like to talk about today, Jim?” she asks, now fully recovered from my blindsiding compliment. She always calls me Jim, even when I ask her to call me Jimmy. I don’t know why.

  The sliding glass door to my balcony is open and a cool wind is making its way around the living room. No doubt she’s feeling the wind on her slender ankles. Birds twitter in the eucalyptus trees beyond my balcony.

  “I think I love you,” I say. “That’s what I want to talk about.”

  She makes no other movement other than her mouth dropping open comically. Then she blinks slowly, as her occipital nerves kick into gear. As she focuses on me, her pupils shrink a little. Laser pointed.

  Finally, she says, “You’re joking, right? Another one of your jokes?”

  “Do I sound like I’m joking?”

  She has now successfully absorbed her shock, and her training and poise kick in. She gathers herself, pressing her knees together tighter. Positions her pen on the page, and throws back her perfectly straight hair. “You do not love me, Jim Booker. It’s called emotional transference. It’s not called love.”

  “Then I would like to make emotional transference to you,” I say. “All night long.”

  She laughs and shakes her head. I note that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. I see this as a good thing.

  “I come here every week,” she says. “We talk about important things. I listen to you. I care for you. It’s easy to transfer your emotions onto me. In this case, love.”

  “It’s very, very easy to transfer my emotions onto you.”

  “Jim, I have a job to do. Please respect that.”

  “I respect your job very much.”

  I still notice that she hasn’t taken her eyes off me. Her fingers, I notice again, are long and thin. Her nails are painted red. Shortish nails. Not too long. Just enough length to make the nail polish worthwhile.

  “Can we get back to work, Jim?” she asks.

  “I’m just work to you?”

  Now she looks a little put out. I think it’s some kind of defense mechanism. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a private dick. “Where’s this coming from, Jim? I come here for three months and we talk about all the women in your life. The many, many women in your life. Your self-punishment and recklessness that’s led to your current condition—”

  “You mean my permanent disease,” I correct her. Always, she glosses over the disease. Which is strange. She’s trained not to gloss over such things. I know this. Why does she gloss over my disease?

  “Yes,” she says, “that. For three months, I’ve been coming here and never once have you expressed any indication that you might be interested in me. Are you expecting me to believe that it appears”—she snaps her fingers—“just like that?”

  “Emotional transference works in mysterious ways.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It’s quite predictable. I could have predicted this outcome.”

  “Oh? And did you?” I’m now sitting a little more forward on the couch. I don’t have a lot of strength to sit forward, but looking at her, at the way she’s breathing a little harder, the way her chest rises and falls a little faster, I find the strength. “Did you predict that I would find you utterly ravishing?”

  “You are hardly in a condition to ravish anything, Jim.”

  “I still have a good ravish or two in me.”

  “Then you don’t want to waste them on me, trust me.”

  And now I’m standing slowly. My legs are shaking. The chirping birds seem to disappear. I’m completely and totally absorbed by the woman sitting across from me. I say, “I can’t think of a better person on earth I would want to waste them on.”

  “Jim, please. You need to rest—”

  “No,” I say, sitting next to her on the loveseat.

  She continues staring at me, and I can see something I hadn’t noticed until now, yet something I’m sure I felt. She has feelings for me, too. She really cares about me—and not just as another client.

  “What are you doing, Jim?”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Jim, please.”

  “Please what?”

  I rest a hand on her knee and she doesn’t move, although she looks away. Her expression has changed into sadness. I know its source. My disease is her sadness. Hell, it is mine, too.

  Well, screw my disease. It’s taken so much away from me. For once, it can give something back.

  So I lean over, bracing one hand on the arm of the couch—a hand that quickly begins to shake—but somehow I find the energy to lean over and kiss her softly on the lips.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I am hanging onto Numi’s arm as we make our way through the dingy apartment complex in Echo Park. Feeble metal railings line the outdoor stairs.

  “You really kissed her?” asks Numi. News of my therapy session last night has my friend perplexed. Numi doesn’t usually waste my precious energy, but for some reason today he’s asked me the same question over and over.

  “Yes,” I say again. We head up the stairs together. The stairway railing appears less secure. Hanging onto Numi’s strong arm feels much safer, even if the act of holding onto him makes me feel uncomfortable. “A small kiss on her lips,” I add.

  “And she didn’t, you know, seem upset?”

  “Because I have AIDS?”

  “Yes.” Numi doesn’t mince words, which is something I appreciate about him. I don’t have time for those who mince words. I also don’t have time for those who ask me the same question over and over, but I understand Numi’s confusion. At least, I think I do. Yes, a part of me senses he’s jealous, but for reasons that I think might be too complex for my simple brain to understand.

  “She knows I have AIDS,” I say. “She knows about my cancer, too. She knows that I am as good as dead.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We’re now on the upstairs landing. Rows of red apartment doors line the hallway. We’re at number 19. We’re looking for number 29.

  “Look,” I say, “you can’t get AIDS from kissing. You know that. The whole damn world knows that.”

  “Knowing it and doing it are two different things, man. She must really like you.”

  “What’s not to like?”

  Numi shakes his head and smiles that smile that is only for me. I sense that he’s troubled for reasons I still don’t understand. Numi is detached and introspective and doesn’t always lay his thoughts and feelings out there. I suspect the source of his angst is that he feels he might lose control. He likes helping me. He likes helping me in a particular way. He’s protective, demanding, careful. Would another person look after me so closely? He doesn’t know. And until he knows, he has no problem hiding his displeasure.

  “Do you like her, too?” he asks me as we pass an open door. There’s a fake Christmas tree in the far corner and two children in diapers running around holding real hammers
and screwdrivers. The mother appears passed out on the couch. It is, of course, early July.

  I say, “I’ve liked her from the moment I set eyes on her.”

  “You never said anything about that,” says Numi.

  “You don’t know everything about me, Numi,” I snap, perhaps louder than I wanted to. The act of snapping at Numi saps my strength immediately, and I regret it for a number of reasons.

  Numi doesn’t seem to notice or care that I snapped at him. He does, however, curl his forearm around my hand a little tighter. Numi always seems to know when my strength is waning. How he knows this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s an inflection in my voice. My posture. I have no clue, but he always, always knows my current state of strength, which I find both unsettling and comforting at the same time.

  “No,” he says after a moment. “I don’t know everything about you, kemosabe. But I know enough.”

  “I didn’t mean to snap,” I say. I always feel like shit when I snap at Numi. I mean, what kind of asshole snaps at the only person who helps him live when he’s dying?

  Me, I think. I’m that asshole.

  “It’s okay, homie,” says Numi, and hearing his thick Nigerian accent using street slang is so comical that I want to laugh, but I don’t have enough strength to laugh. Numi never holds a grudge and never pouts. I say I’m sorry and he accepts it and we move on.

  “Yes, I like her, Numi. I didn’t tell you or anyone. Least of all, her. Why should I? I have AIDS. She’s a beautiful woman. What business do I have liking her?”

  Numi, who generally doesn’t like to hear self-defeating talk from me, glances at me sideways. He must have heard something in my voice.

  “But you don’t just like her, do you, boss?”

  I shake my head. We’re almost at number 29.

  “You love her,” says Numi.

  I nod, and now he looks away, and I feel something collapse in him. Perhaps he has let out a long sigh of air. And just before we get to number 29, I know there’s something I have to do for my devoted friend. I reach out and stop him in the hallway, which literally takes all of my strength.

  “Yes, I think I love her,” I say. “And I love you, too, my friend,” I say, and it’s surprising how easy that was to say. It’s the first time I have told another man that I love him.

  Numi covers his face and his quiet strength briefly crumbles, and I suddenly realize how long he’s been waiting to hear those words. A moment later he gathers himself, wipes his eyes and says, “I love you, too, man.”

  “Good,” I say. “Now, can we stop being gay?”

  “Easier said than done, kemosabe.” He glances at number 29. “This it?”

  “This is it,” I say. “Olivia’s last-known address.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Numi and I are sitting on a sagging couch that might be broken in the middle.

  The couch draws me towards the center, as it does Numi. And, since I’ve never been comfortable touching another man, I fight gravity. I lean away from Numi. I shift uncomfortably. I cross and recross my legs. I hang onto the arm of the couch. But nothing helps. I’m continually drawn to the center of the couch like a man is drawn down into quicksand.

  Numi doesn’t fight gravity. Numi sits calmly in the middle of the broken couch, one leg crossed casually over the other. His loafers are clean. His jeans are freshly pressed. His dark ankles look like strips of rich chocolate. Numi never wears socks.

  The young lady sitting across from us watches all of this curiously, although mostly she’s sobbing quietly into a tissue. Her name is Karen Fitch, and, according to Eddie, she’s the last person to see Olivia alive.

  “How long did Olivia live with you?” I ask gently. I know the answer, but I always like to verify the facts with all those involved in a case.

  “She lived here for about six days.”

  I nod. The days match. Without a police report, or without Detective Dobbs’s help, I don’t have much to go on. I’m investigating blind, so to speak.

  The couch continues drawing me down towards its broken center where Numi waits calmly like a big black whirlpool. My strength is waning. I’m tempted to release my hold from the arm and sink down into Numi.

  Although crying, Karen’s voice is strong. She’s wearing pink sweats and a pink T-shirt and pink flip-flop sandals. Her toenails are painted pink, too. Mostly, though, I notice the darkish, baggy skin around her eyes.

  I’ve already ruled out that my friend Eddie is involved in Olivia’s murder, although the police haven’t. I just don’t think my friend is a killer, although he is a serious womanizer. I’m looking for a connection to her death and my brother’s disappearance twenty-two years ago. The police won’t be looking for such a connection. At least not yet. The police have long ago forgotten about my murdered brother, although his case is officially still open.

  I haven’t forgotten. Nor will I ever forget.

  “Did Olivia meet with anyone during the six days she was actually here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she talk about, say, meeting anyone new?”

  “Like a boyfriend? She just left Eddie. I don’t think she was ready to date or—”

  “He didn’t say a boyfriend,” says Numi impassively. He doesn’t move when he speaks. No gesture with his hands. No foot kick. No movement of his head. Nothing. Just his deep voice appears, seemingly magically. Numi thinks she’s wasting my time. “He said anyone. Did she talk about meeting with anyone?”

  Karen seems to have forgotten to breathe. Finally she does so, casting my friend sidelong glances as she speaks. “I already told the police that she didn’t.”

  “Thank you,” I say and, to help ease the sudden tension, I offer her one of my best smiles. Numi doesn’t care too much if he creates tension in those around me. He cares only about me and my health. “Did anyone come to the apartment while she was here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A deliveryman? Kirby salesman? A guy looking for directions? Did anyone try to sell you something? Did anyone have the wrong address? Do you remember talking to anyone at all here at the apartment?”

  As I ask these questions, Karen shakes her head and keeps shaking her head until I get to the last question. That’s when the shaking stops. Investigators know that people instinctively say “no” before a question is even out. It’s a defense mechanism, I think. A way to distance themselves from something horrific. It’s why investigators ask so many damn questions. And we keep asking them, keep plugging away, until one such question sticks.

  I glance around the apartment and see the pizza box. The Pizza Hombres. Never heard of them. “Did someone deliver pizza?”

  There it is. She quits shaking her head and begins nodding. At this point, I lose my energy. The act of talking, of probing, depletes me, and I slide down into Numi. All fight has left me. Numi doesn’t say a word, nor give any indication that my weight is now pressing against him. He smells of good cologne. He always smells of good cologne. His body is hard and muscular and bony, too.

  “Did someone deliver this pizza?” I ask, pointing.

  Her eyes follow my flaccid finger. She nods. I ask her to describe the delivery guy.

  “How do you know it was a guy?” she asks.

  “Because he’s fucking Nostradamus,” says Numi quickly, jumping in. “Describe him.”

  Karen makes a small, scared sound. “An older guy,” she says. “I think. He sounded old, at least.”

  “Sounded?” I say. “You didn’t see him?”

  “No. Olivia answered the door.”

  “Did you recognize his voice? I mean, was it the same deliveryman who always delivers the pizza?”

  “I’ve never ordered from them before.”

  I run my hand through my hair, a nervous habit. It’s my way of backing off, stepping back and thinking. Nothing is feeling right about this case. Or perhaps my instincts are dying with me.

  “What day was this?” I ask.

&nbs
p; “Last week, maybe two days before she disappeared.”

  It’s now been three days since Olivia’s body was found in Laurel Canyon. “Did she talk to the delivery guy about anything other than pizza?”

  She starts shaking her head. “No.”

  “Did the guy appear to flirt with her?”

  More shaking. “No.”

  “Anything that stood out with her conversation?”

  More shaking. “Nothing that I can remember.”

  I look at Numi. Numi doesn’t look at me. He’s pursing his lips. I know that purse. He wants us to leave. Wants me to rest. The usual shit. I suspect Numi thinks I’m wasting my time. Back in the day, back when I was in full health, I would have trusted my instincts. I would have just known whether or not a lead was a dead end. Now, not so much. Numi thinks this is a dead end. No, he’s not a professional investigator, but I’ve run dozens, if not hundreds, of cases past him over the years.

  I look at the girl. She’s looking away, clearly nervous. She’s nervous, I think, because two men are sitting on her broken couch and one of them has the shakes and the other is looking scary as hell.

  My shaking seems to be worsening. I shake like this when I’m reaching the end of my strength. I notice Numi’s eyes shifting over to my hands. When it comes to my health, or lack thereof, he misses little, if anything.

  “When was the last time you saw Olivia?”

  “Two days before they… found her in Laurel Canyon.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “For a hike in Elysian Park.”

  “How do you think she ended up in Laurel Canyon?” I ask. The parks are separated by most of Los Angeles.

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “What was the last thing Olivia said to you—”

  Instead of answering, she says, “God, you look so sick. Are you okay?”

  I suck in air. I have no strength left and breathing is getting difficult. What else is new? “I am sick,” I manage to say, gasping slightly.

  “I mean, you look really sick.”

  “He has AIDS,” says Numi. “Complicated by cancer, which has spread to his lungs. So why don’t you answer his fucking question and quit wasting his time? What was the last thing Olivia said to you?”