by Rain, J. R.
An answer.
Numi is about to open his mouth to say something but then closes it again. He has seen this look on my face before and he gives me my space and waits. I’m thankful for that.
I set the fork down with the bite of cheesecake on it. Or, as Numi had called it, pie.
Pie. I stand abruptly, pushing away from the counter. The stool almost tips over but Numi reaches out and catches it. He says nothing and watches me pace the small kitchen with renewed energy. At least, enough energy to keep me on my feet, keep me standing. Numi watches me closely. Still, he says nothing.
I pace, thinking hard.
Numi’s words hit home, and every time I think of the word “pie,” I get that wonderfully euphoric feeling, that feeling that tells me I’m close to an answer.
I pace. Numi watches me.
I look at the cheesecake, the crust.
Now I’m moving back into the living room, stumbling, my brain working a helluva lot faster than my legs can respond.
“Easy, cowboy,” Numi says. “What’s got you so worked up?”
“Help me over to the easels.”
He does so, grabbing me under the elbow, steering me over to the big chair again, easing me down. Of all the clues, it’s the one that’s etched into my brother’s chest that stands out the most.
“Numi,” I say, “what does the number ‘8’ mean to you?”
Numi sits on the arm of the chair. He smells of good cologne. He always smells of good cologne. Mostly, though, I think he relishes the fact that I have finally brought him into my last case and my thoughts. He knows the importance of my questions. He knows that I am close to an answer. He takes his time before answering. Although I am amped up from the sugar, I wait patiently for his response.
Finally, he says, “The number ‘8’ could mean anything, boss man, but if you turn it sideways, it’s the symbol for infinity.”
I am feeling a mix of excitement and frustration. There is something here and I am missing it. It’s here, it’s right in front of me, and Numi’s comment about the cheesecake is what set me off.
Pie.
What if the clue wasn’t a cherry cheesecake… but a pie? What if, like Numi, the killer had mixed up the desserts? What if he’d been wanting to convey the message of a pie and not a cheesecake?
A leap, I know. But say that to my rapidly beating heart. There is something to this. I try to get up again, but I used whatever energy reserves I’d had by pacing in the kitchen. I settle for sitting forward, my elbows on my knees. My brain, which has been so unfocused these days, is now firing on all cylinders. I feel like my old self.
Two words stood out to me: infinity and pie.
“Numi,” I say, “what do you know of pi? The mathematical symbol?”
Numi blinks once, twice, then his eyes narrow. He sees where I’m going with this. “It’s infinite,” he says.
“What else?” I ask.
“It’s composed of irregular numbers that never end, with no known pattern.”
“How the hell do you know this stuff?”
“You think we Nigerians are just a bunch of natives who run around in loincloths and wave spears?”
“No and never mind that right now,” I say. “Doesn’t pi have an infinite number of decimal places?”
Numi nods. “You are smarter than you look, cowboy.”
But I’m not paying attention to him. I look at the infinity symbol carved into the flesh of my brother’s corpse. I ask Numi to get me my iPad, which he does from my bedroom.
I swipe it on, do a Google search, and then click on the Wikipedia article. And what I see on the screen—two images in particular—gets my heart beating rapidly.
“You okay, cowboy?”
I ignore his question and continue studying the images without answering, lost in thought, lost in the implications. Finally, I hand him the iPad. “What do you see?”
He takes it and frowns. A moment later, he begins nodding. “The square and the circle,” he says.
I nod absently. “Squaring the circle” is a phrase that signifies the impossible. It is also a phrase that is associated with pi, as mathematicians for centuries, according to the Wikipedia article, have been trying to construct a square whose area is equal to the area of a given circle. All of this is Greek to me. I’m a private dick, for God’s sake. But I can read, and, according to the article, pi represents the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter—or 3.14. This means little to me other than that the number, called an irrational number, continues on into infinity. Thus, it’s impossible to square a circle.
I’m not a mathematician, but I am a detective, and I see the strategic way the pepperoni is placed over the carved square in Olivia’s hand.
“Squaring the circle,” I murmur over and over, like a mantra. I see that Numi sees, too.
I am sinking fast and although I wish like hell I could go on tonight, I cannot. I think I would kill for the energy to go on tonight. Numi would argue me out of more espressos even if I asked. I know I need to rest except I can’t even find the energy to stand.
Silently, my friend slips his arms under me and lifts me out of the chair. That he doesn’t appear to be exerting too much effort should concern me more than it does. Except my mind isn’t here. It’s on pi. It’s on murder.
And it’s on the killer.
I do, of course, know who killed my brother, Olivia, and Angel. I know without a shadow of a doubt.
Numi carries me into my bedroom and lays me in my bed, where he covers me with a blanket. I am asleep even as he’s adjusting the pillow.
He smells of good cologne.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It is raining.
My dreams morph the pitter-patter of gentle drops into the sound of running feet. My brother, Matt, is running and panting. His panting might—might—be my own labored breathing. Either way, Matt is no longer smiling as he had been when I’d left him alone for less than five minutes. No, I hadn’t left him alone, I remind myself as I watch him run, watch him duck under branches, as I watch him trip and fall and skid on his shoulder and face. I had simply shifted my attention to the pretty girls.
That’s all it had taken.
Two pretty girls and now, I am brotherless. No wonder I’ve never had a real relationship. No wonder I’ve used women for sex all my life.
I’ve hated myself for so long.
In my dream, Matt scrambles to his feet, spitting out dirt. Leaves and mud and twigs adhere to his skin, his hair, his clothing. He ignores it all and continues running. From what, I can’t see.
No, there he is.
A shadow appears behind him, rising up as if from the earth itself. I can feel my own legs kicking in my sleep as I try to hurry Matt along, but the shadow is closing in, closing in.
Matt screams, and so do I. And that’s when I wake up, gasping and weeping. It is, of course, the same dream I’ve had, over and over.
Endlessly.
Except now the shadow is not faceless. It has a face, and I know him well.
I look up to find Numi sitting on the corner of my bed, watching me from the shadows, his eyes shining wet in the darkness. His hand is on my exposed foot, holding me. His hand is warm and comforting, and I feel his strength and energy as he wills me to health. Or so he thinks.
I fall back to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It is early morning.
The sky is lightening, even though the rain continues down, slapping against my bedroom’s sliding glass door. Somewhere out there, my brother’s grave is being rained on, too. Except he was buried deep in the ground, and I am here, in a warm room, covered in a blanket.
Numi is still at the end of the bed, still watching me, still keeping his silent vigil. His warm hand is still holding my foot. I move it away from him, rather rudely.
“You don’t have to be in here, Numi.”
Numi says nothing, although he looks exhausted and maybe a little hurt.
&nb
sp; “But you’re going to be in here anyway, right?” I say.
“You got that right, cowboy.”
“Until I get better.”
He nods once. I can see bags under his eyes. His once immaculate clothing is now slightly disheveled. If he is hungry or tired or thirsty, he doesn’t say. He seems to exist for being there, for helping me, for comforting me. He is studying me closely.
Outside my bedroom window, a shadow flits by, followed by much chirping. More shadows, more chirping.
“You should sleep,” I say.
“Later,” he says. That he has neglected his own needs for mine is obvious. He asks for nothing, wants nothing. He’s just here for me. Love without condition, I think. I do not know where that phrase comes from, or why I think of it now.
The gratitude I feel for him suddenly overwhelms me, and I turn my head and look away. I open my mouth to speak, but I can’t find the words. I try again.
“Numi…”
“Yeah, boss?”
But the words fail me. I look back at him and I see the tears in his eyes. I try to speak again, but I can’t find the words. Truth is, I don’t know what to say. I do not know how to express my gratitude. I have never received love before. Not for a long time. And never from a man. I do not know how to return it.
“It’s okay, boss,” he says and smiles at me sadly. I know he is waiting for something from me. Perhaps some acknowledgment. Perhaps a thank you.
No, I think. He’s waiting for something else.
But what he wants from me, I cannot give.
At least, not now. Perhaps never.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The sun is warm on my face.
I am sitting in my car near the Santa Monica Pier. The plan had been for me to go for a walk on the beach, but I never got as far as the parking space along Ocean Avenue.
The plan, of course, didn’t involve Numi.
He didn’t like it. He insisted he come along. He claimed I was too weak to drive. I had an extra shot put in my espresso. I am hopped up on coffee beans and never before has the sky looked so beautiful.
I’ve spent my life ignoring the sunset. Sure, I might have caught a glance of it here and there. Someone might have pointed it out here and there. But I only casually look at it. Barely a second thought.
My car is parked facing south, and so I find myself leaning across the seat and looking out the passenger’s side window, until I realize how ridiculous that is.
A last sunset surely deserved better, right?
So, I unfasten my seat belt and open the door. It takes more energy than I care to admit to get out of the car and walk around to the front end, where I lean a hip against the fender.
A cute girl on rollerblades is about to smile at me, before she thinks better of it. There are some joggers. Most with headsets on. Most ignoring the magnificent sunset to the west.
The Santa Monica Pier is alive and well, bustling with activity and life and lights. A stream of pedestrians crosses onto the pier from the bridge overpass. Most are laughing. One or two point towards the sunset. Those one or two have it right.
It takes what little energy and skill I have to leap up on the fender and sit cross-legged. My bony ass just might have put a dent in the Camry. I could give a shit about the dent in the Camry.
I close my eyes and rest my hands on my knees and feel the sun on my face. Mostly, I feel it on my forehead. Most of my medication warns me to stay out of the sun. Most of my medication can kiss my bony ass.
It’s been a few days since I have been in the sun. And even longer since I spent any real time in the sun.
I enjoy the warmth—it makes me feel alive, reminds me that I still have a body that reacts to the elements. A body that isn’t just dying.
People come and go. Many people. Most are walking, although some are jogging and a handful are rollerblading. Most ignore me. That’s okay. I want to be ignored.
I lift my face to the sun and close my eyes. I feel the wind on my face and in my hair. I smell the salt and brine. The wind picks up and thunders over my ears and I notice it has a sort of rhythm to it, and I find myself swaying to the wind, and when I open my eyes again, I see the sun has inched closer to the far horizon. Reds, oranges, and yellows streak the evening sky. A smattering of low-hanging clouds explodes with iridescent beauty. They look otherworldly, and beautiful beyond words.
The wind continues blowing over me, lifting my hair, flapping my T-shirt. I feel cold but I hardly care. That I am close to confronting my brother’s killer is far from my mind. That I know this is my last sunset on this earth, however, isn’t very far from my mind.
That I am experiencing it alone isn’t very far from my mind, either.
I take in as much air as I can and try not to panic when my lungs fill to only half capacity. I am slowly suffocating to death. I know and there is no escaping it.
Shitty way to die, I think.
My only comfort is in knowing that someday soon I will not have to worry about my lungs not working. Or that I have AIDS. Or that people look at me funny, or avoid me altogether. Or that my own mother has shunned me all my adult life. Or that I am going to die alone.
Not alone, I think. There is Numi.
Always Numi.
A fraction of the sun has now slipped behind the ocean, and as it does so, I feel a mourning in my soul. And when the sun is finally gone, leaving behind a fiery trail that still lights up the evening sky, I know there are tears on my cheeks. But no one sees them and no one cares.
My life feels wasted. I am thirty-nine years old and dying. I have done little to better myself or the world. I have spent all of my adult life grieving for my brother and hating myself.
It’s no surprise that I am dying of a disease that could have been avoided. No, I am not dying of AIDS, but the AIDS and the cancer go hand in hand, in ways that doctors are still trying to figure out.
Too late for me.
A wasted life. A useless life. Yes, I have helped find the missing. Yes, I have given comfort to those who needed comfort. But I failed the one person who mattered the most, and I have failed myself, too.
I am tired of having these thoughts. I am tired of hating myself. I am tired of thinking of death. It is time to take the next step. I know this.
More importantly, I want this.
The sun is gone and the wind picks up, thundering over me, flapping my hair and jeans, and scuttling a used napkin over the sidewalk that stretches from here to Malibu and beyond to the right of me and Venice and Marina del Rey and beyond to the left of me.
I reminisce about the last two years Numi and I have spent together. In the beginning, I told him the basic facts. Facts that were merely facts but not yet reality. It was as if Numi knew what was coming before I did. Perhaps because of Numi’s heritage and upbringing in Africa he understood from the very beginning what I was in for. He foresaw the denigration, the humiliation I would have to face and the strength I would need to live my life to its fullest. Perhaps he made a silent agreement with whatever god he worships that he would see me through the last phase of my life with more grace and beauty than I deserved.
I suddenly feel a prickle that I am not alone.
It occurs to me that the old woman has been watching me for some time. She’d been walking along the sidewalk with the others, when she had paused. I assumed she was waiting for someone, or looking at the brilliant evening sky herself. Truth was, I didn’t give much thought to her until I looked over at her, and saw her staring at me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
She nods and smiles, and before I can react, she is coming towards me. I groan inwardly. I want to be alone with my last sunset. Despite the pity party I am having, I really do want to experience my last sunset alone.
The old woman, who is dressed in a red jumpsuit, stops when she’s a few feet from me. Her back is to the ocean and her face is mostly hidden in shadows. From what I can see, she has a very pleasant, plump face. She smiles and nods. I th
ink I hear her say hello, but I’m not sure. A passing Harley-Davidson thunders by and drowns out anything that might have been said.
So, to be polite, I say hello back.
She nods again, smiles again.
The ocean glistens under the darkened sky, and I am weakening. The old woman is still standing in front of me, her hands clasped together just below her waist.
“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask, despite a strong need to not exert myself in any way. I still have to drive back. It’s a good half hour back to my apartment in Los Feliz.
She shakes her head and I wonder if she is homeless or mentally ill. She doesn’t look homeless and despite not talking, I don’t sense that there is something wrong with her.
“Are you here for the sunset, too?” I ask.
She might have nodded, although the motion was mostly noncommittal. I get a sense that she is here for the sunset, along with something else. She reminds me of my grandmother, for some reason, although my grandmother was much taller.
“My name is Jimmy,” I say.
She smiles but offers me nothing in return.
“Most of my friends and clients just call me Booker.”
She smiles some more.
I am about to ask her what her name is but get a strong sense that her name is not important, at least not right now. I let the question go unasked.
The ocean shimmers. The clouds above look unreal, alien. They seem to be glowing, pulsating.
“You can probably see that I am sick,” I say.
She stops smiling and cocks her head a little. I see her breathing steadily. I catch a faint whiff of perfume, old lady’s perfume. My grandmother’s perfume, in fact.
“Truth is,” I add, “I’m dying.”
I do not know why I am opening up to her. Perhaps because she reminds me of my grandmother in some ways; or, at least, she smells like her. My grandmother, of course, forgave me long ago. She always told me that my brother’s death was not my fault, that I should not let it get to me, and that I had to move past it and live. Before she died nearly fifteen years ago, she gave me the money, in fact, to start my private detective firm.