Jonah Man

by Christopher Narozny

  Jonson’s boy, he called. If you can hear me, say so. You’re tired. You’re hungry. I’m here to help.

  A few yards distant, a pair of gray, unblinking eyes stared out from a parting in the scrub. In the morning light, the tan muzzle and earth-colored fur camouflaged the animal’s head so that the eyes seemed to be pointing out of the ground itself. But as the head came into focus he saw that the snout was too long and large to belong to a coyote or any breed of dog that lived wild in the desert. He kicked dirt at the corpse to be sure it was dead, walked on.

  He climbed back up the slope, running his eyes over and under the brush. At the summit of the incline, he turned, called again to the boy.

  The Inspector had anticipated a home in keeping with the manager’s personality—gruff, solid, needing repair. Instead, he found a large, well-maintained cabin, the logs stained raw umber and chinked with a pristine-looking clay. Behind the cabin, a bajada sprawled in all directions. Dried-up yarrow dotted the yard.

  The manager was out front, peening dents from a car panel with a small sledge hammer. He saw the Inspector, let the panel and hammer fall.

  A beautiful spot, the Inspector called.

  A bit out of your way, ain’t it?

  I was told you don’t have a phone.

  That’s cause I don’t like talking to people.

  Then I’ll make this quick. I thought I instructed you to abandon your search for the boy.

  The manager rutted his brow, stepped closer.

  I’m at home, ain’t I?

  So you don’t know a man who drives a two-tone Sports Phaeton?

  Not in this country. Why?

  Because somebody is looking for the boy.

  The manager snickered, seemed to be thinking it over.

  They must not have faith in your abilities, he said.

  Who’s that?

  The people who want him found.

  The Inspector ran a palm over the back of his neck.

  Care to explain? he asked.

  They rented the theater’s basement for storage.

  Do you know who they are?

  No. A real-estate man made the arrangements.

  What were they storing?

  Don’t know that either. The lids were nailed down, and I ain’t the type to pry.

  So why do you believe they’re the ones looking for the boy?

  Because you ain’t the first to come visit me. A man was here yesterday asking about the fire. Said his employer had an interest in what had been burnt.

  And you turned him onto Jonson’s son?

  I did.

  With what proof?

  I answered his questions, just like I’m answering yours.

  There is a difference.

  Maybe, the manager said. But if there is, it don’t tilt in your favor.

  Tell me how to get in touch with this man.

  He didn’t say.

  You’re lying. He’d want you to notify him if the boy surfaced.

  He said he’d visit again. Didn’t say when, though.

  You’d best hope no one tells me otherwise.

  Jonson had soiled himself during the night. He was pale, agitated. There were scabs where he’d scratched the hives.

  How many times has your boy seen you like this?

  Is this the shit that keeps you up at night?

  Maybe. What did you spend the night thinking about? You know your son took the stage without you. I saw him. He’s talented, but young. There are laws.

  Go to hell.

  The Inspector sat watching Jonson. The symptoms had set in even more quickly than he’d hoped. After a while, Jonson’s eyes closed, his head nodded forward. The Inspector set a vial on the table and left the room.

  An hour later, he found Jonson awake, alert, his skin clear of hives.

  Proud of yourself? Jonson asked.

  It appears you’re feeling better. These past hours must have been difficult. I’m sure you won’t be anxious to suffer a relapse.

  You really going to arrest my son?

  If I have to. There are homes for children whose parents are incarcerated.

  I’ll answer your goddamn questions.

  For the remainder of the day, Jonson delivered facts without commentary, his voice churning at a single dull pitch. The supply, he said, was never replenished in the same place twice, the location never revealed more than a week in advance. Quantities and addresses were communicated in code. They could contact him, but with the exception of a twenty-four hour window surrounding his acquisition of the new supply, he had no way of contacting them.

  Swain had cleared a wide patch of debris; his overalls were cloaked in soot.

  We need to talk, the Inspector said, climbing into the rubble. Officially, this time. A boy’s life is at stake.

  What boy?

  Jonson’s son. He set this fire. They know.

  Who does?

  Don’t pretend. You’re digging to find what was burned.

  What are you talking about?

  The blue in your gums, the Inspector said. There isn’t time. They are going to kill him.

  Who?

  Your suppliers.

  Swain stepped backward, stumbled over a charred beam, remained sitting where he fell. For a while, he seemed to be concentrating, tallying figures in his head.

  It wasn’t the boy, he said.

  It might as well have been, the Inspector said. Tell me how to find them?

  Arrest me.

  What for?

  Arson, Swain said.

  You think that will convince them?

  I did it.

  The Inspector hesitated, considering whether Swain might be telling the truth. But an addict would not torch the source of his addiction.

  Why? he asked, extending a hand, pulling Swain to his feet.

  I told you before. I’d had enough.

  He slapped at his overalls with his good hand, evaded the Inspector’s stare.

  I mean why protect the boy?

  I’m not protecting anybody.

  Let me put it another way, the Inspector said. What is your relationship to the boy?

  We worked the same bill.

  Nothing more intimate?

  It was a moment before Swain understood.

  You’re trying to get a rise out of me, he said.

  Maybe. You wouldn’t sacrifice yourself without a reason.

  I’m saying it was me. Isn’t that enough?

  The truth would be better.

  I don’t believe the boy did it.

  That doesn’t explain your confession.

  Swain dried his scalp with his sleeve, sat on the beam he’d tripped over earlier.

  Were you listening? he asked. The boy has a future.

  I see, the Inspector said. He lifted a handkerchief from his watchpocket, unfurled it atop the beam and sat beside Swain.

  I have something of my own to confess, he said. I knew Jonson. I knew him in connection to his second occupation. He was providing me with information.

  Swain stood, kicked at a scorched door knob. A calculated movement, the Inspector thought. He’s known all along.

  He told you about me, he said.

  No, but you just told me a great deal. Are they still here?

  Swain turned his head, said nothing.

  You can help the boy, but it has to be now. Take me to them.

  I can’t.

  If you care about the boy’s future, the Inspector said, then tell me how to find them.

  I wouldn’t know.

  Are you sure?

  I set the fire, he said.

  All right, the Inspector said. When I find the boy’s body, you’ll be the first to hear.

  He stood, shook out his handkerchief, stuffed it back into his pocket.

  How do I know it isn’t you who’s after the boy? Swain said.

  Why would I be?

  Jonson’s dead. The son might know what his father knew.

  The Inspector smiled.


  You’re thinking too hard, he said.

  He turned, began wading back to his car.

  I knew this wasn’t about Jonson and a whore, Swain called.

  At the Inspector’s request, Mavis transferred him to the room just east of Swain’s. The Inspector switched on the lamp, set his bags next to the bed, stepped back into the hall.

  Jonson and his companion had been killed at roughly this time the night prior. The hotel was quiet, the clientele absent. The Inspector knocked lightly on Swain’s door, waited, took a thin file from the tubing in his sock and used it as he would a key.

  The air smelled like a full night of Swain’s breath and sweat. The Inspector switched on the light, stood looking the room over. A first glance discovered two Swain’s: one painstaking, the other slovenly. The painstaking Swain assembled a portable wardrobe, a rigging of metal pipe and rubber wheels which he lugged from city to town, town to city. He hung his stage outfits at evenly spaced intervals, arranged them by color from brightest to dullest. This same Swain carried with him a series of six custom-made valises, carnival scenes hand-painted front and back, expensive on a showman’s salary. He lined them up by height, ran a chain through the handles and padlocked the ends together.

  The slovenly Swain scattered his belongings—a near empty pouch of tobacco, a toothbrush with the bristles chewed away, a key chain that chained no keys, newspaper clippings stained with fish oil and mustard seed—across what bare floor the room offered. This Swain left his bed unmade, his underthings, clean and unclean, dangling from open dresser drawers. The clothes he’d slept in lay crumpled in the sheets. There was a blindfold spread across the pillow, wax ear plugs trapped in a crevice of the blanket.

  The Inspector stepped farther into the room, stopping to study the juggler’s costumes: a tri-color bodysuit, a frayed blazer with burlap stitched over the elbows, a ballplayer’s uniform with the glove sewn to the sleeve. He felt inside the blazer’s pockets, stuck his fingers in the glove, searched the fabric for hidden compartments, found nothing.

  He knelt beside the valises, reached back into his sock for the file. He worked the lock’s mechanism with the lightest possible touch, set aside the chain and lifted the first valise onto the bed.

  The interior was customized to carry a juggler’s balls, with four wooden slats built into either side. On one side the balls were striped, with a small metal hook affixed to each; the solid-color balls had no hook. He took one of these in his hands and shook it beside his ear. It was weightier than he’d anticipated, made not of rubber or wood, but of a substance akin to sandstone. He set the ball back in place, moved to the next valise.

  Here he found six prosthetic forearms, each ending in a metal hook, each cordonned down and protected with linen. The forearms varied in color, likely to match the juggler’s costumes; the hooks varied in size and shape, with some as big as a double fist and others only slightly larger than a walnut, some so curved they nearly closed off, others with just a subtle bend at the tip.

  He uncordonned the demi-arms, lifted them one by one to the light. They were spotless, polished—no trace of sweat, no flakes of skin. He examined the interiors, found them crowded with small, cylindrical objects. Picking up a single prosthetic, he wedged his fingers inside, dislodged the tape and slid one of the objects down, letting it fall into the palm of his hand. It was a chemist’s vial, three-quarters full of a silver-blue liquid, the glass warm to the touch, the rubber stoppers crimped with metal foil. Either Swain’s supply had been replenished before the fire, or it had been replenished at Jonson’s death. Whatever the case, the loss of his provisions would compel Swain to contact his patrons. The Inspector liberated the remaining vials, wrapped them in his handkerchief, pushed the handkerchief into his pocket. He recordonned the prosthetics, set the valise in place, slid the chain back through the handles.

  An hour later, he lay on his back in his own room, fully clothed, tonguing bits of turkey and lumps of potato from between his teeth. He imagined the boy hidden beneath a bed, curled up in a crawlspace. At first there would be fear, a constant attentiveness made electric by exhaustion. But after a while his mind would settle, begin to drift. In his exhausted state his memory would flash on images he had not meant to conjure, moments for which he’d hated himself, a time when somebody had treated him with a kindness he’d rejected, a time when his father had stood over him and instead of anger he’d felt fear, a time when he’d been wronged and done nothing about it. With each image his insides would seize up as though he were forcing himself awake. But slowly his mind would turn from the past. He’d see himself in New York, sitting on a bench in a park surrounded by buildings, eating a lunch he’d bought from a street vendor, reading a review of his performance. Lying, standing, sitting or crouching wherever he might be, all life would begin to seem possible.

  The Inspector sat up, inched to the edge of the bed, pulled a black binder from his briefcase and opened it across his lap. The binder contained transcripts of interviews, of phone calls, of every word spoken between Jonson and the Inspector. Reading through their conversations, it occurred to him that had Jonson remained obstinate, had he simply allowed himself to be arrested, he would be alive now, his blood clear of toxins, his son safe.

  He slept without meaning to, awoke to the sound of a scuffle coming from Swain’s room. He pushed himself up, pressed his ear to the wall.

  There was a crashing, a scattering of objects, followed by cursing, a sustained muttering of consonants, as if the underside of Swain’s tongue were grinding glass.

  Silence, then a spate of pacing. Swain’s weighted boots beating out a rectangle around the bed. An opening and closing of drawers, then the drawers themselves splintering against the floor.

  The Inspector made out a full-bodied collapse on the bedsprings, a hollow moaning that went on until well after he’d closed his eyes.

  III

  By dawn, Swain was active again, or maybe active still, pacing with his boots on, rooting through his belongings, swearing as audibly—if less frequently—as he had the night before. The Inspector stood, pressed his ear to the wall, heard Swain’s door draw shut.

  He hurried into his pants and jacket, grabbed his day bag. From the top landing he could hear Swain rapping the knuckles of his good hand against the front desk, Mavis having secured the bell for the night. The Inspector started heel-to-toe down the stairs, stood on the last step, watching Mavis pad forward, a morning robe knotted loosely over her bed clothes.

  What is it you want? she asked.

  I have to make a call, Swain said. An emergency.

  Best be, Mavis said.

  She unlocked a drawer, withdrew the phone.

  I’ll give you your privacy, she said. But don’t be long.

  Swain waited until she was gone, then pulled a balled up paper from his pocket and flattened it against the counter. He cradled the receiver between his neck and shoulder, dialed, let the line ring.

  Swain, he said.

  I’m sorry. I know.

  Something’s happened.

  I need to see him.

  Yes.

  Out front.

  He set down the receiver, exited the hotel. There wasn’t long to wait. A pickup drove in from the west, pulled out again before Swain had shut the passenger door.

  A few miles from town, they turned off the highway and onto a plain dirt path. The Inspector braked, allowed them to gain some distance, then followed. He closed his right eye to the sun, continued a long way up a slow incline, steering around thick patches of mojave aster, desert lupine, pausing at the summit to survey his descent. The path led to a long and narrow cabin circumscribed by a wall of imported pine. Cars were interspersed with the scrub on this side of the wall, the Phaeton and pickup among them.

  He coasted downhill, pulled off road. He could follow Swain inside, attempt an arrest. But if the supply were not there, he would only tip his hand. And then, judging by the number of cars, he would be outmanned. Still, if he failed to a
ct, there was a chance that the people he’d been chasing would once again elude him.

  He felt on the cusp of deciding when Swain exited the cabin with two men, both wearing straw hats and overalls, both taller and thinner than the man who had fetched him earlier. The Inspector watched them cross through the trees, saw Swain stumble, clutch at his side. As he climbed into the truck, the Inspector noticed that the prosthetic was gone, that the man directly behind Swain was holding a gun. At first he wondered why, and then he knew: Swain had again confessed to setting the fire.

  Careless, he thought.

  He had meant for Swain to reveal the suppliers, but he had not intended to put the man’s life in danger. He shifted the Packard into reverse, maneuvered back onto the dirt path.

  From the summit of the first hill, he watched them spin onto the main road, head away from the town, moving faster over flat terrain than he could on the uneven slope. Turning after them, he shifted to the highest gear, forced the gas pedal to the floor. The truck was again in sight when the Packard lurched forward, ceased responding to the wheel, went careering along the edge of a gulley. The Inspector pumped the brake, brought the car to a halt on the road’s slim shoulder.

  IV

  Swain sits stiff-backed between the men who’d beaten him, his calves straddling the gear box, his ribs throbbing. His captors are city folk costumed in overalls and brogans. It’s the outfits, Swain thinks, that make them appear uneasy. He glances up at the rearview mirror, sees the Packard is gone.

  The driver stops at the summit of a hill. Larger hills extend into the distance; a sparse forest of pinyon and juniper descends the slope they have just climbed. There’s a woodshed in a clearing a few yards off. The driver steps from the truck but does not cut the motor. His partner backs out of the cab, waves for Swain to follow. The air is cold at this elevation. Blue sky makes it colder still.

  The driver stops before they reach the shed, holds up a hand.

  On the ground, he says.

  What?

  Now.

  Swain hesitates. A heel buckles his knee, a hand grabs his collar, forces him down. He blinks dust from his eyes. There’s a sting in the back of his neck, a sharp pain as the tip of the needle pulls free. He feels his pulse slow to nothing.