by Mike Doogan
The talk went on like that through dinner, Alma asking questions about Kane and answering questions about herself. She had a glass of wine with dinner, then another. Kane thought about saying something, but decided that it wasn’t his business to monitor her alcohol intake. The room was warm and pleasantly noisy, the food adequate, and the company interesting. The dining room was nearly empty when Kane signaled for the check.
Buttoned into their coats, they left the hotel and walked downhill. Alma put her arm through his and her hip bumped him with every other step.
“This is really fun,” she said, “but the place we’re going might take some getting used to.”
The place was a small, dark bar shaped like a triangle, full of smoke and noise and people. Several shouted greetings to Alma as they entered. The bar ran along two sides of the room, then bulged out in a U. The area in between was jammed with people standing, drinking, and trying to converse over the din. Much of the bar was lined three deep with people waiting to order. Alma led Kane through the crowd to a couple of empty stools at the far end of the U. She draped her coat over the stool and sat down on it. Kane sat next to her.
“Damn, just finding a seat makes you thirsty,” she said.
Kane waved at the bartender.
“In a minute, honey,” she called to him.
A guy turned away from the bar balancing a tray.
“Shots, shots, shots,” the crowd chanted.
The guy lowered the tray and hands snatched shot glasses from it.
“Shots, shots, shots,” the crowd chanted.
The green liquid in the shot glasses looked like mouthwash or dish soap. The guy plucked the last shot glass from the tray, lowered the tray, and held the glass up high.
“Shots, shots, shots,” the crowd chanted.
“Three, two, one, down the hatch,” the guy yelled and sank his shot. Everyone else with a glass did the same. The guy gave an exaggerated shiver, then held up the tray. Hands put the empty glasses on it and he turned toward the bar again.
Most of the people in the room were Alma’s age or younger.
“These all staffers?” Kane asked, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.
“Most,” Alma replied. “The guy buying the drinks is a lobbyist. There are a couple more of them in here, two legislators I can see, and a couple of reporters.”
The bartender reached them.
“Hi, Alma,” she said. “Mad in here tonight. What can I get you?”
“I want a Cosmo,” Alma said. “And he wants…What do you want?”
“Club soda,” Kane said, “with a twist.”
“Club soda?” Alma said. “Why’re you drinking club soda?”
“Because if I drank anything stronger,” Kane said, “I might shoot somebody else.”
Alma giggled.
“Reeeally?” she said. “Are you carrying a gun?”
Kane shook his head. The bartender brought their drinks and Alma took a gulp of hers. Kane took a $50 bill from his wallet and put it on the bar. The bartender whisked it away and brought back a pile of smaller bills. Kane left them on the bar.
“Alma-Alma-Alma,” a voice called from across the room. Kane could see a young man waving her over.
“That’s the Senate President’s aide,” Alma said. “I gotta go—I gotta go talk to him. Don’t go away. I’ll be back.”
She picked up her drink, kissed Kane on the cheek, and set off through the crowd. Kane sat and watched the scene. People talked earnestly in twos or threes, the groups breaking up to re-form with new members. In a corner, a long-haired young woman dressed in office clothes cried in earnest. A small woman with short, streaked hair stood with her back to Kane, trying to comfort her. The bartender roused a guy who had been sleeping with his head on the bar, and he lurched to his feet and stumbled toward the door.
The crowd opened up to Kane’s right and he could see several people sitting at what appeared to be the bar’s only table. The people were all young women except for one older, dark-haired guy with glasses. As Kane watched, he took off his glasses and stretched something over his head to cover his nose. He took deep breaths through his mouth and blew through his nose. The thing on his head grew. The curly-haired guy from Potter’s office detached himself from one of the groups, walked over, and sat down on Alma’s stool.
“Christ, what a day,” he said and waved an empty glass at the bartender.
The thing on the guy’s head was still growing. The women at the table were giggling. The curly-haired guy looked over at the table.
“Sam,” he yelled, “Sam, Sam, Sam.”
Other people picked up the call, and soon everyone was chanting, “Sam, Sam, Sam.”
“What’s that thing on his head?” Kane asked.
“Condom,” the curly-haired guy said. “That’s his trick. He blows up a condom until it pops. Says it impresses the women.”
The condom had reached ridiculous proportions.
“Sam,” the crowd chanted, “Sam, Sam, Sam.”
The crowd was rewarded with the sharp crack of the condom exploding. Everyone cheered, then went back to what they were doing.
“Some trick,” Kane said.
“Everybody wants to stand out around here,” the curly-haired guy said.
The bartender put a full glass in front of the curly-haired guy.
“There you are, Ralph,” she said.
“I’ll get that one,” Kane said. The bartender plucked some bills from his and went off.
“Thanks,” the curly-haired guy said. “I’m Ralph Stansfield.”
“Nik Kane,” Kane said.
They shook hands. Stansfield took a good pull on his drink and said, “So what did you think of Ms. Senator Potter?”
“She’s really something,” Kane said.
“She is that,” Stansfield said. “She really keeps the office humping. I mean, humming.”
It was only when he giggled that Kane realized he’d had a lot to drink.
“You work there long?” he asked.
“Long enough,” Stansfield said. “I’m like the furniture. I go with the office. I know budgets, so whoever gets the chairmanship, I work for them. Until now.”
“Trouble?” Kane asked.
“Not really,” Stansfield said. “Ms. Senator Potter thinks maybe they need somebody who is a little more ideo…ideologically pure. But I think I can convince her they don’t. Yes, I can do that.”
He giggled again and took another drink.
“What was Melinda Foxx like to work with?” Kane asked.
“Didn’t really work with her,” Stansfield said. “She did bills and, like I said, I do budgets. But she seemed okay. Ambitious, though, and a little naive. I’m sur…sur…surprised she lasted so long in that office, with Ms. Senator Potter there. The office was too small to hold all that ambition. Thank God I don’t have any. Just want to be left alone to do my job.”
He finished his drink and held up the empty glass.
“Look at this place,” he said. “Nothing but power and greed and sex. Everybody’s getting some. Like that woman you’re with, Alma, Alma, what’s her name, Miss Thing there, she’s been doing old Grantham for years. But I hear he’s just replaced her with the younger item who answers his phone. Lucky for you, not so lucky for her. This is no place to get old if you’re a woman staffer. But until you do, you can always get some. Like those two.”
He nodded to the woman who’d been crying and the woman who had been trying to comfort her. They were kissing passionately.
“How about Melinda Foxx?” Kane said. “Was she getting any?”
The bartender put another drink in front of Stansfield, looked at Kane, and, when he nodded, took some more bills.
“Oh, yes,” Stansfield said. “Oh, yes, she was getting her monkey petted, all right.”
“Who by?” Kane asked.
Stansfield giggled.
“Oh, I’ll never tell,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no I won’t.”<
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“Was it you?” Kane asked.
That set off a giggling fit. When Stansfield had himself under control, he said, “Nope. Wasn’t me. Not my type.”
“Not your type?” Kane said. “Why not?”
“She didn’t have a penis,” Stansfield said, then giggled some more.
“Oh,” Kane said, hoping he didn’t sound as embarrassed as he felt.
“We don’t all flounce, you know,” Stansfield said. “Particularly those of us who work for Christian right senators with harpy daughters.”
“I suppose not,” Kane said. “So it wasn’t you. Who was it?”
“Won’t say,” Stansfield said, “won’t say. Unless maybe it’s pillow talk.”
Kane shook his head.
“Thanks for asking,” he said, “but I’m afraid you’re not my type, either.”
“Is it the penis?” Stansfield asked.
“It’s the penis,” Kane said.
“I figured,” Stansfield said, “but if you don’t ask, you don’t know.”
He slid off the bar stool and grabbed his glass.
“Thanks for the drink,” he said and walked off, moving like a man crossing a tightrope.
Time passed. People came and went. Kane got cruised by a couple of young women who went back, giggling, to their groups of friends. In between their visits, he spent a long time listening to a man tell him why it was important to change the rules governing the catching of various types of salmon. The man spoke earnestly and in great detail, apparently mistaking Kane for someone worth talking to.
From time to time, the crowd chanted, “Shots, shots, shots.” Kane noticed that Alma’s was among the hands plucking full shot glasses from the tray and putting empty ones back. He was about ready to leave the bar when she returned and threw her arms around his neck.
“I want to go,” she said. “I want you to take…to take me home and—and fork me ’til I can’t stand up.”
She hiccuped, giggled, and belched booze into Kane’s face. Then she let go of his neck and stepped to the side like somebody trying to compensate for the rolling of a ship. Kane put an arm around her waist to steady her and slid off his stool.
She leaned into him and said, “Did I say fork? I meant…”
Kane put his finger on her lips.
“I know what you meant,” he said, “but you already can’t stand up. Let’s get you home.”
He looked at his change on the bar, plucked a $20 bill from it, and left the rest for a tip. Still balancing Alma, he managed to get into his coat and maneuver her into hers. He steered her through the crowd and out into the cold.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“My carsh,” Alma said, wobbling. “My carsh. I don’t know.”
Kane pulled her closer to steady her. She giggled and nuzzled his neck. He took his cell phone from his pocket and, one-handed, flipped it open and called Cocoa.
“You working?” he asked. “Thank God. I’m in front of the Triangle. Come get me.”
He put the phone away.
“Ooh, I need to lay down,” Alma said. “I need you to lay down with me.”
“I know,” Kane said. “We’re going to your place now.”
Cocoa’s cab came around the corner and stopped. He rolled his window down.
“Need help?” he asked, grinning.
Together, they eased Alma into the backseat and belted her in.
“She pukes in my cab, you’re paying to have it cleaned,” Cocoa said, as they both climbed into the front.
“Sit with me, sit with me,” Alma called.
“Better sit with her,” Cocoa said. “They’re very unpredictable when they’re like this. I know. I’m a cabbie.”
Kane got out and into the backseat.
“Where are we going?” Cocoa asked.
“Good question,” Kane said. “Alma—where do you live, Alma?”
“Good luck,” Cocoa said.
Alma giggled.
“I live at home,” she said.
Kane sighed and put his hand into one of her coat pockets, then the other. He found keys and a hairbrush and some tissues. He patted her jeans and her sweater but found nothing.
“Hmm, I like that,” Alma said. “Pat me s’more.”
“Crap,” Kane said.
“Try the coat again,” Cocoa said. “Inside pocket, maybe.”
Cocoa was right. There was an inside breast pocket and buttoned inside it was a wallet. All the ID bore an Anchorage address, but folded up and shoved into the change purse was a receipt for a security deposit. Kane read the address off.
“Good detective work,” Cocoa said. “Of course, I already knew where she lived. I’ve driven Alma home many times, haven’t I, Alma? Her and pretty much everybody else who works in the legislature.”
“You’re a scream,” Kane said.
“Yeah, ain’t I,” Cocoa said. He put the cab in gear. Kane put the paper back in the wallet and the wallet back in the pocket.
“Kiss me,” Alma said and passed out against him. He arranged himself on the seat and held her as Cocoa drove.
“Where’d you find her?” Cocoa asked.
“Won her in a raffle,” Kane said.
Cocoa laughed.
“What was she, third prize?” he asked.
“Just drive,” Kane said.
They went over the long bridge between Juneau and Douglas Island and bore to the left along a two-lane lined with condos and apartments. Kane thought about the scene in the bar and the fact that most of those people had to be at work the next day.
Ah, to be young and stupid again, he thought.
Cocoa slowed and turned left. He drove downhill, then turned right into the driveway in front of a small, square, brown house.
“This is it,” he said. “Hers is the downstairs.”
“What downstairs?” Kane said.
“There’s actual beach on the island,” Cocoa said. “These places are built on a slope down to it. Gives everybody a water view. Her door is down the sidewalk there.”
“You know an awful lot about this,” Kane said.
“Like I said, I been driving Alma home for years,” Cocoa said, “more often than not from a bar.”
Kane took the keys from Alma’s pocket, got out of the cab, and walked quietly down the sidewalk. He found a door and tried the most likely-looking key. The door opened. He closed it and walked back to the cab.
“Help me get her inside,” he said.
Cocoa got out and the two of them extracted Alma from the cab and half walked, half carried her into the apartment. They sat her on the couch. She fell over on her side.
Kane thought about all the times he’d been in Alma’s condition.
“I can’t leave her like this,” Kane said.
“You do what you need to do,” Cocoa said. “I’m going back to the cab. Want me to wait?”
Kane looked at him.
“You abandon me here,” he said, “and I’ll hunt you down and kill you like the dog you are.”
Cocoa laughed and left the apartment. Kane picked Alma up, carried her to the bedroom, and laid her on the bed. He took off her boots and sweater and loosened her jeans. Her breathing was shallow and her color wasn’t good.
“You’ve had too much,” Kane said.
He went out to the kitchen, found a big, pink plastic glass, and poured salt into it. He filled it with lukewarm water and carried it into the bathroom. He found a big towel and took it into the bedroom. He got Alma more or less on her feet, wrapped the towel around her neck, and shuffled her into the bathroom. He positioned her in front of the toilet, picked up the glass, and put it to her lips.
“Drink this,” he said.
She drank, then started to struggle. He kept the glass against her lips and poured the contents slowly into her. She fought and gasped and choked. When the glass was empty, he set it down. She stood quietly for a moment, then her eyes snapped open.
“What have you done to me?” she
asked, and vomited. Kane tried to keep her head aimed at the toilet as all the booze she’d drunk and every morsel she’d eaten came back up.
It took a long time. She groaned and slumped against him when she was finished. He wet a washcloth and wiped vomit off her mouth and neck and the tops of her breasts, then walked with her back into the bedroom. Her breathing was stronger and her color was better. He laid her on the bed again, put a blanket over her, and propped a pillow against her back so that she couldn’t roll onto it and drown if she vomited again.
Kane rummaged in the kitchen, found rubber gloves, paper towels, and 409, and cleaned the bathroom as best he could. He knotted everything inside a plastic grocery bag and put it in the garbage. Then he washed his hands, checked on Alma once more, and walked into the living room. He took the $20 bill from his pocket, laid it on the counter, and found some little sticky notes with hearts on them and a pen. He wrote “cab fare” on one of them and stuck it to the bill. He set her keys on top of the note, left the apartment, making sure the door locked behind him, and joined Cocoa in the cab. Cocoa was reading a thick book called Guns, Germs and Steel.
“So,” he said, leering at Kane over the book, “what happened in there?”
“What do you think happened in there?” Kane said. “I poured salt water into her until she barfed.”
“Sweet,” Cocoa said. “I always say, you don’t really know a woman until you’ve seen her puke. Back to the hotel?”
Kane nodded and closed his eyes. Cocoa marked his page, set the book down, and put the cab into gear. They drove off. Neither man said anything as the cab made its way back downtown.
It was nearly 1 a.m. when Kane walked into the hotel.
“Oh, Mr. Kane,” the night desk clerk called. He held up a big, bulky brown shipping envelope. “Someone left this for you.”
Kane walked over, took the envelope, and got into the elevator.
Probably something from Doyle, he thought as the elevator lifted him to his floor. God, do I need some sleep.
In his room, he tore open the envelope and dumped the contents on his bed. It was a large plastic bag. Sealed in the bag was a dead cat, its head attached to its body by only a flap of skin. A note pinned to the plastic bag read, “Leave or it’s you next.”