Nica of the New Yorks

by Sue Perry

  "I see," she said. And maybe she did.

  A train pulled in. The kids and their adult boarded and Kelly Joe broke his own spell with a waterfall of minor chords. He does that sometimes, releasing us back to our lives.

  "Thank you for your offer." My bench companion slipped my address scrap into her tote. She caught the train and I headed for the exit. It was barely three miles. I would walk home.

  I passed Kelly Joe humming into his fret board. "See you soon," I said. He nodded in rhythm or reply.

  I would have stayed longer, had I known how few times he would play there.

  8. AGAIN? ALREADY?

  As I approached the front stoop of the Julian, Leon the feline cockroach scurried down the stairs and away. Had I spooked him? Unlocking the building's front door, I remembered that Kelly Joe had mentioned a visitor. I'd put it out of my thoughts because I feared disappointment about my visitor's identity—which shows you my lonesome state of mind.

  I opened the locked door at the end of my hall and spied a piece of paper between my door and its jamb, wedged there by someone who got past two locked doors.

  Skeeny, read the blocky letters on the outside of the page. I shrieked. Ben Taggart, my first and third ex–husband, had been here—Skeeny was his latest nickname for me. Kelly Joe had been right when he told me to go home. Why hadn't I listened to him? Following instructions has never been my thing but sometimes I do see its value.

  Inside my apartment, the cat food dish was empty and the water bowl was dry. Leon had been inside today. In fact, he had beat me inside now and perched on the kitchen windowsill. I replenished his supplies and he listened intently to the sound of food morsels settling in the bowl but he kept staring out the window. Whatev, kitty.

  I opened Ben's note and found joy peace hope in just two words: It's me. Ben was alive and nearby and sober enough to find me.

  Celebration is more fun with a partner. Leon wouldn't come to me so I went to him. When I reached to scratch his jaw, I got a view of the alley. Someone sitting on the fire escape. I ran to pull my shoes on. Leon jumped down in his sinuous way and trotted to his food.

  Outside, I made lots of noise as I stumble–raced up the alley to the fire escape. Note to self, it doesn't save time when you skip tying your laces. I leaped to grab the first rung of the fire escape and hoisted myself up, which one does while practicing expletives.

  Ben sat sleepy–eyed and grinning at my arrival. "When'd you get a cat?" he greeted me.

  I flopped next to him on the landing. From here I enjoyed a vista: a glimpse of empty space above the Hudson River. "Yesterday. When'd you get to New York?"

  "Same. Yesterday."

  "How's life as a Ken?" Ben had assumed a new identity, Ken Harris, and fled Los Angeles to duck harassment by the dirty cops who I called Mathead and Scabman.

  "I'm going by Kenneth now. You wouldn't believe how many people made Barbie jokes."

  "Yeah. I would."

  "You're the cynic, you would know." He put me in a toy headlock and gave my scalp a light nougie. "The return of fuzzhead, I see."

  The headlock position made the world spin. Whoa. The Frame Travel plus barfing had me woozy unto delirious. "Want to come inside for some water?"

  "Don't make any special fuss for me."

  "I'm big time dehydrated and need to guzzle a gallon or else." In fact, I was going to pass out soon. That's how things are for me. I ignore the little warning signs and that gives me stamina then kaboom and I'm flattened.

  I made it to the front stoop, then stumbled. Twice. Ben put an arm around my waist. "You must need a lot of water."

  When Ben entered my apartment, Leon fled to the bathroom doorway and watched as Ben sat me on the couch, delivered me a coffee mug of water, then tossed me a beat–up flip–top. "Hernandez says call him. Number 3 on speed dial." Ben went to forage in the kitchen. "I'm hungry. You?"

  "More water would be good."

  "Make the call, he's been stressing." Ben opened cupboards, surveyed my sparse supplies, filled my saucepan with water in lieu of a pitcher. He brought it to me just as Leon was braving the journey from bathroom to couch. Startled, Leon's claws made cartoon skedaddling noises on the beat–up wood floor.

  By then, I had figured out how to make a call on the antique phone, so greeted Hernandez with a laugh.

  "Nica, it's good to have your laugh back in my head," Hernandez said.

  "You sound tense. What's the latest? Your girls enjoying Spain?"

  "I believe they are. They were homesick at first but they've stopped calling so much."

  "Sounds like a good sign." I joined him in a sigh. "Did you change your cell? I don't recognize this number."

  "I have a separate phone for Ben's calls. And that's a good thing because those cops came to my house. They're asking questions at the Henrietta, too."

  "Mathead and Scabman? Crap. What pests. What did they want?"

  "Said they were looking for Ben –"

  "Again? Already?" I thought I'd convinced their captain that Mathead and Scabman should stop pursuing Ben. And me.

  "Patti helped do some digging." By Patti, he meant Detective Patti Henson, his new amour. We all met this summer on a child abuse case. "Detective Fitzpatrick is no longer with the L.A.P.D." Detective Fitzpatrick was Mathead. "And as for Detective Moriarty –"

  "No way? That's Scabman's real name?" He couldn't be further from Sherlock Holmes' arch nemesis.

  "It is. He's on indefinite medical leave after a fifty–one–fifty."

  If I could whistle, here would have been a great time for it. In California, 5150 is a forced hospitalization because someone is a threat to himself or others. "Guess I'm not the only one who got the creeps when he was nearby. I know I don't have to tell you to watch your back."

  "That's a given. You find any bad construction out there?" With this, Hernandez referenced the reconnaissance work that we had done for Anya and Anwyl around southern California. Back home last summer, we'd uncovered evidence that Warty Sebaceous Cysts controlled a southern California restoration and remodeling firm, Digby Construction. Digby projects would somehow contribute to freeing Maelstrom.

  "I didn't think to look. We know Digby is only in So–Cal."

  "No reason to assume Digby is the only construction company involved."

  "Damn. You're right, of course." I felt as clever as Wiley Coyote. "I'll start checking."

  "I've got intel that might help you." While Hernandez caught me up on his investigations, Ben delivered a plate of sliced fruit, crackers, and cheese, then ate most of it. He removed one of my shoes. Jackpot, foot massage! Wrong. Ben dangled the lace at Leon.

  My phone conversation ended shortly after I asked Hernandez how things were going with Patti. "Some things to work through," was all he would say.

  Ben discovered the Murphy bed and lowered it until it hit the desk.

  I gestured toward the kitchenette. "You have to move the desk in there. I usually just sleep on the couch." Always take the option that requires less housework. Daily chores are a toothache in the mouth of life.

  "That sounds like you, Neeks—I'm sorry! It slipped out!"

  Neeks. I jerked when I heard Ben's old nickname. Warty Sebaceous Cysts had stolen it from my thoughts, and ruined it—hearing Neeks reminded me of Warty Sebaceous Cysts, so strongly that I had begged Ben never to use it again and he switched to calling me Skeeny.

  But the nickname was only ruined if I allowed it to be. To hell with the Cysts. (Which was much easier to say when they were nowhere near.)

  "Go ahead and use 'Neeks' again."

  "Okay!" Ben did a cheerleading rah thing and flopped onto the Murphy bed's liberated mattress. "Not bad," he rated the comfort level. He pulled a plate of food in front of him, patted the space beyond it. I joined him on the mattress, and as I spread spicy chutney on the Brie, Ben murmured, "Don't react." Leon hovered on the farthest corner of the bed. Ben tossed a pinch of cheese and Leon's purr reverberated through the mattress.


  Sometimes there's nothing better than a little family time—that special warmth that comes from being with people who will never hurt you on purpose.

  "I assume Hernandez told you that Mathead is out of L.A.P.D. but still looking for you."

  "Yeah. And You. Maybe she was after you all along. She's connected with the incident at my apartment, right?"

  The incident. The day Warty Sebaceous Cysts killed Ben's houseguest then obliterated Ben's conscious memory of the events, leaving only terror behind.

  Ben knew I had explanations I wasn't sharing but he didn't grill me. He trusted me to tell him when the time was right. No signs of Ben the hustler king today. Just my Benny, open unto exposed, trusting unto at risk, friendly unto a high point of anyone's day.

  "This recovery's going well for you," I stated the obvious.

  "Just took a three–month chip." But it wasn't the time sober—although every minute that Ben didn't use heroin added other minutes to his life. Something had clicked. He seemed to be embracing, not disdaining, this sobriety.

  Ben stared behind me. "New York has a book shortage?" He was looking at the built–in bookshelf, empty save for my copies of Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days.

  "Long story."

  "Always is." He smiled like he was remembering some of them, rolled on his back, wiggled his fingers. Leon stared with feline skepticism. "If Leon had eyebrows, one of them would be raised." After one more futile finger wiggle, Ben sat up. "I never had a worry problem."

  "I noticed."

  "You know what I've had?" His seriousness surprised me. "A dreams problem. I have so many that they tangle and turn into schemes. I'm working on taking them one at a time."

  Which felt like my first discovery of Leon's scars. I sat up and the room twirled from residual effects of Travel or my surging complex of emotions. I grabbed my shoes, only one of which had a lace.

  Ben grinned at the mismatched shoes. "Nica indecisive? Is this a first?"

  "It's an experiment. Come on—I want you to hear this musician I discovered in the subway."

  Kelly Joe had not happened into my life accidentally, but I couldn't explain that to Ben. When and how would I explain the Frames to Ben? He needed to know. Deserved explanation.

  Ben grabbed me in a bear hug. "Neeks! Come back!"

  He never tells me to focus. I appreciate that.

  9. TELL ME ABOUT THE BRAINWASHING

  "Nica?"

  When a voice you don't recognize says your name, it can take a while to hear it. In this case, it took the seconds required to pass two front stoops and to ponder Leon. When Ben and I left my apartment, Leon was inside, but now the cat had appeared at the corner ahead of us, which meant he left the apartment by the fire escape, went up the alley and rounded the corner. He did this every time I left the apartment and whichever way I headed, he showed up at that corner. Maybe my step varied when I intended to turn east rather than west and he detected the difference. Leon watched us for a moment then did his cockroach scurry down some basement steps.

  "Nica?"

  Behind us was the young woman from the subway, the one who sobbed while Kelly Joe played. "Hello," she nodded to Ben. "My name is Lilah Strongfellow."

  "Good to see you again, Lilah. This is my brother, Ben." I always introduce Ben as my sibling, it's a much closer fit to our relationship than first and third ex–spouse. "I'm taking him to hear Kelly Joe play. Want to come along?"

  "The musician wasn't there earlier. I've checked twice today. Every time I hear that music, I am so drawn to hear it again." Lilah matched our rapid strides and raised us one. After a few steps, I was straining to keep up with her.

  Lilah said, "About your offer to help. Thank you. I could use some."

  "I'm gonna take off," Ben announced. He gave Lilah a flash–o'–sun smile, squeezed my far shoulder in a sideways hug, and veered across the street and away. How much of my life had I spent watching Ben veer away from some plan of mine?

  Lilah said, "I'm sorry to intrude."

  "Not at all. Brothers come and go." Not to mention addicts, recovered or no.

  "Brothers." She lost a battle against tears.

  "You didn't wait for the music."

  Even without the tear tracks on her cheeks, her smile would have been sad. "I don't know how to stop crying, these days." We walked a while.

  "Ever since –" I prompted.

  "I have a brother, too. We're twins. He's the reason I need help. Someone is brainwashing him."

  "Hold up." I sat her at a café table and clutched a chair to hide my dizziness. Today's Travel was still affecting me. "Let's stop and chat for a bit. What can I get you?"

  When our drinks and I got back to the sidewalk table, Lilah was checking her makeup in a mirror decorated like a rose. What would it be like to be a girlie girl? Sitting beside one was as close as I would ever get. "What's your brother's name?" I asked.

  "His name is Sam."

  I had her type his work and home addresses into my phone.

  "'Sam' is short for 'Samuel'?"

  "No. 'Sam' is short for 'Samson'." She watched me put the names together and sighed. "And 'Lilah' is short for 'Delilah'. Yes, our parents named us Samson and Delilah Strongfellow. They were good parents otherwise."

  "Your word is what I'm taking for that. Tell me about the brainwashing." I opened my note–taking app.

  "Everything went wrong after Sam met some people at a bar in Brooklyn. He's been on a search for new career paths so he talks with people about what they do. He's always been friendly. Long story short, he met some people and they invited him to a meeting. They claimed to belong to a group dedicated to improving the world while having fun. It sounded like a social club with a do–good orientation." She frowned at her latte.

  "Sounded like—but wasn't?"

  "Every time he came back from one of their meetings, he was more angry—at things that previously amused him. He began to take everything personally. If an old man walked slowly, the man must want to make Sam late. My brother developed an us–versus–them attitude."

  "Where does this social club meet?"

  She pointed to my phone screen. "That second address is where the club used to meet. The club moved or shut down about the same time that Sam quit his job and stopped living at the first address."

  "Does he have a new job? Perhaps he moved in with a new girlfriend?"

  This got the tears moving. "I don't know. He stopped confiding in me." She took a long sip, then slid the saucer away like it was the latte that made her cry. "He closed his bank accounts. However, his cell phone is still in use in all five boroughs."

  "You may be a better sleuth than I am." I didn't ask how she got that information but doubted her method was legal. "Sam has been snowed into joining a cult, is that your guess?"

  "That's what I need you to find out. The police don't care unless there's a corpse. Here is all the information I've been able to assemble." From her tote she removed an accordion folder. She watched me paw through the photocopied phone receipts, confidential personnel files, handwritten notes, and photographs—of Sam, of buildings. She asked, "How much do you charge?"

  "Two hundred a day plus reimbursement for expenses." Lilah did some arithmetic in her head then nodded. I could have charged more but I get by, thanks to small inheritances that cover my basics. I didn't need to gouge somebody who had to do math before she could accept my fee. Anyway, I liked Lilah. "If that rate becomes a problem we can renegotiate."

  "Thank you so much. I am so lucky I ran into you."

  If Jenn were here, she would say there are no accidents, no luck. I can't decide whether knowing about the Frames makes me more—or even less—a believer in Fate. But it felt significant that Lilah was also a regular, listening to Kelly Joe play. Like I was meant to help her.

  We resumed our pilgrimage to Columbus Circle and I said, "I have one stipulation before I take your case. You can't look for Sam. This has to be my case, not ours. I work alone. You okay
with that?" I resisted adding a shweethaht. I don't know why I went mid–century hard–boiled, but my gut told me that if I let Lilah stay involved, she'd step all over any tracks there might be.

  Lilah stopped walking. "But I have to–"

  I pretended I was Kelly Joe or a statue and waited without saying more.

  "Very well. I accept your condition." She resumed walking without looking to see if I followed.

  "You mentioned the police. Have you filed a missing persons report?"

  "I did but they were able to contact Sam so by their definition, he's not missing." After every couple syllables, she checked to see how I was taking this news. "I should have told you that sooner, I know."

  "I get why you didn't. Any idea what Sam told the cops?"

  She shook her head.

  Columbus Circle subway station was devoid of musicians. The subway platform felt bereft. A train approached and I got ready to board it.

  "I'll stay here for a bit," Lilah said.

  My train left Lilah on the platform and I felt a version of survivor's guilt. I knew I would see Kelly Joe again—he had a training list from Anya and no one wants to disappoint Anya. Lilah had no such certainty.

  10. FLANNEL SHEETS ON A WINTER NIGHT

  I intended to take the subway to Brooklyn to check out the former location of Sam Strongfellow's social club. That required two transfers and I botched them—I went the wrong direction on the damn M train then undercompensated and wound up back where I started. By that time I needed sky, so I fled the subway and detoured west to catch sunset on the Hudson River.

  I became aware of a baritone hum behind me, reviewed recent memories and discovered the sound had followed me for about a block. I turned and let Kelly Joe catch up.

  A bus went by and for the bizillionth time, Anya's lanyard prickled a mild warning. About what, I didn't know and had ceased to care. The lanyard gave me so many alerts these days that the warnings were meaningless. I had to ignore them so as not to be driven mad by them.

  I wore the lanyard stretched bandolier style across my shoulder and torso. Every day I wore it under my clothes, because Anya said it was important for me to do so. Anya also said she would teach me the lanyard's uses, but complications ensued and I remained untaught.