by Clea Simon
‘I knew,’ he says, with a calm that may have betokened only his shortness of breath, though the way the girl nods, I am drawn to wonder if she sees in it more. ‘I saw him, out there. Waiting.’
‘Out there?’ She looks at him, the question in her eyes.
‘Yeah. In the alley. Dingo never came in,’ says the guard. ‘I knew he was playing a sharp card,’ he shrugs. ‘Hell, I’d have helped him, if he asked. I almost did, that night.’
He stares off into the middle distance again. Were his eyes as sharp as mine, I would think he was seeing the small scrabblers in the wall. Mice and centipedes, as busy in their lives as he once was in his.
‘For old time’s sake,’ he adds, and then he turns to her. ‘It wasn’t Dingo’s fault I got pinched, you know. It was this.’ He brings one hand to his chest. ‘I got too slow. Granted,’ he smiles now, at the memory. ‘We were doing the boss’s work.
‘Sometimes, I wonder about that.’ His voice goes soft again. ‘Why that night. Why me. I know I wasn’t as good an earner as I used to be. I know there were complaints. At any rate, it wasn’t Dingo’s fault. He was a good egg.’ He turns, once again facing the dark.
‘Anyway, he made his bid.’ The big head sinks low, heavy with a grief that is also audible in his voice. ‘I knew when I heard the news. I knew that was it.’
He straightens up and turns toward her, renewed vigor in his voice. ‘That’s why I say I’m lucky to have this job. I’m lucky to be here at all.’
THIRTY-FOUR
By the time the guard leads her to the back door, the girl has peppered him with questions. She has asked him about Dingo, his friend. About his habits and his duties for the man they both have served. She has asked, as well, about the guard’s life – about his failing health. About the risks he had to take, just to keep up. About the bust that seemed so well timed to remove the team’s least efficient member, tie him up for whatever years remained. She hasn’t asked about the justice of such a sentence. Her own family has suffered under the draconian laws, I gather. Besides, she has picked up that this man may not be the best judge of his own life.
‘I’ll bring these back,’ she says, as he chooses one oversized key from the ring he carries. She holds the remainder of the file, as scant as it may be. ‘I don’t want you to get in trouble.’
For a moment, I believe he is going to respond. He is quiet, but the walk downstairs has started him coughing again, and the effort he expends even now has wearied him. But then the moment passes, and he remains silent, even as he leans on the metal door, turning the key just so with a practiced hand.
‘No rush,’ he says quietly, as he pulls the door open. She looks up at him, then, another question forming. But he only shakes his head and smiles, and as if this were answer enough she nods and steps out into the night.
I follow, grateful not to have to attempt that damp passage again. I do not fear death, but I have tasks to complete. I wait, as is my wont, for the moment when the portal has begun to close before racing through, the better to elude pursuit. But as I do, I catch the scent – the bitter bit of sulfur. The matchstick.
I freeze in the doorway, whiskers up.
‘Wait,’ the guard calls, leaning on the door. I use the pause to nose the trestle, where – yes – I find that unburned match.
‘Watch out for your friend here,’ the man says. ‘Some of the boys – well, they can get rough.’
I would bristle at that, were I not otherwise engaged. I am not a pet, nor do I ever want to be a burden to this Care, this girl. But it serves its purpose. The girl reaches for me and, doing so, sees what I have found.
‘Gina,’ she says, as the door latches behind us. ‘I’ve got to warn her.’
She shoves the matchstick into her bag and heads for the street. It is full dark now. Even the moon has sunk, and she does not see as I race alongside her, as she runs toward the docks.
THIRTY-FIVE
‘If it isn’t the gutter rat.’ The barkeep looks up with a smile full of malice. ‘Getting a taste for the fare around here? Looking for a more profitable trade?’
Care has burst through the wooden door and stands blinking in the low light of the ramshackle bar. Custom is thin tonight. Two drinkers whose odor I recognize. I doubt they’ve moved much since we were last here. A pair of toughs who smell of the factory – sweat and dust. They’re the ones the barkeep is performing for. They’ve turned to size the girl up. One of them starts to stand.
‘I’m looking for Gina.’ The girl holds her ground. Stares at the man, who sinks back onto his stool. Turns to take in his companion. ‘You know her. Big girl. Blonde.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ The second man nods, more intent on his drink than on any recreation the barman might suggest. ‘Good ol’ Gina. Not seen her tonight.’
‘Dirty Gina, huh?’ The barman could be talking to himself. ‘She’s a friendly type. Likes to chat.’
Care waits, then pulls out a coin. She can’t have many left – those bills from Gravitch are too large and too conspicuous for such use – but she places it on the rough bar. The man scoops it up and leans in. ‘Gina says she needs to meet,’ he says. Even from my low place, I can smell his breath. ‘Says she found out something about Dingo. Something you need to know. Says she’ll wait for you in the alley by Gravy’s place. Says you’ll know where.’
I don’t like it one bit. But I am a dumb beast, unable to make my displeasure felt, as Care turns to leave. She doesn’t see the vagrant in the corner, whose tattered garb shifted with more than the breeze as she blew in. The rag woman, who shakes her head, a movement so small that I doubt most would notice. But I have and I do what I must, ducking in front of the girl to trip her as she turns to go.
‘Blackie!’ Her foot catches me beneath the ribs, and I go flying. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Ignoring the cruel laughter of the men, she falls to her knees as if to cradle me. But I dart away as if in fear – sheltering by the rag woman’s side. My move was deliberate, although it will not seem so to those observing. But I find myself taken by surprise. The creature beneath those rags is not clean. Far from it, and yet she doesn’t reek of the rotgut the barkeep serves. Nor are the eyes that glance down at me clouded by more than age. She’s been watching the exchange from deep in the shadows, the realization dawns on me. Gathering intelligence, as well as husbanding the warmth from the fire, as close as she’s tolerated.
‘Blackie?’ Care’s voice is limp with hurt as she regards us, wide-eyed, and slowly steps forward.
‘Good kitty.’ A hand as hard as horn rests gently on my back. Her voice, however, is soft. An old lady talking to a cat. ‘He wanted us to meet,’ she says, apparently to me.
‘Watch it, Aisha,’ one of the drunks called. ‘People already say you’re a witch.’
‘You’ve got a smart cat,’ says the ragged woman, ignoring him. ‘He knows who he can trust.’ Her voice, already low, drops to a whisper. ‘And who he can’t.’
I doubt if the men notice the girl’s reaction. The way her head jerks up, startled. She catches herself quickly. Turns back toward me, and then to the door.
‘Have it your way,’ she says. Her voice is a little too loud, and my ears flick back. But I hold my place as she rises to leave.
After Care steps out of the bar, that flimsy door flapping behind her, the rag woman leans on the wall. Manages to stand. She waits until the men at the bar are distracted, laughing over their whiskey about some poor fool they ripped off. Somebody who got beat down. When she slips out of the shack, the door barely moves, and that’s when I follow. Care is waiting, hands on her hips as she peers up and down the street.
‘She knew, you know.’ The rag woman has shuffled close, her voice little more than a whisper. Care doesn’t turn, and I wonder if she hears. ‘She knew,’ says the woman again. ‘Should have, anyway.’
‘Knew what?’ The girl turns to face her, skepticism writ on her pursed mouth. ‘And how do you know?’
‘I saw her.’ The woman att
empts to stand up straight. ‘Saw her when they dropped her off. Dingo helped her.’
This gets Care’s attention, but she’s smart. She waits, and I wait with her.
‘Dingo cleaned up,’ says the woman. ‘After they were done with her.’ A strange rattling comes from beneath her layers. She is laughing, a sad sound.
Care doesn’t respond. There is no response to make.
‘He didn’t like it, what they did. Knew what he’d found though, didn’t he?’ the woman concludes. ‘She should’ve too, once they had her on the floor. Only, why would she risk it? They owed her, once they’d had their fun.’
She starts to move away, back to the bar and her corner of warmth, and Care watches her go. ‘Wait,’ she says, before the woman reaches the door. She runs over to her and digs in her pocket. A hand appears, as grey as those rags, and Care places a small coin in it. It is, I suspect, the last of her store. ‘It’s not much, but if I can help you in any way,’ she says. ‘I find things. Find people.’
The hand with the coin disappears in the rags, but the woman lingers, looking her over with those filmy eyes. ‘Looking for people,’ she says, her voice a low whisper. ‘Sometimes you find trouble instead.’
THIRTY-SIX
The rag woman’s words should be warning enough. Should send the girl fleeing from this city, this life. But she is on a mission, her chapped lips set tight, and nothing about Gravitch’s lair – no hellish odors, no growling beast – will hinder her passage through the waterfront.
She takes what caution she can, I am gratified to note. Pausing by the fire escape, she eyes the building, with its unnatural thrum, and approaches the alley indirectly, skirting the open stone in front. Illuminated by that far streetlight, the passage appears empty, save for a car parked back on the street, its windows dark. The only movement comes from a trash heap, a new deposit near the alley’s end. Some activity, too large for the predations of a rat, shifts the rubbish as we watch, and a groan issues forth.
‘Gina?’ The girl calls and slowly begins her approach. Beneath the sulfurous yellow light the trash ripples. The building beside us hums. ‘Are you there?’
Another groan, and I strike a pose before her that is unmistakable in its focus and attention. Staring at the trash heap, I begin to advance, low to the ground in a hunting stance. That gets Care’s attention, and she follows until she, too, hears the pitiful sound. Until she finds the woman, her face bloody and almost unrecognizable were it not for the familiar effusion of sweat and cheap scent, of male funk and usage.
‘Gina?’ Care hangs back, reminding me once again that she lacks my acuity of smell. ‘Is that you?’
She is a quick study, however, and as soon as she recognizes the woman – the matted gore has not entirely obscured the bleached blonde of her hair – she reaches toward her, pulling her from the filth where she has, apparently, been thrown.
‘What happened?’ She steadies the woman, ignoring the rubbish that sticks to her still.
‘You got my message.’ Gina reaches to brush herself off and almost topples over. As Care reaches for her again, she pulls away. ‘I’m okay,’ she says again, anger doing as much as anything to help her regain her balance.
‘Is this …’ Care pauses. I can see how she struggles to find the words. ‘Were you hurt because of me?’
A laugh. ‘As if,’ she says, wiping her mouth. Her hand comes away smeared with blood. ‘Gravy and the boys always did like it rough. Only, I should have known, shouldn’t I? After what you gave me.’
‘After …’ Care’s teeth worry at her lip, biting back the rebuke she would make. ‘Gina, did you show that paper to someone?’ she asks at last, the effort to keep her voice even makes it flat.
Gina shrugs, wiping her face with her forearm. ‘I thought, maybe, there was more on the page than you told me. I thought, maybe, there was something I could use.’
‘It was just a list of numbers – the case numbers of boys who’d been remanded to work release – and one that might have been code for a shop or a—’
Gina doesn’t answer, and the girl exhales, the full force of what has happened hitting her.
‘You couldn’t—’ She catches herself. Works to keep her voice level. ‘You got someone to read it to you. To read it for you.’
‘I had to know.’ The woman stares off into the street, refusing to meet Care’s eyes.
‘Who did you ask?’ Care’s voice is low, but she cannot hide the tremor.
‘Just—’ The woman shrugs. ‘Just Stinger. He’s the best of them, after Dingo. At least, I thought he was.’
Care’s breathing speeds up. I can almost hear her thinking. Strategizing.
‘And then I had to tell them. Tell him.’ The woman before us says, although the question has not been asked. Her voice tightens up into a whine. ‘He made me send for you. You get that, right?’
Care would respond – would question her further, I believe. Only at the moment the door of the car at the alley’s end opens, and Gravitch steps out. He is followed by two men. The smaller, with a face like a hatchet, has a knife.
Care’s head whips around, her eyes confirming what my ears have already told me. The alley door behind us has opened, and we are not alone. There are other men – Gravitch’s men – coming in from the front of the building as well. We are trapped. I feel my fur start to rise. I will not survive this fight, but I will not run. Not if I can buy her time.
‘Mr Gravitch.’ I do not expect this. She walks up to the little man. She has courage, this girl. She will bluff. ‘We need to talk.’
‘You and me? Our business is over.’ The matchstick moves as his eyes dart. His men are in place, and he turns to go. ‘She’s yours,’ Gravy starts to walk away. ‘Just – clean up my office after. Will you?’
‘Wait,’ says Care. Her voice reveals no fear. ‘I’ve got something to say first. And these gentlemen will want to hear it. That is, if they want to know what really happened to Dingo.’
‘What happened to Dingo?’ Gravy forces a laugh. It sounds like a bark. ‘You killed him, my girl. You’re the one who found him, didn’t you? Gina told us all about it. How you had the papers – the ones your old man stole. Dingo figured it out and tried to get ’em from you and you stuck him. He was a good boy, wasn’t he?’
Gravitch turns to his men, who nod and rumble in agreement.
‘The papers …’ Care falls silent. Her bluff gone. ‘My father,’ she says. Gravitch laughs again. He nods to his men, who begin to move in.
‘We sent your boy for you. Let him go. Thought you might share your findings with him. But you were too smart for that.’ Gravy’s voice is rough with bravado. Loud enough to carry. He’s still speaking as he turns to go. ‘Smart like a gutter rat – a gutter rat with a knife.’
‘But I wasn’t.’ Care speaks again as she takes a step toward Gravitch. ‘It was you Dingo was going to meet over by the Dunstan. I’ve just come from there. Old Terry told me all about it.’
‘What are you talking—’ Gravitch turns back.
She doesn’t let him finish. ‘You tried to clean up but you can’t get rid of all the traces of a body, the signs that someone fell there.’ Her voice speeds up, getting louder, as the men pause to listen. ‘You hid his body in the trash bin. Left him there for days, and then pretended he was out on a job. Washed the alley down after. Your car, too, probably. But you didn’t have your boys with you, did you? You weren’t careful enough. Working at night, in secret. You left things. A tag from the factory floor,’ she says, her hand reaching into her bag. ‘Or something more damning.’
All eyes are on her as she gropes. She blanches, and I freeze in my tracks. The bag. The match. It must have fallen, lost through the hole I kicked in my nightmare frenzy. Lost along with what else, I can only guess. A low growl begins deep in my chest. This will be it. The final battle.
But the light is bad. The men not as observant as I, nor do they know the girl as well. And she is quick. In lieu of the matchst
ick she would present, she draws forth a handful of papers. The pages she has retrieved from the Dunstan, as well the remainder of the file from the hovel, too bulky to have fallen through the tear.
‘These papers,’ she says, as if that were her purpose all along. ‘The ones you hired me to find. Hired me in private, when you realized Dingo didn’t bring them to the meet. Why else would I have brought them with me tonight?’
A low rumble begins, and the big man, the one from the car, reaches for her. She winces, but he only grabs her bag from her shoulder. Rifles through it.
‘No knife here, boss.’ He throws the bag to the ground. I crouch, ready to pounce. But there was doubt in his voice, and she seizes on it. She shakes the papers in her hands.
‘Sure, I showed one page to Gina,’ she says. ‘I didn’t realize you wanted to keep them secret. But now what Terry said makes sense. You told Dingo you wanted to make these safe,’ she repeats, for the better understanding of the men around her. ‘Put them back in the files, where they were supposed to be.’
‘You were covering for yourself,’ says a low voice. The scar-faced man. ‘You and your sloppy ways.’
The big man opens his mouth, then closes it. He, too, waits for an explanation.
‘But why Dingo?’ his colleague asks instead, the sharp features of his face growing soft and muddled in his confusion. They are all watching, waiting, when Gina throws herself against Gravitch.
‘You knew!’ She pounds her fists against his chest. He reaches for her wrists and holds them. Looking over at his flunkies, he waits for their laughter. But they stand still, their faces impassive. ‘You killed Dingo because he was trying to help me.’ She is sobbing now, her voice choked by tears. ‘Trying to help me find my boy.’
‘No.’ Care’s voice is low, but the surprise of it causes the men to turn. Even Gina quiets. ‘No, he had him killed because he was scared.’
Gravitch lets go of one of Gina’s wrists. He reaches toward Care as if he would hold her still. Make her stop. ‘Now, girly, cut your nonsense.’ His voice is low and full of threat.