Potter's Field

by Rob Hart

  “Thanks,” she says, handing me the folders.

  She gets the door open and takes the folders back, steps into the office before stopping and turning. “Are you waiting for us?”

  “I am.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I do not.”

  “Come on and we’ll see what we can do,” she says, stepping inside.

  The office is a small, cramped room, with not much more than a desk, a filing cabinet, and one chair against the wall. No windows. There’s another door, presumably Gunner’s office.

  “I’m Sarah,” she says, extending a small hand. We shake. “What can we help you with today?”

  I’m suddenly struck by how silly this entire endeavor is, but I’m here. May as well see it through. “I want to be a private investigator. And to do that, I need experience. So I wanted to see if Mr. Gunner was looking for an apprentice or an intern.”

  “Intern?” she asks, like it’s a word in a language she doesn’t understand.

  “I’m not too proud to make copies and fetch coffee.”

  Sarah nods, slowly. “This is a new one.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” she says, gesturing toward the chair. “Why don’t you have a seat? Jay will be here in a couple of minutes and we have a light morning, so I think I can get you in for five minutes.”

  “Thanks for that.” I take off my coat, drop it on the chair, and sit. The chair is perpendicular to the desk so I’m facing the filing cabinet on the far wall. Sarah sits at her desk and types at her computer. I feel inclined to chat but don’t want to interrupt her so I sit there in silence.

  After a couple of minutes she says, “Do you live around here?”

  “Right now, up the block. Looking for a new place.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  A few more minutes of silence.

  “What does the triple-A stand for?” I ask.

  “So we’re first in the phone book.” She looks up at me. “Not that I think it matters. I don’t think people even use phone books anymore. But I guess it’s good to be the first one alphabetically?”

  “What kind of guy is Mr. Gunner?”

  “He’s my uncle,” she says. “And he’s a pretty nice guy. But he’s also pretty serious. I honestly have no idea how he’s going to react to you. The reason I’m even letting you meet with him is because I want to see how this plays out.”

  “That’s not encouraging.”

  She gives me a tight smile and goes back to her computer.

  The smile isn’t encouraging either.

  I’m reassessing my game plan when the door swings open and Gunner walks in. He’s a little grayer than in his photo, but still, he looks like the kind of guy you want standing behind you if you’re about to do something challenging, like buy a car or shush someone at the movies. He’s dressed in a white button-down shirt and a pair of slacks with dark, comfortable shoes. He has his cell phone pressed to his ear. He comes in, looks at Sarah, looks at me, then looks back at Sarah, asks, “Appointment?”

  “Walk-in,” she says.

  He looks back at me. “Two minutes.”

  As he hustles into his office, a flock of butterflies puke in my stomach. I rehearse what I want to say in my head but keep on getting the words tangled. This was a bad idea. But I have to start somewhere. Ten minutes later Gunner pokes his head out of his office and says, “Come on in.”

  His office is cramped as the front room. There’s the desk with a laptop and a couple of neat stacks of paper and some framed photos, facing him. A few fancy-pants papers in gold frames on the wall, the content in fancy script. Diplomas or commendations. There are two comfy chairs sitting in front of the desk, and behind it is the window looking out over the bay. The view isn’t nearly as good as the view in the picture on his website.

  We shake, and his hand nearly crushes mine. “Jay Gunner,” he says.

  “Ash McKenna.”

  He gestures toward the seat. I take it as he asks, “What can I do for you?”

  “This is going to sound a little weird, maybe, but I’ve been thinking about becoming a private investigator, and I know you need experience to do that…”

  Gunner puts up his hand. “Let me stop you right there. How old are you, kid?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “And what do you do? What’s your background?”

  My cheeks are flushing. Thinking about that makes them flush more. “Well, I mean, I don’t have an official background. I’ve been working as an amateur private investigator. Finding people, helping people out, stuff like that…”

  “Amateur,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “So, without a license. You know what that is?”

  “Class B felony?”

  He pauses, like he wants to laugh, but also thinks I don’t deserve that reaction. “Yes. But I was going to say it’s a little ridiculous.”

  It’s right about here my heart climbs into my throat.

  “There are two things you need to know from the jump, kiddo,” he says, putting so much emphasis on the final word I feel like I’m shrinking in my seat. “First and foremost, this job is probably nothing like you imagine it. I spend most of my day tailing men cheating on their wives and people trying to put one over on worker’s comp.”

  “Second, and most importantly, this is not a goddamn game, but your tone and your cavalier attitude make it sound like that’s what you think it is. And that right there means you’re not right for it. You think I woke up one day and decided, ‘Oh I’m going to be the next Sam Spade’? No, I did not. I spent twenty years getting my ass kicked in the NYPD. I paid my dues. You want to fight bad guys? Go sign up for the force. You’re young enough you can put in your twenty, get yourself a good pension, and then you’ll be ready to do this kind of work. That little piece of wisdom is so goddamn good I ought to charge you for it, but I won’t because I’m in a good mood. So, take your little fantasy elsewhere, okay kiddo? It’s time to grow up.”

  He leans back in his chair, gives me a minute to absorb the shot on the chin and find my feet again.

  “You have yourself a nice day,” he says with a solemn nod, in a way that sounds like a forced-polite version of ‘fuck off.’

  I get up, take my jacket, my face flushing, palms sweating. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  As I step into the front office I try to avoid Sarah’s gaze, but I can’t. Her eyes are big and soft, her lips pursed, like she just saw a kid get slapped by his mom in public. She mouths ‘sorry’. I nod at her and leave before I get any redder with shame. Hit the button for the elevator but when it doesn’t magically appear, take the stairs down to the ground floor, leave the office, walk until I find a bus shelter, which has a bench, and sit.

  Look out over the harbor, at Manhattan glinting in the sunlight, ferries and tankers drifting across, leaving foam in their wake.

  Wish I had a cigarette.

  A girl walks by sucking down a Newport and I consider asking her for one. Instead I take out the to-do list.

  Find a place to live

  Get a job

  Find Spencer Chavez

  See my mom

  Check on Crystal

  Next to “get a job” I put a question mark. Because now I’m wondering if I need to reevaluate. I guess I should have anticipated that. It was kind of silly. Doesn’t make it sting any less. Not that I need Gunner to like me. Whether or not he does is immaterial. The problem is, I knew what I was going to do with my life. I knew it.

  And after a year of being completely untethered, that felt good.

  Now, I don’t know.

  Maybe this is a fantasy.

  I pull out my phone to check the time. Find I have a text I must have missed while I was getting kicked in the teeth. It’s from Timmy.

  Think I found a lead on the guy you’re looking for.

  That’s something.

  It takes a lot of buses and a lot of walking to find the block where Timm
y wants to meet, where apparently he ran into someone who said they knew Spencer. The whole ride I feel like everyone is staring at me. Like Gunner called each and every person on the bus and now they’re asking, “Why is he still at it with this bullshit?”

  I do my best to ignore it, which means I can’t, really.

  South Beach is mostly suburban with shades of beach community. During the warmer months there’s the smell of salt in the air. Along the beach there’s a boardwalk. Not much to do—it’s not like Coney Island, with rides and food and stuff. This is more parkland, with wide open parking lots and vacant space. A good place for families to play during the day, and for teens to get high and drunk in the evenings.

  The street where Timmy wants to meet is empty, so I stand at the corner and wait. Take in the surroundings. I wasn’t here when Sandy hit but I followed the news. I know a lot of the island got spared but this area was devastated, with it being so close to the water and absorbing the brunt of the surge. Along one side is a row of houses, most of them boarded up. Damage from the hurricane still showing on the exteriors—rotted wood, broken windows, torn-up landscaping. On the right side of the street is one big construction site. Whatever was there—probably more houses—has been yanked down. Everything is fenced in by a big green plywood wall, a backhoe visible over the top. The block feels abandoned, and could very easily stand in as the backdrop in a movie where people are trying to eat each other.

  Every broken house makes me think of a family that’s no doubt been broken by City Hall’s inability to get its shit together and make things right. Exhibit A for why I don’t want to be a cop. I’m not a big believer in systems of government.

  There’s a crunching sound behind me and I turn to find Timmy. He’s not looking great. Much worse than yesterday. He’s shaking a little, I don’t think from the cold, hugging himself. He nods and smiles when he sees me, fighting through it.

  “You’re here,” he says.

  “I am.”

  “Follow me.”

  We walk down the block. Timmy walks ahead of me, head jerking from side to side, not saying anything. I’ve seen Lunette like this, back when she was using. It’s not a fun place to be.

  “So what happened, exactly?” I ask.

  Timmy turns and glances at me. “Saw a guy I know who gets around. I asked him if he knew a guy named Spencer who also does drag. He said he just saw him at a shooting gallery down here.”

  “Thank you for this,” I tell him.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he says. He trails off for a second, and then says, “We haven’t found him yet, and we might not.”

  “Still,” I tell him. “This is better than the nothing I have so far.”

  And it’s going to make me feel a lot better about the ass-kicking I got from Gunner. The shame is dissipating. Now I want to solve this, put together a PowerPoint presentation about it, and then sit his ass down and explain to him that, no, I’m not a kid, and yes, I do fucking know what I’m doing.

  We stop in front of a brick home, still under construction, high off the sidewalk. The top of the front porch feels like the second floor. Post-flood build. There’s a tarp hanging over the living room window, but the top floor looks finished.

  “This is it?” I ask.

  “This is it,” Timmy says. “There are some more we can check out, but we’ll start here.”

  I climb the stairs, grab the fancy handle on the door, give it a squeeze. The door pops open. Step inside the foyer, everything raw wood and insulation. In the living room and kitchen beyond I can see the guts of piping and electrical. These folks did not go with open concept.

  There’s a sound from upstairs, so I make my way up, footsteps echoing off the wood. Find a long hallway with a series of doors, no light. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust.

  I turn to Timmy. “Is there some kind of decorum I should practice here?”

  “Yes, you have to knock three times, bow, and spin. C’mon, go.”

  I head down the hall, peek into rooms. There are mattresses, old food wrappers, used condoms, discarded clothing. No people. Pass another door and hear music playing behind it. Underneath that, people arguing? I can’t really tell. Try to open it but it’s locked. There’s a bathroom. I check inside and immediately regret that, try to erase the sight and smell from my mind.

  There’s one last door at the end of the hallway. It’s ajar. I nudge it open, step into a blank room. Probably a master bedroom. It has a vaulted ceiling but again, everything is exposed.

  Well this one is a dead end. I’m about to turn, to retrace my steps and try to get into the locked room before we move on to the next place, when I hear Timmy say, “I’m sorry, Ash.”

  And then something slams into my back and knocks me to the floor.

  I hit the floor hard. Pain jolts through my bruised ribs and snatches my breath away. I try to stand but something presses into my spine. A knee, I think. My hands are lashed together behind me, hard plastic biting into my skin. Then my ankles are bound.

  Stupid. So stupid.

  I should have known something was off.

  Timmy may be jonesing, but it was more than that.

  He was scared. Maybe a little guilty.

  The pressure comes off my back. I give my hands and legs a tug but they’re completely restrained. Roll onto my back and find Timmy, standing in the corner, head down. Looming over me are two black women.

  The one on the right is tall and thick. She’s got a shock of dark hair, large gold hoop earrings, and a look on her face like she’s about to open a Christmas present. The one on the left is short, thin, body like a dancer, wearing a red wool hat. Her head looks shaved under the hat. She’s glaring at me like I smell bad.

  The two of them each grab me under an arm and pull me to the wall, get me in a sitting position. Timmy shakes his head and rushes out of the room, leaving me alone with them.

  “So let me get this right,” the big woman says. “Your name is Ashley. You do know that’s a girl’s name?”

  “I’m the modern day boy named Sue.”

  She laughs, looks at her partner. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Doesn’t matter, I guess.”

  “Well, my name is Athena,” she says, bending down toward me a little. “And my silent partner over here is Paris.”

  “And you’re what, hired thugs? Nice to see Brick is an equal opportunity kind of guy.”

  Athena’s face goes cold when I say this. It was probably not a smart thing to say. My time in Prague, around two women who handed me my ass a few times over, taught me not to underestimate people based on gender.

  Athena says, “We ain’t his thugs. We his bodyguards. Like the Dora Milaje.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “You don’t read comic books?”

  Now that’s an insult. “Course I read comic books. I mean, not a lot lately.”

  “You a Marvel or DC boy?”

  “Marvel.”

  She huffs. “Then you should fucking know. Dora Milaje are the bodyguards for T’Challa. Black Panther. Motherfucking king of Wakanda. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t know him. White boys don’t read Black Panther.”

  “I don’t have anything against Black Panther…”

  “No, you don’t, but you didn’t read him either, because you can’t see yourself as him” She looks at Paris. “See, this is the problem. Why Black Panther gets canceled. White boys ruin comics cause they ain’t open-minded.”

  Paris nods. “Mm-hm.”

  “I feel like we’re getting off track here,” I tell them.

  Athena snaps out of it. Looks down at me. “Yeah, I guess we are. We have some questions for you. Which you are going to answer, or I’m going to lay my fucking boot into your face. The one we start with is, why the fuck are you looking for Brick?”

  “I’m not looking for him,” I tell her. “I’m looking for a kid named Spencer. I heard Brick ran the show out here and I thoug
ht if I found him, I would find some users, and I could take things from there. In retrospect, it probably wasn’t the best plan.”

  “You damn right it wasn’t,” she says. “Brick don’t fuck around. Especially not when it come to his business. Which is why you’re going to tell me the whole motherfucking truth. Because we both know there’s more to it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” she asks, her voice taking on a high-mocking tone. She looks to Paris and says, “He wants to know what I mean.”

  Paris shrugs. Without looking at me, Athena steps forward and places the toe of her foot on my balls. Presses down. Pressure builds until a dull ache radiates through my stomach. I’ve got another inch or two before we hit the danger zone. I try to back away but there’s no place to move.

  “What I mean is, you work for that faggot on the Lower East Side, don’t you?”

  Ah fuck.

  I’m starting to think Ginny hasn’t been entirely honest about the reason he has me looking for Spencer. A year ago she was at war with other district leaders from around the city. I figured that had been settled, but this might be the start of something else. If they know I’m associated with her, there’s no use in lying.

  “I do, but honestly, I don’t give a fuck about Ginny or her agenda. All I know is there’s a kid missing, and he might be in trouble, and he has a family that’s looking for him. My loyalty begins and ends with them.”

  Athena takes her foot off my balls and nods. I think maybe I’ve gotten through to them, so I push my luck.

  “Was it one of you following me in Manhattan last night?” I ask.

  Athena nods toward Paris. “My girl is usually light on her feet. I’m a little surprised you made her.”

  “I’ve got some experience with that kind of thing.”

  Athena sighs, looks to Paris. “You think he telling the truth?”

  Paris shrugs. “I’m not psychic.”