I Wish I Was Like You

  “Look at you, giving a shit about something,” said Lee Todd, trailing after me.

  “What the fuck?” I said again. “Were you on the bus?”

  “How would I know?” he said.

  “What the hell is going on? Why hasn’t Daisy exposed this guy’s fraudulent ass? Why is he still editing Boom City?”

  “All good questions,” he said. “I guess you can stand on the street and scream about it, or you can find the answers.”

  “Look, gumshoe, get out of my face and leave me alone,” I told him.

  Daisy lived in Portland. Try as I might I couldn’t get there. It seemed any place or person outside the ‘greater metro area’ was beyond my capacity. So much for ever seeing my parents again. I ruminated. I drank. I wondered how to find the answers I needed. I thought about murdering another person, and in the next moment I was standing before a door.

  When I entered Carl’s apartment the odor of gym socks and rotten pizza almost knocked me off my feet. I held my nose and kicked a few takeout food cartons aside.

  In the bathroom the shower stall was rampant with mold. The kitchen was unthinkable. I pushed open the bedroom door with one foot and stepped into a jungle of clean and dirty clothing. The only clear spot was in the center of the bed where Fucky-Face lay snoring, naked. This was surprising but not as surprising as the sight of Eve crouched on top of the bed, her gray-white face pressed against the face of the sleeping woman.

  Some dead people would have run away. Others would have evaporated. Here’s what I did. I tapped Eve on the shoulder and asked, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  She studied me with bloodshot eyes. Her hair was swept up in a French twist. “Mind your own business,” she said.

  “Who did your hair?” I asked. Not that I cared much but now, for the first time, I wondered what I looked like. I knew how I saw myself but how could I be sure Lee Todd and Eve didn’t see me with my face blown off? Then I remembered, I’d seen Cobain’s face; I’d recognized him.

  The killed came back intact while the self-murdered slithered like black oil across rooftops and between cracks in the pavement. It seemed to be the only rule in my current state.

  “I like it this way,” Eve said. “Why are you wearing false eyelashes?”

  “Really?” I was startled and then pleased. “I always wanted to but I didn’t have the nerve. Are they flattering?”

  “Are you serious?” she asked. She turned her attention back to Fucky-Face. “Can you believe this woman, this bitch? We were friends. I told her everything. She got a position at Microsoft on my recommendation! We used to go out for cocktails at Happy Hour. I kept trying to figure out who was undermining me and making up lies. Who was telling Carl I didn’t read the slush pile and I didn’t have back-up features ready in case an article fell through? I was crying on her shoulder for months and she was screwing the publisher. Bitch!”

  Eve reached out to the nightstand. She hoisted a fat crystal ashtray and dumped its contents on the floor. She raised it above her head with both hands, aiming for the center of Fucky-Face’s throat.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I warned her.

  “Yes, I do. And then I want to push Carl out a window, and staple Nate’s mouth shut.”

  She raised the ashtray again.

  “Eve, I know you’re pissed off but this isn’t going to work. You kill Fucky-Face and pretty soon she’ll be prancing around here in stilettos and a push-up bra. You’ll never get rid of her.”

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  I mulled this for about five seconds. No way was I going to confess. I didn’t know what Eve would do if she knew I’d murdered her.

  “Because you killed me and I’m still here,” I said. It seemed like the right time. And then it all fell away, everything I’d believed up to that point.

  Eve was shocked. She lowered the ashtray and let it drop on the bedspread among the underwear and magazines and sex toys.

  “What are you talking about?” she said. “I didn’t do anything to you. I read about your suicide in the Times.”

  “No,” I said. Keeping my voice steady, choosing my words carefully. “I told you Nate was a fraud. You told Daisy and Carl, and then you shot me in my apartment.”

  Fucky-Face let out a chortling noise, a blocky snore, and rolled onto her side, still sleeping. Eve moved closer to her.

  “Why would I do that? How? I’ve never owned a gun in my life,” she said. “How would I shoot you? Who’s Daisy?”

  Clueless. Absolutely without a clue. I was glad I’d killed her.

  “Daisy’s the reporter whose essay I stole. You called her with the story about Nate. You told her to investigate…”

  “No,” she said. “Carl. I only told Carl.” We stared at one another, puzzling out the odd turn of events.

  “Carl killed me?” I asked.

  “And me,” said Eve. “To save his crummy little newspaper. If anyone found out about Nate, it would ruin Carl. The paper’s finally taking off and this would make it a joke, a bad, stupid joke.” Absentmindedly she reached over, pinched Fucky-Face’s nose, and held it shut.

  “Eve, I thought you were a murderer.”

  “Not until today,” she said.

  Fucky-Face’s mouth opened and Eve popped a rolled-up sock in it. We watched Fucky-Face’s pallor turn pale blue and then purple. Fine pink lines crept beneath the skin around her eyes. At last she stopped breathing. And for the second time since I’d known her Eve threw back her head and laughed.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Given all of our options, I wouldn’t have chosen Rosebud as a place to celebrate. The Comet was more my style. All right, that’s a lie. I was one of those people who called it the Vomit because of the beer and puke scent ingrained in the wood counters, tables, and floor. To me the Comet Tavern was a stinky haven for locals obsessed with authenticity.

  Always a creature of habit, Eve insisted on her old haunt. And since it was available she chose her favorite table in the corner.

  “I can’t even tell you how much I hate the floral décor in this joint,” I said. “How can you stand it?”

  She turned to her left and considered the wallpaper. She turned to her right and considered the curtains and cushions.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “You’re quite right. This is ghastly.”

  “What, you never noticed before?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I came here for a pastry and coffee, and to read the freelance submissions. Nobody bothered me.

  “Holy shit, Eve,” I said. “Come on. We’re going to B & O.”

  The black tiles and delicate coffee cups gave me a tiny flutter of excitement, not a feeling but the memory of a feeling, a caffeine frisson. The slightly shabby European atmosphere was pleasing to me and, apparently, to my guest. Ditto the crisp white linen tablecloths and napkins, the sturdy silverware and the marvelous view of a bustling corner on Capitol Hill.

  “How long has this been here?” Eve asked.

  “Forever,” I told her. “You should get out more.”

  “Everybody says so.”

  “I have to ask you one thing before I visit the ladies’ room,” I said. “Listen…”

  “What do you do in the ladies’ room?” she asked.

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me,” she insisted.

  “Talk to people,” I said. “I talk to people while they’re looking in the mirror. I listen to what they’re thinking, when they think they’re not thinking. Staring into their own eyes, drying their tears, convincing themselves tomorrow will be better—it’s the best time, when they’re vulnerable.”

  “You can tell what people are thinking?” She blinked.

  “Forget I said anything,” I told her. “I’m sure you have talents of your own. Maybe you can fly or something.”

  “Listen,” she said. “Are you sure you didn’t kill yourself?” She cast a longing smile at a
plate of spanakopita and sighed.

  “Did you kill yourself?” I asked. I was playing a dangerous game and I knew it, counting on her not to figure out what really happened under the bridge in Fremont.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was trying to drink myself to death, and I died. I was in a blackout. Maybe Carl bought me my last drink. Or maybe he followed me and finished me off. The details don’t make much difference, do they?”

  “Your friends and family might want to know the truth.”

  “Now you credit me with having friends. You’ve changed.” She reached out and nimbly picked a triangle of spanakopita off a woman’s plate. She bit into it and nodded. “This is good. You should try it.”

  “Smoking’s fine with me,” I told her. “Cigarettes, weed, coffee, and the occasional glass of wine.” I thought of Vaughn and realized I hadn’t tried to see him since I died. Poor Vaughn. He probably discovered my rotting corpse and called the police. Did he think I’d offed myself out of a sense of failure? Did he think I felt guilty about the profile and review I botched?

  “The scenery’s changing,” said Eve. Her gaze was turned toward Malstrom’s Market across the street, a little convenience store where I used to buy single cigarettes when I was broke.

  “Yeah, some objects move,” I replied sarcastically. I was really wishing I hadn’t found her in Carl’s apartment.

  “No, this is strange,” she said. “In the traditional sense. Try staring at one spot for a minute. Sit perfectly still and try to watch one thing.”

  I started thinking of ways to ditch her. But for the moment I indulged her and directed a steady gaze at a telephone pole on the far corner of the intersection. Rusted staples and bits of paper ran from knee height to about five feet, the remains of posters city workers had torn loose and thrown away.

  Nothing happened for a minute but then I blinked and a small flyer appeared, pinned to the pole about four feet off the ground. I flinched and Eve laughed.

  “You see?”

  “What the hell was that?” I asked.

  “You tell me,” she said. “You’ve been here longer than I have.”

  I didn’t know what it was and I didn’t like it.

  “Have you noticed sometimes it’s afternoon and when you go somewhere else it’s night?” she said.

  “Time passes,” I said, sarcastic again and aware of how many of my attitudes were a defense against things I didn’t like or couldn’t get.

  “Time ‘passes’ in jumps and starts,” she said. “Sometimes it flickers and does a fast-forward like a VCR.”

  “Quit fucking with me or I’m leaving,” I said.

  “I’m not causing the phenomenon,” she said. “I only thought I’d mention it. In case there’s something you want to do. Better do it soon.”

  She winked at me. It was the scariest thing I’d seen since she laughed while killing Fucky-Face.

  When I parted company with Eve she was boarding the #43 headed to the Arboretum, a gushing pile of gardens along the shore of Lake Washington. I’d only visited the place once. Like every other thing in the northwest, the Arboretum was picturesque, its real beauty somewhat ruined by too many quaint touches. I didn’t ask Eve what she would do when she arrived. All I wanted was to be alone, to wander for a while and then track down the one person with a good reason to murder me.

  Carl wasn’t home. Fucky-Face’s body was gone. Likewise the detritus stinking up the apartment last time I visited. Every surface, from the kitchen floor to the bathroom sink, was immaculate and shining. This could not have been Carl’s doing. It was a professional job.

  On the living room table in a cardboard box I found a pile of coupons. Not exactly coupons, more like IOUs from advertisers settling bills with freebies. Apparently Carl accepted these trades as payment, the kind only he benefitted from. There were two from a bar and grill called Toffy’s, three blocks from Carl’s apartment. I figured Toffy probably used the barter system a lot.

  I was right. Tucked into a half-circle booth in the back, Carl was eating clam chowder and a halibut sandwich, and reading the Rocket. He had a pint glass of ale. I noted the vacant seat across from him, slid into the booth and made myself comfortable.

  “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re such an asshole,” I said to the side of his face. “Why don’t you drown yourself in your chowder?”

  He read a paragraph in the paper and chuckled. I noticed his blond hair was cropped short. It reminded me of someone.

  “Doesn’t matter how you wear your hair,” I said. “You’ll always be an asshole.”

  “Yo! You look like you could use another pint, dude.”

  Nate held a glass of ale in each hand. He was beaming with boyish fun and stupidity. His close-cropped auburn hair made the two look like fraternal twins. When Nate slid into the booth I moved over and sat between them.

  “Thanks, dude!” Carl beamed back at him.

  “What’s up with the hippies?” Nate asked with a nod toward the Rocket.

  “Same old,” said Carl. “Jesus, these guys are just, these guys are doomed! The Stranger’s taking all their business and they don’t even see it, they don’t have a clue. It’s just, it’s just crazy!”

  “They’ll sell, if they’re smart,” Nate said. “Let some Midwest weekly absorb the whole thing.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Carl. “Yeah. Hey, this chowder’s the best! You should order food. It’s on me.”

  Nate shifted in his seat and grinned. I marveled at how deftly he played this role. I’d given him all of my petty observations of Carl and the Boom City staff, and Nate (or whoever he was) had constructed a perfect dude. He had the flinty intelligence of a boy wonder and the insouciance of a kid brother. He fit the part Carl wanted him to play; he was exactly what Carl wanted him to be.

  I remembered how Nate had sidled up to me at Ileen’s, a virtuoso grifter adapting to his target. I was alone and then suddenly he was there, somehow both obvious and unobtrusive. Where had he come from? I wondered if he had seen me and scoped out my situation, my advantage. For all I knew he might have been following me for days before he found the right moment to create our ‘accidental’ meeting. He might have judged me to be an easy way into a job he really wanted.

  Or had the whole stupid joke occurred naturally? Had he seen me, hooked up with me, listened to my idea for a mean prank, and run with it? His animal grace, his good looks bought his way in. He was brash and cute and a little bit snotty. Everybody made way for him. Maybe he decided to go along as far as the joke would take him. If no one questioned his articles, his sources, or his intentions, he could do as he pleased. Right now he was playing the perfect asshole, for Carl’s amusement.

  Nate raised his hand. He called to the waitress.

  “Yo, mama!”

  This made Carl double over with laughter. When he recovered he shook his head, one of those ‘boys will be boys’ acknowledgments.

  “Yeah, can I get a bowl of the chowder?”

  “On the house,” Carl reminded her. “It’s on the house. Ask the manager. I’m the publisher at Boom City. It’s on the house.”

  The waitress regarded both of them with contempt bordering on violence. She walked away without saying a word. Her back and the way she slouched at the counter said she’d like to shove a bowl of steaming chowder up Nate’s nose.

  “Wow, dude, the service here is the worst,” he said.

  “Great food, though,” Carl said.

  “Food’s okay, service deserves a one-star review, if you ask me. I can assign one of the minions…”

  Ah yes. It made sense, Nate trying to take over Steve’s informers. I wondered if any of the minions had defected. Nate couldn’t offer them a job, or even a mention. Their need for recognition was at war with their need for discretion, and only Steve understood this. A listing in the masthead would have been thrilling but a public display might blow their cover and get them fired from their day jobs.


  Knowing how precarious their position was, Nate could easily control them. He could destroy them if he wanted. In his new capacity as Eve’s replacement he could steal the minions from Steve and use their gossip any way he liked. How could they say no to extortion? Nate could tell the world who they were and what they had done to their employers, co-workers, and friends. He would never coddle them as Steve had. He would ruin them and make them hate themselves even more.

  “Nah, come on, don’t review Toffy’s. They advertise with us,” said Carl. “They do business with us.”

  “They do business with you,” I said. I knew he didn’t share those IOUs with anyone except Nate. They probably ate lunch for free every day while the rest of the paper’s staff scraped by on minimum wage sandwiches, at least the employees who didn’t have trust funds.

  “The advertiser’s king,” said Carl. He gave Nate an uneasy look.

  “I thought the reader was king,” said Nate.

  I was close and listening, but Carl was tough to read. His thoughts skittered and disappeared like cats, then jumped up out of the darkness and ran away. He had done terrible things, worse things than shooting an ex-employee in the face with one of his father’s unregistered handguns; worse than wrapping Fucky-Face in cellophane and handing her over to his father’s personal assistant for disposal in a Bremerton construction site.

  Carl had traveled the world. His stories were a jungle of real events and anecdotes, false and true starts. Back roads flashed by at night, redwoods and fir trees crowded the edges of memory, shadows looming, a naked man hammering away in the trunk and screaming for mercy, the blood-stained fur of a white Labrador soaking up mud, someone named Kip running toward a lake in the rain…

  “Tell me about the festival, the festival chick, the chick you’re writing about,” said Carl.

  “She’s no chick,” Nate told him. “She’s about forty.”

  “Okay, okay, what’s the, you know, what’s the deal?”

  “Charlotte Franklin,” said Nate.

  I recognized the name. She was a real person. My guess was, he occasionally chose actual subjects so the game seemed less risky, more manageable. Anyone investigating would have to wade through a lot of material to find the verifiable lies.