Skinner Luce

by Patricia Ward

  In the elevator, her Service phone bleeps a text inside her bag. She ignores it, waving off Marcie’s curious expression. “Just a med reminder,” she says. “Antibiotics from a cold last week.”

  “That sucks.”

  She checks the message on the way back to the supply room. It’s just a routine scheduling, not a last-minute replacement, which would have entailed a call from a sentry. She’s on for nine p.m. Plenty of time to get home, eat, and power-doze for a few hours.

  “How is your day going?” Mrs. M. inquires.

  “Great,” she replies, stuffing the phone in her bag, and in that moment, she actually means it.

  SHE COMES IN AT three a.m., rings Bernie on Skype to check in. He looks misshapen on the screen, his fat face looming over the camera. Maybe Julian dicked him over on his first cut, because he doesn’t look any better at all. He licks his lips once, then again, slow and suggestive.

  “In your dreams, baby,” she says tiredly. “Come on, Bernie. By my tally I’m at 183.”

  “And you would be …” he leans forward, dragging it out, eyes narrowed. “Correct,” he sighs. “How’s it feel to be over halfway?”

  “I’m not counting my chickens.”

  “Address the same? Phone number? Yadda yadda?”

  She nods. “No updates to speak of. Sleep tight.”

  Lucy reaches to switch off the session, but he holds up his hand.

  “I heard you’re taking a ride. Is it true?”

  “Yeah,” Lucy shrugs, as if it’s no big deal.

  “You tell me if you turn toxic, you hear?”

  “No way that’s happening, Bernie,” she says. Bedrosian looms up in her memory from this morning, pen poised over his notebook like a threat. Actually—yesterday morning. She’s been working nonstop since she saw him, and in three hours has to start all over again. “It’s not going anywhere. They’ve got nothing.”

  “You keep it that way.”

  “Trust me, it’s the last thing I want.”

  If Bernie thinks she’s toxic, she’ll get taken off the roster so as not to draw attention to her Serving. But for every call she misses, she gets penalties.

  “What a cock-up,” Bernie sighs. “You know Margot’s gone back to the Gate,” he adds, drawing his finger across his throat. “Had her picked up yesterday.”

  Lucy knew this was coming, but the news is still a shock. “That was fast.”

  “Yeah. They don’t fuck around. You watch your ass.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Lucy says, and taps the key, stares at the blank screen. The tidy bunks in a row, the shining floors. She wonders what happened to that last kid, who’s boss now.

  It’s Joe Brynn who usually does those jobs. The thought of him stepping into that space, Margot dozing on her chair, it makes her sick.

  She gets up and draws the blinds, checking the street below. She can’t tell if Bedrosian’s there or not, or if any one of Theo’s guys is watching, either. Her heart races hard, pumped up on anxiety. She can’t even think of sleeping. She sits on the kitchen chair, smoking, staring hard at the floor.

  Just because they got Margot doesn’t mean the same will happen to her. It doesn’t. Margot lifted the curtain, she gave real people an inroad to their existence. Never divulge: it’s the biggest treachery a serv can commit. Whereas Lucy herself has done nothing. Nothing at all. She’s holding up her end of the bargain.

  Except for concealing she saw Bedrosian again.

  She wipes the sweat off her hands, shakes them out. Flips open the burner and dials. Julian, a career insomniac like herself, answers on the third ring. “What?”

  “Just checking in.”

  “Yeah?”

  In for a penny.

  “Well, I just want to get an idea of where things stand. I thought you said it’d blow over. So why’s that cop still on my case?”

  “Is he, now? What’d he ask this time?”

  “Same old shit. Look, he bought the tip, O.K.? That’s what it boils down to.”

  “Well, your friend’s out of the picture, so she can’t do any more harm.”

  “I know. So what do I do?”

  “Well, Lucy, whatever you are doing, it doesn’t seem to be helping.”

  This was not the direction she’d meant things to go in. She grips the phone tighter, says, “Julian, that is so fucking unfair, O.K.? This is your mess. I’m doing everything I can. Help me out here.”

  “Help you? You help me. You tell me those cops aren’t coming back. You tell me you haven’t said a word, not to them, not to anyone!”

  “Of course I haven’t! Jesus!”

  “So what’s to discuss? Just keep your mouth shut and trash this line.”

  “I’d never—”

  He’s already hung up. Furious, she digs in the kitchen drawer for the hammer. She drops the phone in the wooden box she keeps for this purpose, lifts her arm over her eyes, and brings the hammer down with a ferocious stroke. It crunches into plastic and metal bits. She tilts the box and empties the detritus into a plastic bag, ties it shut. She’ll dump it in the morning. Then she’ll have to shell out for another one, all because of Theo’s fucking paranoia.

  She goes to the bathroom and washes up. Under the blue-tinted economy bulb lighting, her reflection is reminiscent of a cadaver. It’s past four a.m., and there’s no hope of looking even halfway decent in a few hours. At least she didn’t take any blows in Service: it was an outdoors call in Billerica, a long wait in a snowy clearing under a low-hanging full moon. The Nafikh just stood there, turning in place, staring up at the stars. One of the servs literally fell asleep on her feet.

  She drags herself to bed, her body a dead weight. Her mind fills up with memories of Joe Brynn’s bunk, the top floor deck at night, chain smoking and gazing at the city lights. She spent a lot of time up there. Margot moved in during Lucy’s last few weeks, when Julian hardly came around anymore. That’s why she didn’t name him when she called the cops; she probably never even met him. She found Lucy on that deck one evening, complained about how she never cleaned up the kitchen. Fuck you, Lucy told her. Margot sat with Lucy nevertheless, arms wrapped tight around her knees, gazing at the lights. She bummed some smokes. They didn’t talk much that night, or after, except to say hello. Lucy borrowed band aids from her once, but never gave any back.

  Lucy pushes her face into the pillow, curled up tight, staring into the dark.

  ON LESS THAN TWO hours’ sleep, the workday passes minute by grinding minute. She’s finished with the shredding and has moved onto the filing backlog in a glass-walled room where the attorneys store all the firm’s cases, going back five years. She moves back and forth from the manila folders shelved on the metal rolling cart to the tall, stately mahogany filing cabinets. The work is steady and thankfully mindless. She has lunch with Marcie and a few others, casually mentions that she’ll need to start bringing in lunch, she can’t afford to eat out every day. They leap on this idea as practical and smart; from now on, they’ll all bring sandwiches and find fun places to go eat them.

  “Already done so much?” Mrs. M. praises in the late afternoon. “You are such a gem.”

  “Thanks,” Lucy replies, unable to help feeling proud, though a monkey could do this work. She’s looking forward to proofing briefs, which should start next week.

  She sits on the subway seat, arms around her purse, staring at the lights blinking each station, the announcements drowned out by the roar of the train and screeching brakes. She imagines herself, shrunken and huddled with her white face turned upward. Blank, sticky, exhausted. The being segmented by the time frames in which it operates: wake up, prepare for work, work, return from work. The dryness on her fingers, microscopic paper dust, the thumb sore from separating thickly packed files.

  She texts Bernie: Tell me I’m clear.

  A few moments later, the reply: All good baby.

  She sends back a few smileys and a thumbs up.

  She’s not on the roster tonight, but it’s
good to have confirmation, and this little exchange will tip things in her favor should Bernie need to tack more servs onto a call. The train careens around a bend, and she tucks her legs to avoid the swelling crush of off-balance strap-hangers. At her stop, she elbows her way to the door, pushes out the moment it opens. She becomes part of a stream of people moving with harried urgency along the platform, bottle-necking at the stairs, climbing. The blast of cold sweeping down from the street is dizzyingly welcome; at the top, Lucy steps to one side, leans against a pole to recover, breathing deeply.

  When she rounds the corner onto her street, she finds the idea of climbing up to the dingy apartment unbearable, her only prospect being to sit in stoic solitude under the oppressive weight of all her problems. So she walks right on by the house, loops back towards Porter Square where her favorite local bar serves affordable shots.

  Now we’re talking, she thinks, and downs the first shot of Jameson in one gulp. She signals for another. The bartender Ewan’s already on his way: Lucy is not exactly a regular, but her distinctive looks and surprising capacity to hold her liquor make her hard to forget.

  Lucy turns in her seat, finally relaxing a little. There’s a folk band setting up for seven p.m. Banjo, fiddle, drums, a sweet-looking young woman warming up her voice. Judging by the tone, she’ll be offering up ballads. It’s Eva’s favorite kind of music, that sad, Irish-sounding stuff. Lucy typically can’t stand listening to music, she prefers silence. But tonight, she could be in the mood. She could stay till bedtime, skip the whole sitting around staring at the walls part of her day.

  She feels someone maneuvering onto the stool next to hers, turns a little to make room.

  “Hey, there,” Bedrosian says, crushing the little bit of pleasure she was just starting to feel. “Mind if I join you?” While Lucy watches in consternation, he removes his hat, the Russian thing with fur and flaps, and sets it on the counter. He eases himself onto the stool, and Lucy shifts away, his leg uncomfortably close. Ewan steps over. “Just water,” Bedrosian says. “I’ll have a burger, though. Medium. No onions. You hungry?”

  Lucy shakes her head and throws back her second shot, slides the glass forward for more.

  “Wouldn’t want to try and drink you under the table,” Bedrosian comments. “Long day at work?”

  “Yes.”

  His water arrives. Her shot glass is refilled.

  He uses the stirrer to poke at the clumped ice, then takes a long drink. “I just have a few more questions,” he says, “but they can wait. You take some time to unwind.”

  Lucy’s mouth is all dried up, and she doesn’t trust her hand to pick up her glass without spillage, but her Source is sparking, and she’s got no choice. She grips the glass and drinks up, relishing the blast of alcohol. He just watches. She knows it’s deliberate, what he’s doing, to get her on edge, and it’s working, the not-talking making her jumpy. She leans back a little, trying for casual. “What kind of name is Bedrosian, anyway?”

  “Armenian. Bedros means Peter. Petros. Rock. The name means ‘son of Bedros.’”

  There’s a pause in which Lucy wonders why the hell she asked and what to say next.

  “My great-grandparents came over,” he offers. “Diyarbakir.”

  The word is a jumble that means nothing to her.

  “They had five children, and only one survived. That was my grandfather. When I was a boy, he used to tell me how much I looked like his little brother Viken. I’m named after him, Viken Bedrosian. I have his curls,” he gestures at his hair. “All his siblings, they died in the genocide by the Turks. Have you heard of that?”

  “Yes,” Lucy says, “I think so.”

  “It’s a tough life, immigrants. Sticking together, never really belonging, and all because. It never ceases to confound me, what people are capable of,” he says, slowing, with emphasis. “They were just little kids. Maimed and killed.”

  Lucy stiffens. “That’s very sad.”

  “You’re a good liar,” Bedrosian shakes his head in admiration. “You probably lie all the time, get a lot of practice.”

  This is sliding hard at the truth. Lucy maintains her bland, emotionless stare.

  He lifts her empty glass, gestures to the bartender. “Let me get the next one.”

  “I need to get home, actually.”

  “No, you don’t. I have some questions.”

  “Shouldn’t this be at the station, or something? Is this even allowed?”

  This amuses him. “You prefer to go to the station? We can go there, if you want. You want to go?”

  The bar is filling up with energetic young people in print tee shirts, porkpie hats, sideburns. The fiddler starts tuning up, each note slicing through the jabber. Lucy wills herself to just leave, but she can’t, in case Bedrosian stops her. Pulls out his badge, yells she’s under arrest: that’s the scene that swoops into her head, paralyzing her.

  “So,” Bedrosian says, leaning over his elbows and watching her sideways. “Detective Miller and me, we paid a visit yesterday to your old roommate Angie.”

  Lucy watches Ewan fill her glass again. “Oh, yeah? Does she still have that bouffant hair?”

  He indulges this with a faint smile. “She’s married in Winchester. Two kids,” he holds up two fingers. “Husband in finance.”

  “Huh.”

  “She said you went out to Ayer a lot with some boyfriend called Julian. She couldn’t remember his last name.”

  It’s a blow that leaves her quaking. She manages to tip the glass to her mouth, sip real slowly, buy some time. “That was a hundred years ago,” she shrugs, wiping her mouth. “I can’t remember either.”

  “He couldn’t have been too special, then.”

  “He was just some guy.”

  “Yeah? Angie said he’s the reason you dropped out.”

  “I don’t get what my failed college career has to do with anything.”

  “Looks to me like a lot,” he replies. “You still in touch with him?”

  “No.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How do you pay for all those shots of Jameson?”

  “You’re paying for this one.”

  “How do you pay off Eva Hennessey’s loan every month?”

  “Jesus!” Lucy snaps. “You have no right.”

  He merely looks at her, waiting.

  “I work my ass off, O.K.? That’s how.”

  The noise level has really ramped up now, with drums getting adjusted and the banjo in the mix. They are surrounded by laughter and the noise of clinking glass. It’s getting hot: Lucy wants to take off a layer, but that would signal she’s up for staying. Bedrosian leans in close. “You must have cash income, Lucy. No way you cover rent, the loan, groceries, utilities—uh-uh. Want to tell me what other jobs you got?”

  “I don’t have other jobs.”

  “It’s simple math,” Bedrosian shakes his head. He twirls the stirrer between his fingers, pops it between his teeth and chews, considering her. “You get paid to do something with that kid, Lucy?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Yeah? I know your kind, Lucy.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Selfish,” he says. “Thinking only about your own survival. Beat down, desperate, just making it day to day.”

  “Wow. I didn’t think I come off that bad.”

  He meets her weak joke with a flat stare. “You’ve got bills to pay, Lucy. A lot of them. I don’t know how you pull it off, in winter. You being so sick all the time, I mean.”

  Their eyes lock.

  He knows: the thought flies at her out of nowhere.

  She goes clammy and weak, and a few seconds pass, an eternity. Then she says, “I really have to get home.” She slides off the stool.

  “Not so fast,” Bedrosian says, blocking her with his arm.

  “Yo,” Ewan sets the burger down, sliding a paper mat into place first. “What’s up? H
e bugging you?”

  Yes, Lucy conveys with all her being. Bedrosian reaches under his jacket, flips the badge into the bartender’s line of sight. The look of surprise on Ewan’s face shames Lucy to the core. He retreats down the bar. Bedrosian looks at her, then slowly lowers his arm. “It’s not you I’m interested in, understand? You help me, you’ll make out fine. Think about it.”

  He spins the stool, directs his attention to his meal. Lucy winds her way through a bunch of guys who grin, flirting, holding up beers in invitation. Outside, she breaks into a clumsy half run, hampered by the treacherous wet sidewalk. She checks over her shoulder, but he isn’t following. She’s a high hum of wordless panic that pushes her along down one road, across the next.

  He can’t know, the rational side of her keeps insisting. It’s absurd to think this guy, this cop, could know the truth about her. The stuff he said, it could be taken any which way. It’s nonsensical to assume the worst.

  She gets inside her apartment at last, rams the two bolts home. Stands there, out of breath. She becomes aware of how hot she is in her down parka, huddled in the corridor in such a state. Sweat’s leaking down her sides into the waistband of her skirt. She kicks off her boots, pulling off her coat at the same time and dumping it on the floor as she strides across the room. She flips open her laptop, keys in her password.

  The Google search on Bedrosian does little to help her out. He’s been a detective for a number of years. He’s quoted in a few older articles on homicides. There’s a piece on his role in a soup kitchen in Watertown, which is full of Armenians, apparently. He’s got a review on Amazon of some book on Armenian cooking, unless that’s a different V. Bedrosian. He only gave it three stars; why, who cares.

  She slams shut the laptop. She’s supposed to alert Bernie if she thinks a real person knows something about them. It’s the rule, make a report to whoever, an overseer, a sentry. But no way she’s doing that: he’ll stamp her toxic before she’s done talking.

  She can’t even think about what if Julian hears. Never mind if he knew Bedrosian has his fucking name—

  Although, she could alert him, make it like a warning, like she’s helping him out. She stares blindly at the floor, imagining the way such a conversation might go. Why would I tell you if I’m the one that spilled? Jesus, Julian, get a grip! She could push hard for them to get rid of Bedrosian. He knows about servs, he poses a major threat. Things are worse than any of them ever thought, and so on.