Skinner Luce

by Patricia Ward

  It could work.

  Except, going after a cop, that’s a whole other league. They wouldn’t take the risk, not when they can just get rid of Lucy herself.

  A loud rapping makes her jump. Lucy stares down the corridor, frozen. The rapping starts again. Filled with dread, Lucy tiptoes to the door, looks through the peephole. It’s the super, staring back at her with bored resolution as if he knows he’s being examined.

  “Ms. Hennessey,” he calls, rapping the door again. “I know joo can hear! I just saw joo come in!”

  “What is it?” Lucy says.

  “Package! I sign for joo!” He holds up a large envelope, blocking the view of his face. “Looks muy importante!”

  Her hands hover uncertainly over the bolts. It could be from Julian. Maybe they’re using the mail because it’s safer.

  “Who’s it from?” she asks.

  “Puta, I’m your secretary?”

  She hurriedly undoes the bolts. “Fine, sorry, give it to me.”

  Bedrosian steps into view. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Siento, is police, what can I do,” the super shrugs at Lucy. He trundles off down the hall, the envelope that tricked her under his arm.

  Lucy tries to push the door closed again, but it’s too late. “You can’t come in,” she protests. “You have to go.”

  “Well, no,” he corrects, and shuts the door. “I have to talk with you, is what I have to do.”

  He fills up the close little corridor with his thick woolen coat giving off the odors of the bar and the frigid winter outside. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he seems weary and burdened by whatever he sees, looking at her.

  She backs away slowly, his possible intentions filling her with new alarm. She could put up one hell of a fight if need be, but he’s a cop, he has a gun.

  “Lucy,” he shows her his empty hands, “I’m just here to talk. Settle down.”

  “What do you expect, you come barging in here?”

  “I didn’t barge.”

  “I want you to leave.”

  “When I’m done.”

  When he’s done, he says, as if this is supposed to make her feel any better? She stumbles, going backwards, into the kitchenette table. Rounds it, putting it between the two of them. Now there’s nowhere left to go, she’s backed up against the counter, but at least the butcher block’s in reach.

  He stops on the other side of the table with a contrite look, as if to oblige her. Then, he pulls out the chair, hitches his pants and sits down. He doesn’t take off his coat, which is a good sign; though it could just be due to how cold her apartment is. He opens his hands again, a silent inquiry if his sitting down is all right, as if she has any say. She doesn’t move a muscle. He rubs his jaw, thinking. He says, “Just so you understand, so you see things from my perspective, O.K.? We have a victim with no ID. We have no evidence, no witnesses, no nothing, just you, and you aren’t talking. This is the kind of case that ends up in a box for years, maybe forever. And it gets to me. He was just a little kid.”

  “I told you, I can’t help.”

  “Bullshit. Let’s cut to the chase.”

  He looks at her from under his brows. She shrugs, as in, Sure, whatever.

  “That boy was a serv,” he says slowly, “and you are, too. No one will ever sort that out. That’s why the case is dead in the water. But not for me, see.”

  A strangeness comes over her. It’s a dream, this man in her apartment, saying the word serv. It leaves her floaty and abstracted. She pictures a needle under a microscope, pushing against the bubble of a cell, piercing it: That boy was a serv.

  “Are you listening?”

  He comes into focus: big face tilted to one side, eyes boring into her. She says, “I don’t know what you mean. You need to leave.”

  “You want to play it that way for now, I understand. Just, you know, don’t push it too long. I’m only so patient, O.K.?”

  Meaning what, she wonders. Her heart drums faster, and her Source surges, causing her to buckle a little. There’s a bottle of Jameson on the table, and he leans forward, slides it in her direction. “I know you’re just a pawn, Lucy. I know it because look at this crap,” he indicates the bottle. “Step up from rail, sure, but it seems to me you’re doing some really hard jobs, and you don’t even get decent dope?”

  It’s almost a joke, how on the mark he is. She says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It sounds crazy.”

  “You are one cool cat, Lucy Hennessey. Look at you, just standing there, sucking it up. But I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” he taps his temple. “You didn’t grow up with servs. You had to live with it for years, all on your own. So maybe you have a higher tolerance. Is that it?”

  “Tolerance for what?”

  “Yeah, yeah, O.K.” He shakes his head, chuckling a little, but she can tell he’s starting to lose that patience he was talking about. “You servs,” he says, “all you care about is let’s get from point A to point B in one piece. One of you gets bumped, and instead of grieving, the rest of you fight over a cell phone and a pair of shoes. One day you’re best friends, the next you find the ten bucks you worked so hard to save is gone. Am I right or am I right?”

  He can’t possibly expect her to just come out with it. When he loses his patience, he’ll try and force her. Every muscle in her body is tightening up. She measures in her mind the distance to the knives, how fast she can grab one, spin around and lunge.

  And then what, after attacking a cop?

  “But I get it, see?” Bedrosian places his hand on his chest, as if to indicate the depth of his sincerity. “You can’t help being that way. It’s a case study in nurture. Not nature. Maybe at first, you start out with the capacity for compassion, for forging real bonds and real friendships. You’re kind of like, tabula rasa. Anything could happen. But we know what happens. And all that potential, it’s squeezed out of you, day after day, year after year, till there’s nothing left. You’re incapable of empathy. Most of you, anyway.”

  She wills herself to exude total blankness, because it’s as good an option as any. She can see herself, pale blue eyes voided, face empty as a wall.

  “That’s what I saw first, when I walked into this shithole of an apartment. Just another serv who’s maneuvered herself into some kind of a life, even if it means killing little serv kids on the side. But from the start, you didn’t fit the mold. I couldn’t get my head around it. You grew up with people, you went to school, you even tried college. How the hell did you end up here? Was it a mistake you made, maybe with that boyfriend? I can tell I’m onto you, Lucy,” Bedrosian wags his finger at her, “you just lost your cool there for a second. There’s something off about you. You work like crazy, all to repay a loan Eva Hennessey took out for you, when you could just walk away.”

  “Why’s it strange I should pay back my mom?” she snaps, unable to help herself.

  “Because she’s not your mom,” he states flatly. “Because if she knew what you were, she’d run screaming. Because if she knew the things you’ve done, she’d fall apart. Are those enough reasons?”

  His retort flattens her plan to talk her way out of this. She clamps her mouth, furious that he’s cut right through to the fears that plague her about Eva: If she knew. If she ever found out.

  “What I’m getting at is, I think you care, Lucy. You do have empathy. Look at all you do for your mom. Look how hard you work, all for her. I don’t think you killed that kid yourself. You feel bad about it, you kept all the newspapers. Maybe you kept playing back over it all, could you have done something, could you have saved him.”

  She stares at Bedrosian, wondering what on earth he wants from her, really. To spill everything, a final act of contrition, is that what he wants?

  “Lucy, I’m already on the paper trail for this apartment. I don’t care how slick he is, whoever you work for. I’ll find him. Do you understand what this means?”

  Her palms are in a sweat now, her le
gs going soft. She understands what it means, yes. There’s no way Theo hasn’t been keeping tabs on Bedrosian; he probably knows he’s here right now. And that he went to Ayer, and he’s looking into the apartment—

  “You want to skip that outcome, you can help me out. If not for your own sake, how about for Eva Hennessey. If you’re gone, who’ll pay off that loan, huh?”

  He rubs his jaw, waiting for a response that does not come.

  “Man, you are a sphinx,” he sighs. “Why are you so loyal? Are you scared, is that it? Believe me, we’ll take care of them. I have friends.”

  His words conjure men in a pickup, slung with guns. It is ludicrous.

  She says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, cut it out!” Bedrosian swats the table, making her jump. “How long do you want to play this game?” He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a piece of paper, unfolds it. “Look at him, Lucy. He was just a little kid, for Christ’s sake! Tell me you’re not sick enough to think it’s O.K., what happened to him! Tell me I’m right about you!”

  She sees the boy’s freckled skin white as snow, lock of dark hair plastered to his forehead, eyes closed. Bedrosian thrusts the paper closer to her, insisting she not look away. “How many more have they killed? Because you don’t just do this once, take a Source. That’s a professional job, there. They’re doing it again, and again, and you’re helping. Do you appreciate how he died? Do you realize how much blood there was?”

  Her vision blurs to tiny limbs splayed on a wood floor, head tilted all wrong, blood pooling into the crevices between the planks. Earlier in the season, up in Montreal. Does she realize how much blood, he’s asking. For all the time Bedrosian’s put into psychoanalyzing servs, Lucy doubts he’s ever witnessed an actual Service.

  After a minute or two, he lowers the picture slowly, and she sees his shoulders sink a little, like a weight’s come down on him. It strikes her that he’s carrying this picture all the time—the paper is crumpled, the folds show a lot of wear. He actually cares, she realizes. He thinks he can be this dead serv’s champion, when the only ones who could make a difference—sentries, overseers, the Gate—couldn’t give a shit, just like that sentry told Margot. Bedrosian thinks he knows so much about the serv world, that he’s got friends who’ll help put away the bad guys, fulfill some hero fantasy he’s got going, when the reality is, if he pokes around any deeper into their business, he’ll end up dead in an alley right alongside her.

  She almost wants to warn him.

  The phone rings, startling them both. It rings, and rings, and rings.

  “You gonna get that?” Bedrosian asks.

  Lucy shakes her head. She knows it’s Eva, wills her to hang up instead of leaving a message.

  “Hi, baby,” Eva’s tired voice speaks into the machine. The voice slips through the air, inserts itself between Lucy and Bedrosian. Their eyes lock. “It turns out the play is on Friday, not Thursday. So come on Saturday if you can. Just make sure you let me know, hon, so I can get the ingredients for the meatloaf. All right, then,” she trails off. “I guess I better get going. I have my sherry waiting. Call me when you have a moment.”

  There is the hiss of the phone line, as if she might say something more. Then the click.

  After a moment, Bedrosian says, “So that’s Eva Hennessey.”

  Lucy nods.

  “So, you grow up with the nice mom making you meatloaf, and him, what does he get?”

  It’s a jab that should have no impact, seeing as the arrival was hardly looking at a childhood like the one she got. But it stings nevertheless, and badly. How many times she’s imagined a kid arrival compressing too fast, telling Theo it’s too late. Taking the kid home, buying him or her out of Services. Dumb fantasies that always founder on reality. She can barely pay the rent, let alone keep another serv out of rotation.

  Bedrosian is nodding, as if he’s reached some internal decision. He eases himself up out of the chair, adjusts his coat, tucks the chair beneath the table. Then he waits. And waits.

  She grudgingly meets his eyes.

  “I want to give you a chance, Lucy. I don’t know why, but so help me, I do.” He drags his wallet out of his back pocket, opens it, and flicks a business card onto the table. “I’ll give you a day or two. And Lucy,” he pauses halfway down the corridor, looking back over his shoulder, “you think long and hard about your mother. Think what she’d want you to do.”

  After he’s gone, she waits a breath. Another. It takes all her courage to get in motion, make her way across the floor, at every instant expecting him to walk back in. But there is no sound except that of her own breaths and the soft padding of her bare feet. The door stays closed, the handle does not turn. She rams the bolts home, backs away to the wall. She slides down to the floor, tucks up tight and buries her face in her arms.

  She sees her earlier self entering the pub, filled up with pleasant anticipation, the day’s drudgery draining away. The thought of waking up tomorrow, dressing, returning to the office is farcical. How was your night? Oh, lovely. How was yours?

  Bedrosian’s got no right to judge her. What the fuck does he know? How dare he bring up Eva. Him and his friends, whoever they are, as if they can keep Lucy alive if she betrays Theo? It’s a joke. Then who will take care of Eva? He hasn’t thought of that, of course.

  And even if, for argument’s sake, even if he managed to keep her out of the mix, succeeded in taking down Theo, then what? It’s not as if her own life changes. In fact, it gets worse. Word will get around she ratted to a human cop, so then she goes toxic, probably beyond hope, and before Bedrosian can stop by for an I-told-you-so, she’ll be bundled in a van and headed for the Gate.

  Then who’ll be thinking of my mother, asshole?

  She can’t dispute his intentions. His outrage over the arrival’s death is genuine, that’s for sure. But he’s out of his depth, fancying himself some hero thrusting his sword into serv amorality, making it known justice will be had. He’s living in a movie.

  And in doing so, he’s nailed a bull’s-eye to her forehead.

  He knows that well enough, she thinks bitterly. He thinks he can pressure her, as if she hasn’t lived every day since she got tagged under threat, as if she’ll crumple like a flower.

  She pulls the knives from the butcher’s block, checking them one by one. The search triggers a long-ago era when she kept tucked away any number of sharp objects with which she scoured her skin, gouged her flesh. There was a time when she would not have fumbled over blades, unsure of their efficacy. I’m out of practice, she thinks with sick humor.

  She selects a paring knife. Compact, but with a long enough blade. She sharpens it, soothed by the rhythmic metallic sounds. Closes her palm around the handle, finding the balance.

  All it takes is one hard thrust, Julian instructed, guiding her hand towards the dummy.

  She needed to learn to defend herself, he said. She’d stepped into a different world now, and more often than not, she’d be on her own. You hit with all you’ve got, he told her. Then you run and call me.

  Now, there’s a sad joke.

  The steadily blinking light on the answering machine intrudes on the surreal memory. She goes over to the couch, lies down, dials.

  “Hey, baby!” Eva exclaims. “Well, I didn’t expect a call back so soon! What a nice surprise! What have you been up to?”

  “Nothing much, just the usual.”

  “What’s wrong? You sound terrible.”

  “I’m just wiped out,” Lucy forces more strength into her voice. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Oh, honey, you work so hard.”

  “It’s not that bad. Today it was just filing, actually.”

  “Filing. Oh dear. Can’t they give you something more interesting?”

  “It’s O.K., I’ll get to proof soon.”

  There is a pause.

  “So, baby, what day do you think you’ll come, then?”

  “I don’t know y
et. I might be able to do Saturday, stay over.”

  “That would be a treat,” Eva says. “Let me know when you can, then.”

  “O.K., Ma.” Her voice cracks. “I have to go. Long day tomorrow.”

  She holds herself, stares around the room, caught in a slow-motion dream. The telephone primly in its cradle. The chair where Bedrosian sat. Her parka still on the floor in the hall. She shouldn’t be so distraught. She’s lived most of her life expecting to be offed from one day to the next. Just because it might be Theo, not Service, what difference does it make.

  She shouldn’t have promised to visit, she realizes. Who’s to say she’ll even make it to Saturday? It would have been better not to make the promise.

  She imagines Eva calling. The phone ringing here, in the empty room.

  A WHILE LATER, SHE activates the new burner she picked up in the morning and dials Julian. The singsong beeps indicating a disconnected number are so loud that she jerks the phone away from her ear.

  Theo’s number yields the same. As she suspected.

  Let it not be said that she didn’t do her best. She flips open her laptop, Skypes Bernie. It takes a number of rings before he appears, wall-eyed and droopy from whatever hit he’s just absorbed.

  “I need to talk to Julian. Do you have his new number?”

  He lifts an eyebrow. “He don’t want to be reached by you, and I’m supposed to go against that?”

  “Bernie, come on. It’s important.”

  He narrows his eyes, leaning in close. “What’s going on? Are you toxic?”

  “Not at all,” she forces lightness into her tone. “I need cash, is all. I need some jobs.”

  “I’ll pass the message along, then.”

  It’s all she can hope for. Downplay, act normal. The cop being here, it was nothing, she held him off for one more round. It’s a breeze, getting through this. She can do it.