by C. S. Poe
“I saw a lot of blood, screamed, and fell off the dumpster.”
“So no?”
“I didn’t get a very good look, no,” I concluded.
“Would you be willing to look again?”
“Since you asked so nicely.”
“Pardon us,” Quinn said, motioning Calvin and me to move aside with a wave of her hand. “CSU wants fingerprints.”
Calvin stepped down the stairs.
I reluctantly left the office doorway, and Quinn and Neil went to the Kinetoscope. He set his kit down, snapped on a new pair of gloves, and rummaged through his supplies.
“Please be careful,” I told him.
“I’m always careful,” Neil said, not looking up.
“Yeah, but if you find a print—the tape used to lift it from the cabinet—I don’t want it to cause any damage to the finish.”
“Seb,” Neil said in that tone.
Calvin came back up the stairs, took my elbow, guided me through the shop, and out the back door so Neil could do his job.
In the alley, the medical examiner was preparing the body for transport. Calvin led the way to the gurney, said something to the woman, and she pulled back the sheet covering the thief-turned-fatality.
I took a hesitant step closer. Light hair and complexion. Young face, dark clothes—
“I know him!” I clutched the film canister to my chest as if I expected he’d suddenly leap to life and grab for it. “This… this is the brat who was in the shop yesterday. The one who was giving me a hard time over nothing and then stormed—” I paused. If I stared at his upper face… ignored the obscene amount of blood…. “He was at the Javits Center.”
Calvin looked at me.
I pointed a finger at the kid. “He bumped into me on our way out.”
“This was him? How confident are you?”
I wasn’t offended by the question. If a cop was going to take the word of someone with a vision prescription as strong as mine, he needed certainty.
“Positive,” I replied. “And yesterday he was examining the Kinetoscope. He was looking for something and got angry at me.” I waved the film canister at Calvin—the something in question.
“All right,” he murmured. He thanked the medical examiner, she tossed the sheet over the body, and he brought me out of the alley and onto the street.
We walked to the end of the block, putting the madness of the crime scene behind us. Without the murder and mayhem to distract me, I realized it was nearly eight o’clock. I was exhausted, hungry, and had an excellent stress headache starting.
“Let me guess,” I began, as Calvin raised his arm to flag a taxi. “I’m getting kicked out of the Scooby Gang?”
“That’s right.”
“I suppose I don’t have to remind you to lock up the Emporium when you’re done,” I said, smiling wryly when Calvin looked at me.
A taxi pulled up to the curb beside us.
Calvin leaned down and gave our apartment address through the open passenger window. The driver nodded and motioned for me to get inside. Calvin opened the back door.
“Will you come home tonight?” I asked.
“I’ll do my best.” He leaned forward, the car door between us as he kissed my mouth.
“I’m sorry about your day off.”
“It’s not your fault, sweetheart.”
I reluctantly got into the back of the cab. Calvin shut the door, and the driver pulled onto the road.
Chapter Seven
I WASN’T wearing shoes.
My keys were in my messenger bag.
My phone was in my messenger bag.
My messenger bag was in Neil’s car.
And I was standing outside of my locked apartment building with nothing but a canister of murder film.
Someday they’d write a book about me. A Study in Unfortunate Events: The Sebastian Snow Story.
A lady was exiting the building just then. I grabbed the front door and held it open for her, trying to look as if I had been in the process of entering myself. I think she bought it until she noticed I was only wearing medical booties on my feet.
“It’s a long story,” I said when she gave me a curious once-over. “I’m the new tenant on the fourth floor.”
“I thought that was a redhead who’d moved in.”
“I’m his less interesting and more accident-prone half.”
“Oh.”
I stepped inside. I was really only half of the way home—what with still having to get into our actual apartment—but at least I wasn’t standing on the New York streets without shoes anymore. I couldn’t go back to the Emporium, and even if I did, there was no guarantee that either Calvin or Neil would still be there in order for me to bum keys or pick up my bag. And showing up at Calvin’s precinct because I was locked out was… embarrassing.
I supposed I could ask a neighbor to call the super.
I reached into my back pocket for my wallet as I trudged up the last set of stairs. I heard someone else—about a flight behind me. While our apartment might have been refurbished into a chic loft, the building itself creaked and groaned and sighed with the ghosts of a previous century. I pulled out a credit card as I reached the top floor and walked to the end of the hallway. I stopped outside the door and stuck the flimsy plastic against the frame and dead bolt.
The odds were not in my favor.
I heard Dillon patter to the other side of the door and bark after a minute.
“Don’t worry, bud. It’s Dad’s dumbass boyfriend, not a rob—”
The canister, held between my arm and body, was suddenly snatched from behind. An arm wrapped around my neck, forced me back against the firm body of a man, and started choking me. I dropped my wallet and card and grabbed on to the bicep with both hands. I coughed and fought for air. I clawed at his arm to free myself as black spots seeped into the corners of my vision.
I kicked a foot out and slammed my heel into the door.
The assailant grunted and adjusted his hold. “Where’re the other movies?” he growled, breath hot and wet against my ear. It smelled sickly sweet, like some kind of candy.
Other movies?
Dillon was barking more incessantly.
I wheezed and gagged as the assailant cut off my air, and in a last-ditch effort, pounded my foot against the door again. This time I got enough leverage that it sent the stranger backward, and he hit hard against the opposite apartment door.
“H-help!” I half screamed, half coughed.
“Where are they?” he shouted with renewed vigor, shaking me.
I heard a dead bolt turn and then the door behind us opened. “What the hell is—whoa!”
I met my new neighbor when Mr. Movie Aficionado and I tumbled into the apartment, knocked into him, and the three of us crashed to the floor. I flailed like a fish out of water as I escaped Movie Guy’s hold. He was up and on his feet before I had a chance to catch my breath. He stumbled through the doorway, grabbed the fallen canister from the floor, and ran down the hall.
“Call the police!” I told my neighbor, voice raspy sounding.
“What?”
Jesus Christ, were three words too many?
“Police! Call!” I ran into the hallway, feet slipping and sliding across the worn, polished wood.
Always wear your PPE! Unless you’re chasing after some nutcase—then it might become a hindrance.
I danced from foot to foot as I yanked the booties off, then ran toward the stairs. I thundered down the steps, holding on to the railing with one hand and the wall with the other so I wouldn’t go careening head over heels. I shoved the front door open and burst onto the sidewalk, looking to the left and to the right.
But there was no sign of my attacker on the busy streets of New York.
“SEBASTIAN SNOW?” Officer Shapiro repeated.
“Yeah. Snow. Not Sneeze, or Sleaze, or any combination thereof.”
“I just meant—you’re that guy.”
“I might be.�
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“The one who stopped the dirty cop in February.”
“Oh. Technically that was a detective with a gun,” I replied.
“I know. Detective Winter. Popped that scum in the kneecaps.” She looked me over briefly. “They say you’re a bit crazy.”
I sighed.
Shapiro returned to taking her report. “So how are you?”
“As the indifferent children of the earth.”
“What’s that?” she asked, pen hovering over the notebook.
“Hamlet,” I replied.
“I’ll assume it means you’re fine.” She took a breath and looked at me again. “Can you describe the assailant?”
“He came up behind me…. Taller, maybe six feet. Pretty damn strong. When we crashed into 4A over there,” I continued, pointing across the hall at my neighbor, who was being interviewed by Shapiro’s partner, “he got up and ran off before I could see his face.”
“Hair color?”
“I’m color-blind.”
“Okay…. Then can you describe what he was wearing?” she tried.
I shrugged. “It happened pretty fast. I don’t have very good vision. I saw a hoodie.”
She pursed her lips. “Anything else you can remember?”
I rubbed my chin. “He had a growly voice, but I think it was intentional. And his breath smelled like red licorice.”
Shapiro didn’t write the licorice thing down. “Would you be able to confidently pick him out of a lineup?”
“No,” I admitted.
“What’s this? Who called me?” My scary super was walking toward us from the staircase, arms spread out in a questioning manner.
4A raised his hand and pointed at me. “He’s locked out of his apartment.”
Super, seemingly unfazed by the presence of police, asked, “You lost key already? It’s been one day.” He held up a finger on his paw of a hand and waved it menacingly at me.
“I didn’t lose it,” I quickly answered.
“Then where is it?” Super asked.
“A crime scene.”
Both officers looked at me.
“Why you not call Boyfriend?” Super continued. “I am emergency only.”
“Boyfriend is at the crime scene with my key,” I tried. “And my phone. And my shoes. Please unlock the door. I’ve had a day like you wouldn’t believe.”
Shapiro looked down at the mention of my shoes. “You’ve got some piss-poor luck.”
“I know,” I agreed.
But I finally got into my apartment.
After two break-ins, a dead body, no keys, an assault, police questioning, an angry neighbor who would probably never let me borrow a cup of sugar after tonight, and a regular workday that had included migraine-inducing Pete White and a former military fuck-buddy of Calvin’s—I was finally home.
I shut the door, crawled onto the floor, and lay facedown.
Dillon barked at me.
My stomach growled in response.
And I never did pick up dinner….
Or condoms.
“Fuck,” I said, voice muffled against the wood.
Dillon got closer and sniffed the side of my face.
“All right, all right….” I heaved myself up to my knees and took a look around.
At least our furniture had been delivered. The new couch was pushed up against the windowed wall. The little dining table for two was assembled and standing beside a big pile of broken-down cardboard, thick plastic sheets, and discarded pamphlets on how to assemble affordable European furniture. Near the loft stairs was a partially constructed bookshelf, which I was sure was what Calvin had been doing before he was called into work. I wondered if the bed had arrived.
My shoes were upstairs anyway, so I climbed to my feet and headed in that direction. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the house after the energy I’d exerted to get here, but if I didn’t take Dillon out soon, I’d spend the night cleaning up dog piss.
I paused as I reached the top of the stairs. The bed. Oh God damn, after months of sleeping on a couch or Calvin’s too-small-for-two bed, this was a sight to behold. It was huge and inviting—with lots of pillows and a fluffy-looking comforter. I sighed pathetically but stood my ground against its siren song and proceeded to dig out shoes from a still-packed duffel bag in the closet. I tugged the backs over my heels and made a quick exit down the stairs.
I picked up the landline phone sitting on an end table beside the sofa. Yes, I was fully aware that the necessity for a home telephone these days was quite miniscule. But I also knew my technologically inept self would come to depend on it eventually.
And by eventually, I mean the day after I had it installed.
I dialed Calvin’s cell. He didn’t pick up. I doubt he’d even programmed our home number into his address book.
“Hey,” I said, once I’d been instructed to leave a message. “It’s me.” I held the phone between my ear and shoulder and rummaged through the table drawers. “Sebastian—obviously.” I moved to the matching table on the other side of the couch and pulled those drawers open. “This is the landline you swore was a silly purchase. I left my bag in Neil’s car. I don’t have my phone or keys—trying to find that spare—never mind, found it.” I straightened and tucked the extra set of keys into my pocket. “If an Officer Shapiro calls you…,” I began, before deciding, no, no, discussing an assault over the phone would not bode well. “You know, I’ll tell you about it when you get home. If you call back and I don’t answer, I went for a walk with Dillon. Love you.”
I ended the call and glanced across the room. Dillon was sitting in the middle of the packing mess, staring at me, his tail swishing back and forth.
With the feeling that Calvin’s dog was eavesdropping, I held the phone close once more and dialed another cell. I sort of thought it’d be a combination of random numbers I’d have forgotten months ago, but muscle memory had kicked in, and before I knew it—
“Neil Millett. Please leave a message.”
“Uh, hi. It’s Sebastian. So, I left my bag in your car. Not that I need my cane right now, but it makes for a decent weapon and I’ve had a less-than-stellar night.” I cleared my throat. “Anyway. If you see Calvin again this evening, could you give it to him? Thanks. Bye.”
I ended the call and set the receiver back on the charger. I looked at Dillon.
He cocked his head to the side.
“I found a body in a dumpster tonight, dog.”
Dillon barked in response and stood.
“Then some guy tried to choke me out.”
Dillon ran to the door, tail wagging.
“What’s this world coming to?” I asked, following him. I grabbed his leash from a pile of junk, hooked it to Dillon’s collar, and reluctantly left the house.
WITH THE dog leash in one hand, I unlocked the door with the other, held a take-out bag between my teeth, and was greeted to a ringing phone.
“Errph—’ol ahn!” I shut the door behind us, removed the leash from Dillon, and tripped over the piled cardboard as I kicked off my shoes. The bag of Chinese food fell to the floor. I left it, rushing for the phone before whoever—most likely Calvin—hung up.
“Cal?” I answered breathlessly.
A moment of silence. “It’s Neil.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I walked back to the abused sweet and sour chicken. I picked up the bag, and the plastic container of sauce spilled open all over the floor. I stared at the mess for a hot second before I just started laughing.
“Are… you okay?” Neil asked.
“No,” I said between hysterical chuckles. “I’m exhausted, alone, CSU has my shoes, and I’m wondering if I can put ketchup on Chinese food!”
“You sound hangry.”
“I am!”
“I have your messenger bag,” Neil said after a beat.
I grabbed a wad of napkins from the takeout and sopped up the sticky mess while simultaneously shoving
Dillon away as he tried to lick the floor.
“I can drop it off,” Neil continued.
“You don’t have to do that,” I muttered.
“Winter isn’t around, so your options are limited.”
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“I should have been a prosecutor.”
“Wow, did Neil Millett just crack a joke?”
“What’s your new address?”
I gave Neil the street number and told him to buzz the apartment when he arrived. I set the phone aside after he ended the call, finished cleaning the sauce, and took the mess into the kitchen. I dumped the container and napkins into the trash, then went to the fridge. Usually the light from inside, combined with a dark room, hurt my eyes, but seeing as how I was still wearing my sunglasses because, bag! I grabbed the last bottle of beer, decided against using ketchup on the chicken, and left the room.
Since the table was inaccessible due to the mountain of shit, and with my luck, I’d spill what remained of dinner all over our new I-paid-how-much-for-it sofa—I opted for sitting on the floor. And there I remained, sipping beer, eating greasy chicken, and finally letting myself reflect on… well, everything.
Edison’s brilliant assistant, W. K. L. Dickson, built the Kinetoscope.
And someone, likely the crew behind the invention, shot footage of a man being brutally murdered.
Fast forward a century later, and that movie ends up in my shop.
And in one day, the Emporium was broken into twice, someone had stolen half of the reel, left a kid dead in my alley, I was attacked, and the second portion of the film was snatched right from my own hands.
Where’re the other movies?
I glared at the far brick wall, where the partial bookshelf was, and took another long swig of beer. Mr. Licorice must have been the dead kid’s partner-in-crime, and he’d followed me home from the Emporium. What was important to note was that he’d snagged the reel of footage before he’d even grabbed me, which said something about his priorities. And when he did speak, he could have demanded anything from me—phone, wallet, blood type, my hand in marriage—but he asked for movies.