It’s impetuous. A risk when he’s been so careful with everything else. He has waited four months so as not to raise suspicion, nor appear too eager.
There’s no light in her. Not like his girls. And yet she’s more than the low dullards that trudge through the days, interchangeable in any of the Chicagos if you only look past their clothes. He likes her callow viciousness. He likes the sense that he is defying something.
Harper ignores the sprays of pale pinks and yellows and fingers the petal of a lily, splayed open obscenely. At his touch, the stamen drips powdery gold over the black and white tiles.
‘Are you sending condolences?’ the florist asks.
‘No, it’s an invitation.’
He pinches the head of the flower closed and something inside bites him. His hand jerks, crushing the flower, knocking several long stems from the bucket. The sting quivers in his fingertip, the venom sac at the tip deflated and sapped out. From the mangle of petals on the floor, a bee crawls out, wings torn and legs dragging.
The florist stamps on it. ‘Gosh darn insect! I am so sorry, sir. It must have come in from outside. Can I get you some ice?’
‘Just the flowers,’ Harper says, shaking his hand, brushing the sting away. The burn is ferocious. But it clears the heaviness in his head.
‘Nurse Etta’ the card reads, because he can’t remember her last name. ‘Elizabethan Room, Congress Hotel. 8 p.m. Regards, Your Admirer.’
On the way out, his hand still throbbing with the poison, he hesitates at the jeweler’s and buys the silver bracelet in the window, hung with charms. A reward if she shows up. That it matches one already nailed up on his wall is a coincidence, he tells himself.
She’s already sitting at the table when he arrives, peering round the room to see, her hands locked tight over her purse in her lap. She is wearing a beige dress that flatters her figure, even though it is a little tight around the arms, which makes him think it’s borrowed. She’s cut her cherry-brown hair and styled it in finger waves. She looks amused when she sees that it’s him. A pianist tinkles a sweet and empty tune while the band sets up.
‘I knew it was you,’ she says, her mouth twisting ironically.
‘Did you?’
‘I did.’
‘I thought I’d take a chance.’ And then, because he can’t resist: ‘How is your gentleman friend?’
‘The doctor? He disappeared. You didn’t know?’ Her eyes glint in the yellow light of the chandeliers.
‘Do you think I’d have waited so long?’
‘Rumors were he got some girl knocked up and ran off with her. Or got in trouble gambling.’
‘It happens.’
‘Bastard. Wish he was dead.’
The waiter brings lemonade. With a twist, which Harper has paid extra for. It’s too sharp. He has to stop himself from spitting it out over the tablecloth.
‘I brought you something.’ He takes the jeweler’s velvet box from his pocket and slides it across the table.
‘Aren’t I the lucky girl?’ She makes no move to take it.
‘Open it.’
‘All right.’ She reaches for the box. She takes the bracelet out and holds it up to the candlelight. ‘What’s this for?’
‘You’re interesting to me.’
‘You only want me because you couldn’t have me before.’
‘Maybe. Maybe I killed that doctor.’
‘Is that right?’ She folds the bracelet around her wrist and extends it for him to fasten the clasp, bending back her hand so the tendons stand out in sharp relief among the fine network of veins under her skin. She makes him feel uncertain. His charisma doesn’t work on her the way it does with others – she’s wise to him.
‘Thank you. Do you want to dance?’ she says.
‘No.’ The tables around them are filling up. The women are better and more dangerously dressed, in sequins and thin-strapped dresses. The men wear their suits with obscene confidence. This has been a mistake.
‘Then let’s go back to your house.’
It’s a test, he realizes. For her as well as him. ‘Are you sure?’ he says. His hand throbs with remembered pain from the bee sting earlier.
He takes her the long way, so the streets will be emptier, even though she complains about her heels and eventually takes them off, along with her stockings, to walk in her bare feet. He leads her the last few blocks with a hand clamped over her eyes. An old man gives them a baleful look, but Harper kisses Etta on the head. See, he’s saying, it’s just a lovers’ game. It is, in a way.
He keeps her eyes covered as he slides the key into the lock and helps guide her under the boards crossed over the door.
‘What’s going on?’ she giggles. He can tell by her soft panting breath that she’s excited.
‘You’ll see.’
He locks the door behind them before he lets her see, guiding her towards the parlor, past the dark stain on the pocked and dented wood in the passage.
‘This is fancy,’ she says, looking around at the fittings. She spies the decanter of whiskey, which he has refilled. ‘Should we have a drink?’
‘No,’ he says, grabbing at her breasts.
‘Let’s go to the bedroom,’ she whispers as he steers her to the couch.
‘Here.’ He pushes her down on her stomach and tries to pull up her dress.
‘It’s a zipper,’ she says, reaching to tug down the metal teeth. She wriggles, pulling it over her hips. He can feel himself starting to lose it. He wrenches her hands behind her back.
‘Stay still,’ he hisses. He closes his eyes and summons images of the girls. Opening up under him. Their insides spilling out. The way they cry and struggle.
It’s over too soon. He groans as he rolls off, his pants round his ankles. He wants to hit her. Her fault. Slut.
But she turns over to kiss him with that sly, darting tongue. ‘That was nice.’ She moves her mouth down to his lap and even though he can’t stay hard, it proves more satisfying.
‘Do you want to see something?’ he says, absently rubbing at the lipstick smear on his testicles. She’s sitting at his feet on the floor, her dress hanging off her shoulders, hand-rolling a cigarette.
‘Seen it already,’ she leers.
He tucks himself away. ‘Get dressed.’
‘All right.’ The bracelet jangles around her wrist as she takes a long pull on the cigarette. She exhales a cloud of smoke between the neat bow of her lips.
‘It’s a secret.’ He feels a thrill at telling her. It’s a violation and he knows it. But he needs to share it. His great and terrible mystery. The same goddamn thing if he was the richest man in the world and didn’t have nothing to spend it on.
‘All right,’ she says again, a knowing crease at the corner of her mouth.
‘You can’t look.’ He won’t take her too far. He needs to see her limits.
He uses his hat this time to cover her face as he takes her out the door, but she still gasps at the light. They step out into a balmy afternoon with an insistent breeze and the spattering of spring rain. She catches on quick. Harper knew she would.
‘What is this?’ she says, her fingers digging into his arm, staring at the street. Her lips are parted, enough for him to see her tongue running over her teeth, back and forth, back and forth.
‘You ain’t seen nothing,’ he says.
He takes her downtown, which is not so different, but then they follow the crowds down to Northerly Island park, where the new World’s Fair is underway. Spring of 1934. He’s been here before in his wanderings.
‘The Century of Progress’, the banners proclaim. ‘The rainbow city.’ They walk through a corridor of flags among the throngs of people, excited and happy. She bugs her eyes at him, watching the red lights tick up the side of the narrow tower made to resemble a thermometer. ‘This isn’t here,’ she says in wonder.
‘Not yesterday.’
‘How did you do this?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he says.
<
br /> He quickly tires of the marvels, which seem quaint to him. The buildings are strange and, he knows, only temporary. She shrieks and clings to his arm at the dinosaurs that wag their tails and move their heads from side to side, but he is unimpressed by the crude mechanics.
There is a replica fort with Red Indians, and a golden Japanese building that looks like a broken umbrella – all jutting spokes. The House of the Future is not. The General Motors display seems laughable. A giant boy with a distorted puppet face sits astride an outsize red flyer wagon, riding it nowhere.
He shouldn’t have brought her here. It is pathetic. The limits of the imagination, the future painted up all gaudy like a cheap whore, when he has seen the reality of it, fast and dense and ugly.
She picks up on his mood and tries to turn it around. ‘Will you look at that,’ she exclaims, pointing at the rocket-shaped gondolas of the Sky Ride scooting back and forth between two massive pylons on either side of the lagoon. ‘You want to go up? I bet the view is breathtaking.’
He buys their tickets, grudgingly, and the elevator swoops them to the top with dizzying speed. And maybe the air is fresher up here or maybe it was only a matter of widening his outlook. The whole city is laid out before them, the entirety of the fair, strange and new from this height.
Etta takes his arm, pressing her body against his so he can feel the warmth and give of her breasts through her dress. Her eyes glitter. ‘Do you realize what you have?’
‘Yes,’ he says. A partner. Someone who will understand. He already knows she’s cruel.
Kirby
14 JANUARY 1993
‘Hey, Kirsty, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Just lost track of time,’ Sebastian ‘call me Seb’ Wilson launches in as he opens the door to her.
‘It’s Kirby,’ she corrects him. She’d been waiting in the lobby downstairs for half an hour before she got the receptionist to call his room.
‘Yeah, sure, sorry. I don’t know where my head’s at. Well, actually I do. It’s wrapped up in this deal. Come in, won’t you? Excuse the mess.’
His suite has to be one of the swankiest in the hotel; top-floor room with a view of the river and an adjoining lounge, the kind with a glass coffee table that would be marked with distinctive razor-blade scratches and the finest dusting of cocaine.
Right now, it’s buried under a shuffle of spreadsheets and data forms. The bed is unmade. There is a collection of empty mini-liquor bottles clustered around the over-sized statement lamp on the side-table. He shoves his briefcase off the white leather couch to make space for her to sit down.
‘Can I get you something? A drink? If there’s anything left…’ he glances at the empties, embarrassed, pushing his fingers through his immaculately tousled hair, revealing that it’s starting to recede prematurely at the temples. Peter Pan all grown up and turned corporate, she thinks, but still trying to coast on the bad-boy persona from high school.
Even under the expensive suit, Kirby can make out that once rangy muscle is going soft, especially around his middle. She wonders when he last tinkered with a motorbike. Or if it’s something he tells himself he’s going to get back to as soon as he cracks that first million and retires at thirty-five.
‘Thanks for taking the time to see me.’
‘Hey, sure. Anything to help Julia. It’s tragic. I still haven’t, you know … gotten over it.’ He shakes his head. ‘That day.’
‘It was a struggle to catch you.’
‘I know, I know. This big merger. Normally the firm wouldn’t be interested in heartland stuff. We’re more coast-centered. But farmers require mortgages, same as everyone else. You probably don’t even know what I’m talking about. What did you say you were studying again?’
‘Journalism. But actually, I just dropped out.’ It hasn’t occurred to her that she’s made the decision until the words are out in the open, confessed to this total stranger. But she hasn’t been to class in over a month. Hasn’t turned in an assignment in two. If she’s lucky, they’ll put her on probation.
‘Hey, I get that. I got sucked into all those political demonstrations and shit. I thought it was something useful I could do with all the anger.’
‘You’re very candid about it.’
‘I’m talking to someone who understands, right? Not a lot of people can.’
‘No kidding.’
‘I mean, you’ve been there.’
The door opens and a Filipino maid sticks her head in. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she says, retreating quickly.
‘An hour, okay?’ Sebastian shouts, overly loud. ‘Come back and do the room in an hour!’ He smiles vaguely at Kirby. ‘What was I talking about?’
‘Julia. Politics. Being angry.’
‘Yeah. That’s it. But what was I supposed to do? Stop my whole life? Jules would have wanted me to go on, make something of my future. And look at me now. I think she’d be proud, right?’
‘Sure.’ Kirby sighs. Maybe death concentrates everything. Makes you more of a selfish fratboy ass, even if you’re wounded and lonely underneath it all.
‘So, you go round talking to victims’ families? That must be depressing.’
‘Not as depressing as the murderer getting away with it. I know it’s a long time ago, but can you remember if there was anything that struck you as strange about the police finding the body?’
‘Are you kidding me? That it took two days for anyone to find her. That’s injustice right there. When I think about her lying there in the woods, all alone.’
The words are shop-soiled enough to irritate Kirby – he’s said them so many times that they’ve lost all meaning. ‘She was dead. It wouldn’t have mattered to her.’
‘That’s cold, lady.’
‘It’s true, though. That’s why it’s called having to live with it.’
‘Chill out. Damn. I thought we had a connection here.’
‘Was there anything out of the ordinary? Anything found on the body that was out of place, that didn’t belong to her? A lighter. Jewelry. Something old.’
‘She wasn’t into jewelry.’
‘Okay, thanks.’ Kirby feels tired. How many of these interviews has she done now? ‘You’ve been very helpful. I appreciate your time.’
‘Did I tell you about the song?’ he throws in.
‘I would have remembered.’
‘It has a lot of meaning to me now. “Get It While You Can” – Janis Joplin.’
‘You don’t strike me as the Joplin type.’
‘Neither was Julia. It wasn’t even her handwriting.’
‘What wasn’t?’ Kirby clamps down on the spark of hope. Nothing, it’s nothing. Just like Jamel.
‘On the tape in her purse? I guess someone must have given it to her. You know what girls are like in dorms.’
‘Yeah, all that tape-swapping and pillow fights in their underwear,’ Kirby snipes, to hide her interest. ‘You tell the cops?’
‘What?’
‘That it wasn’t her handwriting?’
‘You think one of those assholes who killed her was a Joplin fan? I think it was more like…’ He mugs drawing a gun sideways out of his pants. ‘Boom-boom! Fuck-tha-police, yo!’ He laughs at his own bad parody, and then his face crumples into sadness. ‘Hey, you sure you don’t want to stick around, have a drink with me?’
She knows what he means.
‘It wouldn’t help,’ Kirby says.
Harper
1 MAY 1993
He is surprised to see how close they stay, despite cars and trains and the buzzing fury of O’Hare Airport. They are easy to track down, he’s found. Mostly they’re drawn to the city, which keeps expanding its reaches further and further into the countryside, like mould laying claim to a piece of bread.
The phone book is usually his starting point, but Catherine Galloway-Peck doesn’t appear in the lists of names. So he phones her parents instead.
‘Hello,’ her father’s voice comes through the instrument clear as if he were standing right b
eside him.
‘I’m looking for Catherine. Can you tell me where to find her?’
‘I’ve told you lot before, she doesn’t live here and we have absolutely nothing, do you hear me, nothing to do with her debts.’ There is a hard click, followed by a sweet monotone hum. He realizes the man is no longer on the other end of the line, so he inserts another quarter into the little slot and goes through the whole process again, jabbing deliberately at the silver keys, the numbers grubby and weathered by other fingers. The handset trills for a long time.
‘Yes?’ Mr Peck’s voice is careful.
‘Do you know where she is? I need to find her.’
‘For Pete’s sake,’ the man says. ‘You need to get the message. Just leave us alone.’ He waits in vain for him to answer; long enough for the fear to manifest. ‘Hello?’
‘Hello.’
‘Oh. I wasn’t sure if you were still there.’ He is uncertain. ‘Is she all right? Has something happened? Oh God. Did she do something?’
‘Why would Catherine do something?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know why she does anything. We paid for her to go to that place. We tried to understand. They said it’s not her fault, but—’
‘Which place?’
‘New Hope Recovery Center.’
Harper gently replaces the instrument.
He doesn’t find her there, but he goes to one of the meetings affiliated with New Hope’s halfway house, where he sits quietly and (as the name suggests) anonymously, listening to sniveling sob stories until he is able to get her new address from a very helpful old-lady ex-junkie called Abigail, who is delighted that Catherine’s ‘uncle’ is reaching out to her.
Catherine
9 JUNE 1993
Catherine Galloway-Peck paces in front of the blank canvas. Tomorrow she will take it down to Huxley and sell it for twenty bucks, even though that’s what the stretching cost alone. But he’ll feel sorry for her, and give her a hit too. She might have to throw in a blowjob. But she’s not a whore. It’s a favor. Friends help each other out. You can help a friend feel good.
Besides, art is supposed to be fuelled by depression and substance abuse. Look at Kerouac. Or Mapplethorpe. Haring! Bacon! Basquiat! So how come when she looks at the blank canvas, the weave of it plinks in her brain like an out-of-tune piano stuck on one note?
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