by TJ Martinell
But as he looked at me and my singed clothes and blackened face and my shell-shocked gaze, his anger gave way to sympathy. He assumed a more relaxed pose, stood in front of his desk with his hands folded in front of him. He then let them drop down to his sides before he opened a box and offered me a cigar. I shook my head. He made a remark about how he remembered when I didn’t smoke. I said nothing. All I thought of was the young couple.
Buried beneath all of this was my suspicion of Olan. Too deep for him to detect it.
Puffing on the cigar, he blew out a thin cloud of smoke and placed it in the ashtray as he walked up to me. He leaned on the desk and crossed his arms again, this time in an empathetic manner. I didn’t buy it. I also didn’t care.
He raised one eyebrow, then the other.
“How bad was it?” he asked.
“Look at the pictures I took.”
“I just spoke with McCullen. I want to get this out early. He’s thinking it over.”
I said nothing.
“You hurt?” he asked.
“No.”
“You’ve had a few close calls lately.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I’ve read Port’s story. It’s good. But I want to make sure I got it all straight. You have no idea what kind of eagle that was?”
“No.”
“Must be new. We need to find out what it is, how it works, and most importantly why they used it on us.”
“I can get the story to you by tomorrow,” I offered.
I looked at him, hid my smile. His answer to my request would determine his guilt.
“How?” he asked.
“Leave it to me.”
“It’s my job to ask.”
“No,” I said sternly. “That’s my job.”
“Can you get it done quietly?”
“Yes.”
“You need proof,” he insisted. I want conclusive proof.”
“I’ll get it for you.”
“Documentation, the whole works?”
“One way or the other.”
“That’s a lot to come up with in a single day,” he said, looking at me curiously. “Mind telling me your source?”
“No. I need to go now.”
Olan touched me on the arm, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t tell anyone about this. Keep it to yourself. We don’t need rumors going around that we have a lead. Every other newspaper in the whole area will want answers. If they find out we’ve got it before we go to press they’ll all be after you. Know what I mean?”
I nodded, allowing a quick smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”
***
I was being followed. I could feel their presence as I walked through the lobby.
It wasn’t one of the guards, who stood warily in place with their guns as they hid behind barricades. He tried to pass himself off as part of a crowd moving in but broke off to stand alone in the corner and play with his hands.
I could have easily lost him. But he would find me eventually when I returned. Whomever he worked for, they knew where I could be found. Rather than head back up to Jackson Street, I ventured south, taking an open route to the library. Most avoided the path due to ravens patrolling the skies above it during the afternoon. I was, to my knowledge, still off the fugitive list, though I was beginning to question that, as well.
The footsteps faded out behind me, but he was clearly still there following at a distance. I made my intended destination obvious, deliberating before entering the building the library was located underneath. When I reached the front entrance, I took my time opening the door and entering.
Tom was at his usual spot. No brandy this time. It looked like a glass of moonshine, but then he took a long sip and his face was too calm for it to be anything other than water. Yet his face was far from calm.
“Too early for a drink?” I asked.
“The world is going to hell.”
“Has this ever happened before?”
“Never. They know better. But I think they got wise to the fact that the outsiders don’t care. They see us criminal scum that should be exterminated, anyway.”
A patron sitting at the counter caught my attention. He stuck out badly with his stiff posture and strained neck as he drank his ale with jerky, nervous motions. He had his body turned towards me but his strained neck had him facing the bar.
I tapped Tom in the leg with my foot, discreetly speaking out the side of my mouth.
“Whatever you do, don’t look away from me,” I said. “There’s a guy who followed me in here. He’s sitting at the counter on one of the stools. I think he’s the one chased me around town the other day.”
“Who’s he taking orders from, you think?”
“Olan.”
Tom squinted dubiously. “What makes you so sure?”
“He assigned me the story. Who else could it have been?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Come on, kid. You have to look at this from his perspective. Olan assigned it to you, but someone else could have overheard him. You think those offices aren’t bugged sometimes? They have to sweep them every day. Sometimes they miss.”
“Have you ever eavesdropped?”
“On occasion.”
“Either way, I don’t like this fly hovering over me,” I said. “I’d swat it, but I think I want to send the right message back to its owner.”
“How do you propose to do that without causing a fuss? Jamal doesn’t want trouble.”
“Just bring him over here. He’ll notice if it’s me. I don’t want a scene, either. I just want to give him a few words to send to his boss.”
Tom gestured with his head. “Which guy?”
“Can’t miss him. The one who looks like he has a wooden beam latched to his spine.”
He went to the bar counter, barking lightheartedly at the bartender for ale; it had to be his first time in at least a year.
When he got it, he paid for it and walked past the spy. Covering his actions with the edge of his jacket, he shoved a small pistol into the man’s ribs, speaking into his ear. The man obediently got off the stool, took his drink and led the way back to our booth. Tom shoved him down into the seat, keeping the man’s hands up as he searched him for weapons. All he found brass knuckles and a switchblade.
I looked at the man hard. Even with the dimmed light, his youthful face was very apparent; he appeared no older than twenty. He was dressed immaculately. Dress shirt, clean overcoat. But he squirmed around in it with discomfort written all over him.
“Got a name?” Tom asked.
“Look, I don’t want no trouble.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “We don’t want trouble, either. So why are you bringing it here?”
“I….I don’t know what you mean. I ain’t done a thing.”
“Which gang are you from?” Tom asked.
“What?”
“Don’t play dense with me. I’ve been here since your dad was sucking his thumb. Which gang?”
“…..the Valley Brotherhood.”
I was vaguely familiar. A street gang that dealt in petty crime. Nothing our newspaper couldn’t handle. They kept themselves confined to Rainier Valley and rarely ventured out of it.
“Good with a knife, eh?” Tom remarked.
“I’m alright,” the boy said.
“For a thug you’re fairly humble,” I said.
“I ain’t into bragging. An empty can makes a lot of noise when you roll it down a hill.”
“Wise words. Too bad you’re not as clever when it comes to stalking people. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it ain’t polite?”
“Look, I ain’t here to do nothing, right? I didn’t come here to kill you.”
“That’s good,” Tom said. “For you, at least.”
I lit up and blew thick clouds of cigarette smoke into the boy’s face. He coughed but didn’t complain.
“The Valley Brotherhood, huh?
” I said as I took a long drag on the cigarette. “You still with them?”
“Man, I got some self-respect left,” he answered. “They be crazy. But I am good with the knife.”
“Then why are you playing stalker boyfriend with me? I’m not going to hurt you. But you’re better of telling us what’s going on.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“If we wanted to kill you we’d have taken you outside and shot you dead, then left your body in a dumpster,” Tom said.
“Unless ya wanted me to talk first.”
“I already know what you’re going to tell me,” I said. “Or I’m ninety nine percent certain.”
“Then why do you want me to tell it to you?” the boy asked.
“It’s all about that one percent uncertainty, right?”
He rolled his shoulders, his posture easing up.
“What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Who hired you?” I inquired.
“Don’t know.”
“Not winning brownie points with us, kid,” Tom remarked, briefly showing his pistol pointed at the boy’s side.
“I’m telling it to ya straight,” he said. “I don’t have a damn clue who. I just get approached by some guy. He gives me some money, tells me to follow ya wherever ya go.”
“Where did this happen?” I asked.
“On 5th Avenue.”
“Which intersection?”
“Don’t remember,” the boy said. “I didn’t care. I was too busy looking at the money. It was a lot. Enough to not have to go back to those assholes in the Valley.”
“How long since you left them?”
“Last week.”
“And you didn’t get a good look at the guy?” Tom asked suspiciously.
“No,” the boy said. “He had a hat over his face, and his voice was weird.”
“Weird?”
“Yeah, like raspy or something?”
I could recall only one voice that I would have described as raspy. Only one.
“When did this guy hire you?” I asked. “A few days ago?”
“No, man,” the boy said. “He hired me today.”
I blinked. “Today? When?”
“A few hours ago.”
Tom took a swig of his water and then ordered a shot of whiskey. I stopped the waiter and ordered a shot for the boy. The waiter returned with the shots and left one in front of the boy. He smiled nervously.
“I’m tellin’ it ya straight, fellas,” he said. “I’d been followin’ ya only for a few minutes.”
“Did you ask him any questions?” I said. “Ask him why they wanted me followed?”
“No. He was sort of that guy ya didn’t ask questions to.”
Tom and the boy threw back the shots while I studied him carefully. His eyes told no lies. Ironically that made things more difficult to sort out.
“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.
“Jamie.”
“We’re going to let you go now. But you need to do something for me before I’ll do that.”
“What?” he asked, suddenly worried.
I looked him straight in the eye. “Find the guy who hired you and let him know I’m onto him and that next time he sends someone to chase me around town they aren’t going to like it. Got me?”
“Yeah. Except I got no idea where he is or when I’ll see him next.”
“Then how the hell are you supposed to contact him?”
“He said he’d find me. No idea how he knew where I live. I couldn’t even tell ya the address. Just another shithole in this city.”
I chuckled, smothering my cigarette as I wiped my forehead. “You’re not a bad kid. You’re not dumb, either. Just lost.”
When he went to leave I got up and pressed several coins into his pocket.
“That’s a little advance payment,” I said. “Because I’m sure when you talk to him you’ll get a good look at his face. And I’m sure you’ll come and give me the details. When you do I’ll give you twice what I just paid you.”
Jamie tried his best to conceal his unspoiled delight at seeing so much money in his possession, maintaining a straight face as he nodded and walked away.
“Think that was the wrong decision?” I asked Tom as I sat back down.
“What else could you have done? Killed him?”
“To tell you the truth, if he hadn’t sounded so ignorant, I might have considered it.”
***
Jean answered the knock on her door right away and stood with her small mouth opened as I handed the rifle I had bought that day to her. She was mute as she opened the small sheath and took the rifle sections out, putting it all together in a matter of seconds as though she had designed it herself. She sniffed; my harsh words from the prior evening still stung. It didn’t prevent her from smiling as she discovered the rifle was suitable for her to use, laughing softly as she tested its weight in her hand.
She peered down the sights and tried holding it with one hand, delighted when her arm remained steady.
“Did you buy it at Pike Place?” she asked.
The reference triggered my memory, taking me back.
I was standing there again in the street. People made of flesh and blood bump into me. The bustling of workers carrying crates into the stands. Vendors grinning from ear to ear after a successful transaction. Buskers vying for the spare change of passersby roaming through the alleyways. And the young couple holding hands and gazing up. Everyone gazes up at the sky and hears what they cannot see. Then they are gone. I stand there again with Griggs looking at the deep crater in the center of the marketplace. I see the man half blown apart, clawing to hold onto the few moments left in this life. The cries of despair from those who do not search because there is nothing to find.
I snapped back into reality, but I couldn’t get away from it. The smell of burnt flesh stank in my nostrils, the wails echoing in my ears. I looked down at my bare hands, felt the warm blood dripping down my fingertips.
I left Jean and stumbled into my cabin. I closed the door and turned off the lights and slid down next to my bed. My mind ran wild through the scene as I clawed at my face and wept uncontrollably.
Jean’s warm gentle hand touched my shoulder. She lowered herself down and leaned against me with her face on my arm. She then put my arm over her head and draped it over her shoulder.
“Do you understand now why I did it?” she asked.
She was talking about the boy.
I touched Jean’s hand. Her small fingers wiped away the sensation of blood from mine. With her head on my shoulder, her heart beat against my chest like a soundless lullaby.
***
When I woke up it still dark, though there were hints of dawn approaching. Murky clouds had rolled in from the east and were now settled over the water.
Jean was sleeping peacefully next to me, her breaths on my skin. I reached out to touch her shoulder, but an unknown fear pulled me away. As I was trying to slide her over to the side of the bed, her eyes suddenly opened wide.
“I am coming with you today,” she said.
I looked at her for a while.
“Alright,” I said.
She brewed coffee on the stove. By the time I had dressed in a clean pair of clothes she had a cup waiting for me on the table beside two cubes of sugar and some cream.
“We will need a new car,” she said.
“No need. I’ve got my Enfield motorcycle.”
“I do not want to ride your motorcycle. It is not safe.”
“Since when did you get so worried about safety?” I asked.
She smiled, but with solemnity. “It is not an unreasonable thing for you to think about. You have nearly been killed three times in as many days. I am thinking about your safety.”
Her motherly tone annoyed me, but I let it pass. “I appreciate it. But I think the Royal Enfield will get the job done.”
Jean s
et her cup of coffee down and walked over to the phone hanging on the wall. She picked it up and got a hold of the parking garage. After a short pause, Hernandez’s unmistakably loud and confrontational voice blared through the phone. He was still rankled over what had happened to our car, regardless of who had done the actual damage.
With her quiet, matter-of-fact voice, she told him to get a car for us ready, that she would pay for it in full and that she expected to find it prepared within fifteen minutes. Before he could protest she hung up and sat back down and sipped on her coffee as though the conversation hadn’t taken place at all.
“He better give us a good car,” she said wryly. “I like Hernandez. I do not want to try out my new rifle on him.”
Chapter Seven
I couldn’t remember the first time I ever enjoyed a breakfast of sausage, French toast, and scrambled eggs with a thick layer of syrup and a cherry on top of it. Probably when I had been too young to speak and my mother had had to cut everything into small pieces for me to eat.
But I got a good idea of what I might have looked like as I watched Jean consume a similar breakfast with a concentrated gaze of thinly concealed ecstasy. Casey seemed envious of her joy as he drank his coffee, glancing at her warily before asking the waitress for a refill. He appeared even more wearied than last I had seen him. A great anxiety seemed to be permanently embedded behind his countenance, his eyes weak from too many sleepless nights.
Throughout the entire breakfast up until then I had expected him to go off about how the strike against Pike Place had been necessary and offer numerous justifications for it despite the “collateral damage” incurred.
He put down his coffee, rubbing his eyes as he yawned. He was also angry for another reason. Breaching our normal means of contacting one another, I had met him outside of his house. He was terrified his mother might have seen us, which I doubted. She was too preoccupied in her own little world to notice anything outside of it.
“So,” he said, “what did you want to speak to me about?”
“You know why.”
“No.”
“What happened yesterday.”
He rubbed his eye again. “A lot of things happened yesterday. Which one do you refer to?”