The Complete Matt Jacob Series

by Klein, Zachary;

  I kept moving, my memories a buffer against the wind. I saw—as I had twenty years before— people venting their psychic rage, each with his own signature; erroneously furious at his or her own body or mind for placing them in this unalterable circumstance.

  The same sidewalks, the same feet. But now was a different lifetime. And later than I’d thought. I walked inside an empty tavern, downed a quick beer, debating whether to walk or drive to the storefront. By the time I left I decided to keep walking, aching feet and all.

  As I approached the building I began to feel silly about the pipe in my pocket. I doubted Mel would hit me with a Mae West. Through the storefront’s window, I could see her standing outside her office, speaking with her young friend Therin. Their heads were close together, the looks between them intimate and intense. I shivered, the fresh air finally freezing. But I waited outside until they finished their conversation, and Melanie had returned to her small cubicle.

  Therin grabbed something off the front desk and stormed out the door. He saw me and stopped in his tracks. His face shone bright in the diffused light coming through the plate-glass window.

  “Back where you started!” he snarled.

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. He reached out and grabbed my sore arm and I jerked it away.

  “I’m not trying to hurt you, man,” he said, his voice harsh and hostile. “What are you trying to do, Therin?”

  He looked surprised. “You remembered my name.” “It’s an unusual name. What do you want?”

  “I want to show you something. Come with me.”

  He started toward the side of the storefront, and I instantly grew wary. “What’s this about?” He glanced back at me. “I couldn’t hurt you even if I tried.” He sounded bitter and disappointed. “Just follow me, okay?”

  I nodded and trailed behind. Therin walked along the side of the storefront toward the back. By now I had reached into my pocket and wrapped my fingers around the equalizer. You don’t do rent with trust. “What’s this about, Therin?”

  He turned, held a finger to his lips. We got to a concrete alley behind the building where he stopped and pointed. There was no light, no moon, and I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to see. I shook my head, and his pointing grew more emphatic. I still would have missed it if I hadn’t heard a groan from a dark pile of rags and newspapers. Therin pointed to another lump in the alley, and I saw what looked like smoke coming from the mound. It didn’t take clairvoyance to realize it was breath. Now that my eyes had adjusted, the landscape wasn’t much different from warmer nights in my own backyard.

  He pointed to another couple of sleeping piles, then signaled me to follow him out front. I was curious to hear what he had to say. I didn’t think he was offering me a social work job.

  Back on the street he looked at me, his breath rapid and shallow. “Those are Indians. Native Americans. Indians.” He made the words sound like spit.

  “Okay, they’re Indians. Where I live, the drunks in the alleys are white. Come over some time and I’ll return the tour.”

  “This isn’t funny.”

  “I don’t know what it is, Therin. You’ve been leading the band.”

  He was agitated and began to pace back and forth in the small area between us. “Those people have been taught to be worthless drunks.”

  “We agree, Therin. White people suck.” “That’s not my point.”

  “What is your point?” It was overcast and cold with no memories to keep me warm. “Even though they’re drunks and bums, they have more than me.”

  I wondered if he’d been drinking. “How’s that?”

  “Don’t patronize me. I’m not stupid. Every morning the four or five of them meet, figure out what they will need in order to eat, get drunk, and prepare for the night. They sit in the back and divide up the work. Each of them is just part of the greater whole that is all of them. And all of them are just part of something larger.” He stopped his pacing and stared hard at me, as if trying to drum the idea into my head with his eyes.

  “They could do with better tasks, don’t you think?”

  He replied angrily, “They belong, you idiot! First to each other, then to something else. For most all of my life, I’ve belonged to nothing. I’ve despised The End’s Indians for being passive drunks. I’ve hated whites for doing it to them. Two years ago I found something to belong to.”

  He lifted his arm and made a fist in the air, shouting in a shrill voice, “I am not going to let you take it away from me. Do you understand? You are not going to take it away from me!”

  Before I could answer, Therin turned on his heel and raced down the block. Before he disappeared around the corner he turned, shook his fist at me, and yelled again, “No one is!”

  I hadn’t gotten through the door, and I was already beat. I felt bad for the kid though I didn’t understand what was going through his mind. I wanted to retreat to my car and home to my stash. Instead, I pushed through the storefront’s door hoping Melanie kept a full jar of aspirin. It would be too much to hope for codeine.

  My request for aspirin was met with a sarcastic grimace. “Did somebody bother you again?” Melanie asked, as we stood by the big front desk.

  I shook my head, though it felt like a couple of Kennedy halfs rattling in an empty tin cup. I stopped moving and protested, “The other night was a little more than a bother.”

  “Was it?”

  Melanie turned her back to my open mouth so I shut it. She walked to the back room, then returned with a paper cup of water and two pills. I wanted half a dozen.

  I gulped the aspirin and said, “Your young friend just threatened me about something. Does that count?”

  “My friend?” Melanie looked at me. “Who are you talking about?” “Therin.”

  “Oh.” A frown stayed on her face while I followed her to the back of the storefront. She sat down at a cheap folding card table. I took a seat across. Melanie reached into the pocket of her tan cardigan, pulling out an open pack of Camels.

  “Still trying?” I asked, still hoping to tease away some of her anger. “What are you talking about?”

  “The cigarettes. Trying to like Camels?”

  She dismissed my peace offering. “I don’t know what I’m trying. Do you want one?” “No, thanks.” I reached for the Newports and started to puddle in my discomfort. “What did he say to you?”

  It took me a second to realize whom she meant. “He showed me a small tribe in the alley, then warned me about ruining things for him. Apparently I pose a threat.”

  She looked past me toward the back wall. “He’s a lonely boy.”

  It wasn’t much of an explanation, but we weren’t there to explain Therin. Melanie took my silence for an invitation. “Why are you investigating Peter’s death?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” she snapped. “Jonathan told me you were.” Her voice was strained; the hand holding her cigarette trembled. “You traded on my attraction to you to get information about my brother.”

  She pulled her mouth into a bitter smile that looked like my arm’s slash. “You got your information, didn’t you? More than you bargained for, I bet?” She sat still, breathing angrily, her eyes flecked with worry.

  “Melanie, I didn’t question you about Peter.”

  “You didn’t need to, did you? All you had to do was sit there!”

  “I didn’t visit because of the case,” I objected. “I came because there was, is, something between us.”

  “Apparently what’s between us is Peter’s death,” she snapped. “Something you neglected to mention when we were talking about your work.” She reached up with her hand and plucked at her hair. “I shouldn’t feel surprised,” she said. “You didn’t volunteer that you were a detective when you first came to the storefront, either. Was that due to something between us?”

  Beneath the hostility lay a tremor of panic. A reflection of vulnerability, a variation of what I’d been going th
rough.

  “Mel, when I first came to the storefront I hadn’t decided to take the case. By the time I arrived at your house I’d quit. I visited for the pleasure of your company, not for business. When I said I still had things to finish up, I was grabbing at the easiest way to withdraw.”

  “Withdraw from what?” she demanded.

  “From you.” Boots’ breakfast litany rang in my ear and I tried to rid myself of it in a rush of words. “Not really you, Mel. Ghosts. My own. I brought up Peter’s death with Jonathan because I wanted to learn more about you.”

  Her breathing slowed. “What are you trying to say?”

  I shook my head. “I’m saying that the other night scared the hell out of me. I’m not on any case. Even my curiosity about the beating is gone.”

  “You were never in The End on a job?”

  “Emil wanted me to look into something, but I didn’t want to.” And I didn’t want to tell her that Peter’s death had been Blackhead’s Trojan horse.

  Equal parts of relief and anxiety showed on her face. “Why didn’t you want to investigate?” She cocked her head, trying to be certain she understood my next words.

  “When I don’t trust the client, I don’t do the job. I’m not just a hired gun.”

  She looked away, but I could see the side of her jaw work. She turned back and asked, “And you didn’t trust Emil?”

  “He’s hard to trust.”

  Even with her hand over her mouth she couldn’t contain her laughter. It reeked of tension and relief. “You didn’t trust your client,” she squeezed out, followed by another round of giggles. Eventually she caught her breath.

  “I don’t get the joke.”

  Melanie took her time to answer, staring past me as if I’d disappeared. When she finally spoke someone, or some force, had taken an oversized mallet to her anger. “There is no joke,” she said calmly, removing her wire-rim glasses and placing them in her sweater pocket. “I’m relieved, that’s all. You’re not the only one visited by ghosts. I can’t bear to have you actively involved around Peter’s death, whatever the reason. You drag up enough memories as it is.”

  “I never intended to thrash around anything, Mel. I’m sorry.”

  Her head gave a little jerk and her eyes strafed my face. Finally, in an odd tone of voice, she conceded, “No, Matt, you have nothing to be sorry for. None of us can help our past.”

  She looked away then. “Some of us can’t even do anything about the future.”

  I was thankful for the following minutes of silence. Her strange tone and rapid emotional swing had unsettled me. My mind wandered to Boots: her ability to jump start different moods. As far as women were concerned, I danced on shifting sands.

  Melanie’s face was still turned away as she exhaled her smoke. “What about me? What did you decide about me?”

  “I didn’t know there was a decision to be made.”

  She kept her face averted. “Even without choices there are always decisions to be made.” As if to prove her point, she stood and turned back toward me. “I hope you didn’t get angry at Therin,” she said. “He thinks of me as his only friend. And he knows there is,” she paused, “a great deal of intensity between you and me. It frightens him.”

  I slowly got to my feet. “Look, I’m sorry I’ve caused everyone this much turmoil.”

  “I told you, Matt, there are no apologies due.” Melanie led us toward the front of the building, but stopped halfway and turned to me. “If I thought you were doing something to intentionally hurt me I’d be very upset.”

  She resumed her progress to the front where we stood by the plate-glass window and looked at each other. A smile crossed her face as she reached out and grasped the equalizer in my pant pocket. “Is that a pickle in your pocket, or are you glad to see me?” she asked slyly.

  So much for a second career as a soothsayer. “I’m glad to see you.” Maybe.

  She nodded, leaned over, and kissed me on the cheek. “Then we’ll have to see each other again.”

  I smiled as the remaining fissures between us closed.

  On my way to the car, leftover images of the night streamed into my head: Lou’s snub, Melanie’s rage, Therin’s Indian friends. But I felt good when I left the storefront, finished with the lies. Melanie complicated my life, but she was a problem of riches, not poverty. The street itself glistened with the sheen of the season’s first real snow, snow that hadn’t yet had a chance to turn a gritty urban gray-and-yellow. As much as I hated the cold, the city seemed quiet and peaceful.

  A peace interrupted by the sudden sound of a powerful engine springing to life. I looked up and was blinded by a bright spotlight from a 4×4’s roof. Expecting the light to move, I lifted my arm to shield my eyes, but the harsh gleam just bored in deeper. Even though I was on the sidewalk, the truck screamed directly at me. I was too surprised, frozen with fear to move. At the last second the truck tires swerved, and missed. I stood cursing the wet ground that, a moment before, I had admired.

  The sound of the engine was still somewhere in range. I hoped his skid, and my near-death experience, had slowed the bastard to a more reasonable speed. I took a deep breath and slogged on, adding yet another reason to hate winter.

  I walked another block before the truck came at me again. This time I was crossing the street when it gunned out of an adjoining alley. Same thunder, same blinding light. I started to run back to the sidewalk, but didn’t have the time. I turned and dashed in the opposite direction. As I ran by, a figure in the driver’s seat wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt pulled low over his face had his fist raised and waving.

  I raced down the street, still hearing the engine. It grew louder, and I turned my head to see the 4×4 slide out of a U-turn and pick up speed. I knew I should get to a secure location; but I panicked, and just kept running. I heard the engine’s roar reach a crescendo, and felt its lights heat the back of my head. Suddenly the engine whined, and, at the same time, my feet slipped out from under me. I sprawled face down on the wet concrete. In that instant I thought my life was over.

  The hooded fucker must have stood on the brakes because the truck stopped inches from my back. The smell of gasoline, oil, and grease filled my nostrils and I threw up on the street. Before I could collect myself, the truck backed away, and disappeared.

  Once again all was quiet except for the fading hum of the truck. I might have believed it was all a terrible acid flashback, but the stenches of gasoline and vomit were still there, along with tire tracks. I picked myself up and limped the rest of the way to my car—frozen, frightened, stinking, but alive.

  Back home, before I climbed into bed I dropped to my knees and dragged out the gun box. I put two months of unread %ew Yorkers on the floor and placed the box on the night table. I pulled out the holster and .38 and strapped it on. I looked ridiculous sitting on the edge of my bed in a pair of boxers and undershirt wearing a gun, but I didn’t care. It helped calm my nerves. Lying on my back, I pulled my gun from the holster and rubbed the barrel across my sweaty forehead. Another bout with the shakes was coming, and I tried to short-circuit it with more grass. The night’s final images tugged for what seemed like an eternity, but sleep finally approached. I put the gun back in its holster, but kept the holster strapped to my chest.

  Right before sleep I saw the mental picture of my mess on the street. There is no way to keep an urban snow clean.

  I was pushed deeper into the bed as my panic hit. Eyes closed, I twisted away from the hands, remembered the gun strapped on my body, and lunged. Before I got to it something clubbed my chest and knocked me back onto the mattress. I opened my eyes and stared into two liquid red pools, my nose filled with the smell of whiskey. It took another second before I realized it was Julius’s arm that felt like a fallen redwood. As I regained my breath, he relaxed his grip. I saw Lou fill the doorway to my bedroom, a look of horror on his face.

  I nodded to indicate I knew where I was. Julius lifted his arm and took a step back. He turned t
oward Lou, rumbling in his basso profundo, “Can you get him some coffee?” Lou nodded and backed out.

  I felt my heart dislodge from my throat and descend to its normal place and beat as I sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “You been screaming in your sleep, Matt.”

  “I’m sorry, man.” My voice was thin and slurred. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey. “Wait for the jo,” Julius ordered.

  I sank back down accidentally knocking the gun box to the floor. The crash and rattle squeezed the back of my head. Lou walked in with a steaming mug, looking anxiously to Julius.

  “It’s all right Lou. He be fine. It was just the box that fell.” Julie paused, then said, “Something smells good out there. Maybe it needs tending—don’t want to scorch nothing?”

  Lou looked relieved and, with a sideways glance, said quietly, “Call if you need anything.” I sipped the hot black coffee after Lou left.

  Julius grunted.

  “You expect an invasion, Slumlord? Only thing missing was a blade between your teeth. Got us some serious nocturnal artillery here.”

  I tried to grin but my face wasn’t ready. I buried my nose in the cup. But the smell that filled my nostrils was grease and gasoline. I felt a hot murderous flash race through my body, and I put the cup down on the table.

  “I thought I was going to buy it last night.” The rage lent body to my voice. “What drug you overdose?” He sounded fatigued.

  I shook my head. “No drugs. Hit-and-run.”

  Julius’ eyes flickered as he pulled over a chair from the corner, dumped a pile of clothes, and sat. His action reminded me of Blackhead’s clothes-strewn mohair chair; I swore silently to clean my room.