by Bill Cameron
“I figured you would.”
Tomorrow or the next day, she’ll glance over a memo, but far as Susan is concerned, the file on Ruby Jane’s trespasser is already closed. She leaves me to lock up.
It’s past midnight. I’m not tired. What I am is restless and dissatisfied. Anxiety has taken root in my chest. I’m not a night owl; my evenings may run late, but they tend to run close to home. Marcy, in contrast, is someone I’ve seen close Uncommon Cup one day, go clubbing, hit the bars and after hours joints, then skip sleep to open shop again the next morning. Work a long day and do it all over again. She’ll be up.
I take a seat behind the wheel of my car and roll down the window, listen to the crackling hiss of tires on wet pavement as cars pass. Then I pull out Ruby Jane’s cell phone. Unlike most every other electronic gizmo she owns, it isn’t hanging by a thread over the pit of obsolescence. But it’s nothing fancy either. I hit the power button.
Enter Phone Pass Code: _ _ _ _
The tiny screen is painfully bright in the dark car. I try four digits. Ruby Jane is too smart for my juvenile attempt: 7-3-8-3, the digits corresponding to P-E-T-E. She and Peter fizzled out over a year ago. I suppose I’m reassured his name doesn’t work, but I’m left with ten thousand possibilities. Knowing her, the code is random, a sequence of numbers she chose for their lack of personal meaning. It won’t be a play on Uncommon Cup, U-C-U-P, U-N-C-M, something like that. It won’t be the last four of her social, her childhood street address—not that I know either one—or her birth year. It won’t be S-K-I-N. As if to prove the point, I punch in 7-5-4-6.
The screen clears.
“Well. Hell.”
A trill of pleasure runs through me, but I tell myself not to read too much into it. Probably thought she was being funny.
I pull up the Contacts list, scroll through to the entry for Marcy. She picks up after three rings. “RJ! Oh my god! You’re back!”
“Sorry, Marcy. Not nearly so pretty.”
“Skin? Is that you?”
“In the flesh.” In the background I can hear voices and music, laughter.
“What are you doing with Ruby Jane’s phone?”
“It’s complicated. Listen, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Something’s happened at Ruby Jane’s apartment.”
“Something happened to Ruby Jane’s apartment?”
“No.” I hesitate, thinking. “Where are you? I could join you.”
“I have an idea. Why don’t you come down?”
From the sound of her, the smart choice might be to wait until morning. Except I’m in no mood for waiting. “Sure. Where are you?”
“Cartopia, man.”
“The food carts?”
“You know, the food carts. Come get a pie, man.”
Cartopia is at the corner of Hawthorne and Twelfth, a circle of trailers and panel trucks serving everything from authentic Mexican to crepes to southern barbecue and more. Before I got hurt last fall, Ruby Jane and I would grab dinner there after closing every week or two. RJ can’t get her fill of poutine. I prefer fish tacos or a fried pie.
“I’ll be right there.”
“Careful where you park. The tow truck has been prowling all goddamn night.”
She’s at least half-drunk. I wonder if this will be a wasted trip. Still, I’m awake. Not like I have anything better to do.
I’ve never been to the carts this late. The after-midnight scene is nothing like I’m used to. A manic energy pervades the crowd gathered in the open space between the carts. Clouds roll overhead in long strips, the lingering threat of rain doing little to dampen spirits. There are a pair of large canopies, one twice the size of the other, with picnic tables underneath, but as many stand under sky as under cover. Competing scents of hickory, deep fryer fat, and cigarette smoke hang on the air.
As I weave through the crowd, the Whiffies girl recognizes me and beckons. My bagel is a fading memory, so I wander over and check the board.
“Hi, Summer. Busy night?”
“Picking up now that the weather’s getting warmer. We ran out of brisket.”
“I’ll be throwing a tantrum now.”
Gregg looks around from the back of the cart. “If we knew you were coming, we’d have saved you one.”
“I keep forgetting to post my schedule online. Okay, start me a chicken pot pie, but don’t rush. I’m looking for someone.”
“You got it.” Summer smiles and I hand her a five, then throw myself into the crowd.
Under the small canopy, someone has set up a portable karaoke machine. A tall lanky fellow belts out a striking rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Folks are clumped, not so dense I can’t wend my way through. I see hoodies everywhere and for a moment I think about the fellow outside Ruby Jane’s apartment. Portland is a city of layers, especially in the spring when we can go from rain to sun to wind storm over the course of a short walk to the coffee shop. Hoodies over flannel over long-sleeve T’s abound, many capped off with knit caps. For all I know, my wallet thief is right in front of me. I try to remember the sound of his voice as I scan for Marcy. “Quitting time, man.” Not much to go on.
I find her at a picnic table under the big canopy, a funnel of pomme frites in front of her. She’s got a big red cup in her left hand, and a Marlboro sticks out from between two knuckles of her right. She uses it to point across the table at an Egyptian-eyed woman with teased and Dayglo’d hair. “If your idea of social media is to spam Twitter and Facebook with announcements of your skanky gallery openings, you’re doin’ it wrong!” Marcy’s arms are a tracery of tattoos, green-leaved vines and orange trumpet flowers.
The other woman slaps the table top. “I only spam my skanky gallery openings on MySpace.”
“MySpace is for douche bags.”
“That’s where I found you, bitch.”
I assume they’re friends. I drape an arm over Marcy’s shoulder. She looks up at me and grins. “You’re up late for an old puke.” Her eyes are a little wild. I glance at the cigarette in her hand. “Don’t tell Ruby Jane I’m smoking.”
“As soon as I find her I’ll make a point of not telling her.”
She blinks, then laughs, the joke catching up with her on the back side.
“Whatcha up to, Skinster?”
“I came from RJ’s apartment.”
“Is she home?”
“No. I was snooping.”
She raises her cup in a mock toast. I catch a whiff of lemonade fortified with tequila.
“There was a man there. He was dead.”
Marcy blinks again. I’m beginning to see this was a mistake. “A dead man? Like, dead-dead?”
“Yeah. Dead-dead in the clawfoot tub.”
“That’s fucked up.” Her face loses a shade. “What’s a dead guy doing in RJ’s bath tub?”
“It looks like he’d been staying there. Did she say anything to you about that?”
She draws on her cigarette, releases smoke without inhaling. I lick my lips.
“A man was hanging around the day before she left.”
“What man?”
“I don’t know. She didn’t introduce him. An old guy.”
“How old?”
“Old. Older than you.”
“Did he arrive in a coffin?”
“What?” She misses the joke. Maybe not so much a joke.
“Did she talk to him?”
“Yeah, for a bit. I think. She made him leave.”
“Why? Was he causing a problem?”
“Not that I noticed.” Suddenly she stands up and waves. Cigarette ash flutters over her bare arms, grey snowfall on entwined vines. “Fells! Hey, Fellsner! Over here!”
I draw an impatient breath. “Marcy?”
“Yeah?” She looks back at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“Can we go somewhere a little quieter? It won’t take long, I promise.”
She’s stil
l waving to Fellsner, I think, but then she stops and turns to the woman with the red hair. “I’m gonna go buy some crack from my friend here. When I get back, my spot better be waiting for me.”
“In your dreams, ho.”
Marcy unwinds from the seat, grabs her cup. Her cigarette vanishes, I hope not down the back of someone’s shirt. She takes my arm and pulls me through the crowd. We head past Whiffies, where I see Summer waving to me from inside the cart.
“Skin! Your pie.”
Marcy shifts direction without breaking stride. “Man’s gotta eat.” I take my pie and thank Summer. Marcy choo-choos us through the redolent aroma of deep-frying pies and past the chemical tang of the port-a-potties. She pulls up short on the sidewalk at Hawthorne.
I’ve known Marcy for a couple of years now. She was one of Ruby Jane’s first hires, came aboard not long before RJ opened her second shop. She started as a part-time barista, but through a combination of native talent and a work ethic rivaled only by Ruby Jane’s rose to become Uncommon Cup’s first official store manager.
“What’s going on with RJ, Marcy?”
“Seriously, man. I don’t know.”
“Not even a guess, maybe from something she said? How was she when she was getting ready to leave?”
She thinks for a moment. “Focused.”
“She would be.”
“I figured maybe she had a death in the family or something.” Her thin eyebrows furrow for a moment. “I didn’t think she’d leave him in her bath tub.” Her eyes appear to vibrate and her voice drops. “Do you think it could have been her dad?”
“I don’t know. She’s never spoken of her parents.”
“Her brother’s still in San Francisco, right?”
“It wasn’t him.”
I met James when he visited Portland a couple of years back. I don’t remember him well, but well enough to know he’d have had to come back in time from 2055 to be the fellow in the tub.
“You’ve been running the whole shebang while she’s away?”
“Yeah. It’s been a little hectic. I’m not used to taking care of three shops, but it’s been good, you know?”
“And she hasn’t checked in?”
“She said she probably wouldn’t get the chance.”
No matter the emergency, it’s hard for me to believe she wouldn’t be on the phone at least once a day. Uncommon Cup is her baby.
“Tell me about the old man.”
“Not much to tell. He came in to Ash Street and they talked.”
“Did you hear what they said?”
“Only a little. The old dude was wheedling her about something he lost and trying to get her to buy his medicine. She hustled him outside and they sat at one of the tables outside for a while.”
“And she said nothing about him.”
“To be honest, I didn’t think much of it. You know how she is. Trying to save the world one hobo at a time.”
Ruby Jane will talk to anyone. She’s generous with the homeless locals, donates ground coffee and cocoa packets to the St. Francis Dining Hall, provides hot water to people who show up at the shop with a tea bag and a cup. There on the street, I find myself inextricably on the verge of tears. In need of a distraction, I take a bite of my forgotten pie. It’s good. They’re always good. But even the buttery crunch of fried crust or the creamy chicken filling can’t penetrate my anxiety. Marcy clasps her bare arms across her chest, cup hooked on one finger. I can feel the chill in the air now that we’re away from the crowd. She tilts her head and looks sideways at me.
“What’s up with you two anyway? You and RJ.”
Her questions surprises me. “I’m worried about her. We’re friends.”
“Break-into-her-apartment friends?”
“I didn’t break in. I used a key.”
“So you snooped. Fucking stalker, that’s what you are.”
“Are you going to arrest me, Officer?”
“I think I’ll let you off with a warning this time, kid.” She lifts her cup, looks at me over the rim as she drinks. Her eyes are amber with flecks of glinting gold. “She told me you kissed her.”
My face grows hot. Even in the scattered streetlight glow, I’m sure my cheeks flash as red as a baboon’s ass. Crowd noise behind me seems to rise like a rushing wind.
Marcy smacks her lips and grins. “I can understand why you’re in love with her.”
“Who said I was in love with her?”
“No one has to, dipshit.” Her grin morphs into a smirk. “You’re not going to ask me how she feels about you?”
Jesus. I blink and look away, watch a tow truck cruise by. “She can tell me herself when I find her.” My voice sounds thin and reedy in my ears. Ruby Jane had four months to tell me before she sent me on my retreat—she chose instead to busy herself expanding the Uncommon Cup empire. A fine mist gathers around us. Not quite rain, but thinking about it.
“Okay, think about this then. I’m twenty-three, turn twenty-four next month.”
“Happy birthday.”
“My mom is forty-five.”
“When is her birthday?”
She gives me a look. “My dad turns seventy-seven the day after I turn twenty-four.”
I notice the uneaten pie in my hand. Summer and Gregg will be disappointed. I’ve failed to give my Whiffies the attention it deserves. “You think I’m thirty-two years older than Ruby Jane?”
“God, I hope not. Gross.”
“Marcy—”
She reaches up and pats me on the cheek. “Go get her, tiger.”
“You assume she wants to get got.”
- 5 -
Lot of Layers
I don’t follow Marcy back to her table. She’s got trash-talking to do and I’d only cramp her style. She tosses the dregs of her drink into the street and leaves me with my cold pie in hand. The rain returns, a soft dribble from a sky less cloudy than star-filled. I hot-step it to my car, drop behind the wheel. According to the dashboard clock, it’s after two. I’m awake again, cycling back to restiveness from troubled fatigue. A wriggling itch marches across my shoulders. At home, half a bottle of Macallan and what’s left of the furry cheese and pear awaits me. Fuck that.
This time I park right next to Ruby Jane’s side door. I don’t expect to see anyone, so it’s no surprise the night is empty of all but the rush of water over the edge of a clogged gutter down the street. Pockets of mist hang over the storm drains. In my trunk under a reusable New Seasons grocery bag I’ve never re-used I find a crushed and almost empty box of nitrile gloves, holdovers from my cop days. The click of Ruby Jane’s deadbolt behind me is a thin reminder of its inadequate protection.
I cross the wide room to Fairweather’s campsite. The only sound is the refrigerator’s faint hum. I can smell his sleeping bag, a urea top note announcing a foundation of sweat and shit, finished by a basal fungal skank. The surest way to know someone is living on the street is to find yourself downwind from them. With no home to go to, your personal hygiene options are limited. Maybe you can take a shower at a shelter, assuming you can get into one. But a lot of street folks avoid the shelters, too often places to have their meager belongings stolen, to be beaten or raped. Chase Fairweather’s bath in RJ’s tub might have been his first in months, and this at the tail end of cold, damp weather when layers are the only protection. No telling how long he’d been marinating in his own secretions. In a way I’m lucky. His clothing will be worse than the sleeping bag, but they’re the M.E.’s problem.
The cops left the rest of his detritus untouched. There isn’t much. I circle the coffee table, review the evidence. The empty cans, a dried splash of either soup or vomit on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. The cable remote pokes up from between the seat cushions. The TV stand is at the end of the coffee table. Fairweather could lie back in his nest and watch the tube while slurping unheated soup. I grab the remote and press the power button. The TV comes to life, midstream of a looping movie preview: half-gli
mpsed tits, shirtless men with goatees, nonsensical dialog. I bring up the menu and navigate to the account history screen. The bastard had been watching pay-per-view porn on Ruby Jane’s dime for at least two days; he racked up over a hundred bucks in charges. I lift my gaze to the large framed print of Cézanne’s Bibemus Quarry which hangs on the wall over the TV. One of Ruby Jane’s favorites, purchased at the Museum Folkwang in Essen during a trip to Europe while she was in college. I wonder if Fairweather even noticed the painting’s contrasting green and russet hues. Too busy pounding the pud on Ruby Jane’s sofa. I shudder.
“At least now we know how long your guest was visiting, darling.”
My voice sounds flat in the big space. I switch to the Weather Channel and head for the utility room for cleaning supplies. The living room won’t be too bad, but the bathroom is another matter. Fairweather was a poor aim from either barrel. I’m grateful he didn’t spread out more. I snap on a pair of nitrile gloves and get to work.
Thirty minutes later I escape the bathroom, sweaty and smelling of bleach—a radical improvement.
The Weather Channel is running a scrolling list of forecasted highs and lows across the country to a backdrop of chirpy pseudo-jazz. I peel off my gloves to let my hands breathe. Los Angeles will be seventy-two and sunny, New York a cool fifty-one. Portland can expect the usual: sunny, rainy, cool, possibly warm. Wear fucking layers. I wonder if Ruby Jane’s whereabouts are represented on the list.
A dark lump on the floor jammed under the end of Chase’s sofa catches my eye, a battered backpack. “Dead Chase, you’ve been holding out on me.” I pull on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.
To my relief, the pack’s contents aren’t limited to overly-scrutinized porn rags. A small plastic box filled with half-smoked cigarettes, a wad of mismatched socks and underwear, a P-38 can opener. Another bottle of aspirin and a few empty insulin vials from a pharmacy in Anacortes, Washington. He never bothered to dispose of his disposable insulin syringes.
There’s not much else, empty packages of peanut butter crackers and shreds of unidentifiable paper. At the bottom of the pack I find a large Ziploc bag with a photo album inside.
Jackpot. Maybe.
The album is snapshot-sized and half-full. Most of the pictures are impersonal location shots. A sunny street café with a chalk menu board in Spanish, a stand of tall trees with open ground between them. An empty beach, the water grey and washed-out. I see few people in any of the pictures, and none who appear to be the subject of the shot. They appear to be random passersby caught on film by mistake. A few pictures have locations written below in pencil—Norman, El Paso, Matehuala—but most are anonymous. From the looks of them, the prints pre-date digital.