“I think we should get out,” he said. “We’ve seen enough.”
“Look, I’ll bet that guy’s a real loser. Phillip Tannen, what kind of name is that?”
“It’s a normal name.”
“Not when you’re stoned.”
“He’s my boss.”
“Definitely a loser. Oh my god, did you know he was into magic—a magician. How dorky is that?”
That cracked them up, though he’d never thought it was funny before.
They looked up several people, making fun of them for this or that. ROTFL at everything.
“Hey, let’s look up people in the Witness Protection Program,” she said.
“I can’t do that.”
“A thousand bucks says you can.”
“No. Why should we?”
“Because we can.”
“Because we can?” He hesitated, but was soon back at the keyboard. Via CMS’s system, they probed around in the Federal Witness Protection Program.
“Wow,” she said, “some of these guys are real creeps. Now that guy looks like a mobster. Anybody else here in St. Louis?”
He continued scrolling through the list of protected witnesses.
“What about her?” she said.
“Carole Cooper?”
“Yeah, let’s see what she’s up to.” She stared at the screen.
* * *
He barely remembered the night before as Amber made him breakfast. He scarfed his food down, had to be at work in less than an hour—wearing the same wrinkled and dirty clothes from the night before; people would notice. They’d know he’d been with a woman, but they didn’t need to know that he and his girlfriend—she was his girlfriend, wasn’t she, or at least on the road to becoming his girlfriend?—hadn’t slept together yet.
They made plans to meet at Atomic Cowboy for dinner after he got off work.
His head was still foggy, filled with cotton candy, as he made his way to the office.
The day dragged on, his fat hangover making time slow to almost a complete stop, like in Deserted Cities.
He walked out to the CMS parking lot, half expecting to see Amber there, even though they’d agreed to meet at the restaurant. He got to Atomic about five minutes late. Traffic. Amber was late too. He took a table, ordered a PBR while he waited for her. Half an hour later she still hadn’t shown. He texted her. No response. Should he be worried?
He decided not to wait any longer. Driving toward the river, he could see the Arch in the distance. The Arch. Where they’d met, just a few weeks ago.
He tried her cell again. Still no response. Drove to her place, rang the bell. No answer. She’d given him the code to her building’s lobby door. Once inside, though, he couldn’t get into her place. He waited outside, but she never came home. Sitting in his car, he called hospitals and the police. But there’d been no reports of an Amber Loy having been in an accident. Was she with another guy? Was he jealous? He’d never been jealous before. He finally went home.
His apartment seemed cold and lonely. For these past days with Amber it seemed like home, a place he wanted to come back to. He pulled a PBR from the fridge. He texted her. E-mailed her. Called her cell. No response. He flicked on the TV, hoping to get his racing mind off her. He never thought he’d fall in love. Aren’t they the ones who fall the hardest? He passed out on the couch.
The moon trickled in through the half-open blinds, as Daniel woke around midnight. Groggy, he picked up his cell, called Amber—still no response. What the hell could have happened to her? He rolled off the couch. Tired, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he flicked on the bedroom radio, went into the bathroom to brush his teeth. Something on the radio caught his attention. Daniel walked slowly from the bathroom to the bedroom.
“. . . The body found in the Mississippi near the ‘Captains’ Return’ statue has been identified as Christa Czerny. Ms. Czerny had been in the Federal Witness Protection Program, living under the alias of Carole Cooper in the Lafayette Square neighborhood of St. Louis. She had been relocated here from Chicago, where she was due to testify in the trial of Morgan St. Jacques, a well-known, alleged crime boss. When questioned, FBI spokesperson Leticia Adams said the Bureau had not yet discovered how Ms. Czerny’s cover was blown and had no leads on the killer.”
He stared at the radio. Wasn’t sure what he was staring at, what he was hearing. His head was filled with bricks, still fuzzy from last night’s party at Amber’s.
He had to sit on the edge of the bed to keep from falling over. Something about this story, this Carole Cooper. Something about it was familiar. He’d heard the name before. Couldn’t remember where.
Damn! It came to him. He ran for the bathroom and puked into the toilet, not knowing if it was the beer or guilt. Grabbed his cell. Dialed Amber. Still no fucking answer. He washed up quickly, flew out of his apartment. Drove the ten-minute drive to Amber’s in six minutes, lucky not to have gotten a ticket.
He entered the building using her keypad entry code. Went to her unit. Banged on the door. A neighbor poked her head out. He didn’t care. The neighbor went back inside. “I’m calling the police!” she yelled.
He thought he might have to kick the door in, but that would definitely bring the cops. Tried the handle and it opened. He was surprised at what he saw—or didn’t see. The unit was empty. Cold, clean, and completely cleared out. As if no one had ever lived there. No clothes. No bacon-wrapped doughnuts. No artwork on the wall. Nothing. He thought he was hallucinating, still high from last night’s beer and THC. This couldn’t be. He sat on the bare hardwood floor. Leaned back against the wall, feeling very alone.
He didn’t know what his next move should be. Call the cops? Try to find her? What would he do then? Beat a confession out of her? Tell her he loved her and they should leave the country? His mind spun in circles.
It didn’t matter. He was in love with her, much as he’d never wanted to be. But he would find her. He would confront her. If he had to, he’d turn her in to the cops.
* * *
He came back the next day with a bag full of gear, searched every inch of Amber’s apartment. Nothing there, not a hair in the drains, not a stray sock. Found a couple of partial fingerprints with the print kit he’d brought. He talked to the building super. Got her to show him Amber’s application. She even made a copy of it for him on her all-in-one printer. She liked his eyes.
He figured he had three choices. One: go to the cops. But that wouldn’t work. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in jail as an accessory to murder, or whatever they would charge him with. He wouldn’t last two days in prison. Or, he could go to Morgan St. Jacques and his mobster friends that Christa Czerny was due to testify against. Yeah, that was a good plan. The other choice was to start with Christa Czerny and work backward from there. But where would that lead? Back to the mob guys. But he didn’t care about them. It was Amber who betrayed him. Yeah, Amber—like that was her real name. And it was Amber he wanted now. He wondered if she was the actual hit man, or just the decoy they’d used to get him to find the person they wanted to off.
He had to track her down. She had probably done research on him. Knew all about him. She’d insinuated herself into his life. That first meeting under the Arch was no accident. What a fool he was. What a loser.
He tried to recall everything she said. More lies probably, at least most of it. But maybe there was a shred of truth here or there, something he could latch onto that would lead him to her.
Amber Loy certainly wasn’t her real name and everything on her rental application was a lie. So no point in trying to follow up on any of that. But people who changed their names often used parts of their real names. No, she was too smart for that.
He had a friend in the St. Louis PD who could run the prints he’d found through IAFIS, the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. But he didn’t want to bring anyone else into his nightmare. He hacked into the system, ran the prints. Nothing came up—he knew
it wouldn’t.
His skin crawled, throat tight with desperation. He’d been played for a fool and didn’t like it. He had no idea where to turn, how to find her. But he would. He had to. He loved her. Maybe he’d fallen in love too quickly or too stupidly. And now he was obsessed with her, even though she’d betrayed him. Obsessed in love and obsessed in hate. Either way, he had to find her. He’d start with the places they went.
He drove to Atomic Cowboy.
“Have you seen the woman I’ve come here with?”
“I don’t even remember you,” the manager said.
He described her to the manager, but it didn’t ring a bell. He wanted to show him her picture, see if he’d seen her. Realized he had no pictures of her. They’d taken several selfies, but they were all on her phone. She’d promised to send them to him, but never did. She was smart.
She could be anywhere. Probably out of the city by now. He should give up, but he couldn’t. He went home, crashed on the living room couch. Flicked on the TV from the remote, Turner Classic Movies. An old Bogart flick called In a Lonely Place. He heard one line of dialogue before going under: “I was born when she kissed me. I died when she left me. I lived a few weeks while she loved me.”
Nerves firing, unable to sleep, he woke up an hour later. Saw his PlayStation in the corner and knew one way to find her, sort of. He fired it up. Went into Deserted Cities of the Heart, melded into his avatar. A hunter now—on the hunt for Anwen.
He walked through streets filled with rubble and toxic waste. Acid rain and hail pouring down. Dodging the Praetorians.
He found Anwen—Amber—in an abandoned train station.
Orion, I would have recognized ur signature anywhere.
That obvious? he said.
I’m sure u didn’t come here 2 make small talk. U want something?
Yeah. You sold out to The Executive.
U want 2 kill me. Gotta catch me first. She ran off down the platform, jumping onto the tracks. He chased her until the tracks stopped dead at the edge of a bottomless ravine. She climbed into an old rail car. A gun materialized in her hand. She fired at him, grazing his arm.
She threw the gun. He ducked. Charged her. She hit the wall, cornered.
Okay, she said, almost admitting defeat. But Anwen—Amber—would never admit defeat. U can ask 3 three questions.
What’s your real name?
Well that one’s out of bounds, ha ha.
Why Carole Cooper or Christa Czerny?
Because she was about to testify. It was just a gig for me, nothing personal.
And now there’s nothing at all. Like she never even existed, he said.
She existed in the computer.
No, she existed in the real world and that’s where you killed her.
I didn’t kill anyone. Get 2 ur next question.
Why me? Daniel asked.
U had access.
Did you ever love me, even for a second?
That’s number 4. Ur out of questions. She vaulted past him, jumping back onto the tracks, yelling as she went: Have fun finding me. The chase is half the fun! Her avatar smiled and she was gone. He couldn’t catch her.
User Anwen has logged off, appeared on his screen in vivid red letters.
* * *
All he thought about was her, Amber or Anwen or whoever the hell she really was. Obsession became his life. She’d tricked him. Made him break the law—no, he did that on his own. Either way he loved her, couldn’t stop thinking about her. He logged onto Deserted Cities of the Heart every day. Couldn’t find her. Then every hour of the day. He saw her avatar once more. Asked if he could at least have a relationship with her in the virtual world.
It was so easy 2 get what I wanted from u. Men are so e-z. That said, I did like u. Still do. But I had a job 2 do. I’m a professional.
He had no response for that.
The phone rang. Phillip Tannen, his boss, asking where he was. He made excuses. Tannen bought them, for now. Ten a.m. and he still hadn’t showered or shaved, or even eaten breakfast.
He turned back to Deserted Cities. It was the only place he might have her now. She was gone. The empty streets taunted him. He was alone.
He fell asleep at the PlayStation. The doorbell woke him early the next morning. He looked through the peephole: his boss, Phillip. He didn’t answer the door, went back to the PlayStation, back to Deserted Cities. He couldn’t find her. An hour later, the doorbell rang again. UPS. They left a large rectangular package. He carried it inside, opened it, and pulled out a vintage Gibson Flying V. A note printed on the mailing label read simply: Forget the past. Live your dreams. He kicked the cardboard package, tossed the guitar on the couch. Went into the bathroom, showered, shaved, and headed to work.
Waiting at the elevators, he saw a woman on the far side of the lobby. Mousy brown hair, thick Buddy Holly glasses, and a fedora with a feather. Amber? The elevator arrived, but he was sprinting across the lobby after the woman. She disappeared out the door. Or had she never been there? He charged out the door onto the street looking for her.
No matter where he looked, Amber was everywhere and everyone. And nowhere and no one. But he knew where to find her: Deserted Cities of the Heart. One day, she’d be there again.
He finally went home. Picked up the Flying V, plugged it into the little amp he’d bought, and slammed out a blues riff. Went into Albert King’s “I’ll Play the Blues for You.”
* * *
Guilt ate at him like the cheap beer and spicy food ate at his insides, killing him from the inside out. He’d hang at Atomic as long as his money held out. And that wouldn’t be too much longer. He’d lost his job. His apartment wasn’t far behind. His hair was grown out and shaggy now. He wore the same clothes most days, because most nights he slept in them, right next to the PlayStation, so he could check in on Deserted Cities at any time.
He kept going back to Atomic Cowboy, hoping she’d pop in some night. False hope, he knew. She probably didn’t live in St. Louis, and even if she did she was probably out on another gig now. Doing someone else. Another victim. Another dupe.
He got out of his chair, headed toward the front door, put his hand on a woman standing there. She turned abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you were someone else.” The scorn on her face said she didn’t buy it. But damn, she sure looked like Amber, especially from behind. They all did. And none of them ever were.
It had been three months and he hadn’t seen the flesh-and-blood Amber again.
But visions of her continued to haunt him. She was everywhere. Every hipster woman with big glasses. Every hipster woman with brown hair.
Every woman who barely fit her specs was Amber.
Every mote. Every speck of dust that glided across his field of vision.
He saw her everywhere. But all of them were mirages.
Amber was nowhere. Nowhere at all. Not even in the deserted cities of the heart.
And even if he’d found her, even if he could stifle his love, sick as it was, and sear her eyes out with hot pokers, he knew it wouldn’t bring Christa Czerny back. The only thing that brought her back was a joint and a pint which, these days, he had to get with a five-finger discount. And in the swirling pot smoke he would conjure her face, not Amber’s. Christa’s. Her story. Make up things about her. Good things. Give her the life he’d stolen.
* * *
Eventually, Daniel found himself back at the Arch almost every day. He didn’t even know how he got there. Every woman he saw was either Amber or Christa. He’d walk toward them. They’d all turn away. He looked like a bum.
He hoped to see Amber—Amber was easier to handle than Christa. Guilt ate at him for his part, inadvertent as it was, in Christa’s death. But Amber—there was no guilt there. Only stupidity and vanity. Still, if he had the chance to get back with Amber—
He’d lost his job. His apartment. His self-respect.
There was no escape. Not down Route 66. Or in the bot
tle or a blunt. Because in the haze of smoke there were always the faces. Carole. Amber. Amber. Christa.
Good or bad, he couldn’t forget Amber. Couldn’t stop looking for her.
He followed the shadow of the Arch across the lawn, wishing—praying—there was no such thing as memory. Hoping every day for Alzheimer’s or amnesia. There was nothing left of him. It was like he had never existed.
“Move along,” a cop said. They didn’t want transients littering their park. He thought he was invisible, but you’re never invisible to a cop.
The Arch’s shadow drifted over him as the late-afternoon sun morphed from yellow to gold. He thought about going inside the Arch, up to the observation platform. Wondered if there was a way to get outside the observation area so he could jump. He stared up at the Arch, realizing that it went up on one side, but it came down swiftly and steeply on the other.
Blues for the River City
by Colleen J. McElroy
The Ville
The old men had stopped speaking to each other long ago—when their sons were young, full of themselves and what they could do in this world. The men had carried their anger for years, nursed it like bitter vetch, a bad batch of bathtub hooch, anything that could stand between them and common sense. It mattered little that the brew was not of their own making, that it was in the air, the topsoil, the very foundations of the city they called home. From the moment they could stand on their own and walk unaided, they had swallowed it drop by drop in the spit they produced until they became used to the sour taste. They pushed into this anger, learned to keep their heads down and their eyes open.
“Hard work,” they told their sons. “Onliest thing you can count on.”
“Pay attention,” they said. “Don’t let trouble catch you unawares.”
“Mind where you’re going before you get there.”
There were times when the old men thought all of that talk fell on deaf ears. Their sons, Cohee, Wheeler, and Russell, hid behind a teenage façade of silence, an affliction of growing up every father in this world failed to understand. These men thought their sons were stubborn and pigheaded, more ready to turn to the streets than get out of the rut the white folks had fixed for colored folks. The old men still lived in the 1940s world of CCC camps and WPAs, the shadow of war, and the ever-present racism that was determined to keep them riveted forever in a state of uncertainty, a sense that they would never be regarded as men, that they would always be forced to answer to the summons of boy!
St. Louis Noir Page 4