He drops the thing and walks past you to the stairs. He heads up, slowly, like he has to make a special arrangement with each step to stay still long enough for him to pass. It’s almost like you won, but no one’s going to give you a prize. Not your mother, who just looks distressed.
So you go. But not before you take a long look around that wrecked and bleeding little ten-by-nothing room. Like you want to remember what a wrecked life looks like in case you ever think maybe things weren’t so bad. In case you decide some cold night to move home again. You go, because in winning that little battle with Stepdaddy, you lost the war.
A phone buzzes.
You find it in the folds of a white comforter. ALYSON, it says on the screen. And there she is on the screen — the beautiful lawn ornament! You push Talk.
“Daddy?” Electric air. “Are you there?”
You hold your breath, Blink. You’re getting way too good at that.
Now there’s a voice behind Alyson in whatever room in the castle she’s in. The woman, you figure, the mom. “I’m not getting through,” she says to the voice. “Phone me,” says Alyson to you. “Just wanted to know everything went okay. Love you.”
Then click, it’s over. But there’s a message from before. You touch the screen and hold the phone to your ear. An automated voice asks you for your password. You push the button with a little picture of a red phone on it. Silence.
You steady yourself, try to think through the strangeness of this morning; try to think through a hunger that just got worse. Like this is the sixteenth floor of purgatory, the place your mother used to talk about all the time, where you get to wait until your sins get scrubbed away. Purgatory: one floor up from hell and a long elevator ride away from anywhere good.
You look at the face cupped in your hand. Different picture. Same girl. Alyson. You just met her, and you already know her name. You even know her phone number. Fast work, Blink!
You sniff, breathe in the clammy air drifting out from the bathroom. It smells of Niven, a smell of sun-drenched rock and lime and leather. You fish out the roll of money from your pocket, stare at it a bit, and then — you’re not sure why — you head back into the fog and put one twenty back into the wallet, like you’re paying for the picture. Or like you’re trying to balance out some of that weirdness. You pause, trying to think your way through something. Then you shove another twenty into the wallet — angry now — like you’re throwing good money after bad. You’re so angry you crinkle the newness right out of those bakery-fresh, hot bills. One of them flutters to the wet bathroom floor. Leave it — get out of here. You don’t know what you’re playing at, anyway. Then you place the wallet just so, beside the loaded toothbrush. Now you’ve got five hundred and sixty bucks in your pocket. And now you are truly a part of the weirdness. You bought your ticket.
Back in the bedroom, you sit on the bed and pick up the cell phone. It’s a BlackBerry, slim and weighty in your hand, heavy with information. You wrap your fingers around its smoothness, then shove it in the pocket of your stolen cargos.
Time to come to your senses, child. Which is when you see the tray over on the windowsill. You step over the bedding, the toppled chair, the broken shards of lamp. You step around the mumbling television. “It’ll be unusually warm in the metro area today. . . .”
You lean against the windowsill and look down at the street sixteen floors below, full of people heading to work. Dazzling car roofs glint in the October sunshine. There is a near-empty glass of orange juice on the tray, an untouched cup of coffee with cream, a banana skin, and the husks of a couple of strawberries. And one perfect golden muffin sitting on a white plate, untouched.
Breakfast at last, you think, but your eyes suddenly water and squeeze shut, as if someone turned a searchlight on you. You shield your face. You squint and look down onto the roof of the Royal Ontario Museum, across Bloor Street. The new wing — the Michael Lee-Chin Crystal, people call it — it looks like an alien crash site from here. A collision of glass and aluminum planes, flashing. And one of those leaning walls has tipped a sunbeam right up at you.
“Him!” the light says. “He’s the one you’re after!”
And then it’s as if the whole museum goes up in flames.
Caution Pettigrew waits. It is an odd kind of waiting room, concrete block, about as inviting as a tomb. Morning sifts down from grimy skylights. A thick electrical wire coils from a shadowy corner of the ceiling like some kind of industrial boa constrictor, scanning the air for prey. There’s a drip somewhere, a smell of creosote in the air. She sniffs, rubs her nose with the cuff of her jacket.
If there are dentists in hell, their waiting rooms might look like this, she thinks, except there are no out-of-date magazines. Or it might be a garage for a tank. She imagines Drigo with his own tank. Soon all the drug lords in the city would want one. The turf wars would get very messy.
She pulls an iPhone from her pocket and checks the time. She makes sure the thing is off and re-pockets it. After twenty minutes of sitting in the dank warehouse air, she’s trying hard to remember what made her think this was a good idea.
There is a sixteen-foot-high garage door that takes up one whole wall. Several fifty-five-gallon steel drums stand in front of the door. From where she sits, they seem to be full of nothing but garbage. A tank could roll right over them, she figures; squash them flat. Same goes for the sitting area: this couch, the mammoth plasma-screen television, and a coffee table littered with empty long-neck beer bottles, ashtrays, and the stale remains of a pizza. There is also a pack of cards with the seven of hearts showing. A good sign? There is a carpet so worn that the backing shows through in places. If the carpet ever had a pattern, it has long since given up the ghost.
The couch is dying, too. She clashes terribly with the couch. It’s plaid: all sickly greens and browns — the tartan of the McHeave clan. Caution is wearing tartan — a clingy acrylic mini-kilt in the colors of the McSalvation Army. She wears black low-tops with bright blue laces, canary-yellow socks, and plum-colored tights. She wears a short jacket made from the fuzzy pelt of some electric-blue creature tracked down in the wasteland of northern Walmartia; something that died an agonizing death, judging by the look of it — maybe in a leg-hold trap. When she saw it at the thrift store, she felt so sorry for it, she had to buy it.
For all the colorfulness of her getup, none of it is new: the shoes are scuffed, the laces frayed, the tights with enough ladders to scale a fortress.
There is a pile of DVDs beside the television. Bored, she searches for the remote and finds it under the pizza box. She flicks the TV on. A porn movie swims into view, mid-orgy. She pushes the Pause button, and the action commences. She tilts her head this way and that, trying to figure out how the girl got herself into that position. There are three of them on the screen. They’re making a lot of noise, but no one looks all that happy. She clicks the Off button.
In the gray screen, she stares at her reflection, fixes her hair. It is three degrees redder than her tights. It’s cut pixie-short and held in place by seven hairpins for good luck. Her eyes are three degrees paler than the screen into which she gazes. She can see the reflection of the straps of her pink backpack, a Little Mermaid junior, just big enough for her book and, with any luck, a big fat wad of money.
She hears laughter somewhere. Drigo is doing this on purpose — making her wait like this. They wouldn’t do this to Merlin. He’d cast a spell on them — turn them all into bunny-rabbits. She grins to herself at the idea: bunny-rabbit dealers. Her mood shifts, just like that. It’s going to be one of those good days, she decides, and she sits up a little straighter.
She remembers sitting outside the principal’s office just like this, knees tightly together, to keep from quaking, shoulders back so no one would think she had anything to be ashamed of. But this is no school, and the man she has come to see is hardly a principal. And no disgruntled teacher would send her down here. Her teachers never used to be disgruntled with her, not un
til last fall when everything went pear-shaped. It’s an expression her English father used to use, meaning when things go belly-up. It sounds nicer, softer. But what really happened is that things went to rat shit.
The door behind the TV opens. It’s Warner.
“He can see you now,” he says.
“Like I was invisible before?” she mutters, but he’s already turned to go.
She gets up to follow and realizes she’s still carrying the remote control. She’s not sure what to do with it. Then she remembers the porn movie and heaves the zapper across the room. It banks off the garage door and crashes into one of the steel drums. She pumps her fist in celebration. Three points.
“What the hell was that?” says Warner.
“Sorry,” she says.
He’s got his hand inside his jacket, and she thinks he’s clutching at his heart. Then she realizes there is something else there he’s clutching at. She catches a glint of steely blue.
“Just thought I’d better ditch my gum,” she says.
He swears, tugs at his eyebrow rings. He doesn’t like her. That makes two of us, she thinks.
Drigo sits behind a steel door at a steel desk the size of a pool table in an office that looks like a bunker from a war movie, the place where the Nazis wait for the poor devils about to land on the beach. He leans his bulk back in his chair, his legs splayed.
“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says.
Warner glares at Caution one last time and leaves, closing the door behind him. The click is straight out of a horror movie.
“Hey, Drigo,” she says.
“Caution,” says Drigo.
“As in: Contents May Be Hot!” Caution takes in Boris sitting on a filing cabinet, leaning against a wall plastered with concert posters. He’s head-to-toe leather.
“Hey, Boris,” she says.
“The little engine that could,” says Boris. He’s rolling a joint. “‘I think I can, I think I can,’” he says, waggling his head around. It’s not the first joint of the morning, Caution figures.
“What can I do for you?” says Drigo.
“Merlin’s money,” she says.
“What about it?”
“I came for it,” she says.
Boris starts to giggle.
“Can it,” says Drigo. He turns his attention back to Caution. “And where is the magic man?”
“He’s laying low,” she says, “but we need the cash, bad.”
Boris cups his hand to his ear. “Come again?” he says. Then he clutches his gut, he’s laughing so hard.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” she says. “Get a grip.”
She leans back against the smooth, cold door, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
“Enough, Boris,” says Drigo, and the laughter fades to nothing, as if the big man has reached over and turned down the volume.
He sits up now, folding his massive hands on the desk, like he’s a bank manager — except for the soul patch and the “I fought the bong and the bong won” T-shirt.
“And I should give this money to you, why?” he says.
“Like I said, Merlin’s keeping his head down.”
“And so he sent his favorite little mule?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Something like that.”
Boris lights up, takes a big drag, then reaches out to offer the spliff to Caution. She shakes her head, all business.
When she looks back to the boss, he’s picking up his cell phone, looking for Merlin on his speed dial. He leans back, and his old-style wooden office chair groans under the weight. She swears she can hear the iPhone ringing in her pocket — prays that the ringing is only in her head.
“He won’t answer,” she says impatiently. “He’s sleeping it off. Man, he’s going be sleeping half the day.”
Drigo folds up his cell and drops it on the desktop beside his packet of cigarettes. He leans back and rubs his thumb through the fuzz under his lip.
“Hey,” she says. “We did this before, remember?”
He nods. “I remember. But that time Merlin, he phone me first. How I know this isn’t some little scam of yours?”
She shrugs. “You don’t know. But I’ll sign for it — like last time. And if there’s any trouble, it’s not going to fall on you.”
Drigo stares at her. “What’s up, Caution?”
“Nothing’s up,” she says. “What do you mean?”
“Hey,” says Boris, all animated suddenly. “Give her the rubles, man. Think about it. Caution splits. It’d be worth it just to see Merlin go mental.”
Drigo holds out his hand, the first two fingers open in an inverted peace sign, and Boris jumps down off his perch to hand him the spliff. Drigo never takes his eyes off Caution the whole time. Through a veil of smoke, his eyes hold on to her, hazel eyes that always look like they’re just about to cry. “Is that what you’re planning?” he says.
“Splitting? What do you think?”
“You know what he do if you try something funny,” says Drigo, and his gaze drifts to her right hand, which she curls up protectively in the cuff of her jacket.
“I’m not planning anything funny,” she says. “Honest. It’s just we don’t even have coffee in the place. I’ve been bugging him to come see you, but he’s all . . . I don’t know — cagey, for some reason. I figure things are not good out there. So I just came myself.”
Boris titters like a sixth-grader. “You are just Little Cat A, aren’t you, girl?” he says. And she thinks how sad it is that there was once someone in Boris’s life who read Dr. Seuss to him and he ended up here. Then again, so did she.
Drigo smiles, but he’s not convinced.
“You come here because you’re out of coffee?”
She shrugs. “I’ve got to do something, you know?”
“Why?”
“What do you mean, why? Because . . .”
His thick eyebrows snake up his forehead.
“Because Merlin’s gone weird on me,” she says. “Like his head is . . . I don’t know . . . somewhere else. I can’t get a straight word out of him. So I thought, I’ll take charge, you know? Look after it.”
Drigo chuckles — sadly, she thinks, because she is so pathetic.
“Come on, man,” she says. She won’t let him off the hook. She wants an answer. Drigo can boot her out if he wants or give her what she came for, but she isn’t going to let him laugh this off.
“Okay,” he says, finally. “Okay.”
She can hardly believe it.
“Yessssss!” says Boris, holding two thumbs up, like he negotiated the deal and it’s a personal victory. He bangs the heels of his biker-chained boots against the filing cabinet.
Drigo gives Caution one last sharp look, then turns to a safe built into the wall directly behind him. His wide back hides the turning of the wheels, the opening of the door. When he spins himself around again, he’s holding a thick stack of bills wrapped in a yellow paper band. Caution can see Merlin’s name written on the paper. The bills are all hundreds. He peels off one and puts the rest back in the safe.
“Hey?” says Caution.
“This’ll keep you in coffee for now.”
“But —”
“Lot of coffee.”
“But —”
“Until his magic self pays me the honor of a visit in person.”
“But —”
“Or I could just forget the whole thing,” he says. He never raises his voice. Never looks angry.
“Okay,” says Caution. “Sorry. I mean, thanks.”
He waggles the bill in front of his face with this come-hither look in his eyes. She makes her way around the desk.
“A hundred is enough to piss him off, good, if that’s what you have in mind,” he says.
“Why would I want to —?”
“But it’s not enough for you to get very far away,” he continues, cutting her off again. He taps the side of his head with a fat yellow finger. “You too valuable to Merlin,�
�� he says. “And Merlin too valuable to me. You know what I’m saying? Everything is like that. Interconnected.”
Caution glares at him, but she’d need a tank of her own to intimidate the man. She wasn’t thinking of running away. Why would he think that?
“Fine,” she says, grabbing at the money. But despite his thick body and his soft and lazy eyes, Drigo snatches it out of her grasp. He holds up a pen with the other hand. Caution signs and dates the transaction in a little green book.
When she’s done, he hands her the money. “Thanks,” she says again, like a kid who’s been given a carrot when she asked for cake.
He dismisses her bad grace with a wave of his hand.
She steps back to the safe side of the desk. She shoves the hundred into her jacket pocket.
“There, now,” says Boris. “Everybody’s happy. Right, Caution? You’re happy, right?”
She nods. And when she looks at Drigo again, he’s smiling, but there is this deep sadness behind the smile, like he has seen the future and it isn’t good. Then she wonders what made her think that.
“You take care,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a threat exactly, but it doesn’t sound like the good wishes of a favorite uncle, either.
“Of course,” she says. “I always take care.”
“She’s the Cat in the Hat,” says Boris. She wonders if it’s the drugs that make him think of picture books. Maybe she should do more drugs.
Meanwhile, Drigo’s been watching her closely, and his expression has changed, as if he’s been sorting through her thoughts and come upon something interesting.
“Merlin don’t even know you here, right?” he says.
She hesitates only a moment before shaking her head.
“What’d I say?” says Boris. “The Cat in the Hat!”
Drigo holds her with his gaze. “Or maybe she just suicidal?”
Caution sniffs. “Well, now that you mention it . . .”
Boris slaps his leather thigh. “You are something else, Caution.”
She nods. Something else. Right. Just not sure what.
“Caution,” says Drigo. “Contents under pressure.”
Blink & Caution Page 2