by Rob Hart
“How do you know that?”
“I read books.”
“Thanks dick. Find out what you can about the rest and I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
I head back into the bar and find Lunette and Margo back at their table. Lunette looks at her watch and says, “You should head to Skidmore. That burlesque show is starting soon.”
“Thanks, kid. Can you take care of Margo?”
She curls her lips up in a very drunken, very suggestive smile. “Oh, I’ll take care of her.”
“Stop that.” I turn to Margo, hand her the key to my apartment. “Hang out with Lunette. If you get tired, she’ll take you back to my place. Sleep in the bed and I’ll take the couch.”
Margo is drunk and doesn’t appear to be used to being drunk. “But we’re having fun!”
“Then keep on having fun. I’ll see you in a bit.”
She calls something after me but I don’t hear her.
There’s a line to get into Skidmore. There’s also a door with a bouncer stationed outside that no one is lined up at. I recognize him, and he recognizes me from around. I ask him, “Girls back there?”
He shifts on his stool. “Why?”
“I need to talk to Cinnamon West.”
“Sorry man. You need to go in like everyone else.”
I consider passing the guy some cash, but my wallet feels light. I can’t keep paying people for information. I nod to him, thank him for his time, and get in the line. It doesn’t move, so I light a cigarette and a girl standing near me grumbles and waves a hand in front of her face, even though the smoke isn’t going anywhere near her. “Welcome to New York,” I tell her.
Suddenly the line moves forward and I’m at the door. A pretty girl asks for ten dollars. I give it to her and my wallet is now empty.
The place is simple. A bar along one wall, a stage across from it, and tables and chairs sized for toddlers. Lots of wood and amber lighting, so the place has a previous-century feel. There’s a makeshift stage at the back of the restaurant, which doesn’t look like much more than wooden pallets and plywood.
The show hasn’t started yet, so I work my way toward the curtained-off area in the back. Cinnamon peeks out, probably looking for someone else, because when she sees me she rolls her eyes. I wave to her and she points me to another doorway across the bar.
It’s a storeroom, white tile walls and shelves with cleaning supplies. Cinnamon sweeps in. She’s holding a robe tight around her body. Her afro is comically big. I wonder if it’s a wig but am too afraid to ask.
She looks at me like she’s waiting for a punch line. “What?”
“Nice to see you too.”
“Ash, this isn’t a good time.”
“Then I won’t keep you. I knew Chell met with the troupe the day she died. I just need to know if she said anything or did anything that might point me to who killed her.”
“I saw her, but I don’t even know what you mean.”
“Anything. Anything you can think of that stood out?”
“So you’re a private detective now?”
“I’m a friend who wants to rip the throat out of the guy who killed her. Especially before he hurts someone else.”
Cinnamon shakes her head. “You know Chell hasn’t danced with us in a while. She wasn’t even looking to get back in. It was a social call.”
“That’s fine. I just need to know if she said anything.”
She nods, slowly. “I think so. Maybe. You didn’t hear this from me?”
“Of course.”
“She’s in something. Some kind of game kind of thing. It’s an acting gig.”
“I knew that already.”
“There’s a girl, she’s another dancer. She went for the same part and didn’t get it. She was pissed, saying Chell only got the job because she knew somebody. Something like that.”
“What’s the girl’s name?”
“Her stage name is Fanny Fatale. I don’t know her real name.”
“You think one of the other girls might know her?”
“You’re not coming back stage.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait.”
Her face takes on the edge of a straight razor. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“Clearly not.”
She shakes her head. “Because you loved that girl too hard, and she carried it like a burden.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She turns to leave. “We have to start the show.”
“Cinnamon, c’mon, don’t be like this.” She doesn’t say anything. I yell after her, “You know what? Don’t comment on shit you don’t understand.”
When I duck out from behind the curtain, people are staring at me. I stick my middle finger in the air as I head for the door.
Do you remember that night we went to the Brooklyn Bridge?
You complained that I never wanted to do anything touristy with you. When you first moved here, you had designs on seeing the big attractions. The Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, the Empire State Building. You were shocked to learn I had never visited any of them. Locals don’t do tourist shit, I told you.
After some begging, I agreed to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I wasn’t going to be caught doing anything else. At least I could explain that away if someone saw me. Plus, it was on the East Side. I still wasn’t comfortable being within ten blocks of the trade center.
You were okay with the bridge. In fact, after I told you, you became fixated. Within days you were spouting off history and facts. If it weren’t for you, I would never have known it’s the oldest suspension bridge in the United States, or that it’s a bad spot for suicides because it’s too low to the water.
The night we walked up there it was in the middle of the summer, and it was warm, but it wasn’t hot. It was early evening and we decided that the best time to go would be at dusk when the sun was dipping behind the horizon and the lights in all the office buildings were clicking on.
We scoped a park bench on the Manhattan side of the span and stood by it for twenty minutes, waiting for the couple sitting there to vacate. Then we pounced, barely beating out a European family. They looked amenable to sharing the space so we spread out and took it all.
We sat there watching the city twinkle and you nestled your head into my shoulder. You were wearing a sundress and no bra and heavy combat boots. We traded a flask of whiskey between us until it was empty. Eventually you leaned back and made a noise and it sounded sad. I asked you what was wrong.
You said, I can only see a couple of stars. Maybe, like, twelve?
Light pollution.
That’s sad.
It’s no big deal.
Have you ever even seen the stars?
When I was a kid. I was camping with my dad up in Bear Mountain.
What did you think?
It looked pretty amazing. But it looks pretty amazing here too.
Can we go up to Bear Mountain?
We’ll borrow a car from someone.
Can we do it soon?
Are you okay?
Just a little homesick.
You’re homesick?
Just a little.
We sat there for most of the night. The whole time I was working up the nerve to ask you a question. After that first night in your apartment and the bathtub I guessed something would happen between us and I was wrong. Things stayed platonic, and I didn’t want to scare you off so I didn’t push it.
But I spent a lot of time wondering whether I should kiss you.
I didn’t want to just do it and have it come off the wrong way. Being as big as I am has always made me skittish about how my advances would be interpreted.
When I had drank enough whiskey that I had some nerve and figured you’d be a little more relaxed, I asked, Can I kiss you?
You didn’t say anything. I didn’t want to look at your face. When I did look at you, the way your mouth was
set told me I shouldn’t have asked.
You said, Ashley, you’re a good person and a great friend. Please let’s not ruin that?
I know, it’s just, I thought…
I’d like to break the cycle. I don’t want to hurt you.
You don’t scare me.
You looked at me, the smoke in your eye billowing, and you wrapped your arms around me. I considered vaulting myself over the railing of the bridge. Not that I wanted to die, but I wanted to get away from the shame digging a finger into my neck.
You said, What we have is perfect. And I just don’t want to be with anyone right now. Can’t we just stick with this?
Sure. Forget I asked.
We never went up to Bear Mountain.
I shoot a text to Lunette to find out where her and Margo are, and she responds almost immediately: She’s staying with me tonight. Will call tomorrow.
And there’s that.
I consider walking by Chanticleer. But I’m still fitting the pieces together. A full night’s sleep to think this all over would be nice and I’m free of other responsibilities, so I head for home. Margo still has my key, but I have a spare hidden in the hallway of my building.
As I turn the corner to my block I think I see something in the corner of my vision, darting away. Probably a cat. I pat my jacket for my smokes when I hear a shuffle behind me.
There are two of them, both in tight jeans and dinner jackets, with ski masks over their faces. They’re wearing thick Buddy Holly glasses over the ski masks, the arms slid through eye-holes. They’re the same height. One is thin and one is heavy.
The thin one pulls out a knife.
I nod toward the knife, ask, “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
They pause and look at each other, then back at me. The thin one asks, “Where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
They stare at me like they’re trying to light me on fire. I can’t believe no one is seeing this but it’s late and the block is empty. I shrug at them. “Are you new at this? What are you looking for, you fucking morons?”
The thin one steps forward, holding the knife up. “The jump drive.”
“You mean the thumb drive?”
He pauses. “I call it a jump drive.”
“You know what? I don’t have the patience for this.” I pull the umbrella from my belt and click the button on the side. The canopy stays wrapped but the stick snaps out to full length.
The thin one steps toward me and asks, “What are you going to do with that?”
I guess it is pretty funny, the sight of me standing there holding it out at my side like a broadsword. It’d be even funnier if it were a regular umbrella, and not a steel rod with a Kevlar top.
The thin one stops laughing when I swing it at the knife. It flies from his hand and lands on the steps to my building. He reels back with a fist full of broken fingers.
The shock is greater than the pain so I drive my fist into his stomach to even the two out. He leans forward and I’m about to bring my fists down onto his back and put him on the ground when I see the heavy one scrambling for the knife. He gets it and comes at me, swinging it in the air but leaning away from it like he’s afraid of it.
I sidestep, but the thin one is falling forward and gets in my way. He shoves me into the path of the heavy one. I’m off balance, so I put my forearm up and the blade clicks off bone. A floodlight explodes under my skin.
I grab the wound and back up to the parked cars lining the block. I roll over a hood and into the street to put something between me and them. But by the time I’m steady on my feet the two of them are turning the corner at high speed.
And still, there’s no one around to see what happened.
I take some deep breaths of cold air, try to tamp down the adrenaline screaming through my blood. After a few moments, the pain shows up.
Bombay opens the door and looks at the arm of my jacket, at the charcoal cotton now deep black and shiny. He shakes his head and says, “You’re lucky I don’t have to work tomorrow.” He steps aside and lets me in.
His apartment is in the same state it’s always in: Covered with the corpses of pizza boxes, tortilla chip bags, bottles of diet soda, and more laptops than I can count. Comic book posters clutter the walls wherever there aren’t bookshelves loaded with graphic novels.
As I make my way to the table near the kitchen he says, “You are a walking oxymoron.”
“Because?”
“You are the most brilliant stupid person I know.”
“Emphasis on the stupid. Am I right?”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”
“You have to laugh. Better than the alternative.”
Bombay sets down a first-aid kit and puts a towel under my arm. This is the second time I’ve been slashed and he’s had to sew me up. The previous occasion was actually completely unrelated to my job—a girl I was seeing thought I was flirting with her friend. She was also mixing meds with Riesling. The broken stem of a wine glass can cut pretty damn deep. I don’t like hospitals, and Bombay likes to be prepared. It’s a good combination.
He douses the cut in cheap vodka from a plastic jug and it feels like fingernails scraping out the raw skin. Once the excess blood washes away, it doesn’t really look that bad. A three-inch gash on the back of my forearm, midway between elbow and wrist. It’s deep and a little ugly but manageable.
Bombay sets down a shot glass and fills it to the brim with vodka. Next to it he places a large white pill. “Oxy with a vodka back.”
“No drugs, no booze. Not right now.”
“You’re really doing the sober thing?”
“For the time being.”
“I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Fuck you.”
“This is going to hurt.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
Bombay roots around in the kit and pulls out a spool of heavy purple thread.
“C’mon man,” I tell him. “Really?”
“If you’re going to make me sew up the hole in your arm, you damn well better believe I’m going to have some fun with this.” He nods toward the shot. “Last chance.”
I hold the base of the glass and consider it. But then I remember the hardwood floor and I push it back toward him. “No dice.”
“You sure you don’t want to go to the hospital?”
“What if they report it to the cops? I’d rather not deal with that bullshit.”
Bombay nods. “Can’t believe you’re sober.” He pounds the shot, leaves the pill.
“I am full of surprises.”
“Didn’t know you were so stupid, either.”
“Then you don’t know me at all.”
Truthfully, no one knows me better than Bombay. And no one knows him better than I do. For example, his name isn’t Bombay. It’s Acaryatanaya, even though that name is so far in his past, most people don’t know it.
Bombay isn’t a devout Muslim, but he was raised in the religion and occasionally dabbles in things like not eating pork. It never lasts long, but it’s enough he occasionally catches shit for it.
We started junior high at the same time, and while it’s never been totally safe to be a Muslim in America, it was especially dangerous in the years following 9/11. Because even though New York has a reputation for being progressive, it’s often not. On the second day of school I came across a bunch of kids calling him a terrorist and shoving him into a locker.
I made them stop. I don’t like bullies. I didn’t like how I got picked on for having a girl’s name, I don’t like other people getting picked on for anything else. Especially for things they didn’t do.
Anyway, it got bloody. I got suspended for a week and by the time I came back to school, Bombay and I were inseparable.
When I told him my name was Ashley but everyone called me Ash, he said he wanted a nickname too. I asked him where he was from. He said Bombay. Technically Mumbai, but that didn’t have a nice eno
ugh ring to it.
We work well as a unit, because his first response to a problem is to think through it instead of hit it. Pretty much the opposite of me.
Bombay grips my arm as best he can without slipping on the blood and makes the first pierce. In cuts through the jumble of pain like a hot beam of light. I grit my teeth, think about cupcakes and bunnies.
The blood is making his fingers slick. They slide off the needle so he takes a moment and resets his grip. “So what did you do to deserve this?”
“This wasn’t even my fault. It was two random guys.”
“What did they want?”
“Who knows?”
He moves fast. I don’t like the feeling of the thread worming its way through my skin. By the time Bombay is halfway done the pain has faded into a gentle buzz. A thing I can live with.
He says, “You can’t bring her back, man.”
“I never said it would.”
“Then why?”
“There are other things to be gained.”
He stops mid-stitch and looks up at me. “Like what?”
“What if this guy hurts someone else?”
“And what are you going to do if you manage to find him before the cops do?”
He pulls through the last stitch and ties the loose ends of thread. I pour a little more vodka over the wound and it’s suddenly much less scary to look at. As he’s placing a bandage over it I tell him, “There’s a certain way a man’s supposed to act.”
“Like this, you mean.”
“You know what I mean.”
Bombay pats tape onto the bandage and leans back in his chair. “Are you really going to kill him?”
“Why do you need me to say it?”
“If you want to toss him a beating, fine. It’s deserved. I’ll even help if you want. But you can’t go killing people. And I know you have a reason, but just because you have a reason doesn’t mean you should do it.”
“I don’t know what you want to hear,” I tell him, checking to make sure the bandage is tight.
“It’s not about telling me the right thing. Don’t make this sound like a hang-up for me. You can’t just kill someone, man. Blood doesn’t wash away blood.”