City of Rose Page 16

  “One of them referred to the girls as ‘gashes,’” I tell her.

  “Motherfucker!” Tommi yells, slamming her fist onto the steering wheel.

  That seems to be good enough for her, because there’s no more talk of calling anyone.

  We drive in silence, Crystal sitting shotgun, me in the back, heading through twisting tree-lined streets. The farther we get, the more trees there are, and fewer houses. We pass something that looks like a junkyard and at the last second I realize it’s a bar.

  There are enclaves of food trucks set up in empty lots and big beautiful homes that look like they’ve come out of picture books and then there’s nothing. Road and woods like we’re in back country.

  And then we’re in a small neighborhood with quaint cafes.

  This town exists in stops and starts. Like little islands of activity on a long, quiet lake.

  As I’m reaching for my phone to check the time because the dash display is broken, Tommi cuts the wheel and swerves down a road that doesn’t even look like a road. Gnarled trees crowding in and looming over us.

  Every few minutes I catch a glimpse of something man-made through the trees. A window. A roof. A car. There are homes out there, hidden by the trees, spaced far apart, set back from the road, separated by huge stretches of woods.

  Tommi swerves again and we’re on a dirt path barely big enough for the pickup. Branches rap at the windshield.

  Then we’re in a clearing, like we were never on a road. Dropped off the edge of the earth.

  There’s a huge cabin in front of us, two cars parked in front of a detached garage. One is a beaten white hatchback, the other is a freshly waxed silver Jag. Opposite ends of the car spectrum.

  The cabin is two stories of dark wood with green and red accents. Tommi kills the engine. The pieces of the sky I can see through the canopy are washed gray. I step out of the car and it smells green, and it’s quiet, save for things moving through the brush, insects making insect noises.

  Crystal says, “This is friggin’ huge. And beautiful.”

  “This is why I married a real estate agent,” says Tommi.

  We get to the front door and Tommi pulls her keys out. She says, “Try to be quiet. Monique might be sleeping in.”

  The living room is drenched in yellow light. It really does look like you would expect the inside of a cabin to look. Big, heavy furniture. Afghans and minimal artwork. It smells like the inside of a cedar closet, and there’s a cast iron stove in one corner and packed bookshelves scattered about.

  Standing by the door that leads into the kitchen is a statuesque black woman in a fuzzy pink bathrobe, her head shaved, her eyes puffy and tired.

  She’s about to say something but then she sees us and pulls her robe tighter. “I didn’t know we were having guests.”

  Tommi crosses the room and has to reach up. They kiss briefly on the lips, Monique not taking her eyes off us. Tommi says, “They’re friends, and they’re in trouble, and they need a place to stay.”

  Monique twists her face. “You were smoking.” Tommi stammers, but Monique waves her hand. “I hate that smell.”

  “Momentary relapse. That’s all, I promise.” She jerks her head at me. “He’s a bad influence.”

  “Hey.”

  Monique smiles. “Don’t worry. I know she’s trying to avoid the issue.”

  “Well, they’ve both been run into the ground,” Tommi says. “They could probably do with a nap.”

  “That,” I tell them, “is a wonderful fucking idea.”

  Monique arches an eyebrow at my casual use of profanity. I should watch that around adults. She asks Tommi, “Everything okay at the club?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  I step to Monique and offer my hand. “Ash,” I tell her.

  “Your name is… what?”

  “Ash. Short for Ashley. It’s a girl’s name.”

  She nods. “Huh.” She shakes my hand, her grip boardroom professional. She looks up over my shoulder as she lets go. “And you’re Crystal. I remember meeting you.”

  “At Calypso’s birthday dinner. Good to see you again.”

  “Yes, well…” Monique pauses, clearly not thrilled she’s suddenly playing host. “There’s a guest suite down in the basement with a bathroom if you want to rest and wash up. There are fresh towels in the linen closet. Though since there’s two of you…”

  “We can share the bed,” Crystal says.

  I smile a little at that. Monique sees me smile and the reaction intrigues her but she doesn’t say anything. “Well, off to bed, kids. It does look like you need it.”

  Crystal strips down to her underwear, tossing her sweater and jeans into a pile on the floor next to her purse. She climbs into the expanse of the king-sized bed, sinking down into the plush blankets.

  The guest suite feels like a hotel room. Big bed, matching nightstands, a small desk and a flat-screen television. A painting of a sunset on the wall. But instead of a large window at the end, there’s a small window that looks up at the driveway.

  I guess we’re past pretense here. I pull off my shirt and my jeans, toss them onto the chair next to the bed, and fall next to her, the blanket practically wrapping around me. Must be a foot thick. She leans up close to me and it’s warm and soft where her skin touches my skin. We lay like that for a little bit, and finally Crystal picks up my bandaged hand.

  “What happened to you?” she asks.

  “Oh shit, I didn’t tell you about my wild adventures in the tunnels beneath Portland.”

  I run her through my encounter with Chicken Man and my daring escape. At the end of it she shakes her head. We lay there for a little bit, dozing, and I think she’s fallen asleep when she says, “I’m still sorry about before.”

  “You don’t have to keep apologizing.”

  “How did you let her down? Chell? Or how do you think you let her down? Because I’m willing to bet you didn’t and you’re torturing yourself over nothing.”

  “Why do you ask me so many questions?”

  She pauses, for so long I think maybe she’s drifting off. Then she says, “Because it’s always interesting, what you choose to reveal about yourself.”

  “The night she died, Chell called me,” I tell her. “She thought someone was following her. She thought she was in danger and was calling me for help. I didn’t get the message because I was blackout drunk. There wouldn’t have been enough time to get to her. I know that. I could have been stone cold sober and a block away from her and maybe it still wouldn’t be enough. But still. When I saw the chair and the rope it brought me right back to that morning. Waking up on the floor of my apartment and the whole fucking world was wrong and I failed someone else that…”

  I catch myself.

  Crystal twists so she can focus those blue-green tempered glass eyes onto mine. “That what?”

  “That I want to help.”

  It’s not a good save, and she knows it, but she lets me have it.

  She presses her head against my chest and I lean back, listen to the sound of her breathing, and stare up at the acoustic tiles on the ceiling.

  Bright golden light trickles through the basement window.

  Holy shit, there’s sun in Portland. That must be a good omen.

  The bed is empty, the covers in disarray but still in place. We never even got under them. The bathroom door is closed and the shower is running. I pull on my jeans and my shirt and head upstairs. The first floor of the house appears to be empty. There’s a newspaper on the large oak kitchen table, an empty mug with the remnants of coffee at the bottom.

  In the driveway are Tommi’s truck and the white beater, but the Jag is gone. I follow my nose to the coffee and find one of those single-cup makers, where you stick a plastic pod into the top and it brews one serving. It’s pretty wasteful by local standards, but I’m happy to see some caffeine, so I pick out a French roast pod, the only one that isn’t flavored—flavored coffee always tastes like chemicals to me�
�and it takes a couple of minutes, but I figure the damn thing out.

  When the coffee is done I stick another pod in and let it brew, figuring either someone else is going to want one, or I’ll want a second. I grab a banana from the bowl on the counter and sit with the paper, flip through, looking for something that might be interesting.

  A couple of pages in I find something that stops me cold.

  It’s a grainy picture of the auto garage where I almost got turned into a human balloon.

  The story says that it was the front for a major meth operation—duh—and yesterday it was raided by the feds. Six people were arrested. Which is a relief, because I wasn’t looking forward to seeing those guys again.

  Now I’m sure of it: Someone is dismantling everything in this town touched by Crystal or Dirk.

  The kid, her job, his job.

  And their tactics are both varied and effective.

  I check my phone. Nothing from Bombay. Which would seem to indicate that Dirk is still in town, if he’s still got the cell phone trace active.

  Crystal appears in the kitchen, her hair wet and flat against her skull. I point her at the coffee maker. She takes the steaming mug and dumps in some milk from the fridge and sits across from me. I slide the open paper toward her and she looks at it for a couple of seconds before zeroing in on the auto shop.

  “Well,” she says, taking a tentative sip of the coffee. “That’s weird.”

  I tell her about my theory. She listens carefully and shakes her head. “Why would someone do that?”

  “I have no idea. Dirk being involved with a cartel, that could be related. Who knows? The important thing is we have a next step. The address where the phone was registered. We should go check it out.”

  Crystal takes a long sip of her coffee and places the mug down.

  “Let’s do that. But maybe take a shower first. You look like you got dragged behind a truck for twenty miles.”

  “Thanks.”

  The bandage sticks a little so I yank it off, find an ugly red gash crusted with dry, black blood. I get the water as hot as it’ll go and climb in, take stock of my injuries. Besides the bruise on my cheek where I got pistol-whipped, I’ve got some bruising on my ribs and mid-section, from where Brillo Head kicked at me. Plus a lump on my head from the garage. A cut on my hairline from the train station bathroom. Maybe some more, too. I’m losing track.

  Add those to the collection: The gulch a bullet dug through my left thigh one bad night in Hell’s Kitchen. The scar that runs down the back of my left forearm. A thin, tight line most people might be surprised to know was patched up with a home sewing kit.

  If collecting scars by means of stupidity were a hobby, I’d be ready to go pro.

  I hold my hand under the jet stream of water. It stings so bad I have to force myself to keep my hand open. Arch my back and bite my lip. The blood washes away and I’m left with the gash. Once it’s clean it doesn’t look terrible. And it stays closed, which is a nice bonus.

  All told, I’ll live.

  After I’m done in the shower and I feel halfway human, I root around in the medicine cabinet, find a tube of bacitracin and some gauze. I wrap up my hand and get dressed. I wish I had some clean clothes, but it feels nice to be showered, at least.

  Back upstairs it’s empty again. The kitchen smells like bacon and there are dirty pots on the stove. There’s a sound from outside, people laughing, so I find a door leading out toward the back.

  Tommi and Crystal are sitting at a table on a small covered deck, surrounded by high bushes. Tons of colorful flowers, reds and purples and blues and yellows that I don’t know the names for. Behind them are woods as far as I can see.

  They’re eating and smiling, talking about something that isn’t drug cartels and missing girls. Beams of sunlight pass over them before disappearing behind the clouds.

  I stand there and watch for a minute. Which is probably a little creepy, sure. But there’s also something nice about this.

  The two of them together.

  I know I care about Crystal. That’s easy. But I’m coming to care about Tommi, too. Her opinion matters to me. What she thinks of me. I want to make this whole mess stop as much for her as I do for Crystal, as I do for Rose. This whole little unit of mine, this little slice of my life, is starting to function. I feel less like I’m this vague idea of a thing held together by tape.

  And it’s now I realize that feeling—that any moment I’m going to have to pack my bags and go home—is gone.

  Has been for a little while now, I think.

  Tommi looks over and sees me and waves. “Food is on. Let’s go.”

  I cross over and sit at the free chair, find a plate piled with bacon and over-easy eggs. The banana barely made a dent, and I want to jam the plate into my face. There’s a little stack of toast in the middle of the table next to a pat of butter. I take a piece and spread some on, use that to attack the eggs.

  “You do good breakfast,” I tell Tommi. “Even though it’s nearly dinnertime.”

  “Breakfast is about all I know how to cook.”

  I shove a piece of bacon in my mouth and realize what I’m eating, ask, “I thought you were vegan?”

  “Me? No, fuck that,” Tommi says. As if to verify this for me, she reaches across the table and picks a couple of strips of bacon off the plate. “Monique is vegan. I’m not vegan.”

  “Why the vegan club?”

  Tommi shrugs. “Seemed like a good idea. And we’re in Portland, so you have to play to the market. Shit like that, people pay attention to. The only problem is I had the idea years ago, before any of the other vegan strip clubs opened. So it looks like I’m a copycat. But I had the idea first.”

  “Well, cheers on that,” I tell her.

  And I eat some more bacon, because bacon is good.

  “So Crystal filled me in on your theory. It’s not completely insane, but at the same time, it’s a little nuts. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m going to keep a closer eye on my business and make sure it’s okay. Here’s the caveat. Another two or three days tops, then I’m going to the cops. All of us are. So go out, play detective, but come the end of the week, if this isn’t fixed, we’re getting it fixed. Fair?”

  “Understood,” I tell her, finishing off the toast.

  “You can take the hatchback in the driveway,” Tommi says. “Better you’re driving around a car that isn’t Crystal’s.”

  Crystal says, “Thank you.”

  “So tell me,” Tommi says to me. “How are you adjusting?”

  “With what?” I ask.

  “This whole country living thing.”

  “It’s coming along.”

  “You know what I miss the most? Christmas in New York. I’m not even a big fan of the holiday. But there was something fucking magical about that city during the month of December. Like the whole place was filled up with light. And everyone was slightly less of an asshole. It’s the only month of the year that strangers actually acknowledge each other when they pass on the sidewalk.”

  “Wait… you used to live in New York?”

  “For a long time.” Tommi smiles at the memory. “From when I was six until I was in my late twenties.”

  “I can’t believe we’ve never talked about that.”

  “Well, maybe if you talked a little more instead of sitting around so sullen all the time, you grumpy fuck.”

  “And you’ve been here ever since?”

  “Ever since.”

  “How do you handle it? All this fucking quiet?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asks. “That’s what I left for. Do you know why people leave New York, kid?”

  “Why?”

  “Because eventually, you need to chill the fuck out. This is a pretty good place to do it. See, here’s the problem with New Yorkers. You’ve all got a superiority complex, and sooner or later, you’ve got to get over it, or you’ll find you can’t function in the outside world. Yeah, our pizza isn’t as good a
nd last call is a little earlier. I miss good bagels too. But you know what? You can get a good fucking meal here. And the people are nice. And you can drive a half hour outside town and stand under a waterfall. If you want to wear that sarcasm like a suit of armor, go ahead. But you’ve been working for me a few months now? At least admit that you’re still here for a reason.”

  She pats me on the arm, hard.

  Crystal smiles at me.

  It’s the kind of smile that looks a little like a sunrise.

  And for the second time in twenty-four hours, I’ve got nothing clever to say, and sitting there like that, in the silence of expectation, is too much. Everyone’s plates are cleared so I get up and grab them, stack them up.

  “I’ll handle the dishes,” I tell them.

  Tommi says, “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Sure I do. I owe you for a lot more than this.”

  “Make them shine then.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Tommi and Crystal both laugh a little at that.

  The hatchback growls like a hungry animal, but it runs. I retrieve my cowboy hat from Tommi’s truck, get in the car, and Crystal turns us around and drives slowly down the path. The sun is gone now, because it’s always gone when you feel like you might need it.

  I repeat the address to Crystal and she nods. “I got it. That’s not even far from here.”

  Once we’re on the street, it’s only a couple of turns and we’re on a hilly stretch of road with a lot of traffic. Everything around us is super fancy. There’s a Starbucks, but the outside of it looks like a quaint country inn, the architecture matching the surrounding businesses.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Lake Oswego,” says Crystal. “Also known as ‘Lake No-Negro.’ I’m sure you can figure out why.”

  “Classy.”

  “Yeah, well, fuck this neighborhood. This is ground zero of what’s ruining this town.”

  “What’s that then?”

  “All these rich assholes, moving here and ruining the character. Knocking down historic homes to put up some boring modernized cube. I swear, this town used to be so beautiful, and people are destroying her, inch by inch. Nothing is sacred.”