“Well?” Anatoly asked, as I stood in the middle of his new office, absorbing the room.
I turned, lifting my chin, seeing a shadowy reflection of myself in his dark brown eyes. He hadn’t shaved that morning. There were strands of grey mixed in with the course black hair dotting his chin. It made him look more rugged than old. His arms were crossed against his black t-shirt and his legs crossed at the ankles as he leaned back against his new, but used, desk. Even when relaxed he looked a little dangerous. He served in both the Russian and Israeli army before moving here. I learned not long ago that he had also done some work for the Russian mafia during the years of his reckless youth, although he assured me he wasn’t truly part of the organization. More of a 1099 employee. He never killed for them which is not the same thing as saying he never killed.
You’d think that last part would be a problem for my family but my sister, Leah, thought someone as temperamental and incautious as me should be grateful to be able to hold onto any man and my mother was so happy I was finally sharing my bed with a fellow Jew she was willing to overlook a few unreported felonies. People are always surprised to hear of her biases since my African American father wasn’t Jewish, but then he did change his name from Christianson to Katz just to appeal to my mother’s sense of cultural identity. As nuns change their names when they take a vow to live a life of poverty, chastity and obedience my father changed his name when he vowed to live a life defined by matrimony, family and general insanity. He died eighteen years ago yet the wound still stings whenever I allow my mind to touch it.
The muffled sound of a honking horn from the street below brought me back to the moment. Anatoly was waiting for my response and as patient as he was, he didn’t actually like to wait.
“Do you really want to hear this?” My fingers moved from my bag to my black and white eternity scarf.
His jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Stop the games,” he demanded, his Russian accent becoming a bit more pronounced.
I nodded and took a deep breath. “It’s…cute.”
The aggressiveness of the silence that followed was a little frightening.
“Cute,” he eventually repeated, drawing out the word, making it sound like the venomous insult he perceived it to be.
I hesitated a moment before blurting out, “Oh my God, Anatoly, it’s more than cute. It’s fucking adorable. You’re office is adorable.”
“It’s not adorable,” he snapped. “It’s conveniently located, it gets natural light, it has its own attached bathroom, it’s a sophisticated space–”
“Weeeellll,” I hedged as my eyes moved from the light yellow walls to the white painted trim of the paned windows. “It’s sophisticated in a Simply Hello Kitty kind of way. But I do like it. The way they integrated the seashells and daisies into the crown molding…it’s really…”
“Don’t say it.”
“It’s so cute!”
He slammed his hand down on the desk and turned his glare to the window. “I’m getting a new office.”
“You just signed a lease. Did it come with these furnishings?” I gestured to the only furniture in the room, a desk, a brown, tufted leather office chair and two cushioned, wicker armchairs. “They absolutely fit the space. Totally charming.”
“I’ll paint the walls black.”
“Then it’ll just be adorably goth.” I opened the door to what I assumed was a closet. It was a half bath with an old fashioned, pedestal sink that looked like it was plucked right out of a Victorian doll house. I got my smile in check before turning and walking over and perching myself on the edge of his desk, dangling my legs in his direction. “You know,” I said in my most soothing tone, “you can be a pretty intimidating guy.”
Anatoly made a noise that sounded like a halfhearted growl. He was nowhere near mollified.
“You can be,” I insisted. “You have a mean glare when you’re mad. You’re like a hot James Bond villain.” I shrugged off my purse from my shoulder. “It can be a problem.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When you hire a P.I. you have to share a few secrets with him,” I pointed out. “Open up the door to some of the more private areas of your life. It’s hard to do that with an intimidating, tough guy. You need to take it down a notch. And you know how you do that?”
“I think I know where you’re going with this.”
“You need a super cute office,” I continued with a nod. “When prospective clients come through that door they’ll say, okay, so he looks like he could kill me but those crown moldings of his are simply delightful!”
He let his chin drop to his chest, his neck bent from the burden of my indictment.
“Who’s the first client who gets to be enchanted by this place?” I asked.
“It’s a new one,” he grumbled. “He wants me to help him track down his stalker.”
“A stalker case? You haven’t had one of those in a while. Is the stalker a woman or a man?”
“He doesn’t actually know.” I tried not to giggle as I watched Anatoly’s eyes wander up to the crown moldings and then dart away in shame. “He says someone put a miniature tracking device on his car. A very high-tech piece.”
“Really?” Not many people would have the capability to do something like that. “Does he think the person who planted it is dangerous?”
I let that sink in as I pushed myself to my feet and walked over to the window. The office was on the second floor of a classic three story San Francisco Edwardian. It had been converted to accommodate ground floor boutiques fitting of the recently gentrified little shopping area. From where I stood I could see the pedestrians wandering in and out of an organic, twelve-dollar-a-drink juice bar, an art gallery selling $5000 sculptures made of recycled paint cans and a jewelry store that advertised conflict-free diamonds. Excess and apology all neatly wrapped up in one pretty little bow. Two years ago I had turned in a manuscript; Dying to Laugh, the final installment of my Alicia Bright murder mystery series, set on these very streets. My publisher packaged it, slapped a virtual bow on it and I sat back and watched as it ascended to the top of the New York Times bestsellers list. It was the sixth time an Alicia Bright mystery had reached the number one spot.
I had loved writing the series but it was time to move on. I needed to challenge myself, write new characters, prove to the world I could do more.
Except I hadn’t done that. I hadn’t written a word in seventeen months. There was something wrong with me.
From the corner of my eye I noted a figure standing a little too still, maybe looking up in my direction, but when I turned my head I saw that it was just a man in a baseball cap, looking down at his phone, not up. He quickly turned and walked away, head still bent toward his device. Why were all these tech guys bothering to move to such a beautiful city if they were incapable of dragging their attention away from their screens?
“Does he have any idea who would want to stalk him?” I asked Anatoly, keeping us on a less depressing subject. “Or what they might hope to gain from it?”
“I think he does, but he didn’t want to talk about it on the phone.”
“Oh?” I ran my finger over the white painted wood that supported the squares of glass. “Because he thought someone might be listening in on the call?”
“That was the impression I got, yes.”
I turned back to Anatoly. “That’s a very interesting case.”
“Yes,” he said, finally breaking into a smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those.”
It had been. Over the last few years Anatoly has been offered an increasingly steady stream of cases dealing with insurance fraud, identity theft and wayward spouses. Well paying, low risk cases. There was nothing to complain about. He was doing great.
We were doing great too, despite my writer’s block (which I had purposely kept him in the dark about). From the moment we became a couple Anatoly and I had either been on the precipice of a breakup or basking in the postcoital glow of reconciliation. His flaws have always scratched against mine in just the right way, igniting the most beautiful firework displays our city had ever seen. It all sort of came to a head in a chaotic, messy weekend in Vegas about two and a half years ago. We almost killed each other on that trip. But then some cartel chick named Margarita tried to kill me. Then a grudge baring Russian dude named Alex Kinsky helped Anatoly save me from Margarita but also threatened to kill Anatoly and, well…it was just really complicated. After a rapid succession of near-death experiences Anatoly and I decided that peacefully loving each other was better than strangling one another.
Shortly after finding our way out of danger we reached this place in our relationship that was just…different. We’ve fallen into a routine. A good routine. One that involves a lot of classic movie nights, reading the morning paper over cappuccino, the occasional ride along the beach on his Harley, glorious home-cooked meals (prepared exclusively by him) and great sex…although the latter wasn’t happening as frequently as it used to and sometimes it seemed the intensity wasn’t quite as, well, intense…but that was probably my imagination and it was still better than anything I’d had with anyone else by a lot. For the first time in over a decade I had no deadlines hanging over my head, no conflicts, no drama, no chaos. This must be what all those fairytales were talking about when they said they lived happily ever after.
But then, maybe not. I was hardly an expert on fairytales. Only the dark ones interested me.
I smiled up at Anatoly and clasped my hands behind my back, the picture of innocence. “When’s he coming?”
“In less than forty minutes and I believe you have a hair appointment in an hour. So if you’re done insulting my office–” He gallantly gestured to the door.
“That’s tomorrow.” I self consciously pulled at my hair. The fact that Anatoly remembered I had a salon appointment at all was an indication of how out of control my hair had gotten since my last one. “Today’s my lunch with Dena.”
“Great, say hello for me.”
“Can I help?”
He hesitated, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “Help with what?”
“Can I sit in on your meeting? You could say I’m your secretary. I could take notes.”
His sigh was almost heavy enough to squash my hopes. Almost. “You’re not my secretary, so no.”
“Oh come on, I’ll keep everything confidential. And maybe I’ll have some good insights that can help you. I mean, I do have some experience with this kind of thing.”
“Experience?” He shook his head and stuck his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. “Stumbling upon a few crime scenes doesn’t make you an investigator. It makes you unlucky and accident prone.”
I sat down in the chair behind his desk, swiveling it back and forth as I kept my eyes firmly on his. “I solved those crimes that I stumbled upon. I might just be a black Veronica Mars in the making.”
“Yes, except you haven’t solved a crime since that show was canceled. And wasn’t Veronica Mars supposed to be eighteen?”
“So I’m a little older than that,” I said, coolly.
“Yes, by almost twenty ye–”
“Don’t.” I snapped. I rested my elbows on his desk and my chin in my hands. “Come on, let me be your secretary, just for the length of one meeting. Or even your assistant! It would be fun! Every Sherlock needs a Watson.”
“You’re not my Watson. And you have other plans this afternoon.”
“I’ll text Dena and tell her I’m going to be late. Come on, it’ll be like old times.”
“Please, Anatoly.” But my tone had changed against my wishes. I had wanted to sound teasing but persuasive. I hadn’t meant for that note of desperation to sneak in there.
Anatoly heard it. I could tell by the way he shifted his weight back on his heels and tilted his head half an inch to the side. He was going to ask me one of those horribly generic questions that people ask their lovers like: What’s going on with you? Or Is everything okay?
I didn’t know what was going on with me even though I felt the weight of it. I couldn’t explain and I really, really didn’t want to try.
And then, like a reprieve from God, there was a knock on the door. A giant grin spread slowly across my face. “Think our client’s early?” Before Anatoly could respond I was out of my seat, across the room and flinging open the door.
Before me stood a fifty-something man only three inches taller than me. His blond, white streaked hair was unkempt and hung limp around his hollowed cheeked face. Everything he was wearing from his slightly-too-big Brooks Brothers chinos to his Tom Ford horned rimmed glasses implied a certain degree of wealth even as the missing shirt button and coffee stains that decorated the slightly frayed designer fabric projected something very different.
“I’m looking for Anatoly Darinsky?” He said, somewhat uncertainly.
“That would be the guy behind me. I’m Sophie Katz, his assistant.” I caught a glimpse of Anatoly’s expression over my shoulder and quickly amended. “Administrative assistant. Kind of like the Google assistant on Android? I keep track of things, take notes, make sure we get all the information we need to help you out. Please come in!”
“I’m early.” He stepped forward, hesitantly. Anatoly offered him his hand but he refused it.
“My hands are sweaty,” he said, his voice shaking slightly. “Is there somewhere I can wash them?”
“Right through here,” Anatoly opened the door to the bathroom for him and the man excused himself briefly. We both listened while the water ran. I went over to Anatoly’s desk and found a notepad and pen. Anatoly shot me a look a mouthed You’re unbelievable. To which I responded by mouthing, I know. Although to be fair, this was the first time in, like, a year that I had done anything that was even remotely unbelievable.
But this wraith of a man in Anatoly’s new, cutesy bathroom had me feeling oddly hopeful. Like I was perversely elevated by the promise of sharing in another’s turmoil. I smiled broadly at Anatoly as he frowned, knowing I was pressing his buttons. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, this would be the first step to becoming truly unbelievable again.
I sat next to our guest, Aaron London, as Anatoly examined him from behind our desk. Mr. London was polite but jittery and had already requested to see our Drivers’ licenses to prove our identities. But when we handed them over he seemed to have a tough time reading the words, holding them up this way and that in order to bring them into focus. My eyes kept wandering to his lips. They were so chapped they didn’t even look fully human. A drop of blood rested behind a flap of dry skin near the corner of his mouth.
I offered him the Fiji water I had been hauling around with me in my purse along with an encouraging smile. He accepted both, taking a long drink before placing the bottle on the floor by his feet. I held my pen over the notepad in anticipation. “I’m sorry I’m so early,” he said for about the fifth time.
“It’s not a problem,” Anatoly said, perceptibly irritated by being forced to repeat the reassurance.
“I believe it might throw them off if I don’t show up where I’m expected, when I’m expected.”
“Who exactly are you trying to throw off?” Anatoly asked.
“The people tracking me,” he replied after an uncomfortably long pause. “There are people trying to kill me.”
Anatoly nodded as if being the target of a planned homicide was a normal and easily solvable inconvenience. “I assume you think the two are one and the same? The people who put the tracking device on your car are the ones who want you dead?”
“Of course they’re the same!” London sputtered. I made a quick note: homicidal tracking experts (bad guys).
“Tell me about them,” Anatoly requested. “Why are they going to such extreme measures?”
He shook his head, a few strands of his hair moved with him, but it was too thin to really be whipped around. “I know things,” he explained. “Things I’m not supposed to know.” His eyes locked on me again and this time the anxiety there was so intense I found myself pulling back as if it might be contagious. Yes, I sought a degree of turmoil, but there was something off about this man. “What do you know about the pharmaceutical industry?” he asked.
I looked over at Anatoly who rewarded me with a barely perceptible shrug. “It’s safe to assume neither one of us are experts,” I admitted.
“I used to be in pharmaceuticals,” London rubbed his hands against his wrinkled pants. “I know things about the way the business is run. It’s not good, not good at all.”
“I’m not sure I’m following,” Anatoly said as I wrote pharmaceutical industry: bad!
“The amount of money spent on developing a drug, you have no idea. And when you spend all that money only to discover that your drug can have dangerous side effects, well the companies don’t want to cop to that. They want to get their product to market even if it kills. And they want to kill me because I know that.”
“What pharmaceutical company are we talking about, specifically?” I asked as I furiously scribbled away.
“Nolan-Volz is the worst of the wrong-doers, but it could be that they’ve enlisted other companies in this as well. There’s a lot of collusion with these organizations. Anti-trust laws are being broken right and left. We just keep seeing the same story play out over and over again. Rispolex prescribed off label! Thalidomide! Doctors on the take! The whole medical establishment is in on it!”
“The whole medical establishment?” I asked, giving him the opportunity to pull back on the hyperbole. I would ask what the hell he was talking about in regards to the rest of it in a moment.
But rather than correct himself he nodded sagely and leaned forward, and urgently whispered. “The government is in on it too.”
I looked down at my notepad and considered writing government: Bad! But these days that went without saying.
“They want me dead too! Our own government!” London continued.
Anatoly shifted his head toward the window as a siren briefly disrupted the more benign background noises of the streets. “I find that unlikely, Mr. London.”
“Do you?” London retorted, sarcastically. “Why is that? You think our government doesn’t kill its own citizens? The death penalty! Covert operations! How many do you think they drove to suicide while testing LSD on unsuspecting Americans? What about eugenics? Where do you think the Nazis got that idea, huh?”
Following London’s train of thought was getting harder by the second. My notes had become a jumbled mash up of conspiracy theory catch phrases. I was seeking turmoil, not incoherence. “Maybe we can put the drugs and Nazis aside for a moment and focus on what’s going on with you in the here and now?”
He looked at me blankly and then fell back in his chair as if exhausted from his own ranting. “Of course. I’m sorry,” he said, hoarsely. “I know I sound crazed. I’ve been under such stress. It’s not just that they’re following me.” With a slow purposeful movement he ran his hand through his hair, then held up his flattened palm. It was covered with dozens of strands, apparently dislodged from his scalp with only the lightest touch. “I think they’re poisoning me too,” he whispered. “I’m not thinking straight. I’m weak and…” he looked down at the loose hairs, allowing the disturbing visual to complete his sentence. “I don’t know how it’s being done, how it’s transmitted…I’ve taken to washing my hands immediately before touching another person. There could be toxins in my sweat. I don’t know how they’ve gotten to me, but they have. Putin isn’t the only government leader who poisons those who cross him. It can happen anywhere, to any of us.”
“Maybe we can start with the evidence that you’re being followed,” Anatoly suggested. “Do you still have the tracking device they put on your car?”
I could tell by the way Anatoly said the word “they,” that he was dubious of the pronoun’s accuracy.
London looked up at Anatoly, surprised. “It’s still on my car.”
Anatoly’s stare chilled me and clearly shamed London who began fiddling with his glasses, pulling them down and then pushing them back up on the bridge of his nose. “Don’t you think it’s a good idea to take the device off?” Anatoly asked. “So they can’t follow you anymore?”
“Of course it is,” London conceded. “But I can’t find it. I’ve taken it to a mechanic but they said they’d have to take apart the whole car to locate it. I took it to the police and they couldn’t find it either and they weren’t even sure if they had the legal authority to arrest anyone even if they did find it. Our legal system hasn’t caught up with our technology! There are no laws against putting GPS tracking devices on anything. The politicians are just now figuring out how to use GPS on their own damn phones! They don’t understand all the horrible ways technology can be applied! There’s no regulation, no protections, no–”
“Evidence,” Anatoly interrupted. “There is no evidence that there ever was a tracking device on your car. Maybe that’s because there isn’t one.”
“No, no, it’s there! I’ll be driving around and no one will be on my tail. And then suddenly there’s a Zipcar!”
“A Zipcar,” Anatoly repeated.
“Yes! And it will follow me at a distance. Too much of a distance for me to make out the driver. Then if I do a u-turn or pull over the Zipcar will drive off, in the opposite direction of course, so I can’t see who’s in it! And then maybe an hour later, maybe two, the Zipcar will be back! Sometimes it’s the same one. Sometimes a different one. But it will come out of nowhere! I know it wasn’t following me all that time so how did it find me? It was tracking me! You see? It knows where I’m going to be! It shows up at the most unlikely places!”
“There are a lot of Zipcars in the city.” I was doing my level best to point out the obvious without sounding patronizing. “Maybe that’s the reason they keep popping up. Especially since you’re not always seeing the same car.”
“No, you see that’s not how it works!” London said, imploringly. “The driver must have a computer with them. A laptop maybe. And they bring it from Zipcar to Zipcar–” but he wasn’t able to finish due to a coughing fit. It was a wet, ugly cough and I found myself torn between wanting to pat him on the back and desperately searching my bag for my bottle of Purell.
“Have you gone to a doctor?” Anatoly asked. “To get tested for poison or…anything else?”
“Didn’t you hear me? The medical establishment can’t be trusted! Doctors are taking bribes from drug companies, preforming needless procedures on homeless people, these are not good people!” He broke into another short coughing fit but then managed to continue. “Did you know that right now, as we speak, people are forming a New World Order? Oligarchs and their bought and paid for politicians are going to try to take over everything!”
“Wait,” I asked, “are you talking about Super Pacs?”
“No! Or yes, but no! It’s going to get so much worse than it is now! We can’t trust anyone. No one has our interests at heart. Not the little guy, not blacks!” He jabbed his finger at me with an almost desperate zeal. “They don’t care about what happens to the blacks!”
“Fucking Zipcar driving racists,” I replied, managing to keep a straight face.
“Mr. London, I think maybe we have to start again,” Anatoly suggested. “Do you, or do you not, have the names of any individuals who might want to do you harm and do you have any concrete evidence that someone is actively trying to?”
“They’re poisoning me,” he said, weakly. “Look at me. Use your eyes and see me dying. You’re witnessing my murder.”
Anatoly studied him for a moment and I could see the cocktail of pity and disappointment pouring out of him. “I’m afraid I can’t take your case.”
“But I’ve nowhere else to go,” London whispered. “You’re the only P.I. of good repute who would agree to even see me.”
“I’m sure others would take a meeting.”
London blushed. The little bit of color actually made him seem less crazed and more, well, vulnerable. I felt shame creep down my throat, settling in my gut. I had been attracted to the idea of a nefarious stalker that could be tracked down and held accountable. I had loved this stranger for the turbulence I assumed surrounded him. But the turbulence was within him. The demons stalking him could never be caught. This wasn’t an adventure, it was a tragedy.
“All right it’s true,” London said after a long pause, “there are others. You’re the fourth detective I’ve met with.”
“I see,” Anatoly said, stiffly.
“I don’t know how to do this,” London pleaded. “Didn’t know where to start. But the others they…laughed at me. They kicked me out of their office before I was even able to settle into my seat. You’ve been the most attentive. You’ve listened. Now all you have to do is see.”
Anatoly had listened but with thinly veiled impatience. To be fair, that was the best this man could ever realistically hope for given the insanity of his story. And yet he had hoped for more.
Quietly I put the pad and pen on Anatoly’s desk. There was no longer a need for note taking.
“I can’t take your case,” Anatoly repeated, his voice kind but firm.
“What will I do?” London moaned.
“I strongly recommend you speak with a doctor,” Anatoly suggested and rose from his chair. “But that’s up to you. Regardless, we should wrap things up here. I don’t want to waste your time.”
“No,” London agreed. “After all, I may not have much left to waste.”
There was an awkward silence as we all remained in our places, Anatoly and I both waiting for London to get up. But London seemed to be unaware that this was the logical next step. Sullenly meditative, he picked idly at loose hairs on his pant leg. Most looked like they were his, but I noted that others were short and black.
“Maybe I could walk you to your car?” I offered.
He looked at me blankly for what seemed like an eternity.
“It wouldn’t be an inconvenience,” I added. “I have to head out to make a lunch thing anyway.”
Again nothing and then finally a nod. I mouthed I’ll call you to Anatoly as London got to his feet. When he walked with me toward the door his movements seemed labored, like every step was a small challenge. Was he moving like that when he came into the office or was it just the mass of disillusionment that he was struggling under?
We left the office and took the stairs slowly. When he seemed to falter I linked my arm through his, offering him support but masking it in companionship to spare whatever remained of his pride. The gesture stopped him in his tracks.
“Aren’t you afraid?”
“Of what?” I asked.
“Of touching me. Even people who don’t believe me, they don’t want to touch me, or be close to me. They see something’s wrong with me and it scares them.”
My mind automatically traveled back to my childhood when everyone was afraid to so much as shake hands with all the people in this city who were diagnosed with AIDS. We isolated them, made them feel like pariahs doomed to die alone. “I’m not afraid,” I said, definitively.
I thought I saw the glimmer of a tear in his eye and I looked away, urging him forward. “Anatoly just moved into that office space today,” I said in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“It’s cute,” London replied, absently.
“Right? I think there are apartments on the third floor. I’m sure they’re lovely but I don’t know if I’d want to live directly over a shopping district.”
“You live in Ashbury Heights,” he noted as I pushed open the heavy glass door that brought us to the street.
I turned and stared at him. “How?”
“Your drivers license.”
The cool air touched my face and I found myself smiling at London as the shoppers streamed around us. “You’re an observant man.”
“Observant, yes,” he started to lead me down the sidewalk, “but I’m beginning to question if I can still confidently call myself a man.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, lightly. “You’re just going through a rough patch, that’s all.”
He went quiet for a few minutes as we continued to walk past a parallel-parked line-up of Prius’ and Teslas’. I was about to ask him exactly where he parked his car when he piped up again. “Have you ever convinced yourself of something? Something that was unlikely?”
I exhaled in relief. I’m not sure it’s such a horrible thing to occasionally be delusional but if your delusions are as dark as London’s it’s much better to come back to more mundane realities. “We all do that,” I assured him. “Human nature.”
“That’s true,” he agreed, thoughtfully. “After all, what is God but something we’ve convinced ourselves of with no evidence to support? What is the American dream but a fallacy to give the poor false hope? We’re all convinced that we’re going to be the exception to the rule.”
Okay, so not exactly the direction I was hoping for. “What unlikely thing have you convinced yourself of specifically?”
He sighed as we walked by San Francisco’s latest farm-to-table restaurant. “I convinced myself that you would help me.”
Now it was me who abruptly stopped walking, pulling him to a stop with me before removing my arm from his. “I want to,” I said, sincerely. “But I think the kind of help you need is different than the kind of help you think you need.”
“You mean–” but before he could finish he started coughing. He lurched forward as the spasms violently wrenched away his physical control, causing the tip of his shoe to catch on a piece of uneven pavement. As he fell, his hands found the sidewalk in time to keep him from cracking open his skull. People around us stopped, as I kneeled next to him, helpless as I watched his body shake and his face contort.
“Is he okay?” I heard a woman ask. Now on his hands and knees, London’s coughs were getting worse. His glasses slipped from his face and dropped uselessly to the ground. He couldn’t seem to stop. Whopping cough maybe?
“London? Should I call a doctor?” I asked. It was a stupid question. The man couldn’t even talk. He looked up at me, his eyes fearful and milky, the convulsions racking through his delicate frame. “Call 911!” I cried out to the gathering crowd. But before I could fully get the words out he had fallen into unconsciousness, his glasses cracking beneath him. The coughs were now just gasps for breath and the time between each gasp kept getting a little longer. I looked up to see about five people on their cell phones, all calling for help. I reached into the pockets of London’s jacket to see if there was anything useful there. An inhaler maybe? Could he have asthma? Maybe an EpiPen? But all I found was a crumpled up failed-payment notification from his car insurance provider and his phone in a camouflage patterned case. The phone was displaying one new text message from a number apparently not in his contacts.
Confusion hath now made his masterpiece
That was the whole text. No explanation, no laughing emoji to imply it was a joke. The damp wind must have been working its way through the cloth of my sweater because my skin suddenly felt cold.
I looked up at the street just as a Zipcar passed us by.
It was complete madness. The paramedics arrived as I was attempting to administer CPR. They were quick to load London into the ambulance and while they found his car keys and wallet in his pants pocket, presumably with his ID and insurance info, they had somehow left me holding his coat, phone and that stupid payment notice. I drove to the hospital as quickly as possible. I dictated a text to Dena to tell her I had to cancel lunch and would explain why later. Anatoly called but I had accidently turned my Bluetooth off and couldn’t deal with my phone at the same time as I was racing to the hospital. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to say to him. I had no clue what was going on. Maybe I’d get to the hospital and discover that London did have asthma and they had fixed everything in the ambulance. Or maybe he had cancer or some other disease that he hadn’t told us about.
Or maybe he had been poisoned by a person who was following him around in a Zipcar.
As soon as I got to the hospital, before I even got out of my parked Audi, I tried calling the number the Confusion text had come from. I was greeted by an automated message telling me it wasn’t a valid number. I dialed again, carefully entering each digit as it appeared on London’s screen. But I got the same automated message. I tried calling from London’s phone. It made no difference.
But you can’t send a text from an invalid number, can you?
It was a question that kept running through my mind as I walked through the hospital entrance, clutching London’s cell and jacket. The lobby was populated with people carrying Get-Well-Soon bouquets in their hands and brave smiles on their faces. The four women behind the sprawling reception desk seemed relaxed though, completely accustom to being surrounded by the earth shattering events of human life.
“Hi,” I said to the grey haired, sixty-something women sitting behind one of the desk’s computers. “I’m here about Aaron London? He was just brought in through the emergency room.”
The woman gave me a quick, sympathetic look as her fingers flew over her keyboard. “Relation?”
I blinked. I had no relation to London. I couldn’t even truthfully call myself a friend. “I’m his girlfriend.”
As soon as the lie left my mouth I wanted to take it back. Girlfriend is not a relation. There was no value in girlfriend.
Besides, it made me look bad. If I had said wife it could have been assumed that we initially hooked up when he was still hot…or at least presentable. Now the doctors would think London was the best I could do.
Why am I this shallow?
“You can wait for him in the emergency room reception area,” she said, gesturing to the left. “Go down that hallway and take a left at the very end of it. Sign in at the reception area there. If they move him to surgery they’ll have someone let you know Miss…?”
“Katz, Sophie Katz,” I said, although why I was suddenly channeling the speaking patterns of James Bond was a mystery. She gave me a visitor’s pass to stick on my shirt and I followed her directions.
The emergency room waiting area was like all emergency room waiting areas: awful. Regardless of how well cleaned, they always stunk of sickness and distress. It was hard not to be envious of the ward’s receptionists behind the glass, physically separated from the upheaval in their sterilized little bubble.
After signing in I found two empty chairs a little ways away from anyone else, one for me and one for London’s things.
Why didn’t a guy as paranoid as London have his phone password protected? I would have thought he’d have one of those fingerprint things on it or maybe even new facial recognition technology. And aren’t iPhones supposed to be harder to hack than Droids? What good was paranoia if it didn’t at least make you security savvy?
I looked around the room as if I expected any of the people in there with me to have answers. The black man in the corner with the neatly clipped, short hair and downward turned mouth, frantically texting some presumably bad news, or the redhead chewing on her nails as she watched the doors that led to the exam rooms as if the strength of her will was enough to get a doctor to burst through with better news. Nothing here was reassuring.
I picked up London’s jacket again and started searching the pockets one more time, as if something meaningful might have magically appeared in there since the last time I searched. But of course the pockets were now empty. Except…
I reached deeper into the inside pocket, something was there, halfway through a hole in the silk lining, making it easy to miss.
I pulled out two copper colored keys. House keys? Office keys? I shrugged and zipped them into the small pocket of my purse so I wouldn’t lose them. Next I started skimming through the phone.
But there was nothing on it. Like, nothing-nothing. Not a single photo, the Facebook app had not been activated and if he had ever gotten a text from anyone else it had been erased. But maybe there would be something telling in his emails…
“Miss Katz?” I looked up to see the grey haired woman from the front desk. Her hands were clasped together in a worried fashion. Next to her was another woman in her early-forties, a blonde wind-blown bob hung around her long face as her cowl necked sweater drew attention to a small strand of pearls that lay slightly askew across her collarbone. Hanging back behind them stood a curvy teenage girl. Her thick mane of blonde hair fell all the way down her back, adding a hefty dose of femininity to her grey-stripped hoodie and jeans ensemble.
The woman with the bob pointed a slender finger toward the chair next to mine. “I believe that’s my husband’s coat.”
Husband? But this woman looked so…normal!
Well, maybe they hooked up while he was still hot. I stared at the coat and then the phone in my hand. “Maybe I should explain.”
But the woman clearly had no interest in explanations. She crossed over and grabbed his jacket and then held out her hand toward me expectantly. “His phone?”
My own phone started ringing in my bag but I didn’t reach for it. “I’m not his girlfriend,” I croaked. “I was with him when he collapsed and–”
“I just want his phone.” Her voice was restrained although I thought I detected a slight tremor. “I know that case, don’t try to tell me it’s not his. And I don’t want or need an explanation.”
I hesitated a moment and then carefully placed it in her palm. “He got a text–”
“Stop talking!” Her voice had lowered to a whispered yell. I shrank back, unnerved.
We all turned at the name. A doctor in a lab coat was standing by the doors.
“Anita,” she said with a sigh. “Call me Anita.” She glanced down at me one more time and then nodded at the teenage girl who approached the doctor with her. The three of them formed a small huddle, excluding everyone else in the room from the conversation. The woman from the front desk was now glaring at me and when I tried to meet her eyes she just gave a quick shake of her head, turned and left. Fantastic. If I ever had a medical emergency I’d have to tell the paramedics to take me to a different hospital.
I stood up and looked over at Anita as she put her arm gently around the teenager’s shoulders, protectively pulling her close. She gave the doctor a curt nod and he turned to leave as she went to the window where the receptionists and administrators were. She quietly accepted a clipboard full of forms before crossing to the nearest chair to start filling them out. Tentatively, I approached, stopping several feet in front of them. They both ignored me, and I watched as she checked off the “Ms.” Box and wrote her name, Anita J. London.
“I was just the person who happened to be standing with him when he collapsed,” I tried again. “I gave him CPR but…I’m not really trained in it. I don’t know if it helped.”
Mrs. London refused to look up. But the teenager did. She observed me through bloodshot eyes. “He has fluid around his heart and lungs,” she explained. “A lot of it.”
“You don’t need to talk to her,” Anita said, crisply.
“My father has to have emergency surgery.” She looked over at the double doors where they kept the patients. “It’s dangerous. They don’t know how it will go.”
Anita finally looked up although she gave her entire focus to the girl. “Catherine Jane London, you do not share family business with strangers!”
“It isn’t family business, mom!” Catherine said, her voice rising. “It’s life or death!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, people don’t die of pneumonia.”
“We don’t know that’s what it is and they do if it’s left untreated! You heard what the doctor said!” Catherine looked up at me again. “Why didn’t you tell him to go to the doctor sooner? Why did you wait until he collapsed? Are you stupid? Or are you just crazy like he is?”
“I…” but my mind wasn’t working fast enough to come up with an appropriate response.
“Life and death is a family matter,” Anita growled, more to me than to her daughter. “He’s our family. You are not. You should leave.”
“He got a weird text,” I blurted out. Anita London was going to get this information whether she wanted it or not. “Confusion hath now made his masterpiece.”
A rueful smile played on Anita’s lips. “Now I see why he liked you, you’re crazy too.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I said again. “I just met your husband today!”
“I don’t care.” Suddenly, she was on her feet again. “I don’t care who you are. The father of my child is about to get emergency surgery. His pulse is…well I can’t remember the numbers, but it’s not what it should be. Not even in the vicinity! So I don’t care if you met my husband today or if you’ve been fucking him for years. What I care about is filling out this paperwork so they can stick a scalpel in him and save his life. Will you let me do that now?”
“Sure, yes, of course.” I backed up and then slowly sat down in the row of chairs across from her. My phone started to go off again and I began to reach for it but Anita’s voice stopped me.
“Leave!” she yelled and this time everyone in the waiting room, including those administrators behind their protective little window, were staring at us openly. Anita, Catherine and I were the train wreck and I was the one who had taken us off the rails.
I swallowed, hard, and adjusted the strap of my handbag on my shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re going through all this,” I said, quietly. I reached into my bag and pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt I didn’t need. On the back I wrote my name and number. “When you’re ready, I really think we should talk.”
Anita started filling out the forms again, pointedly ignoring the paper still in my hand. Quietly I put it on the seat next to her daughter. “When you’re ready,” I said again.
Dena’s text came in while I was sitting at a stoplight contemplating how all those poems and songs about the heart are completely off base. Whether it’s the excited butterflies of love or the cramps of anxiety it’s clear that all our emotions live in or around our intestinal tract. It was going to take a bottle of Tums to deal with all the emotions currently swirling around down there. Nothing about my exchange with Anita or her husband before her was sitting well.
I picked up my phone and read the text noting for the first time the three missed calls from Anatoly. Dena’s text read:
Is everything okay?
I texted back: sort of yes, sort of no.
As the light turned green Dena called. “Are you okay or not?” she asked, skipping the hellos and filling my car with her Kathleen-Turneresque voice.
“I’m fine,” I reassured her. “Sorry I stood you up. But I mean, you will not believe what went down this afternoon!”
“You really think you can still surprise me with the messes you get yourself into?”
“It’s been some time since I’ve been in a mess.”
She paused for half a second before conceding in a more conciliatory tone, “Fair enough. Lunch might have been hard anyway. A new shipment came in a day early and one of my salespeople called in sick. But Mary Ann’s stopping by at six. We’re going to try to catch one of the Happy Hours around here. Join us. You can test the limits of my belief.”
The invitation sounded extraordinarily appealing. I had known Dena and her younger cousin, Mary Ann since high school. Mary Ann never failed to make me smile and Dena…well, I could always count on Dena to give it to me straight without ever judging me. I needed that because at the moment I wasn’t thinking straight and I was feeling a little judgmental of myself.
“Or do you have to smooth things over with Anatoly tonight?” she asked before I had even given her an answer to the last question.
“Smooth things over?” I repeated. “We’re fine.” I braked for a bicyclist who was trying to use the entire street as a bike lane. “We’re totally and completely, disconcertingly fine.”
“Oookay,” Dena replied. “Sounds—“
But her next few words were cut off with the beep of another incoming call. Anatoly.
“That’s him. I’ll be at Guilty Pleasures at 6.” I switched over as I maneuvered up one of San Francisco’s ninety-degree hills. “Anatoly? Oh my God, you’ll never believe this but London might actually have a stalker!”
“Anatoly?” I asked, a little more tentatively this time. “Is that you?”
“I called you three times,” he finally replied, his voice even lower than normal.
“Oh, I saw that, sorry. But I mean, I’m talking about a really evil stalker,” I clarified. “The kind that poisons someone and then sends him cryptically poetic texts. Of course it’s possible…maybe even probable that it was coincidence, but still, it was all so weird! Am I making sense?”
“No,” Anatoly said coolly. “Would you like to start now?”
“I was just walking London to his car and he collapsed into a coughing fit. Now the doctors are saying there’s fluid around his heart and lungs. It’s a mess.” As I reached the top of the hill I decided to turn on my headlights for extra visibility. The fog was so low and thick it was like driving through a cloud.
“Sounds like pneumonia,” Anatoly noted.
“Oh don’t be so mundane,” I retorted. “I told you, he got a text. It said, Confusion hath made its masterpiece.”
“Crazy people get crazy texts. I’m sorry the man is sick, but that was obvious the minute he walked into my office. And you should have called me back.”
“I told you, things got out of control.”
“None of this was yours to control to begin with,” he replied, more forcefully now. “You’re my lover and my girlfriend but you are not my business partner.”
I blanched, stopping a second too long at the stop sign. “You said you didn’t mind my assisting you on this case.”
“When exactly did I say that?”
“You implied it.” I looked to my left to see one of Google’s driverless cars.
“By raising your eyebrows!” It was disturbingly tempting to try to run the car and its passenger off the road just to see what it would do.
“My eyebrows don’t speak for me,” Anatoly said, slowly, “And I don’t insert myself into your work.”
“Don’t you?” I snapped. “I have missed infinite number of deadlines because of you.”
“You’ve missed two deadlines because of me,” Anatoly growled.
“People have tried to kill me because of you!” I continued. “That has interfered with my work.”
“I was shot because of you.”
“Please. It was a flesh wound.” I waved at a pedestrian, signaling that it was okay to cross in front of me.
“You didn’t pick up your phone!” he said again, raising his voice. Anatoly never raised his voice.
I tilted my head to the side. “Are you okay?”
“You walked out of my office arm in arm with a very troubled man and when I called you three times it went to voicemail. I called Dena but you didn’t tell her where you were going. You didn’t tell me where you were going. If you had been in my shoes what conclusion would you have jumped to?”
“You were worried about me?”
“Of course I was worried about you!”
“That’s so sweet!”
“Sophie,” he said, warningly.
“I’m sorry,” I added, quickly. “I got distracted, but I should have picked up.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “You’re apologizing,” he said, carefully.
“I am,” I confirmed. “I know I haven’t done that in a while but if you think about it, we haven’t argued in a long time either.”
“Now, can we get back to the stalker?”
“London doesn’t have a stalker.” The edge crept back into his voice. “He’s obviously suffering from some untreated psychiatric condition and possibly from substance abuse.”
I chewed gently on my lower lip. I could tell Anatoly that I saw a Zipcar but he’d only point out that wasn’t exactly unusual in San Francisco. I could tell him about London’s wife and daughter but he would tell me his personal relationships weren’t any of my business and certainly didn’t support any suspicions that London’s health issues were brought on purposely by another. He’d be right about that too. Anatoly was being infuriatingly logical. “I may visit him in the hospital,” I said instead.
“Don’t. He might take your presence as validation of the merit of his convoluted story. The best case scenario would be for him to spend a few months in a psychiatric facility.”
“I think you have to attempt an assassination before the insurance companies will agree to keep you in one of those places for more than two weeks,” I pointed out. And yet maybe Anatoly was right. That might be the best outcome.
But it didn’t feel right.
“I still think I might visit him,” I pushed.
“It’s a bad plan, Sophie,” Anatoly sighed. “But if you have to, it should only be to give him back his wedding ring.”
“When he washed his hands it must have slipped off his finger. I just found it in the sink, halfway under the drain stopper. Since his wife is at the hospital maybe you can just give it to her and be done with it.”
I told the hospital I was his girlfriend and when his wife goes to his bedside he won’t be wearing his wedding ring. Fuck!
“Are you still at the office?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, but only for another hour. I have a potentially cheating husband I need to be tailing. I’m afraid I won’t be done until at least nine so you’ll have to get dinner without me.”
“No worries, I’m meeting Dena and Mary Ann for drinks tonight anyway. But I’m coming over right now for the ring, okay?”
“Fine. If you over do it on the drinks give me a call and I’ll pick you up.”
“Well in that case I’m doing shots,” I joked.
“Don’t get so drunk I’ll feel guilty about taking advantage of you later.”
I laughed and agreed to stay sober enough for consensual sex before ending the call and turning the car around. I had no idea how I was going to get that ring back to London, but I would figure out a way, a subtle way, so as not to make things worse for him. “I am going to help you, London,” I whispered as I drove down the narrow streets. “This time, for real.”
It says something about my friendship with Dena that I was unsurprised to find her absently doing bicep curls with giant dildos at the end of a work day, one black, one pinkish. She was standing in the middle of her store, Guilty Pleasure, studying a collection of colorful ball-gags hanging from hooks in the wall, her thick, Sicilian eyebrows scrunched together adding drama to her otherwise kittenish features.
“Ready for dinner?” I asked as I maneuvered around two giggling twenty-somethings hunched over the edible panties display.
Dena looked up, my voice pulling her out of her thoughts and then glanced at her wind-up watch, a subtle form of rebellion against the technification of the city. “Since when do you arrive anywhere early? That’s Mary Ann’s thing.” She glanced back up at the wall. “I’m thinking about moving these further back and doing a vibrator display here instead.” She held out the giant mechanical penises for my inspection. “I have these in eight different skin-tones now. Diversity.”
I nodded and tapped the black one. “You should put the darker ones up front in honor of Black History Month.”
Dena blinked down at the vibrators. “That’s fucking brilliant.”
“Do you have any black, Jewish dildos?” I asked. “To celebrate both sides of my racial and cultural identity?”
Dena held up the phallic device so it was eyelevel with me. “It’s circumcised, isn’t it? But if you’re asking if I have any black dildos that will fuck you while playing Hava Nagila the answer is no.”
“The limits of technology,” I sighed as my eyes wandered over to a shelf holding a smiling, silicon creature with antennas. Its packaging read, Flexi Felix for Anal Fun Days! “Do you know if Mary Ann is still friends with that nurse who works at St. Dominique’s Hospital?”
“Jenna?” Dena asked, following my gaze “What about Flexi made you think of her? Oh, is it because she’s a tight ass?”
“What? No, I…okay, first off, ew. I was just thinking she might be able to help me with something.”
Before I could continue, the chime of the front entrance alerted us to Mary Ann’s arrival. She was half walking, half skipping in our direction, her chestnut curls bouncing enthusiastically around her shoulders giving her the look of a model from a shampoo commercial.
“Oh my God, I’m so glad you could come out tonight!” Mary Ann said, as she gave me an enthusiastic hug and then Dena a more tentative one as she carefully avoided contact with the dildos in her hands. “I have news!”
“Is it something I won’t believe?” Dena asked, giving me a sidelong glance.
“Seriously guys!” Mary Ann’s porcelain complexion flushed with excitement. “I’m going to have a baby!”
I froze in utter shock. Dena looked down at the black dildo as if it was somehow responsible.
“You’re going to be a mom,” I whispered. Then squealed, “You’re going to be a mom!” It was enough to attract the attention of the giggling girls who looked up from the flavored lubes in their hands.
“I didn’t even know this was something you were thinking about!” Dena said, the traces of suppressed emotion bringing her voice up an octave.
“Well, Monty and I have been talking about it for a while and we’ve decided it doesn’t make sense to wait any longer. Now’s the time!”
“We have to celebrate!” I stated firmly. “What should we do?”
“We can start by not going to happy hour,” Dena gave Mary Ann a stern look. “No way in hell are you drinking during your pregnancy.”
“Oh, I’m not pregnant,” Mary Ann said, blithely. “I can have at least one cocktail. We have to toast this!”
Dena scrutinized her cousin and then looked over at me to see if I was as lost as she was.
I cleared my throat and shifted my weight from foot to foot. “Sooo…are you adopting?”
“No, what makes you think that?” Mary Ann looked at me, then Dena. “Oh, I see where the confusion is!” she added with a laugh. “I’m not pregnant right this second but I’m going to be pregnant. Probably by tomorrow.”
The corners of Dena’s mouth twitched “So your news,” she said, gently putting the dildos down next to the anal beads, “is that you’re going to fuck your husband tonight.”
“That is so crude,” Mary Ann said, irritably. “I’m going to make a baby with my husband tonight. It will be the first time I’ve ever had sex without any contraceptives.”
“Ever?” Dena and I asked in unison.
“Nope. I’ve never had sex with anyone without a condom,” Mary Ann further clarified. “I’ve never wanted to be pregnant before.”
“My God,” I whispered. “I’ve been friends with you for almost two decades and I never realized you were the most responsible woman on earth. Dena,” I said, a little accusatorily, “you must have known. How could you not share that?”
“Because I didn’t know!” she snapped and then gave Mary Ann a not so gentle smack on the arm. “You have never bought a condom from me! I have latex, polyisoprene, vegan-friendly condoms, condoms with cockrings, glow in the dark, extra thin, everything! It’s like a fucking condomcopia in here and you never once hit me up!”
My phone started vibrating in my bag as Dena continued to rail against her cousin’s refusal to involve her in her sex life. I didn’t recognize the number but I was more than happy to use it as an excuse to step away. “Hello?”
“Is this Sophie Katz?” a girl asked. The young voice was familiar but she spoke so quietly it was difficult to make out her words.
I moved several more feet away to better hear and to get myself out of the line of fire just in case Dena started hurling cock rings. “This is Sophie, who is this please?”
“It’s Cat, Aaron London’s daughter.”
“Oh! I’m so glad you called! Look, it was a total misunderstanding back at the hospital. I’m not dating your dad. But I was with him when he…when it happened.” I moved aside to make room for two more customers who were headed towards lingerie. “How is your dad?”
My mouth dropped open and my fingers tightened around my cell. Behind me the new customers were chuckling. In front of me Dena was still gesticulating and yet all the sound in the room was now couched in a kind of ringing silence. I took a step forward as if movement would help. As if there was some corner of this adult toy store that would be appropriate for receiving this kind of news. “But…the surgery? Didn’t it work?” I asked, stupidly.
“I just thought you should know,” she said, opting not to humor me by stating the obvious answer.
Again, I found myself struggling to find words. London’s ring was in my purse, waiting for him to put it back on. I was sure he would put it back on. I honestly hadn’t expected he wouldn’t be able to. I hadn’t really believed that I could be talking to a man one minute and then have him just…die. Not from a gunshot or some sudden violent act but from something much quieter. A silent killer slithering through his veins.
Look at me. Use your eyes and see me dying. You’re witnessing my murder.
“Is your mother with you?” I asked, urgently. “I need to talk to her. There are some things she should know.”
“My mother is never going to talk to you.” Catherine’s voice was almost steady. “Not in a million years.”
And then the line went dead. She was gone.
London was gone.
I watched mutely as Dena turned away from Mary Ann and started walking toward her office. Dena’s limp was less severe than it used to be but still detectable. Odd, seeing Dena, the petite, athletic woman I’ve known since high school, limp with each step. It was a bullet to the back that had done it, years ago. A physical manifestation of a twisted metaphor. The things that scar us are never the things we see coming.
I hadn’t seen this coming.
Mary Ann came bounding over, clearly unfazed by Dena’s rant, but when she saw my face her expression immediately changed. “What’s wrong, Sophie?” she asked.
“Someone died today,” I whispered.
Mary Ann’s hands fluttered to her face. “Who? Who died?”
“No one you know. I didn’t really know him either. But…but he asked me to help him. I refused. And now…” my voice trailed off.
Mary Ann wordlessly pulled me into a hug. She was such a slender, small-boned woman you would think that a fierce hug might break her. And yet when her arms wrapped around me they felt reassuringly strong. I rested my chin on her shoulder and squeezed my eyes closed as I tried to just absorb the comfort she offered and block out the reason I needed it. It’s like I had made it happen. I had wanted an adventure. A mystery. And now a man was dead.
Dena came back out and when she saw us in an embrace she let out an audible sigh. “Seriously, she spent her entire adult life having sex with cheap-ass condoms. It’s sad but it’s not a tragedy.” But then Dena too took a good look at my face. “Something happened.” A statement more than a question. “Come on.” She gently took my arm as Mary Ann released me. “Let’s walk and talk.”
“I’m the devil.” I gripped my third Cape Cod in my hands. Dena, Mary Ann and I had found a small table in the corner of the dimly lit bar. The place was vibrating with the grating laughter of the Silicon Valley infiltrators, all decked out in the cheapest looking expensive clothes they could find. A virtual sea of white faces peering out of Nordstrom-bought hoodies. I had made a point of feeling superior to these so-called innovators for years. They were completely screwing up the vibe of my city. But as I watched them I couldn’t help but think that their analytical brains would have found a much more effective way to handle the whole London thing than I had.
Mary Ann toyed with the leaves of sage sticking out of the artisan cocktail she had been working on for the last forty minutes. “You’re not the devil, Sophie.”
“Of course not,” Dena agreed. “For one thing, Satan would have a better sense of what the fuck is going on. You were an innocent, clueless bystander. That’s all.”
“Wrong. I’m a guilty bystander. A nefarious bystander! He asked me to get involved and I rejected the idea out of hand.” I slammed the rest of my drink.
“There was nothing to get involved in!” Dena insisted. “This London guy was sick and refused to get treatment from a doctor. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And there is no such thing as a nefarious bystander. You’re drunk.”
“Not yet,” I retorted signaling to our passing cocktail waitress that I wanted another.
“Perhaps if you wait a few weeks and then call the daughter back,” Mary Ann suggested, “maybe she’ll talk to you. When she’s, well, not less sad, but more calm.”
“And after she’s over the shock of finding out about your affair with her dad,” Dena added with a humorless smile.
“And when they find he wasn’t wearing his wedding ring they’ll think it’s more proof of that!” I moaned. “I have to straighten that out.”
“Think that’s a dilemma to ponder out tomorrow,” Dena suggested, leaning back in her chair.
“Tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “Tomorrow? Who am I? Scarlett O’Hara? Annie? Fuck tomorrow!” Okay, so maybe I was a little tipsy. They were strong drinks. “I should have dealt with things today. I should have helped him somehow! I was so thrown by all the crazy conspiracy stuff…I just screwed up!”
“Jason always gravitates to the conspiracy theories out there,” Dena noted, referencing her boyfriend and primary lover. Dena always had a secondary or two on hand. It was an arrangement Jason seemed almost grateful for. After all, Dena might be a bit much for any one man to handle. “But you know Jason,” Dena added. “He’s a little eccentric.”
I pressed my lips together and Mary Ann coughed softly as she stared pointedly into her cocktail. I had no problem with Jason. He was fun. But saying he was “a little eccentric,” was like saying Muammar el-Qaddafi had been a little erratic. There were some seriously weird stuff going on in that man’s head.
“London had all these weird theories about how hospitals were performing needless medical procedures on the homeless,” I began but was interrupted by the arrival of my drink, which required immediate drinking.
“Like Medicare pays out enough to be worth scamming,” Dena said with a scoff.
“Mm,” I put down my drink after downing a little over half of it. “London was also really concerned about a New World Order.”
“Oh yeah, Jason’s always going on about that,” Dena noted as the waitress walked off. “Oligarchs creating a secret society and taking over the world or some such bullshit.”
“Wait,” Mary Ann asked as she raised her martini glass for another sip, “What’s an oligarch? Are they, like, a kind of ogre? Like in The Hobbit and Shrek?”
Dena took in a sharp breath and I could see her fist clenching by her side. She never had a lot of patience for what we euphemistically referred to as Mary Ann’s unworldliness.
“Sort of,” I said, giving Dena a subtle kick under the table before she let loose with something biting. “But these kind have money, so more in line with the ogres in Shrek II.” A group of guys at the next table broke out in laughter. San Francisco had become one of the rare cities where even the straight guys traveled in packs. Dena called the PGP, Proud Geek Packs. I shifted in my seat and brought my attention back to my own table. “London also thought the government is trying to kill us.”
“Same with Jason,” Dena noted.
I stared down at my drink. “I like Jason,” I said slowly. “I mean he’s crazy but I don’t blow him off when he asks for my help.”
“Yeah, well that’s because he doesn’t ask for your help,” Dena said before taking a quick sip of her whiskey tonic.
“Okay, but I mean, I wouldn’t,” I explained. “And I don’t treat him like he’s a lunatic who needs professional help.”
“Well,” Mary Ann said, delicately, “I don’t know if Jason getting a little professional help would be the worst idea…”
“I treat Jason with respect,” I continued as Dena shot Mary Ann an icy glare. “I don’t think I treated London with respect,”
“If I remember rightly, the first time you met Jason you didn’t treat him with a lot of respect,” Dena pointed out. “It wasn’t until you got to know him that you came to respect the man under the conspiracy theories.”
“Yeah, but I should have learned from that! We’re in San Francisco! Half the people here think our government is homicidal!” My words started picking up speed until they were practically bumping into one another. “Every time there’s a drone strike there’s a protest on some street corner railing against government sanctioned killing! We can disagree with them but that doesn’t mean they’re irrational. Or even when they are it doesn’t mean we should act like their concerns are stupid or silly. And that’s what I did with this guy! I dismissed him! Why did I do that?” I fumbled around in my purse until I found the ring. I pulled it out and held it reverently in the palm of my hand. “I screwed up. I really, really, screwed up.”
“No, you didn’t,” Dena said, definitively. “You were kind to an irrational man without encouraging his insanity. That’s responsible. You did everything right…except for the girlfriend part.”
I groaned again and made my hand a fist around the ring. “I can fix that much.”
“How?” Mary Ann asked.
“I was going to ask if your nurse friend might be able to sneak…”
Mary Ann was shaking her head before I even got through my sentence. “Jenna doesn’t sneak,” she said, firmly. “She doesn’t even jaywalk. I think it’s because she’s a really devout Christian.”
As a Jew I was hardly an expert on these things but I was pretty sure jaywalking wasn’t on Jesus’ list of concerns. But whatever. “I don’t need her to sneak anymore,” I assured her. “It’s too late for nurse sneaking. But, I mean, if it fell off his finger, and that’s got to be what happened, he probably had been losing weight. His clothes were too big and everything. And his weight loss, his family would know about it, right?”
“I would think so,” Dena agreed.
I jumped to my feet and waved my arms in the air to get the waitress’ attention.
“What are you doing?” Dena asked.
“I’m getting the check. We have to go to Aaron London’s place.”
Mary Ann and Dena looked at one another. “Um,” Mary Ann said, running her fingers nervously back and forth along the edge of the table, “I don’t think he’s home.”
“Of course he’s not home,” I replied. “But I’ve got to make it look like his ring fell off somewhere around his place! Or better yet, in his home!”
“I’m sorry, what?” Dena asked, flatly.
“I might have his house keys. I could just—“
“Yeah, no!” Dena said, cutting me off immediately. “You are not breaking into his house to return a ring!”
“Why not?” I demanded.
“For one thing, his wife and daughter are probably already there,” Dena pointed out.
“But what if they’re not? They could easily have gone to a family member’s home while they process this. That’s what my mom did when my dad died.”
“Sophie.” Dena said my name like it was a condemnation but I simply ignored her as I continued to make my case.
“It would be the opposite of a burglary! I would be like Santa Claus…if Santa gave you stuff that already belonged to you.…and if he had a key instead of having to mess around with chimneys.”
“Um,” Mary Ann said again, “Dena may be right…about you’re being a little bit drunk.”
“Of course I’m drunk! You think I want to deal with any of this while sober?” I retorted. “And look!” Again, I searched through my handbag until I found London’s car insurance failed-payment notice, his name and address clearly printed in the corner. “See!” I slammed the paper down in front of my friends. “I have his address!”
The waitress came over with our check and I triumphantly put my credit card on top of it before she could even leave it on the table. “Drinks are on me,” I declared. “Mary Ann, you’ll have to drive us over there.”
“Listen to me,” Dena wrapped her knuckles against the table, “this isn’t Christmas and nobody wants you busting into their living room no matter how jolly you are. We are not doing this!”
“Do you even remember what happened the last time we tried to sneak around someone else’s home?” Dena pressed. “That was at that guy Alex Kinsky’s house in Vegas. The night ended when he held us at gunpoint and set the whole building on fire.”
“That’s really not fair,” I countered. “The fire was a total accident.”
“Fine!” I threw up my hands in mock surrender. “Then I’ll…I’ll just drop the ring by his doorstep.”
“That’s stupid!” Dena insisted.
“It’s a free country! I can be stupid if I want to be!” Mary Ann and Dena looked up at me doubtfully. Frustrated, I put my hands on my hips. “I swear to God you two, I will go on a full sobriety boycott until you agree to help me handle this! Right now, the only important thing is the ring!”
“Oh make up your mind, are you Santa or Golem?” Dena muttered.
I stared her down, letting her know I was not going to let this go.
She sighed and shook her head. “Let me just ask you this. If we drop Precious by his front door, like, by the matt or something, will you let this go?”
“Yes,” I said, without really thinking about it. “Sure.”
Dena and Mary Ann exchanged looks. As the waitress came back with a receipt for me to sign, Dena gave a little shrug. “Okay. Looks like it’s time us hobbits to go on an adventure.”
London’s place turned out to be a fourplex two blocks from the beach in the outer sunset district. As we pulled into a parallel spot across the street we noted there were lights on in three out of the four apartments.
“It doesn’t mean the dark one’s his,” Dena noted. She was sitting in the backseat. Mary Ann was sitting behind the wheel tapping her fingers to Kelly Clarkson which, according to the deal she struck with Dena, she was allowed to play after every two Kendrick Lamar songs. “His wife and daughter really could be home. Or maybe they’re in the dark apartment but went to sleep.”
“It’s not that late,” I said, uncertainly.
“It’s not that early either,” Dena reminded me. “Besides, they’re in mourning. They have reason to just crawl under the covers and black out the world. Just drop the ring off by the front door and let’s go.”
“But…what if the wrong person finds it,” I asked. “What if they take it?”
“Sophie, this is your plan,” Dena reminded me. “If someone steals the wedding ring they’ll have bad juju for the rest of their lives. Let’s do this and move on.”
I nodded. Sobriety was making a very gradual and unwelcome comeback. Time was of the essence.
“Okay, you guys stay here for a minute. I’m going to look around to see if there’s a good spot for it, if not…” my voice trailed off.
“If not?” Mary Ann repeated, urging me to finish my thought.
But I didn’t have a finish for that thought. I shook my head, uncertain and then opened the car door. “Just five minutes you guys.”
“Wait, you went from a minute to five minutes in less than three sentences,” Dena protested. “Five minutes is not–”
I jumped out of the car and closed the door before she could finish her sentence. As I walked up to London’s building I could hear the muffled sound of a dog barking from somewhere inside. The apartment numbers were listed by the various buzzers. Living so close to the beach in San Francisco meant living in a fog bank for approximately 360 days of every year. But then London didn’t seem like a man who longed for the sun and perhaps his daughter enjoyed holding beach bonfires with friends like I did when I was her age. As for Anita…I didn’t have much of a read on her at all.
I ran my fingers lightly over the buzzers. Were Anita and Cathy home? At a friend’s? A loving family member’s? I lowered my gaze to study the steps leading up to the building, then the walkway…surely there was some place to plant this stupid thing. But of course there wasn’t.
But if they weren’t home, and the key really was for their apartment…
I gave my head an energetic shake to clear it. Dena was right, breaking into the apartment wasn’t a good idea.
But what if I just broke into the apartment building? Like maybe the ring could have slipped off his finger while he was clinging to the banister, or fiddling with his mail after collecting it? I could go in and just drop it in a plausible location.
My little voice, which was apparently a lot more sober than I was, told me that was a ridiculous and reckless idea.
I glanced over my shoulder at Mary Ann’s car, still parked serenely across the street and gave them a little wave, letting them know I was fine. Not that they couldn’t see that for themselves. The only thing they could be worried about was that I might be thinking about doing exactly what I was thinking about doing.
I reached into my bag, as subtlety as possible, and fished out the keys. I sort of strolled up to the front door, keeping my head bent toward the ground as if looking for a place to drop the ring. Keeping my body angled so Dena and Mary Ann couldn’t see exactly what I was up to, I tried one of the keys. It fit into the lock, but didn’t turn.
By that point, there was no way Dena and Mary Ann hadn’t caught on to what was up. Quickly my fingers closed around the other key, just as Dena was opening the car door and started crossing the street toward me. I fumbled with it as I tried, then succeeded, to get it into the lock. It turned. This was the key! I was about to triumphantly push open the door when it swung open on its own, pulling away from me.
I squealed and jumped back, into Dena who had caught up with me and she fell back into Mary Ann who let out an even louder squeal. We all stood there, regaining our balance as a man wearing sweats, a t-shirt, Vans and spikey black hair, gelled to an inch of its life, stared down at us from the now open doorway.
“Can I help you?” he asked, irritably.
I blinked, a little stunned.
“I’m really sorry,” Dena began. “We have the wrong–”
“We’re friends of Aaron London in unit 4,” I interrupted, straightening my spine, pulling out a smile. “We’re expected. His wife gave me the key.” I held up the keys as evidence.
The man barely even looked at them. “Bullshit.”
My smile disappeared. I hadn’t expected to be called out that fast. Behind me I heard Mary Ann squeak out an uh-oh.
“No, really,” I said, trying to maintain at least the façade of confidence. “She gave it to me this afternoon. I don’t think she’s home yet…or, she may be sleeping…”
“Look, I don’t know who you are, but you didn’t get those keys from his wife,” he retorted.
I took a sharp breath, tasted the salt in the air. “What makes you say that?”
“Unit 4 guy? Aaron London? He’s in the apartment right next to mine and he doesn’t have a wife.”
For a few seconds I just stared at him, unsure if I had heard him correctly. When I finally glanced back at my friends they looked every bit as taken aback as I felt. My hand went to my purse where the ring was. It was a wedding ring. I mean, it looked like a wedding ring. Anita was London’s wife. That’s what made sense. “He…doesn’t have a wife,” I repeated, slowly.
“No, that dude lives alone…except for the dog. Is he married to the dog? Is that the bitch you’re talking about? Because if it is, I wish you could get her to shut the hell up.”
It was everything I could do not to pull the wedding ring out of my purse and shove it in Gel-Head’s face. He had to be wrong. And Anita must have been listed as an emergency contact in London’s wallet or something otherwise how would the hospital know to call her?
Mary Ann raised her hand as if she was a student in a classroom. “Um, sorry, I’m a little lost. Is the bitch that won’t shut up, like, a dog-dog? Or are you just being really mean about a woman you don’t find attractive?”
“What?” the guy shook his head. “I’m talking about a dog. I think it’s a Lab or something…maybe part pit. I don’t know, but it’s got a pink collar so I’m guessing she’s a girl, and do not tell me I’m gender stereotyping. People have been trying to lay that shit on me ever since I moved to San Francisco. It’s like everything I say here is sexist.”
My eyes moved past him to the apartment building. I could see the lobby painted a utilitarian beige, metal mailboxes lined up neatly on the wall, the frayed carpet on the steps that led tenants up to their apartments. I tried to imagine the angry woman I met at the hospital latching on her pearls before descending those steps. But it was like trying to picture Audrey Hepburn in an Adam Sandler film.
“Um, how long have you lived here?” I asked. Maybe he had just moved in a few days ago. Maybe Anita and Catherine had been away, visiting potential colleges or ailing grandparents.
“I moved in four months ago. And…look, I don’t know what your relationship is with Unit 4 but there’s something wrong with that dog. She’s been barking since I got back from work. I have to be on the Google bus at six-thirty tomorrow morning and now I gotta go out and buy earplugs just so I can sleep!”
But it was like the quiet roar of the ocean was pulling his words away from me. I could barely hear them, or anything other than my own screaming thoughts. Had the hospital called Anita? Or had she just shown up, because maybe, just maybe, she knew he was going to end up in the hospital.
Or maybe she had been following him. In a Zipcar.
But that was crazy…wasn’t it? Of course it was. It had to be crazy.
Gel-head was still talking. It took effort to drag my attention back to him.
“Barking, whining, then barking again,” he was saying. “There is no sound insolation in this place. Maybe she’s in distress or something, I dunno. I haven’t heard her do this before.” He sucked in his lower lip, revealing a wisp of a soul patch. “Look, if you think you can get it to shut up and you really have a key just give me some plausible story about how you got it. Something so when the cops ask me why I didn’t report a bunch of suspicious looking women entering my neighbor’s apartment I’ll have an out. Seriously, I don’t care. I just need that thing to be quiet.”
“You really shouldn’t call living creatures things,” Mary Ann scolded.
Gel-head’s mouth curled down into a cartoonishly frustrated glare. “I really hate this city.”
“Aaron London was admitted into Mercy Hospital today,” I said, choosing my words with obvious deliberation. The wind picked up, brushing wet air against my face. “He gave us his keys so we could get some stuff for him and take care of the dog.”
Gel-head studied me as a new force of wind tried and failed to tousle his hair. “That’s your plausible story?”
He considered it, then shrugged. “It’ll do. Just keep in mind, if the dog doesn’t shut up in the next fifteen minutes I really am calling the police.”
“Fair,” I agreed. Gel-head stood back and held open the door for us. I went in right away but Dena and Mary Ann hung back.
“Guys,” I said, impatiently, gesturing for them to follow.
“Sophie, we don’t know what we’re walking into,” Dena pointed out.
“She’s right,” Mary Ann agreed. “I do want to help the dog but…what if it’s a scary dog?”
“Yeah,” Dena agreed then narrowed her eyes and faced Gel-head. “Is the barking bitch Lassie or Cujo?”
“I don’t know,” he said, clearly exacerbated. “Neither? Maybe more like that dog in Marley and Me?”
“Oh, I loved that movie!” Mary Ann cooed. “I cried so much at the end.”
“Are you guys going to do this or what?” Gel-head snapped.
I gave my friends an imploring look. “Please?” I asked. “If not for me, then for Marley.”
Mary Ann gave me a firm nod and marched past Dena into the building. “For Marley.”
Dena exhaled loudly and followed. “This is so fucking crazy.”
She was right. It was. But it was the kind of fucking crazy I used to love and maybe, just maybe still did. This was a Sophie kind of crazy.
In the minute that it took us to get to the apartment the dog had gone from barking to whimpering and scratching at the door. Mary Ann placed her flat palm next to the peephole. “That poor thing! Do you think she’s psychic?”
Both Dena and I looked at her as Gel-Head, who had been trailing behind us, let himself into the apartment on the other end of the hall and slammed his door closed.
“Maybe that’s why she’s so upset,” Mary Ann explained, ignoring our enabler’s dramatic exit. “She knows her human died. Animals are different than us. They understand things we don’t.”
“We’re all animals, but I’m completely sure that dog understands things you don’t,” Dena grumbled.
“We don’t know how long she’s been alone in there.” I chewed on my lower lip, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “London was in bad shape when I saw him. It wouldn’t surprise me if he hadn’t been home the night before.”
“Oh that poor thing!” Mary Ann said again. “Open the door, Sophie.”
“Wait a minute, what’s the plan here,” Dena interjected. “Are we just going to take the dog out for a short walk, feed her and then leave her for someone who actually knows London to take care of her?”
“Maybe?” I said, uncertainly.
“Because you know we can’t just take the dog, right?” Dena asked. “We don’t have enough information about what’s going on here to do that.”
She was right, we had no idea what we were about to walk into. I still couldn’t get my head around Anita and Catherine being frauds…in fact I didn’t really believe it. It’s not like Gel-Head looked like the kind of guy who was particularly observant. And yet, not to notice the existence of two people who theoretically lived down the hall from you…
“Hold on a second.” I pulled out my phone and went through my recent call log. “His teenage daughter…or the person who might be his daughter, is the one who called me with the news.” I found the number and pressed call. I put it on speaker so we could all hear.
It went to voicemail after one ring. “Hi, I can’t get to the phone right now. You can leave a message which I probably won’t listen to or you could just be normal and text.”
“I don’t know if she’s his daughter or not, but she’s definitely a teenager,” Dena muttered. I shushed her right as the phone beeped.
“Hi, um, this is Sophie Katz. I…look, I’m so sorry about your dad. I only met him today,” I said, stressing the word today, “but he did mention that he had a dog and I….um, I guess I got the feeling he was the only one who took care of it. Not that I think you wouldn’t take care of a dog. I can totally see you as a dog person.”
Dena gave me a look that said What the hell are you doing?
I swallowed and tried to regroup. “Look, I just wanted to know if the dog lives with you guys or if London was keeping him…somewhere else. If it’s the latter, will someone be getting the dog? Just let me know. Thanks.”
I hung up as both Mary Ann and Dena looked at me with their mouths hanging open. Finally Dena let out a short laugh. “Well let’s hope she sticks to her word and ignores her voicemail.” She took my phone from me and after a few seconds of tapping away showed me the text message she had come up with:
I’m so sorry about your dad. Will you be taking care of his dog or do you need help with that?
“Not perfect but better, no?” Dena asked and then pressed send before I could weigh in.
The scratching at the door was getting frantic. What if the dog did bite?
“That animal needs help,” Mary Ann said, sternly. “Open the door, Sophie.”
Mary Ann could be a ditz at time but no one could say she wasn’t brave and efficient in the face of a crisis.
The doorknob trembled slightly with the efforts of the animal inside. “Here goes nothing.” Slowly, carefully, I slipped the key in the lock and inched open the door.
Immediately a black furry snout squeezed its way through the crack and forced the door all the way open.
The snout was attached to a large, pink-collared dog, built like a lab but with Richard Nixon jowls, wagging her stub of a tail as she sniffed my shoes and pant legs. Not even a whisper of hostility in her manner. I leaned down and scratched her behind her ears as she stared up at be with big, black, puppy dog eyes. She was strong and gorgeous…and smelly. In fact the stink was pretty intense.
The dog moved on to Mary Ann but the smell didn’t let up. That’s when I looked up and saw it. The majority of the stench was coming from the apartment. Although it looked a lot more like a toxic waste dump than anyone’s living quarters. There were dirty paper plates on the floor, a dog bowl inexplicably placed in the middle of the room that, even in the dim light, looked crusty. I spotted a cup on a pedestal table by the door, still partially filled with old, neglected coffee. Empty water bottles had been cast carelessly about.
But mostly there were papers. Papers and papers and papers. Printed out articles crumpled up on the floor, newspaper articles pinned to the walls with certain passages circled or highlighted, torn out pages of magazines piled on chairs. A waste basket overflowing with shreds of ripped up sentences. Pamphlets and business cards scattered across the coffee table. If someone set off a bomb in a Kinkos you’d have less paper and more order than you had here.
Dena stepped up next to me, peering into the space. “I think we have confirmation of Aaron London’s crazy.”
I felt Mary Ann come up behind me, the dog now nudging against the back of my legs. “It’s like an episode of Hoarders,” Mary Ann observed, “except…worse.”
“We can’t just leave this dog here,” I whispered.
“It’s not our dog!” Dena snapped.
I gestured to the junkyard London had made out of his apartment. “This is animal abuse.” I paused to think about how best to handle things before adding, “we have to go in there.”
Dena balked. “I think I’d rather spend a week in prison than a second in that hole.”
I squared my shoulders. “We have to take the dog out. So we need a leash. I’m sure there’s a leash in there.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” Dena dug into her oversized-bag and pulled out a short, chain-link leash. “If we truly have to take her, we can use this.”
Mary Ann did a quick double take. “You don’t have a dog.”
“I have a boyfriend,” Dena replied.
“Wait…” Mary Ann began but I cut her off.
“Please don’t ask her to explain that,” I requested.
Dena leaned down put the leash on the dog. As soon as she did the dog managed to give her a lick on the nose. “Chill,” Dena said sternly to the mutt. “I don’t even let Jason do that.”
“He definitely doesn’t live here with a woman,” I said quietly.
“It does seem unlikely,” Mary Ann agreed.
“Maybe they were separated,” I suggested. “Maybe he moved in here while they were taking a break and he sort of,” I glanced back at the apartment, “let the bachelor thing get out of control.”
“That’s highly likely,” Dena said with a sigh. “Can we go now?”
I swallowed hard and bit my lip. I was so curious. But the smell was not getting better with continued exposure. And there might be bugs in there. I wasn’t sure if I could handle a lot of bugs. Still… “Let me just place the ring.”
I took several steps away from the door, pulled out the ring, inhaled a deep breath and then, holding it, walked into the cesspool. I didn’t have the courage to turn on the light to see things more clearly. Instead I skirted around shadows and shapes as I made my way to the coffee table. On the couch was a pile of clothes, each item too dark to be distinguishable from the others in the dim light with the exception of a red, checkered winter scarf that seemed to be slithering off the pile as if attempting a slow moving escape.
I glanced down at the coffee table. Pamphlets touting holistic medicine and homeopathy were scattered about along with a few business cards. I picked one up and narrowed my eyes to make out the words. It was for a blogger for a site called Corporate Evil. Sounded like London’s cup of tea. Another business card was for the Founder Of Citizens Against (Legal) Drugs
The legal part, in parenthesis no less, made me want to smile. But I resisted just in case moving my mouth inadvertently led to my accidentally inhaling.
That breath I was holding was beginning to hurt. Still, I reached for one more business card.
Seriously? I put my hand on my chest, partially out of shock and partially because I really was going to have to inhale soon. Was this really the card of the Nolan Volz CEO? Or was it a fake? It had to be a fake, right? I mean, no one would really name their kid Gundrun Volz.
“Sophie!” Dena yelled from where she stood in the hall. “We can’t be hanging out here!”
She was right. Plus I really did have to breath. I put the Gundrun Volz card in my back pocket and carefully placed the ring in the center of the table where it could be easily seen before quickly walking out of the apartment. As I closed the door behind me I finally released my breath with a gasp, desperate for air that was wasn’t weighted down by the stench of moldy pizza boxes and dirty sox.
I looked over at Mary Ann, still holding her nose. “I think Dena’s right. Going would be good,” she said in a nasal voice.
“You did everything you wanted to do,” Dena pointed out. “You returned the ring and we’re rescuing the dog. Plus I’m pretty sure we have just confirmed that he wasn’t living with his wife. There’s no reason to hang out.”
“Oh, my God,” Mary Ann squealed. Dena and I both looked over to see Mary Ann, crouched down by the dog, studying her tags. “You won’t believe what her name is!”
“Marley?” I guessed.
“No!” she stood up, with a big, bright smile. “Her name is Sophie!”
By the time I got home I was sober enough to drive but exhausted enough to pass out. Still, I had managed to retrieve my car, drive to a 24 hour CVS, load up on dog food, poop bags and the like. Ms. Dogz, as I was now calling her, was calm enough, but occasionally she would let out a whine and once, when I looked back at her while at a stoplight, I noticed she was shaking.
When Ms. Dogz and I finally stumbled up my front steps and sort of fell through the door of my Victorian, Anatoly had already been home for hours. He was waiting for me in the living room, reading some WWII book on our leather couch, one foot propped up on the dark wood coffee table. “I thought you were going to call and have me come get you,” he said, not looking up quite yet as he marked his place in the book. Mr. Katz was snuggled up by his side but when my feline saw what I had brought with me, he was immediately on his feet, back arched.
Anatoly noticed and followed Mr. Katz’ glare. “You got a dog?” he asked, incredulously.
“Not exactly,” I hedged. “She needs a bath.”
Ms. Dogz managed to wiggle away from me but once her freedom was obtained she didn’t exactly go wild. Instead she carefully sniffed the area rug covering the recently re-polished hardwood floors, then the chair closest to her. Finally she approached Anatoly and Mr. Katz.
“You’re beautiful,” Anatoly told her, appreciatively. “But she’s right. You are in dire need of a bath.”
Mr. Katz leaned forward and swapped his claws across Ms. Dogz’ nose.
Ms. Dogz looked stunned and took several steps back as Anatoly swiftly picked up Mr. Katz, ignoring his flailing attempts to try to strike once more at his new adversary. “Looks like she needs a bath and a Band-Aid now. What’s her name?”
“I’m calling her Ms. Dogz. We’re just fostering her until I can figure out if she belongs to someone,” I said, side-stepping the question. I went up and examined Ms. Dogz’ nose. Only a minor scratch. Still, it was ironic that I had thought Mr. Katz would be the one who would need protection. Mr. Katz was the Lion King of Ashbury Heights.
Anatoly nodded and walked back to our only downstairs bedroom, otherwise known as my office, and shut Mr. Katz in there.
“I don’t want him to think he’s being replaced,” I said, urgently.
“He can stay in the office until he calms down. Where did you find her?”
“She was trapped,” I hedged. “Want to help me bathe her?”
He gave me a quizzical look.
“I don’t know if she has fleas,” I said, quickly, not wanting to give him a chance to ask too many questions, “but I bought some Dawn dish soap because apparently Dawn kills fleas. Did you know that? Isn’t that weird?”
“Why don’t you want me to know where you found her?” Anatoly asked, flatly.
“I told you, she was trapped…inside.” I shifted my weight back onto my heels. “I really think we should wash her.”
I bit my lip and looked over at the dog.
“Inside where, Sophie?”
Immediately Ms. Dogz ears perked up and she trotted over to Anatoly’s side. It brought a small smile to his lips. He was such a sucker for dogs. He leaned down to look at her tags and then burst out laughing.
“I know what it says. We’re still calling her Ms. Dogz,” I said with a little smile.
“Have you called the number on the tag?” He asked.
“I have, but the person at that number…isn’t available.”
He shot me another look and then slowly straightened back to standing. “Why so cryptic tonight? Where exactly was she trapped?”
I swallowed hard, and then mumbled, “Inside an apartment.”
There was at least five seconds of silence. “You want to try that again?”
I held up my hands in a request for patience and understanding. “I didn’t do anything significantly illegal.”
Anatoly’s eyebrows shot up and then he muttered some Russian curse.
“Look, I can explain everything while we wash the dog.” I pulled out the Dawn and held it out for him as if the dish-soap would clarify everything. “We have to get rid of the theoretical fleas.”
In the upstairs hall bathroom, Anatoly and I were both on our knees, wet. This was the first time we had been in this position together when sex wasn’t involved. Although Anatoly did look like sex on a stick. He had removed his shoes, his socks, his shirt, so now it was just him in his jeans and a perfectly chiseled torso all wet from our efforts to clean this mutt. I was probably looking a little less enticing in bleach-stained yoga pants and a Race For A Cure 2012 t-shirt.
Mr. Katz had been freed from my office and was now sulking in our bedroom. Ms. Dogz was before us, in a tub full of soapy bubbles looking extremely unhappy. Almost as unhappy as Anatoly. I had told him the whole story. From beginning to end. As stories go, it wasn’t his favorite.
“This isn’t the big mystery you think it is,” Anatoly insisted as he massaged some of the soap into the dogs fur. “Anita and Aaron London are probably separated. He might not have even been wearing the ring, just carrying it around while they figured things out.”
“And he dropped it in the sink from his pocket?” I asked incredulously. Although the more I thought about it, the more and more likely it seemed that the couple had been separated. At the hospital Cat London had asked me why I hadn’t taken her father to the hospital sooner. I had assumed she meant sooner in the day, but now that I thought about it, I wasn’t sure she meant that at all. It was more than likely she meant I should have taken him earlier in the week, maybe even earlier in the month. Because if she had seen him recently surely she or Anita would have been the ones to take him to the hospital.
I scrubbed some more soap into Ms. Dogz neck. She gave me a look similar to the one my sister gave me when I set the table using paper napkins. It was a why-are-you-doing-this-to-me look. “Maybe London died of natural causes and Anita’s on the up and up,” I said. “But it’s also possible you’re wrong, isn’t it? Shouldn’t we look into that?”
“No?” I balked. “You don’t believe there’s even the slightest chance your wrong?”
“It’s highly unlikely,” he amended. “But now, thanks to you, I have to track this woman down anyway and figure out how to explain to her why we have her husband’s dog. You know what you did was reckless, right? You could have called the SPCA.”
“I didn’t need to call anyone. I had a key.”. And it had been fun being reckless again.
“You understand we’re going to have to return her, yes?” I might have been mistaken, but I thought I heard just a tinge of regret in Anatoly’s voice. He had been wanting a dog for a while but I had been hesitant to impose something like that on Mr. Katz. It wasn’t an unrealistic concern. I could tell by the look Mr. Katz gave Ms. Dogz as she came out of the office that a dogicide was being plotted.
“Maybe not. I mean, yes, if London had the dog before their supposed split, Anita will want her back,” I reasoned as I moved on to Ms. Dogz back. There were soapsuds clinging to Anatoly’s bicep and I was trying really, really hard not to stare. “On the other hand, if Ms. Dogz was Anita’s replacement…” I let my voice trail off, allowing Anatoly to fill in the blanks.
Anatoly reached for the hand shower, his arm brushing up against mine as he did although neither of us looked at one another. Ms. Dogz treated Anatoly to a baleful stare. I wondered how much she understood. If she was waiting for London to come knocking on the door and rescue her from this water torture.
“Anyway, you can’t say there isn’t any reason to at least consider the possibility that London sorta, kinda knew what he was talking about,” I pressed. “That maybe someone was out to get him. That he was being poisoned. He is dead, after all.”
“It wasn’t that long ago that you tried to convince me that Alex Kinsky sorta, kinda knew what he was talking about.” He turned on the stream and started rinsing the suds off Ms. Dogz. “But he was conning you. He almost ended up killing both of us.”
“First off, that has literally absolutely nothing to do with this,” I snapped. “Alex is a man with mafia-ties who offered to help me through criminal means. London was an individual who asked us for help through legal means. Secondly, Alex didn’t exactly con me. It’s just that he only gave me part of the story. Maybe that’s what London did.”
“London didn’t give us any story,” Anatoly corrected as he got off the last of the soap. I leaned over and drained the tub. My shirt was drenched and clinging to me in all sorts of inconvenient places. It might have been construed as an invitation if Anatoly bothered to take his eyes off the dog for one flippin’ second. “Ranting and raving is very different from story telling.”
I angrily swiped at a wet curl that was sticking to my cheek. “Why are you so resistant to even considering the possible veracity of the facts of this case?”
“What case?” Anatoly put the hand shower back with much more force than necessary. “For it to be a case, there has to be a client. London didn’t hire me–”
“Because you wouldn’t let him!” I jumped to my feet and grabbed a towel throwing it over a now confused-looking-but-fresh-smelling Ms. Dogz. She was probably wondering what new kind of mad house she had wandered into.
“I think we can both agree he won’t be paying me,” Anatoly continued as he vigorously dried her. “This isn’t our business. No one wants us involved and there’s no upside in forcing the issue. There most likely isn’t an issue to force.” He carefully helped Ms. Dogz out of the tub. She immediately shook herself off, splattering us both and making a mockery out of our attempts at drying. “We have no solid reason to believe that anyone poisoned or even stalked London. This is over. At least it would be if you hadn’t broken into his apartment and stolen his dog!”
“Saved. I saved his dog!” I turned on my heel and stomped out of the bathroom. Ms. Dogz was right behind me, then in front of me, then behind me again as she sprinted up and down the hall in a burst of energy, shaking herself every two or three seconds, making sure the whole second floor shared in her bathing experience. I threw open our bedroom door with the energy of unbridled frustration. Ms. Dogz rushed into the room, startling Mr. Katz who had been curled up on the bed. He looked at the expression on my face, then at the wet dog and jumped to the floor, storming out of the room just as Anatoly stormed in.
“We have an obligation,” I said in a voice that wasn’t quite a yell, but loud enough to let the world know I wasn’t messing around.
“To whom?” Anatoly asked, coolly.
“So what?” I snapped. Ms. Dogz had stopped running around, undoubtedly captivated by the strength of my argument. “That doesn’t change the fact that he asked us for help! It doesn’t mean we didn’t screw up when we blew him off! And it doesn’t mean we get to turn our backs on his dog!”
“Again, all you had to do was call the SPCA! Or you could have called the police and told them there’s a dog stuck in a dead man’s apartment! That’s what you do. What you don’t do is break into a man’s house! If you had been caught you could have ended up in jail or worse!”
“But I wasn’t caught!” I took a step closer, glaring up into his eyes. “An animal was in trouble and so I did what needed to be done. It’s called being responsible.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m being irresponsible?”
“I’m suggesting that you’re being an asshole.”
Ms. Dogz perked up her ears. That animal’s insistence on responding to my name drove my agitation up to the next level.
“Or what?” I challenged, my hands now clenched into fists.
Anatoly stared down into my eyes, letting the silence stretch. I had forgotten how forceful his silences could be. He could infuse them with tension and threat…
…and sex. Anatoly could do with a silence what Otis Redding could do with a moan. Goosebumps were prickling my arms as my breath quickened. I was fully aware of the rhythm with which his uncovered chest was moving and yet my eyes were locked on his, absolutely unable to look anywhere else.
“Anatoly,” I whispered “I–”
But I didn’t get a chance to continue. In an instant I was up against the wall, my arms pinned above my head as his lips found my neck and his body pressed against mine. His mouth found that spot that made me positively squirm and I let out a little squeak as I was suddenly unable to speak. His lips moved up to my ear and as his teeth scraped gently against the lobe. When he released my arms he lifted me up so that I was still pressed against the wall. My legs wrapped themselves around his waist as my arms encircled his neck. I can’t remember the last time I wanted him this badly.
He crushed his mouth against mine, parting my lips with his tongue as I let my fingers run through his short, coarse hair. I bit down onto his lower lip, my nails digging into his flesh. There was an energy to this that had been missing lately. A whirl of excitement was spiraling up from my stomach through my ribcage, making my heart beat too fast and my breathing too shallow.
I loved it.
He moved me from the wall and half carried, half threw me on the bed. He was on top of me in an instant and my fingers immediately traveled to the button of his jeans, reaching into his pants, feeling the proof of his desire as my other hand greedily ran down his shoulders, his back, his beautiful biceps.
“Sophie,” he said in a growl as he began to lower his face toward mine.
Except our lips never touched because the dog shoved her face between ours, causing me to accidently press my mouth against black fur.
“Whaat da ferk!” I sputtered as I spit out wet fur. Anatoly busted out laughing, harder than he had in ages. I looked at him, looked at the dog, who looked back with innocent enthusiasm and in an instant I was giggling too, then laughing, then pretty much breathless with hysterics. Anatoly and I were both laughing like hyenas as Ms. Dogz pranced back and forth, periodically leaning in to lick one of our faces as she rejoiced in the commotion she’d caused.
“You might have to take a nickname,” Anatoly said as he sat up, wiping both dog slobber and tears from his face.
I scooted myself up, pressing my back against the headboard as I attempted to catch my breath. “I already gave her an alias,” I reminded him. “Ms. Dogz.”
“I’m not talking to the dog, I’m talking to you.”
“I should take a nickname?” I balked, although I could feel the giggles threatening an encore. “I’m not giving up my name for a dog, not even if we get to keep her.”
“Well the dog clearly isn’t giving up her name for anyone,” Anatoly chuckled. “I could call you baby.”
“Baby? What is this, a 1970s porno? Millennials use the word, Bae.”
“We’re too old to be Millennials.”
“Oh my God, there you go again, being all realistic and honest about our age.” I moved forward and straddled him, using my left hand to push him flat on the bed and my right hand to cover his mouth. “If you stop talking, I think we can make this work.”
I could feel his smile against my palm and then, without another word, he reached up, unhooking my bra, slowly pulling it off me so the straps tickled my skin, tossing it to the floor where, with a little luck, it wouldn’t become a chew toy.
He cupped my breasts, his thumbs moving slowly over my nipples until they reached for him. His eyes moved steadily up and down my body before finally, they once again locked with mine.
Without saying a word, he told me I was beautiful.
Anatoly really could do wonderful things with silence.
I woke up to the quiet whine of Ms. Dogz. Anatoly’s arm draped over my stomach, his breathing deep and steady, his body completely relaxed into sleep. I felt the weight of Mr. Katz, curled up above the covers. There was just enough light for me to see Ms. Dogz outline on the makeshift bed of spare blankets we had set-up for her. Her head was on her paws, her eyes too black to make out. But her whining…steady, mournful, rhythmic, it was heartbreaking.
Such a whirlwind of emotions. The ecstasy of the evening that topped off a day filled with confusion, daring, thrills, loss and guilt.
All fun aside I still felt so much guilt.
“There’s nothing I could have done,” I whispered aloud, to the dark, to London’s dog. Even if we had agreed to help him, we still wouldn’t have been able to save his life. It’s not our fault.
But the last few moments of his life…those could have been filled with hope. Anatoly and I filled them with disappointment. Now, with nothing around to distract me, I couldn’t escape that truth.
Anatoly mumbled something incoherent and turned to face the other wall, dragging his warmth away.
Carefully I pulled my feet out from underneath my cat. With practiced stealth, I managed to creep out from beneath the blankets without waking either of my bedmates. I crouched down by Ms. Dogz and ran my hand over the top of her head and back. She smelled cleaner than I felt. “You’re going to be OK,” I assured her.
How many people had said that to me after I lost my own father at nineteen? And, assuming she really was his daughter, how many people must have said that to Cat London within the last ten hours? All those people were right of course. But in an odd way they were totally wrong too. When you loose someone who is that central to your being you have to change the definition of what it means to be OK.
Ms. Dogz’ whining was getting softer with my touch, less plaintive. The quiet gave new amplification to the thoughts forming in my exhausted mind:
Maybe Anatoly’s right.
London was probably separated from his wife, which didn’t mean there still wasn’t love there. Not necessarily. Yes, he was clearly in the middle of a breakdown but if she was the mother of his child, Anita was his family.
If London’s family wanted my help, I would owe it to them. But they quite clearly didn’t. Would London want me to upset his family? Now, just as they had begun to grieve?
Yes, yes he would if it meant uncovering the truth.
But it was hard to figure out if that was the voice of reason or that of my own stubbornness. There was no question that I was incredibly tempted to pursue this. To investigate and see if I could solve a murder or at the very least prove that it was a murder. But why? What would be the point? No matter what I discovered, London would still be gone. His last moments on this earth would still be defined by disappointment. The latter’s my fault but I couldn’t change what was done. I couldn’t help him.
But I could still make it worse. I could hurt his daughter.
So if I did pursue this, who would I be doing it for? Me? Today should have been purely awful. And it was awful…except…it was also so much fun. I had felt…energized. More so than I had in a while. Even the resulting conflict with Anatoly had ended up amplifying our lust. What was wrong with me that I could get an endorphin kick from something so dark and twisted?
I removed my hand from Ms. Dogz back and sat quietly by her side. “It’s possible I’m a monster,” I murmured. Ms. Dogz tilted her head, looking up at me with eyes that were still perfectly camouflaged by the darkness. Then she shifted her weight and put her head on my lap.
I loved this dog.
I would have to think about what I’d needed to do to deserve her.
My whole office was flooded with morning sun. Anatoly was gone but I was still in my nightshirt, my hair an ill shaped frizzy halo. I had an appointment with Marcus that afternoon so I had zero incentive to try to do anything with it. But then, I hadn’t really done much with it for some time now.
I ran my bare foot over Ms. Dogz back, letting her fur tickle my sole. To her left was Mr. Katz, giving her a hardcore kitty glare. Still, his proximity to our newest resident was progress.
My laptop sat before me and was open to Microsoft Word. Microsoft called their software Word because that was its raison d’être; to hold words. And my raison d’être was to create words. I should have been looking at a page filled with my words. Words that carved images into readers minds, gave life to new adventures, words that created colorful characters, pain, hilarity and love. But the only thing on my screen was a bleak, empty page and a cursor blinking at me accusingly.
I ran my fingers over the keys, once, then twice.
Once upon a time…
I let out a wry laugh and hit the delete button. I looked down at my furry friends. “I have never wanted to be an accountant,” I told them. “But there are many days when I’ve wanted to want to be an accountant.”
Ms. Dogz tilted her head in a manner that was clearly doggie language for explain. Mr. Katz blinked his eyes which was kitty language for, you don’t have to explain. I get it.
“If you’re an accountant you just do your job,” I went on, for Ms. Dogz’ sake. “You don’t need to be inspired. You don’t have to create a new world every year. You just do what you know how to do. But being a author, you have to relearn your craft with each friggin’ book.” I looked back at the computer screen. The grey borders on either side of an unadulterated, white document. My imagination was failing me. I had become as dull and empty as the screen.
“I’m lost,” I whispered. “I need help.”
Mr. Katz looked up at me and blinked his eyes once. Kitty language for, “No shit.”
Three hours later Marcus was studying my hair, his mouth curved down as he reached out to touch one of my frizzier curls. We were in his salon and the music of Prince was intermingling with the sounds of confidences being exchanged between patrons and their stylists. The exposed brick walls made the place seem both elitist and rustic. Marcus was also a mix of those two sensibilities. His short dreads and muscular form denoted a man who didn’t need to spend time primping in the morning, but his AX Armani t-shirt paired with his fitted white jeans said that he did anyway.
“You haven’t been using your product,” he growled.
I sighed, my mind elsewhere.
“It’s like you’ve been taking styling lessons from Don King.”
“Oh come on, it’s not that bad,” I snapped, the insult bringing me back to the here and now. “I ran out of product a few days ago. I was going to pick some more up yesterday but things got hectic.”
“Did we have a nuclear holocaust that I missed?” he asked. “Because short of that, there’s no excuse for going days without product. We live in a civilized society, Sophie. This,” he held out my curls so that they formed wings on either side of my head, “is not civilized.”
“What is your problem today?”
“My problem?” He leaned back on his heels and stroked his chin, pretending to ponder the question. “Well it starts with my assistant calling in sick this morning with an upset stomach…too much vodka will do that to a person. So I rescheduled the client whose appointment layered over the end of yours for another day, and then my next three clients, three, cancelled on me.”
“Three?” I repeated, surprised. Marcus’s services were always in high demand. Most people had to wait months for an appointment. It was hard to imagine three of them cancelling at the last minute. “What’s going on?”
“One of them has some sort of work emergency and her boss won’t let her leave until it’s handled. Another just found out that her son’s about to be expelled from his elite private school so she’s running over there with an endowment check and an accompanying plea for leniency. And the last just found out this morning that her husband has been screwing their dog trainer.” He spit out the last sentence with particular vehemence. The stylist working nearest us cast a bemused look in our direction before pointing her hair dryer at her client’s head. “I understand why you might have to cancel a hair appointment in order to save your job or your kid,” Marcus said, raising his voice to be heard over the dryer, “but if you find out you’re being cheated on the first thing you should do is fix you damn hair! What, you’re going to confront your husband and his mistress on a bad hair day? Who does that?”
“It does seem like an ill conceived plan,” I agreed.
“And then to top it all off, you come in here looking like you just went skipping through a thunderstorm with a lightning rod all because you can’t be bothered to get your butt over to Target to buy some product!”
“Oh for…” I shook my head, already bored with my role as a temporary punching bag. “Look,” I said, steadily, “I’m here, aren’t I? Or is all this too much for you to handle?” I patted my hair protectively. “Because there’s a new salon on Maiden Lane that supposedly specializes in miracles.”
Marcus made eye contact with me through the mirror. “Oh touché.” He stepped back and examined my hair even more carefully. I stared pointedly at the blown up Rolling Stones covers that decorated the walls. Much better than seeing Marcus’ perfect nose wrinkle in distaste.
“All right,” he finally grumbled. “I’ve vented, I’m calmer and I’ve formulated a plan of attack.”
I gave him a small smile. “You still love me?”
“Always and forever,” he said with a sigh. “Okay, let’s Beyoncé you out.”
He stepped forward and started combing through the disaster, his eyes narrowed with focus. “I’d like to do some color but if we do you have to promise me you’ll deep condition once a week. Your hair’s going to start getting drier now that the grey’s coming in and—“
“The grey’s coming in?” I leaped to my feet and faced him. “Is that supposed to be some kind of sick joke?”
The patrons in the chairs nearest me all jumped, surprised by my outburst and then quickly started whispering to their respective stylists.
Marcus gave me a withering stare. “We all go grey sometime, honey. Anderson Cooper went silver fox before he hit thirty.”
“But that’s not me!” I insisted, banging my hand against the revolving chair. “I’m not going to go grey for another decade! I don’t have a single strand of—ow!”
Marcus had reached over and yanked out one of my hairs from the back of my head and held it up for my inspection. “What color would you say that is?”
I bit down on my lower lip and glared at the hair. “Slate.”
The corners of Marcus’ mouth twitched. “It’s a little light for slate. You might have to amend to silver.”
“Fine.” I dropped back down in my chair, disgusted.
“It’s really not a big deal,” he assured me, my own outburst calming his mood.
“Whatever.” I sounded like a petulant teenager. Did London’s daughter sound like that? How was she doing? “Are there a lot of hairs…like that back there?”
He hesitated a little too long before replying. “Have you been stressed lately?”
“No! Not unless I grew this within the last twenty-four hours! With the major exception of yesterday, everything has been smooth as silk. I have no deadlines. Excluding last night, Anatoly and I haven’t had an argument about anything in like, a year. Every one I care about is doing well. Financially I’m totally fine. My family has been acting suspiciously sane. Mr. Katz is thriving. I have absolutely zero to be stressed about.”
“Ah, that explains it.”
I turned my head so I could figure out what the hell he was talking about but he firmly turned it back toward the mirror. “Artist at work. Stay still.” He started working through a particularly stubborn tangle with the business end of a comb. “The good news is that with me on your team you never have to go…slate. You’ll only get blonder with age.”
I started to nod in appreciation then remembered myself and went into mannequin-challenge mode, only allowing my eyes to wander around the room. I noticed for the first time that, with the exception of the Eurasian receptionist, Marcus and I were the only people of color in the salon. Thanks to Silicon Valley and sky rocketing rents the whole city was becoming blonder with age. We used to be vanilla, chocolate chip ice cream with caramel swirls. Now the chips and swirls were becoming a little more sparse. If we kept it up we might morph into plane ol’ vanilla.
Until yesterday, your life had become a bit vanilla too.
I blanched and cast my eyes down. I didn’t know where that little voice had come from but it was wrong. As wrong as the silver hairs on my head.
“All right,” he sighed once the knots were gone and my hair was divided up into several different sections. “Stay here while I go mix some color. When I get back you can tell me about the last twenty-four hours that were…less than smooth?”
“They weren’t even in the vicinity of smooth.”
“Oh goody. I’m crossing my fingers for scandalous. Be right back, love.”
He turned and disappeared into a back room where all the chemicals were kept. I lifted my eyes again to see my reflection in the mirror. I looked ridiculous, a black, nylon styling cape drawn tightly around my neck, covering my clothes, my hair divided into a multitude of sections with Marcus’ clips and sticking out every which way. The salon’s receptionist stopped by to ask me if I wanted coffee, or maybe a glass of champagne. I had been coming to this place long enough to know the champagne was cheap and the coffee was not so I opted for the caffeine. As she walked away I thought I noted, through the picture windows, a man in a black baseball hat standing outside, across the street from the salon, staring at me. But when I turned my head to look he was walking swiftly away. I was imagining things. At least I hoped I was. It would be super embarrassing if I scared off a stalker by looking like a crazed, greying circus clown.
But there was something about the way he walked as he disappear out of my line of sight…why did he seem familiar to me?
“So tell me about yesterday.”
The sound of Marcus’ voice startled me. I hadn’t heard him approach. “Yesterday was not a good day,” I insisted as he began to paint each hair section with a thick goo of white, then sandwich it between tinfoil.
“Uh-huh. Tell me about it anyway.”
I sighed and laid out the whole story. London, his manic warnings and fears, his collapse, his apartment, the text, the Zipcar, the business cards, Anita, Catherine, Ms. Dogz…although I left out the part about Ms. Dogz’ given name.
“London,” he said, thoughtfully. “I like that. We would all sound so much more sophisticated if we were named after two syllable cities. Paris, London, Florence, Milan—“
“Okay, maybe it’s a European phenomenon.” He painted another section of hair. “So you don’t actually know if London’s married to that woman?”
“I’m pretty sure he was. I mean, he had a wedding ring so he was married to someone. I tried looking her up online before I came in today, same with London but, you know, they don’t exactly have uncommon names, or at least not uncommon enough. I couldn’t find her daughter either although I did discover that there is a Catherine St. in London, so you know there’s that.”
“But it was Catherine who called to give you the news, right?” He asked tapping his foot along with the Bruno Mars song that had just come on. “So you have her number.”
“When I call it rings once and then goes directly to Voicemail. I tried last night and again on my way over here. I texted her too but haven’t heard back.”
“She’s probably blocked you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“When you block someone on your iPhone it rings once and then goes to voicemail.” He painted another section of hair. “Only thing is, the person who’s done the blocking never gets the voicemails, or the texts of the caller. Remember that guy I went out with, the one who lasered off his pubic hair so he could put lily and daisy tattoos on his pelvic area?”
“Flower boy!” I cried out, entertained by the memory. “You dropped him right after he gave you a glimpse of his…er…pruned garden, right?”
“Yep. And when he wouldn’t stop calling I blocked him. The bartender who introduced us told me he’s been getting the one ring ever since.”
“Huh. Well I hope she is getting the messages because in them I pointed out once again that I only met her dad yesterday. In other words I’m not, not, not his girlfriend.” I paused for a moment before adding, “If she wasn’t his daughter I’d be embarrassed that she didn’t think I could do better.”
“The state of your hair probably threw her off.”
“Okay, okay.” He ran his gloved fingers over another section of hair. “So once again, the fates have aligned and a real life murder mystery has been dropped into your lap. What are you going to do?”
I chewed on my lower lip and rubbed the nylon fabric of my black cape between my fingers. “Nothing,” I eventually answered.
Marcus shifted his weight back on his heels and met my eyes in the mirror. “Say what?”
“I’m not going to do anything,” I explained. “Initially I was tempted. To you know, poke around, see if I could turn up anything suspicious. But then Anatoly weighed in. He definitely thinks pursuing this whole supposed mystery is ill advised and I have to admit he has a point.” I paused as the patron next to me squealed with delight as she tossed her newly purple and blue hair. “Dena and Mary Ann think I should leave it alone too. Hell, even London’s dog seems skeptical of my foul-play theories. And you know what? I’m finally grown up enough to listen to other people’s opinions.” I sighed and shook my head. “Plus London’s daughter clearly doesn’t want me anywhere near this thing. I really think I need to respect the daughter’s wishes, don’t you?”
Marcus went silent, allowing the chitchat and the music of the room fill the space between us as he studied my reflection. I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, “Marcus?”
“No?” I repeated.
“Hell no! That child’s mother might be a murderer! She may actually need your help, whether she wants it or not.”
“But Occam’s razor says Aaron London killed Aaron London.” I protested. “I don’t have any compelling reason to believe it was a homicide. Just a text and a hunch.” I glanced up at Janis Joplin who was sticking her tongue out at me from a 26 x 38 inch Rolling Stones cover.
“Something hasn’t been quite right with you lately,” he said, slowly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I muttered.
“Yes, you do.” He put his brush down with a sigh and checked the clock. “For one thing, the Sophie I know would never go days without hair products.”
“Oh, come on.”
“When is the last time you got any writing done?”
“Hello non sequitur,” I forced a laugh. My gaze slid from the poster to my feet.
I shrugged noncommittally and ventured a glance at Marcus’ reflection. He looked firm but also concerned. Mostly he looked like he wasn’t going to take a shrug for an answer. “Ok, fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I haven’t written a word since I turned in my last manuscript almost two years ago, but it’s not my fault! All those years of writing Alicia Bright and now that’s done and…and it’s hard just coming up with something new.”
“Oh, you think that’s it?” he asked, flatly.
“I want it to come to me organically,” I explained, self-consciously, “like it did when I came up with my Alicia Bright series.”
“You came up with the Alicia Bright series while you were going through a chaotic divorce from an infuriating man,” Marcus pointed out. “That’s what motivates you.”
“Craziness!” He put his hands on his hips. “Drama! Big giant messes! I have news for you, girlfriend, you are not wired like the rest of us. Throw you into a stormy sea and you’ll swim like an Olympian. Drop you in a glassy lake and you’ll sink like a Jimmy Hoffa.”
“I am not sinking!”
“Really? Tell that to your follicles!” he retorted.
A large truck passed the salon making the ground rumble beneath me as I angrily gripped the armrests of my chair. “Just a few minutes ago I was telling you how great things were going for me!”
“You told me how smooth things were. Totally different. And I bet things don’t feel quite the same between you and Anatoly these days either!”
“Don’t be ridiculous! We’re absolutely in love!”
“Oh, go put it in a Hallmark card. Like I said, you’ve been off lately. But when you came in today, you seemed a little better, and that’s because of the craziness of yesterday.”
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Uh-huh. You once told me you and Anatoly could survive anything except decaf and boredom and you are bored out of your frizzy haired skull.”
I glanced around the bustling room. No one was looking at us now which was odd because I felt like Marcus had just busted open my whole psyche and laid it out on the floor. I shook my head, causing the many bits of tinfoil in my hair to brush against each other. “I guess I’ve been feeling kind of…numb lately.” The words burned my throat, scorching me with humiliation. “I am happy a lot, but, I don’t know, I’m missing…I guess I’m missing my spark. And things have just been weird. Every once in a while I’ll think someone’s watching me, and then I look and no one’s there and rather than be relieved I’m like, disappointed because if someone was spying on me at least that would be interesting. Which is crazy. I’m crazy.”
“All the most interesting people are,” Marcus countered.
“Yeah, but that’s not…I mean, oh, I don’t know, Marcus…I guess I’m embarrassed.” I hung my head, letting the tinfoil crinkle. “I’m embarrassed that I’m struggling to fully be the person everybody knows me to be. I can’t write, Marcus. What do I do?”
“Two things,” he said, solemnly.
I looked up at him, ready to take his words as soul-saving commandments. Whatever advice came out of his mouth would be my new gospel.
“Are you ready for this?”
“I’m ready,” I replied, almost meekly.
“All right. Number one,” he held up one finger, dramatically, “deep condition.”
“Oh for God’s sake.” I had never punched Marcus before but I was tempted.
“Two,” Marcus continued, “solve a real life murder mystery…again.”
“I don’t get it. You’ve always counseled me to behave…well, reasonably. And now you want me to slip on my gumshoes in order to investigate the marginally suspicious death of a total stranger.”
“Because that is reasonable for you.” He gently swiveled my chair around so I was facing him directly. “It’s not that you’re a drama queen–”
“It’s that you’re a drama goddess. You have a sacred duty to follow drama wherever you see it, and you see it now. Nobody dies of pneumonia these days.”
“Actually, pneumonia kills over 50,000 thousand people per—“
“Don’t bore me with statistics,” Marcus said, theatrically. “Follow the breadcrumbs, jump in and ride the breaker. Make sense of it. It’s what you do, Sophie.”
“This is insane,” I said with a laugh.
“Exactly!” Marcus replied. “Trust me, Sophie, If you let a little crazy seep back into your life and a little moisture seep back into your head your life will be the glorious mess you need it to be. And your hair,” he added with a sniff, “will just be glorious.”
Hours later I sat in my car with beautiful hair and a troubled mind. I was still in my parking spot, five city blocks from Marcus’ salon which, in San Francisco, is considered a convenient spot (any parking spot in San Francisco that is close enough to your destination not to require hiking boots is worth celebrating). To my left and right were Victorians and Edwardians all converted into apartments and condos and in my hand was a business card. The Nolan Volz business card that I had been carrying around with me since I found it in London’s apartment last night.
In my head I could hear Anatoly telling me to toss it. I could see Dena rolling her eyes at the very idea that there was something significant about this thing.
And I could hear Marcus’ voice, Drop you in a glassy lake and you’ll sink like a Jimmy Hoffa.
Images of Anita, sitting in the hospital waiting room, anger and fear in her eyes as she ordered me to leave. Sounds of her daughter’s voice as she coolly told me her father had died, told me her mother never wanted to speak to me.
Follow the breadcrumbs, jump in and ride the breaker. Make sense of it. It’s what you do, Sophie
I pulled my phone out of my bag and dialed the number on the card.
“Nolan-Volz, Gundrun Volz office, may I help you?” A woman asked She had the kind of voice that sounded sexy, bored and vexed all at the same time. I could imagine her doing phone sex for men who got off on being demeaned by hot chicks.
“Yes, um…I was hoping to reach Gundrun Volz.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, which was nice. She could have easily come back at me with no shit. I’m sure that’s what Mr. Katz would do if he was a receptionist. “And this is pertaining to?” she pressed.
“Aaron London?” I asked uncertainly, clueless as to how to proceed. “I’m not sure–”
“He doesn’t work here anymore,” the voice interrupted.
I hesitated a moment. “Come again?”
“Aaron London left the company almost six months ago. He is no longer associated with Nolan-Volz.”
I continued the hold the phone to my ear. I was pinching the business card so hard my fingertips had gone white. “I…okay,” I tried again, but words were failing me now. What the hell could Aaron London have done for Nolan Volz? “Could you tell me who holds his position now?”
“The position of Sr. V.P. of R and D? That would be–”
I hung up.
“Oh my God.” My heart was thrumming against my chest with so much force you’d think it was being operated by a hardcore techno DJ. This whole thing was getting weirder and weirder and a lot more suspicious. Even Anatoly would have to see that now.
Speaking of which…
Smiling I called him up, eager to hear his voice as he realized that there really was something odd about London’s death and maybe just a little excited to hear him say, wow, maybe you were right!
“Hey,” he said. His Russian accent was a little more pronounced this afternoon, something that happened when he was irritated, turned on or not properly caffeinated.
“Hey you. Have you managed to track down Anita London yet?” I asked. “About the dog?”
“Not yet, I’ve been swamped. But I’m about to start working on it.”
“Uh-huh.” A large moth landed on my windshield, resting it’s little insect legs against the glass. “I just found out Aaron London was a V.P. for Nolan-Volz.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line.
“Anatoly?” I asked. “Are you still there?”
“Are you sure?” he finally asked.
“I just called the company. I’m sure.”
“Why did you call the company?”
“That’s what you’re focused on?” The moth took off to eavesdrop on somebody else. “He was a Sr. V.P. of R and D. He left a little less than six months ago. I don’t know if he was fired or if he quit but when he was going off on that company, I mean, that wasn’t random. He wasn’t talking out of his ass. He actually knew how they operate.”
Again, there was silence on the other end of the line. He was probably in shock. “So?” I pressed, when I couldn’t take it any longer. “What do you think?”
I could picture him sitting in his office chair, slowly getting to his feet as he took in the implications of this news. I leaned forward, almost pressing against the steering wheel, waiting for one of his Russian curses followed by an admission that something was rotten in the state of Denmark. “I think,” he finally said, drawing out the words, “that London was a disgruntled employee who had a breakdown.”
So that was not the reaction I was hoping for. “But…don’t you think it’s possible he was a whistle blower?” I asked.
“If he was a whistle blower he would have gone to the press or a government official. He wouldn’t have come to us. The man who walked into my office yesterday may have been sane six months ago, or at least sane enough to hold down a corporate job, but clearly something happened to him.”
“You mean like, he was poisoned?” I didn’t like the zeal that was in my voice. A woman and her three toy poodles walked past, all four of them projecting a cartoonish air of wealth and disdain.
“No, I mean like he started drinking, or taking drugs or maybe it’s the reverse. Maybe he stopped taking the medication that was stabilizing him. Regardless, it’s not our business.”
I slumped back in my seat. “But don’t you think things are kind of adding up?” I asked, my tone sounding a little pleading now. “A woman claiming to be his wife showing up at the hospital. His neighbor saying he didn’t have a wife…”
“Yes, it’s adding up,” Anatoly admitted. “He used to be a stable man. Then he lost his job, his wife and then, finally, he went into a downward spiral.”
I stared down at the business card, the super villain name glaring back at me in bold, black ink.
“I’ll try to track down Anita London this afternoon to ask her if she wants the dog,” Anatoly was saying. “and…oh, I’m sorry, I have another call coming in. A client.”
“Yeah, sure of course, you should take that,” I said, distractedly.
“Don’t over think this, Sophie. Let this one go.”
I stayed on the line long enough to hear the line go dead.
And then I pulled the phone away from my ear and dialed up Gundrun Volz office once more.
“Nolan-Volz, Gundrun Volz’ office, can I help you?”
“I’m sorry, we were disconnected before. My name’s Sophie Katz and I’m doing a freelance piece for the San Francisco Chronicle.”
“Oh, yes, do you have follow up questions for Mr. Volz?” the woman repeated, still sounding bored-sexy.
Follow-up questions? What the hell was she talking about? “Yes,” I said, working hard to keep the question mark out of my voice.
“If you’d like to leave your name and number I’ll pass along your request to Mr. Volz.”
I mechanically recited my information as I tried to figure out what exactly was going on.
“The article is running in four days, yes?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” I said, deciding that sticking to the one syllable word was probably my best strategy.
“So you’ll need to hear from him soon,” she reasoned. “Are you requesting an in person meeting or will another phone call suffice?”
“In person is probably best,” I said, a little doubtfully.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I gave her my information, hung up, got out of my car and half walked, half ran back to the salon. I got there just as Marcus was walking out the door, a shiny, tan windbreaker pulled over his broad shoulders.
“You’re back,” he noted as I approached breathless and smiling.
“If I was going to investigate London’s death,” I asked, “where do you think I should start?’
Marcus’ lips curled up until his smile matched my own. “Well, let’s see, you claimed you weren’t able follow most of what London said to you in Anatoly’s office , right? That it just sounded like the fragmented ramblings of a conspiracy theorist?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Do you think you might have understood him better if you were a conspiracy theorist?” he asked, slipping his hands into his jacket pocket.
“Maybe, but I’m not.”
“Do you know any?”
My brow creased as I tried to figure out where I could find a conspiracy theorist who could decode London’s words for me. In the distance there was the sound of angry honking from multiple cars, above me somewhere the sound of a low flying plane.
And then it hit me. I glanced up at Marcus to see from the look on his face that he had thought of someone too.
Together we said, “Jason.”