|
SAUL IS PACING BACK AND FORTH IN THE KITCHEN of the apartment he’s subletting in St. Peter’s. Looking through the window across Sixth Street he can see a small park where a young man and woman are sitting on a bench, holding hands and talking.
That could be me and Clarice if I wasn’t such a fuck-up.
He turns to the telephone on the counter and snatches up the receiver, punching in the numbers quickly as he raises it to his ear.
On the sixth ring, Clarice finally answers.
“Saul,” she says in a soft voice “please stop calling.”
“Clarice — I love you,” he says frantically. “I can’t be without you. We had such wonderful times together and there are so many things we haven’t done yet. Let’s go explore that tunnel in the basement. Come with me to South America and meet my family. Let’s eat dinner at the Fig Tree.”
“Saul.” Clarice interjects, this time not so softly. “I’m not interested in doing any of those things with you. Go find that blonde banker chick and maybe she’ll wanna share in the fun.”
“I’ve never even seen her again since that night. How can you throw this away because of one mistake I made? At least I was honest. Can’t you forgive me?”
“I can. I have. But I don’t trust you anymore. You hurt me and it felt really bad. It still feels bad. Go do all those things you were talking about by yourself and leave me alone. And when you’re by yourself and feeling rotten, realize that’s how I feel, too.”
“So that’s how it is? You want to hurt me back?”
“Let’s not make this any uglier than it already is. I’m hanging up the phone now. Please don’t bother calling again because I won’t answer.”
MATTHEW IS PROPPED UP ON HIS OVERSTUFFED EASY CHAIR, surveying the view of the uptown skyline from his fifth floor vantage point in the Ivey’s building. Niesha ambles up behind him quietly, leaning over the back of the chair. She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses the top of his head.
“Whatcha doin’?” She says softly, nuzzling her nose against his right ear.
“Thinking.”
“’Bout what?”
“You. Me. Life. My dad. All kinds of stuff.”
“You look so serious.”
“I’m not. Not really. I’m just sittin’ here lookin’ out the window. Thinking about my dad and how sick he is and what my mom is going through and what I need to do. Then I was thinking about life and ending up back in Charlotte and living in this building. I remember visiting with my grandmother to go shopping when I was really young. I ever tell you this used to be the Housewares Department?”
“No. Really?
My mom used to come shopping some down here when I was a kid, too. When I was little. We would take the bus downtown. They used to call it downtown back then. Now they call it uptown. Still not quite sure what happened to the surrounding geography to precipitate the name change.”
Matthew chuckles. “You’re funny,” he says. “Nothing happened. Except the city was trying to go all upscale.”
“I know! Crazy, huh?” Niesha slides around to the massive arm of the cushy chair and leans up next to Matthew, her head resting alongside his.
“Anyway,” she continues, “We’d go shopping at Belk and Ivey’s. We’d usually eat lunch at the old Barclay Cafeteria in the basement of Belk. If I was real good she’d take me to this record store called the Soul Shack and let me buy some new song by Chaka Khan or Earth, Wind and Fire.”
“Oh yeah? I loved both of them too!”
“You did? With your little white boy self? You sure you weren’t listening to Pink Floyd and Queen?”
Matthew laughs again and turns to peck Niesha on the cheek. “Yeah I was. I listened to everything back then. I just liked the black stuff a little better ‘cause it always had more of a beat, or rhythm.”
Niesha howls. “So you like the black stuff better, huh?”
“In more ways than one, I suppose.”
Niesha slings a leg across Matthew, climbing into his lap. Facing him, she runs her fingers through his hair and pulls his mouth close to hers. They kiss deeply, and he runs his hands underneath her blouse and up her back, reaching for the clasp of her bra.
She pulls away momentarily.
“What?” asks Matthew. “You don’t wanna?”
“Yeah. Course I do. Just maybe not here. Remember the other day, at Elmwood? That was fun, huh?”
“That was more than fun. That was hot.”
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Back to the cemetery?”
“Maybe. Or maybe someplace else. Some place just kinda odd and outta the way. Doesn’t have to be the cemetery. Maybe an elevator in the Bank of America building or downstairs in the Latta Arcade. Some place people don’t go a lot. You game?”
“I’m game.”
SAUL IS SITTING ON THE THIRD STEP FROM THE BOTTOM of the stairs to the basement of St. Peter’s. It smells musty, and even with the lights on it’s dim. He takes a big swig of red wine from a half empty bottle and sets it down on the bottom stair.
“So, you don’t love me anymore,” he says aloud, though there’s no one around to hear his slurred words. “Well, I still love you. I’m really pissed off at you right now, Clarice. It’s not like it meant anything to me at all. I was just horny and you were gone. This is crap.”
Saul rises from the stairs, grasping a flashlight in one hand and the bottle of wine in the other. He stumbles slightly to the left as he makes his way to the storage cage that once held old man Setzler’s belongings. Since the discovery of the body, everything else has been cleaned out and the door is standing wide open. He shines the flashlight to the back of the cage and the light lands on an old, rusted steel door that is built in to the wall of the foundation.
“That’s perfectly fine,” he says to the stale air surrounding him. “You don’t have to go anywhere with me. I can do whatever I want without you. And I’m not going to be miserable. You’ll get over this, Clarice. And you’ll come back to me, too.”
Saul removes two large metal bars that have been positioned across the top and bottom of the door. They slide out easily and he tugs on the handle.
“Dammit. I don’t care if you are locked, door. I’m still getting in here.”
He places the flashlight and the wine on the floor and kicks at the doorknob twice, very hard. Then he grabs it with both hands and pulls, using all the strength from his sizable forearms to wrest it free. It pops open suddenly and then swings back with a long, slow creak. A rush of very earthy and old-smelling air blows past him.
“Nothing gets away from Saul Reyes. You know what I mean?”
He grabs the flashlight and red wine and meanders through the doorway, brushing aside a handful of cobwebs. He shines the light ahead of him, into the darkness.
The beam tapers off before he sees an end.
“This is gonna be fun.”
CLARICE IS CROSSING THE PLAZA to the entrance of her apartment in Gateway when Officers Corrigan and Harris call out to her. “Ms. Tuthill,” says Corrigan. “Can we have a moment of your time?”
She stops in her tracks and turns to see who is calling her name.
Oh, no. Not those guys again.
“Ms. Tuthill may we speak with you?”
“Sure. Go ahead. What do you want to talk about?”
“About Robert Zucker, Ms. Tuthill.”
“I already told you, I only barely knew him.”
“I think you know that’s not true.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Ms. Tuthill, since we spoke with you last, investigators turned up an address book that belonged to the deceased, and your name is in it, along with your previous address and where you’re living now. It’s quite possible he was on his way to see you when he was killed. Now, would you like to revise your story?”
Oh, shit.
~ David Moore
|
