Long Bright River(72)

—Get the fuck out of my house, she says to me suddenly. She is pointing to the door. Leave.





I receive no further explanation. By the time I’m walking down the front steps, the door has slammed behind me. I turn back once to look at the horse and carriage silhouette before picking up my pace and heading back toward where Truman’s car is parked.

I can see my breath. I tuck my chin down inside my jacket. My eyes water.

I watch for any more sightings of Simon. No luck.

Truman texts me again.

How fast can you be at Kensington and Somerset?

2 mins, I respond.

A moment later, another text comes in.

K and Lehigh now, he says.

He’s moving. Not wanting to stop. Wanting to lose anyone who’s tailing him.



* * *



—

It’s faster for me to walk, actually, than to get in the car and drive. I beat Truman there, and I wait for a while on the corner. I wish I had something warm to drink. The cold has gotten its claws in me, and I can’t stop shivering.

I jump when Truman says my name.

—Come on, he says. I parked near here. Let’s talk in your car.

Inside, I get behind the wheel, and I tell Truman to start talking.

I do and don’t want to hear what he’s discovered. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks grim. He’s thinking of how to tell me something: I know it.

—Truman, I say. Just tell me.





I went to the house off Madison, he begins. The one with three Bs on it. I rapped on the plywood covering the back door. A minute later, McClatchie appears. Looking really bad, really strung out. Nodding a little, you know. Which, okay, I think is maybe gonna work in my favor. His guard is down.

Who are you? he says.

I texted you about a girl, I say.

He’s really high, I’m noticing. Can barely hold his head up.

Okay, he says.

I wait. So what’s the story, I say. You got a girl for me, or what?

He goes, Yeah. Come in.

So I follow the guy into this boarded-up house. Inside there’s a bunch of people nodded out, and a couple shooting up. Nobody says anything to me.

McClatchie leans up against a wall, spacing out, and practically goes to sleep. I’m freezing, and the house smells like shit, and this guy seems to have forgotten that I’m there. So I say to him, Hey. Hey.

He wakes up a little.

Where’s your phone? Show me the girls again.

He finally takes it out of his pocket, pulls up some photos, hands me the phone. I start flipping through them and I recognize a lot of the girls that were on there last time he showed me. But no Kacey.

I look at him. Now I know, in that moment, that if I ask about Kacey, he’ll peg me. He’ll connect me to you.

But what do I have to lose, I think. Besides, I thought there was a small chance that he’d be so out of it he wouldn’t even put two and two together.

So I go, Where’s the redhead? I saw a redhead on here last time.

And McClatchie goes, real slowly, Aw, that’s Connie.

I said, I want that one.

And he said, Connie’s out of commission.

Then he raises his head up and looks at me, and I swear it’s like a hawk zoning in on something. His whole expression changes. He stares at me. His eyes get really focused.

Two guys across the room rise from the dead, lift their heads up off the floor and start looking at me, as if I’m causing trouble, and suddenly the mood in the room starts changing.

Why, McClatchie says. Why do you want her so bad.

I don’t know, man, I say. I like redheads.

I’m already backing out of the house. I’m facing him, still, in case he’s packing.

He comes toward me. Perking up now. Looking more alert. Who sent you? he’s saying. Her sister? You a cop?

That’s when I turned and booked it. Turns out my knee works pretty well these days.

But I heard him calling after me, all the way down the block.

You a cop? he was saying. You a cop?



* * *



—

Truman looks at me, scratches his cheek.

I’m getting a feeling: like cold water is spreading through my veins and arteries.

—What does that mean, I say. Out of commission.



* * *



—

Neither of us can answer.





It’s my turn, now, to tell him about Simon.

—He drove straight to Kensington, I say. He didn’t hesitate. Just got into his car and drove straight there. I lost him when he got out on foot.

—No kidding, says Truman.

—He has no business in this neighborhood, I say. He’s in the South Division.



* * *



— Abruptly, I pull into a parking lot. A small, sad strip of stores is in front of us: Chinese restaurant, laundromat, shuttered hardware store, Dunkin’ Donuts. I put my visor down, not wanting to be seen by anyone exiting these shops. Someone gets into the car next to mine. I keep my gaze down.

—I think it’s time, says Truman.

—For what?

—We’ve gotta bring this to Mike DiPaolo, he says.

But I’m already shaking my head. No way, I say.