Long Bright River(87)

I walked outside, got into my car, and drove to Kensington.



* * *



—

I had a vague idea of where Kacey might be living, based on certain things that Simon had said.

So I went to the nearest intersection, and began to ask around.

Overnight, Kensington is usually fairly active—and never more so than on warm and balmy evenings close to the summer solstice, as that one was. It was early May, and the few flowering trees Kensington boasts were in full bloom, waving their white, heavy branches in the wind. They looked uncanny, lit up by streetlamps, sun-seeking flowers in the darkest part of night.

Plaintively, I held out Kacey’s picture to several people standing on the street.

Right away, someone recognized her, a man I eyed suspiciously, wondering if he was a client of hers. Yeah, I know her, he said. Then he asked me, What do you want with her?

I didn’t want to tell him any more than I needed to, so I only said, She’s a friend. Do you know where she’s living these days?

He was hesitant.

In Kensington, though it often seems like everybody knows everybody else and all of their business, it is difficult to get anyone talking. For most, it’s a matter of convenience: Why butt in when you don’t have to? Why invite trouble your way? Keep my name out of your mouth is a common refrain, one that might be emblazoned on Kensington’s crest, if it had one. Besides, it was possible that this man remembered my face from seeing me around the neighborhood, dressed in uniform. Perhaps he thought I was undercover, and had a warrant for her arrest.

There is, fortunately, a relatively easy way to get people talking, and it’s green.

A five—the price of a nickel bag of heroin—most likely would have done the trick, but I’d come prepared with a twenty, which I offered to him if he could lead me to where she was.

I also had a weapon strapped to my back, under my shirt, in case he tried to take the money from me. I did not tell him this.

The man glanced left and right. I didn’t like the look of him. I sensed he was so hungry for a fix that he’d do anything to get it. A person in this state is loaded like a spring. Their minds are often disconnected from whatever innate code of ethics they otherwise might have.



* * *



—

The man led me down two streets—farther and farther away from witnesses, incidentally—and I kept my body tight and ready, prepared to unholster my weapon if I needed to. I walked several paces behind him so I could keep an eye on him and scan my surroundings as well.

At last, he stopped outside a house.

To me, it didn’t look abandoned. No boards were covering the windows. No graffiti marred its siding. Two planters outside, in fact, were well maintained, and red geraniums sprouted from the dirt inside them.

—She’s been staying here, said my guide, and he held out his hand for the money.

I shook my head.

—How do I know she’s in there? I said. I can’t pay you until I know.

—Aw, man, he said. Really? I feel so rude knocking this time of night.

But he sighed, and complied, and I felt bad, actually, that I had underestimated him.

He rapped twice at the door, first gently, and then firmly.



* * *



—

The woman who answered, after about five minutes of knocking, was not Kacey. She looked annoyed, blinking at us sleepily, but she looked well, and didn’t look intoxicated. She was wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt. I didn’t recognize her.

—What the hell, Jeremy? she said to the man. What’s going on?

He stuck out his thumb at me. She’s looking for Connie, he said.

I could see inside the house: it was well kept, neat, with clean carpet on the floor. It smelled of fresh garlic and onions inside, as if someone had recently prepared a wholesome meal.

I noticed, after a moment, that the woman was staring at me, annoyed. She snapped her fingers at me. Hello? she said. Can I help you?

I turned so my back was to the woman. I handed the money to Jeremy as subtly as I could. He departed. Then I faced the woman again.

—She’s my sister, I said. Is she in here?

Reluctantly, the woman stepped aside.



* * *



—

I found Kacey asleep in a twin bed in a tidy room. She was breathing lightly. She’d always been a heavy sleeper, ever since we shared a bed as children; it did not surprise me that she could sleep through Jeremy’s pounding at the door.

—Thank you, I said to the woman, expecting her to leave. But she waited there, unmoving, one eyebrow raised. She was staying, I realized, to gauge Kacey’s reaction to my presence. She wanted to make sure I was welcome. And I felt certain she was prepared to intervene if I was not. She had a tough, determined expression on her face—a look she shared with many of the women I grew up with, including Kacey, including Gee. Over the years, I have manufactured a facsimile of that look to wear when on the job, but it still does not come naturally to me.

I placed a hand on Kacey’s shoulder and I shook her gently, and then firmly.

—Kacey, I said. Wake up. Kacey. It’s Mickey.

When, at last, she opened her eyes, her expression changed quickly from disorientation to confusion to surprise to shame.

And then, just as rapidly, her eyes filled with tears.