Shutter(67)

Philip’s strong grip on my arm brought me back. “Come with us, Rita. Stop moping around.” Philip retrieved a brown vial from his pocket. “Take a blast.”

“A blast of what?”

“X.” He opened the lid and shook the powder into the sniffer casing, then placed it under my nose. “Just relax, Rita. You need some sunshine.”

I breathed in as deeply as I could and found the heat and burn of the powder on my tongue. I poured the last of my drink into my mouth and swished it out and down, closing my eyes until the sensation made me sway. When I opened them, they were gone: no ghosts, no voices, nothing except the warmth and happiness coursing through my body. Before long, I was part of the moving mass, absorbing the heat of all the other bodies around me, Shanice and Philip spinning me through the music, the alcohol and X cascading into my body, jockeying for position. I shut my eyes and let it happen, hoping to never come out of the haze. Garcia would never be able to come in here, I thought.

BY THE TIME we left the club in the early hours of morning, the warmth was fading. The X leaving my body felt like frost creeping over my insides.

“I’m so glad we got you out and about, Rita.” Philip smiled.

“Yes, that’s like twice in a week!” Shanice shivered with her arm through mine. I imagined the sensation was wearing off on her too.

“I’m starved!” Philip said. “How about the Frontier?”

The Frontier was one of the mainstays of the city. The steam, heat, and coffee smell always hit you in the face, especially in the winter. The walls and booths were designed in a ’70s Old West style: lots of wagon wheels and orange pleather, scattered paintings of adobes, and a couple of giant John Wayne portraits. Its bathrooms were famously disgusting, full of broken mirrors, a lingering smell of ammonia, and years of smeared phone numbers.

Frontier was famous for its gigantic breakfast burritos that you could smother in their super spicy green chili salsa, and hot, heavily buttered cinnamon rolls that were bigger than your face. It was where every local wanted to go on Sunday morning. It was also located across the street from the university, which made it the place to go after a night of debauchery. It used to stay open all night long until some of the unruly bar crawlers ruined it for us, fighting, pulling guns, and acting like fools. Now it closed in the evening and opened again for breakfast at five, when the bar hoppers were passed out cold.

Philip stood in line at the counter while Shanice and I found ourselves a booth by the window. Blue shadows of buildings stretched from east to west on the sidewalks. City buses hissed and roared, dropping off just as many people as they were picking up. Shanice was looking tired, her red lipstick gone, and her dress wrinkled and sweaty as she rested her head in her hands. It was a usual morning for her.

Someone banged on the window.

“You have to help me, goddammit, Rita.” Erma. “You must help my daughter, my mother. Who knows who they will come after next, Rita! You have to help us. Right now. All of us. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Rita. Are you okay? Rita?” Shanice was shaking my arm. “Rita. What are you looking at?” Shanice turned in her seat and stared right at Erma. “I haven’t seen you like this since we were kids.”

I refocused on Shanice. “I guess I’m still rolling a bit.” I was hoping the stuff that Philip gave me had gotten rid of the ghosts, but now they were here, closing in around me.

Judge Winters, his wife, and son stood beside Erma Singleton, staring at me. The wife held the baby in her arms. Their wounds were visible to me: the boy with his head pulled open, his mother with the bullet hole in her face, and the baby with the exit wound right below her eye.

“Her name is Rita,” Erma spat. “She’s the one that takes pictures of us when we’re dead. Hey, Rita, remember me? Remember how you haven’t even tried to help me out? Do you remember that?” I tasted Erma’s hate and smelled the death coming from her gray skin.

“Now what?” Shanice turned around, trying to see what I was looking at, as the ghosts moved through the window and surrounded the booth.

“Listen to us.” Judge Winters bent to meet my eye. “We will stay here until all you smell is the rotting of our flesh.”

“Wow, girl. You must be tripping.” Shanice waved her hand in front of my face. “Rita? Come back to us, Rita.”

Philip stood at the table with our food and stared at me. He moved into the spot next to Shanice and passed around our orders. “Is she still lit?” He shook my arm lightly. “Are you okay, Rita? Take too much? Oh, God. Maybe we gave her too much.”

A thin bead of blood tickled my lip. I knew there were more to come. I couldn’t handle the anticipation, so I scanned the room. The booth behind me was full of ghosts, faces lost and eyes piercing. On the far left was a patchwork of body parts, held together with portions of torn clothing. Erma, as only I would recognize her.

“Listen to the man, Rita,” her corpse gurgled. “I’m done playing nice for you.”

Then there was the Indian man—the frozen bench-sleeper I’d photographed a few days before my suspension. He sat in the booth too, silent and blue, just like he had been that night.

“I’m surprised that you are seeing us,” the man said. “Are you Navajo?”

“Yes.” I realized I had said that out loud.