The Night Watchman(33)

She looked at the house. Someone was in that house. The dog was being strangled or something.

“Jack,” she said, “something’s wrong with that dog.”

“Maybe it doesn’t like people on the porch.”

“Wait.” She walked around back. A strong garbage and piss smell came from the rear of the house. Two more cardboarded windows. But no sign of a person.

“Vera!” she called. “Vera!”

Nothing. Except the dog started up again, furious with hope.

She walked back to Jack.

“We have to go in there,” she said.

“Breaking and entering,” he said. “I will absolutely not flout the law.”

The dog’s rasping bark trailed off. She wavered, waited. Something so alien and wrong. Her skin prickled. Everything was trying to tell her something, but she couldn’t decode the message. A cricket tuned up in the battered grass. At last she shook her head and handed over the second address, on Stevens Avenue. Jack looked at the address and a wince of distaste flicked across his face. He flapped the paper.

“What?” said Patrice.

“I know the building. If you find her there, it won’t be good.”



There were several large square apartment buildings made of dark brown brick. The tiny patch of grass in front was mowed. The low bushes around the foundation clipped.

“This is not so bad,” said Patrice.

“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” Jack said.

She stood on the front steps with Jack. No Paranteau on the list of inhabitants. They walked into the foyer. The small octagonal tiles, set in black-and-white rosettes, had been freshly mopped. Patrice was beginning to feel wobbly again. She might flood through the walls and doors. Still, they went to each apartment. Got no answer. Patrice put her hand to her face. Jack cupped her elbow in his hand.

“Are you . . . ?”

She tried to shake his hand away. Back at the bar it had been dry and cold. Now it was moist and hot.

“You should rest,” said Jack, petting her wrist. “This must be mentally exhausting for you. We’ll set up a cot in the dressing room.”

She wrenched her arm from his humid grip. Then surprised herself by snapping her hand down on his wet wrist so hard that he flinched and stared at her. He grabbed at her with his other hand. She knocked that arm down with a quick vicious motion. A wood chop.

“There’s one more place,” said Patrice. “I’d like to go there. A friend. Bernadette Blue.”

“Bernadette. As in Bernie? Bernie Blue? She’s your pal?” Jack wrung his bruised hands and looked Patrice over in a harder, figuring way. He lighted a cigarette off the one he was smoking, and together they walked out of the building.

“So tell me again. Bernie Blue’s your friend?”

He stared closely at her, his face glazed with an unhealthy sweat. Patrice gave up.

“No,” she swung her head. The air pressed on her temples. “I can’t say we’re actually friends. A friend gave me this address so I could stay with Bernadette in a pinch.”

“Listen.” Jack seemed a little rattled, now, in earnest even. “You’re better off in the dressing room at Log Jam 26. I swear.”



On the way back downtown, in the car, Jack spoke to her. “Seems you’re mixed up with certain places, certain people, and you just got here. At least you say you did.” He shot a glance her way.

“I did just get here.”

“But were you here before?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Because you don’t belong here.”

“Of course I don’t. I wish I could go home right now.”

“So what can happen to a girl in your situation, or your sister’s situation, is this: with the unpaid bills and all, she runs out on the landlord. Makes it hard to get a new place. So maybe she changes her name, or maybe she moves in with somebody else. A friend, let’s say. She pays the friend in money, or in services.”

He eyed Patrice after the word services.

“My sister could do any number of jobs,” said Patrice, oblivious. “But with a baby, that’s harder.”

“Oh, a baby.”

“Yes, she has a baby.”

“That’s another story. Another complication. We should go, say, to where they go for help with babies. I wouldn’t know about that.”

“Can we do that now?”

“Jesus. No.”

“We should go now. I want to go.”

“They are almost closed. Besides.”

“Besides what?”

“You might want to take a little rest before your show.”

“Let me out. Let me out right now!”

“Doris Barnes, calm down. Please. This is not what we agreed to.”

“No,” said Patrice. “We had no agreement. Because I never said yes. However, I might consider. Not tips every other night. I want the tips every single night.”

“Done,” said Jack.



On the second floor of Log Jam 26, Jack set up the canvas cot. He found a pillow with a rumpled but clean pillowcase on it, batted it into shape. In the closet, there was a red wool blanket bound with a silky red ribbon. Hilda’s. But what did it matter. The blanket and the pillow almost made Patrice cry. She could hardly stagger to the cot. Kick her shoes off. Lie down. A buzzing film of darkness came down over her and then she dissolved.