Bad Luck City - Matt Phillips Read online

  “All the time, right—like you’re a hardened killer?”

  “You want to dig anymore than we need to? I didn’t think so. Trust me on this. It’s deep enough.”

  “We should have come out here at night. Would have been cooler.”

  Then there’s music. It rises and falls like waves in the far distance, and then it runs into my ears like water; an old rock song—something about a state trooper and a man who dies in an accident.

  After a long silence, my father’s voice says, “That belly gun really did its job. I was surprised, all the damage it did.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” the other voice agrees. And then, “A bullet is a hell of a thing—you never understand how it works until it’s too late.”

  That’s all I wrote because it’s always then that I wake up from the dream.

  ***

  And this time, when I woke up, it was 5:36 in the morning. That tinge of red light coated my apartment like a bloody mist. My sheets were soaked with sweat and I shoved them to my waist, lay bare–chested in the dark. Something yanked at my memory, some detail from the dream; I couldn’t place it so I turned my thoughts to Chelsea Losse. I knew that Spinks might find something—if Chelsea used an alias and was arrested, a police database might reveal her given name. Or, if she used her real name, the database might reveal a telltale alias. But I couldn’t count on Spinks to do my roadwork. The way I made my name as a reporter, the way I got into the business and stayed in it, was through shoe leather reporting. That’s the old fashioned stuff; you hunt down leads and knock on doors. The utility bills from Mathis; I could try Chelsea’s last known address, see what was out there, how she lived. I checked my cellphone on the nightstand: 5:42 in the morning—I might as well get dressed.

  ***

  At 6:30, I parked my Volvo on a South End street corner. A shy sun stretched into the alleyways and splashed through my windshield. Chelsea’s last known address—the one on the utility bills Mathis left me with—was an apartment building squeezed between a tiny bar called ‘Willie’s Place,’ and an old furniture emporium with plywood nailed over the windows. The furniture place looked like it was always closed, but the bar was already open for business.

  The apartment building was small, twenty units in need of a remodel, but it wasn’t too bad; red brick with faded wooden trim and a stairwell at each end. I locked my car and climbed the stairs to Chelsea’s apartment—second floor, far corner—and knocked on the door.

  There was no answer.

  I knocked on the next door apartment and a woman who looked to be in her early seventies answered. She poked her gray–haired head outside and squinted at me. “I don’t want anymore newspapers. I’m on the computer now like everybody else,” she said.

  “I’m not selling papers miss. I’m wondering about your neighbor, that’s all.”

  “You mean Chelsea?”

  “Does Chelsea live right here?” I pointed at the apartment.

  “She did, a few months ago. Now, I finally got some quiet.”

  I pulled Chelsea’s picture from my blazer and showed it to the old lady. “This her? I’m trying to find her for somebody. You ever see her come out of this place?”

  The old woman leaned outside and squinted at the picture. She cleared her throat and said, “Chelsea. Yep, she lived here. Like I said, she moved out.” The old woman looked up at me with dark, wrinkled eyes. She stuck her lips out and moved back inside her apartment. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a reporter,” I said it with my usual authority, though I knew I had none. “I just need to find Chelsea, that’s all.”

  “You do talk like you work for the papers. You can come in, but I don’t want you to try and sell me a subscription. I’m on the internet now, 75 smackers a month.”

  She let the door hang open and I followed her inside.

  ***

  Ruby Sanders told me she was seventy–six years, four months, and twelve days old. She sat me at her kitchen table and made two cups of green tea. I watched her heap a stack of cinnamon graham crackers onto a serving tray and set them in the table’s center. She kept a clean house, but here—I could fathom—was a solitary life. There weren’t any pictures of grandchildren or other family portraits. And she didn’t keep any pets. What Ruby did was make quilts. Her walls were covered with quilted images: A green pasture with grazing sheep above the kitchen sink, a series of Rockwell–like suburban scenes running the hallway’s length, and a self–portrait for a table runner.

  “You make these quilts yourself?”

  “Yep, sure do. You get to my age and guess what? You have plenty of time to make pictures, just like when I was a child.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “Did you know Chelsea well?” I wanted to get to business with Ruby because I sensed her desire for a long conversation over tea. I bit into a cracker. It was stale as a stone. “Chelsea seems to be, well, missing.”

  “Are you one of those private eyes from TV?”

  “Actually, like I said, I’m a reporter for the Caller.”

  Ruby bit into a cracker and washed it down with some tea. She was a tiny woman, but her voice was loud and raucous. “I used to read the papers. No point anymore,” she said. “You know, it’s the same old stuff in every paper. Look at one, then look at another—same old thing. What’s the point? I’m too old for all that.”

  I didn’t protest. Instead, I nodded in affirmation.

  “Anyhow,” she said, “Chelsea used to come over for dinner on Wednesdays. That was our day. We used to drink wine and talk shit about the neighbors—you know how it is.” Ruby slammed an index finger onto the table.

  “You have any idea where she might be?”

  “Before she left, a couple weeks before, something happened over there. I remember they woke me up. There was all this racket and then, that was it—I never saw Chelsea again. She missed our next dinner and that was it.”

  “What do you mean, racket?”

  “Lots of banging and voices. Sounded like they were moving furniture. Odd time of night though to move furniture. I figured Chelsea moved out.”

  “What did you two talk about, Ruby? I mean, besides the neighbors.”

  Ruby stood and walked down the hallway. I watched as she scooted into a room and then, after a moment, reappeared. She placed an old, tattered box on the table and opened it. It was a chess board, all the little white and black pieces and a little clock to time the moves. “We didn’t talk much to tell you the truth,” she said. “Chelsea was one hell of a chess player though—I only beat her a couple times. And that’s after one too many glasses of wine.” She laughed and stared into the box. Then she reached out and shook it—all the pawns and their superior pieces rattled against each other. Ruby shrugged and let the box rest on the table.

  “Did Chelsea ever mention family, friends?”

  “Never. Just chess. She was quite skilled actually, she’d played her whole life.”

  Chess, I thought, that’s funny. I remembered how my dad used to play chess. He tried to teach me, but it was a game I didn’t like. It was too slow, too much about waiting for the enemy to move. I stood and slurped down what remained of my green tea. “Thanks for the help, Ruby. I appreciate the tea and crackers. I should go. It’s almost time—”

  “No need to make excuses. I understand.” She walked with me to the front door and opened it. Before I could step outside, Ruby grabbed my forearm, squeezed tight with her tiny hands. “You’ll tell me if you find her? You’ll let me know when you find Chelsea?”

  I nodded and stepped into the bright morning light. There was a distant, vacant look in Ruby’s eyes, like she’d remembered a forgotten friend. Over my shoulder I said, “I will, Ruby. I promise.”

  ***

  Willie’s bar was a tiny place, just big enough for a cigarette shop. Inside, two city sanitation workers sat at the bar eating buttered toast and drinking Budweiser. You can learn a man’s pleasure by watching him eat breakfast, but that’s not alw
ays a good thing. The bartender, an old guy with white hair and a thick mustache, sneered at me and said, “I don’t know you, do I?”

  I shook my head. “I’m looking for a girl, that’s all.”

  “You can order a drink and maybe we’ll chat.”

  “Screwdriver.”

  He hunched over and made the drink for me. His hand shook and the ice rattled while he set it on the bar. “So, the hell do you want? That’s five bucks, by the way.”

  I pulled a ten dollar bill from my wallet and slapped it on the bar. I followed it with Chelsea’s picture. “You seen her lately?”

  He squinted at the image and then wiped his hands on a dirty towel. He took the ten dollar bill, folded it in half, and slid it into the pocket of his Levis. “Haven’t seen Chelsea for a little while now. And it’s too bad. She tipped well.”

  “Any idea where she ran off to?”

  “Probably just moved. People do that, you know.”

  “She ever bring friends in here?” I took a long, deep gulp from my drink.

  He thought about my question for a moment, wavered between telling me or hiding whatever he knew.

  Cops and reporters have that in common, the mistrust from working people. It’s not personal, but a symptom of power dynamics. Everybody knows information is the real source of wealth. And, really, why should they give a cop or a reporter any more firepower? Keep your hand hidden, that’s the first rule in any card game.

  He decided to answer: “I remember she came in here with a guy once. He was a rich guy, or he seemed like it at least. She called him… Richie—I remember that. I kept wondering if she knew what she was into… I got the impression he was into some bad stuff. I don’t know what. These kids, they all wind up in the shit, you know?”

  “What did Richie look like?

  “Short guy with a shaved head. Kind of like a bowling ball walking around in a nice suit,” he said. “Looked like a lawyer or a businessman. They left after a couple drinks. They were holding hands, too.”

  “So, you think this guy could’ve done something to her?”

  “The hell if I know—the truth is this: Chelsea brought a lot of guys in here. She got around, you know?”

  I finished my screwdriver and handed him my card.

  He slipped it into a pocket and said, “The Caller, huh? I haven’t read it in years.”

  “You and everybody else. Thanks for the drink and the info. Do me a favor, call me if you hear anything.”

  ***

  The kid worked the wire hanger like a professional. He was kneeling next to my car, fishing the hanger against my window and down into the door. I watched him while he tried to pop the lock. Before he could finish, I said,“Let me try, kid.”

  He spun around and his camouflage jacket made a deep–colored spiral in the morning air. He reached into his waistband and brought out a combat knife with a broken tip and a dull, serrated edge. He said, “Fuck you, old guy.”

  He looked eleven or twelve, at the oldest. He wasn’t in his teens, I was sure of that. “Careful with the knife,” I said. “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

  “Give me your wallet.”

  I laughed in his face. He shrunk at that and his chest heaved and fell. There was a moment when he didn’t know what to do, how to react. I grabbed him by the back of his neck and squeezed. He fell against my car and tried to squirm. I held him there and pried the knife from his grip, tossed it into the gutter. “Calm down kid. I’m not going to hurt you. Or call the cops.” I eased my grip and he relaxed. “Let me show you how this is done.”

  There was fear in his eyes, a wild, animal–crazed look that told me he was alone in the world. I let him loose. He shook me off and picked up the knife, shoved it into his pants again.

  I took hold of the hanger, the long wire still jutting from my car’s window, worked the wire to the left and hooked the lever. The lock popped. I opened the door and handed the hanger back to the kid. He stared at it like it was a magic wand or a false thumb or a bottle of disappearing ink. I said, “You live around here?”

  “Yeah, you could say that.”

  “Why my car?” There were others around, nicer and newer models. Usually, these punks went for something shiny, a ride with curb appeal.

  “Manual locks, man. I can’t open one of those.” He pointed at a late model Honda across the street. “They have alarms. I wasn’t gonna take your car anyway. I don’t know how to drive.”

  “Oh, well in that case,” I said. “Why should I mind?”

  The kid looked down the street. He looked back at me and pressed his lips together, bored. “I got somewhere I need to be.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and glared at me—a little kid acting like a man.

  Too many of those in this city.

  Shit, too many of those in this world.

  This kid, he hung around the neighborhood and I wondered what he saw each day. Enough for a few good stories, I thought. Enough for a book or a movie. Right then, I figured—I was certain—he knew Chelsea. I gave him a stern look and said, “You need a ride somewhere?”

  Chapter Eight

  I started the Volvo and let it idle. “I’m Sim. What’s your name?”

  The kid ignored me; he opened the glove box and sifted through my gas receipts, expense forms, and empty bottles—those tiny ones—of booze. He tossed the bottles onto the floorboard and grunted. He slammed the glove box shut. “Out here, they call me J–Bird,” he said and looked straight ahead while he folded his arms over his chest. His lips pressed into a hard line.

  “J–Bird, huh? That’s real professional… Who is ‘they’?’”

  He rolled his eyes and shifted a cool gaze to me; he sniffed the air twice like an animal. “Everybody, man. You mind taking me to one of those fast food places? I’m hungry. I guess a burger sounds good.”

  I steered onto the street and made a right hand turn. Traffic was light and the sun was higher in its arc—I felt the cement motion of a slow morning moving into a slow day. J–Bird stared out the window as we passed a bus stop. A few people huddled there with earbuds and cellphones. We drove past a couple prostitutes already out for work, or still working. J–Bird followed them with his eyes, then turned to the street as we moved farther.

  I tried another question. “You hang out down here all the time, on the South End? That neighborhood?”

  “Enough time,” he said. “Right there, pull in. I like these burgers.”

  I swung left across oncoming traffic and pulled into the drive–through lane. J–Bird ordered a large soda and a cheeseburger. I paid for his meal and parked facing the street while he plunged his dirty hands into the brown paper bag. Through the windshield, all the traffic streamed past us, the city buses and the taxis, all the people on foot. “You ever seen this woman, J–Bird?” I held Chelsea’s photo in front of his face. He studied it for a moment and bit into his burger. I watched him chew while he stared at Chelsea—another person judging whether to talk to me or not. My experience, it was best to wait this out. People don’t like silence. You wait and they’ll fill it up for you. That old reporter’s trick.

  “Yeah, I know her,” he said. “Had a boyfriend, too. Not very nice. He’s a player. Likes to act all big and tough around here.”

  “Is he somebody, on the streets?” I shoved the photo back into my blazer pocket and unbuckled my seatbelt. At least I was getting somewhere. I just didn’t know where it was headed. “You know his name?”

  J–Bird gnawed at the burger. He finished it and then answered me. “I think the guy’s name is Richie, but you didn’t hear it from me. Drives a black Mercedes—one of those new ones. With rims, too.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  “Shaved head, bald as an eagle. Shorter than you.” J–Bird slurped the rest of his soda.

  I handed him my card and he shoved it into his pocket.

  “Thanks for the burger,” he said.

  “You need anything, you give me a call.”

  �
��And if I see anything, right?”

  I nodded. “That too.”

  J–Bird rolled his eyes at me again and opened the door. He slammed it shut and crossed the street through traffic like a tiny, pre–teen Moses.

  ***

  I found a little strip mall tavern and ordered another drink. Liquid lunch, back then, was my best habit—or so I thought. I studied the photograph of Chelsea and jotted down notes in my reporter’s notebook. I was still suspicious of Mathis. How could I not be? He seemed to imply this whole deal had something to do with the human smuggling angle—that it was related to the stuff I wrote a couple years prior, but it felt smaller somehow, more personal.

  And why me?

  Okay, I understood, the cops would laugh Mathis out of the station, but he goes to a reporter instead? There was no simple answer to these odd questions forming in my head, but I was more intrigued. If it didn’t come to a story, so what? At this juncture I was fixated on the mystery. How did Mathis, Stan Evers, Chelsea Losse, and this guy Richie all come together? How did I fit into the whole damn thing?

  I used my cellphone to try Mathis again. The same lady picked up as the previous night. She said he wasn’t there, wouldn’t be in until he was in, and hung up on me. My thoughts shifted to Evers, the way he described his whole art thing…. What an odd man. No, I thought, queer. That was the right word for him. Still, I thought the art thing was tertiary—just a coincidence.

  More questions bounced inside my head.

  That’s what I needed to do with Evers. I needed to ask more questions.

  I looked down at my cellphone just as it buzzed. It was Spinks, my cop buddy. “Hey, thanks for working so fast, Spinks.”

  Spinks coughed into the line. “No worries, Sim. Look, I don’t have much for you. The girl’s name didn’t come up anywhere. Probably a fake name.”

  It was an answer I expected. “And the guy I mentioned?”