The Shaft (14 page)

    She had a cheeky, feline face half-hidden in the winds of a truly heroic muffler which looked hand-knitted. Her snubbed nose peeked cutely over the top fold. Her eyes were widely spaced, bright cornflower blue, with a slight bulge that lent her a little girl aspect. She probably still got carded at drink-ordering time. Framing her face was a cloud of black, frizzy hair restrained below by the muffler and above by bright red fur earmuffs. Her hair had trapped snowflakes, and droplets glistened magically like Christmas ornaments.

    She hiked her muffler over her nose without breaking stride as Cruz let her pass. A double row of gold eagle buttons ran down the front of the coat, and she wore brown leather boots with two-inch heels, as if daring the snow to try spilling her. Even with the boots she was petite, five-five or thereabouts, with just enough rounded bottom contouring the coat to give her away. She plodded into the snowscape with an aggressive step that made Cruz imagine the muscles in her legs, and smile.

    Now heat was boiling up from his shirt collar as well as from the sanctuary of the post office lobby. He cracked the door to peek back out. She was southbound on the same side of Kentmore he had just come up. He had not noticed footprints. She lived in this neighbourhood, it looked like, within easy reach of the P.O. even this late at night. Or maybe she was going home from somewhere else. He could most likely see where she lived from his own corner windows.

    The sudden hominess boffed him like a double whack of Jack Daniels to the occipital lobe. Sometimes desire could clout you unawares. He knew, as he watched her grow vague in the weather, that he was going to spend tonight with a tormentor of an erection unless measures were taken. He was by himself, defenceless, and the brief sight of her had unhinged him. His buttocks clenched sympathetically with the need for below-the-belt nourishment.

    There was only him. And the Kenilworth ghost. And Frosty the Blow Man, there in his dresser drawer.

    
Whoo, lord!

    Upon examination of Drawer 100, Cruz found that Bauhaus had made his walking weight heavier by an entire kilo - a guaranteed no-shit felony bust for dealing, should anyone wearing a badge opt to play poke-and-pat. Never mind that there was another baggie just like it already stashed back at 307. Yesterday's pickup, still sitting. Not smart.

    His headache surged back, trying to unsocket his eyes from within.
Son of a bitch!

    He plugged change into one of the payphones, which were situated within small alcoves near the brass double doors.

    After riding out Bauhaus' stupid answer phone message (backed with the Thus Spake Zarathustra riff Cruz knew from
2001: A Space Odyssey
), he punched in a digital code that cued a line test. If the line proved clean, he would then speak to a real live person. Somebody had to be home, or Cruz would not have been beeped to call this number.

    A bit more electronic freeform. Then Chari 's voice, sniffling and bleary: 'Uh yeah, hello?'

    'Get Bauhaus. I didn't drag my ass out into glacier land to try talking sense into your dead ass.'

    Chari hiccuped and chortled. The receiver hit the bar-top with a thunk as Sugar Doodad was paged. Cruz's bullshit threshold had maxed at critical mass already…

    … and the image of the woman he had just encountered burned above and below. He could see a small puddle of snowmelt, where she had been standing, near the smaller mailbox windows.

    'Howdy kiddo. How's the ole hammer danglin'?'

    'Why the fuck have you loaded me like this? You want me to wear fucking bells? Maybe get a tattoo on my forehead that says DOPE?'

    'Calm it a notch, boyo. Tis the season to increase die traffic flow. Supply. Demand. You know? Profit.' Bauhaus let go of a boozy sigh. 'Makes ya hard, don't it?'

    Cruz was having a hard time tracking this amateur hour owlflop. What would an operator like Rosie say? He tried to draw even breaths. Rosie would say. Rosie would. Rosie…

    'The Future Politicians of Oakwood need gassing up for their round of holiday parties,' said Bauhaus. 'Family fun, a bit of wife swapping, dirty secrets out of closets, shared cognac with Grandpa, that brand of happy horseshit. To relieve themselves of the tedium, they arrange other parties, where they can assemble with their peers to partake of illicit substances. Which is where you and I come in, right after the procurers who supply the tarts who'll fellate a whole fraternity for one price. That stash will be out of your hands in a matter of hours. Trust me. Weight that doesn't move doesn't make me a nickel.'

    Rosie would say… take advantage of the 24-hour party going on inside the skull of this piker. Do what he wants but get what YOU want. That's as far as you have to pollute yourself. You'll be around when he's history.

    'All right. I don't want two bricks in my life after tomorrow night.' Oh, god… before the cut, before markup, it was still nearly a hundred in flake under Cruz's wing. He held even. Try to hold cool. Try not to blow Rosie's faith. 'But two kilos, man…'

    'You'll have to pass a lot more by the end of the week, believe me. Hey. Don't pop a vein. I know what I'm doing.' Cruz heard one of the Jailbait Twins laugh in the background.

    'Which reminds me. You've run girls before, Bauhaus. Well, you're gonna run one right over here. Tonight. Not one of those brain-dead twinkle twats like Chari or' Krystal. Someone above the age of consent/

    'Here's to… uh, whatever his name was. McBride!' Cruz heard ice clink in a hiball glass. Jesus, but Bauhaus was a moron.

    Thinking of Bauhaus made him think of Emilio, with his slick Miami network, his hotshot Marielito pilots, his paramilitary trucking chain in Bolivia. Emilio could be that scary. No false fronts there.

    'Pay attention and just do it, por favor. And one more thing.' He consciously kept from swearing or demanding. Bauhaus could probably have people snuffed, too… only up here it was done differently.

    'What else do you need, Cruz?' Not kiddo. Cruz was treading a line,
yessir. Careful; don't judge a dweeb by the flash of his plaid
.

    'You want me to handle this much blow, I think I'd better have a piece.'

    'I presume you mean a gun, son, and not a piece like you already asked for, to wit, a twit.' Bauhaus had regained some of his ho-ho. 'A gun. Lapistola. Yes?'

    Cruz decided to push it one more notch. 'Anything nine-mike-mike not made in America, preferably with better than a mickeymouse eight-round clip.'

    Bauhaus harrumphed. 'I'll call Marko. Yo, homeboy!'

    Cruz wanted to start smashing the receiver against the wall, imagining both to be Bauhaus' cranium. The coke tipped him over.

    'Do you read me? And a party girl. She'd better not have any exotic infections whose names are, like, acronyms, you dig what I'm saying? Don't smoke me and don't pull my dick. Otherwise you can pound your stash up your loading dock with a mallet!'

    'Chill out, kiddo. Cool it off. Freeze it.'

    'And don't call me kiddo.'

    A moment of measured silence. Then: 'No hard feelings, right? Right. Okay. Got it all jotted down on Chari 's butt. Girl. Gun. PDQ. Now, if you're ready to listen, Mister Cruz, I'll give you the whens and wheres.'

    'Yeah. Sorry. It's just…'

    What was it? Frustration, mostly at the quick flee and the alien digs. Anger at giving up Rosie for Bauhaus. Irritation at the Oakwood High dips. The decaying orbit of life in general. How could he put this into words for someone like Bauhaus?

    'Forget it, Cruz. This place is getting to you and you need a little R&R. My specialty. You hear me? First aid is on the way, troops. Now write this down…'

    Cruz dutifully recorded vital stats and hung up without amenities. He bundled the sniffproof package of cocaine into his battle jacket and prepared to meet the night again. It would take all of the beer in his fridge, probably, just to get to sleep and he did not feel much like drinking alone.

    Enough of the mystery woman's new footprints remained in the snow for Cruz to trace her to one of the houses bunched together on the east side of Kentmore, half a block past a side street actually named Kenilworth. Perhaps, he thought, the backside of Kenilworth Arms actually reaches to the next block; the building was so sprawled it was difficult to tell. The trail of rapidly filling depressions led to a skinny two-story place with an ornate porch and unshovelled driveway. No car. Maybe there was a garage backed onto the alley. Etched cameo glass distinguished the front door, which was sheltered from gale force by an uglier and more functional storm door. Cruz estimated that if he squashed his face against his Kentmore window, he might just be able to see part of her front yard. The windows above him were all dark. To home and to bed.

    He could hear himself breathing, his body laboring against dehydration in the cold; felt his breath leave him in unraveling clouds. He thought of his hands, warming the hemispheres of her ass. He wondered if the hair on her pussy was as curly, as black.

    Time for another jolt, nasally speaking. To keep the pornographic movie in his head unreeling headlong toward the Good Stuff, which starred Flagpole Cruz penetrating every orifice into which he might conceivably fit. Oh god, Bauhaus had fucking well better not nod off before making the right phone calls…

    Back at the Garrison Street door he kicked snow from his boots and hit the stairs. Halfway up he nearly collided with someone headed down at twice his speed.

    Cruz was lugging enough nose candy to make him instantly reactionary. He sprang back a step to cut himself some striking room. The last toot had timed him tight.

    The guy on the stairs jerked backward, flinching. He did not drop the Del Monte cardboard box he had in both hands. He was wearing thick gloves in yellow leather - trucker's gloves, thought Cruz, the kind with the red balls on the wrist fasteners. A knit cap was sleeved down to the guy's eyebrows. He wore an off-green parka, hood down. It had a lot of zippers and pockets, like a space suit. The big floppy hood was fringed with some land of genuine fur. It looked really warm.

    Cruz let his fists open slowly. The guy three steps up relaxed, not panicked, just startled. The time for attack had rushed past.

    'Whoa. Me friendly.' His green eyes seemed mildly inquisitive, not frightened, almost disinterested. Preoccupied. He held his position, aware he was blocking the stairwell.

    'Sorry,' said Cruz, his hands still up in supplication. 'It's late, you know?'

    The stranger nodded.

    In the box, Cruz could see the tops of manila file folders. A lot of paper. He dismissed the guy as a burglar. 'You uh moving in?'

    'Yeah. You could say that.' The green eyes examined the planes of Cruz's dark, now-moustacheless face. Perhaps searching for an attack breach.

    'Kinda late.'

    'I like being unobtrusive,' the guy said. 'I just couldn't resist freezing my nards off in return for a fabulous view of everything buried in snow. Or, I'm just the slowest and most methodical home invader in Chicago. I've never been caught because I put stuff in instead of stealing it.' His eyebrows went up and he shrugged. Sense of humor… or not?

    Cruz decided to stop being such a dick. 'Like Santy Claus.' Every tenant was a potential customer, he thought. This guy looked jumpy enough to perhaps crave an occasional piece of the Rock. 'Moving in, huh?'

    'Yep. 207, that's me.'

    'You're right under me. 307. If I party too loud, just come on up and join in.'

    'I'll remember that.' He shifted the box weight to his opposite hand.

    'You get the tour? Meet Fergus, all that good jive?'

    'Oh yeah.' The newcomer's lip curled, exposing incisors. He rolled his eyes. 'Pretty scary. I was thinking maybe that guy is dead and he preserves his body from decay with all that cologne.'

    Cruz grinned. 'Only it don't work so good. I'm Cruz.'

    'Jonathan. Meetcha.'

    Cruz screwed his face funny, as though unused to people having names so long or highborn-sounding.
John-a-thon? Feuw, thenk you veddy much.
The thought didn't rate more than a half second.

    They shook hands, gloves crumping together with that badass saddle noise.

    'You need a hand with any of this stuff, Jonathan?'

    'Not really; I'm almost done. Noticed the elevator was shot.'

    'It's always broke. Forget it. Forget the laundry room, too. It's like a waiting room in Hell.'

    Jonathan snorted. 'Only time I could borrow a truck to move my junk was this late; that's another reason I'm creeping in and out right now. You a night worker or something?'

    'Sort of. I'm just up late a lot.' He looked at Jonathan's feet and saw Reebok hightops, soaked fully through. Not from around here. 'Lotta books and papers and stuff. You work in an office?'

    'Sort of.' He'd run dry fast. 'Listen, I'd better finish up before I drop. I've got to roll in to work at nine. Who knows, my truck might be buried already, Cruz.'

    Cruz watched the green eyes go vague, like green computer type blinking impatiently until data is squirreled into the proper hidey-hole. This Jonathan guy was storing his name.

    He backed down the stairs to let Jonathan pass, and dusted the remainder of loose snow off his battle jacket before it could melt and soak in.

    If Bauhaus delivered tonight, poor Jonathan might be kept up till sunrise.

    'Guess I'll catch you later, then. Jonathan.'

    Jonathan nodded one more time, and they went their ways.

    
Guy probably thinks I'm an idiot,
thought Jonathan as he dropped the box into the back of Bash's Toyota truck. While clearing out he'd accidentally taken one of Bash's fileboxes, how comic. Now it had to go home. He needed to make one more trip anyway. Then his move, such as it was, would be finished.