There’s a brown paper bag waiting for me outside my apartment door. On the outside of the bag is taped a small folded piece of paper.
I crouch down and inspect the piece of paper first. Lift the top half to read the note.
Hope this helps things run more smoothly.
I open the bag and glance inside. A box of Imodium A-D. Forty-eight tablets. Which is probably all the corner store had.
“Ha, ha. Very funny, you dumbass.”
Erik, of course, is not here to appreciate the insult. I glance at his door, think about knocking, giving him a kiss for his trouble. When I first met Erik, he was always quiet, brooding. It felt like he took himself too seriously. But once I got to know him, especially on an intimate level, I found he could be really sweet, as well as silly. It’s not the type of thing you’d expect from a guy who used to be a Marine, and maybe that’s why I like him.
I decide not to knock on his door, though—he’s probably working, anyway—and instead let myself into my own apartment.
Even though the place has always felt empty, today it feels even emptier.
I have to admit, having Star here last night was a nice change of pace. Granted, the preceding events that led to her entering the apartment were not ideal, but the simple fact that there was another living body in the apartment felt nice, if only for a moment. The baby had barely been in my possession for twelve hours, but I felt like I’d grown a bond with her. Not a strong bond, no, but a bond nonetheless.
It had physically hurt having to give her to Leila Simmons, and that was why I hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. Hadn’t bothered to look inside the grocery bag one last time. Hadn’t bothered to reach in and feel her soft skin. Even when Leila pulled her from the grocery bag and strapped her into the car, I had looked away.
I feel confident that Star is in good hands. I did as much research on Leila Simmons in as little time as possible, but I had a good sense that she was genuine when we met. After all, I’d made her drive a long distance. I couldn’t blame her for feeling jerked around, but it was the only way to know she was on the level.
One of the girls I met with recently. I heard that she was taken.
Leila’s words echo inside my head, unbidden.
I close my eyes.
“No.”
They have this place out in the middle of nowhere.
I shake my head suddenly, as if that might dispel the words from my memory. No luck. If anything, my wanting to forget she ever said those words makes them come again, even stronger.
It’s near an oil refinery. A shed.
Of course when she mentioned another girl had been taken by the two men from last night, I heard every word and immediately wanted to ask more questions, but my focus—my entire world at that moment—was on making sure Star would be taken care of. Nothing else mattered.
I’d purposely not asked Leila Simmons any questions about the girl or the location of the shed because I didn’t want to get involved. It wasn’t my place. Not anymore. The person I used to be—the one who did non-sanctioned hits for the government—would have demanded to know more about the girl and the location of where she was being kept. Because that person felt a need to right every wrong. To fix every slight. To correct every injustice. There were people in the world who were helpless, who were weak, and the person I’d been felt I had no choice but to stand up for those in need.
It had been noble, maybe, but it had also been stupid. Had gotten me into trouble from time to time. Had even gotten some of those close to me killed in the process.
No, I hadn’t asked Leila Simmons about the girl or where she believed the girl had been taken, because that person no longer existed.
A yawn hits me, hard, and I glance at the clock hanging on the wall.
Almost three o’clock.
I’ve been awake now for over twenty-four hours. I need sleep, and I need a lot of it. Which means I’ll have to call off work tonight. My boss won’t be happy, but he’s never happy.
I still have the disposable, the one I had used to call Leila Simmons. I dial the bar and wait through ten or twelve rings before Brenda, one of the daytime waitresses, answers.
I ask, “Reggie in?”
Brenda recognizes my voice, asks how I’m doing, doesn’t give me the time to answer when she says to hold on a sec.
The sec takes about a minute, the phone having been placed on a table so the music and voices can be heard in the background, and then the phone is picked up and Reggie clears his nicotine-addled throat.
“Yeah?”
“Reggie, it’s Jen. I can’t come in tonight.”
“Why the fuck not?”
That Reggie, he’s a charmer.
“I’m not feeling so good.”
“It’s Saturday night. We’re gonna be packed. You need to be here.”
“I’m telling you, Reggie, I’m not feeling good. Best I don’t come in.”
“Yeah, and whatcha got?”
I think about the Imodium A-D in the paper bag, and decide with this situation the more graphic the better.
“The shits, Reggie. I got the shits.”