JESSICA OPENS THE door. Behind it stands an inebriated young man, his mouth curved up in a flirtatious smile.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Jessica says, glancing at the gun she hastily shoved onto the hat rack a second ago.
“Sorry, Detective. We were drinking in the neighborhood and—”
“I said you could maybe come over tonight—” Jessica suddenly remembers the call is still active. She peers into the empty stairwell, lets Fubu in, and grabs her phone.
“A friend stopped by,” she says as she watches Fubu take off his wet coat and hang it up on the coatrack.
“Roger.”
“I appreciate it,” Jessica says before she hangs up.
“Work?” Fubu takes off his shoes, wanders into the living room as if he owns the place, and collapses onto the sofa.
“I told you I was working.” Jessica grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it from the tap.
“I lost my phone,” Fubu says with an incredulous laugh.
“You just sent me a message a couple hours ago.”
“I know. And then it walked off. . . . Maybe someone stole it. I don’t know.”
“Where did this happen?” Jessica says, and drains the water from her glass.
“This bar in Kamppi. There were all kinds of sketchy people there though. Fucking hell—”
“And so you decided to come here. You know you can’t file your report with me, right?”
Fubu chuckles. “I was thinking maybe we could push our date up a little.”
“At least you’re in better shape than last time.” Jessica sits down at her little dining table.
“My bad. I was pretty lit.”
“You can say that again.”
“So, what’s good?”
“What?”
“Can I stay?”
“I have work to do.”
“And you can do it. I can watch TV or something. First Netflix, then chill.” Fubu smiles broadly, the red-and-blue Montreal Canadiens beanie with the big pom-pom still on his head. The rolled-up hoodie sleeves reveal thin but sinewy arms scrawled with a few intentionally tasteless tattoos.
Jessica lowers her glass to the table and massages her forehead. The last twenty-four hours have been exhausting. And every single cell in her body knows more is coming. That the attempts to frighten her aren’t over. Her body and mind are screaming for a break, a tiny escape from reality. That’s why Fubu is here. Her escape is there for the taking. Fifteen minutes. Hit it and quit it. But something about it feels wrong. She has seen so much death recently that giving in to pleasure right now can’t be right. “Sorry.” Jessica stands, hands on her hips. “You have to go. I have way too much work.”
The corners of Fubu’s mouth turn downward in an exaggerated show of sadness, like those of a tragic clown. Then he claps his hands together and bounces up from the couch, surprisingly spry. “Oh well, what the fuck? I guess I’ll take my bone and go find someone else to play with.” He tramps over to the entryway. This is exactly what is so appealing about Fubu. He’s self-confident, pushy to the point of brazenness, but he never whines and he understands “no” the first time. He’s used to getting rejected—and, as a result, to getting other things too.
“I don’t get it though,” Fubu suddenly says as he pulls on his shoes.
“You don’t get what?”
“Why you are resisting. What if I just stayed?”
Jessica feels her patience being tried. Fubu is a whiner after all.
“Go.”
“What are you afraid of?”
“Now! Fuck!”
Fubu smiles and nods. “OK. But remember, Detective, that when I get to Storyville and pour a couple of pints into this sex machine, it’s going to be full steam ahead. . . . Some woman who’s almost at your level is gonna go home with me. And then you’ll be sorry. You’ll be diddling yourself alone here while you’re watching some German detective show—”
Jessica smiles back. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Call me if you change your mind,” Fubu says, finally serious, then slaps himself in the forehead after he opens the door. “Except you can’t call me because I don’t have my phone.”
Jessica takes a pen from the table, rips a strip off an old newspaper, and writes her number down on it. Then she walks to the door, pinches Fubu’s nose, and shoves the slip of paper in his collar.
“Never give up.”
Fubu disappears into the stairwell. Jessica leans against the closed door and discovers that her heart is pounding. Hard. She takes a deep breath. She has to collect her thoughts; she has work to do.
But just now, for the first time in years, going back to the apartment off the neighboring stairwell strikes her as wrong. The luxurious home feels somehow foreign, too big for her to control. She’s going to get her computer and spend the night in her studio, in the place everyone thinks she is.