Twenty-Nine

Stitches scraped along the pillow, making a grating sound that drove me from a dreamless sleep. Pain pulsed in my temple, reminding me of my beating. Just before I opened my eyes, I recalled an image of a brass-knuckled fist bearing down on me.

I opened my eyes and lay in my bed, not moving, assessing the damage. My head hurt. My side hurt. I wiggled my toes and flexed my fingers. My right hand hurt. My stomach twitched, but the rest of me was okay. I sat up and looked around the room.

It turned out to be my bedroom. A large framed picture of Fenway Park hung on the wall across from me. A small window faced out over the parking lot behind my building. The trees across the road swayed in the late summer sun. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed, resting them on the warm floor, and reconstructed how I had gotten here. My memories were a swirl of police, EMTs, emergency rooms, and Lucy looking horrified as they wheeled me out of the men’s room. Still, she stuck with me. She and Bobby had brought me home and dropped me into bed.

A mug clunked onto the counter in my kitchen. I opened the door, expecting to see Lucy. Instead I saw Jael Navas.

There are all sorts of friends: happy friends, sad friends, childhood friends, interesting friends, sports friends, work friends, and boring friends. In Jael Navas, I was lucky enough to have a deadly friend.

Bobby had hooked me up with Jael back when the Russian Mafia was threatening my life. He knew her from some murky international entanglements and her work for Mossad. Jael had given up that life and become a PI in Boston.

If Jael was sitting in my house, then Bobby thought that things had gotten dangerous.

Jael looked up from her newspaper and said, “You look worse than I had expected.”

“Good morning to you too.”

“Agent Miller told me that you had been beaten. But I had not expected stitches.”

“Do they look bad?”

Jael got up from the bar chair to inspect my stitches. At five-ten, she looked me straight in the eye. She had short black hair and wore black jeans with a gray top that came up to her neck. The top’s tight fabric revealed hints of the muscles in her back and arms. Her steady and surprisingly gentle fingers probed my stitches.

“The cut is near the hairline. The scar should be small and easy to hide.”

“Where’s Lucy?”

“Agent Miller drove her home after I arrived.” Jael’s nose twitched. “You should take a shower.”

I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Jael was right about the stitches. There was a crescent cut on the side of my brow up near the hair about a half-inch long. My cheek had a purple bruise, and there was a bump on the back of my head. My ribs hurt where they had been kicked.

I showered and dressed. Ground some Bitches Brew coffee from Wired Puppy, brewed, and poured it. I made us wheat toast and almond butter sandwiches. While we ate, Jael examined Click and Clack, the hermit crabs.

She said, “I assume these are not food.”

“No,” I said. “They’re pets. I doubt they’re kosher.”

Jael, who was an observant Jew, said, “No. They are definitely trayf. I wonder if they should be kept in a kitchen.”

“Even if they have their own silverware?”

Jael watched Clack harvest food bits from his sponge and asked, “Why were you beaten?”

“Bobby didn’t tell you?”

“Agent Miller didn’t know.”

I told Jael the whole story up to yesterday when I had my drink with Bobby. It didn’t get easier in the retelling. In fact, it got worse. I had a dead brother I didn’t know about. My father had a family I didn’t know about. My cousin had an occupation I didn’t know about. My pseudo-uncle had loans I didn’t know about. Yet, despite everything I didn’t know, somebody was worried that I knew too much.

Jael said, “It would be smart to stop asking questions about this.”

I said, “You too?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you also going to tell me to quit?”

“No. I do not understand how you could consider quitting after a man has beaten you.”

Jael was right. Some guy had beaten me up. He had shown me that I was unable to keep myself safe, that my face was his plaything. He had snuck up on me while my dick was in my hand and assaulted me. I’d never forget him—his dark skin and teardrop tattoo, his smell, the rough feeling of the skin on his hands as I feebly batted at them and tried to get away. If I found him right now, I’d kill him.

I hated him.

I drank my coffee with a shaking hand and said, “I am bullshit.”

Jael said, “Bullshit? This is not bullshit. This is serious.”

“No. I am bullshit. I’m angry.”

“When Bobby Miller told me that you had been beaten, I knew your enemies had made a mistake.”

“Enemies? I’ve got enemies?”

“People with no enemies rarely get beaten in a toilet.”

“What mistake did they make?”

“They punched the bear.”

“You mean they poked the bear.”

“Yes. They poked the bear.”

“So now what do I do?”

Jael smiled. “Poke them back.”