they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs, Page 2

  I leaned in the open door, getting a cigarette going. For a moment, I thought I’d made a mistake about the elevator.

  Why hadn’t he gotten in? Was he actually afraid of what I might do?

  This made sense, I supposed, if looked at in certain ways. He’d only just started this game, knew I must be flailing, struggling, desperate. Maybe he’d thought I would get overcome, not think things through.

  But I could’ve overtaken him on the stairs, at any time. I could have gotten ahead of him or just lunged at his exhausted back, knocked him down a flight, done away with him there with just as much privacy as an elevator.

  It didn’t make sense.

  Did he always put himself through such an ordeal? A kind of exercise? Or had he done it to be certain I’d follow him, learn where he lived, not just give up, wait down in the lobby, walk away?

  He stopped outside of an apartment and gave a knock, using the same tissue to wipe at his forehead as he did to blow his nose.

  An older man answered and they chatted for a minute. The older man glanced in my direction, narrowed his eyes on me, but there didn’t seem any particular malice in it. I was, after all, loitering in the stairwell door, leaning with a cigarette drooling over my face. Any tenant would have looked at me

  Both of them went into the apartment. The door closed. I started in the direction of the door, myself, but stopped, uncertain of how to proceed.

  I felt drunk, sick with it, the cigarette smoke making matters worse, even if I didn’t inhale.

  Had he brought me here so that man would see me? What could that matter?

  It wasn’t his apartment, at any rate.

  Did he even live in the building? Did he just want me to wait?

  I sat down against the wall, closing my eyes, pressing the long of my palm flat over my furrowed brow.

  It annoyed me that I was spending so much time asking myself what he might be doing. I didn’t care. Or didn’t want to care.

  And the thought that the older man might be his deranged little friend, his ugly lover, intruded overtop of everything, making me seethe, making me growl aloud. I couldn’t do anything about it, of course, whatever they were up to. They could both be in on it, the fat one having dragged me here, a little prize to show the old one. They could be chortling while they jerked and tugged at each others naked bodies, gloating while they orgasmed in each others sweat dampened hands, laying in their joint stink while they knew I was helpless, smoking drunk on the stairs of a stranger’s apartment building.

  Nausea closed my eyes, but I popped them open every three seconds or so, the thack of blood in my ears sounding like feet up the stairs, feet down the stairs, somebody coming up on me, down on me and I didn’t want to be seen in such a state.

  ***

  Of course I could just have walked away, left town, run as far as I could manage. The option was plain enough and tempting. It wouldn’t stop him turning me in, but I doubted that not disappearing would make matters play out any differently.

  It couldn’t possibly matter, considering how this lunatic was conducting himself. He seemed comfortably assured that I wouldn’t do him any violence, which meant that he must have evidence beyond his saying so that would interest the authorities.

  But what could it have been? A photograph?

  It was impossible.

  Fingerprints?

  The strangulation had been sloppy, I hadn’t done anything beyond the most superficial wipes to areas of the body I thought I’d touched, not to mention my prints would’ve been all over the stairwell, the trash bags, the trashcans. But my fingerprints were on file, they’d been taken more than once in the last five years. If there was any such evidence it would’ve been found out in the course of the police investigation.

  It must have been a photograph, no matter how ridiculous it seemed.

  I’d never confessed, never even let anyone know I had an interest in Claudia. No one I knew even knew who Claudia was.

  What in Christ’s could he have on me?

  It was something, he had something. It was beyond even the most warped imagination that he knew what he knew but would start all of this knowing he couldn’t prove it out.

  Or would his dropping my name be just enough to connect the dots of an investigation?

  I was reasoning this all through as calmly as I could, would’ve been jotting notes on paper if I’d had any.

  He must have known about me before witnessing the crime, there was no way around that. So, he knew about my infatuation with Claudia.

  Had he intuited it from seeing me once or twice watching her, no matter how casual I tried to make the behavior? Had he then decided to document me, gotten it in his sick little mind that I might get up to something? Had he traced all of my movements? Had he collected bus slips, kept a diary of what trains I took, maybe taken pictures of me, kept it all neatly in order? When I’d broken, when I’d killed Gavin, had he seen that too?

  I got annoyed.

  No.

  None of this had happened.

  Four months ago. Four months. I’d not even walked past Claudia’s workplace since then, hadn’t even gone in to that part of town.

  Reaching into my pocket for another cigarette, I found I had none.

  Was he going to sleep in there with that old man?

  For all I knew, he’d gone out the window, plumped his way down the fire escape. It was as reasonable to assume as anything else.

  ***

  More than partway tempted to knock on the old man’s door, I stood up to stretch myself out, no longer swimming with drunk, but a headache gripping in, fatigue in my bones doubled by the churn of my thinking.

  I couldn’t even kill them both, though images of doing just that gnashed in sharp lines through my other thoughts. But, if his being dead wouldn’t change anything, it definitely meant there was physical evidence. Something in an envelope. Maybe in that envelope he’d been fingering, tearing into on his way up the stairs, though this seemed peculiar to consider.

  And since this old man was likely privy to things, how many other monsters did this imbecile know? How many other people were included in on this? Or was it just an innocent seeming package he’d asked a friend to mail for him on a certain day, maybe not even addressed to the police but just to a particular detective by name, to an acquaintance at a newspaper, to Claudia, to anyone?

  I’d been in the stairwell or a few paces down the corridor for an interminable amount of time. Maybe an hour at most, but it felt longer, felt shorter, didn’t feel anything.

  Memories of waiting around when I was a young man for a girlfriend to get off work, for the metro station to open, for weeks to pass before some anticipated event, thoughts of more pleasant waiting got into me, made me feel wretched, a weakling. Beautiful waiting, but waiting that still disappeared, didn’t matter, felt like no time at all.

  Just like this. Just like this, now.

  And it mattered just as little.

  This man might not even be the person who was behind all of this, though his demeanor didn’t suggest he was somebody simply playing a part in someone else’s revenge.

  Revenge? Could it be that?

  Not from Claudia. Gavin had hardly even been her lover, they’d seen each other twice and she’d gone to bed with him, yes, but would hardly be moved to these sorts of machinations.

  Gavin’s parents?

  They would just walk up to me, slit my throat where I stood.

  Or had this man loved Gavin?

  Absurd.

  All of it was absurd.

  None of these people had anything more to do with each other than they individually had to do with me. And they had nothing to do with me.

  I was just some morsel to this creature. I doubted he even cared. Nothing in how he behaved seemed to call out that he did. The opposite. He couldn’t care less a gun to h
is head.

  ***

  I’d started walking the length of the corridor, back and forth, was nearly back to the stairwell door on at least the fiftieth lap when my accuser exited the old man’s apartment, a laugh on his face, the door gently closing behind him.

  I squared myself and watched as he took a key from his pocket, entered another apartment, two doors further along the corridor, the opposite wall. He didn’t even look over at me, not even to verify I hadn’t left. He probably could tell peripherally that I was there, had maybe glimpsed me before I’d turned around.

  Not that it mattered. I didn’t know why I was considering it.

  His door closed. Locked. The sound of two more latches or bolts.

  He just left me in the corridor.

  But it couldn’t have been as simple as that.

  However, I now knew where he lived, so there was no need to stay around.

  Almost as though this were a cue, my stomach gurgled viciously, an insistence of grime tapping to be defecated, a sour breath lifting from my gut out in a whispered belch, my eyes stinging from the paste of sweat that had been settling on my face.

  I walked to the elevator, rode it down to the lobby unsure of every movement, watching the elevator doors spread open, revealing the exit to the building, found myself up the block, ducking into a gas station toilet, giggling like an idiot the bowel movement felt so relieving.

  I bought cigarettes, three pack, then reentered the little shop, glad to see they sold alcohol, though nothing very strong. A slim, tall bottle of red wine caught my eye. On sale. I bought two.

  I found a bench in a little grassy area in front of a library, had a seat, stared at my foot, one leg crossed, raised so that the heel of my shoe was balanced on my knee.

  What could he want me to do?

  I pondered this, reminding myself, actually whispering the words as though the sober wisdom of an adult to a child, that I didn’t have to do what I thought he wanted me to do.

  I nodded and nodded and nodded my head.

  I didn’t have to. Certainly not. But it seemed a mistake not to at least figure out what it was. He was going to end my life. No question. I couldn’t not know why. I couldn’t not struggle. He had no right. And if nothing would move him, to not struggle made me twice as pathetic, like I was killing myself but blaming him as a cowardly dodge.

  Listening to myself, all my thoughts, justifications, arguments, philosophies, psychological analyses, I hated myself. I hated myself, putridly. But not enough to think myself less than some fat, filthy maggot who felt he owned me, however right he may have been.

  ***

  Into my second bottle of wine, I suddenly felt paranoid that I’d better not get caught just sitting around drunk. I don’t know what I was worried might happen, but I stood, thought about finding a restaurant, but my train of thought narrowed and I began back in the direction of my accuser’s apartment building.

  As I walked, I slouched through my options, my thoughts erratic, not staying in place long enough to fully flesh out any one full course of action.

  Supposing I were to leave, I thought, but then interjected that there was no need to jump to that, there was plenty of time to mull things over, the option of leaving always open, right up until the early afternoon of the day I’d be turned over.

  So, I never wound up thinking about how I would go about leaving, if I did.

  I did try to calculate how much money I’d have, but also didn’t get to a solid sum. Instead, I fixated on what would be my last paycheck. I did have two work shifts left before the deadline, but as both of those shifts combined wouldn’t amount to but one hundred twenty dollars, I decided against work.

  -Added to which, I said aloud, a violent whish and closing fast of my hand, I wouldn’t get this last paycheck at all.

  I stopped, staggered against a wall, knelt down, swigged two long drains of wine, pretending to be tying my shoe. I didn’t want to stand up, so glanced around, saw no one, stayed as I was.

  I’d not even be able to pick up my last check. It would be three-fifty, four hundred dollars, not a fortune, but money I’d earned, would come in handy if I did leave.

  I wanted to cry, but it was too pathetic. It was my fault. How many times had I meant to sign up for direct deposit? If I had, that money would be waiting for me.

  Idiotic.

  I felt I was being viciously abused by everyone.

  So, I took the last of my wine in a series of chokes, lobbed the bottle at a wall, watched it hit the cement of the sidewalk without shattering.

  ***

  I got a cigarette going in the lobby of my accuser’s apartment building, the inbreaths of it tasting like thick brown foam, my throat dry but cankered with softs of clumped phlegm.

  I hit the button to summon the elevator, but turned away, blundered over to the stairwell instead. I started to take the steps at a jog, but by the second landing was winded, dizzy, wheezed in discomfort. The drink in my head throbbed and I vomited, looked at it, wondered if I should clean it up, then furiously grit my teeth at it, continued slowly to ascend.

  I got to the floor where his apartment would be, stepped into the corridor and became suddenly uncertain of myself.

  Was it the tenth floor?

  I peered down over the stairwell railing, looked up, leaned in the opening of the corridor and squinted. I saw the mat that was in front of the old man’s apartment. I glared at it, spit clumsily, only half aware, heard it blot on the tip of my shoe.

  A last hesitation closed me up another moment just outside of what I’d decided was his door.

  But, what could be the worst that would happen? I’d wake someone?

  There was nothing anyone could do about it.

  So, I knocked.

  No response.

  I pounded. I kicked the door, my limbs then going out of my control. I worked up a sweat, stamping in place, hitting my thighs with fists closed up so tight they went numb, my open hands shaking as though from the cold.

  I looked at the peephole of the door, then covered it with my thumb, ashamed of myself.

  -I’m not a weakling, I muttered under my breath, then put my cheek against his door and whispered, sure that he could hear me, You can’t just do this to me, because I’m not a weakling and I will grind your bones with mine if I have to, you piece of shit.

  The last three words rose in volume, tone, were claps, crisp, stiff, sledging into the blank of his door front.

  I pushed myself away with both hands, lost my footing, landed hard against the opposite wall of the corridor. That he could probably still see me no longer bothered me. I was spent, wanted to sink in cold water.

  I wondered how many bolts that door of his really had. I pictured myself shrugging to stand, working up the nerve to kick and kick, getting the thing to crack open.

  He could have a gun, waiting to lay me down just like that.

  But it was more likely that he just had the door reinforced.

  At least three locks, I remembered.

  And what was to stop him moving a bookcase in front? A heavy desk?

  I’d gotten a cigarette going, again, but didn’t want it but smoked from it anyway.

  ***

  I decided what I really needed to do was calm down, get things in order. I’d made a huge mistake getting so drunk, was motivated to do nothing but sit there, bemoaning my state, mixing in with my new resolve vague thoughts of sobering myself up more quickly by forcing myself to vomit, by drinking a lot of water.

  In the morning, I needed to talk to him. After all, it only served to reason that he’d wanted to see how far he could push me, see how quickly he could break me down. He was probably having a good time with all I’d given him, right up to blubbering into his closed door.

  But, there would be something that he wanted. That is, if I believed he really had some evidence, as he claimed.
I began to doubt it, or let myself humor some slapdash doubts I cobbled up from nothing. If he’d gotten me to this point in one night, he’d want to have it done.

  Or was he so insane he’d go on risking his life? Didn’t it occur to him that if I felt trapped I might just think To hell with everything, decide to kill him, kill his friends, hurt him as much as I could before he could bring the ax down?

  No. This had gone far enough. I obviously didn’t care about myself anymore, accepted I was in his grip and now was dangerously set on spiting him.

  That might be what he was thinking, safe behind his bolstered door.

  I was imagining all of this to myself, slowly making my way down the stairs, leaned to the wall, slithering against it the entire way, when I heard a warble of static, a voice over a radio, the sound of two people talking.

  -We have some vomit, here, one of the voices said, sort of like an aside. Another voice added that Yeah, it seems pretty fresh, here.

  I froze up.

  He’d called the police.

  The sound of them climbing the stairs became clearer with each blink I resisted. When I got up the nerve to glance down, there were two officers looking right at me, making quiet remarks to each other.

  I felt ashamed, wanted to cry, so weak, terrified, didn’t know what to do. Even if I wanted to run, I was in no shape to, and so what would that look like?

  I just waved.

  -How we feeling, tonight? one officer asked me.

  I apologized, said I was a little bit drunk.

  -That you got sick down there, sir?

  I stared at the second officer while he sideways talked something into a radio on his shoulder. They asked who I knew in the building and I managed some response, that I was there to see someone, couldn’t recall their name, had only just met them out that night.