Stranger in the Room: A Novel (34 page)

I
found Neil’s room and peeped through the door just in time to see a woman leaning over him with her lips pressed against his. Women always seemed to like Neil. He had an artsy, shaggy boyishness about him, something that said he was probably brilliant and needed gas money, which was a joke. I think Neil makes more money than I do. And for less work. But the whole package really seemed to attract female caretakers. Pretty ones, apparently. I waited outside until the door opened. I watched her walk down the hall, a girly girl with a ribbon holding back sandy hair.

“Hey, looks like somebody has good insurance.” I set flowers from the hospital gift shop on the window ledge. “Nice digs.” I pulled a chair close to his bed. “Who’s the blonde?”

“Tammy. Cathy’s on the way. They forgot they were mad.”

“Do all your girlfriends have cute names? When do Misty, Mandy, and Sandi plan on showing up?”

“Keye, what the hell happened today?”

I told him about the phone call, sitting in my car listening to Miki’s stalker rage at me through a voice disguiser. “Then my window shattered and all hell broke loose.”

“I was at my desk. You know how the office is. The AC was blasting. I had music on. I heard something. I couldn’t tell if it was a gun. I went to the door and that’s pretty much all I remember.”

“Just a suggestion: When you hear shots, don’t open the door.”

“I should have opened it sooner. You could have been killed. Jesus. I could have called the cops or done something.”

“I’m sorry you were hurt,” I told him.

“Ah, well, they have great drugs here.” He peeled plastic wrap off a plate of cookies on the hospital overbed table. He took one and handed one to me. They were chewy, with chocolate chips that were still warm and velvety.

“I think you and Blond Tammy should get married so I can have cookies more often.”

“They’re both blond, by the way, and blue-eyed. And sweet. So let out all your snarky shit before Cathy gets here. Hilter’s dream girls. Aryan Nation. What else you got?”

“That pretty much covers it.” I took another cookie. “I’ve been thinking about something. The business is growing so fast I can’t keep up. When the whole story comes out about this crematory thing, it’ll get worse. We’ll have more clients than we’ll know what to do with. The business has been in a place for a while where it could grow. I’d like you to be a partner and help me figure out how to make it happen.”

Neil’s eyes searched my face. “Is this about me saying I quit?”

“So you do remember.” I smiled. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.” Something about bullets flying around had made me take stock. “I just realized today it just wouldn’t be fun without you.”

“Well, since you put it that way,” Neil said. “But listen, Keye, we have to have some agreements going in. We’ve both proved we suck at the office stuff. And you’ve been putting off hiring someone for a really long time. I know it’s hard to let people in. It’s understandable you’d have trust issues, but we have to do it. Half the new business gets turned away or doesn’t get a return call. You need someone to manage all that and to get your schedule under control. And we need to think about hiring another investigator too.”

He was right. I had been putting things off. We didn’t have time for the day-to-day grunt work, what with frequent trips to Southern Sweets and Cakes & Ale. Plus, Neil needed to smoke a couple of joints a day. So we were
busy
. It’s just so hard to bring in a new person. I dreaded it. Whom can you trust with your business and your life?
Who’s going to have a crazy girlfriend or a kid that calls all day or bad habits? I mean, what if they sucked their teeth or moaned when they got up and down? Just the thought made me twitch. And there were baskets full of unfiled invoices on top of the file cabinets, and unreturned messages, and the billing piled up, which meant cash flow was lousy.

“Agreed,” I told Neil. “But it has to be a good fit. We can’t just hire the first person who comes along. And I want you to agree to not bring pot into the office. I don’t care where you do it or how much you do it, just don’t smoke at the office.”

“Okay,” Neil said. “I can respect that. How about this consulting thing? On the table or not?”

“No.”

“You like dodging bullets? Because I don’t.”

“If it makes you feel any better, he wasn’t shooting at you. The bullet ricocheted.”

“Doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It’s not on the table, Neil. Look, you’re doing what you love. But this business, it wasn’t my dream. It was just a way to keep the lights on. I miss doing work that matters. Consulting is a way to make a difference. And maybe get back a little of what I lost.”

“You can’t relive the past, Keye.”

“Well, thank you very much, Dr. Shetty.”

I heard the door open behind me. Neil hastily handed me the cookie plate. I turned and saw another pretty young woman, pale, short hair, perky, a Carol Channing bob. She was carrying a gift bag bristling with glossy ribbons. She rushed to his bedside. “Oh my God! You poor thing!”

“I’m fine.” Neil patted her hand. “I’ll be out in a couple of days.”

“You’re going to have to have crutches. You’ll need a lot of help at home,” she told him.

Neil began to squirm. I stood up. “You must be Cathy. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Keye Street. I work with Neil.” There was not a hint of recognition on her face when she shook my hand. I was as much a surprise to her as finding out Neil had two girlfriends was to me. “Well, I’ll leave you two alone.” I shoved the cookies at Neil. “I made them myself.”

“Stay safe, Street,” Neil called, as I left the room.

I left the hospital knowing I had a bull’s-eye on my forehead. On the phone, the killer had gone off like a road flare, then unloaded a 9mm.
“I’m saving you a seat at the table.”
Don’t have to be a genius to know what that means.
“You’re late for the party.”
He was raging, hated women, felt his control slipping with Miki. She’d been out of psychiatric hospitals for a couple of years. She was more confident. She’d stopped cutting herself. Fatu had been moving forward too, I thought. She was clean. She was off the streets. Could that be the connection?

I walked in and bolted my door. White Trash came trotting to see me. I went to the front windows and looked out on the street. The Fox Theatre had been running a summer classic film series.
Casablanca
was on the marquee. To my left, a constant stream of headlights twisted into downtown. I could see the hospital, where I hoped Neil was resting, and the pale light under the filigreed dome at the Bank of America building glowing in the checkered skyline. I lowered myself into my desk chair, jotted down on a legal pad:
Transition. Shifts. Change. Attachment. Obsession
.

White Trash jumped on my lap. I reached for my phone and called the one person on earth who could always pull me up out of a sinkhole.

“Oh my God!” I put on my best Paris Hilton. “It’s you.”

“Oh my God! It’s you too,” my brother shot right back, and proved he was a much better Valley girl. “I was going to call you first thing in the morning. I have something to talk to you about.”

“That sounds mysterious.”

“I know how you love a good mystery.”

“So tell me.”

“You tell me what’s wrong first. I hear it in your voice.”

“Long day,” I said.

“Want to talk about it?”

“I hardly know where to start, Jimmy.”

“Start anywhere. I’ve got time.”

“Miki has a stalker. He’s dangerous. He shot at me, and Neil got hurt. He’s okay, but he’s in the hospital for a couple of days. Miki’s in Mississippi or Alabama or somewhere chasing tornadoes. I’m consulting
with APD on murders this man committed. I have the willies. I wanted a drink as soon as I hit the door. And our mother thinks she’s the next Paula Deen.”

“Okay, wow,” Jimmy said. “Wow.”

“Sorry.”

“This bastard is shooting at you? Is APD close to making an arrest? No wonder you’re upset, sweetie.”

“Getting closer. Big break in the case.” I told him about a possible connection to events held in Midtown and Stone Mountain, the ballpark, Mr. R. I told him everything I knew so far. I’d always talked to Jimmy. Apart from my shrink, he might have been the only person on earth who just listens without judgment. I poured grape juice in a whiskey glass, three fingers, and curled up on my couch. I told him about Mother’s audition for the cooking network, and we laughed about our parents as we always did behind their backs. White Trash joined me on the sofa. She was really needy. I’d been away more than usual this past week.

“Paul’s been offered a promotion.” Jimmy gave me his news when I’d finished. “If he takes it, we would transfer back down South.”

“To Atlanta?” A flicker of sunshine crept into my glum mood.

“His office would be in town. But I think I want to look for something outside the city.”

“That’s fantastic! Please tell me he’s going to take it. God, I’d love to have you guys here.” Jimmy’s silence felt like it was coming through a loudspeaker. “You don’t want to come,” I said.

My brother is not as romantic about our southern roots as I am. The streets were too narrow here for a boy of color and undetermined heritage. The dewy breezes, the dogwoods and cherry blossoms and blackberry vines—all of it, in Jimmy’s opinion, was just camouflage for a racist heart. I had begged him to come back from Seattle over the years. He’d left Georgia immediately after graduation and headed for Stanford on scholarship. Paul was a coppery redhead from Missouri who watched sports on weekends and liked to strum the guitar and sing at parties after a few beers.

“I’ll make peace with it if it’s what he wants,” Jimmy told me.

“It’s a different world here now, Jimmy. It’s not like it was when we were kids.”

“And you would know this because you’re black, male, and homosexual? I don’t think you get it, Keye. Do you know that our mother informed me that one of my birth parents must have been either white or, I don’t know, Afghani or something? Because I have light eyes. She told me this with a lot of excitement. She’s been looking at pictures on the Internet. Can you imagine? Our mother is Googling things like ‘black people with light eyes.’ You don’t feel the undercurrents like I do. It’s different for you. Everyone just always assumed you’d be a scientist or something. And I’d beat my wife and wind up doing time.”

“I wish you’d tell that to the TSA agents at the airport. I’m pretty much guaranteed a hot date every time I fly. You should see the stares I get when I work up in the sticks somewhere. I don’t always get a free pass, Jimmy.”

“I’m getting misty,” Jimmy fake cried. “You’re a hero, Keye.”

“Walk a mile in my shoes, my brother.”

He laughed. We were quiet for a moment. “We’ve lived here for nine years,” he said, quietly. “Our friends are here. It’s not an easy decision. On the plus side, you’re there and I miss you
so
much. And we both want our child to grow up knowing you.”

I sat up. “Child?”

“We’ve registered with an agency and started the process of searching for a surrogate mother.”

“That’s terrific! You’ll make such a great father.”

“It will take awhile. The call could come tomorrow or it could take a couple of years. But we both want children.”

I laughed. I could barely manage my cat. Thank God I’d never wanted kids. A niece, on the other hand, might be really fun. I had convinced my brother when we were little that your eyes change sockets when you cross them. He’d spent a lot of time in front of the mirror testing it. Pliable little minds. Big entertainment. “What happens when the call comes?”

“We jump on a plane to wherever, meet the mother, spend some time, see if we’re a good match.”

“This is the best news I’ve had all year. I’m so happy for you guys. When will you know about Paul’s job?”

“He hasn’t decided. So no pushing, okay? Don’t you hang up and call him.”

“Would I push?”

Jimmy laughed. “It’s a big promotion, Keye. And a lot more money. It makes financial sense. Especially since we’re starting a family. Hey, I love you, big sister. Get some sleep. I’ll update you soon.”

“I love you too.” I reached for White Trash. “Jimmy’s a sucker for cats,” I told her, and she yawned.

  
30

I
felt for my Glock as soon as my eyes opened. My security blanket. It had saved my life once because it was there under my pillow when I reached for it. I had learned a couple of lessons that night. One: You don’t really know the people in your life. Not really. Not below the surface. Not ever. And two: Keep up with your gun.

I put the Glock on the bed table and picked up my phone. No emails from Miki. No texts. No missed calls. I’d sent her the picture of Robert Crammer, Burger Dog Bob, and never received a reply. I found her new number in my contacts list, called it. Five rings and it went to voice mail. I left a message. White Trash leapt off the bed and huffed off with a few fuck-you tail twitches, miffed I had dared to move my legs. I heard her scratching a couple of minutes later, kicking litter all over my wood floors, no doubt. The box has not been built that can contain White Trash’s grave digger–like enthusiasm. I think she has a little shovel stashed somewhere, or a tiny backhoe and a hard hat.