Текст книги "Beautiful Addictions"

Автор книги: Season Vining

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

4. Ejecta

The material thrown out of an impact crater by the shock pressures generated.

“Hello, hello. What can I get for you this evening?”

Josie eyed the greasy man suspiciously.

“Where’s Nigel?” she asked.

“He’s busy tonight, but didn’t want to leave you fine ladies hangin’. He sent me to take care of you.”

“How do we know you’re not a cop?” Gavin asked.

The man laughed and tugged on the brim of his hat.

“Shit, I ain’t no cop. Hate them bastards. Just got out of lockup a few weeks ago.”

“Likely story,” Gavin said.

“Show your tits,” Josie demanded.

“What?” he asked.

“You heard her.”

The man shook his head but followed instructions. He lifted his shirt up under his armpits. Josie made a twirling motion with her index finger and he turned in a circle. The girls eyed him skeptically, but each nodded, confirming she was satisfied.

“See? No wire. No cop.”

Gavin reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope of money, counting out a stack for him. She folded the envelope and shoved it deep into the bottom of her bag. The man watched her carefully, averting his eyes just in time.

Josie pulled out her fold of ready bills and handed it over in exchange for a new bag of pills. She smiled at the comfort they represented.

When Gavin finished her purchase, the man stood there, lingering. Josie didn’t like the hunger in his eyes. He seemed to be wavering, waiting for something. Suddenly, he reached down, grabbed Gavin’s bag and took off running.

“Hey!” Gavin screamed.

Josie jumped from the bench and took off after him. She caught up in no time. When she reached him, she threw herself onto his back. They both tumbled to the ground, rolling down a small hill. On the way, Josie took an elbow to the eye. When they stopped, she was on top with the bag firmly in her grip.

“Drop it!” she yelled.

“Make me,” he spat.

She shrugged and stood up, feigning defeat.

“Ha. That’s right.” He gloated.

Josie swung around, raised her foot, and slammed it down between his legs. He let out an awful howl and rolled onto his side, releasing the bag. Josie put it over her shoulder and walked away.

“You bitch!”

“They call me Bundy!” Josie yelled victoriously.

* * *

Tristan took a seat in a corner booth at City Deli. The waitress, in standard uniform and orthopedic shoes, smacked her gum and asked for his order.

“I’ll just have coffee for now. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Sure,” she answered, rolling her eyes before shuffling off to fetch his brew.

He pulled a paperback book from his back pocket and opened it to the dog-eared page. He read the words, but by the end of the page he had no idea what they were. It was an odd feeling for him. So he reread them, this time absorbing each one permanently. Every time the door opened, Tristan craned his neck to look for Josie. Each time it wasn’t her, he would return his attention to the book, concentrating on Amis’s words about John Self’s wild and glutinous life. Soon he was wondering if she’d even show up.

His coffee appeared in front of him as if mentally summoned, and the waitress took off to her next table. He poured copious amounts of sugar into the black drink, stirring until the clinking of the spoon against ceramic annoyed him.

Josie threw herself through the door of the diner like she was being chased. The sight of Tristan tucked into her favorite corner booth filled her with relief she hadn’t even known she needed. She brushed off her clothes, as if it would somehow help her disheveled appearance. Slowly, she passed each booth, labeling patrons as she went. He’s a prick, she thought, as a fat, balding man wiggled his eyebrows in her direction. Josie flipped him off and continued past the others. They’re having an affair, he’s in the closet, that one’s an alcoholic, she might be a he. Gold digger, prostitute, and cabdriver rounded out her assessment.

Tossing her bag into the booth, she slid in after it. The sound of metal cans and ball-bearing mixers announced her arrival. Tristan’s shoulders jumped in surprise and he wondered when he’d stopped checking the door. Their eyes met across one steaming cup of coffee and a Formica tabletop.

“What the hell happened to you?” Tristan asked, his face screwed up in worry.

Josie reached up and smoothed down her knotted hair. She knew she should have gone to the bathroom to check herself before sitting.

“What?” she asked casually.

“You have a huge red mark on your cheek and your eye is bruising.”

“Oh, that. I got into a fight.”

“What the fuck?” he replied loudly, garnering the attention of every guest in the quiet establishment.

“Calm down,” she said, shushing him. “What do you have, ’roid rage or something? I’m fine. I met a friend at Balboa and this asshole tried to steal her bag. I didn’t let him.”

“He hit you?”

“Yeah, but I hit him back,” she answered, smirking.

“What were you doing in the park at this time of night?”

“Buying drugs.”

Tristan went quiet at her admission, not sure how he should react to such honesty. He thought her frankness could either mean that she was fearless or that she had indeed found the drugs.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not really. Maybe a little something,” she mumbled, her voice trailing off as her eyes scanned the menu.

The waitress reappeared, her pen ready to jot down their order as she smiled her practiced smile.

“I’ll have the huevos rancheros,” he said.

“I want a strawberry milk shake, order of bacon, and coffee,” Josie said, closing her menu and not looking up as the waitress left.

“This Canadian food company did a survey and found out that forty-three percent of people would rather have bacon than sex.”

“Canadian bacon or regular bacon?” she asked.

“It didn’t say.”

“Well,” Josie said, “it would really make a difference.”

Tristan took a cautious sip of his coffee while they waited for the waitress to return with hers.

“Are you saying that standard breakfast bacon may be better than sex, but Canadian bacon is lacking?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Josie answered.

“Would you equate it with any kind of sexual act, or is it just not that good?”

“I might have Canadian bacon instead of giving a hand job.”

“But you get no pleasure from that,” he said.

“Exactly.” Josie gave a shrug of her shoulders.

“Maybe the Canadians don’t know what they’re doing,” Tristan said.

“Hardly. Their bacon-making skills are, as you put it, lacking.”

Tristan nodded in agreement. When the waitress returned, Josie dumped sugar into her coffee, stirring counterclockwise. She turned to the wall and traced an outline of intricate text permanently etched there.

“More of your work?” Tristan asked.

“I’ll never tell. You might report me.”

“So…” Tristan started, for once having no plan to finish his sentence.

“So?”

“I haven’t seen you in almost nine years. Why don’t you remember me? Why were you reported dead? How did you end up here?”

Josie looked around at the air above his head, as if the questions hung there and she was deciding which one to pluck down and begin with.

“You’re from New Orleans?” she asked.

“Yes,” Tristan answered.

“Look, I’m not really supposed to talk about it. Legal issues, blah blah blah. My safety, blah blah blah. What the hell do I care? I can’t even give you details, because I don’t have them.”

He gestured for her to continue, letting his eyes roam over her face, traveling from her sepia eyes down the gentle slope of her nose and finally resting on her lips. When she began to speak, Tristan found himself captivated by her story.

“My father and I left Louisiana when he took a new job in Brooklyn. We moved into an apartment. We only lived there for about six weeks. No one knows what went down, but it was a few days before the landlady noticed we were missing. Three days later, my father’s body turned up in the harbor. A few days after that, a witness saw me stumble into a subway station, where I collapsed. I woke up in a hospital two days later, surrounded by FBI agents, with no memory of who I was or where I’d been.”

Tristan noticed that she wasn’t telling a story; she was simply reciting the words. They were void of emotion, as if she’d memorized an official report of the happenings.

“You had amnesia.”

The waitress appeared, refilling their coffee cups and moving on, clearly uninterested in the conversation.

“Have. I have amnesia. Retrograde dissociative amnesia,” she clarified, repeating the clinical term she’d heard so many times before. “I have no idea what happened in New York or anything before that. Doctors say I probably never will.”

Tristan dissected the words in his head, working out her diagnosis.

“So ‘retrograde’ meaning all preexisting memories are lost, but you’re able to remember everything since.” Josie nodded. “‘Dissociative’ means it was likely caused by psychological events, as opposed to injury.”

She shrugged, suddenly avoiding his gaze. They both reached for the sugar, their fingers intertwining around the glass container. Tristan pulled back, gesturing for her to go first. Josie poured her sugar before sliding it over to him.

“Are you some kind of doctor pretending to be a bartender?” Josie asked.

“No. I read a lot,” he answered, realizing that statement explained nothing. “I happen to remember everything I read. I have a really good memory.”

“Huh,” she said, shrugging. “We’re like opposites.”

He nodded, saddened by the defeated nature of her statement. Tristan had a feeling that the amnesia was her mind’s way of dealing with something terrible, some kind of horrific event that refused to be processed. She had no memories from their shared childhood. She couldn’t recall the happiest time of her life, her family, her friends, not even him. Meanwhile, he remembered everything, with agonizing clarity.

“‘August 25,’” Tristan began. Josie’s eyes snapped up to his when he spoke the words as if they were right in front of him. “‘A body found in the Hudson River near Weehawken, New Jersey, has been identified as Earl Delaune, 41, a recent transplant from New Orleans to Brooklyn. Delaune was reported missing three days ago by his landlord. State Police say a fisherman found the body in the river, but the location of Delaune’s death has yet to be determined. The victim’s daughter, McKenzi Delaune, 14, remains missing.

“‘August 31, New York City Police identified the body of a fourteen-year-old girl found dead in Central Park yesterday morning. Authorities are withholding the identity of the Brooklyn girl, but it is suspected to be McKenzi Delaune, a teen reported missing nine days ago. NYPD said they were having difficulty locating any of the girl’s remaining family. There were no obvious signs of trauma and, for now, police aren’t commenting on suspects or motive.’”

Josie blinked rapidly, suddenly realizing that she’d been holding her breath, her attention seized by Tristan’s words.

“The local paper reported both of you had been murdered but didn’t give any details. You didn’t have family there, so the school held a memorial service. We took turns telling stories about you and had your picture hung in the hall,” Tristan finished.

Josie spied the waitress coming and was relieved by the distraction. Unfolding her napkin, she scrubbed at the black on her stained fingers, silently cursing the charcoal and lead. No matter how hard she tried, the dark dust clung to the beds and underneath each nail, making her look like she’d been playing in dirt. Never mind the slash of green paint across her forearm that would have to be removed later. The plates slid in front of them before the waitress disappeared again, promptly returning with Josie’s milk shake.

“I hated that fucking picture,” Tristan said.

“Why?”

“They used your freshman yearbook photo.”

“And?” she asked, frustrated.

“We got into a fight right before photos that day. You weren’t even smiling. It was like having this sad ghost haunting me every time I walked past the office.”

Josie bit into the bacon and moaned in delight. She may have been a little overenthusiastic as a result of their earlier conversation.

“What were we fighting about?” she asked.

Tristan smiled at her, a smile so genuine she wanted to return it. He set his fork back down and sipped his coffee.

“I was mad because I found a drawing in your room of another guy.”

“So, you were jealous?”

Tristan nodded.

“I ripped it up,” he said.

“Oh, I bet I got pissed.”

“Yeah. That’s an understatement. You didn’t talk to me for three days, a record for us.”

“Damn, guess I cut you off too?” she asked.

“We weren’t having sex at fourteen, Josie.”

“Nothing?” she asked.

“Nothing past second base.”

Josie shook her head and wondered if she had been a prude or if he had been the one trying to protect their virtue. Tristan, with all his memories, made her nervous. He looked at her as if trying to crack a code, break her down and understand her. She’d never wanted someone the way she wanted him. Josie couldn’t risk his finding out how damaged she was.

Trying to fool herself into thinking that it was a purely physical desire, she closed her eyes, imagining him crushed in a grip between her thighs. Quickly, her mind was lost to a fantasy of touching and tasting his flesh.

Tristan cleared his throat, startling Josie and reminding her that there was a conversation taking place. Feeling as though she’d been caught with those visions in her head, Josie dropped her eyes down to her plate. She scrambled to divert his attention.

“The FBI changed my name. Shipped me cross-country. They said it was for my own protection,” Josie finished, rolling her eyes at the thought of being protected.

A broad silence stretched between them. Josie busied herself with eating as Tristan sat dumbfounded.

“Then?” Tristan asked.

“Then what?”

“That was eight years ago,” he said.

“I won’t bore you with the tales of living in foster homes, Tristan. Imagine the worst, multiply that by ten. It’s nothing a few decades of drugs and alcohol won’t cure.”

Josie shoved a piece of bacon into her mouth. She chewed thoroughly before swallowing and making eye contact with Tristan. He sat frozen, suspended over his food.

“I had no idea. None of us did.”

“That’s kind of how witness protection works.”

Josie continued to eat while Tristan sat watching. He felt sick to his stomach. It seemed as though a black cloud had settled over their table.

“Josie! Where you been all my life, girl?”

The pair looked up to find a young black boy leaning on their table. His denim jacket covered a dirty T-shirt, and braids stuck out from his hat. He smiled at Josie and gave her a wink.

“Gregory, what’s up, little man?”

“Ah, you know. This and that. How you doin’? Ain’t seen you around in a while. We gettin’ your deliveries all the time, though.”

“I’m good.”

Josie ducked her head and sucked on her straw. She felt exposed having this conversation with Tristan present.

“Yeah, looks like you real busy.”

Gregory turned to Tristan and gave him a once-over, tilting his head and sliding his lips sideways in disapproval.

“Where’s your sister?” Josie asked.

“Stop trying to change the subject, hottie. You know I’m tryin’ to holla at you.”

Josie shook her head and put down her milk shake.

“When I’m into fourteen-year-olds, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I may be fourteen, but I got game. Better than this…” Gregory said, motioning to Tristan.

“Tristan, this is Gregory. Gregory, Tristan,” Josie offered, waving back and forth between the two. Tristan wiped his hands on a napkin and held one out toward the boy.

“Nice to meet you, Greg.”

“Oh, shit,” Josie whispered.

“Greg? Did you say Greg? Did this sexy woman right here say my name was Greg? No. She said Gregory. Three syllables. Big effort for a lazy fool like you, but work it out, white boy.”

Josie giggled, pressing the palm of her hand over her lips.

“Gre-gore-ree,” Gregory pronounced, unhinged by Tristan’s gall. “Where did you find this clown?” he asked Josie.

“My apologies, Gregory,” Tristan spoke up, saving Josie from answering. “I’m sorry.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Nice jacket. Gavin give you that?” Josie asked.

“Yeah, you know. I guess she grew out of it or whatever. It’s a little old and a lot country, but I ain’t gonna complain.”

“It’s actually vintage Levi’s. It’s got the single-stitch at the bottom of the button placard and only has breast pockets, so it’s pre-1971.”

“Are you speakin’ English? It’s just a jacket, man,” Gregory moaned. “Seriously, Jo? You could do better. I mean, why not me?”

“Because curfew law says you’re not allowed outside of the home between ten P.M. and six A.M. on weekdays,” Tristan stated, pleased with himself.

“Guess that don’t matter when you don’t have a home,” Gregory answered.

With that, he rolled his eyes, gave Josie a quick wave, and was gone.

“Wow,” Tristan said smiling. “He was … colorful.”

“Is that a racist joke?”

“What? No! Josie, I would never,” he said, dropping his fork to the table.

“Yeah, I know. It was funny watching you freak out, though.”

Josie winked and ate the last piece of bacon.

“He’s homeless?”

“Gregory uses the phrase ‘residentially challenged.’”

Tristan nodded.

“Are all your friends residentially challenged?”

“He’s not a friend, just a kid I know.”

Tristan noticed that her demeanor changed instantly and he felt the warning in her posture. Subject closed.

“So, you saw me that night in the alley.”

Josie unconsciously smoothed down the hooded sweatshirt and nodded.

“Is that mine?” he asked, recognizing the red stitching on the sleeve.

“Yeah. You left it in the alley.”

Tristan weighed his options and contemplated which questions he could get away with asking. After coming up clueless, he decided to be satisfied with what he’d already learned. That alone would take time to process.

He wasn’t someone who believed in fate or destiny. There was always a scientific, mathematical, or coincidental explanation for anything. The fact that little McKenzi Delaune sat before him munching on bacon was blowing his mind.

Tristan lay in bed after their midnight meeting, trying to piece together the broken girl he’d just learned existed. There used to be this ache, this burning pain in his chest. It held all the love and loss for a girl named McKenzi. Before the punishment of ink etched into his skin, there had been McKenzi. Back when he knew who he was and what he wanted, when life was full of possibilities and everyone expected the best, there had been McKenzi.

She had lost everyone and everything. Tristan knew that she would guard herself from more pain. The girl was beautiful, full of sex appeal and mystery. While he knew he couldn’t pick up where they left off, he longed to seize her. He turned off the light and stared up at a gray shadowed ceiling, wondering how on earth he’d found her.

Twenty-two blocks away, Josie paused to tag a stop sign in purple marker. The squeak and slide of the felt tip against metal comforted her. So did having representations of herself all over the city. Even though she felt like nothing, these markings would prove that she was here. Just to see what it would look like, she wrote Tristan’s name too. Stepping back and admiring the way their stacked names connected, she smiled and headed toward home. That night she fell asleep wrapped in the hoodie that belonged to a boy who once loved her.

* * *

In the sixty-nine hundred block of Levant Street, Mort snuck into the San Diego Child Welfare Services office. He quickly hacked into the computer system, not slowed down by the archaic password protection screen. Gathering all the necessary information to do this remotely next time, he began his hunt.

He had grown tired of this chase. If he had been any other idiot, he would have crossed his fingers and said a prayer that this would give him a clue, some sort of direction. That was for superstitious idiots who had more faith in a higher power than in themselves.

Mort had been on this job for so long that when he lay in bed at night it was the only thing on his mind. It ruled his brain every waking minute and even those in his sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be free of this troublesome girl.

He had not yet alerted Moloney to his whereabouts. He didn’t want to get the man’s hopes up before he’d discovered anything concrete. Finding out the girl was still alive had been a matter of luck. Finding out where she had been sent had been a matter of painful and bloody coercion.

After maneuvering through the complicated filing system, he was finally able to type in his search. Clicking in the waiting box, the cursor blinked at him. Mort’s fingers moved swiftly over the keyboard, pecking out the name that had come at such a high price. He was so close he could taste it.

He hit Enter and smiled as the screen displayed JOSIE BANKS: ONE RESULT FOUND