Ties That Blind. Zachary Klein

on with Lou has nothing to do with us.”

      

      I didn’t know if it was true when I said it and, a couple of days into Boots’s troubleshooting trip for Verizon, it was still too close to call. Boots’s television talk had raised the stakes and our lovemaking called and doubled. When I got depressed, I generally stayed home, stayed stoned. This time I did stay home, but mostly straight, though my goddamn confusion drowned more than one good line from the movies I kept watching. The continual chitching almost seemed worse than completely surrendering. Still, I managed to nail a little luck during my mini-shutdown; Julius didn’t deliver any new treats.

      It would have been difficult to juggle consumption with appetite if he had. Julie had come with the buildings and years ago, after feeling me out, offered to pay his rent with dope. He’d made it clear that dealing was not his main bag, though I’d never been able to pin down exactly what his “main bag” was. Then or now. No matter, at the time and throughout the succeeding years, I believed his offer one of my few gifts from the gods. These days, I was a little less certain the gift came from heaven—but not all that much.

      By the time Lou called I was actually feeling better. I figured the tension in his tone reflected annoyance with my less than enthusiastic response toward Lauren. But once he pounded into my apartment, jacket in hand, I knew better.

      “There’s no time for sitting,” he grunted at my gesture toward the enamel top kitchen table.

      “What’s the matter?”

      “I need a ride to pick up Lauren,” he replied curtly.

      “No sweat.” I started to gather my carry-ons but he grabbed my arm.

      “More tsouris,” he said taking a deep breath.

      I shot him a sharp look.

      “Nothing like the other night. Lauren’s car was broken into and she can’t drive it.”

      “Where is she?”

      “Here, in the city.”

      I pocketed my cigarettes and grabbed my keys.

      “Better wear a raincoat,” Lou said. “It’s pouring and supposed to get worse.”

      Once he pointed it out, I heard the rain drumming against the house. I hadn’t noticed it earlier. I suppose I’d been more shut down than ‘mini.’

      I pulled on my black and red baseball jacket, Boston cap, and led us out the alley door. We b-lined through the heavy rain to the B.M.W. and onto the street before I asked where we were headed. When he told me, I almost hit the brakes.

      “What the fuck is she doing there this time of night?” There was a warehouse/gay nightclub/loft neighborhood, a short bridge from downtown. Although the area was “city” safe, non-cruising suburbanites usually stayed on the downtown side of the span.

      “I didn’t ask,” Lou’s voice a mixture of anxiety and anger. “I was never convinced that just looking for ‘patterns’ made any sense,” he snapped.

      “What are you talking about?” The rain was burgeoning into a late summer version of a Nor’easter, forcing me to keep my eyes on the road.

      “What you told her to do about the stalking, dammit.”

      “Whoa, Lou, Lauren said she felt watched. What makes you think this has any connection?”

      “The woman feels followed then someone breaks into her car. What should I think?”

      For a second I shared some of his fear then tossed it aside. “Attempted auto theft?”

      Lou used his annoyance toward me as a carry for his anxiety. “What else would you say? You didn’t want to be bothered so you found an easy way to put her off.”

      I resisted an impulse to jam the accelerator to the floor. “You’re overreacting. I’ve been less than gracious about Lauren and you’re right to be angry, but don’t let it affect your judgment. You’ve been to this neighborhood. We’re not talking a straight white man’s world.” I had my own questions about what Lauren was doing in that section of town, but wasn’t willing to add to his wrath.

      My comment cooled him down and he squirmed into a more comfortable position. The wind rocked the car; the small wipers no match for the gusting rainfall. Magnificent lightning bolts streaked across the sky illuminating Boston’s storybook skyline as thunder crashed overhead.

      I detoured twice to avoid street floods caused by overflowing sewers—the price paid for ancient systems held together with insufficient funds. Very few of our “no new taxers” lived in threatened neighborhoods.

      Lou’s impatience jumped as we approached the bridge. “Lauren said it’s a couple blocks past The Wharf.”

      “I know the place.” During my social work days I’d counseled a guy who desperately wanted to cross-dress. He could sing and dance so I hustled hard and scored an audition with a local act. Turned out he was terrific and landed a steady gig at The Wharf, a transvestite nightclub. My man assured me the absolute high point of his life was stripping off construction clothes and lip-synching Sinatra’s My Way until he got to his bra and panties. The Wharf was happy, the act went national, and I got real alcohol instead of tan water. Might have been the salad days of my social work career.

      I turned onto A Street and spotted Lauren’s car. Couldn’t miss it. Hers was the one severely beaten about the head and legs. I heard Lou stifle a groan and saw Lauren emerge from a dark double doorway as I splashed toward the rear of her wreck. She was dressed in a pair of pleated chinos, blue work shirt, and a light khaki blazer. Her clothes were no protection against the hard wind and driving rain.

      Lou squeezed out of the Bimmer before it rolled to a stop. He ran to Lauren’s side and pulled her toward my car. She resisted, shaking her head emphatically. I took my cigarettes and lighter from my pocket, placed them on the dash, and waded over. “How about the doorway?” I asked ending their disagreement.

      The three of us leaned into the wet wind and sloshed to the semi-protected enclosure. Though the lightning and thunder had stopped, the storm continued to howl down the deserted street.

      “I came for it and this is what I found,” Lauren said pointing at her car and shivering. Her full hair was reduced to sopping, twisted strings. Her face was shiny wet, streaks of makeup blotching her cheeks. And she still looked pretty.

      I pushed the rain dripping from my cap away from my eyes, turned, and stared. So much for my guess about a Volvo. The ancient Toyota’s glass was shattered, the doors and fenders dented as if someone had used a metal baseball bat or lead pipe. The tires had been slashed so the car rested on its ankles. It looked like an interrupted torching, only torching had been out of fashion for a long, long while. These days destructors preferred bullets. As much I wanted to hold onto my skepticism, what I saw disturbed me.

      “Wait here,” I commanded. I ran to the Toyota and dragged open the door. The seats had also been slashed and the dashboard ripped apart leaving the wire harness exposed. The cheap am/fm dangled close to the floor hanging by a fistful of colored tangled wires. I opened the glove compartment, saw it had been left undisturbed, and stood thinking, momentarily oblivious to the pelting rain.

      I stood there too long because when I looked up Lou and Lauren were next to me.

      “What is it, Matty?” Lou asked.

      “It’s rain,” I smart-assed. “Let’s get into my car. This box isn’t going anywhere.”

      While they both trotted toward the Bimmer I reached back inside Lauren’s wreck and grabbed everything from the glove compartment.

      “Here,” I said. Lauren and Lou were crammed into the back seat and the inside of the B.M.W. felt humid and close. I cracked a window and lit a smoke from the pack on the dash.