The taxicab rolled slowly along dirty streets as the sun was just starting to shed some real light on the world. People headed to work, kids dragged to school, bums tried to get a dime, drunks still passed out in the gutters from the night before. I watched out the side window. This was a part of town I hadn’t been to in a long, long time. I found myself wondering for the first time in all of this if I was really doing the right thing. That progressed to if I was doing the right thing in life and whatnot. Thankfully, the cab stopped before I could get too far into that subject. Because, believe me, that one can be a mother to sift through.

The building I got dropped off at was way more familiar that I would have liked. A four-story apartment building with crumbling cement stairs, broken windows covered with plastic, and a rusted old rod iron fence around a pathetic excuse for a garden. I entered through a front door that was much shorter than I remembered.

The opening lobby was a wreck. The linoleum was coming up off the floor in chips. The plaster on the walls was starting to flake off, showing the bricks underneath. I paused by the mailboxes. The one for the man I was in search of had edges of envelopes sticking out the corners, jam packed full of letters. Likely from collectors he couldn’t pay, I thought.

Naturally, the elevator was broken. I knew it would be. It hadn’t worked in a good twenty years. I headed up the stairs, slow and reluctant. The feel of the battered metal handrails, the cracks in the walls… Nothing seemed to have changed since I’d last been there. This is sad, considering my family moved out of that building when I was nine years old, and the last time I’d even set foot inside was right before senior prom.

The only thing that had changed was that it looked even worse than I remembered. The walls were now coated with graffiti, and not even the kind that can pass for art.

Four flights up and nearly at the end of the hall. I stopped in front of a door where the numbers had been pried off and in their place was a symbol painted in sloppy black acrylic. I didn’t know what it meant and so shrugged it off. What I was really noticing was the newspapers lying out in front of the door. The daily paper from the last three days. This and the mail lead me to think he wasn’t likely to be around. I knocked anyway.

No answer, so I tried again. He still didn’t answer, so I tried the knob, which was locked. Nothing’s ever that easy. I thought to walk away, maybe ask the landlady where her tenant was at. I even took a few steps down the hall.

Now, maybe this is where I went wrong.

Because I stopped. Someone was sure to go through Mr. Dawson’s phone files, and the number I had written on my hand would come up. Someone was sure to beat me to this one if I left now.

Yeah, I know. My dad’s voice yelled at me again that I was playing hero. But I just couldn’t pass this one up. I felt around on top of the door jam above the door. Wouldn’t you know it. There was a small crevice in the wall and inside it was a key.

The lights in the hall flickered. I was used to this at one point, but not anymore. I glanced up at them as I took down the small brass key from its hiding place, then slid it into the lock. It took a little rattling, but it came open.

Part of me was very relieved that nobody was home, but the other half of me got kind of… I donno, depressed, I guess. I donno. I mean, I hadn’t seen the guy in years and all… I tried to remind myself that this had been intentional as I stepped on into the apartment.

The smell of the room reminded me of junior high school art class. Paint thinner, pastels, markers, rolls of canvas, paper of all shapes and sizes. All of this and more was scattered across the apartment. The walls and floor were splattered with carelessly dropped paint, even in the carpeted areas.

I first entered into a small hallway that held a wall mounted coat rack and no coats. This hall went on for a little ways, a closet and bathroom on one side and the door to the kitchen on the other. I peeked into the kitchen in passing, noticing that it was cluttered, but there were no dishes in the sink and no food was left out. It simply looked as if there were too many things to fit in such a small kitchen. Even this place was paint splattered.

At the end of the hall was the living room and I paused just inside it. The sun was shining golden through the closed blinds that covered the windows. Bulky easels were placed about the room, each with considerable framed pieces of canvas and half-finished paintings. Finished works were hanging where there was wall space, but for the most part they were lined up on the floor leaning against the walls. A tattered old couch sat dead center of the cramped room, ragged blankets and a few pillows thrown on and around it in a lumpy heap. It was facing a TV that sat on a milk crate.

I headed on to the last room in the house, the bedroom. A king sized bed with tiger stripped pillows and a black spread, all neatly made with the sheets tucked in. A closet with sliding doors was recessed in the wall, the cluttered desk of an artist sat nearby. Books and magazines littered the floor along with straggling laundry that hadn’t made it into the heap in the corner, which I assume was covering a hamper.

What caught my attention was something right across from the door. There was a large dresser there, cloths hanging randomly out of half open drawers. A huge vanity mirror was mounted on top of that. At least I assume that’s what it was. The mirror was covered with a large white sheet that was being held in place by a good half a roll of duct tape wrapped around it. This was a little weird to say the least. But what I was really looking at was on the dresser: The telephone, along with an answering machine.

I was disappointed. There weren’t any messages. I had hoped Mr. Dawson would have left one, but it seems he hadn’t.

My curious side getting the better of me, I started fishing about for less obvious clues. The top drawer of the dresser was heavy and on broken runners. It took a bit of muscle to pull open. I froze instantly as I looked down into a drawer that was filled –and I mean freakin’ filled- with weapons. 9mm Berretta, .45 ACP, twin .357 Magnums, a Colt .45 revolver, a short sword, brass knuckles, a few daggers and enough ammunition to back it all up and then some.

The smarter part of me knew it was time to get the hell outta dodge. The detective part of me wanted to dig deeper. Neither part was getting their way.

Something pressed hard against the small of my back. If I hadn’t been frozen before hand, I know I froze up completely then. I turned my eyes to the side slowly, but there was no way to see behind me without moving my head.

There was a silence that seemed to drag on forever. I could hardly breathe, knowing that was the barrel of a gun sitting against my spine. My mind started racing, trying to figure out what to do from here. Make a break for it? Stand and fight? Just keep calm and talk my way out? I mean, what? It’s not the easiest thing to figure out, believe me. I decided first off that I wasn’t gonna answer any questions. I’m the detective, I ask the freakin’ questions kind of deal.

The stillness was broken by a voice that was smooth and quiet, but stern. It was almost unisex in sound. And it only spoke two words.

“Start explaining.”

…Now that’s a really open statement. Not a question really, but still asking for an answer. Hard one to dodge around. ‘Specially when you’ve got a gun fixed to blow your kidneys off.

“I didn’t know you were home.” Not the best thing to say, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

“Start explaining.” He pressed on more insistently.

I slowly lifted my hands up, finally unfreezing. “I just need a few questions answered, Alex. That’s all.” I tried using a nice, friendly tone, but it didn’t really work. I just sounded scared out of my mind.

The gun pressed even harder into my back. “Who are you?” The man on the trigger end growled, the first real anger to reach his voice.

“It’s me. Jonathan Gladestone.” There was a pause that screamed like subway breaks. I wasn’t sure what his reaction was going to be. In fact, I wondered if I’d just signed my own death papers. I swallowed hard and continued. “You, uh… remember me?”

His tone was flat again. “I’ve tried to forget. The hell do you want, Jonathan?”

“I’m investigating a homicide. I need to ask you a few questions.”

Before I was even done, he was laughing bitterly. “Investigating? Moved to the other side, did we?” I wasn’t sure what he meant by this. My family had been in the detective business for generations, so it shouldn’t have come as a shock to him that I took the same path. He continued, “You have a warrant?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Then quit being a snoop, you bitch. Close my drawer.”

I did so. To my relief, he backed away a few steps. I was finally able to turn around and face him. He was eyeing me sidelong. The gun, a Glock 17, was still fixed on me from a hipshot. I glanced him over, noting that a lot had changed over the years.

I’d remembered Alexander as being the tall, thin outcast who always had an impish, braces-coated smile on his face. A snappy comeback to anything you could tell him and a plan to back up anything he said. He never took any shit off of anyone, but at the same time, he wasn’t one to stir things up unneeded. He could talk to you without having to say a word. His expressions always told everything you needed to know, and if not, he likely had some joke or meaningful way to answer your question. And he never brushed his hair, always wearing long, brown cornrows that were down to his waist by the time we were in our teens. He’d been a person I’d looked up to in grade school and still admired all the way to our senior year.

But now… well, he was thin as a rail, but that was about all that stayed the same.

I was surprised at how much taller I was than him. In fact, I doubt he’d grown even an inch since I’d last seen him in high school. His hair had been cut much shorter, bleached platinum blonde and was messily slicked back with yesterday’s gel. His grey eyes were icy cold and his face was like porcelain. Expressionless. That in itself was so unlike the Alexander Muse I used to know. It was kind of creepy.

He motioned towards the door with his gun. Clearly he still had the knack of speaking without words down fairly well. I moved back out into the living room.

Alex wove between the labyrinth of canvases as he spoke. I knew the gun was still fixed on me the whole time. “It’s been a while, Jon.”

“Yeah.” I stayed near the wall, drifting carefully towards the exit. “Haven’t seen you since prom night-”

He interrupted, appearing suddenly between two easels and flashing a glare I could have sworn I felt, like an icy wind across my face. “Don’t.” He warned. “I don’t need to remember. I’ve spent enough time burying you, Jon. Why are you back here now?”

“I’m investigating a homicide.” I repeated, “I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Why? Am I a suspect?”

“Not really.”

He made a sound that I took as mild surprise and flopped casually onto the couch, settling down into the blankets and pillows. I cursed myself for not seeing him before. He’d been on the couch when I first came through, I was sure of it then. Things had been moved since I’d come through the room. He’d been under the comforter and looked like just part of the lumpy pillows before.

I moved a bit closer to the couch, still mostly heading for the way out. Alex was no longer aiming at me, and in fact was barely holding the gun in his fingertips. I’d remembered him as being a modest man in the past, and clearly that had changed, too. After all, here he was lounging around like a house cat in nothing but a pair of red boxer shorts and white socks.

Defiantly not the Alexander Muse I used to know…

“Well, what do you want?” He asked flatly. “How am I connected to your game of ‘Clue?’”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“You’re the detective, you tell me.”

I sighed as he hadn’t given me a chance to ask any questions yet and was already getting fed up with me being there. “Did you know a man by the name of Charles Dawson?”

Alex didn’t answer at first. He stared off at the blank TV screen, watching me in the refection of it. “Yes. I knew him.” His tone was asking what my point was.

“What was your affiliation with Mister Dawson?”

“He was a customer of mine.”

“Customer? What is it you do?”

“What do you think I do, Jon?”

I glanced around at the paintings. “Obviously you’re an artist.”

“So you really are a detective!” Sarcasm dripped off his words. I brushed it off.

“I take it, then, you painted something for him? Sold artwork to him?”

“Did I say that now?”

I took a deep breath. This was getting to be frustrating. “No. You didn’t. I was assuming.”

“Don’t. You have no idea what’s going on here, Jon.”

“I take it, you do.”

“There you go. Assuming again. Dangerous.”

“Obviously there is something going on here, Alex! You were the last person Mister Dawson called before dropping freaking dead in his room. Why did he call you?”

Alex shrugged. “He was always a weird guy.” There was no regret in his voice whatsoever that the man was dead.

“Why did he call you?” I pressed the question again. “Did you speak with him early this morning?”

“I spoke with him.” Alex nodded. He turned his gaze slowly toward me. I could have sworn I felt a rush of cold air run past me as his grey eyes locked with mine.

“What did he say to you?” I was starting to get a bit excited as another lead was coming up. “Please, tell me.”

“And what does it matter?” He crossed his arms on the back of the couch and looked at me, the Glock 17 still resting casually in his loose grip. “Do you really think that one little phone call to me is vital?”

This was a question that really caught me off-guard, and I fumbled to find an answer. “Wha, I- Jesus, Alex! Vital?! The man only called you a few minutes before he died! Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Doesn’t it at least sound suspicious?”

He made a small sound of amusement, but his face hardly changed expression. “Maybe you do have a point.”

Gee, ya think?

He continued, “I suggest you back out of this one and stay as far out of it as you can. What happened to Charles Dawson and the rest of those people is really none of your affair.”

I slid my hands onto my hips and shook my head. This was not looking good. I lifted my gaze back to Alex again. This is another moment where I think things may have gone wrong. I mean, I could have just nodded and left. In fact, I should have. But I didn’t.

“I didn’t mention any other people.”

Silence.

We both moved quickly, Alex jumping over the back of the couch, and me reaching for the .357 I keep strapped under my coat. Both guns were up and aimed at the same moment, each of us staring down a barrel. And there we stayed for what felt like an eternity.

I finally found my voice. “What do you know about all of this?”

“I know that you should stay the hell out of it.”

“It’s my job.”

“Your job, my ass. It’s your pride, Jon. Now’s when you have to decide, your pride or your life! Because you can’t keep both where you’re heading.”

“Where am I heading, Alex?”

“That’s something that depends on you.”

I didn’t know what else to ask, totally at a loss. I just wanted things to make sense.  “Are you insane?”

“Last I checked.” He smirked, but it faded quickly. “Now listen to me, Jon. You’re going to back out that door right now and never look back. Ever. You’re going to drop this case and pretend you never knew any of this. Got that?”

The argument wasn’t allowed to go much farther. Someone was suddenly banging on the door like a battering ram. Both Alexander and I jumped. It’s a miracle neither of us misfired and knocked the other dead.

Silence. Alex was dividing his attention between me and the door. The knock came again; a strong pounding made to attract attention. I should know. I use the same knock.

“Mister Muse?” A voice from out in the hall called. “Mr. Muse, this is officer Samsonite. I just need to ask you a few questions. If you’re in there, please open up.”

Samsonite. You idiot.

Alexander’s gaze snapped back to me and I could almost feel his piercing gaze hit me. He spoke through clinched teeth. “Damn you, Jon, you brought cops into this?”

“I am a cop, you jerk.”

“That’s what you pretend to be on the outside. But you’re really one of us. And the sooner you realize it, the better!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless.”

Silence.

Officer Samsonite decided to knock again, the pounding sound echoing through the apartment.

“We can sit here,” Alex said, “and let him do that until he decides to break the door down… or you can lower your gun, I lower mine, and we figure out a way to get the hell out of here.”

“We?” By all I could see, he was the one in trouble. This had nothing to do with me. Why would I run form a member of my own force?

“Yes. We. You’re coming with me, Jonathan.”

I didn’t lower my gun. “If you’re planning to take me as a hostage-”

He laughed. “Still funny as ever, I see. No. You’re not a hostage. You’re in just as much danger as I am now. I can’t explain things to you yet. You just have to trust me.”

“Trust you?” I blurted out, and he shushed me, his eyes darting to the door. I didn’t get much quieter. What did I have to lose? “Last time I trusted you-”

“I know, I know, I know, I know!” He snapped over my words, frustration showing now. “Just shut up! If you’ve ever, ever trusted me before, just please, trust me this one last time.”

Seriously, how do you take something like this? The last time I’d seen Alex had been… traumatic, to put it mildly. I’ll sum things up by saying that he made an attempt on my life. Kinda hard to trust someone after they do that… Or, you know, maybe that’s just me. I donno.

“Mr. Muse!” Samsonite called once again, his fist pounding the door. “Your landlady says you’re home. If you don’t open the door, I’m going to have to break it down.”

“We don’t have much time!” Alex hissed at me. “Put down your God damn gun and follow me, got it?”

“I’m not gonna let you do this, Alex! You know something about this case! I won’t let you just get away!”

He gave me the sort of bitter, sarcastic smile you get from an older relative who’s about to pummel you into the grass for acting like a moron. Considering this, I should have seen the pistol-whipping coming. But I didn’t, for some reason. I didn’t even really realize this was what he’d done until I blinked back into consciousness with Officer Samsonite standing over me and a bruise in the shape of a Glock 17 across my face.

Alexander Muse was nowhere to be found.

Huh. Just my luck.



Copyright © Gina Trujillo, 2005. Do Not Copy, Alter or Distribute.