Last Call

1

Water rushes out of my nose and lungs as I gag and cough on the banks of the Anacostia just outside of D.C. The raindrops make plunking noises as they hit the river’s surface. I groan and roll over onto my back. That’s a mistake. The throbbing in my head is out of rhythm with the rain that hits me as I stare into the black night sky. It’s cloudy, just like my mind. I sit up feeling drunk but don’t remember drinking. Staggering upright, I walk up the muddy bank and scan the area. I head for the distant glow of D.C. The path I follow is unpaved and deserted. A half hour later I find a road and start thumbing a ride. There aren’t many cars and those that pass don’t stop. I walk a couple of miles outside of town and luck out when a yellow pulls up.

Where to? The cabbie throws me a glance as I climb into the back. The toothpick in his mouth springs to attention when the burly man catches sight of me.You look like you’ve been dragged through the mud.

Close enough. I grumble then give him the address to the room I’m renting.

Sure you don’t want a hospital, bud?

I’m fine. I just need a shower.

Suit yourself, but I bet you feel worse than you look. I was just on my way home. Lucky I spotted you. Not much call for a cab this time of night.

What time is it?

Just past one in the morning. So what happened, if you don’t mind me askin’.

Someone didn’t like me asking questions. They didn’t like me or the questions and dumped me in the river.

Oh? You a cop? Or a private dick?

No, just a reporter.

So who did it? You know?

I have a pretty good idea.

I always wanted to be a reporter.

Really? I’m not that interested, but I am fighting to stay conscious and think conversation will help.

Nah, not really. The cabbie guffaws. The toothpick in his mouth bobs up and down. People open up if I tell them I want to be whatever they are. What I really wanted to be was a cowboy. But there’s no call for those nowadays, he explains with a sigh. The car hits a hole in the road and the cabbie curses as he tries to keep the cab straight. You’d think they’d fix roads in this day and age. Name’s Cam by the way. So how many were there?

I’m Randy—Randy Cook. Not sure. More than one I think, if you don’t count the dame.

Cam glances up at me through the rear-view mirror. There’s always a dame. Looker?

Yeah. She was in on it. I’m certain. But she couldn’t have dragged me into the river without help. I pause. I hadn’t thought it through. Why would anyone want to kill me? I was just doing a fluff story on the new art scene in D.C. Oncoming headlights approach and pass us on the left. Cam raises a hand to wave at the driver and his ring grabs my attention. An image flashes across my mind of a signet ring, but flat-faced.

The ring, I blurt.

Oh, this? What about it? He holds the hand up. It’s my wedding ring. I still wear it even though we broke up. You know how that goes. The hand drops and Cam shrugs. We didn’t get along. Irreconcilable differences is what the lawyer said. Me? I just think we argued too much.

Sorry to hear, I say, but my thoughts are on the strange ring. Just before I passed out, I glimpsed it. Whoever wore it had thrown me over their shoulder and into the river. I am sure of that.

Glad we didn’t have kids. I realize Cam is still talking. It makes the breakup easier, you know?

Uh, huh.

It’s not like I had a lot invested in the relationship. He pauses. It still hurts sometimes. The toothpick flinches. I’ve been looking for a side-gig. What with the economy the way it is money is tight. Good thing we broke up on good terms.

I focus back on the conversation. It’s a rough world. You’re lucky, you have a steady job. A lot of people are still out of work and most are struggling.

I know. I guess you’re safe. There’s always news to report, right?

I think so. I get a lot of fluff; pet shows, art shows, and comings out.

Hey that’s what sells. Right?

I guess. I want to do some hard-hitting reporting.

So why don’t you?

I shrug in the back seat. A bolt of lighting lights up the cab a moment too late to illuminate my gesture. The cab swerves. I grab the edge of the seat.

Damn! I don’t like lighting. It always makes me jump. I see Cam shake his head. His image in the review-view mirror is focused on the road. The toothpick is halfway into his mouth.

Maybe you shouldn’t drive in a storm.

I don’t mind rain. It’s the lighting and thunder. They give me the creeps. He drives in silence. We’ve run out of small-talk. Or so I think. So who do you work for?, he asks.

The Herald—Washington Court House Herald.

The cabbie grunts in acknowledgment. Here you go. Randy, you said your name was, right? I glance at the meter. If you need a cab, just ask for me, Cam. There’s only one of me. He laughs as he pulls the cab alongside the curb of the cobblestone building where I live. I hand over the fare and throw in a fiver. At least they didn’t take my wallet.

Thanks! Cam exclaims.It’s a little soggy, but the banks will take it.

2

The next evening I feel clean and rested, at least physically. Someone had dumped me into the Anacostia. I had the when and where. I wanted to know who and why. A good journalist would find the answers. There was a story there, and I was the victim.

It’s dark and pours sheets of rain. I trudge the couple of miles to Number 3 Green Court. Last night I had been drunk. I don’t get drunk. I fight the rain that flails me from the sky as I enter the alley. The summers in D.C. are hot and humid. Now, the rains had come and mirror my dark mood. The nondescript entrance in front of me has a small sign and a large man. The sign reads Abandon soap all ye who enter here. It’s an attempt at humor I don’t get. The man stands under an overhang shielded from the rain. He’s dressed in an immaculate suit one size smaller than what he should have been wearing. His eyebrows shoot up then fall.

Welcome back. I forget, you a cop or a Fed?

Neither. I’m just here to have some fun.

The large man looks at me. Didn’t you say you was a reporter.

It must have been someone else. I’m not wearing my reporter hat tonight.

The giant grunts.You know the drill. No cops. No Feds. No guns. He pats me down. I flinch as he searches my nether regions. You’re clean. Stay that way and you won’t get hassled. And don’t ask questions. He tilts his head and I take that as a sign I can go in. He eyes me as I nod and enter the unassuming door.

The sound of a three-piece band trying to do a good version of Bessie Smith’s Sweet Georgia Brown assails me. The smoke obscures the gaudy art that hangs on the walls. Most of it is what passes for modern: shapes and paintings of naked women adorn the walls. I don’t get it but it is au courant. I pass through the haze and din to the tall cedar of a man that stands behind a dark ornately carved desk that acts as the bar. But bars are illegal. This is an art gallery that serves if you know how to ask. The lanky tree nods. What can I get you? I have soda, coffee, and tea.

I want the good stuff. My voice is easy.

We don’t sell that. It’s illegal, you know. The tree’s eyes dart from side to side.

Come on. Be a pal. I need something uh more interesting. I drop a fiver on the bar. I had a rough day.

The man grabs the bill and pours a glass of clear liquid. Here’s your water, sir. Then he whispers. It’s water here. Got it?

I nod. What do you call water, then?

He looks stumped, then responds. No one orders water—unless it’s water. He hisses, Got it.

Sure thing.

You a cop?

No.

You a dick?

No.

No Feds allowed here.

I’m not a Fed. I’m just a guy.

What do you want?

Can’t a guy just come here to relax? I pause, then add, And to enjoy the art? What do I call you?

The man blinks hard. Moe Reynolds

So you own the joint?

Nah. I just serve drinks.

I nod. I was here last night. There was a number…

He eyes me with suspicion. Yeah. Tayla. What about her?

Yeah, her. I was just wondering where she is tonight?

Around. Why?

Oh, we just hit it off. That was half a lie. I wasn’t sure I’d have to bring it up during my next confession. She and the ring are the only leads I have.

Well Mac, I would stay away from her if I were you.

Is that a threat?

Moe takes a step back with his hands raised. No. No. Of course not. I’m just sayin’ she has a boyfriend.

You?

His laugh is uneasy. Me? Nah. I wish. Tayla’s Goodwin Dolby’s.

The Congressman?

Moe nods. The one and only.

When’s Tayla here? Usually?

Moe shrugs. It’s up to her. I don’t keep tabs on her.

I press. When she’s here, what days is she here?

Moe blinks. Late usually—and Wednesday and Saturday. He pauses. I’d stay away from her if I were you. Dolby isn’t one to mess with.

I chug the rest of the gin. It was bad even for a bad joint, which this wasn’t. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. I point to the empty glass. Moe fills it with the clear liquid. I take my glass of water and find a seat as far away from the band as possible. I like music. This isn’t it. The place is filled with couples looking to hook up and guys that look like they have lost everything and everyone. I feel good that I’m not one of them. My focus is to find the man with the ring if he makes an appearance. The smoke is thick; the forced laughter thicker. Bad company and bad gin will do that to a person and place. I stare down at my glass. I don’t feel drunk. I hadn’t gotten drunk last night. That I was now sure of.

Then she walks in. I’m wrong. She slides in. Her step is effortless despite the floor length dress she wears. It’s red like her hair and as tight as a noose on a dying man’s neck. She didn’t look this good last night. I take in her presence the way I had the gin–I gulped. Her eyes meet mine and widen. She hesitates, then smiles as she makes her way to my table. The music seems to fade into the background.

Well, hello. Her voice has a lilt. I drink in the singsong the way I had the previous night. You’re back again. She pauses half a beat.I didn’t think you’d be back.

Why’s that? I try to act suave, but come off nervous.

Buy a lady a drink? She pulls a thin cigarette out of a silver case from the purse that hangs by her side. Her red lips wrap around the stick. I fumble in my pocket for the box of matches. I light one and then her cigarette. She inhales. She exhales a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. Her breathing takes mine away.What about a drink? Flustered, I signal to Moe, who grimaces then nods.

Why didn’t you think I’d be back? I repeat.

You don’t seem like the kind of guy who hangs out in places like this. Her eyes twinkle. They are black pools. Tar pits are black pools as well. I could die in both. It didn’t seem like you were into art.

A memory from last night prods me. I wanted to hear more about your art.

Her eyes light up to a brighter shade of black. Her mouth forms a smile around the cigarette. Really? Even after I told you I wasn’t good?

Oh I’m sure you’re good. I took a swig of the gin. I cough. You wouldn’t be exhibiting here if you weren’t, would you?

It’s just most people that exhibit here aren’t all that famous. The Krazy Kat Klub is for the up and coming, not for the famous. Her gaze is slow as it wanders across the smoke-filled room. I guess I’m the only one here tonight.

You’ll do. I’m light-headed, but not from the cheap booze or the smoke. Maybe you could show me your stuff.

Her face lights up. You’d really want that? You didn’t seem very interested last night.

Well, lets just say I had a lot to think about last night.

Tayla’s expression is puzzled for a moment, then clears. It’s hard being good—at art I mean. No one takes you seriously. Even Goody just puts up with me.

Goody?

Goodwin Dolby. He likes me to call him Goody. He’s my patron.

Congressman Dolby is your patron?

She nods, her red hair bouncing against her bare shoulders. There are freckles. He’s the one who suggested I show here. He says that with the right exposure I can be a famous painter. Her smile warms my soul. Too bad it wasn’t directed at me.

A ruckus in the back room draws my attention. I hear Moe yelling. It stops as he returns from the back room and slams the door shut behind him. His face is red and his mouth a thin line. He stares back at me, glaring. I ignore him and turn my attention back to Tayla. I’m sorry, you were saying?

He says he can make me a big artist. Even as big as some of the dead ones. I don’t respond. All the paintings on display in the Krazy Kat Klub were there for a reason. The art drew customers. Customers bought booze. Then I can move to New York where the real art is. The band takes a break; the silence is a nice change. The small dance floor is empty and what few customers the joint has are busy either drinking or ogling each other. Do you want to see it?

See what?

My paintings, silly.

Sure.  I’m not much on art despite having written a story or two. She takes my hand in hers