X. Atkins - Richmond Noir

Rebecca’s internship was nearly complete; she’d be leaving for Cincinnati in a matter of days. It struck me hard, and maybe her too, but neither of us spoke about it. Following my first day of work in four days, Rebecca, walking home beside me in the alleys, presented me with an idea.

“Would things be better for you if they found the perfume?”

I supposed they would, but the small red vial had been so long in our possession, and become so important to us, that I couldn’t imagine being without it.

“I want you to give me the perfume,” she said evenly. “I’ll plant it in a box in one of the storage rooms.”

Her face was confident and serene, and I wanted to kiss the little notch upon her lip for her offer. But it was too dangerous — besides, neither of us had access to the rooms. Then she handed me an envelope. Inside was a key she’d stolen, copied, and returned the day before.

I held onto the key. “It’s too dangerous, Rebecca. If they catch you...”

“Then what? They send me home?”

“Or prison.”

There was the Summer Celebration gala the next night, a fund-raising party for members, staff, and interns. I could do it then, slip in and out amidst the crowd.

“Why do you suddenly want to get rid of it?”

“For you.”

I looked all around at the alley we were in, one of a thousand veins through which coursed the blood of our city to its heart, where a great and mysterious history seemed preserved for us.

“Poe should have died here,” I said, “in these alleys. Not on some bench in Baltimore.”

That night was our last with the perfume.

We took my car. At the museum, Memorial Hall was bustling with ritzy summer gowns and tuxedoed bartenders, colorful spreads of hors d’oeuvres, live jazz. Rebecca and I spent only a few minutes together — the Hamlins were expected shortly — and gulped down our wine in a corner. She was especially striking, having spent so long with her compact mirror as we dressed in the basement, painting on her dark eyes, making her face radiant.

“Rebecca...”

“You have to,” she said. “You can’t lose everything because of me.”

“No, I mean, will you still...”

I was conflicted, afraid that returning the perfume was tossing away the only card I had, tossing away Rebecca herself. I couldn’t finish, but she seemed to know what I meant, because she pulled me to her by my waist and gave me a slow, full-hearted kiss.

“Do it soon,” she said. “I’ll meet you later. Goodbye.” And she disappeared into the crowd.

I waited, put crackers into my dry mouth, said quick hellos, then made my move. I was fueled with wine, sliding through back hallways, full of love for Rebecca. It wasn’t fair that we couldn’t keep it — I hadn’t been fair, keeping it from her. Wouldn’t it all blow over sooner or later? The old case of the missing perfume, just like the painting, which was by now a tired page on an FBI website. In the storage room I stood still, feeling the weight of the vial in my jacket pocket, and Rebecca’s hands still around my waist. I had my treasure — not the painting anymore, but Rebecca. And she , such the devoted student of Poe, deserved to have the perfume. If it was time to return anything, it was the painting. With a wild surge of clarity and elation I rejoined the throngs of people, who had begun dancing as if to emulate my joy. I couldn’t wait to tell Rebecca, to see her face; I’d have liked to see her uncle’s too, just to show him my pleasure and confidence. But I found neither. Someone tugged at my elbow. It was Trina.

“You looking for Rebecca, Mr. Vance? She left a little while ago.”

I stared at her, baffled, then said, “No, Trina. I’m not looking for Rebecca.”

The row of magnolias was empty so I circled back to the parking ramp. She’d be waiting for me, my getaway driver. At my parking spot I discovered three things almost simultaneously: Rebecca wasn’t there, my car was gone, and my keys were no longer in my jacket pocket. I ran home through the alleys trying to keep my mind blank, trying not to remember that last embrace with Rebecca, her hands snaking around my waist. Lou’s house was dark, as was mine. My door was unlocked. Inside I called her name.

Then I read the note:

Please forgive me. But you must see the bright side. The cloud of suspicion above you is lifted — evermore .

I had my shot of whiskey, felt my body shudder, and then it came, the mean bang of fists against my door and the wave of blue uniforms through the halls. I heard my name from the lips of one officer, a young sergeant, who explained his warrant for search and seizure. I saw John in his suit, straight from the gala, and Lou Hamlin dressed in black like some prowler.

The young sergeant said solemnly, “Mr. Vance, is there a safe in your basement?”

I managed to ask if that was illegal.

“What you’ve got in it is,” said Lou, sneering.

They ushered me into my basement and Lou coughed with laughter when he saw the safe in plain view. The sergeant tried the handle.

“Open it up, shitbird,” said Lou.

The sergeant raised a finger to quiet Lou — this pleased me — and said, “You’ll have to open the safe, Mr. Vance. That, or it’ll be opened in the lab.”

I felt my cold body rise and fall with my breath; I waited, but nothing came to me: no idea, no plan of escape. I was done.

“No need for that,” I said, and went to open it.

“No,” said the sergeant, blocking me. “Just recite the combination.”

It was an unoriginal set of numbers, the poet’s birthday: 01-19-18-09. As I recited them I remembered spinning the dial earlier in the evening to retrieve the perfume, Rebecca behind me on the bed doing her makeup, mirror in hand. The click of the lock woke me. The flashlights came out like swords and the beams ferreted through the dark, but where the light should have by now found the black hair, the thin nose, the quiet eyes, there was nothing but more dark, and more light chasing in until the beams struck the rear wall of the safe.

All eyes — and the beams of flashlights — turned upon me.

“Where is the painting, Mr. Vance?” asked the sergeant.

I looked at Lou’s face, white and fishy, and kept my eyes on him when I said, “What painting?” It came out weak, unconvincing, but what did it matter? The empty safe was proof — the empty safe would hide my crime. Only John was touching the brackets on the opposite wall, and looking at the spotlights.

Lou erupted, snatching me by the collar and heaving me into the wall for some of his paternal policing. He got in one blow to my face before he was restrained by the officers. He fought at them too, and when he was finally subdued and handcuffed on the floor he was nearly foaming at his white mustache.

“She said!” Lou spat. “She said the painting was here! She saw it!”

Rebecca. His spy all along. I let this sit on my thoughts for a moment, as if seeing how long I could hold an ember.

The sergeant looked beat. He shook his head at Lou. Then his face brightened. “Mr. Hamlin, where is your niece?”

“She doesn’t have it,” he said. “She made this happen!”

Oh, treacherous Rebecca! But her note was coming into focus. She’d duped me good, but she’d gone to great lengths to dupe her uncle too, and leave me protected.

The sergeant peered at me. “Where is Rebecca? Does she have the painting?”

I said nothing.

That’s when I heard John: “Rose. I smell rose.”

Suddenly, I could smell it too, as if it had exploded in my pocket; it was all over me, all over the bed and the walls and the safe. I looked away from John.