James Sallis - The Long-Legged Fly

Walking around back to look for a rear door or usable window, I discovered another, larger garage apartment. A tall, stooped young man with longish stringy hair was just backing out the door.

“Come to see the place?” he said.

“You the agent?”

“Showing it for them. I’m on my way to class, but I’ve got a few minutes, if you want to look it over. There wouldn’t be any problem with your renting it. You know….”

I knew only too well.

“To tell the truth,” I said, “I was looking for the former tenant.”

“You a cop?”

“Do I look like a cop, son?”

“You sure as hell ain’t her daddy.”

“Friend of her brother’s. He asked me to find her, if I can. Hasn’t heard from her in a long time. He’s been worried.”

“Not much I can tell you. She stayed pretty much to herself. Never had people over, didn’t go out much.”

“She work?”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

“When’d she leave?”

“Let’s see…. Close to a month, must be.”

“You know why?”

“Couldn’t make the rent. Owner finally had to ask her to move out.”

“Did she?”

“The very next morning. Cleaned the apartment up and all before she went, too. Not many’ll do that anymore.”

“No forwarding address?”

“Not with me, not with the post office. I know because the owner was going to send back part of the deposit even though she missed the last month’s rent. Felt kind of bad about the whole thing, I guess.”

“Okay. Listen, I don’t want to keep you, but if you happen to think of anything, anything that might help, could you give me a call?”

I handed him a card and a ten dollar bill.

“I can’t take your money, Mr.-” He looked down at the card. “-Griffin?”

“Sure you can.”

“Wouldn’t feel right about it.”

“All right. Then you just keep it a while and if nothing comes up, you send it back to me.”

“Well,” he said.

“Listen, I’ve held you up. Which school you go to?”

“Loyola.”

“Then let me drop you. Wouldn’t be a problem. You know….”

He grinned. “I would appreciate it, if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

I dropped him off amidst armies of long legs and round bottoms in tight jeans and perfect breasts under sweaters, thinking I ’d never make it to class in all that. Or wouldn’t have-more years ago than I want to think about.

I headed back downtown, brewed a pot of coffee at the apartment-Vicky was on a rare day shift-and had just poured some Irish into it when the phone rang.

“Mr. Griffin?”

“Yes.”

“Kirk Woodland.”

I waited.

“At the apartment a little while ago.”

“Oh. Right.”

“I just thought of something, might help you. There’s this kid down the street from where I live. He’s, I don’t know, eighteen or so, but really retarded, you know? Cherie used to go see him a lot, tell him stories and all, try to teach him things. You think she might show up there sometime?”

“She might indeed. Thank you, Kirk. You know the address?”

“No, but it’s the only two-story wood house on the next block south. Can’t miss it. White with yellow trim.”

“There’ll be twenty more coming to match what you have. I’ll shove it under the door.”

“No, Mr. Griffin. This is more than enough.”

“I insist. You may have saved me a lot of time and work. And I never knew a student who couldn’t use an extra dollar or two.”

“Well,” he said.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“You have trouble concentrating with all those fine young ladies around all the time?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“God, I hope so. I hope it’s not just old men like me.”

“Not hardly.”

“Good. And thanks again.”

I finished the Irish coffee, and another couple of cups without the Irish, and headed back to Metairie. LuAnne was still alone and without parents, Frances Villon remained a thief, and at the two-story wood house I met only suspicion.

I finally convinced the father (Mom had split a long time ago) that I wasn’t a welfare officer or child molester (they probably came down to the same thing in his mind) and was introduced to Denny.

“She was real good with him, Cherie was. Only body ever spent any time with him save me.”

Denny was not only eighteen, he was a giant, almost as tall as myself and built like a linebacker. He had full, slack lips and brown eyes that never blinked. He didn’t talk, but made soft cooing sounds.

“When did you last see Cherie, Mr. Baker?”

“She came by, just for a few minutes, last week. Said she couldn’t stay ’cause of a job interview but she had missed Denny so much.”

“Say anything about when she might make it by again?”

“Said a couple of days. That was Tuesday. Guess she must of got tied up with the new job or something, huh?”

“If she does come back, Mr. Baker, could you give me a call?”

“You’re a friend of her brother, you say?”

“Yes, sir. I can give you his number, if you’d like.”

He looked at me for several moments. “I don’t need his number,” he said. “When you live with someone like Denny, who can’t ever tell you what’s inside him, you learn things most people don’t know. I see the pain and confusion in your face. It’s been there a long time. But I also see you’re a good man, and I know you’re telling me the truth.”

I nodded, and he told me he’d let me know when Cherie showed up again. “She will,” he said. “It’s just a matter of when.”

Isn’t everything, I thought, and headed back to town.

Vicky was home, sitting on the couch with a gin and tonic. She’d taken off her uniform pants but still wore the top, underpants, white stockings. Something about those white uniforms is sexy enough anyway, and it was accented by her pale skin and red hair.

“Posing for Penthouse? ”

“Fo r you,” she said, raising her glass. “Want a d r ink?”

“I’ll get it. You look tired.”

“I’ve had a te rr ible day. A man we we r e ambulating died, just d r opped dead r ight the r e in the hall with family and all the r est of the patients looking on. Then all afte r noon it’s the head nu r se I have to put up with, going on and on about quotas and p r io r ities as I’m t r ying to catch up on my wo r k.”

I got my drink, we both sipped, then she went on, her words as ever falling into natural cadences, so musical and lilting you could sink into the sensual pleasures of the language itself and lose meaning altogether.

“She r efe r s to patients as ‘units.’ An acutely ill patient is twenty-five units, a bed bath is two units, an IV is one unit, and on and on. And on.” She sipped again. “It’s r athe r like a facto r y, isn’t it?”

“And shouldn’t be?”

“Can’t be. Because things a r e changing all the time, patients’ conditions, thei r needs. You can’t ve r y well plot that out on pape r now, can you?”

“But the managers, that new, huge and ever-increasing class, must have some thing to do.” I slipped into a dissembling voice, a mixture of Amos and Andy and sixties cant. “When duh rev’lushun cums, dose wif briefcases gone be de furst shot.”

Vicky didn’t feel like cooking, we both felt like eating, and the only thing in the fridge was very leftover lasagna. The choice came down to ordering from Yum Yum’s, the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away that delivered, or going out somewhere. We had another drink and thought it over. Images of Yum Yum’s greasy paper food cartons (like the kind used to carry goldfish home from the dime store) helped the decision immeasurably.