Ryan Jahn - Low Life

Simon looked up and really examined Ullman’s face for the first time since he’d walked in. He was unshaven. His lips were chapped and there was a bloody scab on the bottom one where he had scraped away at the dead skin with his teeth. His eyes were marijuana-reddened but sharp with intelligence and perception and Simon didn’t like the shine they had at all.

‘Why – ’ he licked his lips – ‘what makes you think that?’

‘I can’t think of what else it might be.’

‘But what would it have to do with Kate Wilhelm?’

Ullman was quiet for a minute. He ran his tongue over his teeth, sucked at something stuck behind his eyetooth, swallowed.

‘You’ve not been yourself,’ he said finally. ‘You need to get help. I don’t think you can save your job at this point. Carol has it in for you – and at this point I’m way past defending your behavior. But you might – just maybe – be able to save your marriage. Samantha loves you. She’s put up with more than any woman in her right mind would. You’re lucky for that. But I don’t think she’s gonna put up with much more, Jeremy. In fact, I won’t let her. If you fuck up again, I’ll have to rip out your heart.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t want Samantha to have to watch you fall apart.’

Ullman left without answering any of his questions.

He continued digging through paperwork for another twenty minutes but mostly what he found were absences. He didn’t have a Wilhelm in any of his classes, for instance. No Kate or Kathryn or Kathy or Katrina – no Wilhelm at all. But while he looked for Kate’s information, he also hoped to find something else that might be useful. He knew more now than when he’d first searched the office, so maybe now something that meant nothing then would be of significance. He found no reference to himself. He found no reference to Zurasky. He found one reference to Kate – if it was the same Kate, and he thought it was – the beginning of a letter addressed to her that had been crumpled and shoved into a desk drawer unfinished.

Kate: I know this is difficult for you. It’s not easy for me either. That said, you simply cannot continue down this path. You’re angry, I hurt you, but that was never my intention. I always told you there was no future in this. I tried in every way I knew how to make sure you knew this would never be love.

If you continue down this path, you’re going to end up hurting yourself as much as you hurt me – perhaps more. I know you said you never wanted to see me again, but I’d like to talk to you in person. Maybe we can

That was the whole thing. It was written on a sheet of yellow paper in blue ink. There was a coffee stain on the bottom right-hand side, and the word

was scrawled in big letters across the two paragraphs.

He folded it up and slipped it into a pocket. Then he grabbed Francine from the top of the desk and headed toward his car in the parking lot.

As he reached the Saab and unlocked the car door he realized his hands were empty. He was almost certain he’d grabbed Francine from the desk before walking out of the office – almost. He could close his eyes and remember the way he’d reached across the desk, the way his hip had bumped a stack of papers and knocked it down, the way the papers spread across the floor like a fanned deck of cards, the feel of the cool glass against his fingertips hard and smooth – and yet his hands were empty.

The jar wasn’t in the office.

He knew he was wasting time, but he couldn’t stop himself.

He parked the car on the south side of Wilshire, in front of the Korean barbecue joint, and jogged across the street toward the Filboyd Apartments, dodging a smattering of cars as he went.

The man in the Cadillac, the jockey, was parked on the north side of the street, in front of his building, watching him through the black lenses of his sunglasses. Had he known Simon was going to come back here or had it been a lucky guess? Had he taken the jar knowing that Simon would—

Maybe he was being followed by more than one person. He couldn’t see the jockey’s eyes. He was pretending to examine the backs of his fingers, nibbling at bloody hangnails there, but Simon knew the man was really watching him.

He pushed his way through the front doors before he remembered he had no key to get in, pushed his way back out, and walked around the corner of the building toward the fire escape in back. As he walked up the sidewalk toward the alleyway he saw Helmut Müller. The man was walking toward him, looking down at his feet, making small steps and watching the sidewalk like if he didn’t stay focused he’d forget what he was doing. Maybe he would. Death was a pretty good excuse for a bad memory. When he heard Simon’s footsteps he looked up at him.

‘Well, take him,’ Müller said, then looked past Simon’s shoulder and nodded.

Simon looked behind him, saw nothing. Then he walked past Müller without a word and into the alley.

The Mason jar was resting on the coffee table and Francine was swimming inside it. He picked it up and started back to the bathroom. The man in the Cadillac was out on Wilshire right now, probably putting another transponder under one of his wheel wells. He’d had enough of that son of a bitch.

He walked into the bathroom and crawled back out through the open window. With Francine tucked into his armpit, snuggled under his right arm like an infant, he made his way precariously down the ladder. Once at the bottom he looked around the alley for a weapon. The cinder block was too large and awkward. Nothing else seemed remotely intimidating. He was about to give up when, turning in a circle to see what the alley contained, his foot kicked something metal. A rusty rung knocked from the fire escape lay on the ground amongst a thatch of weeds growing up through a crack in the asphalt. He vaguely remembered it falling there. He picked it up and felt it for weight.

Nodding to himself – it was good and heavy, and rust had decayed one end to a sharp point – he walked out of the alley.

He walked all the way around the block so that he could come up behind the Cadillac and the jockey would remain unaware of his presence unless he happened to glance in his rear-view mirror. But he would be looking for Simon to come out the front of the building or around the corner, so Simon remained hopeful. About a half block behind the car was the bench that sat in front of Captain Bligh’s. Simon set Francine down beneath it, pushing the jar against the wall so no one would kick it over.

‘Wait here.’

Then he continued toward the black Cadillac and the man inside. The metal gripped in his fist felt grimy and was turning his palm a reddish orange. His hands were moist with sweat. His mouth was dry. He walked carefully and smoothly forward. The sounds of the cars and trucks driving by on Wilshire faded away. The world seemed very clear and clean and crisp, like it did after rain. He walked out into the street, continuing onward. He raised the pipe in his right hand up over his shoulder.

As he walked past the left rear fender the jockey glanced him in his side-view mirror, slammed a hand down on the door lock, and tried to roll up the window. But he was too late. Simon reached through and grabbed him by the collar of his thin black sport coat and fought him bodily through the window. Once more of him was outside the car than inside, Simon let him go, and gravity threw him to the street.

A car in the right lane had to swerve to miss him, and its driver laid on the horn.

The man scrambled out of the street, crawling backwards in a crabwalk toward the curb, between the front of his Cadillac and the bumper-sticker-covered red Toyota parked in front of it.