Ryan Jahn - Low Life

Simon walked toward him with the rusty pipe in his hand, heart pounding in his chest.

‘Wait,’ the jockey said. ‘You don’t wanna do that. You do not wanna do that. Just wait. Wait wait – wait.’

‘Who are you and why are you following me?’

‘I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—’

Simon swung the pipe down and slammed it against the jockey’s left knee.

He let out a scream.

‘Why are you following me?’

‘I don’t—’ turned into another scream as Simon hit him again.

‘Who are you?’

‘I—’

‘Take off your glasses.’

‘What?’

‘Take them off. I wanna see your eyes.’

‘I don’t know—’

Simon smashed the pipe against the jockey’s neck. It left an orange rust stain on his flesh. He screamed in pain, grabbing at the point of contact with pale fingers. There was dirt under his fingernails and they were surrounded by the pink gashes of torn-away hangnails.

‘I’m not gonna let you lie to me. Let me see your eyes. I want to know you’re telling me the truth.’

‘I can’t take them off.’

Simon raised the pipe again.

The guy held up his hands. The palms were dirty and small pebbles were embedded in the meat of them from his crawl away from Simon.

‘Okay. Okay, okay – okay.’

Simon waited.

The jockey let out a sigh. He rubbed at his neck. It was welting and turning red beneath the rusted orange. He swallowed. His throat made a dry clicking sound when he did.

Simon noticed for the first time that they weren’t standard sunglasses he was wearing. They were flying goggles, a leather strap wrapping them around the jockey’s head.

‘Take them off.’

‘I am.’

‘I won’t say it again.’

‘I’m taking them off.’

Finally he reached to the glasses with both hands and pulled the lenses up onto his forehead.

His eyes became slits as he squinted in the sunlight. A gasp escaped his mouth. Pink tears – part blood and part water – streamed down his cheeks. His eyes were nothing but tiny black pupils floating in a sea of white, like a single dot on an otherwise blank page. With no color in their centers the whites of the eyes seem unbelievably white, like snow-covered mountainsides through which no black rocks or treetops were jutting.

Suddenly Simon remembered what Chris had told him about UFOs and the travelers who came here within them. They got crazy eyes. He hadn’t gotten to say what their eyes looked like before Robert cut him off but—

It couldn’t be true – could it? It had to be bullshit. And yet—

At this point he was ready to believe anything.

‘Are you – are you one of them?’

‘What? One of who?’

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Where do I – Culver City. Well, just east of Culver City. Near Washington and La Brea.’

‘No – where are you from originally?’

‘I don’t—’

‘Stop stalling!’

‘Ohio. All right? I don’t know what you want from me.’

‘You were born in Ohio?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What city?’

‘Westerville.’

‘Westerville a big town?’

‘No.’

‘What’s the population?’

‘I – uh – it was about thirty thousand when I left.’

‘When was that?’

‘Ninety-seven.’

‘Nineteen ninety-seven?’

‘No, eighteen ninety-seven.’

Simon raised the pipe in his hand.

‘Yes! Yes – nineteen ninety-seven.’

‘You’re not one of them?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talk—’

‘Fine. Why are you following me?’

‘I’m a private investigator.’

‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

‘Lack of pigment. I was born that way.’

‘Your hair’s black.’

‘Localized to the eyes.’

‘What’s that called?’

‘What’s what called?’

‘When you have albino eyes.’

‘I don’t know.’ He wiped at the bloody pink water running down his face. ‘It’s a long name. I can never remember.’

‘And you’re not one of them?’

‘I don’t know what that means.’

‘Who hired you?’

‘Can I put the glasses—’

‘No. Who hired you?’

‘I can’t tell you that. Client privilege. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Who fucking hired you?’

‘Listen—’

Simon slammed the pipe down onto the man’s shoulder and it let out a sick ring so low in tone it was barely a ring at all. The man let out a yelp and rubbed at the orange stain on his black coat.

‘I already gave you three chances. I’m gonna give you one more. That’s more than you’d get in baseball.’

‘Your wife.’

Simon nodded. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t think anything the man said would surprise him. If the guy had admitted to being one of them, Simon thought he would have believed that – believed it and gone on from there.

‘Why did she hire you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘I’m not. She didn’t say. She just said she wanted me to follow you, keep track of where you were going, tell her what I saw. I assumed she suspected another woman, but she didn’t say so, so I don’t know.’

‘You’re fired.’

Simon tossed the rusty pipe away.

‘Is there a transponder on my car?’

The jockey hesitated.

‘Where is it?’

‘Right front wheel well.’

‘You put it in the same place twice?’

The guy shrugged.

‘I figured you’d look everywhere but the same spot.’

‘Keep whatever retainer my wife gave you, but don’t let me see you again.’

‘Okay.’

The man pulled the goggles back down over his eyes.

When Simon went back to get Francine she was gone.

He was halfway down the rusted fire-escape ladder when he realized his arm was empty.

He stopped, holding onto a rung, and considered climbing back up to get her, but he knew what would happen – the same thing that’d been happening all day.

It was a distraction. He had to let her go. Chasing after his goddamn goldfish was not getting him any closer to finding out what was happening. Besides, he was no longer certain she was real.

‘Sorry, Francine.’

He continued down the fire escape.

He yanked the wheel to the right and the Saab rolled up the curb and onto a strip of lawn growing between the curb and the sidewalk before screeching to a stop, grass tearing beneath a tire, revealing moist black soil and the insects and worms that lived within. He pushed open the driver’s side door and stepped out into the day. He felt tense. Samantha had hired a private detective to follow him. She had given him pills and – if he was remembering correctly – he had hallucinated shortly thereafter. Or had he hallucinated before? He couldn’t remember now. He had certainly been hallucinating since. Helmut Müller was dead. That stray dog was dead. The thing with the goldfish was just weird.

He pushed his way through the front door.

‘Samantha?’

Silence.

‘Samantha?’

Faint, from the bathroom: ‘Jeremy?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Hold on.’

The sound of the toilet flushing, water running, the door opening.

Samantha emerged from the hallway with damp hands. She wiped them back then front on her shirt.

‘Where have you been? The police came by looking for you. Did you stab Dr Zurasky?’

‘What are you doing to me?’

‘What?’

‘You had someone following me.’

‘Calm down.’

‘You had someone following me.’

‘Jeremy, I – I didn’t.’

‘I’m not asking. I’m telling you I know you did.’

‘But – listen.’

‘Okay.’ He crossed his arms. ‘I’m listening.’