Colin Harrison - The Finder

He poked his head into the bedroom closet, meeting a strong whiff of shoes. What am I doing, he asked himself, what am I looking for? Even assuming Richie was the guy who killed the two Mexican girlsjust a speculation-what connected him, a meatball who lived in this low-rent dump, to Jin Li, a highly educated, stylish Chinese woman who worked in midtown Manhattan ninety miles to the west?

I need to find something, Ray muttered to himself. In the kitchen he opened Richie's refrigerator: beer, milk, orange juice, batteries, a baggie filled with unidentified pills, several cartons of muscle powder, perhaps $200 worth of nice steaks, and, in the freezer, what appeared to be a giant frozen rat wrapped in a plastic bag.

A sound?

No. Yes! A truck had pulled into the driveway, speakers booming. Ray wasn't sure he could make it to the basement stairs. He back-pedaled blindly and was confronted with a choice of the bathroom or Richie's bedroom.

"… shoulda cleaned up," he heard Richie say, coming inside the house.

"I like it," came a girl's voice. "It's cozy-like."

He chose the bedroom, nearly tripping on a golf club. Where to go in such a small room? The closet. He opened it and stumbled atop a pile of golf shoes and balls. He pulled the door shut. The crowbar was tucked by his side. It was a good weapon but not in a closet.

The minutes passed and Ray felt himself becoming stiff. Maybe he should have tried for the basement stairs. He could hear a low murmur of voices, a little music. The bedroom light, he realized, was on. Had he turned it on? He couldn't remember.

"… waiting for?" came Richie's voice, as he walked in to the bedroom. He flicked off the light.

A girl followed.

"I redid your totally terrible drink." She giggled.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, I made it better, too."

"So I never went to bartending school. Come here."

"I will," she sang back. "I like this bed. Wait, let me just smoke. The train was so slow! I really needed a cigarette. Drink your drink and I'll smoke one."

"I thought that was for after."

"Gets me in the mood. You guys are always in such a hurry."

Ray could smell the cigarette. He felt a golf ball under him and quietly put it into a shoe.

"How long you lived here?"

"Four years."

"Rent or own?"

"Rent. Shoulda bought a few years back."

"Tell me about it."

"But you know, I pull down some good dollars, make a little on side jobs."

"You haven't told me if you like the drink."

"I do, I do."

"Good, or else my feelings were gonna be hurt."

"So this is kind of nice," Richie ventured. "This isn't in a hurry."

"That feels good," came the voice a few moments later.

"Want to roll over there?"

"You seem pretty relaxed," she said. "I mean, most of you is relaxed. Some guys, you know, they get nervous… first time out of the gate."

"Yeah, you know, whatever." The great lover, shrugging humbly at his own talents of seduction. "Plus, I got the home field advantage."

"I guess. Why don't you lie back, let me start relaxing you."

"Can't argue with that."

"First finish the nice drink I made you. I worked hard on it, too, just so you know."

"— right?"

"Yeah, that's it. Just lie back… good… take a breath.. so, you been living here long?"

"Four years, remember? Come on, give me a little action here."

"Keep your pants on, guy, I'm getting there."

"Thought you wanted my pants off."

"I do, definitely."

"I'll take them off."

"You go, boy."

Sound of clothes, a belt buckle.

"So you were saying about living here?"

"That's better."

"Good."

"You're good at that."

"Just relax, Richie."

"I am, very."

"Good, good."

"You?"

"Right here."

"Sleepy, kinda."

"It's okay, it's nice to lie here with you."

The room was quiet. A minute passed.

"You-" came Richie's voice.

"Shhh, it's okay."

"Wait, wait… fuckin' sleepy."

"Shh, don't worry."

"Did ya-? I'm very…"

Ray could hear Richie breathing. It slowed, deepened, and a rasp of a snore introduced itself. He hadn't heard the girl move. Maybe she'd fallen asleep, too.

Then came trill of a cell phone. It scared him and he had to stop himself from reacting. She picked up quickly, after just one ring.

"Hey. He's asleep… you owe me. I had to touch his dick! Goddamn disgusting. What? No, the door is open. I'm not moving, in case he wakes up. Just get here fast, okay?"

She hung up. More cigarette smoke.

The snoring had become a deep sawing gasp that reloaded and gasped again.

Ray tried to slow his own breathing and concentrate on not moving. Someone was coming to the house, and it made him nervous. If the girl left the room, he could run for it-maybe. Golfballs all over the floor. The room had a window. Maybe it opened easily, maybe not. He felt one foot slipping, pulled it back. Once the girl stopped watching the drugged man on the bed, her attention would begin to drift and she would notice Ray. She might not consciously hear him but she would feel him. It was a proven thing. Tibetan monks with their ears plugged and eyes covered with a satin sash could be led into a room, breathe a few times while turning in a circle, and identify in which corner of the room another monk sat motionless on a prayer rug. You see that once, you never forget it.

The girl was just sitting there in the dark. He heard her slide open the drawer.

"Guns!" she whispered aloud.

Then the door to the kitchen opened. Ray heard the heavy footsteps through the walls.

"Hey, Sharon?" came a man's low voice.

"Here!" she whispered loudly. "In here!"

The steps approached the doorway. "He's really out?"

"Think so."

"Get in the car."

"Let me put on my shoes."

"Did you let him fuck you?"

"No."

"I think you did."

"No way, he's disgusting."

"You touched his dick, Sharon."

"He made me. I was doing it for you."

"Blow job?"

"No, I swear."

"You're fucking lying."

"No, no-"

"You just better get in the car."

She left. Ray could hear the unconscious man breathing loudly. He thought he smelled something like cinnamon.

"Fucking douche bag."

"Come on," came the girl's voice down the hall, "what are you doing? There are guns in the drawer, by the way, mister jealous motherfucker."

"You touch them?"

"No."

"Get in the car!"

She left. Ray could hear the back door open and close. The lights flicked on. A line of light ran between the closet doors now. He heard the drawer slide open, the clatter of the pistols being taken, followed by the boxes of ammo.

"Hey, hey, fuckwad," came the voice. "Look at you, Richie, try to fuck my girl. Plus you fucked up, which means now you're going to fuck me up."

There came the lowest groan in the bed, as if Richie had heard this accusation and was trying to respond.

An ominous silence followed. Then came a whipping crack.

Richie gagged out a delirious, inchoate howl. The golf club, thought Ray. Another crack, this time wetter, more awful.

"Fucking made her touch your-!" Then came two, three, four, six, eight blows, in rapid and savage progression, each making the same wet cracking noise, the assailant breathing quickly, panting in a frenzy, grunting at the effort, the splatting blows ending after twenty seconds at most, whatever ability to respond that Richie might possess now obliterated.

"Ugh, fuckin'… fucked up," breathed the voice. "I fucking told you, Richie. Somebody calls me, then some guy is looking for you! You blew it, you fucked up!"

No answer came back.

There seemed to be a deliberative pause-as if the assailant was weighing what he wanted to do next versus what he needed to do. Ray heard him shift his weight from one foot to the next, lining up the swing. Then the blows came, another savage series, wet-wet-wet, so fast Ray knew the club was being whipped up as fast as it was whipped down, ten-fifteen-twenty blows or more, the assailant grunting in spasmodic exaltation, taking pleasure again and again-and then, just as abruptly, the wet whipping sound stopped, the club flung heavily against the wall.