Curt Colbert - Seattle Noir

The band finally shut it down around 1:45, and although I could still dance, after four or five additional drinks I could barely walk. When she offered to drive me home in her rusted gray Taurus, I figured we must have something in common.

“Hey, I own a shit car too,” I said. “A Honda Shivic.”

“It’s a loaner,” she said. “My Beamer’s in the shop.” She looked at me and smiled. “That’s a joke.”

As we drove, she searched the night radio realm for tunes, homing in on those lonely calls for love. This woman was playing my song.

“My parents grew up in this neighborhood somewhere,” she said as we climbed the hill toward 30th. The streetlights dropped circles of yellow light onto the street, and an occasional hooker walked her walk in them. Bobby Vinton, of all people, was singing “Mr. Lonely” when we pulled up in front of the eighty-seven steps that led to my flat.

“Who?” I said again, still spinning the chair. “Who, who?” I sounded like an owl.

“That old man.” She paused to take a drag on the cigarette. “He’s carrying buckets of dirt out of the house and pouring them into a wheelbarrow.”

I laughed. “The corner building?”

“That’s the one.”

“Ricard. He and Wanda the towering Swede own that place. Turned it into a coffee house.”

“So what’s with the dirt?”

“The place is tiny. He’s trying to expand it. He’s digging up the cellar. Going to put another room in. Maybe a pool table; home movie theater; bowling alley, I don’t know…” I started laughing, but it sounded more like soprano hiccups.

“At 1:38 in the morning?”

“Hey, they drink a lot of coffee. How should I know? Maybe he’s an insomniac. Maybe he pays himself more for working the night shift.”

She turned and stared at me. It was a hard stare, and in a momentary flash of sobriety I felt like a weak joke. Women, particularly gorgeous woman, had that effect on me.

“Come here.”

I got up obediently and caught the door jamb as I tipped too far. I righted myself and drew a bead on her. It wasn’t easy but I walked over.

“Look at him.”

Below, the streetlights illuminated the intersection in front of the shop. It was so bright that I could read the sign. OPEN HEART COFFEE & PASTRIES . They’d just put it up last week and the paint still gleamed. Ricard was pushing the wheelbarrow up the sidewalk to an abandoned concrete foundation, and when he got there, he turned the wheelbarrow into the weeds, pushed it to the edge, and dumped the contents. Then he wheeled it back to the front of the shop and went inside.

“Weird, huh?”

There were no cars, few lit windows. No one was around. The night belonged to itself, and we were all strangers. I had to admit it was an odd sight.

“What movie would this be out of?” Keri asked, sucking her cigarette and tipping her head back, exhaling hard toward the ceiling.

“It depends if we are in it or not. Hitchcock’s Rear Window. I’m Stewart in the wheelchair. You’re Grashe Kelly.”

“You’re Stewart? Not.”

“Whaddya mean not? ” My near-perfect Stewart imitation.

“I mean we’re not in that movie.”

“Then I take the fithh. I refuthe to appear without you at my side.” I raised the near-empty bottle of Cutty to my lips.

She drummed her fingers on the heater. “He’s up to something.”

“You’re crazy. Are we going to bed?” I reached over and slopped my hand onto her shoulder but she shrugged it off with a casual flick.

“I’m going down there to find out.” She ground her cigarette into an ashtray I’d dug out of a forgotten cupboard full of my ex-girlfriend’s flotsam and jetsam. And they say history is dead.

I raised the bottle again and took a slug but there was nothing left in it. Just like my life.

A few minutes later I saw Keri striding purposefully across the intersection and walking into the yawning front door of the Open Heart coffee shop, following Ricard’s trail. This beautiful creature was beginning to piss me off, and I felt I better control her before she pissed off my neighbors. She could leave, but I was stuck here. I felt strongly enough about it that I got up and leveled one of my lamps on the way to the door.

I weaved my way across the street and paused by Ricard’s overturned wheelbarrow. I brushed it with my fingers, the kind of caress men give tools. Something solid about metal. It was a sturdy wheelbarrow, its red body worn to the metal in places by hard work. I felt like it would be a good companion, so I sat next to it on the curb. I could hear the crickets singing in the blackberries and a siren winding its way through Chinatown over on Jackson. I began talking to it but don’t ask me to remember what I said.

I have no idea how long it was before Keri shook me awake. It was a rough shake, and I stared at her glassily. Who was this goddess sent to save my soul?

I tried to ask her something but it came out something like, “Splefff.”

“Come here.” She jerked me to my feet, hooked her arm under mine, and then led me across the street and to my front steps. We made it up twenty-three, I was counting, and she bade me sit, although bade may be the wrong word.

“Sit!”

Sit I did. I could be a good dog if there was a bone waiting.

“That bastard,” she hissed, plopping herself next to me.

“Ricard?” I was beginning to remember things. Unfortunately, with the return of memory came a splitting headache.

“I found out what’s going on, and I don’t mind saying I’m really, really pissed.”

“Whaaa?” I wiped some stray drool off my chin. My goddess was beginning to sound downright scary.

Keri started talking, ranting actually.

“Remember I told you my parents grew up around here? Well, it started coming back to me. My grandparents owned that place.”

“What place?”

“The corner place. The place where that guy is digging. They had a business, kind of a pawn shop. I’ve seen pictures of it. I think it was called Thirtieth Avenue Resale. My dad told me once when we drove by it, and then he showed me pictures.”

“Wow. This is karmic. Or cosmic. We’re like past-life neighbors or something.”

She ignored me.

“They took in tons of jewelry from the Chinese and Japanese immigrants who came on hard times. Family heirlooms, a lot of it. My dad said much of it was jade. High-quality jade. Well, the interesting thing is,” she stabbed the air in front of her, “the interesting thing is that my grandparents stockpiled it all. Never sold it. And most of the immigrants couldn’t afford to buy it back. So they ended up with a shitload of really expensive jewelry.”

She turned and peered directly at me, an insane fervor in her eyes. “A shitload of jewelry is still in there somewhere. I know it!”

“Really?” I moved back a few inches. Her vibes were too intense.

“Yes, really,” she told me. “When my grandparents died the jewelry was supposed to go to my dad, but it never did. My parents couldn’t find it. They searched all my grandparents’ possessions, bank accounts, safety deposit boxes. They searched the store a number of times. I remember my dad saying that he thought they’d hidden it in the basement, but it never turned up. In the end they had to sell the store to pay some debts, and that was that.

“I’ll bet that old bastard Ricard found out about it,” she continued. “He’s looking for it. He knows! Maybe he even found it. That’s my jewelry!” She stood up quickly and shook her fist in the direction of the Open Heart. “That’s my jewelry, you bastard!”

“Shhhh! You’ll wake the landlord.”