Kelley Armstrong - Omens

They were following the old man. I shook my head. Unless they had a pocketful of Viagra, they weren’t getting any business from that old guy.

I might have felt sorry for those two young prostitutes, but remembering that look in their eyes, I wouldn’t be eager to meet them wandering around my apartment building.

And I wouldn’t be eager to meet them down a dark walkway. Especially if I was a frail old man.

I glanced toward the landlord’s door. Just a day ago, if I’d seen two street girls go into the alley behind an old man, I’d have investigated. Made sure he was safe.

So why wasn’t I already out that door?

I went out onto the stoop and listened.

Was I hoping not to hear anything, so I had an excuse to go back inside. Focus on my own problems?

I shook my head and jogged down the front steps.

The walkway stretched between two apartments and was little more than an alley, but it had been fancied up with an ivy-covered iron arch, a cobblestone path, and a few flowering bushes.

Pleasant enough. Safe enough. And empty enough, with no sign of—

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” The old man’s words drifted from behind a thick lilac. “You know the rules.”

“There are no rules,” a girl hissed. “You old-timers need to understand that. We go where we want. We take what we want. And what we want is the money you were gonna use to fill that grocery bag.”

“I don’t have any money. I was heading to the library—”

“Oh, good,” I called as I walked down the path. “You’re still here. This is your apartment building, right, sir? I’m looking for the landlord and—”

I feigned surprise, stopping short as I saw him backed against the wall, the two girls standing like gunslingers, thumbs hooked in their belts. Matching snakeskin. The height of fashion.

“Oh,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”

The girl nearest me wheeled, snarling, “Mind your own—”

The other one caught her arm. Squeezed. They eyed me, the first still curling her lip, like she wanted to throw down then and there. I’ll admit to a prickle of disappointment when the other girl whispered in her ear and talked her out of it. I’ve never been in a fight in my life, but that roiling ball of pent-up frustration in my gut felt this would have been a fine time to start.

“We were just talking,” the second girl said. “Being neighborly.”

“That’s good to hear,” I said. “We don’t see enough of that these days.” I turned to the old man. He was leaning against the wall looking … amused? “About the landlord…”

“Here, let me take you.” He nodded to the duo. “Happy hunting, girls.”

The first bared her teeth, but her friend nudged her and they headed off down the walkway, in the opposite direction.

“You handled that very well,” the old man said once the girls were out of earshot.

“I’ve dealt with their kind before.”

“Oh?” He looked surprised.

“Volunteer work with street youth.”

“Ah.”

“You may want to avoid that walkway this time of evening.”

He sighed. “We never used to have to worry about such things.” He let me hold open the door as we went inside. “You said you wanted to speak to the super. You aren’t looking at that vacant apartment, are you? This isn’t the place for you.”

“I don’t have a lot of choice,” I said as I fell in step beside him.

“You always have choices.”

I shrugged. “This doesn’t seem so bad.”

“Well, I’d disagree, but I see you’ve made up your mind.” He waved down the hall. “Last door.”

“Thanks.”

As I headed down the hall, my footsteps echoed on the old wood floor. The place smelled of pine cleaner, which should have been a good sign, but it somehow added to the air of sterile desolation. Somewhere upstairs, a baby cried, faintly, almost resigned, as if it didn’t really expect a response.

As I approached the super’s door, strains of salsa music and the smell of chilies warmed the air. The music had been kept at a respectful volume, so I didn’t need to knock hard. Or so I thought. After three increasingly louder rounds of rapping, with no reply, I leaned against the door and listened.

Off-key singing to the music told me someone was home. One last round of knocks, nearly a pounding now, then I called on my cell phone. I heard a phone inside ring. And ring. And ring. I hung up. The music and the singing continued. Then it ended.

Footsteps sounded. They didn’t seem to be coming my way, so I rapped again. More footsteps. The TV turned on.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

A throat-clearing behind me. I wheeled, saw the old man, and flushed.

“Sorry,” I said.

“I don’t blame you. You made an appointment and she’s not there to keep it.”

“She is there. I heard her.”

He shook his head. “That’s just the TV. She leaves it on all the time.” I was about to say I’d heard footsteps, too, but he continued, “This isn’t the place for you. The building’s all right. But the neighborhood?” He shook his head. “Not safe these days. Not safe at all.”

“You might want to take your own advice.”

He smiled and when he did, his teeth were perfect. Not unnaturally perfect, like dentures, but straight and white, like those of a man half his age. “I can take care of myself,” he said. “Now, you’ve helped me, miss, so I owe you one. Have you ever heard of Cainsville?”

I shook my head.

“Little town outside the city. That’s where you want to be.” He handed me a folded slip of paper.

“I need to stay in Chicago,” I said. “The jobs are here.”

“Jobs are everywhere, if you’re not too picky. Cainsville has its share. And apartments at half the price of this.”

He pressed the paper into my hand. “My second cousin Grace owns a walk-up there. She’ll set you up. Give her that note, though, or she might try to tell you she doesn’t have a room. She’s a fickle old bat.”

I unfolded the paper. On it was an address and a note. “Give this girl a room.” Signed “Jack in Chicago.”

“Thank—” I looked up, but he was already back at his apartment door.

“Thank you,” I called.

He nodded and went inside.

——

I had no intention of moving to a small town, particularly one I’d never heard of. I appreciated the kind gesture, but I saw no life for me outside Chicago.

I tried a couple more apartments, in even worse neighborhoods, then surrendered to exhaustion and found a hotel. A motel, actually. The kind I’d only ever seen on TV, usually where the bad guys holed up until the cops came busting through the door. Two stories of dirty brick, rusty metal railing along the second floor, neon sign out front promising clean rooms, as if that was a selling point you wouldn’t find elsewhere. At thirty-nine dollars a night, it probably was.

I was so tired that when the desk clerk did a double-take, I told myself he didn’t actually recognize me. Even when he surreptitiously checked a newspaper under the desk, I stood my ground. This was going to happen, so I’d better just get used to it.

He didn’t deny me a room. Just fumbled through the check-in process, not even asking for a credit card deposit when I said I’d be paying cash. He messed up on the room rate, too, charging me twenty-nine. Or maybe, considering who my biological parents were, he thought it best to give me a discount. I didn’t care. It was money saved, and I was quickly realizing I’d need every penny, even the lucky one nestled in my pocket.

My room was just big enough to hold a double bed, a tiny table, and a dresser of scuffed particle board. The pink and brown polyester bedspread had a bizarrely intricate design, probably to disguise stains. Matching curtains. As advertised, the room was clean. Or clean enough if you didn’t look too carefully.