Michael Rizza - Cartilage and Skin

“Now, what do you mean by different?” he asked, and I felt myself losing to him, cowering a little because I couldn’t look him in the eye.

“When I knew him, he was very alert.”

“I don’t know what you mean?” The black man, seemingly flabbergasted and confused, then looked at Dr. Ferguson, as if he could explain.

I thought that my comment was neither vague nor particularly relevant.

“When I knew him, he might have stolen cigarettes from—” I began.

“No,” the social worker said. “He was outside your home, killing cats with a brick.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“He was.”

“That’s horrible,” I said.

“Yes,” the black man said.

I still had no idea why they wanted to talk with me. Besides giving the boy a few dollars, I had done nothing more for him than call an ambulance. I imagined myself playing the older, charitable man to the poor, homeless Ragged Dick, but unlike that popular, dime-novel hero, the boy apparently didn’t shine shoes or rescue drowning victims; he smashed small animals in a dirty alley.

“He was never right,” the social worker said. “How could he be?”

I didn’t say anything. I was curious about the boy’s parents or guardians, where he’d slept at night, whether he’d been a bona fide prostitute with his own street corner and pimp or if he’d been held captive by some other method. It seemed impossible that he could have been entirely alone in the city. Nevertheless, caution prevented me from asking any question that could have been turned around on me. I was especially curious about the cats, but I checked my desire for the details.

Dr. Bruce Ferguson stuck his hand inside his jacket, paused for an instant, and asked, “I suppose you may be able to help us?”

“If I can.”

He pulled out a few pictures and handed them to me.

“Who are these men?” he asked.

There were various photographs of two middle-age men, though none of them together. Both of the men looked caucasion, and both had a mop of hair that needed a more modern style. They mainly wore pocket-tees and tank-tops. One of the men had perpetual bags under his sleepy eyes and a stubby pug nose. The other man appeared as though he were always intentionally sucking in his cheeks. Not only their attire but also the sordid backgrounds in the pictures suggested that these men were poor and unkempt. Several shots featured the pug-nosed man astraddle a refrigerator that was lying on its side by a curb. The man seemed thrilled and boastful that he had just hunted and killed the appliance.

“I have no idea,” I said, handing back the pictures.

“Coincidently, they both took a flight to London several days ago,” the nameless man said, and I nodded, although I didn’t quite understand the coincidence. “From there, we strongly surmise, they are headed to one of several locations in eastern Asia. You don’t know these men.”

Although the man’s words sounded like an assertion, I answered, “No.”

“You have any idea why they are traveling together and where they’re headed.”

“No,” I said, and I used the brief, succeeding pause to turn away from the black man. As I watched Dr. Bruce Ferguson slip the photographs back into his pocket, I realized that he probably wasn’t a medical or mental doctor.

Seeing me look at him, he asked, “Do you mind us asking you these questions?”

“No. I’d like to help where I can. Are these the men?”

“We can’t say,” the other man answered. He sat solidly in his seat, as heavy and immovable as a large black rock.

The social worker made some kind of movement at her desk, but I didn’t turn to look at her. Just a few hours earlier, she had led me to believe that she needed my assistance with the boy, but now the obvious fact was that I was sitting in an airless office, across from two strange men. Although her deception was a simple move, it seemed unnecessary to me; perhaps the phone call had been impromptu, but most likely not.

“Tell me about Regina Ehman.” The black man’s eyes were unblinking; only his mouth appeared to move.

“I don’t know anything. Is that a woman?”

“How about Kirk Shannon or Shannon Kirk?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never heard these names before?”

“No.”

“I thought you wanted to help us.”

“If I can.”

“You’re not acting like you want to help us.”

I didn’t respond as all of us sat silently for a moment.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Dr. Bruce Ferguson asked.

“Like what?”

“Are you a shifty man?” the black man abruptly asked, unveiling his hostility more fully. “I think you’re a shifty, artful man.”

“I don’t know,” I responded sheepishly.

“Only someone who is shifty would spend all his time in hiding. But I know you well. Believe me. I know your whole life story. You’ve been my special project these last few months. You’re cautious. You’ve been very wary and quiet.”

He seemed like so much contained energy that he was ready to burst all over me.

“Your special project?” I echoed, my voice small within me.

“Don’t think for a second that you can eat or sleep without me knowing about it?”

“Why?”

“Why? Why did you give money to that boy? What was he doing in your home?”

“But—” I began to say; I had explained all this already. I looked toward the social worker, but she wasn’t going to help me

“Are you going somewhere, Dr. Parker?” the black man asked.

“What?”

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You got your security deposit back on the same day the other two birds flew to Asia. Were you planning on going with them?”

“I don’t know those men?”

“Did something spook them or did they plan this trip on their own?”

“I don’t — What?”

“You wanted to go with them.”

“No.”

“Come on now. An American with some cash, you can barter and trade in children over there. Are you sure?”

“You don’t understand. Listen,” I said.

My heart was pulsing in a spastic frenzy. Helpless, I looked at everyone in turn, and they all appeared casual and composed, as if my throbbing anxiety were insignificant to them.

“What’s happening here?” I asked. “What is this?”

“Nothing,” the black man responded. “We’re simply talking. You’re not in any trouble. We’re just talking here.”

“What did I do?”

“Nothing. You’re a fine fellow. You’re a peach. Keep telling yourself that, and maybe you’ll be happy one day.”

“All right now,” Dr. Bruce Ferguson said as he began to get to his feet. He held out his hand for me to shake. “We’ve taken up enough of your time, Dr. Parker.”

Standing up, I felt slight and flimsy, like something that had been overused.

“Yes, thank you.” The social worker now stood, and she also shook my hand.

“I can go?” I asked, and then I looked down at the nameless man, who was apparently refusing to stand up or to shake my hand, because I disgusted him.

“When you eat and sleep,” he said. “Remember that.”

A thoughtful, concerned expression appeared on Dr. Bruce Ferguson’s face.

“Relax a moment,” he told me. “You look very frazzled.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” I said, glancing briefly at the door beyond the man; I wanted to flee from the room. “I thought the investigation was over.”

“We won’t tell you when it’s over,” the black man said coolly from the couch.

Dr. Bruce Ferguson threw the man a brief look that seemed to communicate something, perhaps an instruction, reprimand, or plea.

“Go home and relax,” the doctor said to me. “Maybe this is all a misunderstanding.”