by Tina Li

 

I wake up in a haze, lying in sheets that smell like sweat and urine. My right arm is dangling over the side of the bed, numb. I try lifting it, but my limbs feel heavy and useless. The sunshine straining through the yellowed curtains tells me that it is well past noon. How did I get back? How long have I been out? As the feeling creeps back into my body, I shiver and clear my vision. Pulling the alarm clock toward my face, I notice several pinpricks in the crook of my arm.

I think about the cold sweats and vomiting I endured for three months trying to get unhooked, down the drain. I stand, surprisingly lucid, and peel my shirt off. As I pull on a fresh white tee and wrinkled jeans, my stomach growls. My mouth is dry and my muscles ache. I step out of the room and into a concrete hall. It is raining and I shiver again as I make my way toward the small lobby where I find Haas, as usual, at his post by the desk.

            “Any jobs, Haas?”

            “Cam, motherfucker. You been out four days and the maid won’t enter your room. You missed nine jobs and I had to give ‘em to Komen. The worthless piece o’ shit got robbed! Came back with no junk and no cash.”

            “I slipped up.” My right hand instinctively clutches my left arm. Haas notices but the clever bastard drops the subject.

            “I got nothing for now but Nora took some messages I think you should look at.”

He hands me several index cards labeled, “Cam, Room 14.” All but one card has just a phone number, the same number. I rifle through them wondering who would call so goddamn much before I find the first card. “Detective Liam Smith requests to speak with Mr. Joseph Cameron as soon as possible. Please call…” I toss the cards into the trash without bothering to look at the number. Probably another cop wanting me to drop names on small-time dealers.

As I turn to leave, the phone rings. Nora picks up and shoots me a look. I nod. The conversation ends briefly and she tells me, “He says to meet at the Starbucks on Center in half an hour.”

 

            I step out into light drizzle and begin walking up University. By the time I reach Center, the drizzle has become a heavy downpour and my shirt is soaked through. I walk past Top Dog and La Cascada, indifferent to the formerly enticing scents. When I step into Starbucks, the barista gives me a dirty look. I shoot her a sleazy grin and she turns away disgusted. Reaching up to wipe the rain from my face, I feel a scruffy five o’clock shadow; I have always been incapable of growing decent facial hair. I glance around and notice a man in a black suit staring down at me. He nods faintly and I walk upstairs, ignoring the cashier’s glare.

            “Mr. Cameron,” he starts as I pull up a chair, scraping the legs against the floor. He doesn’t flinch. “I’m Detective Smith with the Berkeley Police Department, Homicide Unit, investigating the recent murder of Ms. Julia Evans. I understand you two were very close.”

            “Lia? What happened to Lia?” My mind reels. I am surprised that Lia is dead, but not that she was killed.

            “Where were you on the night of the eighth? Four AM.” He twirls a silver pen.

            “I’m a suspect?” Not Lia. I couldn’t have.

            “Please answer the question.” But he thinks so.

            I hesitate. “When was the eighth?”

            He stares. I stare back. “Three days ago.” I look away, but feel his eyes narrowing, trying to read me.

            “Three days ago.” I repeat. Lia died three days ago. Where was I?

            “Answer the question.”

            My mind draws a blank. I see Lia, her blonde hair fanned out and matted with blood. “I was where any normal person is at four in the morning. In bed.”

            “Can you verify this?”

            “I’d rather keep my sex life out of the conversation, Detective Smith. Unless you think it would help my case.”

            He is staring again but doesn’t take the bait. “When was the last time you saw the victim?” His words seem to hang in the air; his tone is accusatory.

            “Is this orthodox? Don’t you read me my rights? Aren’t you at least supposed to take me down to the station? Ernesto Miranda must be turning in his grave.”

            “Nothing about the death of Ms. Evans is very orthodox,” he says. “But, if you prefer, we could go down to the station right now and you may call your lawyer.” He smirks. Something isn’t right with the way he is staring me down. I am reminded of cold sweat and hard cash. Showdown; I fold.

            “Not today.” I agree to go down to the station tomorrow and he watches me leave.

 

            I can’t help but think of Lia the whole time I’m walking back to check in with Haas. Things did not end well for us, I regret, as I recall the last time I heard her voice. She came to me seeking asylum, talking about trouble with Frankie, some ex-boyfriend. There was an unspoken tension between us; I couldn’t tell if it was because Lia had always made me feel that way. Regardless, I turned her down. My arrangement with Haas was generous on his part and I preferred not to impose on his hospitality. Last I heard, she was running around with a rookie dealer after repeated threats from Frankie.

 

            The sky has cleared and there is nothing left of the rain but clogged storm drains and my slightly damp Levi’s. Haas isn’t there but Nora hands me a sandwich and a buck seventy-five.

            “For the bus. Baby dose down to the Marina. The guy’s wearing a brown leather jacket and a Giant’s cap.”

            I take the sandwich and a small rock wrapped in black plastic, but I leave the money. I prefer a forty-minute walk to taking petty cash from Haas.

            The walk is brisk and I make it down to the Marina sooner than expected. I see a man in a black cap sitting on a bench near the waterfront. He is tapping his left leg, shaking his whole body; his shoulders are slumped. He twitches at the sound of twigs crunching beneath my feet. He stands and glances around nervously, but not at me. Finally, he approaches me, his eyes never leaving my shoes.

            “On the night of the eighth, you were at your Aunt Helen’s. Helen Klein. She lives in El Cerrito on Potrero Avenue. You –” the man glances over my shoulder and quickly returns his gaze to my feet. “You were fixing her heater and you spent the night in her guest room. You arrived home around seven in the morning.”

            He reaches into his jacket pocket with some difficulty and takes out a roll of singles. He extends his hand, still avoiding eye contact, and I automatically hand him the rock.

            He says nothing more and I swallow my questions and force myself to stop staring at the orange letters on his cap. I begin to walk away and, very faintly, I hear him whisper, “You meant a lot to Lia.”

            I turn my head so quickly that my neck cracks. The man is staring straight at me. The look of horror quickly dawns on his face, and he turns the corner and disappears.

 

            I nibble at the sandwich while walking back up University. I’m not hungry at all but I don’t want to seem ungrateful. I reflect on what just happened with the nervous man, whom I have never met before. Did he just give me an alibi? I don’t even have an aunt. How does he know Lia? Before entering the lobby, I scarf down the rest of the sandwich and, finding that Haas is still out, I hand Nora the cash. I trudge up the concrete steps to my room and bring the key to the lock before I realize that it’s broken. Son of a bitch neighborhood. I walk in and look around. Nothing is missing; nothing is worth taking. I grab a chair and use it to stop the door. Then I fall into bed and into a dreamless stupor.

 

            I wait until the sky becomes a dull blue before rising. I pull on a grey tee and walk out to find Nora directing a locksmith to my door. Gotta hand it to her, the girl’s on top of it. I push open the door to the lobby and find Haas at his desk.

            “Missed you yesterday, chief. Where were you?”

            “Working out a deal with a new rookie.”

            “Haas, if you need me to pick up more shifts…”

            “Nah, this new guy, he’s desperate. Said he’s willing to sell in exchange for some protection, no questions asked. He even offered to give me his jacket – nice, Italian leather.”

            “You usually deal with business here, don’t you?” I don’t think I’ve ever seen the lobby without Haas.

            “Refused to set foot in this place.” Haas has this look on his face that tells me not to press it. “Smith called for you. Says don’t forget to meet him.”

            I hang around a bit and help with paperwork before leaving for the station. I decide to walk up Addison, avoiding the sound of busy traffic and other pedestrians. At the station, I check in with a secretary who eyes me warily. I see Smith and a man, whom I presume to be his partner, walking down the aisle. There is a smug satisfaction on Smith’s face, which cannot bode well for me. They practically drag me into a room in the back and Smith interrogates me while his partner, Detective Solomon, watches in the other room.

            “Mr. Cameron,” he says while towering over me. “Why don’t I give you the benefit of the doubt and ask nicely: where were you on the night of eighth?”

            Do I give him the alibi? “You know where I was. Why are you asking me again?”

            “Alright, I’ll humor you. Let’s call it a new development in the case.” He glares. “Where were you on the night of the eighth?” Every word is stressed; he’s giving me the third degree.

            “You found evidence of my guilt?” Smith leans in and I smell stale smoke.

            There is a short pause, almost as if he were waiting. Sure enough, we hear Solomon’s voice over the intercom. “You son of a bitch! We proved that it was your bloody jacket in the motherfucking dumpster!”

            “My jacket?” I raise an eyebrow and attempt a sneer but my heart rate is steadily increasing. “How do you know it’s mine?” I haven’t worn a jacket for months, haven’t had one.

            “DNA analysis of blood from the sweatshirt matches hairs found in your motel room.”

            So he broke into my room. Not at all a legal maneuver but this kind of evidence trumps that. I’m trapped. Reluctantly, I feed him almost word-for-word what the nervous man at the Marina told me. Smith turns around and nods into the mirror before leaving the room. My pulse slows and I am nearly calm by the time he comes back. “Your story checks out.”

            My story checks out, I’m in disbelief. Smith, however, looks resigned and oddly satisfied. He lets me go with a terse handshake, hardly an appropriate or expected reaction. His partner, on the other hand, approaches me and, with his face so close that I can smell his aftershave, says, “We know you did it and we will get you.” He slams the door after me.

 

            Haas senses something off about my attitude when I walk in an hour later. I tell him about everything: Lia’s death, my potential arraignment, the man at the Marina. He sighs and I register with mild surprise just how old Haas can look.

            “Lay low for a while, Cam. You can stay at my brother’s. He has a place in Richmond.”

            I seriously consider agreeing, but I don’t know. “Hell, I might even get away with it.”

            “Cam, you and I both know you didn’t do it.” He looks me in the eye, almost pleading.

            “Haas, I told you. I don’t –”

            “You were here,” he interrupts. “You were here before the sun came up on the night of the eighth. Nora says some guy practically dragged you to your room. You were barely conscious.”

            I wonder how long Haas has known. I decide not to ask. Too much time has passed and the silence is awkward.

            “I need you to run something for me tonight,” he finally says. “Any other time, I’d use the new rookie, but, Cam, this is a big deal.”

 

            It’s one in the morning and I’m still awake, chain-smoking in my room. The cigarettes aren’t my brand, but I found them on the dresser. I smoke half the pack, then the other, enough cigarettes to last at least a week. Finally, the little red numbers on the clock show 2:00 AM and I head down to the lobby. Haas hands me half a kilo and I begin walking down to the Marina for the second time in two days. There is an eerie calm in this area after two in the morning and I find myself feeling more wary of my surroundings than usual. I reach the Marina and wonder how I’m going to find this man in the dark if it’s hard enough finding a person in broad daylight. However, I soon spot a man sitting on a bench near the waterfront. The same bench as before.

            His brown leather jacket looks black, but he is without question the same nervous man who gave me the alibi. Before I can speak, he says, “Julia Evans messed with the wrong man.”

            He isn’t referring to himself. Who else? “Frankie wouldn’t do shit to her.”

            “Not Frankie,” he continues. “Lia wanted to blackmail him. He wouldn’t have it.”

            “Who?” I’m trying to wrap my mind around this. Blackmail?

            He ignores me. “Lia wanted to blackmail him. She sold to him a few times and recognized him from an old bust, but he said he worked too hard to lose it all now.” Lia was selling again, reckless after being arrested for possession of narcotics a few years ago. The raid made headlines all over the Bay Area. Who was the officer on the case?

“He made me give you the alibi… says he wanted you to go free.” He said he worked too hard to lose it all now. The news reported that Detective Liam Smith took full credit for the bust.

            I realize that Smith alone didn’t look surprised or disappointed at my questionably valid alibi. “They still think I did it.” I’m frantic now, but the man is silent. I grab him by the collar and find that he is trembling.

            “They’re supposed to.”

Better dead than alive and talking. Smith has covered all the bases. “Who are you? Why are you telling me this?” A moment of panic. I’m sweating now.

            “He killed Lia.” And he needed someone to take the blame.

            Something glows red in the corner of my eye, and for the first time I notice that there is a thin tendril of smoke winding down to the silhouette of another man, standing against a tree. The nervous man is shaking now. Tears streak down his face and glimmer as they catch the light.

            Smith steps out from beneath the tree and raises a semiautomatic pistol. The nervous man pleads with him, “Nonono. No, please. I did everything you said.” But there is a flash of light and the man falls to the ground at my feet.

Smith turns toward me and talks through his cigarette, “How do you think you got back to your room that night you were with Julia? She knew what was coming and she called her little boyfriend for help. The stupid bastard promised to do exactly as he was told.” He smirks. “You can always trust a rookie.”

I hear a shot, feel the sear of hot lead, and no more.