Serpents Rising Page 6

  We came out on a second floor that looked and smelled like it was the building’s garbage dump and communal toilet. As Cobb directed the beam of light first left, then right, I stared down at the mounds of garbage and human filth.

  “How is something like this not condemned?”

  Cobb didn’t answer. I was hoping he wouldn’t suggest we try to navigate our way through the refuse and he didn’t, opting instead to follow the stairs up to the next floor.

  When we reached the top of the stairs we entered a narrow, dark hall that led off in both directions, like the hallway in a hotel. And like a hotel, doors stood on both sides at regular intervals leading into who knew what. My guess was that this part of the renovation had begun and what were to be lofts had at least been framed in.

  A small generator hummed away about halfway down the hall to the right and a lone light bulb hanging from a protruding board offered what light there was. Cobb stowed his flashlight and we started off in the direction of the light. As we walked, it became clear that some of the doors were hanging by their hinges; others were missing altogether.

  The first door we came to had no handle but was closed. Cobb studied the door for a while as if trying to figure something out. He didn’t say what and finally knocked. No answer. He knocked again, waited maybe thirty seconds, then pushed on the door. It offered no resistance.

  Flashlight out again. We were looking at a room about the size of my own, framed and drywalled but not painted. Holes in several places in the drywall. A couple of rooms led off of the big room; they were intended to be a kitchen and bathroom maybe. The main room was empty but for a sleeping bag piled in a heap on the floor, a few cases of empty beer bottles, and a discarded cereal box — Honey Nut Cheerios — in one corner. A large grey and white cat, surprisingly healthy looking, watched us, unconcerned.

  “Anybody home?” Still no answer.

  We stepped into the room. Several candles and a box of wooden matches lay next to the beer bottles. I lit the longest of the candles and moved to one of the rooms leading off of the main room. I peered into what I guessed was to be the bathroom, though nothing was plumbed. Part of a newspaper lay on the floor and I bent down to note the date. November 17. Less than a week old.

  I stepped back into the main room at the same time that Cobb returned from the other room. “Kitchen,” he said, “but all that’s in there is a wooden crate, two empty wine bottles, a used syringe, and half a Coke can.”

  “Stove,” I said. Heroin users had taken to using half a soft drink can to heat their smack. Better availability. Easy to use.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Someone’s been here not that long ago.” I told him about the newspaper.

  We stopped at the door and looked back into the place.

  “The cat looks like he’s doing okay,” I said.

  “Maybe he likes Cheerios.”

  Cobb stepped out into the hall. I followed him and we moved on to the next place. This one had no door but a stained and tattered makeshift curtain hung limply from a couple of nails. Again Cobb called and again received no response. He pushed the curtain aside and we stepped in, did the tour — same layout as the last one. This one looked a little more lived in. Rumpled clothes on the floor, another sleeping bag, this one rolled up, lay next to a makeshift ashtray that was overflowing, mostly cigarette butts, a few roaches.

  Several bricks supported a length of board that served as a counter or cupboard or maybe both. Two tins of cat food, a large jar of peanut butter, a plastic-wrapped half loaf of bread, a deck of cards, and one bottled water container, half full, occupied space on the board.

  “Must eat out a lot,” I said.

  Back in the hallway we continued down the hall, past the generator, still humming, a couple of black extension cords leading away from it. The third door in the hallway was closed and had a handle. Upscale. Cobb knocked once, then again, louder.

  A male voice from inside said, “Yeah.”

  “All right if we come in?”

  “What d’ya want?”

  “We’re looking for someone, wondered if he might live in the building.”

  “Shit.”

  Cobb looked at me. I shrugged.

  “All right if we come in?” Cobb repeated.

  A pause, then, “Yeah.”

  Cobb gestured for me to step back, turned the handle and pushed the door open, stepping to one side as he did. He slowly leaned forward, looked in, nodded to me, and stepped across the threshold. I followed him inside.

  The man was the one we’d seen from outside. He hadn’t moved and didn’t now. He was turned away from us, sitting on a stool, still staring out the window. I didn’t get a sense that he was actually looking at anything.

  He was wearing a dark blue sweatshirt, faded blue jeans with no belt, and some kind of slippers that looked like deck shoes. No hat, and what hair he still had was mostly grey. It hadn’t been combed in a long time. He was either the toughest person I’d ever met or he had two or three shirts under the sweatshirt. The room was the temperature of a meat locker.

  It was also the cleanest we’d seen to that point, which isn’t saying a lot. And there was actual furniture — a worn armchair in one corner, a TV with rabbit ears adorned with scrunched up tinfoil at the tips in another corner, and a refrigerator with a cord that ran into the other room. I guessed if I followed the cord I’d find the other end hooked to the generator in the hall. A space heater was also plugged into the extension cord. Its effect was negligible. A second heater sat unplugged a couple of feet away. I wondered if it would be bad manners to go over there and plug it in, decided it probably was.

  There was a kitchen table with two chairs sitting to our left, a dishpan with an inch or so of water in it perched on the heater that wasn’t heating. But what jumped out at me was a potted geranium, healthy and well-tended, sitting in the middle of the kitchen table. I wasn’t sure how the plant survived in the polar-like conditions, but maybe where it was — closer to the functioning space heater — the climate was somehow more tropical.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Cobb said in a low voice, “my name is Mike Cobb and this is Adam Cullen. We don’t mean to disturb you but as I was saying —”

  “Yeah, you’re looking for somebody.” The voice was sandpaper on mortar, rough but not very loud. And somehow not mean. Mostly he sounded tired, or maybe unwell.

  “A young man, late teens,” Cobb continued. “We thought it possible he might stay here sometimes. We’re wondering if you might know of him.”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to come over there and show you a picture of him, see if it rings any bells.”

  “Rings any bells,” the man said.

  Cobb crossed the room, held the picture in front of the man on the stool. No reaction at first, but eventually the man moved in slow motion, his head pivoting just slightly to the right as he seemed to study the photo. Then nodded slowly.

  “Forget his name, crackhead kid. He’s okay though. Borrowed some winter gloves from me … hasn’t brought ’em back yet. Ray or Clay or something.”

  “Jay Blevins.”

  The man nodded. “Borrowed some mitts from me.”

  “When was the last time you saw him, Mr. … uh …”

  “Morris. Not Norris. Last name, not first.”

  “Right, Mr. Morris. When was the last time you saw Jay, do you remember?”

  “Couple of days ago. Not here. On the street, out there.” He lifted his chin to indicate outside.

  “Which street?”

  A long pause. “I don’t remember.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Sure, said hey, asked him how he was doin’, stuff like that.”

  “Does he stay here?”

  For the first time Morris turned away from the window, swivelled slowly on the chair, and faced us. “Not enough room in here.”

  The face was lined and creased and the nose was off-centre a litt
le and bent. Thin lips, set back in a face that had gone unshaven for a few days. Looked like he still had most of his teeth. Morris was a man who might have been handsome once.

  “Yeah, I meant in the building,” Cobb said.

  “Down the hall … at the far end. But he hasn’t been here for a while.”

  “How long since he was last here?”

  “Don’t know … month maybe.”

  “Think he’ll be coming back?”

  Morris shrugged, turned his head a little more, and saw me for the first time. I could see him more clearly now and realized that we were talking to a man who looked, sounded, and moved like an old man, but who, I guessed, was maybe forty, not more than forty-five.

  Cobb said, “When you saw Jay a couple of days ago, did he happen to say where he was staying?’

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “And you don’t have any idea where we might find him? Where he sleeps at night when he’s not here, who he hangs out with?”

  “Not enough room in here.”

  “Yes, sir, I understand. Do you know where he sleeps when he’s not here?”

  Pause.

  “Nope.”

  “Mr. Morris, it’s important that we find him. Jay could be in some danger, some bad people are looking for him. You have any idea at all where we might find him?”

  Morris shook his head. No pause this time. Definite.

  “Anyone else you can suggest we might talk to? Someone who might know where we might find Jay?”

  “There’s always kids in and out of that place at the end of the hall. Maybe one of them.” He turned back to the window. The interview was over.

  “Thank you, sir,” Cobb said. “We appreciate your time.”

  Morris didn’t answer and we left him and stepped back into the hall. I closed the door gently behind us. Cobb didn’t say anything but led the way back down the hall.

  Cobb held the flashlight out in front of us, allowing the light to illuminate the last door at this end. It was covered in graffiti art. Someone had talent. There were a few lines of poetry gracing the door’s surface — or maybe it was prose — that mostly seemed to be exploring creative ways to adapt the word fuck to different parts of speech.

  Cobb knocked, got no answer. He didn’t bother to wait this time, pushed the door open, and let the beam of the flashlight work its way around the room. “Anybody home?”

  Again there was no response so he stepped inside just far enough to let me move up beside him. We surveyed the main room. Stuff, a lot of it, covered most of the floor and a couple of makeshift tables that occupied the centre of the room. Two mattresses, clothes strewn in heaps on both of them; four chairs, none of them matching; several garbage bags, all of them crammed with something, garbage or possessions — it was hard to tell which.

  There was more graffiti on the walls, and paper, sheets of loose leaf and a couple of pads of lined paper, several battered paperbacks, and an even more battered Bible lying amongst the rest of the stuff. The room didn’t look or smell bad, really. I’d seen friends’ teenagers’ bedrooms, and this wasn’t all that different. Too much stuff, none of it actually put away — chaos but not filth.

  We walked around the room, looking for … I wasn’t sure what. I picked up some of the pieces of paper, more of the kind of art we’d seen on the door and walls. Same artist maybe. One scrap of paper was a note that read,

  Zoe, please come home or at least call. Your Dad and I love you and we’re going crazy not knowing where you are and if you’re okay. Please, please call or send an email. We just want to hear from you.

  Love

  Mom and Dad

  No way of knowing how the note had got to Zoe, assuming Zoe was one of the residents of the place, or whether she’d answered it.

  Cobb and I worked our way through some of the stuff, but while there was lots of it, most of it clothing, there wasn’t much to identify the occupants of the place or offer much help with our search. Again another room, this one with a door. It was open and I glanced in — more stuff, possessions that defined the word meagre. Stacked and stashed in an attempt at order.

  After maybe ten futile minutes, Cobb said, “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough.”

  Neither of us spoke until we were outside. It was dark by then and I was instantly aware of a different look to the street. Different sounds too. It seemed even less friendly, more serious … dour. It wasn’t a place I’d have wanted to be by myself. Cobb looked up and down the street, rubbed a gloved hand against his jaw, then turned to me.

  “Any more ideas as to where we might look?”

  I shook my head. “No, and I’m sorry I haven’t been much help up to now.”

  Cobb looked at me. “No apology necessary. If finding missing people was easy, I’d be out of a career.”

  “I guess.”

  “I’m bagged. I say we call it a day and start again in the morning. Are you game for another day of this?”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said.

  Four

  We started in the direction of the car but had only gone a couple of steps when a girl crossed the street coming our way. She was carrying something bulky and paid no attention to us, probably deliberately. She passed us and looked like she might be heading for the back of the building.

  I decided there was nothing to lose. “Zoe?”

  She slowed, almost stopped, then picked up speed. Turned the corner of the building.

  “Zoe.” I called again and started after her, Cobb right behind me.

  As we came around to the side of the building, I thought we’d lost her. Black night, no illumination here from the street’s lone streetlight. A shadow moving just ahead.

  “Zoe?”

  She kept going, now around the back of the building.

  Cobb said, “We just want to ask you about Jay Blevins. He’s in trouble and we need to find him. To help him.”

  We came around the corner and she had stopped right at the hole in the wall entrance. The tiny amount of light from the interior of the building was enough to let us see her face.

  I’d have put her at seventeen or eighteen. Pretty, or could have been with a little attention to her appearance. Her clothes were thrift store head to toe. Her light brown hair, what I could see of it, was a maze of tangles; a scarf haphazardly covered the rest. The bulky item she was carrying was a garbage bag. There was no way of knowing what it contained.

  She was looking at us. More angry than scared. Or maybe pretending to be tough. “Stay right there or I scream and fifteen guys will be down here to kick the livin’ shit out of both of you.”

  Fifteen guys. She might have been able to rustle up three or four, counting the cat, but I didn’t think pointing that out would improve our chances of getting information from her.

  “You don’t have to do that. We’re trying to find Jay. It’s important. If you could help us —”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I … what?”

  “You said he was in trouble. What kind of trouble?”

  Cobb answered. “We think some people might be looking for him. If they find him, it could be very bad for Jay. He doesn’t know, at least we don’t think he knows, that he’s in danger. We need to tell him and help him if he’ll let us.”

  “How do I know you’re not those guys, or cops, or guys his parents have sent out to bring him home?”

  “I guess you don’t. We can show you our ID if that’ll help. I’m a private detective. Jay’s father hired me to find him. But not to get him to go home, just to keep him from getting hurt by the people I mentioned. This gentleman is a journalist. He’s helping me.”

  “Jay doesn’t want to go home.”

  Cobb shook his head. “Like I said, this isn’t about him going home, Zoe. This is a lot more serious than that, believe me.”

  “Zoe,” I spoke softly, hoping my voice conveyed since
rity. “We don’t want to hurt you or Jay. That’s not why we’re here.”

  “Okay, let me see your ID.”

  Cobb pulled out his wallet, stepped forward with it. I fished in my pocket, found mine, and extracted a driver’s licence and Press Club membership. It wasn’t great but I hoped it might convince her. I started forward.

  “Hold it,” the sharpness of her voice echoed off the building. “Only one of you.” She pointed at me. “You, the little one, you bring the ID for both of you.”

  Cobb handed me his PI card. I guessed he was trying not to smile. The little one.

  I stepped forward and extended my arm in order to keep some distance between us, handed her the IDs. She held them so that she could examine them in the light, then passed them back to me.

  “Come on,” she said and turned and went into the building.

  We followed. No one spoke as we retraced our path back up the stairs to the last place we’d been in. When we got to her door I said, “You want me to go get the light bulb?”

  “I’ve got light. Wait here.” She went inside, closing the door behind her. She was gone long enough that I looked questioningly at Cobb. He stared straight ahead, waiting. More patient than I was.

  The door opened. Zoe stepped back, made a motion with her hand that seemed to indicate we should come inside. Cobb went in first and I followed him.

  She was right. She had light. Candles, eight or ten at least, in various shapes and lengths, were lit, giving the room a very different feel from when we’d been in it before. She’d even pushed a few things around. Tidied a little.

  She closed the door behind us, directed us to a lawn chair that hadn’t been set up before, and a board set across two piles of magazines. Cobb let me have the chair, he sat carefully on the board. She sat on the floor opposite us.

  “So you are Zoe.”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your last name, Zoe?”

  “Tario.”

  “Thanks for talking to us.”