Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 (13 page)

My phone sputtered a muffled ring from the bottom of my purse. I took a hand from the wheel and dug around the interior junkyard for the tiny vibrating chunk of plastic. It was raining again. The wipers thwacked on the windshield, like a handball game. I checked the time when I flipped it open.

12:20 A.M.

Five minutes previous and I’d dropped Wendy off at her apartment.

“Hello?”

“This is Rochelle? I’m returning your call?” Her voice was a flashback to the ’80s San Fernando Valley, accent on the last syllable. An up-talker. The last of her kind would be wishful thinking.

“Hi, Rochelle, this is Amanda Feral. I got your number from Claire Bandon. She thought you might be willing to talk to me about your boyfriend’s disappearance.” And, about your taste in men, I thought, thinking of Cameron’s slimy presence, the other night.

“Mmm hmm? And, who are you, exactly?”

“I’m not the cops, or anything. My friend is missing as well. I thought there might be something. A connection. Something.”

“Mmm hmm?” Her voice was slurred. It gave off the impression that she was slobbering on a lollipop, drunk, or doing her best dumb blonde act for some smarmy casting director
65
.

“So could we meet and discuss it?”

“Yeah, I guess? When?”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“Uh, no? How about tonight? I’m feeling like some tea?” Pushy little bitch, eh? And, tea? This woman was not from around here. It was hard to say exactly from where she might have blown in. I’m going to venture a guess on the land that education forgot.

“Sure. Just tell me where and when and I’ll be there?”

“Tearra on Lake Union? One o’clock?”

“Fine,” I responded and clicked off.

Tea.

Now, I’d have to stop off at a twenty-four-hour drugstore for the unenviable task of picking up the ever-fashionable incontinence briefs, lucky me.

Tearra, on Lake Union, was a petite converted house on a residential street. Originally a diminutive Craftsman Bungalow, its present incarnation was a hodgepodge of hippie colors being devoured by a thick copse of bamboo. The only indication that it was a business, at all, was the glow of a neon open sign in the front window.

I parked the Volvo behind a squatty grey Civic Hybrid—it reminded me of a matchbox car. I checked the time.

12:55.

A little early. Just enough time to slip into my…into my…mutsuki? I was thinking that word was more stylish than diaper. I found it on an Internet translation dictionary. It connotes a certain Japanese Zen sensibility, and isn’t that better than burning an image of someone as fabulous as me luxuriating on a pad soaked in tea shit? If there is such a thing as tea shit. My bowels were flushing out fairly clean, by this point.

The porch creaked as it took my weight. Each and every board seemed to be warped with age and the damp of Seattle’s climate. Inside a sitar twanged a foreign melody. I twisted the knob and the opening door expelled the aroma of spices, dried leaves and sugared pastries. It had been a fair amount of time since I’d been exposed to human food smells. I found myself drifting and shook my head to counteract a rampage. It was funny. The line between mistake and made was as thin as a paper cut.

It would have been a quick massacre, though. The house seemed to contain only one inhabitant, an emaciated wraith of a woman tumbled from behind a doorway at the back of the entry hall. The passage was obscured, not so much by a drape, but by a series of Indonesian sarongs knotted to a taught hemp twine.

“Welcome to Tearra,” the woman said in a forced Indian accent. She was as pale as winter skin, and blonde. A feather was braided into her greasy hair. I expected that this was the kind of person that drove an old VW van with a dream-catcher hung off the rearview mirror by a roach clip. In fact, the more I considered, the more I could smell the pot wafting off this doobie sister, like the patchouli deodorant hung from her pit hair, and under that mothballs. I’d have to be starving.

“Hello. I’m meeting a friend here?”

“Oh yes, very good. She’s already here, I think.”

I listened to the sounds of the house; the music was the only distraction. No side conversations, no clinking teaspoons. Wouldn’t she know? I wondered. It was pretty empty.

“Could you point me to the ladies’ room?” I felt inside my purse for the pad.

“Follow me.”

We paraded through the main serving area and past Rochelle Ali, who faced the opposite direction and didn’t venture a glance in ours. She gazed out onto the lake and beyond, to the shimmering lights and their matches in the water. Tables were scattered like mingling guests and no two chairs matched, except that they were all wood, ladder-backs integrated with ’70s oak numbers. Candles flickered in makeshift tin can hurricanes.

The restroom was directly off the room. I gave a quick order for chai and slipped away from the stoned hostess, and into the john to apply my…prophylactic? No. Sounds too much like a rubber. I’m going back to mutsuki.

When I joined the weathergirl, tears clung to her cheeks like beads of dried Elmer’s glue. I was not impressed. It’s not like she was blubbering, that would have caught my attention, and garnered rave reviews. So I was forced to fake it.

“Oh sweetie, what’s wrong? Thinking about your boyfriend?” I spread my hands out palm up on the table, like I’d actually hug her.

“Yes?” she asked—I guess she asked herself, I certainly couldn’t answer for her—her up-talking was taking some getting used to.

“Maybe we can find him,” I offered, stretching my hand across to touch hers lightly. She withdrew with a jerk.

“Ew, cold. You’re a zombie,” she charged, turning her nose.

“And you’re a weathergirl.”

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t prepared.” She turned her head to the side and coughed into her hand. If she’d gagged I would have jumped the table at her.

“Claire gave me the impression that you have a great deal of experience with our kind. Supernaturals
66
, I mean.”

“Absolutely. I apologize, it’s just late and I worked the evening news tonight.” Rochelle looked off onto the lake, the reflection of headlights from the other side stretched and slid across the surface like grunion.

I needed to gain this woman’s confidence if I were going to sluice any information from her. I rummaged through my bag of tricks for a comment that would beholden myself.

“I watch you, sometimes.” I said, lying. A surge coursed through me, as though I was feeding on the very act of deception. Of course I didn’t watch this woman. Only the excessively boring, or those unfortunate enough to be strapped down by needy children, were home at 11:00 P.M., even on work nights.

“You do?” She looked hopeful. “Thanks.”

“So, Rochelle, when did your boyfriend—I’m sorry, what is his name?”

“Oliver.”

“That’s right, Oliver.” I thought about him for a moment, previously, he’d simply been a means to an end, a wereleopard, like in
Cat People
. Natasha Kinski
67
was totally hot in that. I’m not even a lesbian and I’d do her, but I’d have to beat off Claire with a stick to get to her
68
. But this woman seemed to genuinely care for him. “When did he go missing?”

“It’s been like two weeks…” her voice trailed off into sobs. “Do you want to see a picture?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but rummaged under the table, presumably searching through her purse. She brought out a small bundle of photographs secured by a pink hair scrunchie. She searched the set, and finding one that appealed to her, slid it across the table. Her gaze drifted back to the window. “He used to take me here sometimes.”

Oliver was handsome in that rugged Pacific Northwest fashion, like he was never an hour away from a full beard. Didn’t seem like a tea drinker. He was smiling but his eyes had the squint of sadness. The backdrop was unfamiliar wallpaper, thin stripes like mattress ticking, probably their apartment.

“He’s very good looking.”

Rochelle picked up the picture and smiled wanly.

“What happened?” I asked.

The woman straightened in her chair, took a sip from her mug and started in, “It’s like I told the police.” Her voice lost its Southern California inflection, and every ounce of sadness. “We got up at about six that morning, I sometimes have to get up at four, because I do morning fill-in, you probably know that. But, I was off that day. Oliver has to work on weekends so I was following him around the apartment, while he got ready. He didn’t say or do anything outside of his normal routine. He left for work at about 7:30 and just never showed up.”

Not
just
, I thought. Didn’t her speech seem a bit too rehearsed? Where did the tears go? I realize it’s the same story she told the cops, and probably everyone else that asked, but seriously, punch it up for interest sake. She was a weathergirl, an on-air personality; you’d think she could play it up for the entertainment value. Or, was that the ad game rearing its ugly head? Nah. By the way, did I put on my mutsuki for nothing? Where was that damn pothead with my tea?

“When did you find out he was gone?”

“The receptionist at his work called, to ask for him. I was immediately concerned. Oliver is nothing if not prompt. He even transforms right on time with the moon shift. I used to joke that he was like the tide.”

“That’s sweet,” I said, and then yelled. “Waitress!”

The loadie stumbled in from the entry hall carrying a handmade mug with an oddly concave lip, and set it down in front of me.
This is why I do coffee
. There was something most definitely wrong with these tea freaks. Wasn’t there a correlation between tea and alcoholism, or a phrase about tea—teetotallers or something
69
? Whatever. I took a swig. It was sweet and spicy, thick, enjoyable. I liked it. I resumed the questions.

“Was there anything odd about Oliver’s behavior, prior to his disappearance?”

“Nothing,” she said, staring out the window, or maybe at my reflection there.

The table had begun to jiggle. I pulled back feigning a yawn, looked underneath and watched her leg do a steady hop.

“Are you trying to act suspicious, because honestly.” I gestured to her leg as if to say,
and you were doing so well
.

“Oh, that. I’m just thinking about work, that’s all. There have been some weather anomalies.”

“What do you mean?” I leaned in rubbing my chin lightly, as though interested.

“Well, I’m not sure if you are aware, but it’s been raining for like two months.” Her voice broke into a shocking sarcasm. “A light mist on some days, but the humidity has been constant. It’s just not normal. We even had a waterspout a week ago.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s kind of like a weak tornado that happens over water, it sometimes reaches land and it did on this occasion. No one was hurt though.”

“Hmm.” I guessed it had been wetter than normal. I was a little preoccupied with being dead, and all. Weather was obviously not my topic—now, a flash flood of zombie mistakes from a coffeehouse? That, I could riff on. The questions and answers seemed to be dragging. I needed something to go on, something Rochelle hadn’t told anyone. Something the police wouldn’t know to ask. I decided to pull out my big gun.

“I thought, perhaps, your involvement with Cameron Hansen had you spooked.” My comment sparked in the air like flint, or glitter.

“What? What are you talking about?” The up-talking disappeared; these were real questions, and pointed, like one of those medieval spiked balls on a stick.
What do you call them? A mace? No. Isn’t that a spice?

“I saw you with the pretty boy, at the Well, Rochelle.” I didn’t mean it to rhyme.

Her eyes went wide and her cheeks blazed.

“Care to tell me how you know him? I could ask the sacrificial Asian lamb you two were with—oh wait, he’s probably dead, right?” I was making shit up as I went. I didn’t know where on the supernatural continuum Cameron Hansen fell, exactly. But, I was fairly certain that he wasn’t a benevolent creature, like me
70
.

Rochelle pulled her wallet out of a—and I swear to God, this is true—black Frauda bag. I could see the shoddy replica label, when she opened it. To her credit, the wallet was a real Coach. Her expression was real enough, pursed mouth hiding grinding teeth, eyes shifty.

“You may think you know what’s going on here, Ariana—”

“It’s A-man-da,” I corrected. I tried to be softer in my next comment. “Look, I’m just trying to find my friend. Maybe you’ve heard of her, Liesl Lescalla.”

There seemed to be a glimmer of recognition in Rochelle’s eyes or maybe that was just my own stunning reflection. She nodded.

“Listen. Cameron Hansen doesn’t have anything to do with your friend’s disappearance. You have no clue. This conversation’s over.” She dropped a five on the table and began to stomp away.

“Oh please, I’m sorry if I offended you,” I lied, but I said it naturally, like it was true. And, then, on pure hunch asked, “Could you just tell me where Oliver worked? Anything?”

I figured maybe, the celebutante could send me in a decent direction. She made it to the door and was squeezing the handle, as I caught up with her. I reached for her arm and she spun at me.

“You need to back off, dead girl,” she said. “You don’t know who you’re playing with.”

Her aggression surprised me. Did she know whom she was dealing with? The problem was she did. She knew exactly and was somehow not afraid. It gave me pause. I softened. “Please?”

“Fine. He worked for Karkaroff. That’s all you’re getting from me.” Rochelle powered open the door and marched off through the bamboo.

“
Elizabeth
Karkaroff?” I yelled after her. “Wait, Rochelle? Elizabeth Karkaroff?” But she was already winding up the rubber bands on the little hybrid and sputtering off down the street. The drizzle she’d spoken of blurred the other houses and shimmered in the streetlights like television fuzz.

I stood on the porch with my arms dangling like sock puppets.