a picture of her grandfather who never left Russia. His picture’s buried in the wall of her apartment. In her bathroom. In Toronto. How did it get there, eh? She showed me the picture, too — this old, wrinkled guy with no hair. Says she’s a hundred percent sure it’s him. And I believe her. It makes sense, right? The only place she feels safe sleeping, and there’s this picture of her grandfather buried in the wall. Like he’s protecting her and she could sense it. Spooky, eh?”
“The hell you talking about lady?”
“I didn’t used to believe in nothing like that.” She shook her head to animate the point. “Aliens, zombies, ghosts, spirits — all that X-Files junk. But ever since she told me about her grandfather, I believed in ghosts. You never know, eh? Never know what’s out there. Never know what could be watching you. Never know what —”
“You gonna give my twenty back?”
“You want me to tell you a secret, handsome?”
Charlie didn’t answer.
She moved her face closer to his as if she were going to kiss him. “I’m not,” she whispered very slowly, “a woman.”
“What?”
“Only half, darling.”
“What?”
She straightened. “It’s Joe, right? Your name’s Joe?”
“What?”
“That’s your name, isn’t it? Joe?”
“What?”
“Anybody ever call you Joey?”
“Joey?”
“Joey. Like the Joey on Friends. Chandler’s roommate, you know? Anybody ever call you that?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Strange,” the person who called herself Martina Hingis said. She turned around and kept walking west along the sidewalk. Neither of us followed. The cheetah-patterned skirt became an orange blur in the cool September night.
They all started making noises around 7:00 p.m.
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