page, replaced it in the envelope, and tossed it on the nightstand. When undressing, he discovered two stickers on the back of his shirt. In thinking over the day, wondering who might have stuck them there and when, it seemed that everyone he’d been with had handled him in some way. It was Nestor’s work, he decided, looking closely at the stickers. One was a severely crosshatched and demented rendering of the Big Boy mascot of the diner chain. The other depicted a stick figure pedestrian, like the one on signs at crosswalks, only this figure was hunched over, its feet in waves, and on its back was a lumpy bag labeled, CATS. He got out his journal, peeled off the Big Boy sticker and put it on the front cover. The other sticker ended up on the back. He set everything aside, turned off the light and shut out the world.
5
Carl Paulette awoke slowly, only gradually becoming aware that he was not where he’d been dreaming he was. That place was peaceful, full of light. Now he regained his senses in Mira’s apartment. Mira was about the worst housekeeper he’d ever known. Her apartment had an innate dinginess, here in an old building on Chicago’s North Side, and she sure hadn’t done anything to brighten it up. Dreary light oozed through yellowed shades, falling on walls of an indiscriminate color. Piles of stuff squatted in every room—piles of clothes, newspapers, books, magazines, mail. Every inch of the place was marked with the detritus of daily life. It was a rat-hole, compared to the house he shared with Ellie. But this rat-hole was his retreat. He kind of hated it mostly, but sometimes it was just what he needed.
He rolled over and looked at the alarm clock. The digital display read 7:28 a.m. That was one thing he was consistently good at—every time he set an alarm he’d get up exactly two minutes before it went off. Always. He’d set Mira’s alarm for seven-thirty, knowing that if he slept as long as he really needed, he’d wake up this afternoon. He couldn’t afford to sleep in today. He had to get back to Ellie as soon as he could. She had expected him home last night, and he hadn’t called. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Certainly not. In the past year it had happened too often. Big problem this time was that it had happened last only a couple of weeks ago. This was not a good trend.
The shrill beeping of the alarm sent his blood pressure soaring. He silenced it by giving it a good slap. The ruckus caused Mira to stir. The last thing he needed was to have to deal with her first thing in the morning. He had enough to deal with trying to concoct some sort of story for Ellie. God, he hated this. So why did it keep happening? This time it was Mira’s fault for sure. Usually they’d get together in the afternoon, whenever Carl could sneak out of work. They’d do their thing and hang out until Mira went to work at the bar. Last night she decided she’d call in sick, and although he tried to weasel out of it, he was stuck with her all night.
She stretched and yawned, then blinked her eyes. He practically ran to the bathroom. He faced himself in the mirror and shook his head in disapproval. What he needed was a good shower to wipe off any trace of Mira that Ellie might pick up. Once he had come home and Ellie had surreptitiously sniffed him all night. She didn’t say anything, but it was then that he decided he’d better not test the ability of her nose to detect another woman. His shower filled the small bathroom with steam. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out his razor. He wiped the mirror with a towel and looked at himself again. How could this have gotten to the point where he kept toiletries here? He slathered aftershave all over his body, then returned to the bedroom to dress. Mira sat up in bed.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
He zipped his trousers and muttered, “I told you. My sister. I have to make sure she takes her medication.”
With a heavy sigh, she flopped back on her pillow. “Why doesn’t she live with your parents? Or at least have a nurse, or be in a home or something?”
Of course, this ‘sister’ didn’t exist. All this convoluted subterfuge was pure crap designed to explain why he always needed to be seventy miles away in Stillwater. The ‘crazy sister’ story served the purpose of dissuading Mira from calling him at home, or, if she did call, to conceal Ellie’s true identity should she answer. He had it sewn up pretty neatly, but the effort he had to make to keep his stories tight was exacting a toll on his nerves.
He shook his head as he buttoned his shirt. “What I haven’t told you,” he said, making it up as he went along, “is that she was married once, when she was twenty. Eloped. Didn’t last long, though.” He stalled by clearing his throat as he tucked in his shirt, not certain where this new lie was taking him. “She broke down right after that, and the folks sort of disowned her. That’s when she came to me. And I don’t have money for a nurse.”
That was good. Pam, his real sister, was a registered nurse. His career achievements ranged from janitor to bartender to salesman at a ball-bearing factory.
Mira sighed and sat up a little. “Well, I just don’t understand why you always have to be there, taking care of her.” She crossed her arms and glared at him.
He didn’t have time for this nonsense. But he had to keep cool.
“Because she’s my sister,” he said, playing the sensitivity card, “and if she didn’t have me to keep her on her medication she’d slip away. I can’t let that happen.”
Where did this bullshit come from? He glanced around the stuffy little room, at the big, oppressive mess of it all. That sagging old bed had wrenched his back, and his hangover was in full swing. He had to get out of here. This all just had to stop. But he couldn’t put an end to it now. Now he just had to get out the door. He’d deal with everything else later.
Mira softened, smiled, and beckoned him over for a kiss. “OK,” she said.
For a moment he felt peaceful, light, almost like in his dream. But he had to go. He grabbed a small pipe from her coffee table and filled it with some of her pot, saying, “I’m taking this with me.”
“Just bring it back tonight. We’re supposed to be there at seven.”
He had no idea what she was talking about, or where she expected him to be tonight at seven. She wasn’t going to see him again for a while. Maybe not ever.
“Right,” he replied, tucking the pipe in a pocket. He hated the clothes he wore to work.
He turned to her to take his leave. God, she looked like hell this morning. Her hair was frizzed out, her eyes had that raccoon thing going on, her face was puffy from too much liquor. But he shifted a soulful look into his brown eyes, leaned forward and kissed her. She sighed. His head felt like it was about to explode.
“Got anything for a headache?” he asked, knowing Mira was always good for pills.
She nodded to her lumpy bag on a chair. “Some codeine in my purse.”
He took two tablets and put them in his shirt pocket.
“I have to cruise,” he said, heading for the door.
“OK. Come back as soon as you can. We have to catch the train by six-thirty to get there at seven.”
He left, still wondering what she was talking about. The street was empty. A sullen haze hung over the city. At eight o’clock in the morning it was already stifling hot. It was going to be one hell of a day. His head pounded. Those pills might knock him out on the way home, but damn it—he needed relief. He stopped and choked them down dry. In an hour or so he’d be home and feeling all right. He’d sweet talk Ellie and smooth things over. It was becoming routine.
Where the hell was the car? He couldn’t remember
