Long Story: The Heights

THE HEIGHTS

by Nate Kamiya

I. The Kitchen

Once the hallmark of questionable Industrial era

practices (child labor, poor safety codes, etc.),

The Kitchen is now the reminder of a time long gone.

--Mike Duncan, My City (1987)

The detective was fumbling around with his clipboard, leafing through carbon copies, stumbling for words. Rick eyed him patiently, gnawing a toothpick. If he concentrated, he could make out the channel, ever-present in the low urban hum as it sloshed against its human containment. The western span of the bridge loomed in the distance, its woven-steel suspension tracing rays across a darkening sky. Here, in its shadow, no one bothered to set foot. Apparently the officers who cased the scene were aware of that, not having bothered to tape it off. Not that this was a particularly bad part of town, just forgotten. Maybe some yuppies would convert one of the sweatshops into an art gallery.

The toothpick was splintering, its fibers succumbing to Rick’s salivations. Rick only chewed them when he was agitated, mostly he just liked to let them dissolve, throwing them away when they became uselessly soggy. He did so now, watching it get carried into a gutter. He chewed his lip,

“So, it’s bad?”

“Yea. Yea, that’s a good way to put it,” the detective looked relieved, tucking the clipboard under his armpit, “why don’t we take a looksy?”

He muttered this to himself as he turned to go. Wrestling with a steel door, he motioned to Rick as he pried it open. Rick followed him into the brick pile and down a narrow flight of stairs, steadying himself against the uneven concrete.

“Careful there. It’s slippery too.”

The department was running short. Obviously the Academy had lowered its graduation requirements. He gave the detective a curt smile. The crew cut turned and they continued downwards, their shoulders swishing the walls as they went. The stairway made a sharp knee at the bottom, spilling the two of them into a low-ceilinged basement. Bare incandescents created a smoky pallor. The walls were sweating, making the room humid and sticky. Rick ran a hand through his thinning hairline.

Before him, across a rickety pair of conjoined card tables, was a spread fit for an emperor’s last meal. This seemed to be the theme its designer had in mind. Around the table were arrayed a full court of mannequins, all colorfully, if haphazardly, attired. They were intent on their banquette. Some smearing food across their frozen faces, others midway through pouring drinks into their laps. At their head, on his own flimsy folding chair, sat what was left of a man. Rick assumed he was a man based on the cut of his jeans. Though they were effete, to say the least, rhinestone serpents climbing up each leg. His legs were the only thing that was left of him, the rest a mess of flesh and organs, sprouting like some strange flower.

“Okay, that’s disgusting, but why’d you call me?”

The detective pointed to a putrefying birthday cake, atop of which was planted a candle, a waxen numeral four. Rick pulled out another toothpick and began gnawing the end, his face blank. The detective grinned.

“This one’s yours,” he said, handing Rick the clipboard.

II. Saint’s Row

Named for its numerous cathedrals, the area is now

competitively priced and ripe for investment!

--Harmen Real Estate Co. Brochure

Rick wasn’t one for coffee. Something he had heard endless shit about over his years in the department. His caffeine tolerance was low, and it made him jittery. So instead he drank tea. No sugar. No milk. He just dropped a packet into some hot water and that was that. Right now he was slowly twirling a mug of P.G. tips, staring into space. He was hunched over the center island of his kitchen, a slab of marble that had taken the efforts of himself, the contractor, and his neighbor to wrestle through the lobby, up the elevator, into his door, and onto its wooden frame.

It looked absurd in the rest of his apartment, which was a shambles. The orphan of some half-baked plan to renovate the dump. He nodded to himself. He tried rearranging the files on his desk, but it didn’t help. There were four now, and the typewritten pages stared back at him humorlessly. This day and age and the department still had them hacking away on typewriters. Some war they were waging. The drip drip drip of the sink wasn’t helping his concentration. He leaned over, making a half-hearted attempt to tighten the faucet before giving up.

Nursing the warm mug, he stood up, moving to the window. It was colder on this half of the room. The glass drained the heat. He wrestled open the warped wood and stepped out onto the fire escape. He felt the grate pressing into the soles of his feet. It still made him giddy to stare down the five-story precipice. A cab was dropping off a fare. The woman stepped out, fumbling with a large duffle bag. Just around the corner, a couple emerged, shoving subway passes back into their pockets. Rick mentally admonished the woman with the duffle bag for bothering with the cab. Down the street, a small crowd from the university was spilling over the curb, probably visiting one of the local bars.

Rick turned to look at the mess of papers. He set his mug down and began searching for his coat.

III. Melville’s

One of the area’s many gems, this cozy establishment

is run by its namesake, a man always reliable for sagely

insight.

--City Voice (1979)

It was nearly empty. Then again, it was a Monday. Melville stood behind the counter, polishing a glass. Melville was an ancient creature. No one quite understood how he managed to move so effortlessly around his bar—named after himself. This was on account of his age, and his blindness. Yet he did so nimbly, following some mental map he’d created for himself, navigating not only the paneled maze of tables and booths, but the other bartenders and his customers as well. Sometimes Rick would just come in and watch him at his work. He had the feeling that somehow Melville knew he was being watched, as if it was some kind of performance, the youthful waltzing between huddled groups of patrons, followed by a comradely pat on the back and conspiratorial whisper, all of it a show just for Rick. Here was a man who loved his work.

“Heavy gait with a wool coat and slacks, leaning on the outside of the soles… and here on a Monday? Something strong’s in order.”

Rick had taken a stool along the bar. He strummed his fingers along the polished wood,

“Surprise me.”

Melville gave him a nod and shuffled down the aisle, setting to work. Rick pulled out a toothpick and let it dangle out of the corner of his mouth. He liked the cheap ones because he could taste the solvent that glued the fibers together. The flavor lasted for the first few minutes before mellowing out. It was an acquired taste.

Melville returned with an amber shot glass,

“Here you go, Rick. It is you, right? I didn’t just say that to some busty blond, did I?”

“Yea it’s me you old fuck. And why would you care if I was blond?”

“Oh, well I wouldn’t care if you were blond. Anyways, I have a new drink, made just for the occasion. Guess what it’s called.”

Rick rolled his eyes, “Hmm, let me guess, a Melville.”

Melville’s cloudy blue eyes twinkled, “Very good my man. A Melville. I think I might add it to the menu.”

“Don’t you already have a Melville?”

“Well I do, but I was thinking it needed a revamp. Some kind of re-imagining if you will. Now pull out that pacifier and sample my work.”

Rick did so, making sure to hand Melville the soggy toothpick. One of these days he’d prove him to be the charade he was, though grudgingly he acknowledged that he had been talking around the damn thing. Still. Rick dutifully kicked back the glass. He slammed it back down with a satisfying thud, wiping his face on his shirtsleeve,

“Is that tequila?”

“That it is. Pepper too, and a little lime. Some other stuff as well. I don’t want to give too much away, trade secrets and all.”

Rick reclaimed his saturated toothpick, “It’s terrible.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood. What is it this time? Am I going to hear about it on the radio?”

“I hope not. Do you know how many tips I’d have to sort through?”

“That’s okay. Now that I think about it, I’d rather not hear all the gory details. Your friend over there might, on the other hand.”

Rick sat up in his chair a little straighter before catching himself and returning to his slouch. He gnawed the end of his toothpick.

“Tell me about him,” Rick mumbled with his head to the table.

“Her. I know the sound of nylon, and I smell Chanel.”

Rick smiled wryly, “That’s nothing definitive.”

“Hush. She’s in the booth behind you and a little to your right. She’s reading a paperback. She’s got a drink. With ice. Probably water.”

“Say Melville, how ‘bout you go work some of your award-winning charm on yonder female.”

Melville flashed a well-worn set of teeth, “Like in the movies.”

“Like in the movies.”

Melville turned to go, then hesitated, “Hey, you’re not going to leave without paying, are you?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Melville’s grin returned. He continued out from around the bar and out of Rick’s sight. Rick kept his gaze fixed ahead as he gathered himself up. He bought himself some time by fumbling through his various pockets for change. He left a five-dollar bill and a bunch of quarters on the counter. Melville never specified how much the drink was, and it tasted like shit. As he turned to exit the establishment, Rick stole a glance at the developing scene between Melville and the lady. Melville was right, she was a lady, nylons and all.

He was working his patented charm on her, laughing at a joke he’d just cracked, none-too-subtly gripping her shoulder. Rick couldn’t tell her height as she was sitting, but she struck an imposing figure against the red cushioning of the booth. She had sharply defined eyebrows and a face shaped like an ax. A pair of dark brown eyes met his from under a lock of black hair, before returning too quickly to Melville. She knew what was up. She smiled with her lips, the rest of her face remaining cold and impassive. Rick continued out the door, the light from the bar pouring out behind him.

IV. The Yards

[…]

Rick always associated The Yards with the smell of rotting fish. That’s probably because the smell was pervasive. He cursed inwardly, knowing that his afternoon here would mean his clothes would be reeking of decaying sea life for the rest of the week. Frank and Deckard didn’t seem to mind. The two spent most of their time trading inane barbs about who had the most generic-cop name:

“Frank North, I mean come on, could I have gotten into any other profession? ‘Uh, yeah, presenting Meritus Achievement Visiting Scholar dick-up-his-ass Frank North, to be discussing Milton.’”

“Are you kidding me? I was doomed to be nothing but a cop. Not even Detective. Just Officer Deckard Jones. One of the extras in Law & Order. Not even the original. One of the spin-offs. And I’d just be one of the names they’d be playing in the background, you know, the dumb bitch on the intercom always paging some asshole: ‘Officer Jones, Officer Jones, you’re cold-hearted ex-wife on line 1.’”

Presently they were on a different topic of conversation as they rolled through the stacks of cargo containers in their unmarked Crown Victoria. Rick sat in the back, mostly watching the scenery, but occasionally picking up snippets of their exchange.

“I’m sorry but Jimmy McNulty doesn’t hold a candle to Horatio Caine.”

Between the stacks, which towered above them, some four or five containers high, Rick caught glimpses of the numerous cranes, straddling the piers like preying mantises. He couldn’t see the Downtown skyline or the bridge beyond them. The fog had rolled in thick and still hadn’t burned off.

“Horatio-fucking-Caine? Please. That bitch ain’t nothing without his fucking sunglasses.”

“Don’t knock the sunglasses.”

One hand on the steering wheel, Deckard used his other to crank up the stereo, blasting “Way Down in the Hole.” The rusting containers multiplied Tom Waits’ crooning. Rick could only imagine what most of them contained. Traffic to The Yards had plummeted after the steel mill was shut down. Yet the remaining longshoremen were somehow eking out a living. Rick began counting up the number of life sentences for trafficking that could be wrung out of the multicolored stacks when he caught a flash of nylon stockings,

“Hey, wait. Hold up, will you?”

“I can’t hear you bitch.”

“You’ve been playing this fucking song all week.”

Rick was going to further protest but it was too late. They stopped at a small crowd of longshoremen. It was a perimeter of overalls and battered hard hats. Deckard killed the ignition, the aging department vehicle gasping to a halt. All three stepped out, Frank donning a pair of David Caruso-esque sunglasses.

“You work your magic Dick, we’ll take care of crowd control,” Frank straightened his collar.

He and Deckard fanned out, hurling obscenities into the knot of people, who hurled them back with equal glee.

“It’s Rick,” Rick muttered to himself as he began working his way through the wall of people.

Despite the cooling fog, it was a sweaty bunch. Fortunately, the crowd was only a few people deep. Rick emerged only slightly rumpled and odor smeared. The concrete ended, and he was now standing on the steel pier suspended over the channel, in the middle of a temporary stage. Ahead of him was Don the Ukrainian, the heavy-jowled foreman. Rumor had it that he was actually from Croatia, but no one had ever bothered to check this with him, and after a drunken employee had christened him such, the name had stuck. Rumor also had it that his name wasn’t actually Don.

The Ukrainian was kneeling over the bloated corpse of a woman. Seeing Rick, he stood up.

“Detective! I never thought I’d be so glad to see your pasty face,” he said through a thick accent.

“What have you done this time?” Rick wrinkled his nose as he approached the body, he had thought the sweat was bad. It was hard to tell her age, but the woman looked like she was in her early thirties. The diffuse lighting gave her skin an eerie luminescence, like she was some pale blue mermaid that had washed onto the docks. A horn blasted a long, low note through the fog. Around the woman’s neck was a dog tag. Rick pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, using it to angle tag so he could read it. Etched in the metal was the number six.

“Six?” Rick crooked his head, working his jaw.

“We fished her out only a few minutes ago, she got caught over there,” he jabbed a meaty finger at a rusting pylon, half submerged in the water, “I have to give credit to your department, I am not used to such quick response.”

“Hmm?”

“You see, we hadn’t even made phone call yet.”

V. Downtown

[ … ]

Rick tightened his grip on the overhead rail as the car rocked on its tracks, gently swaying its cargo of early morning commuters. The smell of coffee and hurried cigarettes mingled with generously applied cologne and perfume. Outside, the trained clacked and groaned. Rick had a soft spot in his heart for the system he rode every day. He loved the order. He liked the contract that it implied. They were approaching the station. Every one in the car leaned forward in unison. He found himself sinking into the ample bosom of the woman standing next to him. She jabbed him with her keys.

The doors opened and Rick began wriggling his way through the tangle of coats, purses, and briefcases towards the exit. Outside of the car he was greeted by that unique blend of exhaust and something else—someone told him once it was rat poison, though he wasn’t sure if he believed that—that could only be found in the subway, or venting from one of the many grates along the sidewalk. Rick used one of the station’s Industrial era girders as leverage to pull himself towards the stairs. Along the grimy wall, surrounded in Art Deco tiling, brass lettering spelled out “Market Street.”

Something wasn’t right. The mass of people had stopped, frozen in their journey up the steps. Rick couldn’t see through the people in front of him, so he stood there like everyone else, waiting. Another train pulled into the station, the F, but when the doors opened no one could squeeze onto the platform, which was already full. There was a commotion starting at the first car, and the driver joined in, leaning out of his window up front and yelling at the immobile mass. Rick caught the eye of the woman from the car. They exchanged a raised eyebrow.

Then, just as suddenly as everything had ground to a halt, the crowd began moving again. As they streamed over the steps, Rick saw the source of the problem: shorted turnstiles. The new card-reading things were nothing but trouble. He missed the old coin operated ones. The Transit Authority employee looked on glumly from his booth as his fares scrambled over the gates. Rick himself joined in, climbing over the useless orange wedges that normally slid discreetly to the sides.

He was hit by a cold blast of salt tinged-air as he emerged into the throbbing heart of the city. A trolley racketed its way through the din of cars and people towards The Wharf. On all sides, glass and steel shot skywards. Every year the city seemed to shrink around him, but occasionally Rick found himself appreciative of its scale. He spied the revolving doors of the department labs and made his way towards them.

***

Rick settled himself into one of the gumdrop-colored plastic chairs that lined the hallway. He hated coming here. He’d sent a stray technician in to grab Jeanie. A draped gurney rolled by. The chemical pickling couldn’t hide the fact that he’d been sweating before he’d died. Someone was firing up one of the circular saws inside the lab. Rick grimaced.

“Hey there stranger.”

Rick looked up to see a pair of hazel eyes peering down at him. The fluorescent lighting didn’t do Jeanie’s Armenian features justice. He stood up,

“Sorry, I know the report’s not due yet, but I was in the area.”

Whenever Rick lied, he never looked away, he always stayed fixed on the person’s face, scanning it for any signs of doubt. Jeanie glanced back through the doorway, shrugging,

“It’ll be at least another few days on the blood work. I’d say probably strangulation, though don’t quote me on that. By her teeth I’d say she’s twenty-three,” Jeanie caught his surprise, “yea, she’s seen a lot, there were track marks along her arms, between her toes. It ages the skin. She has a tattoo of a snake on the inside of her left wrist. If I were to make a guess, she’s been hanging around King’s Crossing.”

Rick cleared his throat, “Well, we’re not in the business of guessing.”

Jeanie shifted to her other foot, “Sorry, not trying to step on your toes here.”

“It’s not that. I just want to make sure we do this right.”

Jeanie bit her lip, “Listen, I think I figured out why your perp skipped a number.”

“Hmm?”

“The girl was pregnant, Rick.”

***

Rick’s head was spinning. He stumbled through the maze of corridors, cubicles, and freezers looking for a water fountain to rinse out the brackish taste from his mouth. He wasn’t the only one seemingly in a panic, it was as if his mental state were being projected on the world around him. Techies in lab coats were scrambling about, following around maintenance crews in groups of twos and threes. Suits were talking rapidly in hushed whispers to clients over their Blackberries.

Rick felt dizzy, hurtling through time and space, as though the careful grid delineating the two had dissolved. He finally found one, a boxy thing wedged haphazardly between two uneven cement columns. He leaned over for a sip, turning the knob, but nothing came out. He tried again. Nothing.

A janitor dashed by with a bucket. Rick was in the lobby now. Outside he could hear car alarms and a chorus of horns. The secretary was busy pounding numbers into her phone and the doorman was nowhere to be seen.

Rick made for the revolving door. He was outside now. He was bewildered. Market St. had become canal. His feet were sopping wet with the frigid water, which was making its way up the steps. Exhaust was bubbling up around the half-sunken cars that were still running, their horns blaring furiously, sounding like one-note humpback whales. One-by-one their submerged lights were flickering off.

The water was pouring out of the subway stop, swipe cards, high heels, hats, mittens, jackets, sneakers, dollar bills, newspapers, and dead rats bubbling up with it.

“It was a water main.”

There she was, nylons and all. That damned bitch from the bar.

“Whaddya want?” Rick leered at her.

She seemed listless, distracted, staring with distress at the chaos in front of them, “We wanted you to know that we’re on to your game, detective.”

VI. King’s Crossing

This is the place where time reverses

--Elliott Smith, King’s Crossing

Rick liked Minerva. She had generous thighs and a deep, velvety voice,

“Don’t look so pensive, Dick. It’s a transaction. We’re trading commodities. Just like if we were wearing suits on Market.”

“It’s Rick. And I’m not pensive. I just don’t like the idea of doing this in such a public place.”

“Whatever. People make exchanges here all the time. They’d look at us weird if we weren’t trading anything.”

Rick strummed his fingers twice, then pulled a stuffed envelope from his pocket. He slid it across the table. Minerva picked it up gingerly, removing stray bits of lint that clung to it. Using a ruby red prosthetic nail, she sliced through the paper surgically, and began thumbing the stack of bills inside. She snapped at one of the waiters.

A dark-skinned man, slim, and with a youthful gate came over, balancing a large tray of drinks. Rick couldn’t tell his age, by the look of his skin he’d have to say someone in their early thirties, but everything else about him suggested someone much younger. Minerva stuffed the bills back into the envelope, handing it to him.,

“Get this to Trixie. Oh, and I counted them, so nothing funny.”

Rick saw a pair of serpents flash at him from the retreating figure. Minerva followed Rick’s glance, then grinned,

“Oh those, they have to earn those. Branding. I came up with it myself.,” she was pleased with herself, “even if they don’t work here. It’s like a membership, for members it guarantees a steady income, and for patrons it guarantees a level of… quality.”

“And for you?”

“Royalties.”

She let that sink in as she took a generous helping of her Bloody Mary. Rick thumbed his glass of water,

“Do you ever just get tired of all this?”

“Of what?”

“Of everything.”

She looked at Rick knowingly,

“Tell you what, I think Donna’s around here somewhere, and I’m sure she misses your company,” she gave Rick a conspiratorial smile, “this one’s on the house.”

***

They sat next to each other in cramped room on a rat-eaten mattress, staring at the wall that was only two feet away. She had taken off her boots, showing off her calves and the tattoo of a serpent that wound its way around her right ankle. She waited for Rick to make the first move, then groaning wearily, shut off the light and guided him to her, enveloping him in her softness.

VII. The Heights

All these people that you mention

Yes, I know them, they’re quite lame

I had to rearrange their faces,

And give them all another name

--Bob Dylan, Desolation Row

“You know, this place used to be the tallest part of the city.”

“I’m really not in the mood for this.”

“This was supposed to be the financial engine for the entire coast. Right here. Right where we’re standing.”

“So?”

“So? So? Rick, come on. Look around you. Are we very high up?”

“No. But there’s the bridge”

“Hmm. I see they’ve loosened things up at the Academy since I was there. They’ll make anyone a detective these days. Of course there’s the bridge. Up there, spanning over us like some Industrial web, us like two tiny flies. Astute observation, Rick. But where does the bridge go to?”

“Um. Downtown?”

“Brilliant. Yes. Away from here. You can still see the rail lines they laid in the concrete, connecting us to The Yards, The Kitchen, The Crossing. This was ideally located. This should’ve been Downtown, but instead they knocked it all over so people could get across the water.”

“Okay, so shit happens, things don’t go according to plan. Is that the lesson here? Let’s hurry this up. This place gives me the creeps”

“Rick. Be a little patient. I’m just trying to remind you that not everything is under our control. But -- ”

“Yea. Okay. I understand. I agreed to see this through, but I didn’t think I’d be doing it with those fuckers breathing down my neck.”

“But, despite that, we can still do okay for ourselves. This city may not have turned like it was planned, but it’s done okay for itself, hasn’t it Rick?”

“Yea, sure.”

“Maybe I can’t stop the new bull-dyke at Internal Affairs or her lackies, but they’re not going to find anything. And even if they do, who’re they going to go to? What judge in this town isn’t sympathetic to us? Which politician are we not donating campaign contributions to? Hmm? Am I right?

“Yea. Yea, you’re right.

“Good. Now don’t let me hear about anymore bitching from you. We are all in this together.”

VIII.

The man who sailed around his soul

Came back again to find a hole

Where once he thought compassion and the truth

Had laid to warm his freezing carcass on return

--XTC, The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul