Blinded (7 page)

S
HE
’
S COMING BACK
.

You keep telling yourself that. You keep looking at the purse next to you that she left behind. But it’s been over half an hour.

For a second, you consider leaving her purse here and going outside to see where she went. But you can’t leave it here. She needs to return, and you want to make sure you don’t miss her.

So you take the small, black purse and walk past the crowd at the bar. When you first stand up, your head feels light. You balance yourself and suddenly realize those Long Island Iced Teas have done a number on you.

Am I drunk?

No, of course not. You won’t admit that you are, anyway.

You look around for the blonde hair but you don’t see her. You make it outside and find yourself on a sidewalk with a few smoking strangers that don’t look anything like Jasmine.

“You see a blonde recently?”

Smoker number one just looks at you, while smoker number two shakes his head. The big guy who doesn’t need to be wearing his leather coat stares straight ahead, either deaf or oblivious.

“You see a blonde come out here? With a couple of guys?”

“I see a lot of blondes.”

“Good-looking. Tall. Skirt and boots.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You wait for more, but he looks at a couple passing into the lounge.

“Any idea where they went?”

He looks annoyed, but you don’t back down. Amazing how
a lot
of liquor can inspire confidence.

Or stupidity
.

“Got in a car and left.”

“A cab? Car? What?”

“A car. It was waiting.”

You think about asking him something more but figure that’s all he’s good for.

For a moment you stand out on the sidewalk and look down the streets, busy with people familiar with this neighborhood.

“Nice purse,” some grinning fool says as he passes by in a group.

You walk down the street a block and look, then another block, then you come back, go back into the lounge, and search again. You ask the bartender, the second bartender, nothing. Your mouth is dry and you feel sweat on your forehead. The music seems louder and the lights dimmer.

On the edge of a red couch, you open the purse. Menthol cigarettes, a tiny lighter, some makeup, a tiny wallet. You open the wallet and look for her license.

In the photo Jasmine stares at the camera without a smile. Hair a little shorter, a little darker.

Name: Jana Shreve
.

Is Jana short for Jasmine? Or is Jasmine compensating for Jana? Or was it simply a bold-faced lie?

Jasmine’s voice rings in your head.

Does it really matter?

You read the address. The street name doesn’t mean anything, so in a shouting voice, you ask a nearby woman about the location. She tells you it’s in Soho, just a few minutes away.

A sane man would leave the purse with the bartender and call it a night.

The plane leaves at nine in the morning, and you haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately
.

You think of the threatening boyfriend and the two goons that took off with Jasmine. Or Jana.

Maybe she invites trouble. Maybe she’s the sort that lives in a world full of this.

It’s not your business so let it go
.

But you can’t.

You hold that license and look at the face and feel something. You don’t know what. Desire? Lust? Affection? Fondness?

Curiosity?

Fear?

It’s something.

Above everything, it’s concern.

You’re worried.

And again, maybe you’re swimming in a sea of Long Island Iced Teas. But you’re going to check. Just to be certain.

Just to be safe.

You go outside to get a cab and see if she might still live at the address on the license.

Maybe you’ll find her there, safe and sound.

S
OMETHING SHARP JAMS INTO YOUR BACK
and before you can turn around a voice says, “Get in the car.”

For a moment you don’t see it but then, down the street half a block, a black town car is waiting. Orange brake lights glow. You jerk your head, and the metal object presses hard against your spine.

“Walk.”

This has got to be a joke. The best candid camera moment ever
.

The voice is definitely not New York and definitely not friendly. You start toward the car, one hand still holding Jasmine’s purse. Your head tries to get a good look at the source of the voice and now the gun barrel digs its way into your ear.

“Keep your eyes ahead and keep moving.”

You reach the car and stop for a second. The voice tells you to get in.

“This isn’t for show,” he says.

You open the door and slide onto leather. A guy in a suit follows, his revolver still pointed at you.

“What—”

But before you can say anything, the door is closed and locked.

“Where is she?” the guy asks.

“Who?”

He grabs the purse from your hand. Now probably isn’t the time to play stupid. The car accelerates down the street and the motion makes you feel a little queasy.

He’s a young, twenty-something Asian without any sort of accent. He wears no expression on a cold and humorless face. The gun is aimed up at you. If he fired it now the bullet would come up underneath your chin and through your head.

Nice image, Mike
.

“Who’d she leave with?”

“You probably know better than I do.”

The guy has spiked hair that looks perfectly sculpted. He looks like he spends time in a tanning salon and a gym. His breath smells like peppermint.

“I’m asking you who she left with,” he says, still in a flat, controlled voice.

“I have no idea. Two guys.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She knew them. Or at least one of them. Some guy named Clark. Said she was going to go outside and talk for a few minutes.”

“When was that?”

“What’s this all about?” you ask.

“When did she leave?”

“I don’t know. Half hour ago.”

For having a gun in your face, you’re doing pretty well at not freaking out. You look at the revolver and note how small it seems.

Is it real?

The car turns right and continues racing down the street. The driver has big, bushy hair. He acts like he’s driven people held at gunpoint before.

“What do you want from me?” you ask.

The Asian guy looks at you with expressionless eyes. “You ever hear the sound of a head hitting pavement? Sounds like a watermelon splitting open. At this speed, you don’t want me to throw you out of the car. Just answer my questions and maybe you’ll get out of this alive.”

Something in his tone makes you think he’s not only serious, but he doesn’t really care whether you live or die.

“How do you know J?”

“I just met her tonight,” you admit.

The guy puts the gun in his lap and rummages through
the purse. He doesn’t find anything he wants. You wonder about her license and remember you slipped it into your pants pocket.

“You chose a bad night to be picking up girls, mister.”

“Nobody picked up anybody.”

He laughs. “Yeah, uh-huh. What’s your story?”

“I’m here on business.”

“Hey, Carl,” the Asian guy calls out to the driver. “He’s here on business.”

“Uh-huh,” the driver says with a laugh.

“What kind of business?”

“Nothing that gets guns pointed at you.”

“J likes to get herself in trouble. She’s made an art out of it.”

“Do I look like trouble?”

He laughs. His eyes are calculating and cold.

“You look like a moron who’s had a little too much to drink.”

“Then can you let me out?”

“Oh, we’ll let you out. The question is, what sort of condition will you be in when we let you out.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Hey, Carl, want to tell him what that means?”

The driver keeps his eyes on the road but nods. “You ever hear about bodies showing up in the Hudson Bay? It’s because they’re really stupid.”

The driver has a thick accent, as though he’s from the Bronx. Or from Jersey.

“Now, they’re not all stupid,” the guy with the gun says. “Sometimes they know more than they’re saying.”

“What do you want to know? I don’t even know her real name. She said it was Jasmine, but later I found out it was Jana.”

The buildings are flying by, and you’re continuing to feel slightly nauseated, not to mention freaked out.

“Any reason you were going through her purse?” the guy next to you asks.

“Because she disappeared.”

“And you let her just disappear, huh?”

“I didn’t
let
her do anything,” you say. “The guys were— they were a lot like you.”

“Don’t insult us,” the Asian says. “You know, if J gets in trouble, or if she disappears, then we’re all in trouble. You know that?”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“You might want to take better care of the women you try to pick up.”

“Nobody was trying to pick anybody up.”

“Oh, J definitely had something in mind for you. Carl, does J
ever
do anything with another man without wanting something in return?”

“Nope,” the thick accent says.

“So, Mr. Innocent here. What happened?”

“Two guys came. One big and the other slick looking. They sat down and acted like they knew her. She went outside with them.”

“And left her purse?”

“That’s right.”

He waits and watches you. There’s nothing to hide.

“And at Atmosphere?”

How do you know about that?

“The guy was trying to hurt her,” you say.

He nods.

“And you? You’re just in the mix for no good reason, right?”

“Exactly.”

He picks up the gun and puts the barrel against your forehead. You feel the metal jam into your skin, pressing hard against your skull.

“Does this get your heart racing?” he asks.

You can barely breathe. You try to breathe and still act and talk the same. “Yes, it does.”

He laughs.

“I don’t know if you’re getting the point.”

“I get it, please, I don’t want—this is none of my business.”

The guy presses his tongue against his lower teeth. He looks out the window and thinks for a minute.

“Sometimes J gets guys thinking. Thinking
too
much. Know what I mean?”

You nod but you don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

“A guy like you. He might be thinking a little too much, you know? And that’s a bad thing.”

“I’m done thinking,” you say.

And I was done thinking hours ago
.

He strokes the edge of your face with the revolver. “I just don’t get it. Why? Why does this always happens with J? Why? Tell me.”

I don’t know what you’re talking about
.

The man curses and looks outside at the passing streets. He laughs, then glances ahead at the driver.

“Carl, what do you think of this guy?”

“I say pop ’im in the head like they did in
Goodfellas.”

“Good idea,” the man beside you says with a grin. “You see that movie?”

You nod. You’re starting to believe this guy is serious and you’re thinking about grabbing the gun from his hands.

It might not be impossible. He’s holding it loosely, too casually
.

But another thought stops you.

What about Lisa and the kids?

What are you doing, Michael?

Don’t do anything stupid don’t try anything just calm down and stay relaxed and try to get out of this car alive
.

“Bodies get stowed away in trunks. Happens all the time. Right, Carl?”

The driver laughs and nods.

“Now here’s something. I could give you a little reminder of tonight. A shot in your thigh. Nothing too harmful. If you’re lucky you won’t bleed to death. Sometimes that happens, you know. But something that will make you remember this night.”

“I’ll remember,” you say, the panic rising from deep inside you.

“He says he’ll remember. What do you think of that, Carl?”

“They don’t always,” the driver says.

“Now Carl here, he prefers to simply beat the snot out of people. He likes getting his hands messy. Sorta like a mechanic doing an oil change who has oil dripping from his knuckles. The way he makes you remember—well, the mirror will do that for you.”

Carl doesn’t say anything and you know they’re not joking.

“Where are you from?” the Asian asks.

You breathe in deeply and can’t keep your body from shaking.

“Chicago.”

“Chicago. Chi-caugh-go. Da Bears. Huh? Da Bulls.”

You nod and keep looking at the gun.

Grab it. Just grab it and shove it in his face
.

“You seem like a good guy. Right, Carl?”

“Seems pretty stupid to me,” the driver says.

“But hey—if J picked you up, she must’ve done it for a reason. Maybe she was feeling charitable. Right?”

You nod.

The guy’s face tightens, and his eyes sharpen as he studies you critically.

“I don’t know why in God’s name J decided to pick you up, but she did. And I’ll just tell you something. You think you’re scared right now? You don’t want to mess with J. That woman is seriously demented. And I mean seriously.”