Marrow
“Like me,” I say.
They both turn to look at me at the same time.
“Hey,” I say to George. “This guy is actually a scam artist. You probably don’t want to give him your money.”
George laughs at first, like I’ve told a really good joke. But, when I don’t laugh with him, his too-thin eyebrows make sharp triangles over his glasses.
“Go, go,” I say. “Unless you want to be out twelve thousand dollars like me.”
He gives red-faced Doyle one last look before scurrying for the door.
“Hey George,” I call. “The best place to buy bread is on Union and Fourth. Don’t listen to this joker.”
As soon as I hear the ting of the elevator, I close the door and smile expectantly at Doyle.
“Oh hey! Remember me?”
His eyes are darty, like a cornered rat. He looks dumb. I can’t believe I ever bought into this guy’s sales pitch. Doyle the Dope. He looks at the door while I look around the apartment. It’s nice. Really nice. Better than the one I was scammed out of. The kitchen is small, but there are granite countertops, and the cabinetry looks new. I breathe in the scent of fresh paint and newly laid carpets.
“Who owns this place, Doyle?”
He walks for the door, a shit don’t care look on his face. But, I pull out my part-time gun. I don’t like to use it; it’s such an ungraceful weapon: loud noise, silver bullets, pretentious. I carry it with me on the nights I work late, stick it in my purse, which I keep in the manager’s office, then transfer it to the back of my jeans in the bathroom for the walk home … just in case. You can never be too careful with all these psychos walking around.
Doyle sees the piece of black metal in my hand and stops short. Amazing what a little gun can do to people. I’ve burned a woman alive, but no one gets all watery-eyed over a pink Zippo.
“Doyle,” I say. “Is something wrong? You look a little green.”
He shakes his head. I can see a thin line of sweat brewing on his forehead. I hate forehead sweaters. So gross.
“I definitely asked you a question, Doyle. I am the girl holding the gun, so you might want to answer me.”
Doyle’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat before he says, “Yeah, it’s mine.”
I nod, pleased. This will make things easier.
“How many do you own in this building?”
“Three.”
“And in between tenants—your real tenants, that is—you scam people into believing you’ll rent to them?”
“Well, my dad owns them,” he says. “Look lady, I’m just trying to make an extra buck. My old man rents them out, and I don’t get shit. But he has me do all the work for him.”
“Oh boo! Doyle. Did you really just tell me that story and hope I’d feel sorry for you?”
Stupid fuck.
I walk around the living room, peer out the window. There’s a nice view of the city. “How much does your old man rent this out for?”
“Three thousand a month.”
“Oh boy. But I heard you tell George you’d give it to him for a thousand.”
Doyle blinks at me. He’s obviously not following my game.
“I’ll take it for a thousand,” I say. “And give me George’s number; I’ll need him to sublet my current place. I obviously won’t need a deposit because you took twelve thousand dollars from me.”
I start mentally arranging my furniture around the room: the castoff sofa from my neighbor, the kitchen table I bought from Target and hauled up the street in its box, by myself. That’s when Doyle decides to decline my offer with a shaky, indignant, helium-soaked voice.
“You’re fucking crazy.”
I giggle.
“Oh man, Doyle. Yeah. I am. But you stole twelve thousand dollars from a crazy person. What does that make you? You’re the real crazy motherfucker. You know what I’m saying? I’d hate to be you right now, Doyle. Because I have the gun, but even more importantly, I have this really vindictive personality. God, you should see how vindictive I am.”
Doyle doesn’t seem to be absorbing what I’m saying. He’s looking for a way out, his pint-sized brain churning up ideas to manipulate me. I can see it in his watery eyes. I walk a few steps toward him.
Whack.
I hit him in the face with the butt of my gun.
Doyle’s cry is muffled as he grabs his nose, which is spraying healthy amounts of blood through his fingers, and bends over at the waist.
“What. The. Duck.”
“What the duck, indeed. You didn’t even see it coming! You need to pay attention.”
I let him calm down a bit while I wait by the window. I like the view here. It’s very Seattle: water, fog, ferry boats, bobbing umbrellas. Peaceful. I’ll enjoy living here. It’s so different than the eating house. I find a deep contentment knowing it will be mine.
“So, Doyle,” I say. “Tell Daddy Doyle that the place has been rented for whatever he rents it for. Then figure it out. Give me your license,” I say, waving the gun at him. I get tired of holding the gun. I’m not cut out for the gangster lifestyle. Doyle digs in his pocket and pulls out a Batman wallet, still trying to plug the flow of blood with the sleeve of his fleece. I roll my eyes. He tosses it to me, and I catch it, flipping it open. Indeed! His true name is Brian. Brian Marcus Ritter. He lives on 22 Sycamore Lane. I read all of this out loud for him. What a stupid, stupid fuck.
“Now I know where you live, Doyle,” I say. I pull out a business card from his wallet. Ritter Enterprises. His daddy is a contractor. I stick the card in my back pocket without taking my eyes from him.
“I’ll have to go to the police, and of course Daddy Ritter, if you can’t comply with my request,” I say cheerfully. “I’m sure I can find some other scammed humans to solidify my story. Fraud will get you at least seven years!”
Doyle—or Brian—looks … cornered. He also looks like he’s about to cry, the forehead sweat thickening like a flour mixture. But he’s stuck. Stuck like Chuck. And I’m the one who stuck him.
A FEW WEEKS LATER, Judah sends me an e-mail. He wants me to visit him in California. Screw the evergreens, he says. Come see the palm trees! But I’m not interested in the palm trees; I just need to get out of Seattle for a few days. Sometimes I feel like the ghost of Peter Fennet is following me around town.