Gin Palace 01 - The Poisoned Rose

just make sure she goes away.”
    “There isn’t any harm in talking to her, Mac, is there? I mean, no harm in hearing what she came to say, right?” He stopped, then added, “She’s pretty.”
    “Just tell her I’m not here, George, okay?”
    He nodded. His vision shifted past me and into my apartment. I didn’t have to look behind me to know what he saw. My cramped living room was chaos, crowded with furniture that was probably secondhand around the time I was born. I tuned-in to the rain falling past my three front windows. I heard it landing hard on the roof above us. I listened to the difference in pitch between those two sounds and said nothing as I waited for George’s eyes to shift back to me.
    “You should put something on those scratches, Mac. Do you have any ointment or something? If you don’t, I could bring you some—”
    “I’m going back to sleep, George.”
    “You going to come down later?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Drinks are on the house.”
    “Maybe.”
    “That guy that keeps bothering the girls is coming back tonight. You know the one I mean. Apparently, he’s been in the city for a while, and from what I hear he’s coming back out tonight and will probably come in. He owes me for a tab he ran out on, and he doesn’t seem all that eager to pay it. I was thinking maybe you could talk to him for me.”
    “If someone owes you money, call the cops.”
    “I don’t want them in the bar, you know that. It’s bad for business.”
    “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”
    “The thing is, the guy’s not afraid of me. He’s afraid of you. He said so. Just ask him all nice and casual when he plans on paying me. If he doesn’t pay up after that, I’ll call the cops, I swear. All you have to do is talk to him for me. Anyway, drinks are on the house, like usual.”
    I was broke, and the promise of free drinks appealed to me more than I would ever say. The life I’d chosen for myself was more tolerable after a few. It was as simple as that. The things I’ve done and seen were more easily forgotten. And so were the people who have forgotten me. “I’ll see what I can do, George, okay?”
    “I appreciate it. Listen, I was talking to the girls just now. They’ll be here in a little bit. Everyone’s been wondering what happened to you. They’ll be glad to see you.”
    “Kind of early for that, isn’t it?”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “What time is it?”
    “It’s four. In the afternoon. What time did you think it was?”
    “Shit.”
    “What?”
    “Gotta go, George.”
    “So you’re coming down later, right?”
    I closed the door without answering, hurried to my bathroom and filled up the iron-stained sink with cold water. I splashed my face and it felt as if I was pressing shards of metal into my open skin. I kept my eyes down and avoided the reflection in the broken hand mirror fixed to the tile wall above the sink. The scratches on my face were days old now but still noticeable enough. Four long marks that began just above my left temple ran down past my eye, ending at my jaw. It would be hard for me to see them and not think of the woman who had made them just hours prior to her death.
    I had on only a T-shirt and jeans, so I grabbed an old hooded sweatshirt out of my bureau and pulled it on. It smelled musty but clean and was the last of the wash I had done a week ago. It was chilly in my rooms—too chilly for November. I pulled on my work boots and grabbed my denim jacket and started down the two flights of stairs. But I stopped at the landing above the last flight when I heard George’s voice.
    I peeked around and looked down the stairs and could see him standing in the doorway, talking to someone. A woman. I couldn’t see her face from where I was standing, just the shape of her body inside an open overcoat that was sizes too big for her. She was wearing jeans and a thin white sweater. I didn’t move, just stayed where I was and listened.
    “Do you know when he might be in?” she was saying. The door was open and her voice was nearly lost to the sound of all that rain falling behind her. Even if I couldn’t hear her at all I would know pretty much what it was she was saying. I’d heard it before, from those who’d come looking for my help before her.
    “No, I don’t,” George said. “I’m sorry. He’s hard to keep track of.”
    “It’s important that I talk to him.” Her voice was tonal and low, like a cello. I could hear a