Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [50]
There’s no sign of my coffee, and rather than wait around I heave myself to my feet and amble over. Her gaze brushes across me, and I lift the jacket for her to see. With no sign of recognition, she says, “Join me?”
“Sure, why not?” I drop into the chair across from her.
Some guy approaches the table from the direction of the back room, sees me, looks confused. “Dude—”
She cuts him off. “It’s okay, Zeke.”
“But he’s sitting in my chair.” He’s wearing baggy shorts and an oversized Winterhawks jersey that conspire ineffectively to hide his bulk. Too big in every dimension to be my ninja—big enough, in fact, that if he decides to evict me I won’t have much to say about it.
But she just shoos him off with one hand. “Idiot.”
I have no opinion on that, but I am wondering why she gave me his seat.
She fishes through a purse next to her, hooks a pack of Parliaments. “Want one?”
I doubt she’ll be impressed with, No thanks, I quit. Almost anywhere else, the smoker would be on the defensive, but here in the Night Light, I’m the outsider. So I pull out the box of matches with the embossed legs and offer her a light. I can’t tell if her eyes linger on the matchbox, or if I just want them to. She inhales and says through smoke, “You’re the cop that’s been sitting outside Starbucks the last few nights.”
So much for my unobtrusive stakeout. Jesus. “Not a cop anymore. I’m retired.”
“Well, you’re not going to catch them.”
“Them?”
“The anarchists.”
“Anarchists.” I lean back in my chair. “You’re kidding, right?”
“That’s what they call themselves.”
“And you know this how, exactly?”
“Everyone around here knows the anarchists.”
I can’t tell if she’s shining me on. “Is your buddy Zeke one of them?”
That nets me a giggle. “Zeke is about as militant as a kitten.” She looks over her shoulder to where her hulking boyfriend hangs off the end of the bar. He’s drinking PBR. I can’t quite make out his expression in the dim light, but friendly it’s not. She waves at him, then turns back to me. “I think he wants his seat back.”
“Tell me where to find these anarchists and he can have it.”
“If you don’t know about them already, maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Now you gonna leave me blue-balled? You brought it up.”
She laughs again. “Okay, Mr. Not-A-Cop. You know the Red and Black?”
A café a block or so up Division from Seven Corners. Worker-Owned, proclaims a sign over the door. I’ve driven by, but never gone inside.
“You are kidding.”
“They have a problem with corporate coffee.”
“How about you? How do you feel about corporate coffee?”
She brushes invisible ash off her tattoo. “I can’t say as I’ve given it much thought.” Zeke joins us, puts his hand on the back of the chair like he’s worried I’m gonna walk off with it. I take the jacket and head out into the clear night air, curious about my new friend’s game. Never did get my coffee.
The phone wakes me too early, the adjuster at Mutual Assurance. He’s a big-voiced fellow named Hamilton whom I’ve never met in person. When I describe the events of the previous night, he says, “I apologize if I was unclear about this before, Detective Kadash—”
“It’s just Mister now.”
“Whatever. The point is we hired you to stop this crap.”
“I thought you hired me to photograph the ne’er-do-well doing this crap.”
“You didn’t manage that either.”
“This isn’t just a little vandalism. I got mugged, for chris-sakes.” “I thought you were a cop.” I can almost hear his smirk. He’s quiet for a moment. “Under the circumstances, I think we’re going to go in another direction.”
“What’s that mean?”
“There’s no need for you to continue the stakeout.”
I guess I can’t blame the guy, but I was counting on five nights. Nothing’s getting cheaper except the