Dead Harvest

  She flashed me a smile over her shoulder. 'Well,' she said. 'I think the tincture Annie got for me is working.'

  'Liz, that's great! You'll beat this yet, you wait and see.'

  She dropped her gaze and said nothing for a moment, then: 'Oh, I forgot to tell you – Johnnie Morhaim stopped by to see you. Third time this week, I think.'

  'Yeah, I'll bet he did. He comes around again, you just let him knock, OK? I don't like the thought of the two of you here alone together.'

  'Honestly, Sam, he's always been perfectly polite to me. Don't you think you're overreacting a little?' I shot her a look that made it clear that I thought no such thing.

  The timer on the stovetop buzzed. Elizabeth took the pan off of the heat and transferred its contents to a serving plate. 'Go wash up,' she said. 'Dinner's ready.'

  I kissed her neck and headed down the hall to the bathroom. The water ran rusty from the tap, and I waited for it to run clear before splashing my face and washing my hands. I heard the familiar patter of water against tile, and cursed softly to myself – the fittings must be loose again, I thought. And as I ducked my head beneath the vanity to reach the pipes beneath, something in the trash can caught my eye.

  It was one of Elizabeth's handkerchiefs, crumpled and discarded; I could just make out the delicate stitching of her initials peeking out over the rim of the can. Despite the heat, my skin went cold, and my heart thudded in my chest. I fished it from the trash, certain of what I'd find.

  The ivory surface of the kerchief was flecked with blood. Elizabeth's blood.

  Whatever lies she told me, we were running out of time.

The wind ripped across the harbor as I leaned against the deck rail of the ferry, savoring the bite of the chill salt air against my face. Behind me, an unfamiliar Manhattan skyline receded in the distance. So much had changed since I'd last been back, but as the lowslung buildings of the Staten Island waterfront swung into view, a shiver of remembrance traced its way along my spine. I guess the past is never quite as far behind us as it seems.

  The sun dipped below the horizon as I wandered away from the terminal, blanketing the streets of the island in shadow. I pulled Friedlander's pea coat tight around me, my hands thrust deep into its pockets.

  The old tenement was just as I remembered it. The first floor now housed an adult bookstore, its storefront windows papered over from within and its sign declaring XXX VIDEOS BOUGHT AND SOLD, but otherwise the years had failed to leave their mark. The same couldn't be said of the rest of the street. Most of the storefronts sat vacant. The old munitions factory was bricked up and abandoned. On a stoop two doors down, a bedraggled old man slouched unconscious and mouth agape, a bottle of Mad Dog dangling precariously from his hand.

  'Hey, sweet thing, you lookin' for a little company?'

  I turned around. Behind me stood a working girl, shivering in a hot pink tube-top, a fake leather miniskirt, and a rack to match. Track marks traced the veins of her forearms.

  'Maybe,' I told her. 'But I'm not from around here. You got somewhere we could go?'

  She looked me up and down. 'For you, sailor, I'd lay down right here.'

  'I was thinking someplace a little more private.'

  'I know a spot a couple blocks from here, long as you don't mind the hike.'

  I didn't. She led me by the hand to a decrepit row house, nibbling on my ear all the while. I pretended not to notice. Inside, the place was a mess. The paint on the walls was discolored and flaking. The floor was littered with newspaper, empty bottles, and God knows what else. A smattering of stained and filthy mattresses were scattered throughout the front room. A few of them were occupied: junkies, mostly, sprawled amidst their needles, lighters, and scorched bits of tinfoil.

  My date dragged me toward the stairwell. I followed. At the foot of the stairs, a man was slouched against the wall. His sleeve was rolled up, and his arm was tied off with a length of rubber tubing. A hypodermic needle jutted from his arm. His eyes fluttered as we stepped over him, but he didn't stir.

  'Nice place,' I said as we reached the landing.

  'I think the time for talking's passed,' she replied, pushing me up against the wall. She kissed me, then. Her breath reeked of latex and menthol cigarettes. Involuntarily, I pulled back.

  'Whatsa matter, sport, you rather get right to it?' Her hand found the zipper of my jeans. I pushed it away. Her face read hurt and angry, but the emotion never registered in her blank addict's stare. Then her eyes filled with black fire, and her hurt expression disappeared. That's when I knew I'd found my mark.

  Quick as death, her hand found my throat. Her grip was like iron, crushing my windpipe as she lifted me off the ground. My teeth rattled as my head connected with the wall. She held me there, pinned, as my feet tried in vain to reach the floor.

  'This body isn't yours,' she said. Her voice was suddenly raspy and hoarse, nothing like the treacly croon she employed out on the street.

  'I could say the same of you,' I squeaked.

  'She gives it freely.'

  'I'm sure she does.' My feet kicked against the wall. My vision went a little gray around the edges. I hoped to hell we got to the point before I passed out.

  'Who are you?'

  'An old friend.'

  'Most of my old friends would rather see me dead.'

  'Can't imagine why,' I replied. My face had passed red and was headed toward purple. Spots swam before my eyes.