The Grim Room (chapter 7)

My thriller novel continued

Photo by Victor Clime on Unsplash

CHAPTER 7

            Alison, wiping her blonde bangs out of her face like she always did, sat on the edge of Becca’s bed, shock appearing on her face at what her best friend was suggesting.

            “What do you mean you want me to talk to Silver about Chris? Are you nuts! First off, you’re the one who’s always telling me to get away from ‘that creep’ as you call him”—she used finger-air-quotes—“and secondly, why do you want to see Chris so desperately?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

            Rebecca, folding laundry on her loveseat, rebuffed. “Look, Ali. There’s nothing to worry about, ok? I love Jake, you know that as much as me. I just want—”

            “Closure,” Alison finished for her.

            Blushing apple-red, Rebecca said, “Yes.”

            “And Silver?”

“The guy is a freaking creep, and for the record I don’t want you hanging out with that guy. But he’s the only person that might know. No: He will know.”

            Alison let her arms fall softly to her side. She ran her hand slowly along the comforter. “You’re looking for trouble. Don’t you remember all the bad times with Chris? The drug-dealing and neglect and addict behavior and going off on a whim to sell coke? The excessive drinking?”

            “Look, I know what I need and what I want. I’m not confused, and I’m not going to do anything stupid. I just need to see him one time. That’s it.”

            “I think this is stupid, but fine. You’re my best friend. I just want to see you happy.” The second this slipped off her tongue, Alison realized it was wholeheartedly true.

            “And Ali? This stays between you and me. No Jake, ok?”

            A long sigh, another headshake, and, “Ok.”

Becca jumped off the loveseat and said, “Wait a second!” She ran into her walk-in closet, making a ruckus. A minute later she waltzed back, wearing a brand new A-line floral blouse, a pencil skirt and d’Orsay leather skimmer shoes. Eyes wide, grin plastered, Becca swirled around in a fast circle, showing off the goods.

            Alison was trying to stifle a chuckle. Rebecca was so lucky! Alison never dated a man like that, who’d foot the bill for expensive clothes or jewelry. Part of her was jealous, even slightly bitter. But the bitterness, for the most part, was squelched by the genuine bond they shared. It was like the sister she never had. It was almost by design, their friendship. They both were only children, and they both had fathers who left when they were young.

“Not quite Angelina Jolie, but damn close! Where the hell’d you get those? And with what moola, honey?” She already knew the answer, she just liked to hear Becca say it.

            Smiling huge, like her boyfriend, she stopped and faced Alison, placing her hands on her hips, looking at her best friend with a silly expression of momentary excitement. “Birthday gift certificate from Jake. J. Jill in Stonestown Galleria.”

            “How much were the skimmers?”

            Becca crossed her arms over her breasts, flicked her red bangs, and said, “A hundred.”

            Alison whistled a high-pitched tenor as if she were checking out an attractive man.

            Laughter erupted. Becca walked up to Alison and plopped down into her lap. Grabbing her goblet, they clinked their glasses and drank. The dark mood dissipated. That was one of the things Alison always loved about Becca; she could change her environment.

*

The Tenderloin—also known by locals as the TL—near Little Saigon and Civic Center, was like East LA and the Bowery in New York City mixed together, the stink of drugs, prostitution and crime lingering in the air. Low-income whites, Hispanics, blacks and Vietnamese resided there. Heroin, meth, and crack were a regular part of the neighborhood economy.

            This is where Alison lived.

            The cheapest one bedroom was located on the corner of Turk and Hyde. The shabby apartment building stood seven blocks east of Smuggler’s Cove, the pirate-themed bar Alison frequented—to Rebecca’s chagrin—and where she originally met the infamous Silver.

The Cove was very dark. The kind of place that a guy like Silver loved. Bricks painted black. Barrels of “loot” hanging from the ceiling by chains. Cavernous red pulsing lanterns. Blood-colored booths. One gigantic steel anchor standing in a lone corner. They offered “traditional drinks of the Caribbean Islands.” They specialized in rum. Pyrat Rum. 

At least in this case—meeting Silver at Smuggler’s Cove—she could walk.           

Alison grabbed her long trench coat and left, locking all three locks. Her short, fat heels clacked against the ancient wooden steps as she maneuvered down to the ground level of her apartment complex. The cold February night wrapped around her like a tomb.

*

Silver, pulling his ragged hair back with his fat hand, snorted a line of cocaine and plugged his nose, sniffling. He farted and waved his hand rapidly behind him. Snagging his jacket from the hook, he jumped into his Honda Civic, drove up N. California, took a right, and jumped onto 101 North.

Smuggler’s Cove could be made in 20 minutes.