“A warehouse in Queens, much like this one.”
“Your place?”
“Yes. I don’t remember living there, but it was the address on my license and the building was purchased in my name and completely paid for just like everything in it … everything here.”
“Did you have a roommate?” I flip open the lid to a box. It’s filled with gaming equipment.
“Not that I know of. Word on the street was that I lived alone.”
“Were you a dealer?”
“I don’t think so, yet it’s the only logical explanation. Nobody I talked to knew me as a dealer, just an addict.”
I knock on the top of a safe that’s had the lock busted on it. “What was in here?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Where is it now?”
“I donated most of it to an outreach program for the homeless.”
I nod. “So why keep everything else? Why transfer it to a similar warehouse here in Chicago?”
“I couldn’t stay in New York for a number of reasons, but Grady and Tamsen thought recreating my living environment, including all of my stuff, might help bring back my memory. The upstairs is almost identical as well, same furniture, lighting, even the appliances are identical.”
“Why couldn’t you stay in New York?” I peek in another large box. It’s filled with framed artwork. No one I recognize; they’re all numbered prints.
“Grady needed me in Chicago, but also it wasn’t safe for me to stay. I was at a disadvantage; there were too many people who knew me, but I didn’t know them. I didn’t know who I could trust, and apparently I didn’t hang with the crowd that was welcoming me with open arms ready to fill in the blanks of my past.”
Taking my time, peeking in a few more boxes here and there, I worm my way to the far end. Trick follows me, keeping a consistent distance between us. It’s as if he’s giving me space … space to look through everything … space to process everything.
The mix of belongings is odd. I’m not sure I can see Trick having purchased all this stuff with drug money. Something tells me these things were gifts. I want to ask him if he’s sure his parents were his real parents, but that’s a subject I don’t think I can broach. It’s just that everything around me feels familiar, not the stuff itself, more the feeling of it all. I grew up with people giving me stuff; for wealthy people it’s easier to give money than it is time. My father showered me with gifts, but never his attention. Even Nana did it on a rare occasion.
Was someone giving Trick one thing because they couldn’t give him another?
I stop where there feels like an invisible line. Everything before here is randomly scattered around. What I assume to be Trick’s artwork is organized and carefully draped. I think I have his unspoken permission to continue, but this feels personal. Before I was browsing at things like I would at an auction, but touching what’s in front of me would feel like snooping, an invasion of his privacy.
I look back at him. He leans against a steel support beam, hands crossed over his chest. “Go ahead.” He nods.
My gaze falters for a moment before meeting his again. “Will you show me?”
Pushing off the beam, he moves without hesitation, like he knows exactly what he wants to show me first. As he pulls away the sheet, my heart surges upward, strangling my throat. I can’t breathe. It’s a photograph of a homeless couple slouched against each other sleeping. They’re dressed in tattered layers, sitting on flattened cardboard boxes against a brick building backdrop. Their hands are gloved but their fingers are intertwined. It’s heartbreaking and heartwarming at the same time.
“My parents.”
I nod, biting my lips together while taking in a shaky breath. “You took this picture?”
Trick shakes his head. “I drew it.”
What?
Squinting, I step closer, leaning so my face is within inches of it. The shadows, the exactness of detail, every wrinkle, every eyelash, skin peeling from their dry lips … my God it’s not possible. The realism is indescribable. I was brought to my knees in awe when I thought it was a photograph, but this … “Trick, where did you learn to do this?”
“I don’t know, I mean … I didn’t. I’ve never been able to explain it other than my hands are good at recreating what my eyes have seen.” He removes another sheet, and another, and another until I feel dizzy. My head cannot make sense of this. They’re all people or parts of their body. Hands holding a book, toes curling in grass, lips sipping from a drinking fountain. Unbelievable! The water from the fountain looks so real I swear it would feel wet if I touched it.
“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe your money came from selling your art?”