The Subtle Art of Brutality

“That’s correct. I can ask her if she will come back to Saint Ansgar with me, but if she refuses I can’t make her.”

“Well, at this time of day I guess I could take the Rail up there. Think she’ll be around for another ninety minutes or so?”

“I’ll try. If nothing else I can tail her and we can meet up.”

“Are you near the Rail station?”

“Actually only about five blocks north. When you get off the train just ask a Rail cop how to get to the Starlight Theatre. It’s three blocks south of us.”

“Okay. Train station to the Starlight Theatre, then two more blocks north to this address.”

“Correct. Right across the street from Melrose Half-Pounders. It’s a burger joint. You’ll smell it well before you see it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Buckner. I can’t—I just—” He pauses. “Thank you.”

“Yup.”

“I’ll wire the money while I’m on the train. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like we’re getting squared up. I’ll see you.”

That’s what I want to hear. Cash up front. Sometimes things like this don’t turn out the way the client likes so they become reluctant to pay. Derne’s case went from a simple missing person to some kind of freak show crime spree. I hope I didn’t blow my wad prematurely but the thought of this being over in the next ninety minutes makes me salivate.

I walk up the stone steps to the building. In the door. The lobby is nothing special. Plain brown-colored tile. Stairs and blank endless hallways.

On the wall is a directory. Entire floors have the word VACANT next to them. Fifth floor sees a lot of activity.

Friday at 3:00 p.m. AA meets in room 506. Monday at 4:00 p.m. Incest Survivors meets in room 501. Tuesdays and Thursdays and every other Friday, Unity Christian Mission holds prayer vigils in room 503 and 504 starting at noon and continuing until God has listened.

It goes on. No doubt, this building has occupants somewhere.

Today is Monday. Watch says 4:17 p.m. Ben Boothe knocked up his little girl. I make my pick.

61

Elevator out of order: stairs, then.

Five flights later I step out into a dark hallway. There’s one room with a light on and I hear some kind of commotion behind the door. I stand outside and listen for a moment. Women conversing. The room number matches up with the directory downstairs. Delilah is in here. I can smell her food. I push the door open and enter to the sounds of voices.

Open room. Table. Chairs. Dozen or so females from all walks of life, trying to enjoy what is left of it. Knowing they are there to tell stories shunned by normal society and to support each other.

A younger-looking female, maybe thirty-one or -two, doesn’t turn around. From a seated position I can cull her stats: five-six, one-thirty, black and blue, no known tattoos or scars. Not a dead ringer for Abigail Bellview, but I can see where Benny made his mistake, high or not.

“Hello,” one brunette says in a quizzical tone. She’s seen better days. The group tries to smile but there is a palpable weight in the air, heavier than a fart in church. Regret. Shame. Disgust. It clings like lead and oil to the atmosphere.

The seen-better-days brunette stares at me for a moment. “How can we help?”

“Gosh,” I say and do my best to look uncomfortable. “I was looking for room 501. It’s a survivor group.”

“This is room 501,” she says.

“You’re here,” another woman says.

The seen-better-days brunette says: “Please come in. We have plenty of time for you to share.”

Incest Survivors Anonymous. Incredible.

“Great. Thanks,” I say. What the hell. Derne said ninety minutes, right?