Negative Space by Mike Robinson (classic literature list .txt) 📗

Karen as she cautiously made her way into the brush, crackling branches and leaves. By now, the Jack bottle had made its rounds three or four times over, and with his low tolerance the alcohol had already submerged him. The drink seeped and spread, crashed and rolled and trickled and streamed, leaving no rock unturned and filling emotional tiger traps, pits into which he would often fall but through which he could now simply float.

“How many brain cells am I killing?” Max said.

“What?” Dwayne said.

“Is it a ruthless slaughter up there? How come you’re not drunk?”

“Oh, I’m feeling it, but as I said, I can hold my own. And stop fucking around, Maximo, you’ve only had like three or four gulps. You’re not full-on drunk yet. Or then, maybe you are...when was the last time you drank?”

“Something like college.”

“Been a while then.”

Max nodded. He scratched his right forearm. Scattered bug bites.

“You’re a little loose,” Dwayne said. “Maybe this is the best time to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

Dwayne hesitated. Karen crunching in the woods. Faint trickling sound.

“You’re an artist, Max,” said Dwayne, lowering his voice. “You know it really only brings in pennies and dimes. The starving artist stereotype is probably the truest of all stereotypes.”

Max snorted.

“Well, you honestly think I could make a living, driving around as I do, off art?” Dwayne gave a wheezy laugh. “That’s really not what I do.”

“Oh yeah?” Max said, taking the bottle from Dwayne and tossing back another shot.

“I’m a private investigator,” Dwayne said. “Private eye, gumshoe, whatever. Humphrey Bogart had a bunch of names for it in those old movies.”

“Huh?”

“Karen hired me—to watch you,” Dwayne said. “She knew there was someone out here, that she had a half-sibling because her mother had found evidence of her father’s correspondence with what looked like another family in California. The mother knew there was funny business going on but I guess never told the father, or Karen, for that matter. She just found out on her own over the years.”

Anxiety tried to bite at Max’s stomach but the Jack had dulled its teeth. Besides, even beyond the booze, there was something right about what Dwayne had just told him. A mental Tetris block had fallen into place.

“So how long have you been following me?” Max said. “And why wasn’t it you who went to see Norman Ritter?”

“That was her choice. I’d been on your tail for only a week or so, and kind of loosely at that point. I think Karen wanted to establish herself here, plant her feet before going out to look for you. Plus, I’m sure she needed to save up for my services. But I cut my daily rate for her.”

“How nice.”

Dwayne shrugged. “She reminds me of myself.”

Max was quiet. Karen emerged from the darkness and strode toward the van.

“Think I left my cigarettes in the car,” she muttered.

“We should probably get going soon,” Dwayne said, pushing himself up.

Max said, “I should probably care a lot more than I do right now.”

Dwayne looked at him.

“Probably the alcohol talking,” Max continued. “I don’t know, I do care, but really, after this ridiculous weekend it’s a nice little cherry on top...and it’s not even really a cherry, I’d say. It makes sense. Yeah, that’s it. It’s the only thing that’s made sense this week.”

“Okay,” Dwayne said. “I was feeling weirder with you not knowing.”

“Funny...seems like that would be Karen’s job.”

Dwayne leaned in closer to Max. “Well, that girl’s got good bark. I’m sure she’s into the what-you-don’t-know-won’t-hurt-you theory. But I think she was also just afraid of losing you before knowing you. Maybe.”

Dwayne headed for the car while Max remained on the ground, salvaging whole parts of thought from the liquor.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Max said with a faint smirk. “Act all betrayed? Throw a tantrum? Would that be the normal way to respond?”

“All up to you, Maximo,” said Dwayne, turning slightly toward him. “Anarchy for everyone is only an excuse away.”

***

II

Around two-thirty Sunday morning, the lights of Los Angeles rose up in the windshield, lambent acne on the dark face of the hills. For simplicity’s sake, Max told Dwayne he could drop him off at the Sirens Shop, only a mile or two from Karen’s apartment in eastern Santa Monica.

A hug from Karen and a shake from Dwayne and Max was out of the van and back in his nightly hole.

His co-worker Tyler, covering for him that night, sat slouched at a personal computer that’d been set up just behind the counter, clicking away at boxes and graphics on the bright humming screen. With every command, the machine croaked and groaned.

“Wow,” said Max. “Jerry finally got the computer going.”

“Yeah, he finally came through,” said Tyler. “How’s your trip? You back already?”

“No, you’re hallucinating again.”

“Thanks.” Tyler had not pulled his eyes from the screen. “You should be nice to me. I worked the day shift, too. And now I’m here covering your vacationing ass.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t any vacation.” Max sighed long and hard. “So why did Jerry have you work your shift and mine? Wasn’t Hector or anyone available?”

“There was a little scandal on Friday, when you left. Jerry found some weed in the back room and called up everyone to see whose it was or if anyone would point fingers, but no one did. No one’s fessing up, and I’m the only one he can account for, so he pretty much fired everyone else.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I think Mrs. Jerry might be holding out or something. He’s been a prick lately.”

Max ran a clawed hand through his hair. “Well, I’m here, so you can take off.”

“I will in a second. Waiting for something to load here.”

“How’s the computer?” Max said. “I know exactly nothing about them.”

“It’s pretty decent. IBM, 16 megahertz, 4 megabytes of system RAM, Windows 3.1. Should make the day more interesting—or night.” Tyler sat back and put his hands on his head. “That’s right, I forgot, you hate computers, don’t you?”

“Don’t hate them, really,” Max said. “I just