Running from the Dead Read online

  “I want to talk.”

  The barista poured the coffee and passed the cup to the guy in coveralls. To him, she said, “Thanks,” and to Jones, she said, “We don’t do that either.”

  “We’re doing that now,” Jones said.

  The barista crossed her arms and looked Jones up and then down. She furrowed her eyebrows and two deep lines emerged in between. “No, that’s what you’re doing.”

  Her lipstick coloured her pursed lips a deep shade of red that seconds ago had been attractive, but now seemed more like the stained mouth of something carnivorous.

  “It’s about the bathroom.”

  The furrow released and she rolled her eyes. “Oh, gross. Did you clog it?”

  The woman waiting behind Jones cleared her throat. Jones stepped left and let her order. After money changed hands, and the steamer stopped hissing, Jones said, “I didn’t clog the toilet.”

  The barista put the coffee down and pointed at the tip jar after the customer walked away. “You see her drop anything in there?”

  “No,” Jones said.

  “That’s on you.”

  Jones put a loonie in the cup. The tip seemed to satisfy the barista. “We out of toilet paper?”

  “It’s about the graffiti.”

  “Oh.” She rolled her eyes and started to wipe the counter. “I don’t know Becky.”

  “It’s not that.”

  The barista took another order from a guy in a suit who wanted a gluten-free cookie and a latte. She rang him up and then spoke to Jones while she worked. “Look, we take care of the graffiti ourselves, but you can leave a business card if you want. I’ll pass it on to the owner when she comes in.”

  She put the latte down and lifted a glass top off a cake stand that doubled as a cookie display. The glass was heavy and exposed ropey veins running up the barista’s tattooed arm as she held it. She thanked the guy for his tip and sighed when she looked at Jones again. “You’re still here.”

  “I don’t want to remove the graffiti. I want to talk about it.”

  “Christ, man. I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’m paid to sell coffee, not talk about the bathroom.”

  Jones stepped over to the register.

  “What now?”

  “Another cortado.”

  She sighed again, louder this time, and took his money. “You said we take care of the graffiti. Did you mean you when you said we, or is it someone else?”

  “What do you care? You said you didn’t remove graffiti.”

  Jones fished a twenty out of his pocket. He let the barista see the money before he fed it into the tip jar. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I just have a few questions. I have no problem paying you for your time.”

  The barista looked at the tip jar. “My time is worth more than that.”

  Jones lifted an eyebrow. “How much do you make an hour?”

  “What’s that got to do with what I’m worth?”

  Jones doubled the tip. The barista nodded and turned her back on Jones to make the second cortado. She set the drink down on the counter. It was in a juice glass again. “You’ve got until you finish your drink, or five minutes—whichever comes first.”

  “Alright.”

  The barista took the twenties and put them in the back pocket of her jeans. “We paint over the graffiti ourselves.”

  “How often?”

  She shrugged. “Whenever it gets bad and there’s a lull. There’s a can of paint under the sink. Painting over it is easier than scrubbing it off.”

  “When was the last time you painted it?”

  The barista jutted her chin at the glass. “You’re still on the clock whether you drink it or not.”

  “It’s too hot in that glass.”

  “Wuss.”

  “Why not a mug?”

  “Most of them are dirty so I have to be selective about giving them out. I thought a big guy like you could handle a warm cup.”

  “When did you last paint the door?”

  The barista thought about it for a second. “Four days ago.”

  “You know that for sure?”

  She nodded. “I painted it myself. I remember because I got paint on my jeans.” She took a step back. “See?”

  Jones saw a whiskered patch of white just below the pocket from an unintentional brush stroke.

  “You’re still wearing them?”

  She rolled her eyes. “They’re still jeans. Why do you even care about this anyway?”

  Jones pulled out his phone and showed her the picture.

  The barista flicked a glance at the phone and then looked again when she saw that Jones hadn’t paid her forty bucks so that he could flash her a picture of his dick. She leaned into the phone and stared at the words for a long time.

  “That wasn’t on the door when I painted it.”

  Jones took back the phone and looked at the picture. “And you never noticed it when you were cleaning the washroom?”

  She shook her head. “We done?”

  “Almost. You remember a girl that came in recently—under twenty, around five feet tall, probably wearing a lot of make-up?”

  The barista thought about the question long enough to give the impression that she was putting effort into it. “No. Why?”

  “Because she’s the one who left the message.”

  The barista smiled. “Bullshit. What is this, some kind of scam to hit on me? You come around with money and some bullshit story about graffiti so you can get me into the back of your Mystery Machine?”

  Jones raised his palm to slow her down. “This is exactly what it looks like. I don’t have a Mystery Machine, just a mystery.”

  “What do you care, dude? You took a piss and read a note on a door. What’s it to you?”

  Jones knew that there was no way he could explain the answer to her. “Under twenty, around five feet tall, a lot of make-up. Ring any bells?”

  “Do you know how many people come in here every day?”

  “I only care about the last four. Do you have a security system?”

  She snorted. “Of course.”

  “Cameras?”

  The barista shook her head. “Just an alarm. It’s the kind that calls one of those companies that can talk to you directly if it goes off. I hit the wrong code one time and they started talking to me. It scared the shit out of me.”

  Jones went into his pocket and put some more money into the tip jar. “Another twenty for you to ask your co-workers about the girl.”

  The barista leaned forward and took the money out of the jar. “This is forty.”

  “The other twenty is for you.”

  She raised an eyebrow and rested a hand on her hip. “Why?”

  “To keep you from painting the door for a little while.”

  She put both bills in her back pocket. “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Doesn’t make the money any less green. Do we have a deal?”

  She nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Sheena.” She said it with an edge; like she was daring him to say something about it.

  “Like the Ramones song.”

  Sheena crossed her arms. “Uh hunh.”

  “You here tomorrow, Sheena?”

  “Yup. Maybe some other weirdo will come in and start dropping cash to talk about the gum under the tables.”

  Jones tested the glass and found it bearable. “I’ll check in tomorrow to see if you found anything out.”

  “Sure thing, dude.”

  “You want to know my name?” a woman’s voice said.

  Jones looked to his right and saw Diane looking at him. Sheena smiled and busied herself down the counter.

  “It won’t cost you a twenty to find out,” Diane said. She swayed
slightly and overcompensated when she realized it. Her heel made a loud tap on the floor and Diane laughed it off.

  “Do you come here a lot?”

  Diane smiled and put a hand on Jones’ shoulder. She glanced down for just a second, but Jones caught it. “I’m here all the time.”

  “So you know the regulars?”

  Diane laughed and Jones smelled the wine on her breath. “I know the irregulars too.”

  “I’m looking for a girl. She’d be under twenty, around five feet tall, and wearing a lot of make-up.”

  Diane flashed a look over Jones’ shoulder, probably at Sheena, who was still out of earshot. She turned up the volume. “You’re looking for a girl?”

  Jones held up his hand. “I’m not looking for a girl, Diane. I think this girl might be in trouble.”

  Diane looked Jones over. “You a cop or something?”

  “I’m a something.”

  From her tone, Jones could tell that the possibility of a yes had excited her. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m a private investigator.”

  Diane laughed. “Shut up. That’s not a real thing.”

  “It is,” Jones said. “So tell me, Diane, do you remember a girl under twenty with a lot of eye make-up in here in the last four days?”

  Diane thought about it for a second and then she laughed. “Hey, how’d you know my name was Diane? You really must be a private investigator.” She put her hand on his arm again. “A good one.”

  “The girl,” Jones said.

  Diane leaned closer and laughed. “Oh, right. Duh. I’m such a scatterbrain. It’s the wine.” She leaned in a little closer. “I get into so much trouble when I have too much.” With her hand still on Jones, she said, “Let me think.” Her thumb moved back and forth over the fabric of his jacket. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—an invitation to come closer and share a secret. “I think I might remember someone like that. Why don’t you buy me a drink and we can talk about it?”

  “You think you saw her?”

  Diane smiled. “Maybe.”

  “She would have been left-handed.”

  Diane looked. Jones caught her.

  “Sorry.”

  Jones shook his head. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’m not left-handed. Listen, why don’t you let me buy you that drink.”

  Diane smiled wide. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  The promise of a drink loosened the grip on Jones’ arm. He watched Diane walk back to her table with a lot of hip thrown into her gait.

  “I gotta ask. How the hell do you know she’s left-handed?”

  Jones looked over his shoulder and saw that Sheena had made her way back. “The smudges,” he said. “Her knuckles made them when her hand moved to the right.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Jones turned and rested his elbows on the counter. “The place she picked to write was another dead giveaway. No righty would have picked that spot. It would have been too hard to write there. That’s why most of the other tags are in the middle of the door.”

  “What are you, some kind of handwriting expert.”

  Jones smiled and lifted his arm. “Used to be left-handed.”

  Sheena looked at the empty jacket sleeve unimpressed. Jones put it down and instantly liked her more than he had a second before. She rested her back against the prep counter opposite Jones and crossed her arms. “Are you really a private investigator? Like in the movies?”

  Jones shook his head. “If this were the movies, I’d have already solved the case.”

  “How do you know she wore too much make-up?”

  Jones checked on Diane; she was using her phone to check her make-up. “Graffiti is a dying art. At least, the restroom variety is. Not many people carry pens around anymore. Students do, but this girl isn’t a student.”

  “Why not?”

  “She didn’t use a pen or a pencil for her message; those don’t wipe off that easy. She used eyeliner, I think. Something cheap.”

  Sheena wrinkled her nose as though the bullshit she was sure she was hearing smelled as bad as the real thing. “Watch the register.” She walked out from behind the counter and turned the corner toward the bathroom. Less than half a minute later, she was back. A customer had approached the register and Jones had told her the barista had gone to use the restroom. The answer was accepted with an exasperated sigh and a dramatic gesture of checking her watch. The fact that Sheena appeared seconds later and attended to the customer before saying a word to Jones did nothing to generate a tip.

  When the customer had walked away with her coffee, Sheena said, “You were right. It was cheap eyeliner.”

  “Makes you wonder how she afforded to drink here,” Jones said.

  “The coffee isn’t that pricey.”

  Jones consulted the menu board. “It isn’t that cheap, either. Maybe she wasn’t the one paying.”

  He put a ten on the counter next to his empty juice glass, and Sheena waved him off. “It’s okay. The second one is on me.”

  “You said it yourself, no free refills.”

  “That was when I thought you were a kook.”

  “Did you change your mind?”

  “I’m open to the possibility of you not being a kook.”

  “Can I get a large coffee?”

  Sheena took the ten off the counter and paused at the register. “You planning to not sleep for a while?”

  The words hit Jones hard when he realized he wasn’t, but he didn’t acknowledge their truth to Sheena. “Not for me.” He jutted his chin toward Diane. “For her.”

  Sheena looked at Diane. “She doesn’t like coffee.”

  “I can tell what she likes; this is what she needs. Think you could bring it over to her?”

  “She’s going to like that less than the coffee. I think she wants you to stick around.”

  Jones shook his head. “I have to keep moving.”

  2

  Jones got behind the wheel of his Jeep and drove north in the direction of Martin House. Monday wasn’t his day to visit his father; Jones checked in on his dad on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but that didn’t stop him from driving toward the residential care facility.

  Behind the wheel, Jones thought about sharks for the first time in a long time. When he was a kid, he saw a nature documentary on television; the program was about sharks and Jones could remember the narrator in his distinct English accent explaining how sharks needed to remain in a constant state of motion in order to breathe. It didn’t matter how much water was around—if the shark stopped swimming, it would suffocate in the middle of the ocean. Jones didn’t care about sharks. He was thinking about them for the same reason he was driving across the city on a Monday—it kept him from stopping. If he stopped, if he lost momentum, it would mean confronting the inevitable, and the inevitable was coming. Jones had a week before the inevitable became unavoidable. Seven days—his own Shark Week—unless he stopped moving.

  The exterior of Martin House in Toronto’s stockyard district had all the charm of the shoe factory that it once was. No one had given a thought about the design, and Jones was sure that lack of planning was behind the series of failed start-ups that had first tried to convert the building into something new. The string of failures drove investor interest down and the property value followed. After a year on the market, a long-term care facility set up shop. Jones had not chosen Martin House for his father; his brother had picked it while Jones was in Iraq. Sometimes, sitting beside the fragile shell that housed what was left of his father, Jones wondered if he would have made the same choice. Thomas had told him once that wondering about the choice was a luxury he was not afforded. The facility was clean and the staff was competent. Those were the things that Thomas would have looked for. Jones could picture him at his kitchen table making a list of the things his
father would require. But Thomas’ selection process would have gone farther than just a list. Thomas was never more practical than when he was dealing with their father. He would have had a percentage in mind: a number of checks on his list that would have made for an acceptable choice. He wouldn’t have thought twice about losing a view of the water, but for Jones that would have been a deal breaker. Their father had spent his whole life near the water; it was as much a part of him as the air he breathed. The stroke had taken the water from him and left him at Martin House; breathing was all he had left now.

  Jones knew his thoughts were out of line. Thomas always had a complicated relationship with their dad. He seemed to sense early what Thomas didn’t discover until he was in his teens. By the time Thomas was ready to come out, his father had already put enough distance between them to make the same room feel like different continents. Looking back, Jones had known about his brother before he knew there was a word for it; he just didn’t have any of the feelings his father had. Thomas was close to Jones in every way he wasn’t with their father. Thomas had had as much of a hand in raising Jones as any parent, and Jones loved him fiercely.

  Jones found his father where he had left him. The only change was the angle of the bed. A nurse had moved it so that his father could get a better view of the television. The gesture was sweet, but the nurse had neglected to adjust the older man’s head. His gaze was six inches to the right of the basketball game on the screen. The inches might as well have been a mile for Jones’ father.

  “Hey, Pop,” Jones said en route to the bed by way of the TV. The screen was adjustable and Jones was able to move it directly into his father’s line of sight with no trouble. He made a mental note to have another conversation with management and to grease a few of the rusty palms of the staff who looked out for his father.

  “Raptors aren’t the same without Kawhi,” Jones said.

  Jones sat next to the bed and rubbed his father’s shoulder. Through the shirt, he felt the hard angles of bone under cold skin.

  “I didn’t see you come in.”

  Jones looked over his shoulder and saw Laverne in the doorway. The floral scrubs she always wore were about half as cheerful as her personality. Not for the first time, Jones wondered how a smile like hers managed to stay in bloom on the night-shift sixty hours a week.