Death and the Devil, Chapter 2
3 years earlier, Glasstown lofts
The City’s sky had turned surly and gray, diffusing the late afternoon sunlight in such a way that Wyatt found it hard to see the lane lines on the highway. Fortunately, there were not many cars on the road. Still, the sense that he might be straddling lanes was enough to reignite the severe anxiety that plagued him whenever he drove in inclement weather; “what-if” disaster scenarios rotating though his mind like an old Rolodex caught in a squall. Unfortunately, inclement weather was now a part of his life again. Bye-bye, Los Angeles. Hello, home: a rustbucket midwestern city past its prime. But full of hope …at least in some well-connected circles.
After five harrowing miles, Wyatt exited off the highway at McCarter Boulevard and careened right on red, almost without making sure the path was clear. Racine’s apartment building was an old glass factory that had been converted into loft-style apartments in the mid-90s, before revitalization of the neighborhood was on anyone's political agenda. Its handsome brickwork stood proud and singular on a city block of abandoned lots divided up by rusted chain link fences that drooped under the consequences of disagreeable international trade agreements – NAFTA’s long tail of suffering on perennial display. Satellite television dishes, tawdry symbols of escapism, clung to the crumbling chimneys of several vacant homes.
Wyatt turned into the parking lot and rolled down his window to dial in the access code on the automated security gate. Just beyond, he could see several neat rows of parked cars. The residents of GlassTown - as it came to be known - were cloistered in their homes. Both a part of the City, and a world unto their own. The gate swung open and Wyatt found the last available parking spot marked “For condo guests only.” Whatever was happening inside, was really HAPPENING.
“It’s open!” Racine threaded her way to the door, shouting into the phone clutched between her ear and shoulder; a whiskey bottle in one hand, two tumblers in the other.
She flung open the door to find Wyatt. “Ayyyyy!” A cacophony of stacked sound waves from the party bounced off the hard angles of the apartment. Before he could respond, Racine was in motion again. “Damn, be right back. I just saw Delon moving in on the super’s wife.” She clunked down her bottle and glasses on the counter and made her way across the room to her brother. “Delon. DELON!”
Wyatt stood alone in the crowd for a moment before idly picking up the whiskey and dispensing a tidy pour into each glass. It wasn’t until he had finished that he realized that there was no taker for the second glass. Before he could contemplate his next move, as if from the ether, a woman appeared in his periphery. A cloud of dark hair and the vague impression of tattoos.
“This drink taken?”
Wyatt gave a magnanimous wave towards the other glass. He was taken by the vague sensation she’d disappear if he looked at her face-on.
She remained material, assessing him back. “Big building. Never seen you.”
“I’m out in Cherry Hill, with my mom. Just moved back. Reconnecting with old friends.” He caught her eye. “And…new ones?”
Racine reappeared at the kitchen island with a fresh beer in hand, and clinked Wyatt’s glass. Her eyes flicked from Wyatt to the woman by his side.
“You don't look very ‘Cherry Hill’ to me,” said the woman.
A tremendous crash directly outside the kitchen window overpowered the vibrations of the party inside. Conversations fell silent as a pale fist reached up to bang weakly on the window. Racine let out a small scream.
Wyatt was the first to move. He peered outside the window onto the dark fire escape. After a moment of assessment, he pulled up the sash. Cold air billowed in. Wyatt reached out to pull a bedraggled figure halfway in through the window.
Racine looked on, agog. “....Fred?” The man gave a tepid, sheepish smile.
“My upstairs neighbor,” she explained to Wyatt, as he hauled Fred the rest of the way inside. “Fred! Why aren’t you wearing pants?”
Fred cleared his throat, with great dignity. “I was putting on my pants. On the stairs. Which is when I fell.” He got to his feet and winced. “Fuck me.” He gingerly took his weight back off his left foot.
“But why were you sneaking out of your OWN apartment?” Fred looked at Racine with mischief in his eyes and waggled his eyebrows. She rolled her eyes. The party conversation began to pick back up, as people realized the lack of threat.
Fred gestured to the keys clipped to Wyatt’s belt loop. “Hey man, you drive?”
“Uh…”
“I was gonna bike to work to try something new with the sous vide while the kitchen’s closed, but now I think I probably gotta go to urgent care instead.” He shrugged affably, balanced on one foot.”
Wyatt looked at Fred, then Racine. “I don’t know about this, Rae.”
Racine clucked. “He’s smarter than he looks – head chef at Le Lievre. First Michelin star in the City.” Fred tipped an imaginary hat, and almost fell back over. Racine righted him. “Wyatt – do you mind? The party’ll be here all night.”
Wyatt hesitated, then assented reluctantly. “I’ll be right back.” He directed that last bit at the pretty girl, still standing there with the whiskey glass in her hand. Wyatt offered Fred a shoulder to brace himself on, and led him towards the door, glancing back at Racine and the other woman.
Racine watched the men go, a small furrow of concern between her eyebrows. As soon as the door closed behind them, Racine turned around to face the other woman, and the furrow deepened as recognition settled in. “Sharice. What are you doing here?”
Last week on the radio hour: