Memory Man

Decker stood there on the pavement and watched this all take place. Despite the coming light his mood remained trapped in the deepest darkness. He had not gone back to sleep after leaving Bogart and Lancaster. There would have been no point.

The 7-Eleven faced him across the width of the asphalt. It was open. It was always open. Through the glass he could see the same woman counting packs of smokes. But a different punk was mopping the floors. Perhaps “Billy” had moved on to another bucket in another town. Or maybe he was recovering from a night out with the ladies.

He didn’t know why he had come here after leaving Lancaster and Bogart. But this place kept drawing him back like metal to a magnet.

He stepped through the door, and when the little bell tinkled it felt like a drill bit boring right through his skull.

“Are you all right?”

Decker refocused and found the woman’s gaze on him. She looked a bit frightened, and when he caught his reflection in the mirrored door of a chiller cabinet containing soda he could understand why. He looked wild and demented and his clothes were dirty and his hair disheveled.

“You…you were in here the other day,” she said. “Looking for someone.”

Decker nodded and looked around. “Where’s Billy? The floor mopper?”

“Today he comes to work in the afternoon. Did you find the man you were looking for?”

Decker shook his head. “But I’ll keep looking.”

“You look like you could use some coffee. It’s fresh. I just made it. In the back there. Only one dollar for a large. It’s a good deal. Maybe some food?”

The doorbell tinkled again and two men in dungarees, work boots, and flannel shirts stomped in. One went to the counter for some cigarettes. The other went to the soda fountain and proceeded to fill a giant cup with Coke.

While the woman attended her new customer, Decker drifted to the back of the store, got his coffee, hooked a packaged pastry from a shelf, and went up to the counter. He waited behind the guy ordering smokes, who also wanted lottery tickets with particular numbers. As Decker waited his gaze flicked absently to the newspaper stand next to the counter. The paper lay flat on it, the upper fold of the front page fully exposed. He nearly dropped his coffee and pastry. He set them down, snatched up the paper, and commenced reading.

He unconsciously started to walk out of the store as he did so.

The woman called after him, “Hey, you need to pay for this.” She indicated the coffee and pastry. “And the paper.”

Decker stuck a hand into his pocket, pulled out a five and dropped it on the counter, and walked out, leaving the coffee and pastry behind. The woman and the two men stared after him.

He stumbled across the street and perched on the edge of a trash can under a flickering streetlight.

The story was long, detailed, and had a picture.

My picture. My story. No, not my story. Someone’s version of a story that holds far less truth than blatant speculation. And lies.

He glanced at the byline, though he needn’t have bothered. He already knew who it was.

Alexandra Jamison.

He caught a bus to the Residence Inn, hustled to his room, sat on the bed, and read the story three more times. It didn’t change, of course. But it beat into his head with a little more force each time, like a knife repeatedly stabbing flesh.

He fell back on the bed and finally slept for a bit. When he woke it was nearly nine in the morning.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, went down to the buffet, stuffed his plate with food, poured out three cups of black coffee, carried it all to his table, and then sat there staring down at it.

The sun was well up now and light flooded through the front plate glass windows. The illumination seemed to broadcast him in stark relief, like he was an actor performing onstage under the withering heat blast of a spotlight.

He waited, staring at the food. Then his gaze drifted to the newspaper he had set beside his plate.

His phone buzzed. He looked at it, hit the answer button.

Lancaster said, “Shit, Amos, what the hell did you do?”

“Nothing. Apparently that’s the problem.”

“Anybody reading this story will come away thinking you hired Sebastian Leopold to kill your family.”

“That’s what I thought, even though I know better.”

“Why is she after you?”

“Because I wouldn’t talk to her.”

“So you left her no option but to make shit up?”

“I did meet with Leopold.”

“You mean in his cell.”

“Afterward.”

“What?”

“I followed him after he was released. It’s the picture that’s in the article. We were at a bar.”

“Why in the hell did you follow him?”

“Because I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to understand why he had told the cops and me that he had murdered my family when he couldn’t possibly have.”

“And did he tell you?’

“No. He disappeared.”

“You mean you lost him?”

“I mean he got in a car and disappeared.”

“You saw this?”

“No, but it’s the only possibility.”