CW:
After Math of Street Harassment, Stalking

Chapter Three

I only ended up beating Becky to my house by about twenty minutes. I was still in the kitchen, most of my work clothes still on, apron over all, pumps kicked underneath a cabinet when she came breezing in.

“PJ, dearest, terrible day at the office, how was working the street beat?” she asked.

I started to tell her. Having to pause a little bit to give her background. She hadn’t grown up in the same neighborhood as me. Giving her some history of the Quinns and what had been whispered about them seemed necessary. It had been a number of years since I’d seen headlines about unidentified bodies found behind bars and in dumpsters. But not that many. Or the men I was told to cross the street for when they were seen sitting on stoops or at the few outdoor cafés and delis we had in the neighborhood. The one summer where I wasn’t allowed out at all after four in the evening. That summer had been interminable. Because of “street fights erupting without warning.” We laughed over the gangland nicknames, The Hound, The Rod, Lucky.

She gasped and squealed appropriately. Making gunshot and siren noises as seemed appropriate. But when I got to the part about the street harassment, she burst into tears.

“It’s fine,” I said. “See? Aren’t we home now? I’m making us a nice little spinach pastry and–”

“It’s not fine,” she wept, sliding off the counter where she’d been sitting and kicking her feet against the cabinet beneath. Patting my cheeks. “It’s absolutely not fine. It could have been really bad PJ. I could be at the hospital right now. I could be calling the police because you didn’t come home. Oh, why do you have to start shit all the time?”

I was about to mollify again. Or maybe even argue. Say that I certainly hadn’t been the one who “started shit.” 

But thinking of her worrying and tearing her hair out and crying at our very aged emergency room or coming into my empty apartment when she was expecting me home made me shake. And then I felt very bad. First the top of my head going ice-cold, which slid down my cheeks and neck and settled heavy and freezing in my guts. 

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Ought to be,” she said, breath hitching and catching. 

I turned from her and ran her a glass of water from the sink, pressing it into her palm. She gulped and started settling down. I watched her carefully for a moment until she went dry and hiccuping. 

“That was bad,” I said, still cold.

“It was bad,” she agreed.

“But we’re okay,” I said, trying to snap out of it.

“Yes. But be careful,” she said. 

I finished dinner shakily. We sat in my front room and ate. But I was quiet and so was she. She went over to my little gold filing cabinet, throwing things willy-nilly until she got what she wanted. Flopping back on the couch with my floral clipboard and some of my stationary. Began writing. She finished with a flourishing signature and happily snapped her letter into the matching envelope.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Thank you letter to the Quinn cousins,” she said.

“Oh, no,” I said, trying to snatch it away from her.

“It’s not even about you,” she said. “I’m saying thank you on behalf of me that I didn’t have to spend my night identifying a body.” 

My fingers lost their grip on the envelope. She nodded briskly and triumphantly. Looked up the address on her phone and sat back down to pick at the remains of our dinner.

I didn’t really think about it again for a while.

Chapter Four

About a week after my foray into the Saints neighborhood the office received a package. Becky tended to work front-of-house. She was good at directing people and calming down folks who came in riled. And she didn’t seem to mind it.

It was her who came tap-tap-tapping on my door that afternoon.

Everyone in the office knew she and I were friends. And that Becky had referred me. But we still used our “grown-up” voices and professional attitude, at least out on the floor with other people. If we happened to be alone or behind closed doors, however, we fell right back into slouching in our chairs and calling each other baby. Since she closed the door behind her as she came in, and then kept a hold of the door handle and leaned back against it, I knew she had gossip or some other treat for us. I looked up from my computer, grinning.

“We got a thing,” she hissed. 

“Oh-h, a thing,” I said sarcastically.

“Come and see-ee,” she sing-songed back at me. 

I followed her out to the wide reception desk she sat at. Her little jar of lollipops and stickers for kids, her pom pom pens and the picture of her fluffy little dog Boo. 

Sitting up on it was a tall dark vase, a white bouquet of christiana and lilies. She flicked the small black and gold card at me between her fingers in a trick I knew she thought was quite clever.

*Thanks to Lychon Bank–*

*With especial gratitude to Ms. Rebecca Tremblay & Ms. Poppy Jones.*

*– Quinn Investments*

I rolled my eyes heavenward, searching for patience in the tile ceiling. My boss Sarita came over then. She was a delight and really trying to make life better and easier for all of us all the time. 

“Ooh,” she exclaimed.

Becky snatched the card from me and handed it to her. Sarita glanced at it and then back up at us.  

“I set the appointment with them,” Becky lied smoothly. “And PJ… Poppy was doing outreach last week, so they sent us a little thank-you gift.”

They most assuredly hadn’t thanked Becky by name for making any such appointment. But she could hardly explain why they did actually know her– the no doubt cringy thank you letter. 

“Hmm,” she said. Then looked at me. “Do you think they’re a prospect?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think so,” I said. “They mentioned they have service providers and–”

“Shame,” Sarita said. “A good local business to know… Especially with how much they put back into the neighborhood… If you think you have good rapport, you should do a return visit.”

“Oh, I don’t–” I began to say.

“Oh, you know Poppy,” Becky interrupted. “She underestimates her skills. She could probably at least give them another phone call. I bet it’s just a matter of giving them a little nudge.”

If we had been alone I would have picked her up and stuffed her into the paper shredder. 

“Consider them on your call list and on your to-do list,” Sarita said briskly to me. Giving the bouquet a little spin and heading back to her office.

“I hope you feel lucky, you little–” I hissed at Becky. Glanced around to see if everyone else was out of earshot. “You might just find yourself tossed off your roof tonight.” 

She just laughed, waved and settled prettily and bouncily back into her seat. 

I was doing errands after work one afternoon when I got a prickly sensation across the back of my head. Glancing around, trying to figure out what my unease was. Was someone too close to me? Was the weather changing? I couldn’t quite place it. 

I continued on– these were all walking tasks. Dropping things off at the dry cleaner. Slotting mail into the post office drop box. Stopping at the pharmacy. Grabbing some apples from the fruit stand on the way home. But I couldn’t shake it. 

I stopped outside of the fruit stand, leaning against the brick wall. Hauling the net bag up on my shoulder and pulling out my phone. I pretended to be reading, but my eyes were parallel to the ground. Sweeping around. Trying to figure out what, if anything, was throwing me off my balance.

I finally figured it out. A man lingering. I lifted my phone, pretending to take a selfie. Flipping my hair off my shoulder. But I had the camera facing out and focused in on the linger-er. It was obvious because he even looked out-of-place. It was a steamy day, even though the sun was beginning to go down. And he was wearing a suit. And this really wasn’t a suit neighborhood.

Pretending to take a second photo I zoomed in.

It was fucking Lucky. I realized. Lucky Lenihan, the bad receptionist from Quinn Investments. 

I felt neither relieved nor more frightened. I just didn’t know what to do with the information. I walked another block, surreptitiously glancing over my shoulder as I went. He was indeed shadowing me. I went into a coffee shop. I knew they’d be closing in an hour, I felt bad and ordered water.

Then I called Becky.

“Hey,” I said. “Come pick me up at Brewed Joy.” 

“Ugh, why?” she groaned. “You’re only like… five blocks from your house there. And I’m already in my underwear.”

“I think I’m being followed,” I said.

“What?” she cried, loud enough that my phone seemed on the verge of crackling. 

I sipped my water.

“I don’t think there’s any reason to be worried, but I’d appreciate–”

“I’m coming!” she yelled.

Within three minutes I saw her car idling out on the sidewalk. Which meant she’d taken our residential streets at about 100 miles per hour. 

I gathered my things and slid into the seat.

“So?” she panted.

She was in her pajamas. Wearing one of her too-big sports jersey shirts stolen from an ex-boyfriend. And no shoes. 

I glanced around the street, trying to spot him. 

He was leaning against a closed restaurant opposite Brewed Joy. Smoking and looking hulking and strange in a dark suit.

“So just adjust your rearview mirror to the left. He’s outside that restaurant that used to serve cheesesteaks. That’s Lucky. From the Quinns’ office,” I said. 

“Ulp,” she said. 

I could see her about to turn around in her seat, and I pinched her bare thigh. She gasped and hit my arm.

“Well, don’t look at him,” I hissed.

“Beep-beep,” she said, flouncing in her seat and frowning at me. “He’s not doing a very good job of following you. Or otherwise you wouldn’t have noticed him. I don’t think he’ll notice me staring at him. And even if he did, fuck him. Let him find out we’re aware.” 

“Will you just take me home?” I sighed. 

“Hmph,” she breathed, flipping her hair in their little silk rollers off her shoulders and pulled out into the angrily honking flow of traffic. 

I saw Lucky maybe two other times. Usually just if I was out late at night. Once I went out on a gremlin-mission to get ice cream at a convenience store after eleven PM. One other time when I was doing errands after work. One time there was another man with him. No one I recognized. Each time I became angrier. I considered calling the police… But that seemed like a terrible idea. Nor did I think they would believe me or do anything about it. 

Finally, I made up my mind to take the bull by the horns. On a Wednesday I told my coworkers I’d be out for lunch. I usually ate in the office and everyone knew I was available even while I was on break. So this would be a change of pace.

I drove directly over to Quinn Investments. And didn’t give them a ring ahead of time. Instead of parking in the free lot, I coughed up the fifty cents to park outside their front door though on the street. I wouldn't admit I was scared. But I was nervous. 

No one was at reception again. I rolled my eyes. Glancing back out the window to see if Lucky was somewhere smoking outside. But I didn’t see him. I went right back to the offices, veering to the left, toward Declan’s. 

I tapped on the door but just kept walking. He was on the phone as I came in. He was pacing and as I burst through the door his hand that wasn’t holding the phone dropped to his waist, and I realized he was going for a firearm. 

I had perhaps been a bit impulsive, I realized at that moment.

He sighed through his nose.

“I’ll have to call you back, sir,” he said and hung up. 

“Well, hello, Puppy,” he said, sounding frustrated. “This is hardly professional of you.”

“I’m not here on a business call,” I shot back. “And my name’s not Puppy.” 

“Well then,” he said, coming closer, his voice dropping as the distance closed. “That makes this rather more interesting. What can I do for you… Pupp– Ms. Jones?”

“Did you sic your men on me?” I asked.

He looked briefly confused and then flashed his teeth at me again. He looked so dangerous when he did that. When he smiled it was crooked, higher on the left. Showing off his eyetooth, his face falling into very easy but insincere lines around his eyes. 

He had remarkably dark eyes for his coloring and it made him look like a shark– predatory and cold. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, leaning his hips against the front of his desk and watching me. 

“Don’t play cute with me,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked. “You play cute with me.”

“I do not!” I said back. Stepping forward to him, squaring up as if we were going to fight physically.

I took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Very carefully putting on my poker-face, my professional, not-squeaky voice.

“I’ve seen your guys following after me,” I said. “And I presume that this is you making some point about how I ought to not be left on my own.”

“Who’s been following you?” he asked. Now standing back upright, hands fisting at his sides.

“Lucky, I don’t know. Other guys. But they look like your guys. Suits, goonish, loomingly huge,” I said, finishing in a tone of high sarcasm.  

I saw something pass across his face lightening quick. Definitely negative. Unsure if it was fear, anger, jealousy or frustration. Watching his knuckles working as he carefully put the emotion aside. I was unsteady suddenly.

“They are not there under my direction,” he said, very slowly. Either thoughtful or he was trying to not become enraged. “But I assure you they won’t be there any more.” 

“You’re not…” I said, utterly confused. “You’re not stalking me?”

“If I were stalking you,” he said, giving me that cool-blooded grin. “You wouldn’t know it until you found me standing at the foot of your bed.”

I wanted to scream in frustration and bit my bottom lip instead to let the sound become an airless squeal. That just made his smile widen. Besides, I was shivering, picturing seeing his teeth flash in the darkness of my bedroom, his eyes an even darker shadow in the room. 

“See that you call your dogs off, Hound,” I said, finger raised in warning at him.

Once again, seeing that thundercloud of bad emotion go quickly across his face and pass again. So he genuinely didn’t like “The Hound.” I hadn’t known. I thought he’d just been maintaining whatever weak grasp on their front and faux-professionalism they had here by not calling himself by that nickname. 

“Let me walk you to your car,” he said. 

“I’m right through your window,” I said, sighing.

“Then I’ll walk you right through my window,” he said, threateningly. 

I laughed briefly at that. Laughing harder and longer when his face stayed unchangingly serious. Jokingly, I held my hand out, weak at the wrist. He took it and draped it over his arm.

That gave me pause. I made a mistake even playing around and leading to contact. Feeling his arm flexing under my hand, the heat of him. Now that he was close, I couldn’t help but glance up and sideways at him. From this vantage I just saw the edge of some black ink at his throat. Disappearing coyly under the starched collar of the cream shirt he was wearing. 

He led me back out and through the office and down onto the sidewalk.

“Right there,” I said, pointing to my car. Pointing back to the front window of his office. “You could have watched me quite comfortably from your desk.”

“But then I wouldn’t have a chance to do this,” he said, lifting his arm that had my hand still wrapped around his forearm. Pressing his lips briefly and coolly against my knuckles. 

I stood stock-still under the contact. Unable and unwilling to move away. And he dropped me so suddenly I didn’t even have the chance to mount an offense. 

“Run on home,” he said.

“Hmph,” I huffed, digging out my car keys. Wishing I had a better comeback. But nothing came to mind. I got into the car, starting the engine. Hearing his palm thwacking on the roof of my car. I looked out the window at him as he made the roll down gesture.

I did, ready to holler at him again. This time he handed me a business card. The same– just the graphic of the office, and his number on the back. It was a different number than the one Kieran had given me. 

“If you have problems… Any problems… Being followed… Anything… Call me,” he said. 

“I don’t cause problems,” I said. “And I don’t need any help. I’m just asking you to fix the one problem you caused in my life. No more lurkers.”

“No more lurkers,” he promised. 

I rolled my window back up, heading back to the office. Looking at the gold and black card sliding back and forth a little bit on my passenger seat. 

Once I returned home I thought more deeply on; “they are not there under my direction.” I had assumed Declan was trying to make a point about me being on my own. Hence, why I was most often followed late at night. I never saw Lucky outside of Lychon or if I went for a jog in daylight.

But someone must have set them on my trail. Which almost certainly had to be Kieran. I went over to my work bag and pulled out the card Kieran had given me. I was right– it was two different numbers, although otherwise identical. Their names weren’t even on the cards. I dog-eared Declan’s on the right-hand corner, so I wouldn’t mix them up. Spinning Kieran’s around and around on the table. 

If it was Kieran’s doing it was wrong of me to attack Declan in such a manner. Especially calling him ‘Hound.’ Wondering who had given him that name. And why he still allowed it to be leveled at him by anyone if he hated it. 

I got up. Doing my stretches, light weight work-out while watching my comfort show. Thinking about dinner. My outfit for work tomorrow. Sighing about a run I’d put in my favorite pair of stockings.

I sat sweating and breathing deep on my yoga mat. Kicking my feet a little, thinking quietly to myself. Muting the television I grabbed the dog-eared card and dialed.

“Quinn,” Declan barked. 

“Hi…” I said slowly.

“Yes, what?” he asked impatiently.

“It’s Ms. Jones… Poppy,” I said.

“Ah. Puppy. What?” he said.

“Poppy!” I cried.

“That’s what I said,” he shot back.

I took a deep breath, pinching the bridge of my nose. This was not how I intended the conversation to go. And I didn’t want to be mad at him.

“I was calling to apologize,” I said.

“Oh? Interesting,” he said. “For what?” 

“I’m sorry I called you the Hound. I’ll always call you by your name. And I’m sorry I blamed you for the stalking,” I said. “If it wasn’t you, it must have been Mr. Quinn… Kieran. If you want, I’ll talk to Kieran and get him to stop–”

“No,” he said, a little loud and very short.

I heard him breathing on his side of the line.

“No,” he said, gentler and at a more reasonable volume. “Don’t call him, there’s no sense in that. Besides it… The division of labor around here is such that–”

He sighed. I could picture him once more pacing around his black and gold and lowly lit office. Maybe cradling his face the way I’d cradled mine. 

“You know who we are,” he finally said heavily. “And while I love the idea that you didn’t… That we had just… Met… In an office or– But we didn’t. And I appreciate you saying you’ll call me by my name. But there’s a reason I’m the Hound. At the end of the day I am an animal at someone else’s command. And there’s no point in pretending.”

I sat very quietly on my mat. Listening to both of us being in silence apart. Trying to find words. It had all clicked together pretty quickly. The name Quinn. Their history of organized crime in our neighborhood. The strange and obvious office. But how would we now go about being honest with each other? Or even what things to divulge to who was essentially a stranger. We were both dangerous strangers in fact. Both in our own and separate ways. 

“I know that who I am and what I am is bad for you,” I finally said quietly.

He sighed again. I almost thought I could feel his breath through the phone. Disappointment and exhaustion. And it was so strange to hear it from him. When he was always so competent and confident and sure of himself. And god, what a weight he put on himself to be that. Of course he sounded tired. 

“That’s right,” he sighed. “Listen… You know what the situation is. No doubt you could tell from the minute you stepped through my door. The fact that I’m the clean face of it means you really ought to stay away from… The… Well, the not-clean face.”

“Kieran?” I asked.

“Kieran,” he agreed. 

“Ought I to stay away from the clean face, too?” I asked.

We went quiet again. 

“What do you think?” he asked sadly.

“Probably,” I said. Silence.

“Do you want to stay away?” he asked. Silence.

“No,” I finally said. Too soft. I was waiting for him to ask me to repeat myself, but he didn’t.

“Well,” he said. “We’ll just have to see if you’re smart or a dumb puppy.” 

“God damn you,” I cried, hanging up the phone, hearing him chuckle as I did so.