Page 45 of Vipers & Roses

How could I be so fucking stupid to leave that up? I rushed home, and Z arrived only ten minutes later. I neglected to take The Pig’s photograph of the dead men down. Again, I pause to consider the fifth person, the one taking the photograph, as I slip it into my top drawer. I really hope Z didn’t notice it, although I’m sure if she did, someone as blatantly honest as her would ask questions.

Stepping back onto the balcony, I hand Z the giant bag of crisps, and she immediately breaks it open and stuffs a handful into her mouth while muttering how starving she is.

“So, what’s the deal with Blake anyway?” I ask, examining the cherry tomatoes reddening despite the lack of sun since it’s hidden behind the buildings for half the day.

“Corporal punishment for anyone who puts pineapple on pizza,” Z states, pointing toward the pineapple experiment. “It’s a crime.”

“There’s more than one way to eat pineapple,” I argue. “In fact, eating it on its own is very nice.”

“I had a Pina Colada once,” she screws her face up. “You know, if you’ve ever vomited up a food item, you never want to eat it again. That’s how I feel about Pina Colada.”

“I feel that way about coleslaw with raisins.” I shudder, remembering little black raisins floating around the toilet bowl after I drank too much at a beach party my parents had when I was about fourteen. Max tormented me with raisins for weeks afterward, hiding them in my bed and my clothes drawers.

“What the fuck? Why would anyone put raisins in coleslaw? That’s just fucking gross,” she snaps, munching on crisps and spitting bits out onto my leg. “An insult to gastronomy.”

“Too many rules have been broken in the name of fine cuisine,” I say, biting a crisp. I enjoy the salty fat wash across my tongue, hitting the spot after consuming sweet wine.

“He’s a good guy,” Z states, gazing out at the black sky twinkling with tiny golden stars, " despite his moonlighting.”

“Are we talking about Blake?” When Z drinks and smokes, her conversation topics veer off in various directions, and it can take some effort to keep up with her.

“Yeah, he was asking me about you, so I think he’s keen,” she sips her wine and wipes her face with the back of her hand. But what sort of future can you have with a midnight runner?”

“He confessed that if we’re going to keep seeing each other again, then I need to understand that there are parts of him he can’t share,” I explain soberly.

“Well, at least he’s being honest, and you know where you stand with him from the start,” she says flatly, frowning as she gazes down onto the street below. “So, what happened to that other guy we saw in the shopping center that day?”

“Cormac, the swimmer. Yeah, I caught up with him earlier today,” I sigh, conflicted. “Both men come with baggage and conditions…” I trail off because she’s barely listening and is focused on something that caught her eye on the street.

“Shit’s going down,” she states, rising onto her feet and grabbing her phone from her lap to film the action.

Naturally, I twist around to inspect the action. There are three cop cars with red lights flashing, no siren blocking the road, and two black unmarked vehicles parked. They file out of the vehicles, and I spot the silver-haired hunk Detective, just call me Gabe Bernardi, in the group. He seems to be leading the force, and, on his word, the police ram an enforcer against the door, and it flies open. Quickly, they file inside the entrance and up the stairs leading to the apartments above.

“I saw him casing the joint yesterday,” I mumble to Z, who’s not paying attention. She’s too busy watching the action through her phone with her mouth slightly open.

We wait expectantly for signs of movement in the apartment windows above as traffic builds up down the blocked-off street as frustrated people jump on their horns. It must be enthralling to have so much power that you block a busy street and not apologize for it.

Most rooms have lights on; we can see right into their apartments if their drapes are open. I scan the building, searching for the police officers, but I can’t detect what floor they’re on. There are muffled shouts and strongly asserted demands, followed by a bang that I assume is another door being rammed.

“This reminds me…I should pay my parking fines,” Z says. Normally, I would laugh, but the drama across the street consumes me.

Finally, police officers emerge from the ground entrance, guiding a man with his arms behind his back and struggling against his restraints. They urge him to climb inside a marked police vehicle, and when he fights against them, he’s given a good shove.

“I wonder what his crime is?” I mumble, not expecting an answer from Z because she wouldn’t know. But then I remember the elderly couple in the elevator informing me of the stalking who attacked a girl in the underground parking garage, and I wonder if it’s him. I hope so.

Other uniformed police officers flood onto the street, and I wait eagerly to see the silver-haired fox emerge so I can whet my palette. Officer after officer belches out from the ground doorway, and still, there is no Gabe. I inspect the entire street to see if I’ve missed him and wonder if he’s snuck inside one of the unmarked vehicles.

“Fuck,” Z snaps, and I turn to her to see what the problem is, and she’s holding her phone up at a 45-degree angle to the apartments opposite a couple of floors above mine.

A man is climbing onto the window edge to tread across to the fire escape ladder leading down to the first floor. Any attempts to grab him are lost as he ventures further away from the window out onto the ledge, almost at arm’s length of the ladder.

One of the plain-clothes officers pokes his head through the drapes and attempts to talk him down in a steady, calm voice. My guess is that Det. Gabe is still in one of those apartments, perhaps hunting down another suspect.

The man has reached the story level with us and claims the ladder, athletically swinging to the next floor.

“He’s getting away!” Z cries, punching the air with her fist, championing him along. Of course, she’d sympathize with the crim, eager for him to flee the bad guys, the police. I’m on Gabe’s side—his front side and backside. Hell, I need to get a man between my legs before I lose the plot altogether.

From the street, an officer yells, “Stop” at the assailant as they gather below the fire escape ladder to grab and arrest the man as soon as he’s close enough. Seeing the sea of officers below, the assailant stalls on the ladder halfway down to the fourth floor and scans outside the building for his options. Quickly, he climbs off the ladder and inches his way across the ledge to the nearest apartment window, which is open, and the drapes are waving in the breeze. There’s a trough on the ledge abundant in growing herbs, and I regularly see an elderly lady water them.

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