I’ve been in a book club for a while now, and as these things do, it only took a few weeks for it to descend into chaos. For one thing, there were several people who all kept forgetting to read their chapters, but still showed up to every meeting. Not to mention the members who devour the whole book in one sitting and insist on spoiling it for everyone else. Telling people ‘there’s a big twist coming’ is still ruining the twist, Brian!

Plus there’s the former alcoholics who realize the passages they skimmed through while drunk aren’t nearly as hilarious when read out sober. Particularly in front of a large group of people. Three guesses to which subset I happen to belong to.

So this book club became a books club, for discussing whatever its members were reading. Then it became everything they always planned to read. From there it was a short jump to TV and movies and then on to nothing in particular. Alas, a good percentage of these clubs would split up soon after this stage. But I consider this the golden period, and I was determined to savor it while it lasted.

I leaned back, propping my feet on the armrest of Olga’s couch, and let the ebb and flow of the conversation wash over me. This time they were going on and on about Christmas traditions.

“… and then she threw her doll in her appa’s face! Oh, right then I wanted to strangle that little girl of mine. And hug her, of course.”

“You should’ve let him come through the doorway, at least.” Olga argued, finishing her juice glass and setting it on the table with a clink. “But - actually, never mind. Dylan, what about you?” Our host twisted up her face in an expression that was both wary and begging for gossip. “You told us your parents were coming in, yeah?”

“Yeah.” I took a long slurp of juice through my straw. “It went fine, really. Better than I’d thought it would be. Saw them off this morning.” I really didn’t want to go into more detail than that. After hearing everyone else’s family stories, though, shutting down the topic completely felt a little unfair.

Dear old Mom and Dad had had a little more grey in their hair than when I’d seen them last. Deeper lines on their faces, too. But they carried it with dignity, just like they did everything else. We’d waltzed around the awkward conversation topics, though I got the sense it was mostly because they didn’t want to shake what they saw as my upward life trajectory. Their expectations of me were still so close to rock bottom that they’d taken everything in stride.

On the other hand, I can’t say we didn’t have fun. We visited a holiday fair, went for a nature hike, even convinced the old man to jump on for a rollercoaster ride once. The only true dampener on the proceedings was Ryan skipping out two days in, leaving me to the spend the last three nights of Christmas alone with Mom and Dad.

“That doesn’t seem like something your brother would do.” Jan observed, smoothing out his bristly blond mustache in the mirror. Don’t be deceived by the personal grooming; he’s probably the best listener in the ranks of the club. “He doesn’t usually go on cases without you, right?”

I sighed. “He probably didn’t want to ditch our parents entirely. But also, yes he does. Sometimes he thinks the work’s too urgent to wait for me, or just thinks it’s best pulled off solo. It’s not unusual. Hell, once he was gone for over two weeks. It’s just…”

“Concerning?”

“Rude?”

“Something of that nature.” I said, before the whole group could jump in with synonyms. I leapt up to my feet, carefully depositing my empty glass into the tray. “Well, looky here. He’s just sent me a message. I’m sure he’s back by now. Adios, all of you. Let’s get together next week so we can not discuss the Tale of Genji.” This was met with a chorus of approval, and I came out of Olga’s condo in a much better mood than I went in with. Perhaps, with a little more effort, this club could sustain itself.

Ryan had parked the car outside. He had his window rolled up, revealing his arms crossed on the steering wheel and his head nestled between them. He was wearing a peaked cap, and there were blurred out lines on his face that give his face a fuzzy, almost psychedelic quality. Makeup, had to be makeup he hadn’t finished scrubbing off his face. Had he been wearing a disguise for all this time? I sighed. “You knew this club’s schedule? Of course you knew.”

My brother’s eyes blinked open. Immediately alert, if not exactly rested. He pulled himself up from the steering wheel, turning the car’s ignition key. “Mom and Dad are okay, yeah? I was planning on coming back last night, but there was too much going down at the docks. Bureaucratic idiots. Anyway, I’ll make it up to them? You remember Una, from the travel agency? I can probably call in a favor. Get her to send them cruise tickets. You think they’d like to visit Belize, or Macau? I heard Marseille’s quite popular this time of year.”

“They asked me to tell you to call them. That’s probably best, especially before making any expensive decisions that possibly involve our rent money. Also, I’m taking the wheel.” I practically shoved him into the passenger seat. Ryan gave way without protest. He’s always seen driving as more of a chore than anything else.

I settled into the car and steered it onto the road. My brother clicked on his seatbelt, and after he stared at me for a few seconds, I remembered to wear it too.

“Your thing with the docks,” I said at the next red light. “You finished it up, right?”

“Done and dusted.” He said. “Might get called to testify in court, but that’ll be in at least another year or two.” He scratched at his stubble, part of which I realized only now he must have painted on.

“There’s no other cases on the docket, I hope? We’re still not short of cash, not with the payout from the Kathmandu thing. Which means,” and I took a deep breath for this, “there’s nothing stopping you from a few days’ worth of sleep. You really look like you need it, buddy.”

He sniffed. “Not everyone needs to rest a full eight hours, Dylan. I can be perfectly healthy with four and some small change.”

“And how many of those daily four hours have you been getting in the last few days?” I thought about it. “Or the last few weeks?”

My brother sniffed again, and this time there was a rather pointed quality to it. But he kept his silence as I rolled the car into our parking space. He was swaying on his feet as he got out, and was that a limp he was walking with now?

“You sure you don’t want to take a pit stop at the ER?” I offered, locking the door and tossing the keys in my hand. “I mean, the hospital’s in walking distance – though we should still probably drive there anyway.”

“I never took you for the mother-hen type,” He muttered, instinctively rubbing at a bruise on his neck. “And no, I’m fine. Maybe I’ll put an ice pack on this knee, though.”

The elevator still had the Out of Order sign slung over the doors, so we took the stairs up. I walked the steps slowly, letting Ryan stay in front of me. That irritated him even more, but again he seemed too worn out to make a big deal out of it. I kept myself busy with dinner plans. It should be something simple, all things considered. The leftover naan would pair well with the hummus, or perhaps some of the last slices of the sourdough bread would do. It needed protein and something fresh, or something we could pretend was fresh. The bag of peas in the fridge would have to do.

I’d managed to move on to constructing hypothetical desserts when we rounded the corner and found someone standing outside the hallway. He looked so young. Taller than either of us, sure, but his height only emphasized his age, with a lanky build, knobby elbows and round red cheeks. He couldn’t be older than fifteen or sixteen. He was wearing some ratty-looking baseball gear, with a duffel bag dumped beside his feet. My first thought was that he had picked the wrong apartment number. But that made no sense, especially with Ryan’s name engraved on the door in silver letters. He still insists on referring to himself as a consulting detective, even though I’m half sure that’s not an actual job. His license says he’s a private investigator, anyway.

The kid heard our footsteps and turned. “Santi told me about you. You, uh, help with people’s problems, yeah?”

My brother leaned against the door, resting the side of his head against the glass. “Well, that’s one way to describe it. How is Santiago doing these days, anyway?”

“He’s fine. Shop’s doing okay, anyhow.” The boy muttered, shuffling his feet. He took a deep breath. “My dad’s been gone for the last few days. Can you do anything about that? Can you find him?”

I took a step forward. It was probably best to just rip off the Band-Aid here, get it over with nice and quick. “So he’s gone, huh? You sure he didn’t just get his business trip extended? Or maybe he’s just taking an extra long weekend at the strip club? Or just got high off his eyeballs in somebody’s basement?”

The kid flinched. One of those comments must’ve hit close enough to hurt. I pressed my advantage. “Look, if we had to bring home every dumbass who decided to go out for cigarettes and not come back, we’d be working 24/7. So why don’t—oh, come on!”

Ryan opened the door, gesturing with his hand to beckon the new client inside.

*

The currently absent father’s name was Jean Rustin. He worked as a tower crane operator, one who spent most of his nights at a charming little place downtown called the Scupper. He’d been drinking there for practically his entire adulthood. His son Jacques, the one who’d shown up at our doorstep, had claimed that his dad never been gone for this long before. Why exactly had he not gone to the bar himself, then?

Jacques had shuffled his feet in answer to the question, unable to stare at anything but the carpet, and told us he’d promised his mom not to. Which was really quite adorable in a Sunday school sort of way. It didn’t help my mood much at the time, though. Especially when Ryan nodded in response and promised the kid he’d look into it.

I’ll admit he’s always canny enough to be cautious in his assurances. After all, enough bad luck can thwart the most skillful investigator. But there’s a gravity in those promises, one that draws the eye and compels silence, so anyone on the other end of it would believe he’d take over the world if that’s what it took to keep his word. I’ve been on the other side of those promises before.

“I mean, it’s a pretty simple job, at least.” I muttered, turning the steering wheel as we drove up the overpass. “He’s probably at the bar. Even if he isn’t… someone who’s blackout drunk can’t be that hard to track. And this is good community outreach, really. We’ll get more gigs overall.”

Ryan was hunched over his seat, digging through his backpack. I was wondering if he was listening to me at all, which was a novel feeling. My brother always pays attention, even when he pretends not to. But he didn’t seem to be pretending now.

Ah, well. It’s not like I’d been saying anything important. I’d been talking myself into coming out here more than anything else.

“Hm.” Ryan said, peering at his phone now. “We’re going to have to walk from here.”

I groaned. “Are you absolutely sure?” Everyone knew how narrow the streets could get in this part of the City, but still. I slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “I mean this thing is pretty tiny, as far as cars go. No offense.”

“None taken.” He opened the car door and stepped out. “And if you really want to try driving through this neighborhood, far be it from me to stop you.”

I hesitated. We would probably stick out like a sore thumb, and without any visible sidewalks in this part of the city, dealing with pedestrians would be a problem. “I hate you.” I muttered, getting out of the car. I rubbed my shoulders, cursing the current subzero temperatures. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. Couldn’t we have done this tomorrow morning, at least?”

“Time is always of the essence with disappearances," Ryan said. He tucked his hands into his jacket and kicked a clump of snow out of his way. “And like you said, if we can wrap this up quickly, it’s best that we take that chance.”

“That dumb kid, Jacques. He could’ve called the police or something. I mean, they wouldn’t have taken him too seriously. Rightfully so! But he still could’ve had the decency to contact them first.” But Ryan was already ten paces in front of me. The new case had given him a new burst of energy, practically buoying him up as he walked.

Outside of a few errant motorcycles, their headlights still gleaming through the mist, everyone on the street was walking with their hands nestled in their coats and their scarves pulled up over their noses. They were all mostly blue-collar workers. Our clothes weren’t too different from theirs, but they seemed to clock us as outsiders immediately.

Slalom isn’t a borough known for its friendliness, anyway. Its founder was a man whose big bold dream was to create a company town in the middle of a city. Build efficient, grey-bricked dormitories just a few minutes’ walk away from their inhabitants’ workplace. In fact, set it all up so close together cars would have trouble getting through. Who’d need transport if everything the workers needed was right here?

It turns out this is an equal pain in the ass to traverse for delivery vans and Mr. Management’s Mercedes-Benz. So while meatpacking companies and shoeshine manufacturers and all their dreary, bloodless brethren welcomed this place, the neighborhood wasn’t exactly thriving, either. Right now it was probably the busiest time of day around here, but still calling it lively would be a stretch.

“Oh, love, it’s like you came out of nowhere!” A booming, cheery voice called out, and I turned to see its owner heading towards us. The voice didn’t match the owner, for she was tall and thin. Her skin was stretched tight over her bones and she had a gaunt, watchful face. She wore a truly gigantic coat and a muffler to match, red and yellow checkerboard patterns all over both. Sewn together from bedsheets, maybe? She glanced over at me and smiled. “Oh, Mister Neville, is this the famous brother of yours? The writer, am I right? Or am I write?” She laughed at her own joke, shaking my hand with a ferocious grip. I’d never been introduced to anyone as ‘the writer’ before. To my surprise, I found I quite liked it.

Ryan glanced down the street. “Did Miss Arjuni not come out with you today, Miss Judith?”

“Oh, she’s just around the corner, dear. There she is!”

Sure enough, a shorter, plump woman came around the corner, pushing a cart that had to be at least as big as she was. The whole thing painted a light lake blue, reminding me quite a bit of a baby carriage. Though if it was for a baby it would probably be big enough to eat me alive. The woman was feeding in metal cans to the cart through a small opening, which probably nixed that theory. Probably.

Like her companion, she was also wearing patterned clothes, with a bright red shawl over her hair. She saw Ryan and immediately launched into her own series of questions. A lot of them were about his dating life. Was there neighborhood gossip about all this? And had no one bothered to tell me about it?

Ryan took a deep breath. “Miss Arjuni—"

“It’s Miss Juni, dear! And she’s Miss Judi. Everyone calls us that, except you for some reason or the other. And you look like you’re freezing in that getup. Here, let me get you something.” She pulled a piece of cloth out of the slot in the cart. It turned out to be a lilac scarf, which she draped around my brother’s neck despite his protests.

“Really, darling, I know you think you’re allergic to color, but purple looks so good on you. Brings out your eyes. Now, what did you want to know?”

“If anyone had disappeared around here.” Ryan said, tugging at his scarf unhappily. “Or anything else out of the ordinary. I know you two hear a lot of stories.”

They looked at each other. “Well, you see, love,” Miss Judi said carefully, “This is kind of a bad part of town. You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

Just then a group of young men passed us, slapping each other on the back and laughing their heads off at probably one of the shittiest jokes in existence. I glimpsed a Doldrum badge on one of their shirts, and felt something in between regret and nostalgia. I’d been one of those guys not too long ago. I’d still be one of those guys if I hadn’t made a few bad choices.

Okay, if I hadn’t made a lot of bad choices.

Miss Juni saw my expression and glanced over at the students, her cheery smile flipping itself over. “Hmph. Really, some people. But I’m sure these poor dears don’t have anywhere better to be than the places around here. Shameful, how our colleges treat their students. No support at all.”

The group bounded up a flight of stairs, heading through the front doors of a bar. “I wouldn’t be so sure.” I told them. “Some of those guys were wearing Trireme shirts. Those babies go for like two hundred a pop. More than that, well…” I shrugged again, a little more helplessly. Or with a little more shame. “People at Doldrum like the idea of slumming it. You know, finding the moldiest, grimiest, more run-down bar they can find, just so they can go back and tell their buddies they went there. The richer their parents, the more fun they find it. Senators, actors, billionaires…”

Miss Judi coughed vehemently and dramatically, leaning over the cart and wheezing her lungs out. Her companion patted her back. “I should probably get her back home. Good luck with the case, boys.”

“Actually –”

She held up a hand, her dentures flashing as she grinned. “We’ll be sure to ask you all about it next time.”

Ryan was pensive as we crossed the street, his nose buried in the scarf as he stared at the sidewalk in front of us. “You know,” I said, “come to think of it I think I’ve actually seen those two around before.” More than once, actually. My own nightlong jaunts as a Doldrum undergrad had let me comb through most of the City.

My brother pulled out his phone and started tapping out a message. “They’re junk collectors. Old cans, hubcaps, balisongs, that sort of thing. Well-known figures in the community, if not always appreciated ones.”

“So that’s what the cart’s for, huh? Poor old women. Though at least they have a logical reason to be walking around the City at all odd hours. Unlike some people.”

Ryan’s mouth twitched up at the corner. “I won’t go so low as making excuses, Dy, but I’m not playing by a new rulebook, either. I’ve always been like this. And frankly, with a family like ours I’m surprised that you haven’t thought – ”

“Oh believe me, I have.”

My brother sighed. The bar we entered a few minutes later looked identical to all the rest on the street. The inside décor also wasn’t particularly imaginative, except for a shrine of photographs and trophies behind the bar, dedicated to some local boxing club. Nonetheless, this is where our young client’s father spent his evenings. No doubt his own father and his father’s father had drunk here, too.

Ryan sidled up to the bartender, who was pouring beers for a group of construction workers, their orange jackets still draped over their chairs. He immediately started bouncing questions off them. It was one of his standard spiels. He’s never needed his disguises, really. He changed his posture and his voice and put on a second skin like he’d been wearing it all his life, a young man of the working class looking for a job. Usually with a fuzzy yet remarkably similar background to the targets of the routine. On a good day, it can be pretty fun to watch.

But my attention kept switching to the bottles being poured, to the glasses clinking together, to the smell in the room. It wasn’t from smelling one drink as much as from a chaotic mishmash of them all, tossed together with the candied peanuts and cinnamon cokes it feels like everyone in these parts prefers to mix with their alcohol. It wasn’t a good smell – I can admit that now, at least. But it was achingly familiar, and I had to clench my fists and remind myself for the millionth time of the little red chip in my pocket from Alcoholics United. To the meetings I’d dragged myself to month after month. Because it was better than being met with another intervention.

So instead I picked up a pool cue leaning against the wall and offered to play. I didn’t have to turn around to feel Ryan’s gaze searing holes into the back of my skull. He didn’t want undue attention on me, especially when we’d walked into the bar together.

But I played anyway, challenging myself with the trickiest shots from the get-go. I fumbled the first few a little. My sight and my grips always need time to adjust, no matter what game I’m playing. But soon enough I had that cue ball dancing by my tune, swerving around the others on the green to hit just the one I wanted. It’s like art, you know. Just as beautiful and far more precise. The artist can’t ever be sure they did something right the way a player can. When I made the shot that sent three balls spinning into the pockets, a small crowd was gathering around me, a miniature betting pool beginning to form.

I overheard snatches of conversation over by the counter between each shot. Oh, Jean Rustin, you mean Rusty, yeah? Has to be him, brother. Haven’t seen him around here in a bit. He’s usually a regular. But wasn’t he outside last Friday? Might not’ve been him, right? Couldn’t it?

More information started trickling through the chaos. Old Rusty was a nice enough guy, in that quiet sort of way. Knew a bunch about basketball. He downed more glasses a night than most, sure, but he was a heavyweight. He’d never gotten violent or anything, or even pushy. Oh, had his missus really not seen him? Not around for two whole days? Hadn’t he gone to work? No? Damn. It’s the quiet ones you have to look out for, you know.

I rubbed some blue chalk between my fingers, so hard I thought the dust would go beyond the skin, mark itself deep through the veins and into the bone. I felt my grip loosen as I angled the cue. That’s what the chalk’s for, after all. A smoother, cleaner shot. I rested my chin against the cold wood as I aimed. And those men with their smoky, rasping voices were still gossiping like teenagers. Almost leaping up at the chance to volunteer everything they knew.

Ah, Rusty didn’t talk too much about the home life. It’s not done, you get me? But everyone hears things. What with the big one, so much like his father, about to finish his schooling. Wants to go to college, even though the company might be shutting down next year and god knows whatever fool business Rust’s wife was up to wouldn’t be able to keep the family’s heads above water…

My hand slipped at the last moment and the shot went wide, clipping the very edge of the white ball. It meandered over to the black, rolling against it with a pathetic little clink that moved it not at all. I cursed, dumping the cue on the table and storming off, ignoring the rounds of protest from my new audience. I always liked darts better anyway. Sure enough, there was a board with a shiny red bullseye on the other side of the bar. And there was the box of darts, right there on the counter.

I don’t mind being here, okay? I don’t mind having to follow him around, most of the time at least. The jobs can pay surprisingly well, especially for people at our age. Even the ones that hand out chicken feed tend to be the most interesting ones. Some of them could be pretty fun.

But this wasn’t any of those, was it? It was sad, and boring, and painfully ordinary. Because of course Ryan thought he could detective his way into fixing a broken family. One of maybe thousands in this City. Maybe he could pull it off, who knows? And then there’d be the next one, and then the one after that.

There was something familiar about this line of thought, a dormant quality to my anger now brought to a simmer under the surface. Ryan was right. I should’ve gotten used to all this by now.

I picked up the first dart and threw it at the circle. A little off target, a little off. That’s all right. Place the feet a little further apart, bring up the arm.

I threw the second dart. Closer, better, not quite at the bullseye yet. I thought about old Mom and Dad, no doubt disembarking at the airport by now. The way they’d heard the news that their elder son wouldn’t be there to see them off. Dad was exasperated, if not exactly surprised. I mean, he’s a lawyer. He understood long hours. Yes, he’s done his part for the angels with his pro bono cases, but Dad at least knows how to compartmentalize. He chops up his life into neat little sections he can fill up as he wishes. He could set his work aside to come home at night. Store away enough at the bank for a nice middle-class idyll for his wife and kids. He and Ryan are close enough. He thinks he understands him, at least. From his perspective, this is a teenage tantrum of delayed effect. His boy’s a smart guy. He’s graduated early with a good degree. Now if only he managed to realize…

Third dart hits the red circle. But it’s off on the right, at the edge of the border. It might be a fluke. I can’t let them think it’s a fluke. Can’t let myself think that, either.

So Dad was miffed when he heard the news. But I’d watched Mom’s shoulders hunch, seen something lifeless enter her eyes. As if there’d been an axe hanging over her head for twenty years, but only now she saw it begin its fall. Part of me hated her a little more for that, that this had to be the moment she felt the full weight of that regret.

Fourth dart. Perfect bullseye, smack dab in the center of the red. Wonderful, wonderful. Let’s see if I can do it again.

She’s a good mom, don’t get me wrong. She’d call every night whenever she left, even though with the time zones I’d have to be called out of the classroom just to talk to her. That’s a herculean feat, especially after sixteen hour workdays with bullets and mortar shells whizzing over her head. And in the places she couldn’t get cell signal, she wrote letters, often with the same yellowed paper and leaky black pens. I have a few of those stuffed in the bottom of my suitcase. But she still left, for months at a time since I was a toddler, to treat broken people in broken places, with her little mobile clinic and any money she’d gotten from sponsors. It must’ve been thousands of patients over the years, tens of thousands. All coming through in a dusty red tide that never ended and never could.

Second bullseye. Third bullseye. Fourth bullseye. One of the darts split another as it landed in the same place, adding to the crack that spread across the corkboard. I’m standing right at the other side of the room now, having to toss the darts high and fast just for them to land and stick to the board. It feels so good, and –

Ryan patted me on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Most of the walk is done in silence, Ryan staring up at the sky thoughtfully. The sky’s clear enough I can actually see the moon white and clear, though it’s nowhere near fully dark. He yawned, apparently finally coming to a decision. “The night Mr. Rustin disappeared was busy. Friday night, lots of people around. Students, salesmen, even Miss Judi and Juni made an early appearance. Apparently those two can take their drink quite well. Anyway, Mr. Rustin comes in with a companion. A woman in a yellow overcoat.”

“So he had an affair.”

“Upon some further questioning, someone volunteered the fact she was his sister-in-law, Yuna Maeng.”

“Definitely an affair, then.” I sighed. At least it was straightforward.

“Hmm. Jorn, that’s the bartender, noted that Miss Maeng bought Mr. Rustin two drinks, and Mr. Rustin bought none at all. Jorn had few other memories of Rustin that night, and most of the other workers weren’t much better. A few did say she left earlier than him, though. Didn’t even finish her glass. When Rustin actually left the place is anyone’s guess.”

I hesitated. “You do admit that sounds a lot like someone planning to run off, yeah? Although I guess if we talk to that sister-in-law we can clear things up, so long as she hasn’t run off, too.” But there was a gleam in my brother’s eyes now, and it wasn’t the gleam that promised an early and anti-climactic resolution. Then those eyes narrowed, his eyes flicking over to a puddle. There was a faint, rippling reflection on it, and I connected the dots.

“You think someone’s following us?” I asked, trying to keep the incredulousness out of my voice.

He chewed his lip. “I thought someone did. Thought it could be Theaker, but that’s just not possible.” He rubbed his forehead. “Perhaps I hallucinated it. That might actually be preferable, under the circumstances.” He slipped a bottle out of his pocket, shaking a few pills into his palm. "Caffeine," He said, noticing my expression. “You can have one if you want.”

I shook my head quickly. Caffeine pills. I suppose it wasn’t too far from bingeing coffee on the regular. But some pills quickly turn into other kinds of pills. Ryan’s usually the type to subscribe to the view that if the mind is the shrine, the body is a temple. But everything crumbles under enough pressure.

I wanted to take that bottle and smash it under my foot. I wanted to punch him out cold and lock him in his room till he slept for a week. I wanted to do everything I’d been too young and too weak to do for Mom, to tell him the words I’d wanted to tell her. That this world’s terrible enough without good people slaving their lives away for it.