Serpents Rising. David A. Poulsen
younger than thirty — there were lots of them — to show the photo and ask about Jay Blevins. A few times glimmers of recognition tried to work their way through fog-shrouded minds. But never did. All we got from a couple of guys was that they knew Jay, had seen him around, maybe even talked to him, but had no idea where he’d be or even who we might ask for a little more in-depth information.
Some neighbourhoods take on a vibrant, pulsing new persona as the darkness of night falls. This one did not. The film noir feel to the place was palpable.
Cobb and I had split up again, agreed to meet at seven on the corner of 9th Avenue and 8th Street. There was a used bookstore there, a good one. The temperature was dropping fast and a north wind was starting to whip around me as I walked. Though we’d had a couple of snowfalls, this was the first real blast of winter cold and reminded me that this season was fourth on my list of favourites.
I tried to bury my face in the scarf I’d had the foresight to stuff in a pocket of the down-filled jacket I was wearing. Gloves too. Good.
I approached a Goodwill store that doubled as a shelter. Small place, wouldn’t house many residents. The sign outside said LET THE SUNSHINE INN. A woman stood just outside, leaning against a red-faded-to-dirty-auburn brick wall.
She was holding a chipped, orange coffee cup, full of what looked like coffee, or maybe tea, steaming a little. Both hands around the cup. She had short blond-brown hair, gentle contours to her face, early thirties, not tall, not short, tired looking, like the building she was leaning against and like most of the people around here. Except she was better dressed than most. I stopped in front of her.
“Let the Sunshine Inn. That the name of the place or does somebody really like the song?”
She straightened only slightly. “Maybe both.”
“Do you work in the Goodwill store?”
She regarded me with what I took to be mistrust. “Volunteer.”
I nodded. “Been doing that long?”
“If that’s a pickup line, it’s one of the worst ever.” A smile softened the words.
I returned the smile. “You should hear my others, they’re even worse.” I held out my hand. “I’m Adam Cullen. I’m looking for someone, a kid I was hoping you might know or at least may have seen around here. His name is Jay Blevins.”
She sipped the drink, her eyes on me over the top of the cup. “Police?”
I shook my head. “Actually I’m a writer. A journalist.” Again the mistrust in eyes that looked like they’d seen some of the downside of life. “But this doesn’t have anything to do with a story. A friend of mine and I are doing a favour for the young man’s father. He’s worried about Jay.”
“Aren’t they all?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
She didn’t answer.
“This one’s different,” I said. “This is a dad who’s not just worried about the kid doing drugs. Jay could be in some danger, real danger, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”
“Good Samaritans, you and your friend.” Her voice was slightly husky, like she’d just woken up. I always liked that kind of voice.
“Actually, no, we’re not. I guess it’s not really a favour in the strictest sense. My friend is a private detective. Jay’s father hired him to try to protect the kid from a potentially serious threat.” I sketched in general terms what had happened on Raleigh and the possible link to Jay.
“And you’re helping because…?”
“Yeah, I don’t really qualify as a good Samaritan either. I lied when I said it wasn’t about a story. I mean, I’d like to find the kid and help him, we both would. But I’m a journalist. I’m always on the lookout for a story.”
She sipped her drink, thought about it. I stared at the cup, tried not to shiver. When she spoke again, her voice had changed; it was still husky but softer now.
“Jay’s a good kid. Messed up on crack, but a good kid. You wish … I mean you wish all of them could get off the shit but there’s some, like Jay, you really —” She stopped, took a last sip of the coffee, tossed the last few drops in the direction of a street garbage container that looked like it was largely ignored by most people. The sidewalk around it made it evident that this wasn’t a noted recycling area. “Come on inside. I have to get back. I’m working the food bank tonight.” She turned and headed inside.
I followed her and immediately understood why someone would want to take their coffee break outside, even on a cold night. The air in the place was a cross between exhaust fumes and stale milk. There was another smell mixed in there too that I couldn’t quite place — wet dog maybe. The total effect was a smell that I’d have thought would put food bank shoppers off their game.
As I closed the door behind us she turned to me. “Jill. Jill Sawley. You can hang your coat up over there if you want.”
She pointed to a wall off to the right and a coat rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.
I wasn’t sure why she’d suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it’ll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”
I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the only source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I’d get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.
I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”
She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.
“Boxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”
“Right.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.
“First time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.
“Jay … he looked lost, didn’t even know if he was allowed to have the breakfast. I happened to see him, and told him he was welcome to join in. I noticed he didn’t seem to know many people so I got some pancakes and juice and sat down across from him. Good-looking kid; he looked like he should have been the quarterback on the football team or learning his lines for the school play.
“Anyway, it was obvious he hadn’t had a lot of good meals in a while so I just let him eat. I could tell he was really enjoying the breakfast, every few bites he’d nod as if to say ‘now that’s a great chunk of pancake right there.’ When he was finished we both got another cup of coffee and sat back down. Small talk for a while, then he told me about himself. Or at least he told me some of it. Soup and canned spaghetti on that middle shelf.”
She pointed and I nodded.
“Turns out he was pretty much as advertised. Even though he looked like he’d been on the street a while, he had something about him that told you he had come from something a lot different. Sure enough, he had played on the football team, he told me that, although