A DARKNESS PALE

DRIFTING

…Irie grew up on an apple farm in the Oregon wilds with her dad, and her uncle… The apple part was actually a cover for the real operation, a dope farm… Her dad was the farmer and her uncle handled the business… When Irie was in college her dad and uncle got into a jam with some heavy people and burned down the farm and disappeared, supposedly abandoning Irie for her own safety… After Irie became an officer of the law, she swore she’d take them down if she ever made contact with them again…

Drifting

Los Angeles in July, these days fifty-two degrees with a stern slate sky, brooding and pissing down thick, silty rain. Almost ten degrees warmer than Aspen, where Decent Baglavitti was traveling from. The Boeing 737 experienced the now normal bad turbulence, as was often the case and Southwest had been forced to change course so that he and Muscle arrived almost two hours late, which meant he only had an hour to prepare for his appointment.

The appointment was a ruse. The real reason he was here in the city of Angels was to see his daughter Irie. He hadn’t seen her in over thirty years, and it was imperative that he reconnect with her because last May he’d noticed he was falling apart, forgetting things and seeing shit that wasn’t there. He’d discretely done some research and it looked like he was drifting, some new form of long Covid, or who really knew what. He needed to ensure Irie receive the key to the Source Orchard before he became completely lost.

Dec scampered about his room at the Hoxton like a man half his age. The client insisted on sending a car, that would arrive at three pm. So thirty minutes to get his shit together. He worried rushing would exacerbate whatever was going on with his brain, but so far, so good. He took his shower and got into his creme colored suite. Listening to Stevie Wonder’s Hotter Than July on a portable Sony MP3 speaker. If Muscle decided to make a sudden entrance, he had all the items in his kit bag laid out on the bed, like he was getting it all together, like he was completely legit. He tapped every item with his right ring finger to absolutely confirm it was really there.

If Muscle suspected anything – that there might be something wrong with him, or that he was up to something – then everything would get a whole lot more difficult. He couldn’t afford that. He needed to get gone. Get the hell out of here. Slip out a side exit. He patted his pocket where he kept Irie’s address, along with a map.  

There was a knock on the door and Dec thought, there he is, cousin Muscle, coming to check up on me because Muscle suspected something. No, he was getting unnecessarily paranoid, Muscle was just dropping by to see how he was doing. He told himself to cool it. Check in with Muscle, give him no reason to think anything covert was going down.

He tugged open the door with a wry grin, the same one he gave the clients. Muscle looked him up and down. Muscle looked concerned. Muscle always looked concerned.

Dec told himself to cool it. “Hey, come to see me off?”

“You feeling okay?”

Dec made a show of expertly and effortlessly loading the items into his kit bag. “What? I was just checking my kit. Just like every time before I meet with someone. Get’s my head in the game.”

“Uh uh. You know, I was thinking, maybe I should come with you.”

Dec attempted a funny face he hoped also expressed benign confusion. “What? What for?”

“Cause this is your last appointment. I just wouldn’t want you not to have it go great, you know? You want to end big. You want to end on top.”

Dec tried real hard not to sound defensive: “I think everything’s going to be great. I’ll be fine.”

“Uh huh. You know you don’t have to. We could cancel. It’s fine.”

“What?”

“You’ve just been, like a little off recently. Don’t you think?”

Dec shrugged. Arguing wasn’t going to get him through the door. Arguing wasn’t going to get him in a cab. All he had to do was get through the door. He gave Muscle a pat on the shoulder. “Dear friend, thank you for your concern. I’m excited. You still excited about your meeting?”

“They bumped it to brunch tomorrow. Somewhere in Silver Lake.”

“Well, you go watch some TV. I’ll be back in time for dinner. I like this guy.”

“The milk man.”

“Uh huh. I’m excited to maybe talk to him more about what he does.”

Bag over his shoulder he made to leave but was halted when Muscle said, “Pants.”

Dec wanted to keep going, but knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure why. Pants? Muscle had jammed up his broken brain. This was completely uncool, and he had no idea how to push through. “Pants,” Dec repeated, hoping the word might trigger something.

“Your pants,” Muscle said.

Dec looked down at rusty silk boxers, lime argyle socks and café au lait oxfords. His pants were invisible. No, they were missing. No, they were on the bed.

“Oh, okay.” Dec took a deep breath. “Guess I’m a little more excited than I thought.”…

…Meet the Milkman and continue to drift…