Trader

  I have to adapt to the situation, I tell myself. I have to keep a clear head so that I can find out what was going on, so that I can get my own life back. I think of something my father told me once. “We’re an adaptable species, Max. That’s how we survive. We can put up with the most horrendous, disorienting experiences and pretend they’re normal, just to survive. We might not like where we are, or what’s happening to us, but we deal with it. God knows, we even get used to it. Those that don’t, don’t survive.”

  I suppose it’s true. It’s not something I ever thought much about—never had the need to. But my father was right. I have to learn to deal with this. Or at least try. But I’ll never get used to it. Not and stay sane. I can only deal with it as a stopgap measure, as a way to get back the life that belongs to me.

  Determined to do something constructive, I leave the bathroom and go looking for something to tell me whose apartment this is, whose body I’m borrowing.

  There isn’t much to the apartment. I flick on lights as I explore, recognizing nothing I see. Besides the bedroom and the bathroom I just left, there’s a living room and kitchen. Going through the fridge and kitchen cupboards, I have to assume the apartment’s owner ate most of his meals out, because there’s nothing much here. He also appears to be a serious movie buff, since the only decorations are movie posters, even here in the kitchen.

  I go on into the living room and take in its spartan furnishings. An inexpensive Ikea couch and chair set, pine frames, striped blue cushions. A pine coffee table. An entertainment center holding a fairly impressive stereo, VCR and television set. The center itself is made of pressboard, covered with a black veneer. There are no books, but plenty of videotapes. The titles of the movies, like the posters on the walls, run mostly towards action/adventure and horror. I sift through the scattering of CDs on the coffee table. The majority are contemporary heavy metal with a few old dinosaur bands thrown in for good measure: Aerosmith. Pink Floyd. ZZ Top.

  I’m not learning much, I realize as I go back into the kitchen, except that the owner of this apartment and I have very little in common. I find an empty paper bag under the sink and take it back into the bedroom, where I fill it with the broken glass from the mirror. The Inuit statue was made of soapstone and it’s broken, too, so I add the pieces to the glass already in the bag. The statue was the only incongruity. I know next to nothing of the apartment’s occupant, but it doesn’t seem to go with the rest of the man’s taste. Must have been a gift.

  I leave the bedroom and put the bag of glass beside the garbage under the sink. That task completed, I begin to explore the bedroom.

  The closet seems to belong to two different people. Office wear and casual, I decide. One side holds a half-dozen dark suits, white shirts and ties, the other casual shirts with a stack of blue jeans folded on the floor. Suddenly conscious of my relative nudity—all I’m wearing are the boxer shorts I woke up in—I take a pair of jeans from the top of the stack. They look too small, but I try them on anyway. Naturally, they’re a perfect fit. Returning to the dresser, I find a white T-shirt in one of its drawers, stuffed in amongst a tight wad of underwear, socks and other T-shirts, and put it on as well.

  Since I only ever wear socks with my cowboy boots in the winter, I close the drawer and pick up the pair of sneakers that are standing beside the bed. As I sit down to put them on, my gaze falls on what I’ve been looking for all along: a worn brown leather wallet that’s lying with a pile of loose change beside the digital alarm clock.

  I finish tying my laces, then pick up the wallet. The first card I take out is a driver’s license. The familiar stranger I keep seeing in mirrors looks out at me from the laminated photograph on the license. I read the name: John Devlin. Thirty-one years old. The address is on Grasso Street, just off Palm. A hop, skip and a jump north of the heart of the Combat Zone, which makes sense, considering the red neon sign outside the window.

  The other identification confirms the first piece. There’s no automobile license or insurance, so it seems that Devlin doesn’t own a car, but what is here all bears the same name. Credit cards. A birth certificate. Odd to carry that around. At his age, Devlin wasn’t likely to get carded going into a bar. There’s seventy-six dollars in cash. Some scraps of paper with unfamiliar names on them, accompanied by phone numbers. First names, all women.

  So who are you, John Devlin? Did you do this to me, or are you waking up somewhere, feeling just as confused as I am?

  Waking up somewhere...

  The implications of that hits me. Was this John Devlin sitting in my apartment, going through my wallet right now, trying to figure out what had happened to him? It makes sense—as much as anything can in this situation. Surely the phenomenon is restricted to only the two of us. Surely the whole world hasn’t woken up inhabiting somebody else’s body...has it?

  I glance at the clock, then laugh at myself. What does it matter if it’s just past five in the morning? I’m not about to stand on protocol at a moment like this.

  Going back to the closet, I take a sports jacket off a hanger and put it on, stuffing the wallet into my pocket. Like the jeans, it looked too small, but it’s a perfect fit. So I’m ready to go and then the doorbell rings.

  I jump, startled at the sound, not even recognizing it for a long moment. Disorientation hits me again. I’ve been feeling guilty the whole time I’ve been snooping through the apartment. I know it makes no sense, given my circumstances, but I can’t help it. Now I feel caught. Trapped.

  When the doorbell sounds again, I’m expecting it, but no more willing to answer it than the first time it rang. What would I say to whoever’s at the door? How can I tell if I’m even supposed to know the person?

  Whoever’s standing out in the hall is leaning on the bell now. The sound of its ringing goes through the apartment in a continuous, irritating peal and I get the feeling that it’s not anyone that John Devlin would want to see either.

  I go out into the living room and stand in front of the door, not knowing what to do. There’s no peephole, so I can’t even see who’s out there. Not without opening the door.

  When the bell finally stops, the silence seems infinite.

  “Bastard!” I hear a woman say on the other side of the door, her voice muffled but still clear enough to make out.

  I step closer, leaning my head near the wood to hear what else she might say. She kicks the door, making me jump again.

  “I’ll bet he’s in there,” the woman goes on, obviously talking to someone with her. “I’ll bet he’s standing on the other side of this door right now, laughing at us.” The door shakes as she kicks it again. She raises her voice. “Aren’t you, Johnny?”

  I don’t dare breathe. The time might come when I’ll have to interact with Devlin’s friends and be forced to pretend I’m Devlin—something I’ll have to do or they’ll think I’m crazy. But there’s no way I’m going to deal with whatever woman problems Devlin might have as well.

  These people...why don’t they just go away?

  But the woman at the door doesn’t appear at all ready to give up. I back away from the door when she gives it another kick.

  4 TANYA BURNS

  Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Tanya said.

  She felt really uncomfortable and kept looking up and down the hall, waiting for someone to yell at them as Zeffy kicked at Johnny’s door. Zeffy had a lot of endearing qualities, but keeping her temper in check wasn’t one of them. Nor was patience.

  Tanya touched Zeffy’s arm. “Let’s come back after work.”

  “No way,” Zeffy told her, obviously in high confrontation mode. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let him think he’s getting away with it this time.”

  “He’s probably asleep.”

  “With all the light’s on?”

  Tanya shrugged. “So maybe’s he’s not home. Let’s just go.”

  “Uh-uh,” Zeffy said. “If I had to get up a half hour early to get here, he can at least have the decency to b
loody well get up and tell us he hasn’t got your money.”

  “But we already know that...”

  “Oh, please,” Zeffy said.

  She turned her attention back to the door, arms akimbo. Drawing back her foot, she gave the door a good kick with her combat boot, adding another dent to the ones she’d already put there in the cheap wood.

  “Zeffy, don’t,” Tanya tried.

  “Don’t what? If he’s not there, what does it matter what I do or say? And if he is, maybe it’s time he learned that he can’t smooth-talk his way out of everything. Besides, I think he’s there.” Bang. She kicked the door again. “Why else would his lights be on? Isn’t that right, Johnny? Are you getting off on this?”

  The door took another thump. All Tanya wanted to do was leave. She appreciated what Zeffy was trying to do, but it was just no good with Johnny. He operated on his own time and besides, Zeffy was probably going to put her foot right through the door any minute and then where would they be? Johnny’d probably sue them in small claims—or his landlord would. She was considering leaving on her own and hoping Zeffy would follow when she heard a door open down the hall and her worst fear was realized.

  She turned to look at the man standing there in his underwear—boxing shorts and muscle shirt, neither of which looked particularly appealing on him because he was grossly overweight. But big. And angry. His broad face had gone red and he was glaring at them.

  “You want to shut the hell up?” he said. “People are trying to sleep.”

  “Don’t get me started on you,” Zeffy told the man.

  Tanya could tell that all fired up as she was at the moment, Zeffy was beyond any sense of propriety—or common sense. This was so embarrassing.

  “Started with what?” the man asked, the threat obvious in his voice.

  “Zeffy...” Tanya tried.

  “Okay, okay,” Zeffy said. “Listen, I’m sorry we got you up, mister, but we’ve got a problem here.”

  “Only problem I see is you and the noise you’re making.”

  “So we’re going already,” Zeffy told him, mimicking his voice. “That make you happy?” She turned back to the door. “But we’ll be back, Johnny,” she added, and gave it another kick.

  “That does it,” the man said.

  He came barreling down the hall and before either of them knew what to do, he’d grabbed Zeffy by the shoulder and shoved her up against the wall.

  “Punks like you need to be taught a little respect,” he said.

  “Hey,” Zeffy said, pawing at his arm. “I said we were going.”

  She tried to get out from under his grip but he shoved her again, hard enough to make her head thump against the plaster. Tanya winced. That had to have hurt.

  “You leave her alone!” she cried.

  The man turned to look at her, holding Zeffy pressed against the wall with one hand on her back.

  “Or you’ll do what?” he asked.

  Before Tanya could think of something conciliatory to defuse the situation, Zeffy kicked the man in the back of the knee with the heel of her boot. His leg gave out, making him stumble to one side, against the wall. This time it was his head that banged on the plaster. By the time he turned from the wall, Zeffy had scooted over to where Tanya was standing. The man’s face got redder, his hands clenched into fists.

  Oh shit, Tanya thought. This was way out of hand.

  “Okay, little lady,” the man said. There was a mean glint in his eyes now that made Tanya shiver. “I guess I’m going to have to teach you a serious lesson.”

  There was nowhere to run. The hall behind them ended in a closed door and the man was blocking their escape to the stairwell. Tanya could hardly breathe, she was so scared. When she glanced at Zeffy, she saw that her roommate was still mad—but there was fear in her eyes, too. Still, Zeffy was never one to give up.

  “Look,” she tried. “Why don’t we just all calm down—”

  She had to duck to one side as the man swung at her. The sudden movement made her lose her balance. Tanya tried to stop her from falling, but somehow they both ended up on the floor in a tangle of limbs with the man looming over them.

  “So you like to kick people, do you?” he said, drawing a foot back.

  5 MAX

  I can’t catch everything that’s being said—not without putting my ear to the door and risk being deafened as the woman named Zeffy keeps kicking at the door. Zeffy. What kind of a name is that? But I hear enough to realize that the two women aren’t friends of Devlin’s. All the more reason to pretend I’m not here.

  I try to remember if there’s a fire escape outside any of the apartment’s windows. Discretion being the better part of valor and all, I figure the best solution at this point is to find an alternative exit and leave the women out in the hall to direct their anger at an empty apartment. It seems like a terrific idea until I hear a man’s voice, telling the women something I can’t make out. That’s followed by a sound I can’t identify, a kind of scuffling, and then the hollow thump of something hitting a wall.

  Not something, I realize, but someone. It’s not my business, but I can’t ignore what’s going on now. I’ve got no idea what any of this is about, who’s to blame, but I know I can’t leave the women out there on their own—not if they’re being assaulted. So much for keeping a low profile, I think.

  I take a deep breath and open the door. It’s gotten more out of hand than I’d thought, but my sudden appearance freezes the participants in mid-tussle. The women lie in a struggling heap on the floor, trying to disentangle themselves from each other as the man aims a kick at them. Three faces turn to me, none of them familiar. For a long moment I can’t take my gaze from the redhead—I’ve never seen such violet eyes before—then I step out into the hall, in between the women and the man threatening them. The man has a mean look in his eyes that I’ve seen before on other faces. He’s enjoying this—or at least he was until I interrupted him.

  “Let’s all just calm down,” I say, startled again at the unfamiliar sound of my voice.

  “Look, buddy,” the man begins. “If you can’t keep your girlfriends from—”

  I fix a smile on my lips. Holding up a hand, I concentrate on maintaining a sense of calm, hoping to forestall the man from working himself up any more than he already has. In his present state, he won’t need much of an excuse to just start in swinging.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I keep my voice pitched low, my stance nonthreatening. “I was sleeping and I didn’t realize there was anything going on out here until just a moment ago.”

  I turn slightly to help the women to their feet without looking away from the man. The dark-haired woman takes my hand, but she’s quick to let go once she was standing. The redhead refuses my help. They’re all looking at me a little oddly, which doesn’t surprise me. They obviously expected me to know them. I wish I could play the game out convincingly, but I’m not that good an actor and I don’t know my part. I can’t hide my lack of recognition. I wonder which one of them is Zeffy and what their relationship to Devlin is. The man isn’t too hard to figure out. He obviously came from the apartment down the hall where a door’s still standing ajar.

  “Let’s just call it a night, okay?” I say.

  The calming effect I’m aiming for seems to be working. The red flush of anger is fading from the man’s face and he’s beginning to look a little sheepish.

  “I’m a working stiff,” he says. “I need my sleep.”

  I nod. “And no one meant to disturb you. We’ll keep it down, I assure you.”

  “Yeah, you’d better do that,” the man says, regaining some of his bluster. He rolls his shoulders and I expect him to start flexing his muscles next, but he backs off instead and slowly makes his way back to his apartment.

  I wait until the man has closed his door before returning my attention to the two women once more. Now what do I do?

  “‘I assure you’?” the redhead says, looking at me like I’ve grown a third eye.
“Well, doesn’t that have a nice ring to it.”

  I don’t know what to say. I step back from the doorway to Devlin’s apartment.

  “I suppose you’ll want to come inside,” I say, ushering them in.

  Neither of them moves toward the door.

  “I...I think we should go,” the dark-haired woman says.

  The redhead stares at me as though she’s trying to figure something out. The other woman looks like she’s on the verge of tears, but there’s something else in her eyes as well, a whisper of fear that makes me feel a little sick. She’s a beautiful woman. There’s something almost angelic about her, which makes the fear I can see in her seem all the more out of place. Had the man whose body I’m occupying treated her badly? And just how badly? I can’t see any bruises. She’s wearing a loose-fitting jacket over a pair of dark slacks. Who knows what they’re hiding.

  The redhead puts a comforting hand on the other woman’s arm.

  “We’ll go,” she says to her friend. “But not just yet.” She straightens her shoulders and faces me, head on. “First we want the money you owe Tanya.”

  By the way the redhead glances at her companion as she speaks, I assume the dark-haired woman is Tanya. Which makes the redhead Zeffy. I can’t get over her amazing eyes. They’re like bright violet amethysts, made more startling by the way they stand out against the slightly copper cast of her skin and contrasting sharply with the flood of her red hair. She doesn’t have the same immediate beauty as Tanya—her appeal comes from deeper inside her—but I feel a surge of attraction toward her that I don’t feel toward her friend. I haven’t had this kind of instant reaction to a woman in a long time. Unfortunately, the appreciation obviously isn’t being reciprocated.

  “Earth to asshole,” she says. “Are you still there?”

  I blink. “I’m sorry. What money was this?”