"It takes two to tango, it takes one to walk away"
-- Seks Bomba, It Takes Two to Tango

I just kept walking, exploring the mildly seedy part of Portland that surrounded the club, and trying to burn off some of the alcohol. By the time I succeeded, it was late, and I was getting tired. I cursed myself for not thinking to secure a hotel room yet. The hike back to the car was less enjoyable now because I just wanted to lie down and sleep.

I drove back downtown, and found the Embassy Suites -- a mid-range hotel that catered to business clientele. They would be used to people whose travel plans changed unexpectedly, and would have some of the amenities that would make my job easier.

As I checked in, I played the part of a businessman who was on an unexpected trip. It was a way to get over the anxiety. It wasn't me who was talking -- it was just a front. It isn't me who might get embarrassed. Besides, if I were someone the staff expected to see, I wouldn't stand out.

The clerk fit into a generic mold I had grown used to. There were different models, colors, and sizes, but they had a sameness to them wherever I went. The label on her chest said 'Megan.' Her hair was light blond, with no effort made to hide the black roots. It was pulled back away from her face. Her eyes were an unnatural shade of green -- she was wearing contacts. Time and attention went into her makeup; she was literally putting her best face forward.

"How long will you be staying with us?" Megan asked as I checked in. She spoke with the expected soft friendly tone that was meant to welcome and soothe the possibly grumpy businessman.

"Three days, but I might have to extend that," I told her. "Depending how business is, you know."

I didn't want to commit to more than that just yet. I didn't know what my long term plans were. I'd have to figure that out.

"That shouldn't be a problem," she said. "Just let us know as soon as you can."

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll tell you as soon as I know."

"Great!" She said. "Is this your first time in Portland?"

"No, I've been here once before," I said. I try to keep my lies close to the truth. If I trip up, it is easier to recover that way.

"Well I sure hope you have a good stay this time." She handed over the card that would open my door. "Call down if you need anything."

"I will, thanks." H. L. Quinn, sleepy businessman, agreed.

She winked.

I wasn't going to explore that any further. I wasn't above flirting, if it helped me get information I needed, but I hadn't pursued that kind of invitation in a long time.

I picked up my overnight bag; it was the only luggage I had. Aside from whatever was on my person, it contained all of my possessions. While I was away there had been another bag of things I took with me, but they were things what were issued to me. This is what I owned. I took it up to my room. It held two changes of clothes. I left those in the bag, though I doubted I would need to leave in a hurry. I took out a small laptop and plugged it in to the wall to charge. I did the same to my cell phone. I then pulled out a small black case, about the size of a day planner.

I unzipped it on one side and put in on the bed, opposite from where I planned to sleep -- the side furthest from the window. I emptied my pockets and laid the contents out next to the overnight bag. I took off my coat and placed it over the bag. I went to the bathroom, and brushed my teeth with the nicely provided supplies. I took my shoes off in a place where I knew I could find them in a hurry.

When all that was done, I could finally lie down on the bed -- fully clothed and on top of the sheets. I took one last look around to fix the layout of the room in my mind, and put my head down on the pillow. I closed my eyes and listened to my breathing till I went to sleep. It didn't take long.

The next morning I woke early, I almost always do. I enjoy the quiet stillness of the world when most people are still asleep or safely inside their homes before going to work. I was rumpled, but not overly, disheveled from sleeping in my clothes. I straightened myself up and made sure my hair was generally pointing in the right direction. I grabbed my keys, phone, and radio. I resisted the urge to take anything else. I left the hotel, and walked around without purpose for perhaps an hour.

I walked over to the other side of Burnside and into the Pearl District. There's a couple of square blocks that have the title Chinatown, but it's nothing compared to what I'd seen in other cities. There were some people sleeping in doorways, and some areas that might be considered a little hairy by the locals, but the whole district was on it's way up in the world.

I'd need to eat soon. I rarely felt hungry. There have been times when I needed to force myself to eat. So I tried to eat on a regular schedule, regardless of how I felt. Food is fuel for body and mind, and I need to keep both in shape. Before I could eat, there was something else I needed to do.

After I returned to my room, I made sure the door was locked behind me and I stripped down and began to work out. Nothing elaborate, just a simple routine to keep maintained. I didn't want to be too cut. If people underestimate me on first glance, so much the better.

First I did a long set of pushups, for the upper body, then a couple of hundred abdominal crunches. Lastly I lay flat, tucked my hands just under the small of my back. I lifted my legs in unison about an inch off the ground. In the beginning I would try and do it five seconds longer than the day before. Somewhere along the line, I stopped counting time. I just held there until I could stand it no more, till my abdomen burned and my legs shook.

I let my body relax and lay on the floor until I could make my breathing regular and calm. I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths -- in through the nose, and out through the mouth. I tried to free myself from thought, from any connection to the world. The sweat was starting to dry on my body. I got up and walked into the bathroom. I started the water for the shower, turning the water to as hot as I could stand. I let it pound on my shoulders and neck. I soaped and rinsed. I shampooed then turned the nozzle to a hard sharp spray. I felt it bite against my scalp. There are simple pleasures that remind me that I am alive, and that it may not be a bad thing that I am.

I dried off, and washed the used set of clothes in the sink. I hung them in the shower to dry. I dressed in the other set of clothes. The grey-blacks were for special occasions. The clothes and the bag were new, bought at the first store I could find after renting the car at the airport in San Francisco. I changed into them immediately and dumped my old clothes and bag into the bay (along with a few good size rocks for weight), then set off for Portland. I spent the night in a little motel when I crossed into Oregon. I got up early and drove the rest of the way.

On my walk I had noticed The Bijou not far from the Skidmore fountain. It was smallish, with high ceilings, as though the floor above had been removed. It served breakfast fare, and from the looks of the menu that was about the only thing they ever served. Traditional, though every dish seemed to have been made just a little different for the sake of being different. I'm not sure if that much fennel belongs in breakfast sausage, but on the whole it was good.

A clock mounted high on the wall showed that it was just before eight AM. My fellow diners were mostly business people. Many seemed to be conducting meetings over breakfast. The two people behind me seemed to be trying to convince a third to invest in their software venture. The remainder were either the tragically hip, or food pragmatists. I ordered cinnamon French toast and glass of orange juice.

I pulled out the notebook and added what I learned from Wilson the night before. I chided myself for being sloppy. I should have done it at the time, when it was most fresh in my mind. I made a timeline: Becks and Ray had broken up about eight weeks ago, and Wilson had last spoken to Becks about six weeks ago. George, the bartender at The Anchor, said he last saw her four weeks back. The Anchor wasn't really Wilson's kind of place, and he would never go there except on Becks' suggestion. Ray, however was much more likely to be there. A break-up between Ray and Becks was never a clean thing, so it was likely that they may have hooked up a couple of times after. So another talk with Ray was in order.

Ray worked as a welder, though he had rarely talked about his job. He wasn't dumb, but never seemed to have any desire to apply himself. The mechanical aspects of engineering came naturally to him, and they provided for an acceptable living. It freed him to focus on the things that mattered to him: Music, cars, and women. He was something of a rockabilly scenester, which fit in well with his love of working on old cars. He was a pretty man -- that is really the only word for it -- though rough-hewn. It held him in good stead with the ladies as well.

When he wanted to be, he could be charming and sensitive. That along with a sexual chemistry kept drawing Becks back to him. He also had a wandering eye, and when he was too secure with a woman his inner-jerk would emerge. That was what would drive Becks away.

He would start flirting with other women, blowing her off, the whole old rude-boy routine. They would fight, break up, and Becks would swear it was the last time. Time would pass and something would bring them into contact. If the stars were aligned correctly, and both were unattached, then they might reconnect. It had been like that since before I had ever met Becks. Anyone who dated Becks had to reconcile himself with the fact that Ray was the yardstick she measured all men against. They both had other relationships, but if you waited long enough, they would get back together.

It's hard to say how Ray felt about Becks. There were times when I would say that he was in love with her, and others when he just liked her company and because it was easy for them to fall into bed. Becks always denied she was in love with Ray, only that she felt she was capable of loving him, if he would just reciprocate. I thought there was more to it than that.

I couldn't be sure Ray would go to The Anchor after work and the worry that Wilson had given me made me want to talk to him sooner rather than later. He didn't work at a fixed location like a shop, but out at a job site. I'd need to learn where he was currently working. It would be possible, with enough effort, to find out through some nefarious method, but that was making the problem harder than it needed to be. It would be simpler to just ask someone instead.

I tried the first of the two numbers that might be for his home. A sleepy sounding voice answered. I told him I was from the union and we had to confirm the site he was working at. I didn't bother giving a reason. There was no point to give one unless I was challenged. The voice then volunteered that he was Ray's roommate and that Ray was working out at the Port doing a repair on a ship. Without any prodding he told me exactly how to find Ray. I apologized for waking him up, thanked him, and told him to have a nice day. If I were lucky, he'd have no memory of the conversation when he woke up again.

It was still early. I turned on the TV and surfed till I found a news channel. There was a piece about a slum being torn down in the Philippines so a visiting dignitary wouldn't see it. I remembered being there -- the heat, and the smells of diesel and cooking. It struck me as a country that was trying to claw itself up into the middle class. The evidence of how far they had left to go was an embarrassment to them. Losing their homes like that makes for a fertile ground for recruiting cannon fodder. By the time they make that choice, it doesn't matter how much they have in common with the men in black with the ceramic body armor and the bullets never care.

It's hard for an outsider to work an op in a place like that. People don't leave the same kinds of breadcrumbs, so it requires hitting the streets and knowing the questions to ask. I'd stick out like a sore thumb if I tried to do it myself. I'd have to work though intermediaries. It takes time and money to build a network. It's just so much easier here with all the traces we leave behind. It's the price we pay for the life we lead.

Most people simply don't care. Whether they realize it or not, they are exhibitionists. Some react in the other direction. They take themselves off the grid as much as is possible. Some take the middle path and try to make things harder for the casual searcher. They pay in cash, use aliases online, etc. I was one of these people; so was Becks.

She had already been like that when I met her, and I had taught her a few extra tricks. It wasn't too surprising that I couldn't find any active trace of her, but nobody can hide completely. If I looked long and hard enough, then I would find something I could use. If it came down to it I would use a legal search firm. I wasn't ready for that just yet.

I allowed myself few indulgences while I was gone. Music was one of them. I had purchased a portable music player. I picked the one with the largest capacity in the smallest size -- about the size of a pack of cigarettes, and held all of the 300 albums I owned. I put only one of the buds in my ear. I lost the stereo effect, but I was able to keep aware of the room. I searched for something happy and fun to break my mood. I settled on Seks Bomba, a small band from Boston. I timed out a playlist that should hold me till it was time to go. What could only be called Surf-Spy music began to play. Their infectious grooves made it hard to dwell.

There was a small desk next to the window. I had the curtains shut tightly; no one could see in or out, but it still felt too exposed. I opened the drawer and removed a pad of paper and a pen. I put them on the bed, and opened the mini-bar. My hand hovered over one of the little bottles of scotch, but I settled for a Coke instead. I didn't pay attention to what kind. I just wanted the caffeine.

It wasn't the first time I had started a letter to Becks, trying to explain myself and ask to speak with her. Just like all the other times I tried, I would write her name and perhaps a line or two, and then freeze. I liked to think that I have a reasonable way with words. It frustrates me when I cannot conjure up the right words from whatever dark place they live.

Writing to someone is so much harder than to talk to them. When Ray and Wilson were right there in front of me, it didn't matter if the words came out just so or not. I could try one way, and if that didn't work, then I could explain myself in a different way.

The blank page was different. I had no feedback, and the stakes were so high. I felt the pressure to make every word perfect. It's a trap. I knew I should just muscle though, and write the damn thing. It was just a letter, not The Thornbirds, but I still kept getting caught in it.

Joe Strummer's War Cry -- so different than his work with The Clash -- announced that I had run out of tracks from the unknown band in Boston. I checked the time. It was time to go find Ray. It was almost a mercy.

I drove out to the port. Ships delivered and took on cargo here. Grain, lumber, finished goods, the regular gamut of things that came on and off at any port. Normally, I roll my sleeves up past my elbows, but I kept them down so I might seem a touch more official looking. I parked and got out. The repair must have been serious if the crew couldn't fix her themselves, or make do until they could get to a port where labor would be cheaper.

Even a pure cargo ship like this might have one or two berths that could be rented out to passengers. Crew compliment has decreased since the time when ships were the only way to connect the globe. These days every member of the crew needs to perform multiple functions. They have little time for someone who has no purpose other than getting in the way. Passage as super-cargo was for the hard-core world traveler, or the disreputable -- either way it was no-frills.

I went up to the first person I could find who looked like they would be working on the ship. He had a clipboard and was talking into a radio. The tag on his shirt informed me his name was Joe.

"Joe," I said, "I'm looking for Ray." He didn't ask for a reason, and I didn't offer one. He looked down at his sheet and was bringing up his radio, when he looked out and pointed to a figure who was just climbing up from below-decks.

"HEY RAY!" He called out. Ray walked over. I met him halfway so as to be out of earshot of Joe.

"Can I buy you lunch?" I asked.

Ray was an opportunist. I doubted he'd turn down free food, even from me. He nodded and gestured to his truck, a vintage Chevy. I remembered it. He had begun restoring it about six months before I left. It was deep rich blue now. He didn't go for anything showy. Instead it looked like it had just been driven across time to get here. The radio looked vintage, but he must have tucked a CD player somewhere. When he turned it on, Bop Pills by The Cramps came on -- rockabilly meets punk. He drove to a restaurant nearby, Randi's. There was no theme, no particular style to the place. It was a refreshing change.

Ray ordered as soon as the waitress arrived. He didn't bother to look at the menu. To keep on an even keel with him, I would need to do the same. There were certain kinds of dishes that this type of place was bound to serve. I picked at random, and ordered a club sandwich.

"What do you want?" Ray asked after the waitress left.

"Wilson is concerned about her Ray." I said.

"So?" He shrugged. "He's the brother, it's his job to be worried."

"And you aren't?" I asked.

"You're nosey," he said.

I really don't like that word, but it's reasonably accurate.

"So?" I asked.

"Bet you heard she pushed me off the plate again," he said.

"Living down to expectations, I see," I replied.

He reacted predictably -- he bristled. He began to rise from his seat. I considered what I had handy. The knife on the table would be of no use. It was just a rounded table knife and had no real edge. The spoon was obviously out of the question. That left me the fork as my only real option. I picked it up by the end by two fingers. I let it pivot in my fingers then gripped it in my fist. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it would get his attention.

"Look Ray," I continued, "I know that you...care about Becks. So don't try to pretend you don't. Yes, I know you aren't with Becks right now..."

"Yeah," he bristled, "and I bet that makes you happy, doesn't it?"

There was no point in correcting him. He was on a roll.

"You've never liked me," he went on, "never wanted me with her. You were always there, between us. Always ready to talk me down, weren't ya?"

I doubted he would attack now that he'd time to think about it. Years ago he had said something similar. There had been too much alcohol in him and he stepped out for a cigarette. I thought it was time to go home. I offered to walk him out. He took it the wrong way. Outside, he tried to pick a fight, and when that didn't work he swung at me. The next day he acted like nothing happened, and never mentioned it. I don't know if he remembered what happened next, but he never tried anything like that again. Ray returned to his seat.

"I want to be clear about something." I said. "As clear as I can be. I don't care about you one way or the other, but Becks did and that was always good enough for me. I presume she still does."

He made a face at that. Today he seemed to be wearing his heart on his sleeve.

"If she wanted to play the field," I said, "or be with you, I didn't care. All that mattered was if Becks was happy. I kept hoping that you might grow up, and be the man she wanted."

I thought that he might rise at that, but he contained himself.

"It shouldn't matter if you're with her or not," I said. "If Wilson is worried, then that should be enough for you. It's pretty damned clear that there is something eating at you about her. Were you lying last night, when you said she was fine?"

He was about to answer when our food arrived. I cursed the waitress in my head, but it was hardly her fault. I'd had a good rhythm going -- he was excited enough to answer without thinking too much about his answer. Now it would be harder to ferret out what he knew. I let him take a bite. I sipped my water, and didn't take my eyes off of him until he talked again.

"Don't know," he said sulkily. "Got no idea what she's up too. She made it clear she didn't want me around. She had better things to do with her time."

I got the impression that things meant there was someone else.

"How long?" I asked.

He looked confused, then figured out what I was asking.

"About a month." He said. "She stopped going to the regular dives, found some others."

That was interesting. Becks was always interested in everything, always looking into new things. If she found something she liked, she would incorporate it into herself. She wasn't a scenester. She had once described herself as a "Beckster." Scenes, or parts or scenes, became a part of her, not the other way around. It was unusual for her to turn her back completely on her normal circle and haunts.

"What happened?" I asked.

Ray shrugged. He had a mouthful of food. He didn't rush his eating, but he threw himself into it completely and was focused -- no talking, no distractions. By the time he was ready to talk again, he had finished his meal. There was nothing left on the plate. I had no reason to rush, and couldn't commit to my sandwich in quite the same way. I had eaten about half of it when he was ready to talk again.

"She got herself back into rockabilly," he said.

That sounded like Becks. She had a love of vintage things: cars, clothes, hair, and music. She just took it all in, swirled it all together new and old and made something that was her own.

"And?" I prompted. I'd lost all momentum in the conversation.

"Nothing," Ray said. "Found some new friends to hang onto. Hanging out in different joints. Her business." He looked at his watch. "Look, I got to get back."

It had taken no more than five minutes to get here. No more than fifteen since we had arrived. He was tired of talking to me. I slid out the end of my seat to block his way to the door, if he got up. He stayed in place for the moment.

"Look, this isn't like Becks" I said. "Wilson's worried and I think you are too. I've heard enough to be concerned. Back when, I'd have shown up at her door and talked to her. I can't do that now. I don't even know where she lives now, but whether she wants to talk to me or not, that's her business"

Ray's lip lifted in a little sneer. I'm not sure if he even noticed.

"Don't do it for me," I said. "I would never dream of asking you for that, and I doubt you would even consider it."

"Got that right," he said.

"And don't do it for Wilson." I just kept on. "He's a big boy, he could do this for himself."

I took out my notepad, and wrote my number. I put it on the table between us.

"I know you want to check on her," I said. "So do it for yourself, you don't need another reason. That number will reach me, day or night. Who knows, you might even get lucky."

The last line was a mistake. I regretted it as soon as I said it.

He smirked, and stood. He snatched the paper from the desk and walked out. I hoped he wouldn't toss it. I watched him get back into the truck and drive off. I hadn't left anything in the Chevy, and it wouldn't be an unpleasant walk back to my car. The waitress came back and poured a refill. She was humming Patsy Cline, Just Out of Reach.

"That for me or him?" I asked.

"If you have to ask..." she didn't fill in the rest. I hoped she wasn't right. She had Dorothy Parker quality -- glasses, light brown hair, and big eyes. The tattoos and the Social Distortion pin on her apron ruined the affect.

I finished my sandwich and looked out the window. The ground was wet. The rain was coming back to Portland. It would be light and sporadic for a bit, and then it would come in force. It wasn't as bad as Seattle, but it is rainy or overcast for a good portion of the year.

I was doing this wrong. Normally I was cold and professional, but I was letting myself get tripped up. I was torn between my need to make things right with Becks, and my fears of how she would react. I was trying to rebuild my life. There was no way I could do that until I could try to make up for the damage I had done. She was too important too me, and I was making bad decisions.

Amy had reacted to me with anger; Ray, with contempt; and Wilson with disappointment. Those were the only examples I had. Wilson's was the best of a bad lot. I was sure that didn't explain all of my reasons for trying to enlist Ray as my agent, but I wasn't sure if I knew the rest of the reasons myself.

Regardless, it was the hand I decided to play, so I'd see it all the way out. I wasn't really dressed for the rain, so I waited until it had waned. I went to the counter to pay the bill.

"No umbrella?" Waitress asked. I wore the coat for the pockets, not the warmth.

"No," I said, "I don't believe in them." They tie up your hands, and reduce what you can see.

"They're not like Big Foot, you know" the waitress said as she gave me my change and a mint.

These were the people I interacted with the most waiters, clerks, and cashiers. Even when you turn your life off, they are the ones you can't avoid.

I didn't go back to my car directly. I took some time to walk around the more industrial part of the river. I made a playlist of Los Lobos. They're a band that never seems to let genre get in their way. I started walking to the other side of the river and tried to decide what to do next.

Waterfront Park ran against the Westside of the river. I walked the length of it and into the line of hotels and apartments that mark the other end of the park. I turned around and walked back to Burnside. The river bisects the city east and west. Burnside divides it north and south. I crossed to the north side. Down close to the river, it was Old Town. I walked up through the Pearl district, till I reached Powell's.

I don't know how many bookstores there are in Portland, but it it's not a small number. In that field of options, when I think of The Bookstore -- with the capitals -- I am thinking of only one place: Powell's. It wasn't just the largest independent bookstore in town. It was the largest of any kind on the west coast. The main store was a full square block and four stories tall, and that didn't hold all of it. There were at least two more satellites within three blocks, and specialty stores in other parts of the city.

I started exploring at random. I didn't pay any attention to the books until I felt sure no one was giving me any extra attention. Getting caught between the rows of shelves would give me no easy way out. Once I felt I had the rhythm of the place, I went up a flight of stairs and found myself in the archeology section. I amused myself with a bit of new age fluff on Stonehenge.

It's amazing that people can convince themselves that the Druids had anything to do with it. They were nature worshipers -- a clearing was better than a cathedral. Building a temple of huge stones was the last thing they would do to prove their faith. More than that, the Romans systematically tried to destroy the Druids. They wouldn't have left stones twice the size of a man standing if they carried the taint of them. The book did have pretty pictures.

I made my way to the fiction section. I picked a random book from the mystery section. It was one of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe stories. I took it up front and bought it. I walked over to the store's café, and bought a pastry and tea. I found a table that was out of the way, and sat down to read. I don't know a male who knows the name Archie Goodwin, Nero Wolfe's assistant, who doesn't want to be him. He's smart, funny, good looking, a hell of a dancer, and had a way with women. He could make himself fit into any situation he fell into. I felt like everything Goodwin wasn't.

I read the book quickly, but I didn't go at my full pace. This was reading for the pleasure of it. I'd stop occasionally for more tea. Paying the rent for a quiet, well lighted place to read. It took about two and a half hours for me to finish it, and when I was done I bought another book by Stout to read later. I'd missed that, a lazy afternoon of reading. I put the unread book in the pocket of my coat. The other I put next to a sleeping homeless man. I was done with it. He could read it, or sell it, or both. That was his choice.

I didn't plan on going out, not like the previous night, but I did feel like a drink. I remembered that Oregon has fairly tight liquor laws; alcohol for private consumption can only be sold in specialty stores. It can only be sold during the daylight hours, and never on a Sunday. I didn't mind the prices of the mini-bar in my room, but I wasn't crazy about the selection.

I walked until I found a liquor store. I bought a bottle of Oban, and a bottle of Laphroaig for slow sipping contemplation. It had a smoky flavor, heavy with peat. It is an acquired taste.

I made my way back to the rental. I seemed to be covering more territory by foot than with it. As I approached the bridge, it started to rain again. The only concession I made was to tuck the bag containing the bottles under my coat so the paper wouldn't tear. Ray's truck was still there, parked right next to my car -- a dig for me to see when I returned. It was past the end of the shift. The shipping company was probably paying the overtime to get the work finished today, rather than pay the berthing fees longer than they needed to,

I drove back to the hotel and hung my coat up to dry. Enough of my shirt had gotten wet, so that it was uncomfortable to wear. I took it off and tossed it in the tub. I would wash it and hang it to dry later. I broke the seal on the Oban, and poured two fingers worth into one of the two glasses the hotel had provided. I drank it while I looked for something worth watching on TV.

When the glass was empty, I switched to the isle-malt. If history was going to be any kind of guide, then this next attempt at the letter was going to take a while. I walked into the bathroom to rinse out my glass. Best not to mix the two flavors. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I had a ragged scar on my chest, a four-inch reminder not to let my guard down. I had exactly two tattoos, one on each arm. Each was a medallion, one Celtic, one Japanese, with a slogan wrapped around it.

On my left arm was a Celtic knot and the words "Life is Pain." It was the closest I had to a spiritual belief. I had never believed in any god, and I never followed any other sort of religion, but I think that Buddha got that one right. I got the ink not long after Judy died. It spoke for itself.

The other arm had a swirling Japanese crest and the words "Guilt Motivates." Years before, I had read The Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, by Stephen R. Donaldson. The protagonist held forth that guilt was the primary motivating force in our lives. I didn't agree with it as a young adult, but now I do. I think that guilt and shame are at the base of most of the transformations we undergo. The second tattoo was done at a dingy shop in another country when I decided to return. I made them show me the autoclave before I would let them puncture my skin.

Once again I could not get past the opening lines of a letter to Becks. How could I explain myself on a two-dimensional piece of paper? How could I ask to make things right that way? Maybe I was just holding myself back, so I wouldn't have to confront her. I could have found her home address any time I wanted -- it might have needed questionable methods, but I could do it. There was less risk to the way I was doing it, but it wasn't my only option. More and more I was seeing myself as the biggest obstacle between Becks and me.

I took my failed attempts from their neat stack, folded them in half, and tucked them in my bag. I would find some appropriate way to dispose of them. I started again:

Becks,

There is no way I can say or explain what I need to in this note. I don't even know if I can do it in person, and I have no right to ask, but I would like to try.

H.L. Quinn

Below my signature I wrote my mobile phone number. It was the only one I could be sure would reach me, and I'm never without it by choice. I folded it in thirds, and then folded the ends upon them selves. It was a very old way of making a crude envelope, but I had a fondness for the way it looked. I hopped she would remember. I wrote "Becks" on the outside, and tucked the makeshift envelope into my bag.

I'd made it over that hurdle. Now I had something to present to Becks, but I still didn't know where to deliver it. Each step along the way was harder than the next. Should I wait to see if Ray would come though? Even if he did would he tell me? I had no real deadline, so there was nothing to lose in giving Ray a couple of days and seeing what happened. I could use the time to think about the rest of my return.

I poured another glass of the isle-malt, and lay down on the bed. I took one of the ear buds from the music player and put it in my left ear. The volume was low enough that I could be able to hear if the door opened. On a whim I started with Girlfriend in a Coma by The Smiths. I love Morrissey's voice. He sang songs so depressing that you can't help but think your life is better than that. He provided a public service. After that, I listened randomly, occasionally skipping songs I had no interest in hearing. I closed my eyes and put the glass on my chest. Occasionally I took a sip, but mostly I just listened. Happy songs, sad songs, fast, slow; I consumed each one as it came.

The phone on the table beside me gave a quick pair of beeps. I took it without opening my eyes. The beeps sounded again and I put it to my face. I didn't bother looking at the incoming number. I wasn't likely to recognize it. The phone and the number were new. I could list the number of people who knew it on one hand.

"Yes?" I said.

"That you Quinn?" It was Ray. He sounded a bit breathless. Like he had been running, or he was worried.

"Yes Ray," then I asked, "What's up?"

"I went to Becks' place." I opened my eyes. My free hand grabbed the cord to the headphones. I tugged and pulled it from my ear.

"And?" I prompted.

"It ain't good...don't know what..."

He sounded worried. My mind immediately jumped to wild and unpleasant conclusions. I pushed those thoughts away.

"What happened?" I asked.

I was off of the bed and into the bathroom. I grabbed a shirt.

"I'll come over there," I said.

It wasn't a question. There was nothing that would prevent me from going over there.

"Yeah...that would be good," he said.

He was sounding more anxious each time he spoke. He sounded like he was going to hang up.

"Ray!" I called out.

When I was sure he was still on the line, I said, "Where? Where are you? I don't know her address anymore."

He told me the address, and I repeated it back to him to made sure I had it.

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes," I told him. "Hold tight."

My estimate was a bit ambitious, but I didn't want Ray to panic and bolt. I grabbed the black case from the bed, and rushed out of the room. I buttoned my shirt in the elevator. I was tucking it in as I was leaving the hotel. I didn't bother pausing to roll the sleeves or button the cuffs. That would take too long.