Free We Live in Water by Jess Walter Page B

help being curious about what lay underneath all those clothes.
    Like my car, I chose my hotel rooms carefully. No sketchy motels for me. In Portland, I took a room at the Heathman downtown. I liked the porters in their Beefeater costumes, and I liked sitting on the mezzanine by the fire, drinking Chivas, and making eyes with the businesswomen. That’s what did it for me, women in suits, not little homeless girls. My first night at the Heathman I hit a blonde prescription drug rep—impeccable makeup, Pilates-hard ass. I’m in the same business , I said. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had to re-drywall my room after we were done banging around in it.
    I was a month into the Portland gig when I called Julie up to my room. I sat on the big fluffy bed and told her to disrobe. Right away these big tears rolled over her cheeks.
    No, it’s not that, I said. I just need to make sure you’re not stealing. I’d strip-searched Kevin a week earlier and he’d thrown a fit. Danny, how could you think I’d ever steal from you? But Julie just nodded, turned away from me, looked out the window, and started unbuttoning. I couldn’t believe how many layers she was wearing—wool scarves and flannel and army surplus. And then there was just . . . her. Pale little body. Freckled shoulders. She was shaking. She turned away. I could see every little bump in her spine. It was her back that got to me, in fact, tapering down to this tiny waist, which I could’ve put my two hands completely around.
    Then she started crying, in these jerking little hiccups.
    I don’t think I’ve ever felt worse in my life. She was so small . Not a tattoo or a ring anywhere. I turned away as I went through her clothes. They were warm. I’ve never felt so horny and so shitty at the same time.
    Hell, I knew she wasn’t stealing from me; she was outdrawing Kevin two-to-one.
    It’s okay, honey, I said. You can get dressed now.
    I didn’t touch her, and still the strip search changed things between Julie and me. She stopped meeting my eyes. Even her take started to go down. I’d watch from coffee shops and it was like she was shrinking. Where before she stepped up to shoppers, now she huddled against the wall, waiting for them to make eye contact. Soon Kevin was outdrawing her. This happens to dealers, too: they lose nerve and start shrinking, until, finally, they’re done.
    One day in mid-December, toward the end of the deal, I bought Julie and Kevin each a slice of pizza at the place across from Powell’s. I explained that we were going to have to quit after Christmas, but that I’d use them for other things if they wanted work. Of course, I wasn’t really going to use them again; but you always want them to think that you might have more money for them so they stay loyal.
    I’m up for anything , Kevin said quickly.
    Julie said nothing.
    How about you? I asked her.
    You don’t want her , Kevin said.
    Kevin and Julie had some sort of secret. She shoved him like she was trying to shush a seven-year-old.
    What’s goin’ on , I asked.
    Julie gave her money to Greenpeace , Kevin said, and then he broke into laughter.
    She just stared at the ground as Kevin told the story. She’d gone to that shaggy Saturday market in Old Town and there was a Greenpeace booth under the Burnside Bridge. She’d stood there reading the material and looking at these kids behind the booth—so earnest, such believers. And then she just . . . snapped—took all the money she’d saved from our gig, almost twelve hundred bucks, and donated it.
    Christ, Julie , I said.
    But that’s not all , Kevin said. Then she tried to get me to donate my money, too. This was what really broke him up.
    As Kevin told the story, Julie’s eyes got teary again. It made me feel better , she said quietly. Then to Kevin: I thought you might want to feel better, too.
    I feel fine , he said, as he bit into his pizza.
    Julie , I asked gently . You think what we’re doing is wrong?
    She gave a tiny