Free Dead Money by Grant McCrea

one side, one on the other. All were of the metal kind. No visible handles. They could only be opened from the inside, it seemed.
    I made a note to check out where the doors led.
    Fire escapes clung to the side of each building. They were the type with a retracting last flight. Nobody without a ladder could climb them from the outside. The bottom flights were in the retracted position. They looked in working order.
    I surveyed the scene.
    No way out, for Larry Silver.
    I could smell the fear.
    I looked more closely at the metal door on the left. It had an abandoned air. Long shoots of weeds grew through the cracks in the asphalt in front of it. Not a door that had been used for months, at least.
    I looked at the doors on the other side. Same thing. Emergency exits, probably.
    I went back to the Dumpster. Got down on my knees. Peered underneath.
    Two green eyes peered back.
    I hope you don’t have rabies, I said to them, and tossed a pebble in their direction.
    The cat skittered off.
    I had an urge to apologize.
    I went around the Dumpster.
    The cat was sitting contentedly on top of a stack of graying two-by-fours. It was black, with a white spot over one eye. White front feet. Damn cute. It didn’t look like an alley cat. No scars. No scabies. Clearly it belonged to someone. Maybe it was lost. It had a collar. Perhaps its address was on the collar. I felt obliged to find out. Take it back to its home.
    Sorry, I said.
    It stared at me. I approached it slowly. It sat and stared some more. A street cat would have hissed, spat, run away. This one stayed. Watched me creep up on it. Cocked its head to one side.
    When I got within a couple of feet, the cat took one last look at me. Sprinted away.
    Damn, I thought. Another metaphor.
    I left the alley. Turned right. Three blocks to Jules’s building. The downstairs door was ajar. The elevator wasn’t working. I climbed the stairs. I knocked. I heard voices. One was sharp, female, not pleased. The other was Jules. Some argument going on. I couldn’t hear the words.
    I knocked again.
    The voices stopped. A minute going by. Metal machine music starting up. From somewhere inside.
    The door opened. Jules was wearing baggy jeans slung down low, Union Jack boxers underneath, half exposed. And nothing else. If you didn’t count the tattoos. Japanese, they looked like. And a large leonine thing on his chest. An odd pattern of scars on his belly.
    Hey, he said.
    Hey, I replied, trying not to stare at the scars. Is this a bad time?
    Nah, that’s just Lisa.
    As though I should know who Lisa was.
    She’s pissed I didn’t tell her you were coming. She’ll get over it.
    Okay, if you’re sure, I said.
    Sure I’m sure.
    He didn’t ask me in, exactly. He just turned and walked to the couch. Threw himself on it. As much invitation as I was going to get, it seemed.
    I took a seat in the beanbag chair opposite Jules. The music grinding and shrieking from somewhere upstairs. I looked at the bookshelf next to the sofa. Tattered paperbacks.
Shōgun. The Man With No Name
. DVDs.
Kill Bill
, both volumes.
Reservoir Dogs
. A set of nunchuks.
Nunchaku
, I recalled, in the Japanese. Kelly had taught me that. She was way into anime.
    Fuck you, too! I heard a voice, pitched high over the drone and crunch of the music. Fuck you too fuck you too fuck you too … !
    I looked up. The owner of the voice was on the balcony. She was tiny. Hennaed hair, one side shaved higher than the other. Nose ring. Sleeveless T-shirt. I couldn’t quite make out the tattoo on her shoulder. Something with a dragon, I thought.
    I assumed that the imprecations weren’t aimed at me. I turned away. Jules ignored her. A door slammed upstairs. She was still screaming.
    Domestic problems? I asked lightheartedly.
    No sweat, he said. She forgot her meds. Her mom’s bringing them over. Then she’ll be all right.
    Ah. Can she hear us down here?
    Not over that stuff, for sure.
    Because if she hears us, the conversation’s not