Dangerous by Default

12. Joseph's apartment

"Thanks again for getting me outta there, friend." Caine mumbled to the man with the glasses. A man he hardly knew. He was almost embarrassed, he usually had a higher tolerance when it came to fancy scotch. The bleary eyed softness that he got from his father was starting to show again. A tiny push could send him over either side of drunken emotion, to either stumbling anger or sentimental tears. That Irish Scott charm, as his mom used to call it. Mina called it borderline alcoholism. He had his new friend to thank.

Resting on the grimy bar earlier, the man with the glasses was more than happy to have taken that extra shot with Caine, all stretched gums and fluorescent teeth, acting like they were old mates from college. Then the scotch cracked at his nerves with the speed of a whip. In minutes, the man was adding to his list of polite apologies when he noticed how visibly intoxicated Caine was. It was all so convenient. A trip to the man's apartment was offered, a place to relax and recharge, phones and brain cells given a breather. So they left. Out of the pulsing warm womb and into the evening's question mark that Caine confidently ignored. It had the feeling of being a sick child taken out of school, and this man was his doting caretaker. The man practically carried Caine from the warehouse party to a musty taxi. Streetlamps blurred past as they led the way back into the Tenderloin, leaving the salty breezes of the pier behind for the oily aired hills above.

Caine had been warm butterscotch numb until the man's voice reached him, as if from the otherside of a tunnel. The taxi door to Caine's right opened. Time to get out. Corpse stiff, the too-tight leather pants of tonight's alter ego had started to cut off circulation to his legs, and he was grateful to feel them skid across the taxi's plastic seat cover. The sudden clunk of his heavy boots brought a dull electricity to his nerves, stamping the pavement as he was pulled from the car. The man may have been short, but he was strong. Like a Pitbull, compact. Caine's serpentine steps were promptly redirected, The interior of the building a blur, all the way to the cold looking door of a 5th story apartment.

As the man rummaged in his stiff jean pocket, Caine realized he never asked for the man's name.

"Remind me your name again, friend?" Caine blurted, as the man pulled out his prize and rattled his keys into their adjoining locks with an unsettling contentment. He smiled again.

"It's Joseph, silly. Sounds like you could use some water. And maybe a nap..." There was an exaggerated politeness in the man's voice as he stood next to the open doorway, making a right-this-way gesture with his arm that made him look like a 1920's bellhop. These movements had been rehearsed, and it made Caine's stomach drop for a moment. He faked a grateful smile back.

"Welcome to my home." Joseph watched with greedy eyes as Caine wobbled into the loft apartment, the looming KU-KLUNK of the deadbolt the confirming sound that Joseph was behind him, that they were finally alone.

Flick. A switch by the door illuminated the apartment with the amber glow of exposed Edison bulbs. Well, hello. The space was bigger than Caine had expected. He was almost hoping for something more homely, modest but crammed with bookshelves and a smushy reading chair. A quaint intellectuals hovel. Think again, this guy actually had style. The living room which the front door opened to, looked to be the focal point of the lofted apartment, as the connecting kitchen, a possible bedroom, and a bare staircase all gave the baffling impressions of an M.C. Escher labyrinth. The only visible windows took up an entire wall of the room, showing a gloomily fogged up skyline, which caused the spattering of minimalist couches and a vintage glass coffee table to look like sneaky shadow monsters on the floor. Caine imagined the room could look cheery, once it was covered in the pleasant filter of morning sunlight like a coating of diluted egg yolk. But only in the morning. The blank walls had been painted a deep charcoal that should have said sophisticated, but leaned in the direction of a modern vampire lair. A lump in the throat was an appropriate response.