The Holding Cell

           He was afraid to open his eyes.
            And his mouth tasted like old, sour vomit.
            The floor chilled his hands and face, or, at least, the parts of them he could feel. An inky death nibbled at his arms and legs, numbing him, but not quite, as if he were being pulled between worlds, his body caught in a bad dream from which it was unable to wake. He tried to move, and the effort sent odd pains down his jellied limbs. Groaning, he tried it again.
            The ground seemed to buck and fall beneath him, but the wall at his back gave him an anchor against the vertigo. Twisting his torso, he thrust himself at the edifice, working his neck like a piton, using his butt as his belay, slowly dragging himself upright, his arms and legs limp. The base of his spine burned; and he moaned again, sweating. However, little by little, pushing and pulling, he managed a sitting position where he could finally catch his breath—and listen.
            Wherever he was, it was quiet: a tense, brittle calm, permeated by sweat and fear.
            It took him a moment to work his eyelids open. A flimsy-looking cot with a tan comforter lurked against the wall opposite. To his left, a metallic toilet hunched in the far corner. And, to his right, a heavy door with rusted bars, locked and sealed, stood vigilant. Fluorescent light from the outer corridor cast long, watery beams between the bars and across the floor, illuminating every scratch, every gritty particle in their purview. He could feel that sand in his teeth.
            Inhaling sharply, he tried to swallow, tried to moisten his throat. His fingers flexed, open and closed, pumping a prickly sensation through the soupy fog in his limbs. Rubbing his knuckles together, he felt the weight from the ring, the sapphire, on his third finger. “Maman,” he croaked, suppressing a cough.
            His eyes at last fell upon the food-tray between him and the cell door. On it were a water-cup and a sandwich; vending-machine tuna, by the smell. His stomach knotted at that, feeling hollow, and he whimpered again, fighting back the oily nausea. The muscles across his back and limbs rebelled against him. Brushing back their cobwebs, his insides woke to aches and pains that bit and stung, throbbing with an acute fire that robbed him of his breath.
            Gradually, however, movement near the tray drew his attention away from his pain. Scurrying toward the sandwich, its nose and ears twitching, was a mouse, whose coat lay thick with dirt and grime. He sat transfixed, watching the rodent approach its goal, desperate to keep his mind focused, alert, and away from himself. When the mouse at last attacked the sandwich, gnawing away, its eager tail bumped against the nearby cup—knocking it over and spilling its contents across the grainy cement.
            The nausea immediately washed over him again. He bit down on the sickness, his eyes watering, and inhaled deeply, forcing his body into submission. “I am to learn,” he breathed, slowly setting his thoughts aright. “I am to learn…how I caught it…how I came by it…” In time, he spoke the rest from memory, faster and faster, quelling his discomfort, and at last relapsed into silence.
            Meanwhile, a long silhouette drifted toward him across the floor.
            A man’s voice said: “You okay, kid?”
           He shrank away from the voice and the shadow, while the chamber door slid open. The darkness floated closer then, over his legs, filling the cramped cell’s empty corners; the bands of light on the floor rippled around the man’s shade until the door clanged shut again behind him. By degrees, the man’s features became apparent in the gloom. His eyes were tired, and his face was worn, premature wrinkles carved deep by worry and responsibility. The man opened and closed his hands slowly, until at last he spoke. “Name’s Joe Kincaid,” he said. “I’m a detective.”
            The intruder waited a few seconds for a reply, but found none.
           Unanswered, he ran his tongue over his teeth, thinking. Then the detective put a hand inside his jacket, removing a book. He hefted it up and down, testing the reaction it would bring. Soon, he appeared satisfied. “Antonio, I presume?”
             Staring at the detective, the boy leaned over, tested his weight on a shaky arm, and licked his dry lips. When he spoke, he couldn’t hide the affectation. He said, “I hold the world…but as the world. A stage where every man must play a part…and mine a sad one…”
            Kincaid nodded at him. “What’s your name?”
            He turned away. “Sebastian.”
            “Sebastian, what?”
            “Sebastian Hunt.”
            Kincaid pocketed the script again; he stepped forward. “You know why you’re here?”
            Sebastian considered his warped reflection on the toilet. “Where is here?”
            “Holding cell, at a police station. My station.”
            “How long have I been here?”
            “An hour or so. It’ll be dawn soon.”
            He tested his weight on his other arm. “And what do you want from me?” he asked.
            The detective sank onto the cot, taking his time, the mattress springs protesting loudly under him. “I need to know what happened last night. You’re in some trouble, and I might be able to help. But, for now, I’m just here to talk. Okay?”
            Sebastian focused on Kincaid’s dull, green eyes. “What kind of trouble?”
            The man hesitated. “You don’t remember?”
            Carefully, Sebastian said, “Please, do help me to recall.”
            “The superintendent of police is dead,” Kincaid said, eyeing him. “Murdered.”
            “How?” Sebastian asked, keeping his countenance blank.
            “Two to the gut, kid.”
            Leaning back against the wall, Sebastian studied his shoes; they were canvas, with a checkered pattern. Slowly, he lifted his knees, pulling them toward his chest, hugging their dark denim, despite the ardent protest in his muscles. Even through his blazer, the wall was still cold on his back. Rather lamely, he said, “But, I hate guns.”
            “They found one in your hand, right next to the body.”
            Sebastian shook his head. “There has to be some mistake,” he said.
            Kincaid glanced outside the cell, scratching at his stubble. “Can you prove it?”
            Listening to the mouse nibble on its sandwich, Sebastian chewed his thumb. “I don’t know if I can remember everything,” he admitted. “It’s all jumbled up.”
            “Then just start early, and work your way forward,” the detective urged.
            Sebastian felt his eyes becoming unfocused while his mind harkened backward. He tried to speak, twice, but something, some painful twinge in his head, cut him off each time. A tiny, frustrated noise escaped him after that, and he bit his lip until, finally, his shoulders slumped. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s all too blurry.”
            Kincaid shot a look toward the cell door again, and leaned forward a fraction. “Listen, Hunt, you may not remember everything—but I can’t help you if you don’t help me.”
            Sebastian, playing with his ring, gazed into the stone on his finger. “I don’t think I can help either of us,” he said.
            “The evidence against you is pretty tight,” the detective warned. “If you don’t tell me what really happened, then your case will go to trial. And no judge is gonna let yah off without the maximum penalty, believe me. Not with elections coming up.”
            He shifted his legs, uncomfortable. “Well, then come back later. I can’t think right now.”
            “Don’t give me that, kid,” Kincaid said, his voice suddenly harsh. “Just talk to me.”
            Sebastian crossed his arms, the pain pulling his regal mouth into a sneer. He bit his tongue to redirect the sting. In a different tone, he said, “Aren’t I supped to sign something at this point? Or demand a lawyer?”
            The detective backed off a bit. “We’re just talking,” he said, and fell silent.
            With some space between them now, Sebastian had some time to think. He sensed Kincaid waiting for him to say something; to assert his innocence, or admit his guilt. Carefully, Sebastian popped his shoulder, exhaling relief when the pinch in his deltoid slackened up. In the same breath, he said, “I take it you knew this superintendent pretty well, Detective?”
            Kincaid squinted down at him. “Yeah. I knew him,” he said.
           Sebastian considered the man’s response, further working out his shoulder. “I guess that explains the wrinkles, then,” he said, quietly. “And your red eyes, too. Frankly, you look like someone from an O’Neill play. My first guess was lack of sleep, then booze.” The detective eyed him, but said nothing. Sebastian shrugged. “Well, are you looking for a confession?” he asked. “Or do you think I might be innocent?”
            The older man clenched his jaw. “No one’s innocent, kid,” he replied.
            Sebastian tried to smile. “Of course not,” he said. “Not when they know all the facts.” Turning, he stretched his arms and legs, working through their soreness. “So the superintendent was your friend,” he mused. “I’ll bet he was something like a mentor for you, too, n’est-ce pas?”
            Kincaid’s fingers wrapped themselves into fists, answering the question for him.   
            Sebastian sighed, looking away. “Then, for what it’s worth,” he said, “I am sorry.”
            The detective leaned forward, cutting the distance between them in half. “I don’t need your sympathy, kid,” he said, jabbing the air with his finger. “I need to know what you did.”
            Raising his chin, Sebastian faced him again. “Then tell me, Detective,” he said. “If I did kill your friend—and if you knew for sure that I had—what would you do about it?”
            Kincaid opened his mouth, but checked his speech. A loud squeal drew his attention.
            From the food-tray near the door, the mouse had abandoned its meal. With another squawk, it lurched away from the sandwich, zig-zagging across the floor. Kincaid leaned back as it passed him, but Sebastian sat motionless, transfixed, until the small creature collapsed on its side near his right hand, nose sniffing about wildly, stomach twitching for air. Sebastian reached for it with his other hand—and the mouse stopped moving altogether. The thing was dead.
            After a time, his eyes met Kincaid’s. “Do you think it choked?” he asked.
            The detective squinted over at the food-tray. “I dunno. But that ain’t supposed be here.”
            Sebastian caught his breath. He said, “Do you think the food might be poisoned?”
            Kincaid grunted. “You’ve seen too many movies, kid.”
            “Come on, Detective,” Sebastian said, struggling to his feet, wincing as he did so, each hand clenched to a leg as he pushed off the floor, using the cool wall for support. “You can’t be the only cop who’d like to take a swing at me. Or a shot. Or a—a sandwich.”
            The older man shifted his weight, exposing his shoulder holster. “Only a few people know you’re here,” he said. “Besides, who’d risk their job—”
            “—interrogating a suspect before he’s heard his rights?” Sebastian finished.
            Kincaid shot to his feet, his expression tight. “Don’t be a snot,” he said. An instant later he whirled toward the door. Two uniformed guards scrambled toward the bars at his approach; Sebastian vaguely remembered them from before: one dark, the other with an infant’s gaze. The detective’s voice was sharp. He said, “Did you two have this kid processed?”
            “No, sir,” the well-tanned cop replied. “We kept him in holding, just like you asked.”
            “Don’t get so excited,” Kincaid growled back at him, gesturing toward the tray. “Who brought the picnic? You know it’s against regulations. If the kid has any evidence on him, it might be contaminated.”
            “It was a d-detective,” the man stammered. “He said the food would help bring the suspect around so he could talk. He seemed okay. He was, you know, funny and all.”
            Both men tried to smile.
            Kincaid scowled. “Who remembers Funny-man’s name?” he asked.
           Sebastian watched both cops exchange nervous glances. “I could go and, uh, check the log, sir,” the dark-skinned guard suggested.
            “Do it,” the detective said.
            With the first cop gone, Kincaid confronted the other. However, before he could even get in a word, the second cop started babbling, saying, “No one told us not to give him food, I swear, Sarge. We thought you sent the other guy so the kid would be awake and ready when you—”
            “Stop,” Kincaid said, raising a hand. “Act professional, and wait outside until I’m done.”
            The vacant-eyed guard disappeared. Alone with the detective again, Sebastian said, “Well, Heckle and Jeckle sure don’t seem to have a clue. What do you think? Am I in danger?”
           Kincaid’s eyes drifted between Sebastian and the tray. Slowly, he put his hands in his pockets, his mood shifting. “Not from me,” he said, his tone suspiciously even. “But…”
            Sebastian frowned. “But what?”
          The detective planted his feet. “But I’d need to do some digging to be sure,” he said. “And I’d need some incentive—you know, some motivation—to check it out.”
            His face benign, Sebastian’s eyes flicked down to his script, bulging in Kincaid’s pocket; a beat later, they came back up. “I am an actor,” he said, slowly. “I understand motivation.”
            The older man nodded. “Then tell me about last night,” he said.
            Sebastian bit his lip. He turned from the detective, retreating a few steps along the wall, testing his balance. Afterward, he squared his shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and collected his faculties. “I don’t remember everything,” he said, tousling his messy hair. “And the parts I do remember will probably get me in trouble.”
            “I’m a fair guy, Mr. Hunt. I’ll do what I can to help you.”
            He faced the detective. “That’s not much incentive.”
            Kincaid exposed his hands, crossed his arms. “What were you doing in that alley?”
            “Working,” he offered simply. “Making a delivery.”
            “You mean dope,” the other guessed. “What was it? Coke?”
            “Perhaps,” Sebastian said, his manner turning rakish.
            The detective scanned him, up and down. “Alright then. Were you using?”
            “It was a Friday night, Detective.”
            “Very funny, kid,” Kincaid replied. “Except that most dealers—aren’t users.”
            “When you say, most dealers, I assume you mean the ones that have been caught, that you have records on,” Sebastian said. “In which case, I’m glad to say, I’m not like most dealers.”
            “Okay, fine,” the older man rejoined. “So then what else you got?”
            “That’s it,” Sebastian said, turning around again. “The rest is flashes, noises and stuff.”
            It took Kincaid a minute to digest the facts. When he spoke next, he said, “If selling dope put you in that alley, kid, then fine. I can let that slide: the murder is all that interests me. Do yah remember the superintendent at all?”
            Still showing Kincaid his back, he said, “I remember someone being there.”
            A long silence followed. “Yeah?” Kincaid asked.
            Sebastian exhaled, his throat tight, his tone no longer chipper. “Maybe he was…maybe he tried to break up what he thought was a…well, what looked like a—a mugging.”
            “He wasn’t your buyer, then,” the detective said.
            “No,” Sebastian replied.
            “But he saw your real mark try to stiff you?”
            Sebastian paused. “Yes,” he said.
            Kincaid mulled that one over. “So you met your buyer, he didn’t like your price, he fought you for the goods, the superintendent tried to help, the junkie killed him, and then the tweaker pinned it on you. That’s your story?”
            “It’s possible,” Sebastian said, turning back around. “Hein?”
            “Maybe,” Kincaid replied. “What’s the junkie’s name?”
            “I never got it. Better for business that way.”
            “Then how’d you meet him?”
            “Out. Tonight.”
            “What’d he look like?”
            Sebastian frowned at the floor. “It’s fuzzy,” he said.
            The detective uncrossed his arms. “I need you to remember more than that, sport.”
            “Well, that’s all I have for now,” Sebastian grumbled, sinking onto the cot. He swung his stiff legs up to lie down, wincing, and pointed at the dead rodent on the floor. “Someone just tried to poison me, Detective. Ask me for more later, when I’ve had time to sort my thoughts.”
             Leaning his shoulder into the wall opposite the cot, Kincaid said, “Your drug angle might be legit, but there’s no way to prove it. Unless you can deliver your buyer. Otherwise, it’s all on you.”
            Sebastian closed his eyes, concentrating. Then, he said, “This was a murder, Detective, for which I served merely as a scapegoat. That’s it, I swear. Your mentor’s death was a thing not in my power to bring to pass, but swayed and fashioned by the hand of heaven.”
            “More Shakespeare?”
            “Oui,” he said, opening his eyes again. “But do you see my point?”
            “You mighta gotten hurt,” the other hedged. “But that doesn’t make you blameless.”
            Sebastian’s mouth curved in a grin. “Nevertheless,” he whispered. “If God uses suffering to make us perfect, then how can we blame the devil for what we are at all?”
            At that, Kincaid fell silent. Then, in a moment, he withdrew a large, silver coin from somewhere in his jacket. Rubbing it, he began to flip it through his fingers. “If you were assaulted,” he said, “then how about you show me where you’re hurt?”
            “It’s a little early yet for bruises,” Sebastain said, lacing his fingers behind his scalp.
            “Then what’d you eat or shoot or smoke to make you puke all over that alley?”
            “I did have steak for dinner,” he allowed. “Maybe it was undercooked.”
            The detective rolled his eyes. Then he slowly shook his head. Then, like Rip Van Winkle, he seemed to age a score of years in moments. Gathering himself, he drifted from the wall, his gaze, his steps reluctant. Near the door, he stopped, and shoved his hands inside his pockets. Then he coughed. “Well, are you queer?” he asked.
            Sebastian dropped his arms. “Excuse me?”
            “A homosexual,” the other said.
            Sitting up, Sebastian swung his feet onto the floor. “What does it matter?”
            Kincaid let out a little grunt, and turned away. “Thought so,” he said.
            “Wait, how does that affect your friend?” Sebastian asked, his fingers gripping at the mattress. Kincaid, unmoving, didn’t answer. Sebastian swallowed, hard. “Detective, look at me,” he said. When the older man still made no response, Sebastian stood, and spoke a little louder. “Look at me, Kincaid,” he said.
            The detective finally turned around, his weary face unwilling, but resigned.
            Sebastian gestured at himself. “What do you see?” he asked.
            Kincaid sized him up, fingers moving inside his jacket pocket, toying with his coin. He slid his jaw forward and back, thinking. “I see someone used to having his way,” he said in a low voice. “The bluish eyes, the smile, and the cheekbones do that.”
            “Okay. What else?” Sebastian asked, staring him down.
            Gritting his teeth, the man added, “I see someone who uses people’s emotions to get what he wants. And, judging from the fit I saw when I walked up, I’m also looking at someone who can’t control his own feelings at all, unless he’s acting them out.”
            “So I’m a mess, and I’m a con,” Sebastian said. “Does that make me a murderer?”
            The detective snorted. “It don’t make you normal, that’s for sure.”
            “What is normal is not the same as what is common,” Sebastian countered.
            Kincaid took a small step toward him, and drew his fists out from his pockets. “At the moment, kid,” he said, “you’re facing homicide. And it don’t get much more real than that, be it normal or common. Now, you want my help, you know my terms. What’s it gonna be?”
            Sebastian cast his eyes downward, stifling his immediate reply; instead, he mumbled an apology, his arms slowly wrapping themselves around him. He shifted his feet. The detective waited for his answer, and an underwater hush fell between them, as though the cell belonged to Davy Jones himself, festooned upon the ocean floor. At length, Sebastian said, “Look, I can remember bits, Detective. Really, I can. I just need time to sort them out.”
            “I don’t have that kind of time,” Kincaid replied. “It’s now or never.”
            Sebastian met the other’s eyes. “How long do you think I’ll last once word gets out?” he asked. “Forget the poison. Cop-killers, even presumed ones, don’t ever get off quite that easy.”
            The older man took two steps toward the door. “Got that right,” he said.
            “But what if I didn’t kill him?” Sebastian asked. “What if the things I’ve said are true? You’ll need my help to know for sure. You’ll need my help—to lay your friend to rest.”
            Kincaid paused. “If someone does kill you, kid, there won’t be a different truth to know.”
            “Can you take that chance?”
            “You ain’t giving me a better one.”
            Swallowing, Sebastian said, “Please, don’t gauge me by tonight.” He pointed to the script hidden in the detective’s pocket. “Do you even know what that play is about?”
            The detective placed his hand over his heart, but didn’t reply.
          “My character, Antonio,” Sebastian began, “puts a pound of his flesh down as collateral with a moneylender—who wants him dead—to fund his friend’s journey to marry woman he loves.” Sebastian splayed his palms. “I trust my friend. I put down my life for him.”
            Kincaid, still sifting his coin between his fingers, stopped, and placed it in his pocket. He turned toward the door. “Sorry, kid,” he said. “Sounds far-fetched to me.”
            “But so is life!” Sebastian pleaded, stepping forward, his arms outstretched. “Kincaid, you’re not the only one who needs to know what happened tonight. I need to know, too.”
            The detective paused again, his back to the cell. “Yeah. To save your skin.”
           “No,” Sebastian said. “To pay a debt.” He touched the sapphire embedded on the ring about his finger, caressing it gently. In a softer voice, he said, “You see, my mother—my maman—she taught me long ago what happens, when you run from your mistakes. I don’t know what happened tonight. But I do know I need to make up for my part in it—for or my negligence, if nothing else.” To the older man’s back, he said, “Promise me life, Detective Kincaid, and I’ll confess the truth. My purse, my person, my extremest means lie all unlocked to your occasions.”
            He waited for an answer, and that oppressive quiet descended on them again. Then, slowly, Kincaid faced him, with obvious effort. Sebastian watched, not daring to breathe, as the detective removed the coin from his pocket once more. With a jerk, Kincaid flipped the token into the air. Exactly two heartbeats later—an eternity—he caught it with a practiced ease and held it out before him in the gloom.
            But, before he could open his palm, one of the guards appeared at the door in a rush. “Sarge!” the man said. “The call came in. It’s time to take the kid on up for processing.”
            Sebastian and Kincaid locked eyes for an instant. The patterned shadows on the floor rustled around the detective’s silhouette as the cell door slid open again. Then, without verdict, Kincaid replaced his coin. His cool eyes dark, he left the cell. “See yah around, kid,” he said.
            Sebastian turned away. “Yes,” he murmured. “Au revoir, Detective…”

SPECIAL NOTE: The above selection is an original work by the author, Jason Loeffler, and he retains all rights to its content. Publication requests can be made on the Jason's contact page.