San Diego Noir

I’ve been seeing these colored objects since Vic threw me to that sidewalk. They’re geometric, of varying colors, between one and four inches in length, width, depth. They float and bob. I can move them with a finger. Or with a strong exhalation, like blowing out birthday cake candles. They often accompany music, but sometimes they appear when someone is talking to me. The stronger the person’s emotion, the larger and more vivid the objects are. They linger briefly then vanish.

In the months after my fall I came to understand these shapes derived not so much from the words spoken, but from the emotion behind them. Each shape and color denotes a different emotion. To me, the shapes are visual reminders of the fact that people don’t always mean what they say. My condition is called synesthesia, from the Greek, and loosely translated it means “mixing of the senses.” I belong to the San Diego Synesthesia Society and we meet once a month at the Seven Seas on Hotel Circle.

Farrel had a round, pretty face, dark eyes, and brown hair cut in bangs, and one dimple when she smiled. Her lips were small and red. Her handshake was soft. She was short even in highheeled boots. She wore a long coat against the damp winter chill.

“Vic tells me you’re a policeman. My daddy was a policeman. Center Springs, Arkansas. It’s not on most maps.”

“How long have you been here in San Diego?” I asked.

“Almost a year. I was waitressing but now I’m doing this. Better pay.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-four years old.” She had a way of holding your eyes with her own, a direct but uncritical stare. “Vic told me all about what happened. It’s good that you’ve become a friend of his. We all of us need at least one good friend … Well, guys, I should be going. I’d ask you in and buy you a drink, but it’s supposed to work the other way around.”

I glanced at Vic and saw the adoration in his eyes. It lit up his face, made it smarter and softer and better. Farrel smiled at him and put her hand on his sleeve.

“It’s okay, Vic.”

“Just so good to see you, Farrel.”

“Vic walks me in and out, every night. And any other of the dancers who want him to. You’re a cop so you know there’s always someone coming around places like this, making trouble for the girls. But not when Vic Primeval is in the barnyard.”

“I don’t really like that name,” said Vic.

“I mean it in a good way.”

“It means primitive.”

“It’s only a show name, Vic. Like, well, like for a dancer it would be Chastity or Desire.”

I watched the inner conflict ruffle Vic’s expression. Then his mind made some kind of override and the light came back to his eyes. He smiled and peered down at the ground.

A hard look came over Farrel’s face as a black BMW 750i bounced through the open exit gate and into the employees-only lot. It rolled to a stop beside us. The driver’s window went down.

“Yo. Sweetie. I been looking for you.” He was thirty maybe and tricked out in style—sharp haircut, pricey-looking shirt and jacket. Slender face, a Jersey voice and delivery. He looked from Farrel to Vic, then at me. “What’s your problem, fuckface?”

I swung open my jacket to give him a look at my .45.

He held up his hands like I should cuff him. “Christ. Farrel? You want I should run these meatballs off? They’re nothing to do with me and you, baby.”

“I want them to run you off. I told you, Sal. There isn’t a you and me. No more. It’s over. I’m gone.”

“But you’re not gone, baby. You’re right here. So get in. Whatever you’ll make in a month in there, I’ll pay you that right out of my pocket. Right here and now.”

“Get off this property,” said Vic. “Or I’ll drag you out of your cute little car and throw you over that fence.”

Vic glanced at me and winced right after he said this. When he gets mad at things he throws them far. People too.

Sal clucked his tongue like a hayseed then smiled at Vic as if he was an amusing moron.

“No more us, Sal,” said Farrel. “We’re over.”

“You still owe me eight thousand dollars, girl. Nothing’s over till I get that back.”

I saw black rhombuses wobbling in the air between us. Black rhombuses mean anger.

“I’ll pay you back as soon as I can. You think I’m dancing in a place like this just for the fun of it all?”

“Move out of here,” I said. “Do it now.”

“Or you’ll arrest me.”

“Quickly. It’ll cost you forty-eight long cheap hours or two expensive short ones. Your pick.”

“I want what’s mine,” Sal said to Farrel. “I want what I paid for.”

“Them’s two different things.”

“Maybe it is in that redneck slop hole you come from.”

The window went up and the car swung around and out of the lot, the big tires leaving a rubbery low-speed squeal on the asphalt.

“I’m coming in for a while,” I said.