Michael Hemmingson - Hard Cold Whisper

The blow to my head hurt like a motherfucker.

The guy I was serving papers to, Pablo Martinez of Chula Vista, California, had one of those twenty-one inch steel collapsible batons in his pocketI had one too but didnt think a baton duel would be on the agendaand he whacked me across the side of my head before I could touch him with the court papers and say the usual words: Youve been served.

The papers fell out of my hand and I went to the ground and things got black for a while.

I opened my eyes and a brown-skinned angel glanced down at me.

And her name was Gabriella.

And she said, Are you okay, mister?

It hurts when I laugh, I said, the old joke.

She knew that joke. Then dont laugh, but she was serious, so maybe she didnt. She seemed awfully young, a teenager. She helped me up. Youre bleeding, she said.

Ouch, I said.

Lets get you fixed up.

Im a process server, and a damn good one. I specialize in hard-to-locate defendants, the ones who know theyre getting sued or evicted or divorced or have a judgment lodged against them. They avoid the Sheriff or other process servers who do not do what I do: trespassing into dangerous areas and sitting long hours on stakeouts.

I was tasked to serve Pablo Martinez a restraining order from his ex-girlfriend who was terrified of him. Problem: Mr. Martinez was an apparent gang member and he lived in gang-territory in Chula Vista, which is just south of San Diego and north of the international border with Mexico.

The girlfriend had four days left to serve him to make the temporary restraining order valid.

Perfect for you, David, said my boss, Allen Marshall, who used to be a private investigator and, I suppose, you can say he was my mentor, because I was hoping to one day be a gumshoe myself.

Instead, I became a criminal.

Im a process server, I told Gabriella, I specialize in stakeouts and those who are hard to serve.

She was cleaning the blood off my head with a wet towel. We sat in the kitchen of the shabby house across the street from where Pablo Martinez lived. The place smelled like mold and cooked chicken; the interior looked like it hadnt seen a fresh coat of paint since the 1950s; the windows were dirty and dusty; the carpeting looked like it had been installed in the 1960s and not vacuumed since the 1970s.

Sounds dangerous, from the looks of it, said the young woman attending to my blood.

Do you know Mr. Martinez? I asked.

She made a face, curling her bottom lip. Not really.

Hes in a gang?

Most of the guys around here are. Youre lucky he didnt use a gun. She had a thick Hispanic accent, the kind people who grew up south of the border have. Her English was impeccable, though.

I feel lucky, I said.

What did he do? Why were you serving him?

Threatened his ex-girlfriend.

Figures.

Typical?

I saw you sitting in your car yesterday, she said. Thought you were a cop or something.

I smiled and tried not to laugh. Im not as invisible as I thought. Ive been staking him out two days now. He finally showed his ugly face.

There, she said, examining my head with dark brown bedroom eyes. The wet towel was stained with some blood, not a lot. How do you feel? she asked.

It still hurts when I laugh and I like to laugh so Im in a quandary. Thank you.

The witty attempt didnt work here.

Whats your name?

Gabriella.

David Kellgren.

Gabriella Amaya, she said.

We shook hands, and I suddenly pulled her to me and kissed her on the lips. She didnt resist. Her mouth was warm and moist the way a lovers mouth should and could be.

I stepped back.

Im sorry, I said, I dont know why I did that.

She touched her lips. Its all right. Just dont do it again.

Really. I dont know why I -

You got hit in the head. Youre batty. She blinked her eyes like she was holding back tears.

Ive never done that before, I said.

Youve never kissed a girl? She was amused.

Not one I just met.

Well, she said, I never have either. But, and she licked her lower lip, it was a nice kiss.

Im sorry.

Stop saying that.

She was annoyed.

It was awkward now.

I said, Better go.

She looked down at her feet. Kiss me again, she said.

I did and I held her close.

How old are you? she asked.

Twenty-eight.

Not too old.

You?

Just turned nineteen.

Nineteen? Youre a kid.

Im no kid, Gabriella said, her voice hard.

I didnt want to let her go. Do you live here alone? With your parents?

I take care of my aunt, she said. Shes bed-ridden and old. Im her caregiver.

Youre a nurse?

Im not licensed or anything. Just her niece, a niece nurse. She thought that was funny.

Where is your aunt?

In bed.

I kissed her again.

You just dont stop, she said softly.

I reluctantly released her from my arms. I better go, Gabriella, before I do something wrong.

Maybe you should. Or maybe you shouldnt. Sometimes wrong can be a lot of fun.

We stood there staring at each other. I knew that anything could happen in a single moment, the sort of moment that could, and should, change your life forever.

It was a hard choice.

I left.

Outside, I found the papers for the restraining order on the street, where I had dropped them.

I looked at the house Pablo Martinez lived. Old, falling apart, grass growing high, weeds everywhere. No lights on inside.

I doubt hed come back tonight. He knew he was being watched.

Id return later. I had to. The papers had to be served in two days and I always get my target. I pride myself on that promise. I liked my perfect record and didnt need Martinez to tarnish it.

I got into my car and looked at the house where Gabriella Amaya lived. It was in a little better shape than where Martinez lived, but not by much; this was a rundown neighborhood where visual property values didnt matter much.

I spotted her standing by the window, watching me like a sensual sentinel, or a siren from the sea.

She waved and I waved back.

Nineteen years old.

What the hell was I thinking?

My ex-girlfriend, Meghan Lynn, was waiting outside my apartment building in Ocean Beach. I lived two blocks from the sea, near the pier. She was sitting in her blue Mazda Miata.

She was staking me out.

The irony of it didnt elude me, but the thing is: I didnt want to see her, not right now, not at all. We had broken up five months ago and she wouldnt let go. I started to think I might have to get a restraining order on her myself, have one my fellow process servers handle it.

David.

She got out of her car. Her door squeaked loudly when she opened and closed it, the sound echoing down the street, all the way to the ocean.

Meghan, not tonight, I said.

She noticed the dried blood and the bump on the side of my head.

Jesus Christ, David, she said, you okay?

She tried to touch me and I flinched. Im fine.

Keep telling you, your job is too dangerous, she said.

So is crossing the street, but we all do it.

Not if youre locked in a room and the key has been swallowed by the troll who guards the castle.

Meghan always said stuff like that, so I had to think about it and figure out what it meant.

True, I said.

She stood in my path. We need to talk.

We have nothing to talk about.

We have the whole universe to talk about, Meghan said, because soul mates always do.

I hated it when she started to get metaphysical and talk about soul mates, past lives, alternate realities, and all that other New Age bullshit I didnt buy into.

Meghan, I said, Im tired... need sleep.

She got close. Ill keep you warm.

Coldly: Like you keep other men warm.

She glared. How many times do I have to tell you that it was all a mistake?