Bosch Arrived: An Impeccable Man on a Pale Horse

Althea Parker Stories

I’m six seven eight and I don’t want to die like this.

I think I’m going to die, anyway. I’m in a cage. It’s old and rusty and has dents in it. Some of the bars are bent. It stinks piss and shit and I hate it. I don’t want to be here.

Lots of bad things have happened in this cage. Stage rage page. The lock on it is real good. And even if I wanted to get out, there’s nowhere to run.

The cage is in a room. The room is in the Nine. I’m supposed to be safe in the Nine.

Everyone told me I’d be safe. And I was. Until he showed up.

He’s here, with three men. The men want to hurt me, I think. Or let other people hurt me for money. Funny honey dummy.

You don’t put people in cages so something good can happen to them.

They haven’t hurt me yet. Even he didn’t hurt me. He wanted to. Wants to. A gleam in his eyes and I know he’s imagining my head on a stick or my legs shredded up to bits or all my insides laid out for a kindergarten class to find.

I’ve never been to kindergarten.

If he has any say in it, I’ll never be anywhere ever again.

Mr. Bosch.

Nothing really rhymes with Mr. Bosch.

My lunchbox is still with me, at least. I’m glad they didn’t hurt it. I’ve had it since I was little.

I pretend to be asleep, but I’m not. My head is sore where it got hit. I peek through my almost closed eyes. Lies pries cries.

We’re in one of the old fashioned rooms with the old fashioned phones you have to spin. Never been updated. Mr. Pinch says it’s for atmostfear but I think Mr. Pinch is being lazy and doesn’t want to have to move out the furniture.

Two double beds. One messy with the sheets tangled at the bottom. One piled with luggage. Guns. Explosives. Usual stuff. Ruff puff guff huff.

There’s an enormous man. He’s a planet of a person, wide and round and dressed in a dollar store version of Mr. Bosch’s clothes. Cheap suit and tie. Ugly colors. Nothing fits right.

Next to him is a man who’s all bulgy with muscles and has the flat face of a mean dog. He’s wearing lots of black and has rings on his fingers and keeps twisting them around. There are lights around him and they’re cruel and strange but still not as scary as Mr. Bosch.

Mr. Bosch is standing by the window, looking outside. I wonder if he sees what I see. Or if he sees what everyone else sees. I bet it’s something different. Mr. Bosch is human, but just because there’s not a word for what he really is. He taps his fingertips against the smudged glass and smiles. He’s a leper he’s a bad guy he’s something worse than the drooling thing in the crawlspace.

Dollar Store is sitting on the threadbare burgundy bedspread of the empty bed with a big knife. He’s slicing up a huge onion and eating it. He chews the same number of bites each time. I can hear every time he chews. Loudly swallows. It’s even and steady and doesn’t change.

Maybe he’s a machine. Nothing inside but cogs and bolts and nuts. Cuts ruts nuts butts. Ha.

Dogface is leaning against the wall. He’s smoking a cigarette and glaring at Mr. Bosch. Mr. Bosch isn’t looking at him but there’s a tiny curve to his mouth and I think he knows what Dogface is doing, anyway.

There’s a third man. He’s dressed in a long fancy coat with ruffles. His face is mostly teeth and painted white and his long hair is done up in dark curls. He licks his lips a lot. He’s smoking a cigarette. It looks soggy. Doggy froggy groggy.

Mr. Bosch is talking. I try very hard not to shake.

There’s a lot of blood at the Nine, but not like the blood on Mr. Bosch.

Nobody else can see the blood. Most adults don’t see much of anything, except maybe Mr. Valentine.

Mr. Bosch doesn’t look bad. That’s how he tricks you.

On the outside, he’s very thin. A whip a snake a needle. There’s something soft about him. Gentle. His clothes are real fancy. Bespoke is what it’s called. Be. Spoke. Coke broke choke. Mr. Bishop told me. Mr. Bosch’s clothes are all cut nice and clean with creases sharp as razorblades. I can see tiny, tiny red lines going up and down his dark grey suit.

Mr. Bosch wears tiny little steel-rimmed glasses he pushes up his nose. He has a little goatee and a delicate air to him and the death and pain and hatred, pure and uncut and crushing, rolls off of him in waves.

It fills the room until I want to gag with it.

When Mr. Bosch speaks, people pay attention.

‘You’re being entirely too paranoid, Paterson,’ says Mr. Bosch in his lilting voice. ‘We were completely concealed. Nobody even knows she’s gone missing.’

‘Yet,’ says Dogface. He spits on the floor, which is rude and gross. ‘I’ve heard about her. Heard the rumors. Nasty stuff.’

‘Surely a man such as yourself isn’t afraid of a mere child?’ asks Mr. Bosch with a smirk. Ruffles laughs, but it’s ugly. He’s violence, he’s bloodlust.

‘The repercussions from taking the child, I should rather think.’ He reminds me of some old time English lord from one of the big thick books Mr. Bishop gives me.

Keeps glancing in my direction with quick, nervous looks as if he thinks I might lunge. Or explode.

‘Please,’ snorts Mr. Bosch. He turns away from the window, and his smile has slipped down his face. ‘The hyperbole surrounding Balthazar is just that - rumors and exaggerations. At the end of the day, he is a mere mortal like all of us. Anyway, you’ll all be on your merry journey long before that charlatan catches a whiff of this.’

He looks over at me. I try to look like the most asleep person ever. My arm is over my face, so I can peek underneath it. I can see Mr. Bosch’s shoes. They’re fancy and so shiny, they’re made of oil and ice. Nice rice mice.

There are no ghosts in this room to ask for help. Even ghosts stay away from Mr. Bosch. He’s not scared of them and they know. Mr. Bosch doesn’t have enough inside him to get scared.

Humans get scared.

Ghosts can tell when there’s something wrong with people and there is so, so much wrong with Mr. Bosch. They vanish when he walks down the hallways. They never told me why. Didn’t have to ask.

No ghosts there’s nobody to talk to. To ask for help. There are ways. Days stays pays.

But there’s no one. I’m alone in the Nine and I don’t want to die.

Just me and these people. The men wouldn’t scare me one bit, except I’m in a cage and Mr. Bosch is there and nobody knows where I am.

‘She’s a foundling,’ he sneers. ‘A ragamuffin. Little girl lost. Nobody will miss her.’

‘Not what I heard,’ says Dogface. ‘What I heard, word is the Proprietor looks after her. Got Balthazar and Malick as his watchdogs on the brat. Don’t want to mess with him.’ He shivers and looks around the room.

Then I remember the cameras.

---

I’m 26 27 28 and I don’t want to die like this.

‘You won’t die from a panic attack, Althea.’ It’s a voice I know but I’m surrounded by a soft white cloud of panicked fog made from cotton balls or some living, breathing thing and I can’t see or feel and I can barely hear. Fear fear fear.

‘Breathe,’ says the voice again. Warm milk with honey and red wine laced with arsenic and pulsing hot blood and soft hands that hurt me when I need them to.

Moxie.

‘Yes, darling,’ says the voice. ‘Right here.’

My name is Althea Parker and I’m soaked with sweat and shaking like a leaf and I know better, I fucking know better.

‘Sh,’ says Moxie. She’s a mystic a mind reader a mercenary. Cut open my skull and scoop out the bad parts.

Everything’s white and far away. There’s only parts of me. My fingers are numb. Might be Moxie’s fingers.

‘Thea,’ says Moxie. And that’s me, she’s mine I’m hers mine twine fine. ‘Tell me what’s happening.’ I open my eyes and I’m in a room with no floor. I’m not here and I’m not anyone and there’s a room that’s a pit am I the pendulum.

‘You’re in the elevator shaft,’ says Moxie. I look up and she’s framed in a doorway surrounded by light. She’s wearing a complicated outfit that’s made out of a melted rainbow. Her legs dangle over the side. I admire the graceful curve of her ankles.

‘Elevators aren’t real,’ I hear myself say. Only it’s not me. I’m far away in the corner of my mind where it’s safe and nothing can ever hurt me.

‘Nothing rhymes with Mr. Bosch,’ I say. I’m giggling I think. I’m giggling and I’m crouched barefoot on the roof of the elevator with a machete and a syringe. There’s blood under my nose and there’s smeared eyeliner on the back of my hands. My black cargo pants are coated with dust and dirt. I rock back and forth on my heels, still giggling.

He’s supposed to leave me alone. That’s a rule. Especially for him. He usually leaves me alone. I’ve seen Mr. Bosch from a distance, across the lobby or standing out by the pool reading or at the bar talking with Bishop even though Bishop fucking hates Mr. Bosch.

‘Would you come out of there, darling?’ asks Moxie. She’s lovely and perfect and if I ask nicely maybe she’ll cut through the cables and I can fall down down down down down down

‘Althea, nobody is cross with you,’ she says when I respond with silence. ‘Well, Arthur’s not thrilled, but fuck him.’

She lights a cigarette. I want a cigarette. I could be a cigarette. I have a lighter and hair is flammable. Burn baby burn.

There’s a crushed pack wedged in the back of my pants. I put a bent cigarette between my lips and light it.

‘Tell me what’s happened,’ says the voice of the woman I love. I’ll try.

I open my mouth but the noises that come out aren’t words.

---

Mr Pinch says I must be polite to all the guests. Even the ones I don’t like.

Like Mr. Bosch.

I do not like Mr. Bosch.

Mr. Pinch mostly hates me, but I’m his job. And he takes his jobs seriously. Me and the Nine. Design so fine.

I’m behind the front desk with Mr. Pinch, tucked in the corner with a picture book about a bunny who wants to be real. Deal feel heal.

It’s a pretty good book. I like it better when Mr. Valentine tells the story to me. His voice is rich and warm a safe bath a soft place to land and he makes the words real. Steal heel keel. When he talks, I can see the story dancing in front of my eyes, running across the walls of the elevator.

I think Mr. Valentine helps me see so well because he can’t.

Pinch is checking in new guests and checking out old guests and filing paperwork and calling to Mr. Malick to fix a broken pipe in Room 17 even though there’s no Room 17 so it must be a code. He’s always moving even when he’s standing still.

Mr. Pinch is part of the Nine. Hums in a different voice but it mixes together with the Nine real nice. Buzzes. Vibrates. Vi. Brates. That’s what happens when there’s an earthquake.

He isn’t mad at me today. But it’s not lunch yet. Bet forget fret.

Generally by lunch I’ve made him mad. Not even on purpose, usually.

But today I’ve been quiet and not made a fuss or asked for attention, so Mr. Pinch lets me behind the front desk. It’s easier to ignore me there, he says.

So I see Mr. Bosch when he checks in.

Most people don’t want to hurt me.

Mr. Bosch does. He wants to hurt everyone and everything. It comes off him in waves, dark and cruel and twisted and blood blood blood so much blood. A swimming pool. One of the big ones that people swim in for contests.

His voice is fancy as his clothes and he uses big words like Mr. Bishop and I want him to leave right now. Right away.

I’m alone in the lobby with Mr. Pinch and something worse than the end of the world.

‘And how long will you be staying with us?’ asks Mr. Pinch in his oily voice, the one he uses when he wants people to tip him.

‘Indefinitely, my dear fellow,’ says Mr. Bosch. ‘I’ve heard fascinating tales about the Nine. I suspect I’ll do very well here.’

‘Excellent, Mr. Bosch,’ says Mr. Pinch. He notices me for the first time in a while. ‘Did you hear that, Althea? You have a new neighbor.’ I hate when he lies and pretends to be nice to me. Mr. Pinch turns back to Mr. Bosch. ‘Miss Althea is another one of our permanent residents.’

Mr. Bosch turns his eyes on me and I am friends with the bats that sing in human voices in the hallways and the ghosts that dance in the ballroom and I have never been scared, not once. I know I’m always safe in the Nine.

I’m scared now. His eyes are worse than dead. Fed head dread.

Dead means you were alive, one time.

This man’s eyes never were alive. You can tell. There was nothing to die. He’s a void. A black hole. Sucks everything up like a straw going for the last bit of the milkshake at the bottom of the glass. The good the bad the ugly the mad the sad the worst and best and all the rest.

He’s nothing. Worse than nothing. He’s nothing made of hate and hurt and I can see why people hate being real scared.

I’ve never been scared like this.

‘Say hello, Althea,’ says Mr. Pinch, his voice getting a tiny bit less friendly.

‘Hello,’ I say. Mr. Bosch grins and his teeth are neat and clean and even and white and his smile is almost as bad as his eyes.

‘Why hello, Miss Althea,’ he says. ‘I’m ecstatic to make this most auspicious of introductions.’

Even though I’m scared, I’m kind of mad too. I know a lot of big words because I read a lot of books and Mr. Bishop and Mr. Valentine use big words all the time. I know ‘ecstatic’ and ‘introductions,’ but not ‘auspicious.’ He’s using big words to try and make me feel small and dumb.

I’m not dumb.

‘Does she live here with her parents?’ asks Mr. Bosch without taking his eyes off of me. There’s a sense that weighing me, measuring me, doing big complicated math sums in his head the way Mr. Valentine and Mr. Malick can. It makes me feel squirmy and unsane.

‘I would relish the opportunity to make their acquaintance.’

I’m a big fancy steak and Mr. Bosch is deciding if he wants me medium rare.

‘Regrettably, Miss Althea’s parents do not live with us here at the Nine,’ says Mr. Pinch. ‘We all look after her, of course. She can be a little scamp.’ Mr. Pinch chuckles as if he didn’t tell me just yesterday that the sound of my voice made him want to jam a needle into his ears.

I got him some knitting needles from the lost and found but he didn’t think it was funny. Mr. Pinch has a crummy sense of humor.

Mr. Bosch’s face looks triumphant for a split second, and I can see he already knew the answer to the question.

‘What a pity,’ says Mr. Bosch. ‘A dainty senorita must feel quite forsaken in such a somber establishment.’

‘I like it here,’ I say. Mr. Pinch makes a noise and I know he’s mad because I’m not supposed to argue with guests but I am supposed to say good things about the Nine to guests. So he’s stuck.

‘I can certainly attest to why,’ says Mr. Bosch. There’s a smile on the corners of his mouth but it’s not a good smile. I shrink further back into the corner.

I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them Sam I am.

‘He’s a bad man,’ I say to Mr. Pinch as soon as Mr. Bosch has gone to check into his new home. Mr. Pinch’s face has relaxed from its phony smile into his usual displeased grimace.

‘There are many bad people here, Althea,’ says Mr. Pinch. ‘Maybe no good ones at all.’

‘He’s bad,’ I say. I can’t explain. People do bad things all the time, but they aren’t usually all bad through and through.

Mr. Bosch is a minus man. Lack of space.

‘If you find him to be scary, Althea, you can just stay out of his way,’ sighs Mr. Pinch. Talking to me is the worst part of his day. Pay to play, okay? ‘It’s a big hotel, I suspect there’s room enough for the two of you.’

But the Nine is mine and that’s just fine, Mr. Pinch. I belong here. Mr. Bosch doesn’t.

And usually Mr. Pinch listens to me when I tell him about bad feelings, but this time he’s trusting his own eyes and what he thinks he saw like a big dope. He thinks Mr. Bosch is one of the money men. The ones that are here to buy and sell and keep their hands clean. Mean green bean.

I asked Mr. Valentine what ‘keep their hands clean’ meant and he said they don’t want to feel guilty. People shouldn’t do stuff if it makes them feel guilty.

Mr. Pinch is being stupid, but if I tell him, he’ll holler at me and send me to my room. It’s safe from Mr. Bosch in my room, probably, but I’m not sure and anyway I’m not the one who should be stuck in their room.

I don’t tell Mr. Pinch he’s stupid, and I don’t argue with him anymore.

I play with the blind rats in the crawlspace and take a nap on the third floor. I help Mr. Valentine clean up after one of the guests had to go and have an accident all on his nice clean floor.

It’s green and brown, mostly.

The accident, I mean.

The person is already in the walls.

I have lunch in the kitchen. A bologna sandwich and potato chips on a cracked plate. Rait late bait.

I keep looking over my shoulder.

The ghosts are too quiet.