"Can you do me a favor?"

Ugh. Nothing like getting a call from 850 Bryant asking for a favor. At least it wasn't the middle of the night. "Yeah. How much is your bail?"

"No, no. Bail's too high this time. I need you to get two things for me. Get my stuff out of Dutch's van. My journals, my clothes. My stash; it's in a can of WD-40. $4800. He's probably in the same area. I don't think he could move that piece of shit far if he wanted to."

Back to China Basin, then. A neighborhood for dumping stolen cars and below-the-radar living. Shopping carts, houseboats, and parked cars with towels over the windows. "What's it look like again? It's been awhile since I seen you two."

"White van with the Granny Goose painted over, but you can still see it through the paint. And it's got T&A mudflaps."

Stylin'. "Does he know you're in jail?"

"Hell, yes! He was out for burgers when the cops popped me. He knows they're looking for him. He won't give you any trouble."

Pause. "You know, Debs, that really doesn't make me feel better about this."

"Just get the can, will you?"

Fuck.

***

We waited for the day the checks come out. A fine, sunny San Francisco day, the fog already gone from the Bayside neighborhoods by 10, when we started driving around, looking for the van.

"Thanks for calling in sick today, Jimmy, and for doing this."

"No problem. Thanks for the Happy Donuts and coffee." He grinned a sugar-glazed grin. "Besides, you'll need help finding this van. You sure it wasn't in the Mission?"

"I'm sure. They had it parked over by the yacht club last time I saw them." Jimmy half-shrugged and raised his eyebrows: when? "Two months ago. I told you about it."

Jimmy held the plastic flap on the lid back with his index finger and took a sip of coffee. "Yeah, darlin', you did. Hard to forget something like that." He jiggled the bag between his feet. "I brought you some tools." Sip. "This street's too busy. Turn there. Yeah, that's good." Jimmy took another donut from the bag sitting on the seat between us and said, "I'm glad you called me this time instead of trying this crazy shit on your own."

"Jimmy, I—"

"There! Pull over in front." White van, Granny Goose, four mudflaps with four shiny silver girls with huge boobs. True crime will out, and Jimmy definitely had the knack. We hopped out to take a look.

As hoped, Dutch was out. Jimmy took a look at the padlock securing the back doors of the van, then walked back to his car to get the tools. I stood there, took a look around. There were no other cars on the street, no shopping carts, no one around. Jimmy walked back, still holding his coffee, and handed me a pair of bolt-cutters. "Cut it there, and there. See? We're in!" I kicked the dead padlock underneath the van, opened the doors, and looked inside. Shit was piled everywhere: clothes, boxes, shoes, garbage. Some things never change. But it was going to make it damn hard to find Debs can and stuff in all the mess. I hopped inside and gamely started searching. Anything bright and sparkly I handed to Jimmy, who dropped in in a Hefty bag. Aha! Tarot cards. Hawkwind mix tapes. Purple leather jacket. In the bag. But no can.

Jimmy peeked his head inside. "Check in the toolbox."

Aha! A can of WD-40. I started fiddling with it, trying to get the bottom off, when I heard Jimmy hiss, "Gimme the can!" I tossed into the Hefty, which Jimmy spun close and threw back into the van.

A car was pulling up behind us. It rolled to a halt about forty feet back, and the engine didn't go off, but the passenger-side door opened and Dutch stepped out. He stood there a moment, one arm on the door, the other on the roof of the car. Jimmy didn't move, but I climbed out of the van and started walking toward the car.

"Hey Dutch! Debs called, said to come get her stuff. You weren't here; hope you don't mind."

He didn't say anything, just shut the car door and started walking up to the van. Dutch's ride drove off, not looking, not getting involved.

"Hey, Jimmy."

"Hey, Dutch. Nice morning." Dutch didn't come close enough for handshakes, so I climbed back in the van, grabbed the trashbag and a handful of journals I found under the mattress. "Well, I've got some clothes for her and her journals for when she gets out of jail. Sorry 'bout the mess."

Dutch looked at the trashbag, looked in the van, looked at Jimmy staring at him hard, then looked at me and said, "What's she in for?" Bastard!

"She didn't say." Something hard welled up in me, and I said, "We might be back if she needs more of her stuff," relishing how the fear welled up in his eyes. "See ya!"

We walked around the van and got back in Jimmy's car. As he turned the key and put it in gear, I saw the gun in the waistband of his pants. "What other tools did you bring along, Jimmy?"

"Just the ones we might need." He turned the corner, pulled over, and turned in his seat to look at me. "Don't ever do that again."

"What?"

"Walk up to a guy like that again. You don't know what could have happened." As he didn't show any sign of turning back to the steering wheel, I finally said okay, and we drove home in silence. But I knew what would have happened. I wasn't the babe in the woods Jimmy took me for. And I don't know if Jimmy knew, or if his life had made him blind to it, but Dutch, while a thief and a forger and a compulsive liar and a drug user, was no killer. He had the kind of eyes that would show only regret after punching his girlfriend, never satisfaction or lust for mayhem. If Dutch had said anything and Jimmy had actually pulled out that gun, Dutch would've rolled over and peed on himself. He was the kind of guy Debs usually went for. As I well knew.

***

The can, when we got back to my apartment and opened it up, was empty. Jimmy figured it would be so.

Things Found Between Couch Cushions

Here it was, a Friday night, and Jared wasn't even making the motions of getting ready to go out. The sweatpants were on, the small stack of delivery coupons was on the coffee table next to his cordless. Shaving wasn't even under discussion.

He plopped down full-length on the sofa and used his sock-covered feet to push Sunday's paper onto the floor. He turned on the tv. He ordered pizza. He channel-surfed.

True, he was not going out. Again. Not that it was habitual; more like a slump that a certain way of starting his car or a lucky pair of underpants would break. Jared considered that he was staying in, having a cozy first date with the blue plush sofa he'd scored for free off Craigslist. Free of price and free of cigarette burns, animal pee, and uncertain smells best left unexamined. It was practically new. Hell, he'd even found change stuck under the cushions—a sofa that made him money! He nodded as he flipped the clicker; that was the kind of sofa a man could love. And it was sized just right for stretching out after a long week putting toys back on the shelf and batteries out of shoppers' pockets.

Jared was three-quarters through his pizza, and not even into the first ten minutes of Farscape when he felt something...what? pinch his butt? No way! He scooched over and looked down at the cushion. Was he sitting on a fork? No. He turned back to the tv when he felt it again. Definitely a pinch! What the fuck!

He got off the sofa and pulled up the cushions. Nothing. When he'd found the first quarter the day before he'd done a pretty thorough search, and as a result it was pretty clean down there. He put the cushions back and sat down again, only sitting up, and with his butt at the other end of the sofa. But after a few minutes he felt another pinch. He didn't move or cuss this time, only moved his eyes down to watch the crack in the cushions next to his thigh.

Out of the lower corner of his eye, where he had to strain so that the tops of his eyes hurt, he saw a spot of red moving. He slowly moved his chin to his chest to get a better look. A tiny arm and hand was sticking up between the cushions, feeling around. It looked like Stretch Armstrong's arm in a red sleeve, bending this way and that. Jared put his hand down on the cushion next to his leg, next to the groping arm. The little hand touched his pinky, then ow! he felt the pinch. Still quiet, he moved his hand along the cushion, away from the crack between the cushions, and slowly, a little shoulder followed by a little chest, all in red, emerged from between the sofa cushions, followed by a small blue plush hat sitting on a doll head. When enough of the little figure had wiggled out to reach his hand, and he felt the beginning of the pinch, Jared summoned his PlayStation-honed reflexes and grabbed the little Stretch. The figure just about fit within his clenched hand, but a small pair of legs stuck out from between his fingers. The legs kicked and a little fly-sized voice screamed out, "Help me. Hel-l-l-l-p me-e-e-e-e! Hel-l-l-l-l-l-p me-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!" He gave his fist a little shake, but the voice only got louder and the little legs only kicked harder, though still without much force.

Jared leaned over and grabbed his Big Gulp cup off the coffee table, popped off the top and dropped the squealing thing inside before snapping the plastic lid back in place and pulling the straw out. Whatever it was immediately started scrabbling around the bottom of the cup, but didn't seem to be able to reach the lip; the challenge of a 64-oz cup seemed to overwhelm it. He carefully pulled the lid back off and looked inside.

Damn, it really was a little dude in a red suit and a blue playaz hat. It's little white face was flush from its exertions in the Big Gulp holding cell, but when it saw the lid off it stopped racing around, turned its reddened face toward Jared and shook a clenched fist in the air. Jared laughed; the sight of the little pimp dude so angry reminded him of the Christmas specials he watched every year as a child. But when the little pimp dude saw Jared laughing at him, he showed Jared a tiny middle finger. Not very cartoony. He stopped laughing and put the lid back on, set the Big Gulp back on the coffee table, and went back to watching tv and finishing the last slices.

***

The apartment was dark, and Jimmy Kimmel was wrapping it up for the evening. The cup was still sitting on the coffee table, but the scrabbling sounds had ceased hours ago. Jared didn't want to go to sleep with the doll-like thing still in the cup, but he also didn't want to think about it too closely, either. Would it come after him if he fell asleep, crawl over him with a little carrot peeler or a steak knife and stab him in the eye while he slept? Why did it pinch him? Why was it in the sofa to begin with?

What was it?

When the tv finally went to snow he grabbed the cup and headed into the bathroom. He got as far as lifting the lid before he remembered how awful it had been when he was nine and his older brother had flushed Goldie down the toilet after Jared had broken his brother's Little League trophy. He put the lid back down and walked to the kitchen.

The small window over the sink looked out over an empty lot festooned with pampas grass and plastic bags snagged on the woodier weeds. He was on the second floor but figured that something as small as Little Pimp Dude would be light enough to survive the fall. How much was there of him for gravity to catch hold of anyway? He opened the window, took out the screen, stuck the cup out the window and took off the lid. Before he could upend the Big Gulp he heard the fly-voice say from inside the cup, "If you spare me, I will serve you." Jared paused, then started once more to upend the cup when he again heard,

"Spare me, and I will serve you."

He pulled his arm in and looked in the cup. The little figure was crouched down in the bottom of the cup like it was getting ready to kiss its ass goodbye. Jared gave the cup a little shake to get its attention, then said, "What?"

"Spare me, and I will serve you. Put me back in the sofa."

"I don't want you pinching my ass while I'm watching tv. Or scaring the ladies I might have lying on that sofa. You dig, Little Pimp?"

"Spare me, put me back in the sofa and give me back my treasure, and I will serve you."

"What—you mean the change in the cushions?"

The little figure raised its little face and looked square at Jared. "That was mine. People drop coins into the sofa for me, and I do things for them. Serve them. Put me back in the sofa, give me back my treasure, and I can do things for you, too."

Jared felt like part of him was floating over his shoulder, watching himself talk to the little creature in the cup. It felt unreal, but he continued to bargain with the tiny figure. "Don't pinch me no more, or I swear I will set off a four-pack of roach bombs in here, you little sonofabitch." Pause, and a small shake of the cup for effect. "What will you do for me?"

"Find your keys when you lose them. Find the paper money for you. Unhook a bra." Pause, and a tip of his hat for effect. "Useful things."

"Alright. I don't know which coins are yours, so take what I've got here in my pocket and the spare change on the table." He set the cup down on its side on the sofa so that Little Pimp Dude could see him sliding the change behind the middle cushion. "Remember the deal."

Jared watched as the little figure squirmed down between the cushions after the coins. "Oh, I will. Remember to drop a coin down here for me every now and then. And don't piss me off. I've got brothers."

"Huh." Jared sat down on the coffee table. "I'll leave my pipe loaded in case you decide to do something about that attitude, Little Pimp." He turned off the tv and walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

Mithril

She didn't come home for dinner.

I stood on the front porch in the heat of the evening and clicked my spoon against my empty bowl but she never ran up to me. I ended up putting it in the sink, with its coating of melted ice cream intact.

By my bedtime she still hadn't come back.

The next morning was a Saturday, and I went looking first thing. I would've gone looking if it'd been a school day. Because she hadn't come home and that could only mean something was awfully wrong. She never went far, never beyond where we neighborhood kids played our running games or had our Big Wheel drag races down one driveway, across the street and zooming down the second drive, spinning to a halt in a spray of gravel and shredded skinned feet. I searched the wash behind the apartments, what used to be an arroyo but was now a concretized, channelized drainage ditch.

I looked in the street gutters and under cars. Thank God I never saw her there. I then began combing the apartment lots one by one, methodically. I walked down the length of the lot with the American Legion, front to back, along the wash, then up the far fence toward the street. The cops used to chase us out of there. Sometimes we would drop firecrackers inside glass bottles holding black widow spiders we sometimes found near the trash cans.

As I walked along the fence I thought I heard meowing. I paced the fence, listening hard. Meowing as faint as a spider's curse. I grabbed the rough wood and pulled myself up; at least I was wearing shoes. The next lot over had an apartment complex, with kids we didn't play with. At the back of the building, on the other side of the fence, was the apartment's laundry room. I pulled myself up higher and looked up and down the walkway, then hopped the fence. She was in the laundry room, yelling at me behind the closed window.

Reunited and in our own apartment, I watched as she ate, gobbling her Friskies, half-chewed food spewing from her mouth as she purred and meowed at the same time. She had quite a story to tell. I loved hearing every word of it.