by Drew Franzen
Leaving his home before dawn that morning, he arrived to the office of the Sentinel-Tribune shortly after six.
“What to do, what to do,” he said aloud, to himself; part-time copywriter and production assistant Amy Anderson not scheduled to arrive before nine. It was Monday; the newspaper was due for distribution tomorrow. “What to do,” he said again, refilling his mug with a mixture of chamomile and Absolut.
The Nikon digital was on his desk; the same camera that last evening Seamus carried suspended from the leather strap around his neck. He observed it intently, as if expecting it to speak. “J’ Accuse,” it would say if it did.
Recoiling slightly as if it had, Seamus recovered. After a moment, he extended a chubby finger to trace the lines and gentle curve of the Nikon’s smooth, European design. The three gig memory card remained in the unit. Last evening, Seamus had been tempted to remove it, compelled by some impulse of uncharacteristic goodwill to extract the card, to smash it, and to discard the remains into the nearest storm drain. But he hadn’t, motivated instead by a more powerful urge to preserve the photographs he had taken prior to the arrival of the police. Seamus laughed.
“That would have been it then, wouldn’t it have?” he said, as if speaking to the camera. “The game’d been over if either o’ the buggers had found you out, huh? Do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars; go directly to jail; do not bend over in the shower.” Seamus giggled self-consciously.
Draining the last of the chamomile and Absolut, he reached for the camera purposefully, as if deciding it would not bite. He booted his desktop, waited for the screen saver to appear and, after typing his password, connected the two devices. Two clicks later a dialogue box appeared, displaying the contents of the file. Seamus’ tongue was thick on the roof of his mouth. The cursor arrow flashed over the first of eight entries.
“One click,” Seamus said, as if speaking to the computer screen. “One double click,” he corrected, his finger poised over the mouse.
The breakfast in his stomach lurched, threatening at any moment to overwhelm him and erupt onto the keyboard. Seamus dragged the cursor arrow from the first entry, to the last, then slowly back, as if teasing himself.
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe,” he whispered, double clicking when the arrow settled on file number four. The processor hummed and before his eyes could adjust, an image of the dead child filled the screen.
“Ja’sus,” Mcteer said, inhaling, drawing the word out. “Mapplethorpe, eat yer heart out.”
Missy Bitson lay prone in the trash bin, dark-light skin contrasting sharply with her snug, white top. Her hair lay about her face, glistening like a halo. Her hands were upturned, fingers crooked in a come hither gesture: Come here big boy, show me what you got. Her thighs, parted, revealed the crotch seam of her blue jeans, faux-proxy to the real thing. Seamus trembled; the sensation traveled like warm fluid from his cerebellum to his loins.
In the corner of the screen the time flashed eight twenty-two. Amy would soon arrive. Seamus reviewed the other entries on the disk for clarity and focus, ensuring each of the eight frames was consistent with the usual high standard his clients had come to expect from his work, reluctant to be drawn away. Shame, he thought to himself, that he wouldn’t be able to market the images locally.
“Suicide,” he said. “Tha’ would be suicide,” he repeated, as if needing to hear it again.
If Ed Dojcsak had worried the evening before over the photos appearing in the Sentinel-Tribune, he need not have; on the black market their commercial value to Seamus was immense. He removed the memory card from the Nikon, placing it in a locked drawer for safekeeping; it would return home with him later that evening where he would conceal it with the rest of his inventory, beneath a false bottom built into the hearth of his fireplace floor.
The photos were a coup, the ultimate combination of adolescent erotica and violent death, and a decided escalation in the character of his work. Seamus mentally calculated their value while at the same time agonizing over a method for distribution. In the last month his network had been crippled, after thirty years virtually shut down by recent arrests and an ongoing investigation by the FBI. (The very technology that had allowed them so rapidly to expand now was being turned against them.)
The network would be rebuilt, he knew, according to the immutable law of supply and demand. The investigation had, thus far, not implicated Seamus, but gone were intermediaries in Georgia, Kentucky, Alabama and Wisconsin, and throughout the State of New York—from Mineola to Jamestown; doctors, attorneys, politicians and civil servants, individuals with appetites and the means to indulge them.
Even his Canadian contact hadn’t replied to Seamus’ latest offer of what he knew was first-rate material being created in the Philippines, children so young as to make even Seamus blush. With the U.S. Dollar rate of exchange being what it was, it was odd for him not to immediately respond.
Seamus feared the worst. Church Falls was too small a market into which he could profitably sell; in fact, it was no market at all. Perhaps, he decided, his partner Jeremy Radigan would have a plan.
Just as Seamus removed the key from the locked drawer, the glass panel separating his office from the outer foyer opened, allowing in a gust of cool, damp April morning air. Stooped, as if to re-tie his shoelace, Seamus raised his eyes to meet those of Amy Anderson, her pale skin flush with chill, her blond hair hanging loose in thin strands across her high forehead.
“You’re early,” Seamus said, thinking back home Amy would be described as a cow.
“Haven’t you heard? There’s been a murder,” Amy said, as if introducing an episode of City Confidential on A and E.
“Oh, ay. Been at it since six, me ’self.”
“And?”
“An’ what, lass? First things first, isn’t it? I’m dyin’ for a cuppa’. Put the kettle on the hob, fix us a toddy and I’ll tell you, ‘An’ what.’”
“Do they have any idea who killed her?”
“Can’t say as they have, but I have a few ideas of my own, haven’t I?” he said, tapping a chubby finger to his freshly shaven skull. “Leave it to the Scottish meat pie to figure it out.”
In one hand, Amy clutched a plastic sac containing lunch, together with a snack for midday. In the other was a paperback novel that, as was her custom, she would read while eating. As she moved, Amy’s hips heaved beneath her dark, stretch pants. Not for the first time in the years since she had been hired, Seamus thought nostalgically, be like fuckin’ the Gran’ Canyon, that one. Amy moved close.
“Well?” she asked.
“Don’t be daft, girl. Not before my tea,” he groused with alcohol-fueled good nature before shooing her away.
Misdirection, Seamus thought to himself after Amy had gone, misdirection. There were a few in this town who wouldn’t complain to see an A-rab or a Paki (even a black boy or two?) sent up for the killing of the girl: perhaps an editorial to reflect this?
Over fifteen years, the darkies (in his assessment of non-whites, Seamus made no allowance for ethnicity; only skin tone) had settled in the community as if it were their own, accepting the service and farm industry jobs the locals didn’t want, importing their customs, their religion, their language and their food; even their smell, Seamus thought distastefully. They arrived through the late eighties and nineties, smothering the streets of his south-side neighborhood like a dune of shifting sand, occupying rooms in private homes that after the last recession had been converted to third floor walk-ups. Soon the streets of Church Falls would resemble the streets of New York, the home he had been forced to vacate prior to returning here.
The telephone rang, disrupting his further consideration of the problem and of a possible solution.
“Aye,” he croaked into the receiver. “Who? Why’re you calling me here, boy? I warned you never to do that.” Seamus listened patiently and almost hysterically said, “But I had nothing to do with it.” Even to Mcteer it sou
nded hollow.
After a minute, he replaced the receiver without uttering another word. “Stupid fuck,” he said, “what can you expect from a coon.”
“Were you speaking to me?” asked Amy. She’d entered the office unnoticed and unannounced, proffering Seamus his tea with an outstretched hand. He eyed her cautiously. “Another I’ll need to have an eye for,” he muttered, accepting his tea without thanks, eying her backside disdainfully as she left the office and firmly closed the door.
CHURCH FALLS, SOMETIME IN THE SEVENTIES
ROOTS RADIGAN SNORTED. “Oink, oink,” he snuffled, submerging his face between the fleshy breasts of the young girl, “I’m a pig.”
“So am I,” she giggled. “’Ee haw, ‘Ee haw.”
“That’s a donkey, you ass.” At this, they both giggled, uncontrollably. “Baby,” Roots said, “fucking you is like fucking the Grand Canyon.”
Roots buried his hips more deeply between the girl’s thighs. He didn’t recognize her face, couldn’t recall her name, thought she might have joined them early in the summer, on the trip up from Saratoga Springs. She was young, no more than fifteen he guessed, and fleshy: fleshy breasts, fleshy belly, fleshy bum, fleshy bush. No matter, she was tasty, and Roots was glad for her company. After so long on the road, the other girls were beginning to bore Roots Radigan, to become tiresome with their complaints: Roots was too rough, or he fucked too long (as if it were possible).
Roots stopped snorting, but continued to thrust his hips. Forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, in a rhythmic motion that after a while even to him became redundant. Though he tried, Roots was unable to come. The drug he had taken earlier made him stiff as a baseball bat but relieved his erection of virtually all sensation. Though it was functional and impressive to look at, eventually it became painful for both he and his partner. Unable to enjoy the experience, Roots allowed his mind to wander.
He was annoyed with the rousting his group had received from the State Police over of the dead girl. Roots was concerned they might be asked to vacate the County, pull stakes from their secluded spot up river from the Bluffs. Since arriving in Church Falls early that summer, they had largely been tolerated, if not ignored. His small caravan had made its way north from Saratoga in a hiccoughing conga line of squealing tires and belching, blue smoke, fifteen persons strong; a dozen women shared among three men. Upon joining the group, Roots had assumed de facto leadership, owing in part to his status as senior member but more for his ability to link together more than three words consecutively at a time to form a coherent, if not always grammatically correct, sentence. Though his erudition hadn’t convinced the locals in Saratoga to grant an extension to their stay, in Church Falls, thus far, Roots had been successful in convincing the State Police of their good nature. He wasn’t sure his character could withstand the more thorough investigation that inevitably would follow on the death of the stupid girl.
“It’s dry,” the girl beneath him complained, “and it hurts.”
Roots pumped harder, faster. He thought of returning home, back to Mineola, knowing it was too soon. His job as a bank security guard might be waiting but so too might be the cops. His brother hadn’t talked yet, but Roots could not say with certainty when he might.
Roots’ was busy pondering a solution to his dilemma when from the undergrowth he heard a loud snap. He turned. Roots saw a patch of what he at first thought to be a bright red autumn leaf protruding from the underbrush, as if suddenly the trees had changed color prematurely. It was midsummer; too early for the foliage to change. Roots stopped pumping, dismounted the girl, and, still naked, approached the trees. What he had thought was a leaf was a shock of bright, curly orange human hair.
“You,” he called, hands on hips, erection pointing like a divining rod. “You,” he repeated, “out of there.”
Cautiously, a timid Seamus Mcteer emerged from where he was hiding.
Roots moved swiftly, so quickly that Seamus had barely time to avoid his wildly swinging and swollen penis. Roots grasped him by his shirt collar, gestured and said, “I should smash your skull open against that fuckin’ rock.”
The rock was very large, gray and damp, and Roots appeared deadly menacing. But for all that, Seamus could not remove his eyes or his concentration from either Roots greasy looking penis or the girl. His head moved back and forth rhythmically as if it was attached by a spring.
The girl was on her feet now, no more than ten feet away. She observed the confrontation, which owing to the fact Seamus was cowering could hardly be termed a confrontation at all. She was naked except for a kerchief tied about her head to restrain her dark hair. Her body was plump, like a girl, breasts large and full like a woman, though she appeared to be only half way between either. Between her legs a dark triangle of pubic hair gleamed, small bits of grass and dry leave clinging to the curly tips.
“Manna,” said Seamus, under his breath. Despite his predicament, watching her now, Seamus could think only of one thing: that would bring me a fortune in Church Falls, if not in currency in self-esteem.
“How long have you been watching?” Roots demanded to know.
“Not long, only a minute,” Seamus said, as if this made it acceptable.
“Fuckin’ perv,” Roots said, nudging Seamus toward the girl. “A fuckin’ perv.” He spat.
Roots released his grasp on Seamus’ shirt collar, returned to his companion and reached to the grass for a package of cigarettes. He ignited for both he and the girl. Amazingly, Roots penis remained stiff, standing at a forty-five degree angle to the breeze. Had it been himself, Seamus thought, he would have wilted from the embarrassment and at the shock of discovery. Not once did Mcteer consider Radigan was neither embarrassed nor shocked. Beside Roots, the girl smoked, standing casually as if she were fully clothed.
Roots said, “Beatin’ off in the bushes, pal?” He released a smoke ring from between his lips, and into the air.
“No,” said Seamus too quickly, as if the thought hadn’t entered his mind.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we? Probably creamed all over the weeds,” Roots said to the girl. He smiled a crooked smile, as if not only his teeth but also his sense of humor was twisted. He walked to the place where Seamus had been hiding, returning with the flash camera in hand. “Pictures?” he said, referring to Seamus. “Pictures? What are you, a fuckin’ are-teest? What are you doing, kid, selling ‘em in town to bored housewives.” Roots approached Seamus menacingly. “You freak. I outta’ punch out your lights,” he said, for a second time threatening violence.
“No, no,” Seamus blurted. Before he could restrain himself, he said, “I only sell them to my friends.”
“Friends?” Roots said, moving closer. “Friends?” He paused, processing this information. “You sell the pictures to your friends?”
Seamus did not reply.
“Tell me; do you have plenty of friends, kid?”
“I do now.” Seamus acknowledged with a nod toward the camera.
“How much are you getting?” Roots was curious. “Per picture.”
“Depends,” replied Seamus.
“On what?” asked Roots, absorbed with the conversation, though his penis continued to throb and twitch excitedly between his thighs.
“On how much I show.”
“On how much you what?”
“You know, show. How much I show. The guys will pay more for bush, and a hard-on. Mostly, they’ve never seen anything like it.”
Roots thrust his hips forward to indicate his erection. “You mean like this? And that?” He referred to the bushy V between his companion’s legs.
Seamus said, “Yeah, especially like that.”
Roots seemed to consider this revelation. After a moment, he asked, “Do they like ‘em young? You know, little titty, little bum.”
“Never gave it much thought,” replied Seamus. Then, “But the eighth graders are pretty popular with the high school boys.�
�� After a moment, he said, “Yeah, I suppose they like ‘em young.”
Roots extended a scrawny forearm over Seamus’ shoulder, bringing his face close so Seamus smelled his sour breath. He could see bits of food wedged between Radigan’s yellow teeth; what might be flecks of food, or simply decay. His hair was shoulder length, smelling of the earth, as if Roots had been sleeping outdoors for a very long time. Reinforcing this impression were the bits of stray grass, dirt, leaf and twig trapped in the tangled brown mass. Roots moved closer, making it impossible for Seamus to avoid contact with his still perfectly formed erection.
“As they say in the movies,” Roots quoted, “‘I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship’.”
With that, they walked together toward the collection of trailer homes and tents, neither the girl nor Radigan bothering to dress.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EVERY WEEK for almost thirty years, Roots Radigan traveled home to Mineola. For the first ten years, he made the journey over the desolate stretch of interstate in the battered nineteen sixty nine Chevy Bel Air he’d purchased on a weekly installment plan from McMaster Chev-Olds, a plan offered at the time only to employees and one for which the owner had high hopes.
Not much to look at, the vehicle nonetheless was reliable. Roots began the long drive each Friday evening after completing the day shift at the dealership. On the way he stopped only once: for food, for coffee, and to relieve himself. In Long Island, Roots stayed at The Mayfair Inn. Though the May-fair was anything but, its location between Mineola and Belmont Park Racetrack made it convenient, allowing Roots to conduct both business and pleasure expeditiously, Roots having a passion for the ponies. On these occasions, after spending two nights away, Roots returned home on Sunday evening, repeating the routine by stopping only once: food, coffee, and to relieve himself.
