by A. J. Lape
Funny thing was, he seemed a little trigger-happy on both accounts.
“No,” I clarified. “Turkey.”
He took one last swipe at the barrel then shoved it back inside its leather holster, snapping it up nice and tight. “Yeah,” he muttered. “The man has some sort of plan, but I can’t wrap my head around it, yet.”
You know, I decided to spit it out. I curled under my blanket and sipped on coffee, trying to act disinterested and merely conversational. “So the midnight meeting didn’t go well? He didn’t talk?” I remembered Lincoln saying, Then on with the original plan. Well, what did that plan entail? To live to a ripe, ole age or get acquainted with a casket?
He gave me one of those looks that meant he was on to me, overly tired, or rehashing details he’d rather keep buried. He exhaled, rubbed his eyes with his palms, and shook his head. “We shouldn’t have trusted that guy,” he muttered. “I can’t protect him if he doesn’t give me information.” Aaah, I said to myself. This man was an informant who chickened out at the last minute. “Sometimes,” he continued, “people don’t take an out when you offer it to them. You can’t help someone if they won’t let you.”
I needed help, but my mind couldn’t formulate the perfect phrasing. The good-girl part needed to confess I’d investigated the Cisco Medina case on my own. The bad-girl part said, Who gives a donkey’s butt? My conscience was currently playing hooky, so the bad-girl got a free pass.
I blinked three times, wondering if I’d walked in the middle of a dream or real life nightmare. Herbie Knoblecker lay on his front yard flat on his back, like a corpse. Fear crawled up my body like a tiny spider making a web. My God, he’d had a heart attack, someone had shot him, or it’s conceivable he’d choked on his breakfast.
I cupped my shaking hands around my mouth. “Herbie!” I yelled.
No response from his end.
Instinct took over, and I ran down the ribbon driveway, my bare feet wincing as soon as they struck the hot pavement of Serendipity Drive. Fueled by pure adrenaline, in no time flat, I knelt over him checking for wounds. Wearing a white, nylon jogging suit, no blood trail lay evident anywhere. The only thing evident was the perspiration beaded underneath his nose. That left his heart … I think. I’d performed CPR on Resusci Annie before. Could I remember how to do it? What if I did it wrong? Did a bad technique even matter?
“Herbie,” I said loudly, jostling his shoulders. My throat dried up when that got me nowhere. “Herbie!” I shook again.
Nothing. I reluctantly unloaded a hard slap, and when I didn’t even get a groan, I traced two fingers down his ribcage—readying for chest compressions—when Herbie suddenly snorted awake. He slowly propped himself up, one elbow at a time. “Mornin’, Darcy,” he muttered, meeting my gaze. “I fell asleep in my yoga.”
I shook my head, questioning if I’d heard him right. “You wh-what?” I asked. Sure enough, he repeated it again.
“I’m communing with Mother Nature,” he muttered. “I need her help with my fungus.”
His fungus, I exhaled, patting my pounding heart. I collapsed by his side in complete and utter amazement. The man merely fell asleep on his lawn. Sleeping on the lawn was normal, right? Let me answer my own question … that would be: No. Problem was, my thinking had been skewed toward the bizarre for so long that I always jumped to the worst conclusion. I had no clue how to live another type of life. I saw things; I reacted. I didn’t see them; I manufactured a story. I wished them to be there; they were. All I knew was bizarre crap had happened to me since birth. Finding Herbie asleep on his lawn epitomized a prime example of the “weird but true.” Trouble was, the sane would never believe it.
Herbie rolled to his side—a marvel in itself—and farted.
“Ya have a witch Nanny, right?”
Sweet God in Heaven. I pulled my red tank up over my nose, wishing I’d stayed in bed. This was beyond ridiculous, and now I needed a sedative. “Yeah,” I muttered.
“Do you think she can help me with this?”
Before I could blink, Herbie hefted his rotund body up on his knees wherein he simultaneously dropped his drawers. I closed my eyes on impact. I’d never seen male body parts, and Herbert Knoblecker’s were not the male body parts I’d have chosen as the introduction. I’d always imagined some stud muffin that’d rival a thoroughbred would do the honors, not an overweight midget with gas problems.
Cracking one eye open, relief washed over me when his doublewide butt stared in my face and not his front package. “See this?” he muttered, craning for his backside.
“Unfortunately,” I croaked.
“What is that?”
The “that” in question was a scaly, red patch of skin about three inches wide that started at his waist and went south. Thank God, my view stopped at “The Great Divide.”
I took a step back. “Maybe it’s athlete’s foot.”
“On my hiney?”
“That stuff can migrate,” I lied.
“Like birds?”
“Like birds.”
“How in the world did I get a bird fungus on my hiney?”
“Anything’s possible with all the preservatives in food.”
Herbie took a few moments to process the lie I’d just fed him. He scrunched up his nose, rolled the words around in repeat, and finally snorted, “Ain’t that the truth.”
After a few more grumbled sounds, he pulled up his pants and immediately locked his eyes on my chest. He narrowed his eyes then widened them, blatantly sizing up my lack of female endowment. “So your witch Nanny can’t give you boobs?” he grumbled. “My granny used to do a lot with frog eyes. If this cream of yours don’t work, then mix in some bull frog eyes and those things will puff up real nice.”
I closed my eyes for a second.
Opened them.
Made a mental note.
I was desperate, people. If it took the death of a million frogs to give me boobs I was all for it. While I stood up and offered Herbie my hand, he instead stayed on the grass and actually buried his face into it and spoke. After a few muffled words, he staggered up, and as God as my witness, commenced with yoga moves. What I thought would’ve been anatomically impossible. He launched into what resembled the warrior pose but looked like a fat snowman. Next was the half frog except it reeked of the Kama Sutra. After a few more seconds of failure, he attempted the scorpion. With a few grunts of “Help me, Mother Nature,” he fell into the downward facing dog. His white nylon pants split down the seam, and his hairy rear end exposed itself for God and everybody. I coughed behind my hand, swallowed, then coughed again because the laugh was begging to live.
My word, I was destined to see the man’s rear end today.
“Did the breeze kick up?” he asked.
“No, but the smell did,” I mumbled.
When Herbie resurrected the fungus conversation, I was struck with an instant migraine. The last I’d glanced at the clock it was after 5AM. Law-abiding citizens and good moral teenagers were tucked away, snug in their beds. But teenagers like me were doing what we always did … the forbidden.
I’d tripped Colton’s security system ten minutes ago, wanting to walk-off an intense sense of failure. The process of escape wasn’t especially hard. For Colton, this was the year of the zodiac. The Taylors spent a long weekend here last February, and I happened to be on the phone with Dylan when he and his father were beeping themselves back into their home. In the background, I heard Colton mumble, “Aquarius.” This was August, so I boldly typed in “Leo” and prayed like a monk. After a green light beeped the all clear, I merely opened the door. Before I could symbolically pat myself on the back, Herbie’s not-so-dead corpse caught my eyes.
Someone was bound to wake soon and find that I’d gone AWOL. A search party would ensue. I’d get airmailed back home, spanked, grounded, flogged … etcetera. The way I saw it, I might as well make the best of my time with Herbie. When I walked back through those doors, all hell was going to break loose.
/> “Kyd told me you’re financing some private investigators to look for Cisco Medina, Herbie. What do you know about them?”
“Not a lot,” he admitted. “The money’s taken outta my account the first of the month on automatic withdrawal.”
“Are we talking about one firm?”
Herbie stopped whatever double-jointed yoga pose he’d been attempting, wrinkling his face, deep in thought. “One, maybe two.”
“Can you remember their names?”
“One was somethin’ like Find it, Incorporated, and the other I can’t remember. Gertrude Burr will know. She’s good fer a grand a month.”
Talking to Gertrude just shot to the top of my to-do list. Our dealings were slim and closer to none, but this would provide a good excuse to ask about the man floating in her pool. Murphy didn’t raise a fool, though. Gertrude might give me the other name, but the real information would come from the bank.
“Who’s your contact, Herbie?”
“Eleanor Talley at the Bank of America. She takes care of evrathin’.”
Eleanor Talley. Maybe Eleanor could cough up information, but a bank manager wouldn’t speak to a teenager unless I accidentally, I emphasized in my mind, called on her personal line. When I asked for her direct number, Herbie jabbered it out, closed his eyes to recheck, then recited it again more confidently. I repeated the numbers twice in my head, commanding them to stick.
My plan consisted of getting my big girl voice on, explain that Herbie was a personal friend, and tell her my inner do-gooder was dying to donate a hefty sum. I’d impressed myself. I actually had a plan that didn’t include rushing into a place and hoping it didn’t burn down.
“It’s really nice what you’re doing for that little boy, Herbie.”
Herbie breathed in deep with a look of satisfaction. “I like to think of myself as that silent k in my last name. I can be involved in something great as long as I’m surrounded by the right letters.”
I felt more cerebrally challenged than normal. Yoga with Herbie and half a dozen texts from Kyd—apologizing for (surprise, surprise) Mary—was way too much brain activity. I putzed around until lunch, and after a meal of chips and BLTs, Dylan twisted my arm into playing sand volleyball.
My hair was the bedhead special, sort of parted, and looking like the star of a freak show. Sweeping it back into a high ponytail, I switched into a yellow bikini, hoping to even out my tan and darken up my stretch marks.
As we stepped onto the sand, I took a gander at my partner. Dylan was usually polite, maintaining civilities, with the moral code of a martyr, but when his competitive juices started flowing, all of that “yes, ma’am” and “no, ma’am” behavior flew away in the wind. He’d perform a few stretches and neck rolls then look you up and down, smiling like a death row inmate suddenly let out on furlough. As though annihilating you, he’d relish as a chance to “walk the crazy” in him. In that respect, we were alike.
I. Absolutely. Hated. To. Lose.
The sun blazed high overhead and beat us like a punching bag. After thirty minutes of play, I was soaked to the bone and Dylan’s black board shorts stuck to his hamstrings like a second skin. Right as we were leaving, Kyd and his best friend, Tricky Neptune, sauntered onto the sand, challenging us to a game.
Trouble…
Trouble, trouble, trouble.
Tricky had that nickname for a reason; rumor claimed he was a safecracker. A little under six feet, Tricky had the physique that would keep his extracurricular activities cloaked in the dark. He was built long and lean and extremely agile with chestnut brown hair, black eyes, and a tan so deep it reminded you of a Fudgsicle. Tricky exuded confidence. Where most teenaged guys tripped over their hormones, Tricky frolicked in them. Case in point, he wore a candy apple red Speedo cut down to a perfectly muscled … well, use your imagination. God knows I did.
“Nice tattoo,” Kyd whistled in my direction.
I nervously giggled … Dylan growled.
Kyd referred to the fact I had a faded, henna tattoo right above my booty—a tramp stamp. The image initially consisted of angel wings surrounded by lightning bolts. I mean, what good were angel wings without a lightning bolt, right? Well, one lightning bolt and wing later, I concluded that idea had been royally stupid.
Go all the way, or don’t go at all.
I looked like a hoochie convention reject.
After a few rounds, Kyd suddenly slammed a ball in Dylan’s direction. Dylan launched himself high, throwing all his weight into the hit, spiking the ball to the sand directly under Tricky’s feet.
Tricky stood there stunned, puzzled why his reflexes had failed him. “Are you workin’ your mojo, D?” I laughed.
“Is it working?” he grinned.
When Dylan set loose his smile, I never knew what to zero in on first: lips, dimples, or teeth. I usually swapped fascination on all three characteristics in between deep breaths and wheezy coughs. I swallowed the frog in my throat, shrugging as I served the ball over. We volleyed back and forth a few times—Kyd stuffed a ball, Dylan stuffed two—when all of a sudden the air supply thinned out. I’m not sure what it was … a message from God, or maybe even survival of the species. All I knew was Kyd locked on my bikini like a divining rod seeking water.
He soared through the air, his face hard and determined with me as the intended target. Before I could defend myself, he took us airborne, and I flapped like an idiot, landing spread-eagle in the sand. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. And Kyd lay on top of me enjoying my feathers. Running both hands seductively down my sides, he firmly planted them on both hips. Heck, I’d never felt anyone’s hands on my jeans let alone my bikinied bottom.
“How’s that feel, Legs?” he whispered into my ear.
I just got shellacked; it actually felt painful.
Dylan growled overtop Kyd like a bloodthirsty lion. “You must not value your life, Kyd.” Kyd had no opportunity to respond. In one breath, Dylan picked him up by the back of his flowered board shorts, throwing him 15 feet in the air like a rag doll. Kyd came down with a thud, and momentarily, I think, went night-night.
“You’re toast,” I heard Tricky half chuckle, half sigh.
Dylan expelled a humorless laugh. “Toast is only a minor burn,” he threatened. “I’m going to start the process by breaking his back then each of his fingers, leaving him to blister in the sun.” He glanced down at me, and I lay motionless. “Take my hand,” he ordered.
Trouble was, my hand quit working. I looked at his hand then to mine, and God help me, I didn’t know what to do with either. Dylan gently pulled me up, my toes gripping the sand for support. While he dusted me off, I spit out a mouthful of beach.
“I’m sorry,” I coughed.
Dylan frantically searched my face, trying to understand where I was going with the dialogue. I didn’t know. The important thing was to rein in Dylan’s dark side before it chomped down on Kyd and ripped off a bite. I wiped my mouth on the back of my wrist. “Don’t h-hurt him, D,” I coughed again. “I know he’s a fastard, but he’s still my brother.”
The imaginary dart he threw in Kyd’s direction said he wasn’t in the bargaining mood. “He’s not going to hurt, sweetheart. When I’m done with him, he’s not going to feel anything.” Dylan’s eyes span the length of my face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’ll be okay,” I assured him. Once my lungs figured out how to suck in air.
Dylan took my face in his hands, his eyes tender, his voice super-barbaric. “Go to the car,” he fumed.
“Go to the car?” I echoed in surprise.
Dylan acted like he contemplated something complex and was frustrated because he couldn’t make it simple. Out of the blue, he smacked me on the rear, as though congratulating me for a game-well-played and was sending me to the locker room. We met eyes—mine wide with surprise; his naughty as all get-out.
For a moment, the world stopped moving. Fire fell from the sky, the earth split in a quake, and the wallfl
ower got to dance with the hottest guy around. Things were perfect. Destined. Deliberate. Then like an insecure teenaged girl, I feared the flimsy elastic on my swimsuit made my cellulite butt a sideshow. Dylan had smacked it; his hand might currently be grossed out.
“Put on some shorts,” he demanded, narrowing his eyes. Well, I guess he answered that.
“That bad, huh?” I whispered.
He suddenly appeared distracted. “…What?”
I dropped my head, embarrassed. “Nothing.”
Ever compliant, I shuffled over to guide my feet inside my white short-shorts. Darcy, Darcy, Darcy, I said to myself. You really need to invest in a 360-degree mirror. When I picked up my shorts, staring back at me was the rotting head of a man buried in the sand.
11. SKILL OR JUST DUMB LUCK
THERE IS WEIRD, REALLY WEIRD, and so freaking weird there’s no word for it. I didn’t think this was a figment of my imagination, and like a fool, I lightly touched the gruesome spectacle with my toe. It felt hard yet squishy-soft at the same time and definitely not attached to a spine. After a few nail-biting seconds of doubt, my mind accepted the obvious … Oh, Lordy … Eeeeuw! It is real.
And on whose body did it actually belong? I racked my brain trying to determine what’d happened when the answer remained obvious—someone or something had cut it off. I wanted to run, jump, and scream—cry for mommy, suck my thumb—my body just didn’t know which to do first.
“I f-found a h-hhead,” I whispered. My voice sounded like an old, leaky tire. Hissing and squeaking with each stuttered syllable. I’m not sure Dylan and Kyd would’ve heard anyway. Their mouths were moving at full throttle.
“Go out with me,” I heard Kyd say. “Please, Legs. Just jump right in with both feet.”
“What about Mary?” I heard Dylan bark.
