Closet Treats

by Paul E. Cooley

  Trey blinked at him. "Why didn't you just tell the guy to turn down the volume?"

  Silence fell between them. Dick looked down at the ground. "I don't- -" He cleared his throat. "I don't want to be that close to him again."

  Trey nodded. "Okay, man. Go on."

  "Two days after your...incident, that fucker came strolling down the street again. I looked out my window and took down the license num- ber. You know, so I could tell the company what vehicle was causing the problem." He looked at Trey. "I searched for the Yummy company, Trey. It doesn't exist."

  For a moment neither of them moved, or spoke. Trey realized he'd been holding his breath and then let it out in a long hiss between his teeth. "What do you mean it doesn't exist?"

  "It. Doesn't. Exist," Dick said. "The closest thing I found was the Yum-Yum Corporation in Michigan. And they don't sell ice cream. They make toys."

  "Okay," Trey said, "so the guy is running around claiming he's the Yummy Company. So what?"

  Dick shook his head. "I don't know. It just gave me the shivers."

  "So." Trey took a long look at Dick, then furrowed his brow. "There's something else, isn't there?"

  With a sigh, Dick nodded. "Yeah, there is."

  "Well?"

  "I looked up the license plate number."

  "You what?"

  Dick smiled. "Remember, I'm a geek too, you know. I, um, visited a reverse lookup site." Trey looked confused. "Jesus, Trey. Think about it. They have services out there that will take your cash and a license number and get back to you with all the information."

  "Fuck, is that even legal?" Trey asked.

  "Yeah," Dick said with a nod. "Great way to make $24.95 a shot, don'tcha think? Someone sends you a license plate number, you buzz your cop buddy or your friend at the DMV, and have 'em fax you the report. Then you split some of the cash with them."

  "So you got the report?"

  Dick nodded. "Sure did."

  "And?"

  "That's the fucked up part. The owner's name ain't Reggie."

  "So what is his name?"

  Dick's face spread into a smile. "Archibald Simmons."

  Trey laughed. "Archibald? You have to be fucking kidding me."

  "No." Dick sighed. "Imagine the kind of shit that kid got in school." Dick's smile faded. "But that's not the strange thing."

  "Oh, yeah?" Trey asked.

  "Then what is?"

  "I googled the address. It's in the warehouse district."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah," Dick said. "Like in an actual warehouse."

  "So you know where it is?" Trey asked. Dick nodded. "So what do you want to do?"

  "I want to play disc golf," Dick muttered. "I don't know, man." Dick looked up at him. "That boy is missing."

  Trey nodded. Dick was shivering, but Trey couldn't tell if it was from the cold. "Okay. So--"

  "Fuck this. Throw your goddamned disc before we hold someone else up."

  Trey looked down the hill and saw another group of intrepid disc golfers heading toward them. "Okay," Trey said. He picked up his disc from the ground and looked down the hill. He flung it toward the bas- ket. It flew through the clear space between the branches and landed in the tall grass a few yards away from the metal post.

  Chapter 46

  They managed to play through nine holes. As they were walking toward the tenth tee, Dick turned to Trey and said his fingers were frozen. Trey seconded that. Disc golf was difficult enough without gloves; Trey couldn't imagine trying to throw a frisbee while wearing them.

  As promised, Dick had kicked his ass anyway, finishing one over par while Trey managed a meager 9 over. As they walked in silence toward the car, Trey stopped. "Do you hear that?"

  Dick cocked his head and then frowned. "You have to be fucking kidding me." The sound grew louder as the two men stood side by side in the cold. The cream colored Yummy! truck pulled into the parking lot, its bells pummeling the morning's winter birdsong. It paused for a moment, not far from the Regretta. The squealing brakes were barely audible over the sound of the bells.

  "Get in the car," Dick growled.

  Trey blinked at him, opened the passenger door, and stepped in. Dick continued standing by the driver-side door, glaring at the van. The ice cream van, receiving no interest from the few people in the park, turned out and exited, its bells dwindling in the distance.

  The door clicked open and Dick ducked inside with effort. The Regretta bounced as he wedged himself into his seat. He stared through the windshield for a moment. Trey cleared his throat, but Dick didn't respond to him.

  "You know," Trey said, "that kind of anger--"

  "You want some breakfast?" Dick asked without turning his head. Trey cocked an eyebrow.

  "Breakfast?"

  "Yeah," Dick said, finally turning his eyes to meet Trey's. "You know, stuff you eat in the morning?"

  "Um, we never--"

  "Well, we're going to today, dammit," Dick growled. He inserted the key into the Regretta's ignition and started the car despite its protests.

  Chapter 47

  IHOP was the last bastion of breakfast dives left in the neighborhood. At ten in the morning, the crowds had finally started to dwindle, but they still had to wait twenty minutes for a table. Trey spent the time smoking cigarettes outside while Dick waited.

  Trey wasn't sure what Dick had in mind. The trip from the disc golf course had been made with Pink Floyd blaring from the speakers and Dick refusing to talk. Each time Trey opened his mouth to say something, Dick held up a finger and sang along with Gilmour.

  The Ice Cream Man. The ice cream van. The bells ringing out across the park as the van slowly made the circle, pausing just long enough to gauge interest. Trey hadn't really looked at the passenger side window. He'd been afraid he'd see those yellow eyes staring back at him. But Dick had looked. Dick had stared, his face growing angrier by the second. What the hell had he seen to set him off like that?

  Archibald Simmons. A warehouse. The man had said his name was Reggie. The missing boy. The eyes. Trey sucked down the last bit of smoke from the cigarette, flicked the cherry and watched it jump into the wind and skitter across the concrete. He rolled the butt between his thumb and forefinger. And now breakfast? He looked up into the crowded waiting room and saw Dick gesturing toward him.

  Trey tossed the butt into the ashcan and headed inside. It was ridiculously warm, as though someone had decided using the heater in Houston was an opportunity not to be squandered. He and Dick were the only two people in the place dressed in sweats. Nearly everyone else wore expensive winter coats or sweaters. Just as with the heat, the chance to dig out the winter clothes and wear them was an opportunity.

  Dick grinned at him and then followed the waitress back to a booth. Trey followed suit.

  Dick ordered two coffees and stared down at the menu. "You might want to get something pretty hearty. May not be home for a while," Dick said. "We got some planning to do."

  Trey cocked his head, one brow raised. The coffee cups arrived and Dick immediately filled them both. "Dick, what the hell are you talking about?" Trey asked.

  "Cream?" Dick asked as he slid the tub toward Trey.

  "Dick?" Trey said, holding the tub with his finger-tips. The large man finished pouring the contents of a small plastic tub into his coffee and looked up. "What. The fuck?"

  The big man opened his mouth in a grin. "I have an idea."

  "Is it another crazy whack-a-doodle idea, or is it something that serves reality?"

  Dick grunted and stirred his coffee. "We go to the warehouse tomorrow." Dick gestured toward the menu. "Figure out what you're gonna eat. We got shit to do."

  "Why do you--"

  "Look," Dick said, rolling the coffee cup between his gnarled fingers, "we think we know something."

  "We do?"

  "Shut up and listen to me, Trey." Dick cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee. "Needs more sugar," he muttered and grabbed a white packet. "We think there's somethi
ng not right. Right?" Dick shook the packet and then tore it open, emptying it into the cup. "This Archibald, Reggie, or whatever the fuck he calls himself, he shows up. Less than a week later, a kid goes missing. Right?"

  Trey nodded. "Yeah, that could be just--"

  "Stop it, Trey," Dick said, glaring at him. "Just stop it." Dick took a deep breath and then pointed at him. "You're not afraid to say you're crazy. But you are afraid to think you're sane."

  "I--"

  "No," Dick said, "you are, man." He sat back on the booth cushion. "You see something when you look at that guy."

  It was a statement, not a question, but Trey found himself nodding anyway. "Yeah, but I don't see what I used to see."

  "What do you see now?"

  "Just eyes," Trey said. "Not the same thing."

  "But still you see something."

  Yeah, Trey thought, but it's not the Closet Man or the Grubby Man. It's something else. "What do you see, Dick?"

  "Just a guy," Dick said, taking another sip of coffee. "I told you that. But I know people. I don't trust him. And I don't think it's a coincidence that all this is happening at the same time. A missing kid, Trey." Dick rolled the cup between his hands and stared at the table top. "What if he's got something to do with that?"

  Trey felt his stomach plummet. The image of Jimmy Keel's frozen, bloodless body in the bottom of a refrigerator, the face locked in a scream of terror, filled his mind. He shook his head. "Okay," Trey whispered. "So you want to go check out his digs?" Dick nodded. "How are we going to know if he's even going to be there? Not like he has a phone number, does he?"

  "Shit no," Dick laughed. "We'll just show up at his warehouse. He came to your house without an invitation. I think we should return the favor."

  "You really are asking for trouble. If he's not there, what are we going to do?"

  Dick's lips twitched upward into a maniacal grin. Trey felt his stomach drop. "We take a look anyway."

  Trey opened his mouth and then closed it. He'd been on the verge of yelling in the IHOP. Instead, he leaned forward, his face close to Dick's. "We break in?"

  Dick nodded. "Fuck yes. We take a look around. We see anything hinky, we call the cops. If not," Dick said, taking a sip of coffee, "I'll join you in the rubber room."

  "You are fucking crazy." Trey leaned back. An old couple in the next booth looked over at him as he said this. Trey didn't return their stare. He cleared his throat. "The cops aren't going to like this. We should go see McCausland."

  Dick's smile faded into exasperation. "Trey, who's going to listen to a retired software developer and an insane one?" Trey said nothing. "Besides, McCausland's got no jurisdiction there."

  "Dick, this is nuts. What if we're right? What if--" He cleared his throat again, shaking off the image of the ghoul, the flesh that moved like a snakeskin, the talons jutting from its misshapen hands, and the drooling maw. "What if he's there? What if--"

  The older man's fingers thrummed against the tabletop as Trey's voice broke off. The smile returned to his face. "I'm going to do it," Dick said. "You can either come, or not. But I'm going."

  Trey shook his head. "I still think you're the one that's crazy."

  Dick nodded. "I've been called worse." He took another sip of coffee. "You in, or what?"

  James Keel. Poster board affixed to stop signs, yield signs, "slow children at play" signs. A mother walking through freezing cold to tape, staple, and graffiti the neighborhood with pleas for information. The Ice Cream Man with all his young customers. The screaming bells. Trey shivered. "Okay," he said. "I'm in." The roiling in his guts stopped. He gave Dick a grim smile. "A rebel to the end, eh?"

  "Well," Dick said as the waitress approached, "us old dope smoking hippies just have to keep fighting the system, bro."

  "You aren't a hippie," Trey said with a smile. The waitress pulled out her pad to take their order. "You're just another dumb ass who got lost in the seventies."

  Dick opened his mouth and then closed it as the waitress laughed.

  "Your tip," he growled at her, "just got bigger, darlin."

  Chapter 48

  The drive was silent. Neither of them spoke the entire trip into Houston. From time to time, Dick looked at him, but Trey didn't make eye contact. He was afraid that if they started talking, one or both would lose their nerve. But that wasn't the only reason.

  The clock on the radio had changed rapidly twice. He knew what that meant--the freezes were happening again-- silent, absent seizures. He wondered if Dick had even noticed. If they started talking and he just froze, what would Dick do? Turn the car around? Panic? Trey was terrified enough already.

  After their breakfast on Saturday, Trey and Dick had outlined a plan. Not much of a plan, but enough to get started. He went home and told Carolyn he and Dick were going disc shopping on Sunday.

  He didn't like lying to her, but he knew she'd try and talk him out of it. Or worse, she'd march across the street and tear Dick a new asshole for even suggesting it. Besides, Dick just wanted to talk to the man and see his warehouse-- no harm in that.

  Still, he was nervous.

  The Closet Man hadn't been real, but both the Grubby Man and the Ice Cream Man were real. The Ice Cream Man wasn't the ghoulish, fiend-thing that Trey's brain presented. But he was something. Something bad.

  Dick's phone called out a street direction and he exited from 59 onto Jackson Street. They passed Minute-Maid Park, the Toyota Center, and the architectural horror known as the George R. Brown Convention Center. One quick turn beneath the high, concrete river of the 59 freeway and they were in the warehouse district.

  The warehouse district had once been the heart of manufacturing in Houston. Instead, it was now filled with old buildings that had been converted into lofts, clubs, or artist collectives. Vietnamese restaurants and shops had popped up, filling damned near every remaining strip mall in the area. Most of the buildings were dank, old, and distressed. Even the refurbished buildings held to that look. Despite their age, he knew that some of the lofts went for upwards of 900k.

  There were still some actual warehouses left in the area, places where small companies still produced, or distributed. Dick wound through the streets, turning in time with the phone's female voice. Trey felt his heartbeat rise. He tried to calm himself by tapping out the chromatic scale on the car door, but it didn't help. It was zero hour. The most terrifying thing about finding this place, about investigating, was the possibility that he wasn't crazy.

  Dick pulled the Regretta into a well-weathered business park. The car bumped up the uneven, pothole-ridden driveway. Three story metal buildings sat on either side in long rows. Each building had a faded number written in orange on its side. "23-B," Dick whispered to himself. "Ah," he said, pointing with his free hand, "there it is." He downshifted the car and slowed. Unlike the other buildings that had a sign on them, like CFC Distribution or FM Manufacturing, building 23-B had no markings other than the orange address stamp.

  Car still running, Dick turned and looked at Trey. His eyes were wild. "We're here," he said in a hoarse voice.

  Trey nodded. "Yeah," he replied. Trey cleared his throat. "You scared?"

  "Scared?" Dick chuckled. "About to piss my pants." Trey nodded again and Dick winked at him. "You okay, man?"

  "I don't know," Trey said. "Just keep an eye on me, okay?"

  Dick laughed. "You keep an eye on me, buddy. You're the crazy one. You should be just fine." He slapped Trey on the shoulder. "Ready?"

  Trey shrugged and pointed. "There's a door right there. If he's here, let's just talk, okay?"

  Dick shook his head. "He won't be here, Trey. I know it."

  "But if he is--"

  "Yeah, I know," Dick said with a nod, "if he is, we'll talk. We'll knock. We'll give him plenty of time." Dick stroked his beard. "And if he's not in, we'll go in."

  "Okay." Trey shivered. "I'm ready."

  Dick harrumphed. "Glad someone is," he said and turned off the car. He paused for a mome
nt, the door handle in hand, staring at the building. The huge metal overhead door was locked in place by a padlock. Next to it was a normal sized door to the building with a knob jutting from its rusted surface. "Okay," Dick whispered and stepped out of the car.

  Following suit, Trey slid out of the warm car and into the cold winter air. Forties. Trey had on a light jacket, something that would allow him to move, but did little to keep the chill from his bones. Trey closed his car door as quietly as he could. Dick did the same. Trey walked around his side of the car and stood next to Dick.

  "Let's do this," Trey whispered.

  The two of them walked up onto the door's landing, Dick in front. Trey felt every nerve in his body humming with energy like an electrical wire. Dick rapped his knuckles on the door. Each hollow boom echoed like a distant thunderclap. Dick paused, turned his head, and looked at Trey. He frowned at him and banged again, this time with his fist. They waited; the only sound was their breath and the distant roar of cars on the freeway. "Fuck this," Dick whispered.

  He turned the knob on the door. It didn't budge. "Okay," Dick said. He brushed past Trey and to the Regretta's trunk. He opened it, rummaged in the back, and brought out a duffel bag. He unzipped it, and pulled out a crowbar.

  "Hardly subtle," Trey said in a low voice.

  "Uh-huh," Dick agreed. "Stand beside me and watch the alley."

  Trey moved aside and did so. The road between the warehouses was empty and devoid of movement. Dick slipped the crowbar in between the jamb and the door and pushed, putting his weight behind it. The crowbar's sharp edge resisted the attempt as it tried to widen the slim gap. The metal sheet crumpled and groaned against the pressure. Dick cursed and put more force against it, grunting with the effort. He was rewarded with the sharp, crackling sounds of metal tearing. Trey watched the door cave inward as the metal gave. The dead-bolt slide screeched as it ripped free from the metal. The door fell open the slightest bit. Dick pulled back on the crowbar.