Marked Man

by William Lashner

  “Hey, kid,” he called out to him as he spied Richard walking down the alley. “You live around here?”

  “Not too far,” said Ricky, keeping his distance. He had never seen the man before.

  “You want a cigarette? Of course you do.”

  Ricky took a step back. Though his mother and father both smoked, no one had ever offered him a cigarette before, and the thought thrilled him. He was nine. “No thank you.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not allowed.”

  “How about some gum?”

  “Okay.”

  “Come on over,” said the man, reaching into his pocket.

  When Ricky approached, the man beckoned him closer and told him to reach out his hand. Ricky did as he said, and the man slapped his own hand down atop Ricky’s and held it for a moment, like he was doing a trick. When the man lifted his hand, there, in Richard’s palm, was a stick of gum, with its green-and-silver wrapper, and a cigarette.

  “Keep it quiet,” said the man with a warm laugh. “This will be our secret.”

  “Okay.”

  “Come back tomorrow and I’ll pull a pack of matches out of your ear.”

  “I’m not allowed matches either.”

  “Don’t worry, kid. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  “Deal,” said Ricky before running off down the alley with his gum and his cigarette and his secret.

  He came back the next day for the matches and a jawbreaker, huge and yellow, that took him all day to lick down to the spicy red center. The day after, the Halloween Man gave him a Hershey bar and a magic slide that could make a quarter disappear. He amazed Ricky twice with the trick before showing him how to do it. The day after that, he gave him a Three Musketeers bar and a whistle.

  “Hey, kid,” said the Halloween Man. “You got any friends?”

  “Not really,” which was a sad truth. Not an athlete, not a musician, not much of a conversationalist, not much of anything, Ricky had no friends. “But I got a sister.”

  “Really, now? How old?”

  “Six.”

  The lopsided grin grew a little more lopsided. “Bring her along tomorrow and I’ll have something for her, too.”

  The next day Ricky brought along his little sister, Chantal. He had thought it through, considered all the angles, and it had seemed like a sharp enough move at the time. Chantal agreed to give Ricky half of any candy bar she received from the nice man who acted like every day was Halloween. And Ricky was pretty certain there wasn’t any danger.

  He could sense danger, that was his talent, like he had a special radar in the back of his head. A little too much interest from the weird, gray-haired man in the library or the quiet snarl of a dog waiting for Ricky to slip within the ambit of his chain. He could sense danger, and he sensed nothing from the Halloween Man. Each time Ricky came by, the man would be sitting on the step out back in the alley, sometimes alone and sometimes with his four friends, a huge guy with a giant’s jaw or a small black guy or a round, soft guy or a handsome guy in jeans. And when Ricky would show up, the men would stop talking, suddenly, like everything was a secret. The Halloween Man would say, “Hey, kid,” and pull out the candy, pat his head, and send him on his way. Nothing to it. Nothing to be worried about. Just free candy and free toys and that lopsided smile. And so one day he brought along Chantal to increase the haul. He took Chantal to the Halloween Man, and everything changed.

  “Hey, kid,” said the Halloween Man, standing now, looking not at Ricky but at the little girl by his side. “So who is this?”

  “My sister,” said Ricky. “Chantal.”

  “What a pretty name.” The Halloween Man reached out his hand and bent forward. “Hello, Chantal. My name is Teddy, and it sure is nice to meet you. What do you like to do, Chantal?”

  “I dance,” she said.

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “I’ve been on television.”

  “How exciting is that?”

  “Are you the man with the candy?” said Chantal.

  “That’s me,” he said. “What’s your favorite, Chantal? Chocolate? Nuts? Marshmallows?”

  “Nougat,” she said.

  “Nougat? I don’t even know what nougat is,” said the Halloween Man, laughing.

  “Neither do I,” said Chantal, “but the commercial says it’s good.”

  “So nougat it will be next time. You’ll come back next time, won’t you?”

  Chantal shrugged.

  “Hold out your hand,” said the Halloween Man.

  Chantal did, and the Halloween Man surrounded her little hand with his two big ones and kept them there for a long moment, before slowly removing them, leaving a Milky Way and a dollar in her palm.

  Chantal’s eyes glowed with delight.

  “Here you go, kid,” said the Halloween Man, tossing Ricky another Milky Way before heading back inside.

  If you want to blame anything on what happened later, blame the dollar. The Halloween Man had never given Ricky a dollar.

  “I get half of that, too,” said Ricky.

  “It’s mine.”

  “But we had a deal.”

  “I only agreed to split the candy bar.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “He gave it to me,” said Chantal, a sly, superior smile breaking out on her pretty face. “Get your own dollar.”

  That was so like Chantal.

  She was a selfish little brat, with her red shoes and her bright dimples. Darling Chantal. Sweet Chantal. Everybody’s favorite dancing doll, Chantal. She was the star of the family, the little girl who could sway hearts with a slide step and a wink. In the presence of adults, she was the ideal child, smiling and pliant and soft, aching to please, with her little-girl’s voice. Yes, Mommy. No, Mommy. Please, Mommy. I love you, Mommy. But when no one was looking except her brother, she was the sneakiest little witch on the face of the earth, stealing what was his and sharing not a whit of anything that she had been given. He resented all the attention she garnered, all the praise lavished upon her, the gifts and toys, the hugs and kisses and exclamations of joy, the way she soaked up the energy in a room and left nothing for him, nothing but annoyance and orders. Be quiet, Richard, and sit still. Chantal is dancing. Go ahead, Chantal, sweetheart. Try it again.

  And now the Halloween Man had pulled it, too, giving her all his attention, giving her a dollar, just tossing him a stupid Milky Way like tossing a scrap of gristle to a dog. Ricky was too angry, too full of jealousy and resentment to sense the danger in the Halloween Man’s strange sudden interest in little Chantal, the way he used her name over and over, the way he told her his name when he had never told it to Ricky, the way he held her hand in his a little too long. Ricky should have sensed the danger, but his radar was overwhelmed with the bitterness, all of it purchased with a single dollar. Or maybe, to be truthful, filled to overflowing with the acid of resentment, he did sense the danger and just didn’t care.

  “FOR SOME REASON,” said Richard, wiping his eyes with his forearm, “it wasn’t so much fun going to the Halloween Man anymore. And then, once, when we were there together, he told me to stay put while he took Chantal inside the basement to see something. When she came back outside, she was beaming, like she had just gotten the greatest gift in the world, and she wasn’t, she wasn’t, she wasn’t going to share. She never wanted to share.”

  “What did he give her?” I said.

  “A lighter. Gold, heavy. She wouldn’t even let me try it. After that, I didn’t feel like going back, so I didn’t.”

  “But Chantal did?”

  “She used to show me the candy he gave her and laugh at me because I wasn’t going anymore. And there was also the lighter, which she hid in her drawer and played with in the house whenever Mom wasn’t around.”

  “The gold lighter the detective found.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What happened when she went missing?”

  “I don’t know exactly what
happened. But as soon as it happened, I knew it was the Halloween Man, that Teddy.”

  “Did you tell anybody?”

  “Not right then. How could I? I had taken her to him. I was responsible. Mom and Dad would have killed me, would have thrown me away.”

  “You were nine,” said Monica. “You didn’t know.”

  “But I did, didn’t I? And suddenly, with Chantal gone, things changed at home. It was no longer, ‘Keep still, Richard. Keep quiet, Chantal is dancing.’ It was, ‘Oh, Richard, our sweet Richard, stay home, Richard, stay safe.’ They kept hugging me and showering me with attention. They wouldn’t let me go out anymore, which was fine, really, because with Chantal gone, it was my home again and I was the star. Me. And you know the truth? I didn’t want her to come back.”

  “Did you hate her so much?” said Monica.

  “No. Yes. I don’t know.”

  “You said you didn’t tell anyone right when she disappeared. Did you ever tell anyone?”

  “The detective. He took me aside and promised not to tell Mom and Dad anything I said, and I told him.”

  “Detective Hathaway.”

  “That’s right. And he was good about it. He never told that it was all my fault. He said he would find the Halloween Man for me, but he never could.”

  “Okay, Richard,” I said. “I think that will do.”

  “That’s all?” he said.

  “That’s all. Thanks.”

  He looked at his sister, a desperate fear etched on his face. “Are you going to tell Mom?”

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, still kneeling. “You were nine years old.”

  “Don’t tell Mom.”

  “You can’t keep living like this, you just can’t. We have to clean up this room, we have to get you out of this house.”

  “I like it here.”

  “You can’t stay like this. You just can’t.”

  “I want to.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, Richard, sweetheart. Look what he did to you. Look what he did to all of us.”

  I left them there, brother and sister, agoraphobe and shadow dancer, left them in that room, in tears, in tatters. And Monica was right, he did do this to them, to all of them. Not to mention what he did to Chantal, or was doing. Because I was thinking that maybe Monica had been right after all. Maybe when that bastard left with all the stolen money, he left with Chantal, too. Just taken her, taken her to his new life, to do with her as he would, with no concern and no consequences. At least not yet, not until now.

  Because I was going to find him. I was going to track him down and find him. And find Chantal, too. As sure as that tattoo was on my chest, I was going to find him and make him pay. And I knew just where to start.

  But first it was time to deliver a message.

  44

  I picked the most unlikely place possible. Dirty Frank’s. The name says it all. And you should see the bathrooms. Yeesh.

  Squatting on the corner of Thirteenth and Pine, Dirty Frank’s was what was officially known as a dive. An ancient refuge for bearded bikers and frail, chain-smoking art students, it had low ceilings, ratty booths, a steady surly clientele, and a brilliant jukebox that still spun classic 45s. The place was always thick with smoke and the alluring scent of poor hygiene and spilt beer.

  I was late on purpose, to let the ambience sink into his pale, soft skin. I found him sitting between two drunken bikers at the bar, a glass of wine in front of him.

  “I didn’t know they served red wine in this joint,” I said.

  Lavender Hill, in violet velvet, sniffed with disgust. “They don’t,” he said. “This is ox piss mixed with lamb’s blood, flavored with iodine.”

  “The house specialty,” I said.

  “Charming place you picked.”

  “Only the best for you, Lav. I thought this was a nice anonymous place for conducting our underhanded business.”

  “Anonymous maybe for you, Victor, in that suit—burlap, is it?—but I don’t quite fit here, or haven’t you noticed. If you had clued me in to the type of establishment you were directing me to, I would have worn my black leather catsuit.”

  “I hate to admit it, but I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “Oh, you would have been charmed, I’m sure. Meanwhile I’m drinking this awful concoction, the smoke is making my eyes tear, which is hell on the mascara, and the Neanderthals on either side of me are preparing to get into a puking contest.”

  One of the bikers, the man behind Lav’s back, lifted his head up off his arms at the comment. “What’d you say?”

  “I wasn’t addressing my comment to you, sir,” said Lavender Hill. “Be a dear and crawl back into your beer. One thing this establishment has going for it, Victor, is the very real possibility of a barroom brawl. Nothing gets the blood stirring like a good barroom brawl.”

  “I’m not a barroom-brawl kind of guy.”

  “I figured that out.”

  “But I wouldn’t take you for a brawler either.”

  “You wouldn’t take me at all, trust me. Maybe we should find ourselves someplace more private to talk? Ah, there’s an empty booth.” He slid off his barstool. “Care to order us a round of beers? The swill they call wine, I’m afraid, is too vile for imbibition.”

  I watched him mince his way to a booth with a filthy table and torn seats. The bartender came over and watched along with me. It was quite a show. When he reached the booth, Lav looked down, his head shaking with sorrow. He took out a handkerchief and dropped it onto the seat before finally easing himself down upon it.

  “A friend of yours?” said the bartender, a nice-looking woman in a black shirt.

  “A business acquaintance.”

  She eyed the still-full glass. “He didn’t like the wine.”

  “Not especially.”

  “I can’t imagine why. It’s fresh out of the box.”

  “His tastes are a bit too refined for his own good.”

  “Maybe yes,” she said, “but he sure smells nice.”

  “A pitcher of Yuengling and two glasses,” I said as I slipped a ten onto the bar.

  Lavender was sitting at the booth, trying to find a spot upon the table clean enough for him to rest his elbows, trying and failing. He looked up at me, exasperation writ clear on his face, and then dropped his little hands into his lap. I sat across from him and leaned forward over the table.

  “I understand you’ve been in touch with my client.”

  “There has been communication. I don’t know how he got my number”—wink—“but he did, and as of late we have been in frequent contact. Has he spoken to you about our discussions?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you learn of it?”

  “Joey Pride.”

  “Ah, yes, the recalcitrant Mr. Pride. It was quite difficult to find him after what happened to his friend.”

  “How did you track him down?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Did you talk with him in person or on the phone?”

  “He was not willing to meet me face-to-face after the unfortunate death of his friend.”

  “It wasn’t unfortunate,” I said. “It was a murder.”

  “Are the authorities certain of that?”

  “He was shot in the head.”

  “Ah, quite gruesome. Not a suicide, perhaps?”

  “Shot in the head twice. After being shot in the knee. And there was no gun at the scene.”

  “Oh, I see. Sloppy technique, that, but the training they give out today is simply appalling. So I guess murder indeed is the likely cause of death. Well, that is truly regrettable, though perhaps not as regrettable as this establishment.”

  “Joey told me he’s not happy with the deal Charlie is proposing. He doesn’t want a fifth, he wants half.”

  “How unsurprising. But I fear he might be looking for half of nothing. Your client’s initial enthusiasm for my offering has seemed to diminish.”

  “He’s wavering?”

  �
�Yes, unfortunately he is. This could be so clean, so beneficial to all involved, but the pathetic sap keeps on babbling about his mother.”

  “He’s quite attached.”

  “An unfortunate condition. Are you close to your mother, Victor?”

  “Not really.”

  “That means you are still too close for comfort. Come back to me when you resent her with a murderous passion that still boils your blood decades after they buried her bones in the foul, swampy earth, and then we can talk. Oh, my, we have an uninvited visitor.”

  “Where?” My head swiveled. All I saw was the bartender coming our way with a tray and our pitcher. “No, she’s just bringing the beer I ordered.”

  “Not her. On the table.”

  There it was, darting for my elbow. I pulled back quickly as a cockroach, fat and brown and quick, sprinted to the edge of the table, spun in a circle, and then stopped, its antennae waving slightly in the air. It started again, sprinting back the way it had come, when a pitcher of beer fell out of the sky and squashed the arthropod flat as toast. Two foamy drops of beer flew out of the pitcher and flopped onto the table.

  “Here’s your Yuengling,” said the bartender. Thump, thump. Two glasses appeared. “You want another pitcher, just give me a holler.”

  Lavender Hill stared at me with an amused glint in his eye. The brown in his irises pretty well matched the brown thing that had been scurrying around our table just an instant before. Lav laughed as he grabbed the pitcher by the handle and poured us each a glassful. As he poured, I could still see, through the beer, the lifeless blob adhering to the glass bottom.