Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  Owen motioned over toward Samantha, who was fixing the cash drawers to take upstairs. He said in an indiscreet, audible whisper, “Does she ever say anything?”

  “Don’t bother her,” Carrie said, mouthing her words so Samantha couldn’t see her face.

  Please don’t feed the animals, I thought. Too late.

  “Hey, what do you think of the poster?” Owen asked loudly in Samantha’s direction. He didn’t even know her name.

  Samantha must have heard it all because she swiveled a half a turn in her chair. Removing her glasses, she tossed them aside and narrowed her eyes at Owen, the glint in her pupils resembling the points of two ice picks. Her body no longer seemed fleshy, but steel, transformed, like a bear trap, ready to close violently if you touched her. She eased her frame off the chair, the floor almost shaking underneath her, and unbuttoned the long left sleeve of her blouse. With angry twists of her right hand, she rolled up the sleeve and marched toward Owen. The concession counter separated them, but he stepped back a few feet.

  “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean anything,” Owen said, his voice shrill, almost squeaking.

  Owen’s tan faded, and he backed away further. Samantha reached the edge of the counter. Her arm was bare, and she extended it toward him. Spread out along the inside of her bicep was a long, uneven scar, with flesh missing. Shark bite? It had to be.

  She held her arm out for a few seconds.

  “Take a look, smart-ass.”

  She rolled her sleeve back down and returned to her chair.

  Owen looked as if a dump truck had come within an inch of flattening him, applying its brakes just in time. Carrie had moved back too and seemed shaken. But I had barely focused on the scar. I felt a prickling along my spine and neck. I saw, speckled over both her wrist and forearm, smothered in calamine lotion, rashes and blisters from poison ivy.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  If fear carried its own scent, I detected it in Owen. I jerked my right thumb toward the door. He took the hint and hightailed it out of the theater to wait in his van. Carrie grabbed a bottle of Windex and busied herself with helping Mindy clean the concession counters. I pitched in, exchanging glances with Carrie as we took in what had happened. So many of my assumptions about Samantha were now shaken, the apparent facts altered and scrambled.

  Despite Spence’s suspicions, I had never seriously considered Samantha as Bullock’s killer. Why would she do it? She seemed so bored by the world, as if she didn’t belong in it, her existence a weird mistake. True, she showed flashes of temper. But I had questioned whether she cared enough about people to like or hate them. Except for the natural disgust she had displayed when Bullock brushed against her, she had seemed unmoved by his crude behavior. Might she snuff out another person’s life for little reason—for no reason? Did she have buried stores of anger making her capable of murder? Maybe being attacked by a shark had damaged and twisted her nature. Somewhere inside her was a simmering volcano, and maybe it was more active than we could see. And like Spence said, she could have dragged Bullock’s undersized body into the juniper bushes.

  But as I thought it through, the idea of her being Bullock’s killer didn’t take hold. The rashes were flimsy evidence, as even Spence had emphasized. Poison ivy was everywhere. And I still figured she needed some kind of good reason to kill him. She left the theater way before the murder—at least that’s how it appeared. Although she might have returned and waited for the opportunity, this didn’t seem likely. When Detective Riggs questioned her, he would have covered all the possibilities. Jesse Hooker, her friend, would have provided an alibi. Then again, had they pulled it off together? I felt my thoughts were being sent through a pinball machine.

  Samantha finished with the cash drawer. She didn’t bother handing it to me but just placed it to the side of the cashier’s window and left without a word. I acted as I would normally, although my whole system had jack rabbited into a higher gear. My thoughts kept shifting about, ricocheting against each other. She was scary, but unraveling her motivations was impossible.

  Could I encourage Samantha to quit? What a sour presence she was. She seemed unhappy enough in her job that a mutual parting made sense. Would suggesting this set her off? Spence would arrive soon, and I would get his opinion. Deep down, I didn’t believe she had killed Bullock, but what if I became her next victim?

  I was about to take the cash drawer to the office when Carrie stopped me and asked,

  “Can we talk in a few minutes?”

  “Of course, I’ll be upstairs,” I said. My mind hummed as my thoughts shifted away from Samantha. I was eager for a chance to be alone with Carrie. What was this about?

  I found Kenny in the office ready to total the deposit. He was finishing the last wedge of a pecan pie.

  “Can you keep a watch downstairs for a while?” I said, placing the cash drawer on the desk. “Carrie wants to talk about something. I think it’s private.”

  “Sure, boss,” Kenny said and gathered up the pan, which contained a few strips of crust and filling.

  “I’ll get this started,” I said, pointing to the cash drawer.

  “Want some?” Kenny held the pan in my direction as he headed out the door.

  “You lick the platter clean.”

  “She need a chaperone?”

  “Beat it.” Had he figured it out too?

  Kenny scooted away, ducking as I threw an eraser at him.

  I moved an extra chair and placed it in front of the desk for Carrie to sit in. I settled in my own chair and stared past the paper bills and change filling the slots of the cash drawer. In the blur this stare created, I imagined what Carrie wanted to tell me. Did this involve Owen? He had crossed the line with Samantha, and this had irritated her. Did she have some insights about Samantha?

  When I heard her light steps on the stairs, I sat back in my chair and tried to look relaxed and in control, despite my racing pulse.

  Carrie peered in through the doorway. The office lit up from the energy in her eyes.

  “You got me real curious,” I said.

  She pulled the door closed and took a seat. She appeared to collect her thoughts, unsure of what to say.

  I broke the silence and said, “Owen got it handed to him by Samantha.”

  We both laughed.

  “She was frightening,” Carrie said.

  “The counter saved him.”

  “He was shaking.”

  I felt at ease and composed.

  I said, “Did you see his face? Pale, creamy, like the blood had drained out. I’ve never seen that happen.”

  “Like, say, before a shark attack?” Carrie suggested.

  “Not unlike one,” I said, grinning. “Owen needs some scuba diving instruction. I’ve read that the way to confront a shark is to wait until it gets right on you—then bare your teeth and strike its snout.”

  Carrie said, “We’d be writing his obituary. Anyway, I want to apologize for Owen’s behavior. That’s the first thing. The way he treated Samantha—so rude.”

  “I guess he didn’t mean to insult her?” I suggested, wanting to sound like I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

  “But he’s been rude to you too,” Carrie said, resisting my forgiving assessment.

  “Oh, that was no big deal,” I said.

  “There was no excuse for it,” Carrie said.

  “He has been pretty tactless, even to Mindy.”

  “Unkind.”

  “Yeah, unkind,” I said, boosted by the harmony in our thinking.

  “I think the appropriate colloquial term is, as I am sadly coming to conclude, is—jerk,” Carrie said.

  “That too,” I said, nodding my head and laughing. She had a way of nailing things.

  “And he smokes too much pot. You’ve probably smelled it on him.” Carrie said.

  “All the time, actually.”

  “I figured you must have. It’s changed him,” Carrie said. “And do you realize he’s selling it too?”

/>   “What? How could he be so stupid?” This shocked me—concerned me. I had no problem with pot, but I didn’t want Carrie getting into trouble.

  “His dad has stopped giving him money. It has me scared.”

  I wanted to ask her why she put up with Owen, but I said instead,

  “I don’t blame you. I hope he knows what he’s doing. Right?”

  “I just don’t know anymore,” Carrie said, shaking her head.

  “Should I tell him not to hang around while you’re working?” I asked. This was taking a serious turn. “I can tell him tonight.”

  Carrie said, “That won’t be necessary. I broke up with him.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, lying through my teeth.

  “Don’t be,” Carrie said. “I don’t respect him, the person he is turning into. Overdoing the pot—and now the selling it. Everything. It’s degraded him. And I don’t want any part of it. I’m going to call my dad for a ride home.”

  It was all I could do to suppress a donkey grin.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Carrie’s breaking up with Owen had my thoughts going down new paths. Fantasies of her taking a liking to me, tossed aside as ridiculous before, now returned fresh and almost possible.

  “There’s something else,” Carrie said. “It’s about Mindy.”

  “Stealing?” I said quickly—a guess, but I went with it, hoping to show I was on top of things.

  “How did you know?” Carrie looked surprised.

  “I’ve seen her take candy. Been figuring what to do about it.”

  “She takes money too.”

  “Money? I was worried about this.”

  “Twice that I’ve seen. Once it was a dollar. Another time a ten.”

  “No wonder we’re coming up short,” I said.

  “Short?”

  “We total all the candy, the cups, and the popcorn boxes we’ve used every week to check if it matches our take. We’re always short, but much more lately.”

  “Can’t have little hands in the cookie jar,” Carrie said smiling. She turned serious. “You won’t fire her, will you?”

  “Doubt we’ll need to. She’s a good kid—don’t you think?

  “I like her,” Carrie said, after a moment’s reflection. “And I will say she’s had a tough time at home. Her dad drinks. Gets abusive. That’s what she told me.”

  “I’ll go easy on her. Give her a second chance.”

  Our easy conversation gave me an extra adrenaline rush. I wanted to keep it going. It occurred to me that Carrie might help with Samantha.

  I said, “Tell me what you think of Samantha. Owen had it coming, but she looked mean as hell. Has she done anything, or said anything, that would make you worry?”

  Carrie said, “I’ve never had a long conversation with her, honestly. She’s aloof to where she seems missing a human quality. She keeps to herself.”

  “She’s kind of frozen over,” I said.

  “But she got so incensed, so furious.”

  “She reminds me of the alien monster in The Thing. Have you seen it?” I asked.

  “On TV,” Carrie said, scrunching up her face. Her eyes then widened. “I see what you mean. The monster was frozen when the scientists found it, but when it thawed, it tried to kill everyone.”

  “It needed their blood to survive and reproduce,” I added.

  We both laughed. This was crazy thinking, but damn it was fun. How quick she had been to anticipate where I was heading with the monster.

  Carrie said, “Poor woman.”

  “Poor thing,” I said.

  Carrie laughed again and added, “She’s no monster, of course. The shark attack probably did this to her. Changed her.”

  “There’s more to it than we know,” I said.

  “The only other ‘thing’ is that friend she has.”

  “The one with the pickup—with the pointed face?”

  “Like a hatchet.”

  “Exactly. Perfect,” I said, with emphasis.

  “Owen says he’s a drug dealer. They’ve talked a few times while waiting outside. He tried to sell Owen cocaine. And he often seems high on something.”

  “Cocaine?” The word shook me. “We don’t want that going on in the parking lot. Man, this is not good.”

  “No, it is not.”

  I needed to be much more watchful and ready. This was more than serious. Carrie had disconnected with Owen just in time. And maybe Bullock’s murder was somehow linked. Detective Riggs needed to know about all this, though I suspected he was already on to it.

  “And Jesse and Samantha—what an odd pair,” I said, wondering what they were up to.

  “Perhaps you thought the same about me and Owen,” Carrie said, rolling her eyes.

  “Owen’s fine. He’ll grow up.” It was easy to be generous about him now. But I resented that he’d more than likely mature out of his cocky ways and be no worse for it. So much for karma. Some people were given a wider strike zone from the get-go in life. I added, “I wouldn’t mind going to a school like Northwestern.”

  “Why don’t you, Nate? You’re just as smart as Owen. Smarter. And I mean it,” Carrie said.

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, embarrassed that my intelligence even needed defending. But knowing that Carrie believed I was smarter than Owen sent a buzz right through me. I shifted to a different topic.

  “Anything else about Jesse?”

  “He uses the N word. That Confederate flag decal is not just for decoration.”

  “Right out of central casting,” I said. Yet another reason for concern. I resolved to myself to tell Detective Riggs what I knew.

  Carrie started to speak and hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  “Well, I just wanted to say, wanted to make it clear what I thought about that stunt Owen pulled with the fake sculpture. It was juvenile.” Carrie’s neck flushed slightly.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said. Was she concerned that I might assume they were sleeping together?

  “It’s just that I didn’t want you do think—”

  “It was a stupid joke.” I tried to play dumb. I couldn’t think of what else to say and blurted out awkwardly, “How about if I go check on Kenny. You can call your dad using this phone. Come on around.”

  I got up quickly from the chair so that Carrie could take mine. She got up at the same time and the edge of my right elbow grazed her shoulder, causing a sharp jolt of static electricity. We both flinched.

  “Press line three,” I said. “Phil must be using line two. Line one is for people calling in about show times. Just close the door when you’re through.”

  I may have tripped over every other word.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You look like a tomato. What happened up there?” Kenny said when I entered the lobby.

  “Shut your pie hole,” I replied, but with a smile. Owen was out of the picture. Now I had a chance. The effects of the static electricity lingered. I’d seen a blue spark as well.

  “Touché,” Kenny said. “Hey, there’s Gooch.”

  A van had just stopped outside the main entrance.

  “The delivery guy?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Lester Gooch.”

  I’d never seen him. We left the old film canisters next to the cashier window late on Thursday evenings. They were picked up way after we closed and replaced with the canisters for new movies. Amazingly, no one ever stole them. Then again, how many people had 35 mm movie projectors in their living rooms?

  “What’s he doing here so early?” I asked.

  “You got me.”

  Gooch exited his van. He was a string bean of a man with weathered skin stretched over a bony face, a cigarette wedged between his lips. He loped in long strides to the back of his van, swung open the doors, and lifted out two canisters, one in each arm.

  “They wanted these delivered special,” Gooch said.

  “Drop them here,” Kenny said.

>   “Heard about your new gig,” Gooch said to Kenny, his cigarette keeping time with each word as he placed both canisters next to the curb.

  “It’s good.”

  “Turrentine’s tickled.”

  “He would be.”

  I glanced at the label on one of the canisters. It read, “Jaws. Paramount Pictures.”

  “Awesome,” Kenny said, giving me a fired-up look.

  “To the max,” I said, my pulse jacking up a notch.

  “Somebody needs to sign this,” Gooch said, squinting from the cigarette smoke as he retrieved a clipboard from the front seat of the van.

  “I’ll do it,” I said.

  Gooch added, “Too bad about Horace. Nobody’s safe no more. Hogan around?”

  “I’ll get him,” Kenny said.

  I signed the delivery form while Kenny went to get Hogan, who was already entering the lobby and heading our way.

  “Hot damn, Gooch. Jaws! Special delivery?” Hogan said.

  “Yeah, they want to make sure theaters supposed to get, get it.”

  “Got it,” Hogan said.

  Gooch flicked the butt of his cigarette to the curb, announced he had other deliveries to make, and sped away in his van. Hogan lifted both canisters and carried them upstairs. Kenny followed him like an eager puppy. The actual fact of our showing the movie hit home. This movie was really going to happen.

  But my excitement receded when the reach of the entrance lights revealed Owen leaning against the side of his van, parked in a space right across from the lobby entrance. The reach of the entrance lights revealed his body and face. He moved toward the lobby entrance. What did he want? Carrie noticed him too when she came back down to the lobby. Owen spread his arms, palms outward, indicating he wanted to talk. She ignored him, as I hoped she would.

  “Want to wait up in my office?” I said to Carrie. “I can come get you when your dad arrives.” We had moved into different territory. All my senses had shifted gears.

  “I think I shall.” She headed back upstairs.

  Owen shook the lobby entrance doors, which were now locked, only allowing exit. Spence had also arrived, and as he unlocked the door, Owen pushed past him and into the lobby. Carrie was already up the stairs.