Blockbuster

by Richard H. Smith

  Owen rushed toward the door leading to the office. I reached it first and blocked his way.

  “Get out my way,” he said, his face wild.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I said.

  “How would you know?” He lunged for the doorknob, but I placed my hand flat against the door, preventing him from opening it. He tried to push away my arm. He couldn’t move it, and so he swung his right elbow. I deflected it and grabbed his arm at the wrist, twisting it behind his back, pinning him face-first against the wall.

  “You’re breaking my arm!”

  “No more swinging at me.”

  I twisted even harder. His biceps felt soft.

  “Okay, okay. Let me go.”

  I let him loose. He took a few steps away from me and rubbed his shoulder and elbow, his cheeks red, his eyes flashing with indignation.

  “I’m going to sue your ass. And this whole stinking, stupid place.” Owen seemed to think he had regained an advantage. He said these words as if I were pauper and he was king, his upper lip curling with contempt.

  “You do that,” I said, with all the show of unconcern I could muster. “Mr. Reeves here will back me up.”

  “Who?”

  Spence had been ambling closer to us.

  “Him?”

  Spence now stood, ramrod straight, next to Owen. He was at least four inches taller than Owen, but it seemed like ten.

  Spence said, “You run along home. Have your daddy give Mr. Burton a call. Or do you want me to go outside and get me a switch.”

  Owen paused, confused, his swagger gone. Spence towered over him, powerful and intimidating. Owen opened his mouth to say something but appeared to think better of it, like the previous day, the flush in his cheeks going pink to pale. He turned, sped away, and slammed through an exit door.

  “I’m glad you were here to see all that, Spence.”

  “Put some chili powder on the day,” Spence said.

  “You know, that felt good.” And I meant it. We returned broad grins.

  “He was fearful and jumpy,” Spence said. “Like a frog on a freeway.”

  Mindy and Ricardo appeared out of the shadows near the exit to the main theater.

  “Owen tried to hit you with his elbow. We saw it,” Mindy said.

  “Pass the popcorn,” said Ricardo, grinning.

  Carrie stuck her head out the door. She asked, “Has he gone?”

  “Like a wounded rabbit,” Ricardo said.

  “What happened?” Carrie asked.

  “Everything’s fine,” I said.

  Mindy grabbed Carrie by the elbow and guided her toward the exit to wait for Carrie’s dad. Carrie whispered to me as they passed by, “Girl talk.”

  They chattered away excitedly. Just before exiting, Carrie stopped, looked back at Spence and me, and said,

  “See you gentlemen tomorrow. Thanks for everything, Nate.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Nate,” Spence said in a soft, sweet voice.

  “Give me a break, Spence.”

  “She’s a sweetie pie. That’s a fact. And easy on the eyes.”

  “Come on, Spence. But listen, listen. You won’t believe what happened tonight. Let’s talk in my office. Seriously, Spence. It’s about Samantha. She’s got blisters. They’re all over her right arm. You called it.”

  “Can’t say it surprises me,” Spence said.

  “But there’s more. She got mad too. I’m telling you. She looked mean.”

  I pulled my desk chair around to the front of the desk and offered it to Spence while I took a folding chair. He settled into the chair, and I told him what had happened.

  Spence said, “So where were the rashes zactly?”

  “All over her wrist and forearm. She didn’t roll up the sleeve of her other arm. But I could see lotion on both. Some were large, about peanut-sized.”

  “Always wear the long sleeves?”

  “Usually down to her elbows. Maybe to hide the scar.”

  “Nothing on her hands?”

  “No. Could have worn gloves while she was doing it. Well, assuming she did this thing.”

  “And the bite. A shark you say?”

  “That’s why she got so mad at Owen.”

  “He got her chewing on some bumblebees.”

  “She’s so full of hate, Spence. I can see that now.”

  “Nate, let me tell you something.” Spence stared into space, his eyes recreating a memory.

  I sat back in my chair in anticipation.

  “One time, when I still had my farm, we was hassled by a particular raccoons. We knew he was big from his tracks and, well, the size of his turds. Killing chickens and eating tomatoes. Got me a metal trap and set it one night. Used a chunk of sweet watermelon. Caught him. This critter was huge, barely fit in the trap. I could see he’d tried mightily to get out. All around the cage, the ground was scraped and bare from his scratching and clawing through the wire. And darn it, he had just managed to get out when I showed up. Figured he’d run. But he turned on me and gave out a growl. Rocked me flat backwards. All teeth and eyeballs too. Glad I’d brought my shotgun, because I was going to need it. Well, I raised my gun to the ready.”

  Spence stood up and lifted his long arms and extended them as if he held that shotgun. His left index finger about touched my nose.

  “Now, this was the real scary part. Like I said, he was a big critter. He commenced to run right straight at me, in long, and I mean long, loping gallops. He covered a lot of ground in a short second, beelining straight at me. Shot that varmint in midair.”

  Spence pulled an imaginary trigger and jerked his shoulder back to simulate the shotgun’s kick.

  “That thing defied what I understood to be natural laws. Being in that cage made him crazy. And if I didn’t have my gun, the fur would’ve been flying and goodbye Spence Reeves. I don’t never, nohow, underestimate nobody and no creature. Now, I’m not saying Samantha did it. But why play poker with the devil?”

  “Spence, should I call Detective Riggs?”

  After reflecting for a moment, Spence said, “I wouldn’t bother him. Unless he comes calling on his own. This is all speculation. Just us having some fun. Except I do want us be on the watch. Another thing about that raccoon. His claws, well, they were more like fingers. More human than creature.”

  “Samantha, I don’t know. She seems more creature than human,” I said, almost believing it.

  “Reckon you right, to an extent,” Spence said, still looking thoughtful. “But I needs to get to work. Faucet in the men’s room leaking again. Found the right washer this time.” Spence extended one of his arms, grabbed the office doorknob, and left the office, a man on a mission.

  I was struck again by the remarkable length of his arms. They were like something a comic book hero would have, the Elongated Man, in the flesh. I remembered the previous summer when I’d first noticed this about Spence. He had finished mowing around the theater and was trimming with a sickle. He had spun the sickle in his right hand and had moved near the marquee. A rectangular brick casing surrounded the two thick poles supporting the marquee. With a few deft strokes, blending economy of motion with elbow grease, he trimmed about six yards of grass.

  “How the heck did you do that without hitting the brick, Spence?”

  He had just grinned.

  Spence used his own sickle. He had shown me where he kept it, hidden and wrapped in an oilcloth under the front seat of his Buick. He removed the sickle from its hiding place, laid it on the hood of the engine, and opened the folds of the cloth. There the glorious thing lay. It stirred something deep in me. The handle, shaped over the years to fit Spence’s right hand, was stained with grime and sweat. The metal, although it had the classic crescent moon shape on one side, was thicker than other sickles I had seen. It widened at the end, coming to a second tip, like a spear, doubling as a gardening tool and weapon. The inside blade had been sharpened, and its silvery edge shimmered in the sunlight.
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br />   “Spence, this is no ordinary tool. I’ve seen nothing like it,” I had said.

  “That’s because it ain’t no ordinary tool. I use it for trimming, but it once belonged to an African warrior. A true fact. It’s a better throwing weapon than a garden sickle. I like thinking in my mind about the man who made it, owned it, used it. I feel right safe with it too.”

  It was still early morning, and we were alone.

  Spence said, “See that pine yonder?”

  A thick pine tree stood over by the side of the theater, about thirty yards away. Spence looked around and set his feet in that smooth, efficient way of his. With an overarm swing of his right arm, he sent the tool arcing and somersaulting through the air. He let out a grunt, closer to a yell. The sickle lodged itself in the trunk, chest high and centered, sending back a “thunk” sound. Spence rubbed his shoulder.

  “Spence, I mean. Did you just do that?” I wasn’t sure I had seen what I had seen.

  “Moving targets, they might get the better of me now,” he said with emphasis and another grin, as he fetched the sickle. Was he kidding? I didn’t know.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I followed Spence down the office stairs and then headed to the main theater for a quick check. The French Connection II had about a half-hour left. The Gene Hackman character, Detective Jimmy “Popeye” Doyle, was still battling the effects of heroin addiction, but soon would be hunting down Charnier, the elusive drug dealer. After grabbing a box of popcorn, freshly popped, and a cup of ice water, I sat in the back row to watch it for a while. I needed a break.

  Mindy and Ricardo came in together from the opposite back entrance of the theater. I thought they both had left. Good. Later, I’d get a chance to confront Mindy about the stealing.

  They immediately started kissing. This didn’t surprise me. Everything Mindy did came with a sexy undercurrent. She wore thick make-up, too much for a girl her age. Lipstick exaggerated the fullness of her lips, plenty full as they were. She wore her clothes tight, the buttons on her blouse threatening to pop. Mindy was sixteen, going on twenty-one. She flirted with the ushers, and sometimes I thought she flirted with me. Once, when she had stopped by the office for her paycheck, she leaned over guaranteeing a peek at her bra. I finished up the popcorn and slipped out unnoticed. I felt a stab of envy over the fun they were having.

  I hung around the concession area, applying and reapplying Windex to countertops. Mindy and Ricardo finally came out. They looked good together, like salt and pepper. They saw me. Mindy started giggling. Ricardo grinned and covered his mouth.

  “Ricardo, Spence might need you. He’s fixing to do theater two.”

  “Right on it, Mr. Burton.”

  Ricardo strolled toward the other theater in an exaggerated, silky smooth manner. I gave him a nod as if to say everything was cool with me too.

  “Mindy, do you have a sec?”

  “For sure, Mr. Burton,” she said as she smoothed out her skirt. “I need to use the restroom first.” I’d caught her by surprise, and she probably wanted to check her appearance.

  “I’ll be upstairs.”

  Soon, Mindy bounced into the office, took a seat, and looked at me with an innocent, expectant expression, the smell of a breath mint freshly dissolving in her mouth. I took an indirect approach to the stealing.

  “Mindy, I’ve been asking everyone how they’re doing, you know, one on one, after what happened with Mr. Bullock.”

  “It was terrible an all. But I like you being manager.” She seemed relieved I hadn’t mentioned Ricardo.

  “Thanks, Mindy. You do a good job. How long have you been working with us? Almost a year?”

  “Yeah, I like it here.”

  It occurred to me that one way to handle the situation was to reward her, maybe inspire her to change. I said, “I’m thinking we can give you a raise now, an extra fifty cents an hour. How does that sound?”

  She straightened up and said, “That’s awesome, Mr. Burton. Thank you, I mean it.” For her, still in high school, this would be a significant increase. She was good at the job—when she wasn’t stealing.

  “Another thing. I’ll be expecting more from you. You’re already a leader, but I’d like you to do more.”

  “Sure, Mr. Burton.”

  “We’ve hired a few kids from the Riverview. I want you to teach them the way we do things.

  “Of course.”

  “It’s not just serving the customers, but also stuff like not taking candy and money from the cash drawer. You know how some kids are.” As best I could, I avoided giving her any sense that I suspected her of doing such things.

  “I can do it.”

  It was hard to tell for sure, but I sensed a slight tug on her conscience.

  “And so, it will also be your responsibility to handle the concession drawers at the end of each show. Give them to me or Kenny.”

  “You can count on me, Mr. Burton.”

  “Kenny and I trust you, Mindy.”

  Now I could tell she was feeling guilty. She seemed too insistent about how she could be trusted. Anyway, this approach seemed worth a try. I’d wait and see.

  “And, Mr. Burton, you asked about how I’m doing after what happened. Well, Mr. Bullock was kind of weird with the girls. He put his hands on me, and I mean where he shouldn’t. That’s not right. I wasn’t the only one either.”

  “Mindy, I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, shaking my head. My opinion about Bullock, already low, hit rock bottom.

  “So, to be honest and all, I’m not too sad about him not being around anymore. I didn’t want him killed like that. But—”

  “I understand, Mindy. You’re not the only person who feels this way.” I considered what next to say. “I wonder, did Mr. Bullock ever treat Samantha the way he treated you? As far as you know?”

  Mindy laughed.

  “Samantha? He was scared of her. Just like we all are. I don’t know if I should say this, but she gives me the creeps. But I liked what she did in front of Owen. I kind of wanted her, you know, to teach him a lesson. I mean, he’s such a—such a—I don’t know.”

  “Smart-ass?”

  “Yeah. He treats me like I’m a ditz.”

  “He has no call to think that, Mindy. You’re no ditz.”

  I told Mindy I’d talk with her again soon about the raise. Needed to clear it with Mr. Drucker. I had a good feeling about how the conversation went. Would it work? I’d have to wait and see. And a more complete picture of both Horace and Samantha was coming into shape. We both returned to the lobby, and she headed off home.

  I joined Kenny, Spence, and Ricardo, and we all finished the cleaning together. After reminding Spence that we would be screening Jaws around noon the next day, I left to make the deposit at the mall.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  I met with Marion Lester the next morning before heading to the theater. She filled me in on how plans were progressing with the funeral service for Mrs. Roe. She would help with Byron and Keats and adopt them when the time came. In their own way, they missed Mrs. Roe too. We all did.

  I got to the theater around nine. The phone rang. It was Riggs.

  “We need to talk. Stop by the theater in about two hours?”

  “We might be previewing Jaws, but I’ll be on the lookout for you. What’s up?”

  “Fill you in when I see you.”

  The case seemed to have taken a turn. What did he need to talk about? And why would he need to talk with me? I’d have to wait.

  The weeks of anticipation were finally over, and I was psyched about previewing Jaws. As soon as Kenny came in, we’d get the movie started.

  Detective Riggs arrived earlier than expected, around eleven-thirty. I was in the lobby when he pulled up in his unmarked Buick Century, its copper brown exterior glistening in the sun. As he exited the car and walked toward me, I recalled the day of the murder when he had tried to catch me off guard. I had been close to trembling. I was glad to see him now.

&nbs
p; “You got my curiosity going, Detective Riggs,” I said, as we headed through the lobby toward the office. I stopped and returned to double-check that the lobby entrance doors were locked. This was now my habit, especially with the new uncertainty about who had killed Bullock. “Just to be safe,” I said, giving the doors a shake. I led Riggs up the stairs to my office. Instead of sitting behind the desk, I placed two chairs in front of the desk and offered him one. I took the other.

  “I need to trust you to keep something under your hat until late tomorrow. Can’t be repeated,” Riggs said.

  “Of course—without question,” I said, pleased that he trusted me.

  “Turns out we’ve released Milton. Did it this morning, quietly,” Riggs said, as if he had read me right and could move on to the business at hand.

  “Great,” I said, excitedly. “Spence told me Milton didn’t do it.”

  “Spence?”

  “Mr. Reeves. From the start. He knows Milton’s parents. If you can believe it, Milton’s granddad worked for him years ago when Spence had a farm.”

  Riggs raised his eyebrows and said, “There’s something about that man.”

  “No kidding. And you won’t believe what he did last night. He took me over to where he found Mr. Bullock’s body. He went into those juniper bushes, grabbed a leaf of poison ivy, and chewed on it.”

  “What?”

  “Thought he was going nuts. Said he does it every year, early, when the stuff first appears. After that, he gets immune to it. A trick his daddy taught him.”

  “Is he just not allergic to it?” Riggs said. He straightened his back and seemed to get a jolt of energy.

  “Not the way he tells it. Anyway, I didn’t see where Spence was heading at first, and then I understood. Whoever killed Mr. Bullock may—”

  “—have poison ivy rashes by now.” Riggs finished my sentence.

  “Exactly.”

  Riggs said nothing.

  “And Spence says people who have had it before, get rashes soon after exposure. Otherwise, it can take longer to break out.”