"I went to my usual ATM. It's attached to my bank, so I don't have to pay any fees."
"He walks four blocks to save the two dollar fee,” said Maggie. “A lot of good it did him tonight."
"Anyway,” said Tom, “there were three Russians standing at the machine."
"Russians?” asked Ed, his techno-thriller instincts alerted.
"Well, Slavic, anyway. And they were speaking one of those Eastern European languages. They left the machine and two of them—by the way they were quarreling, I assume they were husband and wife—"
"What does that mean?” Maggie asked, frowning.
"Just an observation, dear. And the third Russian, a bald guy in one of those black lamb hats, was talking a mile a minute into his cell phone. But none of them had the decency to tell me what was going on. So I put my card into the machine and typed in the code. Then they rushed up and told me that the damned thing was eating cards."
"But yours was gone,” guessed Ed.
"Call the bank,” said Shanks.
"The bank was already closed for the day,” said Maggie. “We'll do it first thing in the morning, and Tom can get his card back."
"No,” said Shanks. “Call them right now. I mean it. They must have an emergency number for stolen cards."
The three looked at him.
"It wasn't stolen," Tom said slowly, as if explaining to a child. “The machine took it."
"It was too stolen,” said Shanks, feeling a bit childish himself. “Look, when you walked up to the machine where was the arguing couple?"
Tom thought about it. “On my left, near the wall."
Shanks nodded. “And they were talking loudly, with lots of arm gestures, I'll bet. The bald guy was on your right and behind you."
"That's right.” He frowned. “How did you know that?"
"This is Leopold Longshanks,” said Ed, with a laugh. “He knows everything. So how does this add up to a theft?"
"While Tom was inserting his card he was distracted by the quarrelers, and didn't notice the bald guy on the other side getting close enough to see him type in the PIN code."
Maggie frowned at her husband. “Is he right?"
Tom scowled. “It doesn't matter. The machine got the card."
"Once baldy had the code he signaled to his teammates...” Shanks tried to picture it. “Probably by closing his cell phone. Then they rushed over to warn you about the machine and baldy charged up to try to get your card out."
"But it wouldn't come out,” said Tom.
"How do you know?"
"He kept pushing the eject button again and again."
"Jeez, that's great,” said Ed. “The card came out the first time, but because he kept hitting the button it looked like he couldn't get it out. Meanwhile it was already in his hand, or on its way to his pocket. Misdirection."
"Exactly,” said Shanks. “It's all misdirection. Make them look north when the trouble's coming from the south."
"But that's...” Tom blinked. “That's ... How could he—"
"You're an idiot,” said his wife. “That's how."
"A lot of people get taken that way,” said Shanks. “I wish I'd seen it happen."
"What did they get?” asked Ed. “A bank card or a credit card?"
"My debit card.” Tom's eyes got wide. “I have to call the company!"
"Good idea,” said Shanks. He watched as the insurance man began the cell phone shuffle, wandering around the room looking for better reception.
When he turned around Maggie was staring at him. “How did you know all that?"
"Just part of my research for bloody potboilers."
She made a face. “I'm sorry if I was rude."
Shanks thought it over. “I was too, I guess. It looks like neither of us had a very good day."
"Did you lose a credit card too?"
"No, it was a bad review."
"Oh.” Maggie nodded sympathetically. “I'd rather deal with thieves."
"Amen. Good luck with the bank.” Shanks frowned at his empty glass. “I need more wine."
"Should be champagne,” said Ed. “To celebrate your latest triumph."
"It should be Scotch, but my host doesn't seem to have provided it."
"Jean put the kibosh on that,” said Ed. “She says the last time we had a party for writers she had to stop three fistfights and an elopement."
"Oh yes. That was a good party. Wine it is."
There was a free space at the bar for a change. Shanks thought about asking for two glasses. People might think he was carrying one for Cora, but undoubtedly he would run into her and she wouldn't be fooled.
"Merlot,” he told the bartender.
He turned around and almost bumped into Ken Roaf, the skunk who walked like a man. His so-called friend had the decency to look abashed. Maybe even a little scared, Shanks hoped.
He had sworn to Cora that he would not say anything harsh. But had he promised not to, say, punch anyone? It might be a gray area.
"Uh, Shanks,” said Roaf.
"Hello, Ken.” And thought: Misdirection.
He smiled. “Enjoying the party?"
"Uh, yes. Very much. A white wine,” he told the bartender.
Shanks looked casually away and, wouldn't you know it, there was his darling wife. Cora was chatting with a publicist and giving Shanks a ferocious glare that said, incongruously, Be nice.
Oh, he would be extremely nice. He just had to figure out how to raise the topic.
Roaf solved that problem. “Uh, Shanks.” He cleared his throat. “About that review..."
"Oh, yes,” said Shanks. “I'm so glad you brought that up, Ken. I've been meaning to apologize to you."
Roaf almost dropped his glass. “You want to apologize to me?"
"Absolutely. I feel terrible about what you've been going through.” Shanks shook his head, not so much to show sympathy as to stir his imagination.
"What do you mean?” asked Roaf.
"The things people have been saying about you.” Shanks clucked his tongue at the wickedness of slanderers.
"What have they been saying?” Roaf looked a bit pale.
"I tell them and tell them. It's because you and I are such good friends that you felt obliged to write that review. You were bending over backwards to be fair."
"That's right, Shanks. That's exactly what I did.” Roaf looked at his suddenly empty wineglass. “Another one, please. What do they say after you tell them that?"
"Oh, you know how people talk, Ken. Some people are always willing to assign a malicious motive to the most innocent little action..."
"Like what?” Roaf frowned at the crowded room, a little glassy eyed. “What are they saying, exactly?"
"Now, there's no point in going into that, Ken. I promised Cora I wouldn't say anything harsh tonight."
"Harsh? They're being harsh?"
"Don't dwell on it,” Shanks advised. “You and I know you were just trying to tell the truth. Don't we?"
Roaf wandered off, casting suspicious looks at his fellow guests. Shanks turned back to the bartender, who gave him a similar glance. “What was that about?"
"Just comforting a friend."
"I spend a lot of time in bars comforting people. When I'm done they usually look a lot happier than that guy does."
"You have your style, and I have mine. A Merlot, please."
Shanks strolled away, admiring the smiling partygoers. Nice crowd.
"There you are!” said Cora. “What did you say to Ken Roaf?"
"Not one harsh word, my love."
"Good for you, Shanks. Don't you feel better for that?"
"I suppose I do, really."
"That Maggie woman told me you were telling her husband not to trust ATM machines. What was that about?"
Was it was worth explaining? Probably not. “What do you think of that dress Maggie's wearing? I don't know much about women's fashion, but—"
"But you're right about that. She should never wear pink."
Shanks sipped wine. Maybe he should start hanging around bank machines. He seemed to have the knack.
Copyright © 2009 Robert Lopresti
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Fiction: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF BILLY DAWBER by D. A. McGuire
Yeah, that's me—Death Kid. Say it. Shout it!"
They were black and tireless, rolling up and down in the currents. Fresh chop broke against them, and a white foam fell over the dark undulating shapes, moving toward the bridge. The lights of the canal shone off them as they emerged from the water, sparkling briefly until they disappeared back under. There were at least six, maybe seven, maybe more. From the rocky edge of the canal it was hard to see exactly how many...
I woke with a start and a sharp intake of breath like a gasp. The guy on the other side of the room laughed.
"Just a dream,” I whispered, catching my breath.
"Some dream,” he said.
"Yeah, well, I've had it a few times this week,” I said, still remembering what I'd seen. I rolled over and sat up. “There are these things swimming in the canal. I don't know what they are."
"Swimming?” He only pretended interest; most of his attention was on the book in his lap, a notebook to one side, a calculator balanced on his knee. He was also drawing something in the margin of his notebook. I could just make out a black shape, a series of lines.
"Yeah, couple of nights in a row. Like ... plesiosaurs or..."
"Sea monsters.” He looked up at me, amusement in his dark eyes. Billy Dawber, my new roommate. We were foster kids together at the Wenlows'. “Loch Ness."
"Yeah, maybe something like that, moving up the canal toward the bridge, but at night. And the bridge—the train bridge—it's always down. They can't pass under; they're too big. Then it ends.” I looked over at Billy. He had gone back to his homework. Pre-calculus. The kid was a nut for math. He was a strange one, for sure, so into books, math, school. He studied and worked so hard, you'd think he was after a damn scholarship.
"It's just a dream,” I said, lying back on the cot, hands under my head, eyes on the rafters overhead. Our room was nice enough, in a rustic sort of way, tucked up over the garage of a family who took in too many kids at once. But the state was short on good foster homes for teenage boys so concessions were made.
As wards of the state, so as long as we kept up our grade point averages we were guaranteed a slot in any of the state's public universities. But, that was almost three years off.
"I think I just got it on my mind,” I heard myself saying. “I lived in Manamesset, you know, and that's where the canal is. I love the canal. Lots of nice trails out there, through the bogs and marsh. And the canal road. You can rollerblade there and nobody bothers you."
"Plesiosaurs in the canal.” He half laughed.
I rolled over, ignoring him, turned up the music on my mp3 player, and closed my eyes.
I would never see Billy Dawber alive again.
* * * *
I slammed my locker door hard, pretending not to see the teacher standing on the other side. I had things to do, was already late for class, hadn't eaten since last night. I was in no mood for this again. Billy Dawber wasn't my responsibility, never had been. He was just a kid I had roomed with for about a month, an earnest, studious, strange kid in the foster care system. We had never clicked, never bonded, never anything.
Yet there she was, Miss Emily Strangis, Standard Chemistry Grade 10, looking at me like a child lost in the woods. “Herbie, Dr. Morgans wants to talk to you,” she was saying. “Really, you need to go speak with him. About Billy."
Why did they care, I wondered. About Billy, that is. He had been a runaway before, probably was a runaway again. In the short, half dozen conversations I'd had with Billy, I had at least gotten that much from him. He hated his life. He hated living in foster home after foster home. He hated dragging his belongings from one crummy house to the next, settling into a new school, meeting new kids, meeting new teachers, always having to accommodate himself to a new situation. I'd been in only one foster home, had only one set of foster parents, had had to move into only one new school, which was one town over from where I'd spent most of my life.
"Miss Strangis,” I began, looking into her pale blue eyes. “I'm late for class."
"Herbie,” she said with strained patience, “you can miss class for this. Billy Dawber has been gone for five days. Dr. Morgans and I and all the staff are trying to help the police—"
"Find a missing kid who's probably just a runaway?” I said, interrupting her, which was damn easy to do. She was so polite, so young, so naive. I sighed. “He's got nothing to do with me. I don't know where he is, and honestly—” I shrugged. “—I don't care."
Her whole face kind of dropped at that. It was disappointment, I guess.
"Now can you write me a pass? I'm late for geometry class."
* * * *
"So where did Dawber go?” he asked, sliding into the seat opposite me.
I just looked at him, continuing to munch quietly and slowly on my carrot stick. I'd answer when and if I felt like. Another kid joined him, then two more.
I decided I felt like answering, “Beats me."
He leaned across the cafeteria table toward me, drumming his fingers on its surface about two inches from the barely edible tuna fish sandwich that Mrs. Wenlow had made for me that morning.
"They say,” he began, peering at me through the thick mane of greasy hair that covered his eyes, “that you're like a mystery solver or something. A kid detective. In fact—” He looked at his pals, all of them grinning, smiling, watching. “—some of them at your old school even had a name for you. They called you Death Kid."
I stuffed another carrot stick in my mouth. “Yeah, some did."
"They even said—” He leaned closer toward me. “—that someone tried to kill you once. Broke both your arms and tried to drown you."
I just kept munching as I said, “Yeah, someone did."
They all broke into laughter at that, two of them high-fiving each other. Obviously they believed none of it, but I didn't care, not even when Mr. Greasy-Hair-in-His-Eyes swiped half my tuna fish sandwich, pushing it into his mouth as he laughed and walked off with his friends.
* * * *
"You have a certain reputation, Herbert,” the dean of students said to me as he sat back in his swivel chair. I was on the other side of the desk, sitting forward, hands on my knees.
After receiving summonses all day to come see him, I gave in when a senior girl, one of those perpetually cheerful blondes who does every sport and activity a high school has to offer, appeared in the doorway of my last class, announcing: “If Herbert Sawyer, Jr., is in this class, Dr. Morgans wants to see him.” Of course Herbert Sawyer, Jr., was in that class, and I finally had no choice but to follow this female model of peppiness to Dr. Morgans's office.
"A reputation for—now correct me if I am wrong, Herbert—but for helping the local police solve certain crimes?"
He looked up over his desk at me in utter disbelief. Well, why shouldn't he? And anyhow, what had that to do with Billy Dawber? So I had helped the police out a few times—okay, more than a few times. I just put that down to damn bad luck. I'd been in the wrong place the wrong time too many times to number and right now I wanted nothing more than to be allowed to crawl back to English class and listen to Mr. Wainstrum discuss themes of guilt and redemption in The Scarlet Letter.
"Well, Herbert?” He was waiting.
"Yeah, once or twice.” I shrugged.
"More than once or twice, Herbert,” he said, leaning over the desk toward me, almost accusingly. “You have a history of becoming involved in situations that I find quite alarming. Where were your parents in all of this?"
Now I was aggravated. He should have known this about me. It was obvious he had done some research on me. Hadn't it said all this in my folder?
"My father is dead, sir,” I said dryly, “and my mother is currently in a
psychiatric institution, but before she was, she was just as perplexed about me as you seem to be right now."
I suppose the complexity of that sentence—and the fact that I had uttered it—kind of caught him off guard because he just stared at me a moment with his mouth hanging open. Get over it, I wanted to tell him. Just ask your questions and let me get back to class.
"Well, be that as it may—” He needed to catch his breath. “—I—the reason I called you here is to ask if you can shed any light, Herbert—” He started to find his pace. “—any light at all on your friend Billy Dawber. The police have reported him as a runaway, and we certainly want to help the police if we can. Don't we?"
Okay, he was pulling himself together, but a certain part of him was still mystified. There I sat in my flannel shirt, scuffed-up jeans, and leather jacket, with my spiky hair, which had been magenta and black until a few days ago. Now my hair was a kind of off black with reddish brown roots. Anyhow, I just didn't look the picture of a teenaged boy who helps out the police in his free time.
"Billy wasn't my friend, and I don't know where he is,” I said.
"Herbert—” he leaned over his desk, hands clasped together, arms out straight toward me. It was a gesture of appeal, of solidarity. “Did Billy ever talk to you about wanting to get away, about wanting to leave Falmouth, or the Wenlows? Did he talk to you about family or friends, or perhaps a girlfriend?"
"Nope."
"We are very concerned for Billy's welfare. According to what the police have told us, he's done this before, just disappeared, and on at least one occasion, he stole a car. He was halfway home before the police pulled him over.” A shake of his head, a sound of measured disgust, then: “But this time—"
I cut him off: “This time he left all his stuff. Yeah, I know. Look, the cops have already talked to me, and the Wenlows and all the other kids at the house. We don't know where he is or why he left. I don't know anything.” I emphasized that last word in my best jaded-teenager voice, hoping he got the message.
"You last spoke to him..."
I sighed. I had been all through this before twice already. It was the same old story. “Saturday morning, yeah. He was doing math homework. I went back to sleep, and when I woke up, he was gone. I went and did some work for a friend; I got back at dinnertime. Billy was still gone. Saturday night he never came home. I watched TV, listened to music, did homework. I went online a while using the Wenlows’ computer. Sunday Billy was still gone. Sunday evening, still gone. Monday morning still gone. Tuesday, Wednesday, and this is Thursday, still gone."
AHMM, July-August 2009 Page 8
