So here he was, close to seven years later, and he had yet to see a profit. As it turned out, his roommate really hadn’t been kidding about narrow margins.
But, despite this, he was reasonably happy.
Kevin sat on a stool behind the display case, staring out the plate glass window, watching the snow fall. It was a lazy snow; nothing that would amount to much. The kind of weather that kept geeks indoors playing Call of Duty. A Star Trek rerun played on an old TV perched on a shelf near the partition that led to a small room where the back issues were kept.
Outside, an old boat of a car pulled up in front of the store, a cloud of exhaust pluming up from its tailpipe. A chunky boy of fifteen or sixteen, sporting a Mohawk that was dyed lime green, exited from the passenger side. He was carrying a cane with a brass knob at the top.
When the boy entered the store, Kevin said, “What did I tell you about bringing weapons into the store, Derek?”
Derek feigned confusion, scratching at one of the many pimples on his face. “Well, hello to you, too, Kev!” Derek seemed to live in a state of perpetual jolliness. It frustrated the hell out of Kevin.
Kevin motioned for Derek to hand him the cane. Reluctantly, Derek handed it over. Kevin twisted the top and pulled, sliding a two foot long blade from the cane’s lower half.
“It pays to be armed at all times.”
“I’m sure that’s true for you,” Kevin said, hiding the sword cane behind the counter. “You can have it back when you leave.”
“So, my good man, what’s on the agenda for today?”
“Talk normal.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Derek said, saluting. “So?”
Kevin pointed to a tall stack of comic books piled on one of the long folding tables at the center of the store.
“Again?”
“Bag and board ‘em.”
“When are you gonna let me do something more…challenging,” Derek said, pulling out a folding chair and sitting down in front of the table. He slipped a white board into the transparent sleeve, and then took a comic from the top of the stack and carefully slid it into the sleeve.
“As soon as you act like you can handle it,” Kevin said.
The truth was, most days Kevin wondered what he had been thinking when he had agreed to hire Derek; the kid wasn’t worth a shit. Awkward around people, attention span of a gnat, prone to forgetfulness, and Kevin couldn’t count how many times the kid had brought a weapon into the store; everything from a pellet gun to a samurai sword. He was lazy. And what was with that fucking hair?
Kevin had felt sorry for the kid, and had taken him in the same way one might take in a stray cat. Blame it on a temporary lapse in judgment. Now that he had made the decision, a part of him insisted that there was no turning back. Take in a stray, it becomes your responsibility, and he didn’t have the heart to give Derek the boot. He hated to admit it (and wouldn’t if anyone asked), but the kid had grown on him.
Not like you’re paying him, Kevin thought. All he gets is store credit. No harm, no foul.
“You still going to teach me how to drive?”
“That’ll go faster if you don’t talk.”
Derek sighed.
“And when you’re done with that, you can sweep and mop the backroom.”
A customer entered. A short, middle-aged man with thinning hair and a round face. His eyes darted around nervously. Kevin was well acquainted with that deer-in-the-headlights look. Over the years, he had met enough geeks, nerds, and hobbyists that he could profile them almost instantly. This short, scared-looking man fell easily into the Paranoid Type category. The type of guy that probably worked at home or, if he worked in an office, he would occupy a high-walled cubicle. Probably worked in IT or programming; a job where he didn’t have to spend a lot of time interacting with other people. Most likely lived alone or with his mother, and preferred cats to dogs.
Kevin’s sales tactics varied depending on the category the customer fell into. For example, he had learned that with the paranoid type, you just left them alone and let them do their thing.
The nervous-looking man made for the wall of comic books without making eye contact.
Kevin glanced at Derek. Derek was already looking at him, and Kevin knew immediately what Derek was thinking. Kevin shook his head. Don’t.
But either Derek didn’t notice or didn’t care, because a second later he sprang out of his chair and rushed over to the man.
“Anything I can help you find, good sir?” Derek asked, standing a little too close to the nervous-looking man.
The nervous-looking man shook his head and quickly shuffled off, browsing the shelves of comics, trying to put distance between himself and this pushy teenager who reeked of old sweat masked beneath cheap fruit-scented body wash.
Derek, who had become intimately acquainted with rejection over the course of his life, was undeterred. He caught up to the man and yanked a comic off the shelf. “This is a really great series if you haven’t tried it yet,” Derek said, holding up the comic so it was only an inch or two from the nervous-looking man’s face. “Good story. The characters are interesting. Go ahead, take it.”
The man shook his head again, glancing over his shoulder toward the front door, preparing himself for a speedy escape.
“Do you have a subscription box with us? That’s really the way to go. That way you’re guaranteed not to miss an issue.”
The nervous-looking man was shaking his head, so vigorously that Kevin thought the man’s head might swivel off at any moment. The man brushed past Derek and made a beeline for the door.
Derek chased after him. “Hey, are you on Twitter?”
The man reached the door, threw it open, and hurried to his car. Derek held the door open and called out, “Tweet me!” as the man jumped into his car and peeled out of the parking lot.
Derek let the door close. He turned to Kevin and said, “I think I sold him on a subscription box. He’ll be back.”
Kevin said, “Do me a favor. Don’t talk to the customers.”
“That’s cold, Captain.”
Kevin pointed to the unfinished pile of comics on the table.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Derek sighed loudly and resumed bagging comic books. “Can I change the channel?”
“If it’ll get you to shut up.”
Derek grabbed the remote and flipped through the channels, finally settling on CNN as the female news anchor was saying, “Chinese officials declined to comment on the shuttle’s cargo, but have denied claims that the mission’s objective involved testing the effects of space on experimental viruses engineered in a government biochemical facility in Beijing. A massive search is underway, though experts speculate the missing shuttle most likely went down somewhere in the Pacific, and that odds of locating the ship are unlikely.”
Derek switched the channel. “You’ve got one of your meetings tonight, right?”
“Who told you about that?”
“Rhonda told me about them. You should let me come to one of them. I know a lot about that stuff.”
“Not a chance. Adults only.”
“I’ve been thinking…”
“First mistake.”
“You like her, right? You should just go ahead and ask her out.”
“Shut it.”
Chapter 2
A sign on the outside of the restaurant said JACKIE’S UP-ALL-NIGHT in pink neon. It was the only food joint in Trudy that was open twenty-four hours a day.
The inside of Jackie’s had been made to look like an old-fashioned 50’s diner, with the black-and-white checkered floor, metal finish, and a row of stools with red cushions lined up in front of the polished steel counter. Framed pictures of James Dean, Elvis Presley, and Marilyn Monroe decorated the walls. Booths lined the opposite wall. A jukebox sat neglected in the far corner, next to the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.
It was busy. The noon hour rush. The place reeked of sautéed onions, one of the key components of Jac
kie’s famous patty melt.
Rhonda Sanchez topped off one of the elderly customer’s cup of coffee, ignoring the way his watery eyes shifted slowly from her hair (which maybe had to do with it being cut short and dyed jet black) to the tiny sparkling diamond of her nose piercing. It was the same contemptuous stare she usually got from the restaurant’s mostly older regulars.
“Enjoy, gramps,” she said as she headed back behind the counter, dropped the pot of coffee onto the burner, and disappeared into the back. She walked past the break room, punched the clock, and slipped out the back door, where she lit a cigarette and tried to ignore the cold and the snow. She was joined a minute later by Janelle, who was taller and prettier in a traditional sort of way.
“Can I bum one off you?”
“Sure.” Rhonda handed Janelle a cigarette and the lighter.
“How’re your tips?”
Rhonda dug into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a wad of bills. “They’re not drunk enough yet. The big tippers come in drunk during graveyards.”
“You pullin’ a double?”
“Not tonight. Second job.”
“You still workin’ at that bookstore?”
“Comic shop,” Rhonda said.
“Right, whatever,” Janelle said. “I hear the owner is a real perv.”
Rhonda puffed on her cigarette. “Kevin? I don’t think so. Just has a thing for girls younger than him. Like most guys. I catch him staring a lot, but he’s never tried anything.”
“Ew. That guy seems so…skeevy.”
“Kinda.”
“Isn’t he like fifty or something?”
“Thirty.”
“Jesus, and you’re like twenty-three. What a chester.”
“I don’t think it works that way,” Rhonda said, rolling her eyes. Secretly, she really didn’t mind the way Kevin was always looking at her. It made her feel kind of good about herself, actually. After all, thirty wasn’t that much older.
“What does he pay you? Can’t be much.”
“Store credit.”
“Oh, I forgot, you’re into all that nerdy stuff.”
“It isn’t that bad. I pretty much just hang out,” Rhonda said, angry that she was trying to justify herself to this stuck-up girl she didn’t even really like. “Give the nerds something to drool over. The more they drool, the more they buy.”
“Sounds a little slutty,” Janelle said.
Rhonda tossed her cigarette onto the ground, stamped it out with her foot, and immediately lit another. “That’s right up your alley, isn’t it? Want me to pick you up an application?”
Janelle scowled and said, “Bitch,” and opened the door to head back inside. “Thanks for the cigarette.”
After the door had swung shut, Rhonda smiled to herself. I hope her future husband beats her, she thought. She didn’t feel bad for thinking it.
Chapter 3
Fred Klemt pulled his beat-up Ford truck into the driveway of a spacious Georgian-style house. Written on the side of the truck, in green vinyl lettering, were the words WE’LL SNAKE YOUR DRAIN. Fred was twenty-eight, but his wide face and grizzled black beard made him look at least ten years older. His sizable beer gut preceded him as he exited the truck and walked around to the back, digging in the bed until he brought out his tool belt, which he draped over his shoulder as if it was a bandolier. He was wearing navy coveralls with Fred’s Plumbing written in cursive on the back.
Fred walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. He waited. A cute blonde – she had to be in her mid-forties (cougar, Fred’s mind screamed) – wearing a short silk robe that was tied-off at the waist answered the door. The robe was thin and the weather was cold, which was why Fred could see the outline of the blonde’s hardened nipples. She had the kind of deep tan that would probably make her look like shit in later life, but for now it made her look as hot as hell. She was holding a glass of iced tea with a lemon wedge perched on the rim.
“Can I help you?” the blonde asked as if his coveralls and the fact that he was carrying a leather belt stuffed with tools weren’t indication enough of why he was there.
“I’m here about the clog,” Fred said. And then he winked at her; a wink that said: we both know why I’m really here.
At first, the blonde’s eyes narrowed, staring at him skeptically, but then she smiled and, stepping aside, said, “Do come in.”
Fred sauntered into the house, stomping the snow off his boots on the welcome mat. The blonde closed the door behind him and said, “The clog is downstairs. It’s bad.”
He followed the blonde as she led him through the foyer and dining room, opening a door at the back of the kitchen. She led him down a flight of stairs, into a finished basement where he caught a glimpse of a dimly-lit room with a pool table as she led him to the laundry room.
“Watch your step,” she said, switching on the light.
She hadn’t been kidding. Most of the laundry room’s concrete floor had been flooded. The smell was awful, and although he had encountered that familiar putrid stench a hundred times over, he found he never got used to it. If there was one truth in life that being a plumber had taught him, it was that everybody’s shit stank; didn’t matter if they were rich or poor or black or white. And the cute blonde was no exception.
“Can you fix it?”
“Sure. Let me get my snake.”
Fred trudged up the stairs and out to his truck, hauling a drum auger out of the back. He pulled it along by its custom dolly. It made a dull repeating thud as he lowered it down the stairs. He wheeled it to the edge of the laundry room where the blonde was waiting in her silk robe.
“Mind plugging this in for me?” He gave her another sly wink.
The blonde took the cord and plugged it into the outlet in the basement’s half-bathroom. Fred grabbed the cable, holding the end up so the blonde could see the rusty blades at the end. “Assuming there isn’t damage to the pipes, this usually does the trick.”
Fred switched the auger’s motor on, holding the cable tightly in his gloved hands as it tried to buck wildly. He trudged through the shallow pool of human waste to the center of the room where the water bubbled up.
The sewage was deep enough that finding the drain wasn’t easy. He dipped his hand in, feeling around, until he found the drain, and then guided the cable, feeding it in a few inches at a time.
Fred glanced back over his shoulder at the blonde. He smiled and she smiled back. He threw his leg over the cable, squatting down so he was straddling it as it jittered down the drain, thumping against the pipe. He began to thrust his hips, sliding his hands back and forth over the gyrating cable, and made low moaning sounds. “That’s right, baby. Take it all in. Feels so –”
When Fred looked over his shoulder the second time, the blonde wasn’t alone. Fred froze, mid-squat, hands still clutching the cable between his legs. Standing next to the blonde was a large black man (it took him a second to realize it was a man and not a Silverback gorilla), who was easily 6’5”, and bore an uncanny resemblance to Michael Clarke Duncan.
The blonde and the black man were staring at him. The blonde looked appalled. The black man was shaking his head. Fred let the cable slip from his hands. It hit the water and danced and arched, splattering fecal matter all over the place.
The black man bent down and switched the auger’s motor off. There was a loud gurgling sound as the sewage seeped into the now unclogged drain.
Fred was covered in feces. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
Nervously, he pulled the cable free from the drain. “Guess that about does it.” Fred grabbed the dolly’s handle, wheeled it around, then glanced down at the white carpet and then to his soaked boots. He undid the laces and pulled them off before setting foot on the carpet. “Running a special today,” Fred said. “So that’s gonna be…”
The black man glowered down at him.
“…no charge,” Fred said as he hauled the dolly up the stairs and walked back to his tru
ck in his stocking feet. He didn’t put his boots on until he was safely in the truck.
Chapter 4
Ryan Carver exited his squad car and began the long walk over to Sheriff Branagan, who waited on the other side of the snow-covered field. After a two year stint as a detention deputy in the Coldwater County Jail, and now going on five years in patrol, he hadn’t ever seen anything like this. A couple of years ago, they’d responded to a plane crash in neighboring Woodbury County. Miraculously, both the student pilot and his instructor had walked away with only minor injuries.
That was the closest Ryan’s mind could come to relating the current situation with past experience. But this wasn’t a plane, and judging by the still-smoldering wreckage strewn out over a quarter mile radius, Ryan wasn’t optimistic about finding any survivors. This wasn’t the kind of accident a person just walked away from.
As he closed the hundred yard gap to Branagan, he took in the scene from a distance. Trudy’s two fire trucks were parked next to each other; an ambulance was parked a little farther back; there were two patrol cars in addition to the Sheriff’s white Yukon. Capt. Randy Aldo and Lt. Nathan Finnigan stood next to Branagan.
When he reached Branagan, he said, “That what I think it is?”
Branagan nodded, absently kicking away a rock with his boot as he watched the firefighters search the wreckage.
“Don’t know what they’re lookin’ for,” Finnigan said. “Sure as hell ain’t gonna find any survivors in that barbeque.”
Aldo said, “Isn’t one of ours. American, I mean.”
“How do you know that?” Ryan asked.
Aldo pointed at a twisted sheet of metal that had been lodged upright into the ground during impact. “That look like English to you?”
Ryan followed Aldo’s sausage-sized finger. There was lettering on the chunk of metal, and even through the scorch marks, he could tell it wasn’t in English.
The Z Club Page 2
