Brick House

by Daniel Nayeri

  “And when Mr. Bieman, your dad, opened the door, you were just gonna say hi and ask to play checkers?”

  “I’m his son?”

  Mack slammed the metal table again, hard enough to leave a print. The kid was about to bawl. “Don’t play with me. Randy Bieman catches the first star, wants a triple murder. You show up at the door ten minutes later. That dad opens the door, and I say you would have put your fist through his heart. Am I right?”

  “But I’m not Randy,” pleaded the boy.

  “I know,” said Mack, “You’re Randy’s wish.”

  The boy’s lips quivered; his eyes glazed. He started blubbering into his hands. “Nooo,” he whined. “I don’t know any Randy Freeman!”

  Mack slumped back in her chair. Saul shook his head and sighed. He looked at the mirror and said, “Ari, check the APB log. Any note on the shabby jammies?”

  “Hold on,” said the speaker above the mirror. “Got it, no, nothing. Says the Bieman kid’s pretty spoiled. Actually got a birthday wish last year for two grand worth of toys.”

  The boy was making indecipherable weepy noises, trying not to show his tears. He crescendoed anytime Mack adjusted in her seat a little. Saul let the waterworks dry up before he said, “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Muh-Mustard.”

  “Your name is Mustard?” said Mack, already tired of softballing. The boy nodded and then got the hiccups.

  “Saul, he’s pretending,” said Mack. “He blew a kiss at me on the scene, knew exactly what he was doing, bolted like a —” Then a question popped into her head and, turning to the boy, she said, “If you’re innocent, why’d you run?”

  “I was scared.”

  “Bull,” said Mack. She wanted to go at the suspect again, but Saul wouldn’t squeeze.

  He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He said, “Where do you live, Mustard?”

  “At that lady Cavanaugh’s foster house. They named me that ’cause I put it on my scrambled eggs.”

  “Mustard?” said Saul.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Saul got up. Mustard flinched. Mack said, “Where’re you going?”

  “We got the wrong kid,” said Saul. “Ari, get a reissue out on the APB.”

  “You got it,” blared Ari through the speaker.

  “Whoa, wait a sec.” Mack followed Saul toward the door but didn’t want to leave the suspect. “You just believe him?” She looked back at Mustard and asked, “Why were you sneaking around the house at night?”

  Mustard opened his mouth to speak, but Saul beat him to it. “He’s a runaway orphan. Let’s go.” Saul walked out. The boy closed his mouth. He made a wide grin. Mack, who was the only other one in the room by then, couldn’t decide whether it was relief on the boy’s face or contempt. She walked out into the hall and closed the door.

  Saul came out of the back room with Ari’s bag in his hand. She walked with him down the corridor and into the station house. On the marble floor of the vestibule was the department seal: IMAGINARY CRIMES UNIT, 31ST PRECINCT. Below it was a motto, written in plain font: To project and to swerve.

  Saul didn’t linger at the row of desks where after-hours detectives sat around, chewing the fat. The place was mostly regular, with computers three generations behind what the criminals were using, processing forms pinned to the bulletin board of the 3-1 Precinct, a few copies of the Bestiary of Mythic Wishes, also known as “the rap sheet.”

  As Saul passed through, one detective looked up and said, “Hey, Ji-Ji, that the new partner?” He looked more like a male model than a cop. His brown hair was billowy, his body willowy, as thin as a vine. He was wearing a white muscle shirt with the words CHEST HAIR printed in big and wispy black capitals. He wore iridescent glitter eye shadow. Over his back was the faint glimmer of gossamer wings.

  Saul nodded and kept walking, holding Ari’s bag out so the fish could see where they were going. “You pretty tall, mami,” said the detective to Mack, leering at her legs.

  “The better to kick you with,” said Mack.

  The detective seemed to like the back talk. “I ain’t no Tink, baby. You kick all you like.”

  “This is Alvarez,” said Ari. “You don’t have to talk to him.”

  Alvarez batted his expensive eyelashes. “Hey, Goodie, you hear that? Fishy says she don’t need to talk to us.” Alvarez was talking to the old lady sitting at the desk next to his. Goodie was somebody’s, maybe everybody’s, grandmother. A light-blue smock and white apron, glasses on the tip of her nose, one of those cotton sleeping hats that look like shower caps. She was knitting a baby blanket, didn’t look up to answer Alvarez. She said, “Now, dear, you know we don’t have to be the most popular team on the force.”

  Alvarez nodded to his partner. The old lady added, “It’s enough that we’re the best. And the new tramp can talk to whomever she likes.”

  Alvarez tittered with snarky delight. Mack stared, unable to connect the sweet old lady with the words coming out of her mouth.

  “That’s Goodie,” said Ari. “Don’t mess with her.”

  “That’s right, dearie,” said Goodie warmly. “Or I’ll cut your throat in your sleep.”

  Mack blinked at her. She noticed that under the cap, Goodie’s ears were long enough to flop down, with warts all over.

  Mack followed Saul out of the precinct, into the street, and said, “Are those two serious?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ari, “they’re definitely the best. Both of them are first grade. The fairy thing has him acting chippy like that. Goodie’s the only person he respects. She’s just an old troll, but together they bring ’em begging for prison.”

  “They advertise themselves well enough,” said Mack.

  Saul sat on the back of the bike and said, “Careful with Goodie. Internal Affairs has a file you don’t want to see on her. When she was under a bridge, she used to twist people hard. Monkey’s-paw kind of thing. Grant a wish, then make them sorry.”

  Mack got on the bike and put her helmet on. Sure she’d messed around when she was young, but nothing like that. The comm units in their ears rattled off the APB for Randy Bieman’s wish at large. Mack leaned on the handle and pulled into the street. Saul’s arms wrapped around her like a flak jacket.

  As they rode back to the crime scene, Mack spoke through her comm unit. “If you and Ari have been in homicide so long, why didn’t they offer you first grade?”

  Saul’s voice was so close, she almost jumped. He said, “They did.”

  The night was starting to freeze over. Streets were empty as a Nazarene crypt. Only the bakers had their lights on. When they pulled up in front of the brownstone, she took off her helmet and said, “You said no?”

  Saul rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face, making a scratchy sound. “I said no, thanks.”

  AFTER ABANDONING THE scene for so long, they couldn’t risk staking out the place. For all they knew, the suspect could have arrived already and could have been one down on a two-count of B&E and three-man homicide. One . . . two . . . three, make another wish for me.

  With a handkerchief, Saul lifted the latch on the iron gate. Mack followed and closed it behind her so it wouldn’t clink. When she turned back to the house, Saul had already gotten the door open. She stepped silently onto the landing and whispered, “Forced entry?” Saul shook his head no.

  “You picked it that fast?”

  “I’m Middle Eastern,” said Saul.

  They entered the foyer, big enough to house a whole petting zoo. By the looks of the furniture, the Biemans weren’t hurting for coin. The younger sister must have been afraid of the dark, or maybe Mr. Bieman stubbed his toes on the way to a midnight drink. Either way, the rooms each had a night-light. If you were looking to murder, they were practically a trail of bread crumbs up the stairs and into each unsuspecting bedroom.

  They stood in the half-lit entry, assessing the floor plan. Saul took off his skullcap. His hair was short enough not to look messy sticking up in front. It had the sam
e white dusting as his stubble. Mack whispered, “What does that mean, you’re ‘Middle Eastern’?”

  Ari blared into their earbuds. “Means he’s a dark male, age eighteen to thirty-four. He commits, like, eighty percent of the crimes in this country.”

  Saul mounted the staircase, stepping on the far edges to minimize creaking.

  “Cute, but you’re dodging the question,” said Mack. At the top of the stairs, going left was out. One big door, snores coming from behind it. On the right, two doors. Saul paused. The night shine streamed in from a skylight above.

  Mack caught his attention and said, “You know what I’m talking about. You used to be a thief or what?”

  “I used to be a djinn, that’s all,” said Saul.

  Ari laughed into the earbuds, like somebody put their foot in it at a dinner party. “Saul’s quick like that. He could’ve picked your pocket half a dozen times already.”

  Mack raised an eyebrow. Twice now — including the jump on Mustard — Saul had been a Johnny-on-the-spot, and she wasn’t used to runner-up.

  The moonlight draped over her. She looked down at her leather pants. Saul didn’t mind doing the same. She said, “I don’t have any pockets to pick.”

  If his skin wasn’t the color of burnt honey, she knew he’d be blushing.

  Ari said, “What am I missing?” but Saul didn’t answer. Mack walked to the second door on the right.

  This time it was Saul who had to catch up. He whispered, “How do you know that’s the right room?”

  Mack didn’t answer. She had checked the windows from outside. It was the only one with a clear sight of the murder weapon — the first star in the night sky. She decided to let him wonder how she knew.

  Randy’s room had two night-lights in it, as well as a bunch of glow stickers, and a screensaver brighter than a tanning bed. They slipped in like fog. Saul used the handkerchief to close the door and stood by. Mack sat down next to Randy’s sleeping form on the bed. Saul flipped the light switch. Nothing. The kid slept with so much light it hardly mattered. Randy sighed in his sleep and drew the blanket up to his cheek.

  “He’s almost cute,” said Mack. She put a hand on his shoulder and jerked him back and forth. “Hey, Randy. Randy Bieman, get up.”

  Randy’s eyes fluttered, then focused on the stranger sitting on his bed. He tried to scream “Mom!” but Mack stuffed the sound back into his mouth with one palm. Randy kept it up under Mack’s glove.

  She put a finger up to her lips. “Randy, listen to me, Randy. I’m going to have to hurt you if don’t stop struggling.” This had the wrong effect. The kid started flailing his limbs. “Do you want that, Randy?” A hard squeeze on his cheeks, and he started to get the picture. Mack slowly removed her hand.

  Randy shouted, “I’m telling my —”

  Mack clamped back down on his mouth. With the other hand, she pulled a Desert Eagle from her holster and cocked it on his forehead. “You’ve got two angry-looking strangers in your room with full-bore semiautomatics, and you thought we were joking?”

  Randy’s eyes were crossed as he looked straight up at the barrel of the Magnum. He shook his head. “Then you understand?” said Mack. Randy nodded yes a half-dozen times.

  “Good,” said Mack, lowering the gun. “’Cause this thing doesn’t need a soft spot to work, you get me?” Another hundred nods. Mack holstered the gun and sat back.

  Randy’s mouth hung open but not to talk. Saul reached inside his coat and flipped out a badge. “We’re detectives, ICU.”

  “I see you, too,” said Randy, still shaky.

  Saul didn’t bother. Ari spoke into their earbuds, “Holy jeez, we got a real honors student over here.”

  “What do you want? I don’t steal,” said Randy, sitting up in his bed.

  “You probably do, but that’s not the point,” said Mack.

  She noted that Randy wasn’t wearing jammies but an oversize Dark Knight shirt.

  “Did you make a wish on the first star of this evening?”

  “No,” said Randy.

  Mack reached for her weapon.

  “Yes,” said Randy. “But, so?”

  “So it’ll come true, moron,” shouted Ari in their ears.

  “They come true, kid,” said Saul in the monotone he used for reading people their rights. “Every wish you make comes true . . . except the ones that can’t, or won’t, or shouldn’t.”

  “Really?” said Randy. His eyes widened. He was spellbound by the thought of everything he could get if all his wishes came true.

  “Exactly. They become real,” said Saul.

  “Wait,” said Randy. “I don’t get it — that can’t be true.”

  Ari sighed into their earpieces.

  “Look,” said Mack. “If you ask for something that can’t happen, like you becoming king of the world, or shouldn’t happen —”

  “Like you becoming king of the world,” said Ari. Mack didn’t acknowledge it since Randy couldn’t hear.

  She went on, “And you made your wish with something effective, like the first star you see that night, or a wishing well, or whatever. That desire becomes real. It becomes a wicked idea made suddenly human.”

  “Wicked Idea Suddenly Human,” clarified Saul. “W.I.S.H.”

  Mack finished her example. “It’ll look just like you, and it’ll try to give you exactly what you asked for, like killing all the world leaders or, in this case, your family.”

  “What happens if I wish for a million bucks?” asked Randy.

  “Was this kid even listening?” asked Ari.

  “What happens with that one,” said Saul, “is that your wish goes and robs a bank, what else? You think money just appears?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “It doesn’t. You commit three felonies, two counts of possession with intent to harm, and then maybe the wish scores a couple hundred large. But you wanted a million, so your wish keeps hitting banks. Or it runs into me.”

  Saul looked too big for the room. His irritated voice had a deep resonance, as though it were echoing off the walls of ancient days. Randy gulped and pulled the blanket up a little.

  He ventured one last question: “What are wishes that won’t happen?”

  “Doesn’t matter, kid. It gets complicated. We just catch them.”

  Mack put her hand on Randy’s shoulder. She said, “Listen carefully, Randy. If you were going to kill your family, how would you do it? Operationally, I mean.”

  The idea looked new and ugly to Randy. He stammered, “I would — I would never do that. That was just a — I was just mad. They took my game.”

  “Well, it looks like you would,” said Mack. “Actually, you already did. It just hasn’t happened yet. Now we need your help to stop it.”

  “And we do it quiet-like,” said Saul. Randy looked at the imposing detective. Saul put a finger up to his lips.

  Randy thought about this for a while.

  “Rocket launchers,” he said.

  “Did he say rocket launchers?” said Ari.

  “I’d use launchers, maybe sniper rifles. Do you guys think we can stop all this after it gets my little sister?”

  Mack turned to Saul. “The kid’s useless. How do you want to do this?”

  Saul went over to the dresser drawer. On top was an assortment of geode crystals, international coins, a few loose paintballs, and candy wrappers. He picked up a bank in the shape of an elephant and rubbed the side. Nothing happened. He put it back. Next to a wad of rubber bands was a pile of paper clips that Randy had bent so the two metal prongs stuck out. He used it to shoot kids on the bus with rubber bands.

  When he was thinking, Saul would reach up and rub the pierced hole in his earlobe without realizing he was doing it. “Something’s wrong. The kid’s into tactical shooters, fine. Maybe he’s taking his time. But still, they usually show up by now.”

  “We could get a wire up on the house,” offered Mack.

  “Which room? We only have one wireless mike.”r />
  “Central location, the kitchen table.”

  “Too much interference,” said Ari through the comm unit. “Ten bucks says the dad owns a cappuccino machine.”

  “Fine,” said Mack. “We do on-site surveillance, roll a flower truck in here, post some open-air units, tap the master bedroom.”

  “What’re you guys talking about?” said Randy, but neither detective responded.

  In their ears, Ari said, “I really hate this kid.”

  “Wait,” said Saul. “I got an idea.” He turned to Randy and said, “You or your sister have a fish tank?”

  “Oh, no, no you don’t, Saul,” said Ari.

  “Clara has a goldfish.”

  “Perfect,” said Saul. “All we do is drop a mermaid in the sister’s tank and run the singing frog bit.”

  “No,” said Ari with the volume turned up. “I hate that bit. I’m not some cartoon pet, Saul. I’m the prince of the whole friggin’ ocean.”

  Mack had to pull the earbud out while Ari cursed them out. Finally, Saul took the bag out of his coat pocket. “What about me, huh? What about the fish’s wishes?”

  “Whoa,” said Randy, getting up to get a better look. “Is that some kind of robot?”

  “Yeah,” said Ari, still swishing around. “I’m a robot fish. Somebody shut this kid up before I get my boots out.”

  Randy laughed. He definitely wanted one of those fish for Christmas.

  “Let’s go,” said Saul. He put Ari back in his pocket, but Ari switched to the comm units and kept yelling.

  Mack said, “Stay here,” to Randy. “And don’t make any more rotten wishes, you delinquent little creep.” She followed Saul into the other room.

  Clara lay asleep in a four-post bed with an American Girl doll in her arm. A dollhouse stood next to the bed, probably taller than the little girl was standing up. On the opposite wall sat a vanity with a dressing-room mirror, flanked by two columns of stage bulbs. Among the scattered makeup was a fishbowl. Inside the bowl was another dollhouse, miniature but made to look exactly like the big one. The mailbox to the underwater house said PRINCESS FASHION SHOW.