by L. A. Zoe
Just when Rhinegold thought he couldn’t hold the Wolf Man off any longer, several other men grabbed his arms, and yanked him up.
The Wolf Man threw them off, but they gave Rhinegold time to scramble up. He kicked Wolf Man hard in the solar plexus, and that stopped him long enough for the other men to regain a hold on his arms, and others in the neighborhood to tackle the Wolf Man and hold his legs.
Rhinegold helped them keep the Wolf Man under control, face down in the snow.
“Damn, Lenny,” one of the men said to the Wolf Man. “I told you to lay off them bath salts.”
“Stick to crack,” one of the other men said.
“You know him?” Rhinegold asked.
“Sure,” one said. “Lenny the Wolf Man. Lives over there.” He pointed farther down the block and across the street.
“When he gets high, he likes to talk about the Wolf Man,” another man explained.
“He was hiding behind them bushes until he attacked,” Rhinegold told them.
“I thought I saw his light on late last night when I had to take a piss,” one said. “Must have been snorting bath salts all night.”
“Better stick to crack,” a man said.
“By now his balls must be frozen solid,” another said. “Pecker too.”
The police arrived a few minutes later, and an ambulance right behind. They secured handcuffs to Lenny’s wrists and ankles, then lifted him, kicking and growling and snapping and snarling, and threw him into the back of the ambulance.
One officer looked at Rhinegold’s arm. “You better get that treated, son. Did he bite you anywhere?”
Rhinegold’d forgotten his injured arm while keeping Lenny the Wolf Man harmless. Now, the fight over, a fiery pain radiated through his entire arm.
With Lenny’s drug-maddened strength, his knife cut through the sleeve of Rhinegold’s winter coat from elbow to wrist. And down into the flesh.
Blood soaked his sleeve. His forearm screamed with the violation of open skin and severed flesh.
Fortunately, blood was not spurting six feet into the air, so Lenny missed cutting through any arteries.
Red pools stained the white snow, the liquid already freezing—or coagulating.
“No bites,” Rhinegold said. “Just the knife.”
“You’re lucky then,” the policeman said. An older man who had that tough, seen it all look on his face. He pointed to the ambulance. “You want to hitch a ride to the hospital, better jump on board now.”
Rhinegold shook his head. “With Lenny? Only once of us would come out alive.”
The older man grinned. “Suit yourself. What you doing up here in this neighborhood, anyway?”
Rhinegold pointed to Asia, now looking out through a crack in her front door. “I helped her.”
The policeman nodded as though that explained everything, and Rhinegold suddenly realized they knew who he was, and that frightened him.
They gave Rhinegold a ride to the bus stop.
He slumped on the concrete bench, and rested from the inevitable adrenaline push-back. Trying to think straight despite the pain and the swirl of emotions still squirting hormones into his bloodstream.
Crazy son of a bitch. Bath salts. Without Rhinegold there, Lenny might have eaten off the face of one of those kids before the neighbors could stop him. Too wild.
As though crack wasn’t bad enough. It could kill you. It could turn you into a killer. But it didn’t make anybody Rhinegold ever heard of strip themselves naked outside in the middle of the winter and attack like a rabid coyote.
Rhinegold removed the blood-soaked cloth from the wound. A long, thick line of dark red nearly the entire length of his forearm.
Blood still oozing out, though exposing it to the cold air seemed to help control that.
Hospital? Rhinegold threw away his insurance card when he left Father’s house, and assumed Father removed him from the family policy.
He had no medical insurance of his own. Or Medicaid.
He had about ten bucks in his wallet, probably not enough for a copay even if he had insurance.
That left City 2.
The bus pulled to a stop in front of him. He jumped on board and pulled out his pass, but the driver stopped him.
“You’re not getting on my bus like that. I have to clean up the blood. Dude, you need an ambulance.”
“Just take me down to—”
“No, you get sick or pass out or die, I get blamed. Your family sues the bus company, and I’m out of a job.”
By the time the next bus arrived, Rhinegold felt so tired he nearly couldn’t stand up. He kept his arm at his side, hoping the driver wouldn’t notice the blood.
Whether he noticed or not, the driver said nothing.
At his stop, Rhinegold staggered off. “Thank you,” he tried to mutter to the driver, but pain shot through his stomach like lightning, cramping him up.
But he was only two blocks from City 2. He kept having to stop and rest, but finally made it.
Because he was conscious and not in immediate danger, he waited over an hour before someone started the intake process on him. Another three hours before a young lady in a green uniform cleaned the wound and daubed a dark yellow goo all around his skin. A young African-American doctor took five minutes to staple the wound, write up prescriptions for antibiotics and a light pain killer, and advise him to take ’it’ easy.
He sat on the concrete bench at the bus stop across from the main hospital entrance. Starving, but if he went inside to buy a snack from their vending machines, he might miss the next bus.
Call SeeJai?
No, she took a bus to the mall to buy herself a dress for the ice show that night. His stomach fell to the sidewalk.
He didn’t want to go in the first place, to spend lots of time with Father and Sybille, watching a stupid show. Ice skating. Kid stuff.
The initial shock of the wound had worn off, leaving him fatigued. Plus, the doctor estimated he lost at least a pint of blood, left behind in the snow of Asia’s front yard. Significant. That’s how much they took from blood donors. Not enough to endanger them, but enough to encourage them to get plenty of rest.
But SeeJai had never been to the Coliseum, and was excited about it. He didn’t want to disappoint her.
Besides, she didn’t have a car. She couldn’t get him back home any faster. Better to just let her enjoy herself. If he had time to dump the blood-stained coat and shirt into a plastic trash before she arrived, he would hide the entire incident from her.
At least until after the ice show.
He wished he could hide it from her forever. If the wound was less painful and bloody, would heal faster … maybe. He didn’t want her to use it as more ammunition to argue he should stop protecting people and go to college, as Father wanted.
Good thing tomorrow was Sunday. He and SeeJai enjoyed hanging around in bed later on Sunday mornings. She’d just have to let him sleep a lot more than usual. Including, hopefully, a nap before Father and Sybille picked them up. But first, chili and hot chocolate.
Two bowls and three cups. At least.
Chapter Forty-Five
Before the Show with Keara
As we all stood in line to get into The Coliseum, I shivered, bouncing up and down, barely able to stand in one place. I stared at the large, lighted fabulous pictures of The Snow Queen’s stars in action and its incredible set.
Although I knew it was childish, I couldn’t help but feel excited. All my life I’d heard people talk about The Coliseum.
Even lots of kids I grew up with—not in the best neighborhood—sometimes went there with their parents.
Except me. Of course.
In the past week I’d done my research. They began to build it in 1927, at the height of the Roaring Twenties. According to rumor, the rich guy in charge hoped to lure Lillian Gish and other movie stars to Cromwell from Hollywood by hosting movie premieres in the theater, so he could have sex with them.
It open
ed in time to show four movies, before the rich guy went bankrupt in the wake of the stock market crash, so apparently he never bedded Lillian Gish. Still, for a short while, Cromwell’s upper class could enjoy their movies from private boxes as they did the opera. Dining on steaks and, so the rumor went, toasting the theater with glasses of champagne they had to smuggle from Canada because of Prohibition.
A ten-piece orchestra, not just a tinny piano, provided the background music accompanying the moving pictures. A huge, magnificent chandelier hung from the cathedral-like ceiling.
The building sat vacant for much of the Depression and World War II, but starting in the late 1940s it went through the hands of various promoters. Dean Martin sang his heart out there. One night Elvis Presley made teenaged girls soak their panties. The Grateful Dead played over six hours to an audience of no doubt tripped out hippies. The Ramones blew the safety pins out of the punks.
But by the eighties the building became more of a liability, too difficult to make a profit with. Too much ongoing maintenance for the aging building. Having to comply with stricter building codes and fire safety codes. High insurance premiums. Madonna’s advance scouts refused to allow her to sing there.
Rhinegold endured my jumpiness with quiet patience, until I grabbed and squeezed his left arm. He winced, and jerked it from me. I would have been offended, except it did appear in great pain.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
Nothing. But he had been quiet and listless all evening so far. And when I got back home from shopping, I found him taking a nap, the first time I ever noticed him sleeping during the day. And, come to think of it, he kept his left arm straight, and to the side, not using that hand.
Whatever he was hiding from me, it could wait. I wanted to see The Snow Queen before going through any personal drama.
Therefore, the building had been empty—except for the rats—and unused for several years when a trio of real estate developers formed a consortium to take it over, and restore its original glory.
Rhinegold’s father heard me tell Rhinegold about that part of the history, and told us all, “Those guys hated each other, too. Fought about every little detail. Finally, I told the one I liked the best to buy the other two out. They wanted to cut corners, keep costs down. I told him, in for a penny, in for a pound. People aren’t going to drive to this neighborhood from the suburbs just to watch cheap shows in a tacky rinky-dink old restored theater. Either go all the way, or drop it. Make it the biggest, baddest theater in the country. Host the best shows. Make it so much fun people will come just for the experience.”
He turned to me. “You ought to come here during the week, in the daytime, you can take the free tour. You’ll see more of the theater then than you will tonight.”
The wind off the Mississippi River continued to blow hard enough to turn us all into popsicles, and finally the theater opened the doors.
The first view choked off my breath.
Even more gorgeous than I’d expected. Gold and marble. Thick, luxurious scarlet carpeting. Columns. Roman-style paintings and carved friezes of their gods, or incredible, expansive landscapes. Statues decorated with jewels. Endless rooms with ceilings high as the sky. Benches with thick cushions of red crushed velvet, the kind made me think of emperors leaning back to eat grapes while naked slave girls fanned them with palm fronds.
We left our outside coats in a cloakroom, and everyone followed Mr. Cunningham to the restaurant. Actually, the Coliseum had two. One, small and fancy, for the elites. The second, a snack bar for the peasants.
Inside, without a coat, Keara lit up the room. A glittering bright red cocktail dress that ended a few inches from her knees. It showed off her throat and upper chest, without plunging low enough to emphasize her full breasts. Tasteful makeup. Her long hair was spun sunlight held in place by gold and diamond pins. All tasteful. Nothing as flashy as you might expect a wealthy spoiled eighteen-year-old to want to wear, just to show off.
I felt jealous of her beauty. Although, I knew, she wasn’t born upper class, that night she certainly looked like an American princess.
I didn’t want to upset Rhinegold again by trying to look outrageous, sexy, or even beautiful. I found a sedate dark green wool dress. I put on a little face powder, but no lipstick. Compared to Keara, I felt like one of Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.
I would have felt more comfortable in the snack bar, but I came with an elite family, and I wanted this experience.
An actual maitre d’ showed us to small, private room with only a few tables. The round one with five place settings. We had reservations.
I bumped into Rhinegold when he began pulling my chair out for me just as I reached out to do it myself. I laughed, but he just looked awkward. And I noticed he had to back up to pull his own chair out with his right hand.
A beige linen tablecloth with elaborately woven designs around the edges. Large, thick white napkins occupied our places, folded into triangular tents. A regular sized knife, a butter knife, a regular sized spoon, a smaller teaspoon, several regular sized forks, and a small one. All heavy and shiny, made of sterling silver.
I’d heard of and read about people embarrassing themselves at dinner parties by not knowing which fork to use, and I didn’t understand the jokes. Then, I didn’t know why I had so many. I’d just watch and follow Rhinegold. And hope his family didn’t laugh at me.
Various baskets sat around the table, with white cloths over bread sticks and rolls. Single patties of butter. Glasses of ice water with a slice of lemon floating on top.
The maitre d’ handed me a menu, and when I opened it, goose bumps formed on my arms.
All of the words were printed in an elaborate, fancy script as though by a master calligrapher.
I whispered to Rhinegold, “Is it all in French?”
“Just some of the food items.”
“I can’t read a word.”
“A fancy steak all right with you?”
He ordered for me, telling the waiter we both wanted the filet mignon dinner, whatever that was.
The waiter took our orders with superb professionalism, handling Sybille changing her mind five times with great tact and patience. I thought about how much he was going to make just from fifteen percent of our meal, and wondered what I had to do to work there.
After the waiter left with our order, both Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham excused themselves to use the restrooms.
“Do you want Keara to guide you, dear?” Rhinegold’s father asked.
“Don’t be silly, Sanders,” she said in a huffy voice.
Mr. Cunningham winked at me, and said, “When we came last year for the Blue Man show, she had to ask one of the other ladies how to get out.”
“That was the main theater Women’s Room,” Sybille said. “The restaurant’s here are perfectly ordinary.”
I felt my jaw hanging open, and closed it. “Is it really big enough to get lost in?”
“SeeJai, don’t be so—” Keara began.
“When I was twelve,” Rhinegold said. “Father brought me here to a Pink Floyd tribute concert. I didn’t really get lost, but I felt like it, and I’ve heard the women’s bathroom is about twice as big as the men’s room. Supposedly, some of the side rooms used to lock from the inside, and they connected to the men’s room with secret passageways, so married rich women could meet lovers in private.”
Keara huffed. “Nonsense. Rhinegold, don’t—”
Rhinegold looked pained, and looked away from her. “Keara, please don’t start anything.”
Ever since Mr. Cunningham picked us up, I thought Rhinegold and Keara seemed to be deliberately avoiding each other. Keeping as much space between each other as possible, while still remaining outwardly polite.
I said, “Rhinegold, don’t upset your sister.”
Keara laughed with a harsh, ripping noise. “Doesn’t she know?”
“Don’t you dare,” Rhinegold said.
“Kn
ow what?” I asked.
“She’s having a good time,” Rhinegold said.
“The only one.”
“So why spoil it?”
“What’re you guys trying to hide from me?” I asked.
“It’s the same old story,” Rhinegold said. “Father wants me to stop wasting my life, and go to college so I can get a good job.”
“I already know all that.”
“So,” Keara said, “he was hoping you’d be on his side, and help straighten Rhinegold out.”
“And you?” I couldn’t help but asked.
“I hoped the same thing, but you’re holding him back, because you’re his fairy prince now.”
“Keara … “ Rhinegold said.
My shock must have shown on my face.
“Surprised?” Keara asked. “I’ve known Rhinegold longer than you, and better than you.”
I said, “Longer, but—”
“He needs Helena. Somebody who won’t keep him down in the gutter. Somebody beautiful enough to inspire him to go back to being the prince he was born.”
Chapter Forty-Six
The Snow Queen
Grateful for the comfort, Rhinegold settled back into his seat. Built-in thick, soft cushioning inside the royal red coverings provided a luxury feel he hated to admit to himself he needed at that moment.
Just as he hated to admit he especially enjoyed eating filet mignon again for the first time in years. Veggie burgers from the Sunshine Garden, pizza, and tacos—while delicious and satisfying—just didn’t replace a fine cut of beef cooked to perfection by a skilled chef.
Despite the large meal delivering nutrients and energy to his blood stream, he felt tired, drained of energy, and wished he could just go back home and sleep again. Aggravated by him having to use his left hand to hold the fork while he cut up his meat, his left forearm blazed with furious pain.
Once the lights dimmed and the show began, he would close his eyes and rest. Even doze off if he could. Make the evening go by as quickly as possible.
