Jeremy was sucking his teeth, working a prospective lie into a lozenge.
"How long ago was this?" I asked. A person's cultural taste and inclinations are sometimes hard to gauge at a glance, but in this case I could tell neither Jeremy nor Yvonne saw anything dubious about pole dancing in a sordid dive. Maybe I was the one out of step. I'd heard somewhere that there was a push on to make pole dancing an Olympic sport. Either the Committee was looking for ways to boost viewership, or the gymnastic aesthetes wanted something more than flat chests pressed against the balancing beams.
Both Jeremy and Kendle failed the fidget test. Timing was everything, and they knew they risked betraying the extent of their premeditation with a straight answer. I goaded them:
"A year ago? Two?" My query bounced off like a Nerf ball. I tried a different approach. "Something went wrong, didn't it? Instead of stiff-arming Todd, Carl and Dog became chummy with him. That was the impression I got back at the PFZ. That would explain the blanks in the gun. But they ended up trying to cut you out of it—"
Something unsavory entered my calculation, a sour version of a sweet tooth. Was it really possible Barbara was colluding with Carl and Dog? Was she helping to rob both—all three, I mean—of her brothers? Flatulence might be the least of her problems. The way she had disappeared, maybe she was suffering from a sore conscience. I could hope.
I was sure the sterling couple in front of me had already factored this possibility. There was no point bringing it up, especially since it cast a shadow on the least unlikable member of my family.
"It's been a long day," I said.
"It's not even two," said Yvonne.
"Well, it's getting even longer," I said. "One of you is going to give me a lift to River Road, right? That's where I was parked when Carl and Dog hijacked me."
"I'll take him home," said Jeremy.
"No, I will," said his bigger half.
"Don't put yourself out," my brother insisted. It didn't sound like the voice of courtesy. I wondered if he suspected my WWF moment with Yvonne. Could we be planning a rematch?
"No bother," Kendle shot back with malicious civility.
They didn't trust each other, that much was obvious. It was just possible Kendle didn't want me mouthing off about how I had nailed her, or she had nailed me, or whatever. But I didn't think so. I sensed they still considered me full of useful secrets, as opposed to the useless ones, like who I had slept with the day before and who had been looking on from the closet.
Meanwhile, the tug of war between my brother and Kendle continued, with me the taffy being stretched in the middle.
"Aren't you supposed to be at work today?" Jeremy said.
"I'm on sick leave," Yvonne said. "I sprained my back."
No kidding, I thought.
"So you should be home in bed," Jeremy countered.
"I'm beginning to see why your family called you 'Doubletalk'."
"Is that an insult?" said eversharp Jeremy.
I suppose it's nice to be wanted, but too much of anything is a strain on the system. I began to walk.
"Hey!" they called out simultaneously.
And then Jeremy jabbed me with the unexpected obvious: "Hey, Mute--what about the handwriting?"
That froze me for a moment. Damn. Someone could have forged the signature, but an entire letter? I had not seen many samples of Skunk's handwriting over the years, but enough to recognize the half-illiterate valleys and escarpments of my father's scrawl. It was a conundrum I refused to address in front of these two, since it reinforced their innocence--and I knew they were guilty as hell.
"I can take the bus," I said, unfreezing. I didn't have a cent in my pocket, but at least by walking I could get where I was going, eventually. Whether I got into Jeremy's Porsche (which I assumed was protectively tucked away out of sight at the far end of the lot) or Kendle's van, my destination would not be guaranteed.
But guarantees are the tooth fairies of adult commerce. Jeremy and Kendle had switched from shouting to screeching as they watched me hike out of sight, though it was quite a while before I was out of earshot. I was walking on the sidewalk along Forest Hill Avenue, absorbing the shock waves of oncoming traffic, when a van stopped next to me and Dog hopped out.
Kidnapped twice in one day, by the same people. There should be a law.
Oh yes…and Todd was with them.
CHAPTER 21
Dog wasn't Dog anymore, but Joe Schmuckalooza from some third-rate dinner theater version of a fifth rate musical. The period piece belonged to the Fifties (which has also gotten low ratings from the critics) because Dog had gone Daddy-O in a gaucho shirt, Air Force khakis and two tone shoes. He was so fresh and lemony he might have stepped permanently pressed out of a front loader, but the pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve was pretty cool.
"Don't make me do anything that will take me out of character," Joe Dog said with a chipper grin. "I'm a peace-loving nerd who is being investigated personally by Joe McCarthy."
"Did they have nerds back then?" I asked.
"They were all nerds back then."
I wanted to keep up the conversation, for no other reason than to avoid looking at my twin. It was like staring into a mirror and seeking the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Otherwise, I was slipping comfortably into the Stockholm Syndrome. I greeted Carl with a friendly nod and angled myself into the rear flip-down. Monique was not among the kidnappers. Between Joe Dog, Todd and myself, Carl might have decided she would distract too much from the business at hand. We were near the Pony Pasture, part of the James River Park system. Parts of it were woody and isolated. A good place to dump a body. Thinking I might become mulch in the butterfly garden, I began my defense without further ado.
"I don't have anything, I don't want anything, I don't know anything, I don't want to know anything." I thought that covered my bases pretty nicely.
Todd snorted nastily and I felt compelled to acknowledge his presence.
"What's that supposed to mean?" I said.
"It means..." And he snorted again.
God, what a fright. Todd was me all over, down to the slight chubbiness, weasely voice and a propensity to rattle his phlegm like a pair of dice at the back of his throat. But in my view, the differences were more distinct than the similarities. He was wearing shorts, exposing scrawny legs that I always felt aesthetically obliged to cover with baggy cargo pants. He had adopted the comfortable laissez-faire of wealth, where money spoke louder than fashion. It's hard to explain. His rumpled T-shirt bore no logo, name brand or otherwise. The glint of his watch did not blind me with gold or excessive functions. His hair was slicked back so neatly I wondered if he was stage-bound with Joe Dog in the revival of Fifties kitsch. He was just a guy—but if both of us showed up at a gated community, only one would be allowed in. The guard would be able to tell us apart.
The way Carl rolled his eyes back and forth between us, I could tell he saw only surface contrasts. To him, outside of our hair styles (or lack of one, in my case) and clothes, we were spitting images. For the first time in my life I was a genuine object of curiosity, which would have been pleasant if I hadn't been forced to share top billing with a freak of nature.
"Why are you gawking," I said amiably. "You've met both of us before."
"Never side-by-side," Carl answered. Realizing he was sounding a little like a rube, he added: "Hey, I know twins. I know triplets. We had an act with triplets. They weren't the best looking girls, but they made a fortune. Guys just kept slipping bills down their thongs. Only the midget strippers make more."
"High art," I said.
"Don't knock it," said Todd, who seemed well-versed in the world of buff strippers, their clientele and the rancid metaphysical cloud that hid both from the uninitiated. The way he had sauntered into Carl's office had suggested more than a passing familiarity with the environment.
There you have it: the first big difference between us. After the money, I mean, which in an ideal wo
rld shouldn't have made any difference between our fractured zygote, but this isn't an ideal world. You would think that, growing up as a bubble boy on River Road, he would be the innocent...and that I, from the seedy dungeon of Oregon Hill, would be sunk in the stews. But financial magnets have a way of skewing the moral compass. Irresponsibility was his birthright. Mine, too, come to think on it, but I had not taken advantage of it. Having seen it from my bedroom window, I had decided the street was no home for me. I had taken active steps to avoid becoming a freeloader.
Todd, it would seem, had had a lot more leeway in that respect. He could fall pretty far and still come up cush.
"Let's get down to brass knuckles," said Carl.
Todd's nose shined, as though a blind shoeshine boy had given it a good buffing. I couldn't criticize, seeing as it was my nose, too. He gave Carl a sarcastic glance. Carl reacted by going logical.
"You've got something I want. He's got something you want. I have something you both want."
"What's that?" Todd asked, startled.
"Services rendered," said Carl. "You want an itemized receipt?"
When Todd didn't answer, I went queasy inside. I was like a fish caught by a hawk and dangled over a nest of ravenous mouths. By not acknowledging the quip, Todd was tacitly admitting that I was being prepared for consumption.
Joe Dog was driving at a reasonable speed in an unreasonable direction—away from home. I hadn't settled in to the point of being comfortable with the idea.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"Just around," Carl shrugged. "No place special."
"You can drop me off at my house, then," I reasoned.
"Is that where you left your Impala?"
"Uh…no."
"We'll get there, don't worry." He gave Todd a cagy look. "First you get the grand tour."
Todd caught on instantly. "There's no need for that."
"Why shouldn't he see what he missed out on?" said Carl. "Might make both of you more cooperative."
Todd began to disagree, but Carl cut him off. "You've been jerking us around forever. Now it's time for me to do a little jerking."
We all sniggered at that one, Joe Dog included. Carl absorbed the mockery like a man congenitally indifferent to faux pas, especially his own. He turned in his seat and regarded me with blithe menace.
"You laugh out of ignorance."
I stopped laughing. "I'm ignorant about a lot of things."
"Obviously."
Todd had stopped laughing, too. My proximity was annoying, seeing as I posed the threat of collateral damage—even worse, collateral ignorance.
"Why don't you help your brother out," said Carl, tilting in Todd's direction. "Begin at the beginning. Dog is going the speed limit. We have plenty of time."
"Joe!" Dog corrected from the driver's seat.
I could almost see Todd's intestines knotting up. Whatever he told me would have to jibe with whatever he had told the Panty Free Zone clowns. From his expression, I judged this involved some heavy, yet discreet, editing.
"To begin the story of my life—"
"David Copperfield!" I shouted.
Todd frowned at me.
"He wants magic," Carl observed.
"Not the magician," I protested. "The book!"
"A book on magic?"
I did my best to ignore Carl's lumpenproletariatism and focused on Todd. "You like to read? You were quoting classic Dickens."
"Was I?" asked Todd, looking vaguely nauseated. "Must be something left over from school. I did go to school, y'know."
"So did I," I protested. Of course, I knew he was talking about private school. Otherwise, why bring it up? But his alleged McPherson blood rebelled against intellectual snobism. He was saying that a lot of money had been spent on his education, not that his education had been particularly meaningful. Still, it was a wonder that a Victorian snippet had spouted out of his mouth. You don't get that in today's public schools. I only spotted the quote because I'm a freak. As if to prove this, I said: "'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...'"
"It's one or the other," Carl scowled, punching his fist into his hand.
"I'm having a great time," I said. I turned back to Todd. "You went to a private school? Uh...your parents...your foster parents...sent you?"
"I didn't know any other," said Todd. "Ben and Liz Neerson. All this crap about a 'biological father'...I didn't know anything about Skunk until Jeremy showed up and tried to claim my inheritance. What bullshit! My father was an abatement contractor. He made a mint when they started removing asbestos from all the state government buildings."
"You had a father?" I asked.
"No, the fucking aliens took a dump and here I am." Todd swept a hand across his forehead. He was having just as much trouble with all of this as I was, and apparently had had several months to digest it. "I sort of remember a kid beating up on me at home all the time, and then one day he was gone."
"It was you or Jeremy," I said. "And if they had sent you away to live on Oregon Hill people would have seen we were twins. It was a close-knit place back then, and we would have drawn attention, the last thing Skunk wanted. But that didn't have anything to do with Brinks. I was almost ten when that happened. Or maybe nine."
My modest speculating left us both dangling in air.
"And your father, the abatement guy..." I prodded. "What can you tell us about him? Where was he from?"
"Hell if I know," Todd said uneasily. "For years I thought he was from Emporia, but once I caught him talking about growing up in Wheeling."
"West Virginia?"
"Somewhere south of it," said Todd. "'Hick & Tick Town.' When I told him it had to be one or the other, Emporia or Wheeling, he had one of his coughing fits and almost croaked on the spot. I dropped the subject."
"How about your mother?"
"West Virginia." He paused a moment. "It doesn't matter. They're both gone."
"Gone? You mean dead?"
"One way or another."
"Is that in West Virginia, too?" I said, growing irate.
West Virginia had been the seedy seedbed of at least half of the original Oregon Hillers, whose ancestors had emigrated from the hills to work at the Tredegar Iron Works, back in the days when there was no such thing as 'West' Virginia and southerners had the chronic habit of shooting Yanks on sight.
"Maybe..." I began, then stopped.
Our frowns must have looked ludicrously identical as we sought to make the connection. But all of the key witnesses—both sets of parents—were gone. If Skunk had gone to the trouble of setting up two families, who was the man who had briefly shared Todd's early life? And if Jeremy had been so easily shifted from one milieu to another (and it must have been easy—Jeremy fit like a glove on Oregon Hill), who was to say the other set of parents were the true ones? My pop, the asbestos abatement contractor. Had a nice lawyeresque ring to it.
Carl was shaking his head. "I can't think of anyone I know who doesn't know where they come from. Plenty who lie about where they come from. But to not have a clue?"
"You don't know any orphans?" I said.
"Not that I know of, and anyway, orphans at least know they come from an orphanage."
Todd and I exchanged startled mirror glances, then simultaneously dismissed the possibility. I couldn't vouch for Todd's alleged family, but no agency in its right mind would have allowed Skunk to adopt.
"How long ago did your father die?" I asked.
"It was kind of sudden. Back around Christmas."
I had a creepy feeling. Ben Neerson died around the same time as Skunk. "And your mother?"
"She's been gone awhile." Todd shrugged, as though he had spilled a dish of Lying Asshole Supreme on his shirt.
"You married?" I asked abruptly.
"Hell no," he answered quickly, as though jabbed. "What would I be doing at the PFZ if I was married?"
"You're kidding, right?" Carl scoffed. "Ninety-nine ninnies out of a hundred who come to my
place are chained."
Todd protested, "Why ninnies?"
"Anyone who pays ten dollars for a glass of cheap beer is a ninny."
"I guess that's why you lost your liquor license," Todd shot back.
"Hey, the ABC Board doesn't care if I'm cheating," shrugged Carl. "They just don't like my attitude."
"DNA," I said, trying to be serious.
"You mean we should get paternity tests?" said Todd.
"You want to do an OJ?" said Joe Dog from the driver's seat as he turned onto Parham. I couldn't get used to his new voice. It reminded me of the way Jim Nabors would morph into an operatic baritone. I felt I had been cheated. Not that his new persona wasn't an improvement, but to think you know one thing, only to find out it's a cheap imitation of something else, leaves you wanting your money back. I wondered what I would find when my own mask slipped off.
"What good would it do to find out Skunk was our father?" Todd groused. "Or Ben Neerson could be our father. Or someone we don't know."
"We weren't orphans," I insisted, although of course I didn't know that for sure. I felt a bit like someone present at the scene of a crime who couldn't describe what he had just witnessed beyond the fact that all the chaos had resulted in a corpse. Star Wars V. Luke, I am your father...
"At least DNA—" I began.
"What we've got was what we got," Todd cut me off. I couldn't blame him, really. To think you were a rose and discover a skunk instead was a prospect I would have avoided, myself. On the other hand, it would be nice if everything came up roses, and I had a yen to improve my genetic lot.
Skunk Hunt Page 31
