by Preston Lang
“Fine, whole mushroom. But let me tell you something, Spiderman, there better be beau-coup mushroom on this pizza.”
Inez walked back into the room and giggled.
“Why you call him Spiderman?” she asked.
“Because he was acting like a prick.”
“But Spiderman is a great hero.”
“No, he isn’t.”
Duane was now fully dressed—shoes and jacket. She fussed with the collar of his shirt.
“You have to decide if it’s up or down. And the answer can’t be up. So make sure your collar stays down.”
He let her fiddle with his shirt, but he wasn’t sure he liked it. It was one thing to go to bed with a girl you don’t trust, but playing little domestic games was another thing entirely.
“You like mushroom?” he asked.
“No. I don’t eat fungus.”
The staircase was set back about twenty feet from the front door. There was a landing in the middle of the first flight that turned back in the opposite direction, hidden from the lobby. Duane waited there, just a few steps up from that landing. He was actually looking forward to it now: taking a full swing on the head of that disgusting fool. Disgusting fool, not a sweet village idiot. Tony deserved whatever he had coming. Duane wasn’t one of those froth-at-the-mouth human missiles, the kind of guy who prays for a fistfight every morning. Okay, maybe he’d once been like that, but that was as a kid, a teenager. Guys who kept that up were put away for the safety of everyone. That’s what prisons were for.
Duane was hoping he wouldn’t smash in the face of some poor pizza deliveryman, some sucker working an overnight for eight dollars an hour. But if it happened—if he hit the wrong man—well, a lot of people had some bad luck. Duane’s father had choked on a barrette—choked to death. Two AM at the home of Mrs. Fanchetti, a friend of Duane’s mom. Duane’s dad had a tendency to put things in his mouth: pens, buttons, bottle caps. At the hospital in the insane hours of the morning, the nurses treating Mrs. Fanchetti like she was the wife of the deceased, Cyril crying like a baby, Duane’s mom sitting quietly way up on the cloud, Duane had to take control. Mrs. Fanchetti, you go home and stop being a slut; Cyril stop crying and be a man; and mom, your husband is dead, how about you let that seep in? Duane hadn’t thought about any of this in years. There was no point to it. He had to get his head back in the game.
He heard the buzz of the door release. In came the footsteps, not too fast. It sounded like someone had put down a box—cardboard on the hardwood. It didn’t sound like he picked it up again. It was Tony Braxton—had to be.
CHAPTER 15
Cyril walked two paces in front of Willow like it was the custom of their people. There was no traffic along the road and no one else walking along the shoulder.
“Do you think there’s anyone following us right now?” Willow asked.
“Maybe.”
“What do we do?”
“We should split up. You go ahead, and I’ll see if anyone follows you.”
“I don’t think so, my dear.”
“You have my cell phone and I don’t have a car. I can’t take off.”
No, Willow couldn’t let Cyril out of sight. That wouldn’t work.
“No, we’re not doing that,” she said.
A car approached from behind them, and they walked away from the road. As it got closer they could hear music, loud metal. The car had Iowa plates and at least six college kids inside. This was not the Death Car. It rolled past.
“If they are out there, why don’t they just jump us?” Willow asked.
“Because they know I haven’t picked up yet.”
“Who are they?”
“I told you I don’t know. They could be anyone.”
Another car drove past them. This one was driven by a single woman, but it also had Iowa plates. Not it either.
***
“You’re absolutely sure it isn’t your boss’s tracker?” Willow asked.
For the first time Cyril really considered this possibility. Maybe they’d decided to keep tabs on him. Maybe Tony was sitting in a bar, watching the car on a screen. But if that was true, why hadn’t anyone told him anything about what was going on? Usually Cyril got the precise location and amount when he went somewhere. Other times he didn’t get an address, just a city and instructions to wait for a call. This time he knew he was going to the Midwest and there was nothing to drop off. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to get him moving on Monday morning. He’d called Tony a few times but didn’t get any answer. Maybe they’d called the whole deal off and forgotten to tell him. Here he was in Iowa without a clear idea of what to do, and now he was walking two paces in front of a gun.
A third car, a Ford, drove past them, with a single driver, a wide-shouldered man who glanced over twice. The license plates were Massachusetts.
“That’s got to be him,” Cyril said.
“Maybe.”
“You saw him, the way he slowed and looked at us.”
“Just one guy, though.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s alone.”
“We’ll go straight to my car and get out of here.”
Cyril and Willow were now closer to the center of town. They passed a frat house, blasting out Atlanta rap for white Iowans. Put a Tec-9 up in his face, the kids sang along with the chorus. The sound system was not equal to the bass in this song.
“Where are you parked?” Cyril asked.
“Close to Ridley’s.”
“What’s Ridley’s?”
“You know, that magic place where we first met?”
Walking down Main Street of a small college town, Cyril had an easy opportunity to take off running, but he didn’t do it. He still thought he could have it all. Greedy? Was he getting greedy? Not giving up on a payday is not the same thing as being greedy.
Willow decided they should walk one block north of Main Street, instead of walking down the central strip of town. She spotted the Ford with Massachusetts plates parked just off one of the side streets.
“There’s his car,” she said.
“Where’d he go?”
“You set off his alarm. When he shows up, I shoot him.”
“You’re serious?”
She’d drawn on silly frat boys who weren’t likely to hurt them too much. It wasn’t a stretch to think she’d shoot someone sent to kill them.
“You don’t think that’s a good idea?” she asked.
“There’s a hundred kids out on the streets. They’ll all hear it.”
“I’m parked two blocks from here. If we run as soon as I drop him, we’ll be in my car and gone before anyone sees the body.”
“What if the guy has a partner?”
“He’ll be angry, but he won’t be any more dangerous, will he? We head right to the highway, and we are miles away from this cow town before the police even know they should be doing anything.”
The plan wasn’t bad, but it was frightening. Cyril had seen a lot of guns, even had a few pointed at him to read his pulse, but he’d never been around when the guns went off.
“If you start shooting, I’m running away as fast as I can,” he said.
“Wow, you’re really against violence.”
“I’m just—”
“You went Dalai Lama on me all of a sudden.”
“Can’t we just slash out his tires?”
“Go ahead, but if he shows up while we’re doing it, then I’ll shoot him.”
The driver couldn’t be too far away. Cyril would have to work quickly. He’d watched Duane slash tires before—five times in a row to the neighbor who’d moved in on their mom just after she’d been widowed. The neighbor kept buying new tires, and he never got anywhere with their mom. Duane had always kept his knife sharp, and Cyril worried his would be too dull after all that scraping at the tracker. But he slashed right through the sidewall of the front left tire. It gave a satisfying hiss. Then he made his way clockwise to the others. He finished the job in less t
han a minute.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said.
“So you were a juvenile delinquent?”
They walked away quickly, past the bar where they’d met, to Willow’s car, a Toyota like Cyril’s, but a little older and shabbier with Delaware plates. Less than fifteen minutes later they were rolling west down Interstate 80.
CHAPTER 16
Marcus parked just off Main Street. On the very next block he saw a small Toyota with Delaware plates. It was the first car he’d seen that didn’t have Iowa plates or a Graham College sticker. He peeked inside, but there was nothing remarkable. It felt like a woman’s car to him, though, so he tried to memorize the license number.
He walked back to Main Street along this side path. He had a decent place to wait, just outside a bar, where a few other people—some townies, some students—stood smoking. He wasn’t a real smoker, but he asked a student for a cigarette.
“Yeah. How about I just give you a dollar? I mean—this is an expensive habit,” the student said.
“A dollar?”
“I don’t get them free.”
“Here, bud. I’ll give you one,” an older man said.
“Thank you, sir.”
Marcus took a Camel and realized that it might make him sick. The student walked back in the bar.
“These kids. Spoiled rotten,” the older man said.
“Yeah, I know that.”
Marcus’s phone rang.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Danny asked.
“I think I found the car.”
“What’s it look like?”
“Another Toyota, Delaware plates. No college stickers. Looks like a woman’s car. Light green air freshener.”
“Did you put the tracker on it?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not even sure it’s the one.”
“Light green air freshener? Jesus. Okay. Delaware. Well, we got to bet on something: put it on.”
“Okay. I got to go back to our car to get it.”
“You don’t have the tracker on you?”
“No, I—”
“Okay, hurry up.”
Marcus hung up the phone.
“You wouldn’t be law enforcement, would you?” the old townie asked.
“Maybe you shouldn’t listen in on people’s private phone calls,” Marcus snapped.
When he got back to his car he could tell something was wrong, even in the dark. The car looked shorter somehow. The tires. He called Danny back on his cell phone.
“The tires are slashed,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, they’re slashed—all of them.”
“On my car?”
“Yes.”
“How did they—you left the car?”
“You said to get the tracker.”
“They just slipped behind you, slashed the tires?”
“I don’t know who did it. All these college kids running around.”
“Okay. All right. Can we drive it?” Danny asked.
“No, we can’t drive it.”
Danny made some odd grunts into the phone. He didn’t have a quick answer for this one.
“Danny?”
“Okay. Go and put the tracker on their car—the Delaware car.”
“Then what?”
“That’s step one.”
Danny hung up the phone, and Marcus walked back to where the small Toyota with Delaware plates had been parked, but when he got there he saw it was gone. He called Danny again.
“They’re gone.”
“Damn it. All right. We can do this. I’m going to get us a car,” Danny said. “Be ready to get in.”
***
Danny watched students stagger around Main Street—yelling, flirting, laughing. Well, who’s got a car I can borrow? There were all kinds of vehicles parked along the street, some of them had kids sitting inside. If this was how it was on a Monday night, things must get way out of hand on the weekend. Probably one of these private schools where rich people send their bad children to keep them out of trouble; but then they end up in one big playpen with other bad, rich kids.
Danny saw a young man, small-boned and alone behind the wheel of a Lexus. Danny got in the passenger seat.
“Hi,” he said, “I’m Dr. Chun, assistant dean of student conduct.”
“What?”
“What department are you in?”
“I—what?”
“Drive down Main Street, son.”
“I’m—I’m waiting for my friend.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I—what is this?”
“Start the engine, please,” Danny said sternly, and to his great relief, the boy started the engine.
“Mister, Dr. Chun, I don’t know what this is. I’m not a—my friend and I are just going to go to another friend’s place. We’re not—we haven’t—we don’t . . .”
“I see. Can you take the next left?”
“Please, sir. What can I say?”
“Stop here.”
The boy stopped the car, and Danny gestured to Marcus to get in the back.
“This is Dr. Fields, the comptroller. I think you know what this is about?”
“No. What’s going on?”
“What do you think is going on?”
“I think you’re . . . trying to carjack me or something?”
“Why would the dean of student conduct carjack you? Does that make any sense? Go ahead and call the cops if that’s what you think.”
The boy hesitated, then took out his cell phone. Marcus grabbed it out of his hand and put it in his pocket.
“Keep driving,” Danny said.
“I don’t want to get hurt.”
“Who does?”
“You’re not, like, a dean or anything.”
“Damn, you’ve got to be pretty bright to get into college these days.”
Two minutes from Main Street the stores and houses faded away and the corn fields returned.
“Why are there so many kids up partying on a Monday night? Can you explain that to me, Kevin?” Danny asked.
“It’s Lawton’s Day.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a thing—this holiday. There was this student in the seventies who dug a tunnel and, uh, you know it’s kind of hard to explain.”
“You are stoned, aren’t you? Okay, let me give you some advice: don’t call the police until you’re sober. Otherwise, you are just going to get yourself in a lot of trouble. You understand that, Kevin?”
“My name’s not Kevin.”
“Well, let me tell you something—my name is Kevin. And I don’t forget a man who crosses me. Do you understand?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. That’s the guy who’s unhappy with you.” Danny gestured to Marcus in the backseat. “Does he look like he plays games?”
“Please just—let me go.”
“Okay,” Danny said, “stop the car.”
The boy stopped the car. They were about three miles from campus.
“Get out,” Marcus said.
The boy got out.
“Sit down and think about life. Do not leave this spot for an hour.”
“Okay.”
“Seriously. We’ll come back to check on you in ten or twenty minutes.”
“I won’t move.”
“You better be exactly where you’re sitting now,” Danny said. “You move an inch, this guy’s going snap your neck.”
***
Danny tore off, and soon they found the highway again. Marcus didn’t say anything.
“Well, we’ve got a car, let’s just floor it and see if we can pick them up out on I80. You think it’s a Toyota with Delaware plates?”
“You’re kidding me? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“If you have a better idea, I’ll listen.”
“We’re not going to find it; we’re just going to get arrested.”
“Settle down, big man. It’s going to be all right.”
Danny held up a fist for a bump. Marcus just shook his head.
“This is a pretty good car—Lexus? I mean, I like the way it handles. I would do commercials for this car: high performance and intensity of spirit. You know how they say shit like that?”
Danny was going over eighty as soon as they hit the highway. They passed a few cars, but not the one they were looking for. The police had stopped someone by the side of the road. Danny didn’t even slow as they passed.
“We’re not going to get arrested?” Marcus asked.
“Hey, we’ve got Iowa plates. We blend in.”
“That doesn’t make us invisible.”
“Were you always such a nervous cow?”
“Maybe you like it in prison. I like to be free.”
“Tell you what, if we get caught, I’ll tell them I abducted you. I made you come out here against your will. Happy?”
“No, I am not happy.”
“How about you shut the fuck up and be a man in this situation?”
Danny was nasty, a little demon driving reckless after nothing, and Marcus seriously considered hitting him in the side of the head. One blow would knock him senseless, and then the car would just careen out of control. It would be like a rollercoaster. There was one enormous punch somewhere inside of him getting ready to come out. But wasn’t he already on a kind of rollercoaster? Wasn’t this already a doomed ride? So he sat quietly for another ten minutes, angry with his lack of control, until they saw it—the brown Toyota.
“There it is,” Marcus shouted.
“What did I tell you?”
“No way,” Marcus laughed in spite of himself.
“The First State,” Danny read off the license plate. “Number one in my heart. We’re back in the game.”
And Marcus’s friend Danny was back too, the even-tempered joker with a few unconventional ideas in his head.
“Where are they going?” Marcus asked.
