Crooked

by Laura McNeal

  Okay. One step at a time.

  He descended carefully, using the flashlight to illuminate each spot where his foot would step next. When he was standing inside the small room, he scanned its contents with the light. It was filled with merchandise, all neatly sorted and stacked. Car stereos. Color televisions. Ornate silverware. Watches. Rings. It was like a modern version of a pirate’s trove with glittery secret treasure. Except this trove had been stashed in a dark secret vault built at the back of a garage.

  There was something else, too. Standing on one chest-high shelf was a typewriter, with a stack of clean paper beside it. Amos slid one of these sheets into the typewriter’s roller. He picked out the letters from the keyboard one by one, tap tap tap. DEAR MR. AMOS. It was the same typewriting. Identical.

  A noise. Amos thought he heard a noise. He switched off the flashlight, stood perfectly still, and heard only his heart pounding in his ears.

  He pulled the paper from the typewriter, climbed the ladder, and was sliding the locker and rug back into place when he suddenly froze. A car was pulling up the graveled driveway. A car with loud music. Then the music stopped.

  Amos went to the window and peeked out. Down below, a girl emerged from a dilapidated Honda Civic and headed toward the stairs. Amos spun around, looking wildly for another exit, but there wasn’t one.

  Down below, the Civic was driving away, but the girl’s clicking footsteps could be heard on the stairs, approaching.

  The closet? The kitchen? The bathroom? Amos listened to the girl’s footsteps on the stairway. In a panic, he slid under one of the twin beds and hugged himself close to the wall. The front window opened.

  “Chazbro? Eduardo?”

  Amos held his breath.

  From beneath the bed, he saw first one, then another black platform shoe step through the window. He watched them click across the linoleum.

  “Charles? Eddie?” she called out. Then, under her breath, “You assholes.”

  She returned to the window and closed it. Then she went to the kitchen, opened a bottle, and walked into the bathroom, but without closing the door. Amos listened to the watery sounds of urination.

  If he tried to escape, she might turn and see him. Probably she would hear him. But she couldn’t really come running out at this moment.

  Quickly Amos slipped off his shoes, slid from beneath the bed, and eased across the linoleum. He was nearly to the window when a pair of headlights turned into the driveway. It was the half car, half truck. The Tripps.

  Behind him, the toilet flushed. Down below, the gravel crunched.

  Cornered, frantic, Amos dropped back under the bed.

  “Well, well,” Charles said once he and Eddie were inside the apartment. “Here’s our little wayward Brandykins.”

  “I’m here,” the girl said, “but I’m not little, not wayward, and not yours.”

  Eddie let out a sharp cackling laugh. Charles, however, was silent. The Tripp brothers were wearing black Nikes. The smaller ones—Eddie’s—went to the kitchen and came back with what sounded like iced drinks. “Tequila sunrises,” he said.

  “I’ll stick to Red Dog,” the girl said.

  A tinkling of ice cubes, then Eddie went to the closet door, swung it open, and backed away from it. Thunk. Thunk. He was throwing darts at the fold-out. One of the darts bounced off the door and rattled to the ground, near the bed. Amos watched Eddie’s hand pick it up. A thin straight scar ran across his forearm. It was so close Amos could’ve grabbed it. But this wasn’t the appointment, he could feel it in his bones. This was more like the waiting room.

  In a calm voice, Charles said, “And yet, Brandykins, now that I think of it, I believe I told you to wait.”

  “I did wait, you moron. I waited for something like forever.”

  Again, Eddie’s cackling laugh.

  Charles, however, was patient. “And then?”

  “And then I got a ride.”

  “You got a ride,” Charles repeated. “And who did you get a ride with?”

  “Some guy who was nice enough to offer. Some guy who was there when the guy who was supposed to be there wasn’t.”

  Thunk. Thunk. Then Eddie laughing and saying, “Now that’s a delicate shot.”

  Charles ignored Eddie. His feet were still turned toward the girl’s black platforms. “Some guy,” Charles said. “What was some guy’s name, Brandykins?”

  “Why? What’s it to you?”

  Suddenly Charles’s shoes moved closer to hers.

  “Jason,” the girl said quickly. “Jason somebody. He drove a little red Honda Civic.” Something new had come into the girl’s voice. It was fear.

  Eddie, retrieving his darts, said, “Jason Tanner, probably.” Eddie’s voice had also changed—it was less casual, more apprehensive. Suddenly Amos understood that Eddie, like just about everybody else in the world, was a little afraid of Charles, too.

  “What are you going to do?” the girl said.

  “I didn’t want to do anything, Brandykins,” Charles said. “It’s what you did, you and this Jason Tanner. You two have publicly put me into this position where, out of self-respect, I am forced to do something. And just when I have other business to attend to.”

  “What business?” the girl said to Charles, and when he didn’t reply, she said, “You mean that business with Eddie’s little itch?”

  For the first time, Charles laughed, a great, full-throated laugh. Then, when he was done laughing, he spoke again in a quiet voice, almost to himself. “That’s a good one. Eddie’s little itch.”

  “Well, you can count me out of that one,” the girl said.

  “But we’d like your assistance. We’ll do a good-girl-bad-boys routine. You’ll be the good girl. She’ll trust you. It’ll be fun. We’re not going to do anything serious. Just enough to get the little itch’s attention. So she’ll be nicer to Eddie.”

  “Forget it,” the girl said. “I mean it, Charles. I’m not interested in your sick fun and games.”

  For one still moment, none of the shoes moved. And then suddenly Charles’s Nikes moved toward the girl. “What’re you doing?” she said.

  Charles didn’t speak. He was on her, there was grunting and muffled sounds, and the girl’s feet were lifted off the ground. Charles carried her across the room and dumped her on the bed. For a moment, the bouncing mattress springs touched Amos’s back.

  “What’re you doing?” she said again. Her voice was stretched thin with fear.

  “Get the tape and rope,” Charles said.

  “Please, Charles,” she whimpered. She’d begun to cry. “God, Charles, you’re sick, really sick.”

  “C’mon, Charles,” Eddie said in a small voice. “Cut her some slack, why don’t you.”

  Charles’s tone had turned steely. “Get the freaking tape and rope, Eddie.”

  After a second’s hesitation, Eddie’s Nikes moved to the foot-locker and came back.

  “Hey, c’mon, that hurts,” Brandy said, still crying. “That really hurts.”

  On each side of the bed, Amos could see one half of a pair of black Nikes. “God, Charles, that—” the girl started to say in a teary voice, and then was muffled. There was a ragged ripping sound of tearing tape, and then another.

  A few seconds later, both pairs of Nikes were back on the floor. In his soft, crooning voice, Charles said, “Okay, we’ll be back when we’ve taken care of Eddie’s little itch. Will you wait for me this time? You will? Oh, that’s sweet.” A moment passed, and then Charles went back to his steely voice. “Laugh, Eddie.”

  Silence.

  “I said something funny to Brandykins. When I say something funny, you need to laugh. Otherwise, you don’t get my help with your little itch.”

  A moment passed. In a sulky voice, Eddie said, “Maybe I don’t need your help.”

  Charles let out a crisp sarcastic laugh. “Oh, now there’s a rich one. You took Miss Pubescence to Lookout Surefire Getting Plenty Point, and what did you get? Nada. Zero.
Zip. And you know why that was? Because you’re afraid to get a gal’s attention. That’s why you need me tonight. Because you’re not what we in the getting-plenty business call a credible threat.” He slipped into his sickening-sweet croon. “Isn’t that right, Brandykins?”

  Silence.

  “She agrees,” Charles crooned. “I can see it in her eyes.” Then, in his steely voice, Charles said, “Funny. That was funny, Eddie.”

  Eddie forced a small croaky laugh.

  “Okay,” Charles was saying. “Supply check. Nylons. A bauble. Flashlight. Frankfurters and doggy debilitator.” He made a soft malevolent laugh. “And of course Mr. Persuasion.”

  “We don’t need that, Charles.”

  This time Charles’s laugh was low and seething. “That’s just one of your many deficiencies, Eddie. You go into battle unprepared.”

  “This isn’t a freaking battle,” Eddie murmured.

  “One more deficiency. Failure to identify the enemy.”

  Charles’s black shoes moved to the window. Eddie’s stayed put.

  “Let’s go,” Charles said in his cold voice.

  Eddie still didn’t move.

  “Look, Eddie, I know how to handle this kind of thing. Nothing bad’s going to happen to your little girly-poo. She just needs to see you in a little different light, and then her attitude will change all over the place. She’ll make nice like you’ve never imagined.”

  After a moment, Eddie said, “No physical stuff?”

  “None. I won’t touch the girl.”

  “And none of your weird stuff?”

  Charles laughed. “Not if you prefer a more conventional approach.”

  Eddie’s feet shifted slightly. A moment later, he was following Charles through the window, and footsteps sounded along the porch, down the stairs.

  When Amos heard the half-car roll out of the graveled driveway, he slid out from under the bed and stood up.

  The girl on the bed looked wide-eyed at Amos, first at his face, then at his loose suit. It was the same girl he’d seen the night the Tripps had accosted him. She was wearing black platforms, Levi’s, and a jacket. Her arms and legs were tied to the bed’s head and footboard. Silver duct tape stretched tightly over her mouth.

  Amos pulled the tape slowly at first, then quickly. The girl was crying. Black eyeliner streaked her cheeks. Spots of blood popped through her white lipstick.

  “Where are they going?” Amos said.

  “Who are you?” the girl said. The spots of blood were blurring on her lips.

  “Where are they going?” Amos said again.

  “I know who you are.” She snuffled, but clear mucus covered her upper lip. “You’re that guy we stopped on the street that night who nearly peed his pants.”

  “Where are they going?”

  She snuffled again and said, “Untie me and I’ll tell you.”

  Amos did. The girl wiped her nose. Then she said, “I can’t tell you where they’re going. Charles would kill me.”

  “Look,” Amos said, “I think this involves someone I know.”

  The girl shrugged. She was no longer snuffling. Her composure had returned. She looked Amos in the eye. “She’ll survive.”

  43

  SOUNDS IN THE NIGHT

  Before the play, Clara had peeked through the side curtain and, finding Amos sitting in one of the back rows, felt a warm thrill of both pleasure and safety. It was somehow reassuring, knowing Amos was there to escort her home.

  But when she looked again following intermission, Amos was gone. Gone? Where would he go?

  After the play, Clara dressed quickly and ran up to Mrs. Van Riper’s office to store the stage gun in the safe, but was stopped short. The door was locked. She knocked. No one answered. She ran back to the auditorium and poked her head into the girls’ dressing room. “Anyone seen Mrs. Van Riper?” she said, and one of the girls, without turning, said, “On multiple occasions.”

  “No, I mean in the last few minutes.”

  There was a vague negative murmuring, then Sands Mandeville, dressed in black pants and pink bra, turned and said, “I feel a draft.”

  Clara knocked at the boys’ dressing room, and a boy standing near the door said, “She’s definitely not here,” and then a boy behind him, wearing only jockey shorts, said, “The Ripper left early. Had to get to the airport or something.”

  Clara, feeling rushed and desperate—how long would Amos wait?—tried Mrs. Van Riper’s door one last time. Locked. She felt the solid mass of the gun within the interior pocket of her long coat. It was safe there. And she could take it home and put it someplace safe. And then bring it to the play tomorrow night.

  She ran out to the descending steps in front of the auditorium. Most of the people were gone. In the dim outside light, a few clusters of adults and students stood around talking. Amos wasn’t there. Clara checked the stage entrance—nothing—and came back to the front steps. From one of the clusters of students, a large form broke off and came her way. It was Bruce. “Hey!” he said.

  Clara smiled and said hello. Then, looking around, “Have you seen Amos?”

  “Should I have?”

  Clara explained.

  Bruce, nodding, said, “That’s what I was telling you. He used to be Mr. Dependable. Now he’s scrambled eggs.”

  “You think he could’ve gone off to that appointment he was talking about?”

  Bruce gave her a maybe look. “Seems kind of late for appointments, though.”

  Clara scanned the lawn and parking lot, which were growing quiet.

  “Want me to walk with you?” Bruce said.

  “Oh,” Clara said, “you don’t need to do that.”

  Bruce grinned amiably. “I’ve got nothing else to do.”

  Clara took one last look around before giving up on Amos. “Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

  They walked quietly for the first couple of blocks, and then Clara felt as if she ought to be more polite. “How goes the Barrineau Project?” she said.

  “Who told you about that?”

  “Oh. I guess Amos did. But I didn’t tell anyone else.”

  They kept walking.

  “So how’s it going?” she said again.

  “Not that great. I guess Amos told you I’ve been calling under an assumed name.”

  “Trent deMille,” Clara said, chuckling.

  “Right. So Trent and Anne Barrineau are talking tonight and I can tell right away something was different and finally she goes, ‘There’s this tall guy following me around. I think maybe he’s been following me around for a while without my knowing it, but now that I’m aware of him, I see him everywhere.’”

  Clara and Bruce kept walking. As they passed under an elm, a streetlight threw fitful shadows. “So what did you say?” Clara asked.

  Bruce said, “I didn’t know what to say, so I said, ‘Well, why don’t you just say something to this guy.’ And in this supercalm voice, she goes, ‘That’s what I’m doing now.’”

  “Oh, my gosh!”

  “Yeah,” Bruce mumbled.

  “Then what?”

  “I go, ‘What do you mean?’ and she says, ‘I think you’re the guy following me around. Are you the guy?’ And I don’t know what to do, so I go, ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am.’”

  “And?”

  “She says, ‘What’s your real name?’ and I tell her.”

  “And?”

  “She goes, ‘Well, I better get off now,’ and then she says good-bye and hangs up.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” Clara said.

  “Yeah.”

  They turned silently onto Genesee. As they approached her house, Clara was relieved to see that it looked the way she left it—the one light on in the living room, the one light on in her room upstairs. “You want to come in for some hot chocolate or something?” Clara said, but Bruce shrugged. “Naw,” he said. “Time for Trent deMille to go home and lick his wounds.”

  They said good-bye on the sidewalk. At the
front door, Clara paused to watch Bruce’s big silhouette dissolve into the darkness.

  Clara went to the answering machine in hopes there would be a message from Amos. The light was blinking, but the only message was from her mother. “Hi, sweetie, it’s me. I just tried you at Gerri’s but got their machine, so maybe you’re all at the play.” Her mother faltered. “It’s late over here.” A pause. “It’s just that I woke up thinking about you. So as soon as you get this message, will you please call me? I know it’s expensive, but call just for a second to let me know you’re okay.” Another pause. “Okay. Bye, sweetie. I love you.”

  An old familiar softness opened within Clara. She thought about calling to put her mother’s mind at ease, but knew it would involve a lot of complicated lying about how she’d gotten the message here at home when she was supposed to be staying the weekend with Gerri’s family. So she didn’t call. She thought about calling Amos to find out why he hadn’t shown up but decided it would just be embarrassing for both of them.

  Clara stuck her hand in her pocket and was surprised by the solid object it contained. The stage gun. Clara parted the clothes in the upstairs closet and climbed the ladder to the attic. She went to the hope chest and was glad to look again at the green shirt. She lifted it and nestled the gun into the baby quilt that lay beneath it, then latched the trunk.

  But Clara was still edgy from the play and everything else, too edgy to sleep. She started the upstairs bath, heated milk for cocoa, let Ham out, then settled into a hot tub while sipping her chocolate. Outside, Ham barked sharply, but it tailed off. A cat, maybe, or a raccoon. That was part of what her father always called Ham’s job description—keeping the backyard varmint-free.

  Clara had tuned the bathroom radio to an oldies station and stacked several magazines on the tubside stool. She’d browsed an entire Mirabella and was on to Seventeen when, in the middle of an old Rolling Stones song, the radio and the bathroom light simultaneously went out, leaving the room suddenly dark and quiet.

  “Ham?” she said, and then remembered he was still outside. Clara rose from the tub and, dripping wet, peered into the hallway. Dark there, too. She crossed the hall and switched on her bedroom light.