The Heartbreak Messenger

by Alexander Vance

  “Good.” She shoved some more money into my hands. “I need it done soon. By tomorrow.” Then she pushed the gear shift and squealed into the other lane and down the street.

  I double counted the money and shoved it into my pocket, next to the chump change from Mick’s stamps. Fifty bucks, easy as pie. I looked around at the stores that lined the street. Now where, I wondered, do they sell dead rats?

  Chapter 19

  “You need to find a what?” Rob looked at me as if I had suggested we run naked through the hallway. We were in PE, shooting hoops out on the asphalt courts. Rob and I had a backboard to ourselves. We weren’t very good, so no one was dying to play with us.

  “Yeah, I know, I know. It’s pretty gross. But everybody has their own style. This is what she wants. Besides, she paid me for it.”

  “She paid you to give a dead rat to her boyfriend?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it, man. My clients have been very satisfied so far.” I shot and the ball flew at least a foot under the basket.

  “Quentin, more follow-through,” shouted Coach Wong. He moved his hand through the air like his wrist was broken. I waved and nodded. As if I knew what he was talking about.

  Rob ran after the ball and came back dribbling. “That’s just so cold, man. A dead rat.”

  “So, any idea where I can find one?” I had spent the previous evening looking around our apartment complex, hoping to find some rat traps, or at least a mouse. All I came up with was a fistful of dryer lint in the laundry room. I didn’t want to admit it to Rob, but I was stressing out just a little. The girl in the Mustang didn’t strike me as the understanding type. Her fifty dollars was on loan unless I could deliver a dead rat. And with the end of the month approaching, I needed that cash.

  Rob looked at me in mock surprise. “The Great Heartbreak Messenger needs help? And here I thought you had all the answers.” He tossed high and made it. Lucky shot.

  “Why on earth would I know where to find a dead rat? I mean, do you?”

  He grabbed the rebound. “I might have a few ideas.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  “A few ideas I might be persuaded to share…” He let his words hang in the air.

  Oh, I saw how it was going to be. I considered Rob’s offer as he tossed the ball up and swished it again. Another lucky shot. He grabbed the rebound and bounced it to me. “Fine, I’ll give you five bucks if you help me find a dead rat,” I said.

  “No way. I want a cut of the deal.”

  A cut of the deal? What did Rob think we were? Gangsters planning a bank job? “Thanks, Rob. In that case I can find my own dead rat.” I shot and missed, but I let my hand flap around a little more, just in case Coach Wong was looking.

  Rob didn’t move for the rebound. I turned and saw him staring at me, looking like I’d punched him in the gut.

  “Come on,” I said. “It’s a dead rat, not a rare diamond. I’m still going to be doing the hard part. Five bucks is more than fair. And I could use your help.”

  Rob glanced around and finally shrugged. “Well, all right. If you need the help.”

  I smiled. “Cool. So what’s your idea for finding a rat?”

  “Quentin! Rob! This isn’t basket weaving! Grab that ball and start practicing!”

  * * *

  Our dead-rat expedition started as soon as the bell rang at the end of our last class. Rob and I headed down to the school basement. It was a small basement, more like an underground storage closet for cleaning supplies and the scenery from last year’s theater production. It was also where the school custodian, Mr. Montgomery, had his office.

  Mr. Montgomery didn’t like kids much, and who would if you spent the day cleaning up after them? He didn’t usually surface until most of the kids had left the school grounds. Some people said that he even slept in a bed in his office and brushed his teeth in the student bathrooms at night.

  My eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light as we descended the basement stairs. There was shelf after shelf of cleaning supplies and an army of mops. In a corner I saw the hand-painted trees from The Wizard of Oz. Rob only hesitated a second before walking up to Mr. Montgomery’s office door and giving it a quick knock.

  “Who is it?” barked a voice.

  Rob looked at me. “Uh … Rob McFallen.”

  Silence for just a moment. “What? Did ya ralph in the hallway again?”

  Even in the dim light of the basement, I could tell Rob’s cheeks were flushed pink.

  “Wow,” I said under my breath. “He still remembers that?”

  “Abby did it first,” Rob muttered.

  That was true. The year before, poor Abby had the stomach flu and threw up at school. You’ll never see a crowd of kids scatter faster than when somebody pukes in the hall. While Abby went to see the nurse, the office lady sent Rob to get Mr. Montgomery. The janitor had grabbed a bucket of sawdust and mumbled to himself as Rob led him to ground zero. Then Mr. Montgomery made Rob hold the bucket as he sprinkled the sawdust over Abby’s regurgitated lunch. The sight of the sawdust landing softly on the mess didn’t do much for Rob’s stomach, and he puked on top of it all.

  Rob cleared his throat. “We just have a question for you, Mr. Montgomery.”

  There was another moment before the door swung open. Mr. Montgomery stood there in his usual blue coveralls, his scruffy gray beard scratching against the collar. “Well, start asking. I got work to do.”

  “Um…” Rob stared at Mr. Montgomery. I was afraid he was having flashbacks of sawdust on vomit, and I didn’t want to think what that might do to his stomach. So I quickly stepped in.

  “We’re looking for rats. Preferably dead ones.”

  The school janitor stared at me like I’d just asked him for a dead rat.

  “It’s for a project. For biology class.” I’m certainly not a chronic liar, but sometimes a harmless lie is so much easier than trying to explain the truth to someone who doesn’t care to begin with.

  “Rats,” said Mr. Montgomery.

  “Yeah,” said my fearless comrade, who had found his tongue again. “We thought … well, it was my idea … but we thought you probably set traps for them. Have you caught any lately?”

  “This school don’t have a pest problem,” Mr. Montgomery said flatly.

  “Oh, come on,” said Rob. “Everybody knows what they do in the school cafeteria. There’s got to be…”

  “This school don’t have a pest problem.”

  “Not even one little rat?” I asked.

  Mr. Montgomery folded his arms. “This school passes its semiannual inspection with a gold rating. It don’t have a pest problem.”

  A movement on the floor made me look down. A big brown cockroach scurried past the janitor’s boot. He followed my eyes and then immediately lifted his foot and slammed it down on the bug. It crunched beneath his boot. His arms were still folded.

  “As I was saying, boys, I got work to do.”

  We reluctantly turned and headed back up the stairs. As we reached the top, I glanced behind me and noticed Mr. Montgomery hadn’t moved.

  Once we were back in the bright fluorescent lights of the hallway, Rob looked at me and shrugged. “Plan B?”

  I nodded. “Plan B.”

  Chapter 20

  For the Birds was a bit of a ride from the junior high, but it was the only pet store in town. We pulled up onto the curb and left our bikes next to the entrance. As I moved to open the door, Rob glanced into an uncovered metal trash can set in the sidewalk. His hand shot out to pull me backward. “Hey, take a look at this.”

  He reached into the trash can and pulled out a box the size of a video game console. It was pink with a white illustrated ribbon wrapped around it. The words “A gift for you…” were written in girly cursive across the lid.

  “What do you think?” Rob asked.

  “I don’t think it’s your color,” I said, still holding the pet shop door handle.

  “No. I mean, it’s just the right size. Do
n’t you think?”

  “Rob, you pulled it out of the trash. It smells like perfume and … cheeseburgers.”

  It was hard to miss the triumph in his smile. “What are you going to do? Put the dead rat in your pocket?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Good point. Bring it along.”

  A bell dinged once as we opened the door and a whole array of unusual smells were crammed up my nose. Despite its name, Rob was sure the store had all sorts of animals. With the variety of odors that greeted us, I figured he was right.

  A young man behind the counter looked up from his magazine and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Hello, there!”

  I nodded, looking at the animal cages as I walked past. Lots of birds. Lizards. Hamsters, or gerbils. Fish. Small snakes. And a tarantula.

  “What can I do for you guys?” the man behind the counter asked eagerly.

  I glanced at Rob and decided I’d better do the talking this time. “Do you carry rats?”

  “Sure do.” The man walked over to the side wall and lifted a small steel cage from one of the higher shelves. He brought it back and set it on the counter. “These, my friends, are hooded fancy rats. Still very young, but a good size.”

  I crouched down and peered in the cage. It held two rats, both of them taking tentative steps. Their noses twitched at the edge of the cage. Their bodies were white, and it looked as though the tops of their heads had been dipped in chocolate.

  “Both males, both very healthy,” the man continued.

  Hmmm. Where to go from there … “This is kind of a weird question, but have you had any rats die on you lately?”

  The man suddenly looked concerned. “No. Have you? Is something going around?” He pulled the cage back a little bit, as if I was going to sneeze on it.

  “No, no. It’s just that, well … we’re looking for a dead rat.”

  “Your rat died?”

  “No. I’ve never had a rat.”

  “Then whose dead rat are you looking for?”

  “No one’s. We just happen to be looking for a dead rat.”

  “Well, I don’t carry those. I keep all of my animals alive.”

  “What about snakes?” Rob chimed in. “Big ones. Don’t you keep dead animals around to feed big snakes?”

  The man shook his head. “Most big snakes will eat dead mice.” He glanced nervously at the other cages on the wall. “Frozen dead mice. I don’t carry any, but I can order some for you, if you like.”

  “How long will they take to get here?” I asked.

  “About a week.”

  I could feel Mustang Girl’s deadline looming over my head. She wanted the job done today. I pictured the fifty dollars in my sock drawer disappearing at the stroke of midnight.

  Rob suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed at the hooded fancy rats. “Hey. How much would one of those cost?”

  The man pulled the cage all the way back so that it pressed against his body. “Fifteen dollars. Why?”

  Rob looked at me and opened his eyes wide. He nodded slightly toward the cage. I knew what he was thinking. Fifteen dollars. Even with the five bucks I was paying him, that would still leave me thirty dollars’ profit. Not great, but the clock was ticking.

  But I also knew that a live rat wouldn’t exactly carry the same message, and my client had been very specific. Which meant we would need to … well, bump off the rat. I leaned down and peered into the cage. One of the rats froze this time, staring at me. His whiskers twitched, sending a shudder through its soft furry body. His gleaming black eyes seemed to plead with me.

  Now, I’ve never been much of an animal person. That’s what you get for growing up in an apartment, I guess. But I don’t exactly go around kicking dogs, either.

  No worries, I silently told the hooded fancy rat. I stood up. “Thanks for your help. Let’s go, Rob.”

  Rob held out his hands in exasperation. “Quentin, hold on. This is perfect.”

  I headed for the door. “Come on, Elmer Fudd. Leave the furry little animals alone.”

  If I didn’t have the heart to take a pet rat hostage, then we needed to move on. Time was running out.

  Chapter 21

  Technically, we were now on Plan C, but we didn’t feel right calling it that. Plan C implied that we had more plans in the playbook. But this one was it. If it didn’t work I was sunk. Plan Hail Mary was more like it.

  We rode our bikes all the way out past the edge of town to a fenced-off piece of land bigger than a football stadium. The massive chain-link fence had a single wide gate in the front with a purple-lettered sign that read JORGE’S SCRAP YARD. We parked our bikes and walked through the open gate.

  We hadn’t taken three steps inside when a massive black dog leaped out of nowhere, filling the air with resonating barks. I practically fell over myself trying to scramble out of biting range. Like I said, I’m not really an animal person. The dog’s dark eyes fixed on mine and a fresh shot of drool sprayed out of its snarling tan muzzle with each bark. I don’t know what kind of dog it was, but it sure looked like a cross between mean and ugly. Rob was halfway to his bike before I had a chance to blink, but as I scrambled I noticed the dog was on a chain. I took a breath and slowly stood with my hands out to show I was unarmed and peace loving. The dog settled down to a snarl, sniffed at a rock, and huffed at me.

  When it became clear that I was no longer on the menu, I stood up straight and looked around.

  Jorge’s had a reputation in our corner of the state. When people needed to locate a hard-to-find piece of whatever, they came all the way out to the scrap yard. It was kind of like Disneyland for junk collectors. I’d only been here once before when Mom was trying to find an engine for a 1977 Camaro. The place was filled with dozens of crooked rows piled with scrap. Most of it was metal, a lot of it was from cars, but overall it was an impressive grab bag of junk. Given some time, I wouldn’t have minded just wandering around to see what was there.

  Off to the left stood a dirty white building with a tin roof. An oversized rocking chair made of rough wood took up most of the porch. And a round man with a thick mustache took up most of the rocking chair. I walked toward him, keeping one eye on the dog.

  “This ain’t a playground,” the man barked. “Are you two paying customers?”

  “We will be if we find what we need,” I said. I wasn’t going to be pushed around like a kid when I was on official business with a schedule to keep.

  “What you looking for?”

  “Um … we’ll know it when we see it.” After Plan A and Plan B, I was just a little reluctant to mention what we were really doing.

  “Okay,” said the man, who I assumed was Jorge. “Just be careful.” He gestured to the dog behind me. “Barbados eats shoplifters. And don’t break anything!” He laughed, and I got the feeling he made that joke a lot.

  I turned and gave Barbados plenty of room as I walked the other way. The dog snarled in my direction. I gave him even more room. Rob was still standing with one leg over his bike. “The dog’s tied up, Superman,” I said. “Let’s go. And grab the box.”

  Rob hesitated, eyes on the dog, and then untied the pink gift box from the back of his bike.

  We walked down the nearest aisle of scrap, which stretched on for fifty yards before turning and merging into the next aisle, just like a supermarket. I heard the dog following us, but didn’t pay it much attention. After a while, though, I began to wonder just how long his chain was, so I turned to look. The chain stretched back about twenty feet, but the other end wasn’t attached to anything. I fought back a surge of panic and focused on looking as innocent as possible. Barbados growled deep in his throat.

  Rob noticed me staring and glanced back. He snapped his head forward as his walk became stiff. “Quentin! You said that crazy dog was chained up!” he whispered, as though he didn’t want the dog to know we were talking about him.

  “Well, there’s obviously a chain on him.” I sounded a lot more confident than I felt.
“Just act normal. I’m pretty sure dogs can smell fear.”

  “Exactly! And junkyard dogs eat it for breakfast.”

  “Maybe this one’s a vegetarian. Listen, Rob, it’s not going to eat a customer. Just act cool, don’t steal anything, and it won’t bother us.” I forced myself to walk more casually to prove my point.

  We moved on, stopping to look at the piles of junk now and then, but mostly casting sideways glances at the dog. It lost interest in us whenever we stopped, sniffing around the piles and looking for treasures of its own. Whenever we started forward again it perked up its ears and trailed behind us.

  Rob seemed to relax a bit when it was clear that the dog didn’t intend to eat us any time soon, and watching the seconds tick away quickly beat down any of my own canine phobias. “So, genius,” I said. “Where do they keep the dead rats around here?”

  I hated to admit it, but Rob’s ideas for dead-rat hunting were pretty good, even though we hadn’t struck carcass yet. He always had a knack for finding useless but interesting things. Like once in the fourth grade, Rob and I were walking behind the elementary school, back where the kitchen lets out. He saw something metal lying by the foundation of the building. It was a brass cylinder about the length of his finger, with all sorts of intricate carvings on it. We didn’t know what it was, but it sure looked cool. It had a square hole at the top and Rob put a chain through it and wore it around his neck like a pendant. Everybody always stopped him on the playground to look at it.

  Then one day vice principal Vandenburg saw it and pulled him aside. They talked quietly for a few minutes. Finally Rob reluctantly pulled the chain over his head and placed the pendant into her hand. When she walked off, I asked Rob what had happened. Apparently vice principal Vandenburg wanted to know where Rob had gotten the toilet handle from the teacher’s restroom, and why he was wearing it around his neck.

  I just hoped Rob’s weird talent for unearthing junk would work today. And soon.

  Rob scratched his head and surveyed the heaps surrounding us. “Well, you’d think in a place like this you’d be seeing big signs for rat hotels. Maybe that slobber machine back there scares them away. But if I were Jorge, and if I had a rat problem, I’d probably be setting out traps at every … oh, no way!” He stopped and stared into the pile of scrap off to the side. I tried to figure out what he was so excited about, but it all looked like junk to me.