The Fourth Stall

by Chris Rylander

  Robert called me late that night.

  “Tell me something good, Big Guy,” I said as I answered.

  “I’ve got it, Mac. I’ve got it all.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Hey, when I owe somebody something, I like to deliver. Anyways, Staples’s real name is Barry Larsen and he lives at 1808 Academy Road South. At the Creek, just like you said. His rap sheet is a mile long. He’s been arrested for vandalism, burglary, racketeering, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, disturbing the peace; I could list them forever. He’s on probation and he’s got like two years of suspended sentences. Basically, if the cops catch wind that he’s up to something, he’s going away for a long time.”

  The name Barry Larsen seemed familiar to me much in the same way that Staples himself had when I first saw him, but I still couldn’t quite figure out why. I was pretty sure I didn’t know anyone by that name. But it didn’t really matter—this was a huge discovery for me regardless of whether I recognized the name or not.

  “Great work, Robert. I can’t begin to thank you enough,” I said.

  “Mac, I already told you that I owed you, remember?” Robert said. “Don’t worry about it. Plus, you’re a good guy. You deserve it.”

  We hung up and I celebrated just a little bit. It felt empty, though, without Vince. Also, to be fair, what I had in mind was still a long shot. And it was still incredibly dangerous. Like walking into the girls’ bathroom alone and unarmed.

  Chapter 23

  I got up early on Saturday. Earlier than I can remember getting up in a long time on a weekend. I had a lot to do, not unlike most weekends, but on most weekends I had a business partner to help me.

  I rode my bike to Tyrell’s house. He didn’t live far from me, but I had only been to his place a few times and I almost rode right past it. His house was surrounded by several evergreen trees and a patch of bushes, and it had been painted to match the trees and bushes around it. You seriously almost had to do a double take even to see the house when riding past on a bike.

  I walked up the sidewalk to where I thought there’d be a front door, but there wasn’t one. It was just solid wood siding like the rest of the front of the house. I would have laughed if I still had a reason left to laugh ever again.

  I headed slowly around toward the back of the house, and that’s when a chunk of tree almost crashed down on top of me. I let out a yell and then composed myself when I realized I was still in one piece. But I have to admit I almost passed out when the chunk of tree talked to me.

  “What’s up, Mac?” it said.

  “Uh . . .” was all I managed to say back.

  The large tree branch stood up, and I finally saw the two eyes and mouth behind all of the face paint and fake foliage. I shook my head and this time, and in spite of everything that had happened, I laughed.

  “You’re nuts,” I said.

  Tyrell just shrugged. “Just testing some things out,” he said. “What do you need?”

  “Well, I was wondering if you’d be willing to accept another assignment from me.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “Unfortunately . . .” I started, but had to stop. I could have sworn the bush behind Tyrell had just moved a few feet. I stared at it a moment longer but it was still. “Anyways, like I was saying, I can’t pay you right now. My money has been stolen. I will try to pay you eventually, but right now—”

  “Mac,” Tyrell said with his hands up. “It’s all right; you don’t have to explain anything to me. I know you’re good for it. Besides, I like the challenges you present. They are like no other.”

  “Thanks, Tyrell. You’re a pal, you know that?”

  “I am what I want to be. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  I smirked at this, while once again trying to ignore the fact that the bush seemed to be several feet closer than it had been just a few moments before.

  “Anyways, I’d like for you to case a joint for me. Stake it out all day today and call me as soon as the coast is clear. And bring some of your tools. Hopefully we’ll be doing a little B and E as well, if you know what I mean.”

  Tyrell grinned. “I got just the stuff. What’s the address?”

  “It’s . . .” I stopped again since this time the bush had definitely moved. Plus, there seemed to be a head-shaped bulge of leaves sticking out from the top of it. “What the . . .”

  Tyrell turned around, glanced at the bush, and chuckled. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about that—that’s just my mom. She’s still got some things to learn about opportunities of undetected motion, a basic principle of Incognito Methodology.”

  I shook my head and laughed again. After giving Tyrell Staples’s address, I started back toward my bike, making a mental note to see if Tyrell was in the market for a new best friend, being that I needed one myself.

  Before I got to my bike, I tripped on a mound in the grass and nearly fell.

  “Ow!” the grass said. “Watch where you’re going.”

  I turned around to see a head pop up from the ground. It was covered in grass, but it was clearly human. And clearly annoyed with me. I could now see a whole person was lying on the grass wearing some kind of full body grass suit.

  “Sorry, that’s just my sister,” Tyrell called out from the tree he was once again perched in.

  I shook my head and threw a quick wave at the branch that I thought was Tyrell. I got back on my bike and pedaled for home, perhaps a little faster than I had on the way there. Sure, they’re a funny family, and I have to give them credit for making me laugh at the darkest point in my whole life. But they still gave me the creeps a little bit.

  Tyrell called me later that afternoon.

  “Mac, he’s gone. PJ and a few girls showed up and they all left together in one car with a few coolers. I don’t think they’ll be back for a while.”

  “Nice work,” I said. “Wait there. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

  Staples’s house wasn’t too far from Vince’s, but I took an alternate route to make sure I stayed well clear of that liar’s pit of deception. I never wanted to see his trailer again. It took me about twenty minutes to get to Staples’s address.

  The house at his address wasn’t really much of a house at all. It was small and white with old, chipped paint. Half of the porch was partially caved in. The red sports car that had almost killed me sat in the driveway, soaking up the sun like it was trying to get a nice tan.

  It was a little nerve-racking to be in this neighborhood by myself. I looked around for Tyrell and didn’t see any sign of him. I walked my bike to the trash cans near the curb and that’s when a head poked up from the trash.

  “Hey, Mac,” Tyrell said.

  I nodded at him, this time not really all that surprised he had been staking out the place disguised as garbage. He climbed out of the garbage can and took off a plastic trash bag he’d been wearing. Underneath he wore black pants and a dark blue shirt and those rubber purple gloves I’ve seen doctors and nurses sometimes wearing at hospitals. He handed me a pair and I put them on without asking.

  We sat behind the garbage cans for a few minutes and just watched the place. Everything was still. I had a few basic questions I wanted answers to, but I wasn’t really there for anything specific. Basically, I was looking for anything, anything at all that might help me get out of this mess.

  We approached the gate to the side of the house, Tyrell in the lead. He moved so quickly and quietly that I could have sworn his feet were floating just above the grass. The gate was solid wood and rose just higher than my head. I grabbed the top and pulled myself up just high enough to see into the backyard.

  The grass was yellow, long, and weedy. There was a shed in the back corner. Next to that was a small doghouse with a sleeping pit bull inside of it. That would not exactly be helpful when trying to check out the place, but we’d deal with that later. Tyrell had also pulled himself up, and I gave him a look as he dropped beside me.

  He shook his head
and whispered, “Don’t worry. The dog won’t be a problem.”

  I wasn’t sure how he could be so confident, but I trusted that he knew what he was doing.

  The first thing I needed to know was whether Staples had parents that we had to worry about. Whether the house was truly empty right now or not. I tapped Tyrell and motioned for him to follow me toward the porch.

  We moved around to the front of the house and crept up the steps. They creaked under our feet. Tyrell stayed back to watch the street while I approached the front door. I heard Staples’s dog start barking in the backyard.

  Their mailbox hung next to the front door. It was the kind that’s just like a huge 3-D metal envelope stuck to the house. I lifted the flap and flinched a little when it creaked loudly.

  The mailbox had a magazine and a few letters in it. One was an energy bill—I could tell because the envelope had the local energy company’s logo on it. There was a Final Notice stamp on the front. I looked through the clear plastic on the envelope; it was addressed to Jonah Larsen. I wasn’t sure what to make of that quite yet. The other letters were also addressed to Jonah Larsen. One of them was from a place called Ahmed Collections. Another was from the IRS, which was a pretty evil tax organization, based on what I’d gathered from movies and TV shows.

  Then I looked at the magazine, which was addressed to Barry Larsen. It was called Ink and Ammo. On the cover it had a ridiculous picture of this shirtless guy with rippling muscles and tons of tattoos shooting a gigantic machine gun. The caption read, “Inside: 10 Secrets to Showing Off Your Guns.”

  I figured that Jonah was either Staples’s dad or older brother. I put the mail back into the metal box and walked over to a dirty window a few feet away. It was overcast that day but still bright, and the light kept me from seeing inside, so I cupped my hands around my eyes and pressed my face up against the dirty glass. The inside was a disaster. There were dirty clothes and empty pizza boxes everywhere. Near a ratty orange couch, there was even a pile of dog poop that looked like it had been there since the 1880s. But it was what was on the couch that shocked me most.

  It was an old guy. He was wearing only gray sweatpants and a single black sock. And he was lying on his back with one leg dangling over the back of the couch. His face was sweaty and unshaven and he was clearly sleeping, possibly in a deep coma. It was a pretty gross sight. There were empty cans scattered all across the guy’s living room. Some of them were crushed flat, but I doubted that was because they were going to get recycled.

  It was the same guy who Vince and I had seen out at the lake cabin. Staples’s dad, I was sure of it. So that red car had been the same car after all, and that lady must have been Staples’s dad’s girlfriend or something like that. I remembered then what she had said about his son paying his bills. So that’s what Staples did with all the money he made after all.

  It explained a lot. Staples was essentially doing the same thing Vince claimed to be doing for his mom. Maybe that’s why they had apparently bonded over stealing my money. They were both helping out their own poor families. It almost made me sympathize with what they’d done to me, but then I quickly squashed that thought. Even if they were doing this to help their families, there were better ways to go about it. Ways that didn’t involve lying, cheating, backstabbing, betrayal, beatings, intimidation, and theft.

  The scene on the couch was a pretty gross and sad sight, but at least from the look of it, we probably would not have to worry about the guy waking up and catching us snooping around. Or if he did, he’d never be able to catch us if we ran. I went back to where Tyrell was crouched near the front steps and filled him in on what I’d seen.

  “Let’s go,” he said, and nodded his head toward the gate to the backyard.

  Staples’s pit bull was still barking, and once we got there, I peeked over the fence. He was just a few feet away from the fence gate, held back by a chain attached to the doghouse. Tyrell must have seen the look on my face because he just grinned and then climbed over the gate to the other side.

  I shrugged to no one in particular and then climbed over myself. The dog was only a few feet away from us and was frothing at the mouth the way rabid animals do in cartoons. The chain holding him at bay started to strain under his pull.

  “What now?” I asked.

  Tyrell reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a hunk of tinfoil. He unwrapped it and revealed a pretty sizable steak. The oldest trick in the book, sure, but did it work in real life?

  Then Tyrell took off running to my left. It wasn’t really what I was expecting him to do, and I froze, unable to take my eyes off the pit bull snapping at his heels. Tyrell stayed just ahead of the dog, dangling the steak behind him. He wove around a tree and then back around another just a few feet away. The dog followed, getting so close that he actually was able to clip one of Tyrell’s shoes in his jaws and tear it right off his foot.

  But then the chain, which was now woven and wrapped tightly around two trees, pulled tight and the dog yelped and jerked back. He was stuck well out of range of me now, and there was a clear path to the shed. The dog continued to bark at Tyrell, who taunted him with the steak as he put his shoe back on.

  Then Tyrell tossed the steak at the dog, who ignored it at first and just kept snarling. But then eventually the dog lost interest in us and lay down with the steak clutched between his two paws. Tyrell walked back over to where I was standing and grinned at me.

  “Nice trick,” I said. “How did you know you’d need that? Or do you always walk around with a two-pound steak in your bag?”

  Tyrell didn’t answer but just motioned for me to follow him.

  We approached the shed. It was padlocked shut. Tyrell dug into his bag and then removed a chunk of metal kind of shaped like a gun. But instead of a barrel or muzzle it just had these two long, thin rods. He stuck the rods into the lock along with another L-shaped piece of metal he held in his other hand. He pulled the “trigger” of the gun while turning the other metal rod like a key. The padlock clicked open, just like that.

  And then we were inside. It was warm, but Tyrell switched on a nearby electric fan. He also clicked on a naked lightbulb dangling from the ceiling of the moderately sized shed. If it was empty, it would have been just about the right size to store a Jet Ski or a few motorcycles and not much else. But it wasn’t empty. Inside were a large desk, a few chairs, and a few old file cabinets.

  Staples’s office.

  It looked pretty similar to my own. Which surprised me, though I wasn’t really sure why. It’s not like I expected his office to be made of bones and jagged rocks and have miniature volcanoes inside it shooting out fireballs. I think the surprise was that someone so mean and supposedly evil could also be so organized.

  We started digging. On his desk were a few notebooks containing lists of kids who owed him money. As much as I was curious to see who was in there, that wasn’t something that could help me much at that moment. There were also a lot of old sports newspapers and magazines lying around.

  Staples had a ridiculous bobblehead collection lining some shelves behind his desk. They were mostly baseball players. He practically had the whole Yankees lineup and half the Hall of Fame. I was a little jealous of the collection, to be honest. And I was surprised that such a psycho could appreciate the finer things in life, such as baseball.

  There was some other stuff scattered about that didn’t look related to his business, like a few baseball gloves and an old TV with an ancient-looking, gray video game system I didn’t recognize hooked up to it. On his desk was a picture of a really little girl and Staples standing next to the same shed we were in. The picture was old—Staples looked maybe close to my age in it—but it was definitely him. Only in the picture, the lawn around the shed was green and freshly cut and the shed was newly painted and Staples actually looked nice. And happy. I could only guess that the girl in the picture might be a little sister. I wondered where she was now. I certainly hoped she didn’t still live there. Th
at house was no place for anybody to live in, let alone a little girl. The photo was just another item that left me suddenly feeling a little uncertain as to just who Staples really is, and what his intentions were.

  That’s when it all finally clicked. I suddenly knew why he’d looked so familiar to me. Barry Larsen was an older kid who used to live in our trailer park. We used to play football with him. We had done so on the very day I’d met Vince for the first time. Staples had actually invited me to play football with him when we were kids. In fact, I even caught a pass from him that day, and I remember he said, “Hey, nice catch, kid.” I’d almost passed out, I was so proud that an older kid complimented me. Barry Larsen had never seemed like such a bad guy. I marveled at the discovery, but pressed on with the search.

  Tyrell moved on to the file cabinets, and I started rummaging through his desk. If you want the truth, I honestly expected to find my stolen Funds right then and there that day. Where else would he have them hidden? But we didn’t find my money. We didn’t find any money, actually. But just because we didn’t find my money doesn’t mean we didn’t find anything useful. In fact, we found plenty. What we saw in Staples’s shed that day changed everything.

  Chapter 24

  Monday passed quickly. Too quickly. For once I wanted the hours in class to drag, to last forever. And for once, class time flew by. Funny how that works, isn’t it?

  For the most part Fred and I didn’t talk during any of the recess or lunch breaks. He played DS while I sat in my office, going over my final Books, trying to predict whether or not Staples would actually show up after school. Right at the end of afternoon recess, I called Fred into my office.