Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  > wrote:

  > >

  > >> Dear Manny,

  > >>

  > >> Maybe this’ll earn me time with my favorite mareconcito or maybe

  > >> not, but either way, I’m woke tf up after the past week, and I may be

  > >

  > > I told you about those nicknames of yours.

  > >

  > >> in trouble. Hearing you about the kids and how they been used

  > >> or invited to do ish struck a chord with me. You know I told you

  > >> about mi tío and his kids and how all that worked out. I wouldn’t be

  > >> able to sit and let some pendejo mess with the ones around here like

  > >> that. So I been chatting the kids up and I found some ish out.

  > >

  > > Everyone knows you been chatting the kids up. On the managers’

  > > morning call, we got told to keep an ear out for union talk. They

  > > think you prepping for an uprising in here. Best watch your step with

  > > managers’ row giving you the side-eye.

  >

  > lol viva la revolucion!

  >

  > >> A few been asked about accessing the employee list over here, and it

  > >> sounds like Kristen found a spreadsheet with everyone’s names and

  > >> sent it over. Most said they got a call from a woman claiming to be

  > >> part of

  > >

  > > The only one she got access to is months old. Not worrying about

  > > that. With our turnover, it’s not close to who we got.

  > >

  > >> J&J. Nobody from Source One or Kelly never knew nothing about

  > >> anything I asked. A couple talked about getting emails, including Kristen.

  > >> Looked official enough, so she sent the spreadsheet right over w/o

  > >> thinking.

  > >>

  > >> Like ya’ll were saying before, some been watching people. “Something

  > >> interesting” kept coming up. Look for “something interesting.”

  > >> Notify the contact if there was anything outta place. Heather had

  > >> the best story with that. Give that biddy a prize. And hide your

  > >> ish around her. Girl will steal you blind. And that laugh of hers? Acho.

  > >>

  > >> So Heather gets an email from a junk address over at the temp

  > >> agency. I tried emailing it from my own junk Yahoo account but got

  > >> nothing. User doesn’t exist miercoles. The message she got offered

  > >> overtime hours for odd jobs. She accepted, and a couple days later,

  > >> a box showed up on her desk here with a burner phone and a piece of

  > >> paper w/o a letterhead or nothing telling her to watch the members of

  > >> a family at an address at the bottom of the page. “Interesting

  > >> information will be awarded,” it said.

  > >>

  > >> I went to the address to confirm what the putita told me. Looked

  > >> like a auto shop and the owner’s house next to it. Cars parked all

  > >> over the place. Junkers in the back. Some abandoned warehouse took

  > >> up a lotta property to the one side and nothing but trees on the

  > >> other. Maybe a drug runner? Meth lab in the back? Idk but seemed

  > >> almost too normal for someone to be sending out this Spy Kids ish.

  > >>

  > >> Heather said she scoped out the place for a week w/o anything too

  > >> crazy. She never told anyone how long she stayed outside, but the OT

  > >> hours were spot on. The last night she went, she saw who she thought

  > >> was the wife of the place going somewhere later than a DINK wife

  > >> should be playing. Followed her to a bar and went inside, getting

  > >> a table where she could watch the wife from a safe distance. After a

  > >> while, she realized the woman wouldn’t know her from nobody and sat

  > >> up next to her.

  > >>

  > >> Real nervous biddy. Downing whiskey sours and fidgeting with her

  > >> rings. Looking over her shoulder at every door opening and trying to

  > >> see what she could through the mirrored surfaces behind the bar. The

  > >> only problem? Heather never got to see wth the mujer was doing. She

  > >> got a text from her sitter saying there was an emergency and

  > >> Heather’d have to come back to the kids. The sitter’s been AWOL ever

  > >> since, so Heather hasn’t been able to do any more spying.

  > >

  > > So you saying Christy ain’t behind this? Whoever it is from the

  > > agency asked these kids to send an email or watch someone, but why

  > > they ask you first thing to rob a grandma? What make you so

  > > devious? What you got in your past that they can go “Yo, shank this old

  > > lady for us” and you say OK? WTH? SMFH.

  >

  > I know Christy, OK? I didn’t know when we started all this. But you

  > remember me telling you about a Brazilian cabron we used to run with?

  > Turns out she was his wife. But he dead now, so I gotta respect the man, you

  > know?

  >

  > Something going on with that agency, but I gotta believe it ain’t about her.

  > And if it turns out it is, I don’t know what to do. I gotta think that jumping the

  > old biddy was something different from all the crazy requests coming from

  > the agency. Just wanna sort this out peacefully in honor of our old crew,

  > right?

  You a f’in fool.

  Done. Make sure my kids are safe and legal. Otherwise? Done.

  Thanks,

  Manny Quinn

  Assoc. Mgr – Physician Validation

  t: +1 (215) 680-3747

  41 University Dr.

  Newtown, PA 18940

  www.episync.biz

   Please consider the environment before printing this email.

  Eddie 10

  My first B&E was an accident. The other three or four I may’ve mentioned tonight weren’t, but this was back when we were kids. Jimmy Eubanks and I were enjoying a night of line racing over on the parkway when he made a wrong move into a curb and jacked up his wheels. Too embarrassed to go to Dad, Jimmy said he knew a guy over at a shop in Bristol Borough who’d fix him up. The problem was a few mechanics were in that block, and by the time I pulled into the parking lot where Jimmy’s car was parked, he’d already put his keys through the slot to the wrong shop.

  We circled the building hoping someone was inside, and I noticed the backdoor seemed ajar, so I tried pushing it open. The door didn’t budge, so I gave it a firmer push, knocking the door back and setting off an ear-piercing alarm. I ran off and found Jimmy out front, practically shaking and shouting, “What’d you do, man?” We hopped in my car and drove off as fast as my old Camaro could take us. Jimmy called his buddy, who said he knew the guys in the other shop and would take care of it.

  The guys at the steel knew me as someone who wasn’t necessarily good at B&Es, but certainly didn’t care about them, making me the go-to for anyone too gone to make his own way into his own house. Sometimes their keys would be locked in their cars, but they needed to get to bed somehow. That’s when word would make it to me that my services were needed. On those occasions where we’d see other cars in the driveway, they’d be placed on the couch in their living rooms. No reason to upset a spouse when unnecessary.

  What I had in mind this time around required a little more finesse, though, starting with a visit to the junkyard behind your garage. I’d already checked the shop, but it didn’t look like you were ever in there that day. As I was walking through the aisles of salvage, footsteps behind me made me turn around, expecting you
to be sneaking up on me, but instead, there came the ball of rage, alcoholism, and bottled hair dye (probably labeled something like “Sangria” or “Chocolate Cherry”) known as your wife. “I was hoping you’d swing by, Mister Man,” she said, stepping close enough for me to see her roots and smell last night’s gut rot, and gestured toward the house.

  Inside, the house looked cleaner than it had since Ma was alive, but the place felt like the windows were open. Hayleigh didn’t remove her coat, but she offered me a fresh coffee, her breath fogging every time she spoke. I followed her into the living room, where she sat in one of the arm chairs, and I positioned myself behind the opposite chair. Having not heard a single insult thus far, I figured I’d best keep a layer of protection between the two of us.

  “Can’t we sit down and have a nice conversation?” she asked.

  “Never did before, so why start now? Where’s Bri?”

  “Funny that. My husband’s out with a Sydney? And her kids? Seems she was sent here by you? He’s showing Syd where he buys parts and the general lay of the land. The girls went so they could all get lunch together. Weird, huh? Especially since we don’t have the cash to cover our own butts, and now you’re sending huddled masses yearning to breathe free to our front door. And that’s where this little convo comes in and I ask you for a favor, one which I think we’re owed.”

  I cocked an eyebrow, giving my best “Oh really?” face, but she continued with, “I don’t know what you boys’ve been doing lately, but don’t think I didn’t notice Brian coming home with random piles of money. He tried to play it off like business had picked up, but I know his books better than anyone. And you know what? I don’t care where it’s coming from. Betting on ponies, playing craps, hobo fights, I don’t care. Well, I might care if it was dog fighting. You’re not betting on dog fights, are you?”

  Before I could open my mouth, she cut me off with, “You know what? Don’t care. Less I know, the better, right? Just let it be noted I’d be strongly against any pet fights, okay? But do it again. Do whatever you boys do ten times if you can. You see this?” She blew out a couple puffs of steam, validating my reason for being across the room. No need to smell those rancid wine burps of hers. “The heater’s on just high enough to keep the pipes from freezing. We’re only sitting here in lighting because PECO doesn’t shut people’s power off in the winter. But winter doesn’t last forever, does it?”

  I rubbed the bridge of my nose, contemplating what to say to this woman. “Be scarce Tuesday night. We’ll get things taken care of.” I walked my then empty cup of coffee to the kitchen sink, and before I knew it, Hayleigh’s arms wrapped around me. She practically nuzzled her face into my shoulder as I stood awkwardly still.

  “Thank you, Eddie.”

  “Sure, kid.” She withdrew as I pulled away, but as I gripped the door handle, I turned back and asked, “You got a Chester the Molester van somewhere on the property?”

  “Bay 2. Here for a tune-up. Won’t be picked up until Monday. Bri’s out getting it a PCV valve.”

  “Tell him I’ll have it back tonight.”

  * * *

  Figuring it’d be like cutting through a crowded bar or line—dress in black and wave a flashlight in people’s faces, and they’ll think you’re security—I thought I’d just dress the part and walk right into Christy’s backyard. Have confidence, will travel. But honestly, it was just a precaution. As our recent adventures have proven over and over, no one seems to raise their eyes to the batshit insane goings on around them. I probably could’ve walked into that backyard dressed as a chainsaw-wielding clown, and nobody’d bat a lash.

  In the garage, I grabbed the keys to the Free Candy-mobile, your Maglite, and what probably was meant as a coverall for Sydney. Seemed snug on me, which meant it would swim on her tiny body. I drove to the development Poy had taken me to in Langhorne and parked at the nearest spot to the house with the faded pineapple flag. Neither Poy’s nor his goddess’ car were within sight, so I headed to the gate to the backyard, shining the flashlight and carrying a small toolbox I found behind the passenger seat. A jogger obviously at the end of his run staggered down the street, but he seemed too exhausted to even glance my way.

  The backyard was dead and dusty, like nearly every property this time of year, but the landscaping would’ve put Ort to shame. A koi pond sat in the one corner, slightly frosted over with the fish most likely at the bottom, and a higher-end fire pit was situated about halfway down the thin plot of land. The only thing marring the property was the layer of cigarette butts strewn about.

  I looked around for Poy’s stone, expecting one of those cheesy rocks you’d see on QVC or an infomercial, but then I realized the only stones anywhere near the house were the blocked tiles leading to the backdoor. All of them wound up being stuck, frozen into the ground around them until they met with a hammer and screwdriver from the toolbox. The fourth one in turned out to have a little slit underneath where a key could be hidden, and I placed the stones back, hoping they didn’t look as disturbed as they seemed.

  There really wasn’t any plan going into the house, to be honest. Maybe just a hope. Something to attack her or blackmail her or anything, really, that would get her to ignore our family for the rest of her miserable life. Ideally, ignore everyone we knew as well. But you were my primary concern. The idea that she had someone watching you, whether she claimed to have stopped them or not, made my skin crawl. That feeling only got worse once I broke through the rear entrance.

  The kitchen stunk of stale cigarette smoke, and it was the first of many rooms I’d encounter where the walls were covered in Orthodox icons and paintings, all written in Russian. The place was meticulously clean, the only thing I wouldn’t’ve eaten off of being the ashtray in the center of the kitchen table. The refrigerator seemed a little more human, what with the fridge part filled with leftover Chinese and the freezer stacked with bottles of vodka. I stood in awe and thought, “In another world, we could’ve been friends.” The thought to pluck a bottle or two crossed my mind, but I figured that could wait ‘til later.

  I stepped into the living room, but before I could explore it, a voice came from upstairs. My body froze as I realized I hadn’t thought everything through. Poy had said the girl’s family was dead, but that didn’t necessarily mean she lived alone. But as I stood there motionless, the voice continued. At first, it sounded like mumbling, but the decorations on the walls reminded me Russians were afoot. A beep seemed to punctuate whatever was being spoken, and it dawned on me I was listening to a loop of answering machine messages.

  The tinny voice of a woman grew in volume as I headed up the stairs. Photos of a smiling monster in a variety of ages and costumes—prom gowns, graduation robes, a Halloween where she dressed as a bee much older than you’d think—followed me as I ascended. At the top, the door to the room with the recording stood ajar, as did one to the bathroom, but two others were shut tight. Poy hadn’t mentioned how long the family had been dead, but judging from the rest of the house, those rooms were mausoleums, untouched since the accident.

  The room with the messages playing looked like a teenager’s, albeit a tidy one. Everything was spotless like the rest of the place, but in a more controlled chaos sort of way. A dresser had an army of those rubber ducks in stupid outfits in a neatly defined brigade on top. Guitars hung from hooks on the walls, and one sat in a stand within arm’s reach beside the bed. The closet was open and appeared to be ordered in groups for work, sleep, and what I can only guess was fetish balls. Again, an intriguing woman if not for, you know, all the evil.

  A box of what hinted to be electronics poked out from underneath the bed, and being the old man I am, I leaned against the mattress to reach for the box. My hand must have landed on the remote for the stereo, though, since the volume immediately shot up, causing a distorted Russian followed by a painful beep to broadcast to the neighborhood. A pounding came through the wall, followed by the muffled shout of, “We talked about that BS, Christy!
” I guess her neighbors were getting as tired of her shit as I was.

  Once the volume was back down, I pulled out the box to find dozens of burner phones like the one she’d given me. Suddenly it dawned on me that I still had mine on me, allowing the girl to track me back to her own bedroom. I would’ve left it at your place, but a harpy that shall remain unnamed distracted me. I was pulling it out of my pocket to shut it off when the stupid thing began to ring, the caller ID saying it was the girl.

  “Be prepared on Monday. You’ll need a button-down for orientation, but your normal outfit should do from Tuesday on.” I could barely hear her over the crowd in the background and what sounded like terrible dance music Poy would play. “I’ll text you the time and address later tonight.”

  “Where are you? I can barely hear you.”

  “Concert. Band’s running late, so I’m taking care of business. Try not to blackmail this one, okay, Eddie?”

  She disconnected, and I turned off the phone. As my ears reaclimated to the ambient noises of the house, I became aware again of the Russian and hoped all the girls background noise had blocked the voice out.

  Back to the boxes, I found that first to be nothing but burners. Had to’ve had dozens of them. Reaching into the darkness, I found a second box that turned out to be something I’d rather not think about, but let’s say it involved one of those costumes in the closet. That made me wary to retrieve the last box I could see, afraid I’d need an adult. When I pulled that third box out, though, my first thought was, “Huh. Built one of those for...”

  Richter. The box was a collection of Richter’s projects. A box for your dash that would trick street lights into thinking you were emergency services. A remote that could turn off just about any TV without knowing the remote code. A pocket-sized box that blocked cell signals within a few yards of anyone who carried it. And the laptop. That damn laptop. Better in her hands, I figured, than in the hands of the cops, who might’ve dug deeper into who his gadget supplier was.

  But the fact she had all his toys also proved she had something to do with his death. Correction: his murder. Did she do it by her own hands or one of her boys’? He was acting so erratic the previous week, maybe longer. Never did find out how his leg got hurt. The listening device at the beef and beer, the leg, the random story that last night about a goat man. How involved in this Christy conspiracy was he? Every time I suggested getting myself out, he was the one pushing me back in. The question was, why?