by Ted Staunton
“Whaddabout Miz Lorraine?” Rocco Wings says. He’s got those glittering eyes locked on me now, boring into me like lasers, even without his glasses. Sweat is running under my shirt.
“With all our hearts we wanna see her back with you and safe at home,” I say, “but first, see, there’s this other little problem.”
“What might that be?”
“It’s the product. It’s not classic or diet.” Now they’re all looking at me hard. If I ever get out of this, I promise myself I’ll find out what that means. In the meantime, I pray AmberLea has found a cell signal and called the cops before these guys shoot everything in sight, and that I can get everyone away from here and back to the Superior Motel before the Wings and the bikers find them. It occurs to me that throwing away the car keys probably didn’t help, but it’s too late now. Besides, I need time to also pray that Al really is the King of Cannoli as well as a drug-dealing gangster.
“If it isn’t product, then what is it?” says Mustache.
“It’s icing sugar.”
“What the—?”
They all turn toward the Cadillac, except for Rocco Wings, who keeps his beady old eyes more or less on me. As they start across the gravel, I wonder if it really is icing sugar. I wonder if I can get over and grab Rocco’s gun while they leave him alone. Then I wonder what I’d do with it if I had it. If I knew how to ride a motorcycle, I could jump on one of the choppers and roar off for help. Maybe I could dive into the Lincoln. In the movies, the bad guys always leave the keys in the ignition.
I don’t do any of it, of course, but it doesn’t matter. Before the Wings and the bikers even get to the Caddy, there are faint crashing noises from the far end of the clearing. Out of the bush stumble two black guys, waving crazily at the blackflies swarming around them. The bigger one is wearing a basketball jersey over a white T-shirt, huge hip-hop jeans, gigantic untied runners and a barrel-size silver fullback cap twisted to one side. Not to mention a lot of bling. His voice carries across the clearing. “Jackfish! Jackfish, my butt! Drive all night! Forget classic, there’s nothin’ there!”
The smaller guy is wearing a black dress shirt under a black suit and those dress shoes that make it look as if your toes are an extra six inches long. He looks like a hip young business guy in a bank ad. He’s not saying anything. But together, Orange Beard and AB Wings say, “Hey, that’s Scratch!”
Oh. No.
THIRTY-TWO
The black guys look our way when they hear voices. Then the one in the suit—Scratch, I guess—starts to jog toward us. I want to run away, but I can’t make anything move.
Then I’m guessing he sees the guns and the Cadillac and he slows down near the Civic. “Glad you made it,” he calls out. “That what we’re looking for?”
“You should know.” Mustache laughs.
“You finish your business?” That’s Rocco’s voice. Scratch doesn’t see him at first; then he looks over. The little old gangster has shuffled his walker halfway around so he can see Scratch.
Scratch looks confused for a second; then he gives a little laugh and says, “Thought we were going to get started.”
“Where’s Miz Lorraine?” Rocco Wing’s voice has the tiger purr in it again.
“Miss—who?”
“Your boy Bunny here says you got her for safekeeping.” Rocco shakes a hand in my general direction. “He also says the product is icing sugar. Are you saying we’re pulling a double cross, or are you pulling one?”
“Bunny?” Scratch is clearly trying to catch up. “You mean the white dude? He’s in—”
“Hey,” says the hip-hopper. “Who tagged us on the train car?”
“Bunny,” says KK, pointing to me.
“That’s not Bunny, man. He’s in T.O.”
They all turn to look at me. Rocco Wings has put his glasses on. “I thought I seen you before,” he purrs.
“I’m Spencer,” I yell to Scratch. “Bunny’s brother! You know, the one who told him where we were.”
Rocco Wings raises his monster revolver and fires at me. The crack and whang as it ricochets off a freight car makes me almost, but not quite, wet my pants. I’m not sure which is the bigger surprise: that I almost wet my pants, or that I manage not to. Wet pants never seem to be an issue in action movies. Not that it matters. Rocco’s voice snaps me back to the real problem.
“Where’s Miz Lorraine?”
And now it’s all over. I don’t know what else to do, except hope they’ve snuck away.
“She’s—she’s back here, behind the wood. They all are.”
“Tell them to come out. I needa speak to Miz Lorraine.”
Al comes out first. “Rocco,” he pleads, then turns to KK. “Vincent. Check the bags. I tried to tell you. It explains everything.”
Nobody says a word but Rocco, who says, “You, I do personal.”
“No signal,” AmberLea whispers to me, as she helps GL out from behind the railroad ties. She has my camera strap slung over her shoulder. Rocco pulls off his glasses as soon as GL appears.
“Rocco,” GL cries. “What a nice surprise! What brings you up to this neck of the woods?” You have to hand it to her.
Rocco sighs. “Miz Lorraine—”
“Gloria, puhleeease.”
“Miz Lorraine—Gloria—I’ve always been what you call a sincere admirer, more thanna fan, you know. And it’s been a joy anna pleasure to, so to speak, make your acquaintance these last few years. So I want to tell you myself that I’m sorry it has to end this way. Also, I know that you was married long enough to Little Moe Chopsticks, may he rest in peace, to unnerstan that it’s gotta happen.”
GL nods, then tips her head up and angles her eyebrow in her classic pose. “Oh, I understand. Women were born to understand. A kiss and a kiss-off; what’s the difference?”
If I had what it took to care right now, I’d ask which of her movies she took that from. It doesn’t matter; she’s already moved on.
“Do what you have to, but I need to do something first. You’re too much of a gentleman to refuse a lady’s last request, Rocco.”
“As long as it don’t take too long,” says Rocco Wings.
“This young man”—GL waves gracefully at me—“is only here because his grandfather’s dying request was that he get a kiss from me. I promised I’d kiss him if he got me here, to the graveyard.” She gives a little laugh. “Maybe this is the right ending, for me anyway. Everyone is here because of me. I’m sorry about that. The boy’s grandfather was a good man. No matter what happens, I have to honor his request.”
“Make it snappy.”
“Up yours,” says Gloria Lorraine. “Spunky, get over here.”
I go over to her. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I tried.”
“You were sensational,” she says. “David would be so proud. Now, stand there.” She moves me to her other side, then cocks an eye up to the clouds. “Damn, the light’s bad. Never mind. Amby, set up the shot over there. Get about three feet back. I want you to frame it tight from a little below. Bottom it with our shoulders. And whatever you do, no cane.” She ditches the cane and grabs me with both hands. She’s surprisingly strong.
“Got it.” AmberLea hurries over and starts fussing with the camera. “It would be better with the tripod.”
“We’ll make do,” says GL.
“Hey, hey, wait a minute!” AB Wings starts forward. “VIDEO? You can’t film this!”
“Says who, you little wimp,” GL snarls without looking at him. “What this boy’s grandfather wants, he gets. What are you going to do, kill us?”
“Maybe I will.” AB Wings checks the clip in his pistol.
Rocco Wings raises his shaky hand. “Maybe you won’t; not until I say so.”
AB stops and glares. His pink oxford button-down has come untucked under his blazer. He backs off, muttering.
“Think, Tiffy...” Rocco calls to AB.
Tiffy, I think to myself. I’m going to get shot by a guy named Tiffy. So m
uch for AB.
“…It’s not as if anybody’s gonna see it,” Rocco finishes.
“Oh, they’ll see it all right,” AmberLea says cheerfully, fiddling with the camera, “In fact, they’re seeing it right now. They’ve seen everything since you got here.”
“What are you bleeping talking about?” says Mustache.
AmberLea holds up a hand; her cell phone is in it. A black wire is running from the phone to the camera. “We’ve been Skyping the whole thing to all Spencer’s web subscribers ever since we got here. He has a lot of fans. Say hi to the nice people.” She swings the camera toward the Wings and the bikers and the posse dudes. There’s a lot of twisting and bleeping as hands cover faces. “It’s okay,” AmberLea says. “We got some good shots earlier, even your license plates. Anyway, we’d better hurry, because the cops will probably be here soon. Especially since I’m skipping out on house arrest and wearing one of these.” She yanks up the cuff of her skinny jeans. There’s something around her ankle.
“Ah, geez, bleep, bleep bleeping bleep,” says Orange Beard.
“What is it?” says Rocco.
“It’s a GPS ankle cuff, Pop,” says AB Wings. “Remember when Vincent was under—”
“I remember, I remember. The cops are coming? The hell with this. Let’s pop ’em now.”
“Good thinking,” says AmberLea. “Murder charges on top of everything else; sounds like a plan to me.”
Rocco Wings isn’t listening. He’s fumbling with his glasses and the pistol on his knees. Behind him I hear an engine trying to start. We all look. Scratch and his homey are in the Civic.
“Bleep this,” says Orange Beard, “I’m outta here.” He heaves his gun as far as he can into the bush and runs for his chopper. Well, not exactly runs. It’s hard to run in bike leathers, chains and boots, especially if you’re short and four feet wide. Let’s say he waddles fast. Mustache beats him to the bikes by a mile. He’s trying to kick-start the bike and throw away his knife and gun all at the same time when Orange Beard gets there. The Civic engine is still trying to turn over as KK and AB grab Rocco’s walker with him still in the seat and half carry, half hustle him toward the SUV, his little white shoes waving in the air, the monster gun swinging wildly. Rocco gets off two shots. The first one hits a woodpile, and I guess the second one hits the helium tank in the Caddy because there’s a BOOM and the trunk lid shoots off, and suddenly white powder is wafting down on the whole clearing. It makes a nice, Christmas-style ending as four Ontario Provincial Police cruisers roll into the clearing, roof lights whirling.
For a second the whole scene looks as if it’s frozen inside one of those snow-globe shakers. Then I look at AmberLea and stammer, “How...? Did you...? Were they...? Is that really...?”
AmberLea shakes her head. She lifts her phone and the camera. The wire for her earbuds runs from the phone to the bottom of the video cam. It’s stuck there with a piece of gum. AmberLea is a criminal genius.
“To hell with that,” says Gloria Lorraine. “It was a beautiful scene, Amby. You played it like a pro. I wish we’d worked together more. Now, get me to the graveyard.” She tugs at my arm to steady herself and goes down like a house of cards.
THIRTY-THREE
Jer and Mike Karpuski and a lady who turns out to be AmberLea’s mom, Tina, arrive just before the ambulance does. Mike tells us he called the cops. “I parked at the top of Jackfish Road after you turned,” he says into the camera. “I was going to cruise down in a bit and make sure everything was okay when the bikers and the SUV all headed down there too, and that seemed kind of funny, so I called the plates in to the guys at the OPP detachment here. It turned out they were very interested.”
The staticky chatter of police radios washes over everything. Scratch and his homey are already in the back of a cruiser; Mustache and Orange Beard are being loaded into two separate ones. Al and the Wings are in a line, handcuffed, by the SUV. The rain of white powder has left them looking as if they all have really bad dandruff. KK keeps running a finger across the shoulder of his brother’s blazer, and then licking off the powder. “It really is icing sugar,” he keeps saying.
“I tried to tell ya,” Al says sadly. “The delivery guy never showed with the merchandise. That was supplies for the bakery.”
“Alphonso.” Rocco Wings looks up from where he’s cuffed to the seat of his walker. “On behalf ’a my boys, I apologize. It was their mistake. They’re young an’ hot-headed. It’s the delivery guy needs a one-way ticket, maybe. But lissen, it was business, nothin’ personal. I will square it with you by picking up the lawyers on this one.”
“Accepted. I unnerstan, Rocco; I got kids of my own. I’m honored to take your offer. I’ll send a special cake for your birthday.”
Rocco Wings nods, then glares at his boys. “Kids these days,” he says.
“Tell me about it,” Al says, as Mister Bones comes trotting over, the car keys jingling in his mouth.
Jer is standing by himself in the middle of the clearing, arms crossed, slowly looking things over. He’s wearing the same clothes he had on in Buffalo, except he’s added a too-long flannel shirt. Orange plaid. I know it’s not his, but I’ve seen it before.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Good.”
“Glad to hear it. Looks as if I missed some fun.”
“Not exactly.”
We look at each other.
“Thanks for being cool with Mom,” I say. “I mean, covering for me.”
“That’s okay, this once. We’re going to have to get our story straight on the way home though.”
“Sure.”
I stuff my hands in my pockets. One pocket is kind of damp. Maybe I did wet myself a little. I pull my hands out.
“Uh, sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. First I didn’t know, and then—I dunno—I just had to do it.”
“I understand.”
I look at him. By now my glasses are so bent I can only see out of one lens. Jer is a little fuzzy around the edges, but the middle of him is clear and sharp.
“I’ll tell you about it,” I say. “You should hear first.”
“When you’re ready,” he says.
Then I think of something else.
“So, uh, what did you do for three days?” I ask.
Jer looks at me for a long time. “First I freaked out,” he says. “Then I ran into Erie Estates and they freaked out and called Tina. When Tina arrived, we all freaked out. And then I decided to do what you asked.”
“Huh?”
“Trust you.” He hugs me really hard. I hug him back.
Jer says, “I went someplace quiet and did some thinking. There were some things I needed to work out. I’ve ditched the novel, for one. Anyway, I’ll tell you later. You set a good example, kid.”
The ambulance is pulling in. “I’ll be right back,” I say to Jer. As the ambulance and I crunch across the gravel, I remember where I’ve seen the shirt. At the cottage. Grandpa would wear it on cool days. He called it his go-to-hell shirt. I guess Jer will tell me about it, when he’s ready.
GL is still on the ground. AmberLea and her mom, Tina, are crouching beside her. They’ve gotten her partly wrapped up in a blanket, and a coat is folded up under her head.
“…and then my leg just went out from under me,” GL is saying. Her face is pale. I notice for the first time that she’s not wearing much makeup this morning.
“I know, Mother. You’ve told us. It happens sometimes with older people. I just wish you’d told us what you wanted. I’d have—”
“I wanted,” says GL, “to share this with AmberLea, before she turned into me, doing wild, stupid things.”
“You could have shared it with me too,” says Tina. “I don’t even know what we’re doing up here.”
“I thought it was too late for that,” says GL. She’s biting at her lips. “I wasn’t much of a mother. I never even told you who I was. And then Amby getting into trouble…I though
t at least with that ankle gizmo you’d know where she was.”
“The—oh, good god, that thing doesn’t really work. They just put it on to scare some sense into her. I’ve been frantic. If Mr. O’Toole hadn’t called me…”
“Doesn’t work?” says AmberLea. “You’re kidding!”
Doesn’t work? I think, remembering all those guns. I almost fall down myself.
“It’s not too late, Gramma,” says AmberLea. She’s holding GL’s hand, at least until the paramedics ask her to stand back. They swing a stretcher down into position, all calm talk and asking questions about what happened and where it hurts. GL winces and yelps when they lift her onto the stretcher. The ground is rough, so they carry it instead of using the wheels. As the paramedics lift her into the ambulance she spots me. “Spencer,” she says. “Like Spencer Tracey. That’s how I remember it. You’ve been a good sport, Spencer. Come here. In here. AmberLea!” she calls. “Bring the camera.”
I climb in and kneel beside her. “Lose the glasses,” she orders. “Prop up this pillow. More. There. You,” she says to a paramedic, “get a flashlight. We need a small spot.”
“Ma’am—” the paramedic starts to say.
“Just do it, we haven’t got all day. No wonder pictures go over budget.”
AmberLea sets up the shot for GL’s good side. GL directs the lighting. “How’s my hair? All right. Spencer, turn the other way; we shoot faces, not ears.”
I bend in. This close she’s a very old, very pale lady and her lips are quivering with pain. She reaches out a hand that’s all bones and blue veins and red polish. I understand and reach my hand out to her. Her hand is cool. It clutches tight. She pulls me in close for the shot. “I meant everything I said out there,” she whispers. Her breath is like a musty sweater. Then, louder, “All right,” she says, “this is for David McLean, from Wanda Karpuski.” She kisses me on the cheek.
