by Marcy McKay
A Mercedes with dark windows slows by ’em, then stops. Turkey walks to the driver’s side, while Little J.J. stands guard. The window rolls down to a fistful of cash and Turkey sneaks the bag into ’em. The trade is made. The Mercedes drives away and the homies go back to their corner to do this all over again. It happens all day and night in Paradise. On Mai Wong’s side, too. Who knows how much further?
I hobble back the way I already came, but that won’t stop it from still happening. Nothing does.
I spot Corn Dog lying across a park bench, passed out clutching an empty bottle of MD 20/20 like a teddy bear. Mama and him are buds, too, but I’m okay with Corn Dog. He’s sweet, even though he’s older than dirt with wrinkles upon wrinkles. I don’t think he’s changed clothes once my whole life—those grungy overalls under his grimy brown coat and worn work boots. He’s a bag of bones with crazy white hair sticking out all over and his beard hangs longer than Santa Claus.
Maybe he knows where Mama is. I tiptoe toward him extra quiet. His stinky, drunk fish smell hits me long before I reach him. Today, there’s even green puke chunks in his beard. I hold my breath.
His jaw hangs open as he snores. I gag and cover my mouth, commanding myself to not hurl. I don’t want to wake him, but …
It takes cash to buy booze. Poison he doesn’t need and money I’ve got to have to save my family, a thousand bucks to be exact.
Shame sloshes through me since he’s a friend, but Diablo gave me no choice. I’ll pay him back, for sure. I check over my shoulder.
There are folks all around. Nobody seems to be watching, or the ones who are don’t seem to care.
Lightning fast, I hold my breath and check his pockets. The left one’s empty. Dang. He probably drank it all. On his right side, I find a crumpled-up five and some change.
Score. I leave the coins, but take the dollar bill. I bet he’s got more on him, but I’ll leave him that.
His watery, blue eyes fling open. He startles, then beams a big, toothless smile at me. I squeal and jump back with his five clutched in my hand. Guilt must cover me ’cause his grin disappears. Even sauced, he sees the truth staring him in the face. Corn Dog flashes from happy to sad, but he doesn’t say or do a thing. He just watches me through pickled eyes.
Frozen, I don’t know what to do. It lasts a few seconds, but the awkward knots around us tighter. What I’ve done reeks worse than his puke.
I kick it into gear and disappear, hating myself every step of the way. Stupid Corn Dog. I can’t believe he woke up. It’s not my fault, though. He should know better than to keep his cash someplace so easy to find. I’m doing him a favor. He can’t blow it on booze now. He should thank me.
At the Shangri-La, the same crappy sign blinks nonstop: “$25 per hour. $50 per night.” There’s the same turquoise walls with faded palm trees painted on ’em and the same nasty pool sits in the middle, with brown water in it ankle deep. My home-away-from-home is a blah, U-shaped motel with just two stories. No presidents of the United States sleep here.
We watch TV between appointments and I saw on a snooty talk show once that Shangri-La is a made-up place from a book written years ago. It’s a perfect, happy land where nothing bad ever happened.
Wrong name for this dump.
There’s our room upstairs—room number 207. That invisible fist rams my gut with sad and mad if Mama really sneaked off here with that cop last night. Seriously, it socks me both ways ’cause what she did was just plain wrong.
I’m way better at math than reading ’cause Mama always lets me count our cash. Corn Dog’s five plus my money equals seven dollars and seventy-two cents.
That’s still a long ways from the one grand I need for Diablo.
The office OPEN sign chain is broken, so it dangles sideways. Inside, hot, sticky air blows from the heater and the TV volume blasts on high. The cash register sits up front on the check-in counter and my fingers itch for it. That’d be some fast cash, but Corn Dog’s pickled eyes make me think twice about stealing again so soon. I’ll try other stuff first, even though Tank Top Teddy totally deserves to get ripped off.
He’s the hairy chubster in the recliner. Tank Top always wears those dirty, white boxers and wifebeaters. His bad comb-over never changes, either. He smells like the inside of my sneakers. Me and Mama like a lot of different TV shows, but he just watches one—Cops. They’re busting some junk bag on there now for dealing. I wish they’d do that to Diablo and the Barrio Brothers. Haul ’em away to the slammer for good, but No-Brains is too busy creeping on Mama to do his job.
There was a bell here on the front desk yesterday, but Tank Top took it away ’cause of me. I say to him, “Hey.”
He grunts back, but doesn’t look away from his show. His face glows blue from sitting so close.
I clear my throat and try again. Nothing. There’s no time for this, so I take it up a notch. “Yo, ass-wipe.”
That snaps his head this way. He looks ready to pounce, but relaxes when he sees it’s just me and turns back to his show. His voice sounds like gravel. “What do you want?”
“Where’s Mama?”
“I ain’t her keeper.”
“Let me into our room then.”
“You don’t have a room.”
“I need in there to search for clues.”
“You need to go the hell away.”
“Seriously, it’s important. Life-or-death stuff.”
“Unless your mom’s got cash, it’s not happening.”
“If you’re so smart, then tell me what Mama was doing here in the middle of the night with that new cop?” His head bobs up some, so I add, “She’s disappeared.” That slips out before I could stop it.
“I haven’t seen her since you two were here yesterday.”
“She left something in there for Diablo. He wants me to get it, so if you don’t help, you’ll be on his hit list.”
“I’m not afraid of those criminals. In fact, I’d like to see what happens if they come back here. Why, I’ll …”
While he lies about hurting Diablo, I notice a blue cash bag sitting on the lower shelf between the front desk and the TV. It’s zipped and stuffed full. I don’t know for sure what’s inside, but it sparkles and shines like the wishing fountain’s bright blue water. That money would solve one of my problems, and I wouldn’t feel guilty about rolling Tank Top. Besides, I bet it’s got at least a grand in there. Maybe more. I could start us a California fund.
Still, I need to plan this right, ’cause Tank Top pretty much never leaves this office, and I don’t want to botch it up like I did with Corn Dog. My mind takes a picture of the cash bag to work on it later.
Tank Top says, “Get lost, or I’m calling the cops.”
I need to do the same, but need more evidence first. From the breezeway, a radio plays a snappy, Tejano tune. Sure enough, I look out the window to see Carmella the maid pushing her cleaning cart by. That gives me an idea.
I tell Tank Top, “I’ll be back.”
“The answer will still be no.”
As I shuffle down the breezeway, there’s a young couple in the parking lot carrying their bags to a green truck. They load up, then drive away. I know the word on their license plate ’cause it’s our next home—California. That hurries me faster so I can get us there, too.
In Room 150, the maid walks from the bathroom, holding a load of dirty towels. Carmella is teeny-tiny and the color of coffee with milk, with one gray braid down her black uniform. She has extra full lips, with eyes light in their brownness, but heavy in their sadness. I think she might’ve been pretty once ’cept life sucked it up like her vacuum cleaner.
“Hey, Carmella.”
She shrieks and drops her bundle to the floor.
Poor thing. I rush to pick ’em up. “Have you seen Mama? She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Carmella says in a heavy Spanish accent. She stops folding and stares at me. Her coffee skin drains whiter. Her lotion smells like oranges. She sure didn’t get t
hat here ’cause they don’t give out freebies, not even mini-soaps.
“Yeah, she went adios last night.” I wave goodbye to show her.
“Madre mio de Dios.”
She repeats, “Mother of God,” again and sits on the bed super slow, clutching the towels closer to her heart.
“Did you see her? Do you know where she is?”
Carmella starts rocking back and forth, talking Spanish I don’t understand and making the sign of the cross against herself over and over.
“What about that new detective, Noblitt? Did you see ’em together last night?”
She doesn’t answer, but her eyes tear up and her bottom lip trembles. I’m glad someone’s finally as upset as me. Lizard Lady threw me to the pigs, the Burger Hanch didn’t care, and O’Dell was his Butt-Munchy self. I could hug Carmella for such sweetness, but need to find Mama first. “Do you know something? Anything at all?”
She shakes her head in a serious no.
“Well, then can I have the key to 207 to look around? I swear I won’t be long.”
She whips the credit-card key to me, then hurries to her cleaning cart.
“Thanks.” I race to the outside stairwell. My heart jumps from my chest. My scrapes prickle in the chilly air. This is the first thing to go right today. Mr. Lincoln, get your mojo all the way back. O’Dell may have called Mama a bad penny, but I don’t care. I just want her to turn up again.
At room 207, the curtains are closed. I can’t see inside, so I jam the key into the slot. The blinking green light says we’re a go.
Our room reeks of bleach cleaner over stale cigarettes. The bed is made and the crappy painting above it doesn’t look close to real trees at all. I could draw something better if I wanted. The furniture is as nice and neat as you’d expect from a rathole. Mama isn’t around, but I still feel her hereness so much I have to sit on the bed a sec.
We sat against those very pillows yesterday. We came to work after the shelter’s Valentine’s Day lunch and watched TV, waiting for our three o’clock. Like always. She’d saved her Hershey kiss for me and made a big deal of giving it to me.
She held out her hand like a silver platter. “Sweets for my sweet.”
We talked more about California, too. I always like picturing us in a little, white house with red shutters and a dog named Sugar. I’ll play fetch with him, while Mama cooks us spaghetti like real families do. Plus, we’ll check out stacks and stacks of books from the library. No more hungry. No more scared. No more Paradise.
Shaking off the daydream, I shove the key card into my coat pocket, then turn on the overhead light and head to the bathroom. We’ve got a hiding spot in there. I’m hoping she—
The doorknob jiggles from outside.
Someone’s coming. It better be Carmella. I can’t take a chance and dive under the bed so fast I re-scrape my palms again. A yelp squeaks out. Down here’s nothing new for me, but my worry’s thicker than these dust bunnies.
Two deep voices say, “Gracias.”
“Si, si, si,” Carmella’s voice sounds pinched to their thank yous.
The door shuts. I hear the dudes talking Spanish, but not Carmella. Did she let ’em in on purpose? Did she just sell me out like Lizard Lady? Did she leave me here to die? Carmella’s never been on my Enemy List before, but she’s there now.
The voices sound familiar, but I’m not sure since they’re speaking Spanish faster than I can follow. I hear drawers open and slam shut, the jangle of hangers in the closet like they’re searching the room. If so, they’ll probably look under the bed soon.
If that’s not bad enough, I hear Mama’s name in the conversation—once, then twice … Corrine … Corrine.
My body breaks into a sweat and electricity shoots through me. All I want to do is scream, so I bite my tongue to keep quiet. I try to fold myself up more and stick to the smallest shadows.
Before I can hear any more, I see a flash of light as the bedspread swings up.
Me and Eddie Loco stare at each other.
CHAPTER 7
Scared tidal waves over me, watching Eddie Loco’s devil-horned face. One eye glares at me, while the other one sneaks away to see who else is hiding round here. I’ve heard he’s been locked-up five times and shot four people, so killing me won’t bother him a bit.
He growls and grabs at me, but I scoot back so fast I give myself more carpet burns. I holler. He’s cussing in Spanish, but still doesn’t catch me.
The bedspread lifts up again from the other side. It’s Spook. I should’ve known it was him. The Barrio Brothers work in pairs. I’m backed against the wall as far as I can go, so I just try to cocoon myself more.
Spook doesn’t do a thing ’til Eddie Loco shouts at him, then his extra-long arms grab mine, no problem. I try to fight him off, but he pulls me out and sets me soft onto the bed, while Eddie Loco scrambles up.
The room is trashed now—drawers strung open, hangers scattered on the floor, the sheets messed up, too. I bet we’re all looking for the same thing, ’cept they know for sure what “that” is.
Eddie Loco raises his hand to slap me. I start to block the shot, but Spook pulls him away first. They argue in Spanish on either side of me and shove each other. I can’t follow their squabble, but I catch Roja … Corrine … plus, lots of cuss words. They’re not happy with us at all.
Eddie Loco’s voice shouts way louder and keeps going ’til Spook gives up. He knows he’s lost and turns stop-sign red, then looks away. Eddie Loco’s got a giant cross necklace tattooed on his chest he shows off when it’s hotter outside. Mama calls it a rosary, but having Jesus between his boobies doesn’t erase all his badness.
Especially, tricking out little girls.
Someone passes by outside our door, whistling. Eddie Loco leans to me and whispers, “What the hell, Roja?”
“I’m looking for Mama. What are you doing here?”
They shoot guilty glances at each other, but don’t answer. Brave is the last thing I feel right now, but I better try to pump ’em for more info. “What’d Mama supposedly take?”
A smile creeps over Eddie Loco’s face as he reaches for my jeans button. “You ready to pay out in trade for what she stole?”
I shrink from him. “Where is she?”
His grin widens. “We’ve got a bed here. Spook wants to learn how to ride the bologna pony.”
Spook cusses and pushes Eddie Loco, who jabs him right back. My gut knows it’s now or never, so I rush to the bathroom and lock the door behind me. They start beating on it right away in loud booms.
My eyes sweep around for an escape, or a Mama clue, but just see my own scared face staring back from the mirror. Giant eyes, thin mouth and splotchy scared. I study the shower rod, but there’s no time to check our hiding place now.
This tiny window isn’t much bigger than me, but it’s my only chance. I can’t think straight ’cause of all the racket. They’ll break the door down any second. What do I do? What do I do?
Mama’s voice reminds me, You’re a brave and courageous soul, Copper Penny.
I slam down the toilet seat, climb up, then unlatch the window. I have to push extra hard to open it. It takes three tries to hoist myself up. It’s a tight fit, but I’m wriggling out, head first. It’s just the second floor, but the alley looks a bazillion miles down. I hope the fall doesn’t kill me, though that’s better than Eddie Loco helping himself to my monkey pie.
I’m almost out when the door bursts open behind me. I scream, but keep pushing. Both my elbows get whacked trying to make it out.
I dive. I’m free.
Someone grabs my leg.
I scream, flopping around like a fish on a hook. I don’t know who got me, then I see one of Eddie Loco’s devil-horn tattoos. His fingernails dig into my ankle. I holler louder. He’s crazier than curly fries. I hear Spook screaming behind him.
Eddie Loco yells and tries to yank me back up, while my free leg’s thrashing at him. I’m shouting, “No, no, no!”
&
nbsp; I catch him in the face and hear him yelp. He lets go for a sec and I drop, but he snatches my foot again. He’s shouting louder.
I’m dangling by a shoe. I can hardly think with all the blood rushing to my head. If I go back into that motel room with ’em, they’ll kill me, for sure. It’s bad for business if folks hear I beat ’em at their own game.
Lucky for me, my foot starts thinking for us all. I start kicking at the ratty heel of my sneaker, bit by bit, ’til it slips off.
I missile through the air, my shrieks roaring louder. I’m falling forever ’til I smash into the alley. Pain explodes through my left shoulder and knocks out all my air. I don’t move for a few seconds. I’m not even sure what just happened, or if I’m alive, ’til my hurt leg screams worse.
Plus, I hear Spook and Eddie Loco. They cram both their faces in that little window up above, screaming and cussing up a Spanish storm. Their heads disappear. That doesn’t give me long before they come down here to slice-and-dice me.
The whole left side of my body shouts worse than those Barrio Brothers just did. I forget to watch where I’m going and step in a puddle. My sock is dripping wet and freezing, but I keep going.
At least I’m here and they’re not. I make tracks and pat my jeans’ pocket. Thank you, Mr. Lincoln. You’ve got your mojo back. Let’s find Mama extra quick. The shelter is my next stop, ’cause we ate there twice yesterday and it might have a clue. Plus, I’m starving. I hobble and hurry and hope.
About two blocks into it, I still don’t see bus #8089 up ahead, but something even better. Long, black hair over a dingy, silver rabbit fur jacket. She’s walking the other direction, sort of a bow-legged. I hadn’t noticed that before and don’t know the guy she’s latched onto. He better be paying her.
It’s Mama.
CHAPTER 8
