Pennies from Burger Heaven

by Marcy McKay

  I check on No-Brains once more. He’s still talking with his back to me, clueless.

  Quick, hurry, fast, I yank my wrists through the cuffs, grab my cardboard sign, then dive through the opening. Anyone bigger would get stuck, but I roll into the front seat, no problem. After jerking Mama’s picture from the dash, I open the side door, then command my legs to run for their life.

  Even as banged-up as they are, they still obey. I’m way ahead before I hear him shout, “Copper! Copper Daniels!”

  The cheery, yellow tape still hangs in the motel parking lot across the street—CAUTION, CAUTION, CAUTION. He said that body bag wasn’t Mama, but he’s done nothing but lie.

  ’Cept he does seem really upset about her, so hopefully, she’s still alive. This job is new for him, but I grew up on these streets. They’re mine, even if I don’t want ’em. He keeps yelling my name. All I’ve got to show for today are one sneaker, one soggy sock wrapped in a plastic bag and a bunch of bruises.

  Time to lose No-Brains. Even with this limp, I’m far enough ahead to escape down this side alley. I’ll be long gone before he knows he lost me. My growling stomach reminds me I’m missing dinner at the shelter and maybe more cash from Miz Jesus to repay Diablo. I want to go to chunch. It’s already started, so they won’t let me in to eat.

  Besides, I need to investigate that 10-88 at the cemetery and head toward the railroad tracks to do just that. Looking over my shoulder, I don’t see No-Brains, but don’t slow down yet. Turdmouth never showed up. I hope he’s okay—

  My head smacks into a belt buckle hard enough to dent my brain.

  Someone grabs me.

  I scream, then look up … up … up … to a man, bigger and blacker than the night. He’s got a smile brighter than the sun and wears a chunky, gold chain, with a giant sword dangling at the end. That necklace must weigh a ton.

  He holds me at arm’s length, watching me like he’s memorizing my face. “Easy, baby girl. Don’t be afraid.”

  No-Brains and the 10-88 fall from my thoughts in an instant. This guy sets off something inside me, a deep knowing I forgot I knew. I’m sure we’ve met before, but can’t remember where. His low voice sounds like the California Ocean. Both soft and strong.

  The man stands like a moving, midnight statue. Dressed all in black. The streetlight sort of glows around him and he bends so low to me I fall into his black moon eyes. He says, “You shouldn’t be out here alone. I’m Michael.”

  He gives me his hand and we do a slow, easy handshake. I can’t say a thing, but can’t stop staring, either.

  The Midnight Man lets go of me, then says, “Want me to walk you home? Someplace safe?”

  I still can’t talk or move.

  He says extra slow, “Do … you … need … he’p?”

  Help.

  That slaps me awake. I asked Butt Munch O’Dell for help this morning at the cemetery and what’d he give me?

  Nothing. No Mama and no luck. I’ve had more than one person call the cops on me today. Carmella almost got me killed. The Barrio Brothers stole my shoe and worse. Turdmouth offered to help out, but he got himself lost instead.

  Help hasn’t helped too much. Besides, Mama whispers her #1 rule again, Youcan’t trust nobody but yourself.

  I almost spit my answer onto the Midnight Man. “No help.”

  He thumbs my bruised cheek. “You sure?”

  “I said, I don’t need help.”

  “Everyone needs he’p.”

  “I don’t need nothing from nobody.”

  He lifts my cardboard sign, so we see it together:

  NEED MONEY FOR FOOD

  GOD BLESS

  He taps it, “Everybody needs something from somebody.”

  I yank it away. “Says you.”

  “Yep, says me.”

  We don’t talk anymore, but keep watching each other. Watching and waiting. All the noise from Paradise stops. The city falls quiet. My body doesn’t feel sore anymore. Everything slips from my mind ’cept his blinding smile and shiny sword necklace.

  He says, “How old are you?”

  “Twelve.”

  His eyebrow cocks up at me into a question mark.

  “Okay, eleven. Same difference. Get off my back.”

  He says, “You sure you don’t need he’p?”

  I keep nodding, though my sureness gets less and less each second. I just want to float away in his ocean voice.

  “All right, then.” He stands and salutes me, his eyes reading me by heart. “Fly low then, baby girl.”

  My insides tingle again with that deep-sure knowing, then …

  Everything slams back into my body: Mama, every bump, bruise and disappointment from today return in full force. That’s a lot. No wonder I hurt so bad right now.

  I take off running the other way, though I miss the Midnight Man already. The air behind me makes a funny whooshing sound and I turn around.

  He’s gone.

  Disappeared.

  Just like all the folks the Street Killer keeps murdering. My insides goose bump and I move double time now. Where’d the Midnight Man go? I start to limp down an alley, but a shadow moves behind a Dumpster and something inside tugs me the other direction.

  I’m hobbling faster. I can’t leave Paradise and the Street Killer fast enough. I need to get home to the cemetery, beyond that 10-88. I need to get back to the Warrior Angel. Mama might be there waiting for me.

  Plastered on a billboard up ahead, I see Mr. and Miz Jesus’ giant smiles. I admit that preacher fooled me on their show, but I know better now.

  The bus station is lit up across the street. Folks step off an old Greyhound bus. Nothing strange about that, but my breath catches at what I see next.

  I fold myself into the shadows and try not to make a sound, but my whole body shakes.

  Spook, Eddie Loco, Turkey and Little J.J. (even in the dark, he’s not little) stand waiting on the sidewalk. Of course, Diablo isn’t here doing dirty work. Six Mexican girls step off the bus—teenagers or maybe older. Their long hair and bangs remind me of the naked girl I saw with Mr. Jesus earlier. The Barrio Brothers smile and talk to ’em, while they herd the teens into the back of a white van.

  I’ve seen enough TV at the motel to know good stuff never happens in back of vans. Tears stream down the girls’ faces as they climb inside. My lungs cave with fear for ’em, but I can’t let Eddie Loco see me or he’ll rape me, kill me, then rape me again.

  I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do, then life decides for me. The van doors close and it drives away. I couldn’t have saved ’em anyhow. I can’t find Mama and I’m barely staying alive myself.

  I limp on toward the railroad tracks and home. The plastic bag on my foot keeps flapping and dark thoughts keep whirling through my mind.

  A streetlight shines on the back of the empty warehouse I saw this morning. So much has happened since then. My brain translates the graffiti Spanish again: God hates the poor.

  Today proved that’s right. I move faster, but can’t outrun the truth.

  Everything says Mama is dead.

  Everything ’cept a body.

  CHAPTER 14

  By the time I’m three blocks away from Eternal Peace, my cardboard sign hangs heavy in my hands, like one grand sort of heavy. I still can’t believe Diablo just gave me ’til tomorrow to repay him. Especially since Mama didn’t steal from the Barrio Brothers.

  The moon looks fatter, but not all the way full, and hides behind the clouds. The night shines an eerie glow that makes me shiver worse. The neighborhood houses and mobile homes sit quiet. I should be glad to be out of Paradise, but each step takes me closer to whatever that 10-88 is at the cemetery.

  Maybe I should’ve kept Turdmouth as my bodyguard, though he’s not much bigger than me and not much help. That Midnight Man was huge and he offered to walk me home. I’ve never been without Mama this long and feel more lost by the minute. My clothes still smell like her, but she’s nowhere around.

 
The wind almost blows me by the little, white house with red shutters. The dark lump asleep on the front porch is their dog Sugar, but I can’t play right now. This is where Mama grew up. She doesn’t like to talk about it, but I’ve pried a few things from her. I know she lived there with her parents ’til she didn’t anymore. Mama left for good at sixteen. How she went from a home to homeless, I’m still not sure. If this was my house, I’d never leave.

  Pulling out Mama’s photo, I can’t tell if this picture was taken here outside, or why No-Brains even had it. I hate to think of the bazillion other questions I may never learn the answers to now.

  Crossing the street, I hear a noise behind me and stop. All my neck hairs stand on end. I stop breathing. Someone is watching me. I feel it.

  Turning, I see it’s Sugar. The Irish setter wags his tail as he trots this way.

  “I can’t play tonight. Go home,” I say.

  He stops.

  “I’m serious. It’s not safe. Go.” I stomp my one sneaker.

  My ginger buddy heads back, and I walk on through the shadows, then realize he’s still following me. We do this all the way to the cemetery. Me saying “go home” and Sugar trailing a few steps behind.

  We stop at the back fence. Another thing Mama said is my grandpa was a groundskeeper at Eternal Peace. For years, he made this same walk almost every day like me, but I bet he used the front gate like a Somebody.

  My people were Somebodies.

  Peering through the cemetery bars, I wonder if my grandpa ever faced a 10-88 alone. There’s not much back here in the Nobody Section, but my gut still twists tighter at what might be ahead.

  Sugar nuzzles himself against me, his tongue hanging out happy. He licks my hand.

  I frown and pat his furry neck. “Where’s Mama?”

  He gives me the same answer I’ve had all day.

  Nothing, but at least his comes with wet, sloppy kisses.

  I bury my face into his long hair and breathe in his sweetness. It makes me miss Mama even more, so I pull away and slip through the fence bars. “Seriously, it’s not safe here. Go home and we’ll play tomorrow. I promise.”

  He watches me with his sad, puppy eyes, but I push myself on through the wind. It always sounds like a sad, lonely baby at night. I shiver inside my coat, then look back.

  Sugar’s trotting away. Good boy.

  I try to tell myself I’m a brave and courageous soul, but not even my pinky-toe believes it tonight. More clouds cover the moon, so I walk through blackness, searching for this 10-88. It seems darker than usual. I pass the UNKNOWN NEGRO for the second time today, but there’s no time to stop. I’m careful not to step on him though. He got walked on enough in real life.

  The wetness in the air says it might rain or snow. I probably should sleep in the Main Mausoleum tonight.

  I can’t. O’Dell fixed all the windows to the building. At least my mad warms me up. I make my way through the graves in the Jewish Section, with real headstones, trees and bushes. I’ve got three main suspects for Mama: No-Brains the pig, Mr. Jesus the preacher and Diablo the gang leader. They all look guilty, but for different reasons.

  I hobble faster, wondering if Mama passed by here last night as she sneaked away. It’s not right I can’t find her. It’s not fair. I duck under a branch. The Mexican Section looks like the Jewish Section, but they’ve got more crosses and plastic flowers to trip over. Plus, the names are different, too: HERNANDEZ and MARTINEZ, not GOLDMAN and STEINMAN.

  The wind wails and I stop. It doesn’t sound like a sad, lonely baby. This is a bazillion times worse. It’s harsh and throaty, like a wounded animal with its guts sliced open and spilling out blood. I’ve never heard something so long and pitiful. I wish it’d stop. It reminds me of missing Mama.

  Just like that, the sound quits.

  Was that real? Was it a ghost, or maybe my mind playing tricks on me? It reminds of the craziness that Bird told me. “I heard death wanted Corrine for his bride … so the godlies married them … she flew straight to the sun to perch on the light with the godlies … the godlies.”

  It creeps me out worse every time. As I zigzag through the night, I keep heading toward the chapel where the 10-88 is, but I’m afraid it’ll murder me first. Another gust whips around me, but it sounds normal again. Fear twitches under my skin.

  The wind wails once more and there’s no mistaking it this time. The sound is real, but I don’t just hear it. I feel it. The cry rattles deep in my bones—misery, emptiness and guilt. Like a hurt that’ll never heal. I’m understanding that kind of pain more and more and hurry faster. I hear it from all sides.

  Oh no, I’m running to the wailing wind, not away from it. My legs tangle up and I almost smash my head against a grave. I catch myself first, then hobble harder the other way. The cemetery looks all mixed up for a few seconds and I’m not sure where I am.

  Now, I hear something on top of the wind.

  A new sound. There’s movement nearby. I crouch behind a headstone shaped like a cross, shivering.

  A shadow stirs one grave over. I try not to breathe, but can’t stop this terrible feeling that the Street Killer’s following me.

  Footsteps pass by. I tremble more, but can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. For once, I’m glad no one notices me.

  The wind died down a lot and I can hear the other sound clearer. Something metal keeps hitting against something else. Maybe it’s a grave I’m hearing ’cause it makes a clear ting noise against stone.

  A man curses in Spanish, then walks by my hiding spot. I huddle up into a ball.

  That voice. I know it.

  Diablo.

  Sweat trickles down my forehead, between my eyes. My mind screams. I recognize his weedy scent and his voice. The head of the Barrio Brothers, the man who thinks Mama stole from him, he’s not in Paradise like usual.

  He’s here in my home, miles away. Diablo keeps sniffing and muttering to himself.

  Crying? He stops and drops to his knees and howls like a wounded animal, begging to die.

  I wait a few seconds, then follow him, knowing this is a death wish. Diablo will kill me himself if he catches me. He’ll cut me with whatever knife he’s got. That’s a fact, but I still can’t stop myself from tailing him. He knows something about Mama, something he had Spook and Eddie Loco destroy our room and hurt me over it. His secret could lead me to her. I’ve got no choice but to go after him.

  We’re headed back to the Nobody Section again. Diablo keeps moving, wailing as he sneaks along. The wind blows and whips his heartache all around me. Has he always been this sad, or did someone he love die? This is a side of him I’ve never seen. He’s the charmer, all smiles, while his gang bullies everyone in Paradise. It’s weird thinking me and him have something in common.

  He’s carrying something, too. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like it’s got a long handle. My heart hammers so loud I’m surprised he doesn’t hear me. His shadow pauses at the back fence.

  I stop, too. The streetlight shimmers down on him and I see him wiping off his jeans, like he’s dirty. I can also see what he’s carrying. It torches fear through me all over again at what it means.

  He’s got a shovel.

  What do groundskeepers do here every day with shovels?

  Bury bodies.

  Whose body is nowhere around?

  Mama’s.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Street Killer rattles through me. What if Diablo is murdering folks in Paradise, then dumping ’em here at Eternal Peace? Who’d think twice about fresh dirt at a graveyard? If he wasn’t burying a body, maybe he was covering up or digging up a secret—a secret that might include Mama. Either way, he came here alone after hours, so no one would catch him. That means something.

  Something bad.

  The moon breaks away from a cloud and shines brighter as Diablo tosses his shovel over the fence, then climbs on over himself. He dusts off his jeans again, grabs the tool, then disappears into the night.

  T
he Disappeareds.

  I drop to my knees by the UNKNOWN NEGRO and double over his brick. My fingers grip the ground, trying to grab hold of this terrible news. My air bursts out in tiny gasps. Terror dizzies through me.

  Should Diablo be my #1 suspect, instead of No-Brains or Mr. Jesus? Makes sense ’cause he’s already madder than the devil at Mama. He’s got reason, a thousand bucks’ worth of reasons, to hurt her.

  But Diablo as the Street Killer doesn’t fit with the body bag I saw in Paradise today. Diablo doesn’t usually do the dirty work himself. He’s got the Barrio Brothers to do it for him.

  ’Cept if this was a secret he didn’t even want his bangers to know about, then maybe. No-Brains said he couldn’t discuss the cases with me. Cases with an ‘s,’ so there’s more than one victim.

  Maybe Diablo screwed up and his victim got found before he moved the body here. Is he the 10-88?

  I struggle to my feet and make my way back to where I first spotted him. The moon hides behind the clouds again, but a few have broken away. The sky flickers like a spooky flashlight.

  This morning, Diablo cleaned his fingernails with his switchblade, so easygoing, as the Barrio Brothers circled around us. The rubies and pearl handle gleamed as he said, “Find her fast, Roja. Before something bad happens.”

  Why would he tell me to look for Mama if he already killed her?

  Unless it was a trick to get the focus off him. I keep scanning the cemetery, but nothing seems different from any other night—trees, graves and shadows. ’Cept for that horrible wailing wind earlier.

  Something swoops by me and I feel a wing almost brush my cheek. I squeal, then stumble back. There’s an outline of an owl flapping its giant wings away. The bird pounces, then some poor animal screeches. I make out the long tail of a squirrel dangling through the air. The owl hoots twice, then flies away for the kill. I can’t help but touch my own neck as I hurry on.