by Marcy McKay
I’m sure Miz Jesus is great, but I’ve got the right mama for me.
I take Mr. Lincoln from my pocket to meet his new neighbors. My lucky penny has already done better today between O’Dell helping me out, eating and discovering this cash. Hopefully, his mojo will get even better as I head back to Paradise to keep looking.
By the time I’ve finished counting, there’s seven hundred seventy-three dollars and twenty-nine cents piled in front of me. Add what I got from Corn Dog and Miz Jesus and it’s over eight hundred. I do the math in the dirt:
$1,000
– 881.01
$ 118.99
I think I can get the rest by tomorrow. I had nothing this time yesterday, but now I’ve got almost nine hundred bucks all by myself. I can do this.
Right?
I gather the money back into the envelope, even what I already had, ’cept for my lucky penny. I give the pouch a big, fat smooch, then rehide it in the statue. The stone leaf slides right into place again. Knowing Mama’s always had me on her heart changes everything.
I stare up to the Warrior Angel like he should explain all this to me, but of course, he doesn’t. With my head tilted to the side, he doesn’t look so jacked-up anymore.
That’s not true for me. I may be battered and bruised on the outside, but inside, I’m money. Mama may have kept secrets and that’s still not right, but she’s also a smart business lady who works for us round the clock. She’s been taking care of me, so I’m going to take care of her. When I find her today, we should skip town before Diablo ever knows what’s what. We’ve got enough to leave now.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to go back to chunch to see if Miz Jesus comes through with another hundred. I hope she’s got more of a backbone than Mr. Jesus thinks. He said to forget another cent from her. They probably won’t be back since yesterday was the only time they’ve ever led the service at the shelter, but it’s worth a shot. Besides, I’ve got to eat.
I’m getting ahead of myself. For now, I should get back to the Shangri-La to search for more clues. Our motel room is the only place where everyone’s been: Mama, No-Brains, Mr. Jesus and Diablo’s homies.
Maybe him, too. Besides, I don’t want to get caught by the other groundskeepers and get O’Dell in trouble. I must have a tumor if I’m looking out for him like that.
The plastic bag on my foot swishes as I limp away. This has tons of holes in it and I should find another one today. Believe me, I still watch for the Street Killer as I go, whoever he is, but Eternal Peace looks beautiful this morning. Ducks paddle along happy in the Whittington’s pond. They’re so rich they make the Vanderhausens look poor. The Whittingtons don’t just have their own cemetery house, but it also sits on their own tiny island in the middle of the water. That’s rich upon rich. There was something else I wanted to do here, but my mind’s too full of cash and a cemetery plot’s worth of love for Mama.
All over Eternal Peace, the colors look brighter and sharper, like in The Wizard of Oz, after Dorothy crashes down in the land of munchkins. It’s one of Mama’s favorite movies we watched once in our motel room. I don’t let myself get upset again since she’s been saving for us. The rippled clouds above look like a sandy beach where we’ll live in California someday.
Someday very soon.
I think about the day me and Mama, not me and Miz Jesus, will check out every, single book out of the California library. No one can say a word ’cause we’ll have an address by then. I hope we can read that new angel book before we skip town. My mind still sees the bright, beautiful creature on the page, filled with rainbow colors yesterday. It said: The conqueror of Satan.
Ten minutes later, I hobble by the little, white house with red shutters. I can play with Sugar just a bit now, so I’m extra bummed he’s not napping on the porch. I wanted to at least hug him and tell him about my big find.
I whistle, then whisper extra loud, “Here, boy.”
No Irish setter.
“Sugar,” I limp on by, but slower.
Nothing. I pull out Mama’s picture and try to match the background to here.
It’s not the same. Maybe it was in the backyard or different owners changed stuff over the years. Mama never said it, but I don’t think she was close to her folks, like us. I asked once if they ever hit her, or did bad stuff to make her want to go, but she said no.
Still, I’ll never forgot what she did say, “Some bruises can’t be seen.”
I’m so used to folks not noticing me that it’s freaky now how everyone keeps staring at my bruised face. It must be extra bad. As I hobble by the wishing fountain downtown, the glittery coins still lie beneath the perfect water spraying up from the middle, but that’s chump change. They can keep their dreams. I’ve got way more cash and need more of the same.
At the railroad tracks, I get antsy, but don’t even let myself pause. I just rub Mr. Lincoln’s beard, tell myself I’m a brave and courageous soul, then cross straight into Paradise. Geese fly by together in a slow, beautiful V. I bet they’re headed to California and try to take it as a good sign.
That ends fast. New graffiti spray-painted on the warehouse stops me cold. They slashed through the red Spanish and wrote in black, but I still know those new words:
God Hates The Poor
Be afraid
It says, Tener miedo.
I’m already afraid. The Street Killer attacking me last night, the Barrio Brothers trying to kill me, No-Brains wanting me in juvie, and Mr. Jesus refusing to help me even though that’s his job. I keep heading toward the Shangri-La, but can’t shake the uneasy feeling that I’m walking into a trap.
I know Mai Wong’s here by the Diet Coke can propped on the fire hydrant at the liquor store corner. I can’t stay long, but it’s too dangerous to leave her there alone, so I hurry to the alley to tell her.
Mama’s helping her read, too. We practice on whatever we can find: soda cans, candy wrappers, a flyer from a car dealership, “Everything must go!” I want to borrow a book from the library so we can read longer stuff. It’s not stealing if you give it back.
Sliding open the glass doors to our phone booth lying on its side, I step into our hiding spot. “I can’t stay. I’ve—”
“I came to warn you.” Mai Wong sits with her hands knotted in her lap. Her black ponytail drapes over her shoulder and she didn’t hide her red bandana good enough from her coat pocket.
“What?” I close the doors behind me and sit beside her.
Her licorice eyes shine darker than usual. “Zhi Peng’s and Diablo’s boys scrapped again last night. Little J.J. got popped.”
I picture blood flowing in the streets. Zhi Peng may be her brother, but he’s also the Asian Diablo. “Is Little J.J. dead? What happened?”
“No, but he’ll be in a wheelchair the rest of his life.”
Last night, I saw Little J.J. herding those girls into their van with the other Barrio Brothers. Now, he’ll never walk again. I can’t help but wonder if I’m next. That’s not crazy thinking since I got attacked myself last night.
I say, “Is your brother okay?”
“Zhi is fine.” Her eyes widen. “I overheard him say that Diablo won’t wait ’til sundown for another fight. We’ve both got to be extra careful.” She tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “Looks like someone already got a hold of you.”
“At the cemetery.” Her touch soaks into my skin, making the pain a little better. I tell her the truth since Mama isn’t around. “I think it might have been the Street Killer.”
She gasps and sits back. “For real? I heard there was another victim yesterday at—”
“I saw the body bag myself at the Cockroach Castle.”
“Did they catch the killer?”
“Of course not. I’ve got a bazillion things to tell you, but I’ve got to keep looking.”
“I’ll be here around the same time tomorrow.”
“’Kay.” I stand and brush myself off. “Have you heard of Celina Montoya, Luis Soto or Maria Flor
es?”
She fidgets in her seat. “Maria Flores. Why?”
“Diablo was at the cemetery after hours crying at some grave. I think it might’ve been one of ’em.”
“Maria Flores was Diablo’s only sister.”
“But his last name is Martinez.”
“Different dads.”
“How’d she die?”
“Another drive-by.” Mai Wong lowers her head and stares into her lap. She fiddles with the bottom button on her coat. “Zhi’s boys did it. I was too ashamed to tell you.”
Her betrayal stings. My best friend’s keeping secrets from me, too. I don’t know if her brother pulled the actual trigger in the shooting, but he’s still in charge and probably ordered the killing. Mama didn’t mention that, either.
More secrets, more lies.
Mai Wong starts unlacing her sneaker, so I say, “What are you doing?”
“Giving you my shoes.”
“I can’t take ’em.”
“Yeah, you can.” She hands me the left one, then starts undoing the other. They’re not new, but nicer than mine with all sorts of bright, neon colors: orange, yellow, purple, lime green and blue. Plus, there’s not one hole in ’em anywhere.
“Seriously, I can’t—”
“It’s the least I can do for you, and you need these worse than me.” She gives me the right sneaker. “Besides, Zhi will get me more.”
She’ll probably have a new pair in an hour, though I hate thinking how he’ll get ’em. Some folks hate Zhi Peng as much as Diablo. He’s the same kind of bad, but in a different color.
I step into her shoes and lace ’em up. They’re a smidge too small, but still nicer than any I’ve ever had.
Mai Wong’s smile disappears. Her licorice eyes watch me, deep and full of worry. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Sometimes, I just can’t believe Zhi …” She shrugs and looks away for a few seconds. When Mai Wong looks back, she tries to smile, but can’t. “Be careful looking for your mom.”
“Fly low,” falls from my mouth, even though I’ve never said that before. First time I heard it was from the Midnight Man last night.
Me and Mai Wong grab each other extra tight. There’s love, apologies and scared in our hug. I don’t want to let go even if I am hurt by her secrets. With all the craziness out there, one of us may become a Disappeared.
I didn’t say it out loud, but Mai Wong should be nervous. She’s Zhi Peng’s only sister and he’s out of control. I’m sure Diablo wants revenge, too.
When we pull away, neither comments on the tears in the other’s eyes. I stuff her red bandana deeper into her pocket to keep her safer ’til she gets home.
She looks ridiculous running across the street with that plastic bag on her foot. Now I understand all the funny stares at me. Turning, I make myself hobble into the wind towards the Shangri-La. I don’t want to go, but what we want and what is aren’t always the same.
There’s the Greyhound station where Spook and Eddie Loco herded those girls into their van last night. Little J.J. may never stand again. That’s how fast things change in Paradise. Right here’s where the Midnight Man undid me with his blinding smile and black moon eyes. He made the whole world fall away and I liked it.
Turdmouth comes running this way down the block, his sandy blonde hair bounces beneath his Dallas Cowboys’ ski cap. He crisscrosses through a row of tents toward me. I’m glad he’s okay after investigating that body bag for me, but hope he didn’t see No-Brains bust me.
I command myself to be nicer to him today and hurry to meet him. Looking closer, I see he’s flailing his arms and hollering. That’s not excitement. I brace myself, but can’t understand him ’til he’s a few feet away. His face is red and pinched tight, maybe from crying.
He screams, “Pops is gone! The Street Killer got him!”
CHAPTER 19
The sidewalk sort of rattles beneath me, while my brain tries to wrap itself around Turdmouth’s bad news. “Come again?”
“I haven’t seen Pops since yesterday.”
“So, you don’t know for sure that the Street Killer got him.”
“Well, no.”
“That’s not so long to be gone.”
“Yeah, but he left all his booze in our tent and there was a bunch of blood.”
My breath catches. “How much?”
“Enough. I’m afraid the Street Killer murdered him. I’m afraid he’s one of the Disappeareds.”
My mouth says no way, while every bruise on my body thinks he could be right. I’m trying to be brave for Turdmouth, but our worries bounce between us. The graffiti message today is right:
Be Afraid
His Hershey-Bar brown eyes zero in on me, scanning closer. “Who hurt you?”
I blush and look away. “Someone jumped me at the cemetery.”
“The Street Killer?”
“No,” I lie.
O’Dell and Mai Wong both helped me in different ways. He drove me around this morning to look for Mama and shared his food. She gave me the shoes off her feet and that hug I needed just as much. Yeah, she held out on me about Maria Flores, but I don’t like everything Mama does and sure don’t broadcast that to the world.
Besides, me and Turdmouth we’re flipsides of the same coin—a girl with no mama and a boy with no daddy. I’m breaking a family rule, but decide to trust my gut. Sorry, Mama.
There’s only one real way to pay Turdmouth back, so I say, “Let’s look for our parents together.”
He watches me like I’m an alien. He doesn’t even talk.
I limp ahead a few steps, then turn back to him. I’ve never noticed the sun kisses his hair with lighter streaks. “Well, come on,” I say.
“You sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. Look what happened to me last when you weren’t around?”
He rushes to me in full grin and we start walking together. Turdmouth nudges my shoulder with his and I do it back. I realize he holds his feet midair a second or so to limp alongside me. Of course, he’s grown up with One-Leg Larry, so it’s normal to him.
Turdmouth says, “Does this mean you’re going to tell me how you got your bruises?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
He laughs. “Where do we go first?”
“Let’s check the Shangri-La. I still haven’t had a chance to search it for clues. Tell me about your dad.”
“First, you need to know that wasn’t your mom killed yesterday.”
“I found that out, but thanks for checking.”
“What happened with your arrest?”
“You saw?”
“I saw.”
He chuckles, but I groan, still not sure how much to tell him. I really could use another brain to help me figure out this mess, and right now, he’s all I’ve got.
He says, “Where’d you get the shoes?”
“That new shelter by City Cemetery.” Another lie slips right off my tongue. I don’t like keeping secrets from Turdmouth, but me and Mai Wong are best friends. Her family is an enemy around here, so I’ve got to protect her. Most folks on this side of Paradise hate the Asian Assassins even more than the Barrio Brothers ’cause at least they belong to this side of town. It’s all about color and turf.
I start small and tell Turdmouth about Mr. Jesus naked in my motel room. He busts a gut like O’Dell did and actually wipes away a laugh tear. “I knew they were scumbags.”
“He’s the scumbag, not his wife. Tell me more about your pops.”
“You still haven’t told me about your arrest.”
“You’ve got to earn the right to hear that. Now, talk.”
Turdmouth went home last night to find no dad, but tons of booze and blood. Dark, ugly thoughts tumble through me. I’ve learned on CSI that all murderers keep patterns. They like to do things the same way every time. Even kill.
CAUTION tape still lines the parking lot at the Cockroach Castle. All that’s left from yesterday is the bright, yellow death ribbon, flapping alone in
the breeze. I don’t want to, but my mind still sees the ambulance, the cops and that black body bag from yesterday. I’m fast to remind myself that No-Brains said it wasn’t Mama, but she still hasn’t come home.
Turdmouth watches, too. He tenses up beside me and bites his lip. He’s spiraling down deeper into horrible, so I give his hand one fast squeeze, then tell him what he told me yesterday, “The Street Killer didn’t get your pops.”
“How do you know you’re right?”
“How do you know I’m wrong?”
He nods, but my gut still yanks for him. The longer Mama is gone, the more I need her home. I give his hand another squeeze, but slower this time. I hope it says, I’m here for you.
The Shangri-La parking lot sits almost empty. It’s like everyone heard there’s a murderer on the loose and they’re staying away. Over there by the office is where No-Brains slapped the cuffs on me yesterday. His head tilted and his walnut eyes watched me through the glass window of his car. That stare saw right through me.
Me and Turdmouth don’t find the maid anywhere on the first floor. I hope Tank Top doesn’t call the cops on me again. He’s caused enough trouble. It takes me a while to hobble up the stairs. My poor legs are carrying so much pain.
We spot Carmella’s cart in the second-floor breezeway, but she’s not around. I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans. There are clues locked inside our room. They’re calling my name, but I don’t want ’em leading to another body bag.
In passing the supply closet, we hear crying from the other side. It’s muffled, but those are tears, for sure.
“Hello?” I tap on the door. No one answers, but the sobbing continues.
Carmella sits bawling in her black uniform on some boxes of toilet paper. Her right eye’s blackened—different shades of dark purple, navy and black. She spins away at seeing us, then shoves a key card into her dress pocket.
“Ya!” She holds up her hand.
