Pennies from Burger Heaven

by Marcy McKay

  Bird yells, “You better hope to hell she’s in LA, ’cause if she ain’t—she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 24

  No-Brains may be inside the shelter looking to arrest me this sec, so I hide, sobbing in an alley behind Mission for Hope. Giant, sloppy tears dribble down my face, while I wait for Turdmouth. I don’t want him to see me like this, but can’t hold back anymore. Bird broke me.

  Hungry, hurt and alone. I can’t stand the thought of life without Mama. Bird’s never leaving my Enemy List.

  Wiping my nose with my sleeve, I stare at the back of the shelter’s four Dumpsters. That’s where the coat stealer said she “found” Mama’s fur coat and where I saw Mr. and Miz Jesus’ limo parked yesterday. I try to make myself feel better remembering she’ll give me the last another hundred this afternoon, but that doesn’t cheer me up. Just when I think my life can’t get any worse, it goes deeper down the toilet.

  I see Turdmouth snooping around the trash bins, so I wipe my snotty nose and call out in a loud whisper, “Hey.”

  He’s laughing as he heads here. “Told you that you’d get kicked—hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Any cops inside?”

  “I didn’t see any. Why?” He sits cross-legged beside me.

  I’m sure my face must look like a splotchy, pepperoni pizza, but I can’t help it. I sniff, then tell him what just happened with Bird (minus the bad parts about me roughing her up). My insides feel rawer as I repeat what she said, “You better hope to hell she’s in LA, ’cause if she ain’t—she’s dead.”

  His jaw falls open. “She really said that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What a wench.”

  I smile ’cause Turdmouth gets it. Yeah, O’Dell drove me around the cemetery this morning and was less Butt Munchy. Mai Wong’s there for me, but she’s a drug king’s sister. She lives in a real house and probably scored nicer shoes than ever. Turdmouth’s living the closest thing to my life.

  He unfolds a paper napkin for me with three giant meatballs and another dinner roll. He’s got such sticky fingers.

  I scarf down the food. There’s just the right amount of red sauce on these meatballs. I could’ve eaten a bazillion more and wonder if Miz Jesus’ spaghetti tastes this awesome. I’m trying not to think about her as my mom anymore, but it’s hard since she’s the one around helping me.

  This bread reminds me of Salt and Pepper stuffing their little faces earlier. I could kick myself for not tailing Bird to see if she hid the rest of Mama’s stash somewhere, but she upset me too much.

  I can’t do this alone anymore. Mama’s #1 rule is don’t trust nobody but yourself, but it’s a different world without her. Turdmouth stayed by my side all morning. He even scored food and a room key for me. Surely, she’d understand. He’s heard some of my story, but not the whole thing from start to finish. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Okay, so this is how it all started …”

  I tell him it all: waking up to Mama gone yesterday: Diablo threatening me … Eddie Loco after my panties … my almost arrest with No-Brains … to the Street Killer’s attack last night. The only parts I skip are Mai Wong and Corn Dog. Nobody can know about ’em, but for different reasons. I still don’t like lying to Turdmouth, but that doesn’t seem to stop me.

  His eyes grow bigger with each new story. When I’m done, he just shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re still alive after all that.” I sort of laugh ’til he says, “For real. Your lucky penny keeps saving your sorry self.”

  “I thought it’s ’cause I’m so smart.”

  “Nope. It’s pure dumb luck.”

  “Yeah, I’m so lucky.” I point to my black eye from the Street Killer.

  His boot nudges my shoe and I tap it right back. He says, “Still, I am impressed you’re almost nine hundred dollars richer than you were yesterday. Not everyone could do that. Maybe not even me.”

  It’s the nicest thing he’s ever said to me. His words give me a little oomph. I’m banged up worse than O’Dell’s truck, but I’m still here and that’s something. I wipe my gunky nose with the back of the napkin. “Thanks. I’m sick of hearing about my problems. Tell me more about your pops while we head to your place, but keep an eye out for Bird, too.”

  “No joke. She’s dead meat.” Turdmouth rips off his Dallas Cowboys ski cap. His sandy blonde waves flop around his face as he crams his cap on my head. “Camouflage.”

  He leads us down the alley, still going extra slow for me. On top of all my bruises, I’m exhausted. Above us, there’s fire escape ladders outside all these back windows. Mama says they’re just crappy, little apartments, but I say they’re still homes. Roofs over people’s heads where they’re building happy memories, but that sort of thinking pushed her into stealing from Diablo in the first place.

  We don’t see anyone on my Enemy List on the way to Tent City. Turdmouth lives under the overpass. Cars race above us so loud it’s hard to think. Lots of vets live here. One-Leg fought in the Gulf War, but some vets are younger and came home from Iraq to no home at all. Others are older and served in places like Vietnam and Korea years ago, who lost their minds somewhere along the way. I see a few women, but it’s mostly men. There’s tents and cardboard condos—about forty total. Tent City is like the rest of Paradise, but stands out more with everyone packed tight under the highway together. It’s a roof over their heads, but not close to a home.

  Since this is Turdmouth’s turf, I let him take charge. CPS hassled him for a while, but he kept running away ’til they gave up. He walks over to a scary-looking bunch sitting circled around a campfire. They’ve all got missing body parts: nubs for legs in wheelchairs, stubby arms, half that black dude’s faced got burned off. One-Leg Larry’s got way more of himself left than these folks.

  Turdmouth says to the group, “Any of you seen Pops?”

  An old guy with a cowboy hat, but no arms, shouts, “You asked us that yesterday.”

  “Yeah, and I’m asking again.”

  “It’s still no, dammit.”

  A Mexican lady with too much body sits on the other side of the fire. She’s wearing a monster huge trash bag for a raincoat and her skin looks like crinkled paper. What’s missing are her teeth. She lisps, “He was at the Party Palace.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. Day before. Who knows?”

  “That’s a start. Thanks.”

  We walk to the green tent on the end of the row. Beside it, a US flag hangs long ways on a chain-link fence. There’s regular, barbed wire strung along top of the fence, with more loopy barbed wire above that. I don’t know if the city wants to protect the vets from us, or us from them.

  Turdmouth’s hand sort of shakes as he unzips his tent door. He nods for me to go first, then climbs in behind.

  Blood pooled in the middle of the floor. It’s so dark it’s black and smells sour and metally. It’s also splattered across the folded lawn chair, a white trash bag, and the two, dark blue sleeping bags. I’m not sure there’s enough for a dead body, but it’s way more than a paper cut. Broken beer and whiskey bottles scatter the floor.

  His voice wobbles. “It’s bad for Pops. Isn’t it?”

  I nod and pick up a broken piece of glass. “Maybe he cut himself?”

  “Then, where’d he go?”

  “To the free clinic?”

  “I already checked.”

  That’s the million-dollar question—where’d One-Leg and Mama go? I look through the trash bag: wadded-up clothes, tons of old, wrinkled magazines, Turdmouth’s birth certificate.

  A pang of jealousy stitches my side. We don’t have mine. Or, if Mama does, she’s never told me. Add that to my list of questions. We search for more clues, but it’s a small tent. There’s nothing here.

  Turdmouth’s shoulders slump a little more. He says, “I guess … let’s check the liquor store.”

  I give him back his ski hat, but pull my hoodie all the way up to hide me from the Barrio Brothers, No-Brains and the Street Killer. Turdmout
h leads us out a different way, and I’m not sad to leave Tent City. Even with all their missing body parts, there’s a heaviness here.

  Walking down an alley, we pass a manhole and watch the steam rising into the air. Sometimes, I still wish I could evaporate from Paradise like that, up, up and away. The sun keeps moving to the right like a ticking clock. I’ve probably got about nineteen more hours ’til I’m Diablo dead. What’s the least dumbest thing to do? Give him the cash and risk him killing me? Or, run from him and risk him killing me?

  I lose either way.

  Our footsteps slow while passing City Cemetery. The rows of white, wooden crosses just do that to you, the dead demanding to be remembered: JONES, SANCHEZ, LIMAS…

  This isn’t like Eternal Peace where everyone’s got different headstones or markers to tell you more about the person. It’s almost sadder here with their matching, white crosses, ’cause it’s the same unhappy ending—gang violence killed ’em.

  Turdmouth scurries by the crosses. “I hate this place. Creeps me out.”

  “I know. Right?” I don’t want to, but my brain pictures a new, white cross with fresh, black ink for Mama: DANIELS. There could just as easily be one for me. I shudder, then hurry on.

  Past the church, we hear a man shouting, “My lawn mower needs balls!”

  Corn Dog lies on the bus stop at the corner, drinking MD 20/20. This isn’t where I rolled him, but that doesn’t make me feel better about being a thief.

  He waves his empty bottle in the air. “Hold the mustard. Bark, bark, bark.”

  Chunch didn’t end all that long ago, but this is the Corn Dog I know. A crazy drunk talking drunk craziness. If Mama was here, she’d laugh, then poke him to scoot over so she could take a swig with him.

  If Mama was here.

  Turdmouth makes a beeline straight to him, but I hang back. He says, “Have you seen Pops?” No response, so he sort of pokes the old man. “Corn Dog, listen. It’s me, Tommy Tucker.”

  The old man is pickled all right, but still shakes his bottle at me. “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

  I stare at Mai Wong’s sneakers, his stolen five burning through my pocket like the flames of hell where me and Mr. Jesus both belong.

  Turdmouth says, “Stop. You know Corrine’s girl, Copper. We’re both looking for our folks. Have you seen ’em?”

  The old man’s watery blue eyes brighten, but never leave me. Spit flies from his mouth as he shouts, “Satan, Lucifer, Diablo.”

  “What about Diablo?” Turdmouth says.

  “Son of Sam. Deceiver. Evil one.”

  “What about Diablo?”

  With that, the old drunk bursts out crying, an ocean of unhappy. I didn’t cause all his pain, but I did some. While Turdmouth tries to make sense of his nonsense, shame smolders through me. Folks keep bawling everywhere I go today: Carmella, Salt and Pepper, and now Corn Dog.

  He heaves his bottle at me. It tumbles through the air, not anywhere near me, but I still jump as it shatters across the sidewalk with a loud crash.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Turdmouth scolds Corn Dog.

  I’m what’s wrong with him and hurry the other way to the liquor store.

  When Turdmouth catches up to me, he says, “What do you think’s wrong with him?

  “I don’t know.”

  “You think he meant our Diablo?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “But, you heard him.”

  “Yeah, and Corn Dog also said to hold the mustard, then barked like a dog.”

  Turdmouth sighs and buries his hands into his pockets as he shuffles along. His voice drops so low I have to lean in to hear him say, “What’ll happen to us if they’re really … gone?”

  Gone across the street.

  Lost like a penny.

  Passed like a bus.

  Most folks can’t talk straight-up about death and say, “Are they dead?” I live with stiffers at the cemetery and can normally handle this, no problem, but it’s different when that’s your own flesh and blood. Part of you dies with that body bag. I don’t answer Turdmouth ’cause there’s no answer.

  We still haven’t talked by the time we reach the Party Palace. He wouldn’t know it, but there’s no secret sign on the fire hydrant for me today. Not that Mai Wong ever stops by twice a day. It’s too dangerous, but I still miss her and hope she’s okay.

  Inside the liquor store, bottles of every color and size line the shelves from top to bottom. There’s even a walk-in fridge in back. The boozey smell hangs in the air. Mama told me once it’s like the library for her here, but they’re not the same. Books make you smarter and booze makes your lawnmower need balls.

  The clerk behind the counter is a midget. I’m not being mean. He’s leprechaun small, with red hair and stumpy legs. We’re both gingers, but I sure hope he’s not my daddy.

  He stands on a stool in a blue shirt with a crown on the pocket, counting cartons of cigarettes. I watch the cash register and wonder how much is in there, then remind myself about my almost arrest and change my mind. Besides, I don’t want Turdmouth to see me get busted again. I’ve got another hundred coming from Miz Jesus, so I’ve got plenty.

  Turdmouth says to the store clerk, “Have you seen a vet lately? He’s got a long beard and a fake leg?”

  The leprechaun doesn’t stop working. “Nope. No peg-legs here today.”

  “What about yesterday?”

  He stops and taps his chin with his stubby finger. “Maybe. Everything starts running together, but there was someone that sounds like that. He was with a woman.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  “Long, straight, black hair.”

  Me and Turdmouth watch each other for a few seconds, then I whip out Mama’s photo and do the talking. “Like an older version of her?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Was she wearing a silver fur coat with real rabbit?”

  “No. I definitely remember she didn’t have on a jacket. She shivered the whole time.”

  “That could be her. What’d they do?”

  “They bought a bottle of Strawberry Hill, then left.”

  That’s their drink! A tiny ripple of hope flows between me and Turdmouth, just enough to keep us going. The leprechaun doesn’t know where they went, but we thank him for his help, then rush back outside.

  The cold doesn’t seem quite as chilly since we’re hot on the trail again. Our feet scurry down the street in slow, gimpy time together.

  He says, “Do you think he saw our parents?”

  “I don’t know. Sounds like ’em, though.”

  “I’m glad they’re together.”

  “Me, too.” Mama needs someone to take care of her, and One-Leg is a decent back-up ’til we’re back together again.

  We pass the Greyhound Bus Station where Spook and Eddie Loco herded those girls into their van last night. The Midnight Man stood right over there, too—blacker than the night, with a smile brighter than the sun. It’s weird how bad and good can happen all in the same place.

  A line of folks wait to board a bus to Houston (it’s another word I can read). I almost don’t recognize who’s standing there. She’s wearing a full tan coat, with sunglasses and a scarf over her long, gray braid. She’s holding one piece of luggage and stares straight ahead.

  Carmella.

  The woman with such bad Mama info she’s skipping town over it.

  CHAPTER 25

  I motion to Turdmouth, then we sprint to the bus line where Carmella still stands. I don’t call out her name to tip her off. Her sunglasses don’t hide her big black eye. Her face looks startled when she sees us in front of her, but she just tightens the grip on her bag and steps around us in line like we’re not even here.

  I’m panting. “Why are you … leaving town?”

  Nothing.

  “Is it ’cause of Diablo?”

  She sniffs and wipes beneath her sunglasses.

  “Is it something to do with Mam
a?”

  That starts her muttering in Spanish and making the sign of the cross over her body. The only thing I catch is her repeating, miDios, mi Dios, mi Dios. My God, my God, my God …

  My brain flashes back to the graffiti spray-painted on back of the warehouse. How God hates the poor and we should all be afraid. The line starts moving faster as people climb onto the bus. We follow Carmella, but she ignores us.

  I say, “Why won’t you help me find Mama?”

  The maid wipes a tear trickling down her slashed cheek. She’s crying as she steps onto the bus without a second look back.

  Turdmouth pats my shoulder. “You tried.”

  “Not hard enough.” I rush around to her window seat on the other side. I bang on the metal. It echoes in loud booms.

  Everyone stares at me, but I don’t care. I need my family back. She’s no perfect mama, but she’s right for me. Carmella leans out of sight, so I’m not sure if she left or not, but I keep pounding.

  Carmella knocks on the window, then yells down to me, “Sorry, I lie.”

  I stop pounding. “About what?”

  “The policia. He leave first.”

  “The police left before who?”

  She shrugs. “I hear mad voices in room. Another man. Mad, mad.”

  “What man? Was it that preacher from The Lord’s Power Hour?”

  She shrugs and the bus engine roars to leave.

  I shout, “Who was mad?”

  Carmella presses her palms against the window, then screams over the noise, “I no want to see her drugs. I no want Diablo kill me.”

  “Did you see the other man at all? How much did Mama have?”

  Carmella shrugs again. “Sorry I let them in room to you.”

  She means Spook and Eddie Loco. I wave to her that it’s okay. Me and Turdmouth watch the bus pull away. It growls like an angry monster, then drives on down the scabby streets of Paradise. I’m jealous she’s escaping.

  I stare at the empty road. Where are you, Mama?

  Turdmouth says, “What do you think Carmella meant about Diablo?”

  “It means we’ve got a date with the devil.” I march on.