by James Fuerst
She yanked the bill backward again. “Promise—”
“Christ, lady, you win, I promise.” I removed the loot from her fingers. “But let’s get one thing straight: the name’s Huge.”
She started to laugh but covered her mouth. “I beg your pardon, Huge. As for our arrangement, can I trust you to carry it out in the strictest confidence?”
She knew she could, because that was like a law all detectives obeyed—never rat out your clients—and since I had a client now, I’d have to obey it, too. But I didn’t want her to think that she could give me the business without getting some back. I tucked the ten in my pocket and said, “You got no choice but to trust me—you already paid.”
I guess you could say we talked awhile longer, but her mind had wandered off, and no matter how hard I tried to follow her, nothing she said made any sense. She swung back and forth like that, sometimes there, sometimes not, and when she’d first started doing it a couple of years ago, I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t even look at her, and had to get away from her fast. Since then I’d learned to ride it out, because she’d usually come back sooner or later, and because if you had enough time you could get used to anything. Right now, though, I wanted to get started on the case. Thrash looked antsy to leave, too.
I leaned over and stroked the back of her hand until her eyes locked on mine. “I’m gonna get going. I have things to take care of.”
“Oh, so soon?” She was back, just like that, and she let a nice block of silence settle in, hurt. “Well, I guess you don’t have to visit me three times a week when you should be out having fun. That’s what being young is for. But do me a tiny favor before you leave.”
“What?” I asked, although I knew what it was, always the same routine.
“Give an old woman a thrill and tell your grandmother that you love her.”
I did and was gone.
Kathy was a tall, stacked blonde who studied physical therapy at the local community college and adorned the front desk of the retirement home. As the receptionist, it was her job to sit at the desk, greet people, answer calls, take messages, and crap like that, but she spent most of her time roaming the hallways, pushing people in their chairs, helping them with their walkers, stopping in their rooms to visit, bringing them extra blankets, fluffing pillows, or changing the channels in the TV room. She had a warm, easy smile, was kind and cheerful, and brought lots of life to a place that never seemed to have enough to go around. Even the cranks and fusspots constantly sought her out for updates of all the new complaints and gossip they’d dreamed up in their spare time. And they had a lot of spare time. So if anyone had heard what the people who lived or worked in the home knew about the sign, Kathy would have.
I walked up to the front desk to ask her a few questions and was treated to the side view of her bent over the desktop in all her summer finery: open-toed sandals; firm, sun-kissed legs that came up to my chest; short-shorts; tight waist; two skimpy tank tops with thin shoulder straps that warped and curved around her breasts like they were reflected in a fun-house mirror; narrow shoulders; and poufy bangs. Damn, Kathy was so fine it actually hurt—just a single glimpse of her could break a full-grown man down to weeping or despair. I didn’t know how they let her dress for work like that with all the old-timers around, or how come more didn’t drop dead because of it. But at least you’d go with a smile on your face.
She was a sweetheart, too, as if she had no clue how scorching she was, which only made it worse. When she’d started working at the home last fall, it was like trying to watch an eclipse—I wanted to see it, but knew it was too dangerous to gaze directly. Once I’d realized that I wouldn’t melt down to a puddle just from looking at her, though, it’d gotten easier to stutter something back when she said hello. No, I’d never been much of a talker to begin with, and even less of one with the ladies, but Kathy was such a total honey that you felt ashamed not to try. So I did, and after I got the hang of it, I started using our chats to polish up my game, to get myself ready for the chicks I might actually have a chance with.
Kathy saw us and waved. I straightened up as tall as I could, smiled, and played it extra smooth.
“Hey, cutie,” she said. “Hey, Thrash.”
“Hey,” I said. Thrash just looked at her. “You go to the beach this weekend?”
“Yeah. Why? Am I tan?”
“Totally.”
“Well,” she led me, “how do I look?” She stepped back from the desk and spun in a circle with her arms outstretched.
I gulped back a groan just in time. “Like butterscotch with blue eyes,” I said.
“Aw, you’re sooo sweet!”
“Melt in your mouth.”
She laughed. “You’re totally funny. If you were ten years older I’d marry you.”
Yeah, and if I had ten minutes alone with her, there’d be no telling what I’d do. But I didn’t say that. I said, “Wait for me, then.”
“Okay, but hurry up.” She looked at her watch and winked. Kathy was a great flirt, the best.
“Kath.”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Did you see what they did to the sign?”
“Yeah,” she sighed, and shook her head. “It’s like so mean, isn’t it?”
“When did it happen?”
“Late Saturday, I think. Irma said she saw it on Sunday morning when she came in, but Bryan said everything was fine when he left on Saturday night.”
“Old Pencil Neck, eh?”
“You shouldn’t call him that,” Kathy giggled and whispered at the same time, moving her eyes from side to side. “Bryan can be really sweet, you just need to know him better.”
No, I didn’t. Bryan was the manager of the home, and I knew firsthand how he treated the captives, so I knew what a fucking creep he was. But Kathy was too good-hearted to see through his act—the way he was always sucking up to her, flattering her, tailing her like a duckling, begging her to go out on a date—or she was just too nice to tell him to screw off, or maybe afraid to because he was her boss. Whatever. That worm was slithering up on her almost every time I came around, and I hated to see it because I knew she’d probably cave in at some point, if only to keep from hurting his feelings. Then Bryan, this pasty noodle of a guy with a pencil neck, gold chains, and spiked hair, would be out with Kathy, who was so far out of his league they were playing different sports. He’d pick her up in that massive IROC Z-28 of his, with him so tiny behind the wheel that it looked like someone dropped a GI Joe action figure in the middle of the driver’s seat, and she’d get in anyway and then he’d drive her around, park somewhere, climb a stepladder into her lap, and try to feel her up or something, taking advantage, milking it for all it was worth, until he got what he wanted. Nah, I didn’t want to know any of that.
“I’m just jealous,” I said.
“Don’t be, honey. He’s not my boyfriend or anything.”
Maybe there was hope after all. But Thrash was getting bored by all the small talk, so I had to get to the point. “Hey, Kath?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“About the sign. Anybody see anything?”
“No, hon, nobody saw anything. Not even Cuth.”
Cuthbert Stansted—ninety-three, former accountant, always dressed in a black wool three-piece suit and tie, smaller and grayer than an eighteen-year-old Scotch terrier, insomniac, and the home’s self-appointed night watchman.
“Not even Cuth?” I asked.
“Is that my grandchild?” came a shaky voice from my right. She was hunched, with badly balding silver hair, limp spotty arms dangling out of what looked like a green burlap sack with a neck and armholes cut into it, and one hand against the cinder-block wall to steady herself.
“No, Livia,” Kathy answered. “This isn’t your granddaughter, this is Toots’s grandson.”
“Oh,” Livia said, frowning. “But you’ll call me the second they get here … uh—”
“Yes, sweetie. Kathy will call you as soon as they get here.�
��
Livia smiled, the most hopeful smile I’d ever seen, and then inched along on her way, as if the laces of her shoes were tied to each other.
Kathy dropped her eyes and sighed. “Poor thing, her family moved to Maryland nine months ago and we haven’t heard from them since.”
And some stupid fuck thought Livia deserved to be called retarted because of that. Sure, I already knew the world was sick, but now it was my job to cure it.
“Kath, you guys call the police?”
“Yeah, hon.”
“And?”
“Nothing, so far.”
“Think they’ll catch who did it?”
“They’re probably not even looking, sweetie. It’s like if nobody saw anything—and nobody did, not here anyway—then what do they have to go on? Besides, you know the police around here …” She trailed off, leaning over the desk with her head down to look at some papers.
“Yeah,” I said. I knew the police all right, and what was worse, the police knew me. But if they weren’t looking into the case, then that cleared the way for my investigation, and that was good news. Since it was right there, I took a quick peek down the front of Kathy’s top. It was sweet, real sweet, all soft and cozy and snug, like one of those forts you made out of pillows and quilts and curled up in on stormy nights. But I had to be careful not to stare too long, or things could get awkward.
“Uh, sweetie?” Kathy asked.
“Yeah, Kath?”
“I’m up here,” she said, straightening her back and pouting her lips out at me.
Oh, shit—busted. I had to smooth it over fast. “Sorry, Kath,” I shrugged. “I, uh, I get confused sometimes. Don’t be mad, though, okay? I don’t know any better—I’m just a kid.” I grinned so hard that my cheeks hurt.
Kathy shook her head and laughed.
TWO
Anybody who wasn’t still watching the Smurfs knew that Darren and the crew had been tagging just about everything within reach of hand, arm, ladder, or rope all summer. They hit bridges and underpasses, stores, billboards, offices, the high school, the police station, parked cars, kiddie pools left out overnight—nothing was safe. Sure, there had always been graffiti before, but this year it seemed worse, bigger, as if they’d suddenly realized that the only way they were ever gonna make a mark in this world was by wrecking other people’s stuff, whether those people deserved it or not. But the crew all lived by the reservoir, and unless they got caught in the act or were stupid enough to hide their kits under their beds, nothing ever happened to them. They were bored, had money, and plenty of time to spend it.
I knew just where to find them.
The town I lived in had only two claims to fame: the Circle and the mall. The Circle was one of the biggest traffic junctions in the state: it looped three different highways together, everybody knew it by name, and it was a major reference point whenever anybody gave or got directions to anywhere within twenty-five miles of it. It was conveniently located, too, because it was right next to the mall. Or maybe it was the other way around. Whatever. The latter was “Central Jersey’s Largest Indoor Shopping Mall,” according to the billboards on the highways. I didn’t know if that was true or not, but the parking lot was about a mile across at its longest point, just to give you some idea of how the joint stacked up. Then again, it was the only mall I’d ever been to, so I was in no position to judge. But I was sure about one thing: like every other mall on the planet, it was a magnet for misdirected youth, so I aimed the Cruiser there.
The arcade was in a small, one-story building of shops and offices right outside the main complex, at arm’s length from the real action, like the kids’ table at Thanksgiving. I parked around the corner, and Thrash and I decided he would take a position near the Cruiser, lay low, and watch the front, in case something went down and I needed backup. At the far rear corner of the mall parking lot there was a trail that ran through the woods to the reservoir, so we were close to the crew’s turf now, and we couldn’t be too careful.
Inside, it was as dark as a boarded-up bomb shelter, and the cold, stiff air filled my snout with a paste of sugar, machine grease, and sweat. The A/C was cranked up high, and long rows of video screens flickered seductively through the dimness. I slapped the chill off the back of my neck, jammed my hands into my pockets, and stopped myself short. I wasn’t here to play games. I was here on business.
Darren was a creature of habit—he always hogged the Defender machine in the far right corner. As soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the back of his sun-damaged hair, yellow T-shirt, and blue-and-white Jams bouncing from side to side, dodging the alien invasion. I didn’t see any of the other crew members with him, so I slid up behind and watched as he tried to evade the fate an enemy missile was sending his way. He couldn’t do it. Then again, none of us could.
“Hey, little dude, what’s up,” he said, slapping the fire-button to mount his counterattack.
“Nothing.” I watched for a few minutes in silence, until a group of mutant landers surrounded his ship and ended his game. He was rattled, and I knew it.
“Fu-u-uck!” he yelled, his fist making a loud plap against the screen.
A booming “HEY” sounded behind us, and we turned to see the manager’s milky forearm rising above the guitar magazine concealing his face, directing our eyes to the sign above his head: YOU HIT THE MACHINES YOU HIT THE ROAD.
“Ah-ight, dude, chill,” Darren called to the magazine cover. “What’s up with that guy?” “D, you know the sign—”
“I fully know the sign, little dude,” Darren cut me off, chuckling. “I’ve like seen it before.” He smiled down at me and rolled his slow brown eyes, after flipping his orange bangs out of the way. “But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna like obey it and shit.” “Nah, D,” I tried to redirect him, “not that sign.” “Dude,” he insisted, “that’s like the only one in here.” Christ. I should’ve known we’d have to two-step before we tangoed. It wasn’t that Darren was the space cadet he pretended to be, though. It was more like he’d been playing dumb so goddamn long that he’d just forgotten he was playing. I wouldn’t be surprised if his parents had to pull him aside, douse him with ice water, shake him by the shoulders, and remind him that he was in the top five of his class at the beginning of each school year. Just so he’d know.
“Nah, dude,” I kept at it, “I’m talking about a different sign.” “Little dude, you’re like totally confounding me, and that’s way harshing on my buzz.” He stopped before feeding another quarter into the slot, and suddenly looked over his right shoulder, toward the wall. He stayed that way—frozen, staring, fingering his pukka bead choker, a black rubber bracelet rolling down his tanned forearm—for about ten or fifteen seconds before he snapped out of it and shook his head. “Whoa,” he declared.
“So you don’t know anything about other kinds of signs”—I took my time saying the rest—“like the signs of old age?” It took him a second to make the connection, but when he did, I saw the panic spread across his face. It was beautiful.
“Let’s talk outside,” he whispered. He tried to put his arm around my shoulder, but I pulled it back. I never let anybody put a hand on me without returning the favor, and that went double for wannabe punk surfers who were balling my sister on the sly.
Darren was moving quickly and made a left out the door. I was following behind him, but something made me check out the couple whispering to each other to the right of the exit, leaning against the Grand Prix racing machine. I hadn’t seen them when I’d come in. The chick’s back was turned to me, but I saw that she had on black Converse high-tops with folded-down white socks, about thirty black rubber anklets dangling over each sock, and a cryptic trail of pen marks zigzagging up the length of her smooth, taut thighs. Her denim cutoffs were faded, frayed, and wedged so deeply into the crack of her ass that about a quarter of each cheek was showing.
I’d seen that ass thousands of times. Ever since she’d moved to town two years ago, I’d been kee
ping vigil over it from a distance, and sitting behind her in every class last year had practically tattooed those cheeks onto my brain. Shit, I would’ve known them anywhere, in any light, from any angle, under any conditions, just like I knew they belonged to Stacy Sanders, who’d been an army brat at the military base until her parents broke up the summer before fifth grade and then moved with her mother to Sunnybrook apartments and transferred to our school that September. If Chris Singleton hadn’t moved to Arizona, I never would’ve gotten my ringside seat by all the action, because his last name came before mine in the alphabet. Good old Chris Singleton; I knew that kid about as well as I knew any of the other dweebs at school, which was hardly at all, but if I ever saw him again, I might just kiss him out of sheer gratitude.
Stacy was wearing a sleeveless, fluorescent-orange T-shirt knotted at the waist so her stomach was showing, four or five bangle and rubber bracelets on each wrist, and two earrings in each of her ears. The extra piercings were new. Her hair was the same, though—a short black bob, shaved in the back, with long slanted bangs that hung over one eye to her chin. She had squinty hazel eyes that tapered at the corners, a short, thin nose, high cheekbones, broad lips, and a wide mouth that jutted out a little too much. Okay, she wasn’t exactly pretty, but then again, she didn’t have to be. She had that thing that some chicks just had, and for chicks who had it, it didn’t matter if they also had hunched backs, bald heads, two teeth, one of those withered arms, clubbed feet, or acne all over their bodies like a poison ivy rash. I didn’t know what that thing was or where it came from or what to call it, but I knew it when I saw it and I knew that Stacy had it and that it made me feel like I’d just finished going all-out for half an hour on a Sit ’N Spin.
My head was a little light and my stomach cramped. But I fought it off. I was a detective now.
The guy said, “What the fuck you lookin’ at, dick cheese?” I shifted my eyes to the tall, angular goon standing next to Stacy, the one whose voice was cracking but sounded like it meant business anyway. I knew who he was—everybody did. He was Ray “the Razor” Tuffalo, last year’s junior-high quarterback, nicknamed for the way he sliced through opposing defenses, a guy who’d punch you in the back of the neck or stick his knee in your gut as casually as most people said “hey” or “what’s up”—especially if you were younger and smaller and his teammate Tommy Sharpe was around to watch. Yeah, quality guy. He had a flattop crew cut, a pinched face, a snarled mouth with cruddy braces, and was wearing a red Joe Montana football jersey with the sleeves rolled up over his shoulders, probably to show everyone how long his arms were, because there wasn’t a shadow of muscle on him. Nah, the kid was all bone; thick, stupid bone, just like his head.
