One thing was clear: The Creighters weren't going to pop into the police station and confess. And I also knew there would be, had to be, more evidence at the Snapdragon. Hadn't Mrs. Creighter referred to "the place," and hadn't Bonnie said something about having to wait until closing?
Much as the idea made me sweat, I was going to have to check out the Snapdragon.
I got out my notebook and pen and wrote down everything that had happened so far, then read it over. Then I just fiddled around with the pen, scribbling stray thoughts. When I stopped thinking about the Creighters and the Snapdragon, my mind fell quiet for a while.
Then my hand wrote "Judy." Everlasting hell. I am awful. Here I was, still half in shock from having a one-night stand butchered out from under me, and I start hankering for Old Faithful. How utterly abominable.
But I wanted her. I was sore in body and spirit. I wanted her, more than ever, to comfort me, help me, hold me. To pity this poor misbegotten fuck-up. Yeah, that's what I was reduced to: craving pity.
I wanted Judy so much I could smell her, taste her. The more I tried not to think about her, the more vivid she grew in my mind, there in sort of a cloud before me in her soft green wrapper. The deeper grew, oh, you know, that place beneath your heart that opens and roils like Kilauea.
Todd had gotten settled into the towel nest I made for him. He hunkered alertly, sniffing the smoky air of the motel room with its overtaste of industrial-strength air sweetener. I got him back into the box; he looked at me with something approaching annoyance. I left the lights on, locked the door, and fired up the Caprice.
With Todd in his box on the seat beside me I took Ten Mile across town instead of the expressway; it was a less conspicuous route. The night felt menacing. Other cars pressed too close. I tried to watch every single car and face.
Judy's car was in its regular parking space.
I stood in the doorway with Todd's box under my arm. I rang but got no response. Rang again. Judy had insisted I keep my keys to the place, to the point of developing a hysterical rise in her voice when I tried to give them back a few months ago. I let myself into the building, padded down the corridors, then knocked softly.
"Hey, 'sme." When my key touched the lock, the door opened. Someone else was on the other side, wearing Judy's green wrapper.
"Hello," said she.
I knew the voice, I knew the face: Sharon Wurtz, a hard-mouthed opportunist ever ready to hold the hand of a woman going through a breakup. That was her method. Some women move in on the fresh chicken—women recent to the community, oh, those dewy divorcees!—and some move in on the newly vulnerable lonelyhearts. Not that they rent billboards proclaiming their specialty. You just realize it after you've been in the community a while, after watching people and getting to know how they handle themselves.
So Judy was probably in the bathroom, or worse to imagine, lying frozen under the sheets in the bedroom listening for my voice. I stood there like Peter Pan, the full force of the moment hitting me like a wrecking ball, so that for an instant blackness rose in front of my eyes. I fought it down. Sharon's expression was sympathetic, which was worse than a mean smile.
If I'd stood there for an hour, I don't know whether I'd have been able to formulate a sentence. She said hello again. Todd moved in his box, and her eyes tried to see over the top. I pivoted and walked away down the corridor.
Chapter 31
So Judy's arm finally got tired from carrying that torch. I stalked out to the car. Whoa-ho, that was right between the eyes. And I asked for it. How I ever asked for it. Mm.
Todd and I got back in the car. He was unconcerned. I was grateful for that. More and more I saw how animals could be great human substitutes. People who keep fucking up—my God, where would we be without pets? If I kept fucking up, probably the only person I'd have to talk to in the whole world would be Todd. But you know, in a sense I was relieved. There's a certain tension inherent in spinning out a relationship like that. Moreover, I realized that deep down I'd been rooting for Judy all along.
I peeled out of the parking lot and headed back east on Ten Mile. I rolled down the windows and gulped the damp night air, which was warming up again after the rain, into the heavy hot stickiness typical of Detroit during a July heat wave.
My mind was overcrowded, my emotions overtaxed. Grief, guilt, shame, all those god-awful feelings coursed through me. It was useless to try to keep them straight. As I drove I didn't even speak to Todd. I think he fell asleep. It'd been a long day for him.
My mind wandered. Maybe there's not much difference between a hero and a fool. A fine dividing line perhaps, a narrow gray area between heroism and foolishness. What's the difference? Luck? Just luck? Success versus failure, perhaps. Given identical situations, identical tests, even identical intentions, is the only difference between hero and fool the outcome?
It was about two in the morning. I stopped at a gas station pay phone and called Billie's number in Ferndale. I always figured I'd use an animal kennel place to spare her the trouble of looking after Todd, but at two a.m. I didn't have much choice.
She was home and had just gone to bed. She waitressed part-time at a couple of short-order places. Last I knew, she was housemother to three cats, a dog, and two tiny orphaned squirrels.
"Yeah," Billie said, "come on the hell over. Fine. I just got a hedgehog. The squirrels grew up, they're gone. I've got a pen we can use." She left the question of why I needed to find a port for Todd at two in the morning in the ozone for the moment.
Next I called Beaumont Hospital and asked about Minerva. All they would do was acknowledge that she was there. Still alive, then.
Billie was in her late fifties and had a Lucy Ricardo hairdo and an independent spirit. She found a way to go on year after year waiting tables and taking the odd cook's job, never wanting to do anything more shit-eating than that.
"Now, you might think waiting tables is about as shit-eating a job there is," she remarked to me once over a meatloaf special, "but it's got an ace in the hole other jobs don't. And that's quitting."
"Tell me," I said.
She obliged. "Quitting a waitressing job is the biggest power trip in the world. First of all, you always do it when it's busy, because that's when the pressure's the worst and it's really gotten to you. So you pick your moment." She tucked a bright copper strand behind her ear.
"Of course, the manager or owner has got to be a sumbitch, or you wouldn't do it, and you wouldn't to it to a woman if you can help it. You gotta hang on until you've got a full section, then you throw down your apron and you deliver just one line, or two lines."
She tossed her head. "I've had it. You want this job? You want this job? A boss is gonna know what's coming the second you put down that tray and reach your hands behind your back. He's gonna come right over and try and stop you. He'll be mad at first, ooh! Then he'll plead. Finally he'll grovel. But you've got that apron off, you're talking loud right in the middle of the place, and all of a sudden you've got your purse and you're out the door, and they're all sitting there looking at that apron on the floor. That's power, kid."
I asked how many jobs she'd left like that. "Only two. And I've been waitressing for thirty years. But—see—how can I put it? The thing is, you know you can always do it. That's what keeps you going. Plus, I've coached a lot. There's lots of young people who think waiting tables is lower than whale shit. It's not. You don't like how a guy talks to you, you give him the cold shoulder. He's got no complaint against you, and he can't think of a reason not to tip a little, but he doesn't come back too quick. Mission accomplished. Some fancy bitch screeches you're too slow? Same thing. Or you spill a glass of ice water in her lap. So sorry! You like a customer, you treat 'em right. They come back, and they tip OK. Yep, I'll waitress till the day I die, if my legs last. And they'll be lucky to have me."
So that's Billie on the half-shell. "Come in, Toots," she said, opening the door on her sleepy menagerie. Lumps of fur lay draped around the living
room, stirring a little. A shrouded birdcage loomed in a corner. I noticed what appeared to be a giant pine cone lolling on the floor.
"The hedgehog. That's Doris. Don't step on her." A houseful of animals will always smell different than one without, but Billie was a fairly good housekeeper; I detected only a low-level muskiness. Todd made no protest when I put him in a large wire cage Billie dragged up from the basement. Not that he had a choice. He was a pretty dignified rabbit.
"So what's the latest?" She said it casually, but her eyes searched my face. Evidently she hadn't ingested any news today.
"I just need a place for Todd for a while. Maybe for a few days, I don't know. Maybe only tonight. Maybe forever. Want a rabbit, lady?" I grinned, but I suppose I looked a little unhealthy.
"You're not moving too good," she observed.
"OK," I said, "I'll level with you as much as I can. I'm going to do something sort of dangerous after I leave here. I've gotten mixed up in something. In fact, I'm slightly homeless at the moment. I've got a motel room, but if something weird happens, I want to make sure Todd's OK."
"Can you be a little more specific?" She sat down and put her feet up on a hassock. Her calves were big and knotty, but her feet looked dainty in their pink scuffs. "There's beer in the icebox. Want one?"
"No, thanks." I told her about how I lost my job.
"Excellent," she said. "That was excellent. They are pigs. Buttheads."
"So I'm freelancing now, and this bears on what I'm up to tonight. I'm—I'm investigating something. By the way, the police are sort of clued in to what I'm doing. Not that I have their full approval," I muttered. Under Billie's bullshit-proof gaze my resolve wavered a little, but I gathered myself.
"If I don't call you by morning, please get in touch with the Eagle police, Lieutenant Ciesla, and tell him I'm missing. OK?" I wrote his name on a scrap of paper and laid it on the coffee table.
"I don't like this a bit, baby. I get the distinct impression you don't know what you're doing. What if I call up this Ciesla as soon as you leave?"
"And tell him what? Even if you get him on the phone at this hour, he won't do anything. Take my word for it." We sat a while in silence. "A woman's got to do what she's got to do," I said.
"What is this, a miniseries?"
I waved goodbye to Todd and opened the door.
Billie jumped up. "Goddamn it. Well, you're a big girl, girl. Just don't leave me any permanent rabbits."
"Right. See ya. And thanks, Billie."
As soon as I got to the car, my hands started to shake. I realized my stomach was way too empty, so I drove over to the White Castle on Woodward and swung into the drive-through. My belly jumped with hunger. Three cheeseburgers, small fries, large Coke.
I pointed the Caprice north again to hit Coolidge and scarfed down the food. My stomach settled right away. My watch said two-thirty, so I took it easy behind the wheel, on my way to the Meijer Thrifty Acres in Troy. If you have any sense, you hate the Meijer's experience, but I gotta admit it's the best place to buy burglar tools in the middle of the night. For one, it's open, and two, nobody really notices anybody else.
Meijer's is practically a suburb unto itself, sprawling blandly out to the weedy edges of undeveloped land zoned commercial. On the way in I stopped at a pay phone to make a brief call.
I woke Kevin, the waiter, and cashed in a favor. He was all right. I said, "All you have to say is yes or no. The doors at the Snap are on alarm, right?"
"Yes. Shit."
"Don't worry. I could have found out myself if I'd wanted to stop in for a drink tonight. There's a contact on the doorframe, right?"
"Right."
"And it isn't silent, right? A bell rings?"
"Right."
"Anything else on the system that you know of? Office door?"
"No."
"Motion detectors or anything?"
"No. God no. The rats'd be setting them off all night." I could hear him beating his fingers on his forehead as he did when distressed.
"Do you know Bonnie's code numbers, the numbers she punches into the keypad? Or Sandra's?"
"Uh-unh."
"OK. Thanks. You got a wrong number call tonight. You never talked to me. Thanks, Kevin."
"Shit."
I sauntered into the blinding white wash of light, found the hardware department and stood before the selection of pry bars. One with a thin-bladed hook seemed best. I picked up a small cold chisel and a hammer too.
I made my way toward the front of the store, trying to decide whether to buy anything else. The aisles near the cashiers were clogged with pool-toy displays and barbecue supplies. I saw a menacing-looking water pistol and briefly imagined filling it with drain cleaner or something, just to have one more weapon on me besides the pry bar. Nah, well.
The few other people in line were buying beer or small quantities of groceries. The cashier gave me a bit of a look. I fingered the pry bar and said, "Locked my keys in the car."
"Oh."
As she was handing me my change, I felt a peculiar sensation on the back of my neck. I looked over my shoulder. Standing there one check stand over, also receiving change as she stared intently at me, was Lou. Goddamn.
Her expression was a mixture of delight and awe.
I collected my stuff and headed for the doors at a run. But Lou could move. By the time I reached the parking lot she was on me like a duck on a June bug.
"Hey!" she cried, seizing my elbow and spinning me toward her. Her eyes were wild. "Hey! Oh, happy night!" She handled me all over as if I'd been a missing tot. "Thank God you're all right!"
I shrugged her hands off and tried to twist away, but she grabbed me in a bear hug from behind. "Lillian, wait!"
I couldn't get a breath to yell.
"Will you wait just a second?" Her raspy voice abraded my eardrums. I nodded, and she let me go. I turned to face her.
She was shook up big time. "When I saw the news on TV, I didn't know what to think. I was so scared for you! I went over to your house, but you were gone. I couldn't sleep! What time is it? I came here to buy some ice cream and some cards"—she opened her bag, and I glimpsed a couple Häagen-Dasz containers and a slim second bag—"I was going to write to you some more in these cards." She pulled out a few greeting cards featuring big-eyed children.
"Cute, huh?" She looked at me with frightening tenderness. "Did you get my letter?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you read it?"
"Lou, I have to go."
"What are you doing here? What did you buy? What's that stuff for?"
"None of your business." I looked into her eyes trying to identify the kind of demented malice she'd have needed for the attack on Minerva.
"Lou, did you come to my home this morning?"
Her salt-and-pepper ponytail swayed behind her head. "No, darling. Did you want me to?"
"No!"
"Who was that woman in your apartment? The one they told about?"
"No one you know." I just couldn't read her. "I'm going now. Let me go, all right, Lou? You've got to get over this. Get hold of yourself."
To my surprise she didn't argue. She merely stepped aside and said, "All right." I thought I saw a sly expression.
As I wrenched the Caprice out of the parking lot, I saw her walking unhurriedly toward a cluster of cars. I didn't wait to see which one was hers.
I aimed south once again. Checking my mirrors over and over, I looked for Lou, looked for anybody on my tail. As far as I could tell, I was alone again.
The clock struck three. A safe hour for dirty work just about anywhere. I made one pass by the Snapdragon parking lot at a good clip, then came back. No cars, no Emerald, no red Fiero, nobody. I turned into the neighborhood beyond the back alley and parked on the street a few blocks down. No car followed me.
I kept a crummy black windbreaker stuffed under the front seat, along with a pair of work gloves that I used when pumping my gas at the greasy budget stations I patroni
zed. I pulled them out, put on the windbreaker, and shoved the gloves into the front pocket. The chisel went in one back jeans pocket, my pocketknife and flashlight in the other. The hammer I slid down the front of my jeans, its claw hooking over my belt. Keys in my front jeans pocket. The pry bar fit up the right sleeve of the windbreaker. I got an old blanket out of the trunk and rolled it under my arm. I was fabulously ready.
I set off toward the alley, looking over my shoulder as I went. I could have cut through backyards, but the danger outweighed any benefits of concealment: too many ultra-alert homeowners whose houses have been broken into two or three or ten times.
The most dangerous neighborhoods to go sneaking through are the ones fighting decay. Why? On posh streets the houses have expensive locks, good perimeter security, and complacent residents. In neighborhoods gone far to ruin, with burned-out houses everywhere and drug boys on the corners, people barely give a shit who's cutting through their backyards. But the hopeful streets, so many of them in Detroit, they've got the tough homeowners.
A German shepherd skulked in the backyard of one of the houses on my way. He kept silent until I was exactly abreast of him, then exploded into a screaming mass of fur and teeth, lunging at the fence, grabbing the top pipe with his paws. His head reached well over it. Gnashing his jaws, he looked as if he'd dearly love a meal of soft human throat.
Chapter 32
"Down, you motherfucker." Climbing back into my skin, I veered around him and glanced over my shoulder at the house. No light.
I tried to make noise with my feet as I walked into the alley, to scatter potential vermin. The main light came from the only functional light fixture for a block, which, unfortunately, was a bulb right over the back door of the Snapdragon. It was encased in a cage of steel and Plexiglas.
Holy Hell Page 18
