“Well, sure. I mean, it hasn’t been washed in weeks. It’s starting to smell. I don’t know what you would want with a smelly, old, diamond-studded shirt anyway.”
Larry grinned. “You’re going to pawn it.”
“Say what?”
“Pawn it.”
“Sorry, Larry, I don’t play chess.”
“No, not that.”
“Then what? I really wish you would make yourself clear.”
“For money.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to need money to stop this curse.”
Before Notmie could ask more, he heard footsteps approaching the kitchen and a preoccupied Quiche’awn entered the room, muttering like a lunatic to himself and folding his hands in knots while staring distractedly at what appeared to be something interesting on the floor in front of him. He didn’t seem to notice Notmie or Larry at all as they caught each other’s eyes questioningly. Quiche’awn took a seat at the table before noticing he was in the presence of others. He immediately stopped his muttering and sat up straight, as if Notmie and Larry might not have already taken notice of his strange behavior.
But they had.
Quiche’awn tried to play it off, saying, “Man, this room is freezing. Did I walk into the kitchen or go straight into the refrigerator? Heh. Aren’t you guys cold, too?”
Larry just drummed his fingers on the table and shook his head.
“Just come out with it Quiche’awn,” said Larry. “What happened with Melono?”
“Why don’t you just ask your mother?” Quiche’awn mumbled.
“I already explained this to you. She doesn’t tell me everything, and many times I choose not to hear what she has to say.”
“Fine.” Quiche’awn fidgeted and adjusted his shirt. Even though he cleared his throat (and made a rather grand production of it, doing the whole, “HEH-HEM! HEH-HEH-HEH-HEM!” with his fist to his mouth) his voice was squeaky when he finally got out the first words.
“She basically told me that—”
When the doorbell rang, everyone in the kitchen paused the conversation to look toward the front door—except Notmie who wasn’t yet familiar with the layout of the house and ended up looking the opposite direction from where he should have been.
“Were you expecting someone, Larry?” Notmie asked.
Larry didn’t answer Notmie’s question directly. “Mother didn’t tell me he would be here so early. This should be interesting.”
Quiche’awn looked to Larry. “Shouldn’t one of us answer it?”
“No, Melono’s got it.”
Quiche’awn gave a small grunt at Melono’s name, as if someone had just jabbed him in the chest.
They sat quietly, trying to hear what Melono would say to the person at the door, but they couldn’t hear a thing. Two minutes and twenty seconds later, Melono entered the kitchen with a teenaged, pizza-faced boy in a lobster costume trailing behind her. He seemed absolutely transfixed by the back of her head. (He believed he had never seen such an unearthly beautiful back of a head in his entire life, nor would he ever again see one so perfect.)
Melono was wearing an expression that told the others, “I have no idea what this is about. Don’t even act like I’m part of this insanity, for it is much too insane for me to want to have a hand in it, and the silliness and nonsensical nature of this is far beyond anything I would intentionally participate in.”
Basically, she appeared slightly disgusted.
But she didn’t forget her manners and took it upon herself to introduce the guest. “Guys, this is Lawrence. He’s a singing telegram that someone sent to us. I asked him to run the song by me before I let him in, but he said he had specific instructions to report directly to… erm”—she turned to the lobster man—“what were your words?”
Lawrence managed to gain control of his longing to run his fingers through Melono’s hair (Hormones! he thought-cursed at himself. Will they never release their grip on me? ) and looked almost as confused as Melono, but he still answered, “The Bald Captain Alexander?”
It really did seem like more of a question, partly because Lawrence was unsure if he remembered it right, partly because if that was right, it didn’t seem to make sense, but mostly because he was unsure why he was now having an urge to run his fingers through Notmie’s hair ( I think I’m becoming gay. No, no, it’s just the hormones. Stupid hormones! ).
“Wait a minute…” Quiche’awn began, “I’ve been called that before.”
Notmie couldn’t keep composure anymore, and he burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“Bwahaha! You’re–you’re–you’re bald!” Notmie fell out of his chair laughing.
Quiche’awn apparently didn’t find the humor in it. “Notmie, shut the hell up! I want to hear what the lobster has to say!”
“Uh, I have a name, you know. It’s Lawrence. I’m not really a lob—”
“Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Quiche’awn. “Get on with it. You said you have a singing telegram for us. So, sing for us already.”
Lawrence shot him a resentful glare before clumsily unfolding a piece of paper with his large, stuffed, shaking claws, clearing his throat, and beginning to sing. Notmie pulled himself up off of the floor and back into his chair, determined to listen and hopefully understand.
The poor lobster kid had apparently never had a day of singing lessons in his life, and perhaps he’d never even heard music. Yes, he was that bad, and the fact that standing in the presence of Notmie and Melono made him more nervous than he’d ever been in his life made his singing ten times worse. His audience grimaced with each sharp and flat note.
“Hello, Your Honor. Long time no chat. We’ve missed you and wish to see you soon. We hope you will be more open to talking with us, and then negotiations can finally begin. So sorry about your parents, but if you don’t do what we ask, your friends Mae and Hal will go in the same way. Deliver one hundred thousand dollars to 25225 Mail Road in Paris, Texas, by the first of next month. Sincerely yours, Sinclair Pierre Pontier.”
There was a shared sigh of relief when the song was finally over.
Melono was the first to have her ears stop ringing, so she was the first to speak. “I… um… what I mean to say is… I didn’t catch a word of what you just said. I was too busy bleeding from the ears to try to absorb any of it.”
“Melono!” chided Larry. “That’s pretty rude. I didn’t expect that from you.”
“What? It’s true. Don’t act like you weren’t in extreme pain for the entirety of that song, Larry. I saw you covering your ears with your hands. And look, Lawrence isn’t even taking in a word I’m saying!”
Melono was right. Lawrence seemed to be transfixed by the movement of Melono’s graceful lips, rather than the words coming out of them.
“For Heaven’s sake!” Melono continued. “The stupid telegram didn’t even rhyme! It was dreadful through and through, admit it.”
Larry neither agreed with nor refuted her argument.
“Yeah,” Notmie said, using his finger to try to dig out the ringing from his ears, “I didn’t really listen to a word he said either. It’s not just you, Melono.”
Quiche’awn raised his hand. “Same.”
Melono snatched the paper from Lawrence’s hand and read it again without the singing. The others listened, and, once she’d finished, Notmie found himself lost in thought. “Does Sinclair know we don’t actually care what happens to Mae and Hal?” he asked.
“I guess not,” Melono replied.
“How do they even know about Mae and Hal?” Notmie asked Quiche’awn.
Quiche’awn looked puzzled as well until he remembered what he’d seen in the car.
“Wait. Notmie, while we were riding with Mae and Hal, we were sitting in the back seat with those brat kids, remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, I remember seeing a limo pass us on the highway, and guess who was driving it?”
Notmie’s
eyes lit up. “David Bowie?”
“Wha— no!”
“Ziggy Stardust?” Notmie said, venturing another guess.
“No. No. Notmie, it was a man in a beret.”
“Oh.”
“He must have seen us with Hal and Mae and followed them until they were at a place where they could be kidnapped. So, what are we going to do now?”
Notmie’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, ‘What are we going to do now?’ They want one hundred thousand dollars! Where on earth are we going to get that sort of money? Unless one of you has a blanket made of solid gold, or a shirt made of diamonds, I highly doubt we’ll find— Aha! I have an idea!”
Larry grunted, then forced himself to take a deep breath. He couldn’t believe anyone could take so long to put two and two together, yet he was also moderately surprised that Notmie had done it at all.
“Okay,” said Quiche’awn, folding his arms over his chest, “so Notmie sells his shirt, but I doubt that’ll bring in enough money.”
“True,” Notmie conceded. “It only cost the boys in the office five thousand dollars to get it custom made. I doubt we could get much more for it since it’s been used.”
“Well, what about my shirt?” Melono suggested. “It’s rubies. Those have to be worth something. I think the guys at the station paid a large bit of money for it too. Together, who knows how much that’ll come out to. Maybe we can sell them as a set and get more for them.”
Larry shrugged. “It’s worth a try if y’all think that’s what you should do.”
Melono hesitated. “Well, I guess it really depends on how much we could get for them. If we wouldn’t get nearly enough, I wouldn’t mind keeping the shirt, really.” She turned to Lawrence. “Hey, Lawrence, how much would you pay for Notmie’s diamond shirt?”
Being directly addressed by Melono seemed to frighten Lawrence, but he managed to squeak out an answer. “My mother.”
Melono gave him her kindest smile. “Honey, your mother is not legal tender. How much would you be willing to pay in terms of cash?”
“Or rather,” Quiche’awn interjected, “how much could you sell your mother for?”
Lawrence wasn’t particularly fond of Quiche’awn, since he was not as attractive as the others. On top of that, Quiche’awn called him “the lobster,” so he decided not to let slide what appeared to be a cheap shot at his mother.
Lawrence glared a daggers at Quiche’awn. “Excuse me, Bald Captain Alexander,”—he let the words roll flippantly off his tongue—“but you might want to rephrase that before I get started on your mother.”
“Go right ahead, but my mother is dead. She was killed by Frenchmen just before she finished a major genealogy project that she had inherited from her parents and which she had spent most of her life working on.”
Lawrence didn’t seem to give a rat’s behind about Quiche’awn’s mother or her stupid genealogy, but Larry’s interest was suddenly piqued. “Did you ever get to see it?” he asked.
“Yes, one time I did.” Quiche’awn paused to think back to that memory he’d kept tucked away for so many years. “It was only a glimpse, though, and all I can really recall about it was that it didn’t seem that special. It had a bunch of strange sounding names on it that I’d never heard of.”
Larry’s eyebrows rose for a moment before he grunted softly, lowered his brows again, and frowned.
“What is it?” Melono asked.
Larry sighed and turned in his chair to face his guests fully. “It’s been my pleasure to have you all stay at my house, but, just like mother told me last night, you’ll need to be leaving soon, and I think this is the point where we say our goodbyes.”
“What? Where are we going?” Notmie demanded. “How are we supposed to leave if we have no idea where to go? That’s not fair!”
Larry held up a hand to silence him. “Shh, Notmie. I’ll tell you where to go.”
“Will you be coming with us?” Notmie asked.
“No. It’s your journey, not mine. And Mother needs me to stay here with her.”
“Fair enough,” Melono said. “So where are we going, Larry?”
A small smile cracked the corner of Larry’s mouth as he leaned back in his chair.
“You’re going to go break that curse.”
Part 19
The Little Lynchtonian
Melono folded her arms and focused sternly on Larry. “That’s an extremely ambiguous answer, you realize that, right?”
“Perhaps, but it lifts your spirits, does it not, seeing as how I heard it from my mother, and she happens to see the future and all.” He grinned, and Melono rolled her eyes but a small smile escaped.
“So,” Quiche’awn said, “where do we start?” He stared at Larry, waiting for a response; however, Larry took his time before he began to speak.
“First,”—he turned to address Melono—“would you help get Lawrence to his car? I’m afraid he won’t go willingly unless you lead him to it.”
Melono nodded and led Lawrence out of the room.
“Secondly, you need to start by driving into town—”
“There’s a town around here?” Notmie asked.
“Yes, it’s a little ways north.”
“What town are we in, by the way?” Quiche’awn asked.
“This house isn’t actually in any town. It’s one of the few places left in the country that has been omitted from any town. It’s an oversight that’s worked in our favor when it comes to zoning codes. I can’t tell you how much paperwork would’ve been involved in getting some of our rooms approved for construction. But that’s not the point. The point is that the closest town, and the one to which you should be headed, is Lynchton. It’s not very populated—mostly just farmers—however, it has a peculiar affinity for auctions, which is most convenient in your situation, seeing as how you are to auction off the shirts.
“I must warn you, though, don’t mention that you know me. They aren’t too keen on people of color, so I doubt you’ll find a warm welcome awaiting you if you mention me… or any black person, for that matter. Oh, and don’t mention my mother either, they stopped liking her a long time ago, even before she adopted me, merely because she gave a starving black orphan child a piece of bread one day while he begged on the church steps.”
That seemed… not okay to Notmie. He looked over at Quiche’awn to try to verify his opinion.
Quiche’awn’s face was squinched like he’s smelled something unforgivable. “That’s… got to be the most depressing thing I’ve heard in a long time,” he said.
Notmie looked back to Larry and nodded.
“But even so, Larry,” Quiche’awn began, “you want us to go to a place called Lynchton where they hate black people? Do you not remember that I’m an eighth black?”
“Yes, I remember that, and that’s one of the reasons I’m warning you about it. It would be best if you had Notmie and Melono call you Brodie for a while.”
Notmie giggled. “Brodie? Don’t you mean… BOOTY?”
“Shut the hell up, Notmie! Larry, why can’t they call me Alex? What’s wrong with just plain Alex? It’s loads better than”—he paused and looked at Notmie who was still giggling—“my other name.”
Larry shrugged sympathetically. “I feel for you, Quiche’awn, I really do. But safety first, especially in Lynchton. Sorry, but it has to be Brodie. Alex can be short for Alejandro.”
“What’s wrong with—Notmie! Shut up! It’s not that funny!—what’s wrong with Alejandro?”
“It’s could be Mexican.”
“What? So they don’t like Mexicans either? Do they lynch them, too?”
“Not anymore. Well, not publicly, at least.”
“Why would you live in Texas if you didn’t like Mexicans!? That’s like living at the North Pole and not liking snow!”
Notmie stopped laughing to join in the conversation.
“Or like living in California and not liking pizza!”
Quiche’awn held up
a hand to stop him. “No, Notmie, I don’t think you understand the comparison in my analogy.”
“The what in the what?”
Quiche’awn was spared the trouble of explaining the word “analogy”—a good thing since he had no idea how to explain it, let alone on a level Notmie would understand—by the room suddenly shaking with the sound of the front door slamming. Seconds later, Melono entered the kitchen, her lips pursed tightly, her hair mussed in the most unearthly beautiful of ways.
“That was a great idea, Larry, thanks for that. You were right about one thing, Lawrence was more than happy to follow me to his car; the only problem was when I tried to get back inside the house. It’s not easy to close a door when someone has your arm in a death grip of kisses. And would you believe it, when I told him I really needed to be going he actually started to get aggressive with me! Well! He apparently didn’t know who he was dealing with, because if he did, he would have run screaming to his car.”
“I’m afraid of you, Melono, you know that, right?” Notmie asked.
Melono ignored it, which was all very well, because Notmie had gotten used to being ignored.
“So, where are we going?” she asked Larry.
Quiche’awn took it upon himself to answer. “Lynchton where they hate black people and Mexicans and where they like auctions.” Quiche’awn flashed Melono a saccharin smile.
Melono groaned. “Are you kidding me?” She looked at Larry. “We really have to go there?”
Larry nodded apologetically.
“Oh, and we have to auction off our shirts while we’re there,” Notmie added.
“Well, yeah, I figured.”
“What are we supposed to do after we auction off the shirts?” Quiche’awn asked.
“Well,” Larry said, clasping his hands together and placing them gently on the table in front of him, “you take the money to Mail Road and give it to Sinclair Pierre Pontier in exchange for Mae and Hal.” He explained it as if it was as obvious as the color of the table in front of them. (The color of the table, however, was actually not that obvious since it was a muddy greenish-brown with flecks of maroon, and the lighting in the room wasn’t that great, making it harder to put a name to the already hideous color, but to Larry, the color was obvious: it was a moth-stew green.)
The Fraud Page 18
