by Laura Bickle
Everyone’s attention is focused on her. Her hair is deep black, the color of a mink coat my dad bought once. The diamond earrings brushing her shoulders are the real thing. Nothing splits light like that but diamonds. There has to be about ten thousand dollars on each ear.
Carl elbows me and waggles his monobrow. The fraternity guys try to strike up a conversation.
“Hey, do you know where the bar is?”
She shrugs, nonplussed. “Casino level. Can’t miss it. There are four of them.”
The elevator stops. My heart plummets into my stomach.
Pearly the mobster gets on. He looks the same as he did at Mrs. Renfelter’s: linen jacket, quiet air of command. Shit. I lower my head so that the brim of my ball cap obscures my face, slouching down behind the college guys. I don’t think he’s seen me. Not yet.
“You got a name, sugar?” One of the frat boys is determined to keep pushing his luck.
She gives him a dour look. “No. No, I don’t.”
Pearly says, “Leave the lady alone, boys.”
“She doesn’t look like a lady to me.”
The next bit happens fast. Too fast. Pearly moves like a snake, slamming the last speaker up against the mirrored wall of the elevator with his forearm. The other arm slides his jacket back to reveal a pearl-handled pistol. Even from here, some part of my brain processes that it’s a nice gun.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
CHAPTER 15
We’re fucked.
Pearly growls, “Nobody insults Mr. Spivelli’s girlfriend.”
Oh, dammit. It just got worse.
The frat boys freak out, climbing all over themselves to try to reach the panic button and apologize for their friend’s idiocy.
Carl and I press ourselves to the back of the mirrored elevator.
The woman in the sequined dress makes a negligent gesture with her wrist. “Let him go, Mel.”
Pearly holds the terrified frat boy for another second, then releases him. Linen falls over the holster just as the doors chime open.
The woman in the silver sequins and real diamonds sweeps out of the doors, not looking back. She walks into the clanging bells, cheers, and hubbub of the casino floor.
One of the frat boys makes a move toward the door.
“Uh-uh,” Pearly says. “You boys are not getting out here.”
He punches the “Close Door” button. He pulls out his gun and stabs a button for ‘LL3.’ One of the young men whimpers.
My voice is frozen in my throat. Carl chirps up, “Um, we’re not with these guys...”
Pearly doesn’t turn around. “You two fellas will get out with the rest of them. You’ll go home and thank Mrs. Renfelter for the payment in full she made this morning.”
I sag against the mirror. Damn it. He’s seen me the whole time.
The doors open up on a parking garage level. It’s dark, illuminated only by yellow lights in cages. It reminds me of the night I lost Zach. That whole episode started out in a parking garage very much like this one. Sweat trickles down my neck, down my spine. This place is dark, too dark. I don’t see how a camera can catch enough light to capture identifiable images, if there even were cameras in this dungeon. He’s got us in a place no one knows where we are. Where no one can see.
Pearly gets off the elevator first. He gestures with the gun. “Single file, gentlemen. Hands where I can see them.”
I’m careful to keep my hands visible, to make no sudden moves. I get in front of Carl, not that I can do much to protect his larger body with my smaller one, but because I’m older, and I want to somehow shield him from anything bad happening. Especially since this is all my fault.
“What are you going to do with us?” one of the college guys squeaks.
The others shift back and forth, exchanging glances. Maybe they’re thinking of rushing Pearly.
“You guys are going to take a long walk out of this garage, through the gate. You’re not coming back to this property. And you’ll act with more decorum around the ladies. Yes?” Pearly nods at them and smiles. His teeth are shiny and white. What he asks is eminently reasonable. Carl and I nod vigorously.
About half the college guys mutter agreement and start walking. The others are pretty wobbly on their feet. Drunk. Carl and I move to walk around them, to go down the long aisles toward freedom.
But they’re tripping all over themselves. One stumbles and falls against Pearly, who shoves him away and raises the gun. There are yells, inarticulate shouting. One of the frat guys, emboldened, grabs for the gun.
And Pearly is having none of it. He viciously kicks the guy in the stomach then pulls the trigger. The sound in this enclosed space is deafening, and I can hear almost nothing after that but a ringing in my ears.
I grab Carl, and we duck behind a car.
A scuffle erupts. Two of the guys jump on Pearly, and a third hangs back. Another gunshot echoes. Well, what I think is another gunshot...you know how it sounds when you’re at the bottom of a pool, swimming, and someone throws something in? That kind of a dull thud.
Carl tugs me down, down to the pavement. Underneath the car chassis, I can see feet moving and a white jacket on the ground.
“Oh, Jesus,” I breathe. But I’m pretty sure no one can hear me.
Slowly, I work up the nerve to peer over the hood of the car. The frat boys are gone, dragging along their wounded friend. Pearly lies on the ground. I don’t know where his gun is.
Cautiously, I sneak up on him. I’m wondering how badly he’s hurt.
I reach down to grasp his shoulder. He turns over easily, and it’s bad. Blood covers the front of his linen jacket, making it red and pink, like a can of cherries spilled on a tablecloth. I touch his neck with a shaking hand. I can feel no pulse. Blood leaks from his mouth.
I rock back on my heels. I’m sure I’m swearing, but I can’t hear it. All I can hear is the ringing in my ears and my own pulse thudding in the back of my throat. I can’t say that this bastard doesn’t deserve it. It gives me a helluva lot of satisfaction to see him like this.
On impulse, I open his jacket. I reach inside it for his wallet, stuff it into my book bag.
Carl winds his hand in my shirt and drags me back the way the others ran. I scramble back with him and run.
We run until we find the gate Pearly spoke of. It’s a metal gate, the kind that automatically rolls up and down in shopping malls.
It’s up partway, about two feet from the concrete floor. The control panel is shot out. Probably the work of Pearly’s gun. I fling myself underneath, my book bag in front of me, and Carl smooshes under the edge. The bottom of the gate tears his shirt.
There’s light ahead, the street at the end of the rectangular tunnel. Without looking back, we run.
FIVE BLOCKS LATER, my hearing returns. Sort of. I manage to hear a gravel truck honking at me before I get hit. I can hear Carl if he shouts and enunciates slowly.
We pause at an empty bus stop. With shaking hands, I pull Pearly’s wallet out of my bag.
“What the hell?” Carl shrieks.
“He’s not using it,” I snipe. “Besides, they’ll think those frat guys did it.”
Carl sinks to the bench and covers his face with his hands. “Jesusfuckingchrist.”
This isn’t a battered leather trifold wallet like my old man carries. It’s a fancy bifold wallet that looks more like a passport case. White eelskin. Real eel, not the cheap hagfish that passes for eel in department stores. Must’ve taken a lot of bleach to get it that color.
It’s fucking stuffed with money. There’s a platinum money clip full of hundred-dollar bills, more money than I’ve ever seen outside of a cash register. I’m guessing—without counting—there could be four thousand dollars there.
“Jesus,” I breathe.
There are also credit cards and a driver’s license. Pearly’s real name is Melvin Blanco. His license photo looks like a mug shot.
“Ditch that shit,” Carl says. He points at a se
wer grate in the curb. “Throw it away.”
I hesitate. I know better than to hang on to stolen property. I briefly wonder what Pearly’s—Melvin’s—credit limit is, and what kind of damage I could do before getting caught.
“Get rid of it. Now.”
I stuff the money into my pants pocket. With a pang of regret, I throw the wallet down the sewer. I can’t see or hear where it lands, but I’m pretty sure it’s gone.
A bus rumbles in the distance. I stand on the curb, trying to act nonchalant, but my thoughts are swirling, and my heart’s pounding. Pearly’s dead. Someone’s going to miss him. And we were seen with the frat boys on the elevator.
My hands ball into fists. I didn’t kill him. I just scavenged what was left, I rationalize. If I left it alone, that money would just go back into a mobster’s pocket. He fucking deserves somebody picking at the bones of his carcass for what he did to the Renfelters.
I just hope to hell we don’t get caught.
CARL AND I GET THE stuff from Joyce at the theater. As joyful as it was to play Halloween earlier, a helluva lotta fun has been drained out of the experience.
The trunk is sort of heavy, so I ask Joyce to call us a cab and give her some extra for the trouble. I have money to burn, and really, really want to get home. I ask the cabbie to let us out a couple blocks away from the shop, and we walk the rest of the way with me carrying one handle of the trunk and Carl the other. Because of Carl’s height, the trunk leans unevenly in my direction, and the leather handle cuts off all the circulation in my fingers.
An astonishing amount of progress has been made at Betty’s Burgers. Plywood covers the windows, and the sounds of hammering and nailing echo inside. A van from a cleaning service that specializes in fire and crime scene cleanup is sitting at the curb. Large rolls of ruined carpet sag in the alley.
Carl and I slip in the back of the pawn shop. The door has no sooner hit my ass than my father is standing before us. “Is that more of the Renfelters’ stuff?” he asks.
“Yep,” I squeak. “Taking it to the basement now.”
“Good. The contractors think they can get the least water-damaged areas habitable by tomorrow. If the goddamn drywall crew shows up...”
“What about the cops?” I try to sound nonchalant. “Are they gonna be doing anything about the arson?”
“I think they’re pretty well done and gone.”
The phone rings. My dad swears and sprints to the office to get it.
Carl and I clomp down the stairs to the basement and tuck the trunk in a far-off corner where our old childhood toys were packed up. We park it next to a box of mud-encrusted G.I. Joes. I notice, with some amusement, that the damaged jukebox has been pulled from the back alley and put back in the basement. Probably Rose’s doing. She loves music, and probably shat a brick when she saw it next to the Dumpster.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief. We’re home. We’re safe. Everything will be fine...
Bert stalks around the corner, stares at us with his golden eyes. He’s wearing one of my dad’s golf shirts, which is totally ridiculous on him. His eyes narrow. He takes a deep sniff.
“You guys smell like blood.”
I try to brush past him.
“No.” He shakes his head and blocks my path, crossing his arms. “Where the fuck have you guys been?”
He’ll let me past if I invoke his name, if I order him to. But I refuse to do that anymore.
Carl sits down on the trunk. His expression is morose, and his hands dangle loosely between his knees. “At Byzantium. Trying to get money for a dress for Lily, since her prom dress got ruined. Raz got all chivalrous on that shit.”
Bert cocks his head. “That doesn’t explain why you smell like an abattoir.”
I sniff my shirt sleeve. “I can’t smell anything.”
“You only have five senses. Six, on a good day. What the hell happened?”
“It’s a long story...” I begin.
Carl cuts to the chase. I can tell he’s scared. So am I. “We got mixed up with some dudes who mouthed off to Young Don Spivelli’s girlfriend. Next thing I know, we’re marched down to the bowels of the hotel and a frat boy gets shot, and so does Young Don’s man.”
“One of the dudes who threatened Mrs. Renfelter,” I mumble.
Bert looks at us incredulously. “Are you guys really that stupid? Or that unlucky?”
“We were totally at the wrong place at the wrong time!” I protest, putting my hands up before me, as if I can shield myself from the consequences.
“And genius here takes the dead guy’s wallet,” Carl moans.
“So you’re stupid,” Bert says.
“There was four thousand dollars in it!” I yelp.
“What did you do with the wallet?”
“Chucked it into the sewer.”
Bert rubs his forehead. “You morons.”
“What do we do now?” I ask in a small voice. I hope to fuck that the answer isn’t ‘fess up to your father and turn yourself in to the cops.’
“Strip,” Bert says.
“Huh?”
“Strip.” He stalks over to the old coal boiler and opens the door to the furnace. He screws around, trying to light it, and yellow flame licks through the grate. “There’s trace evidence on your clothes. If I can smell it, the police can find it with an evidence kit.”
“You’re going to burn our clothes?” Carl pulls his shirt over his head.
“Yeah. And you guys are gonna take a shower. Scrub like you’ve been making out with a girl with scabies. Especially under the nails. Bleach would be good.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Um. There’s also a pretty good chance we were caught on videotape in an elevator, going down to the garage. And Young Don’s girl saw us.”
Bert slaps his forehead with his tiny T-Rex hand. “Go shower. And come right back down here.”
“Why?” I croak, trying to slow my panicked breathing. Bert seems to know what the hell he’s doing, I tell myself. Bert will fix it.
“Just do it already!”
We scurry away to do Bert’s bidding. Mindful of the female types infiltrating the building, we put our clothes in a grocery sack after each turn in the shower. I use my toothbrush to get under my nails like Bert said. Carl cuts his right down to the quick with clippers.
Re-dressed and with wet hair, we return to the basement with our clothes in bags.
“Is this everything?” Bert asks. “Backpacks and shoes, too?”
“Bert!”
“How many asshats do you think are wandering around downtown with military surplus backpacks? Take your books out, but everything else burns. Shoes, too. Especially shoes.”
I morosely surrender my motorcycle boots to Bert. Carl is pleased that at least he wasn’t wearing his letterman jacket. Bert stuffs it all into the belly of the furnace, and the yellow flame chews at the leather and cloth. I hope it’s devouring the last of the evidence.
“The money,” Bert says. “You kept it.”
“Mmm, yeah.”
“You can’t spend it.”
“You’re not going to make us burn the money!” I squeal.
“No, but you can’t be dipshits and start flashing cash. No spending for six months. Okay?”
We agree in a chorus of “okays.”
Bert upends a cardboard box. Some electric clippers fall out, and he picks them up.
“What the hell is that for?”
“It’s time for you boys to get an extreme makeover—whether you want one or not.”
We submit. Bert parks Carl on a folding chair in front of the flickering firelight. Carl reluctantly loosens his pony tail. All lustrous and beautiful, his blond hair looks like a Viking’s, or a girl’s.
Bert isn’t sentimental. He buzzes it off in rows like he’s running a lawnmower. Sticky bits of hair fall to the floor. When he’s through, Carl looks like a jarhead, a lot like Zach before he was supposed to ship off—though Carl has a scar in the back of his head fro
m a football injury.
“Next.”
I sit still, feeling the buzz against my neck and reverberating through my skull as the clippers scythe through my dark curls. They fall to the floor, tangling with Carl’s Viking hair. I’m gonna look like a dork.
Bert shuts the clippers off. He dusts off my shoulders like a barber and sweeps up our hair. He feeds it to the furnace.
“There,” he says. “You look different.”
It feels different. I run my hand over the back of my head. It’s weird. Plush, like velvet. Carl hands me a reflector from a car. I peer into it. I do, indeed, look like a dork. My scalp is paler than my face, and my head is kind of pointy. Also, my ears stick out.
“What do we tell people?”
Bert snorts as he stirs the fire with a poker. Hair is burning in balls of sparks. “Tell them you got head lice. That’s a plausible reason for a big change that’s embarrassing enough to be true.”
“You’re an asshole, Bert.”
“Feh. Stay indoors as much as you can for the next several weeks. Try to act normal. And since you guys cut class, you need to work out an alibi. Like you were at the carnival. No mention of the costume thing—that gives motive. You guys skipped school and went to the carnival. Work out a timetable—what you did and saw and ate. And talk about it with each other, so you’re on the same page.”
I put down the reflector. This is a shitload more complicated than I thought it was gonna be. “Is this gonna be all right?” I want some reassurance. Stupid, I know.
“I have no idea.”
“I thought you knew about this kind of thing.”
Bert crosses his tiny arms over his polo shirt. “I know how to disappear and start over. Done that a bazillion times. If you guys decide that’s what you want to do if the heat comes down, I’ll help you. But wait and see if it comes. If your pictures show up in the paper.”
I lean forward. “You can do that? Make us disappear?” I don’t know why I haven’t considered that before. Bert has to have done it maybe hundreds of times. I flash on the fantasy of Lily and me starting out someplace else. And now, there’s money...
