Graffiti Creek

by Matt Coleman

  Jonathan laughed. “Yeah. You do, too. We all do. They gave them to us from the department.”

  Chapter 17

  The girl driving shook, almost crying. “Who was that guy? Your husband?

  Cary stayed in the floorboard. “No. Not my husband.”

  The passenger pulled out the money and checked it, then put it back in her pocket. “That guy reeked of cop. What’d you do?”

  Cary cocked her head. “You’re quick, aren’t you? I didn’t do anything. Big misunderstanding. What are your names?”

  The driver’s voice still quivered. “Haley.”

  The passenger looked almost bored. “What’s yours?”

  “Cary.” She paused. “Probably best to keep it at first names.”

  The passenger smiled wryly. “Fair enough. Grayson.”

  Cary sat up a little. “Well, Grayson. I need a favor. One that pays. How much did I give you?”

  Grayson smacked at a piece of gum. “Four hundred.”

  Cary nodded. “I’ve got four hundred more. I need a ride. You girls know Roosevelt High School?”

  Haley chirped. “Yes. I used to date a guy who went there.”

  “Good. I need you to drop me off there and pick me up later.”

  Grayson raised an eyebrow. “Right now?”

  Cary struggled her way into the backseat. “Before seven. Give me maybe until eight.”

  Haley looked back. “That’s in four hours.”

  Grayson leaned onto the console. “Why do you need to go to a high school at night?”

  “There’s a gala. Some policeman’s thing. I’m not sure what it’s called.”

  Grayson smiled. “I know it’s not the Policeman’s Ball.”

  Cary squinted at her, and then bit. “How do you know?”

  “Because policemen don’t have balls.” She slapped Cary on the knee and laughed. “So that’s the dress, huh?”

  Cary laughed along and nodded. “Yeah, I need a place to change, I guess.”

  Haley made a sour face over her shoulder. “You need more than a place to change.”

  Cary shot her an affronted look. “What?”

  Haley raised her eyebrows and smiled. “We need to go to the mall or something.” She motioned toward Cary’s face. “You need…lots of things.”

  Grayson clapped her hands in feigned chipperness. “Makeover! Makeover!”

  Cary rolled her eyes. “I’m going to go ahead and hard pass on the mall. Without getting into it, people might be looking for me.”

  Grayson smirked. “Yeah. So you go to a dinner party with a bunch of cops. Makes perfect sense.”

  “I’m not scared of cops. Well, not all cops. Only a few.” Cary frowned. “Balls. Hopefully, they won’t be there.”

  Haley flashed another patronizing smile. “I’m just saying.”

  Cary started something, but Grayson interrupted her. “Haley’s not wrong, you know? Whatever you did—” Cary flashed a look and Grayson held her hands up and corrected, “Or didn’t do. And whoever it is looking for you. They’re looking for,” she motioned up and down Cary with a finger, “you. Now, my friend here may seem a bit spacey and shallow, but you give her a couple of hours in the mall.” She winked and made a clicking sound with her mouth. “You won’t even recognize yourself.”

  Cary bit her lip and thought.

  Grayson added, “Of course, that’ll be another hundred.”

  Cary sighed. “Oh, of course.”

  It had been years since Cary felt like “one of the girls.” She never got into the shopping-nails-hair-makeup frenzy too much anyway. But after spending the better part of a day trying to avoid getting murdered, a little pampering provided, despite all of her instincts, a nice release. She traded the oversized pockets of her jacket for a clutch which complimented her dress. All three girls got makeovers and manicures and shoes and pretzel bites, Cary’s treat. They whipped up a regular goddamn sleepover in the middle of the day.

  At the end of it all, Cary found a full-length mirror in a Macy’s and stood staring into it. “Fuck me.”

  Grayson leaned onto her shoulder. “Oh, he’ll want to.”

  Cary cut her eyes at her. “I’m gay.”

  Grayson shrugged. “He’ll still want to.”

  By the time they drove toward the school, the little digital clock in the dash read a quarter past seven. Cary kept checking the time on her stolen phone until Haley scolded her. “Stop! You can’t be on time. You look desperate when you’re on time to an event. And you sure as shit couldn’t be as early as you wanted to be. You would have looked like a murderer.”

  Grayson spoke out of the side of her mouth. “Which she might be.”

  Haley rolled her eyes. “Please. She’s not a murderer. She wears Crocs.”

  The girls laughed in agreement, and Cary piped in. “They aren’t Crocs. The Crocs company manufactures them, but they aren’t, like, Crocs Crocs.”

  The girls nodded exaggeratedly and kept laughing.

  Cary added, “I’m not a murderer.”

  Haley cruised through a neighborhood across from the school. She stopped in front of an empty house—a for sale sign sat out front in an unmanicured lawn. Haley looked back at Cary. “I’ll drop you off and pull back around here. We can sit and wait.”

  Cary shook her head. “You don’t have to wait.”

  Haley closed one eye. “I think we do. You were running for your life earlier. I’m not sure you can assume this goes well for you.”

  Cary looked over at the high school. “Fair point.”

  The girls dropped Cary off at the door. The high school expanded across a few blocks in a multi-building behemoth of structure. Lights looped and hung along a walkway leading to what looked like the primary building—two or three stories and brick, but newer than the buildings around it. High school students stood at the doors as greeters. People traipsed in and out, holding drinks, carrying on jovial conversations about mundane topics.

  Cary’s nerves felt like a wet sack of joy buzzers. She jerked at every passing hello. Inside the doors, she took a moment to close her eyes and collect herself. This could never work if she came across like a lunatic. Luckily, none of the faces looked familiar. She hoped this would be the last place any of her pursuers would expect her to be. And even if they showed up, the diner proved to her they couldn’t make a move around other cops, of which this place had an abundance.

  Never before had Cary put any stock into the old “looks like a cop” label. Grayson had pegged Mr. Cheap Suit for one in the garage. And now, she had to admit, these guys all looked like cops. The crowd consisted of white men and their wives. Although a few outliers mingled around, along with a few female officers of rank, the plus ones stood out from the invited like parents at a park. Cary accepted a flute of white wine from a tray. Holding something made her feel more at ease.

  She scanned the room for Ken Webster. She pulled up a photo of him on her phone, and she kept stealing glances of it in her clutch. It didn’t take long. Ken Webster and his wife were toward the front of the large lobby where the event centered. A massive, curved, glowing blue tile wall ran the entire height of the building along the far side. And the Websters stood in the glow of it, chatting with a steady stream of people.

  As she made her way toward the police chief, two spots of tan caught her eye. The two tan suits flanking the room stood out from all the black and navy. They both scanned the crowd. Searching. Looking for Cary.

  She turned her back to them and swore to herself. They can’t hurt you in a crowd, she thought. The mantra didn’t grant her quite the solace she had hoped for. Cary downed the rest of her wine and started back for the doors. Her only hope was Marlowe would come through with plan B.

  About ten yards from the door, before Cary emerged from the crowd, a woman burst through the doors. Her jeans and sweatshirt stood out like sardines in a fruit tray. Not to mention she was female, and black. But Cary didn’t need any of those for the woman to grab her attention,
because she recognized her. The cop from last night. Doyle.

  Cary spun back around and marked the two fat detectives. Doyle held at her back, surveying the crowd. They triangulated her. One of Cary’s bosses used that word far too often, and it came back to her in the moment like acid reflux. She looked for doors. Doyle was posted by the main set. The two dicks stationed themselves up in front of what appeared to be the only other exits to the outside. Over to one side of the triangle of death a hallway stretched off into a darkened school. And then there stood the Websters. Her first option became her only option.

  Taking a second wine, Cary wove back through the crowd toward Ken Webster. Two older men held him engrossed in conversation. His wife hung at his elbow, sipping her drink with a blasé expression. Cary stood behind the two old men like she was waiting in line. When they moved on, she stepped forward with, “Excuse me. Chief Webster?” But before it registered, he turned to a louder voice guffawing something at him.

  Mrs. Webster laughed. “Oh, sweetheart. You have to be more forceful. He can be an oblivious jackass. Like a thirteen-year-old boy in math class.” She motioned toward the loud man talking to her husband. “He’s always going to get distracted by the class clown.”

  Cary smiled politely. “He has a lot of demands on his attention. I understand.”

  Mrs. Webster looked her up and down. “That’s a darling dress.”

  Cary glanced down. “Thank you. It’s—it was my friend’s.”

  “Well, she has great taste.” Mrs. Webster extended a hand. “Karen.”

  Cary switched her wine to her left and shook Karen Webster’s hand. “Cary. Trubody. Lovely to meet you.”

  Karen cocked her head. “‘Lovely to meet you?’” She let out a breathy laugh. “No one says that anymore.”

  Cary shook her head. “I don’t say it either. I have no idea why I did.”

  They both laughed and let it bleed into a conversation about cocktail parties and wine and shoes. All the while, Cary tried repeatedly to get the police chief’s attention only to fail each time. Karen set her empty wine glass on a passing tray and put a hand on Cary’s arm. “You let me find a little girl’s room, hon. Then I’m coming back here to force the insufferable ass to talk to you.”

  When Karen turned to head for the restroom, a figure stood menacing in the woman’s wake. Detective Dick had spotted her. He spoke into a cell phone and moved toward her. To her left, Ken Webster continued talking to a revolving door of old men. She turned right and hurried after Karen Webster. “I think I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course, dear.” Karen linked arms with Cary and they walked down the hallway which darkened into the rest of the school.

  The noises of the party died away, swallowed by the acoustics of the cavernous lobby. Cary and Karen walked swiftly. Behind them, Cary heard the footsteps of boots. The hallway grew darker. Karen babbled on about something, but all Cary could hear were boot steps. They turned a corner and everything got even darker. Light burst out of two doorways ahead of them on the left. Cary could see the male/female restroom icons above the doors. The echoing of the steps grew faster, closer. Cary could sense someone behind them as they swerved into the open restroom.

  Once inside, Cary swirled around and took Karen by both arms. She looked around Karen to the door and found nothing. She whispered. “I have to tell you something.”

  Karen’s face blanched in surprise but instantly grew concerned. “What’s the matter, sweetheart?”

  Cary breathed in rapid pants. “This is going to sound insane, but I have nowhere else to turn. I’m being targeted by police. Only a handful of them. They think I’m someone I’m not. Or maybe I have something I don’t have. And all this can be cleared up, but I need protection. I need help. I need—”

  “Cary, honey. I—” Karen stopped. Her eyes quivered. She looked as if she may vomit mid-sentence.

  Cary shook her head. “What’s wrong?”

  Karen’s mouth hung open, as if searching for a word she couldn’t remember. Blood pooled around her teeth and on her bottom lip. She coughed involuntarily, spraying blood all over Cary’s face. The bathroom echoed with a wet sucking sound. And Karen collapsed into Cary, almost knocking them both down.

  Detective Dick hovered over her. Holding a bloody knife and staring at Cary. He didn’t smile. Or threaten. His stare said, Look what you made me do. He reached a bloody hand across Karen’s body and stroked Cary’s cheek. He turned and rushed out of the bathroom, turning away from where they had come, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

  Cary let the weight of Karen take her to the ground. Dick had stabbed her behind the ear. And Karen Webster’s ear bled like a leaky sink. Cary desperately tried to put pressure on the wound and talk to her and flip her over. Anything. Everything.

  “Mrs. Webster? Mrs. Webster? Please. Please. You’re okay. I’ll get help. You’ll be okay.”

  She looked around in a frenzied search for a way out of this. Dick had left the knife lying in front of them. And on either side of the knife dawned a shadow. Cary looked up to find to party guests standing in the doorway. She shook her head at them. One of the women let out a scream like a hurt animal. The other looked sick and held a hand up in fear. She cowered away from Cary, saying, “What did you do?”

  Cary started to say something, but they had turned in a run back toward the party. To alert a room full of police.

  Chapter 18

  Marlowe sat in a booth of the convenient store where Cary left him. The steamy food counter of the gas station served fried chicken and potato boats and taquitos. Marlowe spent his only cash on a cardboard tray of fried okra.

  He and his brother loved gas station fried okra when they were kids. Gas stations were about the only place you could find real fried okra. They fell in love with it spending summers with their grandmother in Alabama. Fried okra tasted like Southern summers spent getting chased out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon. Marlowe’s brother was a next-level wizard at crashing through the kitchen and coming out with a blistering handful of okra. They would sit out under a big oak tree and lay the greasy pieces out between them right in the grass. His brother would smile bigger than Huck Finn with his bare feet and blue jeans cuffed up to his knees. He always loved it down South. The lazy rhythm appealed to him.

  He rolled the last piece of okra between his fingers and fought back tears. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Shelley rattled at him before he could answer. “‘lowe, where you at? I’ve been worried.”

  Marlowe repeated her name to calm her down. “Shelley. Shelley, I’m okay. I’m at a gas station over on Yarberry. The one with the okra me and Do Right like.” He hung his head. “Liked.”

  “You don’t know he’s dead, ‘lowe.”

  “I do, Shelley. I don’t know how, but I do. And I was thinking, if we can find his body, I want to bury him next to Grandma.”

  “Stop! I’m not ready for that yet!”

  “Shelley, they killed him. And they’re going to kill you, too, if you let them. That’s what I’m not ready for. I lost my little brother. I’m not about to lose my baby sister, too.”

  Shelley sniffed into the phone. “You won’t. I’m doing everything I’m supposed to. But Marlowe, I can’t let them hurt somebody because of me.”

  “I ain’t worried about somebody else, Shelley.”

  Shelley’s breathing faltered. “Marlowe. Please tell me she’s still with you.”

  Marlowe held the phone down and brought it back up. “We had a truck. A truck I took from some old guy. She left me here and took it.”

  “What do you mean you ‘took from some old guy?’ You stole a truck?”

  “Yeah. I stole a truck. It was life or death, Shelley. They got me in this now. And I’m about to get us both out.”

  “Where is she, Marlowe?”

  “She talked it out and reasoned that she only has two ways out of this shit. One was to go all the way to the top. She figures the chief of police
can’t be crooked, so maybe he’d listen to her. She went to find him.”

  “Shit.” Shelley’s end of the line buzzed with silence. “She—she won’t be able to go up and—” Shelley sighed. “There’s some gala at Roosevelt High tonight. All the bigwigs will be there.”

  Marlowe swallowed. “Yeah. I looked it up.”

  “Marlowe. They can’t find out where she’s going.”

  He sighed into the phone. “They already did, Shelley.”

  “Shit. Shit!” Shelley hung up.

  Marlowe sat and stared at his phone until Shelley called back. “I’m sorry, Shelley. But all I’m worried about right now is—”

  “What are you supposed to do?”

  “What?”

  “You. You said she thought of two things and left you at the gas station. To do what?”

  Marlowe laughed a little. “She figures there must be another Cary Trubody out there. They must have gotten mixed up. I’m supposed to find the other one.”

  Shelley let out a breathy laugh. “Jesus.”

  Shelley hung up and threw her phone across the room. Marlowe talked to her like they were still kids. He always took on a tone like some kind of church deacon. She laughed to herself and thought, That boy ain’t sat through church a day in his damn life. Marlowe always felt responsible for everything. Like part of his job was to hold up the sky. Their momma even kidded him about his sense of burden. Called him Atlas. It wasn’t until studying mythology in high school when any of them got the joke.

  Those early days wore hard on Marlowe. Their momma worked two jobs back then, and Marlowe ran baths and fixed lunches. He kept the weight of the sky off Shelley and their brother so they could play through life.

  At least Shelley straightened up. While she still lived at home, their momma married a rich man whose house she cleaned. Everything got so much easier for their momma once she took on a rich man’s name. He was a nice man. Shelley let him adopt her. Figured she’d score herself some of the rich name. Didn’t take long to learn the name didn’t do much by itself. So Shelley put herself in a position to earn the respect she wanted. She ran for class offices. She got into college on a scholarship. She did pre-law and joined the Academy. And, by God, she shined her badge every night before her shift.