When
the Shit Hits the Housewife
by Johnny Ostentatious
PROLOGUE
Marie tried to keep up
with the backpedaling woman who held her hostage. The woman was behind Marie
and had her arm around MarieÕs throat. Marie tried swallowing and placed her
hands on the womanÕs arm in an effort to loosen the chokehold. Marie dropped
her freckled hand from the womanÕs skinny, ashen arm when the muzzle of the
pistol in the womanÕs other hand pressed harder against MarieÕs temple—if
that was at all possible.
Marie closed her
eyes. Would this be happening if she and Matthew had never gone went to that
happy-hour party?
1
The month: May. The
night: Friday. The time: 8 p.m.
It was a perfect
spring evening, the workweek a fading aberration, and the only worry was how to
spend the next restful 60 hours or so. †ber-beautiful 80-degree temperature and
the setting sun made this Friday night particularly pleasant. All around,
excited voices partook in intellectual conversation or office gossip. The best
of both worlds.
Thirty-seven-year-old
Marie Dougherty enjoyed this on the deck of Graham ArcherÕs house. Graham
worked with Matthew, MarieÕs husband, at Leaf & Dashiell, a healthcare
publisher. Graham was the executive editor, overseeing a staff of 20. His house
was in Narberth, a Philadelphia suburb. GrahamÕs deck overlooked a sprawling
backyard that ran into a park. Marie wasnÕt sure where the property line lay,
since the Archers never put up a fence.
Matthew joined
Marie at the wood railing. He held a 16-ounce Deer Park bottle. ÒNice night.Ó
Marie nodded.
She was unsure what to do with her margarita. In hindsight, she should have
never accepted it from Graham. Matthew was coming up on 90 days of sobriety. He
attended Alcoholics Anonymous meetings four nights a week (Thursday through Sunday).
She didnÕt think he had a problem with the bottle. Sure, he had imbibed on
weekends, and about once a month, he got sloshed, but it wasnÕt as if he boozed
every day. However, he wanted to put the kibosh on his partying, since alcoholism
ran deep on both sides of his family.
Graham stepped
out of the house, closing the sliding door behind him. He swerved through the
mid-size crowd on the deck. ÒThereÕs the man IÕm looking for!Ó He wrapped an
inebriated arm around MatthewÕs shoulders.
Graham measured 6
feet, 6 inches and was 44 years old. He had a mane of brown hair that receded
slightly, and with each passing year, he packed on a couple more pounds. Marie
couldnÕt call him fat because his body distributed the weight well, but if kept
up at the current rate, he would—without question—be obese in the
next six years. Regardless, she thought he looked like Penn Jillette from Penn
& Teller, though Graham lacked the booming voice of that loquacious half of
the comic-magic duo. Graham had a slight lisp and a gruff voice, the latter a
result of his cigar-a-day habit.
ÒWhatÕs going
on?Ó Matthew asked.
Graham clapped
his bearish arm around Matthew, who stumbled from the force of the greeting.
ÒIÕm going to be
honest with you, Mrs.
Dougherty,Ó Graham said. ÒWe couldnÕt have wrapped up the latest project in
time without your little honeybunch here. And a week ahead of schedule, no
less! Yes!!!Ó
Matthew blushed.
He fiddled with the label of his Deer Park bottle.
Graham removed
his arm from around Matthew and said, ÒNow, if youÕll excuse me, I need to go
tinkle.Ó Their host staggered back into his five-bedroom house.
Marie beamed at
Matthew. Unlike most American men, he probably wasnÕt figuring out how to parlay
GrahamÕs compliment into a pay raise. It made her love him even more. Like her,
he was content to live in their three-bedroom house in Glenside and travel
abroad once a year for a week or two.
ÒVolleyball
time!Ó Graham yelled from the kitchen, his forehead pushing against the screen
of the window overlooking the deck.
Everyone on the
deck except Marie and Matthew streamed down the two flights of steps into the
backyard.
ÒSure you donÕt
want to go down?Ó Matthew asked.
Marie shook her
head. ÒLetÕs stay up here for a few more minutes.Ó She touched MatthewÕs cheek,
her fingers on his earlobes, thumb grazing his five oÕclock shadow. ÒItÕs been
a long week.Ó
In order to
finish his project, Matthew had worked 12-hour days all week, except today. He
never worked past five on Fridays.
Marie removed
her hand from MatthewÕs face. She grinned.
Abruptly,
Matthew bent to kiss Marie. His amorous movement surprised her, but she had
enough time to purse her lips for his peck. The kiss over, a jolt of arousal
shot through her. She couldnÕt wait to get home. Her overactive imagination had
a few sexual scenarios she was eager to try out.
Down below, in
the backyard, partygoers split up into two teams. The team on the left side of
the net consisted of six players, three of them huddled in the corner farthest
away from the deck. The triad were girls in their early- to mid-twenties: a
blond, a brunette and a redhead. The blonde and the brunette both wore tight
white T-shirts and shorts that in a different decade would have been called hot
pants. The redhead wore a long-sleeved, ankle-length white dress with daisies
on it.
Marie pretended
to drink. ÒWhich one is she?Ó
ÒDoesnÕt
matter,Ó Matthew said.
ÒTo me it does.Ó
Matthew sighed.
ÒThe blond wearing the Gwen Stefani T-shirt.Ó
Marie frowned.
The bimboÕs blond hair had the luster of a shampoo model. Marie tucked a curl
of her own red hair behind her ear. She hadnÕt examined her roots lately. Any
more gray hairs? Maybe I should dye my hair. Mentally, she shook her head. As an adolescent,
she dyed her hair so often, the routine nowadays bored her more than an Anita
Blake novel.
ÒIf it makes you
feel any better,Ó Matthew said, Òher semesterÕs over next week.Ó
Marie gulped her
margarita.
The blond bimbo
was an intern for the spring semester at Leaf & Dashiell. Almost from day
one in mid-January, the Bimbo Intern zeroed in on Matthew. That hadnÕt surprised
Marie. He resembled a young Harrison Ford and had been the object of many
indecent proposals over the years. But the Bimbo InternÕs persistence startled
Marie. Matthew told how the 22-year-old had bragged about her sexual adventures
ending each tale with: ÒBut IÕm, like, totally sick of college boys. I need to
experience a mature, older man.Ó
The volleyball
game began. The redhead did the first serve. The brunette and the Bimbo Intern hovered
near the net. The redheadÕs serve was impressive—low and fast. The
opposing team scrambled to keep the ball in the air. The Intern jumped up and
down, her copious breasts bouncing around like sacks of silicone.
Marie set her
glass on the wooden railing and folded her arms across her own chest. She was
happy with her body, except for her breasts. She didnÕt like having A-cups;
they made her feel inadequate. She knew she shouldnÕt think so much about her neighbors, as Matthew called them, but she couldnÕt get
over being shortchanged in that department. And it didnÕt help that her
well-endowed mother, who died last year, had referred to them as Òsunny side
up.Ó Sometimes, Marie wished she hadnÕt been adopted.
ÒDonÕt even go
there,Ó Matthew said.
ÒWhat?Ó
In the backyard,
the redhead spiked the volleyball, scoring a point. The Bimbo Intern gave her a
high five, the slapping of skin echoing.
Matthew said,
ÒYou know I love you and would never do anything to hurt you.Ó
Marie frowned.
ÒLoyal, loving husbands have fallen into temptation before.Ó
ÒBut I wonÕt.
Besides, IÕll never see her again after next week.Ó
ÒYou know what
worries me?Ó
ÒThat the world
will probably never see peace in the Middle East?Ó Matthew joked.
Marie smiled
politely. ÒNo, when she came into your office to show you her tattoo.Ó
MatthewÕs thumb
played with the white, plastic ring on the lip of his Deer Park bottle.
A couple months
before, the Bimbo Intern had barged into MatthewÕs office early one Wednesday
morning, when no one was in yet. She announced that the previous night, after
her weekly visit to the Empire Rock Club for ladiesÕ night, she had gotten a
tattoo. Would he like to see? Before he could answer, she planted a foot on the
edge of his desk and inched up her miniskirt to display a quarter-size rose on
her upper-inner thigh. And she wore no underwear.
ÒYou have to
admit,Ó Marie said, Òthat was very forward, even in this day and age.Ó
ÒI know.Ó
ÒDonÕt get me
wrong. IÕm proud you ushered her out of your office. Not a lot of men would
have the willpower to do that.Ó
ÒBut,Ó Matthew
prompted.
ÒBut you
shouldÕve fired her or at the very least reported her to human resources.Ó
ÒHon, how many
times do we have to go through this? ItÕs pointless to go down to Judy in H.R.
Sexual-harassment suits almost always favor the woman. Besides, letÕs not
forget how she got the paid internship in the first place.Ó
ÒI know, I
know.Ó
The Bimbo InternÕs
uncle was Raymond Dashiell, son of one of the companyÕs founders. Raymond
Dashiell was active in the Montgomery County Republican Party and he sat on the
board of directors at Leaf & Dashiell. In theory, no board member outranked
any other, but 90 percent of the boardÕs decisions favored Raymond.
Marie uncrossed
her arms and picked up her drink. What really bothered her was that since the
tattoo incident, Matthew had told no more Bimbo Intern tales. The 22-year-old
floozy didnÕt strike Marie as someone who gave up easily. I mean, look at
her down there, chasing the ball all over the place.
ÒIsnÕt there
anything you can do?Ó Marie asked.
ÒLike what?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.
IÕve never interned or co-opted. IsnÕt there a report or e-mail sent to her
school, letting them know how well or bad she did?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.
SheÕs actually GrahamÕs responsibility—his gofer, more or less. And from
what heÕs told me, sheÕs a pretty good worker.Ó
ÒI bet.Ó
The volleyball
landed on the grass. Someone kicked it, and the ball shot into the park. The
player apologized and jogged after the ball. The other players used the unofficial
time-out to imbibe their drinks. One of the players, who looked like an extra
from The O.C., ducked under
the net and whispered in the Bimbo InternÕs ear. She batted her eyelashes.
Wonder if
theyÕre fake, Marie thought. Probably
are. Like the rest of her.
Graham came out
of the house holding two unlit torches, each on a six-foot stand. ÒGlad to see
at least two of my guests possess the aptitude to stand back and be spectators.
Not everyone can be a superstar on the field of life.Ó
ÒNeed a hand?Ó
Matthew asked. A little too eagerly, Marie thought. Glad for the diversion?
ÒNah, IÕm fine,
mate.Ó
Marie hadnÕt
seen Graham in a while. SheÕd forgotten about his fondness for British slang.
That personality quirk had always fascinated her because Graham never left the
continental United States.
Graham placed
one of the torches in a corner on the deck and the other by the stairs to the
backyard. He lit both. Marie inhaled the torchesÕ scent (vanilla-pumpkin mixed
with citronella) and felt the heat from the one near the steps.
Marie finished
her margarita and listened to cicadas. A mosquito buzzed near her ear. She
swatted it. Off to the left, the sun sank like the Titanic.
Graham grabbed a
bottle of Sam Adams from the cooler on the deck. ÒHey, hey!Ó He staggered down
the steps to the volleyball court. ÒQuit loafing around! I paid good money for
these tickets, and I expect to be entertained, goddamnit!!!Ó
Most of the
players laughed. The Bimbo Intern cackled. Marie rolled her eyes.
ÒOh, shit!Ó
Matthew said. His Deer Park had slipped from his hand and bounced off the
railing. The bottle landed on the shoulder of a man with a crew cut, who was
built like a missile launcher. The spring water spilled down his back. He
jerked. The bottle tumbled down his front. He punched the plastic. It zoomed under
the deck and crashed into a lawn chair.
ÒSorry, Mick,Ó
Matthew said. ÒNeed a towel or anything?Ó
Mick blinked at
Matthew, lips straight, eyes seething. He stepped out from under the porch. His
casual dress shirt soaked, he undid the buttons and took it off. Marie noted
that Matthew had a similar one. Red and black checkers with a button-down
collar.
ÒThatÕs Mick
Collins,Ó Matthew whispered to Marie. ÒHeÕs the new art director. IÕve eaten
lunch with him a few times in the picnic area.Ó
Marie stole
another glance at the wet art director. He knelt on the grass and fussed with
the trade paperback he had held during his unscheduled shower. She squinted.
CouldnÕt make out the lettering on the book, but she recognized the image on
the cover. Ayn RandÕs Atlas Shrugged.
Matthew leaned
over the railing. ÒYou sure I canÕt get you anything?Ó
Mick blinked for
about five seconds, then turned away, shaking his head and waving a hand. Marie
saw that he wore blue jeans and black Converse high-tops, just like her childhood
friend Nick.
Matthew took
MarieÕs hand. ÒI think weÕve overstayed our welcome.Ó
ÒSpeak for
yourself.Ó
ÒAre you saying
youÕd rather hang out here all night instead of going home to the privacy of
our own bedroom?Ó
ÒWhy, what would
we ever do there?Ó Marie smirked.
ÒOh, I donÕt
know. Play a little skin flute, maybe.Ó
ÒIÕll be in the
car,Ó Marie joked.
As Marie and
Matthew said their goodbyes, three deer stood on the edge of the forest,
staring at the volleyball court.
2
Marie waited as Matthew
unlocked the passenger-side door of their Toyota Prius; he held her door open
with the arm that had a tattoo of his old band, Mr. Mainstream. A moment later,
he was in the driverÕs seat. A millisecond after the engine turned over, he unclipped
his iPod from his belt and hooked it up to the car stereo. He pressed shuffle
songs. The first tune to play was
the Thompson TwinsÕ ÒWe Are Detective.Ó
ÒWow, look at
that.Ó Marie pointed at a car that looked like the kind Mike Myers drove in the
Austin Powers movies, except
this one didnÕt have the British flag painted on it. However, it did have a
miniature Union Jack on the tip of its antenna.
ÒThatÕs GrahamÕs
latest toy,Ó Matthew said.
ÒHe sure does
love the U.K., doesnÕt he?Ó
ÒTo each his
own.Ó
Matthew reversed
out of the driveway, and they left the heart of Narberth. To get to their house
in Glenside, the Prius had to cut through Philadelphia. Matthew knew a shortcut.
Fifteen minutes
into the ride, the sun had set. The Prius headlights punctured the darkness.
The streetlights on Tabor Avenue were either blown out or their timers were out
of whack—Marie went with the latter.
The Prius was
the only auto on this two-lane road. Plenty of cars were parked on the residential/commercial
avenue, but no other traffic was in sight. Marie noticed that no pedestrians
were around.
At the
intersection of Tabor Road and Godfrey Avenues, the light turned red. Matthew
slowed to a stop. Activity materialized. Cars and trucks zoomed by in both directions
on Godfrey. From a few row homes on the left, residents exited to race down the
housesÕ concrete steps.
The light turned
green. On the right was the Defense Supply Center; on the left, more row homes.
ÒGoddamnit,Ó
Matthew muttered.
The Prius had
gone no more than 100 yards before hitting another red light on Tabor Road
between Cheltenham Avenue and Rosalie Street. The iPod played AdorableÕs ÒSubmarine.Ó
ÒI ask you,Ò
Matthew said, slapping the steering wheel, Òwhat is the point of this light
here?Ó
ÒWell, there is
that.Ó MarieÕs nose motioned to the right, at a black gate belonging to the Defense
Supply Center.
ÒPshaw. I was
telling somebody at work about this the other day. In the five years IÕve been
taking this road to work, IÕve yet to see that gate open once.Ó
ÒWhy donÕt you
speed? That way, you can get the green light.Ó
Tabor Road had a
speed limit of 30 miles per hour. If you did 40 or 45, you could catch all
green lights until it was time to turn left on Martins Mill Road.
ÒIÕm trying to
be good,Ó Matthew said. ÒThatÕs one of the things I like about AA. They talk
about doing whatÕs right. On the downside, they canÕt go five minutes without
babbling about God.Ó He frowned. ÒStupid Christians.Ó
Marie nodded.
Growing up, she and Matthew had fallen prey to the Catholic ChurchÕs aggressive
brainwashing policy. He went to CCD classes for a few years; she spent grade
school at Presentation Blessed Virgin Mary.
ÒGo,Ó Marie
said. The light was green.
Matthew put the
Prius in park, took his foot off the brake and unsnapped his seatbelt. Before
Marie could say anything, he tore out of the car. He left the door open, keys
in the ignition ding-ding-dinging.
An SUV coming
the other way on Tabor slowed down. The driver lay on the horn. Matthew ran in
front of the SUV. From her seat, Marie watched his body momentarily slice
through the headlights.
Marie put on the
PriusÕ hazards, unbuckled her seatbelt and opened her door.
Matthew was on
the opposite side of Tabor. He sprinted across Cheltenham AvenueÕs pedestrian
strip. A car (Marie couldnÕt tell the color, make or model—it was too
dark), which had been behind the SUV, was in the process of turning onto
Cheltenham, but MattÕs darting forced the car to swerve around him. Bassy,
bellicose hip-hop blared from the car.
Marie squinted.
Matthew veered left into an alley.
An 18-wheeler
barreled around the right of the Prius. The truck driver, who wore an unwashed
NASCAR cap, called Marie a Òliberal cunt.Ó
3
Marie didnÕt get home
until 3 a.m. The cops took her
down to the Second Precinct and interviewed her over and over and over again.
She told the story so many times, she was sick of her own voice. Yes, Detective,
my husband jumped out of the car, almost got himself killed running across the
street, then dashed down an alley. No, I donÕt know why he did it. No, we donÕt
know anybody in the neighborhood. Yes, weÕre happily married.
Crawling into
bed, Marie didnÕt bother changing into her pajamas. She wondered if the
adrenaline from the eveningÕs events would keep her awake. Not to worry. She
fell asleep quicker than an ErgsÕ intro guitar riff.
4
Late Monday morning.
Marie had spent
the weekend sleeping, watching Netflix DVDs and eating takeout. Right now, she
lounged on the living-room couch. On the muted TV, Bob Barker yapped about the
Showcase Showdown on a Price Is Right rerun. From the kitchen wafted the smell of last nightÕs dinner:
Seafood Delight, Cantonese style.
All weekend,
Marie had stayed close to the phone. Not surprising, no one had called. She had
no immediate family left, and the friends in her Rolodex were acquaintances at
best. For the past 15 years, her world had consisted of Matthew and her career.
Marie was a
writer. In addition to turning out four romance novels a year, she wrote for
womenÕs magazines, and she had recently landed a monthly column in Philadelphia
Weekly, the cityÕs premier arts
and entertainment newspaper.
Any other Monday
morning at the current time—11:30—Marie would already have spent
two and a half hours writing. Fortunately, she was between projects, so she
could afford the time off.
Marie glanced at
the phone. She thought about calling the police precinct, but the past 60 hours
or so of vegging had the unintended effect of regression. Her present state of
mind was similar to her worldview at age 16, when she was more
antiauthoritarian than Jello Biafra.
Why should I
call the cops? Marie thought. They
donÕt care. TheyÕre probably too busy scoffing down donuts and framing innocent
minorities because theyÕre too lazy to do some actual investigating.
Marie jumped off
the sofa. Enough self-pity. Time for a little action and reaction.
Swiping her keys
from the bookcase near the front door, Marie marched with the stride of a woman
invigorated with hope. She would find out what happened to Matthew. But first
she needed a little help.
5
Marie parked her Prius
in Center City at the corner of 20th and Spring Garden Streets. She hopped out
of the car and slammed the door with her heel. At a baroque-Gothic building on
Spring Garden, she pressed a red button for an apartment on the eighth floor.
ÒUm, yeah,
articulate,Ó said a groggy voice via the intercom.
ÒHi,Ó Marie
said, ÒDavid?Ó
ÒUh, no, this is
Butch, a friend of his.Ó
ÒOh. IÕm looking
for Nick Marsh. Does he still live here?Ó
ÒSorry, no.
Gotta go. My soaps are coming on.Ó
The intercom
clicked off. Marie pressed the red button again. ÒHello? Hello?Ó No answer.
ÒDamn.Ó
Marie trudged
down the gray-painted cement steps to the sidewalk. It didnÕt surprise her that
Nick wasnÕt there. She hadnÕt seen him in years. And she couldnÕt call him.
SheÕd lost his number eons ago. (Directory assistance would be useless; he had
always been adamant about being unlisted.)
Shrugging, Marie
dug her keys out of her purse. Time for Plan B.
6
A short skip and a
screech later, Marie and her car were a block from the University of Pennsylvania
campus. The Prius played nice with a parking meter while she walked into a
coffee shop called the Internet CafŽ.
Marie took a
window seat near the front door. The wood chair she temporarily called home had
a high seat and a low back. On the oval table in front of her was a PowerBook.
She tapped the touchpad. The screensaver disappeared to reveal the Firefox
Internet browser. The previous patron had visited a news site called DemocracyNow.org.
Sipping her
small mocha latte, Marie—out of the corner of her eye—saw a
middle-aged, bearded, bespectacled man turning the page of the Daily
Pennsylvanian. Her imagination
began doing the creative version of spontaneous pushups. Why was this man
alone, on a Monday morning, in a cafŽ packed with college-age students, most of
them girls? Was he a professor? A predator? Recently divorced? Marie rubbed her
chin. He would make an interesting character, and she had been meaning to write
a non-romance thriller. Was this the kernel of a story idea to kick it off?
A waitress
breezed past MarieÕs table with a tray of blueberry muffins. The aroma, mixed
with the waitressÕ rosy perfume, snapped Marie out of her reverie.
Time to get
to work.
Marie typed
Òfarting out a fetusÓ in the Yahoo! search-engine bar. She scanned the results
and clicked the third choice. It was supposed to take her to www.
fartingoutafetus.net, but the site redirected to the punk bandÕs My Space page.
Before a song started streaming, she raced the mouse to the contact portion of
the page. She hit send message,
and a prompt told her to log onto My Space. She did so, then returned to http://www.myspace.
com/fartingoutafetus. Her message read:
Subject: Nick
Hi, IÕm trying to track
down Nick Marsh. ItÕs VERY important (seriously). My name is Marie Dougherty,
although he might remember me by my maiden name -- Abraham. He can contact me
here or at UniquelyUntalented@yahoo.com
THANKS!!! Marie
Dougherty
Marie hit send,
logged out and picked up her drink. Blowing on her overpriced coffee, she contemplated
how long to wait for a reply.
7
Marie stayed in the
Internet CafŽ for about an hour, nursing her mocha latte and performing her
favorite pastime: people watching. She would have stayed longer, but three
college boys tried picking her up in 15 minutes. She had flaunted her wedding
ring at the first one, but that hadnÕt stopped the two who followed. She decided
to go home.
Back in
Glenside, Marie checked her e-mail every five minutes. She soon realized that
was overkill, so she cut back to every 15, 20 minutes.
Between checks,
Marie straightened up around the house. She didnÕt know if her unexpected burst
of energy was from the latte or her weekend of vegging. Whatever the reason,
she knew she couldnÕt concentrate enough to read any of the magazines and newspapers
stacked by the TV.
After cleaning
every square inch of the living room, Marie wondered if Nick would ever get her
message. Farting Out A FetusÕ (FOAF) My Space page said they last logged in the
day before. Hopefully, one of the band members would check it today.
Maybe I
should have given my phone number.
Another thought occurred to Marie: Did Nick still play bass for the band? Sure,
his name was in the About Farting Out A Fetus section of the Web page, but that didnÕt mean it
was up to date.
Marie froze. She
hoped FOAF wasnÕt on tour.
With these
thoughts caroming inside her head, Marie tapped her chin and walked into her
office. She hit refresh on her computer.
8
Around 1 a.m., Marie fell asleep on her office
floor, MacBook next to her, index finger on the touchpad. An hour and a half
later, she jerked awake.
Standing above
Marie was Nick Marsh, looking the same as he did the last time she saw him. It
was—what?—10, 12 years ago?
Nick had a
shaved head. He wore a white T-shirt, blue jeans and black Converse high-tops.
Marie stretched and stood up, her vision blurry. Through her grogginess, she
noticed the torchiere lamp in the corner was on full fluorescent blast, glaring
off the white walls and stucco ceiling.
ÒWha—how?Ó
Marie managed to mutter.
ÒGot your
message a couple hours ago,Ó said Nick, who could still be a stand-in for Ian
MacKaye, except Nick was a half-foot shorter than the Fugazi vocalist. ÒTook a
little while to track ya down. Obviously.Ó
Marie tried to
stand up and stumbled. Nick placed a steadying hand under her left arm, saying,
ÒI got ya.Ó She had forgotten how raspy his voice was. It still reminded her of
Tim ArmstrongÕs cigarette/liquor-stained singing voice, especially on RancidÕs
masterpiece, LetÕs Go.
ÒHow. . . .Ó
Marie rubbed her eyes. ÒHow did you find me? IÕm unlisted.Ó
ÒI had a hacker
buddy of mine hack into Yahoo!Õs database to get your address.Ó
Now fully awake,
Marie remembered that years ago, when signing up for Yahoo! Mail, she had to
provide a phone number and physical address. The next time she was online,
sheÕd have to update her profile with false information.
ÒSo whatÕs up?Ó
Nick clapped his palms together. ÒReady to renounce your sellout suburban
ways?Ó
Marie folded her
arms. ÒMatthewÕs gone.Ó
ÒWhoÕs that? The
right-wing Republican who made you give up your DIY lifestyle?Ó
ÒHe
was—is—a libertarian, and he didnÕt make me give up anything.Ó
Pause. ÒHeÕs missing.Ó
Nick dropped his
wise-ass smirk. He placed a hand on MarieÕs shoulder. ÒWhat happened?Ó
Marie told him.
9
Fifteen minutes later,
Nick and Marie were on her back porch. He appreciated that it was nothing
elaborate (his own place gave new meaning to the word spartan). MarieÕs porch was simply several slabs of
concrete, with a rusty drain in the middle. An aluminum awning hung over the
porch supported by three trellis-like posts.
Nick lounged on
a vinyl beach chair, the kind that kept your legs horizontal and your feet off
the ground. Marie leaned against the middle post, her left foot on the grass.
The backyard was 20 square feet, enclosed by a waist-high chainlink fence.
ÒYo,Ó Nick said,
patting the patio chair next to him, Òpull up a seat. DonÕt be such a
stranger.Ó
Marie shook her
head. ÒIÕd rather stand. I spend 60-hour weeks sitting in my office. My back gets
stiff, so I try and stand as much as possible.Ó
ÒCheck.Ó Nick
gulped from the Pepsi can he had grabbed from the refrigerator. ÒSo whyÕd you
contact me?Ó
Marie didnÕt
answer at first. She sipped from her glass of Country Time pink lemonade.
A warm breeze
made wind chimes clang and jangle.
ÒWhy you?Ó Marie
asked.
ÒYeah.Ó
Marie sucked on
her lips. Crickets chirped.
ÒI mean,Ó Nick
said, Òthere are people who do this for a living that are really experienced at
this sort of thing.Ó
ÒI know.Ó Marie
set her drink down on a white plastic table. ÒI wrote an article last year on
private detectives, so I have more than enough contacts I could call. But I
wanted someone I truly trust, you know? Plus, I remembered all the good times
we had as teenagers. And yesterday, I was recalling all of those situations you
found yourself in, how you always knew exactly what to do.Ó
Nick nodded.
ÒThere was the
time we visited Chauncy,Ó Marie said, Òafter his family moved out to Villanova.
He was driving us to the train station, so we could go home. Do you remember
this?Ó
Nick didnÕt.
ÒWe were going
to miss the train,Ó Marie continued, Òand it was the last one, but the parking
lot had just been paved or painted. Chauncy gunned his truck, running over the
traffic cones at the entrance. When we got out, a cop ran toward us, yelling. I
forget exactly what you said, but I remember you calling him ÔsirÕ a lot. You
used just enough tact to defuse him, so Chauncy didnÕt get a ticket.
ÒThen there were
times when you used violence because that was the only way to resolve the situation.Ó
Uncomfortable
with the adulation, Nick redirected the conversation back to MarieÕs side of
the porch. ÒAnd you have no idea why your husband jumped out of the car and ran
down the alley?Ó
Marie shook her
head.
ÒWas there any .
. .Ó Nick ransacked his high school-educated brain for the right word (Marie
may have been a childhood friend, but she was still in a stunned state—he
needed to be sensitive). Ò. . . tension between you and Matt?Ó
ÒNo, everything
was fine.Ó
ÒNo problems at
all?Ó
Marie stiffened.
ÒWhat are you getting at?Ó
ÒIÕm just
asking. I havenÕt seen you in over 10 years. I donÕt know what your relationship
was like. Maybe you thought it was all hunky-dory, but a observant outsider
might be able to pick up on something that hinted otherwise.Ó
Marie stared at
her hands, thumbs twiddling.
ÒMyself,Ó Nick
said, ÒI though things between me and David were picture perfect. Then I come
home from tour a day early, and heÕs banging a cowboy twink, you know?Ó
Marie nodded,
not making eye contact. Lightning bugs created an aura around her head.
Nick had more
questions, but they could wait. Marie obviously wasnÕt in the best frame of
mind. Better let her get some sleep.
10
Nick felt a knee
jabbing his side. He forced his eyes open. Marie stood over him. ÒReady, sleepyhead?Ó
she said.
ÒWhat time is
it?Ó NickÕs pupils adjusted to the light that flooded the living room.
ÒA little after
nine,Ó Marie answered.
ÒGive me till
10.Ó Nick pulled the sheet up to his chin and buried his face in the couch
where he had spent the night.
Marie sighed.
ÒWe should get moving.Ó
ÒCÕmon, Abe, I
usually donÕt get up till noon.Ó
Abe was what Marie had been called as a teenager. It
was short for her surname: Abraham.
Marie tore the
sheet away. Nick still wore his T-shirt and jeans, but he curled tighter into a
ball.
ÒUncouth,
Dougherty!Ó Nick yelled, eyes closed. ÒLike a Karl Rove wannabe, you donÕt know
how to fight fair.Ó
ÒNick, please.Ó
MarieÕs voice had a tinge of whining in it.
As a rule, Nick
didnÕt hesitate to get acerbic on somebody specializing in self-pity. But he
cut Marie some slack. He couldnÕt imagine what it was like to have a loved one
go AWOL. Gotta give credit where creditÕs due. If it was me, I might be
breaking down, blubbering like a Morrissey fan every five minutes. HavenÕt see
Abe cry yet. Who knows, maybe thatÕs how she fell asleep last night.
ÒAll right, all
right.Ó Nick sat up and put on his white athletic socks and black Chuck Taylor
high-tops.
ÒDid you sleep
all right?Ó
ÒOh, yeah. You
know me. I could pass out at Ozzfest. HowÕd you sleep?Ó
ÒFine.Ó Marie
looked down, making her way towards the kitchen. ÒNeed anything before we
leave?Ó
ÒCoffee, if ya
got it.Ó Nick picked up his cigarettes from the end table. Lighter in hand, he
headed out back.
11
After breakfast, Marie
drove her Prius. In the passenger seat, Nick fiddled with the radio, switching
between 91.7, WKDU and 103.3, WPRB. Eventually, he settled on the former.
ÒSo, Abe,Ó Nick
asked,Ò how come you and Matt never had kids?Ó
Marie shrugged.
ÒNever got around to it.Ó
ÒFor truth?Ó
ÒNo. We were
just so caught up in our careers. The timing never felt right to have any
children. Besides, I had reservations about putting any offspring through the
terrors of adolescence. I barely made it through mine. Thanks to writing and
punk rock, I survived, but it could have easily gone the other way.Ó
ÒDid Matt have
any problems?Ó
ÒWhat?Ó
ÒDrinking,
drugging, gambling, womanizing,Ó Nick explained. ÒAnything that might have put
a strain on your relationship.Ó
ÒHe recently
started going to AA meetings, but I didnÕt think he had a problem. Apparently,
he thought he did.Ó
ÒFuckinÕ AA!
Does more harm than good. I canÕt tell you how many people I know who relapsed
and were worse off after falling off the wagon, all because AAÕs steps tell newcomers theyÕre powerless over alcohol. So
when somebody relapses, they go for broke because theyÕre brainwashed. I bet if
they did a poll of AA members, 90% of Ôem would be conservative Christians.
FuckinÕ assholes!Ó
Nick growled and
shook a fist out the window. Quicker than a one-hit wonderÕs career, he brought
his hand back in and asked, ÒHey, how come you moved out of the city and
dropped out of the scene?Ó
ÒAfter you moved
out westÓ—Nick had lived in San Francisco from 1992 to 1995—ÒI
didnÕt have anyone to hang out with. All of our friends moved away, got real
jobs that took up all their time, or started families. IÕve never been
completely comfortable in social situations, so making new friends wasnÕt
really an option. Then I met Matthew, and between him and my writing, I had
next to zero free time.Ó
ÒWhy move to
Glenside? Why not just stay in the city?Ó
Marie shrugged.
ÒIt just seemed like the next logical step. We actually lived in Narberth
first, but after a few years, we moved to Glenside. IÕm glad we did. The Blue
Comet is nice to go to on Sunday nights, when they have live rockabilly. And
the Glenside Library is almost a second home to me.Ó
They reached
their destination: Tabor Road and Cheltenham Avenues. Traffic was steady. A
SEPTA bus roared by, its public-transit exhaust dissipating quicker than the
EaglesÕ chance of ever winning the Super Bowl.
Nick smirked.
ÒReady to rumble, grasshopper?Ó
ÒMm-hmm.Ó
In unison, they
got out of the Prius. The closing of their doors echoed.
12
Marie and Nick headed
for the alley Matthew had disappeared down Friday night. On Tabor Road, a hot
rod barreled past, Howard Stern blasting from the radio speakers; the driver
shouted, ÒLookinÕ good, honey!Ó
ÒI think heÕs talkinÕ
to you,Ó Nick said.
Marie nodded.
She wore espadrilles, black slacks and a white blouse with a dress-shirt
collar. The blouse had eight buttons (the top one undone) and a subtle,
vertical pleated design.
Back at the
house, Marie had spent 20 minutes in front of her bedroom closet, figuring out
what to wear. She didnÕt want to draw attention to herself. Guess IÕm a
failure on that front.
Marie and Nick
entered the alley in question. Row homes lined both sides. In the middle was a
driveway wide enough for a Hummer to coast down. A paved yard sloped from the
driveway toward each house. Residents used the slopes as personal parking
spots.
Halfway down the
alley, Marie smelled a mixture of dog dung and feline urine. But she couldnÕt
tell where it came from.
From the top
floor of one of the row homes, the sound of a screeching saxophone filled the
alley. A youngÔun practicing?
Marie and Nick
reached the end of the alley. They stared at Bingham Street. The sides of row
homes stared back, hard plastic green awnings over many of the windows.
Nearby was an
old Chevy S-10 Blazer. Sun glared off the windshield. Marie shielded her eyes.
ÒDo you think
Matthew went into any of those houses?Ó Marie asked.
ÒItÕs possible.
Was he in great shape?Ó
ÒHe was healthy,
but he couldnÕt run a marathon.Ó
A voice to the
left said, ÒMove, please.Ó
Marie moved.
Motoring their way was a black boy, about 10 years old, in an electric
wheelchair. He wore a Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith T-shirt and a Doctor Who baseball cap.
ÒIn my way, you
are,Ó the kid in a gravelly voice.
ÒSorry, Yoda
Jr.,Ó Nick said. ÒWhatÕs the rush, yo? Dagobah on fire?Ó
The wheelchair
stopped. Yoda Jr. grinned.
The three of
them stood on the sidewalk. A maple tree shaded them.
ÒYou may be
wise, bald one,Ó Yoda Jr. said, Òbut cockiness leads to the dark side, it
does.Ó
ÒSo what are you
saying, I shouldnÕt let Boba Fett be the godfather to my cloned child?Ó
ÒNo goodness in
aligning with bounty hunters, there is.Ó
ÒHow Ôbout a
white male running down this alley here on Friday night Ôround . . .Ó Nick eyed
Marie; she held up nine fingers. Ò. . . nine p.m.?Ó
ÒHmmmm. . . .Ó
Yoda Jr. stroked his Jay Leno-esque chin. ÒRecall exact stardate, do you?Ó
ÒSure.Ó NickÕs
eyelids fluttered. In thought?
Marie guessed. He opened his eyes. ÒSix-oh-eight-two-four-point-four,Ó he said.
ÒYes, yes.
Recall a humanoid fits description, I do.Ó
ÒOh, yeah? What
went down?Ó
ÒWhy need to
know?Ó
ÒHe was her
husband.Ó
Yoda Jr. peered
at Marie. She returned the favor.
ÒDragged into a
white van, he was, by two men in blue-gray uniforms.Ó
ÒSo my husband
was taken against his will?Ó
Yoda Jr.
answered with an affirmative Òmm-hmm.Ó
Nick asked,
ÒWhat else can you tell us about these two guys in uniforms?Ó
ÒCaucasian, they
were. Wore black shoes. Uniforms one-piece, like what janitors wear.Ó
ÒDid the van
have any markings? Anything written on the side?Ó
ÒNo,Ó said Yoda
Jr. ÒNondescript, it was.Ó
Marie leaned in.
ÒDo you remember the license-plate number?Ó
ÒBegan DHV, it
did.Ó
Nick asked, ÒDo
you remember the rest of it?Ó
ÒDid not see.Ó
And with that, Yoda Jr. wheeled off the curb between two parked cars. He
motored down the one-way street as if late for a date with a Dalek.
13
ÒWell,Ó Nick said,
Òsince that was pretty much a bust, letÕs go visit the place where your husband
wasted his days.Ó
ÒHuh?Ó
ÒHis work.Ó
ÒOh,Ó Marie
said.
ÒWho can we talk
to?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.
HeÕs good friends with one coworker, Graham Archer.Ó
ÒLetÕs do it.Ó
They hopped out
of the Prius in Leaf & DashiellÕs parking lot. Nick stretched, his back
cracking. The midafternoon sun shined down as if it were a spotlight, and the
parking lot was a stage.
Nick and Marie
headed for the six-story office building a good 300 yards away, past the full
parking lot. Heat rising in the distance made the building waver.
With Leaf &
DashiellÕs front doors 100 yards away, Nick thought, Kinda glad we came
here. Last thing I wanted to
do was knock on doors down by where Matt disappeared, asking if anybody saw
what happened to him.
Nick glanced at
Marie. She hadnÕt put her keys in her purse yet. The car key stuck out between
her thumb and index finger, her knuckles whiter than the face of a Red State
resident who actually believed terror alerts.
ÒYou all right?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒSure, why?Ó
Marie said through clenched teeth.
Nick touched
MarieÕs arm. ÒStop.Ó
They stood in
front of a handicapped spot. The Mercedes parked there had no handicapped
plate, but it did display a country-club sticker on the windshield above the
rearview mirror.
ÒWhat?Ó Marie
said.
Nick removed his
hand from MarieÕs arm. ÒCalm down.Ó
MarieÕs cheeks
shaded salmon, and her lips curled. Before she could argue, Nick said, ÒItÕs
self-defeating for you to go in there being more uptight than a accountant with
a ledger stuck up his ass.Ó
Marie laughed.
She dropped her keys.
Nick picked up
the keys and pointed his nose at the office building. ÒYou ready for this?Ó
Nodding, Marie
slipped the keys into her purse.
They started
walking again. To the right was an oval garden. A three-foot-high goose waddled
towards a lake, her three goslings in tow.
Nick asked,
ÒDonÕt you do this all the time? Interviewing people.Ó
Marie shook her
head. ÒI spend most of my working hours writing romance novels—no
research really needed for that. The only nonfiction I do are my column and the
occasional article. I only interview when I have to.Ó
ÒMessage
received and understood,Ó Nick said.
They ambled up
the six steps to Leaf & DashiellÕs entrance. Artificial air blasted their
way. Nick rubbed his palms together. Party time!
14
Marie let Nick go
first. Something she hadnÕt noticed in the parking lot was his gait. He
strutted like George Jefferson, just as he had when he was a teenager at an
all-ages punk show, stage-diving into a brawl.
Forgetting Nick
for a moment, Marie realized that she hadnÕt been in this building for at least
three years. She hadnÕt even been on the grounds except for those times she
dropped Matthew off or picked him up when his car was at the mechanicÕs.
Marie fought a
smile. The last time sheÕd been here was a Saturday. She and Matthew were on
their way to a barbecue; he wanted to stop off to pick up some CDs he had left
in his desk. As they were leaving, he felt frisky. Next thing she knew, they
were having sex in the stairwell.
Clearing her throat,
Marie scanned the directory next to the elevators with her finger. LetÕs
see, Leaf & Dashiell, Leaf & Dashiell. Where are they?
ÒWhatÕs up with
you?Ó Nick asked.
ÒHuh?Ó Marie
quit looking at the directory, but her finger remained on its plastic cover.
ÒYou got this
glow about you all of the sudden.Ó
ÒGlow?Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said. ÒIf I plugged ya into a power plant, youÕd probably light up the whole
frigginÕ East Coast.Ó
ÒStop.Ó Marie
turned back to the directory.
An elevator
dinged. Doors opened, and out paraded a woman, six feet tall and wearing a
pale-green pantsuit. Her skin was whiter than Polly Whitebread, and her
shoulder-length, auburn hair (which, for some odd reason, always reminded Marie
of willow leaves) was tucked behind minuscule ears and titanium eyeglass
frames.
ÒMarie?Ó
ÒOh, hi, Judy.Ó
ÒWhat are you
doing here?Ó The woman smiled.
ÒMy friend Nick
and I— Oh, Nick, this is Judy Walker. She runs human resources here at
Leaf.Ó
ÒYo,Ó Nick said,
raising a Black Panther fist.
ÒItÕs
Relations,Ó Judy said with a rictus grin.
ÒExcuse me?Ó
Marie said.
ÒRelations. We
changed the name to Human Relations.Ó
Nick sneered.
ÒWhy?Ó
ÒItÕs what all
the Fortune 500 companies are doing now.Ó Judy rested a hand on her purse; from
the front pocket jutted a pamphlet for Conservatives United Now—Tomorrow.
ÒDo you have an appointment with someone in the building?Ó
ÒActually,Ó
Marie said, Òwe were going to stop in and see Graham. See if he can tell us
anything about Matthew.Ó
Judy grimaced,
as if swallowing a SweeTart. ÒOh, that wonÕt do.Ó
ÒEx—Excuse
me?Ó
ÒIÕm sorry, but
Graham is in meetings all day.Ó Judy raised a hand over her head and snapped
her fingers. A security guard stepped out from behind a marble desk that looked
like half of an enormous egg.
ÒThatÕs OK,Ó
Nick said to Judy. ÒWeÕll just leave a message for him.Ó
Judy tented her
hands together. ÒGraham canÕt be disturbed. HeÕs in the middle of interviewing
applicants for the senior-editor opening.Ó
Marie gulped.
That was MatthewÕs job.
ÒThatÕs cool,Ó
Nick said. ÒWeÕll wait till he has a break.Ó
ÒLook.Ó Judy met
MarieÕs eyes. ÒWe here at Leaf & Dashiell realize the sensitivity of your
situation, but we canÕt be pulling employees out of their offices for matters
best left to the police.Ó
Marie stepped
back. Not only to contain her anger but also because JudyÕs breath reeked of
coffee and onions.
The security
guard slid in front of Judy, his bulk obscuring her (at least from MarieÕs
viewpoint). He had a Hitler moustache and the build of Mike Tyson in his prime.
ÒIÕm afraid IÕm going to have to ask both of you to leave.Ó His hands were on
his belt, left hand on the billy club, right hand on the Taser.
ÒCome on.Ó Nick
wrapped an arm around Marie. ÒLetÕs blow this lame-o-rama. This place is gayer
than Whoopi GoldbergÕs career.Ó
15
In the parking lot,
Marie felt Nick remove his arm from around her shoulders as they passed the
handicapped spot. When several feet from the Prius, she said, ÒExcuse me.Ó She
turned away from him, took her purse, pulled it into her solar plexus and bent
over.
Marie let out a
scream like Kathleen Hanna on Bikini KillÕs ÒNew Radio.Ó She screamed till she
was out of breath, 30 seconds maybe. Then she stood up, chin high, and rummaged
in her purse for the car keys.
Nick smirked.
ÒAll better?Ó
ÒMm-hmm.Ó Marie
unlocked the doors. ÒI wanted so bad to jump over and claw her eyes out, or at
the very least yell at her for being such a . . . such a . . .Ó
ÒUppity bitch?Ó
ÒThatÕs one way
of putting it.Ó
ÒYou should
have.Ó
Marie shook her
head. ÒThat wouldnÕt have helped.Ó
ÒIt was a lost
cause once she asked you who you were there to see. That was her little
corporate way of saying, ÔI ainÕt lettinÕ you past me, mofo.Ó
ÒYou think?Ó
ÒShit, yeah,
motherfucker!Ó
Marie put the
key in the ignition but didnÕt turn it. She stared out the passenger window at
a mound of grass.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
ÒHuh? Oh,
nothing.Ó Marie started her car. ÒI was just thinking. Last summer, I met Judy
at the company picnic. She seemed so nice and sincere. She was telling me about
her cats and how she was active in her church, specifically the choir. Now, she
was almost a completely different person.Ó
ÒYeah, people
tend to sing a different tune when their job is on the line. For as much as I
fuckinÕ hate corporations, I have to admit, itÕs nice how they give lots of
people jobs. But on the downside, a lot of employees turn into sheep, where
thereÕs this huge homogenization going on. ItÕs almost like cultural genocide,
you know? If youÕre not acting like a upper-crusty WASP, youÕre seen as
inferior. It seems like it whitewashes out all these cool little ethnic groups
and subcultures that have their own little scene. You know?Ó
Marie nodded
even though she didnÕt know what Nick was talking about. How are we going to
talk to Graham? I would really like to talk to him today. A gong went off in her head, and she reached for
her phone in the glovebox.
ÒWhatÕre ya
doinÕ?Ó Nick asked.
ÒCalling the
office.Ó
ÒSmart.Ó
The receptionist
answered. Graham was away from his desk. Marie asked to have him paged. The receptionist
apologized; they couldnÕt do that at Leaf & Dashiell. Would she like Mr.
ArcherÕs voicemail? ÒNo thanks,Ó Marie said. ÒIÕll call back.Ó
ÒWhat time you
got?Ó Nick asked.
Marie glanced at
her Elgin watch, a gift from Matthew on their fifth wedding anniversary. ÒFive
to three.Ó
Nick imitated Al
Pacino: ÒHoo-yeah.Ó
Marie looked up
to see what excited Nick. Marching out of the office building were three
security guards, the one from before in the middle.
Nick moved for
the passenger-door handle.
Marie released
the parking brake and gunned out of the parking spot. The guards paused, six aggressive
eyes on the Prius.
ÒWhaddya doing?Ó
Nick had opened the passenger door a hair. He slammed it shut.
ÒAvoiding the
obvious. They obviously donÕt want us on their property, so IÕm saving them the
trip of coming all the way down here.Ó
ÒOh, youÕre no
fun.Ó Nick practically pouted. ÒI couldÕve handled them with one hand tied
behind my back.Ó
ÒOK, Spenser.Ó
ÒHuh?Ó
ÒHeÕs a
fictional private detective. Like Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe, but better.Ó
Nick looked out
the rear window. Marie assumed he was checking out the security guards one last
time.
ÒMan,Ó Nick
said, ÒI wouldÕve loved to take the one on the right. I think it was Andy
Clancey.Ó
ÒWho?Ó
ÒA former
defensive tackle for the Eagles. He played for four seasons or so, then made
some bad business decisions. WIPÓ—WIP was PhillyÕs primary sports AM
radio station—Òsaid he became a free agent, but nobody picked him up, and
the Eagles didnÕt invite him back. Sounds like locker-room politics, you know?Ó
ÒWhat should we
do now?Ó Marie turned right.
ÒI, for one,
would turn this jalopy around so I can practice some kung-fu moves on Mr.
Clancey that I saw in some Quentin Tarantino movie last week. But if youÕre
gonna be a total hater, then go Ôround the block, and weÕll park across the
street.Ó
Marie drove a
few miles per hour under the speed limit to waste time, in case the security
guards dawdled in the parking lot. The octagon-shaped office park appeared
larger than the sports complex in South Philly. It took them almost 10 minutes
to drive all the way around it.
Driving down the
two-way, four-lane Jefferson Drive, Marie saw Leaf & DashiellÕs building on
the right. She knew it was her imagination, but the building seemed imposing.
ÒAny sign of
them?Ó Marie asked.
ÒNah.Ó Nick
rolled down his window. ÒYou might wanna get in the left lane.Ó
Marie did so. At
the light, she turned left into an industrial park. She pulled into a spot at
the end of the parking lot off Jefferson Drive. They had a clear view of Leaf
& DashiellÕs front doors.
ÒNow what?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒNow, we wait.Ó
ÒFor what?Ó
ÒFor our beloved
Mr. Archer to get off work,Ó Nick said. ÒThen we tail him and ambush him like
Samuel Jackson gettinÕ all Mace Windu with those goddamned overhyped snakes on
a plane.Ó
Despite feeling
stressed, Marie laughed and leaned into the driverÕs-side door. The release
felt good. Her stiff back relaxed and her lungs enjoyed the exercise in
hilarity.
16
Marie rolled down her
window and rested her arm on the door. Across the street, a flock of sparrows
flew from tree to tree. I hope one of them flies near JudyÕs office and
drops a mother lode on her window.
Marie scolded herself for such a resentful thought and dwelled on it no more,
thanks to an 18-wheeler roaring by on Jefferson Drive. Smoke, the color of
obsidian, spit out of the cabÕs exhaust stack. It rose and rose but didnÕt
dissipate. Marie smelled burning coal. She wasnÕt sure if it came from the
truck or not.
ÒFuck,Ó Nick
said.
ÒWhatÕs wrong?Ó
ÒIÕm bored
already.Ó
ÒWant me to turn
the car back on?Ó Marie asked.
ÒNah, donÕt
wanna waste all your gas. Besides, nothing personal, but thereÕs probably
nothing on your iPod to my liking. All I listen to is punk and hardcore. IÕm
kind of a fuddy-duddy that way. Besides, IÕm really in the mood for some
Refused. Ever hear of Ôem?Ó
ÒNo.Ó
ÒThey were from
Norway or something. They broke up in Õ99, I think, after doing The Shape of
Punk to Come. It was a fuckinÕ
awesome swan song. It was this total hardcore record, but they had all these
interludes in there, like techno, classical—all this weird shit. But it
worked. Not one piece of filler on the whole fucking album. Unbelievable. And
ya wanna hear the best part? They broke up Ôcause they felt they were gettinÕ
too popular. In their eyes, all that selling tons of records was doing was
enabling the corrupt capitalistic system they were railing against. So they
broke up, so they could be real anarchists. Pretty cool, huh?Ó
Marie shrugged.
Nick said, ÒDonÕt
know if IÕd ever have the balls to do something like that—I kinda enjoy
my consumeristic lifestyle too much. Sure do admire Ôem, though.Ó
Marie nodded
even though Nick had been the most unconsumersitic consumer sheÕd ever known.
Suddenly, she jerked.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒThere canÕt
just be one exit. What if Graham parked in the rear? Or maybe he carpooled.Ó
ÒOK, second
things first. I seriously doubt he carpooled. This is America, the country that
prides itself on being anti-community. Isolation for all, with big houses in
the burbs and individuality over whatÕs best for everyone as a whole. What kind
of car does he drive?Ó
ÒA Jaguar,Ó
Marie said. ÒWith a little British flag on top of the aerial.Ó
Nick rested his
forearms on the dashboard and squinted. ÒThere it is.Ó
Parked near the
lake was the Jaguar with the miniature, plastic Union Jack on its antenna. A
goose honked at the carÕs hood ornament.
ÒExcellent,Ó
Marie mumbled. A few moments later, she turned around to scan the parking lot
the Prius occupied.
ÒDonÕt worry,Ó
Nick said, ÒnobodyÕs gonna bother us.Ó
ÒAre you sure?Ó
ÒYeah. WeÕre too
far away for anybody to notice. Besides, our buddy GrahamÕll probably come out
sooner rather than later.Ó
Traffic on
Jefferson Drive began to back up in both directions, rush hour beginning its
predictable, twice-a-day, five-times-a-week ritual. None of the commuters paid
MarieÕs car any mind. The drivers and riders stared ahead, sneering and
frowning.
ÒOh,Ó Marie
said, ÒI forgot to ask: IÕm not taking up too much of your time, am I? Are you
supposed to be in the studio or on tour?Ó
ÒNah, FOAFÕs
taking a break so Pat and Greg can work on some songs.Ó
Marie was going
to verify that those two were Farting Out A FetusÕ principal songwriters,
however, Nick asked a question of his own.
ÒHow Ôbout
yourself? Got any shit you should be doing?Ó
Marie said she
was between projects.
A few quiet
moments passed. On Jefferson Drive, one driver called another an asshole.
ÒSo,Ó Nick
asked, Òhow come you donÕt do your zine no more?Ó
In high school
and college, Marie had written and published a zine she called Preenly Punk.
ÒGuess I outgrew
it,Ó Marie answered.
ÒNo, shoes you
outgrow; bad habits you outgrow; old underwear you outgrow. What happened?Ó
Marie shrugged.
ÒI started writing novels.Ó
Nick pretended
to hold a microphone. ÒMarie Abraham-Dougherty, is there something you would
like to tell our studio audience? YouÕre among friends here. Answer me this:
Are you a sellout?Ó
ÒI need money to
live.Ó
ÒWhat for, a
posh house in the burbs and a fancy-schmancy automobile?Ó
ÒCan we not have
this conversation now? What happened to your make-believe microphone?Ó
ÒOh,Ó Nick said,
ÒdonÕt worry Ôbout my microphone. ItÕs in a special, secret place.Ó
ÒPanÕs
Labyrinth?Ó
ÒAnswer me this,
Abe. How come all your books
are put out by corporate publishers? Why donÕt you give any indie presses a
shot?Ó
Marie smiled.
ÒNicholas Owen Marsh—Ò
ÒWhat are you a
cop? Using my middle name. . . .Ó
Ò—what do
you know about my novels? You donÕt seem like the romance-reading type.Ó
ÒHey,Ó Nick
said, ÒI read the trades. And by trades, I mean your column in Philly Weekly. Hell, half the time all you do is talk about
that whole Harlequin scene.Ó
ÒJealous?Ó
ÒYeah, right. If
they tried rubbing elbows with me, IÕd stick their hands down my pants.Ó
ÒNow thereÕs an
image I could go without.Ó
ÒYo, donÕt knock
it till you tried it, sister! ThereÕs a huge, fantastical world down there that
puts Guillermo del ToroÕs daydreamings to shame.Ó
ÒWHAT!?!Ó Marie
grinned so much, her mouth hurt.
ÒYou know what
IÕm sayinÕ. Seriously, why you kicking the small presses to the curb?Ó
ÒThey donÕt pay
well, or a lot of times, not at all.Ó
ÒWell, how can
they, if youÕre gonna run first to those corporate cock-knockers? A indie
community canÕt survive when all the artists got dollar signs in their eyes.Ó
ÒBut at least
IÕm self-employed. ItÕs not as if IÕm punching the clock, working for somebody
else.Ó
ÒThatÕs only
half the battle,Ó Nick said. ÒWhatÕs the point in booking your own life if
youÕre sucking up to the mainstream? ItÕs counter-productive, you know? ItÕs
like all of those quasi-indie punk labels. They say theyÕre DIY, but itÕs like
itÕs all a act. Sure, labels like Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords put out some
cool punk-as-fuck CDs, but it seems kinda pointless when theyÕre hooking up
with Spin to promote it or
streaming the entire album on AOL. Ever hear of Leftšver Crack?Ó
Marie slipped
into a smile. ÒNo.Ó Nice name.
ÒTheyÕre a
pretty popular punk-ska band. They used to be on Hellcat Records—a
Epitaph subsidiary, by the way. They had a pretty racy album cover, and Hellcat
gave Ôem shit Ôcause Best Buy wouldnÕt stock it. WHAT THE FUCK!!! YouÕre
supposed to be a punk label. Why the hell are you sucking up to a heartless
corporation?Ó
ÒAre you finished?
YouÕre making my head hurt.Ó
ÒHell, no, I
ainÕt finished! And hereÕs another thing I fuckinÕ hate about Epitaph: I once
read in Punk Planet they put a
sampler out and bleeped out all the fuckinÕ curse words. What the fuck. . . .
ÒThank God
thereÕs still labels like Alternative Tentacles, Dischord Records and Asian Man
that are truly independent and punk as fuck.Ó
Marie looked
across the street. Graham Archer strode toward his Jaguar.
17
The Prius tailed the
Jaguar up Pontiac Pike, a five-lane highway (the middle lane used for turns).
As Marie drove, Nick thought about what had happened when Graham approached his
car.
The goose from
before had its bill around the JaguarÕs hood ornament. When Graham came with
striking distance, the goose ripped the ornament off and flew back to the lake.
Graham chased the goose to the waterÕs edge. In the middle of the lake, the
goose placed the ornament on a lily pad and honked. Triumphantly? Even now,
sitting in the Prius, Nick wasnÕt sure. But he smiled nonetheless.
The Jaguar
turned right off Pontiac Pike, went a little less than a quarter-mile before
pulling into a bar/restaurant called Eleventh Heaven. Graham tossed his keys to
the valet.
Nick heard the
PriusÕ turn signal clicking. ÒNot yet.Ó
Marie switched
off her turn signal.
ÒGo up a little
bit,Ó Nick instructed. ÒI donÕt want him to see us yet. Make a U-bee here.Ó
Marie slid into
the middle strip of the three-lane road and turned into a dry cleanerÕs parking
lot. A 50-something woman with frosted hair, tan skin and oh-so-apparent
plastic surgery held an armful of fresh dry cleaning. She opened the door to
her Porsche and scowled at the PriusÕ illegal maneuver. Nick blew her a kiss
and said, ÒTell your husband IÕll be over late tonight. IÕm feeling kinda sore,
so no rough stuff, OK?Ó
Marie pulled
into Eleventh HeavenÕs parking lot and coasted past the valet, who looked too
young to see a PG-13 movie.
ÒPark here,Ó
Nick said.
Marie guided the
Prius into a spot at the end of the lot. She parked at an angle, behind a Dumpster.
No one leaving the restaurant would be able to see her car.
ÒProbably a
little overkill,Ó Nick said, Òbut I donÕt want him seeing us and taking off.Ó
ÒEven though a
valet parked his car, and he might not know where it is right away?Ó
ÒLike I said,
probably overkill. Better safe than sitting around with our thumbs up our
asses.Ó
They got out of
the Prius. When about to enter Eleventh Heaven, Nick saw over on the road a
Ford Mustang use the right shoulder to pass a Dodge Caravan, which was going
the speed limit. The incident reminded him of an old 7 Seconds song, ÒBusy
Little People.Ó
ÒSmoking or
non?Ó asked the host.
Nick saw Graham
at the bar, smoking a cigar. The barmaid placed a frosty mug in front of him
filled with lager the color of engine oil.
ÒWeÕre just
popping in for a drink,Ó Nick told the host.
Nick and Marie
headed for the bar. It was on the hostÕs right. On the hostÕs left was an aisle
that led to the dining room. From there, Nick smelled all kinds of food:
Italian, Greek, Indian. . . .
Nick plopped
down on the barstool to GrahamÕs right. Marie sat next to Nick. The jukebox
blared the BeatlesÕ ÒYellow Submarine.Ó
ÒMind if we join
you?Ó Nick said.
ÒNot at all,Ó
Graham replied. ÒThe more the merrier, mate.Ó
ÒHello, Graham,Ó
Marie said.
ÒHi, Marie.Ó
Graham held his mug in midair.
The barmaid
stopped washing glasses. ÒWhat can I get yÕall?Ó
Nick ordered a
Budweiser bottle, Marie a ginger ale, no ice. Marie slipped the barmaid a $1
tip.
ÒSo, Graham,Ó
Nick said, Òwhat do you think about MarieÕs husband disappearing after going to
your party Friday night?Ó
Graham stubbed
out his half-finished cigar. He gulped from his frosty mug. Several seconds
later, he burped into his hand while dipping his chin. ÒWhat do you want me to
say?Ó
ÒArenÕt you the least bit curious what
happened to him? WerenÕt you friends?Ó
ÒAcquaintances
at most. Basically, we were coworkers who got along fairly well. The only times
we got together outside of the office were at my parties.Ó
ÒWhat?Ó Marie
interjected. ÒYou and Anne have been to our house lots of times.Ó
ÒLook,Ó Graham
said, ÒIÕd like to help you—I really would—but I canÕt.Ó He avoided
eye contact. His neck shading red-purple, he polished off his lager, belched
and slammed his mug on the red-and-white WeÕre Glad YouÕre Here coaster. ÒOnce again, my apologies, but I really
must shove off. Cheerio.Ó
Without waiting
for a reply, Graham departed. He weaved through the crowd quicker than a scud
missile on its way to bomb a childrenÕs playground.
ÒWell,Ó Nick
said, Òthat was certainly interesting.Ó
ÒDo you think he
knows anything?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.Ó
Nick sipped his Bud. Tasted great. Not too cold, not piss warm.
Marie played
with her little straw. At the end of the bar, a muted TV showed Fox News.
ÒDonÕt get too
dejected,Ó Nick said. ÒIÕm sure thereÕs plenty of other people we can talk to.Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒCome on,Ó Nick
said, Òfinish your drink so we can blow this Jack & Jill stand.Ó
18
Marie led the way out
of Eleventh Heaven. She squinted. The sun hung in her point of view, between a
cherry tree and a five-story medical building. Purple clouds of dusk descended
like hot-air balloons.
ÒGive me the
keys,Ó Nick said.
Marie
half-laughed. ÒWhat?Ó
They passed the
valet on their way to the Prius. Cicadas shrilled in unknown locations.
ÒI wanna drive,Ó
Nick said.
ÒNo way are you
driving my car.Ó
ÒWhy not? Afraid
IÕm gonna be a better driver than you?Ó
Marie fought a
smile. ÒYou are not driving for one very simple reason: you do not have a
license.Ó
Nick flapped his
lips and waved a hand.
Marie couldnÕt
tell if Nick was offended. ÒOK?Ó
Nick smirked.
ÒJust Ôcause I donÕt got no stupid piece of paper from the Man, saying I passed
some arbitrary test, donÕt mean I shouldnÕt be driving this little superfine
and divine automobile of yours. Never mind that those driver tests do nothing
to prepare you for all the arseholes on the road.Ó
Marie unlocked
the doors. ÒSorry, youÕre still not driving my car.Ó
ÒWhat if I
promise to go only 10 miles over the speed limit?Ó
ÒNo dice.Ó
ÒSellout.Ó Nick
grinned.
Marie smiled.
ÒRebel without a cue card.Ó
They hopped into
the Prius. She clicked on her seatbelt. He slouched in the passenger seat,
knees against the glovebox.
Marie tapped her
thumbs on the steering wheel. Who can we talk to next? WhatÕs today? Tuesday,
right? Ooo, I know where we can go.
Marie told Nick
who they could interview next and where they could find that person.
Nick checked the
time on the car radio. He screened the digital display with his hand so he
could see the time.
ÒCool,Ó Nick
said. ÒWe got plenty of time, then. LetÕs head down to South Street for a bite
to eat.Ó
Marie put the
Prius in drive. Soon, Eleventh Heaven was nothing but a pit stop on the path to
finding out what happened to Matthew and where he was now.
19
Years ago, South Street
had been the nadir in Philadelphia. Then city officials added a couple of boroughs
below it, making the neighborhood a part of Center City. Up until the 1950s,
South Street was primarily a garment district, when the legendary city planner
Edmund Bacon (father of actor Kevin Bacon) urged the city to build the
Crosstown Expressway, a thoroughfare along South Street to connect I-95 and the
Schuylkill Expressway. BaconÕs project never panned out, but plunging prices
after the project died made South Street real estate affordable. That attracted
artists and hippies who started art stores, bistros, bookstores, cafŽs, craft
stores and nightclubs. By the 1980s, though, South Street became such a tourist
magnet that corporations and corrupt politicians killed the bohemian vibe with
chain stores and fast-food franchises.
Presently, Marie
and Nick ate at the South Street Diner on the 100 block of South Street before
the Delaware River. Throughout their meal, Nick flirted with the waiter. When
he paid the bill, they exchanged phone numbers.
Outside, Marie
and Nick headed west on South Street. It surprised her that the area wasnÕt too
congested for a spring evening. At the corner of Second and South, an old,
skinny, blind, black man strummed a steel guitar. He played PinkÕs ÒStupid
Girls.Ó
At Fourth and
South, Marie screeched to a halt. Nick turned right down Fourth Street, heading
south.
ÒHey,Ó Marie
said, Òwhere are you going? The carÕs parked up here.Ó She pointed north.
ÒYeah, I know. I
wanna show you somethinÕ.Ó
Marie shrugged.
She did a figure eight around a teenage Hispanic couple making out and a
20-something hip-hopper doing his best thug pose (scowling and thumbs hooked in
his diamond belt, which failed to pick up his droopy drawers).
Businesses on
this block of Fourth Street included two record stores, a tattoo shop and a
clothing store for dance-club kids. Halfway up the left side of the street,
past a claustrophobic alley, stood a store called Crazy ÔBout Zines. Nick
stepped on the white marble stoop and entered, the doorbell jingling. Marie
followed.
Crazy ÔBout
Zines smelled of old paper and cat fur. To the left was a checkout counter. A
radio played folkish music. Marie couldnÕt hear the lyrics. Volume too low.
A tall, lithe
woman in a paisley, ankle-length dress paraded up the middle of the three
aisles. ÒHi,Ó she said. ÒI didnÕt hear you come in.Ó Her black, leather loafers
clopped on the scuffed wood floor, and she was upon Marie and Nick quicker than
Jayne Krentz inventing a memorable character name. The womanÕs movement from
the back of the store to the front didnÕt startle Marie. After all, the shop
was only 20 yards in length and 10 yards in width.
ÒNick!Ó said the
woman. ÒLong time no see.Ó
ÒYou know me. So
many zines, so little time.Ó
ÒI take it
youÕre all finished with that issue of Wonka Vision?Ó
ÒYes, maÕam,Ó
Nick said like Alvin Chipmunk.
ÒThat good,
huh?Ó
ÒUnbelievably
awesome. Oh, hey! Alex, this is my friend Marie Dougherty. Marie, Alex Elliss,
the fine proprietress of this kick-ass establishment.Ó
The women shook
hands. Afterwards, Alex pushed her gigantic glasses up the bridge of her nose.
The spectacles looked like two fishbowls in black, plastic frames.
Marie saw a
half-dozen cats mewing at AlexÕs feet. Alex squatted and picked one up, a
Maltese. She kissed the catÕs nose and said, ÒThat Wonka Vision went pretty fast. I think I ran out of all my
retail copies in less than 48 hours.Ó Almost to herself: ÒIÕll have to order
more next issue.Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said, Òya canÕt go too wrong putting Propagandhi on the cover. Gotta love a
bunch of Canucks who stick to their ideals. I still canÕt believe they made fun
of Fat Mike on their latest CD.Ó
ÒWhoÕs that?Ó
Alex asked.
ÒHeÕs the
singer, bass player and main songwriter for NOFX. A couple years ago, they had
a song with a line that went, ÕWhen did punk rock become so safe?Õ Propagandhi
made fun of it on Potemkin City Limits by basically saying NOFX are part of the problem. Weird thing is,
Fat MikeÕs label put out PropagandhiÕs record. Kinda takes a big man to do
that. Not unless he let it ride to save face or just make money off it.Ó
Marie didnÕt
know what Nick was talking about. Come to think of it, why are we even here?
We should be on the road to Northeast Philly.
A floorboard
creaked. Nick seesawed like a boiling teapot. He stopped goofing around, his
mouth near MarieÕs ear. ÒThis place is cooler than Minor Threat in their
heyday,Ó he said. ÒThey sell every zine you can think of, and Alex also has
memberships. How much are they now?Ó
ÒTwenty-five
dollars a year.Ó
ÒItÕs pretty
cool. It lets you come in and borrow any zine you want. You canÕt take out
another one until you return it; and if you lose it, you gotta pay the cover
price. Pretty freakinÕ cool!Ó
Alex grinned.
The Maltese yawned. The cat lounged on her shoulders, most of its body behind
her neck.
Nick stuck out
his chest and shouted, ÒGOD BLESS THE ARTS!Ó
Marie and Alex
laughed.
ÒYo,Ó Nick said
to Marie, Òbefore we leave, you gotta check this out.Ó
Nick led Marie
to the checkout counter, which doubled as a display case. Inside were a few
glass shelves holding numerous zines, each sealed in a plastic bag. Some of the
zines were sun-stained, including an early issue of MaximumRocknRoll. All of the zines in the glass case must have
been collectorsÕ items. Prices ranged from $50 to $1,000.
ÒWow,Ó Marie
said, knowing Nick expected her to say something.
ÒLook at the
first shelf again,Ó Nick said.
Marie did. A
wave of nostalgia rippled through her. Out of all the things she anticipated
seeing in her lifetime, this was—without question—not one of them.
On the top shelf
in the display case was a box set of all 22 issues of Preenly Punk. Asking price? $900. (Well, $899.99.)
Marie quit
hunkering in front of the case. She stood up, left knee popping, and blushed.
Nick wrapped an
arm around MarieÕs shoulder. ÒCheck it out, Alex. This is ABE.Ó
When doing her
zine, Marie had turned her nickname into an acronym: Against Bloody Everything.
She signed her editorials and articles ABE.
AlexÕs eyes lit
up. She removed the Maltese from her shoulders and placed it at her feet, the
felineÕs nails clicking on the wood floor. A Cheshire Cat smile crossed AlexÕs
face. ÒIÕll be right back.Ó She disappeared into the rear.
Marie gave Nick
an inquisitive look. He shrugged.
Alex strode out
of her office and rejoined Marie and Nick near the display case. She held a
copy of Preenly PunkÕs first
issue.
If I didnÕt
know any better, Marie thought, IÕd
say sheÕs gushing.
ÒWould you mind
. . .Ó Alex held out the brittle zine. Ò. . . signing this for me?Ó
20
Marie started the
Prius. Clammy hands gripped the steering wheel. She still was unsure what to
make of Alex Elliss.
ÒStill think
zines are a total waste of time?Ó Nick asked.
Marie said
nothing. She didnÕt know what shocked her more: that a box set of Preenly
Punk sold for $900, or that Alex
had asked for her autograph.
Nick planted his
right hand on the dashboard, his body turned towards Marie. ÒJust imagine what
life wouldÕve been like if you kept putting out your zine.Ó
ÒI donÕt know.Ó
Marie idled at a red light. ÒMaybe part of the reason itÕs such a collectorÕs
item is because I made such a big deal about the last issue, each article about
the end of something.Ó
Preenly Punk #22 was titled ÒThe Final Issue.Ó Each article
detailed the end of an artistic movement, a punk bandÕs breakup or an authorÕs
last masterpiece.
Marie continued,
ÒI think people like it when thereÕs a definitive beginning and end. ThatÕs
probably why the Beatles are still such perennial favorites. ThereÕs no way
they can ever get back together.Ó
ÒHoly shit,Ó
Nick said, Òdid you just compare yourself to the fuckinÕ Feeble Four? I donÕt
know whatÕs worse, you having a ego, or comparing yourself to probably the most
overrated band of all time.Ó
Marie grimaced.
ÒYouÕre right. That was pretty egotistical of me.Ó
The light turned
green. The Prius headed up Fifth Street. On the right, anarchists congregated
outside of Wooden Shoe Books & Records.
ÒTime for a
little Empire Club action?Ó Nick asked.
ÒMm-hmm.Ó
ÒYou sure sheÕll
be there?Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒApparently, Tuesday is ladiesÕ night. SheÕs not one to miss cheap drinks. Or
cheap company, for that matter.Ó
ÒWhatÕs her name
again?Ó
ÒBimbo Intern.Ó
21
The Empire Club was on
Roosevelt Boulevard in Northeast Philadelphia, between Tyson and Cottman
Avenues. The Empire was bit of an anomaly. Most of Northeast PhillyÕs nightlife
consisted of bars and taverns that offered jukeboxes or cover bands. The Empire
differed by hosting live, original artists. Most played rock ÔnÕ roll of some
variety (punk, thrash, metal, hard rock, etc.). But the EmpireÕs owners were
smart. They realized not everyone wanted new music all the time, so after every
original song, a band had to play a cover. Most did so without griping, since
the Empire treated artists well, paying them half the money not only from the
cover charge but also from the CD-Rs the club created of the bandÕs
performance, which the house engineer sold after the last encore.
Nick stared out
the windshield at the Empire. Marie had parked the Prius at the end of the lot.
Because the club shared asphalt with Kmart, parking spots were at a premium.
Tonight, the retailer was in the midst of a sale that would make SmurfetteÕs
shopaholic heart aflutter.
ÒDamn,Ó Nick
said. ÒHavenÕt been here in a while.Ó
ÒYou ever play
here?Ó Marie asked.
Nick nodded.
ÒItÕs been at least a year—maybe two. Cool thing I like about it is that
itÕs all ages, you know?Ó
Nick and Marie
got out of the Prius, the slamming of the doors echoing in the parking lot. Overhead,
a flock of sparrows flew in triangle formation. Across the street was a sports
field. A wooden bat thwacked a baseball; a crowd cheered.
ÒHow come you
havenÕt played here for so long?Ó Marie asked.
ÒWeÕve been
recording a lot the past year for this mail-order One Seven-Inch A Month Club,
and weÕve been doing a lot of touring. When playing locally, itÕs usually
someplace downtown, like the First Unitarian Church. And when I do have off, no
sense in me hiking it all the way from West Philly to see a show here. Plenty
of shit going on down in my own neck of the woods, you know?Ó
They reached the
EmpireÕs front double doors. Inside the club, bass-heavy music thumped to a
one-two beat.
Nick held open
the door on the right. ÒLadies first.Ó
ÒThank you, P.
Diddy.Ó
ÒMy pleasure,
but please call me Puff, beingÕs IÕm full of so much hot air.Ó
22
Since Tuesday was
ladiesÕ night at the Empire, women got in for free. Men had to pay a $10 cover
charge. About 200 people were at this show, a little less than half the roomÕs
capacity. A third of the patrons were women.
Nick made a
beeline for the bar. He ordered water for himself and a White Russian for
Marie. Quicker than a cop shaking down a small business, the bartender
delivered the drinks, MarieÕs in an octagonal glass, NickÕs in a brandy
snifter.
Nick handed
Marie her White Russian. Their backs were to the bar and—off to the
side—the entrance. In front of them, down three steps, was a dance floor
big enough to keep Savion Glover busy for eternity. To the left and right of
the dance floor were dining areas on elevated platforms.
Straight ahead,
on the stage, the World/Inferno Friendship Society played their unique blend of
cabaret and punk rock. The singer, Jack Terricloth, swayed to the music like a
cobra in a Bangladesh basket, his hands rarely leaving the mike stand.
Nick leaned into
MarieÕs ear. ÒYou see her?Ó
Marie scanned
the spectators. She squinted. Nick would have too. The strobe lights flickered.
When the light show returned to normal, she pointed.
ÒOver there,Ó
Marie said.
On the left, in
a booth, the Bimbo Intern sat between two muscleheads. Both her hands were
under the table.
Nick wondered if
the Bimbo Intern whitened her teeth daily. Her bleach-bright smile forced him
to look away. Christ, talk about a glare.
Marie asked,
ÒWhat do we do?Ó
ÒWait,Ó Nick
answered.
Fifteen minutes
later, the Bimbo Intern wiggled out of the booth, the meatheads leering. Before
heading into the bathroom, she waved at her two bulky admirers.
When the Bimbo
Intern came back out, Nick glided in front of her, his body blocking her from
the meatheadsÕ line of vision. His job was made easier by customers flocking in
and huddling in front of the bathrooms.
ÒIs that your
car out there?Ó Nick asked.
ÒThe Range
Rover?Ó The Bimbo Intern blinked, arms akimbo, wrists limp.
ÒTheyÕre towing
it away.Ó
ÒWHAT?Ó
ÒCÕmon,Ó Nick
said, ÒIÕll show you.Ó
ÒThis is
bullshit!Ó
Nick let the Bimbo
Intern go first. She stormed out of the club, running a hand up each forearm,
as if rolling up sleeves, even though her dress was sleeveless.
In the parking
lot, the Bimbo Intern started for her Range Rover. ÒHey—Ò
ÒA little word
to the wise,Ó Nick said. ÒWhen somebody says, ÔIs that your car out there?Õ,
donÕt volunteer the make and model.Ó
Marie joined
Nick, but the Bimbo Intern was too busy fumbling with the latch of her purse to
notice. Her eyes darted everywhere except at Nick and Marie. No one was within
shouting distance. A streetlight bathed the three of them in a yellowish hue.
Fifty yards away, traffic barreled by on Roosevelt Boulevard.
The Bimbo InternÕs
hand jerked out of her purse. ÒNot one step closer, or IÕll Mace your face.Ó
Nick started
laughing. Marie giggled.
ÒWhat?Ó muttered
the Bimbo Intern. She looked at the object in her hand. A vibrator.
Nick massaged
his side. He laughed so hard that his side cramped.
The Bimbo Intern
shoved the vibrator back into her purse. She pulled out a Swiss army knife.
Nick stopped
laughing. He dried his eyes. ÒPut that thing away before you cut yourself.Ó
ÒIÕm warning you,
both of you. Not one ste. . . .Ó The Bimbo Intern studied Marie, as if for the
first time. ÒWhat are you doing here?Ó
ÒTrying to find
out what happened to my husband.Ó
ÒWell, I havenÕt
see him since GrahamÕs party, so there.Ó The Bimbo Intern put the knife back in
her purse.
Nick asked, ÒDo
you know why he jumped out of their car and ran down that alley?Ó
ÒIs that what
happened?Ó
ÒUh-huh.Ó
ÒI donÕt know,Ó
said the Bimbo Intern. ÒMaybe he split because of her.Ó She pointed her
hooknose at Marie. ÒI heard she was a pretty lame lay.Ó
Knuckles
cracked. Nick saw Marie form a fist.
Nick asked the Bimbo
Intern, ÒIs there anything you can tell us?Ó
ÒNope.Ó
ÒAnybody we can
talk to?Ó
The Bimbo Intern
shrugged. ÒYou can try Mick Collins. He and Mattie were pretty tight.Ó
ÒOK, thanks.Ó
The Bimbo Intern
strutted back to the club, cutting between Nick and Marie. The velvet material
of her dress brushed against his arm. Her Paris Hilton perfume made him cough.
Before she
reached the EmpireÕs front doors, the Bimbo Intern swiveled and placed her
hands on her hips. She zeroed in on Marie.
ÒIf you ever do
find Mattie, tell him to give me a call. He was the best lay I ever had. That
birthmark under his left arm still turns me on.Ó
23
Nick drove the Prius.
Marie hadnÕt objected when he took the keys. HeÕd been smart to do so. She was
in no shape to drive.
Back in the
Empire parking lot, after the Bimbo InternÕs parting comment, Marie had
screamed, ÒYOU FUCKINÕ CUNT! IÕLL KILL YOU!!!Ó But Nick grabbed her from behind
(by the waist) and prevented a homicidal act.
ÒHow ya doinÕ?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒI want to go
back there and tear that little bitch a new orifice,Ó Marie barked. ÒOr better
yet, take that little fucking knife of hers and stab her in the vagina, so
sheÕs never able to sleep with a married man again.Ó
ÒShe could be
lying.Ó
ÒHow did she
know Matthew has a birthmark?Ó
ÒHe couldÕve
told her. Maybe she saw him wearing a tank top at the gym. Or maybe itÕs on his
health records at work. DidnÕt you say her uncleÕs some bigwig there? She
couldÕve gotten hold of his records by turning on the charm on her uncle.Ó
Marie snorted.
ÒWhat charm?Ó
Breathing
evenly, Marie felt her anger abate. She realized the Prius was heading south on
Roosevelt Boulevard. Oh my God!
A thought sideswiped her gray matter: Nick had been driving for at least 10
minutes. Since the Bimbo InternÕs parting comment, everything was a blur. I
canÕt remember the last time I blacked out over an adrenaline-infused rage.
Calmed down now,
Marie took note of NickÕs driving. For someone without a license, he was quite
the conservative driver. He didnÕt run yellow lights, drove no more than five
miles over the speed limit and passed other cars only when necessary. Fascinating.
Most people she knew who drove without a license raced like a stunt person on a
Jerry Bruckheimer movie.
The Prius turned
right on Bustleton Avenue. A few blocks later, it made a left on Knorr Street.
If theyÕd stayed on Bustleton, they would have passed a storefront that was now
a pizza place, but back in the day had been the Record Cellar.
As a teenager
and 20-something, Marie visited the Record Cellar at least once a week. It had
two aisles, with four rows of records in waist-high wood bins. Near the front
were cassettes in cases nailed to the wall. In the late Ô80s, the store started
stocking compact discs. In 1996, the Record Cellar shut its doors so the owner,
Neil Drucker, could devote time and resources to his fledgling record label of
the same name. A month before the closing, Marie went through the clearance
bins. That was when sheÕd met Matthew.
Back in the
present, Marie slapped a hand over her face. She groaned.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒNothing.Ó
Grunt. ÒI canÕt believe I used the C word back there.Ó
ÒWhat, itÕs not
like she didnÕt deserve it. She is, after all—what do you call
her?—a Bimbo Intern.Ó
Marie nodded. ÒI
know, but itÕs such a vile word.Ó
ÒHey, if it
bothers you so much, next time, use the code word my buddy Derek uses.
C-Class.Ó
ÒC-Class?Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said, Òone time he got cut off by some shithead driving a Mercedes C-Class, so
now, instead of using the C word, he just calls those of the uncouth persuasion
ÔC-Class.ÕÓ
24
The next morning, Marie
jumped out of bed. After tending to hygiene concerns, she strode back into her
bedroom on the balls of her feet (something she had done as a teenager whenever
walking barefoot) and opened the metal closet door, tiptoeing for the top
shelf. Since she missed laundry day over the weekend, her choices were limited.
Eventually, she chose cargo pants; a white T-shirt with a decal of the Circle
JerksÕ only good album, When the Shit Hits the Fans; and her Sun Dog sneakers. No espadrilles today,
her feet ached from wearing them yesterday.
In the living
room, Marie tapped NickÕs feet. ÒLetÕs go,Ó she said. ÒRise and shine,
sopor-head.Ó
ÒUghhh.Ó Nick
sandwiched his head between two pillows. ÒSomebody tell the sun to take the day
the fuck off.Ó He grinned and got up.
25
A half-hour later,
Marie and Nick were—once again—in her Prius. She drove to their next
destination: Graham ArcherÕs house in Narberth to talk to his wife, Anne.
Before leaving
Glenside, they had breakfasted ˆ la AmericaÕs Choice cinnamon-raisin bagels
slapped with Philadelphia cream cheese. Marie had objected to NickÕs insistence
that they talk to Anne Archer. Marie didnÕt see the use. They already had a
lead with Mick Collins. Why waste precious time with Anne? Nick argued that
their best bet was to ambush Collins at lunchtime, when he ate in the picnic
area behind Leaf & Dashiell. Nick pointed out that the two of them had an
entire morning to kill. Might as well talk to Anne, in case the conversation
with Collins proved futile. Anne might offer another lead.
Marie pulled
into the Archer driveway behind a Lexus. Since Graham drove the Union Jack
Jaguar, this Lexus must have been AnneÕs.
ÒHoly shit on a
bass pick,Ó Nick said, stretching and yawning. ÒHow the fuck do you
nine-to-fivers get up so goddamned early every day? The working day should
start at noonÓ—his voice took on a British accent—ÒI say.Ó
Marie removed
her keys from the ignition. She didnÕt answer NickÕs question. If she had,
sheÕd have told him her typical workday ran 12 hours, not counting the two to
three hours a night she spent reading the newspaper and a book or magazine.
Marie walked
around the car. She wore sunglasses with lenses shaped like bug eyes. From a
nearby house, a TV blared Good Morning America.
The Archer house
abutted the driveway, so Marie and Nick didnÕt have to trek across an expansive
lawn. Nick went first, trudging up two steps to the wood porch. He opened the
screen door and knocked on the steel door. (Down near the mailbox slot was a
small sticker advertising Doors Unlimited.)
Activity inside
the house. Someone peered through a peephole. Marie slid into view. The door
opened after the unmistakable sound of a door chain being unhooked.
Anne Archer
opened the doorway halfway. She squinted, even though the porch overhang provided
plenty of shade.
ÒHi, Anne,Ó
Marie said.
ÒOh, hello . . .
Marie, is it?Ó Anne opened the door all the way.
Anne hadnÕt been
at the party on Friday. Marie hadnÕt seen her since the fall, when the two
couples had dined at Estia, a Greek restaurant in Philadelphia.
This morning,
Anne wore a white, silk bathrobe that practically merged with her ivory skin.
Her shoulder-length, bleached-blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she
smelled of potpourri. Marie wasnÕt sure how someone could smell like that
unless she had rolled around in it. But stranger things have happened. Like
your husband jumping out of the car at a traffic light on a Friday night.
Marie introduced
Nick. Pleasantries passed all around. Anne invited them in.
A Shih Tzu
scuttled in from the kitchen. It yelped at Marie and Nick. A bell on the dogÕs
flea collar jingle-jangled.
ÒOh, Geffen,Ó
Anne said to the Shih Tzu, her arms crossed over her chest, as they had been
when she answered the door. ÒSimmer down. Simmer down!Ó
ÒFan of the
Mighty Bosstones?Ó Nick asked.
ÒExcuse me?Ó
ÒBack when they
were good, before they began to Ônever knock on wood,Õ they had a song called
ÔSimmer DownÕ—a Bob Marley cover, I think. Not too many people use that
phrase anymore. That isnÕt where you got it from?Ó
ÒAfraid not.Ó
Anne pursed her lips as if sucking on expired caviar. She inhaled through her
nose and invited Nick and Marie to sit, indicating a beige-and-white living
room.
Marie and Nick
sat side by side on the couch under a painting of a submarine. Anne turned off
the widescreen TV. Marie watched the image fade of Regis and Kelly. TheyÕd been
interviewing Tom Gable, the former lead singer of Against Me! Gable was promoting
his Dylan-esque solo album.
As Anne settled
into a loveseat near the faux fireplace, Marie gazed out at the patio and
backyard. Sitting here made her queasy. Just five days before, she and Matthew
had been here, enjoying their time together and kick-starting another blissful
weekend.
Marie cast the
memory aside, though she couldnÕt take full credit. Anne, sitting with both
feet tucked under her buttocks, had picked up a teacup off a table that was
part of a lamp. The cup held coffee the color of football-field mud. She rattled
it on a white saucer decorated with lattices.
ÒYo,Ó Nick said,
Òyou got anymore of that lovinÕ?Ó
ÒWhat? Oh,
sure.Ó Stone-faced, Anne unwound herself and headed for the kitchen. She
returned with coffee in a pint-size I © New York mug. Nick gripped the ceramic handle and gulped as if he
had given up java for Lent. Marie assumed the coffee was lukewarm. Otherwise,
he would have come up for air by now.
ÒGoddamn,Ó Nick
said, placing the mug on the coffee table in front of him and Marie. ÒThatÕs
good stuff! Like Depeche Mode says, ÔI just canÕt get enough.ÕÓ Still sitting
on the couch, he did a little New Wave dance with his shoulders.
ÒGlad you like
it.Ó Anne raised her eyebrows at Marie.
ÒNo, IÕm fine,
thank you,Ó Marie said. ÒIÕm not much of a coffee drinker.Ó
Nick took
another swallow of the coffee as Geffen tore across the living room floor, barking.
Nick picked up the Shih Tzu and placed it on his lap. Geffen stopped barking as
soon as Nick started petting it.
Marie crossed
her legs and stared at the stucco ceiling. She tried to remember if Geffen had
been at the party. Never mind.
It was inconsequential.
ÒSo, Anne,Ó Nick
said, Ònow that IÕm all caffeinated up and working at optimum levels: Matthew
Dougherty. What can you tell us about him?Ó
Anne rubbed her
nose. ÒWhat do you mean, what do I know about him? HeÕs her husband, and he
works with Graham. What more is there to know?Ó
Marie cleared
her throat. She told Anne about MatthewÕs disappearance.
ÒOh.Ó Anne put
her teacup on the lamp table. She hugged herself.
ÒGraham didnÕt
tell you?Ó Marie asked.
ÒNo. No, he
didnÕt.Ó Eyes down.
Marie and Nick
traded glances.
Nick asked, ÒDo
you have any idea why Matt would bolt like that?Ó
ÒNo. Sorry.Ó
Anne wrinkled her nose.
ÒIs—Ò
Anne interrupted
Nick. ÒShouldnÕt this be a police matter? Why are you two even bothering with
this little charade? IÕm sure heÕll turn up.Ó
MarieÕs eyes
widened. This was the most emotion Anne had shown since they arrived.
ÒThe cops!Ó Nick
said. His voice woke Geffen, who had fallen asleep in his lap. ÒI wouldnÕt
trust those pigs to coax a cat out of a tree, let alone handle something
sensitive like AbeÕs AWOL pooh bear.Ó
ÒWell.Ó Anne
scowled. She picked up her teacup and saucer. Bringing the cup to her lips, she
knocked her head back and snorted. Marie was pretty sure Anne had emptied it
earlier.
Enough of
this.
Marie got up.
ÒThanks for seeing us, Anne, and answering our questions. I hope we didnÕt put
you out too much.Ó
ÒNo, not all.Ó
Anne sniffed and stood.
Nick got up,
too. He held Geffen in front of him, letting the Shih Tzu lick his nose and
mouth. Afterwards, he set the dog on the plush carpet and joined Marie by the
door.
ÒWeÕll see ourselves
out,Ó Marie said.
Hand on
doorknob, Marie paused when Anne called her name. Anne stood in the middle of
the living room, arms limp at her sides like clumps of spaghetti.
ÒGraham did tell
me one thing. He said the new art director and your husband were working on an
extracurricular business plan. I donÕt remember any of the details.Ó
ÒOK. Thanks.Ó
Marie opened the door. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw on the table in
the foyer, a stack of pamphlets for Conservatives United Now—Tomorrow.
26
Sitting behind the
steering wheel, Marie cringed when Nick slammed the passenger door. His breath
reeked of coffee. She rolled down her window.
Nick said, ÒHow
much ya wanna bet that right about now good olÕ Mrs. ArcherÕs got her nose buried
in a bag of blow?Ó
ÒYou think?Ó
ÒDoes a bear
maul a documentarian to death? Man, I havenÕt seen anyone touch their nose so
much since my nephew had a sinus infection.Ó
Marie put the
Prius in reverse and coasted down the driveway. She frowned. Why hadnÕt Matthew
told her about his business plan with Mick Collins? Well, they would soon find
out.
27
Nick led the way around
Leaf & DashiellÕs building. Marie was right behind him. They navigated a
serpentine path to the picnic area. Fifty-foot trees shaded the courtyard, making
it seem like dusk rather than high noon.
Nick was glad no
security guards patrolled the grounds. He wasnÕt in the mood for violence
today.
The courtyard
contained seven concrete picnic tables. Mick Collins sat at the one in the
middle. He wore a casual dress shirt with button-down collar and a pattern of
black and tan checkers. In front of him lay a book. He highlighted a passage.
ÒYo, Mick!Ó Nick
plopped on the picnic tableÕs bench to CollinsÕ left. ÒWhaÕcha reading?Ó
Collins showed
him. Rich Dad, Poor Dad by
Robert Kiyosaki.
ÒHey,Ó Nick
quipped, ÒshouldnÕt that be called Avaricious Father, Exemplary Father?Ó
Collins blinked.
ÒDonÕt ya think
heÕs doing nothing but giving people a excuse to be greedy?Ó Nick said.
Collins shook
his head. ÒHeÕs providing a useful service by showing how to be self-reliant.
The governmentÕs not going to take care of you when youÕre old and retired.Ó
A few years
before, Nick had listened to the audiobook of Rich Dad, Poor Dad (always a good idea to check out what the enemy
is reading). He agreed with Kiyosaki that owning a home was more of a liability
than an asset and that AmericaÕs educational system bred employees rather than
entrepreneurs. But in the end, Rich Dad, Poor Dad promoted the status quo. Nick was about to
recommend Moving Forward by
Michael Alberts, but he remembered that he and Marie werenÕt here for an
ideological discussion.
Marie sat across
from Collins. Flying ants zipped around all three of their heads, and bees
buzzed about in search of nectar.
ÒHi, Mick,Ó Marie
said. ÒDo you remember me?Ó
Collins blinked.
ÒYes.Ó He dog-eared the page of his book and closed it.
Collins picked
up a plastic fork and ate a chunk of his tuna salad from a clear plastic
container. To the right of the takeout meal was a bottle of Coppertone suntan
lotion, SPF 40. Probably for his bald dome, Nick guessed.
ÒSo,Ó Nick said,
Òword on the street is you and Matt had a little business arrangement going
on.Ó
ÒYes.Ó CollinsÕ
right cheek bulged with a bite of food.
ÒWhat was it?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒWhat was what?Ó
ÒThe business
plan.Ó
ÒOh.Ó Collins
blinked. (Nick wondered if he wore contacts.) ÒWe were going to open a shop
based on the Starbucks business model. They donÕt franchise to individuals.Ó
ÒA Starbucks
knockoff!Ó Nick said. ÒJesus jerking off at the Last Supper, why in the hell
would you wanna do that?Ó
Collins blinked
and shrugged. ÒItÕs a safe investment.Ó
ÒSoÕs pushinÕ
crack onto kindergarteners, but I donÕt see ya doinÕ that.Ó
Collins sipped
his Frappuccino. ÒWe were supposed to start scouting for locations this
weekend. Do you think Matt will be back by then?Ó
Marie stared at
him. ÒHow much money did you two save?Ó she asked, her face flushed.
ÒWe hadnÕt
gotten that far yet. I think Matt was going to talk to you when we reached that
stage.Ó
Nick watched
MarieÕs left hand grip the corner of the picnic table. Her right hand was on
her lap, out of sight.
ÒGotta question
for you,Ó Nick said.
Collins—yet
again—blinked.
ÒYouÕre the art
director here, right?Ó Nick asked.
ÒYes.Ó
ÒYouÕre probably
makinÕ close to 80 grand a year. ThatÕs almost double what a normal,
working-class family makes. You got it made right now. Why do you wanna start a
business?Ó
Collins beamed.
ÒI want a bigger house and would like to retire before my forty-fourth
birthday.Ó
ÒWouldnÕt you
rather work and be a productive member of society?Ó
CollinsÕ jaw
tightened. He dove back into his tuna salad and mumbled, ÒLiberal.Ó
Marie planted
her elbows on the concrete table, arms crossed, a hand on each opposing
shoulder. ÒDo you know where Matthew is?Ó
ÒNo, sorry. But
if you see him, tell him IÕd like the paperwork he compiled. He was in charge
of keeping notes on our progress.Ó
28
Marie and Nick left the
picnic area. This time, she went first. She strode up the serpentine path,
eager to put as much distance as possible between her and Mick CollinsÕ slopping
and slurping. A squirrel scurried out of her way.
At the end of
the path, Marie squinted and shielded her eyes. The sun blared down like a
Death Valley fireball. Heat rose from the parking lotÕs asphalt, burning
through their shoes.
Marie wished she
hadnÕt left her shades in the Prius. The sun seemed to shine off every
windshield and chrome bumper in the parking lot. God, how I hate the heat! What she wouldnÕt have given to hop in a time
machine and go back to winter, when she could hole up in the house and not feel
guilty about it.
Hopping in the
Prius, Marie rolled down the windows and cranked up the A/C. Hot, stale air
blasted her way, so she closed the middle vent for the time being. Nick sat in
the passenger seat, door open, feet on the ground.
ÒWhat the. . .
?Ó Marie said this only because Nick was here. If alone, she would have simply
scrunched up her face in a quizzical manner.
On the dashboard
were six guitar strings, each curled like an @ symbol. The end of one nestled
in the air vent. The blasting A/C made it rattle against the windshield.
ÒWhere did these
come from?Ó Marie asked.
ÒI dunno.Ó Nick
uncurled the strings and examined them. ÒThatÕs weird.Ó
ÒWhat?Ó
ÒTheyÕve been cut.Ó
ÒWhat do you
mean?Ó Marie asked.
ÒSomebody just
didnÕt buy them then dump Ôem on your dash. These used to be on somebodyÕs guitar.Ó
Marie rubbed her
forehead. She was too hot to think about the guitar strings. ÒClose that door,
will you?Ó
Nick complied
and scooped up the strings to drop them in a white plastic Wawa bag that hung
from his door handle.
Marie opened the
middle air vent and shifted the Prius out of park. The second she tapped the
gas, her mind drifted to Matthew. Did he really plan on opening an imitation
Starbucks? Why didnÕt he tell her? What else didnÕt she know about him?
The Prius turned
left out of the lot and onto a two-lane road, still in the office park. The car
stopped at a light. They needed to go right, however, a sign said NO TURN ON
RED. A camera on top of a utility pole persuaded her to sit tight.
With the traffic
light still red, Marie thought of the old Cure song ÒHow Beautiful You AreÓ
from the Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me
CD. The tune was about how nobody every truly knows anyone else, no matter how
much in love they are. She had always thought singer Robert Smith was being his
typical melodramatic self with those lyrics, but now she wasnÕt so sure. If she
didnÕt know Matthew was planning on opening a Starbucks knockoff, then he may
have been cheating on her, too. Maybe the Bimbo Intern learned about his birthmark
in a pay-by-the-hour motel room.
ÒYo, Abe,Ó Nick
said. ÒGreen means go.Ó
ÒOh.Ó Marie
retrieved her wandering mind and stamped the gas. The A/C puffed out a blast of
cold air. Felt good.
ÒStarbucks,
huh?Ó Nick prompted.
ÒMm-hmm.Ó
ÒPretty weird,
donÕt ya think?Ó
Marie nodded.
She didnÕt want to talk about it right now. For the ride home, all she wanted
to do was listen to her iPod shuffle the 100 or so songs in her Mountain Goats
playlist. Presently, she listened to ÒHalf Dead,Ó singer John Darnielle
murmuring that he couldnÕt get his lover out of his head.
29
Nick followed Marie
into her house. He shut the door as she tossed her keys in an ashtray on a bookcase
shelf. The keys clanged on the ceramic. He couldnÕt go into the living room.
She stood in the way.
ÒWhatÕs wrong?Ó
Nick asked.
Marie swiped her
keys from the bookcase. ÒSomethingÕs wrong,Ó she whispered.
ÒWrong how?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.
I. . . .Ó
ÒWait here.Ó
Nick slid past
Marie and tiptoed up the stairs. The bathroom, her office and both bedrooms
were empty and apparently undisturbed.
Back downstairs,
Nick raised a finger to his lips. Marie stood in the middle of the living room,
purse still over her shoulder. She gripped her keys in a pallid fist, Viper
car-alarm remote dangling like a lucky charm.
Nick crept
through the dining room and kitchen. No sign of foul play here or in the backyard.
One more place to check.
Nick backtracked
into the dining room. He prowled past the china closet and slowly turned the
knob to the basement door. It started to creak. He let go of the knob and
wiggled his fingers between the door and the frame. Hand wrapped around the
side of the door, he tried opening it again, but the wood continued to creak. Fuck
this. The door was open 10
inches, enough for him to slip through.
Heading down the
basement steps, Nick moved with the stealth of a second-story man. Fortunately,
the stairs didnÕt creak. His hands skimmed the sandstone walls on either side
of him. He could see no more than a foot in front of him on the dark staircase.
Nick was halfway
down the stairs on a landing. Light from the basement windows made him blink.
Descending the
last 10 steps, Nick listened for any odd movements. Marie had said,
ÒSomethingÕs wrong.Ó He should have asked for more information. But on the
chance an intruder was here, best to be on the alert.
MarieÕs basement
was less cluttered than the cellar of the punkhouse where Nick lived. Here, he
had plenty of room to move across the concrete floor. An intruder would have
few places to hide. Sure, bookcases lined the basement, but they were pushed
against the walls. No one could hide behind one and stay hidden for long. (The
black bookcases were filled with different editions of MarieÕs 50 novels, each
one in a plastic sleeve.)
Nick reached the
end of the mildew-smelling basement, where there was the laundry. Nobody or
nothing in that little room, except a washer/dryer and a pile of dirty clothes.
Relaxed, Nick
turned on his heel to head back upstairs. Looks like AbeÕs intuition needs a
tune-up.
Nick screeched
to a stop. Outside the laundry, next to shelving crammed with white cardboard
banker boxes, was an alcove filled with musical gear. In the one corner was a
Fender electric guitar; in the other, an acoustic. A mid-sized Marshall
amplifier sat on the floor. On top of the amp, an electronic tuner. And on a
tray table was a four-track recorder.
Nick assumed
this was MatthewÕs home within his home. Nice to see Matt hadnÕt totally given
up playing music after his band, Mr. Mainstream, had broken up in 2001. For
most of the Ô90s, Mr. Mainstream had been local heroes in the tri-state area,
but their major-label debut in 2000 went straight from the pressing plant to
the remainder bins due to poor reviews, a minuscule marketing campaign and band
members so sick of each other that they often broke into fistfights on stage.
Nick stepped
into the alcove and took the Fender from its guitar stand. He was about to
strum a few chords, but he stopped.
ÒWhat the fuck?Ó
30
Marie and Nick sat at
her dining-room table. On the plastic, peach-colored tablecloth was MatthewÕs
electric guitar, which Nick had brought up from the basement. All six strings
were missing. Now they knew where the guitar strings on the Prius dashboard had
come from.
On the top of
the guitar were old photos that Marie had of her and Matthew. The operative
word being had.
While Nick was
down in the basement, Marie had sat in the living-room recliner. She stuffed
her keys in her purse. Suddenly, a dose of adrenaline jolted through her. She
couldnÕt believe what she was seeing. Straight ahead, to the left of the TV,
was their wedding picture, except Matt was MIA. Someone had cut him out of the
picture.
Staring at the
photographs on the dining-room table, Marie couldnÕt believe MatthewÕs image
had been removed from every one. How was that done? Probably with a utility
knife, since the edges of the photos were intact.
Marie muttered.
She meant to voice a rhetorical question, but her vocal cords, like the rest of
her body, were in shock.
ÒSomebodyÕs
sending us a message,Ó Nick said.
Marie picked up
a picture. This one had been taken in 1999, at a Halloween party. She had gone
as the Bride of Frankenstein, and Matthew went as Dracula. Except he was no
longer in the photo. Her right index finger traced the edges where he had been.
She was floored by the vandalÕs (or vandalsÕ) precision. They had removed only
Matthew. Nothing else.
Dropping the
vandalized photograph, Marie frowned and ran a hand over her face. ÒIÕm sorry.
What did you say?Ó
ÒI think
somebodyÕs trying to send us a message.Ó
ÒWh—What
kind of message?Ó
ÒI donÕt know,Ó
Nick said. ÒMaybe weÕre gettinÕ close to finding Matt. Or maybe weÕre way off
base and just happened to piss the wrong people off.Ó
Marie stared out
the kitchen window. Dandelion seeds floated by. In a neighborÕs yard, a woodpecker
rapped away as if possessed by Walter Lantz. And the smell of chlorine wafted
into the Dougherty dining room—the dayÕs heat had compelled a neighbor to
fire up their pool early this year.
Marie removed
her hand from her mouth. ÒDo you think itÕs somebody weÕve talked to?Ó
ÒCould be.
WhereÕs your pen and paper?Ó
Marie told Nick
a pen and a writing pad were in the living room. Quicker than a keystroke, he returned
to the dining-room table. She watched him write across the top of the page in
bold block letters: SHITHEADS WE TALKED TO.
The list
consisted of:
— Yoda Jr.
— Graham
Archer
—
Bimbo Intern (Nick had written down her real name,
but to Marie, sheÕd always be the Bimbo Intern)
— Anne Archer
— Mick Collins.
ÒWhat about Judy
Walker?Ó Marie asked.
ÒWho?Ó
ÒThe head of
Human Resources at Leaf.Ó
ÒYou mean Human
Relations?Ó Nick joked, scribbling HR headjob in the right margin. He circled JudyÕs nickname
and drew an arrow between Yoda Jr.
and Graham Archer.
ÒDo you think
Mick cut up all of these pictures and put the strings from MatthewÕs guitar on
my dashboard?Ó
ÒI donÕt know. I
doubt it. He didnÕt know we were coming. ItÕs not like we set up a appointment
or anything. Plus, how could he show up at his job today, then drive to your
house, cut out all the pictures of Matt, unstring his guitar, then put them in
your car while we were heading to that picnic area?Ó
ÒHe could have
had the morning off,Ó Marie said. ÒMaybe he waited for us to leave, then did
the vandalism.Ó
ÒI think youÕre
letting your imagination get the better of you. Remember, he was sitting there
all relaxed, eating his lunch when we pulled up. It was obvious heÕd been there
awhile.Ó
ÒHe couldÕve had
an accomplice.Ó
Nick shook his
head and leaned back in his chair. It groaned. He wrinkled his nose and twisted
his lips to the side.
ÒWhatÕs wrong?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒIÕm just
wondering what we should do next. Interview more people who might know what happened
to Matt, or try to find out who busted into your house.Ó
ÒI think we
should go back to the Bimbo Intern. That little bitch knows more than sheÕs
telling. I just know it.Ó
ÒYou sure youÕre
not letting your feelings get in the way?Ó
ÒI—Ò Marie
looked away. ÒI hate that bitch. I . . . I canÕt get her and Matthew out of my
head. I keep seeing them outside the Empire, making out on top of our car.Ó
ÒYou gotta block
that shit out. ItÕll drive you crazy.Ó Nick leaned forward, elbows on his
knees. ÒI thought things were cool between you two.Ó
ÒSo did I, but
IÕm learning all this stuff I never knew before, like his plan to open a coffee
shop. Who knows what else he was up to? He could have been having an affair. .
. .Ó
Nick ticked off
two points on his fingers. ÒA: Matt was still in the planning phases of the
Starbucks knockoff. Like Mick said, he probably was just gettinÕ his game plan
together before talking to you. And B: the Bimbo Intern—as you call
her—couldÕve been lying about hooking up with him.Ó
ÒBut with the
coffee shop, he should have come to me as soon as he had the idea. WeÕre
married; weÕre a team. I should be his first stop, not his last.Ó
ÒTrue that,Ó
Nick said, smirking.
And what if
Matthew was cheating on me with somebody else? Marie hated to think such things, but since
Saturday, that idea had kept popping in her head. Maybe Matt was one of those
smooth operators who practiced infidelity with such ease that his innumerable
rendezvous slipped under her radar.
Nick stood up
and picked up the stringless guitar. Marie grabbed the mountain of mutilated
photographs before they could tumble to the floor.
ÒYa mind if I
throw this back downstairs?Ó Nick asked.
ÒShouldnÕt we
keep it up here?Ó
ÒWhat for?Ó
ÒBecause itÕs a
clue,Ó Marie said.
Nick grinned.
ÒIt can still be a clue downstairs.Ó He turned serious. ÒBesides, itÕs best to
put it back in the guitar stand. DonÕt wanna warp the neck and make it hard to
tune.Ó
ÒOK.Ó
As Nick clunked
down the basement steps, Marie swept the photos in her arms and shoved them in
the china closetÕs empty bottom drawer. They didnÕt all fit, so a few handfuls
went in the next drawer, on top of some Ian Fleming paperbacks.
Nick closed the
basement door with a sole of his Chuck Taylors. ÒHey, I was thinking. Since we
have absolutely no idea who did thisÓ—he motioned at the damaged
photographs in the drawer Marie was closing—Òwhaddya say we keep talking
to people who knew Matt?Ó
Marie cleared
her throat. ÒSure.Ó
ÒAnybody else we
can talk to at his job?Ó
Marie sucked in
her cheeks. ÒNo, I donÕt think so.Ó
ÒHow Ôbout after
work? WhoÕd he hang out with?Ó
ÒMe mostly.
Occasionally, heÕd go out for drinks with Graham.Ó
ÒNobody else?Ó
Marie began to
shake her head but stopped. ÒOh, wait. Every Wednesday, he played sports with
the same group of guys. In the winter, they played basketball; in the spring,
volleyball; summer, baseball; and football in the fall.Ó
ÒCool. They play
at night, right?Ó
ÒYes.Ó
ÒLetÕs roll,
then,Ó Nick said. ÒYou drive. IÕll moon passersby.Ó
31
With a few hours before
the gym opened, Marie and Nick ate at the Mayfair Diner in Northeast Philadelphia.
Their waitress—Dottie,
her name tag said—wore the standard black-and-white Mayfair Diner
uniform, and Nick would have been shocked if she were younger than 60.
Leaving the
diner, Nick burped, his bacon cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake sitting
scrumptiously in his stomach. Marie had enjoyed her meal (fruit salad and apple
juice), too. He knew this because her gait had an extra spring to it. None of
the pedestrians or drivers here on Frankford Avenue noticed, but he did. Hard
to believe we havenÕt hung out for at least 10 years. Kinda crazy how strong
childhood bonds can be.
ÒWhaddya say I
drive?Ó Nick said.
Marie pulled the
keys from her purse. ÒGive me one good reason.Ó
ÒÕCause I know
the cityÕs side streets and major intersections like the back of my bass.Ó
ÒEven though you
donÕt own a car?Ó Marie tossed the keys. Nick caught them overhand.
ÒHey,Ó Nick
said, ÒdonÕt underestimate the power of a Philly bike courier. WeÕre the finest
bitches this side of Chicago.Ó
32
Marie settled into the
PriusÕ passenger seat. She saw no harm in letting Nick drive. His time behind
the wheel Tuesday night had proven he drove better than most. He
was—without question—better than her late father, who, no matter
how fast he was going, waited until the last possible moment to brake for stop
signs and red lights.
Nick got
comfortable in the driver seat and started the Prius. Marie removed her iPod
from one of her many pants pockets and keyed up Mates Of StateÕs Bring It
Back, their best album, in her
opinion. But the battery died after the second track, ÒFraud in the Ô80s.Ó She
replaced the iPod in her pocket, and Nick turned on the radio, scrolling to the
left of the dial. WKDU, Drexel UniversityÕs radio station, came on. The
freshman DJ showed he was what he played by spinning 20-plus-year-old vinyl
from hardcoreÕs heyday.
ÒI donÕt get it,
Ò Marie said. ÒWhy did Matthew jump out of the car in the first place? It
doesnÕt make sense.Ó
ÒLetÕs. . . .Ó
ÒWhat, what is
it?Ó
ÒDo you hear
that?Ó Nick asked.
ÒNo.Ó
Nick kept his
eyes on the road but arched an ear towards the dashboard. Marie heard nothing
off-kilter, so she turned down the radio. I still donÕt hear it. WhatÕs Nick
talking about? Oh, God, I hope heÕs not having an acid flashback.
Then, Marie
heard it. A cross between a racquetball bouncing off walls and a tiger
thrashing in a reservoir.
ÒWhat the. . .
?Ó Marie said. She shifted her foot. White foam dripped from the bottom of the
glovebox. None had landed on her.
The sound in the
glovebox grew louder. Marie and Nick traded an anxious glance. He broke away to
peer in the rearview and door mirrors. She knew he was looking to pull over,
but the heavy traffic on this four-lane avenue scudded at 40 miles an hour,
never mind the 25-m.p.h. speed limit. The Prius was in the right lane, but
pulling over would have been like slamming on the brakes during rush hour on an
expressway. And no parking spots were available.
The banging in
the glovebox moved to the dashboard. The noise remained on the passenger side
but sounded as if near the windshield.
ÒWhat the fuck,Ó
Nick muttered, flicking the hazard lights on.
Marie watched
NickÕs right knee rise—foot easing off the gas. Behind them, a soccer mom
driving solo in an oversized SUV lay on her horn. She tore around the Prius. In
doing so, she cut off a biker wearing Mad Max boots, blue jeans and a
sleeveless white T-shirt. He lifted his mirrored Terminator sunglasses and
extended a tattooed arm to give Nick the finger. Marie shook her head at the
biker. Mad Max throttled into the distance, his salt-and-pepper mane flying in
the spring wind.
Nick tapped the
brake, and the thing inside the dashboard unveiled itself. Marie couldnÕt
believe it. This wasnÕt a Stephen King story. Stuff like this didnÕt happen in
real life, right? But she bumped that thought aside for a more important one: How
did it get in my car in the first place?
The aggressor in
question popped its head through a corner in the airbag cover. A rabid weasel.
Even though the
weasel was a good two feet away, Marie pushed back against the seat and turned
her knees to the door. White foam oozed from the weaselÕs nose and mouth. It
squealed like a rodent in a trash compactor. Its eyes had the raging look of a
failed freelancer.
ÒHold up,Ó Nick
said calmly.
The Prius
reached the end of a block. Nick pulled into a bus stop, nothing more than a
white rectangle on the black asphalt with an X in it. A half-dozen commuters
glared at the car.
The rabid weasel
was halfway out of the dashboard. Its little forearms twitched. Nails (abnormally
long, Marie thought) scratched the dash.
Nick put the
Prius in park. At the same time, he pulled out the keys from the ignition.
Meanwhile, Marie
unlocked and opened her door. One foot on the curb. Fuck! SheÕd forgotten to undo her seatbelt. Eyeing the
weasel, she unfastened the buckle with shaky hands.
The weasel dug
three paws into the dashboard. The airbag cover snagged its left hind leg.
ÒNo,Ó Marie
whispered, her stomach and lungs feeling like theyÕd swapped places. NO!
Marie couldnÕt
get out of the Prius via the passenger side. A pole advertising the bus stop
blocked her door. She could only open it six inches. Oh, God. She pulled her foot back into the car and saw commuters
swarm around Nick with questions. The only commuter not bothering him was a
19-year-old who wore not only a do-rag but also enormous headphones. He blew
Marie a misogynistic kiss.
Inside the
Prius, the airbag cover continued to hold down the weasel. It seemed frustrated
by its predicament. The weasel banged its head on the windshield. For a second
or two, its glistening nose mesmerized Marie.
No longer
staring at the weasel, Marie removed her seatbelt. Moments ago, she had
unbuckled it, but the belt hadnÕt retracted. Now, her sudden movement threw the
buckle against the passenger window. The weasel snarled, sounding like a
choking child.
The weasel
stopped snarling. Despite being rabid, it must have realized it would never
work free of the airbag cover, no matter how much effort it put into pulling
its tail and left hind leg. So the weasel did what any enraged animal would do.
It began to gnaw on the dashboard.
With the weasel
preoccupied, Marie climbed into the backseat. She planned to exit by the driver
door. She would have climbed into the driver seat from the passenger seat, but
scrambling over the parking brake was too risky. The last thing she wanted was
to fall forward and let the weasel tear her throat out. As a kid, she had heard
that if you contracted rabies, youÕd spend the rest of your life getting 20
shots in the stomach every day. Treatment had probably improved over the last
30 years, but no reason to chance it. Better safe than sick with rabies.
In the backseat,
Marie fumbled for the lever to push the driverÕs seat forward. Nick opened the
driver door first. It felt like heÕd been gone for eons.
ÒFuckinÕ
gapers,Ó Nick said in reference to the gawking crowd.
Nick didnÕt
offer Marie a hand. She frowned, but then she saw why. He held a large Wal-Mart
shopping bag that he threw at the weasel. The timing was perfect. The weasel had
just broken free of the airbag cover.
Nick pulled the
driverÕs seat forward. ÒCÕmon!Ó
Marie took
NickÕs hand. Once outside, she peered over her shoulder. The weaselÕs Freddy
Krueger nails sliced through the white plastic bag.
Nick slammed the
door. The weasel tossed the bag aside and throttled towards the driver-side window.
The sound of its skull pinging on the glass made Marie cringe, but the weasel
was none the worse. It landed on the driverÕs seat and ripped into the upholstery.
A spring popped out of the seat. The weasel pounced on it and bit into the
iron.
Marie sat on a
fire hydrant. Nick leaned against the bus-stop pole.
Jesus Christ. Marie rested shaky hands on her knees, her heart
beating like an overtaxed generator.
In the distance,
sirens wailed. Marie felt Nick slip her the car keys. ÒIn case they ask,Ó he
said, Òyou were driving.Ó
33
Nick watched a cop car
force traffic in both directions to stop so it could make an illegal U-turn.
The marked parked behind the Prius. Nick wasnÕt surprised that both cops were
white. And he predicted their first question: ÒWere any blacks involved in this
incident?Ó
Nick let Marie
answer the pigsÕ questions. He observed an Animal Control van pull behind the cop car. A man and a woman got
out and looked inside the Prius. They went back to their van and returned to
MarieÕs car with an apparent plan. The man opened the carÕs driver door, and
the woman pressed the trigger of a pistol. Out shot a tranquilizer dart the
size of a horse enema. It must have knocked the weasel out in an instant; the
two Animal Control employees werenÕt panicking, and Nick couldnÕt see inside
MarieÕs car, the weaselÕs breath had fogged the windows.
After taking
statements from the commuters, the cops left. Good riddance, Nick thought. The Animal Control van departed
soon after.
Marie pulled her
cell phone from a pants pockets. She called a tow truck. When it arrived, she
told the driver to drop off her car at Glenside Auto Body, around the corner
from her house.
As the tow truck
lumbered away, the Prius clanging behind, Nick and Marie stood on the street corner.
She made another call on her cell, this time for a cab.
Ten minutes
later, a verdant-colored cab screeched to the curb. Nick held the door open for
Marie. The backseat smelled of Cheetos and lentils.
ÒTenth and
Arch,Ó Nick said.
The cab slipped
into the stream of traffic. Mardi Gras beads jangled from the rearview mirror
as the taxi slipped into the stream of traffic.
Marie asked,
ÒWhatÕs at Tenth and Arch? Besides Chinatown.Ó
ÒA friend of
mine,Ó Nick answered. ÒThis is gettinÕ too big for us. We need help.Ó
Marie stared
outside. Nick saw her reflection in the window. Hard to tell how she was
holding up. Hopefully, she dealt with the stress in five-minute increments.
That way, she was nowhere near a nervous breakdown.
34
Marie followed Nick
into a building in the middle of the 100 block of North Tenth Street. Down the
street was ChinatownÕs world famous Friendship Gate, a 40-foot arch of green,
red and gold dragons that spanned Tenth Street.
NickÕs friendÕs
office was on the third floor. He knocked on the door and walked in. Marie
stayed in the hallway, studying the door. It was something out of a Robert B.
Parker novel. The door was dark brown wood, with a frosted glass insert that
advertised the name and occupation of NickÕs friend: Ian Hahn, Private Eye.
Marie came in
and closed the door. She shook her head. The door had a transom. DidnÕt they
stop making transoms around the time John D. MacDonald lost his magic touch
(circa 1964, when he started the Travis McGee series)?
Back against the
door, Marie examined the office. A black leather couch took up part of one
wall; in the corner, a Deer Park water cooler hummed. A short wall, six feet
long, was covered with framed movie posters: The Killer, Tokyo Raiders and The Bride with White Hair. Two large windows pierced a long wall opposite
the one with the door. Across from the movie posters, three file cabinets took
up another short wall.
Across from
where Marie stood, in front of the wall with two windows, sat an Asian man in a
white-collar polo shirt. On his compact imitation-oak desk was an open Dell
Inspiron Notebook.
ÒIan,Ó Nick
said, Òmy man!Ó
Ian Hahn stood
up. The two men shook hands. Ian was short but muscular. He must work out at
least four times a week, Marie
thought.
ÒIan, Abe.Ó
ÒMarie
Dougherty,Ó Marie said, smiling and offering her hand. IanÕs handshake was firm
but not forceful.
ÒSo, Nick,Ó Ian
said, the three of them still standing, Òto what do I owe the pleasure of this
unexpected visit? Wait, donÕt tell me. You were in the neighborhood.Ó
Nick gestured
toward the windows. ÒRearranged the place, eh? WhatÕs up with the tinted windows?Ó
ÒItÕs to prevent
the cityÕs less-skilled hit men from getting a shot at me. Of course, anybody
with a heat-seeking rifle could spot me. But like I said, itÕs strictly for the
amateurs.Ó
ÒHow come you
donÕt get bulletproof windows?Ó
ÒDone and done.Ó
ÒNice.Ó
ÒHave a seat.Ó
Ian indicated two leather chairs in front of his desk.
Marie sat in one
of the plush chairs. Her eyes fell across IanÕs desk. In one corner was a
framed picture of a 20-something Asian woman.
Nick angled his
body towards Marie. She understood his body language. Taking a deep breath, she
launched into the story of MatthewÕs disappearance. Nick picked up the thread
from their talk with Yoda Jr.
ÒSo,Ó Nick said,
ÒIÕve been meaning to give you a call to run that partial license plate through
that we got from Yoda Jr.—just havenÕt got around to it. But after the
little weasel incident, I realized weÕre way out of our element. I mean, MattÕs
strings were cut from his guitar and his pictures were all cut up. ThatÕs three
suspicious things. CanÕt be all a coincidence, you know?
ÒYou think
somebodyÕs trying to send you a message?Ó
ÒUh, yeah,Ó Nick
said, his voice rising and falling like a valley girlÕs. ÒWhaddya think?Ó
ÒI donÕt know
yet.Ó Ian pulled a yellow legal pad from a desk drawer and made a few notes.
ÒBefore I agree to take this case, I need to know one thing. Do you prefer Marie or Abe?Ó
ÒEither or,Ó
Marie said, though she preferred her birth name.
ÒOK. Marie.
ThatÕs not the question, by the way.Ó Ian tapped his cleft chin with his pen.
ÒHas it crossed your mind that your husband doesnÕt want to be found?Ó
The question hit
Marie like a punch. For the past few days, her judgment had been clouded by her
obsession that Matthew cheated on her with the Bimbo Intern.
Marie finally
found her voice. ÒWhat are you saying, Matthew purposefully did those things to
stop me from finding him?Ó
ÒBy things you mean. . . .Ó
ÒThe guitars
strings. The pictures. The weasel.Ó
ÒIs he capable
of that?Ó
ÒI—I—I
donÕt know. ItÕs possible, I guess, but I doubt it. We have a great marriage. I
canÕt see him running away like he did, only to sneak back and do
thoseÓ—MarieÕs hand flittered through the air—Òthings.Ó
ÒDid you change
the locks before the break-in?Ó Ian asked.
ÒUh, no.Ó
ÒPlease donÕt
take these questions personally. I need to play devilÕs advocate to help me
decide if IÕll take the case.Ó
ÒYo,Ó Nick said,
ÒletÕs not forget her husband was dragged into the van.Ó
ÒBut thatÕs from
only one witnessÕ account, right?Ó Ian glanced at his notes. ÒYoda Jr.?Ó
ÒYeah, but trust
me, that kidÕs telling the truth. HeÕs a sci-fi/fantasy fan, and 99 percent of
them are good, honest heartfelt people. I donÕt wanna say theyÕre incapable of
lying, but theyÕre more likely to tell the truth than some shithead, like a
salesman or CEO.Ó
ÒI know, but it
couldÕve been staged.Ó Ian scribbled on his legal pad. Marie squinted. Looked
like he wrote in Chinese.
Ian tapped the
cap of his pen on the legal pad. He stretched to look out the window.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
Nick asked.
Ian quit looking
out the window. ÒIÕll take the case.Ó
ÒCool.Ó
Marie didnÕt
know whether to be elated or indifferent. She knew next to nothing about this
guy. Come to think of it, how did I miss talking to him when I did my
article last year on P.I.s? He wasnÕt in the phone book or on the Internet.
Maybe his business is all word of mouth. Could he be that good that he doesnÕt
need to advertise?
ÒIt seems . . .Ó
Ian dropped his pen on the legal pad and leaned back, hands behind his head. Ò.
. . very peculiar that somebody would voluntarily jump out of their car, run
down an alley, then be forced into a nondescript van.Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said, ÒitÕs fucked up is what it is.Ó
ÒOh,Ó Marie
asked, Òshould we go back to my house and get the guitar and cut-up pictures?
You know, for fingerprints.Ó
Ian shook his
head. ÒNot necessary. If it was the same persons who planted the weasel in your
car, weÕre dealing with professionals. Putting that rabid weasel in your
glovebox in a busy parking lot tells me theyÕve done this type of thing before.Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒLetÕs do this.Ó
IanÕs fingers flew across his laptopÕs keyboard. ÒYou said the first three
characters of the vanÕs license plate were DHV, right?Ó
Nick: ÓYeah.Ó
Marie: ÒYes.Ó
Less than 10
minutes later, Ian shut his computer down.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó Nick
asked.
ÒWe have a
lead,Ó Ian said.
Ian pulled a
pistol from the desk and inserted it into his shoulder holster. Marie tried not
to gawk. She had written action sequences featuring firearms, but sheÕd never
seen a real one before.
ÒLetÕs go,Ó Ian
said, putting on a black jacket and zipping it up halfway. For easy access
to the gun? Marie wondered.
35
Ian led the way to his
Honda Civic parked in a tiny lot behind a little Chinese restaurant called Hom
Times. He had known the owners/operators, the Hom family, since before he could
kick-box. Mr. and Mrs. Hom reserved a parking spot for him near the kitchen
door. The tradeoff was that any time trouble brewed at the restaurant, he had
to respond quicker than an addict relapsing for the umpteenth time. Fortunately
for Ian, the Homs requested his services no more than four times a year. And on
the rare occasion when he was out of town, he sent his unofficial partner, Jeff
Chen. (Sometimes it paid to have a future brother-in-law who flirted with organized
crime.)
ÒWait here,Ó Ian
said. Marie and Nick stood on the sidewalk as he coasted his Civic out of the
parking lot. Nick rode shotgun. Marie sat in the back, behind the passenger
seat.
Since it was
rush hour, the half-mile ride from 12th and Race Streets to the Ben Franklin
Bridge took forever. Ian drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. ÒSo, Nick, I
know you abhor calling before arriving anywhere. What wouldÕve you done if I
wasnÕt in the office?Ó
Nick shrugged.
ÒWouldÕve went to your motherÕs. See if you were there, or if she knew where
you went.Ó
IanÕs mother
lived in an apartment building at Ninth and Race Streets.
Marie poked her
head between the driver and passenger seats. ÒWhere are we going?Ó
ÒThe city,Ó Ian
answered. ÒNew York City. WeÕll take the New Jersey Turnpike.Ó
The Civic idled
on the 900 block of Arch Street. Customers streamed in and out of Wan Sheng Supermarket.
Next door, the Szechuan aroma from Chung King Garden made Ian salivate. And
back at 10th and Arch, a street vendor closed up shop and hooked his hot dog
cart to the back of a Subaru station wagon.
ÒYo, Abe,Ó Nick
said, ÒyouÕre never gonna believe this, but guess what Ian is?Ó
ÒUm . . . uh . .
.Ó Marie twisted her lips, Ian observed peripherally.
ÒA motherfucking
empath! You believe that shit?Ó
ÒUm, whatÕs an
empath?Ó Marie asked.
ÒTell her.Ó
Ian waved a no,
thank you hand. He let his arm
hang out the open window. A warm breeze brushed his hand.
Nick turned
Marie. ÒYou know how a psychic—no, thatÕs not the word I wanna use.Ó
ÒTelepath,Ó Ian offered.
Nick snapped his
fingers. ÒThatÕs it! You know how a motherfucking telepath can read minds and
shit?Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒIf one actually existed.Ó
ÒListen to you,
pulling a Scully. Anyway, IanÕs a empath. Empaths canÕt read minds, but they
can sense a personÕs emotion.Ó Nick turned to Ian. ÒWhat are you again?Ó
Ian smiled. ÒA
27-year-old Chinese-American private detective.Ó
ÒNo. What kinda
empath?Ó
ÒOlfactory.Ó
ÒWhat does that
mean?Ó Marie asked.
ÒI can sense a
personÕs overwhelming emotion or their main personality trait. If I smelled
propane, that would mean the person I was talking to suffered from some type of
addiction. Curdled milk means that he—or she—was very depressed.Ó
ÒWhat do I smell
like?Ó
ÒA pile of wet
snot rags,Ó Nick joked. ÒPee-u, Abe! WhenÕs the last time you fuckinÕ took a
bath?Ó
Marie blushed.
ÒUnfortunately,Ó
Ian said, Òmy empath ability has been dormant for over a month.Ó
ÒShut up!Ó Nick
said.
Marie asked,
ÒHas that ever happened before?Ó
Ian nodded.
ÒOnly for a few days, here and there. Never for this long, though. But donÕt
worry. I made it a point a long time ago not to depend on my empath ability.
ItÕs a nice little extra tool, but IÕve solved cases without it.Ó
ÒWow.Ó
Nick and Marie
made eye contact. ÒYouÕre thinking what a great story it would make,Ó he said,
ÒarenÕt you?Ó
Ian glanced in
the rearview mirror. Marie smiled sheepishly. ÒMaybe.Ó
The Civic
crossed the Ben Franklin Bridge into New Jersey. Overhead, cumulonimbus clouds
crawled by.
36
The second the Civic
entered New Jersey, Marie flinched as if slapped with cold water. ÒOh, Nick,
weÕre supposed to be talking with MatthewÕs sport buddies, remember?Ó
ÒShit,Ó Nick
said, ÒI forgot.Ó
ÒWhatÕs this?Ó
Ian asked.
Nick told Ian
that he and Marie had planned to interview the group of men that Matthew played
sports with each week. Ian told them not to worry about it. His P.I. instincts
informed him the license plate was their best lead.
ÒSo,Ó Nick
asked, ÒwhatÕs in New York?Ó
ÒThat van you
and Marie saw is listed as being owned by Donna OÕConnell, with an address of
613 West 166th Street.Ó
ÒWhereÕs that,
Manhattan?Ó
ÒProbably.Ó
Nick and Ian
continued their banter. Marie blocked it out. She tapped her right thumbnail on
her upper lip and wondered if Graham Archer was involved in MatthewÕs disappearance.
37
A little after 6:30 p.m., the Civic crossed the George Washington
Bridge. Nick rolled up the passenger window. He didnÕt mind the stench from the
Hudson River, but Marie obviously did. As soon as the window was up, she removed
her hand from her nose and mouth.
By 7 p.m., the Civic parked across from 613
West 166th Street. Nick and Marie stood in the street, leaning against the car.
Ian stood on the sidewalk, next to a cherry tree whose base was surrounded by a
square, green, chain-link fence. Behind the trio was a basketball court. Inside
the rusty enclosure, the game was intense. The sounds of sneakers, profanity
and your mommas filled the
air.
Nick turned his
head around but kept his back planted on the car door. ÒThird floor, right?Ó
ÒYes,Ó Ian said.
ÒWhy am I not
surprised?Ó
Across the
street was a row of six-story neo-Baroque buildings. Nick focused on the one in
the middle of the block. Hanging from the third floor was a red, white and blue
flag. At the moment, no springtime wind whisked down the street, so reading the
flag was easier than a politician committing perjury. Printed on the flag were
the words:
Conservatives
United
Now
ø
Tomorrow
ÒWhat the fuck,Ó
Nick said.
ÒProblem?Ó Ian
asked.
ÒDude, have you
looked at that banner?Ó
Ian glanced at
it. ÒInteresting acronym.Ó
ÒÕInteresting
acronymÕ? ThatÕs all you can say!?! WhereÕs your outrage, your righteousness?Ó
ÒYou seem to be
carrying enough for the both of us.Ó
Nick turned to
Marie. ÒHow Ôbout you? DoesnÕt that banner piss you the fuck off?Ó
Marie read it.
She frowned.
ÒThank you.Ó
Nick shook his head. ÒWho the fuck names themselves after the goddamned C word?
FuckinÕ conservatives. . . .Ó
Ian said, ÒIÕm
pretty sure that arrow is supposed to symbolize a dash.Ó
Nick threw up his
hands. ÒWhat, so they go around calling themselves CUN-dash-T? Oh, like people
ainÕt gonna look at Ôem funny. Jesus Christ making out with Muhammad, this is
some fucked-up shit.Ó
Nick stopped
mid-rant when a redhead emerged from the CUN—T building. She wore a
sleeveless, knee-length white cotton dress. Slung across her chest was a beige
purse; it rested against her right hip, and she held the bag with both hands.
The last detail Nick noticed was her hair. Now, he wasnÕt one of those gay men
who obsessed over tresses, but every inch of her long, straight hair—from
the roots to her mid-back—looked like it underwent top-notch treatment
daily (it glistened like an emperorÕs ring).
Marie grabbed
NickÕs arm. ÒI know her!Ó
ÒShh, shhh.Ó
Nick grabbed Marie and turned toward the Civic, hiding their faces.
ÒWhatÕs going
on?Ó Ian said.
ÒMarie
recognizes our friend Red over there,Ó Nick said
ÒWho is she?Ó
ÒOne of the Bimbo
InternÕs friends,Ó Marie said. ÒShe was at GrahamÕs party. She played volleyball
on Bimbo InternÕs team.Ó
Ian, standing on
tiptoes, looked up and down the street. ÒOK, I donÕt see any white vans.Ó
Nick squinted.
Red turned the corner, stepping over a homeless man.
ÒWhat are we
going to do?Ó Marie asked.
Ian smiled.
ÒTail her, of course.Ó
38
At a comfortable pace,
Marie, Ian and Nick tailed Red to the end of the block. Pedestrian traffic on
this avenue was light.
ÒMarie,Ó Ian
said, Òdo me a favor, will you? Walk behind Nick and me. In case she looks
back, I donÕt want her seeing you. Not yet, at least.Ó
Marie dropped
back. The trio got stuck at a red light. Marie peeked between Ian and Nick. Red
was less than a half a block ahead.
The light turned
green. Marie stayed behind Ian and Nick, her head down. She observed their legs
moving in tandem, like an autonom.
Ian asked over
his shoulder, ÒDo you know her name?Ó
ÒNo,Ó Marie
said. ÒSorry.Ó
Six blocks from
CUN—T, Red ducked into a coffee shop called Java Junkie. Marie, Ian and
Nick stopped next door. It was a deli, aptly named Delicatessen.
ÒExcuse me,Ó said
a gruff voice.
A man with
weighty jowls left the deli, the bell on its door ringing. Marie smelled salami
and sausage in his bag. He cut through the trio, flipping his white scarf with
theatrical flair.
ÒFaggot,Ó Nick
mumbled.
Ian stepped in
front of Marie and Nick, blocking their view of the departing deli patron.
ÒNotice anything?Ó
Marie and Nick
looked around, flummoxed.
Ian pointed
across the street to a small parking lot. In the first spot was a white van.
Marie noted that it was a Ford E-150.
ÒIs that it?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒLetÕs find
out,Ó Ian said. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his jacket. Marie assumed
they were infrared, since the sun was setting. Ian brought the binoculars to
his face and turned the central focusing wheel.
Marie saw the
license plate had a tinted, plastic cover. A strand of light from a utility
pole shined on the corner of the plastic cover.
Ian stuffed the
binoculars back in his jacket. ÒThatÕs the one.Ó
ÒRip it up,Ó
Nick said, quoting an old Adolescents song—something had had always done
when he and Marie were teenagers.
IanÕs right hand
rooted in his jacketÕs inside pocket. ÒI need one of you to pick up my car and
park it here on the street or in that lot.Ó He removed from his pocket a black
object, the size of an ant trap. ÒAnd I need one of you to plant this on the
van.Ó
ÒWhat is it?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒA bug, so we
can track the van. IÕd be surprised if Red doesnÕt hop in that van after
leaving here.Ó
ÒIÕll plant the
bug,Ó Marie said.
ÒYou sure?Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒOK.Ó Ian handed
Marie the bug. ÒI usually stick them inside the rear bumper. If itÕs too
concave, or you canÕt squeeze your hand between the bumper and van body, try
the wheel well or somewhere on the chassis. Just make sure the bugÕs not
visible because once I activate it, a red light will start flashing.Ó
Marie held the
bug at eye level. Sure enough, on the top, in the center, was a tiny red lens.
ÒWhatÕs it have
a fuckinÕ flashing light for?Ó Nick asked.
ÒSo you remember
to hide it,Ó Ian answered. ÒI know, I wish it didnÕt have a flashing red light,
but this is the best tracking device on the market.Ó
ÒWord.Ó
Ian tossed Nick
his car keys.
ÒWhatÕre you
gonna do?Ó Nick asked.
ÒKeep an eye on
our conservative friend,Ó Ian said, gesturing toward the coffee shop, Òsee what
sheÕs up to.Ó
ÒDonÕt do
anything I wouldnÕt do.Ó
ÒWouldnÕt dream
of it.Ó Ian opened the door to Java Junkie, the sound of folk music and conversation
escaping. The door clicked shut.
Nick strode back
to the Civic.
Marie stood on
the sidewalk for a moment. She switched the bug from one sweaty palm to another
and swallowed a mouthful of nervousness. Get a grip, Marie. You volunteered
for this.
Inhaling through
her nose, Marie knocked back her shoulders and held her head high.
39
Ian entered Java
Junkie. It was five degrees warmer in here than outside. He navigated the dimly
lit room to the counter on the left and ordered a cinnamon-raisin bagel as well
as an AriZona RX Stress iced tea.
After paying the
college-age cashier, Ian scanned the room. The place could hold no more than
three dozen patrons. Right now, six people sat at the tables: two couples and
two loners. Red sat alone at a table in the middle of the room.
ÒCare for a
little company?Ó Ian asked.
Red jerked. She
had been staring ahead, at the stage. ÒOh, IÕm actually—Ò
Ian turned on
his charm by smiling at full wattage, dimples forming at the corners of his
mouth. ÒCome on, make an out-of-townerÕs day and say, ÔPlease, have a seat.ÕÓ
Red glanced at
the stage. She ground her teeth, then grinned. ÒSure, have a seat.Ó
ÒThanks. Tony
Leung.Ó
ÒDonna
OÕConnell.Ó
Donna presented
the back of her hand, forcing Ian to grip her fingers. He wondered if she
expected him to go retro and kiss the back of her hand, as if she were a damsel
in the city and he a knight in shining Kevlar.
ÒFriend of
yours?Ó Ian asked, eyebrows pointing at the stage.
On the stage was
a musician whose long, dark blond hair cascaded to his waist. He had replaced a
broken string and now tuned his acoustic guitar. He wore alligator-skin boots,
jeans with fashionable holes and a light leather jacket plastered with emo
logos.
Donna answered
IanÕs question with a headshake. ÒIÕm a fan. ThatÕs Alec Youth. He used to sing
and play guitar in Good Golly Miss Molly. TheyÕre from Brooklyn.Ó
ÒAny good?Ó
Donna nodded
enthusiastically. ÒThey had an interesting sound, sort of a cross between emo
and late-Ô60s, early-Ô70s album rock, like Jimi Hendrix, the Rolling Stones and
early Led Zeppelin.Ó
ÒInteresting
mix.Ó
ÒUnfortunately,
they broke up last year. This is AlecÕs six or so solo show.Ó
ÒNo much of a
crowd,Ó Ian observed.
ÒNo. His solo
career isnÕt going too well.Ó Donna leaned forward. In the center of the table,
a candle in a beer mug smelled of incense and cast a hellfire spotlight on her
face. She cupped a hand around her mouth. ÒTo be perfectly honest, IÕm only
here to hear some GGMM.Ó
ÒGGMM, whatÕs
that?Ó
ÒItÕs what fans
call Good Golly Miss Molly.Ó
ÒAhh,Ó Ian said.
Alec Youth slid
off his stool. ÒSorry, everyone. I seem to be experiencing major tune-age difficulties.Ó
He grinned, apparently impressed with his wit, and knelt on the stageÕs Persian
rug to rummage in his guitar case.
ÒSo,Ó Ian said,
Òbefore he starts playing, letÕs hear your life story in 30 seconds or less.Ó
Donna giggled.
ÒUmm. . . . I grew up in Harleysville, about 50 miles north of here. IÕll
graduate from Villanova this May, and I just completed an internship at Leaf
& Dashiell—theyÕre a healthcare publisher about a half-hour outside
of Philadelphia. HowÕs that?Ó
ÒBravo.Ó Ian
clapped like a socialite after an orchestraÕs encore, but not loud enough to disturb
the other Java Junkie customers.
ÒHow Ôbout you?Ó
ÒMy mother is
from China. She emigrated here when pregnant with me. In fact, she gave birth
to me in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. We first lived in San Francisco. Then
we moved to the East Coast when I was five. Nowadays, IÕm a traveling salesman.Ó
ÒOh? Who do you
work for?Ó
ÒMyself. IÕm a
freelancer.Ó
ÒDonÕt you have
to pay a lot of taxes?Ó
Ian nodded.
ÒI hate taxes,Ó
Donna said. ÒThe governmentÕs always trying to steal our hard-earned money.Ó
Ian didnÕt reply
because Alec Youth no longer knelt over his guitar case. He had returned to the
stool and was strumming his six-string. Ian wasnÕt much of a music lover, but
he had always liked acoustic guitars (they sounded . . . clean, for lack of a better word). However, when Youth
started singing, Ian did his best not to cringe. Sounded similar to a
screeching hawk in heat.
40
With Java Junkie at her
back, Marie jaywalked across the one-way street to the parking lot where the
white van waited to be bugged. But she hadnÕt looked before crossing. She
froze. A Hummer skidded to a halt. The angry, white, middle-aged driver laid on
his horn and thrust his head out the window.
ÒWatch where
youÕre going, you dumb broad!Ó
The Hummer
peeled around Marie. She raised her hand into a makeshift visor, to block the
blaring headlights. The vehicle barreled down the street, classic rock blasting
from its speakers: the Rolling StonesÕ Ò(I CanÕt Get No) Satisfaction.Ó
Marie dropped
her hand from her face. The Hummer turned around the corner, tires screeching. Marie
frowned and extended her middle finger, but she didnÕt raise that hand.
Frown gone and
finger retracted, Marie set foot in the parking lot. Its dozen spots were
filled, and no employee was in sight. In fact, the lot had no attendant booth.
Marie tried to
slip between the van and a green Jaguar convertible, but the Jag had an
Ÿber-sensitive car alarm. The vehicle began beeping and flashing as soon as she
came within a foot of it. Startled, she stepped back. The car rewarded the
retreat by silencing itself.
Marie glanced
around. Good. The JaguarÕs
antics had attracted no attention.
Marie tried the
other side of the van. Since it occupied the first spot, she didnÕt have to
contend with another paranoid car alarm.
Realizing her
actions might look suspicious, Marie ducked, squeezed between the van and the
lotÕs two-foot-high, white sandstone wall. Quicker than a James Patterson
chapter, she made her way to the rear of the van. She stayed low, though it was
dark enough that she could have stood without being seen.
Marie tapped the
tracking device against her chin. Where should she put it? Underside of the
bumper? Out of the question. It was solid rubber and glued to the van—no
place to stick the bug.
Marie dropped to
the ground and slid under the van. On her back, she moved with her shoulders
and heels. She ignored the trash and chewing gum on the asphalt. Sucking her
lower lip, she looked for a spot to plant the bug. A nearby utility pole gave
her enough light.
Marie froze.
Somebody had
entered the parking lot.
Marie stopped
sucking on her lower lip. She held her breath.
The stranger
leaned against the front of the van. Marie couldnÕt tell if it was a man or a
woman. All she saw were black pants and rubber-soled shoes. A cell phone
shrilled, and the stranger answered.
ÒYeah,Ó said the
stranger. It was a man.
ÒI donÕt know
where Dougherty and Marsh are,Ó he said, Òbut HahnÕs in the coffee house with
Agent Five-Eleven.Ó Pause. ÒI disagree. We should continue with the plan. For
now, the operation is safe and sound.Ó
Down the street,
someone hailed a taxi. Because of that, Marie only heard one word of the manÕs
next sentence: Ò. . . terminate . . .Ó
A moment passed.
The man said, ÒOver.Ó The phone beeped. The man walked away, his footsteps
silent.
Marie stared at
the vanÕs muffler, hand over her mouth. What did that conversation mean? How
did he know her, Nick and IanÕs last names?
Shaking her head
out of those conundrums, Marie got to work with the bug, turning it over and
peeling away the plastic strip that covered the self-adhesive. She chose a spot
on the left-rear wheel well. There,
she thought, pretty as a picture, as my Aunt Agnes used to say.
Marie climbed
out from under the van. She stood in front of it, clapping dust and dirt off
her hands.
Damn! Marie realized she was in plain sight. Real
smart, Marie. What should I do? I know.
Dipping her
chin, Marie covered her face by pretending to scratch her forehead. She made a
right out of the parking lot.
ÒYo, Abe!Ó Nick
called. IanÕs car sat between a gray Hyundai Elantra and a beige Subaru station
wagon by an abandoned brick building next to the parking lot.
Marie dropped
her hand from her forehead. She and her blushing cheeks rushed into the CivicÕs
passenger seat.
41
ÒHowÕd it go?Ó Nick
asked.
ÒOK.Ó Marie told
Nick about the man on the mobile.
ÒAnd youÕre sure
he said our names?Ó
ÒMm-hmm.Ó
ÒWeird.Ó Nick
tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel. ÒWeÕll have to tell Ian about that.Ó
ÒIs he still in
there?Ó
ÒAs far as I
know.Ó Nick had a clear view of the coffee shop without craning his neck too
much. CouldnÕt see anything but some singer-songwriter swaying on a stool,
playing a guitar solo, his face scrunched up as if taking a suffering-succotash
shit.
ÒSo, Abe, I was
pretty shocked when you volunteered to plant that bug. What brought that on?Ó
Marie shrugged.
ÒI kind of feel like dead weight. IanÕs a professional private eye, you have
street smarts, but IÕm not really equipped for this sort of situation. I mean,
give me a crew of characters, a story idea and a deadline, and I can come up
with a nice little beach read, but real-life action and initiative are out of
my element, you know?Ó
Nick nodded. He
was the exact opposite. Plop him in front of a computer, and he was bored after
visiting PhillyShreds.com and PunkNews.org. Life on the city streets was what
he lived for.
ÒNick,Ó Marie
said.
Nick stopped
staring at the steering wheel. His eyes followed MarieÕs pointing finger.
Red was leaving
Java Junkie with the singer-songwriter in tow. They were linked at the elbow.
ÒWhat the hell?Ó
Nick said.
ÒWhereÕs Ian?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒI donÕt know.Ó
Red and the
singer-songwriter crossed the street. Nick saw peripherally Marie crouch down
on the floor of the passenger seat. Smart, Nick thought. DonÕt want Red seeing her.
The
singer-songwriter carried a soft black guitar case in the arm not linked to
RedÕs. He slid the case up his arm and over his shoulder. For some reason, that
movement made Nick think the singer-songwriter looked like a hybrid of Anthony
Keidis from the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Evan Dando from the Lemonheads.
Red and the
singer-songwriter unlocked arms. At the entrance to the parking lot, she rooted
through her purse for her car keys.
A couple blocks
away, a police siren wailed. Red jerked and dropped her keys.
Nick turned back
toward the windshield and away from his spying. He rotated his shoulders; the
twisting around had stiffened his back muscles.
In the rearview
mirror, Nick watched Red pull out of the parking spot. She braked at the
entrance, and the singer-songwriter hopped in, flipping his hair as if filming
a shampoo ad.
The van passed
the Civic. After it turned the corner, Ian came out of the coffee shop.
42
ÒYou say they turned
left?Ó Ian said.
Marie and Nick
answered yes. She sat in the passenger seat; he had climbed into the backseat.
After the Civic
made the left turn, Nick asked, ÒSo what the hell happened in there?Ó
Ian told them.
ÒAfter Youth finished playing, she fed me some line about how he was her
cousin, and he needed a ride home.Ó
ÒYou think she
was lying?Ó Marie asked.
ÒWithout a
doubt. First, she says sheÕs a groupie, then sheÕs related to him. Give me a
break.Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said, Òwhat kinda fuckinÕ cousins skip across the street, practically hand in
hand, you know?Ó
Marie asked Ian,
ÒSo weÕre not going to the CUN—T office?Ó
ÒNo reason to.
The van is our best lead. Do me a favor. Pop that glovebox and hand me that
thing that looks like a GPS receiver.Ó
Marie did so. At
the next light, Ian looked at a tiny computer screen on a small rectangular control
box. A blinking red dot was the white van. It was a half-mile ahead on this avenue.
No one spoke as
Ian drove. He turned on the headlights. Dusk descended with the portent of Edward
Arlington RobinsonÕs ÒRichard Cory.Ó
The Civic was at
the edge of Manhattan, on the border of the Bronx. At Broadway and West 207th
Street, about 100 peace activists protested the Iraq War. New York City police
videotaped the nonviolent demonstrators. Ian cocked his head. HadnÕt he read
recently in the Philadelphia Bulletin that a federal judge ordered that the bullies in blue stop taping
peace activists, that it was unconstitutional?
At the next red
light, Ian observed MarieÕs fidgeting fingers. He ignored her nervousness and
consulted the screen again. Good.
The van was still a half-mile ahead.
The Civic drove
through the Bronx. With each traffic light they went through, it got darker and
darker.
43
By the time they crossed
the city line into Westchester County, the white van was only a quarter-mile
ahead. The Civic tried to fall back to the previous half-mile gap, but this
expressway traffic made it more impossible than General Motors and Ford
returning to their halcyon days.
ÒOh, snap!Ó Nick
said from the backseat. ÒYo, Abe, we forgot to tell Ian about your little
visitor.Ó
Marie tensed. Little
visitor was what she and Matthew
called her period. She quickly realized Nick wasnÕt talking about that. (How
could he? It was an inside marriage joke.) No, he meant the stranger on the
cell phone.
Marie recounted
the story. Afterwards, Ian said, ÒInteresting.Ó
ÒWho do you
think it was?Ó Nick asked.
ÒI donÕt know,
but it is . . . peculiar.Ó
No one spoke as
they tailed the van through the towns of Monroe and Goshen. They were about 30
miles north of the Big Apple.
ÒWhat the. . .
?Ó Ian frowned.
ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
Nick popped his head between the two front seats.
ÒI lost the
signal.Ó
MarieÕs heart
vaulted for her throat. ÒHas that ever happened before?Ó
ÒOnce in Silicon
Valley. There were so many EMFs, it shorted the bug.Ó
Nick sang some
of ÒUnbelievableÓ by EMF, ending with: ÒOH!Ó
ÒElectromagnetic
fields,Ó Ian clarified.
Marie asked, ÒDo
you think EMFs are causing your bug to short-circuit?Ó
Ian opened his
mouth but said nothing.
ÒWhat,Ó Marie
asked, Òwhat is it?Ó
Then Marie saw
it as the Civic rounded a bend. Up ahead were two rows of radio towers, six on
each side of the highway.
ÒThatÕs whatÕs
causing us to lose the signal,Ó Ian explained.
ÒShit,Ó Nick
said. ÒWhadÕre we gonna do?Ó
Ian stuck the
control box in the glove compartment. He slammed the compartment with such
force that Marie flinched.
ÒFortunately,Ó
Ian said. ÒI have a backup plan.Ó He pulled a piece of paper from his breast
pocket.
ÒWhatÕs that?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒDonnaÕs phone
number.Ó
Hope swelled in
MarieÕs solar plexus.
44
The Civic turned into a
motel in Harleysville. Ian checked them in. By the time they entered their room
in the back, it was well after 10 p.m.
ÒLetÕs get a good
night rest,Ó Ian said. ÒTomorrow, the fun begins.Ó
The room, which
smelled of fresh carpet, had two queen-size beds. Ian slept in one, Marie and
Nick shared the other.
45
The next morning, Nick
woke up at 11:45—15 minutes earlier than his usual rise-and-shine time.
However, he remained in recline.
Marie was
already up. Since her side of the bed wasnÕt warm, Nick knew sheÕd been up
awhile. She paced, nibbling a hangnail. Her path included the bathroom and the
parking lot (the door was open).
A little after
high noon, Ian rose from the chair and table next to the window. Nick didnÕt
want to know how long he had been up. Ian swiped his cell phone from the table
and punched a few keys.
ÒHi, Donna. ItÕs
Tony Leung.Ó
Marie ran into
the room and closed the door behind her, blocking out the blaring sun. She sat
on the corner of her and NickÕs bed, staring at Ian with her elbow planted on
her leg and her fist supporting her chin. In the bathroom, the sink faucet
leaked New York tap water. It was pretty loud. Nick was surprised the noise
didnÕt bother Marie.
Ian smiled into
his phone. If MarieÕs rapt attention distracted Ian, he did a good job of
hiding it. No reason it should,
Nick thought, he did do the drama thing in high school.
ÒYouÕre not
going to believe this,Ó Ian said, smiling, Òbut IÕm in Harleysville.Ó
As if following
a script, Nick knew Donna was now asking Ian—oops, Tony—what in the world he was doing in Harleysville.
ÒRemember how I
said I do a lot of traveling, since IÕm a salesman,Ó Ian said. ÒWell, one of
the companies I work for asked if IÕd rather go to Omaha, Nebraska or Harleysville,
New York. Three guesses on my answer. The first two donÕt count.Ó
Donna said
something. Ian threw his head back, roaring with laughter. He pointed at his
cell and mouthed, ÒWhat a moron.Ó Nick and Marie traded an amused glance.
ÒAnyway,Ó Ian
said, ÒI really enjoyed meeting you last night—in case you couldnÕt
tell—and I would love to take you out to dinner tonight, if youÕre free.
WhatÕs that?Ó IanÕs right hand formed a fist. He relaxed. ÒIÕm staying at a
motel. Not sure where. I pulled into the first one I saw.Ó
Ian talked and
flirted for about 15 more minutes. Nick caught that theyÕd agreed to meet at
Dalasio Restaurant in Harleysville Square.
Ian put his
phone back on the table. He mock-shivered. ÒI feel so dirty.Ó
ÒYou should,Ó
Nick said, Òyou motherfuckinÕ male-slut. No lie, I think I threw up in my mouth
at least six times.Ó
Ian smirked in
MarieÕs direction. ÒHow am I going to get through dinner tonight with such a foul-minded
temptress?Ó
Marie smiled.
Nick asked, ÒSo
what now?Ó
ÒNow,Ó Ian said,
Òwe sit and wait.Ó
ÒCool. Who wants
to arm-wrestle? Marie?Ó
46
Ian, Marie and Nick
played cards all afternoon. After their umpteenth game of Go Fish, Nick got up
to stretch his legs.
Ian rocked his
chair back on its rear legs. He was in the mood for hot tea. Maybe heÕd stop
for a cup on his way to meet Donna.
Marie shuffled
the cards. ÒWhen do you think weÕll find Matthew?Ó
ÒLet me put it
this way, I wouldnÕt be going on this date if I didnÕt believe—Ò Ian stopped rocking on the chair. He
planted his elbows on the table, tented his hands and tapped his lips with his
index fingers.
ÒWhat?Ó Marie
asked. ÒWhat is it?Ó
ÒI just realized
something.Ó
ÒWhat?Ó
ÒAlec Youth is a
musician. Your husband used to play guitar, right?Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒDo you think thereÕs a connection?Ó
ÒIÕm not sure,
but I do find it hard to believe itÕs a coincidence that both Youth and your
husband are musicians.Ó Ian went back to his rocking. He and Donna would have
at least one topic to discuss over dinner.
47
When Nick got back to
the room, Marie decided to take a stroll of her own.
Closing the door
behind her, Marie had a skip in her step. Sure, they didnÕt know where Matthew
was, but at least they seemed to be making progress.
Marie scratched
her forehead. She hoped nothing bad had happened to Youth. Or to Matthew.
Marie skidded to
a stop.
What if Matthew
was dead?
No. Marie raised her chin. Get that idea out of
your head right now. HeÕs alive. I know it!
With that
positive reinforcement, Marie found herself in front of the motel office. She
opened the screen door and stepped inside.
48
The office looked
well-lighted from the outside. Inside, it was darker than a movie theater, and
Marie hated going to the movies. She didnÕt mind watching them on DVD, but
going to the complex had never appealed to her. Whenever she and Matthew had
gone out, they patronized the Walnut Street Theatre or the Arden Theatre
Company. Plays were so much more interesting and intimate. Plus, you were
supporting local actors and artists.
Marie scrunched
her nose. The office smelled like onions and scallops. She liked both about as
much as she liked going to the movies.
ÒWhy, hello,Ó
said the clerk from behind the counter. He spoke in a ÒMonster MashÓ singsong,
except his voice was creepy, not amusing.
The Creepy Clerk
was skinny, and he must have stood seven feet tall. He had an oblong forehead
and thinning salt-and-pepper hair, more pepper than salt, long on the sides.
But what creeped Marie out the most was his skin color. Jaundice.
ÒDo you sell any
paperbacks?Ó Marie asked.
ÒPaperbacks?Ó
ÒYes. Books.
Novels.Ó
ÒIÕm afraid
not,Ó said the Creepy Clerk. ÒBut fear not, my pretty, I have plenty of reading
material.Ó He pointed behind Marie.
Piles of horror
magazines covered four tray tables. Past the metal tables was a wall where
there hung framed, autographed headshots of Alfred Hitchcock, Anthony Perkins,
John Carpenter, Donald Pleasance, Sam Raimi and Bruce Campbell.
ÒSorry,Ó Marie
said, ÒHorrorÕs not my cup of tea.Ó
ÒReally? What
is?Ó
ÒRomance novels
and thrillers.Ó
ÒOh, thatÕs too
bad.Ó
Marie stepped
back, reaching behind her for the door handle. ÒThanks for your time.Ó
ÒOh . . .Ó The Creepy
Clerk dipped his chin, his brow shadowing his eyes. Ò. . . the pleasure was all
mine.Ó
Marie opened the
door. Sunlight spilled into the office. She stepped out, rubbing her neck.
ÒToodles,Ó said
the Creepy Clerk to the empty office. He limped into his living area. An
industrial hose and a canister of gas lay on the floor next to a life-size cardboard
cutout of Boris Karloff as Frankenstein. A stranger had dropped the hose and
gas canister off an hour ago—the same stranger whoÕd talked on his cell
phone while Marie was under the van in Manhattan.
49
From his and MarieÕs
bed, Nick watched Ian step out of the bathroom. He had freshened up, hair wet.
Nick had forgotten how hot Ian was. He looked away. Get those thoughts out
of your head. HeÕs straight. Besides, heÕs engaged to a wonderful woman—a
friend of yours. Never mind he would break The Rule. (Nick lived by The Dating Rule: you should never
date anyone younger than half your age plus seven years.)
Ian picked up
his cell phone off the table. ÒAll right, IÕm off.Ó
ÒWhatever
happens,Ó Nick joked, Òkeep it in your pants.Ó
ÒGood luck,Ó
Marie said, sitting on the edge of IanÕs bed.
Ian nodded. He
departed.
Nick heard the
Civic rev to life. The sound of the four-cylinder faded into the distance.
Outside, a crow cawed.
ÒYou hear that?Ó
Nick said, but Marie posed a question at the same time. He asked her to repeat
it.
ÒI asked if you
smelled that.Ó Marie twitched her nose. ÒSmells like gas.Ó
ÒWanna crack
open the door?Ó
ÒSure.Ó
Nick opened the
door halfway and returned to the bed. Reclining on his back, he placed a pillow
over his face, his head resting on another pillow.
Need a nap. .
. .
50
After dinner at Dalasio
Restaurant in downtown Harleysville, Ian parked his Civic outside of DonnaÕs
house near the county line. Her home was a hybrid of Baroque and Byzantine
architectural styles, with a hint of Tudor and Gothic.
ÒFeel like a cup
of coffee?Ó Donna asked.
ÒSure,Ó Ian
said.
Inside, Donna
took off her high heels and offered Ian a seat. She sashayed to the kitchen in
her dress that ended a hair above her knees.
Ian sat on the
living-room couch. He listened to Donna opening and closing cabinets. He heard
the click of coffee cups being placed on a counter or a table.
Ian tapped his
fingers on the arm of the couch. How was he going to do this? He wasnÕt nervous
about extracting information from Donna. What made his innards quiver was
making out or having sex with her. HeÕd done so with clients in the past, but
heÕd never felt good about it. He was engaged to Joan Chen, his soulmate and
the only person he could make love to. Whenever he had to kiss or sleep with
someone, heÕd fake interest by visualizing her. Fortunately, Joanie wasnÕt the
jealous type. That made him love her even more.
Donna returned
with a tray holding two coffee cups and necessary accessories. She placed the
tray on a low table in front of the couch. Ian poured cream into his coffee.
ÒSo.Ó Donna held
her cup in front of her face. She sipped and winked, almost imperceptibly.
ÒSo.Ó Ian smiled
as if he enjoyed DonnaÕs company. Wonder if my coffee is poisoned or
drugged.
ÒI like your
shirt,Ó Donna said. ÒHave I told you that already?Ó
ÒYou have, but
whoÕs counting?Ó Ian raised the cup to his lips. At the last moment, he
pretended to remember something. ÒOh, I forgot to ask: Did you and your cousin
make it home all right the other night?Ó
ÒMy cousin?Ó
ÒYes. Alex. . .
.Ó Ian pretended the name was on the tip of his cerebrum. Putting on his
actorÕs cap, he snapped his fingers and glanced at the ceiling.
ÒAlec?Ó Donna
offered.
ÒAlec. There you
go. Alec Yaunch, right?Ó
ÒYouth. Alec
Youth.Ó
ÒAlec Youth,Ó
Ian said. ÒDoes he have any more shows?Ó
ÒI donÕt know,Ó
Donna said slowly.
ÒHeÕs pretty
good. You have any of his CDs? IÕd love to hear some.Ó
ÒI may have one
up in my bedroom. Let me go see.Ó
ÒExcellent.Ó
ÒIÕll be right
back.Ó
ÒIÕll be right
here,Ó Ian said, smirking.
Donna giggled.
She double-stepped up the wide staircase with plush carpeting.
When Donna
reached the top of the stairs, Ian leapt off the couch, hurdled the table and
dumped his coffee in the pot of a five-foot faux fern by the fireplace. Steam
rose, smelling of turpentine.
Empty cup in
hand, Ian raced into the kitchen. He thumbed a calendar on the wall above the
kitchen table. Nothing but concert dates and CUN—T meetings.
Aware that Donna
could return any second, Ian scanned the rest of the kitchen. WhatÕs this?
The refrigerator
door was covered with flyers and business cards held in place by GOP campaign
magnets. The freezer door was blanketed with glossy snapshots. A business card
tucked behind a corner of the Kenmore logo caught IanÕs eye. He stepped closer.
The card was from a company called Force Tech in Reston, Virginia. It listed a
phone number, fax number and e-mail address. Ian brushed a finger over the
cardÕs embossed emblem. Looked like the CIA seal.
Creaking.
Ian peeked into
the living room. No sign of Donna. Have to hurry. SheÕll be back any second.
Ian whipped out
his cell phone. He snapped both sides of the Force Tech business card. There
was handwriting on the back, but he would read it later. And no need to worry
about a blurry photograph because his cell took high-resolution pictures.
After returning
the card to the freezer door, Ian marched back into the living room with his
empty cup. The moment his posterior hit the couch cushion, Donna barreled down
the stairs, half a dozen CDs in hand.
ÒSorry I took so
long,Ó Donna said. ÒThought I would bring down some GGMM, too.Ó
ÒWhoÕs that?Ó
ÒGood Golly Miss
Molly. His old band.Ó
ÒRight,Ó Ian
said, trying to sound bored, as if he had spent the past five minutes lounging
on the sofa.
Donna turned on
her stereo and loaded the CDs. Electric guitars ripped from the speakers. Even
though the volume was low, Ian camouflaged a cringe by coughing. Movies, not
music, were his escapist outlet.
ÒCan I get you
another?Ó Donna asked, eyeing IanÕs empty cup.
ÒOh no, I
couldnÕt drink another drop. Thanks, though. It was delicious. Home blend?Ó
ÒTrader JoeÕs.Ó
The CD changer
jumped to a new track. The song began with rumbling drums, like KitaroÕs ÒGod
of Thunder.Ó
Donna slid onto
the sofa within kissing distance of Ian. Her naked leg touched his knee. She
leaned in.
ÒTony?Ó
ÒYes?Ó Ian
flushed. He loved Joanie, but he was still a man, easily aroused by the proximity
of a beautiful woman. Donna may not have been his type, but she had a body most
supermodels would starve for.
Donna licked her
lips. ÒTony . . .Ó She offered her hand. Ò. . . I had a lovely time.Ó
Ian took the
proffered hand. Donna leaned back, straightened her arm, shook his hand business-like,
then stopped the handshake in mid-pump. She retracted her hand and stood up.
ÒYou should go.Ó
A curt smirk.
ÒSure.Ó Ian
rose, hoping his erection didnÕt show.
Donna led the
way to the front door, bare feet patting the wooden floor. Ian noticed she
scratched her right thigh as she reached for the doorknob, hiking her dress in
the process, long enough for her to showcase frilly pink, satin underwear. He
raised an eyebrow. An actual itch or one last flirtation?
ÒIf youÕre ever
in town again,Ó Donna said, Òplease call. I had a wonderful time, but all of
the sudden, I have a headache.Ó
ÒI understand.Ó
Ian stepped through the doorway. ÒThanks again for the coffee.Ó
ÒOh, my
pleasure.Ó
ÒWell, good
night.Ó
ÒGood night.Ó
Donna slammed the door.
Grinning, Ian
headed for his Civic and pulled out his cell to call Joanie. He couldnÕt wait
to tell her about his date and
this case.
51
Marie opened her eyes. Where
am I? She sat up. Oh, thatÕs
right. The motel room greeted
her. The door was open all the way. Wind must have done that.
ÒUgh.Ó
Marie got out of
bed. She stumbled but didnÕt fall. Hand on a wall, she massaged the back of her
neck. Why was she so stiff?
Nick groaned
awake. ÒWhat the fuck?Ó He went horizontal again, sandwiching his head between
two pillows.
Why do I fell
hungover? Marie wondered.
ÒMan,Ó Nick
said, ÒI had the weirdest fuckinÕ dreams. One of Ôem was me fooling around with
Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz on this small stage at the Reading Festival, and
J Church was in the background playing ÔThe Heroic TrioÕ.Ó He sat up again,
this time for good. ÒChrist on the crapper.Ó He rubbed his neck and stood up.
ÒDamn, I havenÕt felt this shitty since gettinÕ in that brawl in Austin.Ó
Marie was about
to ask Nick if he had been in Texas on tour, when a car screeched into the
motel parking lot. Its high-beam headlights lit up the room like a floodlight
in a prison yard.
52
What the hell? Nick thought.
Two figures
jumped out of the car. They brandished machine guns.
ÒOh shit.Ó Nick
blocked out his aches and pains. He slammed the door, locked it and grabbed
MarieÕs hand. They ran into the bathroom.
Gunfire ripped
into the motel room. A few harmless sparks danced under the bathroom door. Nick
assumed the sparks came from the TV dying via firing squad.
Marie covered
her ears with her forearms. The rat-tat-tatting of the machine guns grew
louder. Nick noticed that with each round of bullets fired, the smell of
shot-up motel furniture overpowered the aroma from the toilet tankÕs potpourri
jar.
Nick and Marie
pressed their backs against the bathroom wall farthest away from the door. He
looked up and down the yellow-tiled wall. Fuck. No window to climb through. All the bathroom had
was a vent no bigger than a freaking mousetrap.
ÒCome on,Ó Nick
said.
They climbed
into the shower and squatted. Nick slid the opaque plastic door shut. The
shower had two doors; you could slide either one open to enter or exit (the
doors were on a tract on the edge of the tub).
Finally, the
gunfire stopped. Nick cracked open the shower door closest to the wall with the
mousetrap vent. Wisps of smoke slithered under the bathroom door. All quiet on
the motel front. He closed the shower door.
Marie shuddered.
Nick wrapped an arm around her. He wondered how long the intruders had stood in
the parking lot, shooting up the room. Maybe after a minute or so, they had
goose-stepped into the room, their fingers never leaving the triggers.
THWACK!
The bathroom
door banged open so hard, it hit the stopper and closed with a slam of
Amityville proportions. Nick placed his hand over MarieÕs mouth. The door
opened again, more quietly this time.
One of the
intruders stepped into the bathroom. He tapped the muzzle of his machine gun on
the shower door near the bathroom door.
Nick—his
hand still over MarieÕs mouth—looked around the shower stall. Nothing he
could use as a weapon. Fuck!
The second
intruder stepped into the bathroom. Through the opaque shower door, Nick saw
that the intruder had the bulky build of a well-fed, middle-aged man. He stood
in the doorframe.
The first intruder
scratched his muzzle on the shower door. Nick noted the etching was in the
shape of a swastika.
ÒFee-fi-fo-fum,Ó
said the first intruder, ÒI smell some city-slicker scum.Ó
The muzzle moved
away from the shower door. Nick felt a drop of perspiration from MarieÕs forehead
run across his knuckles.
A blur on the
other side of the shower doors. What the. . . ? Nick thought.
The shower door
in front of Nick crashed in. Marie jerked. He removed his arm from around her.
Peripherally, he saw her scramble. Her right foot landed on the faucet and the
heel of her left foot slipped into the soap dish—the bar of Irish Spring
not going anywhere. She wedged herself back into the corner.
Nick charged out
of the shower. He seized the wrecked shower door by its handle and used it as a
shield. It had a horizontal bar across the middle.
With the skill
of a Spartan, Nick used his shower-door shield to shove the first intruder
against the sink. Nick peeked around his shield. The intruderÕs machine gun was behind his back.
A leather strap crossed his chest. It belonged to the machine gun.
The second
intruder stood in the doorway. He raised his machine gun.
Oh, shit! NickÕs groin tightened with fear.
Nick tossed the
shower door aside. He yanked up the first intruder, who was disoriented, and
used his body as a shield. The second intruder—still in the
doorway—changed tactic. He dropped to a knee and focused on the eyesight
of his machine gun. Nick didnÕt know what the second intruder was aiming at,
and he didnÕt want to find out. He shook the first intruder like a rag doll,
hoping the jerky movements would frustrate the second intruder. While doing so,
he realized he held the leather strap of the machine gun, and the strap was
around the first intruderÕs neck. Damn. He didnÕt want to choke the first intruder to death, but he also
didnÕt want to get shot by the second intruder. Maybe I should just throw
this gunman here at that fucker in the doorway and hope for the best.
Nick didnÕt get
a chance to test his idea. Marie did something he never would have predicted.
53
Marie climbed off the
spigot and soap dish. She slid open the remaining shower door to see the
intruder in the doorway drop to his knee. He aimed at Nick.
Without thinking
twice, Marie dove for the intruder in the doorway. But he must have spotted her
before she leapt at him because he rolled out of the bathroom as if a sniper
spotted on a rooftop.
MarieÕs hands
slapped the cold, tiled floor. She tumbled out of the bathroom.
On her hands and
knees, Marie watched the intruder finish rolling. He sprang to his feet. It
amazed her how fast he moved, considering the bulk he carried. She also took
note of his blond/white hair and his gray irises, the latter colder than the
machinery in Elo Gray. He reminded her of the Pillsbury Doughboy.
The Pillsbury
Gunman pressed the trigger. Bullets torpedoed in MarieÕs direction. She rolled
to the right, debris digging into her sides, but no bullets.
Marie stopped
rolling; the gunfire stopped. She hid behind an overturned box spring in the
middle of the room. What am I going to do? The box spring would only provide temporary cover. Bullets could
pierce it easier than a talon shredding tissue paper.
MarieÕs chest
heaved. She heard the Pillsbury Gunman march toward her, rubble cracking under his
feet.
Think, Marie!
Do something!! Anything!!!
Marie grabbed
the TV remote. She slung it at the Pillsbury Gunman. She only needed to
distract him for a moment or two.
The Pillsbury
Gunman grunted. Marie sprinted for the doorway.
54
Nick watched Marie leap
out of the shower and the second intruder roll into the bedroom. Currently,
gunfire rat-tat-tatted. Nick assumed the intruder fired the weapon. He hoped
Abe was OK.
ÒShit,Ó Nick
muttered.
Nick still held
the machine gunÕs leather strap around the first intruderÕs neck. As if
electro-shocked, he let go of the strap. The intruder flopped to the bathroom
floor. Nick seized the machine gun and patted the intruder down looking for
extra ammo. One cartridge in the ankle holster. He pocketed it.
Nick studied the
intruder. He wasnÕt moving, but he did breathe, albeit sluggishly. Cool, Nick thought. Last thing I need on my mind is
murder, even though it was self-defense. Sort of.
Cradling the
machine gun, Nick tiptoed out of the bathroom.
55
Marie ducked. The Pillsbury
Gunman started firing again. She crossed the threshold of the motel room.
Bullets tore up the archway, wood splinters flying, her ears ringing.
The Pillsbury
Gunman stopped shooting. Out of bullets?
Marie turned
right out of the room and into the parking lot. She was so hyper and panicky,
her eyes couldnÕt focus on anything. And the night seemed darker than it
actually was. Therefore, it didnÕt surprise her when the side of her right knee
tapped an object. She quit running to see what her leg made contact with.
An open car
door. The intrudersÕ vehicle?
The engine was
running. Its headlights shined in the motel room. Marie wondered why the
intruders left the key in the ignition. Maybe theyÕd expected to finish their
job more quickly.
The carÕs blaring
headlights picked out NickÕs movements in the room. The Pillsbury Gunman saw
him, too. He must have been out of ammunition because he swore and darted out
of the room quicker than Tonya HardingÕs accomplice.
A voice in
MarieÕs head ordered her to hop in the car. She did.
The Pillsbury
Gunman dashed towards the car. His shadow stretched across the engine hood.
Marie slammed
the driver door shut but left the passenger side open. Out of habit, she
reached for the seatbelt, however, as her fingers touched the buckle, she came
to her senses and gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
The Pillsbury
Gunman held his machine gun like a baseball bat (hands around the barrel). ÒGet
out of the car, bitch!Ó
Marie jerked.
She knew that voice. It belonged to the man from the parking lot in Manhattan.
The Pillsbury
Gunman sliced his machine gun through the air. The handgrip banged on the side
of the driver headrest. Luckily, Marie had leaned away before the strike. Now,
the Pillsbury Gunman tossed his machine gun aside—it clacked on the
ground—and thrust his arms into the car. His limbs moved like vehement
vipers.
Marie took the
car out of park. Thank God it was automatic! She walloped her foot down.
No!!
Marie had
stamped the brake instead of the gas. She rectified the situation.
The car sped in
reverse, veering slightly to the right. Marie grasped the steering wheel at
three and nine oÕclock. Her arms trembled, and she had trouble breathing. Felt
as if she were on the peak of a mountain, with nothing but rarified air.
The Pillsbury
GunmanÕs aggressive hands were still inside the automobile. He clung to the
car, his corpulent body covering the windshield.
Marie hit the
brakes. The Pillsbury Gunman held on. So she did what any frenzied heroine
would do. She shifted into drive. Her plan was to throttle forward for a few
seconds, then bring the vehicle to a grinding halt. But his palm smacked her
left shoulder. She recoiled, hitting the gas pedal too hard. The car zoomed out
of control. She let go of the wheel.
WHACK!!!
The car hit
something. Marie wasnÕt sure what. The Pillsbury Gunman was no longer glued to
the windshield. The hood had popped up; steam billowed from the radiator. A
busted timing belt rattled around inside the engine. The stench of burnt rubber
made Marie cough.
ÒHoly shit,
son!Ó Nick said, machine gun in hand. He stuck his head in the car, which was
90 percent in the motel room.
Marie took stock
of herself. No broken bones, and not too much blood.
Hold on. Marie twisted around. Where did the Pillsbury
Gunman go?
ÒCÕmon,Ó Nick
said. He opened the driverÕs door from the inside.
Marie lumbered
out of the car. She smelled gasoline.
ÒLetÕs get out
of here,Ó Nick said. Marie thought she heard a hint of hysteria in his voice.
He tossed the machine gun aside. It landed in the remains of a mattress.
Marie closed the
car door so Nick could get by. The vibration caused both airbags in the front
seat to activate. She thought he would have giggled. Instead, he tugged her
arm.
They hurried out
of the room. Marie expected the Pillsbury Gunman to pounce, maybe with a
hunterÕs knife clenched between his teeth. I wish Nick had held onto that
machine gun.
Marie let Nick
guide her to the end of the parking lot, near the entrance by the motel office.
The lot was empty. They must have been the only guests.
Marie gazed back
at their room. Sparks descended from the ceiling from where the overhead light
had been.
In the distance,
sirens wailed.
With no sign of
the Pillsbury Gunman, Marie let herself flop down on a patch of grass beyond the
lot. Nick joined her.
Suddenly, the
intrudersÕ car blew up. Marie and Nick ducked and turned away, even though they
were 200 yards away—too far away to be harmed.
Soon, the fire
spread to three-quarters of the motel. The office was unscathed. As the heat of
the blaze warmed MarieÕs face, she wondered if the Creepy Clerk had slept
through the explosion or if he had left hours ago.
Simultaneously,
a police cruiser, an ambulance and a fire truck screeched into the parking lot,
blocking MarieÕs view of the blaze. Curt transmissions from their radios
mingled with the crackling of the fire.
Nick threw an
arm over MarieÕs shoulders. ÒHow ya doinÕ?Ó
ÒFine.Ó Marie
set her head on NickÕs shoulder.
Would they ever
find Matthew? Were they too late?
56
7 a.m. Nick had been up for almost an
hour. He lay on his bed: the bottom bunk in a jail cell.
On the top cot,
Marie tossed and turned. Nick assumed the morning sun trumpeting through the
bars in the window had awoken her.
The springs in
MarieÕs bunk creaked. ÒOw.Ó
ÒYou all right?Ó
Nick asked.
ÒYeah. Bumped my
head.Ó
The top bunk was
close to the cement ceiling. When Nick had got up to use the bathroom 45
minutes before, heÕd seen Marie sleeping on her side, arm brushing the ceiling.
Marie hopped
down off her bunk. Her Circle Jerks T-shirt had more wrinkles than Keith
MorrisÕ face.
Last
night—after the medics had examined Nick and Marie—the sheriff,
thick and bull-faced like the actor Brian Dennehy, had insisted on taking Nick and
Marie downtown for questioning. But when the sheriff escorted them into the
station, he didnÕt guide them to the chairs in front of his desk. Instead, he
shepherded them into the stationÕs only cell. While the cell door squeaked
closed, Nick caught Marie on the verge of tears, a plea on her lips. He shook
his head. She read his sign and kept mum.
ÒWell?Ó Marie
said.
Nick removed his
hands from under his pillow. He turned on his side, head on fist. ÒWhatÕs up?Ó
ÒWhatÕs going to
happen to us?Ó
ÒI donÕt know.Ó
Nick sat up. He smelled the stench of the toilet and the aroma from the bakery
across the street. Standing up, he inhaled the freshly baked bread.
Marie began to
pace. Nick leaned against the top bunk.
ÒHow can you be
so nonchalant?Ó Marie demanded.
ÒI still donÕt
feel so hot.Ó Nick felt exhausted, yet energetic. It made no sense, but he knew
how he felt.
Marie stopped
pacing. She stood in the corner opposite the toilet. ÒNow that you mention it,
I donÕt feel so good, either. My headÕs pounding like thereÕs a Quidditch
Snitch bouncing around in there.Ó
ÒYeah,Ó Nick
said, Òaftereffects of being drugged.Ó
ÒDrugged?Ó
Nick nodded.
ÒHow else do you explain why we both fell asleep around the same time yesterday
and woke up feeling all hungover and shit? Plus, me having that erotic dream
with Salma Hayek and Penelope Cruz. CÕmon, IÕm gay, for ChristÕs sake!Ó Smirk.
ÒThough, I gotta tell you, Penelope gave me the best rim job of my
life—real or imagined. You think itÕs got something to do with those
Botox lips of hers?Ó
Marie appeared
not to have heard NickÕs joke. She strode across the cell and, after some
maneuvering, planted one foot on the sink, the other on the horizontal bar between
the two bunks (on the footboard side). She gripped the bars on the window,
which was about the size of a magazine spread.
ÒWhatÕs goinÕ
on?Ó Nick asked.
Marie returned
to the floor. ÒI had a weird dream, too, yesterday. I came into town and roamed
around, but it looked nothing like whatÕs outside now.Ó
Before Nick
could ask about MarieÕs dream, the front door opened. In strutted the sheriff,
followed by Ian.
57
Around 9 a.m., Ian sat behind the CivicÕs
steering wheel. Marie was in the backseat. Nick lounged in the passenger seat.
ÒYo,Ó Nick
joked, ÒletÕs get out of here before he changes his mind.Ó
Ian pulled away
from the police station. He didnÕt think the sheriff would storm after them
with an arrest warrant. An honest man, the sheriff had admitted he and the
mayor were relieved to see the motel burned down to embers and ashes. The
motelÕs main clientele had been Mafiosi from NYC and porn producers from a
90-mile radius. The mayor had promised voters heÕd close the motel. Problem
solved.
Marie asked,
ÒAnd we definitely donÕt have to worry about anything appearing on our record?Ó
ÒYouÕre free and
clear,Ó Ian said. ÒThe sheriff and D.A. wonÕt press charges. Though, I did
agree that we would leave by sunset.Ó
The Civic passed
a blue sign with white lettering that thanked them for visiting Harleysville (Please
Come Again!). On the other side
of the road, a sign said Interstate 87 was four miles east.
ÒSo,Ó Nick
asked, Òhow was your date? Did
you snog her?Ó
ÒSnog?Ó Ian
said.
Nick shrugged.
ÒOnly half-decent cable channel that motel had was BBC America.Ó
ÒThe date was .
. . interesting.Ó Ian gave an abridged version of his night (he skipped the
dinner part and told them what happened at DonnaÕs house). When he got back to
what remained of the motel, a firefighter told him the sheriff had already
taken Nick and Marie in. Ian called the sheriffÕs house, but his wife acted as
gatekeeper by saying, ÒFather needs his eight hours sleep. Good night.Ó Click.
Nick said,
ÒSmart move dumping that coffee. Me and Marie were drugged.Ó
ÒReally?Ó Ian
rubbed his jaw.
ÒYeah. Luckily,
we both woke up before those two gunmen arrived.Ó
ÒGunmen?Ó
ÒYeah, didnÕt ya
hear?Ó Nick told Ian what had happened.
ÒIÕd still like
to know how we were drugged,Ó Marie said. ÒI wonder if the Creepy Clerk played
a role in it.Ó
ÒYou could have
been gassed,Ó Ian suggested. ÒSomething pumped through the vents.Ó
ÒYou might be
right,Ó Nick said. ÒWhen we were running out of there, I saw this big-ass hose
hanging from one of the vents. Kinda seemed out of place, you know?Ó
Ian stopped to
pay a toll. As the Civic regained its former speed, he asked, ÒCreepy Clerk?Ó
Marie nodded.
ÒThe guy in the motel office.Ó
ÒAhh.Ó Ian
remembered him from when he had checked in.
ÒI wonder,Ó
Marie began, ÒI wonder if he meant to gas us enough to kill us.Ó
ÒCould be,Ó Nick
said. ÒWe did have the door cracked, so maybe most of the gas went outside.Ó
ÒThen why have
those two gunmen show up?Ó
Ian said, ÒMaybe
that was their plan all along. Maybe the Creepy Clerk—as you call
him—was supposed to gas you until you passed out, then the two gunmen
would finish you off.Ó
ÒBut why did
they show up so late?Ó Marie asked. ÒYouÕd think they would have been there
right away.Ó
ÒMurphyÕs Law,Ó
Ian said. ÒMaybe they got stuck in traffic. Or maybe the clerk wasnÕt supposed
to start gassing until later.Ó
ÒWho knows?Ó
Nick said. ÒI canÕt believe weÕre still alive. Pretty crazy how we were able to
fight Ôem while all doped up.Ó
ÒAdrenaline will
do that to you,Ó Ian said. ÒBesides, from the way you described them, they
didnÕt sound as sharp as, say, CIA operatives.Ó
ÒYeah, the one
Marie whacked did have a bit of a pouch.Ó
ÒPillsbury
Gunman,Ó Marie said.
ÒHot damn,Ó Nick
said, Òyou got a nickname for everyone!Ó
The Civic went
quiet. Ian glimpsed in the rearview mirror. Marie appeared pensive. ÒWhatÕs
wrong?Ó
ÒI just realized
something. We didnÕt see the Creepy Clerk in the parking lot when the fire
trucks and cop cars arrived.Ó
ÒFuck Ôim,Ó Nick
said. To Ian: ÒWhere to now, Captain?Ó
ÒReston,
Virginia.Ó
ÒFor Force Tech?Ó
Marie asked.
ÒYes.Ó
Nick asked, ÒWe
driving all the way down?Ó
Ian nodded.
ÒWith any luck, weÕll be there by nightfall.Ó
In the backseat,
Marie fidgeted around. Ian inquired if she was all right.
ÒI—I donÕt
mean to seem bitchy,Ó Marie said, Òbut do you think we should be going all the
way down to Virginia? I mean, Donna OÕConnell is only a few miles away from here,
and CUN—T is right here in the city. They both seem to be connected with
MatthewÕs disappearance.Ó
Ian cracked his
window. The smell of stinkbugs permeated the air. If his empath ability were
active, that would mean somebody nearby was sullen.
ÒMy gut is
telling me to go to Reston,Ó Ian said. ÒI think the answers are there. IÕm 99.9
percent certain weÕre going to find out what happened to your husband in Reston.
Trust me on this.Ó
Ian glanced at
Marie. She crossed her arms and stared out the window.
The Civic passed
a billboard promoting a local navy shipyard.
58
Reston, Virginia is
about 20 miles west of Washington, D.C. According to the Census Bureau, Reston
has an area of 17.4 square miles. ItÕs home to Sprint Nextel, the National
Wildlife Federation and the United States Geological Survey.
Reston, however,
is probably most infamous for having a strain of the Ebola virus named after
it. Ebola Reston made its D.C.-area debut in 1989, when a medical research
facility imported infected monkeys from the Philippines. The Centers for
Disease Control had no choice but to murder the monkeys and decontaminate the
facility. In 1995, a construction crew demolished the building.
The Civic passed
the site of the deadly outbreak, now an office park. Marie looked out the
window at the address of the long-gone medical research facility. There stood a
kindergarten and preschool center.
Marie glanced at
her watch. 5:30 p.m. The Civic had
made great time. It helped that Ian had lain on the gas. Plus, they had stopped
only once for food and the bathroom.
ÒSo,Ó Nick asked
from the passenger seat, ÒwhatÕs the deal, McNeal?Ó
Ian turned right
at a red light. ÒI want to drive by Force Tech. See what weÕre dealing with.Ó
Five minutes
later, the Civic reached the business park where Force Tech resided. Marie
pressed her forehead against the backseat window on the driverÕs side.
Force Tech was
in the kind of business park where each company had its own one-story building.
About a quarter-mile into the park, Marie saw Force TechÕs suite. On the tinted
glass door were the firmÕs name and an emblem that looked suspiciously similar
to the CIA seal.
Ian didnÕt stop
in front of the Force Tech office. He kept going at the same speed ever since
entering the business park. Ten miles per hour.
ÒWow,Ó Nick
deadpanned, Òthis is too much fun. When do we stop the car and get out and
start breaking stuff?Ó
ÒAll in good
time.Ó Ian smiled.
Marie looked
back as they left the business park. The horizontal heating strips of the rear
defogger shadowed her face. She stole one last glance at Force TechÕs suite and
wondered if Matthew was in there.
59
The Civic entered
Arlington. On the right was Arlington National Cemetery. Nick blocked out the
landmark. Despite 100-plus visits to the D.C. area over the years, he had mixed
feelings about the cemetery. On the one hand, he hated all wars (like Howard
Zinn, he believed there was no such thing as a justified war). On the other hand, people had died for their
country, even if their patriotism had been manipulated by Machiavellian
politicians and businesspersons.
From the
backseat, Marie asked if Matthew might be a prisoner in the Force Tech office.
Nick pretended he didnÕt hear the question. It was intended for Ian.
ÒI donÕt think
so,Ó Ian said. ÒThe office is too small, and when bringing him here, it would
have been too risky with all the other businesses, not to mention all the security
cameras.Ó
ÒTurn here,Ó
Nick said, pointing left. He acted as navigator, since he knew how to get to
the place they were crashing at tonight.
The Civic drove
down Beecher Street. They would stay on this road for a while, so NickÕs mind
wandered.
Dischord Records
was close by. It still fascinated Nick what a punk-rock success story Dischord
was. It had been running for—what?—almost 30 years now, right?
Amazing. He wondered if the labelÕs longevity had something to do with the popularity
of the bands fronted by Ian MacKaye, DischordÕs co-owner. It seemed that Minor
Threat, Fugazi and The Evens kept Dischord afloat.
Nick pondered
the idea of a record label surviving only through flagship bands. Maybe thatÕs
why Philly never had a punk-rock institution like Dischord. Maybe you needed an
internationally renowned act to keep the operation chugging along.
Ahh, Nick thought, Philly ainÕt all bad. At least
we got R5 Productions. Sure, Sean Agnew and crew donÕt just promote and put on
shows for punk bands and fans, but at least theyÕre keeping the indie spirit
alive.
Nick snapped out
of his musings. ÒTurn left and park halfway up the street.Ó
60
Marie followed Nick
into the punkhouse where they would sleep tonight. Ian closed the door behind
them.
The trio stood
in a foyer. To the left and down two carpeted steps was a living room, which
gave Marie olfactory overload. So many smells, so few brain cells. She recognized two smells: marijuana and peroxide.
Marie stood in
the middle of the living room. The foyer was to her right; her back faced the
front windows. In front of her, two steps led to a horizontal hallway. A few
feet to the left was a kitchen. A woman with spiky, pink hair came into the
living room with a camera that a professional photographer might use.
ÒSmile!Ó
Marie didnÕt,
and she couldnÕt see if her two compatriots did. (Nick lounged on an Archie
Bunker couch, and Ian leaned against the vanity fireplace.) Marie imagined the
photograph would be black and white, showing her weary expression, IanÕs
cool/calm exterior and NickÕs punk-as-fuck demeanor.
ÒSo,Ó said the
woman with the camera, Òwhat brings yÕall to the V House?Ó
61
The V House was named
after the hero in the graphic novel V for Vendetta. It was the D.C. areaÕs premier punkhouse. Where
the West Coast had the Maximum Rocknroll house, the East Coast had the V House. Punks and liberals from all
over the world visited and crashed at the five-bedroom abode. No one owned the
V House, and the by-laws—drawn up in 1969—stated that the longest
anyone could stay was one year. V HouseÕs primary purpose was to provide a
temporary support system for newcomers to the area. Touring bands and artists
were also welcome to stay a night or two. Nick and his bandmates had crashed at
the V House seven of the last 10 times theyÕd played in D.C. The other three
times, they had slept in their van because the V House was full.
Currently, it
was 3 a.m. NickÕs bass pick-size
bladder forced him awake after three hours of sleep.
Shuffling out of
the bathroom, Nick returned to the Cheetos-smelling bedroom he and Marie called
home for the night. He collapsed on a mattress under the four-pane window.
Marie slept soundlessly in the middle of the room on an air mattress that Ian
had brought in from his trunk.
Fuck.
Nick couldnÕt
fall back asleep. He hated this. His body seemed to go through these cycles
where he would sleep great for a few weeks, then like shit for five nights or
so. HeÕd wake up in the middle of the night and toss and turn until the alarm
clock shrilled. He knew that if he got up now, heÕd pass out from exhaustion in
mid-afternoon. Sometimes, he wished he were a psychopath. He once saw in a documentary
that they never had trouble sleeping.
Nick lay on his
back and linked his hands, thumbs wrestling. He hoped tonight Marie had enjoyed
assembling the pamphlets. The girl with the camera, Anarchy Allyson, was a
member of Pro Choice Pro Child (PCPC). This weekend, PCPC planned on marching
down Pennsylvania Avenue in support of Roe v. Wade, without any restrictions so many conservative
Christians lobbied for. Nick, Ian and Marie had helped Allyson bind the
four-page pamphlets—nothing to it, just two eight-and-a-half-by-eleven
pieces of paper folded in half—for the march on Saturday. Nick always got
a kick out of group efforts like that. He was pretty sure tonight Marie had
too.
As if MarieÕs
ears burned from NickÕs thoughts, she rolled off the air mattress, but she
ignored him as she stumbled to the bathroom. Unlike him, she closed the door
while answering natureÕs call.
Nick turned on
his side. In his head, he tuned a guitar. That old musicianÕs trick worked. He
was falling back asleep. The moment his eyes rolled back into his head, the
image of Ian flashed in his mindÕs eye. Hope heÕs not running into too much
trouble. . . .
62
Ian parked his Civic on
a residential side street in Reston. He got out with the stealth of a secret
agent man. At the end of the block, he turned left. His car beeped. Car alarm
activated.
Ian sported his
normal attire for breaking and entering: black pants, sneaks and turtleneck. He
strode down the sidewalk. Not too fast, not too slow. As if it were normal for
him to be on the streets of Reston at 3 a.m.
No autos drove
past in either direction.
In the middle of
a block, Ian dropped on one knee and pretended to tie his sneak. He rolled
right, between two azalea bushes. Standing up without using his hands, he
pulled black gloves from his back pants pockets.
For five
minutes, Ian trod through woods. No path existed, so he made his own. It wasnÕt
easy. Magnolia trees tilted toward one another, their top roots above ground,
twisted together. At the moment, two deer and a fawn bounded by, their hoofs
clopping on tree roots.
Eventually, the
trees spread out, and the ground cleared. Ian picked up the pace.
Ian withdrew a
mask from his right front pants pocket. The mask was made of black, porous
silk. He put it on; it fit tightly. He viewed the woods through two eye slits.
Ian reached the
end of the woods. Before him were topiary bushes cut into the shape of weapons.
On the other side of the bushes was the business park where Force Tech had its
office.
On his hands and
knees, Ian peeked through the bushes. Between two bushes—one in the shape
of a missile, the other a Blue Angel—he saw Force TechÕs building.
Ian scanned the
area. All clear.
Ian climbed a
nearby tree, jumped from it and bounded off the top of the Blue Angel topiary.
He flew across the driveway and landed on the roof of Force Tech. As soon as
his feet touched the tar, he dropped to his chest and flipped onto his back. He
listened for any alarms or approaching security guards. The only sounds were
chirping crickets and shrilling cicadas.
For safe
measure, Ian counted to 10, then turned over. Chest kissing the roof, he
crawled forward. The tar smelled of mold and mildew. A recessed roof with no
real drainage?
Ian stopped and pulled from his left-front pants pocket a Swiss army knife. It wasnÕt one youÕd find in any store or catalogue. He had personalized it for his private-eye needs. He flicked his wrist, and a kn