IENDE Read online

  An hour passed and no cops. The shadows had faded away, like daydreams ending, and Kyle shivered in his flimsy windbreaker with a tummy full of slush. He was suddenly reminded of how it felt when he was fourteen, one day when Lacy Smith, the tallest girl in his class, handed him a note offering to teach him how to French kiss. He had believed her since she had been quiet and ostracized much as he had been in those days. She didn’t show up that afternoon by the soccer field in the chilled September wind and drizzle under ubiquitous gray skies. The next day he discovered that her friends had planned to douse him in Silly String as a joke but had decided it was too cold and that a movie would be more enjoyable.

  Purging that memory from his thoughts, he crammed his empty paper cup into an overflowing garbage can that had a halo of flies and smelled of gym socks and old beer. Then he made his way to the west side of the building to pay the Caddy a visit, see if the key Victor had given him actually worked, see just how far they’d go for the joke.

  The car appeared as a black void devouring the bright reflection from the street lamp. It was like the forbidding furnace room that scared him so much as a kid, the embodiment of a dark unknown. If this was a joke, it wasn’t funny. But he couldn’t imagine anyone handing over the keys to a Cadillac just for the sake of a joke. Now, trembling in the cold, cops or no cops, he was afraid to go back to his apartment.

  Besides, he hadn’t seen his mother in a while.

  THREE

  KYLE’S MOM BELLOWED from the base of the stairs. “Breakfast!”

  “I’m coming!” Kyle leapt from bed, slamming his tired feet as he landed. After all, it was barely past eight o’clock in the morning. This sort of disturbance was exactly why he’d gotten his own apartment.

  But he had been driven from his apartment by someone manipulating him through fear and lies. Even if it was all a joke, he figured Anthony and Victor had already told everyone in the apartment complex. Everybody’d laugh when they saw Kyle.

  But if it wasn’t a joke, then he was a pathetic coward. And that might be worse.

  At the kitchen table, Kyle’s mom placed a plate of steamy biscuits and gravy before him, sausage on the side, and a tall glass of milk.

  “Enjoy your breakfast, love,” she said. “You should come by more often to visit us.”

  Kyle scowled at his mom and bit into a biscuit. Gravy rolled down his chin, and the rich buttery flavor of the biscuit was comforting, delicious, familiar, and secure. No one made better biscuits than his mom. Gravy dribbled onto his lap, but it wouldn’t show on his black jeans. A smart clothing choice for a messy eater.

  His mom stood beside the table like a domestic, and he really noticed her for the first time that morning. She was a little chunky to be wearing that exercise spandex. Probably had a rumba class or something. And she looked . . . tired—forty-seven and her long brown hair was starting to go gray. Kyle felt a sudden cramp of sympathy for his mom.

  “Thanks, Mom.” He didn’t say it very often, so he knew the effect it would have on her.

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled that wide, loving mom smile. “Do you have to work today?”

  “No. It’s my day off.”

  “I hate you working at that place, pushing shopping carts and all. Why don’t you go to college?”

  “I quit that job a year ago. I’m cooking wieners at Smitty’s Hards and Wares now.” Kyle leaned toward his mom. “Smitty pays eight dollars an hour, and I’m working thirty-six hours a week. That’s two hundred and . . . eighteen. Plenty of money! Pretty soon I won’t need an allowance anymore.”

  “Speaking of an allowance, let me grab my pocketbook, love.”

  Kyle’s mom set two crisp hundred-dollar bills next to his plate, his weekly spoils, cash that would need to be spent right way before it lost its crispiness. A visit to Low Low’s Liquor was in order. The apartment fridge was down to two cans of beer, and that was well below what Kyle’s uncle would call “safety stock.” And for lunch, Benny’s Burgers for some chili cheese onion rings to complement his double bacon burger with pickled veggies. After all, he needed veggies for the vitamins. He deserved to splurge a little after what had happened.

  He devoured his last bite of biscuit and used his thumb to push a dribble of gravy from his chin to his mouth. “Thanks, Mom. Gotta go now.”

  “So soon?” She grabbed his plate and began to wipe the table. “You should stop by more often for some home cooked meals. You know how sensitive your health is. You look pale.”

  “I always look pale. I haven’t been sick for like . . . five months. Gotta go!”

  “I love you, hun.”

  “Bye.”

  He decided to head back to the apartment and catch up on some sleep. Then he would catch up on Lara Stilltrot. It all had to have been a practical joke. Kyle would pretend he’d known it all along and had stayed at a friend’s house, playing along like the good sport that he was. That would keep his reputation at the complex intact. Besides, Kyle couldn’t stay mad at Anthony. He was popular and made great mac and cheese.

  Kyle made his way back to the complex through heavy traffic, another reason to still be in bed at 8:40 a.m. When he reached his building, he noticed the Caddy where he had left it, a shiny black cow pie in the middle of his day off.

  When Kyle pushed his key into the lock, the door swung open. Had he forgotten to lock it? He would have to put a note on the fridge to remind himself to lock the door, alongside the notes reminding him to pay the rent, empty the trash, and put on deodorant.

  As he stepped into the apartment, his gaze moved to the kitchen, where his refrigerator reminder notes were on the floor. And the coffee maker had moved. The cushions on the couch were out of place, and the remote was next to the TV. He never put it there—that would be stupid because the TV buttons are already there to do what the remote does.

  As he stepped into the bedroom, his eyes were drawn to his waist-high, six-drawer imitation wood dresser. His underwear was ruffled. He always folded it nice and stacked it on top of the dresser. Someone had been in his place. Maybe it was Anthony, part of the joke. Kyle kicked the side of the bed. It was time to pay Anthony a visit, get the truth.

  After a couple of minutes of incessant knocking, Anthony answered his door, looking twenty years older, the bags under his eyes hanging like miniature versions of his belly, his dark brown hair a fence of random brushstrokes around a ripe melon.

  “What the hell, Kyle,” Anthony said, mildly slurring his speech. “It’s barely even nine in the morning.”

  “You deserve to be yanked out of bed after what you and Victor pulled.”

  “What are you talking about? And who the hell is Victor? You’re just jealous. I know you. You always leer at the girls I’m with. Just because I scored the Lexus Girl.”

  “What? Her husband was about to beat your ass.”

  “Exactly.” Anthony’s speech was suddenly coherent, succinct, defensive. “That’s because she wants me, but wanted to seem loyal when her man was around. Happens to me a lot.”

  Kyle thought for a moment. Maybe Anthony was telling the truth. Maybe she really did want him.

  “Deal with it,” Anthony said. “If you had more than zero cojones you’d do the same thing. It doesn’t matter how you look or how big your package is. If you got the attitude, you can tap any treasure you want.”

  Wait, the conversation was getting away from him. “The reason I’m here is the joke. You and Victor?”

  “Hey, the cops were looking for you last night. I was planning to tell you this afternoon, when I got up.”

  “Yeah, ha ha, the cops, right? Detective Long Dong? And his Jedi apprentice?”

  “You on some shit or something? ’Cause if you are, I don’t appreciate you not sharing. Hey, I covered for you. I said you were in Alaska—that you’d taken a job, fishing in the Baltic Strait or some shit like that.”

  “It’s the Bering Strait. Don’t you watch TV?”

  “Whatever! I covered for you, ungrat
eful bastard. I should slam the door in your face.”

  “But your and Victor—”

  “Who the hell is Victor?”

  “The African American guy, upstairs.”

  “You mean the DJ? His name is Victor? I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure you did. You guys are in cahoots.”

  “Screw you, Kyle. I’m going back to bed. Go tell it to your new buddy Victor.”

  Anthony slammed the door, almost hitting Kyle in the face. He stood there, momentarily distracted by the musty, wet dog smell of the hallway carpet. Then clarity sandblasted his thoughts. Anthony was a liar. About the cops and the joke and the Lexus Girl—about his entire existence. And Anthony was making a fool of him.

  Kyle wanted to pound on the door, make Anthony get up again, but he didn’t. Instead he returned to his apartment, downed a hot dog and a cola, and fell asleep on the couch.

  *

  Kyle awoke to a jackhammer knock at the door. Who was rude enough to knock when someone was trying to sleep? The clock said he’d only slept for half an hour. Not enough time to even call it a nap. He stomped the floor and scurried to the peephole.

  Two blue-clad police officers.

  His muscles contracted like sizzling bacon as he took a long step back from the door. It was all a joke, right? But what if it wasn’t? There was another knock and he almost backed into the coffee table.

  “Shit!” he whispered.

  “We heard that,” said a voice from outside. “Ravdale Police. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Kyle looked to his bedroom. The window. He grabbed his work uniform, his jacket, and a clean pair of underwear, shoving them into his backpack. He would be staying at his parents’ for a while. But then he hesitated, his eyes drawn to the counter and the key to the Caddy. He grabbed it.

  The window rattled as it plowed through accumulated filth (he never opened it) and he struggled to create enough space to squeeze his narrow body out. He popped off the screen, slipped out, then pulled the window shut, leaving the screen propped against the side of the building.

  His Suzuki was in view of the courtyard, but the cops would know that car was registered to him. He gripped the Caddy key, a source of energy, life, freedom—it could have as easily been a girl’s phone number, or a plane ticket. He sprinted to the west side of the building. The Caddy was beside a rusty, pea soup Escort he’d seen a couple of times. He looked at his reflection in the driver’s window. He wasn’t much to look at but that didn’t matter because below-average guys with nice cars and excitement in their lives were no longer below average. He got in and tossed his backpack on the back seat.

  The engine ignited like smooth jazz. He looked over to the Escort, wondering who owned that piece of shit. As he tried to figure out how to put the car in reverse, his eyes were drawn to a newspaper on the passenger seat. He was surprised they still printed those, what with smart phones and all. He snatched the newspaper, glanced at it, and threw it beside the backpack. Then he noticed there had been an object under the newspaper.

  A gun.

  Maybe it was a cap gun. But it looked real—metal barrel, polished wood on the handle, solid. Kyle reached to touch it but hesitated, drawn instead to the glove compartment. He popped it open. Inside was a thick owner’s manual, random papers, and an old flip cell phone. He pulled out the papers and began to look them over. On top was the vehicle registration, in the name of Reginald Lincoln. Who the hell was that? Was Victor a nickname, or a fake name? Was the car stolen? It seemed Kyle was waist-deep in a mystery, living it like a dream, a fantasy made real. He was now connected to something interesting. Scary, but it would make an impressive barroom story.

  He continued to thumb through the papers: tire receipt, fast food receipt, a photograph of an attractive redheaded woman, more receipts. The last piece of paper was folded: a copy of the same address Victor had given him, but this one had “11 a.m. Tuesday” scribbled at the bottom.

  That was a little over an hour from now.

  Kyle noticed the cops coming around the building, their eyes scanning the area. He shoved the papers back in the glove compartment and turned his gaze to the gun. The cops weren’t looking in his direction. Surely they wouldn’t expect that he was in the Caddy. He found the shift lever on the console, put the car in reverse, and slowly backed out. The cops were fixated on the Escort.

  He pulled onto the road and felt a school’s-out bell of relief. But then he realized his hands were tingling, cold. Where would he go? Not his parents’ and definitely not where Victor had told him to.

  Maybe he should grab some lunch.

  FOUR

  REMMIE DUNIN SAT up in bed, squeezing the tattered pages of a romance novel. What a terrible book. The main character, Eriseli, had decided to sleep with Fastano, the muscle-bound vitamin salesman, on the first date—on the first page. Where was the anticipation, the setup, the foreplay in this novel? Then it was acrobatic sex until the climatic ending when Eriseli discovered that Fastano used to date her mother. But what could Remmie expect from a box of low-grade books she’d bought for a dollar at a garage sale? Eight down and three more to go. Then it would be back to the library. Hopefully they’d gotten some new stock in during her two-week hiatus.

  She hurled the book toward the garbage. It bounced off the rim and onto the makeup kit she’d gotten for Christmas. It was still in the package.

  She slid out of bed and ambled to the kitchen of her parents’ mid-century suburban ranch—well kept, updated interior with modern design and amenities. She was looking forward to a green breakfast shake. Remmie steered clear of processed foods. Five small, nutritionally balanced meals a day and those frequent bouts of illness became a thing of the past.

  It was 9:30 a.m. Her parents had left for work already. She was supposed to have had the day off, but there was a text on her phone from her boss, asking her to come in. And today would inevitably be the day he’d pin her down. He’d asked her out twice. She said no the first time, but had said yes the second time just to shut him up. She’d been stalling him for three weeks since. Seemed she couldn’t work anywhere without getting hit on the first day by some creeper. But she loved the discounts she got stocking shelves at the Green and Natural Food People, GNFP for short.

  She placed some kale, carrot, ginger, and fresh cashew butter into her juicer blender combo. It had cost her three hundred dollars—two months’ savings—but it was well worth it the way it pulverized the veggies. That thought reminded her that rent was due to her parents. So was last month’s. That would set her back four hundred dollars if she went ahead and paid both, and her bank account was already like a dry lake bed.

  As she took a sip of her shake, she glanced at her backpack. There was a small piece of paper poking from the front pocket. She had forgotten about that. It was a job opportunity that a customer at the GNFP had given her a couple of days before. Maybe she should go check it out. It would surely be more money—it could hardly be less—and she could escape her boss. The polite gentleman had indicated that she should stop by at 11 a.m. Tuesday—today—which was supposed to have been her day off. The man was so nice. Victor was his name. But she had to be at work at ten.

  Today was no longer a good day.

  Remmie tapped her fingers on the counter as she was struck by a brilliant idea: call in sick. And . . . say she ate some bad meat while out on a date. Perfect; she’d get off work and let her boss know that she was dating somebody else. She would go to the address, see this Victor’s natural food business, and maybe take him up on his job offer. It was still a little early, but she was sure he wouldn’t mind, being so nice and polite.

  She guzzled her shake and sent a text message to her boss. After a quick shower, she put on her best set of blue jeans, a lace hem white T-shirt, windbreaker, and her white Chuck Taylors. Then on to the driveway to her white Nissan. It had already surpassed the mileage to the moon, or so her dad claimed, and rust was starting to accumulate in odd places. But it stil
l got her where she needed to go, and it was all hers. She turned the key.

  Click.

  She tried again. It wouldn’t start.

  She smacked the steering wheel and needles shot up her wrist. Fudge! The starter had been acting a little wonky for a couple of weeks now, but she hadn’t bothered with it because she didn’t have the money to fix it anyway. Her eyes turned to the third bay garage door.

  Maybe she would take her dad’s ’82 Trans Am. She knew where the keys were. He would be incensed if he discovered anybody had touched his precious car—the TA only had 60,012 miles, at least at the last time he had mentioned the miles, last night. But Remmie was his darling princess, so it surely wouldn’t be a big deal if she drove it. She went back inside and grabbed the keys.

  As she crouched into the car, she felt like her backside was on the pavement, the leather seats frigid. A turn of the key and the low-pitched idle of the engine was like the purr of an old tomcat. She pushed in the clutch and put the car in reverse, backing to the street. In first gear, a mere tap of the gas thrust her back into her seat. She had no idea what her dad meant when he said he had switched out the stock 305 for a 350, but she suspected she was feeling it now.

  At the end of her street there was a parked police car. A speeding ticket would be expensive. She’d better take it easy.

  Before leaving her neighborhood, she pulled over to check the address. Her GPS was in the Nissan, so she poked around in her phone and realized she needed to download a navigation app. She’d never used her phone for navigation.

  It felt like everything was trying to stop her from getting to that address. She would have to figure out navigation on her own. Well, the location was on Boulange Circle. And she knew that was off of Boulange Boulevard because of a guy she had dated a while back . . . Bobby. He had been complaining one day because down by the Ikea store there were a crap ton of roads called Boulange—Street, Court, Road, Avenue, Place, Circle, Boulevard. It was confusing as hell. But she was determined to find it. The number was 275 North. And she remembered that South Boulange Boulevard was zero. She could handle this.