"Dix!” Queenie's outburst caused the other patrons of the diner to swivel in their direction.
"No snakes, Queenie, none. Not even a little one."
Pursing her lips, Queenie cut her eyes at Dix. She reached into her bag and rummaged among the contents, searching for her lipstick.
"You know,” Dix said, “I used to like that son of a bitch."
"Yeah,” Queenie said, touching her temple with one ringed hand. “So did I."
* * * *
Willie stomped down the straggling bunches of thistle and crabgrass covering the sloping ground. He checked left and right. Only a few of the regular homeless had drifted into the shaded area, their blankets spread out at the opposite end from where Willie stood. Farther down the riverbank, he spotted a thin bald guy tracing figure eights on the lawn. The man's voice gusted toward Willie, his curses and shouts interspersed with accusations of conspiracy. Shaking off a shiver of premonition, Willie scraped a shallow trench to mark off his space and settled in for the evening. He slid the denim bag under his shoulders, leaned back and closed his eyes. Beneath his head, the bones muttered. Mum-mum-de-mum-onakul.
The odor of urine woke him before the sickle moon had fled the sky. He checked the time on his cell phone. Two twenty-five. No message. Crapola! Willie shifted to a sitting position and scanned the collection of ragtag blankets and garbage bags. He listened for the snores of exhausted men and women, but the acrid smell overpowered his senses. Sniffing, he leaned to his right. The light reflecting from the highway above outlined the shape of a man urinating against the concrete support wall, barely three feet from Willie's head.
"Hey, pisser,” he said, pitching his words too low for anyone but the intruder to hear. “Go pee somewhere else."
The man stuffed himself together and turned toward Willie. “They're coming,” he whispered. He pointed one bony arm in Willie's direction and repeated his warning. “They're gonna find you. And him.” Shuffling closer, the vagrant stared at the shadow behind Willie's head. “He knows."
Shoving the bones farther behind him, Willie stood up and clenched his fists. He stared at the dark figure wavering before him. The man knew nothing, yet his words shook Willie. Could Dixon find him? Would Queenie come? Shivering, Willie stepped toward the man.
"Get the hell out of here,” he said.
The man backpedaled a few feet, twisted his ankle on a slurry of small stones, and fell hard. Rolling several feet down the slope, he raised up on his hands and knees and crawled closer to Willie.
"Make him stop,” he begged, covering his ears with his hands. “I can't take it anymore. Make him shut up.” He flung his arms toward the bag once more. Then, raising himself to a stand, he shuffled away.
Willie watched him go, afraid to turn his back, fearful of what might happen if he closed his eyes. The man paused every two steps to check over his shoulder and mutter, his curses a susurrus of fear sliding toward Willie along night's dark street. When the man disappeared into shadow, Willie lay down again, juggling the man's absurd pronouncements and the realization that Dixon and Queenie would indeed be looking for him. But he had control of the board, didn't he? Willie's sense of righteous anger flared. Instead of giving Willie a better job, Dix had let him go. Instead of sharing herself, Queenie had given him one night and then turned her back. And they'd both lied about wanting him to help run Ajedrez. Willie watched his expectations dissolve in a swirl of feints and false moves. Nothing left of hope but broken promises. If he gave the money and the bones back, they had to reciprocate, didn't they? The questions circled his head like vultures. Uneasy and conflicted, Willie stayed awake long into the night. Just before dawn, he slept. When he startled awake around seven, the bones were gone.
* * * *
Dixon and Queenie sat in the truck, rehearsing Dixon's story. The parking meter posted a two-hour limit, but the meter flag had slipped closer to zero. Dix got out and slid two more quarters in the slot. That should buy them enough time.
"You sure, Queenie?” He leaned back in the seat and studied his wife's hunched shoulders and exposed cleavage. “You think this'll work?"
Queenie raised her head from the cell phone keypad. Her dark eyes glared at him, her full, red-limned mouth set in a taut line. “Just follow the plan, Dix, and don't let on that you're angry. Okay? I'm going to flush him out with an offer."
She smiled but Dix didn't think it would melt anyone's heart. Her glance reminded him of that Australian reptile, the taipan she kept in a cage beside their bed. Sometimes in the night, he'd wake to the sound of her reading from the Gospel of Mark, They shall take up serpents, while the snakes shifted and hissed around her. Queenie's Pentecostal roots served them well among the small hill towns of Appalachia, but Dix wasn't certain how well they'd go over in the big city. He was tired of playing backwater fairs and rural carnivals. It was time to move up to bigger things, and Nashville could be the first step. He rested his hand on the back of her neck. “I just want what's fair, babe."
"Oh, you'll get more than fair, Dixon, I promise.” The way she said it made Dixon's stomach contract.
They watched the precinct shift change at three o'clock and waited until Queenie's contact tipped his cap and hurried inside the building.
"Maybe you shouldn't have fired him,” Queenie said, snapping the lid on the phone and tapping her foot.
"You think that's as bad as what you did?” Dixon allowed only the merest trace of sarcasm to tinge his words. Queenie, enraged, was a beast he preferred not to confront. “You should have known he'd want more."
Queenie allowed a smirk. “I just wanted to see what it'd be like is all. With a little guy.” She reached over to smooth Dixon's collar. “You know there's no one else but you in my heart."
"I don't care who's in your heart, Queen, it's your wallet that concerns me.” Dixon swallowed the lie and shot out of the car. Slamming the door, he circled the truck and took the steps two at a time. From the passenger side, Queenie watched him go, her dark eyes slitted, her rouged face a study of sly indifference.
* * * *
The night people shuffled off around him, heading for coffee shops or that Daybreak place that handed out breakfast and false hope. Willie raced from one side of the underpass to the other, searching for the bag. It took him fifteen minutes. When he spotted the crazy pisser from last night standing at the river, he thought he'd hyperventilate. The man held his arms out over the water, making the sign of the cross at the bag that floated, bobbing and weaving, across the slow current. Willie decided against murder. Blood pounding in his ears, he raced up the pedestrian stairs and hurried across the footbridge. By the time he reached the other side, a boy holding a skateboard had lifted the bag out of the water.
"Hey!” Willie yelled, gasping as he used the handrail to pull himself along. “That's mine."
The boy looked up and shrugged. Clutching Kardu's bones in one hand, he watched as Willie worked his way down the steps. He had almost reached the bottom when the boy flipped on a ball cap, dropped his board to the pavement, and shoved off. Willie bent over to catch his breath and started off again. His short legs and heavy torso refused to obey his command for more speed. He huffed his way to Monument Avenue, clutching at his aching thighs, until he spied a bus labeled Wayne-Wilmington. Struggling along the sidewalk, he reached the stop just as the bus doors closed. Willie used his fists to beat on the glass. The RTA driver, his expression one of pained effort, opened them and let Willie in.
Trying to balance his weight against the bob of the wheels, Willie threw coins in the collection box until the meter said paid and hurried to a side seat. Ahead, weaving in and out of lanes, the boy headed south. The bus lumbered forward, lurching to a stop at every second corner. They passed the Schuster Performing Arts Center and the old County Courthouse. Off to the right, Willie noticed a building with a police precinct sign and a familiar truck parked at the curb. He ducked below the wide bus window until they passed the station. Then he leaned his head
against the glass and listened for the bones. They'd been talking to him all night. No reason to think they'd abandon him now.
* * * *
The parking meter flag flipped to red. Queenie debated whether to feed it again. She had just opened the door when Dix burst out of the precinct and hurried toward her, his face aflame with anger and resentment.
"Get in,” he said, shoving her down and closing the door. He pulled away and searched for a pay lot. “Your guy's going to call as soon as they hear anything."
Queenie fumbled with the radio knob, seeking a country station. “What's wrong, Dix?” she said.
Dixon knocked her hand off the dial.
"We find him, Queenie, I swear I'm going to kill him.” Dixon jammed his foot on the brake and faced her while the traffic signal flashed from yellow to red.
"Not the wisest move, Dixon,” Queenie said, running her fingers along the curve of his neck. She waited for his color to fade from fuschia to pink. “Let's just concentrate on recovering our property. Willie, well, Willie will be on his own again, just like he was before we took him in."
Dixon pulled into a lot with a sign reading special events parking $5.00. He held his palm open and waited for Queenie to pass him a bill. The attendant, looking strained and tired, nodded at the next to last space facing Ludlow. Dixon turned off the ignition and watched the theater-goers flooding out of their cars, heading for the Victoria and The Phantom of the Opera.
"How long we been together, Queenie?” Dixon removed his cap and patted his graying hair. “How long have I overlooked your adventures? But this time, you fixed us good."
"So, we're back to that?” Queenie scowled and slapped his shoulder again. “Get over it, Dix. You got twenty-five years on me. I have needs.” She studied her nails. “Promising Willie and me we could both help run the show wasn't a smart move."
Dixon punched the steering wheel. He slid his seat back, slouched down, and closed his eyes. When he heard the hissing, he opened one eye and glared at Queenie. “I told you. No snakes."
"Hush, Dix,” Queenie said, cooing at the thick mesh wrap lying coiled and uneasy at the bottom of her purse, “I just want a little insurance."
Dixon sat up and pushed at her chest. “Against what? Willie? Me? I swear—"
Queenie cut off his reply. Snapping her bag closed, she reached forward with both hands and pinned Dixon's arms to his chest. Her fingernails dug against his skin.
"Swear what, Dix? What's yours is mine? Willie's a dead man? Puhlease.” Leaning her face closer, Queenie frowned at him. “Pardon me if I take my own precautions."
Caught in her stare, with the specter of losing his life's work hovering beyond her and the claws of jealousy tearing at his soul, Dixon clenched his jaw and nodded. I am going to kill him, he thought, and then, Queenie, I'm going to kill you. He tried not to think about her snakes.
* * * *
Up Wayne Avenue Hill the bus swayed from lane to lane, dodging traffic and cyclists commuting from home to work. Although he could no longer see the boy, Willie could hear King Kardu humming, the notes a trail winding from the bag to Willie's ears. Ha-haha-ha-hum. Willie got off at South Park.
The intersection of the once-thriving Victorian-era neighborhood had gone to seed, its signature triangle building on the northeast corner now boarded and mute. The gas station across from the bus stop could use a new sign. The old one, damaged by some random wind, hung crooked and sagging. On the west side where Willie stood, only a seedy tavern and an old grocery store remained. Down the block, the aging houses were claimed for mixed use by yuppies, baby boomers, crack dealers, and whores. Willie shaded his eyes from the sun. The boy had gone there, to the first large, white painted lady. Willie spotted the skateboard lying discarded in the small square of weedy lawn. He listened. The boy's voice carried eastward like a sail.
"Danny, come see what I found.” A screen door banged. The boy and the bones faded into silence.
Anxious and determined, Willie eased along the street. He noted the number of occupied dwellings, the placement of garages, and the occasional signs warning of home security alarms. The house where the boy lived lifted above a sprawl of steps that opened onto a wraparound porch. Below the porch, latticework screened an area big enough to store garden tools or conceal a man. Nodding at the possibilities, Willie changed direction.
At the corner grocery, he purchased a poncho, two quart bottles of water, and a handful of candy bars. He squatted behind a tall hedge of forsythia opposite the boy's house and unwrapped one of the bars. Convenience over substance. He had to recover those bones.
When the sun went down, the family who lived in the house settled down to dinner. Willie heard the scraping of utensils on plates and the excited chatter of boys with a secret. Their voices triggered a memory of that first night Dixon and Queenie took him in. They had served lasagna and made small talk, welcoming him at their table but screening him from their hearts. Swallowing hard to combat the ache of loss and longing, Willie rested against a light pole as traffic dwindled. When the porch light snapped off, he moved. Gritting his teeth against the possibility of spiders and rats, he crossed the lawn and crawled under the porch. He wrestled the poncho under him and wiggled around until he'd made a comfortable depression in the lumpy earth. The first moment the house sat empty, he vowed, he'd step in and take what belonged to him. Engrossed in his planning, alert to every noise that creaked above his head, he missed the chime signaling Queenie's text, her words a backlit sprawl in the night.
MEET ME NO TRIX IM 4U PROMISE
The first night it rained, water cascading in heavy sheets down the spouting to pool in the dirt edges of Willie's hiding place. Raindrops slithered through the cracks in the porch flooring and dripped down his back. Images of Queenie and snakes and Dixon's angry face traded places in his restless sleep. Damp and shivering, Willie woke early, his stomach a constant grumble that matched the skeleton's complaints. Num-num-num-num-NUM. After the parents left for work, Willie caught the echoes of the boys’ chatter as he and Danny, probably the older brother, examined the skeleton.
"Where'd you say you found this?” Danny's voice waxed and waned as he moved around the porch above Willie's head. “Who followed you?"
The boy evaded his brother's questions, his excitement spilling outward with the bones as he pulled them from the bag.
Willie unwrapped another candy bar and munched away, wishing the boys would leave so he could grab the skeleton and go, but the wet weather kept them all housebound. Willie dozed, his plan drifting on the murmur of Kardu's song. By midafternoon he felt feverish. His stomach had given up growling, but hunger nagged at him. He couldn't think how to leave before it grew dark enough to hide his escape. Rereading Queenie's message, he weighed the pros and cons of surrendering to desire. He ached to see her. Could she be trusted?
Later that night, after a midnight run to the all-night grocery, Willie dreamed of holding Queenie, of rejoining the carnival as her partner and her spouse. But King Kardu's mumbling woke him. Hum-da-hum. Lal-lal-lal. The thrum of the bones pounded inside Willie's head. Caught up in his anxious thoughts, Willie forgot about the boys, until Danny leaned his head against the lattice and yelled.
* * * *
The squad car arrived just after seven a.m. Willie inched away from the officer's outstretched hand, but he knew if he didn't come out, they'd just come in and get him. Crawling forward, he scrambled to his feet, brushing off the mud and sand that clung to his pants and feet.
"Mind telling me,” the officer said, pointing out the candy wrappers that littered the ground, “what you're doing here?"
Willie shrugged off the cop's restraining hand and looked up at the four faces staring down at him from behind the porch railing. He pointed at the boy.
"He stole my bag,” Willie said.
"That right?” the cop asked. The boy shuffled closer to his brother and nodded. Frowning, the police officer grabbed Willie by the collar and shoved him forward to the bo
ttom of the steps.
"Go get it,” the father ordered, exasperation coloring his command.
The boy came out carrying the blue laundry bag as if it contained Queenie's taipan instead of the ancient bones of an Aboriginal witch doctor.
"This yours?” the cop asked. Willie nodded. “All right, folks, we'll take it from here."
The cop grabbed the bag and Willie's arm and headed for the squad car. He settled Willie in the back and contacted the precinct. Willie eased closer to the bones. He ran a hand over his dirty hair and groaned as the officer spoke.
"Jenks,” he said, “tell Sarge we found that missing person."
* * * *
The gray walls and plain table and chairs of the interrogation room offered Willie no comfort. At his feet Kardu rested, his bones silent for now. Exhausted, Willie placed his head on the table, cushioned it with his arms, and slept.
"Willie!” Dixon Stout's boom of greeting roused him. The bones jittered. Dixon lifted Willie from the chair and hugged him, his whisper unheard by the policeman who watched from the doorway. “Save it until we get you out of here."
"This your missing person?” the cop said.
Dixon emphasized his response with a second hug and a clap on Willie's back. “This is our Willie.” He smoothed Willie's tangled hair back from his forehead. “We sure were worried about you, son. Glad you're safe."
A rustle of warning and Queenie stood there, staring at Willie's matted curls and mud-splashed clothes, her face a careful blend of joy and sadness. “Poor Willie,” she murmured.
Embarrassed, Willie shrugged out of Dixon's embrace and slid into the chair. He couldn't think of a thing to say.
"Perhaps,” the cop said, picking up the bag and opening the drawstring to display the contents, “you folks can explain this.” He gestured at the skeleton folded inside.
"Of course, Officer.” Dixon moved away from Willie. He pulled a bill of sale out of his shirt pocket and handed it over. “I own a carnival, and Kardu here is our star attraction. See.” Dixon tapped his finger on the signature at the bottom, at the date, at the description of the artifact.
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