What the hell am I doing? I say silently to myself.
What is my plan exactly?
To just go in there, tell them who I am, and demand that they tell me what they know about Nicholas’ life back then?
Why would they do that?
Besides, even if one of them is willing to speak to me, would he in front of his friends?
It feels like a terrible idea, but I don’t have a better one. I don’t know what is on the other side of that door and I can’t just wait out on the curb to ask people questions who come out. There’s probably more than one way in and out and I don’t want one of them warning the others that I’m coming.
I crack my knuckles trying to get some blood circulating in my frozen hands. It’s not particularly cold out here, but my anxiety is making my whole body shiver.
“Okay, no more waiting, it’s now or never,” I mumble under my breath.
The door to the clubhouse is so worn that the wood is soft to the touch, full of nicks and indentations from years of use. I turn the aging brass knob quickly out of fear that if I don’t then I won’t at all.
On the inside, the place looks like a bar. Dimly lit. No windows to speak of. A large bar top dominates the space and bottles of liquor are behind it.
I had assumed that the people would all be here, right behind the door, but there isn’t a soul around. I’m tempted to yell out, “Hello?” But then I stop myself. If I want to get answers, I need the element of surprise.
Unsure as to what to do now, I walk down the creaky floorboards toward the opening down the hallway. For all I know, Nicholas’ mom might have been lying to me the whole time.
Why not, right? And if she did, then where the hell am I?
“Who are you?” his deep voice comes directly behind me. I snap my head back but he already has my arms locked behind me.
“Who are you?” he hisses into my ear.
“I’m…Olive Kernes….I’m looking for Ricky.”
“Ricky who?” he asks, fighting his grip around my arms.
“Ricky Trundell.”
He loosens his grip and pushes me down the hallway.
“Hey, what are you doing?” I resist and try to push back at him.
He’s too strong to resist full-on, so instead I let my legs drop and my body go limp. Now, he’ll have to physically carry me if he wants me to go somewhere.
“What the hell?” the man asks, when his grip slips and I fall onto the floor. I scramble to my feet and pull the gun out of my pocket.
“Get the fuck away from me,” I say, holding it as steady as I can. Luckily, he takes me seriously and takes a step away from me.
“Where can I find Ricky Trundell?” I ask.
The hallway is dark and all I can see is the white of his eyes.
“I don’t think you know what you’re doing, little girl,” the man mocks me.
“Tell me where Ricky is,” I say without missing a beat.
I’m at a point where all I can do is pretend that I know what I’m doing. A facade is better than nothing. They don’t know anything about me and they just might believe it.
“Back there,” the man finally caves. I let out a slight, but hopefully unnoticeable, sigh of relief.
“Come with me,” I say. I take a few steps back, keeping the gun squarely on him. He follows my instructions.
The door leading to the back room is slightly ajar and I push it open with my back. As soon as I turn to face the table, all four men rise to their feet and point their weapons in my face.
“Told ya this was a bad idea.” The man who grabbed me starts to laugh.
“I’m here just to ask you some questions,” I say, trying to defuse the situation.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” the tall one with a scar across his face asks.
“I need your help,” I say sternly.
I drop the gun to my side but don’t let go of it.
The men continue to point their guns in my face until the older man in a worn leather jacket and a cigar in between his fingers raises his palm and waves it a little, telling them to lower them. One of them tries to protest his decision, but he just gives them one hard look and the man caves.
“Who are you?” he asks.
“My name is Olive Kernes and I’m looking for Ricky Trundell.”
“Why?”
“I need to ask him a few questions.”
“Are you a fucking cop?” one of the young guys to my left yells out. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
“I’m not a cop. I don’t work with law enforcement. I’m here about something else.”
“What?”
They all stare at me as I try to decide whether or not I should just come out and say it. One of them takes a sip of his beer and another taps his fingers slightly on the table.
They are all dressed in dark clothes; leather jackets and black pants. It’s not a uniform per se, but I wonder if it’s a coordinated effort.
“You better speak up,” the man in charge says. “I’m not going to wait forever.”
9
Olive
When I tell them the truth…
I swallow hard and then tell them that I’m Nicholas Crawford’s girlfriend. I tell them that he has been arrested for the murder of his partner and I’m here trying to find out the truth of what happened.
“Nicholas Crawford! Wow, now that’s a blast from the past,” he says, sitting back in his chair. “We haven’t heard that name in these parts in a long time.”
Not knowing the best way to respond, I give him a slight nod.
“So, the FBI arrested him, huh?”
“Yes, and that’s why I’m here.”
“No, you’re not.” He laughs, running his fingers through his thinning hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said you were here to find out the truth but that’s not true. You’re here to find evidence, if you can call it that, that exonerates him.”
“Yes,” I admit. “I guess so.”
“You know, of course, that Nicholas didn’t exactly do right by us, right?”
Frankly, I don’t even know their names let alone what Nicholas did or didn’t do.
“I don’t know the details,” I admit. “And I don’t really want to know.”
I add the last bit because the truth is that I don’t want to know. The less I know about these men the better. I don’t even want to know their names. All I want to know is what Ricky knows about what happened.
“Smart girl,” the boss says, raising his eyebrows. “So, what makes you think that Ricky knows anything about this? Or that Ricky is even here?”
“It’s a hunch,” I lie.
“Just a hunch?” He starts to laugh, tilting his whole head back and letting the waves of laughter rush through his body all at once.
“I don’t care about anything that you have going on. I just know that Nicholas didn’t kill his partner and I need to find any information I can to help him.”
“Well, you don’t really know if he killed him or not,” the boss points out.
He has said that before and hearing it again makes my blood run cold. But I keep my feelings to myself.
“Will you help me?” I ask, getting tired of the games.
The boss narrows his eyes.
“Ricky, are you here?” I ask the room.
I scan their dead, expressionless faces but no one even looks up at me.
“I need to speak to you. I know you know something,” I insist.
This is a lie, of course. I know very little about anything that has happened before. The only reason I even know Ricky’s name is that it’s the only one that Nicholas’ mom dropped.
He was a good friend of Nicholas back then and if anyone were to know anything it would be him, she said.
The boss gets up, takes one drag of his cigar before putting it gently on the ashtray. Then he walks over to me and positions himself as close to me as possible without actually touchin
g. My whole body recoils into itself as I try to get away from him without actually making a move.
“I think it’s best that you leave now,” he says after a moment.
Now, as if they had been given permission, the guys let themselves loose on me.
“Yeah, get out of here!” one yells.
“Who the hell does she think she is coming here and asking us to help that asshole?”
“Hope he rots in prison!”
“If he ever gets out, he better watch his back!”
I don’t make a move to leave.
“Ricky! Are you here? Ricky!” I plead.
I watch their faces and see one of them shy away from me. He looks a little bit like a kid who doesn’t want his name called in class because he doesn’t know the answer.
Could that be Ricky?
“Olive, you need to leave,” the boss says, leaning his head toward mine. He has a svelte and distinguished face but his eyes are bloodshot and menacing.
I decide not to push my luck. The men are all armed and this isn’t exactly a friendly situation. If any of them want to talk to me, they are not going to do it while they are in the middle of this group.
When I turn to walk away, someone yells, “And don’t come back!” after me.
I take the bus back to my apartment and get my car. Then I drive right back over. I don't really have the intention of coming back here and trying to push for more answers from hostile men, but I don’t know what else to do.
The supposed murder happened years ago and there were no witnesses. The only thing I have to go on was that at the time, Nicholas was friends with that guy named Ricky and he may have some insight as to what might have happened.
The same reasoning that brought me here keeps me here.
I sit in my car, parked on the street opposite the clubhouse. There isn’t much street parking here but if the rest of the block wasn’t abandoned with empty storefronts then there might have been some competition for spaces.
Rain starts to fall.
Big thick drops collide with my windshield and the ill-functioning windshield wipers do little to make the visibility better.
After a few moments, I give up entirely and shut the engine off.
I sit in the car for a long time trying to figure out what to do.
What if I do find out the truth and the truth points to Nicholas being guilty?
What do I do then?
Does that mean that it’s over?
Do I just let him go? Perhaps.
The thing is that right now I believe, or maybe just want to believe, that he’s innocent. But if I had proof to the contrary? Would I still feel the same way about him? Would anyone?
I take a deep breath and bury my face in my phone.
I need a distraction.
I need something else to think about but my mind seems to be hijacked. Instead of complying and laughing at funny cat and dog videos on YouTube, my thoughts keep going back to Nicholas. When I manage to push some of him out, I come back to Owen.
Owen is another man who has disappointed me, in a long succession of disappointing men.
Maybe I should have known better but, how could I?
I trusted him and he played such a good game.
When he was in prison, he appeared to be rehabilitated. He learned to read and write and wrote me the most eloquent letters. None of them mentioned love or obsession or any of those thoughts that I now know that he had.
I thought that he was my brother and I knew that he needed help.
How could I have known he would turn on me so quickly?
How could I have known that he would be one of my biggest regrets?
Hours pass slowly when you’re sitting in the small seat of an old car. First, I listen to music until I get bored and then switch around different audiobooks. I wish I could read but then I could miss them coming and going so I try to put the phone away and not even browse social media.
And then, suddenly, after about the fifth time that I give up hope and plan to drive away, I see him.
Same leather jacket.
Same blank look on his face, but with just a tinge of the eagerness some guys have in their teens.
He walks out of the front door and heads north down the street.
My car is facing the same direction so I just wait for him to get a little bit ahead of me before pulling out.
At the corner, he turns left and a few moments later, I do as well.
And then I lose him.
Where did he go? I search the street up and down.
There isn’t a soul around and he couldn’t have just vanished into thin air!
Did he go into another building?
Shit, shit, shit, I mutter to myself silently.
There are only a few cars on the street and I look them over again. This time, however, I see what I couldn’t have known.
Ricky must have leaned over and got something out of his glove box when I see him move in between the two seats.
When he starts his old El Camino, I’m careful to scrunch down behind the wheel and even put on a pair of sunglasses to keep him from recognizing me.
I follow Ricky out of the neighborhood and then out of the city. He drives a good forty-five minutes, all the way to the newer suburbs and then pulls up to a brick apartment building.
It has a number of apartments, with the doors all facing the streets. Little kids play on the playground in front of the parking lot.
I find a spot at the very end and watch him walk up the exposed staircase to the top floor and knock on the door of the apartment number 23.
A moment later, the door opens and he walks inside.
I sink back into my seat.
What the hell do I do now?
I had assumed that Ricky was going home and that I would be able to talk to him one-on-one, but now looking at this place and how far away it is from everywhere, I’m not so sure.
What if I had followed him to a job?
What if he’s doing something he’s not supposed to against the organization?
Or, what if he’s doing something illegal that he was instructed to do and now here I am witnessing those illegal dealings?
My heart races and my head pounds and I grip the steering wheel harder and harder until my hands feel like they’re going to break.
10
Olive
When I ask for his help…
I wait a little bit outside of that apartment. At first, I wait for him to come out soon. If he emerges then he might just be there on a job and that’s not anything I want to get involved with. I don’t know exactly what kind of business Ricky is in, but I know enough to know that it’s better for me to be as ignorant of all of those dealings as possible.
When an hour turns into two, I am pretty certain that he is no longer conducting business. He either lives here or is visiting someone who lives here.
I glance at the time. It’s almost nine-thirty at night.
If I wait much longer then it will be almost too late for me to knock on the door and have it still be a decent hour. I don’t want to risk having them go to bed and waking them up or interrupting them in any way.
No, it’s now or never.
Or rather, it’s now or tomorrow morning.
The problem, however, is that I have no idea when Ricky starts work and I have no interest in spending the night in this tin box.
My hand shakes when I make a fist to knock on the door. At first, I hit it so slightly that it barely makes a sound. I take a breath and do it again.
This time they hear me. Or rather, the dog does.
The yelps are loud and thunderous but the voice isn’t very deep so I suspect it belongs to someone small.
After a few barks, the loud sound of a baby crying pierces through my ear drum and I immediately regret my decision.
I have made a mistake.
When the woman answers the door, my suspicions are confirmed. My knock woke up the dog who woke up the baby. T
he woman looks tired and out of sorts and mumbles something about them not being interested in buying anything.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I say. “But I’m not selling anything.”
“We’re not interested in being converted either,” she snaps and tries to close the door.
She’s in a somewhat precarious position, trying to both calm the screaming baby and keep the dog from escaping using just her foot, so I don’t want to press on the door and force it open.
“I’m actually here to talk to Ricky. Is he home?”
Her expression changes immediately.
She no longer looks annoyed but pissed off.
Her eyes get small and laser-like and she gives her dog a stern kick to push her away from the door. Even the baby seems to stop crying for a moment.
“Are you kidding me?” the woman snaps. “Are you seriously coming here to my house in the middle of the night?”
“Um…” I mumble, not sure what she is referring to.
“What the hell do you want?” she asks, pushing her stringy unwashed hair out of her face.
Dressed in sweats and with bags under her eyes, she looks the epitome of a new mother.
“I’m not sure who you think I am—” I start to say but she cuts me off.
“I know who you are. You’re the slut he knocked up. Is that why you’re here? You want money?”
Dumbfounded, I shake my head.
“No, no,” I say. “You have me confused with someone else. I’m not his…anything. I just have a few questions to —”
“Shut up! I don’t want to hear it!” she yells and throws something at me.
It hits me straight on the forehead, but it’s light and small and does little but stun me.
When the door closes, I figure that that’s it. She won’t let me see Ricky and I can’t really get past her to get to him. But then it opens up again.
The light from the living room wraps around his face, obscuring most of it. All I can make out is a little bit of the mustache and the thick dark curls.
“Why did you follow me here?” Ricky asks.
Tell me to Lie Page 4