You Killed Wesley Payne

by Sean Beaudoin

  Better hit it, Pussanova.

  “Hold on,” Dalton said, snapping the clutch. The scooter screed away, moving with each pound-per-square-foot a safer distance from any possible Casket fist. Or Pinker kick. Dalton leaned hard, perilously close to a concrete berm, before hanging a sharp left and roaring up Route 6.

  “Where’re we going?” Macy yelled into the wind. “Seriously.”

  “You’ll see.”

  She hugged his waist tightly. If tightly meant wanting to unzip his leather jacket and climb inside. As if the speed scared her. As if he scared her. Dalton settled into the warmly satisfying, slightly queasy bath of inspiring fear. He could feel her breasts pressed against his back, her cheek pressed between his shoulder blades, her arms knotted around his rib cage. He liked it. A lot. Idiot. She smelled good too. Fish stick. She smelled good even though the wind was blowing, taking any possible odor fifty miles an hour away from his nose. Weak bag of hair. Dalton popped into neutral and gunned the engine, making the entire frame hiccup. Macy’s arms gripped even harder. He was unable to suppress a grin.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #12

  Stop grinning, Cardigan! Get ahold of yourself.

  Pretend Aunt Brenda’s arms are around you.

  Especially since she’s dead. And even when she was alive

  she smelled like neck sweat and garlic raisins.

  There you go. That’s it. Concentrate!

  Aunt Brenda in a rubber raincoat and mud boots

  trudging out to the mailbox for her usual stack of

  misaddressed envelopes and grocery circulars.

  Leg hair! Varicose! Moldy candy!

  The scooter slowed and took a hard right, changing directions. Macy must have thought he was taking her to the bridge or the lake, maybe out by The Point, something obvious and typical, because she seemed completely surprised when he pulled in front of her father’s house.

  “Are you… um… sure?”

  “We have work to do,” he said curtly, forcing himself into Just the Facts, Ma’am mode.

  Macy got off, shoving the helmet into Dalton’s belly. She took a few wobbly steps, brows angled together. They were on something more than client-Dick ground. He should have loaded up on some serious Lex Cole Cold Shoulder–brand cologne for men. The clock was running. His fee was unpaid.

  “Ready?”

  Dalton watched Macy watching him. He switched to his hardest street face. His Dickface Killah face. Stand back and let me solve your problems, baby, because this enigma is all business.

  “Why are you making that face?”

  “What face?”

  “The one you’re making right now. The one that looks like you’ve got dog shite between your toes.”

  Dalton tried not to laugh, and then did, reminding himself she was a Euclidian for a reason.

  “Dalton?”

  It was hard to keep envisioning her as Aunt Brenda when she was so close. So close she almost glowed. If she let her hair grow out and wore a little makeup, she could easily pass for a Silverspoon. If she put on a few pounds and some leather, she could maybe even be a Foxx. Her collarbones peeked from the wide collar of her shirt, sweater tied around her waist. She stood with one foot shyly in front of the other, hands behind her back, her white tights lovably rumpled across… idiot!

  “You know that I charge by the hour, right?”

  Macy appraised him coolly. “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Dalton followed her over flagstone pavers that cut through the middle of an immaculate lawn. Before they even got to the top of the front steps, Macy’s father, a heavyset, older-model Euclidian, stepped out the front door and gave her an enormous hug. He shook Dalton’s hand. His blue V-neck perfectly matched his daughter’s rolling eyes.

  “You kids look thirsty. How about a nice cold drink?”

  “Dad—”

  “Sure,” Dalton said. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Great!” Albert Payne laughed. “But don’t call me sir. That’s my father’s name.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Macy shot Dalton scimitars, while Albert Payne led them into the kitchen. A stainless-steel fridge hummed in the corner next to a spotless granite countertop. Macy looked like she wanted to slam her face into the center of it.

  “Nice place.”

  Albert whistled a tuneless thank-you, placing three glasses of water on the table, each one topped with a healthy squirt from a bottle of Flavor Flavah, which suspended itself in viscous globs between cubes of ice. Dalton suppressed a gag.

  “I don’t make it like Macy’s mother used to,” Albert said wistfully. “But I do my best.”

  “It’s terrific.” Dalton pretended he was drinking without actually opening his mouth. Even so, he could taste the Flavah’s molten sweetness as it clung to the edge of his lip. Macy took a tiny sip and put the glass down.

  “So, did you kids meet at school?”

  “Dad!”

  Dalton smiled, feeling for his pistol to make sure it didn’t slip out of the back of his pants. Then he remembered that Hutch had confiscated it in the nurse’s office. “Let’s just say I’m not doing as well as I should in math. So Macy has volunteered to tutor me.”

  Albert Payne slammed down the rest of his drink and stood up. Residue of the brown-red Flavor Flavah coated his chin like a shaving accident. “Well, I’ll let you two get to studying.”

  “Yessir.”

  Macy stood as well, flushed just short of vermilion.

  “Don’t forget, hon,” Albert said, walking over to the leather couch and turning on the television, a flat screen the size of Wyoming. He touched the remote, and a quiz program blinked and dinged into life. “Dinner’s at seven thirty on the nose.”

  “Okay, Dad,” Macy said, motioning frantically for Dalton to follow. She led him up a flight of stairs lined with pictures of a younger version of Albert Payne, grinning without reservation into the camera. The kid had a friendly, intelligent face and his father’s generous features.

  Wesley. The Body.

  Macy pulled Dalton into her room, then locked the door with relief. They could hear the booming hilarity of the game show through the floorboards. It sounded like someone was a big winner.

  “Someone’s a big winner.”

  “Yeah, you. Having a dad like that? Nice. Cares and all.”

  “He hasn’t been the same since Wesley. Like clingy and sad and nostalgic all the time. I mean, my mom being sick was one thing, but that was ten years ago. After Wes—”

  Macy stopped talking, her chin all scrunched up. Dust floated in the shaft of light coming through the curtains. The carpet was an immaculate pink oval. The walls were pink-white and without a single ding. She was waiting for him to hug her. He very much wanted to hug her. He would not, repeat, would not walk over, pull her into his arms, and hug her.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #13

  You will not, repeat, will not hug her, Rev. You unprofessional carp. You weak bag of hair. Do your job! Collect your fee!

  “I want to hear about Wesley,” Dalton said, aiming for Professional Wheelchair Repossessor mode. “But there’s something else first.”

  Macy dabbed her eyes with the corner of the pink bedspread, looking at him with relief. Looking at him, he thought, almost wantonly. At least that’s what Lex Cole called it in Ten Stories Up on the Windblown Ledge of Desire.

  “What is it?”

  “My fee.”

  Astonishment passed over her like an infomercial for a slap across the cheek.

  Good. Distance.

  “I need the first installment. Plus expenses. Before we proceed.”

  Macy composed herself with difficulty. She got up and went to a pink desk. Above it were pictures of horses, and posters of some boy band Dalton barely recognized, five skinny kids in matching satiny outfits, each frozen in the middle of a different dance move, flashing the signature grin of breakers of twelve-year-old hearts.

  Vanilla Donkey Ride? It was on the tip of
his tongue. Hot Cinnamon Twist?

  “Do you like Kiss Me Cherry too?” she asked, with forced lightness. Dalton didn’t answer, holding out his hand. Macy put four hundred-dollar bills in it. He turned the pink desk chair around and straddled the seat, keeping the wooden back between them. It was time to get busy.

  “So, I talked to Inference. Not much help there.”

  Macy nodded.

  “I also talked to the friendly neighborhood Snouts.”

  She frowned. “But they won’t even return our calls anymore. How did you—”

  “They came to see me,” Dalton said, instinctively dabbing the cut on his lip. “Anyhow, they insist he… Wesley… took his own life. School insists also. So far, I’m inclined to think—”

  “He was murdered. Without a doubt.”

  She’d insisted this again and again via e-mail, but refused to say exactly why. At least not until they were talking in person. In private.

  “I agree it’s unlikely someone could wrap themselves in tape and haul themselves up onto a goalpost. But, in cases like these…”God, do you sound like a tool. “In cases like these, the unlikely often becomes the only plausible explanation. To be honest, so far I haven’t seen or heard anything that makes me think it’s not possible.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  Dalton found himself slipping into Sarcastic Disbeliever Advises You to Babble Your Crackpot Theories to Whoever’s Unlucky Enough to Be on the Barstool Next to You mode. He sighed deeply.

  “Yeah, and why not?”

  Macy crossed her legs, peering at him beneath exasperated lashes.

  “Because he was found hanging upside down.”

  CHAPTER 8

  SOMETIMES A SEXY NOTION

  “No shite,” Dalton finally said. Hanging a body upside down was something a bat would do. Or a rock ’n’ roll vampire. “For real?”

  Macy gave him a look. “There was no rope around his neck. Just his ankles.”

  “Okay,” Dalton said, impressed that she was able to be so clinical. “But how do you know?”

  “It was a rumor. Going around the cliques. I didn’t believe it at first. But Jeff told me it was true.”

  “How would Chuff know?”

  “He wouldn’t say exactly. I’ve done pretty much everything I could to get him to tell me.”

  “Everything?”

  Macy blushed. “Jeff is hard to… persuade.”

  “He’d know if he was the one who did it.”

  “He’d also know if he saw Wesley while he was out on the field practicing, right? Where the captain of the team would naturally be?”

  Dalton conceded the point with a click of his tongue.

  “Okay, so what about you and him? Is Chuff your boyfriend or not?”

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #14

  Now we’re getting somewhere.

  Macy threw up her hands. “No. Yes. I mean, he likes me? A lot? And so sometimes we hang out. But we’re not together together. It’s more like he just decides he wants you around, and then suddenly you’re around. And, anyway, after Wesley, I didn’t want… to be alone. Even if sometimes he acts like—”

  “A tool?”

  Macy grabbed a pink pillow and put it in her lap. Then she mashed her face into it. Dalton could almost hear her blushing. Eventually she sat up again.

  “Yeah.”

  “So why stay with him? It’s such a West Side Story cliché. Ball meets cute Euclidian from across the tracks, the families don’t like it, somehow they persevere, blah, blah, blah, here comes Rita Moreno with a rose in her teeth.”

  “Did you say cute Euclidian?”

  Dalton almost blushed. Almost. “You know what I mean.”

  Macy leaned forward. “He’s not what everyone thinks. He has a heart. He’s… sensitive.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dalton said, picturing Chuff’s pig-rending fists and massive Easter Island head. “So why not get this sensitive guy to help you instead of me?”

  Macy threw the pillow on the floor. “Every time I get a chance to ask, one of the other Balls shows up! It’s almost impossible to be alone with him without that stupid Chance Chugg running over. Chuff to Chugg… inappropriate and creepy! But it’s not like I think he’s lying… it’s more like he’s trying to protect me.”

  “From?”

  “From Tarot. And what Tarot’s about to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Take over.”

  Dalton pursed his lips, which hurt, so he stopped. “The Snouts and Inference worked me over pretty good today so I’d swallow their suicide line. Which makes no sense if they found Wesley hanging upside down. Which means they either didn’t find him that way, or this whole town’s on the take. If that’s true, we’re farcked. If the cops know Tarot’s involved and are letting it slide, there isn’t enough money in anyone’s safe to make it right.”

  Macy’s face hardened a bit. “The motive, whoever did it, is chaos.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wesley was a symbol at Salt River. He sort of kept things balanced just by being there. And now he’s not. Balls and Casket are going to butt heads soon. Hard.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s what happens when you throw two alpha monkeys and one banana in a cage. It’s been brewing since freshman year, and now there’s a vacuum.”

  “What do you mean, symbol? I thought Wesley was a Euclidian. Based on those pictures in the hallway, he doesn’t exactly look like—”

  “Wesley was a Populah.”

  “He was popular?”

  “He was the head of Populahs,” Macy said, with an accent like the rich chick from a movie where some dowdy old matron is sentenced to share her mansion with three fat rappers. She reached over and handed Dalton an elaborate hierarchical chart drawn by hand, all the cliques and sub-cliques laid out in boxes, connected by dozens of lines. It was intricate and meticulous. Dalton traced the lineage from Balls to Fack Cult T, marveling at her handiwork. Populahs floated at the bottom, not attached to any other clique except a single box beneath them.

  “Crop Crème?”

  “Means exactly what it sounds like. Sort of a subset of Populahs, but even more exclusive. There’s popular, and then there’s, like, those kids off in the stratosphere.”

  “That’s the first I’ve heard of it. If Wesley was so influential, why isn’t anyone talking about him? Why no outrage, no memorial, no—”

  “That’s how it is at Salt River!” Macy snapped. “Or haven’t you noticed? The only thing that matters is to act like you don’t care. And don’t say a word. Something really bad happens? Pretend it doesn’t exist. Move on. Keep working the rackets. I mean, there’s people shooting off the rooftops, for Bob’s sake, and it’s like, hey, just another day in geography class.” Macy rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, making a squeegee sound. “Wesley was a Populah because he was the only kid in school not trying to be. He had no racket. He dressed like a dork and worked hard in his classes. He wasn’t trying to move up or down the ladder. He didn’t make fun of things in an ironic voice or wear shirts of angry bands. He was just himself.”

  “And that made him a threat?”

  “Being comfortable with who you are is the ultimate threat! It makes the cliques’ constantly milking the rackets and putting everyone else down seem pointless in comparison.”

  “So, you’re saying the entire school is a suspect?”

  “No, I’m saying Wesley wasn’t killed. He was sacrificed.”

  “Sacrificed?”

  Macy picked at the bedspread. “Listen, half the kids at school want to be Jeff, right? So they can be the big football star. The other half want to be Tarot so they can be a rock god. But deep down, everyone knows those are just clichés. Wesley is who people really want to be, not just when there’s cheering, but alone late at night. And on Sunday morning. And in the car with their mother.”

  “So, if a guy like Wesley kills himself, it’s like, what h
ope does everyone else have? If Salt River becomes Stepford River, it’s easier to control?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, but what happened to the Populahs?”

  “They broke up after Wes’s body was found. There were actually only five Crop Crème. A couple transferred to boarding schools. The other cliques absorbed the rest. Except Ronnie Newport. He went and founded Smoke.”

  “Newport was a Populah? Just last semester?”

  “I know, right? After Wesley he started in with the Cigarette Enigma routine.”

  Dalton rubbed his chin. “If Wesley was a Populah, he must have had a girlfriend.”

  Macy nodded.

  “Then why haven’t we talked to her? Why aren’t we talking to her right now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know what?”

  “Who she is. It sounds stupid, but he wouldn’t say. He had her picture in his wallet, but he wouldn’t show me. When I went to the police station with Dad to look at his effects, his wallet was gone.”

  “So you pocketed the suicide note?”

  Macy blushed. “It should probably have been in a detective file or something, but there it was, with his other stuff. I was going to say something, but…”

  “Let me see it.”

  Macy went to a little pink jewelry box on her dresser and pulled a carefully folded note from a tiny pink envelope. The writing was in pencil, shaky in places, heavy-handed in others. It had been erased and rewritten and erased again.

  Two steps forward, one taken back

  A walk through the forest, all in black

  Life on the edge, on the edge alone

  No one to talk to, mental dial tone

  It’s painless, it’s painless

  It’s raining, insane-ing

  Going ’cross the river to the

  Place with no blaming

  I’m free

  I’m a black angel

  I’m free

  Burst like star spangle

  I’m free

  I’m me