You Killed Wesley Payne

by Sean Beaudoin

  “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Cassie…”

  “And she’s right. You and me? We really could use a laugh track.”

  Macy threw up her arms in disgust. “It’s like you think you’re so—”

  “So what, hon?”

  Macy blanched. “That’s my pin.”

  Cassiopeia ran her fingers through her pink hair. “Ex-cuse me?”

  “That pin,” Macy said, looking at Dalton, then back to the sparkly butterfly he’d sent her in the mail.

  Cassiopeia put her hand on it and smiled, like a saleswoman showing off a new product. She angled her head so it glinted in the light. “Oh, this little thing?”

  “Where did you get that?” Dalton asked.

  “You gave it to me, Dalty, remember?”

  Macy shot them both a malevolent look. Then she slapped Dalton. A nice open-hander that landed solidly. “You gave it to her?”

  “Is there something wrong?” Cassiopeia asked, taking it off as if she were about to hand it to Macy, before refastening it even higher above her left ear.

  Macy’s jaw trembled. She turned and stormed off the deck, slamming the glass door hard enough to crack the foundation. Dalton watched her go, knowing he couldn’t afford the time it would take to chase after her, and not sure if he wanted to. He needed to find Chuff.

  “That wasn’t nice.”

  Cassiopeia laughed. “She’s in deep. She’s got her nose wide open over you, Dalty. You’re going to have to let her down real easy.”

  “Who says I want to let her down?”

  “Hmmm,” Cassiopeia mused.

  “Where did you get the pin?”

  “Found it in Kurt’s van. Guess you must have left it when you broke in and snooped around, huh? Good thing I found it before he did. Or, wait, maybe I didn’t find it before he did.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You should have called me, Dalton. We needed to talk.”

  Kurt Tarot walked onto the stage. The drummer started to count out a beat while Mick Freeley chunked in a rhythm.

  “Too late to talk now, though, isn’t it? Oh, well. You had your chance.”

  “This song is called ‘Light Sweet Crude,’ ” Tarot said in a hungry vibrato. “Dedicated to a zertain little blond out there who knows just the way a boy likes her to shake her poms. Yeah, baby, you know who you are.”

  “Gotta go.”

  “Wait,” Dalton said, trying to grab Cassiopeia’s hand, but in one lithe movement she levered herself over the railing, landing on the grass like a nine-lived minx and bounding onstage just in time for the first verse, coming in a fifth above Tarot’s gravelly voice, blending nicely. The crowd cheered.

  Dalton listened to a few songs, “Shaka Zulu Was the First MC” and then “The Friend of My Enemy Is My Enemy’s Dead Friend.” Dalton was surprised that they were actually almost good. Cassiopeia’s voice and moves added a balancing presence to the dark testicularness of the Casket groove. Most of the kids in the party came outside and filled the lawn, the majority of them drooling in front of Cassiopeia. Face Boi pulled off their sweaters en masse and waved them over their heads like flags, bottom lips jutted in concentration, not quite in time with the music. Girls with Unnecessary Y’s tried to dance alongside, somehow one Y away from being coordinated. Then Casket began a song Dalton recognized, even though he’d never heard it before. It was “The Ballad of Mary Surratt.” Dalton looked down at Cassiopeia singing words to a grinding, dirgelike melody. As the chorus came around for the second time, he could have sworn she looked up and winked.

  Dalton walked back inside. He poured out Chugg’s flat beer and filled the red cup with water from the kitchen faucet. “Synod!” said the same Euclidian, still answering questions on the same turn. “Smedley Darlington Butler! The Nostromo! Baruch Spinoza! Centrifugal force! Ernst Lubitsch!”

  Another Euclidian slammed his beer on the table. “That’s incorrect! Lubitsch is wrong!”

  “Yeah, well, it says it right here on the card.”

  “It wasn’t Lubitsch, it was Wilder! Billy Wilder!”

  “Lubitsch, fool. The card says Lubitsch!”

  The two Euclidians got in each other’s faces.

  “Take a hike, mister!”

  “No, you take a hike!”

  “Do you think I’m monkeying around here? Is that it? Huh?”

  “If it walks like a monkey, talks like a monkey, and reeks like a monkey, then, yeah, I do!”

  “Oh, that’s it. It’s on. It is totally on!”

  A half dozen other Euclidians streamed into the room, all of them going “Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,” attempting to break apart the two sets of steamed-over glasses. Dalton, pretending to wait his turn for the hall bathroom, used the commotion to sneak over to the staircase. A thick velvet rope blocked it off. A sign in large block letters said:

  NO ACCESS! DO NOT GO UPSTAIRS!

  AM I KIDDING?

  JUST GO AHEAD AND FIND OUT!

  —L. L. F.

  Dalton peeled the sign away.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #38

  Seems like Footer means it. Better not.

  Then he raised the rope and tiptoed up the plush carpeted treads.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE REVENANT

  Dalton pressed himself against the near wall, peeking back down the stairs. No one looking, no one following. No nine-foot Footer losing her shite. He could feel the vibrations of Pinker Casket in the floorboards and walls, a walking bassline thrumming through the Sheetrock and directly into his jejunum. If Chuff wasn’t upstairs, he wasn’t here. Which meant there was no meet tomorrow, and no plan with just a day to go.

  Dalton stepped softly toward the first room to his right. The door was closed. He turned the handle a micron at a time, cracking it enough to peer in. Empty. If you didn’t count the thousand stuffed animals on the bed. And on the floor. And on the shelves. Not to mention the computer equipment, printers, scanners, and remnants of yearbook layouts duct taped all over the walls. Dalton checked the dresser’s bottom drawer first, coming up with a handful of granny-white panties, each about the size of a small yacht sail.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #39

  In terms of hiding things, you’re better off stapling them to your forehead than stuffing them under the mattress.

  Dalton lifted Lu Lu’s mattress and reached beneath, pulling out a stack of letters. He shuffled through them. Nothing particularly interesting, lovey-dovey stuff, maudlin and strict at the same time. At least not interesting until he saw the addresses, which just happened to be for various tiers at the state prison. And then a big stack that was all the same tier, same name, same cell. Dalton was a firm believer that every single person in the world had a dark secret, and even a mediocre Dick could find it after a while, no matter how well it was hidden. But in a million years of snooping he wouldn’t have figured Lu Lu for a prisoner groupie. He reached under again and found some pictures, a guy with a bunch of tattoos and a few missing teeth posing in his cell. Dalton put those back, groping farther. There was something square and solid. His neck was pressed against the box spring, shoulder joint subluxed, fingers barely touching whatever it was, when he heard a sound down the hallway.

  Farck.

  Was it a footstep?

  He held his breath and waited, arm too far in to pull it out quietly.

  But there was no more noise except the steady blare of Casket. Dalton grabbed the object and slid it out. A yearbook. From the year before. He flipped through the juniors, and there was Wesley Payne’s class picture, the one that had been defaced, along with an inscription.

  Dear Lu. I know we’ve been rivals for student council and I know we’re hoping to get elected again to the same posts, but I also hope you and I can be friends next year. Okay? Real friends. After all, there’s room for both of us in this school, isn’t there? Real friends can sometimes even be real partners.

  Best, Wesley.

  Dalt
on turned the page and two sheets of lined essay paper fell out. The drawings that had been superimposed over Wesley’s face. Holes in his head, straws sticking out, Kurt Tarot sucking blood. The originals.

  Bam.

  Dalton put the papers back and stuck the yearbook down the front of his shirt, one corner under his belt to hold it still. He reknotted his tie and looked in the mirror. His chest was square, like he’d swallowed a baking pan, but not so obvious he couldn’t bluff his way through if questioned. He needed to talk to Lu Lu. He needed to squeeze her hard. But there was one thing to do first.

  Chuff.

  The hall was silent and empty, the thud of kick drum in the joists. The next room was clearly Mom and Dad’s, a huge four-poster and an enormous flat screen on the far wall. Then the hall bath. The turning handle surprised a Bull Lemia in a gray sweater. She looked at Dalton guiltily. He apologized and gently closed it again. The next one was a little sister’s room, full of Annoya the Explorer dolls and My Hairless Pony coloring books. Then a closet. Then a laundry room. There was one final door at the end of the hall. Dalton put his ear against it. There was rustling. And low voices. He pulled the knob. The voices got louder, almost panting. A girl and a guy. He was going hot and heavy, doing a lot of “C’mon, baby, c’mon.” She giggled, then resisted. They alternated, yes, no, yes. Finally, she became more adamant. “Enough. Stop. Stop it. Get off.”

  Dalton sighed.

  “Stop it!” the girl said again. “You’re hurting.”

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #40

  When it’s too late not to get involved, stop thinking and get involved.

  Dalton slammed the door open. The knob on the other side planted itself two inches into Sheetrock.

  “All right,” he said, “knock it—”

  A huge male head turned with a mixture of smirkiness and rage. A much smaller female head peered from under him, wide-eyed with fear.

  Chuff.

  Macy.

  Macy and Chuff.

  Chuff on top of Macy.

  Holding her wrists.

  Her shirt unbuttoned.

  His shirt off completely, huge belly practically distending to the floor.

  “New fish!” Chuff said. “What a coincidence!”

  Chugg was right. Chuff was here. Waiting.

  Macy didn’t even look at Dalton. She blinked frantically, levering herself out from under Chuff, pushing him away with one hand and holding her shirt closed with the other. She got up and grabbed her shoes, slipping under Dalton’s arm and running down the hallway.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #41

  Option one: Crush, kill, destroy.

  Option two: Do the job now, destroy later.

  Option three: Wish for more options.

  Option four: What was the kill one again?

  “Sounds like you weren’t very convincing,” Dalton said through teeth clamped so hard they practically fused. “Despite all your convincing.”

  “Ah, her.” Chuff smiled. “Good riddance to uncooperative rubbish.”

  The doorknob snapped off in Dalton’s hand. It was heavy, Italianate. He considered staving in Chuff’s nose with it. Chuff himself seemed to be wondering what Dalton would do, but appeared only mildly concerned. Dalton tossed the doorknob onto the bed.

  “You feel okay, guy? You look like you’ve gone and caught a dose of swine flu.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Pinker Casket was now between songs. They could both see a corner of the stage out of the tiny seaman’s window where Mick Freeley was noodling through some scales, jumping up and down and hammering the strings while wearing a shirt that said STINKS LIKE PINK, AND BABY, IT SMELLS ALL RIGHT.

  “You believe anyone wants to listen to that blather?”

  Dalton didn’t answer, listening for the sound of footsteps at the bottom of the staircase. There weren’t any.

  “Anyhow,” Chuff said, rising to his full height and taking up most of the room, but not putting his shirt back on. His bulk forced Dalton into the corner. “I am ready to collect on my investment. I want a plan and I want it now. And I’m telling you what, Mr. Doorknob, it had better be good.”

  Dalton opened his mouth.

  “No,” Chuff said, putting one finger over Dalton’s lips. “It had better be outstanding.”

  “It is,” Dalton said, wishing it was. Or, really, that there was really any plan at all.

  “Yeah? And?”

  “You, me, and Tarot. Swing set tomorrow at two. I got him to agree to a truce. I got him thinking about you two going into business instead of knocking heads. He sees the profit motive light but wants to hear it from you and decide if it’s on the level. We all stand in the sandbox and share our toys like good little boys, then I lay out the fine print.”

  “That’s a start,” Chuff said, pressing himself into Dalton and beginning to crush him against the wall. “And I’m impressed by your negotiation skills. But I’m not waiting until tomorrow. You lay the rest out for me now. Right now.”

  It was hard to breathe. The full weight of Chuff was like a sweaty bison. The music coming from outside was frenetic. It pounded and tore and spazzed. The windows flexed and bowed, building toward a chorus.

  And then it stopped.

  Mid-note.

  There was a squeal of feedback, and then yelling. There were sirens churning from the bottom of the hill. Dalton and Chuff pushed their way to the tiny window. On the back lawn, a full-scale brawl was taking place. The Balls seemed to be getting the best of it. Along with some random sploets, they had various Kokrocks and Pinker Caskets backed against the stage. Chugg, leading the charge with a broken table leg, yelled, “Touchdown!” Fists were flying, headlocks were cinched, wild movie-style kicks missed wildly. The sirens came whirling up the driveway. There were authoritative yells, a synchronized slamming of doors, and then Snouts everywhere.

  “That idiot!” Chuff growled. He pushed Dalton aside and submarined from the room. Dalton watched Snouts coming out of the bushes in waves, rounding up fighters, swinging billy clubs, and flashing handcuffs. Jenny One leaped into the fray, clearing a path that had to be for Cassiopeia, but Dalton couldn’t see her. Or Macy. Lu Lu Footer was yelling at a plainclothes in the middle of it all, demanding her rights. Dalton knew it was a knock-heads-now/demand-rights-later sort of situation, but Footer stood firm above it all, the pitch of her voice nearly avian. Kurt Tarot’s van wheeled out of the driveway in a patch of gray rubber. A cruiser tried to follow it but hit a Face Boi Mercedes that was backing out instead.

  THE PRIVATE DICK HANDBOOK, RULE #42

  Never be ashamed to take the back door like a thief, hide in the woods like a coward, and let heroes explain bail to their own parents.

  The staircase was quiet. Dalton slipped through the kitchen, where the Euclidians were still deep into their game, “Phoebe Cates! Badfinger! Kerensky and the White Russians! Charles Bukowski! The Coriolis effect!” It was clear sailing to his scooter, which, amazingly, hadn’t been knocked over. Clear sailing, that is, except for Hutch. Who stood by the back bumper with his arms crossed.

  “So how’s the investigation coming, Dick?”

  Dalton acted resigned, palms up, giving a little smile, and then took off at an angle across the lawn, with Hutch right on his heels. They wove through Snouts and struggling cliques, past Chugg being held down and clubbed, past a clutch of Rotten in Denmark miming Guernica, until they came to an open area just before the tree line.

  “Lee Harvies!” someone screamed. There was a single rifle shot. Or maybe an explosion. A Des Barres, running in terror, slammed into Dalton, turning him around. Hutch was closing, about five steps away. There was a second clang. And then he felt it. Like being punched. In the chest. Punched by a very small, very high-velocity piece of metal. He felt himself falling. Then he felt nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 21

  FLASHBACK II: TIME IS FALLIBLE, HEROES LIVE OR DIE

  Landon had been gone for more than fourteen
months. It was the summer before Dalton’s junior year. He’d handled five or six cases and transferred schools at least three times. The money was coming in, but it was going out just as fast. His father still wasn’t working. Turd Unit was his usual one-man terror cell. On a humid Wednesday, Sherry Rev knocked over the mailbox on her way to work, drove through the neighbor’s flowers, came home from the grocery store with three bags of mini nondairy creamers, and finally just took to her bed. Turd Unit sensed that something was up. For days he’d hung out quietly in his room. Dalton at first just gave his mother space. Not only because he figured she needed it but because he didn’t have time to deal. For one thing, he was neck-deep in his first real girlfriend, a no-nonsense Whiskey Lick with short black hair and a husky laugh. Not to mention his ongoing infiltration of a stolen-bicycle ring. But when he’d come home and all the lights were off, the same dishes on the kitchen table that had been there over the weekend, he went up and knocked on the old study door, despite having zero clue what he was going to say.

  “Go away,” Sherry Rev said. She and Dalton’s father had long since been sleeping in separate rooms.

  “It’s me, Mom. Can I come in?”

  “No.”

  Dalton turned the knob and entered anyhow. The room was dark and airless. It smelled like shampoo and graham crackers. Sherry lay in bed, the covers pulled entirely over her. Dalton clicked on a reading lamp and dragged a chair next to the lump of sheets he assumed was her head.

  “What’s going on, Mom? Turd Unit’s down there licking old candy wrappers. Dad looks like he hasn’t moved in days.”

  “Those that can’t care for themselves must perish,” said her muffled voice. “It’s the law of natural selection.”