Hellhole

by Gina Damico

  O’Connell held up his hands and let out a good-natured laugh. “Guilty as charged, Chief. It’s a little embarrassing—turned out to be a really big squirrel. Got into the heating ducts, made all sorts of noise. Chased it up onto the roof, but it jumped into a tree and I lost it.”

  Chief Gregory looked at Max, who made a dubious face and a glug-glug motion at his lips.

  The chief shot him a conspiratorial wink and looked back at O’Connell. “If you say so. Glad to hear all is well. You two have yourselves a good day.”

  “You too!” said O’Connell. “And hey, if you catch that squirrel, you give him the chair!”

  All three of them laughed. With gusto.

  Only once the door was shut and Chief Gregory was well out of hearing range did Max switch from laughing to yelling. “What was that?” he demanded.

  “That was me saving your ass,” said O’Connell, shimmering back to Burg. “For, like, the thousandth time.”

  Max began to sputter. He sputtered so much he couldn’t get a word out, giving Lore time to emerge from behind the curtain and give him a good smack. “Hey. Snap out of it.”

  “But I—he—”

  “Just provided us with the answer to our problems.”

  Max stared at her.

  Lore pulled him aside. “Mr. O’Connell needs to go down to the real estate office and terminate the contract,” she said slowly.

  “Yeah . . .”

  “And if Burg can do a serviceable impression of Mr. O’Connell . . .”

  “Then Burg can terminate the contract!” Max exclaimed.

  “Yes. Very good.”

  Max wiped his clammy hands on his jeans. “If he even agrees to do it.”

  He turned to make his proposal, but Burg had already begun to wander into the living room. Upon discovering the bags of snacks that Max had brought over, he gasped. “Cheetos! Fritos! Doritos! Tostitos!”

  Max beheld his handiwork, a symphony of snack foods laid out across the coffee table like a buffet. “All yours.” He looked at Lore, who wordlessly urged him forward. “If,” he said, “you do one thing for me.”

  He explained what they’d learned from the phone call with Flossie Powell, Eastville’s Most Recommended Real Estate Agent.

  “Oh sure, I know who that is,” said Burg.

  “How?”

  “Her ad kept popping up on the Jumbotron at the pep rally. She seems highly recommended.”

  “Ah,” Max said. “So here’s where you come in. And trust me, I’ve looked at this thing from every angle, and if there were any other way to do it that didn’t involve you—”

  “Let me guess. You want me to assume the form of this O’Connell guy and go into the office in person to sign off the paperwork. Right?”

  “Um . . . yes. That’s exactly right.”

  “Sure, Shove. No problem.”

  “Really?” Max felt weird. This was too easy. “You literally have no problem with that?”

  “Nope.” Burg straightened up and popped open the bag of Fritos. “I mean, doesn’t make a difference, really, whether I help you out or not. Either way works out in my favor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  O’Connell’s cell phone, which Max had placed on the fireplace mantel, rang.

  “Oh good!” Burg said, picking up the phone. “More practice!”

  Max froze. It could be anyone on the other line. Did O’Connell have a wife? Friends? Kids? “No, no, don’t answer that—”

  Burg closed his eyes and appeared to be centering himself. “Shh. I need to get into character.”

  “Burg, don’t!”

  “Yyyyello?” Burg crooned into the phone.

  Max grabbed his hair and held it, motionless as Burg listened to the caller, frowning. “Mmm-hmm. Mmm-hmm. Well, it’s not my fault the fertilizer didn’t get restocked. You’re the ones who can’t move shit!” He put a hand over the phone and paused to laugh at his joke. “Get it?” he said to Max. “Shit?”

  Max nodded.

  Burg went back to the call. “Well, you can tell Fernandez to—no, as a matter of fact, I won’t be in tomorrow—no, you go to hell! You can’t fire me—I quit!”

  He clapped the phone shut and tossed it to Max. “That’s called acting. Check it.”

  “Good . . . job,” Max said, letting out a huge exhale with each word. He couldn’t even remember what normal breathing patterns felt like. Surely a chronic lung condition was in his future. “So can we go down to the real estate office right now?”

  “Sure!”

  Max looked at Lore and knew she was thinking the same thing he was: Burg seemed just a bit too eager to go out of his way to do something nice for them. But they were stuck between a rock and Boca Raton, and if Burg was willing to do this before Flossie left on vacation, they had to do it immediately.

  “We’ll have to swing by my house first,” Max said. “I’ll grab a few things—my Xbox, a few games, maybe some of my mom’s jewelry—and then we can hit up the pawnshop.”

  Lore produced a set of keys. “I’ll drive.”

  Max ogled. “Where did you get those?”

  “They were hanging in the kitchen. Come on, let’s go.”

  “You’re going to steal the guy’s car?”

  “He’s not using it! Besides, it’s a friggin’ Beamer. How many chances am I gonna get to drive one of those in my lifetime?”

  Burg looked at him. “She makes an excellent point.”

  Max sighed. “All right. Everyone into the dead man’s pillaged vehicle.”

  Driving Aid

  AS LORE CAUTIOUSLY STEERED THE CAR through the winding roads of Honeybrook Hills, Max turned around in his seat and looked at Burg.

  “You should change into O’Connell,” he said. “People might get suspicious if they see his car driving around without him.”

  Burg shrugged out of his own skin and into Mr. O’Connell’s. Max was still freaked out by the process—one body blurring into the other so seamlessly he truly didn’t see the transformation. When Burg was finished, from the neck up he looked exactly like the unfortunate heir.

  From the neck down, he was still wearing that dreadful velour tracksuit.

  “You can’t wear that,” Max said.

  “Why not?” Burg hung his arms out in front of him. “It looks good on this body. Thinner. More svelte.”

  Max shivered. The gravelly voice was dead-on. He turned to Lore and muttered in her ear, “This. Is. A. Complete. Horror. Show.”

  “I know. Just get through it.”

  Max set his jaw. “You have to change,” he told Burg.

  “Into what?”

  Max looked at Lore. “Do you remember what he was wearing?”

  “Jeans,” she said. “And heavy boots. And a plaid shirt.”

  “Oh, come on!” Burg said, exasperated. “Plaid?”

  Max stared him down.

  “Fine,” he said, shimmering out of his tracksuit and into the requested outfit.

  “Neat party trick,” said Lore, watching in the rearview mirror. “Now do a gorilla suit.”

  “We do not have time for a gorilla suit,” Max said. “It’s already four o’clock. I don’t want to miss Flossie.”

  “I do,” Lore said. “That woman sounds like a yeti.”

  Burg frowned. “Really? I thought you said she was attractive.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Said it, implied it, same thing. With a name like Flossie, how could she be anything but a thong model?”

  Max massaged his temples. This was going to be a challenging afternoon. “Okay, how about I owe you a bottle of tequila as a non-model bonus?”

  “I accept this generous offer.”

  “Wonderful. Now, just to review, you’re going to tell them you’re Edwin O’Connell Jr. You’re there to terminate your contract and pay any outstanding administrative fees. Make sure there is nothing left that they could possibly need to contact you about. We need a clean break. And that’s it.”


  “Yeah, yeah. Now, this tequila you speak of—we talking gold, or aged, or—”

  “I don’t know. It’s a surprise.” Max whispered into Lore’s ear again. “Are we making a huge mistake with this?”

  “Yep,” she said. “Off we go.”

  Max turned to face the road again, but he frowned as Lore pulled down a dusty road. “Where are you going?” he asked her. “This isn’t the way to my house.”

  “I know,” she said. “It’s the way to mine.”

  “Why—”

  “Stay here,” she said, throwing the car into park and getting out. “I’ll be right back.”

  Max threw a glance at the PAR DI E FI L sign. “You don’t think leaving a BMW parked outside a trailer park isn’t the least bit suspicious? Lore?”

  She slammed the door and walked off.

  “Geez,” Burg said.

  “Yeah.” Max ran his hands through his hair.

  “Chicks, am I right?”

  “Please stop talking.”

  The Beige Wonder rang. Max frowned and flicked it open, praying that it wasn’t his mom. “Hello?”

  “Max, it’s me,” said an audibly distressed Audie. “Please tell me what’s going on. Dad said you’re back up at that house—”

  “Sorry, wrong number,” Max said, flipping the phone shut.

  The car went awkwardly silent. Burg began to whistle the Kit Kat song again.

  Moments later Lore returned from the trailer and got back into the car. “Um . . .” Her eyes went squirrelly. She dropped a ziplock bag onto Max’s lap. “Here.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Four hundred dollars. For the administration fees. Take it.”

  Max stared open-mouthed as he pulled out crumpled-up bills of every denomination. “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s my life’s savings. But it’s not like I’m saving up for anything in particular, so . . .” She shrugged. “I want you to have it. Hopefully it’s enough.”

  Max just sat there, the money limp in his hand. “Lore, I can’t.”

  “You have to. I broke my piggy bank. No turning back.”

  He wanted to hug her. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to proclaim his love through song and interpretive dance.

  But all he did was sigh. “Thank you. So much.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, starting the car. “Now we can go.”

  Next on the day’s agenda: frosty chocolate milk shakes.

  Lore and Max sat at a booth in Uncle Scallo’s Diner, an Eastville legend that just so happened to be located directly across the street from the office of Flossie Powell, Eastville’s Most Recommended Real Estate Agent.

  Lore looked out the window. “Uncle Scallo still alive?” she asked, pointing at the ESTABLISHED 1904 sign.

  “I don’t know,” said Max. “Never met him.”

  “Does his family still run this place?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Or maybe there never was an Uncle Scallo.”

  “Can you be quiet?” For the millionth time he looked out the window at the office that Burg had entered roughly half an hour ago.

  He glanced back at Lore. She looked hurt.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No, you’re cranky. Here, finish your milk shake.”

  Max shook his head. “I can’t really handle dairy at a time like this.”

  She shrugged and stuck her straw into his glass. “Fine. More for me.”

  Max dropped his head into his hands. “Ugh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Thank you for coming with me. Thank you for the money. Thank you for sticking with me through all of this. You didn’t have to.”

  “No,” she said between sips. “I didn’t.”

  “But I’m—” Max licked his lips. “I’m glad you did. You’re . . . a real pal.”

  Lore snorted. “A real pal?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Gee willickers, Max. What a swell thing to say.”

  Max gave a resigned shrug. There’d never be a time he wouldn’t be hopelessly inadequate, and that was that. “You know what I mean.”

  She looked at him for a moment, something foreign in her eyes. “Max—”

  “There he is!” Max pointed out the window. “He’s done!” He reached into his pocket, but Lore threw some bills onto the counter before he could grab his wallet.

  “This one’s on me,” she said. “Pal.”

  They waited for him in the Food Baron parking lot a few blocks away.

  “How’d it go?” Max demanded when Burg got into the car.

  “Easy. Just knocked a few screws loose, and done.” He flung a piece of paper at them. “There’s a copy of your contract, plus the termination, plus a receipt for two hundred and forty-six dollars in administrative fees.”

  “Where’s the other hundred and fifty-four?” Lore asked.

  “In my pocket. Care to fish it out?”

  Lore made a face. Max leaned forward. “But—there were no problems? She didn’t fight you on it? Or suspect anything was strange?”

  “If she did, my wiles and charm were sufficient enough to distract her.” Burg made a kissy face into the mirror.

  “So she wasn’t a yeti after all?” Lore asked.

  “Nope. Stone-cold fox. See?” He handed them a business card with Flossie’s photo.

  A haggard old woman with a bowl haircut, giant sunglasses, and yellow teeth sneered back at them.

  “Egh,” Lore said.

  “So no problems at all?” Max asked again. He wanted to be very clear on this.

  “Nope! Flossie was a consummate professional.”

  “Huh,” said Max. “Guess she really is Eastville’s best agent.”

  Burg gave a thoughtful nod. “I’d recommend her.”

  The drive up to the O’Connell house was celebratory.

  “And I get a free Beamer!” Burg shouted, bouncing in his seat. “Jackpot!”

  When they pulled up the driveway, Burg jumped out of the car and ran into the house like an excited puppy. Lore approached the door, but Max lingered in the yard. “You coming?” she asked.

  Max hugged himself. “I don’t want to go in there again. This house and I are never, ever, ever getting back together.”

  Lore gave him an understanding look. She ducked into the house, then reemerged a moment later with Burg’s ear pinched between her fingertips.

  “Unhand me, woman!” Burg shouted.

  “Not until you square up with Max,” she said, letting him go.

  Burg dug around in his pocket and gave Max the remaining hundred and fifty-four dollars, even more crumpled than before. “Here!”

  “That belongs to her,” Max said.

  “No it doesn’t,” Lore said. “I gave it to you. Use it for any other ‘administrative fees’ that pop up. I don’t want it.”

  Max shoved the money into his pocket and turned back to Burg. “The house is one hundred percent officially yours. And I one hundred percent officially set you up on a date with my mom. Which means there’s only one thing left to do.”

  “Set up the sex dungeon?”

  “Nope, that’s all you. I’m referring to the terms of our deal.”

  “Dude, I’m already on it! One healthy mom, coming right up.”

  “No, not coming up! Now!”

  “Shovel, healing is an art. It’ll take me a day or so to get everything set up.”

  “What about that ficus? You fixed that instantly!”

  Burg waved his hand. “Oh, I just replaced that with a different ficus.”

  Bewildered, Max looked at Lore. She shrugged.

  Max jutted out his jaw. “You’re not going to replace my mom with another mom, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Burg said. “Besides, I work better under pressure. Don’t worry, Shove, I promise I’ll do it.”

  Max stepped right up to Burg. “You’re not messing around with me, are you?” he said, almost growling. “You swear you’ll cure my mom?”
r />   Burg smiled from horn to horn.

  “I swear, Shove.”

  With that, he tore off into the house. Max watched as the door swung slowly shut behind him, not quite lining up with its broken frame.

  “Hey,” Lore said, poking him. “It’s done. You did it.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Then loosen up. Celebrate a little.”

  He pointed a finger into the air and whirled it around. “Woo-hoo.”

  “Better, but not quite. Here.”

  She grabbed his hands and began to swing him around like two little kids on a playground. And then, magically, Max did start to loosen up, as if the Charlie Brown–like cloud of unease that had settled over him for the past week slowly began to dissipate. As they swung, he began to feel lighter, free. Euphoric. He didn’t even care how ridiculous they looked. Mom was going to get better, he was going to get his life back, and all of this unpleasantness would soon be a distant memory.

  He stopped whooping long enough to perk his ears to a strange sound: Lore was full-on laughing.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, giving him a shove after they stopped twirling.

  “Careful, Lore. You’re getting dangerously close to expressing a happy emotion.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’m human. You got me.”

  Her face was inches away from his, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Max thought she was going to kiss him.

  But then the front door banged open. “Hey,” Burg said. “One more thing.”

  Max deflated. He and Lore had been having A Special Moment, and now it was most assuredly fizzled.

  “What now?” Max asked, irritated.

  “All my friends are gone.”

  “Your . . . friends?”

  “Captain Morgan, Jim Beam, Johnny Walker, Jack Daniels. Who’s the guy in the commercial who fights a sea monster to get his whiskey back?”

  “Huh?”

  “No, that’s not it—Jameson! There were a bunch in the liquor cabinet, but they seem to have mysteriously disappeared.”

  Max sighed. “I poured out all the alcohol to make it look like O’Connell was drunk—”

  “You POURED!” Burg cried. “OUT! The ALCOHOL?”