by Chris Kenry
“Well, tha’s over,” I said, moving to set the empty highball back onto the tray, and missing completely. It made a thud on the floor and rolled in a graceful arc. Ray picked it up, collected the spilled ice, and set it in the bar sink. He returned, sat on the arm of my chair, and took my hand in his, grinning.
“You gonna be okay, Otis?” he asked.
“Ssure,” I said. “Dead body. Videotape. Jes’ told my sis’er I’m a prostitu—I be ffine.”
“Oh, my God!” Carey said, bursting into the room, flushed with excitement. “What are we going to do?”
It took me a minute to focus on her. I didn’t like that “we.” I shook my head.
“ ‘We?’ ” I said, attempting, and failing, to rise from my chair. “ ‘Web?’ ” I said, trying again and managing to stand this time.
“We aren’t gonna do anything. We aren’t going to say anysing about this to anybodys. Unnerstan’? Ray and I are going to take the body back to ’is ’ouse, tuck it in ’is bed, and you, li’l sister, are gonna stay right here and sssmoke you marijuana cigarettes till you forget you heard any of this.”
She shook her head obstinately, but the suggestion of pot clearly appealed to her, and she removed her little leather pouch from her purse.
“Carey, please don’ argue.”
“No, now listen, I can help you,” she said, shaking some pot from a film canister into her small wooden bong. “I know a thing or two about dead bodies.”
“No!” I shouted. “Jes’ go home!”
“Relax,” Ray said, coming from behind and rubbing my shoulders.
“Oh, he’s always been uptight like this,” she said. “We knew he was going to be gay way back in kindergarten when he made my parents change their clothes before they went to parent-teacher conferences.” Ray laughed.
“He also had a poster of Shaun Cassidy on the ceiling above his bed, and he slept with a G.I. Joe doll”—they were both laughing now—“until he was thirteen!” Carey added between puffs.
I waited until the hilarity had subsided somewhat.
“Maybe she could help us,” Ray said, still chuckling, the smell of pot drawing him closer to his new best friend. I was mad, and I was drunk, and I was sick of the whole business.
“Fine!” I screamed, throwing my hands up in the air. “You two smarties handle it!” And I swerved off through the kitchen and out into the backyard. I tried to slam the sliding door shut behind me, but even it seemed to be mocking me, as it slid slowly and airily on its track, clicking elegantly when it had finally reached its destination. I turned, stepped off the porch, and was immediately pushed to the ground by ten sets of giant paws. I struggled to push them away but couldn’t, and was thus forced to endure several minutes of frenzied face licking. Eventually I was able to wiggle myself free, and I ran as quickly as I could to the safety of the teahouse. Once inside, I slammed the bamboo door, leaned my back against it, and emitted what must have been a highly flammable sigh. It was dark and fairly cool in the teahouse, as the shutters had been closed all day. The relatively new tatami mats gave off a sweet, fresh smell, and, although drunk, I remembered to remove my shoes before walking across them to open one of the windows.
Outside, the mastiffs were running around the yard like big gargoyles come to life, bent on destruction. Some were digging at the roots of the maple tree, another was gnawing on the wooden steps of the teahouse, and yet another was lifting its leg on the base of the stone lantern. The koi pond had become a cloudy soup of algae, in which the fish could only rarely be glimpsed, and was surrounded by a sturdy wire fence to keep the dogs from falling in. The grass around it, once so green and dense—like a putting green—was rutted and worn.
Poor Mr. Matsumoto, I thought, closing the shutter. I know just how he feels.
I lay down on the fragrant mats, head spinning, and I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I remember was my sister kneeling by my side and nudging me awake.
“Jack. It’s time to go.”
I sat up quickly, disoriented and groggy. It was very dark.
“What time is it?” I asked, trying to see the numbers on my watch.
“It’s about eight,” she said. “Ray’s putting the body back in the van.”
“What?” I asked, confused, my head aching. “Why did you take it out?”
“Your little mortuary friend thought it would be a good idea to wash him off a bit,” she said, “in case they do a really thorough autopsy. You guys left the condom on him, so it’s good we checked.”
“Salvatore is here?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But Ray called him. I sure like that Ray,” she said enthusiastically.
Of course you do, I thought, cynically, again feeling jealous. Are there any potheads who don’t like each other?
“And he sure thinks you hung the moon,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I tried to set him straight on that point, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s got it bad. I can’t believe you are going out with someone who’s not a geek or a geriatric—or both! But come on, let’s go; everything should be ready by now.”
“I wish you wouldn’t come with us,” I said, standing up and rubbing my eyes.
“Well, I wish I had bigger tits and a boyfriend like yours. Now come on. It’ll be easier this way. You and Ray drive the minivan and I’ll follow in the Buick and wait outside till you’re done. Then I’ll just swing by and pick you up and we’ll be done with it.”
Too groggy to argue effectively, I followed her shadow out of the teahouse. The moon, which I was believed by some to have hung, was nearly full, and illuminated the yard with a grayish light. The dogs, now curiously still, sat watching behind their black masks as we followed the gravel path across the lawn to the garage.
Inside, the light was on, and Ray was doing some last-minute arranging of the passenger. The backseat had been folded down and he was now dressed and laid out neatly. We all stared at him a moment. It looked as though his hair had been washed and combed. Ray lowered the door. He handed me a small flashlight, and together, he, Carey, and I reviewed the plan, and the directions, and what to do in case we got separated. We then got in the minivan, opened the garage door, and backed out, Carey following closely in the Buick.
We drove in silence from Rampart Hills, my parents’ subdivision, to Harmony Ranch, and I felt as frightened as one of Heathcliff’s victims, being taken from the happy safety of Thrushcross Grange to the unknown darkness of Wuthering Heights. We drove through the illuminated stone entry markers, and I noticed that inside Harmony Ranch was very much like outside of Harmony Ranch: wide, deserted streets, row after row of boxy houses, each emanating the blue glow from big-screen TVs. On and on we drove through the circuitous streets and, after a few wrong turns, we found the Band-Aid-colored split-level we were looking for despite the fact that it was almost indistinguishable from all of the other Band-Aid-colored split-levels that surrounded it. I pushed the button on the “little button thingy” that was, as James had said, hooked to the sun visor, and felt my spirits rise in unison with the large door. Ray pulled up the driveway and into the lighted garage. I pushed the button again and the door closed slowly behind us. Ray shut off the motor and we sat motionless for a moment, half expecting the wife to come out and greet us. Thankfully that did not happen, so we got out and set to work.
There was not much space between the back of the van and the garage door, so we had some difficulty removing the body, as it had stiffened considerably since that morning. Eventually we got him out by rolling him on his side and bending him at the waist. This made a terrible crackling noise, and I winced when I heard it. When he was out we straightened him again, which made a less audible crackling noise, and each got a shoulder under his arms. We then dragged him across the garage and up the small set of stairs. There were no warning stickers or blinking boxes indicating the presence of an alarm system, so Ray tried several of the keys on the ring until he found the one needed to unlock the door. He th
en slipped the keys back into the homeowner’s front pants pocket and we dragged him up the rest of the way.
Inside, it was dark and quiet, the soft, electrical hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound. We set down the body. Ray clicked on his flashlight and went upstairs to scope out the bedroom. I stayed downstairs and looked around with my own flashlight.
The house was a typical suburban family home: a kitchen decorated with wicker baskets and pastel stencils of geese, a living room with a large sectional sofa facing an oak entertainment center containing an enormous TV, a wallpaper border depicting mallards in flight separating the off-white walls from the off-white popcorn ceiling.
Ray lumbered back down the steps and motioned me back over to the body. I took the feet this time and Ray held him under his shoulders as we lifted him and carried him up the thickly carpeted steps. We walked past the kids’ rooms, littered with toys and pieces of sports equipment, to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. Ray was wearing his gloves, but my hands were bare, so I tried to remember not to touch anything.
In the bedroom, the blinds had been lowered and a small lamp had been turned on next to the bed. He was already dressed, and was too stiff to undress again, so, on Carey’s advice, we decided to lay him out facedown on the floor, as if he’d been stricken while returning from the bathroom. Her rationale was that most “exertion deaths,” like his, happened during sex or while pooping. With that in mind, we arranged him accordingly, even going so far as to place a copy of Field & Stream, which we’d found next to the toilet, in his hand as a sort of prop. (Of course he should have been posed sitting on the toilet, since exertion deaths happen while an action is taking place—not usually after the fact—but that seemed a little too degrading, and it would have been difficult given his stiffness and the absence of any shit in the toilet bowl.) His other arm we bent under him, with considerable difficulty, to make it look as though he had been clutching his chest. When we were satisfied with the arrangement, we both stood back and regarded him in silence for a moment.
All that work, I thought, and if we’ve done it well, no one will ever appreciate it.
Ray then switched off the lamp, reopened the blinds, and together we tiptoed back down the dark staircase. He went over to the front window, pulled back the curtain, and flashed his flashlight twice. A moment later, the Buick, its lights off, rolled silently into view. Quietly we opened the front door and went out onto the porch. I turned to close it gently and smiled as I noticed a small, metal NO SOLICITING sign firmly affixed to it. We walked casually down the moonlit sidewalk, opened the rear door of the car, and both climbed into the backseat. Carey slowly moved away from the curb and then suddenly hit the gas, slamming Ray and me into the seat.
“Slow down!” I yelled. “The last thing we need is to get pulled over.”
Her eyes were wide and frightened in the rearview mirror.
“Someone’s following us!” she hissed.
“What?” I cried, and Ray and I immediately turned and looked out the back window. There was one set of headlights.
“I noticed him just after we left our house,” she said. “At first I thought I was just imagining it, but he was behind me all the way and only passed me when I parked up the street to wait for you guys. Then, after you went in, he drove by again!”
“What kind of car?” Ray asked.
“I don’t know. It’s a Volvo, I think.”
“What kind of Volvo?” I asked.
“Old,” she said. “A station wagon.”
I shivered, remembering the strange man with the case in the bushes.
“I saw the same car in front of the house earlier today,” I said.
“But why?” Carey asked. “Who?”
I didn’t have an answer. For the next few minutes we drove in silence, all watching the headlights behind us, never able to get a good view of the driver. It was clear he wanted it that way, because every time we stopped at a stop sign or a stoplight he would stay back just far enough to prevent us from seeing in his car.
“What about that reporter?” Ray said. “The one you were with this morning.”
I thought about him, about his nerdy suit and his dull questions, and somehow I knew that it couldn’t be him, even if he had seen the video by now, which I was assuming he must have, since I hadn’t heard anything else from James and Marvin.
We turned a corner onto a bigger street, the one leading out of the subdivision, and we all watched, terrified, as the round headlights turned behind us.
“What should I do?” Carey asked, looking at us in the rearview mirror, her voice trembling. Ray and I looked at each other grimly. I shrugged.
“Go back to your parents’ house,” he told her. “Just drive nice and slow; don’t let him know we suspect anything.” Carey nodded eagerly, reduced the speed of the car, and gripped the steering wheel firmly, her hands at the ten- and two-o’clock position. She then flipped the turn signal (for perhaps the first time since driver’s ed) and made a slow turn to the right. In minutes we were back on my parents’ street.
“Pull into the garage but don’t shut the door,” Ray said. “And don’t get out of the car for a minute.”
She did so and we all sat silently. A moment later, a dark Volvo station wagon drove past.
“Did you see him?” I asked.
“Naw,” Ray said. “Too dark. He’ll be back, though. Shut the door and go inside.”
We got out of the car and Carey hit the button, lowering the door. At the last moment, Ray sneaked under it and left the two of us standing alone, staring at the closed door.
“What’s he doing?” she whispered.
“I don’t fucking know,” I said, and threw my hands up in the air.
We went inside, turned off all the lights, and ran to the living room windows, which look out onto the front lawn. We both knelt on the sofa and peered over the back of it, saying nothing, barely breathing. We did not see the car again, could not see any sign of Ray, and after about fifteen minutes, we naturally got a little bored and fidgety. I drummed my fingers on the windowsill, and Carey rummaged in her purse for her cigarettes. She lit two, handed me one, and we went back to staring at the empty street.
“Do you think it’s the police?” she whispered.
I shook my head. Vice raids on male hustlers were rare, I knew, and this hardly seemed like a sting operation. I suppose that someone could have seen us moving the body and called the police, but that didn’t seem likely either. What police department, outside of Scandinavia, would use an old, beat-up Volvo as an undercover vehicle? No, it probably wasn’t the police, but I found myself wishing it was because some of the alternatives were far less palatable: it could be a client, obsessed with Ray or with me, or it could be Carlyle, out for revenge, but truly I had no idea who it was. Regardless, I felt an odd sense of satisfaction. All my distant parking and circuitous walks had been justified. I was not crazy. Someone had been following me.
“What if Mom and Dad find out?” Carey asked. “About the ... you know . . . your work?”
I felt tired thinking about it.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Dad would freak!”
At that point, I did not even want to imagine his possible reaction.
As if in response to mentioning my father there was a tremendous crash in the backyard, followed by a chorus of fierce barking. Carey and I clung to each other, afraid. The barking continued. I got up and gingerly walked through the kitchen, Carey a few steps behind me, to the back door. I slid it open and Carey flipped a switch, flooding the yard with light. Over to the right, the dogs were surrounding something, but all we could see was a pile of frantically wagging tails. Above them, there was a large gap in the wooden fence where several of the pickets had evidently snapped in two and fallen down.
Carey and I made our way cautiously to the edge of the porch and peered into the dog pile. I caught sight of Ray and another person, but I couldn’t determine who. Th
ey were struggling with each other, but were each struggling more with the dogs, whose merciless licking I knew all too well.
“Come on!” I said, and Carey and I leaped off the porch and began grabbing handfuls of loose puppy skin. One by one we pulled the dogs back, and eventually I managed to grab Ray’s wrist and pull him out of the fracas. His face and clothes were muddy and his hair was a slobbery mess, but he quickly joined in grabbing the mastiffs—little David and Michael and Kathleen—and pulling them off, until finally we revealed the body of a giggling man, curled up tightly in a ball. Carey and Ray did their best to corral the puppies with their bodies while I held the giants, Bobby and Ethel, firmly by their collars. The man then lowered his hands, revealing a messy head of red hair. He uncurled himself slowly and I was not surprised to see that it was none other than Rob MacNamara, the reporter/novelist from our office building. He stood up, adjusting his broken glasses on his face. His striped shirt and khaki pants were covered in muddy paw prints; his bow tie was crooked, but still in place.
“I hid in the bushes,” Ray panted, “and followed him around to the back. He’s got a camera somewhere.”
Rob said nothing as he brushed the dirt from his clothes, but was smiling a naughty-boy smile, like he’d just been caught dipping his finger in the frosting of the cake.
“You!” I said. “Somehow I knew it. But why?” I asked.
He looked at me, trying unsuccessfully to contain his smile.
“I can explain,” he said.
“You’d better be able to,” Ray said, and pushed him toward the back door.
We convened in the living room and Carey took great pleasure in playing the role of hostage taker, tying MacNamara’s hands and feet to the chair with some bungee cords she’d found in the garage.
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said, smiling down at her. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Ignoring him, she continued to wind the cord around his feet and around his body until he was more or less immobilized.