by Johnny Shaw
With maximum effort and a sharp pain in her lower back, she jammed the window up a quarter inch, making far more noise than she intended. Paint chips scattered over the carpet. Gretchen mouthed a few choice swears at the painted-shut window. She stared at the door, expecting it to open at any moment. After twenty long seconds, she exhaled. She dusted the paint chips from the floor and put them in her pocket.
She would have to go through the house. Gretchen moved to the door, closed her eyes, and listened. Nothing. She felt her heart beating in her head. She turned the knob and opened the door a crack. Enough to get a view down the hallway. Still nothing. They could be anywhere.
She found her just-in-case balaclava in the bag and put it on. One last big breath and she stepped into the hallway. Moving quickly but quietly, she took big, cautious steps. Then she heard Chandler’s mom.
The moans and heavy breathing from the bedroom weren’t loud, but they were distinct. Peppered with detailed instructions concerning pace and pressure, the conversation left no doubt what was happening behind the bedroom door. And it wasn’t yoga—at least not in the traditional sense.
“Don’t get fancy. That’s it. Keep it simple. Like eating soft serve. Eat that froyo, Alchemy.”
Good for Chandler’s mom. She knew what she wanted. And she wanted a guy named Alchemy to eat her froyo.
Taking off the balaclava and throwing the backpack over her shoulder, Gretchen strode down the hallway and out of the house. She put the flyer for the missing cat underneath the windshield wiper of the Explorer and walked to her car. Before she went to the next house, she would need to find a Dairy Queen. Suddenly, she was in the mood for an ice cream cone.
CHAPTER 3
Kurt Ucker pushed away from his desk and walk-rolled his chair over to the mini-fridge. He grabbed a Snickers from the freezer. The first bite deliciously hurt his teeth. With the phone cradled in his neck, he talked through caramel lockjaw. “Wow, that sounds like a score.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it,” Gretchen said on the other end. “It was like the guy didn’t know what they were worth. You’re sure you don’t mind helping me sell some of them?”
“Not at all. I’ll put them in the stack with the others.”
“You’re the best, Kurty. I’ll come by tonight. When does band practice end?”
“Around nine.”
“If I get in early, I’ll meet you over at Louder’s.”
“And you know, around Mom, it’s not band practice. It’s Bible study.”
“You’re still lying to her? You’re an adult.”
“It’s not her kind of music,” Kurt said. “Did I tell you? Some rando on the internet called the Skinripper song ‘Kokytus: River of Lamentation’—and I quote—‘sort of okay basic doom metal if you’re into that kind of thing.’”
“You should needlepoint that onto a pillow.”
Kurt loved that comic books had brought him and his sister together. Gretchen was the bad girl in the family. Sometimes Kurt wished he were more of a bad girl. They ended the call. Kurt returned to the eBay auction he was listing: a CGC 9.2 copy of Giant-Size X-Men #1 that Gretchen had scored a few weeks back.
Kurt glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen. Lunchtime. He posted the listing and lifted his large frame from the chair. His back and legs ached. He leaned on the desk, suddenly light-headed. He hadn’t stood in three hours. He needed to stand more. He’d read an internet article that said sitting too long led to a shorter life. It was time to get a standing desk or a Fitbit or to stop reading internet articles.
He opened the basement door to the kitchen, and the familiar voice of a bloviating preacher blasted from the other room. Kurt recognized the baritone of Brother Tobin Floom, his mom’s longtime preacher crush. She never missed his Health, Wealth, and Salvation broadcast. Three jam-packed hours of charismatic evangelism and bad music.
Kurt smiled every time he heard the HWS slogan, “Heaven is a phone call away.” It was the same phrase used by an old phone sex ad that once played on late-night TV. Some adman had gotten a lot of mileage out of that line.
In the living room, Bertha Ucker sat in her vintage Barcalounger. A cigarette emitted a thin line of smoke from the ashtray next to her. Kurt’s mother rarely took more than a few puffs nowadays but liked to have a butt burning. The smoke in the room was thicker than an after-hours jazz club in Winston-Salem. The white curtains had turned the color of flypaper years ago.
Kurt leaned against the doorframe and watched Brother Floom do his thing. The early-seventyish man with a majestic white pompadour wiped sweat from his brow with a gold handkerchief. A large gold cross around his neck complemented his chunky gold watch and gold rings. Stalking the stage like a caged albino panther, he looked out to the hundreds of members of his congregation.
“When I look out into this sea of Christian faces, do you know what I see?” Brother Floom smiled. “I see the beauty of Christ Jesus. I see the faith inside each and every one of you. In your eyes and in your hope. Anointed in the blood of our Lord and Savior. Praise Jesus.”
Kurt walked to the TV.
“I’m watching that,” Bertha said.
“But I also see doubt,” Brother Floom said before Kurt turned down the volume.
Bertha searched for the remote as Kurt quickly asked, “Is tomato soup and a turkey sandwich okay? That’s all I need to know.”
“Is that all we got?”
“I had planned a menu of oysters Rockefeller to start, halibut poached in truffle oil with ramps and shallots for the main, and an individual baked Alaska for dessert, but then I remembered I don’t know how to make any of that.”
“Is the turkey that low-sodium garbage?”
“We have ham, but it’s low-sodium-garbage ham. Or unsalted-garbage peanut butter. Pretty much anything in the low-salt-garbage sandwich pantheon.”
“Tastes like wet paper,” she said. “Don’t matter. I’m missing my show.”
“How much new material can Brother Floom have? He quotes from one book.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Bertha snapped. “Show some respect.”
Kurt had grown up with a Bible in every room and mandatory church on Sunday. After Kurt’s father’s death when he was six, Bertha ramped things up. Kurt attended sermons three days a week, after-school Christian clubs, and Bible camp in the summer. He avoided homeschooling only because Bertha was so focused on her own devotion.
Kurt prepared the food and set a TV tray in front of Bertha.
“You need anything else?” Kurt asked.
She glanced at the food and shook her head. “You going to sit with me?”
“Of course.” Kurt took a seat on the couch.
Bertha ate as the two of them watched Brother Floom clap along to a performance by the Young Lions, a three-person boy band in hoodies singing a song called “The Coin in the Fish’s Mouth.” Kurt ground his teeth at the saccharine pop. Rock and roll used to be considered evil, but now it was okay—so long as it was performed by pretty white people and was awful.
He told them homies he could trust in thee.
He told them, dawg, cast your rod to the sea.
When you look in the mouth of the fish you caught,
There be a coin. Son, you been taught.
This ain’t a story. We ain’t satirical.
Jesus was real, yo. That coin is a miracle.
Bertha picked up the remote, lowered the volume, and turned to Kurt. “I miss the old hymns. Be a good boy and get me a pickle.”
“Sodium.”
“If I’m killed by a dill pickle, I absolve you of all guilt.”
“The smallest one in the jar.”
Brother Floom’s voice reverberated as Kurt pushed the dills around the jar with a knife. “That fancy car you always wanted. That big house on the hill. The finest clothes and jewelries. Do you think God gives those things to everyone? Hands them out willy-nilly? No, he does not. He provides to those with faith. Those that show the faith of sa
crifice. I want you to pledge your faith today.
“If a millionaire gives one hundred dollars, is that generous? Is that sacrifice? Chump change. Is our Lord a chump? No, he is not. Can I get an amen? You’ve heard people say, ‘Give ’til it hurts.’ That’s what God wants, what he deserves, what he demands. He wants you to give ’til it hurts. If you have fifty dollars, he wants you to give twenty. If you have a thousand dollars, he wants you to give five hundred. Because those that put their true faith in our Lord, they will be rewarded for that pledge tenfold. Both here on earth and in the eternity of heaven.
“Take out your Bibles and your checkbooks.”
CHAPTER 4
Axel, briefcase in hand, stood on the sidewalk in front of his new Spanish-style house with its manicured lawn and the square hedges. It was a Jimmy Stewart moment, the epitome of suburban life. The American Dream was alive and well in Encinitas at 148 Xanadu Lane.
He called the house “his,” but it was really his and Priscilla’s. And the bank’s. Mostly the bank’s, but the bank couldn’t have felt the same as he did. Financial institutions were considerably less sentimental about their possessions.
It was more house than he and Priscilla needed, but the extra bedrooms created the incentive to start thinking about children—something he thought he’d never consider. Priscilla made Axel a better man. She inspired him to action. Not just making plans, but following through.
As a real estate agent, Priscilla had used her knowledge not only to find their four-bedroom castle, but to negotiate the deal, too. She knew just the right amount to bid above the asking price. She had even helped Axel secure the bank loan. Every penny of his savings had gone into the down payment. Ten years of pinching pennies, but you couldn’t put a price on a dream.
It made his promotion at work that much more essential. Six years at an entry-level position, watching employee after employee leapfrog over him. It didn’t matter if he was smarter, better read, and more experienced. If you were dumb on paper, that’s what they saw.
On Priscilla’s urging, Axel had marched into Mr. Stringer’s office and demanded the recently open financial consultant position. The confidence that she had in him was contagious. It made him strong. Mr. Stringer saw that strength and gave him the job right then and there. On a trial basis with no bump in salary but a modest commission.
In the foyer he dropped his keys in the bowl and set down his briefcase. He smiled at the thought of having a foyer, ninety-nine percent sure he was pronouncing the word wrong in his head. He pronounced it the other way, and it still sounded wrong.
Axel thumbed through the mail. Mostly junk, a couple of bills, and a DVD of The Flim-Flam Man he had ordered online. He bunched up the junk mail to chuck in the recycling bin and threw the bills and DVD on the table.
That’s when he saw Priscilla’s note.
It wasn’t a pick-up-some-milk-and-eggs-at-the-store note. Those weren’t written on three lined pieces of paper. They also weren’t adorned with frowny faces every third sentence. Those didn’t have the house keys sitting on top of them.
Priscilla’s handwriting looked like the calligraphy on a wedding announcement, the loops and lines so perfect they appeared computer generated. Against his better judgment, he read the first few sentences.
“My dearest Axel, I almost texted you this afternoon, but a text felt like an impersonal and heartless way to break up. (frowny face) I read an article online that said handwritten letters were a lost art. It made me want to write you a letter, not only to connect personally but to do my part in keeping the art alive. I’ll send you the link to the article. (smiley face)”
Axel set the sheet of paper back on the table and walked into the kitchen. He dropped the junk mail into the recycling bin, kicked the recycling bin several times, found some duct tape in the junk drawer, duct-taped the hole in the side of the recycling bin, kicked the ever-loving shit out of the recycling bin again, retaped the recycling bin, and returned the duct tape to the junk drawer.
The only hard liquor in the kitchen was a half-full bottle of Smirnoff Fluffed Marshmallow vodka that someone had brought to the housewarming party to make a drink called the “S’More Drunk Than You.”
Axel poured himself a tall glass. It smelled like aftershave that a circus clown would wear. He took a big swig. It tasted like poison that a circus clown would try to kill you with. He took another gulp, refilled his glass, and walked back into the foyer. He now hated the word foyer.
He stared back at the note. In that moment, Axel understood. He saw it. He saw the whole thing.
“It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s awful, but beautiful.”
“Uncage Your Inner Tiger and Learn to Tame Your Supreme Dragon.”
That was the name of the Tony Rogers retreat where he and Priscilla—if that was even her real name—had met. Despite the unwieldy acronym, UYITALTTYSD (pronounced You-Ital-Ti-Sed) was her sixth Rogers event that year alone. She had the vocab down, more confidence than a drunk bodybuilder, and a stare that made him three-quarters erect. She had five- and ten-year plans, an ambitious career path, and an exercise regime that kept her body stare-worthy. She grabbed hold of whatever she wanted and made it hers.
Apparently she discarded things as quickly. But this wasn’t really a breakup. This was the icing on a four-month con game that Priscilla had played on Axel. That moment their eyes met hadn’t been love. She had found a mark.
How much had she made? The commission on the listing was substantial—maybe fifty grand. If he dug, he would probably find that she had owned the house through some shell. He had bid well above the asking price—on her recommendation. A hundred-grand profit, maybe two, depending on what she had bought the house for. Not bad for four months’ work. A straightforward Gold Brick Scam. If the house went into foreclosure, she could even rebuy it and stiff another sucker.
Axel drank more circus vodka. “Screw her. I can make this work. I still have my promotion. Nice guys don’t finish last.”
He picked up his briefcase, plopped down on the couch, and cracked open the reading materials that Mr. Stringer had given him. Priscilla and her frowny note could go to hell. He would fully devote himself to his new job. He’d become the best personal financial consultant on the West Coast.
Fifteen minutes of reading was all it took to burst his bubble. To burst his bubble and then take a shit on the soapy residue of that same bubble. Fifteen minutes was all Axel needed to recognize a con game—a totally different con game, but a con game nonetheless. The bank had just promoted him to be their lead huckster.
A personal financial consultant’s job, apparently, was to advise clients to invest in predesigned company funds while assuring them that those funds were the best option, regardless of whether or not there were better options or if the funds were bad options. At the same time charging consultant fees up the wazoo along with a slew of additional hidden costs. He wouldn’t be doing any analysis or research. He would be selling trust and, in return, giving his customers a knowingly inferior product. The definition of a confidence game.
He read the documents twice, shocked at their unambiguousness. They read like straight-up fraud, some of the tactics derived from classic boiler room scams. Axel immediately recognized common cons like the Budapest Shuffle, the Fried Liver Attack, and the Malachi Crunch.
He took another drink, looked toward the kitchen, and considered giving the recycling bin a few more kicks.
“This demands fire!” he shouted.
He got up and tripped over the coffee table. Back on his feet, he chucked the work papers into the empty fireplace, filled his mouth with vodka, spit-sprayed it onto the papers, and lit them with a fancy long match.
He stumbled into the foyer—seriously, fuck that word—and picked up Priscilla’s note. He spotted her jacket on the coat rack and grabbed that, too. They both went into the fireplace.
“Her gluten-free crap!” Axel shouted.
He went into the kitchen, opened the fridge,
and pulled out the bread, some muffins, and all the other gluten-free swindle-food that Priscilla had demanded he buy.
The sound of the smoke detectors and the smell of burning synthetic leather alerted Axel that the flue was closed. With the burnt-pleather fumes searing his eyes, Axel navigated the smoke-filled room, opened the flue, and continued the immolation of the physical evidence of Priscilla’s existence—one inedible muffin at a time. Mostly sawdust, they burned well.
Watching the burning baked goods, he had a moment of clarity—as clear as one’s thinking could be when clown-drunk and arson-raged. He knew what he needed.
CHAPTER 5
Gretchen hated Warm Springs.
With a name that evoked the part of the public pool where someone had recently peed, Warm Springs hit the shit-hole trifecta: a desert town, a border town, and a prison town all rolled into one sweltering turd town. Everything in Warm Springs was second-rate. During World War II, it had a camp that housed Italian prisoners of war. It couldn’t even get Nazis. The current prison was second-rate, too. Not a prison at all, in fact, but a juvenile ranch facility—the junior varsity of the penal system.
To call it a town was a kindness. The downtown was a three-block stretch that had a mediocre Mexican restaurant, a hardware/feed store, a Dairy Queen, and a grocery store with overpriced toilet paper.
Gretchen parked in front of her childhood home. The house wasn’t much to look at, but it was home. She walked the three blocks to the Laudens’ house. As she approached, she felt the vibrations of heavy bass through the soles of her shoes. When no one answered the door, she picked the lock and let herself inside.