by Makenzi Fisk
“Lily Schmidt, come with me.”
Sheisse . Well, no one except the workers in the secure custody unit. I roll my eyes. It’s the middle of my show. He motions me to follow him and the door hasn’t even closed behind me when someone steals my chair.
“I’ve been talking with your counselor, Lily.” This guy has been here less than a month and he’s already trying to ruin my world. I examine his name tag where it never gives a last name, just AHMED.
“We’d like you to take a more active role in your rehabilitation.”
Twitchy Shonda didn’t rat me out. I make my face do the happy thing.
“The librarian has consented to let you come in for a couple of hours a day and help out.”
Double schiesse. My days of invisibility are over. That means no more daytime TV. “The library?” Then I remember checking that little ticky-box on the form when I first came. I chose the jobs that seemed easiest. I didn’t imagine they’d ever happen, but I sure as hell didn’t want to work in the kitchen scraping food off someone else’s plate. “What do I do, Ahmed?” I say his name like a sneeze and he tilts his head, but he’ll give me points for trying.
“Put books away, help out with odd jobs, whatever Mr. Angotti needs.” He fake-smiles back at me. “It will be good for you.” His smile fades and he shrugs. “It never looks bad on a Day Pass request.”
“Okay, Ahmed. That sounds great.” Actually, it sounds like slave labor. “When?”
“You can start tomorrow morning. Oh-nine-hundred.”
“Perfect. See you tomorrow, Ahmed.” Fuck. Tomorrow’s the grand finale of the Who’s Your Daddy show. I pull my lips back from my teeth and hope it looks right. He takes a half-step back and I head off toward my bunk. I don’t want to watch the rest of this episode if I have to miss the end. My life is ruined. I am so done with this place.
The next morning, Ahmed herds me and another kid down the hall right after breakfast. Ugh, greasy eggs and toast are still swimming in my gut, and I didn't have time to finish my coffee. The only good part was when Angel, the fat-ass new girl, left her bowl unattended and I poured a mound of salt in her cereal.
Why do I have to go so goddamn early? There is no way this is gonna be fun. The other kid being herded happens to be the one girl in this place who has managed to avoid me the whole time she’s been here. She’s smart, keeps her head down, and stays off the radar. In another life, maybe she could have been my new minion.
Ahmed scoots her into the janitor’s cubby where Smelly Joe is waiting. She’ll be mopping floors with him all day, and holding her nose. I almost pity her. Almost.
Down to the main floor and through another set of security doors is the library. Mr. Angotti is writing on the white board.
Today’s Schedule:
Pool Party 1:00. Bring your own water wings.
Bus to Disneyland 5 p.m. All ducks half price.
Ahmed points at it and slaps his knee. He takes me by the elbow and I wish I could crush his fingers with a hammer. “A new helper for you, sir.”
The jokes were so stupid that I can’t even pretend to smile. I keep my eyes on my shoes so he’ll think I’m shy. This sucks.
Mr. Angotti looks me up and down as soon as Ahmed leaves. “Do you know the Dewey Decimal System?”
“Is this a math quiz? Nobody told me to study.” What the hell? Shelve books, do easy crap, that’s what Ahmed said.
The librarian squints one eye. “It’s the numeric system we use to file books.” He waggles a finger at me and then puts his hands on his belly and laughs like Santa Claus. “You’re funny. We’re going to get along great.”
For the first time, I notice that behind him is a single glass door marked Emergency Exit. Outside is a field surrounded by a puny eight-foot chain link fence, and no razor wire. A baby could climb that.
“Come,” Santa says. “Let me show you how the Dewey Decimal System works.”
“I’m so glad to be here.” I meet his eyes and he seems pleased that I’m getting over my shyness. It’s not a lie. I am glad to be here, because now I see a way out. As soon as I’m free, I’m going back to Morley Falls. I’m going home.
An hour later, I’m halfway through re-shelving a cart of books when one catches my eye. Wilderness Survival. On the cover is a picture of a campfire and a shelter made of branches. The title of the book is printed with raised letters and the picture looks three dimensional. I can almost feel the heat on my fingertips when I trace the shapes.
My heart pounds in my ears, and I flip through the pages for more pictures. Is this what Twitchy Shonda feels like when she wants her fix? I find the chapter on lighting fires without matches, and my heart slows to normal. It’s all black and white drawings, and they’re too neat. I take out my pencil and draw jagged lines and shooting sparks until my heart speeds up again. I’d give my right nipple for a lighter and a can of gasoline right now. No, I’d give Shonda’s right nipple. A gurgle of excitement wiggles up from my belly.
I don’t see him until he’s right in my face, leering like he’s at a strip-joint. “Are you having a sexual experience with that book?” He’s tall, taller than Santa, and his brown eyes shine like marbles. We hardly ever cross paths with anyone from the boys wing without a worker around.
I slam the book shut but the pages are still rippled from my sweaty hand. “What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”
“You don’t look so scary up close.” The dark hairs on his upper lip curve when he smiles, almost like a real mustache. “Did you really kill someone?”
I count off five or six fingers. “More than you’ll ever know, so get outta my face.”
He pulls a book off the shelf and opens it wide. My jaw drops at the photo of a firefighter battling a blazing inferno. In color.
He leans against the shelf to watch me. Blood races through my veins and he leans closer. I don’t even care that his breath stinks of coffee. If he had a match… “Yes, this is Santa’s workshop. You can have everything you want, but you have to know how to find it.”
“You call him Santa?”
“Everyone does, obviously.” He peeps at Mr. Angotti’s desk between books on the shelf. Santa’s white-haired head bobs as he hums.
I cover a snort with my fingers and he reaches out to grab my hand. Breath freezes in my lungs until I realize he’s given me something. A piece of folded paper. It’s soggy.
“You’re welcome.” He backs away.
Gross. “What the fuck?” Just when I thought he wasn’t an asshole. I drop it on the floor between us but he ducks to pick it up.
“No, silly.” He unfolds the paper and shows me a white puddle in the middle. “Liquid correction fluid, from Santa’s desk.” I still don’t get it until he cups his hand around it and inhales. Pure bliss glazes his shiny eyes. “Why else would anyone wanna work here?”
“Oh,” is all I can manage. I put away the fire book, but I’ve committed its location to memory. “I need to finish.”
“No, you don’t. Santa never checks up on us. That’s why this is the best job here.” He hands me the soggy paper again. “Do it.”
“Fuck that. I’d rather have a beer.”
“This is the closest you’ll get to that in here.” He juts out his chin.
What could it hurt? It might even make my day suck less. I do what he did. It smells weird, and it stings. Pain scours my sinuses and enters my brain, but with it comes the need to giggle. I clap my hand over my mouth and saliva spills between my fingers. The numbers on the books weave in and out.
“Shh.” He coughs in his throat.
“Again.” I hold my nose over it and inhale even deeper until he pulls it away.
“Take it easy. You’re gonna be sick.”
I don’t care. My feet are suddenly on backwards and my neck is made of spaghetti. It’s amazing. “You got a name, big guy?” It’s like I’m in a movie and I’m asking him out on a date. I’m not even sure what to do with boys.
He slides his hand unde
r my shirt so I grab his crotch. We stare at each other for an unflinching moment before he removes his hand and I release his balls.
“Well played,” he whispers.
“Fuck, yeah.”
“Shh. Santa’s coming.” When he grabs my shoulder, I don’t even want to punch him.
Then it hits me. The headache that threatened me the first time I inhaled. This time it crashes behind my eyes and I want to barf. I’m bent double, looking at my ankles when Santa’s shoes appear in front of me. Funny, I thought they’d be black boots. With shiny buckles. “Buckles!”
“What’s going on?” Santa does not sound impressed.
“I don’t know, Mr. Angotti. I found her like this. I think she’s trying to say something about a headache. Maybe she’s having a migraine attack. My mom gets those for no reason at all, and they can be terrible.”
Santa’s shoes, which are not black boots with shiny buckles, shift to the right and his hands slide under my arms. He sits me on the carpet and I slump with my hands over my eyes. I honestly do have a headache now.
“Stay with her while I call the nurse,” Santa tells the nameless boy, and he squats beside me.
My face is on the floor, drooling like a garden slug in the dirt, when the nurse comes. She’s brought a wheelchair and thank God I don’t have to walk because my legs are mush.
The boy leans over when they load me into it. “T, my name’s T,” he whispers into my ear before she wheels me past the emergency exit . Even though the door is closed, I can smell the freshly mowed grass and dandelions from here. They smell like home.
This boy is nothing like anyone I’ve known. Not like my grandfather, or my father, the useless prick. If he was stupid enough to ‘fess up for stuff he never did, he deserved to go to jail. He could have ratted me out, but I knew he wouldn’t. Not his only child.
No, T is a whole different animal. He saw the real me and he understands what I want. I can use a guy like that, and now I have a plan to get out.
Is T for Tom, or Tyson or Travis? Probably T for trouble. I might like that guy.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Well, Mr. van Gogh, you’re finally legit.” Parked side-by-side, the lawyer handed a card out his window to Derek Peterson, who snatched it from his manicured fingers. The smaller man drew back, as if frightened of losing them.
“I told you, don’t call me that. If you do it again, I’ll shoot you between your little piggy eyes,” Derek snarled.
The lawyer smiled nervously and adjusted himself in his seat. “Um, about that problem we discussed…”
“Your wife.” Derek shoved the P.I. license into his wallet. “I’ll have something truly salacious for you by Monday.” He toed an empty vodka bottle under the seat. He meant it. He’d do it as soon as he found the time.
“B-but court is in two days. She’s going to make me pay.” His last syllable rose an octave.
“Don’t whine, Dick. You cheated on her first.”
“I don’t want her to take my stocks, the lake house, my c-car. That’s half of everything .” The barrister’s face reddened. “And m-my name is Richard. Why can you…”
“I’ll call ya.” Derek hit the window switch. “Dick.” He shook his head. Pathetic. So what if the pussy lawyer had to play by the rules and give his wife half of everything in the divorce? That was only fair. Derek would never try to cheat a woman out of what was rightfully hers. He’d once been a great cop and was still a standup guy, not like he’d had a choice when it had come down to it. His ex-wife had sold everything and divorced him as soon as he’d stepped foot in prison.
He pressed his foot to the gas, and the car’s tires chirped. The only thing he really missed was his Mustang. This economy rental was a gutless piece of crap.
He dialed his contact at the police station and left another message. How long did it take to check a license plate, for frig’s sake? With his P.I. creds fresh off the printer, he couldn’t wait for his business to take off so he could bill some real clients.
First order of business was to get the lawyer off his back. Derek would get what the man wanted and jettison him. He didn’t wield enough power to be of much use anyhow. His buddy at the police station was more promising. Soon they would both be cashing big paychecks.
He took another drive by the lawyer’s residence but the cheating wife’s silver Porsche was absent. She wasn’t going to make it easy by taking her boyfriend home, was she?
Derek rolled the empty vodka bottle from under the seat and unscrewed the cap. The half-mouthful of residual liquid trickled down his throat, but left him trembling for more. He almost regretted giving his last twenty dollar bill to the motel manager, but the man had not given him up to the rental company goons when they came to collect their car, so that deserved a reward. If he could hold out a little longer, there’d be clients, and he’d be rolling in cash. Yeah.
He stared at his hands on the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, and nearly leapt on his phone when it buzzed.
“Hey Derek. I got what you asked for.” Officer Ernie Jenssen, his old police buddy, wanted to meet.
He hit the speakerphone and rolled down his window for extra background noise. “Ah, um. I’m working a case. Really busy.” He straightened his fingers and then clenched his hands into fists.
“I’m off duty in an hour and I won’t have time until tomorrow. If you want…”
“All right, I’ll put everything on hold for you, buddy,” Derek lied. “Meet me by the train bridge.” Ernie would believe anything his old training officer told him, wouldn’t he?
He chomped down a mouthful of breath mints and ran a hand through his greasy hair. He didn’t want to look like he’d been sleeping in his car, which he had to admit, he sometimes did. Ten minutes later, he nosed his car alongside a marked patrol cruiser in a back alley.
“Hey Ernie, how’s it hangin’?” Derek quipped when the young officer rolled down his window. He forced a smile. Relax, you’re trying too hard.
“Low. It’s hangin’ low.” He glanced in his rear-view mirror.
“Don’t worry. There’s no one around.” Derek leaned out to take the papers from him.
“Can you hear out of that ear, boss?” Ernie’s eyes fixed on the mass of scar tissue that used to be a nicely-shaped ear.
“Yuh,” Derek grunted. At least he hadn’t called him fuckin’ Vincent van Gogh.
Ernie cleared his throat. “So, are those the records you wanted?”
“Damn straight. This is perfect.” After two weeks of tailing the lawyer’s wife, he’d come across the boyfriend’s car, hiding behind her silver Porsche at a local dining spot. What he’d needed from Ernie was a name and address.
“Registered owner of that car is a guy named Randolph Keller.” He squinted at Derek. “Know him?”
“Nope.” He damn well did know who that guy was, and Dick would not be happy to hear that his wife had been screwing his business partner. The same guy who was being so helpful with his divorce. Now all he needed was photo evidence. He looked up into Ernie’s questioning eyes.
“Next time buddy,” he said. “I’ll pay you what I promised next time.”
The skin around Ernie’s eyes tightened.
“Swear to God, I’ll throw in a little extra. You and me, buddy. This could turn into a good thing.”
Ernie gave his head a half-shake. “I’m not so sure. I kind of thought this was a one-time thing, Lieuten… uh, Derek. Kind of like a personal favor.”
Derek grinned. His student still saw him as teacher. That would work in his best interest. “Don’t worry, it’s little stuff. And nothing you don’t want to do.” The lies slid off his tongue as smoothly as they had when he was still on the job. “Hey, I was thinking, buddy. I left my wallet at home. Would you lend your old boss a couple of bucks? A twenty would do.”
Ernie hesitated and then reached for his wallet. He drew out a bill.
“Or fifty, fifty would be better.”
Ernie fr
owned, but fished out a couple more bills.
“Son, you’re a saint. I’ll have a nice bonus for you next time.” He watched the police cruiser drive down the alley and exit onto the main street before he tucked the money behind his shiny new P.I. license. This partnership with Ernie would work out fine.
Derek turned off the engine, got out and locked the door. The only thing of value he owned was a digital SLR camera and a couple of fast lenses. He couldn’t risk losing them now. He’d ordered the equipment with his credit card right before they’d canceled it.
He’d pay their overdue bills. He’d pay everyone as soon as those checks rolled in. He’d get his Mustang back, and he’d get his family back. He’d be happier than ever. Right now, he needed to find Tiffany, the love of his life and Lily’s doting mother, and this was the last place she might have been.
He opened the back gate to a dilapidated townhouse and rapped on the screen door. Inside, a small dog broke into frenzied barking and a middle-aged woman cracked the door open enough to peer at him. The dog bounced at the opening, all teeth and bluster.
“I’m not buying any.” She closed the door.
He knocked harder.
She wrenched it open, glaring at him from a prematurely wrinkled face. Ash dangled from her cigarette, smoked to its filter and pinched between stained fingers. “I told you…”
He wedged his shoe in the door so she couldn’t slam it in his face again. “Tiffany Schmidt. Early twenties. Beautiful. Had a young daughter. Ring a bell?”
The woman’s yellowed eyes widened. She clucked her tongue and the dog sat obediently at her feet. “I remember her. She lived next-door. Haven’t seen her for years. She came back to visit me once, said she moved in with her father. Her and… the little girl.”
“She came back? What did she say? Did she tell you where she was going?” Derek leaned forward. He wanted to hear every word.
“You’re missing an ear!” She took a step back.
“Yes, I know,” he growled. “Can we get back on track?”
The woman hesitated, as if unsure if she should stay or flee. “Tiffany came to tell me she was getting married, finally found her prince, I guess.” She twisted her mouth. “That rock on her finger was puny, if you ask me.”