by Byars, Betsy
“I’m hoping that’s what you’ll do. The shop’s probably being watched, so I can’t go in, but I’ll give you the key. You can go in the back door. The safe’s behind the fourth bookcase.”
“What kind of shop is this?”
“A bookstore.”
Herculeah felt a lessening of her tension. A bookstore. There couldn’t be any danger in a bookstore. It was her favorite kind of store in the world—next to Hidden Treasures, the antique store.
And maybe, her thoughts raced, in the bookstore, there would be a telephone! She could call her mother! Tell her what had happened! Say, Come get me!
Uncle Neiman interrupted her thoughts. “Maybe you’ve heard of my bookstore. Maybe Meat’s mentioned it.”
“He mentioned it. It’s mysteries mostly, isn’t it?” She looked at the back of his head, waiting.
“It’s only mystery books.”
“I like mysteries. What’s the name of your shop?”
Uncle Neiman sighed.
“Death’s Door,” he said.
13
LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS
“Death’s Door,” she repeated.
It made her remember that old phrase “at death’s door.” People used to use it when someone was about to die.
Herculeah’s hair began to frizzle. She was suddenly cold.
She glanced at her window. She thought about rolling it up, but there was still a chance she might yell for help. Also, she knew the chill was not from the outside air.
“That’s an awful name for a shop.”
He glanced around in surprise. “Customers like it. They chose it. I had a contest. It was between Murder for Sale, Little Shop of Horrors, or Death’s Door.”
“The customers didn’t have much to choose from, did they?”
“Everybody who bought a book got to cast a vote. Two books—two votes. Death’s Door won by a landslide.”
There was a silence.
Uncle Neiman cleared his throat. “Will you at least let me drive you past?” he asked in a pleading way.
There didn’t seem to be any harm in that, Herculeah thought. And besides, it would get them off this deserted street and around people.
“I’m not saying I’ll help,” she said cautiously.
“I know. I know.”
“I’m just saying I’m willing to drive past.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask.”
He peered over his shoulder. “Now?”
“Yes, let’s get this over with,” she said. It wasn’t as much fun to be in control as she had thought. Besides, now that she wasn’t as afraid anymore, she was beginning to feel hungry. “I want to get home. My mother’s bound to be worried. By now my father’s in on it too. He’s probably got the whole police force looking for me.”
Uncle Neiman glanced nervously over his shoulder at the thought of the whole police force after him.
“And when I do get home—if I ever do—I won’t be able to study because you made me drop all my books. They’re at school! Maybe I could just run back in the school and get them.”
Uncle Neiman didn’t bother to answer. He shifted clumsily over into the driver’s seat. Apparently he wasn’t used to women’s raincoats. When he was settled at last, he reached into his raincoat pocket. He pulled out a key and fumbled trying to find the ignition.
“Is this your car?” Herculeah asked suspiciously.
Uncle Neiman didn’t answer. He accidentally hit the wrong control and water sprayed onto the windshield.
“Because you sure aren’t familiar with it. Maybe I ought to drive. At least I know the difference between the windshield wiper and the ignition.”
Uncle Neiman didn’t answer. There was more fumbling at the controls.
She leaned back in her seat and glanced up at the ceiling. “And you say you’re not a criminal.” She listed his offenses, counting them off on her fingers. “Kidnapping ! Car theft!” She wished she had enough offenses for the other three fingers. “What do you think a criminal is?”
Herculeah could see his face reflected in the rear-view mirrors. Beneath the brim of his sister’s rain hat, his unshaven face was grim.
“A murderer,” he said.
This time the car started.
14
STANDING OUT IN A CROWD
Meat stood at the front window. He had been there ever since Lieutenant Jones had left. He wanted to go over and wait with Mrs. Jones, but he was aware that he, the nephew of the kidnapper, would be the last person the family would want to see.
He sensed that his mother had come into the room—he smelled cooking grease. He thought she probably sprayed herself with it, the way other women spray themselves with cologne to make themselves appealing.
He said, “Herculeah hasn’t come home yet.”
“Well, it’s early.”
“It’s not,” he said. He looked at his watch. “It’s six o‘clock.”
“That late?”
“Yes.” He paused. His voice grew even harder. “Your brother kidnapped her.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” his mother said, but she didn’t sound convinced.
“I do.”
“Neiman’s no kidnapper. He was always the best one of the children. Mama said he was the only one that didn’t give her any trouble. ‘Why can’t you be more like Neiman?’ she was always asking us.”
“It’s just as well you couldn’t.”
“There wasn’t a mean bone in his body.”
Meat’s voice was cold. “I just hope they’re still alive.”
“Don’t say such things. Of course they’re alive. Come on in the kitchen, Albert. I fixed pork chops—the way you like them.”
There was no way Meat didn’t like pork chops except still attached to the pig, but for once he wasn’t hungry.
“Can you imagine how this makes me feel?” he asked coldly. “To have Herculeah kidnapped by my uncle?”
Meat’s mother stood in silence for a moment. She dried her hands anxiously on her apron.
To divert him, she said, “Oh, Albert, when you came in, you were very excited about something.”
“Finding out Uncle Neiman had kidnapped my best friend—my only friend, might I add—put the whole thing out of my mind.”
“What was it?”
“Well, it was nothing that would help us find Herculeah.”
“Tell me.” She was still drying her hands. “I’m as worried about Herculeah and Neiman as you are—maybe even more so.”
Meat sighed. “I found a picture of Uncle Neiman in the newspaper.”
“Morning or afternoon paper?”
“Afternoon.”
“I can’t believe it. We take that. I missed a picture of my own brother.”
“Mom, he was in a crowd of people. I would have missed him too except he stood out because of his hat. That hat!” He shook his head. “I’ll never forget that hat in a million years.”
“I won’t either. I started to throw it in the trash can and then I thought, why, what if the trash collector took a liking to it—you did—and wore it around town and ...” She couldn’t finish.
“Pow ... pow!” Meat finished it for her.
Meat’s mother went on quickly, “Go on about what you saw.”
“Do you remember about a week ago when they had the parade to raise money for Habitat?”
“And during the parade somebody shot at the mayor.”
“Yes.”
“Nobody’s safe anymore.” She paused to remember. “And didn’t it have something to do with drugs? The mayor’s trying to clean up the city and the drug dealers don’t like it?”
“Well, the paper didn’t actually say that. What it did say was that it was a professional job, and if the mayor hadn’t had on a bulletproof vest, he’d be dead.”
“And what was Neiman doing?”
“Nothing. Standing on the corner, waiting for the parade to get by so he could cross the street, I imagine. There was a reporter o
n the other side of the street, and just as the mayor’s car went past Uncle Neiman, there were some shots, and the reporter snapped the picture.”
“I hope I didn’t throw that paper out,” Meat’s mother said. She started into the kitchen.
“Oh, wait. I made a copy of it. What’d I do with it?” He found it on the floor of the hall, by the coat closet.
As she looked at it, Meat peered over her shoulder. “See, Mom, everyone in the picture is looking at the mayor in horror—they thought it was another Dallas—except Uncle Neiman. He’s looking up, like he sees something interesting in the building across the street.”
Meat’s mother drew the picture closer.
Meat continued. “And whoever saw that picture thought Uncle Neiman had seen him.”
“He does appear to be seeing something.”
“He does.”
“But Neiman has terrible eyesight. He can’t see from here to there.” His mother pointed to the back door.
“Yes, Mom, but whoever’s trying to kill him doesn’t know that.”
15
SAFER OUT THAN IN
The drive had been silent except for Herculeah’s urgent shouts of “Brakes!” or “Red light!”
The rush hour had passed, and after-supper traffic was light. Herculeah was grateful for that. She felt that if she had to yell “Brakes!” one more time she was going to throw the seat forward and jump out of the car. She’d be safer outside the car than in.
Now Uncle Neiman made a wide turn onto a street with less traffic. He was still straining forward tensely over the steering wheel, but Herculeah relaxed a little.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“What street is that?” he asked. “Can you read the sign?”
“Wentworth.”
“Is that the bank over there?”
“First National.”
“Okay, good. I know where I am. Go ahead and ask your question.”
“Well, what I’m wondering is, when was the first time you thought someone was after you?”
“Last Thursday—the day after the mayor was shot. I was crossing Conning Boulevard—or trying to—and a car almost ran me down.”
“You thought it was an accident?”
“At the time, yes.”
“Did you see what kind of car it was?”
“Dark.”
“That doesn’t help much. And you didn’t see the driver?”
He shook his head.
“Or the license plate?”
“Oh, no.”
“I guess that was too much to hope for. So that was Thursday.”
“Yes.”
As a car pulled out of a side street, Herculeah cried, “Brakes!”
He slammed on the brakes. “What’s that fool doing?” he asked, “turning like that.”
Herculeah fell forward. She braced her arms against the front seat and it fell forward too. At that moment she had a chance at the door handle.
She reached for it with one hand. With the other, she grabbed the buckle of her seat belt. But for some reason that she couldn’t understand, she stopped.
“He had the right of way. Didn’t you see the YIELD sign?”
“No.”
She leaned back in her seat, surprised at herself. I’m still sitting here and not out there running along the sidewalk because I’m me. I have to know what’s happening. I have to be there at the finish.
“So,” she continued after a moment, “what happened on, say, Wednesday?”
“Nothing.” He peered over the steering wheel. “Is this Conning?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where I almost got run over. Want to see?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “I’ll show you.”
Uncle Neiman made an abrupt turn from the wrong lane. Horns blew. Brakes screeched. Herculeah tightened her seat belt.
“Have you ever driven this car before?” Herculeah asked when her heart had started up again.
“No.”
“Have you ever drive a car before?”
“A few times.”
“Well, you don’t drive like it. Whose car is this anyway?”
“A friend’s.”
“Does he know you’ve got it?”
Uncle Neiman ignored the question. He came to a stop in the middle of the intersection. “This is where it happened. I was standing there.”
Horns blew. Traffic stopped behind. More horns.
“I see it. Go ahead.” She glanced out the back window into the furious face of a driver.
“It happened the day after the mayor got shot at. Did you read about that?”
“My mom mentioned it. Tell me while you drive.”
Uncle Neiman moved cautiously through the intersection.
“I had gone for lunch over at the Bistro—I always eat there—and I came home by the same way, Conning Boulevard.”
“And?”
“And I started across the street, and a car came at me—I mean, at me. A man grabbed me by the back of the jacket and yanked me to the sidewalk or I wouldn’t be here to tell about it.”
“You were lucky.”
“You think so? My hat fell off my head, and he did run over that. I could show you the tire marks, if I still had it.”
“That is not what I would call a lucky hat. Did you happen to see the shooting?”
“The mayor?” He shook his head. “I was there but I didn’t see anything.”
“Maybe you saw something that you don’t know you saw—some little insignificant thing. That does happen.”
“Mostly in mystery books.”
Herculeah interrupted to say, “Oh, I wish I had my granny glasses.”
“Glasses?”
“Little round ones. They make me fog out. The whole world becomes a blur. They help me think.”
“You put on glasses so you won’t be able to see?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t need any granny glasses for that. My eyes do a good enough job of creating a fog all by themselves.”
“What do you mean?” Herculeah asked.
When he didn’t answer, she leaned forward.
She said, “What are you saying?” this time stressing each word.
“I’m saying I don’t see anything but fog. The truth of the matter is that I can’t see from here to the next corner.”
He bumped up onto the curb and off again.
“That was the next corner,” Herculeah said.
“I told you.”
16
MAGOO
“It’s true,” Uncle Neiman continued mildly when they were back in their lane again. “I’m almost blind. My friends call me Magoo.”
“How did you ever get a driver’s license?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a driver’s license?”
“I used to. My eyesight was better then. Nowadays I remember my way around. I’ve been traveling these streets all my life.”
“Stop this car. I am not kidding. I am getting out of here.”
Uncle Neiman speeded up.
“I said I want out!”
“There it is!” Uncle Neiman said.
“What?”
“My shop.”
He put on the brakes and came to a stop in the intersection. Herculeah glanced behind them to see if they were going to cause another traffic jam, but there were no cars in sight.
“See, I got us here, safe and sound.”
Herculeah said, “Huh!” Then she glanced down the street with interest. “Which one’s yours?”
“Third on the left, between Goodwill and the adult video store.”
Uncle Neiman stepped on the gas and moved quickly to the corner. Herculeah peered over her shoulder.
“Aren’t you going to stop?”
Uncle Neiman steered the car around the corner into the wrong lane, narrowly missing a minibus full of old people, and back again.
“I’m not even sure I saw it,” Herculeah said.
She had a vague impression of a dark brick building that had once been a house. She thought she had seen a sign on the door, but Uncle Neiman certainly hadn’t given her time to read it.
“I can’t turn in. The man—the gunman—might be waiting for me. A woman’s raincoat and hat isn’t going to fool him. Did you see anybody suspicious?”
“I didn’t see anybody—period. All the stores looked closed.”
“That doesn’t mean there’s nobody there.”
“Too right.”
“I’m going to stop on Hunter Street. The alley goes right through to the shop. Nobody knows about the alley but the shop owners. It just looks like a space between buildings. You can go down the alley to the back door of the shop and—”
“Hey, I didn’t say I was going to do this,” Herculeah interrupted.
“Well, if you decide to, that’s what you can do.”
Uncle Neiman parked the car beside a pawnshop that had its bars up for the night. He parked the way he had before, halfway up on the curb.
“Well, here we are,” he said. “You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”
“No.”
“And not so much as a scratch on the car.”
“It wasn’t the car I was worried about,” Herculeah answered.
17
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Uncle Neiman had not turned off the ignition—maybe he was too blind to find it, Herculeah thought. More likely, he was waiting for her to make up her mind.
“Are you getting out, or not?” he asked, confirming her thought.
“I’m thinking about it,” she said.
Her choices, it seemed, were both unappealing. She could take a chance on getting the money from the safe without being seen by the gunman, or take a chance on driving around some more with Magoo and living through that.
The motor continued its hum.
“Let’s go over it one more time,” Herculeah said. “Tell me exactly what you want me to do.”
“You will walk down the alley to the back door. You’ll find it easily because there’s a sign that says DEATH’S DOOR-NO ADMITTANCE.”
“Don’t I wish,” Herculeah said.
Uncle Neiman reached under his raincoat and into his pants pocket and brought out a ring of keys. He selected one key from the rest and offered it to her. The rest dangled below.