by Tom Schreck
I pulled into the parking space just in front of AJ’s in the shadow of the cookie factory, which tonight was producing those sugar cookies with that little dollop of red goo in the middle. I could tell by the sickeningly sweet smell in the air. It made you feel like a molecule-sized being trapped in the middle of a sugar-cookie universe. Man, you start having thoughts like that and you know it’s time for a Schlitz.
I was flipping my keys around my index finger when a shadowy figure came around the corner in a bike. I really do mean shadowy because whoever it was was all decked out in black. As a reflex I could feel my posture brace up a bit and with it came a slight tingling in my neck. When the figure spoke I relaxed.
“Sir, good evening, sir,” Billy said.
“Kid, geez, you scared me. What’s with the outfit?”
“It’s my Evening Darkness Karateka Nu-Breath Ninja suit, sir. It helps me blend into the dark of night.” Tonight’s zit was where the cleft of Billy’s chin would be if he had a cleft. Billy was cleftless so the whitehead didn’t do anything to make him look like Kirk Douglas.
“It sure does, but be careful on your bike. You don’t want traffic to see you blending in with the night.”
“Yes, sir. One needs to be careful when stealth training, sir.”
“What? … Stealth—never mind.”
“Sir, will we train soon, sir?”
“Sure, tomorrow night in the aerobics room, if you want.”
“Sir, yes sir!” Billy said. Then he got off his bike to issue me a very official bow, but the bell-bottoms of the Stealth Bad-Breath suit caught on a handlebar and he took an ugly fall. He bounced right up and tried to hide the stinger in his hip.
“See you tomorrow, Bill,” I said. The Schlitz was going to taste extra special tonight. The first few steps brought me from the sublime to the ridiculous. Actually, I’ve never understood what that meant, and it was probably more accurate that it brought me from the ridiculous to the really fuckin’ ridiculous.
Rocco was down on all fours and Jerry Number One was on Rocco’s back. TC was on all fours facing the opposite direction. Jerry Number Two was out in front examining the weird formation like Monet must’ve when he stepped back from his water lilies.
“Still doesn’t seem right,” Jerry Number Two said.
“I told you this wasn’t it,” Rocco said.
“This doesn’t seem humiliating enough,” TC said.
“That’s ’cause you still have your clothes on,” Jerry Number Two said.
I wasn’t sure that I wasn’t hallucinating.
“Fellas, you’re scaring me a bit. Can you fill me in?” I said.
“We’re trying to recreate that pose in Newsweek of the Iraqis in that Camp McCrabe,” TC said with confidence.
“That’s the Abe Miban prison, the Israelis built it,” Rocco said.
“I don’t think that’s it,” Jerry Number One said.
“Why were we doing this?” Jerry Number Two asked.
“I forget, but my knees are killing me. I need a B&B,” TC said.
The human pyramid disassembled and I joined Kelley at the end of the bar. He was watching the Yanks and the Jays game.
“Didn’t feel like getting in the scrum?” I said.
“Nope,” Kelley said.
“What’s new on the street?”
“If you’re asking about Howard, not a thing, at least that I know.” Kelley sipped a new Coors Light. “Some kid from McDonough was taken to the hospital after OD’ing, and they have us interviewing kids, teachers, and administrators at the school. It’s a pain in the ass.”
“What did the kid get high on?” I said.
“Something new, that’s what has everyone extra worked up. They’re afraid that, whatever it is, it’s going to be the new crack.”
“Is the kid going to make it?”
“No, Duff, he’s already gone. Good kid too. Class president. What a waste,” Kelley said.
“What about these kids who are worshiping Howard?”
“Yeah, that’s some fucked-up shit.”
“You think there’s any chance they’re doing these murders?”
“Duff—you watch too much Court TV.”
“C’mon, Kell. There’s all sorts of copycat murders related to serial killers.”
“I’m sure it has dawned on the FBI. It’s a little outside my jurisdiction.”
I finished my beer and changed the subject. Thirty years ago one of Howard’s victims was the class president, and now another class president was dead. That, and there were a gang of kids who thought Howard’s killing spree was cooler than skateboarding. Too much had happened recently for me to figure out if all or any of that meant anything. It was easier just to go home.
28
All I wanted to do was avoid getting kicked in the nuts and go to bed. Before I hit the sack, I grabbed the mail, blocked Al’s assault, and hit the button on my machine.
“Duff, it’s me, Howard. I’ve been lying to you. I am the slayer and you need to stop looking into things or you may be next. It’s imperative that you stay away.”
So much for me getting some sleep.
That was all there was to his message and he hung up. I sat back on the couch and Al jumped up next to me. The silence we sat in made Al a bit uneasy and he started to hum. Howard’s message sounded different than the previous ones, more controlled, more calculated. I didn’t know what to make of the series of calls, but I also remembered my last encounter with Morris and the other cops and decided to call them.
The gang of them was there within fifteen minutes, and Al objected in what could probably be described as uncivil disobedience.
“AHOOOO … hmmmm … woof, woof … AHOOO … grrrr … ,” Al said. He was staring at my friend Larry Bird.
Morris directed the crime-scene guys to examine the machine and the phone. I wasn’t sure what they were trying to accomplish, and I hoped they didn’t believe that Howard lived inside my answering machine.
“AHOOOO … hmmmm … woof, woof … AHOOO … grrrr … ,” Al said.
Morris asked me about the time of the call, if he had called any other times, and if I had called him. I told him the truth, that is, that I hadn’t. Bird was walking around the Blue, picking things up, looking at my mail, and generally being nosy. This didn’t please Al.
“AHOOOO … hmmmm … woof … woof … AHOOO … grrrr
… grrrrrr … grrrrrrrr,” Al said. The extra “grrrrr’s” concerned me.
Apparently, they concerned Larry Bird too, because he pulled a can of mace out of his suit jacket and aimed it at Al.
I broke away from my conversation with Morris.
“Whoa, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I said, with my neck tendons dancing.
“Your dog needs to—”
He didn’t get to finish. As Bird turned to yell at me, Al pounced and went after his shin like it was a TV remote. Larry yelped, Al increased the intensity of his bite, which made Bird sing in pain, and then everyone’s favorite white hooper dropped the can of mace. Al scooped it up and ran into the bathroom.
While the all-time greatest shooting guard was jumping up and down on one foot, holding his bloody pant leg, I went to the head, grabbed the mace from Al, and closed him in.
“Now, what was it you were saying, detective Morris?” I said.
“You son-of—,” Bird said.
“That’ll be enough, Mullings. Go out to the car and put something on that,” Morris said.
Larry gave me a menacing look behind his bright-red face and limped out of the Blue.
“We’re going to have to take the tape out of your machine. I’m sure you understand,” Morris said. He directed the crime scene guys to dust a few things and poke around here and they all left soo
n after that. Mullings never came back in. I let Al out of the bathroom and fixed him his dinner, treated with a few extra sardines.
I met Billy in the aerobics room, and I was glad to see he made it on time, or, more accurately, his customary thirty minutes early. Today he had a zit on one ear lobe, which in some ways made him look a little hip, like he got it pierced or something. Billy was warming up by practicing his flying kicks, and each and every time he landed on his back. I decided to just not mention anything about Sofco.
“Billy, what was up with the class president over at McDonough?” I asked.
“Sir, he was a jerk—I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, sort of, anyway, but he wasn’t real nice,” Billy said.
“How so?”
“He made fun of people a lot, sir.”
“Did he make fun of you?”
“Yes, sir.” Billy tried to put his energy into a technique, but I could see he was uncomfortable.
“What did he say?”
“Sir, he said it looked like my mom put out a fire on my face with my dad’s golf shoe … then, he once nominated me for some award just to tease me. He was a jerk, sir.”
I guess the more things change the more things stay the same. Teenagers can be real a-holes. When I was Billy’s age, my pizza face had gotten me into my share of fights, which at the time led me to my share of getting my ass kicked. In turn that got me into karate and then ultimately into boxing.
“Was he known to be into drugs?” I asked.
“I didn’t hang with him but he was in the crowd that thinks they’re cool, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Are there a lot of drugs at McDonough?”
“Yes, sir. I know I hear about the dealer ‘the Caretaker’ and the guys they call ‘the Caretaker’s men.’”
“Have you ever seen this guy they call the Caretaker?”
“No, sir. I’ve just heard about him.”
“What about this fan club for the serial killer?”
“They’re really weird and, if you ask me, sir, very disturbed.”
“How so?”
“There’s rumors about them torturing stray animals and doing things to little kids.”
“Damn, Billy, high school has gotten pretty weird, hasn’t it?”
“Compared to what, sir?” I didn’t have an answer for that, so I decided it was time for a workout.
I put Billy through his paces, trying my best to disguise fundamental boxing technique as karate. It wasn’t easy; there isn’t anything complex or fancy about throwing good punches. You could spend a lifetime learning the nuances of the most fundamental techniques; it was simple and complex at the same time.
I got to thinking of the Caretaker and his involvement at McDonough. I didn’t know a lot about him, but dealing at the high school didn’t seem like it was his game. The risk was too high, the penalties too great for a guy known for being in total control to take. It’s not that he necessarily had any honor, it was more like he just didn’t want to go to prison.
I dropped Billy off and headed to the DJ store to get another audience with my new bleached-out friend. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I wanted to see if I could get some answers. There was a different kid up front, and his boom box was blasting an angry rap song that referred to my sister and my mother and a series of unnatural acts that the singer desired to do to them. It took a while to get the kid’s attention, but he made the call and motioned for me to go back.
Mr. Caretaker was wearing a blue blazer, lightweight cuffed gray pants, and a red-striped shirt. He had his reddish hair awkwardly parted and he had on horn-rimmed glasses.
“My pugilistic ami. Bonjour,” he said when I came through the curtain.
“Hey, how you doing?” I said. With this cartoon character, having anything near a normal conversation seemed bizarre.
“What are you in search for?”
“Today, just some information.”
He laughed, sat, and crossed his legs in that affected way that talk show guests do.
“I don’t handle information,” he said.
“Word is you’re dealing at McDonough High. That kid who OD’ed was yours,” I said.
“Mr. Duffy, do not be a provocateur. You do not know me well enough.”
“Then I am right?”
“No.”
“Who then?”
“Why the fuck should I tell you?” For an instant he lost the preppy, Zen, Bond-villain façade. This was all street.
“Kids are dying.”
“Kids are always dying, my man.” He sat back and went back into his character.
“If not you, why are you letting it be said that it is you?”
“Hmmm … first of all I’m not letting anything. The microwaves from that have yet to hit my radar. Second, I choose to keep my profile low.”
He rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. I let the silence happen.
“Duffy, I am telling you the following not because you asked or because you intimidated me, but rather because it will serve my interests.” He had his fingertips lightly touching in front of his face. “It is my feeling that it is the Sky Pilot’s doing, and I am not at all pleased that he would bring my name into it.”
“Who the hell is the Sky Pilot?” I said.
“I never deal in surnames. Do your homework.” He stopped doing that thing with his fingertips and just stared at me. It wasn’t exactly an intimidating stare, it was more a stare of absence. It was like the Caretaker was there but not really. At least, not for me.
I got out of the Caretaker’s storefront and headed around the corner to see if I could find Carlisle and the boys. It had started to drizzle a bit and that meant the guys would be under the pavilion in the park next to the basketball court. It was just four blocks, and as I walked up the street I could see the guys there.
Carlisle was there with Chipper but his cousin wasn’t with them today. I exchanged pleasantries and before long they asked me what I was looking for. Being accepted in the ghetto wasn’t the same as being expected and we all knew I wasn’t just walking through Jefferson Hill because I enjoyed the scenery.
“What you need, D?” Carlisle said. He didn’t look good—his skin was ashing and he had dried saliva on the corners of his mouth. The salt in crack has brutal drying effects on the skin.
“You all right? You’re into that shit, aren’t you?” I said.
His eyes got shifty and he started to stutter. Chipper put his head down.
“No man, I—”
“Carlisle, I’m not here to bust you. You know I ain’t about that, but that shit will kill you.”
“I know, I know …” He got a sad look to his face. It happens when an addict knows he’s been called and his defenses drop. It doesn’t mean anything’s going to change, but it’s where anything starts.
“Come see me at the clinic, will ya?”
“Yeah Duff, I’ll try.” He looked sincere but the chances were slim he’d come by. It was time to change the subject for a couple of reasons.
“Hey, Carlisle. I was talking to the Caretaker and—”
“What you doing with the Caretaker?” He looked at me like I said I had just met with Jesus.
“Long story. He said something about a ‘Sky Pilot.’ What’s he talking about?”
“Shit—that funky-ass motherfucker could be talking ’bout any shit.”
“C’mon, what could it mean?”
“Yo, Duff, it ain’t like all us brothers pass around a dictionary to keep up with each other’s rap,” Chipper said.
“No ideas?” I looked back and forth between the two of them.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty old-school shit, but the Caretaker is all up funky into that shit.” Carlisle shook his head as
he thought.
“A guy I knew inside used to talk that same rap … Sky Pilot?
… Hmmm … I think that’s what he used to call the chaplain. I guess a Sky Pilot is a preacher or some sort of man of God,” Carlisle said. “That sound right?”
“Yeah, yeah it might,” I said.
29
Elvis rocked me over to AJ’s with Glen Campbell’s “Gentle on My Mind.” There was never any use in trying to convince anyone that Elvis could make a goofy Glen Campbell cool, so I didn’t even bother. Besides, with the unfolding series of events running through my head, there wasn’t really anything being gentle on my mind.
Thank God there was no bicycled ninja ready to confront me at AJ’s front door, but that didn’t mean I was going to be able to slip right into a bar stool next to Kelley to give him the lowdown. The brain trust was busy problem solving and I got sucked in.
“I’m telling you, you can get high on nutmeg,” Jerry Number Two said.
“So how come we don’t see guys in back alleys trying to smoke egg nog?” TC said.
“I hate egg nog. I puked on egg nog once,” Jerry Number One said.
“Actually, if you’re trying to get high on nutmeg, you’re likely to get sick to your stomach first,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Talk about your bad trips,” Jerry Number One said.
“What about banana peels?” Rocco asked.
“What about them? Cartoon guys are always slipping on them, and in my whole life I’ve never come across a banana peel that made me trip,” TC said.
“You weren’t using them right,” Jerry Number Two said.
“Huh?” TC said.
“If you didn’t trip then you obviously weren’t doing them right,” Jerry Number Two said.
“What the hell are you talking about? Why would I want to trip on a banana peel?” TC said.
“To alter your consciousness,” Jerry Number Two said.
“By banging my head? No thanks, I’ll stick to the B&B,” TC said.