Frankenstorm

by Ray Garton

  She remained calm and quiet, in spite of her panic, as she said, “Leland told me you would pay me for the delivery.”

  “Oh. Well . . . you want, I can cover your gas.”

  “Leland said it would be five thousand dollars.”

  His facial expression became almost cartoonlike in its shock. “Five thou—what the fuck is he—when did Leland start doin’ drugs? ’Cause he musta been doin’ some good shit if he told you I was gonna pay you five thou—oh, wait.”

  He frowned down at the floor for a moment and scratched his head, deep in thought. Then he cocked a brow and studied her with suspicion.

  “Leland said he was gonna call me and explain all this?” he said.

  “He said he already had, but he’d missed you, so he left a message.”

  “Yeah, he left a message, left me a couple, but he didn’t tell me nothin’. Just that there was some kinda change in plans and we needed to talk. Well, uh . . . it just so happens I owe Leland some money. Comes to about five grand. But I ain’t givin’ it to you till I talk to Leland. I mean, he wants me to give it to you, I will, but he’s gonna have to tell me himself. I’ll try to get him again, but he hasn’t been answerin’ and it’s pissin’ me off.”

  Latrice felt guilty for doubting Leland. He’d tried to cover up the fact that he was giving her five thousand dollars owed him by his friend. She was touched by his generosity, and his attempt to avoid embarrassing her with charity. But at the moment, she wanted to kick him in the junk for sending her to this place. There was a torchiere lamp glowing in the foyer, but through the archway ahead, she could see nothing but darkness with occasional flickers of light—a television playing somewhere in the next room.

  “Take your coat off and I’ll try to reach Leland again,” he said.

  Once she’d hung up her coat, he led her into the living room, which was lit only by the fifty-two-inch flat-screen TV on the wall, where two voluptuous, naked women were mud-wrestling in a ring surrounded by a screaming crowd. Two young men slumped on a couch watched the TV with heavy-lidded eyes. In front of them, a coffee table was cluttered with boxes of crackers, bags of potato chips, a few handguns, beer bottles, and a lot of drug paraphernalia. A young woman was curled into a sleeping ball on a love seat and sitting next to her was a fat, stubby Japanese guy with long hair and thick glasses, wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, reading a book.

  There was a brick fireplace in the corner that looked like it hadn’t been used as a fireplace in a long time. Instead, it was being used a storage space. Books and magazines were sloppily piled in the fireplace as if wearily waiting to be burned for outliving their usefulness. At the right end of the hearth stood a four-piece set of black iron fireplace tools—poker, shovel, broom, and tongs—hanging on a rack.

  “I’m Giff, by the way,” her host said as he sat down in a recliner and put the package on his lap. He nodded toward the love seat. “That’s Jada, but she’s wasted. Next to her is Tojo, but he’s reading. He’s always reading.” He turned on a lamp beside the chair, produced a pocket knife, and cut the box open. Once he looked inside, he closed the box and put it on the floor, saying, “Yeah, that’s the shit Leland was supposed to bring.” Removing a cell phone from his pocket, Giff waved toward the men on the couch. “That’s Jimmy and Marcus, by the way. Turn that fuckin’ thing down, guys.”

  Jimmy aimed a remote at the TV and lowered the volume. He was so small and wiry that, at first glance, he looked like a boy, especially in the torn jeans and plain white T-shirt he wore. Marcus filled out his snug wife beater undershirt with plenty of muscle. His sandy hair was short and mussed, and he had tattoos on his arms and neck and metal in his face. He seemed unaware of Latrice’s presence.

  This is not the kind of company you wanna be keeping, girl, Latrice thought, looking at the guns and drugs on the coffee table. She stood there feeling stupid, wondering if she should sit down in one of the two empty chairs in the room or stay where she was and wait for Giff to make his call.

  He leaned back in the recliner as he put the phone to his ear.

  Marcus suddenly noticed Latrice and jolted to his feet as if he’d been poked with an electric cattle prod. He turned to Giff and said, “What the fuck, dude?”

  “Shut up, Marcus, and deal with it,” Giff snapped. Then he shouted, “Hey, Rosie! We got company!” He listened to the phone, then said, “Goddammit, Leland, where the fuck are you? Your friend is here and she wants your fuckin’ money! Call me back right away and explain what the hell’s goin’ on, here, goddammit.” He put the phone on the end table and turned to Latrice. “He say where he was goin’?”

  Marcus stood beside the couch, silently glaring at Latrice. She tried to ignore him.

  “Only that he was leaving the country,” she said.

  “He say why?”

  “He said he stole something from somebody who’s going to kill him for it if he sticks around. This was yesterday, and he said he was leaving right away. But if he hasn’t called you back by now . . . well, I hope he’s okay.”

  She glanced at Marcus. He had not moved nor taken his eyes from her.

  “The fuck’s wrong with you, Marcus?” Giff said.

  “Well, who the fuck is she?” Marcus said.

  “She’s a friend of Leland’s. You can shut the fuck up and watch your show or go back to your fuckin’ trailer.”

  All three men were about the same age—late twenties, early thirties—but Giff spoke to Marcus as if he were a child.

  Marcus stalked out of the room saying, “You gonna be bringin’ niggers around, Giff, I’m outta here.” A moment later, the front door opened and the sound of the storm rushed into the house until the door slammed, shutting it out again.

  Giff looked at Latrice and shrugged. “That’s just Marcus. He don’t like your kind, is all.”

  Oh, yeah, Latrice thought, this is a fun evening waiting to happen.

  She had to get out of there.

  A moment later, a young woman walked in and stepped in front of Latrice, grinning.

  “Hi, I’m Rosie,” she said, smiling. She had thin, stringy, blond hair, extremely pale, splotchy skin, and a black patch over her left eye. Her face was gaunt and her sweatshirt and sweatpants seemed to be a few sizes too big for her. She appeared to be made of sticks, unable to hold still, constantly twitching or turning or slightly bouncing. “Who’re you?”

  “Uh, I’m Latrice.”

  To Giff, Rosie said, “Who’s Latrice?”

  “She delivered a package for Leland. I need to reach him but he ain’t answerin’ his goddamned phone.”

  Although neither sentence answered her question, Rosie seemed satisfied. She turned to Latrice and said, “C’mon in the kitchen, I’ll get you something to drink.”

  Just us girls, Latrice thought. She followed Rosie, wondering just how weird the night was going to get.

  23

  The door was opened by a man who filled the doorway. He was tall, broad, black as midnight, with a head as smooth as an egg, and he wore a black sweatshirt, dark pants, and sunglasses. He was so unexpected that, for a moment, Andy wondered if they’d come to the wrong house.

  The pounding beat of hip-hop music became louder when the door opened and, combined with the noise of the storm behind him, was a distraction for Andy.

  “Uh, I need to see Jodi,” he said.

  “Jodi who?”

  “Jodi Rodriguez. My ex-wife.”

  His eyes were invisible behind the dark glasses. “Jodi ain’t here.”

  “Is my son, Donny, here?”

  “No, Donny ain’t here.”

  “Where are they?” Ram said.

  The man did not move his head, just kept staring straight ahead, but Andy knew he was looking at Ram. “You got a warrant?”

  Ram laughed. “I’m not here to search anything. We’d like to see the home owner, please.”

  “How you know I’m not the home owner?”

  Ram smiled pleasantly. “You gonna make
trouble? I’m not here for trouble. The man wants to see his son, that’s all. What’s the problem?”

  He stared at Ram for a moment from behind those opaque lenses, then said, “Hang on a sec.”

  He started to close the door, but Ram reached out and stopped it, saying, “Hey, there’s a storm going on out here. Mind if we wait inside?”

  The man’s mouth tightened for a moment and he seemed about to shove the door closed, anyway. He thought better of it and pulled it open to let them in.

  The strong smell of marijuana filled Andy’s nostrils and he immediately thought of Donny. Anger rose up in his gullet like bad seafood, but he held it down.

  An entryway to the left opened onto a sunken living room where several people, black and white, were sitting around listening to music and talking. There were two black men and one black woman, and a white couple. Every head in the room turned to Andy, then shifted to Ram just behind him. They stiffened and the two black men stood up abruptly. Andy recognized none of them—they weren’t part of Jodi’s old crowd.

  “Don’t worry,” Ram said, smiling, “I’m not here to bust anybody. That’s not what this is. Andy, here, is an old friend of mine and I’m just helping him out, that’s all. Nobody panic. I don’t want any trouble.”

  The two men remained standing for a moment, watching Ram. One was small, skinny, boyish, and wore a fedora pulled low in front. He said something to the other one, who sat down, then came across the room to Ram. Up close, he was obviously older than he’d first appeared, probably in his late thirties, with a rugged face and a thin scar across his throat. He was quite short, not much over five feet. “What can we do for you, officer?” he said in a low, raspy voice.

  “This is my friend Andy Rodriguez,” Ram said. “His ex-wife and son live here. He needs to see the boy as soon as possible.”

  “Yeah, well, they around here someplace.” The little guy didn’t hold still. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, bobbed his head, fidgeted with his hands. He turned to the big guy who had answered the door and said, “Get ’em down here. I think they upstairs.” To Ram, he said, “I’m Anton. We just visiting from Sacramento. Vic’s a business associate of mine. We came for the tornado.”

  Still smiling, Ram said, “You mean the hurricane?”

  “Yeah, yeah, hurricane, that’s it. We never been in no hurricane before, figured that’d be some real sick shit, y’know?”

  Ram looked around the room. “Well, with all these windows unprotected, you’re going to have the hurricane right in here with you before it’s over.” His smile never faltered.

  “Ain’t comin’ till tomorrow.”

  Ram shook his head. “Now they’re saying it’s coming tonight.” He looked at the windows again. “And I wouldn’t want to be in here when it hits.”

  The little guy looked nervously at the windows, then turned to the others. “You hear that? The tornado’s comin’ tonight.”

  “Hurricane,” one of the women said.

  “What the fuck ever. Where’s Vic?”

  A moment later, a tall white man with shaggy dark hair that fell to his shoulders and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache walked into the room. In the cream-colored kaftan he wore, he looked a bit like Jesus Christ. He looked at Ram nervously and said, “Is there a problem?”

  Ram’s smile became a grin. “Vic! You look real good. A lot better than the last time I saw you. Remember that?”

  Vic frowned suspiciously. “I don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, I arrested you on a DUI, remember? Well . . . maybe not. You were pretty drunk, and it was a while ago. Anyway, my friend Andy here needs to see Donny.”

  Vic turned to Andy and said, “Who’re you?”

  “I’m Donny’s father. Jodi’s ex-husband.”

  Vic’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yeah, yeah.” He turned to Ram again. “You’re not here to bust us, or anything?”

  “No, just helping Andy out. Can he see Donny?”

  Vic continued to stare at Ram. He obviously didn’t believe him and was wary.

  “Hey, Vic,” Anton said. “He says the tornado’s comin’ tonight, man, you gotta do somethin’ about these fuckin’ windows.”

  “What are you doing here?” Jodi said as she entered the room.

  Andy was startled by how thin and pale she was as she hurried to his side looking at once surprised and angry. Her blond hair had been cut short and was flat and lifeless, and the sparkle was gone from her squinty eyes.

  She said, “You’re not scheduled for a visit today You’re not supposed to be here!”

  “I came to see Donny.”

  “Well, you can’t see Donny because it’s not your day to—”

  “Dad!” Donny said from the entryway.

  Andy turned and smiled at his son. The boy was wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. Andy knew they wouldn’t have a chance to get his coat because he was just going to get Donny and leave without pausing for anything, but once he got in the car, he’d be fine. He hurried to his son with arms spread and said, “Hey, kiddo, how’s it going?”

  They hugged and Donny said, “How come you’re here tonight?”

  “Because I needed to see you.”

  Ram was suddenly beside him. “Take him and get out to the car,” he whispered to Andy. “Now.”

  “Come on, big guy,” Andy said, turning Donny toward the front door.

  “Hey, wait, what do you think you’re doing?” Jodi said. “Where are you going? It’s not your scheduled time!”

  Ram intercepted her, still smiling as he said, “He just needs a minute with the boy, that’s all.”

  “But he can’t do that!”

  Ram nodded. “Yes, he can. The boy’s in danger. You got drugs here. I can smell the weed, and your windows aren’t boarded up, which means when that hurricane hits soon, you’re gonna have a mess here. You’ve put your son in danger.”

  “But-but-but—”

  “It’s gonna be just fine, don’t you worry. While he talks to your boy, I want to have a word with you.” Ram went over to the front door to see Andy out. He whispered, “I’ll be out in a minute, just sit in the car and wait.”

  “Where we going, Dad?” Donny asked as they went out the door.

  Andy said, “We’re going to sit in a police car for a minute, Donny, how about that?”

  He glanced back just in time to see Ram closing the door with one hand and reaching under his raincoat to draw his gun with the other. Putting his arm around Donny, he said, “Okay, let’s run to the car!”

  They ran down the steps and into the wind, down the front walk, feet splashing in puddles, to the cruiser parked at the curb. Andy opened the car’s rear door and let Donny dive in, then followed him and pulled it closed.

  “What’s happening, Dad? Why are you with a policeman?”

  “He’s here to help me get you home.”

  “Home? You mean your place?”

  “Yeah. How would you like that? Would you like living with me full time?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll fix up the spare bedroom for you. We can get a basketball hoop for the backyard.”

  “And it’ll be quiet, too, won’t it?”

  Andy put his arms around the boy and held him close, chuckling. “Yes, it’ll be quiet. Is it noisy like this most of the time here?”

  “Yeah. Mom’s friends like music. A lot. But they don’t like cops.” He looked out the window at the house. “I bet they’re not very happy right now.”

  Andy followed Donny’s gaze and looked through the window at the house. Water cascaded down the glass and made the house look like it was melting. He wondered what was going on in there. Ram had refused to tell him how he planned to convince Jodi to transfer custody, and Andy had been worried about that ever since. After seeing the people in the house, it seemed even less likely that Ram would be able to convince Jodi of anything. In her current mood, Andy doubted he’d be able to talk to her at all. The longer Ram stayed in there,
the more worried Andy became.

  Up the street, Andy saw a clump of shrubbery rolling and bouncing over the pavement, driven by the wind like a tumbleweed through a ghost town.

  “How long is he gonna be in there?” Donny asked.

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure what he’s—”

  Andy’s body jolted when he heard the first gunshot from inside the house, and again when the second fired. Then a woman screamed. Andy’s insides turned to ice.

  He turned to Donny to reassure him, but the boy looked unfazed. He did not seem at all surprised by the gunshots. He casually said, “They prob’ly shot him. They’ve all got guns.”

  Three more shots, almost overlapping each other. Another scream. As the wind blew harder, the windows of the house, along with the entire neighborhood, went dark.

  24

  Ollie was running up the stairs when the lights went out and plunged the stairwell into blackness. It startled him and his toe hit the top of the next stair and he went down, cracking his forearms against the edge of a step, then slid most of the way back down the stairs. He cursed as he reached up and turned on his headlamp, then got to his feet. His breathing was loud in the stairwell, and his heartbeat was loud in his ears.

  He pulled the door open and stepped into the second floor corridor. He looked to the right, the left, stood there and listened a moment. It was drafty, and he could hear the storm outside, but he neither saw nor heard anything in the corridor. He knew that didn’t mean much.

  He turned right and moved swiftly but quietly down the corridor toward the rear of the building. He knew some of his men were on the second floor and was tempted to shout for them, but after the screams he’d heard on the phone, he decided to exercise caution.

  A whispery sound behind him made him spin around. Rapid, rhythmic slapping noises—bare feet running on the tile—grew distant somewhere in the darkness beyond the reach of his headlamp. Someone was running away from him.

  Ollie began running after the sounds, his heavy footsteps reverberating in the corridor. He saw nothing ahead. He stopped, listened, heard nothing. Turned around, listened again, then hurried back in the direction he’d originally been going, past the stairwell, farther into the darkness.