by Ray Garton
I start to follow, but look back when Ricky doesn’t move. Just stands on the porch looking the front of the house over carefully.
“You guys coming?” Wylie calls, and we jog across the lawn to catch up with him.
“He’s got a couple of big chows, remember,” I say as Wylie opens the gate in the tall, weathered, old wooden fence that surrounds the backyard.
“Chick!” Wylie calls as we walk along the side of the house. “Hey, Chick!”
The music’s volume drops by half. There is movement in the house, just beyond the wall to our left. The curtains in the window just ahead of us part. Teklenburg lifts the sash, smiles at us through the screen, wearing jeans and no shirt.
“Hi, guys. What can I do ya for?”
“Hey, Chick, how goes it? We catch you at a bad time?”
“Kind of. I’m working.”
“Working? Yeah, that’s right, you said you’re self-employed. What kinda work you do, anyway?”
“I’m an artist.”
“An artist!” Wylie turns to me for a moment, eyebrows high. “Hey, Chick, you’ve met Clark, haven’t you? Clark Fletcher from up the street. And this is Ricky, a buddy of mine. So, Chick, what kind of artist are you?”
His ponytail flops as he glances over his shoulder, preoccupied. “Um, the digital kind. My art is computer generated. It’s, uh, kind of like—”
The high laughter of a young woman comes through the open doorway behind him, followed by the young woman herself. Through the screen she is little more than a silhouette, but a shapely one.
Teklenburg turns to her and says, “I’ll be there in a sec, okay? Just go back and wait for me.”
“I suppose she’s a professional model posing for you? Huh?” Wylie asks with a devilish grin.
Teklenburg smiles and nods. “Yeah, she is.”
I cock my head to one side and say, “You need a model for computer-generated art?”
He clears his throat. “Well, uh, I’ve been trying some real world art lately. Sketching and painting. I’m painting a nude right now, and the model doesn’t come cheap, guys, so—”
“Hear that, guys?” Wylie says over his shoulder. “How come you haven’t invited your neighbors over to watch you work, Chick?” We all laugh then.
The pale, stringy hippy laughs with us, showing only the slightest hint of nervousness. The ease with which he lies makes me want to kill him right now, no waiting around. “I’ve gotta get back to it. Was there something—”
“Yeah, I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight,” Wylie says. “We’re having a few people over for a barbecue. Just people from the neighborhood, here. Nothin’ special, really, just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Burgers and hot dogs, potato salad.”
“It’s nice of you to ask, Wylie, but I’d probably be a bother. I’m a vegetarian.”
“No bother at all! We got vegetarian hamburger patties. My wife’s mother’s a vegetarian, so we’ve gotta keep the freezer stocked.”
“Really? You know, that sounds like just the thing I need. What can I bring?”
“What’s your beverage of choice?”
“Usually white wine.”
“Bring some. About six-thirty, okay?”
Teklenburg smiles. “See you then, guys.” Starts to close the window.
“One more thing,” Wylie says. “You mind if I take my buddy here in the back and show him your koi pond? He’s thinking about starting one.”
“Sure, man. Go ahead.” He closes the window and the curtains fall back into place.
My heart is going off like a machine gun in my ears. Walking beside Wylie, I whisper, “How did you know he has a koi pond?”
“He told me. Sometimes I run into him while he’s walking his dogs, and we shoot the bull a couple minutes.”
As Wylie and I go to the attractive pond with a small wooden bridge arching over it, Ricky walks slowly along the back of the house.
“What’s he doing?” I whisper.
“Trying to get a feel for the place. The plan was to go inside so he could look around. Didn’t work out that way. You know what he’s doing in there, don’t you?”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“Yeah, but that don’t stop it. He’s got himself another little girl in there. Got her in front of the camera. You think that car out front belongs to her parents? Or maybe it was a gift for her sixteenth birthday.”
My fists are clenched so hard, my fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm. “Look, if you want to kill him now, right here, fine. Otherwise, knock it the hell off, okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Clark.”
We watch the pretty fish in the pond until Ricky says he’s ready to go, and we walk back to Wylie’s house.
“Since when is Nadine’s mother a vegetarian?” I ask. “She makes the best beef stroganoff in the world.”
“Since a few minutes ago,” Wylie says. “I made it up, figured he’d be more likely to come if we already had veggie burgers in the house. I’ll have Deeny pick some up at the store.” In the kitchen again, Wylie pours himself another orange juice. “Whatta you think, Ricky? Any good?”
Ricky takes an apple from a bowl of fruit on the small kitchen table, bites into it loudly. “Yeah, no problem.”
“Sorry we couldn’t get inside, but—”
“Nah, forget about it. That house is no big mystery. I get inside, I’ll be fine.”
I turn to Wylie. “Inside? When is he going inside?”
“During the barbecue.” Wylie smiles. “All you gotta do is keep the vegetarian entertained, make sure he don’t decide to go back to his house until Ricky’s done.”
“Done doing what?”
Wylie’s big shoulders sag as he sighs. “You gotta pay attention, Clark, okay? Didn’t I tell you Ricky’s a firebug? He’s a pro. Been doing it since he was a kid. Give him half an hour, he’ll set up a fire to start whenever he wants it to, and once it does, nobody gets out.” He smiles again. “That’s what he’s gonna do. After tonight, Clark, that fuckin’ lettuce-eatin’ prick’s days of getting the little neighbor girls to take off their clothes are over.”
Again, internal alarms are sounding. A brief wave of dizziness passes over me as I wonder what I’ve gotten into. “Wait, wait, how do you know there won’t be someone in there with him?” I ask.
“Is Melinda gonna be over there tonight?” Wylie asks.
“Hell, no!”
“Neither is Cherine. And that’s all I need to know.”
I get a glass from the cupboard, fill it with ice water at the refrigerator door. Take a few long, hard gulps of it. “What do you need me for, Wylie?”
“Need you? I don’t need you. I’m doing this no matter what. If you think I’m gonna let that son of a bitch get himself a high-priced attorney and squeak by with probation and some counseling, you’re outta your fuckin’ mind! I thought you’d feel the same way. I thought you’d want to know what he was doing with your daughter. Hell, I thought you’d want to help me with this. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”
I don’t want to say it. It sounds so weak, so cowardly. But it is real, something I cannot ignore, so I say it, anyway. “Wylie, no one wants to hurt that guy more than I do, I swear. But if I get caught . . . I’ve got Renee and Melinda to take care of. I can’t do this if there’s a chance—”
Wylie laughs hard, shaking his head. “Renee makes more money with her realty business than you do teaching—whatta you mean, you’ve got Renee and Melinda to take care of?”
As he laughs some more, I have an urge to punch him right in the face. It was a rotten thing to say, but my anger diminishes quickly. Too many other things eating at me, I guess.
Wylie finishes off his orange juice. “You don’t have to worry about that. Won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t.”
He sets his empty glass on the counter hard and steps close to me. “I can’t prove it to you, no. But I know it. You’ll ju
st have to trust me. If that’s something you can’t do . . . well, I thought we were friends, Clark, but maybe I was wrong.”
I am surprised and touched, and feel a pang of guilt for not feeling the same way about him. I put a hand on his shoulder and say, “No, of course not, Wylie, you’re not wrong about that.”
“I mean, you’re the only one I told, for cryin’ out loud. I didn’t tell the Hentoffs or the Griffens, and their daughters are on that website. So’s the Elliott girl. I figured you and me, we could take care of it for everybody, and they wouldn’t have to know. And even if we get nailed, Clark—and that’s not gonna happen, I’m tellin’ ya—but if we do, the shit’s gonna land on me, not you. What the hell have you done? All you’re gonna do is keep Tofu Boy occupied for a while. I’m the one employing the services of a known criminal. I’m the one playin’ with fire here, no pun intended.” He puts an arm around me, leads me out of the kitchen and to the front door. “You got nothing to worry about, Clark. You have my word. Now go home and do whatever it is you do. You started preparing for classes this fall yet?”
“I started doing that six weeks ago,” I mutter.
He opens the door. “Then you’ve probably got work to do, huh? Just go home and keep busy till I give you a call, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, stepping through the door. “See you later.” I cross the street in a kind of daze, wondering what happened to my life. I had it just yesterday and it was perfectly fine.
4
Every summer, I wonder why the hell I live in Redding, California. The summers are miserably hot, and each one seems worse than the last. With August just starting, the worst is yet to come. It’s too hot to cook indoors, so summer evenings always smell of meat cooking on grills in the open air.
It is muggier than usual this evening. There is no breeze. The air feels clenched.
“I don’t understand why I have to do this,” Melinda whines as we start across the street together. “Can’t I stay home and eat a sandwich, or something?”
My voice is tense as I say, “We’re going to eat, you can visit with Cherine and Erica, and then we’ll go home. I don’t want to hear any complaints. And don’t even ask if you can go anywhere, because you can’t.”
“I wasn’t going to—okay, what’d I do?” Melinda asks as we start up Wylie’s steep driveway. “How come you’re so pissed at me. Am I being punished?”
“Watch your language,” Renee says.
“You’re not being punished. Yet. But tonight, we need to talk.”
Melinda stops walking and I turn to her. She looks at me with dread.
“Talk about what?” she asks.
“We’ll talk about it tonight, at home. Come on.” That will give her something to chew on for a while. She’ll be so busy trying to figure out what I’m talking about, she won’t have time to get into trouble.
The only guests to arrive before us are Monica and Phil Halprin. Chick Teklenburg is nowhere to be seen. Wylie greets us loudly, then beckons me over to the barbecue, where he stands in a bib apron that reads “Kill My Skillet!” on the front.
It’s a standard Weber kettle-style barbecue. None of those pansy-assed gas barbecues for Wylie. At barbecues past, he has proudly claimed the title Master of the Charcoal Briquette. But not this evening. He curses the briquettes as he replaces the lid.
“I invited the Morgans and Elliots,” he says, “but the Morgan boy’s having a big pool party for his birthday, and the Elliots are helping out. They’re probably gonna burn down the neighborhood with those damned torches. People like that even scare the hell out of Ricky.”
Wylie refers to the tiki torches the Morgans have been lighting up in their backyard two or three times a week since the luau they threw back in June.
“Why isn’t he here yet?” I ask.
“Don’t worry, it’s early.”
“Where’s Ricky?”
“In the kitchen cuttin’ up carrots and celery.”
My heart skips a beat. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah. What, you think he can’t cut up carrots and celery?”
“No, I mean, why is he here? Shouldn’t he be out of sight, waiting for—”
“Would you just calm down? Everything’s cool. Jeez, look at you, you look like John Hurt in Alien.” He laughs. “There’s nothing to worry about, Clark, I mean it. You wanna know when you can worry? When I get worried. Then you can worry. Can I get you a beer?”
I take a couple deep breaths, trying to calm myself. My veins are already pumping with adrenaline and nothing has happened yet. “Yeah, a beer sounds good,” I say, but quickly backtrack. “No, wait . . . are you drinking tonight, Wylie? No offense, but I’d really appreciate it if—”
He laughed. “Boy, you’re coverin’ all your bases, huh? No offense taken. I’m workin’ tonight, Clark. I never drink when I’m workin’. But that don’t mean you can’t. In fact, you need to. C’mon, let’s get you a beer, then you can mingle.”
I don’t feel like mingling. Honestly, I don’t feel like being here. And for a while, I thought we wouldn’t make it over here.
I told Renee about the picnic when she got home from work, and she groaned.
“Can’t we just stay home and have pizza delivered?” she said. “I had a lousy day.”
“I wish we could,” I said. I told her Teklenburg would be there.
Her mouth dropped open, eyes widened impossibly, and her hands began to tremble. “Clark, you can’t expect me to go to a barbecue with that . . . that . . . oh, God, I’d put a fork in his throat, Clark, I wouldn’t be able to help myself!”
I led her to the kitchen, poured her a glass of wine. We went out on the back porch, sat on the swing and I told her Wylie’s plan in whispers. Several emotions battled for dominance on her face as she thought about it. Finally, she whispered, “We can’t take Melinda if he’s going to be there.”
“You want to leave her here by herself? No way. She’s coming. It’ll be interesting to see her reaction when she sees him there. When we get home tonight, we’ll sit her down and have a talk.”
More seconds passed. “So, you’re really going to do this?”
“What do you mean? Last night, you wanted to do it.”
Suddenly, she threw her arms around me and held me close. “What did we do wrong, Clark? I mean, if he had forced her . . . if it had been against her will . . . that would be different. But you said she seemed to enjoy it. This is something she’s been keeping from us. What did we do wrong?”
I could not answer her question, so I said nothing, just held her.
Wylie’s stereo plays the Dixie Chicks through speakers mounted around the covered patio. In the center of the patio, a large metal tub of ice holds beer and soft drinks. Melinda huddles with Cherine and Erica in a corner, each with a soft drink in hand. Renee is helping Nadine in the kitchen and I wish she were with me now. I sip a Heineken, smile at Melinda. She turns away, looking pissed. I chat with Monica and Phil for a couple minutes, until Wylie joins us, says the burgers and dogs will be on the grill in no time, and then takes me aside.
He quietly says, “Why don’t you go out front, see if that little alfalfa-sprout-eating prick is out there. Maybe he’s not sure which house I’m in.”
“Sure. Do me a favor and keep an eye on the girls, okay? Renee and Melinda are not to leave the premises.”
“I told the girls if they even think of going anywhere tonight, I’ll kill ’em, have ’em stuffed, and we’ll drag ’em out at the holidays to prop up at the table.”
We laugh, then I cross the yard, walk along the far side of the house toward the front. Kate and Barry Murchison are on their way to the backyard and smile.
“Wylie got them burgers cookin’ yet?” Barry asked.
“I think the briquettes are giving him a hard time tonight, Barry.”
“Oh, shit! Briquettes givin’ Wylie a hard time?” His laughter sounds like a bad case of hiccups. “Man, that can’t be good. I bet Wylie’s pissed!�
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“Why would Wylie be pissed?” Kate asks.
Still grinning, Barry says, “Shut up,” and they walk on behind me.
I spot Chick Teklenburg coming up the street on this side. Head down, four fingers stuffed into each pocket of his jeans, something tucked under his left arm. He’s not very big. I could overpower him easily. Get him in the shadows beside Wylie’s house and kill him. Strangle him, maybe. Or maybe I’d just stomp on his skull till it was flat. It would feel so good.
“Hey, Chick,” I say with a smile.
He smiles back, coming closer. “I hope I’m not late.”
“Not at all. Wylie’s still battling the briquettes.” I turn around and we go up Wylie’s driveway together.
“I got involved in work and lost track of time,” he says. “I couldn’t remember what time Wylie told me to come, and I was afraid I was late.”
“Must be nice to do something you enjoy so much, you can lose track of time like that,” I say, wanting to wrap my hands around his scrawny neck, dig my thumbs into his larynx.
He nods. “It’s the only way to live, man. I love my work. It hasn’t made me rich and famous, but it’s made me very happy.”
I want to scoop his eyeballs out of their sockets with my fingers and shove them into his mouth. Instead, I say, “I enjoy my work, but not that much.” He is about to ask, but I don’t wait. “I teach out at Shasta College. English. I like working with young people.” I smile at him. “Of course, the young people I work with all have their clothes on.”
He stumbles to a stop, turns to me. “Huh? I mean . . . what?”
“The model at your place this morning. You said she was naked.”
His head tips back and he laughs, starts walking again. “Oh, yeah. She was, man. And she was beautiful.”
He must know Melinda is my daughter. Unless he’s an idiot. For just a second, there, I thought I’d scared him, but now I’m not so sure. He’s so relaxed, so casual.
“But when you’re working on something,” he says, “you really don’t notice. I mean, the work takes over and you don’t even think about it.”