The Orchid Eater

by Marc Laidlaw

  “Amen to that,” said Scott.

  They all struggled to their feet, realizing that the worst had passed.

  “Can we get a ride, Hawk?” Howard said.

  With a surge of relief, Mike realized that everyone was finally leaving. The house was intact. He’d had a scare, but that was all. It wasn’t going to get any worse. He never had to see any of these guys again. Monday he’d go back to Glantz Appliances and doodle in the storeroom, hang out with Scott, figure out how he was going to get laid. Everything would be the same as before.

  He followed them outside, switching on the carport light. Hawk’s Jeep was a sight, with a huge chrome-plated cross for a hood ornament, a row of glowing Jesus figurines on the dashboard, and verse from the Bible painted all over the sides. He was embarrassed just seeing it on the same block where he lived.

  Howard and Craig clambered into the back, squeezing in beside Stoner. Dusty took the front seat. Hawk slipped into the jeep and the motor roared to life, deafening Mike.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What about my key?”

  Hawk sucked in his cheeks a little, giving Mike a look he couldn’t quite read. Maybe he knew Mike had been fooling when he pretended to agree with the sermonette; maybe Hawk wanted him to barbecue a few minutes longer over the coals of a slow, hellish fire, which was what his dread felt like.

  “Hey, sorry,” Hawk said, “I almost forgot.”

  Mike put his hand out.

  Hawk shrugged at the open palm. “What’s your name? Mike? I’m sorry, Mike, somebody else has it now. Guy named Lupe, I think. You know him?”

  9

  Mike pushed a piece of English muffin around his plate in a smear of egg yolk and hollandaise sauce. Everything glistened sickeningly in the morning sun, bouncing off utensils and the silver coffee pot a waitress had left on their table. His eyes ached, his head throbbed. For about a year after the divorce, when his mother had moved down to Bohemia Bay, he’d had frequent migraines. He’d taught himself to relieve them with the aid of a cheap self-hypnosis manual. Now he felt another coming on, the first in ages, like a hot needle jabbing deep into his right eye. Scott said the brain had no nerve endings in it, but something in there hurt.

  “Are you going to answer me?” his mother asked.

  He avoided her eyes under the pretext of shading his face. Their table, on the patio of the Dumas Père restaurant, sat in direct sunlight.

  “I already said I’m sorry,” he replied.

  “You’re sorry? That’s just great. We give you a little responsibility . . .”

  “We have extra keys,” Jack interjected. Mike looked up at him sharply, surprised to receive any support, least of all from Jack.

  “That’s not the point,” his mother said.

  “What is the point?” Mike said, sounding shrill and false in his own ears. “It fell out of my pocket! What’s so irresponsible about that? I looked for it, but we were hiking around in the hills. It could be anywhere.”

  “Boys get into these things,” Jack said. “Why don’t we just finish enjoying brunch before we get back to packing. We already did a lot last night and this morning, Mike. You and Ryan missed the worst of it.”

  His mother looked at him steadily, as if to say, This isn’t over. “Did you remember to tell Mr. Glantz you need tomorrow off to help us move?”

  He stiffened, because he had forgotten.

  “Mike?”

  “Yes!” he said.

  “Don’t you dare crab at me. You’ve gotten out of plenty of work already. I know you have a job now, but so do we. Jack and I only have so much time to get this done—we can’t loaf around all summer like you kids. What’s the problem, anyway? Didn’t you get any sleep last night?”

  “I slept fine,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong. I’ve just got sort of a headache.”

  She looked dubious, as if she somehow suspected the real story. But there was no way she could know—would ever know—unless he told her. Which he never would.

  He and Scott had slept on the floor of the moon room, in sleeping bags borrowed from Edgar. Or rather, Scott had slept and Mike had lain there restless and unsleeping, thinking of the key, of the gang that had chased them through the dark streets, of how close they had come to disaster—how he’d thought it averted, only to find it crashing down on him again. Hawk’s failure, his own mistake. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He’d wondered all night—worn himself out agonizing over—what his mother would say, and what he would tell her. Instead of dreaming, he had cooked up false but acceptable versions of reality.

  He realized with relief that the scenario for which he’d steeled himself was even now passing. The worst was over.

  Mike drained his orange juice and looked away from the table, knowing his mother would need time to cool off. If he managed not to talk back, things would return to normal by the time they got home. He stared out over the patio’s low cement-block wall, at Central Beach below. The Dumas Père sat on the very brink of an ocean cliff Beneath the patio, ice-plant slopes spilled down to the sand, cut by asphalt trails where tourists and the local senior citizens, in brightly colored sun hats, strolled. The Coast Highway was clogged with traffic; suspended exhaust fumes and heat haze made everything look insubstantial.

  “What’s that?” Jack said.

  It occurred to Mike that he’d been dimly aware of sirens for some time; but suddenly they were all he heard. Down at the traffic light, where Old Creek Road ended at Central Beach, several police cars were turning off the street, driving down the lifeguard road toward the boardwalk and the beach.

  The volleyball courts, busy all day every day in the summer, were deserted now; players and watchers had crowded toward the police, spectators at another sort of event.

  A bright yellow lifeguard Jeep was parked on the sand. The crowd surrounded it, though Mike could see the cops and a few lifeguards pushing back, warning them away. Their shouts came to him seconds after their mouths moved, disjointed by distance. The sirens died with a whoop as the last police car arrived. Far off he heard a fainter alarm. South down the highway, beyond the fancy beach hotels, he caught a flicker of colored lights—hard to distinguish in the overall glare of full noon—and spied an ambulance creeping through the heavy traffic.

  “Looks like a drowning,” Jack said.

  “Oh, how terrible,” said Mrs. James. “I hope it’s not a child.”

  “I’m gonna go see,” Mike said.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said. “Especially with all the work you’ve got to do.”

  “There’s a lot of packing left,” Jack put in, siding with her now, though Mike had the distinct impression that Jack himself would have liked to go down for a closer look, excitement being such a rarity in Bohemia Bay.

  Mike hopped the low wall, landing in a bed of ice plant. “I’ll see you at home,” he called over his shoulder. “Probably beat you there!”

  His mother cried out once, but weakly. He tumbled down the hillside and sprang onto a path, startling an old woman at an easel. She had been painting the most familiar, timeless seascape in Bohemia Bay, only to have it spoiled by cop cars, crowds, and a hint of mortality. Like last night’s first whiff of danger, Mike found the scene irresistible; but an old woman might see such things differently. Incipient migraine forgotten, he rushed down the trails and plunged into the hot sand, his tennis shoes squeaking as he ran toward the crowd.

  He hated his shoes filling up with sand—it was too much like walking in a nightmare—so he made his way to the boardwalk as soon as he could. Joining the crowd, he heard police and lifeguard radios crackling. Most of the onlookers were down on the sand, gathered around the perpetual pool of brackish salt water that dribbled from the Old Creek storm drain. They stood in the muddy sand amid puffs of scummy foam and twists of colored nylon rope and fly-pestered heaps of rotting kelp.

  Mike found a spot on the boardwalk, right above the storm drain. Dropping to all fours, he leaned over the edge of the pla
nks. Voices echoed in the tunnel. A radio hissed, turned down low. Ripples spread out into the murky pool from the tunnel’s mouth, carrying changes of color. Someone in the drain said, “Jesus.” Red clouds fanned from the opening, shot through with darker veins and richer clots of color.

  The people at the water’s edge made sounds of horror and backed up onto dry sand, fearing contact with the water. Mike stared down at a young man’s face, impossibly white, the eyes bulging behind glass. The crowd grew stealthily more silent and began to pass away. His reflection dwindled into darkness. Everyone must have heard his heartbeat. And then the world turned gray, as if he and the sun had both gone behind a cloud.

  Sometime later, opening his eyes, he saw blue sky. He was flat on his back. Hot sand burned his arms and people stood over him, staring down. Closest, kneeling, was a lifeguard, her nose painted white with zinc oxide.

  “Okay, buddy, lie still for a minute. Can you tell me your name?”

  She was taking his pulse, he realized. She laid her palm on Mike’s forehead, probed his neck with strong fingers. Mike’s skin felt clammy, feverish in the heat, but he didn’t feel so bad that he wasn’t already admiring her gleaming tan shoulders, the way sweat beaded and dripped toward her freckled cleavage. She was so close. If only she would lean closer and give him mouth-to-mouth . . .

  “Can you hear me?” she said.

  “Mike James,” he blurted, feeling stupid on top of everything else.

  “How many fingers do you see, Mike?”

  “Three?”

  “Okay. You pass with flying colors. You live around here?”

  “Not far. A few blocks. What happened?”

  “You fainted.”

  “Really?” He tried to sit up, but a wave of weakness washed through him. As it passed, he remembered blood surging into the briny pool, and then clouds closing in.

  Blood. Oh God.

  He twisted around and barfed convulsively in the sand, eyes squinched shut, humiliated to think of the volleyball crowd standing there watching him. It was worse to think that a second ago he’d been wanting to taste the lifeguard’s tongue in his mouth. Now all he felt was nausea.

  When he opened his eyes again, the crowd had turned away, but the woman was still studying him. There was some activity around the mouth of the tunnel, which was only a few feet away. He turned his head to avoid seeing whatever it was.

  “Feeling better?” the lifeguard asked.

  Mike nodded. “Yeah. Was I out long?”

  “Nah, less than a minute. I was coming out of the tunnel, looked up and saw you falling. Nearly scared me to death.”

  “You caught me? Now I’m really embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be.” She kicked sand over what looked remotely like Hollandaise sauce. “You saw more than you could handle, that’s all.”

  “I’m an artist,” he said impulsively, light-headed but still wanting to impress her. “I should be able to look at anything.”

  “Well, we all have our limits. Maybe you should stick to seascapes.”

  He stuck out his tongue. “Bleah.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” She was starting to look impatient.

  “I guess so.” Mike got up, brushing sand from his clothes. He felt clammy but steady enough. “Is—Could I ask what you found in there?”

  “At the risk of making you faint again, it looks like someone was hurt in the pipe. A dog found him, cut up pretty bad.”

  “Hurt? You mean—killed?”

  “Well, the police are keeping us out of there, so I’d say that’s a possibility.”

  “Wow,” Mike said. “Murder.”

  “I better get back to work,” she said, and grinned. “Keeping people like you from seeing more than they want to.”

  “Thanks for, uh, catching me.”

  “No sweat.”

  She padded away down the sandy bank, back toward the pipe. Fortunately, the people were clustered so thickly around the mouth of the tunnel that Mike couldn’t really see much of anything. He watched her legs and ass instead as she walked away through the crowd.

  Things could have been worse. He could have landed in the bloody water, right in front of everybody!

  As he headed for the boardwalk, he saw a familiar figure running toward him across the highway, causing the stranded tourist cars to blurt their horns.

  It was Hawk. He looked winded, messed up, as if he’d run all the way down Old Creek Road from his weird little trailer. Hawk crossed the grass and the boardwalk, running straight to the spot where Mike had knelt and fallen in.

  He stopped at the edge of the planks and shouted down: “Where is he?”

  Hawk didn’t wait for an answer. He jumped, landing with a splash that made the crowd recoil. Hawk thrashed around, struggling to free himself from the mud, dragging toward the storm drain opening; he was spattered with grime and slimy kelp. Before he could reach the pipe, a man came rushing out to meet him.

  It was a police officer, his trousers wet to the knees. He grabbed Hawk by the shoulders and held him back.

  “Lemme go,” Hawk said. “A lifeguard radioed. I know you’ve got one of my boys in there.”

  “It doesn’t matter who’s in there. It’s none of your—”

  Hawk threw off the officer’s hands and tried to get past him. Stopping him required a full body-block. The cop shoved Hawk up against the curved concrete wall just inside the mouth of the pipe, and pinned him there to the crust of dead algae.

  “You can’t go messing around in there, God damn it!”

  Hawk sank back, blinking out at the beach, seeing for the first time that he was the center of a mob’s attention. A few of the lifeguards came to help hold him. He shook them off, looking past the cop into the dark core of the tunnel.

  “Who is it?” he said. “Which one?”

  Mike’s fever intensified. One of Hawk’s boys . . . one of the One-Way Gang. He wanted to be far away from here now, far from last night or any knowledge of Hawk. But his legs wouldn’t carry him. It was all he could do to climb back onto the boardwalk and find the nearest bench.

  A minute later, Hawk hauled himself up from the pool onto the boardwalk and shook like a wet dog, sprinkling bystanders with mud and brine. He paced back and forth, his heavy wet boots loud on the planks, muttering, until he noticed Mike watching. Then he strode over and dropped down on the bench beside him.

  “What do you know?” he said.

  Mike tried to speak, but his mouth was as dry as the beach. He spread his empty hands.

  Hawk gazed at him, then shook his head in surrender. “Ah, fuckin’ cops.” After a moment he looked at Mike again, as if finally recognizing him. “What’re you doing here, anyway?” “I was up . . . there.” He gestured feebly toward the cliffs, the Dumas Père.

  Hawk lurched to his feet and strode over to the edge of the boardwalk again; he peered down at the tunnel, then stormed back. This time he stared over Mike’s head, at the highway.

  Mike twisted around. A stocky man was hurrying through the crosswalk from the gas station. He wore the station uniform, a blue cap and a blue workshirt. He was greasy up to his elbows. When he saw Hawk, he changed direction slightly, ambling toward him. He took a cigarette from his mouth and cocked his head in a casual nod.

  “Hawk. What’s up?”

  “Alec. Something real fucked.”

  “A murder,” Mike blurted.

  “No shit? I been watching for a few minutes, but it’s hard to get a chance to come look. Craig peeled out early today, left me fuckin’ stranded over there.”

  “Craig?” Hawk said suddenly. “Where’d he go?”

  Alec shrugged. “Said he was taking a break for a smoke. I saw him head over to the beach—and then he must’ve just cleared out, the shit. He knows it’s just him and me Sunday morning. Usually he’s reliable. I was hoping you might know if anything was up with him, girl trouble or something.”

  Mike said, “Craig . . . Frost?”

  Hawk grabbed A
lec by the arm, wrenching him around, marching him toward the tunnel. “When was this?”

  “Shit, what’s wrong? Early—you know how early he comes on. Takes his first break around seven-thirty. Watch it, Hawk, you’re gouging me!”

  “Hey!” Hawk yelled again, holding Alec as if he might thrust him over the edge. “Come out here!”

  “Tell that fuck to go away,” came a hollow, echoing voice.

  “Just tell me one thing. Is it Frost? Craig Frost?”

  The same cop came out of the tunnel and squinted up at them, shading his eyes. “I talk to the parents, Hawk. Not you. You’re nobody.”

  Hawk let go of Alec, who staggered backward, windmilling his arms for balance.

  “Hey,” Alec said. “Craig? You mean—? Are you—is this serious?”

  Hawk spun him toward the highway. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s happening? Go where?”

  Mike, almost in spite of himself, fell in behind the men, as if to miss this would be to miss everything. He couldn’t resist gathering any possible scrap of explanation. Craig Frost had for months been a familiar sight early in the morning, at the pumps. To think that last night they’d been hiding in Mike’s house together, Craig swearing and laughing and dreaming up stupid schemes, and now . . .

  Behind them, the cop was shouting: “Bring him back here, you bastard!”

  “I guess they want to talk to you,” Hawk said smugly.

  “Why?” Alec asked.

  “Because it’s Craig in there, and they just figured out you’re probably the last one who saw him. But I get first shot at you, don’t I? Don’t I, Alec?”

  “First shot at—Oh Jesus, Hawk, what are you saying? What happened to Craig?”

  They reached the street. For once, the traffic was moving, Sunday drivers flying by, so close that Mike could have reached out and touched the chrome trim of the Cadillacs, or whacked a sideview mirror so hard it would take off his hand. Hawk glanced back. Mike looked, too, and saw the cop struggling up onto the boardwalk.

  “I’m going to let go of you, Alec,” Hawk said. “When I do, I want you to get in your truck and drive out to my place. Then we’re going to have a talk, all right?”