by Mike Nappa
Eulalie looked at The Raven with eyes that showed new respect. “Should I ask where?” she said.
“None of your business,” Trudi said, but not unkindly. “Just put a seven-thirty appointment on my schedule.”
“Consider it done,” she said. She nodded toward the visitor on her way out. “And have a good time.”
“Oh, don’t worry, we will,” The Raven said. “She has to watch me dance.”
16
Raven
Atlanta, GA
Old Fourth Ward
Friday, March 24, 11:41 a.m.
21 days to Nevermore
My father used to say that joy is a gift from God, a minor proof that he not only exists, but that he also cares about his creation. I never really understood what he meant when I was younger, but right now it almost makes sense.
I have a date tonight with the woman of my dreams.
That thought fills me with a certain kind of joy I haven’t felt in a long, long time. It’s at once terrifying and exhilarating, like the feeling you get from walking onstage to perform in front of a thousand people, or the giddy excitement you have just after you’ve been strapped into the Goliath roller coaster at Six Flags Over Georgia. I just feel . . . happy. And it’s nice. Makes me want to revel in a moment of gratefulness for the good things that can happen in a life.
I feel the strength of my legs pumping on the pedals of my Jamis Coda Sport bike, breathe in the air of mid-morning, and feel somehow more alive than I did two hours ago. Traffic is sweeping precariously around me, but at this moment I am nigh invulnerable.
“Yeaahh-haa!” I shout, and I don’t even care that the guy in the Camry on my left had to slam on his brakes to avoid clipping my back tire before completing his right turn. Let him honk, I tell myself. He’s not in love.
I do feel grateful, and somehow that makes me aware of the idea of God. “In moments of hardship we learn to trust in God,” my daddy used to preach, “but it’s in the moments of raw gratefulness that we finally begin to know him.”
Is that really true? I wonder. Is he present in these moments of joy? Can he be near enough to notice? Does he even care whether I’m happy or not?
This thought sobers me a little. If God is the source of all joy, as Daddy used to say, and if I’m caught up in a taste of that joy—however fleeting it might be—am I actually intuiting his presence in this moment? If I feel this otherworldly sense of gratefulness right now, doesn’t it stand to reason it’s because there is something, or Someone, to whom I am instinctively grateful?
My mind races like my legs on this bike, remembering my father’s faith and the way he lived it out. He had plenty of hard times, more than his share of sorrows. Yet he also seemed to find some kind of joy in almost everything. His laugh is what I remember most about him. Full, open, trusting. He laughed easily and often.
Maybe the annoying old guy did understand what it meant to know God. At least just a little.
I zip through another intersection, shoulders down low, imagining my legs as pistons firing on all cylinders. The wind dries my eyes and tickles my ears. I feel like laughing too, but the sound doesn’t quite come out.
“I never stopped believing in you,” I shout to the sky instead. I just stopped believing you cared.
Even I don’t want to say that last part out loud. But it’s okay to think it, I decide. It’s not like God would be surprised by my opinions about him. At least we’re on speaking terms right now, and that’s an improvement. Today maybe God is thinking of me, after all. Or maybe not. I never can tell with him. But this much I know:
Tonight I’m going to meet Trudi Coffey at Eclipse di Luna in Buckhead. And we’re going to laugh and talk and maybe even dance. When it’s over, Trudi Coffey just might start falling in love with me, but even if she doesn’t, tonight will still be everything I’ve hoped for. Even if it lasts only for tonight.
“Yeaahh-haa!” I shout again, and I finally let up on the pedals of my bike. I’m breathing hard, but I’m almost home. And I can’t stop grinning.
There are only a few cars lining the street when I get to my apartment. A Nissan Sentra. A beat-up Honda Civic. Some kind of Toyota hybrid. A Cadillac Escalade ESV. And even a Ford F-150 truck that seems way too big to fit on this little street.
“I should get flowers,” I say to myself. But it’s getting closer to lunchtime, and my empty stomach is complaining, reminding me that I skipped breakfast because I was too nervous to eat. The stomach wins. It won’t take long to grab a bite anyway.
I’m tempted to leave my bike at the bottom of the steps just long enough to run up and get a sandwich. It’d save me from having to carry it back down again in fifteen minutes when I go out to get roses or something. But I’ve lived too long in a big city. I know it takes only sixty seconds for something you need to get stolen, and I need this bicycle to get me around Atlanta. I picked it out just for city riding, just so I could make it around to my chosen performance sites at Freedom Park, Piedmont Park, and sometimes even Centennial Olympic Park. Without my Jamis Coda, I’m unemployed. Best to bring it in.
Upstairs, I stash the bike in its normal place on the balcony and then hit the refrigerator. It’s nice to have food in here again. Not much by some standards, but enough for me. I’ve been working hard all week, and that does have its benefits, namely a bunch of frozen dinners, lunch meat, bread, some grapes and—rare treat!—a twelve-pack of Mountain Dew.
The Dew gets my attention first. Then I find myself trying to decide between a roast beef sandwich or Stouffer’s spaghetti and meatballs.
Before I can finish the first swallow of my drink, I hear a knock at the door.
“Pizza delivery!” a voice sings.
I feel my heart seize a split second before I hear the blood flooding into my eardrums.
Did I lock the front door when I came in?
I set my drink on the counter and try not to breathe. There’s no rattling of the doorknob, no sound of shuffling feet in the hallway. Nothing.
Did I imagine it? Am I going crazy?
I risk tiptoeing across the apartment to peek out the balcony window. The street is empty, except for the same random cars I saw when I got home. In my head, I hear Trudi’s voice from when we first met. Those guys might come back. Are you prepared for that?
Still no sounds. No new noises. Nothing. Every second feels like an hour passing. My hands are trembling, so I stuff them in the pockets of my jeans. I turn to face the door, but I’m not sure what to do about it.
Maybe, I think, Trudi’s warning has just got me spooked. Maybe it was nothing, or maybe it was a delivery for the lady across the hall.
I skim over the fact that the lady across the hall is a nurse who works twelve-hour shifts on Fridays. Maybe she skipped work today. Maybe she got sick. Even nurses get sick, right?
Then I know it’s not my imagination, because I see the knob on the door twist, just a little bit, jiggling left to right as someone tests the lock.
All right, I locked the doorknob for once. Wish I’d locked the deadbolt too.
Then another series of knocks, lazy and bored, like I’m wasting somebody’s time.
One.
Two. Three.
Four.
“Might as well open up, Raven,” the voice says. “I saw you go in, so I know you’re there.”
Now I don’t hesitate. Trudi is practically screaming in my head. If those thugs come back, remember your best exit is out that balcony door . . .
I don’t bother to collect anything. I just turn and burst through the curtains onto the balcony. The street is still empty of people. I think about tossing my bike over the railing, but even that seems too time-consuming. It’s about a ten-foot drop, Trudi’s voice reminds me, so hang by your hands first. Don’t just jump off the top. Easy enough.
I’m over the side and measuring distances with my eyes in seconds. Kneel on the edge, grip the base of the railing, let myself down like I’m doing the back end of a clumsy
little chin-up. When my head dips below the balcony floor, I realize all is lost.
“Hello, Raven.”
Pavlo is underneath my balcony, on the porch of my downstairs neighbor. Standing there, he was hidden from my view above, but now I see all of him, grinning evilly, leaning with his back against the wall next to my neighbor’s back door.
I’m hanging with my arms outstretched and my feet about twenty-four inches off the ground.
So close.
I’m thinking maybe I could still drop to the ground and make a run for it. This guy obviously eats more than he exercises. I’m pretty sure I could outrun him. But before I can make a move, Pavlo detaches from the wall and steps toward me. He doesn’t bother with pleasantries this time, just plants his knuckles next to my left kidney. He hits me with a casual ferocity that makes me crumple into a heap at his feet. I’m lying there trying to breathe when he gives me a kick for good measure.
“He down there?” someone calls from the balcony above us.
I recognize the voice now. It’s the football player looking down from above, the guy I nicknamed Scholarship at our last meeting. Maybe I need to learn that guy’s real name, I think absently. Apparently Scholarship got tired of waiting for me to open the door and either broke it open or picked the lock. Now he’s leaning over the edge of the railing on my balcony, and I hear him swear at the goon hovering over me.
“Pavlo, you big, dumb idiot, didn’t I tell you not to break him? Didn’t Viktor tell us both that?”
“He fine,” Pavlo says defensively. “He was trying to run. I just stopped him running. That’s all.”
“Well, give him a minute to catch his breath, then get him up here,” Scholarship says. And to me he adds, “You shouldn’t have tried to run, kid. But my sister hits harder than Pavlo. You’ll be fine.”
Underneath the balcony, where Scholarship can’t see it, Pavlo grimaces and makes an obscene hand gesture. When the football player disappears, the brute reaches down and hauls me to my feet. It’s hard to breathe, but I’m able to rasp, “He said to give me a minute.” I don’t know why that really matters, but every moment counts to me right now.
“Minute over,” Pavlo says. “Up.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“How about I choke your head? You want that?”
“I’m going.”
At the top of the stairs, I see that Scholarship didn’t waste time with lock picks. The doorframe is busted out where the knob normally latches into the trim. My guess is that the beast just kicked the knob with one of his monster feet, and the old construction of this building didn’t fight much before opening for him.
Pavlo ushers me into the kitchen, where Scholarship is busy at work. The microwave is running. Why is this guy always eating my food? I wonder. Doesn’t Max Roman pay him enough to buy groceries?
There’s a bag of ice on my kitchen floor and another bag being dumped into my sink.
“Stand here,” Pavlo says, pushing me in front of the sink.
The timer dings on the microwave.
Pavlo shoves my hands onto the ice that’s already in the sink, then he reaches down and tears open the other ice bag. Five seconds later, my hands are buried in freezing cold. The goon leans over until he’s nose-to-nose with me, eyes narrowed and looking up into mine.
“Don’t move, got it? You move and I hit you more. Got it?”
I nod.
Scholarship opens the microwave and pulls out a cup filled with hot water. He reaches in a pocket and produces two gourmet tea bags.
“You like chamomile or Earl Grey?” he says to me.
“Uh . . .”
Is he inviting me to a tea party? Should I bring out my dollies or something?
“Let’s go with chamomile,” he says, studying me. “It’s calming.”
He rips open the wrapper and starts the tea steeping.
“You miss us?” Scholarship says by way of conversation.
“Not really,” I say. I brace myself for a smack from Pavlo, but he’s passive now.
“You know,” the football player says, “we got interrupted before we could finish our discussion with you last time.”
“What do you mean? I gave you everything you wanted. And you beat the living daylights out of me just for fun. Good times, right?”
Pavlo chuckles, and Scholarship just shakes his head. I realize I’m losing all feeling in my fingers, and I notice that standing with your hands stuffed into a big pile of ice cubes is kind of hard on the spine too. Something about the awkward posture, I guess.
Scholarship raises the cup to his lips and blows on the liquid a bit before removing the tea bag. He drops the wet bag onto the counter.
“That’s going to leave a stain,” I say. It’s something my mother used to tell me, and I guess I felt it was necessary to impart that little bit of kitchen wisdom to the guy threatening to torture me again. To my surprise, he nods and picks up the tea bag, wiping the counter with his truck-sized hand to clean off the stain.
“My apologies,” he says with a friendly air. He turns and drops the bag into the trash, then blows on the hot tea again, swishing the liquid in the cup to help it cool. “Still too hot. Pav, hand me a few ice cubes. Don’t want the kid to burn the roof of his mouth.”
“Listen,” I say. The cold of the ice is moving up my hands and making me shiver a little. “I learned my lesson already. You guys were very convincing last time. I’m on the straight and narrow now. No more stealing for me, not from Max Roman or anybody. I’m a new man. Honest.”
Pavlo tilts his head and looks amused. Scholarship nods, interested but distracted by the cup of chamomile tea. He lifts it to his lips and touches the liquid to his mouth. He nods.
“I think that’s about right,” he says to Pavlo. The dumpy guy nods and looks bored. “Here,” he continues, putting the cup up to my lips now, “drink this.”
“Not thirsty.”
Pavlo immediately grabs the back of my neck with his left hand and reaches toward my jaw with his right.
“No, no!” I gag. “I’ll drink it! I’ll drink it.”
The goon looks to the other man, who nods. “Let him go, Pav. He’s a new man, remember? He won’t give us any trouble, right, kid?”
I nod. What else is there to do?
With Scholarship as my nurse, I swallow the first few gulps of the tea. He pulls back to let me catch my breath. “Needs sugar,” I say, and he laughs out loud at that.
“I like you, kid,” he says. “We’re going to get along just fine.”
Going to get along? I wonder. What does that mean?
He lifts the cup again, and before long all of the tea is gone. There’s a strange aftertaste I can’t place, but I’m also under a lot of pressure at the moment, so I figure I can give myself a break on that point.
“Good,” Scholarship says. “How long now?”
“What?” I check the clock in the kitchen. It’s high noon.
“About fifteen minutes,” Pavlo says. “Maybe twenty for a boy his size.”
“Wait. What? What are you talking about?”
Scholarship pats my shoulder. “You’re doing great, kid. You just relax for a bit, okay?”
Suddenly I feel like crying. I didn’t like it the first time these guys visited my apartment, but I was never really afraid of them then. Now I look at this football player, and then at the dumpy one, and this visit seems different. They’re calm, all business. Like they’ve done this a hundred times. I suddenly notice that their boss, Viktor, didn’t join them this time. I worry that the reason Viktor’s not here is because they don’t need Viktor here. Not today.
I’m not sure why, but I can’t quite stop my heart from racing. I finally confess to myself what I’ve been trying hard not to admit.
I’m scared.
“What do you want from me?” I say quietly. I can’t keep my voice from quivering.
Scholarship turns and opens my refrigerator door. I can tell he’s happy to find food
in there.
“Well, you see, kid,” he says, leaning down to remove my last container of strawberry yogurt, “you owe Max Roman ten thousand dollars. And we’re here to collect it.”
17
Trudi
Atlanta, GA
West Midtown
Friday, March 24, 12:01 p.m.
21 days to Nevermore
“I’m going to sneak over to Taco Bell,” Eulalie said to her boss. “I can’t stop thinking about a Chicken Fresco Burrito Supreme and a Diet Coke.”
Trudi clicked the mouse on her computer. “Mm-hmm.”
“Want me to pick something up for you?”
“Mm-hmm.” Click. Click.
“How about elephant tacos with shredded cardboard seasoning? That sound good?”
“Mm-hmm. That’s fine.”
Eulalie leaned her shoulder against the doorframe and waited. After a moment, Trudi looked up, surprised.
“Oh,” she said, “sorry. What were you saying? You want to go on an elephant ride? Is there a circus in town or something?”
Eulalie moved to one of the guest seats in the office. “That Raven guy is all up in your head, huh? He is kind of cute. A little skinny for my taste, but I can see why a girl would look twice. He’s funny too. I always like a guy who can make me laugh.”
“No, it’s not that,” Trudi said. “Well, okay, yes, he is cute if you’re a co-ed. But what’s got me stuck is how he did that mind-reading trick. It was just so random.”
Eulalie laughed. “You are always a detective,” she said. “You can’t live unless you know everybody’s secrets. It was a magic trick. Why not just enjoy it?”
Trudi wanted to argue, but her assistant was right. Why fight it?
After The Raven had left earlier, Trudi and Eulalie had gathered in her office. Eula had brought in a resealable Ziploc bag and another napkin.
“That was good thinking,” Trudi had said. Eulalie seemed to appreciate the compliment.
“Should I empty the water bottle first or just seal it with the cap again?” She leaned down and picked up the Perrier from where The Raven had left it.