NOVEMBER
Chapter 14
‘Shona Macready - Family Law’
The name on the card was followed by a local number. I had an early shift at The Bean Counter, so there was no calling her until the break between the military-grade moms and the lunchtime rush. The card was like a block of stone in the pocket of my slacks. Every so often I’d touch it, like a talisman.
The colder weather sharpened appetites for hot coffee and chocolate, and the Counter was buzzing. Moyheddin had not yet been released. We were short-staffed so the branch on North Avenue sent over an Asshole. He was a tall Asshole with a hipster beard, and he bustled about in the tight confines between Gaggia and display cabinets as if I was an inconvenience. He didn’t even trust me to tamp the basket.
“No, no, no!” snapped the Asshole, thinking that attending a two-day course at The Bean Counter academy in Pensacola conferred on him the status of a coffee master. “Pack it too tight and the extraction will be uneven – ergo a bitter taste.”
“No one’s complained before.”
“That’s because this is Main Street. Believe me, they’d notice on North Avenue.”
He snatched the portafilter from my hand, tipped the grounds from the basket and started tamping it afresh.
“Ergo – you’re an asshole,” I said, possibly out of his hearing.
There are few satisfactions in this job, but making sure that the coffee tastes good is one of them. Unable to take charge of the espresso machine, I contented myself with my patented ‘latte art’TM. I use the free-pouring technique, designing with white froth on top of the browny crema. Amongst my specialities is the ever-popular heart design for ‘friends’ who have a smile; there’s the sunflower, for those ‘friends’ who need cheering up; and there’s the skull and crossbones for hard-asses who ask for a treble shot.
The Asshole wasn’t impressed.
“You need to up your work rate, not doodle on the coffee.”
What did he know? People stopped off especially to get a dose of my latte designs. Double Asshole.
So on top of the next latte I found myself drawing a portrait of him – that is, an actual puckered asshole. That cheered me up. But before I could erase the pattern, the real Asshole snatched the mug from my hand and handed it to an uptight woman in a suit. She looked with astonishment at her cup, hopefully thinking that the drawing was just a badly executed sunflower.
*
Mid-morning break.
I ran over to Mr Patel’s grocery to use the phone. The Bean Counter, of course, had no such convenience. It had free Wi-Fi, but nothing as steam-age as a payphone. Mr Patel did not offer wireless high-speed broadband, but he didn’t care how long you stood in the back corridor, feeding quarters into the PTS payphone. And he was open till 11pm, seven days a week (12am Friday/Saturday – 1am Holidays), so in his way he was offering a unique service to the community.
“Shona Macready – family law.”
I expected someone Scottish to answer, with one of those sweet accents that hinted at moorlands covered in heather. The woman on the line was most definitely not from Scotland, and she was exhausted.
She answered the phone in such a listless manner that I wondered if I had called the Inland Revenue by mistake.
“Shona Macready?” I asked.
“That’s what I just said.”
“Right. I wonder if you can help me?”
“Depends.”
It sounded like holding the phone was such an effort that I should spare Shona Macready the strain by hanging up. But this was the only number I had, and right then I needed a friend.
I explained what had happened to Mom. Every so often Shona would interrupt by grunting, and then ask me to spell out a name. She wheezed as she wrote.
“Hold up, girl,” she said as she scribbled furiously. I wondered what kind of attorney-at-law didn’t have a secretary to answer the phone and make notes. Every time she huffed, I fed a quarter into the machine.
“You on a payphone?” she asked.
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh my,” she chuckled. “You don’t have a cell phone?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Call me Shona. Listen, honey, I’ll do for you what I can. By the sound of it, this will have to be paid for by state legal aid. That means I have to apply – huff – and that takes time. So you’re gonna have to be patient. Let me get back to you.”
“But I don’t have a phone.”
“I’ve got your address, honey. Last I heard there was still a postal service.”
*
Moyheddin was in the locker room, arguing with the boss. He was unshaven, and his normally perfect Arabic complexion was grey and lifeless. When I walked in, he was trying to explain why he was late.
“Wait, wait, wait!” said the boss, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry into the coffee shop. “They busted you for drugs?”
“But they didn’t charge either of us, Mr Boss,” explained Moyheddin. “No bail, nothing.”
Our boss, by the way, wasn’t called ‘Mr Boss’, but as he continues to be employed by The Bean Counter, I have to be cautious. The company has very good lawyers.
“That’s great news!” I said, and gave Moy a great hug. He smelt of police cell.
I turned to the boss.
“You see, he wasn’t doing any harm. He was at my house.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” That was his catchphrase. “Moyheddin was at your house, smoking drugs? You’re both drug takers?”
“No!”
“Oh, shit,” cursed the boss, shaking his head. “Wait till head office gets a hold of this.”
If anyone was more scared than me of the multinational coffee corporation, it was Mr Boss.
“Moyheddin,” said the boss, “I gotta let you go.”
“What? But we weren’t charged!”
“Till it dies down, at least. I don’t want cops coming into the shop and seeing a drug dealer at the coffee machine.”
“He’s not a drug dealer,” I said.
“Scout, stay out of it,” shot the boss. “Moyheddin, clear your locker.”
“Sir, Mr Boss—” Moyheddin began to plead.
“Listen, you’re a good worker, Moy. But North Avenue’ve got eyes on this store. They’ve even got a spy in today, who’s gonna report back. For all I know they’re planning to consolidate the two stores.”
“No way?” asked Moyheddin.
“Yes. Way. So, you go now and I’ll hire you back when this thing blows over.”
The fight left Moyheddin. He sighed, and made his way over to his locker.
“No! You can’t do this!” I said. “Moyheddin – don’t let him push you around.”
“You heard the boss. This isn’t just about me – it’s about inter-corporation rivalry. We are just pawns in a bigger game.”
“Mr Boss,” I pleaded, “you can’t do it.”
“I’ve already done it. He’s gone.”
“Right, okay. Then I quit too!”
*
I walked with Moyheddin towards his apartment by the freight yard. I still wore my Bean Counter uniform, because otherwise I would have been walking the cold streets in my underwear.
“That went well,” I said.
Moyheddin wheeled his bike along the sidewalk. The ‘clackety-clack’ of the chain filled the silence between us.
“I’m sorry about what happened last night,” he said.
“It’s not your fault. You were in the house; Mom was safe.”
“It was only a little bit of hashish!”
“Exactly!”
“If I’d known it was the cops calling, I would have eaten it before they came in the house. Stuffed it into my mouth, and they would have been none the wiser. I thought it was you at the door.”
“Poor, trusting Moyheddin. You’ve led the toughest life of all of us, threats of imprisonment and death, and yet you still don’t realise that the universe is out to get you. You’re such an optimist – I love you, Moy!”
He laughed at that, as cheery as possible for a man who had just lost his job.
“So, now what?” I asked.
The roads on this side of town were empty and ran in a straight line into the prairie. Metaphorically and geographically we were in the same place. A vacant road lay ahead, and a dying town behind.
“Me and Riley had a talk last night,” replied Moyheddin. “After we’d made our depositions they put us in the same tank, so we had a long time to think it through. We both want to get out – to New York.”
“New York?”
“Riley’s sister lives in New Jersey, and we could base ourselves there and commute into the city.”
“Does she know about it?”
“Not yet. But it’ll only be for a few weeks, till we get our own place.”
“Sound exciting,” I said, happy for them but feeling a burning pain inside.
“Riley’s always wanted to do the fashion thing. From New Jersey we can travel right into the Garment District. He could get a job as a cutter, a dressmaker or a tailor.”
“And what about you?”
“Me? I make a good coffee.”
We’d reached a fork in the road. Metaphor again, I suppose. Ahead of us, Moyheddin’s rented apartment sat above a dry cleaners. To one side was Brighton Avenue and the route home. We were going separate ways, and who knows when we would see each other again?
A simple act can precipitate a big event. Me going to the Halloween party had changed everything. They call it ‘the butterfly effect’. Right then it felt as if an elephant had crashed through my life, not a butterfly.
“You’ve got my number?” he asked.
“You gonna leave so soon?”
Moyheddin shrugged.
“Why not?”
And so I hugged him hard, the frame of the bike getting in the way, the handlebar digging me in the pelvis. But I didn’t care – Moyheddin was my best friend, and I loved him like a brother.
He hopped on his bike and cycled off with a trill of his bell. I walked backwards, watching him weave down the road and out of sight.
In a single day I had lost my mom, my job and my best friend.
Chapter 15
“Hey, Scout!” It was Molly, shouting through the open window of her Crown Vic.
I didn’t look round at it slowed to match my pace.
“I gotta talk to you.”
“I’m walkin’.”
“I can see that. You want a lift?”
“Not right now.”
Molly’s Crown Vic danced a tango with me all the way up Brighton Avenue.
“Listen, I’m sorry about last night!” she shouted.
“So am I,” and quickened my step.
Mr Missouri’s bookmobile was just ahead, and I scooted behind it, taking cover from Molly’s pursuit.
If only she’d give up!
I was walking so fast that I almost collided with the librarian himself as he stepped down from his cab, whistling his theme tune.
“Hi,” I managed to say by way of apology as I dodged him. His startled eyes bulged behind his round glasses.
Mr Missouri turned to watch as Molly’s police car roared around the bookmobile. Her brake lights flared, and then she was out of the car. Black uniform, gun holster on a utility belt that also held cuffs, a Taser and Mace.
There goes the neighbourhood, he was probably thinking.
“Scout, please, we’ve got to talk.”
“You should have thought about that before you bust into my house last night, arresting my friends and snatching my mom.”
“That’s nothing to do with me, Scout!” she said, running to keep up. “Someone phoned with a complaint, so they had to knock on the door.”
“What complaint? Who made the call?”
“I don’t know. It was anonymous.”
“Anonymous?”
“It was just a routine bust.”
“Wasn’t no bust. They didn’t even charge ‘em, and now Eileen’s in Bethesda. I have to pay for a court order to get her out. So I’ve just about had it with you.”
“Scout, please.” Metal clinked on her belt, and she was out of breath, me walking fast and Molly being a little overweight. I made her pump her short legs. She probably needed the exercise, sitting in that Crown Vic all day.
“Mike told me about last night.”
“Did he now? What about the bit where he stood back and watched them take my mom?”
“He can’t intervene just ‘cos he’s my son. I’ve told him not to. I’ve forbidden it, in fact, because it’s called corruption, and that’s a criminal offence.”
That explains why ‘GI Joe’ became Barbie’s ‘Ken’, I supposed. But it didn’t make me any less angry.
“Mike also told me about what happened with Brianna,” puffed Molly. “That you found her.”
“So he’s informing on me now, is he? What is this, a police state?”
“Actually, he was pretty amazed. He’d worked out that you helped me with the Franklin girl. He talked half the night about you, Scout. I mean, he likes you. And then this talent of yours, well – it’s a gift.”
“Is it?” I asked.
“What happened last night means that your tracking skills are getting better. You’re no longer reading a vague impression – you actually followed that girl’s trail in the dark.”
“She was drunk – all I had to do was follow her stank breath and the dribbles of puke. Only problem was that she didn’t walk in a straight line.”
“Don’t run yourself down, Scout. You’ve got something special.”
I didn’t want to hear any of this. The house was just ahead, so I put on extra speed.
“Just stop, okay!” barked Molly.
“Or what? You gonna arrest me?”
“No, Scout. I need your help. There’s another child gone missing.”
“It’s probably the parents. This whole town is screwed up!”
“That’s not it, Scout.”
I had my key in the front door, but Molly kept after me.
“It’s a boy this time, Scout—“
“Not interested.”
“It’s a boy, snatched in broad daylight from the playground in the city.”
“Not my problem,” I said, struggling with the key.
“No, it’s not. But I thought you might like to know that it’s the same playground the boy went missing from in 1985. The place your mom worked her magic.”
*
Thirty years ago, a killer had stalked the prairie towns. Eileen found the first of his victims, but the killer hadn’t stopped at just one. Many of the children’s bodies had never been found.
It wasn’t the kind of story to brighten my day. Sitting in a cold house, listening to Molly tell me about a child-killer. Halloween is supposed to banish ghouls from the earth, but now I knew that all that was play-acting. The real horrors are with us every day of the year.
“He took a boy from right here in Vermillion City, then there was another in March ’87, and it continued until 1990. Five in all. Then it just stopped.”
“They ever find the guy?”
She shook her head.
“Wasn’t for want of trying. The case comes up for review every so often. They’ve got DNA samples, but so far there’s been no match. Personally I hope he’s rotting in a hole in the ground.”
“And Eileen?” I asked. “What did she do when this guy was taking the boys? Didn’t anyone ask her for help?”
“She went away to college. She was a clever girl, like you. I lost touch –
this was a time before Facebook and all that stuff. She got married, changed her name. Are you going to be like that, Scout? Are you going to run away?”
“What would you think of me if I did?”
“I think you’d be turning your back on a great talent and the people who believe in you.”
Chapter 16
In July 1985, Eileen was taken in the back of a police cruiser across the flatlands to the city. She probably sat in a Crown Vic, it being the cop vehicle of choice. She would have looked out on golden fields ripening in that endless summer. Maybe the radio was playing something by Dire Straits. ‘Money for Nothing’ was a hit on the new cable channel, MTV, and everywhere kids wore hi-top sneakers and jeans with proper waistbands.
Eileen would have been nervous because it was the first time she had told anyone about her talent. Even with a police escort she probably felt like an imposter. Sixteen years old, she needed Molly to go with her to hold her hand and give her strength.
Thirty years later, we drove the same route. Sergeant Molly Maguire couldn’t let me sit up front because it was against regulations, so I peered through the wire mesh at the looming towers of the city. Wind throttled through the concrete ravines as Molly drove off the freeway and into a neighbourhood. It was a public housing project – mainly low-rise, but a few blank-faced blocks reared eight storeys above us.
The patrol car was eyed by listless men as it cruised through the streets. It came to rest at a playground in the heart of the project. In recent years, the city had invested in new equipment and a cushioned surface to protect vulnerable knees and hands. Now a mournful strip of police tape flapped in the cold air.
We stepped out of the Crown Vic. I turned my collar up against the wind, and Molly led me under the tape and into the playground.
“This is where you came, with Mom?” I asked.
“Stood just where you are, Scout. She was so nervous she was shivering, even though it was eighty degrees. She had one of those T-shirts on that said ‘Feed the World’. That was your mom through and through. She only wanted to help other people.”
Molly turned away from me, sniffling as if taking in a big breath, but I could tell that she was blinking back a spill of tears.
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