by A W Hartoin
“Fine with me.”
“I’ll follow you home.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not in need of a babysitter.”
“You and Rod want to be alone?”
“Follow me.”
An hour later, Rodney moved his sleepy self to Morty’s car and I went to bed. I did set the alarm for noon, but I never heard it go off. I didn’t hear the phone ringing either. When I did wake up, I found six irate messages from Mort on my machine. It seemed Jamie Crane had been shot to death at four-thirty in the morning at his Florissant address. An hour later I was at Morty’s apartment.
Morty in his PJ’s was something I never expected to see, but there he was. They were a striped flannel affair that didn’t fit any better than his black sweats.
“I cannot believe we missed a murder by forty-five minutes. Christ!”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Rodney heard it on the scanner.”
“Why does Rodney have a scanner?”
“He likes to keep current.”
“Don’t serial killers do that?”
“He’s not a serial killer.”
I raised an eyebrow. I could see Rod as a serial killer. No problem. “Fine. Any suspects?”
“Terry Obermark for heaven’s sake. Can you believe that shit! We gotta get her tonight.”
“Charley?”
“Yes, Charley. Are you in there?” He tapped me on the side of the head and handed me a cappuccino. Morty makes a mean mocha.
“Tonight sounds good to me.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight. Bring the pepper spray. Do you have a gun?”
“I’m not licensed to carry.”
“Shit, that’s right. Don’t worry, I’ll think of something.”
“Don’t you have a game tonight?”
“Look. Charley belonged to Jamie. He’s dead and she’s going to become someone else’s property. And I doubt it will be in St. Louis. Screw the game.”
I hadn’t been worried until he’d said that. Dungeon masters do not say “Screw the game.” I’ve known Morty since I was twelve and he only missed one Saturday night in all those years. My appendix burst and he waited at the hospital with Mom and Dad while I was in surgery. Plus, he hadn’t mentioned what this was going to cost me.
I left Morty tugging at his pajama top and went grocery shopping. When I got home, Pete was snoring in the bedroom with Skanky curled up on his chest like a furry brick. I took a shower and fought the urge to go stealth myself. Instead, I put on my favorite worn-out jeans with a turtleneck and ski jacket. With cowboy boots for style, I was ready.
Morty knocked on my door at eight and he wasn’t alone. His cronies were all in stealth mode and three out of four had tool belts. Aaron didn’t have one. He couldn’t keep his pants up normally.
“What’s the deal?” I said, pointing at the extras.
“Since there’s no game, we decided to ride along,” said Steve tugging at his pants.
“Are you kidding me with this?”
“Problem?” said Mort.
Define problem. “Er… The more the merrier.”
“Good. Let’s hit it. What’s that noise?”
“Pete’s sleeping.”
“Doesn’t he want to go?” asked Aaron.
Oh, yeah. He’s dying to hang out with three, maybe four social misfits with chili breath and chronic weirdness. It didn’t help that every time they saw him, they watched him like he was a separate species.
“He’s tired,” I said.
We went downstairs and split up. Mort got Rodney and Steve. I got Aaron. Fantastic. It took forty-five minutes to get to Jamie Crane’s former residence and Aaron never stopped talking. He covered his mother, chili, his back, his mother again, Morty as a dungeon master and hot dogs, for some reason. I had to pinch my thighs to stay awake. The next time I had insomnia, I knew who to call.
Jamie’s house was busy, despite his murder the night before. The crime scene tape was down and half a dozen people were coming and going. I used my binoculars and I saw two young girls coming out the side door. Neither were Charley. Then a Mercedes dropped off a couple more girls. At ten-thirty, somebody turned on a stereo and the house started rocking.
Dozens of men and young girls milled around the house and yard, getting friendly. I was surprised nobody had called the cops yet. The quiet family types in the neighborhood probably didn’t appreciate Jamie’s wake, but maybe they knew who they were dealing with and decided to turn a blind eye. I didn’t see Charley. If we had to spend the entire night, I wasn’t sure Aaron would survive it. He’d moved on to the topic of toenail fungus and kept threatening to take off his shoes, so I could get a better look.
Thankfully, the cops rolled up at eleven, just after I got done painting clear nail polish on Aaron’s crusty yellow toenails. Sometimes polish helped and I did have that powerful disinfectant that Pete put in my emergency kit.
I climbed out of the cab in a cloud of noxious disinfectant and watched as the party scattered. I spied a skinny girl with blond pigtails sprinting out the side door. She ran into the backyard and hopped the back fence. I sprinted after her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mort squeal his tires.
She didn’t notice me following and slowed down after three blocks. Aaron was somewhere behind me, breathing heavy and stumbling through garbage. I had to give it to him, he didn’t give up. We landed at a 7-Eleven after a half hour of walking. I was beat, but Charley was skipping. I watched her mill through the aisles and Morty pulled in the far end of the lot. He parked and gave me a thumbs-up. I wished for a plan. Mostly, I wanted to put her in a headlock and drag her into the car. But since I didn’t want to get arrested, I’d have to talk her in.
Charley shopped for twenty minutes and Aaron finally showed. He staggered into the parking lot, put his hands on his knees and swayed like a drunk. I grabbed him and pulled him behind a minivan. He sucked air and sweat ran down his red face, despite the cold.
“I made it,” he gasped.
I patted his shoulder. “You did great.”
“I took so long because I had to put my shoes on.”
Yep, that’s the reason, not the extra fifty pounds.
“It was really hard to get my socks on.”
I slapped my forehead. “Oh my god. Your toenails were wet. You should’ve stayed in the truck. Now your socks are going to be glued to your toes.”
“I had to stay with you. Morty ordered me to.” Aaron blinked at me from behind his extra-thick glasses and swayed again. My bodyguard.
“Well, if Morty ordered you to,” I said, shivering.
I looked back inside the 7-Eleven. What the hell was she buying? My feet were numb and I was pissed off. Morty and his pals yucking it up in his car, warm as the Caribbean. Rodney thumbed his nose at me and Steve tried to moon me, but he couldn’t get his pants out from under his tool belt. I made a mental note to ask him why he was trying to take a dump in the backseat. It’d take him weeks to recover from that one.
Charley finally came out of the store and went around the corner. I went the opposite way with Aaron trotting behind me. We came at her from the back. I made like I was making a phone call. She leaned against the wall with a foot up and lit a cigarette. She glanced at me and pulled out a tiny cell phone. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she didn’t leave. I pocketed my phone and gave her a look. She glanced away and took a deep puff.
I walked over. “I haven’t been getting much sleep.”
She ignored me and checked her watch. Jamie had done a good job. I’d have taken her for ten in a minute, maybe younger. She wore a denim mini with pink sparkly tights, pink Sketchers and a fleece pullover. Over her shoulder, she carried a Hello Kitty backpack. That backpack made me nauseous. Her hair had been bleached to a delicate blond and glitter clips held it back. Her face wasn’t so young. It held a studied bored look, while her eyes darted around.
“Been keeping late hours,” I said.
“Like I care,�
�� she said.
“I’m not big on late nights, but I guess you are, Charley.”
Her cigarette hand dropped. “What?”
“You’ve been keeping me up nights, talking to people, driving around. Terry says hello.”
“I don’t know anyone named Terry. Go away. What are you, some kind of lesbian freak?”
“You know, Terry Obermark. He murdered your pimp, Jamie, last night.”
She snorted. “Yeah, right.”
Aaron came up behind me and waved to Charley. “Hi.”
She stared at him for a second, dropped her cigarette, and tried to walk away. I grabbed her arm a little harder than I should have.
“Ow! What the hell!”
“It’s time to go home, Charley.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m going to scream.”
“Go ahead. The cops can take care of you and I’ll go home.”
“You’ll go to jail.”
“That’s a good one. Who are you waiting for? Your dealer or your pimp?”
“I don’t have a pimp. Get off me!”
“That’s right. Terry took care of him.”
“Don’t be stupid. Terry couldn’t do anything to Jamie.”
“I’ve seen the website,” I said, gripping her arm tighter.
“What website? Let go!”
“Lolitagirl.com.”
“So what? Who cares?”
“Your parents, the cops, maybe even me. Shall I go on?”
“I’m going to do what I want. I’m going to have what I want. It’s a free country, you know.”
“No, it isn’t. You are not free to have crimes perpetrated on you.”
“Nobody’s doing nothing to me that I don’t want them to do.”
“When you’re thirteen you’re not free to choose.”
She stopped struggling and got in my face. “I do choose. I say what happens.”
The look on her small face stopped me cold.
“Terry didn’t kill Jamie, did he?” I asked.
“No duh. Now you’re catching on.”
“The cops think Jamie was killed so someone could take over the business.”
“At least they got something right.”
“So you’re what, some kind of entrepreneur?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
“Someone with big ideas and a plan.”
“Yeah, that’s me. I’ve got a plan and some loser wannabe Marilyn Monroe isn’t going to stop me.”
Charley kicked me in the shin and yanked back hard. I managed to hang onto her sleeve while cursing and hopping around on one foot. She twisted and kicked me in the other shin. Aaron’s arm shot out and grabbed her by the hair.
“Nobody kicks Mercy,” he said while dodging her sharp little feet.
Uncle Morty came around the corner and laughed at me, rubbing my shins. Rodney ran up and tried to do a Vulcan death grip on Charley’s shoulder. It didn’t work. She slugged Rodney in the stomach and Steve gave the death grip a try. In a second he was doubled over, gasping for breath.
“This is ridiculous,” I said, trying to grab her wrist.
Morty cracked his knuckles and said, “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He got behind Charley.
“Not the stupid Vulcan thing. Just grab her.”
Morty grabbed her shoulder and she squealed, dropping to her knees.
“Let go. Let go,” said Charley.
“Not a chance.”
Aaron let go of her hair and started examining his fingernails. I leaned against the wall of the 7-Eleven, marveling that no one in the apartment buildings behind the store had come out to save Charley. Judging by appearances, we were a bunch of adults going after a kid. I couldn’t believe no one cared enough to help her.
Rodney cocked his head. “There’s the cops. I’ll get them.” He ran around the building.
“I’ll just run away again,” said Charley, still on her knees, but looking more defiant every second.
“Look, I’m a nurse,” I said. “It took me a week to find you. If you go again, you’ll have my dad on your ass and he’s a lot less friendly.”
“You’re a bitch.”
“So you can imagine what he’s like.”
“I’ll still go.”
“You’re wearing me out.”
“What do you care anyway?”
“My great aunt is Sister Miriam.”
“Oh.” She slumped and Morty’s grip loosened. The instant he relaxed, she pushed me and ran around the building. I caught her at the edge behind Morty’s car. We wrestled against the bumper. The gang followed us, watching as Charley slapped me silly.
“Help me, you idiots!”
I started dragging her toward the back door of Morty’s car.
“You’re doing okay,” said Morty, picking at something between his teeth.
“You’re worthless!”
I got my hand on the door handle and a woman started yelling from behind me.
“Let go of that little girl!”
I turned. An enormous woman in spandex and a poncho ran towards us.
“I’m calling the cops. I mean it. You let her go.”
“Wait…”
Before I could finish she swung her giant handbag at me. I ducked, it biffed Charley upside the head and broke Morty’s window. Charley fell on her butt and Morty charged over.
“Are you crazy? You broke my window,” he said.
“She was kidnapping that girl!” the woman screamed.
Morty gave himself a good head slap.
“You should’ve helped me,” I said.
“Pipe down. Here they come,” Morty said as two squad cars squealed into the lot and stopped five feet from us. My cousin Chuck wasn’t in either. He couldn’t be bothered on a Saturday night. I pulled the ranking officer aside and told him my theory that Charley killed Jamie Crane. He looked at Charley in her pigtails and sparkly tights and laughed in my face. I couldn’t blame him. It did seem pretty ridiculous. Her looks were deceiving. They’d be getting her in and out of a lot of trouble. I had the sneaking suspicion that I hadn’t seen the last of her.
After we’d all made our statements and the big lady was given a Yoo-hoo, Charley finally understood she was going.
As she got into a squad car, I said, “See, you should’ve gone with me. Now you have to spend the night in juvie.” She probably should’ve been spending the next five years, but there didn’t seem any point in saying it.
“I hate you!” she yelled.
“You’re welcome.”
That got a nice laugh from the group. The big lady kept apologizing to me and trying to wipe Charley’s snot off her bag. Morty couldn’t stop grousing about the window until I offered to pay for it. Fat chance. Steve and Rodney said it was the most exciting Saturday night of their lives and so did Aaron after his breathing normalized. Morty turned purple and said he’d blow them away with next Saturday’s game.
I was going to drop Aaron off at home, but after he spent the ride trying to peel his socks off his toes, I took him to my apartment. I soaked his feet in acetone, repainted his toes, and put him in my bed. He snored while Skanky clambered all over him, giving him a good sniff and finally settling on his chest. I slept on the couch, only to wake up when Pete came in at eight in the morning.
“There’s a nerd in your bed,” he said.
“It’s not permanent.”
“If you feed him, he’ll never leave.”
“I’m definitely not feeding him.”
Pete curled up with me. A couple of hours later, we awoke to the smell of chili and tater tots. Aaron was sitting cross-legged in front of the TV like a five-year-old, eating chili out of the can and watching The Wrath of Khan.
Pete sat up and stretched. “Now you’ve done it.”
“I didn’t do it. I don’t have tater tots, canned chili, or that movie.”
“That movie is a classic.”
Aaron jumped
up. “You’re awake. You want an omelet? I can make omelets or a quiche. You want a frittata?”
“If you can make a frittata, why are you eating chili out of a can?” I asked.
“Tastes good,” he said.
“What’s a frittata?” asked Pete.
“It’s like a quiche but without the crust,” I said.
“I could go for that.”
Aaron trotted into the kitchen. Within two minutes, the smell of peppers, onion, and garlic sautéing in butter filled the apartment. Then Aaron trotted back out, gave us coffee, and restarted the movie.
“I like your new roommate,” said Pete.
“I’m never painting anyone’s toenails ever again.”
“What does that mean?”
Before I could answer, the doorbell starting ringing. One solid ring. No pauses. No escape.
Aaron peeked out of the kitchen. I shook my head and mouthed, “We’re not here.”
The doorbell kept going. It started to sound angry and familial.
“Mercy, I know you’re in there!” yelled Aunt Miriam. “I can smell the peppers and onions. Do you know the Samuelsons?”
Unbelievable.
The End
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THIS IS AN excerpt from A Good Man Gone by A.W. Hartoin.
I crouched on the edge of my parents’ bed, my toes gripping the side board until I stood and let fly. I fell, eyes closed, into the marshmallow fluff of what my mother called The Oasis. I lay, face down, sinking into the double layers of down, smelling Mom’s perfume and feeling the stress flow out of me. Heaven. It didn’t get any better. Well, maybe a mouth full of dark chocolate would’ve upped the ante, but it was pretty much bliss, especially after my last two weeks.
I’d just finished a double shift in St. James’s emergency room, at time-and-a-half, thank you very much. Two and a half weeks in any ER was way too much. I was sick to death of drunk-driving accidents and ear infections. Lucky for me, I didn’t have to go back. I worked PRN, which meant I worked through an agency and filled in when somebody was short a nurse. I didn’t love being a nurse, but I liked it. Which was something I couldn’t quite explain. People thought nursing was warm and fuzzy, helping people, curing the ill, all that crap. For me, it meant getting vomited on or felt up at least a once a week. I seemed to bring it out in people, the worst, I mean. I walked in the room and people did what they quickly wished they hadn’t. But still I liked nursing, and I was good at it. There’s a lot to be said for being good at something and, occasionally, people were grateful. Plus, I set my own hours. That was the part that my dad loved. I could set my schedule to suit him. It was enough to make me consider a permanent position.