“Shit. Whatever, Cheerleader.” Cracker smiles and lets out a happy laugh.
“Cracker!” Lori yells, appearing from behind us.
Cracker turns, and Lori’s open hand strikes her hard across the face.
The slap stuns all of us and knocks the bottle of water out of Cracker’s hand.
“What the fuck!” Cracker holds her face.
“Are you fucking stupid or something? You made a fuckin’ scrapbook?” Lori says, trying to keep her voice down.
“Yeah. So what?” Cracker responds.
“So what?” Lori steps into Cracker’s face, her pencil-thin eyebrows ready to snap.
“Jesus, Cracker…” Natice says in disbelief.
“What, Natice? You got a problem?”
“I got a fuckin’ problem! Who else you show it to?” Lori asks.
“No one. Just Tray’s friend,” Cracker says.
“Take your stupid ass home now and burn that shit!” Lori orders. “Ally, give her a ride!”
Cracker is silent for most of the ride, except for when I hear her say, “Lori hits me one more time… I swear to God.” Meanwhile, I’m a ball of nerves, trying to think of an excuse to get inside her apartment. If Cracker has a scrapbook, I want to see exactly what’s in it. It isn’t until I park in front of her building that I turn to her and ask, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“I don’t give a fuck.” Cracker slams the door.
I follow Cracker up four flights of filthy stairs and down a long, dingy hallway. Crack vials and dirty syringes litter the ground. The walls are caked in grime, snot, and God knows what else. Cracker doesn’t say a word, and once again, I get that sinking feel of being on a rollercoaster. Steadily climbing up to the top, I wonder—will Cracker even show me the scrapbook?
Finally, we reach the end of the hall, and Cracker unlocks the door to her apartment and pushes her way in. I trail from behind and see the two young faces I saw staring out the window when I first stalked Cracker’s apartment: a younger brother and sister. They sit on a worn couch watching TV and drinking soda. Behind them is a bedsheet used as a curtain. We cross in front of the TV, and Cracker slams a button, sending the TV into darkness.
“Hey!” her brother yells.
“Shut the fuck up,” Cracker tells him.
I step out of her brother’s way as he moves off the couch and turns the TV back on. At least Cracker treats her family the same as she treats me. A moment later, we pass a kitchen where her mother stands, smoking a cigarette and cursing up a storm while she hurls dishes into the sink. Cracker ignores her and leads me down a narrow carpeted hallway. She stops at a closed bedroom door, pulls a key from her pocket, and unlocks a padlock clamped and hinged to the frame.
“Bathroom’s down there.” Cracker points to the end of the hall. She inserts the key and clicks open the padlock.
I keep walking, and the smell of urine grows stronger as I reach the bathroom. I enter and almost puke. The toilet bowl is stained with piss and shit, and looks like it has never been cleaned. My sneakers stick to the floor, and strands of long red hair clog the rusted sink. I cover my nose, wait a few torturous minutes, flush the toilet with my foot, and quickly get out of there.
As I approach Cracker’s bedroom, I hear her mother’s voice becoming louder. I reach the doorway, uncertain what to do.
Her mother stands in the middle of the room, yelling at Cracker while holding her lit cigarette in one hand and a can of Budweiser in the other. “I ain’t your fucking maid! You hear me? You left the kitchen a fuckin’ mess!” She turns and notices me standing in the doorway. “Who’s this?”
“A fucking friend!” Cracker says, having just pulled the scrapbook from under her bed.
I say nothing and stand there, wishing I were invisible.
“Are you done?” Cracker says to her mother.
Her mother examines Cracker in her basketball clothes and makes a disgusted face. “Is that all you’re gonna do? Play basketball all day? My daughter’s a fucking dyke.”
“Is all you’re gonna do is drink? My mother’s a fucking drunk,” Cracker says.
Her mother descends on Cracker like a vulture and yanks a fistful of Cracker’s hair. “Who the fuck you think you’re talkin’ to, huh?”
The scrapbook drops onto the floor, and Cracker rises with a closed fist, hatefully eyeballing her mother.
“Go ahead. Do it. I’ll call the cops and have your ass thrown in jail!”
Cracker stands there for a few more seconds, then she abruptly bends down and collects a handful of loose photographs that have fallen out of the scrapbook.
“I want you out of my house! Today!” Cracker’s mother steps on one of the photographs.
“Fine!” Cracker shouts with a breaking voice.
“See if one of your goddamn friends takes you in!” Her mother staggers past me in a haze of booze.
Cracker keeps her head down as she collects the scrapbook. She’s crying, and I want to say something, but what can I say? I hate Cracker’s mother even more than I hate Cracker.
Cracker looks up and yells, “Fucking cunt!” She sits down on the bed and fixes the scrapbook as if it is a prized possession.
I suddenly feel sorry for Cracker. My mother hasn’t always been the kindest to me with her words, but she’s never hit me or been this cruel. And even when her words were unkind, I always had my father to overdo the affection. Cracker has nobody. Even her best friend hits her.
“This one’s you,” Cracker says with a smirk.
She holds open the scrapbook, showing me a newspaper article. It’s from the ATM robbery, the one where Cracker shoved the gun in the old woman’s face.
“Can I see it?” I sit down next to her.
Cracker hands the book over to me. She is proud of it. I purposely flip the pages backward and come across various articles on crimes. An auto theft at a 7-Eleven store,
a home robbery, another ATM holdup. Some articles are taken from newspapers. Others are printed out from the Internet. Some crimes I participated in. Others, I didn’t. I turn another page and another then stop. My stomach sinks. I feel as if I have been punched breathless.
Teenager Dies in Convenience Store Robbery. “Why do you have this one?” I watch Cracker closely.
She stares at the newspaper headline then looks at me. I see a hint of hesitation in her eyes, as if something in her gut is telling her not to answer that question. I know I am right when she takes the book from my hands. “You used the bathroom. Now you can go.”
I stand to leave. “Let me know when you want to get together. I’ll show you that move.”
“Yeah, right,” Cracker says suspiciously.
I pretend not to notice her tone or her look. “See ya later.” I walk out.
An hour later, I’m sitting on my motel bed looking over the case folder when Natice calls. “What’s up?”
“Cracker almost burned down her apartment.”
“How?”
“Dumb ass put the scrapbook in the tub, set it on fire, and blew the whole damn shower curtain up along with it.”
“Shit…” I was hoping Cracker didn’t destroy the scrapbook and that it could somehow be used as evidence linking her to my sister’s murder. “What happened?”
“Dumb ass was at least smart enough to turn on the water and put out the fire. But her mom kicked her out. She’s staying at Lori’s.”
Chapter 42
I keep thinking about the scrapbook and the article on my sister’s death. Seeing it in Cracker’s hands only confirms she had something to do with Jenny’s murder. Why else keep that article? If all the other articles in the book are from crimes Cracker participated in, surely she participated in that store robbery. This, along with watching her mother verbally and physically abuse Cracker, has made me want to take a trip home to visit my
dad. The only problem with returning home before my plan is complete is my Jeep. How am I going to show up at home without it?
This is on my mind as I stand behind the counter at the pizzeria, watching the time slowly pass. I start to wonder if my Jeep is still for sale or if it’s been sold. I pull out my Cantor iPhone and do a quick Internet search for Tom’s Used Car Lot. Not finding my Jeep online, I decide to call. The phone rings several times before I hear Tom’s friendly voice.
“Tom’s Used Car Lot.”
“Hi, do you have any SUVs or Jeeps for sale?”
“I don’t have any SUVs, but I do have one soft-top Jeep.”
“What color?”
“Blue. It’s in great shape. Almost brand new. Why don’t you come in and take it for a test drive? I’m pretty sure you’ll love it.”
“How much is it?”
“Eight thousand nine hundred and ninety-five, but I can work with you.”
It’s almost four thousand dollars more than what he paid me for it, and I don’t have the money to buy it back, even with the Olds as a trade-in. I tell Tom I only have five thousand dollars to spend on a car, and when he tells me he can’t go that low, I thank him for his time and hang up. I could always tell my dad my Jeep was stolen. Or I could steal it back. I grow excited thinking about this idea. I never gave Tom my spare key. So if I wanted to steal my Jeep, it wouldn’t be too difficult.
I am seriously considering doing this when the front door opens, and Mark walks in. Next to him is the blonde I had seen him with.
“I’ll meet you in there,” Mark tells her. The girl gives me a glance then heads to the back room, leaving Mark and me alone. I haven’t seen him since the day I sat in his kitchen while Lori inked my skin. I’m still not used to having the black diamond on my hand. I feel like an imposter. But an imposter as my old self or new, I’m not quite sure.
“How are you?”
“Great. Can I get three slices and two Cokes?” Mark says coldly.
“Sure. No problem.”
I toss the slices into the oven and stand at the counter, waiting for the pizza to be ready. Neither Mark nor I say a word. I straighten out the napkin holder, giving myself something to do, while Mark swipes at his gigantic phone, laughing at something he reads on screen, as if I’m not even in the room. Being ghosted right now only reconfirms one thing: there’s no way I’m getting Mark to tell me the truth about where Lori was on the night of my sister’s murder.
A moment later, I pull the slices out of the oven and return to the counter with the Cokes and pizza on a tray.
“Twelve dollars.”
Mark hands me the exact change.
“I guess you’re back with your girlfriend?”
“Guess so.” Mark walks off with the tray.
“Why do you think we call him Romeo?” Natice appears next to me.
I’m more pissed than upset but not for reasons Natice thinks. “What are you doing later?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I need a favor.”
“What?” Natice leans against the counter and studies me.
“I want you to teach me how to hot-wire a car.”
Natice pops off the counter. “Not a problem.” She breaks out her phone to make it happen.
It’s after two a.m. when Natice and I arrive at a chop shop in an abandoned industrial section of Cantor.
“You can use that one over there.” Tray points to a Honda Accord. Surrounding it are other stolen cars in various stages of being dismantled. The parts will be sold for more money than the cars are actually worth. Tray runs the shop for Vince.
“Thanks, cuz,” Natice says. “C’mon, Ally.”
Natice grabs a hammer and wire cutters off a wall and leads me to the Accord. We climb inside, and she goes right to work. “You jus’ break the column. It’s plastic.” Natice demonstrates with ease as she uses the hammer to pull apart the dash. It cracks loudly and snaps apart.
“Yo, easy on that shit! It’s clean,” Tray says.
“Shut up, Tray. Go away!” Natice tells him. She reaches under the dash and pulls out a bundle of colored wires. She strips four down to about an inch of metal then pulls aside two reds. “The battery wires are always red. Twist ‘em together like this, then tie the ignition wire to ‘em.” She connects a brown wire to the twisted red wires, and the dash lights and radio come alive, startling me. Natice laughs. “That turns the shit on. Then jus’ spark it.” Natice barely touches the end of a yellow wire—the starter—to the battery wires, and the car roars to life. She pumps the gas pedal, revving the engine, causing it to grow louder. “You’re good to go.” Tray looks over at us, shakes his head, then returns to what he is doing.
“Pull the ignition wire off the reds.” Natice separates the brown wire, keeping the reds still attached, and the engine dies. “That’ll kill it.”
“Cool,” I tap my feet on the floorboard, excited. “Thanks for the lesson.”
“Glad my skills can be of service,” Natice says with a smile. “Just make sure you crack the steering wheel hard. Otherwise, you won’t be able to turn the damn thing. And stay away from new cars, anything that uses a transponder key to start the engine. Forget it. That shit’s advanced. You’ll never figure it out.”
She grabs the radio knob and searches for a song she likes. I watch Natice and wonder why she risks going to prison by stealing cars, especially since she’s in college and has a job.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure. What?”
“Why do you do this, steal cars and rob houses?”
“It’s the fastest way to make money. And besides, I’ve been doing it for so long, I don’t know how not to do it.”
“Yeah, but you’re smart. You’re in college. You can get financial aid. Aren’t you afraid you’ll wind up in an orange jumpsuit?”
“If I tell you something, you promise to keep it to yourself? Not tell the others?”
“Sure.”
“I applied to a four-year college in California.”
“That’s awesome. Nice job!”
Natice smiles. “Yeah. I’m waiting to hear back. I jus’ feel like I’m abandoning the girls. You know?”
“I hope you get in, Natice. I really do.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I hold up my hand and give Natice a high-five. I’m happy for her, but if Natice feels guilty about leaving Lori, Cracker, and Ronnie behind, then I doubt I will ever get her to tell me anything that convicts them of my sister’s murder.
We’re about to step out of the car when the Pussycat Dolls’ “Don’t Cha” comes on the radio. “Hell yeah, girl!” Natice says and starts singing. “Come on, Ally. Sing with me.”
She raises the volume, and Natice and I sing along. When it ends, she looks over at me and smiles. “You have the worst voice!”
“Please. My voice is bad ass,” I say, well aware of how truly awful it is.
“Girrrrl, it’s jus’ bad.”
We share a laugh, and Natice pulls the red wires apart, silencing the radio.
I grab the door handle, ready to leave the car, and a noisy silver truck pulls into the garage. A white guy with a shaved head and tattooed arms steps out from behind the wheel. He’s greeted by Tray.
“What up, dog?”
“How you doin’, man?” the bald guy says.
They bump fists, and I stare at the bald man, knowing I have seen him someplace before.
“Fucking criminal,” Natice says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He’s a cop.”
I know exactly where I’ve seen him—Fuck! He’s the plainclothes officer who poked his head inside Detective Thoms’s office the last time I was there with my parents.
“What’s he doing here?”
“He’s fuckin’ di
rty.” Natice stares hatefully at him. “That’s how Vince keeps himself from getting busted. He’s got a cop on his payroll.”
“He looks like a real sweet guy,” I say, praying the dirty cop doesn’t notice me. “What’s his name?”
“Rawlings.”
It hits me. That’s what Thoms called him. “Give me ten, Rawlings.”
“He’s a total prick. C’mon, let’s go.” Natice steps out of the car. But I don’t dare follow after her—mainly because Rawlings, the dirty cop, is standing right in front of the exit as he carries on a conversation with Tray. There’s no way I can get out of the garage without walking past him. I sit there, trying to figure out an escape, when Natice stops to talk to Tray, interrupting his conversation with Rawlings.
Rawlings stands there idly, looking bored, then sparks up a cigarette and turns so that his back is facing me. I figure this is my chance, and I open the door and step out of the car. I hurry toward the exit, hoping this scumbag dirty cop doesn’t turn around—but of course that’s exactly what he does. He faces me, exhaling a cloud of smoke as our eyes meet. I bring a hand to my face, coughing into it as if I have something stuck in my throat. As I walk past, I feel Rawlings’s eyes burning a hole in my back.
“Ally, hold up!” Natice yells after me.
I walk faster, practically running to get to the Olds. I know Rawlings is staring after me—recognizing me.
I hop inside the Olds and lock the door. I start the car and hit the gas, but the engine stalls.
“Fuck!” I turn the key again and again. Finally, the engine roars to life just as the passenger door flies open.
“Damn, girl. You gonna wait for me?”
“What? Yeah…” I say, rattled. I look back up, and Rawlings is walking off with Tray.
“Someone’s in a hurry to get home.” Natice climbs inside the car.
“You could say that.” I hit the gas pedal and get the hell out of there, fast.
Chapter 43
I’m spent by the time I return to my motel room, but I don’t want to wait another second or day to go home, so I call a cab with my Cantor cell phone, throw a bunch of clothes in a duffel bag, and in less than ten minutes, a cab is waiting outside my door.
Girl on Point Page 21