by Fred DeVecca
Spray hit my face, as it was hitting theirs. There is an old stone staircase there, leading down from the platform to the swirling waters of the river as it pours down over the rocks. The town had fenced and sealed it years ago after being sued multiple times by stupid people, swimmers who went down there and jumped into the river and injured themselves.
The tall hipster and his diminutive companion were standing by the locked gate to the staircase. The tiny person’s eyes went blank, then lit up. She started dancing. There was no music, but she was dancing. It seemed like something else though, something more. She was moving all parts of her body as if none of them were connected, or if they were, it was in some kind of non-physical, almost spiritual way. And she had this smile on her face, like she was somewhere else entirely. I gotta admit, it was entrancing. It was devilish. It was angelic. I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
She was done dancing. She stopped, looked around, and then she hitched her foot onto one of the cross-spokes and hoisted herself onto the top rung of the gate, where she precariously balanced herself, first on both feet, then on one. She laughed, pulled off her scarf, and let her long, blood-red curls fly horizontally in the wind. She was queen of the world, if only for a few moments.
The hipster wanted to grab her. You could see it in his body language. But even touching her would be dangerous and could push her off into the swirls below.
She laughed. Her voice was high and harsh and filled with both wickedness and elation.
The guy decided he had no choice. He grabbed her by the one leg still planted on the fence and picked her up like she was a slippery bad child. She squirmed and lashed about and yelled at the guy as she struggled to elude his grasp, but he held on to her with more strength than one would guess he possessed.
He lowered her back to earth. She wriggled like a hooked trout for a few seconds then twisted back at him, stopped, and grew suddenly centered and silent once more. I thought I saw a smile in there too.
“Fuck you. Fuck you all,” she said calmly as she turned and scrambled away—away from the water, away from harm, and away from the scraggly hipster who ran after her. She picked up the pace as she rounded the turn back onto Bridge Street. He was close behind in hot pursuit.
The rest of their entourage watched but made no moves. This was clearly between the two of them.
That was enough for me. I didn’t wait to see what happened next. Instead I made a point of detouring down the narrow lane in front of the bowling alley so I wouldn’t run into them again. There was trouble brewing here, and I did not need trouble.
I knew who this guy was. I may not get out much, but I do know a little about film. This was Nick Mooney, quite possibly the finest young director alive—a genius, but notorious for going over budget, bedding down his female stars, and leaving havoc in his wake.
I still had some monk and some detective left in me, so the urges to save and investigate bubbled up, but I didn’t need whatever it was they were tempting me with.
Screw them. Screw ’em all.
Fuck them. Fuck ’em all.
Though home would be empty, bereft of big dogs and humans alike, I went there. Once inside, I closed the door.
Chapter Three
Good Chicken
Sometimes a random event like hearing the mutterings of a possibly addled reactionary old fart can change one’s life. In any case, those words—screw ’em, detective, monk, and chicken—resonated in my skull after that weekend had passed.
Lavender Street, though? I try never to think about Lavender Street.
I became intent on following Harvey’s advice. I would do whatever the hell I wanted to do. Little did I know that life was conspiring to make me a detective again, and in a manner of speaking, a monk too. I would not, however, be chicken.
But I was eating one, a crispy yet pleasantly greasy fried one, along with mashed potatoes and gravy and some green beans, at the bar of the West End Pub the following night when it became clear that it was not my fate to avoid Nick Mooney forever.
He sat down next to me, looked at my plate, and told Josh, who was tending bar, “I’ll have what this guy is having.”
“Good choice,” I told him.
Josh asked him what he wanted to drink and Mooney looked at my root beer and said, “I’ll have what this guy is having.”
When he got his drink, we clicked glasses. Mooney was still wearing the same black-wool watch cap pulled down over his ears. Maybe he always wore the damn thing.
“You don’t have to drink what I’m having. Have a real drink,” I told him.
“I don’t drink.”
“Neither do I.”
“I know.” He sipped his root beer.
“Frank Raven,” I said by way of introduction.
“I know,” he replied. “Nick Mooney.”
“I know,” I replied.
“And how exactly do you know me?” he asked.
“I run a movie theater. It’s my job to know what the hottest young director in the country looks like.”
“That’s pretty good. A lot of people know my work, but few know my face.”
“What the hell are you doing in a town like this, Mooney?”
“What else? I’m making a film. And I’m thinking of making it here. I’m scouting locations. ”
“Good. That’ll be cool. Have fun.”
“I expect we will. But first, I need your help. I want to hire you. I need a good detective.”
“You seem to know everything there is to know about me. You should know I’m retired.”
“Retirement’s not always forever. My Uncle Lyle was retired and now he works for me.”
I looked into his almost too-bright eyes. “Did you ever catch your girlfriend, Mooney?”
“She’s not my girlfriend. And no, I didn’t. That’s why I need your help.”
“I saw you guys there yesterday. Quite a show,” I said.
“Yeah. That’s what we do. We put on shows. I saw you too.”
“You don’t miss much.”
“Neither do you.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“You’re kidding, right? You know who I am, but you don’t know who she is?”
“I’m not kidding.”
“She’s just the biggest star in the world. You ever hear of Juliana Velvet Norcross—VelCro? I thought this movie stuff was your job.”
Though not exactly plugged into popular culture, even I had heard of VelCro. I had never seen her in a movie, and in fact I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a picture of her. But she certainly was famous and I had heard of her.
“That was her?”
“What world do you live in, Raven? Yes, that was her.”
“I live in my own world, Mooney. I’m still catching up on Madonna. Have you heard her new album? “
“What’s an album?”
He laughed under his breath at his little joke. So did I.
Juliana Velvet Norcross was her full given name, but she was, in the nomenclature of the day, universally known as VelCro. “Train wreck” did not do her justice. She was an apocalyptic disaster of staggering proportions, with arrests for white powder and brown powder, driving under the influence, and resisting arrest. She was known for flavored vodka, rehab stints, fiery affairs with people of both genders, drunken tirades, nude internet photos, notorious late-night incidents, and hospitalizations for “exhaustion.” She was one of those celebrities who always placed high on “Who Is Most Likely to Be Dead in a Year?” polls.
And she was universally acclaimed the finest and most brilliant young actor of her generation.
She had talent to burn and she was doing her best to do exactly that.
And she had just turned twenty-one. Now she was gone. And Mooney wanted me to find her.
“It was like she vanished into thin air, Raven. I saw her, then I didn’t. She was only half a block away and then she was nowhere. I went all around town, into alleys, into every shop and restaurant, every no
ok and cranny. No VelCro anywhere.”
“The cops are good at this stuff, Mooney. Why me?”
“Nobody’s supposed to know we’re here. At this point, this is all top secret. The press would go fucking crazy if word got out. This girl is dynamite and everyone wants a piece of her.”
He sipped his root beer. “And we need somebody who knows the area, knows the rhythms here and the places no one else knows. We do our research when we come into a town, Raven. We bring some of our own, sure, but we go local as much as we can. We find the best carpenters, the best electricians, the best caterers, the best places to stay, the best everything. You’re the best detective. We want you.”
I sipped my root beer. “Your research is out of date, Mooney. I was the best detective ten years ago. I’m retired now.”
“No, Raven, our research is current. Nobody does this better than we do. We’re the fucking FBI, the CIA, the NSA. We’re SMERSH and SPECTRE and UNCLE and the Mossad all rolled into one, and we’ve talked to anyone who knows anything about this area. Our intelligence tells us no one knows this burg better than you do. You are the man. You are our man.”
“If you guys are so damn good, why don’t you just find her yourself?”
“No. We don’t do anything ourselves. Except make movies. What we’re good at is finding the best local people to do things we can’t do. And we can’t find VelCro.”
“I am good at finding things,” I admitted.
“We know.”
“Yeah. That’s what I do. Or rather, what I used to do. I don’t do anything now.”
He stared into my eyes and asked, “Why, Raven? Why don’t you do anything?” He spoke to me like he really wanted to know. Few people do that—say what they really mean.
Should I give him an honest answer—this guy I didn’t know? Yeah, what the hell. Better him than someone who did know me well. Safer that way. Less risk of it coming back to haunt me.
“Mooney, all I ever wanted to do all my life was to find things. And I was good at it. Better than anybody. And that’s what I did. But once I did it, there was nowhere else to go, nothing else to prove. When you’re the best, you can’t go anywhere but down.” I sipped my root beer. “And that’s what I’ve done. Go down.”
Mooney looked at me and said, “Yeah, all the way down.”
He sipped his root beer and slurped it a little. “What are you afraid of, Raven?”
“I’m not afraid.” I knew I was lying.
“Yes, you are. We’ve studied you, Raven. I’ve studied you and I think I understand you, maybe better than you understand yourself. Every time you do something, you get shot down. You were a lonely, sensitive kid, and you sought refuge in a monastery. They threw you out. Then you were a cop. There you literally got shot down. You died, Raven. You died then and you’ve never come back to life. That was two strikes. Then you became a detective, and here you got a hit—not exactly a home run, but a good solid triple. You were good at it. But by then, the fear was thick and it paralyzed you. You couldn’t stand to succeed. It was too different for you, not what you were used to, and new things terrified you. So you quit that too. Actually you didn’t even quit that, you just let it fizzle out slowly, like a battery running out of juice. You faded out, and that’s the most cowardly thing there is. You run a movie theater now, but you’re going nowhere with that. You keep it as quiet and simple and under the radar as possible. It’s just a placeholder for you. Something to make the time pass slightly less miserably than it would otherwise. You’re scared to death, Raven. You’re the biggest fucking chicken I’ve ever seen.”
I did not respond.
“I was a chicken once too,” he went on. “My first film sucked and I was scared to make another one. But I did. I pulled myself up and next time I made a good one. Some say it was a great one. They all forgot that first one. I know how to come back from the dead, Raven. You don’t.”
My root beer was almost gone.
Mooney continued, “But don’t worry, Raven. I’m here to save your ass. I’m here to bring you back to life. I’ll give you a reason to live. Stick with me, pal, and I’ll change your life forever.”
His speech was done. So was my root beer.
He finished up with, “First step: eat your fried chicken and then find me the girl.”
It was good chicken.
Chapter Four
Looney Tunes
Shelburne Falls is tiny. It is hard to disappear here, especially if you are the most famous person in the world.
I half expected to see paparazzi around. VelCro had been seen briefly, minus her veil, and perhaps word had leaked out that she’d been spotted in town. But no, things were normal, which is to say boring and quiet. Anyone seeing a skinny kid in frumpy gray sweats would not make the connection with Hollywood starlets, despite her flowing red mane. Not here. It would be too much cognitive dissonance. This is not a place VelCro would frequent.
Mooney had been standing near the Foxtown Diner when he lost sight of her and by that time she had been in front of Mocha Maya’s Coffee Shop. That’s about half a block away. He’d checked Mocha Maya’s and no one there had seen her. And he’d checked every other building anywhere near Bridge Street—nothing, not a trace.
First I stood in front of the Foxtown, which I had done hundreds of times, just to get a sense of the place. I tried to imagine how it might feel if I were there for the first time, to see what new eyes would see.
The sun shone down upon me and it was warm on my skin. But I saw nothing of note.
Then I walked to Mocha Maya’s and did the same thing. Same sun. Same skin. Same nothing.
Where would you go? Where could you go?
Next to Mocha Maya’s is Town Hall, and upstairs from that is the theater—a funky, century-old movie hall I’d been running for more than fifteen years. The police station is on the first floor, along with town offices, so the door to the building would have been open yesterday when VelCro did her vanishing act.
She disappeared on Sunday, so no town workers were around then, and Mooney had checked with the police, in a generic manner, so as to not reveal the identity of the person he was seeking. The police had seen no one, but then their office door is frequently closed, so they wouldn’t necessarily notice anyone entering the building.
That’s where I went next—Town Hall. Chief Loomis was in the police office, but as usual his door was mostly shut, just open a crack. I didn’t bother him. The door leading upstairs to the theater was locked, as it should be. It’s always locked when there’s no show going on. There were no shows this weekend since I had been camped out at the wedding.
But the elevator would not have been locked yesterday. It’s supposed to be locked when there are no shows, but it’s one of those things no one really does. No one ever really locks it because the town workers occasionally need access to get to some of the files stored up there—one of those small things I would know but no one else would.
Indeed, the elevator was not locked. I rode it up to the theater and was greeted by the familiar, friendly, oily smell of freshly popped popcorn.
Generally it is spookily dark and quiet when I enter. Today it was dark, but not quiet, because there was a movie playing up on the big screen. For an audience of one.
VelCro was curled up comfortably in the front row. Towering over her were gigantic, colorful, moving images of Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. She was watching our Best of Looney Tunes DVD, munching popcorn, and occasionally guffawing—lost in her own little world.
I watched the wascally wabbit fwustrate the lisping hunter up there on the screen for a minute and then turned on the house lights, which flooded the place instantly.
“You need a new popcorn machine,” she shouted, not looking up.
“That one’s fine,” I replied.
“No it’s not. I broke it.”
She continued to laugh at Bugs and Elmer. “This is too funny! I can’t believe I’ve never seen these before.”
I went to the projection booth and turned it off.
“Oh, man …” she complained. “Come on.”
I went back down to the front row. On the seat next to her, I could see a half-empty fifth of lime vodka—a dull, sickening green color—and a similarly filled gallon of orange juice. One of our large cups was in her hand. Next to the OJ and vodka was a baggie with a half-inch of white powder.
I gave her a look—one of those looks that said I’m not messing around—and she voluntarily handed me the cup, spilling a few drops. It was almost empty. Her seat had that medicinal reek of vodka. You’re not supposed to be able to smell vodka, but all alcohol has an odor. I should know. The smell of pot filled the air too.
“You having a fun party?” I asked.
“It’s a fucking blast! But it would be better with more people. Wanna party, Mister Theater Man?” She held out the vodka bottle to me.
I replied, “No, I don’t party.”
“Well, I sure do,” she said, and took a chug from the bottle. “And fuck you anyway. I’m having fun.”
We stood there and looked at each other.
“Don’t swear,” I said. “And you’re going to fix that popcorn machine.”
“Oh, fuck you. I’ll buy you a new popcorn machine. I’ll buy you ten new popcorn machines. Then I can break some more. I’ll buy you a hundred of them. I don’t care.”
“No, I like that one. You’ll fix it. And don’t swear.”
She just laughed at me.
I gave her another one of those looks. I could tell this gal was pretty smart because she clearly understood my looks. Somewhat sheepishly and reluctantly, she shuffled back to the lobby where the popcorn machine lived. She stood at attention in front of the red popcorn machine with faded yellow words stenciled on it that no one could read. I had long since forgotten what they said.
“What did you do to it?”
“That little arm thing stopped working. It’s the thing that stirs the kernels while they pop.”
“Shit,” I said, “that’s happened before. It’s a pain in the ass.”