by McMan, Ann;
“What the hell is that?” Diz shouted above the noise.
Marty looked at her. “Holding Back the Years. Classic 80s.”
Diz rolled her eyes. “I got that part. Can you turn it down?”
He shook his head. “This Simply Red CD was stuck in the changer when I bought the van. You can’t turn it down, or off . . . or eject it.”
Diz was horrified. “You mean it always plays . . . and this loud?”
He nodded again. “After a while, you get used to it.” He was tapping his fingers on the top of the steering wheel. “Great lyrics.”
“No wonder your kids are insane,” Diz muttered.
“What did you say?” Marty asked.
She looked at him. “I said I bet the kids love it.”
He nodded. “It puts Alvin right to sleep. Sometimes Sheila just drives him around the neighborhood to get him to punch out.”
Diz sighed. “So . . .” She picked up the shoe from the center console. It was also full of loose change. “Are there any other special features I need to know about?”
Marty was admiring the shoe. “That’s a beauty, isn’t it? It came with the van. It’s part of the Calvin Klein package.” He sighed. “Too bad they don’t fit Sheila.”
“Calvin Klein?” Diz examined the smooth-soled shoe.
Marty pointed toward the heel cup. “Yeah. See?”
Diz looked at it more closely. The initials “CK” were plainly visible. She lowered the shoe and looked at her friend. “Marty . . . believe me. Calvin Kleinnever designed bowling shoes.”
“He didn’t?”
Diz shook her head. “Where did you get this thing, exactly?”
He shrugged. “In the parking lot at Thunderbowl Lanes in Allen Park. Sheila and I went out there for the PBA World Series of Bowling.” His eyes looked dreamy. “It was fine.”
“Where the hell is Allen Park?”
Marty held up his hand and pointed at the base of his thumb. “It’s right about here—not too far from Detroit.”
“You bought a stolen van?”
“Hey?” He shrugged. “It was only eighteen-hundred bucks—and we have three kids.” He rolled his eyes. “Soon to be four.”
Diz laughed. “I guess it was a pretty good trip.”
“No shit. My cousin, Murray, works for the MVA. He fixed it.”
“Fixed what? The no-title thing?”
“That, and the fact that the VIN number was filed off.”
Mick Hucknall had finished holding back his years, and was now crooning about opening up a red box. The passenger compartment was warming up nicely. Diz glanced over her shoulder. The back seat was choked with car seats. Behind it, the van looked like it was full of boxes and bags.
“Anything else I need to know?” Diz asked.
“Just this.” Marty handed her a mini-Leatherman tool.
Diz took it. “Do I want to know what this is for?”
“You use the nail file to unlock the driver’s side door. It works like a charm.”
“Right.”
“Don’t worry that the thing runs kinda loud—the catalytic converter got punched out.”
Diz gestured toward the CD changer in the dashboard. “Who would notice?”
“Good point.” Marty put his hand on the door handle. “That’s about it. Anything else you need—just give me a call.”
Diz nodded.
Marty climbed out. “Keep that Leatherman in your pocket. The doors lock automatically when you get out. Once Sheila locked Simon and Teddy in here with Sadie, and they were stuck for three and a half hours.” He shook his head. “I’m still not sure it was an accident.”
Diz smiled at him. “You’re a prince, Marty. I won’t be gone for long—I promise.”
He stood back while she climbed across the console and got into the driver’s seat.
“See you in a bit,” she said.
Marty closed the door and waved at her as she slowly pulled out onto the snowy street.
After four tries, Diz lucked out and found a twenty-four-hour CVS on North Charles Street that was still open. It even looked like someone had plowed a single lane up into its parking lot.
She pulled in and stopped—leaving the flashers going on the van so nobody would think it was stuck or broken down and tow it off.
The inside of the store looked like it had been ransacked. The shelves were mostly empty, except for a few strands of synthetic garland in garish colors and some random boxes of mismatched Christmas cards. Oh . . . and a five-foot, inflatable Hello Kitty in a Santa hat.
But there were no Christmas tree lights and no ornaments. Anyplace.
But she had to admit that the hip hop rendition of “Millie Pulled a Pistol on Santa” that was playing on the store’s sound system sounded pretty good after thirty minutes of being hammered by blaring Simply Red tunes.
Only two people appeared to be working. A cranky-looking man in the pharmacy at the back of the store did his best to ignore her. The third time she cleared her throat, he looked up from behind his wall of pills and stared at her.
“Excuse me . . . I’m looking for Christmas tree lights?” she said.
He grunted at her and pointed toward the front of the store.
She looked toward the area he appeared to be indicating.
“I looked on the shelves—they’re pretty empty,” she said.
He threw up his hands and shrugged.
She took a deep breath and tried again. “I was wondering if you had some in the back, or maybe someplace else in the store?”
He glared at her. “You’ll have to ask Tyrone.” He pointed again. “Up front.”
She bit back an expletive. “Thanks. Merry Christmas.”
He grunted and dropped his eyes back to his bottles of pills.
Diz made her squishy way back up to the front of the store. There were muddy-looking puddles all over the place. It was clear that this particular store had seen a lot of business tonight.
Tyrone was camped out on a stool behind the front counter, flipping through a copy of Soap Opera Digest. He sat up straight and tried to conceal it as Diz approached, and she pretended not to notice, but she was surprised to discover that Lynn Herring was returning to General Hospital.
“Hello,” she said to Tyrone. “The terribly accommodating and friendly man in the pharmacy said I should ask you about locating some Christmas tree lights?”
“We don’t have any more,” he said, without emotion.
“Not any?” Diz asked. “Not in the back—or maybe in another section of the store? I don’t even care what kind they are, as long as they light up.”
He thought about that. Then he reached beneath the counter and hauled up a bulging, white plastic bag with a bright red CVS logo emblazoned on its side. “We have these. Some lady just returned them all—said they were the wrong kind.”
“Do they work?”
He shrugged. “I think so. She just said they were the wrong kind.”
“I’ll take them.”
“They’re outdoor lights,” he said.
Diz was digging out her wallet. “Fine.”
“They’re LEDs,” he added. “Expensive ones.”
“I don’t care.”
“They’re pink.”
Diz hesitated. Pink? She looked at Tyrone.
He shrugged. “Take ’em or leave ’em, lady. They’re all we got.”
She sighed. “Okay.” She handed him her credit card.
“That’ll be eighty-two-fifty.”
“Eighty-two-fifty? Are you kidding me? What the hell are they made out of? Waterford Crystal?”
“You want ’em or not?”
“Yeah. All right. Just ring it up, okay?”
He swiped her card and handed her the bag. Diz was shocked at how heavy it was. She figured there must be ten thousand lights in it. Correction. Ten thousand pink lights.
Great.
Oh well, it’s the thought that counts, right?
She took
her bag and waded back out to Marty’s van. The nail file on the Leatherman worked like a charm. Thankfully, so did the tire chains. In two minutes, she was back out on North Charles Street, headed for the nearest—still open—tree lot. She remembered seeing a baker’s dozen of the little mom & pop stands all along some of the major city avenues, but it was now nine forty-five on Christmas Eve, and there was more than twenty inches of snow on the ground. The first five lots she passed were already closed—and woefully bereft of trees. She knew better than to try and navigate off any of the main thoroughfares—even the main city drags were down to one open lane (if you could call them that) in each direction.
In desperation, she made a U-turn and drove south on Charles Street toward the Inner Harbor. The winds blowing in off the bay in this area were causing the snow to drift even more dramatically. No wonder Clarissa wasn’t able to get out. The going got rougher and rougher, and there were fewer and fewer cars down here. Just when she was about to give up, she saw the hazy outline of a string of naked light bulbs stretched across what looked like a vacant city lot. When she drew closer, she could read the hand-lettered sign: “Otis Campbell Fresh Cut.”
Eureka! It was a tree stand . . . or what appeared to be left of one. And wonder of wonders, it was still open. At least, she thought it was, since all the lights were still on. She maneuvered the van over and pulled off the road into the small lot. She could see all the standard cutting and netting gizmos next to some saw horses beneath a shelter and a few scraggly-looking wreaths tacked up on some pegboard. Everything else was covered with snow. Unfortunately for her, there didn’t appear to be any trees left—not unless you counted the big one leaning against the side of a beat-up Shasta trailer. Its branches were sagging beneath the weight of all the snow, but it looked pretty decent—like maybe it was some kind of balsam fir? It was hard to tell, and right now, she wasn’t inclined to be picky. Lights glowed inside the trailer, so she turned off her engine and hopped out to make her way over and investigate. The quiet outside stopped her dead in her tracks. She didn’t think she’d ever not heard Baltimore quite like this. She even thought she could hear the flakes hitting the arms of her coat.
Of course, even I-95 during rush hour would seem quiet compared to the interior of Marty’s van. Her head was actually reeling from the incessant pounding it had been taking for the past hour. She glanced at the “Inferno Red” van.
So much for your Calvin Klein editions . . .
God. It was cold as shit down here. But the snow actually seemed like it was starting to lighten up a bit. The flakes were big and fluffy now—the fat, fairy tale kind that clung so beautifully to everything in Bing Crosby movies, or that festooned the cheap, Currier & Ives dinnerware her parents had when she was growing up.
When Diz got closer to the trailer, she could make out the muffled sound of a TV coming from inside. The little camper was nearly buried in the snow—the drifts nearly reached the bottoms of the windows. Blue light flickered behind flimsy-looking café curtains.
There was a beat-to-shit pickup pulled up next to the trailer. Its bed was weighted down with firewood and snow, and there were no visible tire tracks in evidence. It was clear that the vehicle hadn’t been moved in a while.
She wondered why any thinking person would be holed-up in this tin can during a blizzard?
Beside the two-toned door of the trailer was a banged-up aluminum trashcan. The lid was askew, and Diz could see discarded pizza boxes and empty liquor bottles piled up inside it. She squinted her eyes. Aristocrat Vodka. Nice.
Okay. Maybe it wasn’t so hard to understand how somebody could be holed-up out here during a blizzard.
Against her better judgment, she rapped on the aluminum door.
“Who is it?” a man inside barked.
Her instinct was to turn around and head back to the safe haven of Simply Red. But she’d come this far, so why not try to finish the deed? She tightened her hold on the mini-Leatherman.
“Are you still open?” she called out.
She could hear someone’s feet hit the floor. The tiny trailer shook with each heavy footstep.
“Hold your fucking horses,” the voice inside growled.
Diz took a step backward, ready to beat as hasty a retreat as the snowpack would allow.
The door to the trailer was thrown open, and an enormous, redheaded man wearing a buffalo plaid shirt filled up the opening.
“I’m outta trees, lady—sold the last one two hours ago. All I got left is a couple of those wreaths.” He pointed a meaty hand toward the pegboard beneath the makeshift shelter. “I can make you a good deal on all of those. Cash only,” he added.
Diz sighed. “I’ve been all over the city, and this is the only lot I’ve found that’s even still open. I was just hoping that maybe you had something left over.”
He was looking at her strangely. “Nope. Why’d you wait so late to go looking?”
“It’s complicated.”
He shifted his weight, and the trailer shook again.
“You’re that yakky woman from TV, aren’t you?” he asked.
Diz sighed, and was about to correct him when she got an idea.
“You recognize me?” she asked, innocently.
He nodded. “I don’t really watch those liberal channels, but I seen you from time to time.”
She smiled and pushed up her horn-rimmed glasses. “I’m on assignment, doing a special on Christmas in Baltimore tonight. So, you’re a small business owner? How’s that working out for you?”
“We get screwed,” he added.
“Are you Mr. Campbell?” she asked.
He nodded.
“How long have you been running this tree stand?”
“About six years. I had to move down here from Towson. Goddamn local commies wouldn’t let me park my camper on the lot.”
She shook her head. “Pathetic.”
“No shit. All I’m trying to do is make an honest living. I don’t mooch off the system like the rest of those lazy bastards. All they want is the next fucking handout.”
Diz egged him on. “What do you think about healthcare reform, Mr. Campbell?”
He turned purple. “Fucking socialists wanna ruin this country. I don’t need any goddamn handout from the commie feds . . . when I get sick, I go to the emergency room, and they fix me up for fifteen bucks. What’s wrong with that? But, no. Some people just want to be taken care of like the world owes them something.”
“Mr. Campbell, I think we’re letting all your heat out.”
He looked over his shoulder.
“Lemme get my boots, and I’ll come out there.”
“I don’t want you to miss your program.” The TV was still going in the background.
He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just an old movie—more commercials than anything.”
“What is it?”
Otis rumbled his way across the inside of tiny trailer.
“Damn channel’s been running this thing all week. It’s some old black and white about kids in New York City. It’s the only station I get out here without cable.” He returned with a muddy pair of black arctic boots. “Their dad was some kind of Irish cop.”
Diz glanced at his tiny TV. Dorothy McGuire was giving Lloyd Nolan her best full-screen, earnest look.
“A Tree Grows in Brooklyn?” she asked.
He grunted. “Somethin’ like that.” He sat down on a rust-colored recliner to pull on his overshoes. “It’s kind of a chick flick.”
“I notice that you have one tree left out here,” she said, jerking her thumb toward the big fir. “The one that’s leaning up against your trailer.”
“Yeah. I can’t sell that one.” He reached over to an aluminum TV table that sat next to his chair and picked up a glass that was half full of clear liquid. He tipped it up and drained it. “The trunk is cracked in the middle.
“It looks pretty sturdy,” she suggested.
“No way, lady. I know your game . . . I sell
it to you, then when it breaks in half and crushes your goddamn plasma TV, you and your high-priced trial lawyer buddies will try to sue my ass. Then I’ll be tomorrow night’s headline on your commie news channel.” He emitted a redolent belch. It hovered in the stale air like a period to his sentence.
Diz started to protest when light from a pair of headlights blazed across the side of the trailer. Another car was crunching its way into the lot. She turned around. It was a cab.
A cab? Tonight?
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Otis Campbell complained. “Who’s here now? Walter Cronkite?”
He stomped to the opening and stepped down out of the trailer, and slammed the door behind him. An avalanche of snow slid off its roof and landed on the back of his head.
It did not improve his mood.
The cab pulled to a stop next to Marty’s van. It was a bright yellow and lime green AMC Eagle, decked out with a lift kit and spinners. A magnetic sign attached to the driver’s side door side proclaimed “Beaver Cab Co.—Best Dam Ride in Town.” The falling snow made crazy patterns inside the bright, narrow beams of its headlights.
Somebody was getting out. It was a woman. She had a head of thick, auburn hair.
Diz felt her stomach lurch.
Clarissa? Impossible. It had to be some kind of sick, wish fulfillment. A delusion brought on by the storm, and her festering disappointment.
The apparition started making its way toward them.
“Just what in holy hell are you doing out here?” it demanded.
Nope.
It was Clarissa all right. And she was pissed . . . of course.
“What am I doing out here?” Diz asked. “What are you doing out here?”
Clarissa rolled her eyes. “I was on my way to your place.” She jerked her thumb toward the four-wheel drive cab. “Do you have any idea how much it cost to find a ride like this?”
Diz looked at what had to be the most eclectic cab she’d ever seen. It still sat there, idling. A big cloud of warm exhaust swirled around it like smoke. She observed that its off-duty light was now illuminated. The windows of the cab were tinted so dark, you couldn’t see inside. It could have had a driver—or not. The thing looked like hell’s chariot.