Seeking Carol Lee

by Nace Phlaux

  But she didn’t. There I was, throwing away the only chip I had left in the whole goddamned game, and Syd hops in the truck and starts it right up. I hadn’t noticed you unload a jump starter from the utility box until you threw it in Syd’s lap moments before skidding the truck away from the bank and back home. The dim lights alone could’ve had the cops pulling us over, but my brother, the hero, dove in and out of developments like a madman until we were parked in the lumber yard.

  * * *

  We, Syd and me, we sat in silence while you left for the tools until she noticed me shaking and asked if I was all right. I distracted the both of us by giving her the tour of the lumber yard, starting with the old desk inexplicably placed at the top of the old rack system for the wood. Despite being told nothing was up there, she insisted on checking out the desk drawers. It’d only been a week since we pulled her out of the shantytown, so those old habits would die hard, I figure.

  She did the same to the multiple newer desks in the office the film crew had set up and had an unending stream of questions about the film, if we’d seen it, what went on while they shot in the yard. “Just like any other bar band, darlin’. No one’ll see it besides the actors’ moms and girlfriends. And even then, they’ll be half-drunk and more interested in their cell phones.”

  I motioned for her to follow me and led her through the double doors into the front of the place, where her eyes really widened and sparkled. It looked like a New Jersey liquor store after a hurricane hit it, but that didn’t stop her from doing what every stupid teen and hobo, myself included, did when encountering the room: She cracked open one of the beers, a bottle of Golden Monkey. Less than a second later, the skunked beer got sprayed into the air.

  The liquor displays and faux walk-in cooler seemed less impressive after that. I described how the crew was there for a couple months, befriending us and helping you rake in the money, thanks to your awkward charisma and decent prices. She’d probably see the local ones stop in from time to time for an inspection. As I mentioned that, she double-checked the register, from the old lumber days but preserved well enough for the shoot.

  A light shown through the front doors as we talked, and I pushed her into the shadows, just as she reached for what looked like a full bottle of Absolut, most likely filled with water. Someone’s fist pounded at the glass, thumping again and again until we heard your voice shouting, presumably to let us know you were taking care of the situation. Whoever was doing the pounding talked too quietly, but your side of the conversation—“Something I can help you with, buddy?” and “GPS must be off. Nearest one’s over by the Wawa exit.”—parts of it, at least, came through.

  When I looked back at Syd, she held a pistol in her shaking hands, pointed to the ground. I had thought her whole “Packin’” comment when we met was a joke. Hell, I’m not even sure where she was hiding the damn thing, but I guess it was small enough to stash in her pocket. With a shake of my head and a motion to stay quiet, I edged toward one of the front windows to catch a look at the guy.

  The old man faced you in a bathrobe as you pointed a Maglite in his face. I couldn’t help but think “That’s my boy” when I saw the situation. The high beams seemed to come from a tow truck, but I couldn’t see the logo or address on the side. As if you read my mind, your voice carried through the wall saying, “You one’ve Mickey’s boys, eh?” I didn’t know Mickey, but I knew the effect. The old “I don’t know you, but I know who you answer to” trick. Consider me a proud brother.

  As we stood there, the burner cell vibrated with a call from the boss lady. I turned if off after muting the call, watching as the old man got into his truck and slowly headed out of the parking lot. Once we convened in the back, the consensus was to have someone guard the building as you took apart the ATM, but having Syd be the one acting as our security guard didn’t jive with me. I couldn’t help but laugh, though, when she asked you what signal she should give if she encountered trouble and you said, “The gunfire should tip us off well enough.”

  You looked like you had something to say the whole time we worked on gutting the machine, but the task moved along silently. Whatever you had to say is still buried somewhere in your brain, I suppose. It just made things feel even more awkward when you turned down going for the celebratory walk back to Bill’s, but Syd seemed happy enough to take your place, letting you relieve Jennalee or whatever you set on doing. She even joked you set us up to go on a romantic walk. Love at the truck stop, where every couple hopes to spark some passion.

  As we walked, Syd talked about how much she appreciated the past week, how it’d probably been one of the best she’d had in a while and how it was thanks to me. The air had that scent of encroaching snow and the dull roar of winter where you could hear the train whistle miles away, and I have to say it was one of the happier days I’d had in some time. But as if on cue, the burner hummed in my pocket as we stepped onto the truck stop’s property, reminding me of all the horror that went down that day as well. Looking around at the trailers huddled next to Bill’s, my inner twelve-year-old found the A. Duie Pyle truck with an open window to be the best choice, and I threw the phone onto the passenger seat’s floor.

  Syd asked what I was doing, but I waved her off. “Best you stay out of it, peanut.” She gave me a face at the nickname but didn’t press. Inside, we drank and shared a quesadilla, doing the getting-to-know-you dance where we shared our top stories. I asked about why she had a gun, and she told me, “With where my sis and I lived, never expected a disease to get her, you know?” This was the part of the dance where she shows vulnerability. The next step would be for me to reach across the table, take her hand or touch her in a gentle way, and exchange a sentimental look. But two gruff gentlemen outside staring at their cell phones, walking around as if following coordinates, caught my eye.

  I still reached across the table, grabbing Syd’s hands and saying, “This is very important, darlin’. For the next few minutes, I’m Jacob Richter. Who do you wanna be?”

  “I don’t—”

  “What name? Who do you want to be?” I insisted, squeezing her hands tight.

  “Onika. Onika Maraj.”

  She shrugged, looking around the place confused until her eyes met where mine stared. The men, two big guys that looked like the trucker stereotype themselves, stopped near the Pyle trailer and eyed it over, discussing something between themselves before heading inside. The one tried to be nonchalant, acting as if he was interested in getting a six-pack from the fridge, but the other blatantly checked out each of the patrons relaxing in the booths. When he saw my face, he double-checked his phone and called his buddy over.

  “Boss lady wants to see you, Eddie,” the blatant one said, obviously the alpha of the partners.

  “Name’s not Eddie. Name’s Richter. Your ‘boss lady’ must be mistaken.” The alpha held out his phone, showing the same photo that was on the kid’s burner of me and Richter. “I see two gentlemen in that photo, son.” The two goons exchanged a look, and I released Sydney’s hands, giving her a wink. “You boys might want to double-check with your lady friend before Miss Onika here double-checks for you.” As I hoped, Syd shifted her body enough to show off her gun, and the alpha’s eyes flared for a hot second once he caught sight of it. The alpha glanced back at his cohort, who gave a light shrug before they both left Bill’s like a pair of hulking ogres.

  Once their car pulled out of the lot, Syd and I hightailed it back to your place, Syd asking me about what was going on the whole time. I dodged her questions as best I could, wanting to get her to the safety of the house before it was too late. She carried her weapon, but that didn’t mean she knew how to use it. And then there was the question of whether I should stay with ya’ll or go home. Strength in numbers or keep you away from the primary target? Ultimately, I went back to the complex, if only to feed Max.

  Hayleigh’s car was in the driveway by the time we returned, and Syd leaned against the door to the kitchen like something out o
f a teenage drama, making me wish I’d caught a glance at her ID when she flashed it at Bill’s. She asked what I was doing on Thursday, and, call me rusty or distracted, I said I’d probably be working. “I’ll be here. Ya know, if ya’ll need company, Eduardo. I wouldn’t mind seeing you that night.” I told her sure, I’d swing by that evening. She smiled and hopped into the house, and it wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized she meant Valentine’s Day.

  * * *

  An hour later and I was in the Knights Inn in Bensalem, paying with cash and hoping they wouldn’t notice the dog in my truck. The cigarettes in the motel’s lobby called to me, but the shouts of the handle of vodka I’d grabbed from the apartment choked them out. Max and I slept a peaceful night in the motel, from the best I could recall.

  Instinct woke me early the next morning, so I drove over to Neshaminy Mall and found a functional payphone near the movie theater. The new girl working Todd’s position at the steel tried to keep me on the phone as long as possible, probably looking up the phone number I’d called in with to call out, but I clearly stated my name and intention and hung up. While decades of programming could wake me up, a decent amount of vodka still urged me to go back down, and I crashed back at the motel until well into the afternoon.

  By the time I woke up, my cell phone had received several texts and voice mails, all of them from unfamiliar numbers. The only one I paid any attention to was the number claiming to be Poy. After we talked—in a conversation where I had to crank the volume of the phone to the max thanks to his meek voice—we decided on a meeting place where I’d feel safe. A place where I’d be comfortable. A place that definitely didn’t hire from the agency. A titty bar.

  I parked at that dirty Keystone Motel, surprisingly not the only car in the lot, and walked to Club Risqué, where the Wednesday afternoon crowd and clientele were exactly as you’d expect. Figuring my days seemed to be getting limited anyhow, I grabbed a plate of food from the buffet and hunkered down at the bar. Poy came in shortly thereafter, the lights and sounds of the place wreaking havoc with his ADD. Looked like an ostrich stumbling into a butcher shop. I couldn’t wait until the first girl came over to offer him a dance or a shot.

  The kid tried to lean in to talk to me, but the music blared over his voice. I pulled out a legal pad and a pen, setting them on the bar and writing out, “Let’s keep things here, ok?” After he nodded, I continued with, “You need to get a message to your goddess. I still want to provide her with the info she’s looking for, but the price has changed.” He looked at me confused, which turned to near horror when one of the girls came over, touching him on his shoulder and asking if we were having a good time.

  The face he made earned the freckled girl a couple dollars before she sauntered over to the next pathetic patron, and I had to wonder what he expected to accomplish with a woman like the boss lady. After a shake of his head, he wrote down a request to explain what I meant, so I jotted, “9pm. Lumber yard. The info she wants. Carol Lee. Milnes. Where they’re at. But my price is my neighbor’s stuff. Everything she has from his apartment. I want it back. Can you pass along that message?”

  He nodded and gave a thumbs-up.

  “The boys who hang out with her. How do you get along with them?” I just got a shrug as a response, making the urge to stab him with the pen intensify. “Will bringing me in, especially with what news I have, make them jealous? Make them want to keep you away from the Goddess?” That odd beak of a nose shook up and down, and the way his eyes opened wide made me think I was getting somewhere with him. “Then will you show up at the yard at 8:30? Before the Goddess and her boys show up? We can work on taking care of them. Consider it my ‘thank you’ for delivering my message.”

  At that, he grinned, practically beaming, and took the pen. “I’ll be there.”

  FOX 29 News Transcripts for February 13, 2013

  ATM Stolen From Bristol Township Shop

  Aired February 13, 2013 - 6:00 PM ET

  THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

  CARRIE BENNETT: Another night, another ATM stolen in Bucks County. Duane Quinones is live in Levittown this evening with more on the latest in the crime wave. Duane?

  DUANE QUINONES: Well, Carrie, locals are finding the drive-through at the Levittown branch of Wells Fargo closed indefinitely after a truck reportedly plowed into the bank’s ATM last night and drove off with the machine. Witnesses and surveillance video place three camouflaged suspects, believed to be two men and a woman, at the scene. A statement by an officer who prefers to remain anonymous suggests concern that what was believed to have been a bumbling duo may be recruiting members, potentially forming into a ring of ATM thieves and worse.

  DUANE QUINONES (voiceover): Police have released these videos captured on two witnesses’ cell phones, taken outside Levittown’s Beer-A-Rama Tuesday night, in the hopes that someone can come forward with information on at least three suspects accused of driving a vehicle into an ATM at the Wells Fargo located on Levittown Parkway.

  BEER-A-RAMA CUSTOMER #1: I was coming from late services at St. Mike’s, grabbing a soda—I mean, bottled water—when I heard this, like, boom! And I looked over, and there’s this truck smack through the columns over there.

  DUANE QUINONES (voiceover): Video shows the suspects appearing to have car problems after the initial impact, causing one of them to attach a battery charger shortly before the truck drives off again. Police are hoping for any leads at local mechanics.

  BEER-A-RAMA #2: I hope they be all Robin Hooding this place up, right? Give to the poor and all, right? If they been just keeping it for themselves, though, that ain’t right.

  DUANE QUINONES: As with all but one of the previous heists in the region, no one was injured, and detectives don’t know whether the utility truck is stolen. No arrests as of yet, so the story continues, Carrie.

  Initiative: Carol Lee

  Call Log

  February 14, 2013

  Emp. ID

  Answer

  xxxxxx

  No data received yesterday or today. Are we on holiday? Please advise.

  The Express - Public Safety Log

  Friday 02/15/2013

  BENSALEM

  Arrests/Citations

  Stewart Palmer, 19, 1000 block of Newport Mews Rd., Bensalem, 2:21 p.m. Tue, vandalism, to receive citation.

  BRISTOL BOROUGH

  Criminal mischief

  5700 block, Jefferson Ave., Bristol, 6 p.m. Thur-7 a.m. Fri, tires punctured on 1967 Chevrolet, $300 damage value

  Arrest/Citations

  Christina Axsom, 30, Byberry Rd., 11:30 a.m. Mon, public drunkenness on 200 block Commerce Cir., cited

  Princess Ricarto, 18, Hayes St., disorderly conduct at Otter St., cited

  Terrance Corcoran, 20, Logan St., 7:24 p.m. Tue, unlawful to allow dog to run at large at Lafayette St.

  Jeannine Grange, 46, East Cir, criminal trespass on 300 block Pond St., cited

  BRISTOL TOWNSHIP

  Burglary

  100 block Levittown Pkwy., Levittown, Feb 12 8-10pm, ATM, $3,000 value, undisclosed cash amount

  Criminal mischief

  1700 block New Falls Rd., Levittown, overnight Sat, front headlight smashed on 1997 Mitsubishi, $150 damage value.

  Eddie 12

  Statistically, the agency makes up only a quarter to a third of the steel, but everyone’s eyes seemed to be on me when I walked in yesterday morning. Thankfully the place was devoid of any holiday decorations. We had a social committee one year who thought it’d be delightful to bathe the place in red and Cupids. You can imagine how well that went. But even the most hardened smart-ass still happily accepted the handful of peanut butter cups and a Tootsie Roll pop.

  Getsinger printed out a list of employees from the agency after I told him I couldn’t access it myself. Blamed it on “user privilege” since it was something I heard on a CSI episode once. But it worked, whatever I said, so who’re you to ju
dge? I gave the first name on the list to the new receptionist, Todd’s replacement, an older woman whose name wound up not being on my list, so I had an inkling I could trust her. She also read Cat Fancy and had a cup of tea next to her, as it should be. All receptionists should remind you of and strike fear in you like your third grade teacher. It’s how they get the job done.

  Meeting with each temp from the agency accomplished a few things: First, it helped me familiarize with roughly a third of the company again. With everyone I’d known for years getting canned, coming into this oddly half-familiar half-unfamiliar building unnerved me. And there was a part of me that tried to stay optimistic about the future. That’s a second reason: It helped distract me from the fact I was probably setting myself up for a bloody murder-suicide the next day. But more importantly, more immediate at least, was another basic reason: Sydney.

  Each employee got greeted like I was a mid-management stooge like Getsinger, complete with a handshake and an offer to sit down. Once in full interviewer position, I’d say, “I’m aware of the recent objectives provided by the boss lady, but there’s been an update.” Most looked appropriately confused and asked me to repeat myself or explain. A few acted like they didn’t know who I meant, but I played the confidence card and won them over. The others were eager for an update, maybe eager to talk to someone else about what they assumed were secret discussions. One went so far as to ask, “What else can I do to help?”