by Peter Butler
'Do I need to call my husband?' Sherri said, cocking one eyebrow in a questioning way which Dillon found fascinating. He thought she was even more beautiful at this distance and she smelled heavenly - a mix of perfume and sweat that caused his blood to run. Especially when the towel she was wearing gaped open a little exposing an area of inner-thigh.
Then the words she had just said sunk in. 'God no! I'm not going to hurt her.'
'What's your name?' Sherri looked intently at him.
'Dillon.'
'That's not what I was getting at... Dillon.' Her eyes traced over his face, giving him the impression she was checking him out... very thoroughly. 'You look like you've been beaten up. My husband is a police sergeant. Should I call him?'
'No... No, I just fell off my bike.' he stammered lamely, '...but thanks.'
Dillon was totally out of his depth with this encounter. He was terrible at reading the faces and emotions of good-looking females. After twelve years of total indifference he had discovered he had developed a compelling interest in them about three years ago and was still trying to come to grips with why their thoughts and interests seemed to be so different from his own. The first thoughts that came to Dillon when he saw a beautiful female invariably involved sex, but girls seemed to have other thoughts happening inside their heads. Consequently when one did pay him a little attention he took the friendly gesture as an indication that she might want to have sex with him. To date, he had never been right. Dillon had concluded if he had been born a girl he would most certainly have been the slut of the century.
Sherri reached over with her non-gun hand and ever so gently prodded his swollen eye-socket. 'Nasty,' she said, as she reached down and took his hand and led him away.
They found Mrs Kemsley in her bedroom, hiding under the covers. Sherri gently pulled the sheet off her face and said soothingly, 'It's all okay Mary. Your visitor is just Dillon, the boy who gets your groceries for you.'
'No... I don't know him! He looks like a madman' Mary whispered back to her as she pulled the sheets back up to her chin.
'I'm going to take him away, Mary. You'll be safe, I'll make sure the front door is locked.'
'I don't know him,' Mary continued protesting. 'I've never seen him before. His face is... ugly.'
'I'll put the TV on for you, Mrs Kemsley,' Dillon said in a cheerful voice, knowing that was the sure way to get her off the subject of his "ugly face" that her mind had become locked into.
'TV? Have I got a TV?' Mary's face became animated. 'I like TV.'
'Come out to the lounge when you're ready and it will be turned on to your favorite show,' he said, as he and Sherri eased out of her bedroom.
As Dillon flipped through the channels and stopped on the first brightly lit, noisy game show, Sherri said, 'You're very good with her, Dillon. I'm sorry I pointed the gun at you.'
'Okay.'
'I'm Sherri',' she said. 'I live next door... but I think you already know that.' Her eyebrow lifted as she said it.
Dillon smiled awkwardly as he digested the idea that Sherri might be suggesting she had seen him peeping through the curtains at her. She took his hand again and led him out of Mrs Kemsley's house and towards her own. It was a bizarre feeling walking along the street holding the hand of a beautiful woman who was only wearing a towel - and holding a large gun in the other hand.
He had another go at reading her motives and thoughts. He was pretty sure from what he'd seen through Mrs Kemsley's window that Sherri would be naked under that towel - and she had been nice to him ever since she realized who he was - and she was leading him to her place. He reasoned that her husband wasn't home because he never responded to his neighbors call for help - only Sherri came running. A cop would never just sit at home and let his wife do that.
So, there was a chance that Sherri was taking him to her place... to have sex.
That did it. Dillon's pants began to bulge and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He even looked at the gun in the hope that it would scare some normality back into his "below the waist" area, but the bigness of the gun only made his problem larger.
Sherri led him into the room he had watched her exercising in and told him to sit down. She excused herself and left. He was grateful for the opportunity to cross his legs and put his hands in his lap.
The room had polished floorboards with a large cleared area in front of the TV for Sherri to jump around in. The couch he was sitting on was off to the left, beside the window that had, as usual, the curtains wide open. Dillon looked across at the window of Mrs Kemsley's spare bedroom and noted the slight gap in the curtains, then returned his attention to Sherri's living-room. She had placed a coffee-table in front of the couch and there were magazines scattered across it. He read some titles: "Personal Wellbeing", "Eat Well, Live Well","Nature and Health". His eyes froze on the next one... "Gun Owners Weekly".
She came back into the room still wearing the towel, a second towel was draped over her arm and she was carrying a tray. The gun was gone. Sherri placed the tray on top of the magazines and flattened the new towel over the end of the couch. 'Stretch out, Dillon,' she said as she patted the area she had just prepared, indicating that was where his head should go.
He was in trouble. Lying flat like that would make hiding any bulging things a problem, but he had no option, he had to do as he was told. When he had seen the tray he had hoped it contained a selection of sex-toys, but he glanced at it as he arranged himself horizontally on the couch and was disappointed to see a face-washer, Iodine, band-aids, an icepack and a few other things, none of which seemed to be "toys".
'Okay. Now I get to play doctor,' she said, with an unreadable smile.
Sherri expertly dabbed at his bleeding lip and wiped away the dirt that had coated his face from the two times it had hit the ground, then she carefully applied a Steri-Strip to the cut lip. When she was satisfied she had stopped the bleeding she placed the icepack over his eyes and he couldn't see anything, except the bright blue of the freezing gel inside the bag. He lay like that for some time with his hands firmly clasped over his genitals, unaware of where she was or what she was doing. She was completely silent and he felt quite vulnerable. A minute passed, then another... and then he couldn't stand it any longer. He released one hand and lifted the edge of the icepack.
Sherri was sitting on the coffee-table looking at him. 'Could you sense me looking at you?' she asked. 'It's a funny thing, that. Some people have that second-sense,' she smiled quickly at him. 'Others hate to be looked at, and then there are people who love it.' She picked up the face washer and started cleaning the graze on his knee through the tear in his pants.
He was watching her, a little uncomfortable with where she might be going with this conversation.
'Which side do you belong to? he asked, hoping to get the focus back on her.
'Oh, I'm sure you know the answer to that, Dillon.'
He blushed, but said nothing.
'The big question is - which group do you fit into?' She had locked her eyes onto him, there was no way for him to avoid answering.
'I.. I'm.. I.. don't know,' he stuttered. 'I've never been watched.'
'Are you sure?' she smiled at him. 'Sometimes we can get carried away with what we're doing and not realize what's happening around us; who might be watching us.'
Dillon blushed again.
'You're very young, Dillon,' she seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. 'Exactly how old are you?'
'Sixteen.'
'How long until you turn seventeen?'
'Three and a bit months.'
'Well then, you have a little time to work out your answer,' she said, as she patted him on the thigh, seemingly oblivious of the pulsating bulge only inches away, and then she placed her hand behind his neck and sat him upright. 'It was nice to finally meet you, Dillon,' she said, with a suppressed grin. 'I'll look forward to seeing you again.'
Sherri began to pack up her medical items, leaving Dillon in no doubt that his
visit was over. What she had said only added more confusion to the big question that ran through his life. It seemed that every time a female he liked said something to him, it had a double meaning.
Did it really? Or, was he just sex-crazed and messed-up in the head?
EIGHT
'We need to call the cops, this has gone too far, son.' Eli said to Larry. He was standing in a puddle of water in the alley watching his son, and two other employees, remove the second graffiti stain on their brickwork in two days. The water-pressure cleaner Larry had been using to extract the persistent paint from the microscopic cracks in the brickwork had fallen silent minutes ago and his weary arms were hanging by his side, the pressure cleaner's nozzle almost touching the ground.
'I agree,' Jerry added as he scrubbed away with a steel-brush at a small amount of blue paint that stubbornly refused to be removed.
'I vote yes, also,' Herb Drinkman chipped in. He had not enjoyed the last hour and a half of scrubbing and scraping; inhaling noxious fumes and having to listen to Larry rant about what he would like to do to the mindless delinquent responsible for this inconvenience.
Earlier, Larry would have been quick with his opinion and response, but for the last quarter hour he seemed lost in deep thought. He was even more upset about the graffiti than the other men guessed, for him it had become personal. A juvenile idiot was taunting him, challenging him, in a contest he could not even begin to understand. It was such a one-sided fight, one that let the attacker attack and only left Larry to clean-up. That wasn't right, and Larry intended to use his formidable brain to rectify the imbalance.
He had not told anybody that he knew who the vandal was. Well, he didn't actually know his name but he was sure Dillon would, and when he had all his information he would formulate a plan.
Everyone had voiced their opinions and the discussion had momentarily fallen silent, when Larry finally said, 'I'm not so sure that we should involve the police, yet.'
'It's not going to stop, son,' Eli cut him off with a shake of his head. 'The clown that's doing this has claimed this as his own wall. I did some research on this subject,' he grinned at the other two who had stopped scraping and were staring at Eli in wonder. 'I Googled it - I think that's what they call it when you look something up on that computer thingy in the office. It seems that if they Tag the work it's a message to everyone that this is their wall. That big thing like a "Z" that this guy paints each time, looks like the pictures of Tags the computer showed me.'
'Impressive work, boss,' Jerry nodded as a show of respect. He had doubted that Eli even knew they had computers in the office.
'I've also done some research, dad, and it's clear to me that whoever is doing this is just a child and as such the law will be largely powerless to punish him.'
'We have to do something, son. All you're saying is what we shouldn't do.'
'Well, I say we catch the little bastard and beat the living-shit out of him,' Herb offered his solution. 'These little shits today are brought up too soft by their dopey, doting parents; they got no idea what the word "responsible" means, and if they make a mistake mommy and daddy come a running to bail 'em out. They'll never understand that their actions have consequences as long as there's no downside for 'em.' Herb rubbed his aching arm, subconsciously reinforcing his definition of consequences.
Larry looked at Herb in a way that suggested what he had just said was more profound than Herb realized.
'As satisfying as that would be, Herb, it would just see us as the people going to jail,' Eli said.
Larry turned from the wall and faced the others. He carefully placed the water-pressure nozzle on the ground, pulled his face-mask down around his neck and put his rubber-gloved hands on his hips in a defiant manner. With his goggles and face mask he resembled an alien being who had suddenly decided to assert his superiority. 'I'm the one in charge now, Dad. You handed the responsibility over to me, so let me work out what to do. I appreciate all of your suggestions. Now, leave it to me to fix.'
***
Dillon knocked on Larry's office door later that day. At about the same time three boys on bikes peddled along the road in front of Rafferty's Hardware, taking particular notice of the alley beside the building. A large white buckled cardboard sign was leaning against the brick wall near where the graffiti had once been. The riders noted its presence, along with the newly cleaned wall, but made no effort to check it out any closer. A closer examination of the lead rider might have shown steam coming from his ears, and muffled swearing coming from his mouth.
'Do you remember a few months ago I banned a young man from buying spray-paint from our store?' Larry said to Dillon when he entered the office.
'Yep!'
'Do you know that boy's name, Dillon?'
'You think he's doing the graffiti?'
Larry looked at Dillon, raised his eyebrows and waited. He had asked a question and you do not answer a question with a question.
Dillon had decided Zac was his problem and he was definitely going to deal with him. It was personal now. But, Larry was his boss and more importantly his father's boss, and he didn't want to put either his father or himself in Larry's bad-books. His first thought was to lie and say he didn't know Zac's name... but something in the back of his brain was telling him to not do that.
His prolonged pondering brought a small throat-clearing cough from Larry.
'His name is Zac Cramer.'
Larry took in the name and digested it, like a food connoisseur absorbs all the flavors of an exceptional dish before swallowing.
'The same name as the big law firm in town,' Larry finally said. 'Any tie-in?'
'Zac is the spoiled-rotten son of the owner.'
It was Larry's turn to drift-off, deep in thought. He had seen the large multi-story building the law firm occupied and the excessive advertising plastered all over it offering advice on divorce, partnership dissolution and contested wills. They also claimed to be litigation specialists on their TV ads with the motto "They screw you - we sue 'em". The firm was the classic example of the ambulance chasing lawyer, only multiplied by fifty or one hundred, Larry could only guess at how many lawyers occupied the garish tower. He was comfortable going up against a young man armed with a spray-can, but the thought of starting a fight with the owner of the biggest legal firm in town was a different matter. He would need to give this a lot more consideration.
***
Zac, Wood and Jordy had assumed the cameras would already be fixed and functioning, and were prepared. Zac wore a plastic Freddie Krueger mask with his torch over the top making it look even more bizarre, Wood's mask was Ronald Reagan and Jordy's, Elmer Fudd. Earlier, Jordy had been given the job of making a last minute check by riding down the road and seeing if anyone was hiding down the end of the alley. It was dark but he was pretty sure it was empty. They planned to scatter in three different directions if the police came, each choosing a route that offered them a narrow pathway that a cop car would not be able to follow - the boys knew this part of town very well, it was their territory.
They waited up the road for another half-hour before approaching the alley.
Freddie Krueger walked boldly up to the first camera and waved a greeting. His hand pushed the button on the torch and illuminated the large piece of cardboard that was resting against the wall. It had a message in thick black felt-tip pen.
"You only get one warning. Do not desecrate this wall with your paint. You will pay a terrible price if it happens again."
As it turned out, Freddie had tired of the game of painting this wall and had already chosen his new canvas. Freddie looked straight into the camera, held his hand up to it and slowly raised his middle finger. He stood in front of the cardboard, unzipped his pants and urinated over the writing.
If anyone took notice of the detail Freddie was drawing a big fat "Z" in pale, translucent yellow. Not his favorite painting material but his preferred one for this job. He intended to follow up with "Retard" but he ran out
of writing material.
When he had zipped-up he turned to the camera and saluted, then walked away. The camera recorded backpack wearing Elmer and Ronald joining him and the three disappearing around the corner.
***
Larry woke after a night of fitful, noise filled sleep. As a result, his morning routine got off to a slower than usual start. He was apprehensive about his wall and at one point in the night had awoken with the thought that he should have employed a security guard to stand watch over it. As the sleep-haze lifted, he knew that idea would be ridiculously expensive and willed himself back to sleep, urging his brain to do better next time.
By being extremely efficient Larry managed to make up the time he had lost due to his slow start to the morning and managed to leave his house on schedule and in his usual way; via the back door. He checked all the house's entry points, three times each, as he passed. Satisfied his home was secure he climbed aboard his Transit van and, after the correct amount of time to warm the motor, drove off.
His drive to work was pleasant, some early morning walkers on the far side of the street even pointed and waved to him. Traffic was rarely a problem in a town this size, unlike the giant cities where people wasted a huge proportion of their lives sitting, frustrated, in traffic jams. Larry would never contemplate a move to a location as silly as a big city, life was short enough and in his case the added anxiety would only make his internal problems worse and shorten his life even further. He made a mental note to call his doctor's office and make that appointment for the poison tests. He would do that as soon as he arrived at work. No. First he would examine his wall to see if his sign had driven the vandal away - without leaving his trademark desecration. He believed it would do that; it was very strongly worded.
As Larry indicated to make his turn into the alley, he actually had butterflies in his stomach in anticipation. Not totally uncommon for him, but not normally brought on by something as commonplace as parking his vehicle. Eventually the oncoming traffic broke-up creating a gap and allowing him to make his turn. His relief was palpable when he saw the wall was clear of fresh paint. But the sign he'd made had buckled and folded-in on itself, the cardboard looked soft and puffy. Strange. I don't think we had any rain last night.