Frank hung up the phone.
“He knows Mom?” Allie asked. Was there anything about her life that Jonas didn’t already know?
“Everyone knows your mother.” Frank’s forehead held a deep vertical line of worry. His hairline glistened with sweat.
Roger trumpeted to get the room’s attention, then began tapping out a long narrative about gangsters being all about hype and bravado. Before he could finish this thought, there was a knock and the door opened.
Two perfumed women walked in. They both had white-blond hair. One had dark brown skin. Allie found it hard to look away from their breasts: bulbous, shiny, protruding orbs bubbling out of open cardigans, then cantilevered over identical skin-tight, acid-washed jean shorts.
Luis approached the women and kissed each one on the cheek. “Allie, Frank,” he said, “This is Jessie, also known as Juicy Blue, and this is Tracy, also known as Trixie Wallets.”
Frank didn’t say anything as he shook each girl’s hand. He barely looked at them—it was clear his mind and energy were elsewhere. Mike, however, had his mouth hanging loose from its hinges like a kid with a stuffed-up nose. His boney, square chin followed the women’s every movement: shaking Allie’s hand, kissing Jorge on the cheek, and kissing Roger on the lips.
“You going to be working for Roger?” Jessie asked Allie. Her dark skin was dewy-looking. Allie could understand how people would want to touch her, look at her, rub against her.
“Oh, no!” Allie imagined herself as a squat rectangle compared to these long, linear creatures.
“But you’re so pretty. Well, except for that bump. But it will go away, won’t it?” Jessie asked.
“Allie is in school,” Frank said sharply. “She’ll be doing schoolwork and if she gets another job it will be in a library where she cannot get herself in trouble.”
“I’m in school, too,” Tracy said, in a whispery feather of a voice. She then peeled off her cardigan and dumped it on the counter with her purse. Jessie did the same. Together they climbed onto Roger’s bed. Tracy straddled Roger’s lap. Her long, shimmering calves reached almost to the end of the bed. Jessie sat by Roger’s head with her tank-topped breasts jutting into his hanging cheeks. They chattered with him while stroking his shiny face.
Allie clicked her gaze back and forth between the women with Roger and her father. Frank was patting down Mike and removing everything from his pockets: car keys, a parking receipt from the hospital garage, five In-N-Out Burger receipts, some loose change, a tiny white shell with glittering pink nacre, and thirty-three dollars.
“You shouldn’t eat so much In-N-Out,” Frank said. “Not good for you.”
“Hans says it’s not even real food,” Luis said. “But I think it’s the best stuff out there.”
“Now where’s the coke,” Frank said to Mike.
“You have coke?” Tracy asked.
“It’s under the seat of my truck,” Mike said. “You can fucking take it, just let me go.”
“Where’s the truck?” Frank asked.
“In the parking lot.”
“Can we have some coke?” Jessie asked. No one answered except Roger, who was pointing out a word that Allie couldn’t see through the noodle-limbed bodies on his bed.
“It’s a red truck with a red toolbox attached to it,” Allie said. “I can find it.”
“What section are you parked in?” Frank asked.
“Three-B,” Mike grunted.
Luis went with Allie to get the truck. They found it immediately. Allie opened the driver’s-side door, then climbed in and unlocked the passenger door for Luis.
Luis leaned in and searched under the seat. “Got it,” he said, pulling out a Wonder Bread bag.
Allie looked at it, tilted her head, and looked again. The smeared telephone number was there, a little more blurred now.
“Open it,” Allie said.
“This shit’ll mess you up,” Luis said. “Look where it got you.”
“I don’t want to do it, I just want to see it,” Allie said. “Make sure he didn’t fill it up with something different.”
Luis untwisted the twisty tie, opened the bag, and stuck in a delicate pinky. He pulled out a little white heap of powder.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Looks right,” Allie said. “Taste it.”
“My brother would kill me if I tried this. He’s Mister I’m So Pure I Only Eat Whole Grains.” Luis lowered his voice to mimic Hans, although he sounded nothing like Hans. The girliness in his tone still pushed through.
“All those years with Roger and you guys never did coke? Doesn’t he do it every night?”
“He does it every night. Man can’t get a boner, he does so much coke.”
“So he can get boners when he’s not on coke? In his condition?”
“Oh yeah.” Luis laughed. “You wouldn’t believe what he can do in his condition.”
They both looked down at the coke on Luis’s fingertip. Allie thought of her father. She thought of Wai Po. Even though it needed to be checked, she would not disappoint them and be the one who checked it. Her coke days, or day rather, was entirely behind her. “Rub a bit on your gums and see if they go numb,” she suggested.
“Why not,” Luis said. “I’m sick of my goody-two-shoes brother.” He rubbed the powder on his gums. They both sat quietly for a minute. Then Luis ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “It’s numb,” he said. “Like Novocain or something.”
“Good,” Allie said. “Can we not give any to the hookers? I really want to return the bag to Jonas with as little missing as possible.” Allie started up the truck and pulled out of the parking space. It felt clunky and heavy compared to the Prelude.
“They’re actresses, not hookers,” Luis said.
“Sorry,” Allie said, and she blushed, remembering that Luis’s mother had been an actress, too.
“No problem,” Luis said. “Common mistake.”
They drove out of the parking lot and circled around to the hospital entrance.
Allie waited with the engine running while Luis went to gather the others. As Roger had pointed out in the hospital room, the shorter distance they had to transport Mike, the less likely they were to arouse suspicion.
Luis, Frank, Jorge, and Mike walked out of the hospital together. Mike was wearing a pink cardigan, buttoned at the neck and hanging over his shoulders cape-style to hide his hands taped behind his back. Tracy’s sweater, Allie realized. Frank got in the cab while the others climbed into the bed of the truck, Mike wedged between Jorge and Luis, their backs against the toolbox. Allie carefully drove back into the parking lot to where the van and the Prelude were parked.
Allie and Frank got out of the truck and waited by the Prelude as Jorge and Luis wrangled Mike from the bed and brought him to the car. Allie squeezed her lucky rabbit foot once, then clicked the button on the car key and unlocked the trunk of the Prelude. The smell of rotten bird and scared grown man darted out like a bad wind.
“Gross,” Mike said. “What do you keep in there?” Jorge and Luis pushed him down into the trunk. Jorge held Mike’s feet while Luis wrapped a few layers of tape around his ankles. As a final touch, Luis put one thick piece of tape over Mike’s mouth, and then he quietly shut the trunk. Allie turned in a full circle to check if anyone had noticed them. There were brake lights on, a few aisles away, too far for anyone to have seen.
“It really does smell in there,” Jorge said.
“I guess the condor baked a little,” Allie said. “It’s been a pretty sunny day.”
“Decomposition is a fetid process,” Frank said, and he took the keys to the truck from Allie and handed them to Luis.
“Allie, if I don’t see you again, take care,” Luis said, and he leaned in and hugged Allie.
“What do you mean if I don’t see you again?” Allie pulled away from the hug. “Why wouldn’t I see you again?”
“We’re going to pick up my brother and then head out to Oakland
to deal with your boss,” Luis said.
“He’s not her boss,” Frank said to Luis. Then he turned to Allie and said, “You go to Jorge and Consuela’s and wait there for me to get you.”
“Consuela is making food for you right now, sweetheart,” Jorge said. “I called her from Roger’s room.”
“Why are you taking the van and the truck?” Allie asked. “Shouldn’t you just leave Mike’s truck here?”
“You know how it goes, sweetheart,” Jorge said. “One of us might have to be at Beth’s house while some of us go to Jonas’s work or his house.”
“Isn’t Chez Panisse in Berkeley?” Luis asked. “My brother has been talking about going to Chez Panisse for years.”
“It’s right near Beth’s house,” Allie said. “But I want to go with you guys!”
“You’re staying in Los Angeles,” Frank said, and his voice was so forbidding that Luis and Jorge slinked away—Luis to the truck and Jorge to the van.
“I don’t understand,” Allie said to her dad. “What am I supposed to do with Mike? Why don’t you drop him off at his apartment when you pick up Hans?”
“Some boys who work for Roger will get him at Consuela and Jorge’s house. Now, I’ll see you later.” Frank got into the passenger side of the van. Allie followed him and knocked on the window, which her father rolled down.
“I don’t know how to get to Consuela and Jorge’s house.” Allie wasn’t sure if she could find her way back to any of the places she’d been the last couple of days.
“Oh, sweetheart, I forgot!” Jorge said. Frank turned in his seat and impatiently watched Jorge fish out a folded depression brochure from his back pocket. “I wrote down directions.” Jorge handed Allie the brochure. His tidy, block handwriting was in the white margins.
“Dad, will you call me when you get to Oakland?” Allie asked. “Will you let me know when it’s all worked out?”
“We’ll call,” Frank said. He pointed at the ignition key, as if to move things along. Jorge started the engine.
“But Dad,” Allie said. “You never call. You never called me at school. And when I call you, you only sometimes answer the phone.”
“Jorge will call the house,” Frank said. “And I’ll meet you there first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Promise?” Allie asked.
“See you tomorrow, Allie.” Frank adjusted the rearview mirror, then rolled up his window as the van pulled out of the lot. Luis followed in the truck. He gave a fluttery wave out the open window. Allie waved back and then, finally, got in the Prelude.
All this time, the past four days, Allie had been waiting, hoping, praying for someone—her mother, her father, Marc, her rabbit foot even!—to step in and save her from this quagmire. But now that she had gotten what she wanted, it didn’t feel as good as she had imagined it would. In fact, Allie felt defeated and depleted. Maybe this was a sign, Allie thought, that she should grow up and clean up her own mess. Be her own guardian.
Allie sat up straight and held the depression pamphlet in the center of the steering wheel. The words looked scattered and abstract—a pile of pick-up sticks. Allie focused in. Turn right after you come out of the parking lot, she read. Allie drove out of the parking lot. And turned left.
Chapter 16
She only got lost once, and when she did, Allie pulled into a gas station, filled up the Prelude, and was re-pointed by a woman with a bandana tied around her neck the way a golden retriever might wear one.
Allie’s heart beat faster when she finally saw a sign for the 405 to the 5. She figured that was the route her father and the others were taking. Depending on how long it took to pick up Hans, she was maybe ten minutes behind them. But she already had gas, and if she didn’t stop to go to the bathroom and they did, Allie might be able to catch up.
Mike was silent most of the drive, but every now and then a barrage of bouncing thumps would erupt as if he were mule-kicking his bound feet against the inside top of the trunk. He gave a particularly startling kick just as Allie was accelerating into the fast lane of the 5. Allie turned on the radio as loud as she could take it in order to drown out the sounds of her prisoner.
The first three stations she hit were playing Mexican music. And then, on the fourth station, Allie heard Mighty Zamboni. The song was “Weency Willie,” a ballad her mother and Jet had written together years ago about a tiny maimed boy who brings homemade potpies to a Native American tribe, which, in turn, brings peace between the tribe and the white townspeople. Jet always claimed Penny’s voice wasn’t strong enough to do anything but backup, so they hired Olivia Newton-John to sing the harmony and a couple of phrases on the song. Even as a little kid, Allie always wondered if the reason Jet wanted Olivia Newton-John instead of Penny was simply that he had a crush on her.
Allie listened to the song. Each time a spray of tambourine came on, she imagined her mother slapping that instrument against her hip, wearing the single-feather headband she liked to wear when they performed “Weency Willie.” During concerts, of course, Olivia Newton-John was never there and Penny took the front-center of the stage beside Jet. Allie could barely tell the differences between the Olivia version and her mother’s.
The song ended and a female DJ, whose voice reminded Allie of whispery Tracy, said, “Now there’s a blast from the past! Mighty Zamboni singing ‘Weency Willie’ with Olivia Newton-John. One of my favorite Zamboni classics for sure. The Mighty Zamboni were here at the Hollywood Bowl just last week and will be performing at the Cow Palace in San Francisco tonight, opening for the amazing Billy Idol. Tickets are still available, so if you missed them in L.A., catch a People Express flight to San Francisco—fifty bucks round trip. I flew up last week for the Eddie Money concert—”
Allie punched the button back to Mexican radio. She thought of Consuela. Allie hoped Consuela wouldn’t worry about her too much or wouldn’t be angry that Allie wasn’t there to eat the food she’d prepared. She’d hate to bring any bad feelings into that warm, peaceful household.
Six hours later, Allie was in Oakland, then Berkeley. Her intention was to go straight to Beth’s, but, almost without meaning to, she bypassed the exit and instead went to Emeryville, where Marc lived. She drove past the mudflats, where artists, or anyone who claimed to be an artist, had constructed hundreds of sculptures made from trash, tires, wood, shingles, anything. Allie loved looking at the mudflats art. There was a sheet-metal-and-plank-wood woman rising up from the muck. She wore a pleated skirt of two-by-fours and looked as high as a house, her arms reaching toward the sky, head thrown back. Other sculptures stuck out haphazardly from the marshy, silty soil like aliens emerging from the ooze.
Marc hated the mudflats. He claimed the only reason he bought his loft in Emeryville was because one day the mudflats would be filled in, bulldozed, and developed, and then his piece of real estate would be worth as much as a place in San Francisco or the Berkeley hills.
Allie parked the Prelude in the lot outside Marc’s building. Mike gave a resounding kick just as Allie was walking away from the car. Allie went to the trunk and slammed her fist onto it, then glanced around to see if anyone had seen. There were two guys getting into a car three spaces away, but they didn’t even turn their heads.
The Trapper John, M.D. theme song was playing behind Marc’s door. Trapper John was his favorite show; he wouldn’t go out on Sunday night until after it was over.
Allie knocked three times. The volume on the TV went down. Seconds later, Marc was standing in front of Allie. He stepped into the doorway and pulled the door back against himself, as if he didn’t want Allie to peek in.
“Hey!” Marc said, with more cheer than was natural for him. His face seemed to redden slightly. Allie could see his eyes focusing on the lump on her forehead.
“Hey,” Allie said.
“What happened to your head?”
“Can I come in?” Allie tried to peer over his massive shoulders but Marc stepped out into the hall and firmly shut the door.
“Oh.” Allie felt a small punch in her gut. “I don’t care,” she lied.
“You don’t care?”
“No. I don’t,” Allie said, even as the punch expanded into an open palm trying to find its way out of her body.
“So, we’re, like, friends?” Marc asked.
“Something like that,” Allie said. “You owe me money. You need to pay me back.”
“Yeah, did Beth tell you I called? I sold the bar but—”
“Let’s not talk about it out here,” Allie said, and she pushed past Marc, opened the door, and slid inside.
On the couch was a tiny girl with long blond hair and enormous brown eyes. She looked like a puppet or a doll. Allie thought she was beautiful, and this made the feeling in her gut even worse.
“Hey,” Allie said.
“Hey!” the girl stood, went to the TV, and turned it off. She was wearing a red dress and red pumps, as if she had an event to go to. Marc was in jeans and a green T-shirt that had a hole at the corner of the breast pocket. Together they looked like Barbie and an underdressed Ken.
“Cute dress,” Allie said, eying the girl’s impossibly tiny waist.
“Regan, this is Allie. Allie, Regan.” Marc spoke as if he wanted to get this meeting over with. “So what’s up with your forehead?” he asked Allie.
“Something fell on me,” Allie said, fingering the lump. The true story sounded too unbelievable to be told. Allie sat on the couch. Regan sat, too.
“Must have hurt,” Regan said.
“Are you Reagan spelled like our president?” Allie asked.
“No, Regan like in The Exorcist.”
“Oh,” Allie said. “Never saw it.”
“Seriously?” Marc asked. He was still standing. “Who hasn’t seen The Exorcist?”
“Me,” Allie said. “My dad wouldn’t let me go.”
The Wonder Bread Summer: A Novel Page 20