Knife Music

by David Carnoy

  Vas, using the handle slipandslide84, had typed: “Fingers tap-tap-tapping, w8ing, w8ing, w8ing . . . zzzzzzz.”

  “Well?” Josh says.

  He stares at the screen for a few seconds, then types:

  “Diafongon? Male or female?”

  “Chk,” the reply comes back with an emoticon of a winking baby chicken with a bow in its hair and puckered lips.

  He sends his own smiling emoticon back, then, turning his chair a little to shield his hands from the cop, he pulls out a folded sheet of paper that contains ten one-hundred-dollar bills. He slips it into the envelope and hands it to Josh.

  “He’s going,” he types.

  “R&R,” she writes back.

  May 12—3:20 p.m.

  Madden starts to get impatient after an hour. He’s gone through two newspapers and is twenty pages into a Tom Clancy novel Burns left in the car a few days ago. Looking out the window, he thinks: You know I’m out here, wasting my time, and you’re taking pleasure in it. I can see that little smirk every time you glance out the window. What are you up to, you son of a bitch?

  He gives it another ten minutes, then flips the baseball cap around so it’s facing forward, gets out and walks around, stretching his legs. There’s a little jewelry store on Santa Cruz, and he goes in and looks around. Then he goes to nearby Draeger’s, a gourmet supermarket, and buys a turkey-and-cheddar bagel sandwich. It’s almost one. They’ve been sitting there for close to an hour and a half.

  “I’ve had enough,” he says to Burns when he calls on the radio to check in.

  “You going home?”

  “Thought I’d pick up a coffee first.”

  “At the deli?”

  “No, across the street.”

  May 12—3:22 p.m.

  The updates arrive sporadically. Vas informs him of her progress with short, cryptic messages. She seems to be composing them with flare, even borderline silliness, for her own amusement rather than out of necessity. He isn’t surprised, given her reputation as a witty trash talker in their online league.

  “U ever married?” she writes.

  “Was,” he responds. “Few years back.”

  “Carry your bride across the threshold?”

  “Forgot. By the time I remembered, too late.”

  “I just did it. np.”

  She’s in, Josh says, quietly interpreting. No problem.

  A little later she writes: “Foo. At H but wrong1. Hopped wrong bus.”

  She’d found the university’s hospital directory, Josh translates, not the school’s student clinic.

  Just before one, at about ninety-minute mark, she sends good news: “Parking the car. In lot. Like lot a lot. Is it a lot to ask to like a lot a lot?”

  Shortly afterward, his phone goes off. It’s Steve calling from across the room.

  “She’s in the database,” he says giddily, “but there’s no way to search it for specific terms, only names of students.”

  “OK, start going down the list I gave you and look for those keywords.” He’d given Steve a list of all the members of the frat, plus a handful of medical terms and names of antibiotics, including Azithromycin, doxycycline, and metronidazole. “Call me back if you find anything,” he says, and just as he finishes the sentence, he sees Madden standing in line, getting ready to place an order. Even though he knows he shouldn’t be surprised to see him, his eyes open wide as if he’s the last person he’d expect to encounter.

  “What’s wrong?” Josh says, observing his alarmed expression.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’ve seen that guy before.”

  “Yeah, he’s the cop who arrested me.”

  Now Josh is the one to be fearful.

  “You’re kidding. What’s he doing here? Should we tell them to stop?”

  “If he was here to stop us, he would have done it already.”

  A few moments later, Josh looks over at the line, where Madden, at the front, is paying for the coffee he’s collecting.

  “Don’t look,” he warns the kid. “Don’t pay any attention. I’ll handle it.”

  “Is he coming over here? I think he’s coming over here.”

  Indeed, he’s moving in their direction. But before he gets too far, he stops at the condiment table, and loads his cup with a shot of milk and sugar. He puts the lid back on his cup, flips the drink tab open, and takes a few more steps in their direction. When he’s about fifteen feet away, he stops and takes a sip of the coffee, looking over the top of the cup as he drinks. Their eyes meet. Expressionless, Madden brings the cup to chest height.

  “What’s he doing?” Josh whispers, his eyes locked on the table in front of him.

  Cogan doesn’t answer. He’s concentrating on holding the stare, willing himself to match Madden’s. The contest lasts a good ten or twelve seconds. And then it’s over. Madden takes one more sip, turns away and walks out the door.

  “Relax,” he tells Josh, “he’s gone.”

  “Did he see us?”

  “Sure.”

  “You think he knows?”

  “No. He just wanted to send a little message.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “He’s nobody’s fool.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Hopefully, it’s irrelevant,” he says, then types, “Anything?” into the instant message box.

  “Patience, grasshopper,” comes the reply.

  May 12—3:56 p.m.

  There are a couple of false alarms—one guy was treated with a certain antibiotic for an illness that turned out not to be a STD, and some guy named Phil Dunham was treated for Pediculosis Pubis, more commonly known as crabs.

  By the time they get down to the names that start with M and N, he’s increasingly pessimistic they’re going to find anything—until the following message flashes across his screen.

  “Trichomoniasis. Chlamydia. Azithromycin. Good?”

  They’d hit the motherload: a possible match.

  He types: “What’s the name? Who is it?”

  Instead of an answer, his phone rings instead.

  “Ted,” Steve says a little breathlessly.

  “What?”

  “It’s Jim. It’s Jim Pinklow. Carrie’s brother.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. We’re taking a screenshot now. She’ll print it for you later.”

  The little bastard. Of course he didn’t see anybody else go off with her. Because he’d gone off with her himself.

  “Ted, you there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want us to do the rest?”

  “No, log off. Let’s get out of here.”

  38/ SCREAMING IN WHISPER

  Feb. 17, 2007—11:12 p.m.

  THEY MAY HAVE FOUND HIS NAME FIRST, BUT HE ACTUALLY HAD sex with her second. Watkins had given him the opportunity to go first, but he hadn’t been ready; he wasn’t aroused. And that had proved quite unfortunate. He thinks about that sometimes, thinks that if he’d gone first, maybe Watkins, that contaminated bastard, wouldn’t have gone at all. And then maybe it would have been OK. But that’s not how it went down.

  In the little flashbacks, the one thing he remembers most vividly is Watkins’s voice after it was over. He wasn’t shouting but screaming in a whisper.

  “You gotta pull yourself together, man,” he said, kneeling over him, uncomfortably close to his face. “I can’t have you go catatonic on me. We’ve only got a few minutes. You’re not going to pass out on me?”

  He was sitting on the floor, with his back propped up against Watkins’s double bed, his head in his hands. He still had his shirt and socks on, but nothing else. There, above him on the bed, lay Kristen, passed out. Though he couldn’t see it from where he was sitting, he knew what was there next to her: on the bed, right below her, was a large stain of blood.

  He lifted his head a little and peered up at Watkins. He felt dizzy. “Was there this much blood after you fucked Becky Goffman?” His voice fell heavi
ly on the word “fucked”—a little too heavily for Watkins’s taste.

  “No, moron,” he hissed. “There wasn’t this much fucking blood. But she could be on the rag for all we know.”

  “You think?”

  “What’s the difference? We gotta clean her up and get her out of here. Let’s go, pledge. Get your goddamn clothes on.” Watkins grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him off the floor.

  “OK, OK,” Jim said.

  “Here,” Watkins said, going to a small refrigerator he had in the corner of the room. “Chug some of this.” He handed him a bottle of spring water, then went to his bureau and fished out a couple of pills—one from a big bottle of Aleve and another from a smaller, unlabeled bottle. “Now take these.”

  “What are they?”

  “Clarity.”

  After Jim had taken the pills and put his clothes back on, all of a sudden he felt C. J.’s hands around his throat. His back went thud against the wall as Watkins pushed him up against it.

  “If I go down for this, P-brain, because of your inability to cope with the situation at hand, I will kill you. Do I make myself clear? I’m not going down for this shit.”

  “No one’s going down,” Jim managed to say, and Watkins loosened his grip. “No one,” Jim repeated.

  “I know,” said Watkins, his smile returning. “Now find her underwear. I’m going to go out for a minute. Don’t answer the door unless you hear three knocks.” He went to the door and grabbed a big blue towel that was on a hook on the back of it. He took a peek outside. Seeing the coast was clear, he slipped out.

  Jim quickly found her underwear. It was on the ground in between Watkins’s little nightstand and the bed. He picked them up and balled them tightly in his hand, not quite sure what to do next. The boombox on the floor was still emitting music—the Chemical Brothers and their funky techno beat. He thought about turning it off, but then he thought Watkins might get mad if he did. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he went and sat in a chair in the corner of the room.

  How had it happened? How had it come to this? One minute they were playing a stupid game of Truth or Dare. There had been a few silly questions, then Watkins had dared her to make out with him. He remembered her pointing at Watkins. “You?” she said. “You’re like thirty.” But she leaned into him anyway, and Jim watched incredulously as their mouths locked. He felt himself smiling, but it was tinged with pain.

  Then it was his turn. She came over and half fell onto the bed next to him. He helped her right herself, and then she leaned over and kissed him—a sloppy, wet kiss that ended with her passing out on the bed next to him and Watkins laughing. “Potent, Mr. P., potent.”

  He didn’t know why he let it go further than that. Why, when Watkins stripped off her clothes, did he do nothing, and instead just watch, almost fascinated, as he forced himself inside her? And why, when Watkins said, “Get in there, Mr. P.,” had he done as he said and pulled down his own pants and climbed on top of her?

  He had made some feeble attempts at foreplay. Yes, it seemed ridiculous. But he’d gently kissed her and stroked her face, as if that would make it real. And once, when her eyes had opened briefly, he thought it was real. But then he heard Watkins laughing. “What are you doing, Casanova?”

  He had trouble getting in her at first, but then Watkins wiped something on her—some sort of gel—and with one wiggle and a thrust he went in, he was fucking. It wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. But there it was happening. He was fucking.

  Three knocks. Watkins was at the door. Jim quickly got up and unlocked the door and Watkins slipped in and locked it behind him. He had wetted half the towel, and though it was soaked, Jim didn’t think it would be enough to take out the stain. They needed something more powerful, a chemical. They needed the Chemical Brothers.

  “OK,” Watkins said, “I’m going to clean her up. I want you to make sure there’s no blood on her clothes. Not a drop. Understand?”

  Watkins turned on the small light next to his bed.

  “What about the stain?” Jim asked.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get rid of it. First we clean her up and get her out of here.”

  39/ A LESSON IN PITCHING

  May 13, 2007—12:05 p.m.

  SUNDAY. NOON. AT FIRST MADDEN DOESN’T SEE THE GUY STANDING over by the visitors’ dugout. He’d been concentrating on catching for his son, who’d inexplicably been having trouble with his control the last two games, walking nearly a dozen batters in each. He hadn’t been missing badly, but he was consistently off the plate—and he isn’t doing any better in today’s practice session. Frustratingly, whenever he makes a comment to his son, even if only to voice his encouragement, it seems to have an adverse effect: the boy starts over-throwing, pitching the ball high or, worse, in the dirt, skipping it past him.

  “Keep your left elbow and shoulder up.”

  Chico turns toward the voice, which belongs to a lone spectator who, hands in pockets, is standing just behind the protective fence on the first-base side.

  “What?”

  The guy steps out from behind the fence and saunters into what would be the first base coach’s box on game day. By the time he speaks next, Madden, to his dismay, realizes who he is.

  “On your way to the plate,” Cogan says, “remember to keep your left side up. You’re letting it dip. Pitch it again.”

  Chico does as he’s told, this time decidedly more conscious of his mechanics. But the result is the same: the ball goes high and outside.

  “See, you did it again,” he says, moving onto the field toward the pitcher’s mound. “Here, let me show. You mind?”

  Before Madden can object, Chico relinquishes his mitt and ball, and Cogan is standing on the mound facing him.

  “OK, body straight and relaxed,” he says. “Stand tall. Your head doesn’t move, your weight is centered, then you take a small step back to the left at a forty-five-degree angle.”

  Madden stands behind the plate, mesmerized, half-wondering if what he’s watching is real. Cogan’s voice is almost hypnotic. He does everything in slow motion, going through each piece of the delivery, from the pivoting of the right foot parallel to the pitching rubber to the follow-through of the right wrist to the left ankle. Then he starts to speed it up, offering a different tip with each follow-through:

  “Remember, the lower half moves first.”

  “Always throw from the far right side of the rubber to get a better angle on the hitter.”

  “Location up and down, in and out. Keep the hitter off balance.”

  At first, Cogan doesn’t throw the ball. But on the third or fourth simulated pitch, he lets the ball go and tosses it to him. With each successive pitch, he throws the ball a little harder, and soon the pitches are coming in nearly as fast as his son’s, only they’re coming in over the plate, belt high.

  Ten warm-up pitches later, Cogan turns to Chico and says, “Who’s your favorite pitcher?”

  “Maddox,” Chico is quick to reply.

  “Excellent choice. Mine was always Seaver. Tom Seaver.”

  Cogan then covers his mouth with the mitt and whispers something to his son.

  “Get ready, dad,” Chico says gleefully. “He says he’s going to bring it.”

  And before Madden can object, Cogan is in his motion, and the ball is in Madden’s mitt. He tosses it back, staring at Cogan hard, pissed that he’s challenging him like this in front of his son. He gets down a little deeper in his crouch and holds the mitt out in front of him, bracing for the impact.

  Whap. Cogan hits the target almost dead center.

  One after another they come in, pop, pop, pop, only now there are no mantras recited between pitches. Cogan has an intense look on his face that’s at once full of emotion and emotionless. He’s truly pitching.

  After he’s thrown about a dozen fastballs, he hands the mitt back to Chico and tells him to try again. Chico gets on the mound and, imitating Cogan’s motion, pitches the ba
ll to Madden. It’s a little high.

  “Good,” his new coach says. “Now think about everything I just told you and then stop thinking about it.”

  Chico stands on the mound, looking upward for a moment. Then he gets set and goes into his motion. Whap, the ball hits his catcher’s mitt. This time, though, he didn’t have to move. “Nice, Chico,” he says, throwing the ball back.

  The next pitch is the same; it cuts through the heart of plate. And the next. Out of the next ten pitches he throws, eight are strikes and the two that are balls are close enough to induce a batter to swing.

  Having felt he mastered the lesson, Chico now wants Cogan to show him how to pitch a curve.

  “Another day,” he says. “I’ve got to talk to your father alone for a minute. But I’ll write down those pointers so you remember them.”

  He takes out a plain white envelope and begins to write on the back of it. Madden approaches the mound. He feels like a manager about to make a pitching change. But instead of taking the ball from his son, he gives him his catcher’s mitt.

  “Go see how your sister’s team is doing,” he says. “I’ve got to speak with Dr. Cogan.”

  “But the game hasn’t even started yet.”

  It’s true. Off in the distance, well behind the right field fence, he can see the girls standing in a line, waiting to take their warm-up shots at the goalie. Kick-off is still a few minutes away.

  “Please, Chico. It’s the last time I say it. Thank Dr. Cogan and go.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cogan.”

  “No problem.”

  His son trundles off in the direction of the nearby soccer field. When he’s a safe distance away, he says to Cogan, “How did you know I was here?”

  He holds up his hand. “Just a sec.” He’s still writing. “There you go,” he says, handing him the envelope. On the back of it he’d written “4 Steps to Proper Pitching” and listed the four steps.

  “Thanks,” he grumbles.

  “How old is he?”

  “Eleven.”