“Into where ? Oh, yeah, Falconer.” She picked up the same dread I had plopped on the pillow, examining the tip. “That place is a hole.”
Suddenly, Zoey seemed bored. I wanted to say something to impress her.
“I think my boss killed somebody.”
“What? ” She lifted her head off my chest and sat up, folding herself in my blankets. “Say that again.”
I told her everything. About A-Man and B-Man, about finding the die, the Brothers, the pinky-gray water they poured into Ol’ Betty, how Mr. Rodolfo had unexpectedly taken over my shift.
“I knew it,” she said when I was finished. “I told you he was a mobster.”
“What do you think I should do? You think I should tell someone?”
“You just told me.”
“I mean the police.”
She narrowed her eyes. “They’ll want some proof.”
I got out of bed, dipped one hand in the pocket of my jeans, and took out the die.
“That’s your proof?”
“I think that’s blood on it.”
“Where? It’s just a die with goofy-looking spots.”
“But what about—” I forced myself to concentrate on the little chunk of plastic, but what I saw didn’t make me queasy. It didn’t make the room cloud over in gray. It didn’t make me faint.
“Shit. It must have rubbed off in my pocket.” I held the die up for a closer look, but there was nothing there.
“Did you actually see this happen?”
“No.”
Zoey winced at me, the way you screw up your face in sympathy when you see someone get kicked in the balls. “I can tell you, the police are gonna want more than just that.” She meant the die, which looked puny and pathetic in my hand. “If you do wanna call them, I’d suggest putting on some clothes first.”
I realized I was standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a floppy condom. My whole body blushed.
Zoey giggled. “I was just gonna say—not the best look for you.”
I jammed B-Man’s die back into the pocket of my disembodied jeans and dove into bed. Once I had wormed into my underwear, we tangled our bodies together again. Dearborn once told us that we’d be able to tell we had got it right when, afterward, we just wanted to lie there with the other person, just staring at each other. Turns out he was right.
“So if you aren’t sure,” Zoey said after a while, “what are you gonna do?”
“No matter what happens—if I’m wrong or if I’m right—I’d still lose my job. And I need it. I’m so close to having enough.”
Zoey’s brow knotted together in the middle. “Saving for school’s that important? As long as you get your ten grand saved for college, who cares about anything else?”
“Twelve. I need to save twelve thousand. I’m almost there.”
She sighed heavily and her body shrunk away. “Money,” she said, and that was all.
“I know, it can really screw stuff up. It’s the same with Dave Mizra.”
“Huh?” She rolled back to me, this deeply curious look on her face. The shift to Dave Mizra was a leap she couldn’t quite grasp. “What do you mean?”
“I mean money screwed up everything for him too. Poor guy. I really feel sorry for him.”
“Why? What happened to him?”
“He’s broke,” I told her. “He might have to sell his shop.”
Zoey sat up. “Really? Where’d you hear that?”
“He told me himself. Besides, this is Evandale. Even the rich people are broke. It’s kind of a prerequisite for living here.”
“But I thought—I mean, doesn’t he brag to people about how much cash he makes, like with his custom jewelry or whatever? I thought Veronica Heller shopped there.”
“He made that up. It was a lie he told the Chronicler because he thought it would drum up business. Only it didn’t. Kind of a dumb thing to do, if you ask me. I’m sure he could get in trouble for lying like that.”
“Shit.” Zoey thumped backward on the bed, her dreads drumming the pillow.
“What’s the problem?”
“I guess I feel sorry for the guy too.”
“You do?”
“Also, I think I should go.”
“You don’t have to. My sister’s gone until at least tomorrow afternoon, and my mom—I don’t think she’ll be home till then either.”
“I can’t.”
“Wait, what’s the rush?”
“I just remembered. My dad’ll be home tonight. He’ll kill me if I’m not there.”
“It’s not that late.”
“Sorry.” She rolled her head back and forth, searching the bed. “Where’s my bra?”
“On the floor.”
“Don’t be mad. I just really have to go, that’s all.”
“We can do this again, though, right? Like, next time we get a chance?”
She sat up, tucking one pink dreadlock behind her ear, her eyes sparkling. “Next time we get a chance.”
48
My Piece of the Puzzle
Late the following afternoon, both Mom and Nomi were back at home. Mom zoned out in front of the TV and Nomi curled up beside her. It was hard to believe Zoey had been here the night before. I could still feel the leanness of her body, her warm skin pressed against my back.
I thought about what A-Man told me in his room at the Emerson Center, about pinions and loose gears, all spinning around in an endless machine. After everything that had happened—Dad dying; us moving to this crappy corner of Evandale; Mom getting sick; Mr. Rodolfo giving me a job—after all that, you had to wonder if I was meant to be here. If any of those things hadn’t happened, I would never have met Zoey. Maybe the two of us were cogs that fit. That was certainly how it felt.
It was nice to think about, but unfortunately, the idea kept getting crowded out by thoughts of B-Man.
Proof. Zoey said I needed proof. She seemed to know what she was talking about. If I was brave enough, I could snoop around the laundromat. When I came out of my room, Mom was there in the hall.
“You okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine.” She pointed to the bathroom. “I’ve been drinking a lot of water.”
“Are we going to Beauhaven?”
“I’m not really feeling up to it quite yet.”
She wasn’t kidding. She looked even worse than after the last attack.
“It’s okay,” she said with a weak smile. “In a few days, we’ll drive up. I’ll get some treatment, and who knows? This could be the last one I have for a while. Maybe the last one, period.”
“Maybe.” It occurred to me that this was the first attack she’d had at the library. “Are you going back to work?”
“Of course.” She said it a little too quickly to be believed. “First, I’ll need a little time off.”
“How much?”
She took a step into the bathroom. “Why don’t you go spend some time with Nomi. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but she might be the one who needs some attention. Not me.”
Nomi was in the living room, sucked in by the latest episode of Big Daddy.
“Didn’t I tell you not to watch that?”
She ignored me.
“Hey, I just thought of something. Maybe I could teach you some stuff. We could get out the old Casio.”
Nomi was so shocked to hear this, she actually deigned to mute the television. Then she turned to me with this weirdly mature, weirdly apologetic face. “That’s nice,” she said, “but you don’t have to.”
“What?”
“I changed my mind.”
“You did? When?”
“Remember Jennifer?”
“Um, yeah.” I couldn’t see what this had to do with Nomi changing her mind about the piano.
�
�Well, guess what?” she said.
“What?”
“Jenny says she’s gonna teach me the violin!”
49
Snooping Around the Sit ’n’ Spin, Part 1
Mr. Rodolfo didn’t say a word to me when I went down to work. That was fine by me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what to say to him. If I could avoid him, I thought, I could also avoid all the speculations in my head about mobsters and money and murder.
After he left, I started a methodical search of the entire laundromat. I pretended to clean everything, but in reality, I was examining it. One by one, I poked my head into every washer and dryer in the place. Finally, I took a paper towel, closed my eyes, and wiped around Ol’ Betty’s innards.
“Hey!” someone yelled at me. “You lose something down there?”
I flinched so hard my knees gave out and I bashed them on the washer. Up near the windows, a fat guy in a wife-beater was sitting on the benches, waiting for a load to finish.
“No,” I said to him. “Just cleaning!” To prove it, I held up the perfectly pristine, perfectly dry paper towel in my hand. Dry and pristine. (If Ol’ Betty had been force-fed B-Man’s blood, she hadn’t got any of it stuck in her teeth.)
“Just cleaning, huh?” asked the fat guy.
“Yep.”
“You’re pretty thorough.”
It sounded like he was making fun of me, so I didn’t answer him. I took a peek into the back alley. The wooden stairs that led up to our kitchen looked the same as ever. The pavement that had been moist with the Brothers’ mop water was bone dry.
My phone buzzed. I hoped it was Zoey. Maybe her dad was away, maybe she wanted to hook up again, but no, it was only a text from Calen. The subject line said: AWESOME NEWS!!
50
Calen’s Welcome
(but Not Quite as Sexy) News
Calen: DUDE!! guess who got 3 tix to WBB
@ Foo Bar 2nite?
Me: WBB??
Calen: WILD BLUE BOUNCE! U, me, Alana.
Me: Uh … how much for tickets?
Calen: FREE! My bro cant go, so I got em.
Me: Can we get 4?
Calen: 3’s all I got. totly sold out.
Me: K, cool
Calen: What’s the earliest I can pick u up?
51
Snooping Around the Sit ’n’ Spin, Part 2
Just before closing, the Sit ’n’ Spin was nearly empty. Once it was just me and a bored-looking DIYer waiting for his dryer to stop tumbling, I crept downstairs. This time, I moved slowly, carefully searching every inch of the place. All I found were some old crates, some old shelves, boxes of supplies and tools, decrepit brooms and mops, and the big pressboard poker table surrounded by its crappy metal chairs. There was nothing incriminating at all, nothing to imply Mr. Rodolfo and his Brothers had recently murdered a homeless man.
At that point, I was ready to give up. I would try to forget about B-Man (something I already did most of the time). There was no real proof something had happened to him, and A-Man knew his friend better than anyone. If he said B-Man was off on one of his jaunts, he probably was. If it got to be the end of summer and he still hadn’t shown up, then I could tell someone about what I’d seen. By that time, I would have saved enough money and it wouldn’t matter. That’s what I told myself, at least.
I was just about to climb back up the stairs when my hand, almost with a mind of its own, reached out for the doorknob to Mr. Rodolfo’s office. I expected to hear the same sound I heard last time, the stubborn chk-chk of the lock, but instead the doorknob turned. His office was open.
I had never seen the inside, not even when Mr. Rodolfo had interviewed me for the job; he had asked his questions over the counter upstairs.
I found a light switch, and a pair of fluorescent tubes buzzed to life. The office wasn’t much bigger than my bedroom. There was a dark-green metal desk, a coffee table, and a couple plastic chairs stacked against the cement wall. The surface of the desk was scattered with papers and several tin cans that bristled with pens. Against one wall was a beige bookcase. Nearly every shelf was piled with wires, outdated stereo equipment, and crappy speakers. The top shelf was home to a handful of mystery novels and men’s magazines, ones with articles on how to get the most out of a sit-up. In the corner was a metal filing cabinet with an old TV perched on top. On the floor beside the cabinet was a set of barbells. They were unused, all four of them hairy with dust.
I searched the various shelves and drawers but I didn’t find anything. Just the usual stuff—papers, files, office supplies. In the bottom of the filing cabinet, I found several boxes of playing cards and a case of poker chips.
Between the cabinet and the desk was another door. When I tried to open it, it was locked; it gave off the chk-chk noise I had expected to hear a moment ago. I put my ear to the wood. I didn’t hear anything. Very gently, I knocked. There was no answer, but then—
“Hello? Anybody here? ” someone shouted.
I nearly shit myself. But then I realized the voice hadn’t come from the other side of the door. It had come from upstairs.
52
Gigabot Productions
The guy at the counter was tall, middle-aged, and handsome in a daytime soap opera kind of way. On his face, he wore a thick brown goatee and glasses with rims to match (thick and brown). The sleeves of his shiny gray suit were rolled up, showing off forearms roped with muscle. He was using his fingers to drum a beat on the edge of the counter, upon which was lumped a pile of clothes. All suits.
“Can I help you?”
His bright blue eyes flashed toward the entrance. “Says there you’re still open. Are you?”
“We close at ten.”
“You do dry cleaning, yeah?”
“What do you need?”
He separated the pile on the counter. “These are all suits, tops and bottoms. I need them dry cleaned and pressed.” His voice was light and smooth and calm, but confident. You could tell he was used to getting what he wanted. “No huge rush, but I need them by Thursday morning. Got it?”
I told him it wouldn’t be a problem.
“Great, we’re shooting all day Friday and then over the weekend.”
“Shooting?”
“Just a pilot.”
“Pilot? Like a TV show?”
He wrinkled his nose like somebody farted. “We haven’t been picked up yet, but it seems like we got legs. The thing could really run.”
“Cool.” No wonder he was so confident, so out of place next to the usual people who came into the Sit ’n’ Spin. “So are you, like, an actor?”
He chuckled and shook his head. “Producer. I’m the guy who signs the checks. And occasionally drops off the dry cleaning, apparently.” He sighed and patted the heap of suits.
I asked him if he was shooting around here, in Evandale. He explained that his crew had rented one of the old houses down at the bottom of Emerson and they were using it as the set.
“This neighborhood has a nice feel to it. Urban, gritty, right? Everybody’s looking for that, so it’s good when you find it. My second unit DOP says the light’s good, too, ’specially round sunset.” He smiled. “I wouldn’t know.”
I smiled back, mostly because his grin was contagious, not because I understood what he was talking about. Second unit DOP meant nothing to me.
“It’s a great neighborhood,” he went on, gazing out the window. “And cheap. If we get picked up, we’ll definitely shoot a few episodes around here.”
I felt a little stab of jealousy. How nice would it be if the only reason you came to Evandale was to make a TV show?
“The next couple of days, it’s just pickups and cutaways. All second unit stuff, but I like to be here to get the details right. Sets the mood. Principle photography won’t start for another week, but there’s still a shitload to
do. Pardon my French.”
“Who’s in it?” I asked. “Anybody famous?”
“Sorry, kid, that’s classified. But stick around. I might let something slip.” He smiled again, this time with a mischievous glint.
I liked the way his eyes were so bright and self-assured. I liked the way he called me “kid,” like I was his sidekick.
“Wait,” I said, just as he turned to leave. Then I realized I didn’t have anything to say. “Uh ... you want us to call you if we get the suits done early?”
“Doubt I’ll have time to come get ’em. Too busy with prep.”
“Oh, sure,” I said, like I knew everything in the world about preparing to shoot a pilot.
“But you never know.” He reached into his pocket and took out a silver card case. “You can get me here.”
His business card featured a blocky, crayon doodle of a robot—square head, metallic pincers, light bulbs for ears. It said:
Andrew Myers
Gigabot Productions
After that, he jogged across the street to where he’d parked, right in front of Mizra’s Fire & Ice. His car was a glittering red convertible. In a neighborhood like Evandale, a ride like that was even more conspicuous than one of Dave Mizra’s suits.
53
First Times
Calen used his brother’s ID, and I had a license from one of his brother’s friends, a Sikh kid named Vijay Sandu (who really did look like me). Calen was explicit about keeping the ID safe.
“Lose this,” Calen explained, passing me the little rectangle of plastic, “and Veej says he’ll gut you—like, literally. He’s not even kidding. He doesn’t tell anyone, but he carries a ceremonial dagger.”
“Part of his religion,” Alana added.
Foo Bar is an old nightclub in midtown. It opened in the seventies and was made famous by all the singers and bands adored by Dave Mizra, people like Shain Cope.
“You see that homeless girl again?” Calen asked me.
“Stop saying that. She’s not homeless.”
Calen mocked me with a sulk.
Blues for Zoey Page 13