Derwin passed the Ziploc to Marvis, and he took a taste. Then he handed it to Griz Cody and returned his attention to the large cardboard box that lay on the floor.
One last roll of film waited for inspection. Marvis uncoiled the leader. Raised the first frame to the dim light, saw dull green felt and parchment-yellow flesh.
“This is the one,” Marvis announced. “April Destino.”
“All right!” Griz shouted. “Memory fuckin’ lane!”
Marvis grinned as the drug sizzled through him. He was almost ready to share another secret. The words stumbled on the tip of his tongue. He almost said, There’s a sequel to this, you know. April, Part II. It’s on video. Let’s go down to the basement. I’ll cue it up….”
But the Ziploc returned to his hands. Another toot and his mind raced forward. And when he passed the coke to Bat he saw that the moment had passed, anyway, because Todd Gould had turned his attention from the photography books to an old high school yearbook, the 1976 edition, to be exact.
“Check this out!” Todd shoved the book under Derwin’s dusted nose. “Check out what April wrote!”
Derwin’s lips formed silent words, snaking into a leer that spoke volumes.
“Give me that,” Marvis demanded.
Derwin tossed the book to Griz. Marvis grabbed for it, but Griz dodged sloppily and stumbled into the hallway.
Reading. Laughing.
“Showtime!” Griz yelled, slapping the dusty blue covers closed. “Let’s roll. It’s showtime!”
Marvis made another grab for the yearbook, but Griz flipped a blind toss over his head and the book landed in the hands of Bat Bautista, who charged past Marvis and didn’t stop until he hit the front lawn.
Marvis hurried after him.
A pair of headlights bloomed across the street.
“Shit!” Squinting, Bat shielded his bloodshot eyes with the yearbook. Harsh white light played over the glossy pages. The car didn’t move. Marvis did. As he walked toward Bat Bautista, the headlights washed his black face, his white, coke-smeared nose.
The car sat in Joe Hamner’s driveway, but it didn’t belong to Joe. It rolled slowly across the sidewalk, onto the street, and passed under a streetlight. One person sat behind the wheel. Small shoulders, long hair. A woman. Had to be. Marvis could see that, but that was all he could see.
The car paused. The window on the passenger side was down. A single sound broke the night. Each man heard it, but only Marvis recognized it as the rasping percussion of a speed-winder, the device used by professional photographers to take a quick sequence of photos.
The car spit exhaust and disappeared around the comer.
And Bat Bautista’s words filled Marvis’s ears: “Click. Click. Click. You missed the best shot, Shutterbug. But that’s okay. I’m still waiting for you, and this time…I’m ready!”
The words danced in Shutterbug’s head. He was still thinking about the car and the sound of the speed-winder. It was difficult to split his concentration after the beer and the coke. A minute passed before Bat’s statement coalesced in his brain.
Bautista slapped the yearbook against Shutterbug’s Nautilus-constructed chest. “It’s what she wrote in your yearbook, numbnuts,” he said.
Shutterbug stared at a glowing streetlight. In his mind it was a big flashbulb that was taking an inordinate amount of time to die. And suddenly the words April had written were with him in that strange afterglow between unforgiving brightness and complete darkness, forcing every other thought from his head, and he could almost hear her whisper riding the warm April breeze.
2:55 A.M.
They could call the place a mobile home park if they wanted to. That was okay with Amy. The name game was as old as advertising itself. But she knew what kind of people lived in places like this, and she didn’t think of them as “mobile home” trash.
Trailer trash. That was what you called people who ended their lives as April Destino had, holed up with a broken air-conditioner in a tin prison that could have passed for the hotbox in Cool Hand Luke.
Amy snatched a cushion from the worn sofa, unzipped it, and found nothing inside but a hunk of foam rubber that smelled like a whore’s sour sweat. Businesslike blonde bangs tickled her eyebrows as she shook her head. Unbelievable. She didn’t even know what she was looking for, but here she was, on a treasure hunt, ripping apart April Destino’s place.
Not that she had gotten very far. She’d only searched the coat closet in the living room, but already she was sweating like common trailer— No. She wouldn’t start thinking like that. She didn’t have anything in common with April Destino.
And that had to be the understatement of the year. Amy had to laugh at April’s place. A velvet Hendrix hung on the wall, next to a faded picture of Amy with the cheerleading squad. A pressed-wood coffee table sat before a tattered couch. Several tabloids were scattered on the scarred table. Movie star tabloids, not the space alien kind—doodled whiskers on Di’s chinny-chin-chin, sagging saddlebags drooping under Liz Taylor’s eyes, Michael Jackson needing no doodles to look like the Phantom of the Opera. Imitation oak bookcases stocked by the Trailer Trash Psychic Library lined one wall; books on dreams and reincarnation and Elvis’s undying spirit and numerology were wedged between plastic plants and the components of an ancient Panasonic stereo.
Amy was tempted to remove the foam speaker covers. It was possible that April might have hidden her legacy between the barker and tweeter, or whatever the hell those things were called. Certainly such useless facts would have clogged her mind if she were a man. But she was a woman. Her mind was thankfully free of any esoteric knowledge concerning stereos or automobiles or long-dead baseball players.
That kind of info undoubtedly filled Doug Douglas’s brain. Just thinking about him annoyed her. Doug Douglas was actually ordering her around. Doug Douglas. If she had only begun exploring the divorce a year ago, instead of today, it wouldn’t have mattered that Doug had caught her with Ethan. But she had wanted to make it look as if she’d really made a go of the marriage in hopes of gaining a better settlement. Earlier today—yesterday actually, since it was now well past midnight—she’d talked to a lawyer for the first time. The meeting had gone extraordinarily well, so well that the trip to Ethan’s apartment was to have been a celebration.
If Doug did anything with his photos now…. Well, the results would be disastrous. She had to do as he said. She had to do what April wanted.
And that meant looking around this damn trailer, not sitting on her butt, because she had to have those photos.
Amy searched the lower shelves of the bookcase, shaking her head over some genuine relics—an eight-track tape player and a leaning stack of tapes, each roughly the size of a sandwich. Starland Vocal Band. War. Earth, Wind, & Fire. Bay City Rollers. The Bee Gees. Talk about your moldy oldies. Amy wouldn’t listen to that kind of stuff. Not tonight, not ever. Not even during one of her most perverse, depressed, self-loathing PMS attacks.
Maybe April had left a taped message for her. Amy flipped open a little black door and peered inside the eight-track.
Caught herself lying there on the floor.
Pictured herself as she would look to someone entering the room.
Unbelievable. April Destino wasn’t going to pull any Mission: Impossible stuff. She wasn’t that smart.
Amy sighed. It was late, and the air conditioner in April Destino’s trailer was broken. Amy was hungry and tired. She aimed a long breath through pursed lips at her sweaty forehead, but the businesslike bangs that were plastered there didn’t even move. Maybe she’d just cash it in. Let her husband see the pictures. Maybe they’d turn him on. Nothing else seemed to—
The phone rang.
* * *
“Are we having fun yet?”
“No, Doug. We’re not.”
“Oh, come on. You used to have so much fun going through other people’s stuff.”
“Look…why don’t you just tell me what I’m looking for, and whe
re it is?” Amy’s voice softened. “I’m tired. And I really wish you’d think about my offer. We’ve got some time. My husband won’t be back for another week. I have money, Doug, and I’m prepared to be generous if you’ll meet me half—”
“C’mon, Amy. You’re not getting into the spirit of things. Don’t you remember the day that April quit school? I remember it…the night after the day, anyway. You and me were at the drive-in. I think we were sitting through The Exorcist for the millionth rime. Not that we watched the movie. God, you were horny that night. Breaking into April’s locker really got you all hot and bothered. I thought it was weird, you getting turned on by something like that. But, hey, I wasn’t going to complain.”
“This isn’t like that at all, Doug.”
“Oh, I think it is. You just don’t know it yet. You haven’t seen what April left for you.”
Amy was tired of talking. She didn’t say anything.
“Amy?”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever imagine what it was like for April when she opened that locker?”
No answer.
“For one thing, she said she never forgot the smell. Greasy-sweet. And then one of the condoms you’d glued to the inside of the door dropped onto her wrist and stuck there like a slimy worm. She looked into the locker and saw the white stuff smeared all over her cheerleading sweater, and the eight ball lying there in the middle of it, and she gagged on that greasy-sweet smell…even though by then she realized it was only mayonnaise. And then the fear hit her for real. She almost threw up. She never forgot that feeling. She never forgot how it was to walk out of that school knowing that every person she saw might have been the one who hated her enough to trash her locker and hurt her like that. Like they say, that was the straw that broke—”
“Look, I’m sure you’ve memorized a veritable cornucopia of clichés that April requested you share with me. I’m especially fond of the one about the whore with the heart of gold. But much as I’d love to sit here and chat, I’ve got to go.”
“You just listen to me. You’re gonna hear every word I have to say. And then you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you—”
“I’m hanging up, Doug.”
“Goddammit! You listen to me!”
“One dial tone, coming right up, hold the mayo and macho bullshit.”
“Okay! We need to speed things up, anyway. Go to the bedroom. Pull out the bottom right-hand dresser drawer…”
Doug Douglas heard bells. “Hey, what’s that sound?”
“It’s why I’ve got to go, Doug; it’s the doorbell.” Amy hung up.
She realized that she was completely alone. Again, the doorbell chimed.
And she found herself missing the oddly reassuring sound of Doug Douglas’s voice.
* * *
Amy moved to the door, tugging the top button of her silk blouse. The white material was heavy with sweat and clung to her skin in a way she didn’t like. She released the button and the silk found her breasts with the practiced ease of a lover’s eager hand, revealing firm, large nipples that she hated because they made her perfectly average breasts look small.
A quick glance at her watch told her it was 3:07 A.M. She was in April Destino’s trailer, and she had no legal reason to be here.
And someone was going to catch her. The doorbell chimed again. She took a deep breath. Okay. It was plain that she was here. Her car was parked outside, and the lights were on inside.
No running out. Face up to it. Whatever it is, deal with it. The front door was dark plastic with painted black cracks that were supposed to make it resemble aged walnut. Like the door of some Bavarian beer hall, she thought, smoothing her hair automatically.
She swept the bangs across her forehead, wet her lips, and reached for the doorknob. But the knob moved before her hand found it—twisting back and forth, making staccato clicking sounds as it fought the lock.
The door was locked, but someone was testing it.
Amy pulled away from the knob as if she’d nearly burned her hand. Just as quickly, she reached out again. Don’t be an idiot, she told herself. Maybe it’s nothing. Someone with a wrong address. A nosy neighbor. A drunk coming home to the wrong trailer The damn things all look the same, anyway—
A key ratcheted into the lock. The sound was distinct and unmistakable. The knob twisted, made a slight metallic pop, and extended a fraction of an inch toward Amy.
The door swung open. An old man squinted at Amy from behind thick lenses that were crosshatched with little scratches. He rested a protective hand over his heart and said, “Oh, lordy lordy.”
He was starring directly at Amy’s nipples, and he wasn’t blinking.
* * *
“Jesus H. Christ, you scared me.” The little old man laughed, sinking deeper into the ratty couch in April’s living room. “I thought I seen a ghost. Coulda sworn you were Ms. Destino…until I seen your hair, that is.”
The old man wasn’t looking at Amy’s hair, though. His eyes were still aimed with sharpshooter precision at her large nipples. “Yep, Ms. Destino had long, pretty hair. Not that your hair ain’t pretty understand. It’s just different, is all. But otherwise, you and Ms. Destino are pretty much twins. Or you were pretty much twins, I guess.”
Amy attempted a smile, and when she couldn’t quite bring it off she crossed her legs instead. That redirected the old man’s gaze, but Amy could almost hear him thinking. Those silver dollars might give April’s a run for their money, but the titties themselves ain’t gonna knock no man silly….
The lot manager squinted at the business card Amy had given him. She figured that he might have been able to make it out if his arms had been a foot or two longer. She was lucky that they weren’t. “I guess you got a reason to be here,” he said. “Wish you would have called me first, though.”
“You’re right.” The manager rose and Amy steered him toward the door. “Next time I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m coming by.” She opened the plastic door and thought of a surefire way to improve the manager’s opinion of her. “I don’t think it will take long to settle the estate. You be sure to send me a bill for any rent incurred while we’re in process.”
“Thanks. Y’know, I thought managing this place was going to be a nice, relaxing retirement job, but you wouldn’t believe what goes on around here. I spend half my time talking to cops. Especially this week. First the sheriff’s boys and the ambulance. Then the sheriff himself.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to bother you further. And if I need to make another visit, I promise that I’ll give you full warning.”
The manager went on as if he hadn’t heard a word. “First the sheriff. Tonight you. Tomorrow another cop.”
Amy raised an eyebrow. “Another cop?”
“Yeah…can’t quite remember what arm of the law this one was hanging off of. Had a flashy ID card, though. Fancy little leather wallet for it and everything.” He shook his head. “Anyway, what a character. Threatened to come back with a fine-tooth comb. Said I’d have to give up Ms. Destino’s cleaning deposit to the government, ’cause that fine-tooth comb does a crackerjack job.”
Amy tried to laugh, but the gasping exhalation that escaped her was a match for her failed smile.
“Yeah, a card all right, that one. Say, you aren’t gonna take any of April’s stuff with you, are you?”
“No. I’m just doing an inventory, Mr. Davis.”
The old man like the Mr. Davis part. Amy could tell, because he straightened up so that the top of his head actually came even with her shoulders. “Good enough then,” he said. “I’ll be seein’ ya.”
Mr. Davis stepped through the doorway and started down the stairs, waving as he went. Amy thought of the cop who was such a card, and more than anything else she wanted to snatch away the little card that she’d given to the lot manager.
But there it was, grasped tightly between his gnarled fingers, waving at her in the darkness, stiff as a lottery ticket that only a clev
er cop could cash.
Amy smiled. She couldn’t help wondering how quickly Mr. Davis would call his optometrist after he extended his arms to full-length and read the words WENDY WONG, DIVORCE & FAMILY LAW printed on a card handed him by a blonde with nipples the size of silver dollars.
3:17 A.M.
Darkness waited in April’s bedroom, a room choked with musty smells that Amy didn’t want to put names to.
She flicked the light switch. The closet door stood open, revealing a treasure-trove of what kids these days called “vintage clothing.” Bell-bottom pants patched with bits from red handkerchiefs hung next to long dresses of equal vintage, and hot pants and tube tops were heaped on the shelf above. Wigs on Styrofoam heads stared down from the same shelf—a frosted Farrah Fawcett flip, a blazing red Charro number, a short black do that somehow spoke of B&D routines. Shoes beyond number lay in a jumble on the closet floor along with a tampon box that naturally held a stash of marijuana and cheap jewelry—cubic zirconia rings, awful silver bracelets inlaid with pale turquoise, ear cuffs sprouting faded feathers, even an old mood ring that shone oily black as its permanent color.
On April’s night stand, a company of sex toys waited like elite commandos ready for the most desperate missions. A half-used tube of lubricant lay open next to the toys; a clear tear that had spilled onto the shelf the last time April used the stuff was now hard and rubbery.
And there was the dresser. Amy knelt in front of the drawer Doug had mentioned. Her blouse was soaked through, sticking to her like a second skin. Reflexively, she pulled the material away from her perfectly average breasts.
She yanked open the bottom right-hand drawer and confronted April Destino’s bra collection, a veritable rainbow of generous cups. If Amy had possessed a sense of humor, or irony, she might have laughed. Instead, she only blushed. The half-open drawer was stuck at an odd angle. Amy took hold of the imitation brass knobs and pulled a little harder. The drawer slipped out easily and thudded on the shag carpet.
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