No Sleep till Wonderland

by Paul Tremblay

  I feel like low tide, so far from shore and with nothing ebbing or flowing, dead water. My hat and half-spent cigarette are on the ground next to my feet. I didn’t see them get there. I pick both up and try to remember everything I said. I hope it was good.

  “Where’d you get the credit cards?”

  Ekat leaves the post and stands close enough to slap me. She puts her hands across her chest, instead, holding herself back. She says, “Timothy and I stole the cards from health clubs and hotel gyms and bars. It was always so quick and easy. We’d pluck them from wallets and purses left in open lockers. Most of the time the marks wouldn’t know the cards were gone until days, sometimes weeks, later.”

  “And Gus made the fake IDs to match the credit cards, then.”

  “Right. He’d been making fake IDs for people since high school.”

  “He’s so talented.”

  “We were smart with the cards. Didn’t mess around online or too close to home. We went to racetracks and casinos, all on the East Coast, and only used the cards to get cash advances.”

  I say, “Like tonight.”

  “Gus made me a new fake ID for each card, using a different picture, each with a slightly different look.”

  She pauses. She primps her wig, then sighs again, dropping her arms to her sides, hands slapping against her legs. And I know that being a different person each month, making up stories for the women in the IDs and living in those stories, was the thrill, was why she did it.

  This is the part where I’m supposed to commiserate, to say that I understand, that I’m like her, that I want to be somebody else too. But I’m not giving in. Not this time.

  She says, “The system was foolproof. We’d be practically anonymous in the big casinos and racetracks, especially the old racetracks. You’d be surprised how many don’t even have security cameras.

  “And I assumed it was just us the whole time. I had no reason to think otherwise. I had no idea that Gus was outsourcing, as he called it, giving cards and IDs to Jody and Aleksandar. I didn’t find out about them until a few months ago, at the beginning of this summer.

  “I was in Gus’s apartment, just having a few beers with him after work, and I saw an ID he’d messed up lying on the top of his trash can. The picture wasn’t mine. It was of some woman I’d seen hanging out at Gus’s bar. I thought maybe he was just practicing new IDs or something, but when I confronted him about it, he told me who Jody was and what he was doing. He tried to laugh and shrug it off, of course. He’s always gotten his way because everyone loves him, but I was having none of it. I lost it, threw the ID at his face, took off, and didn’t answer his phone calls.

  “A couple days later, Gus came back to my apartment and apologized for not telling either me or Timothy about his outsourcing. He said that he only picked Jody and Aleksandar because he knew them, they were good guys who were struggling, and he wanted to help them out. He figured they would be easy to keep track of because they lived in the same building. But he agreed that getting the other two involved was a bad idea; the extra profits weren’t ever going to amount to more than a supplement to our incomes, and it wasn’t worth the added risk of them being caught and pointing their fingers at us. All of which should’ve been obvious from the get-go. But you know Gus, Mr. Social Butterfly, has to be friends and doing deals with everyone.

  “Then Gus told me about his first conversation with Timothy and how he promised that he wouldn’t make any more IDs for them. Timothy didn’t take it well; he exploded and said that Gus had doomed us all, ruined our lives. He even accused Gus of being jealous of his new career, even of trying to set him up because he was using Aleksandar—his boss’s driver.”

  “New career?”

  “It took Timothy countless tries to pass the bar, and he’s only been working for Financier and the CEO for less than a year. This was his big break.”

  “What’d he do before that?”

  “Odd jobs. Stuff to the pay the law school bills.”

  “And by odd you mean illegal, I assume. Did he sell drugs like Gus?”

  “No, his thing was gambling, running some books for local college kids and law school students. He’d been doing that since we graduated high school, really.”

  “Right. Okay, to sum up: one time bookie turned high-powered lawyer was miffed at Gus about Jody and Aleksandar.”

  “Yes. And after Gus left my apartment, Timothy called Gus back. He was slurring drunk, and he went off on a rant about how his career would be over if anyone found out about this stuff, saying his life would be over. He started talking about doing more than cutting the others loose and that Gus had to help, had to make up for his mistake and show who he was loyal to. Timothy was talking crazy, actually talking about killing those guys. Gus was shocked and horrified and refused to even listen to it.

  “Timothy was drunk and upset, and we didn’t want to take the threats seriously. But even just to hear him talk about stuff like that had me and Gus completely freaked out.”

  I say, “I still don’t understand where I come in.” I look down. Ekat has my jacket’s lapels in her hands again. The material is irresistible.

  “Gus was a part-time personal assistant for Timothy, one of his many side gigs. Timothy’s boss wanted someone to watch his wife for a few nights while he was out of town. The CEO had been hearing rumors about her cheating on him. Gus was going to watch her for Timothy. Keep in mind, this was set up before all the Jody/Aleksandar stuff came out.”

  Ekat’s hands are gone. Her arms are sunken up to the wrist in my jacket, missing and stuck somewhere inside. She says, “Like I said earlier, we didn’t know what to do about Timothy’s wild threats. We couldn’t go to the police. We weren’t about to do anything that would get us arrested. So we came up with the fake surveillance idea to blackmail him. Gus knew about you from group therapy. He canceled the surveillance gig with Timothy but recommended you for the job instead, and he went for it.”

  I say, “You’re still not making a whole lot of sense.”

  She shrugs. It’s an honest shrug, too. Her arching shoulders might as well be a big middle finger. And it’s now that I know how much trouble, how much danger we’re all in. It’s worse than that they don’t know what they’re doing, which is clear. The amazing Technicolor dream-wig, the scams and schemes, the pretending, the lying, all of it means it was never real to them. It was just something to do, something to pass the time. They never thought any of this through. Their getting caught always was (and is) a given, and whom they take down with them, and how, are the only variables.

  Her arms sink deeper into my jacket, halfway up her forearms. My jacket is made of quicksand. We’re both sinking, and we’ll never get out of it. Ekat’s face is only a few inches from mine. The brim of my hat tickles her wig.

  She says, “Gus pretty much knew the wife was cheating on Timothy’s boss. He’d seen other men’s clothes in her apartment when picking up and dropping off dry cleaning. So while you were watching me doing nothing out on Newbury Street, Gus was going to tail the CEO’s wife and get pictures of her out on the town. You were going to report to Timothy that nothing happened, and Timothy would forward your all’s-well report along to the boss.

  “Gus was then going to tell Timothy that you’d followed the wrong woman—me—and show him the pictures he’d taken of Barrack’s wife, and then threaten Timothy with going straight to Barrack with his photos and a detailed story about how Timothy, his new personal attorney, was actively covering up his wife’s infidelities. All of which meant Timothy would lose his precious cushy job and likely his career as his name would be mud in local professional circles if he didn’t stop the crazy talk about killing Jody and Aleksandar.”

  “That almost makes sense.”

  “It didn’t work out that way, though. Obviously. We never dreamed the Herald would get and print shots of the CEO’s wife out with someone else, and everything blew up in our faces.

  “The Herald pictures on the heels of yo
ur report already put Timothy in hot water with his boss, so we had no leverage to present our blackmail scenario. Gus and I decided not to tell him anything about it. Then after Timothy saw your pictures of me dressed as the wife, he really lost it, called and threatened the both of us. God, the whole blackmail thing, I think it made everything worse.”

  I say, “Eddie never stalked or threatened you, did he?”

  “No. Gus hired you that night to watch me because of Timothy. We were afraid he might try something and figured if Timothy saw you, he might think that you, the PI, knew about him, knew what he was up to, and it would scare him off.”

  My hands are missing, have sunk inside the sleeves of my jacket as well. It’s only fitting. I say, “Gus lied to me.” I try not to sound like a hurt lover.

  “He had to lie and tell you it was Eddie who threatened me because he didn’t want you finding out about the three of us. We didn’t mean to do any of this to you, Mark. Really. We both like you, and we’re so sorry that you got caught up in everything we did.”

  We talk faster like it’ll help us avoid true contact. Our noses are almost touching. I say, “The fire was set by Carter.”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  “How’d he do it?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  We both sink deeper into my jacket. We’ll be part of a fossil site eons from now, and whoever finds us will dream about what it was we said to each other.

  “Why are you here with Carter now?”

  “He wanted me to come with him. Make sure that I wouldn’t talk, that we were still good, that I was still loyal. He wanted to make that one last score; then we’d be done. I was too afraid to say no, afraid of what he might do to me. I had to play along. When we got here I had to pretend I wasn’t scared of him and I was having a good time. I just have to get through this night and figure out what to do next.”

  “Where’s Gus?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The lamppost light flickers faster. It has lost patience with us. When the bulb is on, it glows brighter and whiter, and when it’s off, the darkness is total. My eyes are starved and greedy for the light.

  I ask, “He hasn’t contacted you at all?”

  “No. Not since the fire.”

  She’s lying. There’s some truth mixed in with the lies. There always is. I ask her where Gus is again. Where is he?

  She

  s a y s,

  “I

  d o n ’ t

  k n o w,

  m a r k.”

  Her sentence stretches out, thins, and fades toward the edges. There’s nothing for me to grab on to, and I stumble, waving my arms like no one is paying enough attention to me, then fall. I splash into the empty sea of the parking lot. I’m lost, and I thrash about with arms and legs as dead as wishes that never come true.

  Okay, the parking-lot sea is not so empty. Nightmarish leviathans live in these waters, shaking the cowering earth with their tidal movements.

  Those goddamn monsters, they swim and fuck and eat and shit in the depths below me; they’re always below me, down in the deep, black, and terrible sea.

  And those goddamn monsters, they’re arguing about me. They whisper through machete-sized teeth because they know I’m listening. I don’t speak their language, but I understand they can’t decide what to do with me. They weren’t expecting me even though I always show up. I’m always here, right here.

  Without a consensus, and almost as an afterthought, they open their deep, black, and terrible mouths. Say ahhh. I’m going to be swallowed. It won’t be my first time, but someday there will be a last.

  Yeah, I’m their Jonah again, but the joke is on them because I don’t believe in them or in anything else.

  Twenty-Nine

  The leviathans are picky bastards. They chew me up and spit me out again. I don’t taste very good.

  I lean against the lamppost. I need the support, but I hate this goddamn lamppost and its epileptic bulb, and want to see it all razed and run into the ground. There’re no bulldozers lying about, but there is a man standing in front of me with his hands in his pockets. I’m seeing myself through Ekat’s eyes. I didn’t realize I was losing so much weight. I never realize how much I’m losing.

  But that’s not right. I’m me. I’m awake enough to know that much. The other me is another guy. He’s wearing a similar quicksand jacket, white shirt, loosened tie, and not quite permanently pressed pants. All that stuff could’ve come out of my closet, except for his lid. On his head is that rednosed-reindeer porkpie hat of his. It’s not the red breast on a robin. It’s the piece that doesn’t fit the ensemble. Too showy. I’m a fashion expert.

  Gus says, “No worries. I’ve got you covered.”

  He pulls something out of his pocket. It’s not a bag of amphetamines. Part of me wishes it were. He has a cigarette, cradled delicately between two fingers, and he lights its short fuse. He dangles it between us, a stolen watch he wants to sell me.

  He can’t tease me like that. I’m weak, and I’m buying. Smoke pounds its dirty fists on the walls of my lungs. It’s a clove cigarette, and it waters my eyes and corrodes my delicate system. Just what I need.

  I say, “I know you and Ekat are the same person. Case solved.”

  “Well done, Mark. You can go home and get some rest then, right? Give yourself a gold star.” Gus laughs, and at me. He’s always been laughing at me.

  I say, “Or I can go home and give that gold star to Detective Owolewa.” Yeah, that makes a bucketful of sense. Christ, I need a rewind button sometimes.

  I open my mouth to try and correct myself, but I cough instead. I double over, and my lungs turn inside out. My tenderized ribs make an official declaration of hate for me and threaten to leave their post.

  I drop the hipster’s clove cigarette to the pavement and don’t bother grinding it under my flat foot. Not sure I can lift my leg that high. I croak something that might sound like “Where have you been?” It’s not easy turning green.

  “I wasn’t anywhere, really. In hiding. And sorry I couldn’t contact you or…”

  I walk away from Gus. I have nowhere to go, but I feel better already. I check my watch. It’s ten after ten. I don’t know how long I was out here talking with Ekat, but I’m missing at least twenty minutes from my evening. I’ll never find those minutes either.

  Gus nips at my heels. He’s simultaneously on my left and right. He says, “I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be mad at me, Mark. I’ve screwed up so much, and I know that, and I know that I’m going to pay for it. I’ve put you in harm’s way and I can’t make everything perfect, but I can make it better, I promise. But I need a favor. I need your help. I need you to wait until the morning before you go to the police.”

  It’s my turn to laugh at someone. “What happens in the morning?”

  “I have a new plan, all right? I’m improvising.”

  “I’m guessing you do that a lot.”

  “It’s a good plan, simple, not a lot of moving parts, and it’s my last plan.” Gus grabs my arm, and I stop rolling down the hill.

  He holds his hands out in front of him, framing the discussion. He’s a frustrated mime. “Ekat and I are going to leave Boston and disappear.” He opens his hands with a magician’s flourish. Houdini without the chains and appendicitis. “I’ve got some places we can go to for six months to a year, maybe longer.” Gus pauses, waves his magic hands, turning that last sentence into a flock of doves. “It doesn’t matter where we go, but we’ll leave tonight as soon as she’s away from Carter. And then you and the cops can have him.” Gus pats my chest twice with the back of his hand. “You’ll look like a hero.”

  “Or an accomplice.”

  “No, that’s not how it’ll work.” Gus shakes his head. His porkpie hat is a red light. I’m supposed to stop. He says, “Come on, Mark. Follow me.” Gus backs away, toward a pod of parked cars. Or is it a gaggle?

  I say, “I already have, and got now
here.”

  Not sure if he heard me. Maybe I wasn’t loud enough. Maybe I didn’t want him to hear me. Maybe, even after everything that’s happened, I still want to follow him for one more night.

  Gus fiddles with his keys while standing next to a yellow vintage car. It’s a compact but has long front and back ends. Canvas topped, but I don’t think it’s a convertible. The make is familiar. I might’ve owned the Matchbox version when I was a kid. That’s assuming I played with Matchbox cars.

  “Climb in.” He’s an action hero sliding into the front seat. The chrome, glass, and steel is a prefitted body glove. I’m not as graceful upon entrance. I groan and creak as I duck my head and bend my arms and legs, like a retired contortionist who was never any good, even in his prime. Me and cars have never quite worked it out.

  He says, “What do you think?”

  “Of what?”

  “The car. Just picked it up. It’s a ’73 Dodge Dart. Come on, what do you think? I joined an antique auto club too. I couldn’t resist. Supposed to go for a group ride next Wednesday. But I’ll probably miss it.” He runs his hands over the black leather interior and a faded decal of Jesus pasted on the dashboard.

  “So far we have Ekat and her wig, you and your seventies mobile and auto club, and your plan to snap your fingers and disappear, and then what? Dine on happiness and shit sunshine for the rest of your lives? What I think is that you—every last one of you—live in fantasyland, or Wonderland as the case may be.

  “But don’t mind me. Your car is sweet, man. Did it come with that pack of clove cigarettes?”

  Gus laughs, adjusts his hat, then strikes a pose with his arm across the bench seat. “You’re a funny guy, Mark.”

  “Yeah. Hilarious. So what are we and your cherry ride doing now, Fonzie? You gonna take me to the hop, then maybe to Inspiration Point for a little necking?”

  “I wish, big fella. We have more pressing matters to attend to.” He points out the windshield, and there’s Carter’s Lexus, three rows away. “We’re going to follow Ekat, make sure she gets home safe. For obvious reasons, I don’t trust Carter.”