"Cheap at the price if it'll get Darnell out of my life,” he said, plunking the money down on the counter. “I don't understand the boy. I offered him the same money and he could get a stereo ten times better with it, but he says it's the principle of the thing—like he'd know a principle if he got hit upside the head with it,” he muttered.
If Hank was acting, he was good. Or maybe I just wanted to believe him. I helped him carry the stuff to his car. Dave was staying out of sight so he could tail him.
I was not happy to see Alma sitting in the front seat of the old Chrysler. And she was even less thrilled to see me.
"'Bout time,” she said. I couldn't tell if she was aiming the words at Hank or at me. I ignored her as Hank thanked me yet again, and offered his good hand. He winced and let out a grunt as he got into the car.
"You okay to drive with that thing?” I asked, pointing to the cast.
"Mind your own damn business,” Alma said, just loud enough for me to hear.
But Hank gave me a weary smile. “I'll be okay,” he said. “Pain's kicked up again, is all. Doc's going to work me into his schedule this afternoon, see what he can do for me."
I shielded my eyes against the sun and watched them pull away with that stereo in the trunk. It might as well have been ticking.
* * * *
I eat when I'm nervous and I piled it on at lunch. Then I went out to the alleyway and commenced pacing, cell phone in hand, trying to summon a call from Dave through sheer force of will.
I burned off a burrito and a good part of the double-fudge brownie I'd topped it off with before the call finally came.
"Good news and bad news,” Dave said. “Good is, they nabbed Darnell. He's still on probation so they'll violate him. He'll be back in Central Prison before they've had time to reassign his cell."
"And the bad news?” I asked. “Is everybody okay?"
"Everybody's fine, but it didn't go off exactly like we'd planned it. Somebody else tipped off the cops too. There were two responders. One moved in a little premature and caught Alma up in the bust."
"What about Hank?” I asked.
"He wasn't there. She dropped him off at the doctor's office on her way to meet Darnell. Guess she was in a big hurry to get this thing back to him."
"Damn, she'll have me right in the middle of this mess,” I said.
"I don't think so. She's not talking right now,” Dave reported. “Her and Darnell got into a fight in the parking lot where she gave him the stuff. He checks it out, then he starts screaming at her that she's ripped him off and where's the rest. She starts screaming back what's he talking about. They were still screeching at each other when all hell broke loose. A squad car came swooping in, lights flashing. A few minutes later my guy comes blasting in. And Alma's still screaming, except now it's that Darnell is a lot of words nice women don't usually shout out loud in a Kroger parking lot. Then she starts waling on one of the cops with her purse strap and they cuff her and put her in the back of the squad car. She does her banshee thing for a few more minutes, then gives one last holler that she wants a lawyer and clams up."
* * * *
Hank came by the next day to tell me what had happened and I feigned surprise. He assured me that he'd known nothing about Darnell's stash. “I don't have any truck with drugs. Well, not since the ‘sixties anyway, and never the hard stuff,” he said earnestly. “And I want you to know I don't aim to get you involved in this any more than you've already been. I didn't say nothing to the police about the garage sale. And Alma won't, either, I'll see to it."
I didn't have much faith in his ability to control Alma, but I hoped he could keep her quiet. This was not the kind of publicity my fledgling business needed. I told him I appreciated it and that I was sorry about what had happened to her.
"Yeah, I'm worried about her,” he said. “I can't come up with the bail money. We've sold the house and everything's tied up in escrow so I can't borrow against it right now.” He shrugged. “And that's the only thing we had worth anything. Don't know how I'm going to pay a lawyer. She's not happy about being in the jailhouse, I can tell you."
I had the fleeting thought that maybe I should offer to give Hank the proceeds of the Freewheelin’ album to help out, but I got over it quick. If it was Hank himself, maybe. But for Alma—not hardly.
"I know a good lawyer,” I told him, grabbing a Post-It note and scribbling down the name and number of a friend I used to do forensic accounting work for back in my CPA days. “He'll work with you on the bill and he's good."
Hank thanked me. He started to leave, but then looked all around the store. “All these records,” he said, as if enchanted. “And you can listen to ‘em any time you want? And you make a living at it? That's a sweet deal!"
I couldn't argue with that. The last couple of weeks notwithstanding, I'm generally content with my life. I hoped now I'd have it back.
* * * *
Two days later, Bliss's newly ex-boyfriend Terrance was arrested trying to sell some of the stuff he'd helped himself to from the speaker cabinets to an undercover cop. Strictly amateur hour.
"That snake,” Bliss fumed. “I should have known something was up when he started giving me crap about bringing the speakers back. I'd had to pretty-please him to take them and fix them up in the first place and then I had to go over there and practically steal them back. I should have kicked him to the curb weeks ago."
"Guess that solves the mystery of who called in the other tip,” Dave said when we were back in the privacy of my office. “Probably figured if somebody else got arrested with them they couldn't come after him for skimming some off. How is it there's always more horse's asses than there are horses, you ever wonder that?"
* * * *
Darnell and Terrance each took a plea bargain. Terrance got off light—thirty days, plus probation and community service—and was gentleman enough in the end to keep Bliss out of the whole mess by not letting on that he'd got the drugs he was caught with from the speaker cabinets. But Darnell became a guest of the state for another long stretch wherein he'd doubtless hone his criminal skills for another run at the health and well-being of the unsuspecting citizenry upon his next release.
I'd been anticipating a call from the D.A.'s office or from Alma's attorney, but no one had contacted me. I started to feel guilty about holding out information that might help and finally called Hank.
"How's it going?” I asked when he picked up the phone, sounding more chipper than I might have expected for a man whose wife was in the clinker.
"Oh, could be worse, I guess,” Hank said.
"How's Alma holding up?"
"This whole thing's wearing on her,” he said. “Her lawyer's trying to get her to take a plea and I think she may go for it."
"Really?” I said. “That surprises me. Randy's usually a fighter. He hardly ever pleads out a criminal case."
"Randy?” Hank said. “Oh yeah, your lawyer friend. Well, no, I didn't call him. I don't like being beholden to people. Alma's got a guy I found in the phone book. He's a nice kid."
"And he wants her to take a plea?” I asked.
"Well, they're offering five to eight years and he thinks that's pretty good, considering."
"Listen, Hank, if it'll help I'll come down and make a statement—testify if I have to,” I told him. “I could tell them about y'all selling me the stereo and all. She wouldn't have done that if she'd been in on it."
"Well, I thank you for that offer, but they just flat out don't believe Alma about anything. They're bound and determined to pin this on her. She's already spilled the beans about selling it to you, but they think she was getting it out of the house so she could tell Darnell somebody else was to blame for what was missing. And after I told them how set she was on getting it back, well, that didn't help, I reckon. Don't know what I was thinking there.” He huffed a little laugh.
"So they know I had it?"
"They do, but they don't care,” he said airily. “All they
care about is, Alma had it and she gave it to Darnell. End of story."
"And how about you? How are you holding up?” I asked.
"Me?” he asked. “Oh, I'm doing good,” he said brightly. “Healing nicely."
I could hear R. E. M.'s “It's the End of the World as We Know It” playing in the background. More jangle—the happy sound in sharp juxtaposition to the words.
Sort of like this whole conversation with Hank.
* * * *
Despite Dave's advice I couldn't leave things alone. It was like a scab I just couldn't resist picking. I'd love to say it was because I couldn't stand the injustice being done to Alma. That I'd risen above my personal animus for the woman to a higher plane of consciousness, but the truth was, I couldn't get too worked up about Alma's plight. The woman was mean as a snake and a cheat to boot. She was on her own.
What was bugging me was that there was something off kilter about this whole thing and I couldn't figure out what. I kept thinking back to the day of the garage sale and getting a weird vibe. I told Dave as much that night after my strange conversation with Hank. Tenpenny and I were closing up and Dave was pacing, popping his knuckles and his gum, waiting for me to finish so we could go grab a burger.
"Was there music?” he asked. “That always works for you."
"No,” I said. “Wait, yes. Well, part of the time. Something country. But I don't remember what it was."
"What do you remember about it?” he asked.
"I don't know,” I answered. “One of the hat guys. Something about—oh, what was it?—the sun coming up ... no, sunset. Yeah, that was it."
"Kenny Chesney,” Tenpenny said without looking up from counting out the register. He lifted his black Stetson and ran his hand through his hair—tonight's band was alt-country. “Good song. ‘When the Sun Goes Down.’ Duet with Uncle Kracker."
"We got it?” Dave asked.
Tenpenny settled the hat back on his head and nodded in the direction of the used CD section. “Think there's a copy over there,” he said, placing a stack of bills into a bank pouch and slamming the drawer.
Dave found the CD and put it in the player. “Sit,” he commanded, pulling up a chair for me.
I closed my eyes and listened. Songs I don't already know don't work quite as well, but as I relaxed into it the scene started to replay in my head. I listened to it a second time just to be sure, and there it was. Yeah, I'd need to talk to Hank again.
* * * *
I called him and he came in the next afternoon looking positively dapper. The cast was gone, his face had healed, and he had a spring in his step. Alma, he told me, had taken the plea and been moved over to the Women's Correctional Center to serve out her sentence.
"They say she'll be out in five, maybe sooner with good behavior.” He turned toward the bins of records and I heard him mumble, “Slim chance of that." He picked up a record from the bin. “Otis Redding, Live in Europe. I had this one,” he said, laughing as if he'd run into an old friend. “Great album."
"Hank, there's something I wanted to ask you about the day of the garage sale,” I said.
"What's that?” Hank asked distractedly, traveling along the record bins and flipping through them with a hungry look I recognized all too well.
"When I told you to box up the stereo for me, Alma asked you a question,” I said, watching him closely.
"She did?” Hank said, plucking another record from the bin. “Isaac Hayes!” he exclaimed. “Hot Buttered Soul. Damn, that man's got a set of pipes! I gotta get this."
"She asked you, ‘Is that your old one?'” I said. “She meant was that your old stereo, right? But you told me she was the one who insisted on putting Darnell's stereo out for the sale and that you couldn't stop her."
"She meant the turntable,” he said.
"No, she didn't,” I said evenly. “You hadn't even brought that to her. She was looking at the stereo when she asked you that."
Hank stared at me for a long moment, then put the record on the counter and tapped it. “Eight bucks,” he said. “You know, since I came in here that first day I've been studying up on this collectible vinyl business. Who'd have believed it, these old records being worth this kind of money?"
"You told her yes,” I went on, moving my head around to try to force him to look me in the face. “You knew, didn't you? You set her and Darnell up. You're the one who called in the tip. Your doctor's appointment that day wasn't scheduled. You arranged it to get out of going along to meet up with Darnell, then you called the cops."
Hank pressed his lips hard together and bent his head to the side, letting out a gigantic sigh. “Look, I'm sorry I got you into all this. You're a good person. And you've got a good memory. But let me tell you what I remember. I remember getting the living daylights beat out of me—and my wife taking sides with the one who did it. And it wasn't the first time her and that low-life family of hers put me in the middle of a mess."
"Did she know?” I asked.
"About what was in the speakers?” Hank said, shaking his head. “No. I didn't either till just before Darnell got out. I never thought he'd make parole, but then he did and I didn't want him getting hold of that stuff. I had to get it out of our house somehow. But I was afraid to tell Alma. Tell you the truth, I guess I didn't want to find out just how low she'd go for money."
I remained silent and Hank rushed on. “Think what you want of me, I'm not sorry. Only regret I have is getting you crossways of it. I was figuring on getting it back from you quiet-like and getting Darnell stung with it, but Alma overheard me on the phone getting your name and address and got all steamed up, threatening to tell Darnell where to find you. I got a little desperate."
"The break-in here?” I asked.
Hank shrugged. “I didn't take anything, or break anything. I just wanted to make sure you'd want to be rid of the thing. I didn't want you or some other innocent to get caught with it."
"Well, thanks for that—I think,” I said.
"The whole mess is a shame. But what are you gonna do?” he said. He counted out the money for the Issac Hayes. “I guess if you're me, you go sit in your condo and put Hot Buttered Soul on your new turntable and turn it up as loud as you damn well please and try to enjoy what's left of your life.” He gave me a penetrating gaze.
"Hank,” I began uncertainly.
He picked up the bag I'd put the record in and held up a hand. “You do what you gotta do,” he said. “But as far as I'm concerned, everything is just as it should be and this conversation never happened. And again, I really am sorry for the trouble I caused you."
He walked toward the door, then stopped and turned, giving me a sly smile. “'Course, I imagine that Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan is worth a little aggravation,” he said.
My eyes went wide and we were locked in a stare for what seemed a long moment before we both burst out laughing.
"Told you I've been studying up,” he said. “How much you get for it?"
"Still got it. Bidding's up to seven thousand,” I said.
"Worth every cent,” he said, and went out the door whistling Play a song for me, in the jingle-jangle morning...
Copyright © 2007 Brynn Bonner
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THE PEOPLE IN THE FLAT ACROSS THE ROAD by Natasha Cooper
Natasha Cooper—a.k.a. Daphne Wright, Kate Hatfield, Clare Layton—is the author of twenty-four novels and numerous short stories. She worked in publishing in Britain for ten years before becoming a full-time writer in the early nineties. Her latest novel to see print in the U.S. is Evil Is Done (British title: A Greater Evil), another in her barrister another in her barrister Trish Maguire series, from St. Martin's Minotaur.
It had been a ghastly day. I'd decided to work at home so I could finish the proposal for our biggest client's new campaign. The copy was urgent, you see, because they'd pulled back the meeting by three days. My boss and I were due to make the presentation at ten next morning, and the designers were waiti
ng in the office to pretty up my text and sort out all the PowerPoint stuff for us.
The trouble was, I hadn't expected the interruptions: far more at home than in any office; and worse because of having no receptionists or secretaries to fend them off.
First it was the postman. Not my usual bloke but a temp who couldn't tell the difference between 16 Holly Road, where I live, and 16 Oak Court, Holly Road, which is a flat just opposite. Even so, I shouldn't have shouted. It wasn't his fault he couldn't read much; or speak English, either.
And he wasn't to know how many hours I've wasted over the past year redirecting all the mail I get that obviously isn't meant for me. Letters and packages with all sorts of names. I never pay much attention to the names once I've seen they're not mine, so I couldn't tell you what they were now.
I opened one parcel by mistake, not having read the label before I ripped off the brown packing tape. Wondering why someone was sending me a whole bunch of phone adapters and wires and stuff, I turned the package over and saw it was meant for the flat. That was when I crossed the road and made my third attempt to introduce myself and sort it out. The funny thing was, you see, that in all the months I'd been dealing with their mail I'd never actually seen any of them. Once or twice, there'd been a hand coming through the net curtains to open or shut a window, but that was all.
As usual, I got no answer, even though all the lights were on and there was a radio or TV blaring. I thought I heard their footsteps this time too, and voices, but I suppose it could have been imagination.
Anyway, I was so cross they couldn't be bothered to do their neighbourly bit that I stopped bothering to take their mail across the road. I didn't even correct the wrongly addressed stuff (some of the senders missed out the Oak Court bit too; it wasn't only the postmen who got it wrong). Instead I'd scrawl “Not Known Here” or “No one of this name at this address” on the packages and envelopes before stuffing them back into the postbox on my way to work. If the packages were too big, which happened occasionally, I'd stomp round to the post office on Saturday mornings and dump them at the end of the counter. It took much longer than carting them across the road and leaving them on the flat's doorstep, but it was way more satisfying.
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