Pawned

by Laura Bickle

  “That’s the truth, son.” His gaze is level and clear. “Anything else is speculation. Do I suspect that your dad ran her off? Sometimes. Sometimes, I think she got sick of your dad’s yelling and did the smart thing. Sometimes, I wonder if she’s still alive. But I don’t know.”

  I’ll take that at face value—for now.

  Wordlessly, I walk past them, open the door. I stride down the stairs.

  On the shop floor, I’m met by a string of yellow crime scene tape. The light filters in through the barred windows, illuminating dust motes and stains on the floor. It still smells like meat down here, though there are no bodies. A cop’s ogling a leather coat that’s way too small for him.

  I clear my throat.

  He starts, turning away from the coat. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

  The story of my life. “Is Detective Ryan here?”

  The cop’s brows draw together. “I can get him here. Do you need something?”

  “Yeah.” I gesture back up the stairs with my chin. “I think there might be some weapons up in a safe in my dad’s room. Probably some that don’t have licenses and stuff.”

  The cop’s eyes are shiny as a raven’s examining a coin. “Oh, yes?”

  “Yeah. I think you guys might want to have a look.”

  He’s talking into the radio clipped to his shoulder before I can finish my sentence. “Get Detective Ryan down here with a search warrant. Have him call me for the details.”

  He looks at me. “You don’t like your dad much, do you?”

  “No. Not really.”

  My heart is pounding in anticipation—anticipation at getting the last blow in.

  THERE’S AN OLD JOKE about a bank robber who’s in prison when spring comes around. He writes a letter in jail to his elderly mother, telling her not to dig in the back yard—that’s where the money’s buried. The cops, who are reading his mail, arrive in force the next day and dig up the yard. They tear it all to hell with their shovels and pickaxes and find nothing.

  A few days later, the mother receives another letter from her son: “I couldn’t be there to till your garden patch, but I sent some friends to do it.”

  Something always struck me as being particularly clever about that joke, especially now, as I’m watching a whole mob of cops milling in my dad’s room. One of them’s attached what we’ve been assured is “a very small amount of explosive” to the front of the safe. It looks like Play-Doh with wires running from it. The guy’s in a padded suit that looks like it’s made from shiny oven mitts. He orders everybody out of the room. Nobody’s leaving the premises, though, because we all want to know what the heck’s going on.

  “Fire in the hole!” he shouts.

  He shuts the door and punches a button on a handheld device.

  I suck in my breath, expecting a major explosion that will blow the roof off and really piss off my dad. Instead, a pop sounds...sort of like a bag of microwave popcorn.

  The explosives guy takes off his hood and enters the room. He comes back out. “All clear!”

  Detective Ryan and some other cops crowd into the room with evidence bags and gloves on.

  Pops rolls his eyes. “They’re acting like this is Al Capone’s vault.”

  Sid shrugs. “Well, it might be, for all we know.”

  I wedge myself into the hallway, under Carl’s arm, and peer in.

  The explosives didn’t really do much that I can see. There’s a burn mark around the combination dial of the safe, and that’s it. The ceiling isn’t even singed.

  How disappointing.

  But the guy in the tin foil suit jerks the handle and tugs the door open. Some severed metal pieces clang to the floor. It’s then that I smell burned stuff.

  I hope to God that the explosion didn’t break the hourglass. Or set fire to a huge stack of money in there. The cops said they’d be gentle, acting on the tip that there might be loaded weapons in there. We took a shit-ton of them out when the Mob showed up, but Dad’s gotta have a reserve.

  And he does. Detective Ryan emits a low whistle as he pulls guns from the safe. I’m pretty sure some of them aren’t legal. A couple look like machine guns. One of the cops who’s wearing a polo shirt that says “RIFLE RANGE” on the front starts unloading them and recording serial numbers. There are handguns. A couple rifles. Nothing that really shocks me.

  Until Detective Ryan pulls out what looks like a big piece of green pipe. He holds it gingerly at arm’s length, passing it to the weapons master from the range.

  “No shit,” Carl breathes. “Your dad has a goddamn bazooka.”

  “That’s all the firearms,” Ryan declares.

  Probably a good thing. I don’t want to imagine that my dad has a rocket launcher in there. Jesus.

  But he has other shit in there. Birth certificates. A velvet box containing a diamond necklace that looks like it belongs to the Queen of England. There’s some cash, too. It’s in bricks, wrapped in rubber bands. Also a really ugly glass lamp.

  “Is that thing I asked about in there?” I ask.

  Detective Ryan digs around in the safe and comes out with an object wrapped in a wrinkled fast food bag. He carefully reaches in and pulls out the hourglass. It’s intact. He frowns, stares at it. I reach out to hold it, praying silently that he doesn’t turn it over to look for identifying marks or anything.

  “It’s mine,” I say stubbornly. I described it to him in detail before he blew the safe. He wrote it all down in the statement.

  He looks at the hourglass, then back to me. It looks pretty worthless to him, I’m sure. Not valuable, like the diamonds and money and guns. Even the glass lamp is probably a collector’s item, Fenton or Depression glass or something.

  This, this looks like nothing.

  “Okay,” he murmurs, handing it to me. “You helped us a lot today.”

  The glass is cool in my hands. I clutch it to my chest. I nod, trying to strike the right note of concern. “My dad’s gotten in over his head. I hope this will straighten him out.”

  “Me, too.”

  Ryan’s distracted by a cop who’s been rummaging around inside and found a shoebox full of poker chips from the Byzantium.

  I slip away, down the hall, back to Pops and Sid and Bert. They nod at me in approval.

  I carefully place the hourglass in the safest place in the world, the safest place I can think of until I can contact Young Don: on top of the refrigerator.

  We all sit on the couch, gazing at it.

  Pops sighs. “You done good, son.”

  I put my arm around him. He won’t be with us much longer. I wordlessly rest my head on his shoulder, wishing for all the world that I could capture this moment forever.

  Maybe I can. Because this time, I know I’m going to lose Pops. I can savor these last hours and days. Maybe it’ll be different than it was with Zach, not so much grasping after what could’ve been different and wrestling with regret.

  Maybe.

  I HAVE TO CONFESS THAT I never took prom seriously.

  I mean, who does?

  Yeah, girls do. There’s a whole lotta chatter swirling at school about who’s wearing what, and dresses, and themes, and flowers, and shit. But guys...yeah. In one ear, right out the other. I don’t think there’s a whole lot of interest in it other than the chance to dress up like James Bond and possibly get laid.

  Yeah. Getting laid.

  I’m thinking about that seriously. Depending on how shit goes down, this could be the last normal, romantic night Lily and I have together. I want to make it special, in a non-cheesy way, for her.

  But I also have to think about the Bunko, how much I want to be free of it. More and more, I’m seeing it as a curse. It’s something my father’s family has passed down to me. A stain, the sins of the fathers visited upon the sons. And I want a new life. Once I get square with Young Don, I’m getting the hell outta Dodge. I know it sounds like a long shot, but I deserve that much. And I’m going to take it.

  I
dress in the zoot suit that came in the costume trunk. The pants are a bit baggy around the waist, but the suspenders included keep my pants up just fine, and the jacket covers them. The pinstripes are pretty cool, actually. I stuff a bit of tissue paper into the shoes to make them fit, a trick I learned from inheriting Zach’s and Carl’s hand-me-downs. Perching the gangster hat on my head, I regard myself in the mirror.

  I look pretty damn hot, if I do say so myself. I’d do me. I pat the inside of my jacket pocket, where I’ve tucked a couple of condoms. Sid keeps a stash in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He showed it to Carl and me when I was twelve. He stood us before the medicine cabinet.

  “What’s this?” I squeaked. Carl giggled behind me.

  “This is The Talk,” Sid said. “One day, you guys are going to decide to get some. Wrap it up, or terrible things will happen.”

  “Terrible things like what?”

  “Herpes. Child support. Bad things that last forever.” He pointed to the box. “Take some out, try ’em on, get used to it. There will always be some in the box. Do not take anybody’s word for it that they’ve got a clean bill of health or are on birth control. Use a condom every time. Even if you like guys, or gals and guys, or if you’re not sure exactly yet.”

  I opened my mouth to ask a question, but Sid’s words came out in a rush, like he’d been rehearsing this for a week and wanted to get it over with. “I don’t need to know what you’re doing or who you’re doing it with, as long as everyone says an enthusiastic, sober ‘yes’ to the experience. But you’d better...uh...be safe.” He lapsed into silence and stared at the ceiling.

  “That’s it?” Carl looked at him quizzically.

  “Yeah. That’s it. You’ve just had ‘The Talk.’” Sid rubbed his forehead and walked off, leaving us to stare at the box on the shelf.

  I take a couple—not because I’m really convinced of my prowess, but more because I believe in Murphy’s law, and it would be an incredible bummer if I screwed the first one up.

  I put my hands in the pockets, pulling the jacket back. It feels pretty natural. Maybe I lived a previous life in these kinds of clothes. I make a mental note to ask Bert about previous lives when I get the chance.

  I fidget with the pocket square in my lapel. Dimly, I’m aware that I’m supposed to have some kind of flower jammed in my buttonhole for prom, and that there should be flowers for Lily. A corsage. But house arrest isn’t really conducive to flowers, and I’m hoping she’ll forgive me. I know she thinks they’re stupid, anyway. Hopefully, this isn’t one of those things where girls say the opposite of what they mean.

  There’s a quiet tap at my door, and Carl slips in. He’s dressed in his zoot suit. The shoes don’t fit him well at all, so he’s wearing black sneakers with his. But you really can’t tell.

  “Niiiice, man,” I say.

  He grunts in response, fiddling with his tie. “Pops and Sid are asleep on the couch.”

  “It’s only eight.”

  “Yeah, well. They sent my dad home from the hospital with some sleeping pills, and Pops falls asleep after Wheel of Fortune. I also made decaf today.”

  “Ah. Good thinking.”

  Carl taps his temple. “I’m not just the brawn of this outfit.”

  I tip my hat. “Are we ready to blow this popsicle stand?” That sounds 1920s enough.

  “Let’s do it.”

  I open the window to my room, check the alley for cops. Most of them cleared out after the safe blew. There’s only one left, reading the newspaper outside the front door.

  I get one leg out before I hear: “What the heck do you guys think you’re doing?”

  Shit.

  Bert’s in our room, standing behind us, his tiny arms crossed across his chest and eyes narrowed. “And more importantly, where are you going looking like extras from Boardwalk Empire?”

  “Prom,” I say. “We were going to prom.” Damn it.

  “You guys aren’t allowed out.”

  “Bert, it’s prooooooom.” Carl puts the right amount of whine into it.

  “Bert, you need to let us go.” I try to sound authoritative.

  Bert shakes his head. “Don’t try ordering me. You may know my name, but so do Sid and your Pops. They don’t want you unsupervised.”

  “That’s two against two, right? Does free will come into play in this?”

  Bert rolls his eyes. “I might be able to bend the rule. They did technically say ‘unsupervised.’”

  Bert stands before my mirror and wiggles his ass.

  I’m honestly afraid to look. Carl and I walk up behind him, peer into the glass.

  “Oh, shit.”

  Bert’s wearing a bubblegum pink dress with layers of sequins. He’s sprouted boobs that are shoved up to his neck via either plastic surgery or a push-up bra. I can’t tell. I don’t want to. He’s taken the shape of a blond chick with helmet head and too much eyeliner. He looks like a showgirl. Bert shoves his boobs together and makes a kissy face.

  I shove Carl’s shoulder. “You don’t have a date, right?”

  Carl’s hand covers his face. “Um. The girl I liked is going with someone else...but no. Just, no.”

  I start laughing.

  Bert grins at his reflection. “I’ve never been to prom before. Imma gonna go get my coat.”

  Carl sighs. “Just frigging awesome.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Carl is not having a good time.

  He and Bert shimmy down the fire escape while I jump across to get Lily. Bert’s borrowed a coat from downstairs—an ankle-length submariner’s coat from World War II. I guess he thinks it looks cool, but it just manages to get tangled on the rails. Maybe it’ll slow him down. Far be it from me to question his sartorial choices.

  I knock on Lily’s window. The curtains are drawn. For a moment, I’m afraid she’s changed her mind. “Come in,” she says.

  I lift open the window and scramble inside.

  Lily’s standing before her dresser, facing me. The dress shimmers in the low light. She’s styled her hair in waves like a flapper girl, and the headdress with the feather is adjusted at a jaunty angle. She’s rimmed her eyes in dark shadow, and layers of beads trail down the front of the dress.

  “You’re gorgeous,” I breathe.

  She grins and puts her gloved arms around my neck. The gloves hide her burn. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

  “I didn’t get the flower thingie.”

  “Flowers are for dorks.” She kisses me, and I forget what day it is.

  A small pebble hits the window, and I draw away.

  Someone below hisses, “Hurry up, Romeo!”

  “Um. That would be Carl. And Bert.” I rub the back of my neck.

  Lily grins. “Bert’s coming, too? Awesome!”

  “Well, he’s coming as Carl’s date.”

  Lily bursts out laughing. “This, I gotta see. And we gotta get out before my mom wants to take an assload of stupid pictures.”

  We carefully climb out the window. I jump down the fire escape to the alley floor first, open my arms to catch Lily. She loses one of her shoes as she falls, giggling, into me. As she hops on one foot, I retrieve the shoe. It’s a heavily-beaded flat slipper from the costume trunk, and it twinkles in the streetlight. I slip it back on her foot.

  “Prince Charming,” she says, kissing the top of my head.

  “C’mon, guys,” Carl hisses.

  Bert’s already at the corner, peering right and left for cops, tail lashing.

  I take Lily’s hand, and we run off into the night together.

  We are free. For now.

  It’s just rained, and a filmy mist rises from the puddles. Water creeps into my shoes as we race along the back alleyways. Bert’s trying to splash into every puddle in the alley, aiming to get Carl wet. I sometimes forget how much older than us Bert is. But he hasn’t forgotten play, and I hope I don’t ever forget it, either.

  The streetlights are haloed in yellow. I can’t see the stars, bu
t I don’t need them. Lily is holding my hand.

  We cross out of the alley to the street, walking toward school. Kids are swarming toward it in pairs. The girls are all brightly colored, in dresses that seem to show a lot more flesh than the daily uniform of jeans and T-shirts. They look older, but it’s not just them. It’s the guys, too, walking around in their suits and clouds of overpoweringly-scented body spray. Whatever it is, it’s a feeling of anticipation that tonight will be special.

  There’s a guy on the sidewalk selling flowers. I seize my chance. I grab a bunch of white roses. I give two of them to Carl.

  “What’s this for?”

  “For you and your lovely date.”

  Bert bats his eyelashes. He clasps his hands together while Carl sighs and pins a rose to the shoulder of his T-shirt.

  “Let me have those,” Lily says. She takes the remaining two flowers from me. She strips most of the green stem from the smallest one, pokes it into one of my button holes. She blows on the other rose, and it opens under the force of her breath. She twirls it, and it unfurls further. She hands it back to me.

  I’m not really sure what to do with it. I reach for the shoulder of her dress.

  Lily points at her flapper headband and grins.

  I grin back. I tuck the stem behind her ear, under the feathered headband. It looks very boho—no stilted corsage for her.

  Lily takes my hand, and we climb the stairs. Signs direct us to line up and file into the gym. I suppose there are some parental chaperones here, but I don’t see them. The light is low, and the bass sound of music thuds through the floor. As we pass through the doors, blue crepe paper streamers tickle the brim of my hat.

  Inside, the lighting is all blue, swirling around the ceiling. Balloons float, tied to the bleachers collapsed against the wall. The art class has made a big mural of fish on roll paper along the back wall. Some couples are getting their pictures taken in front of it. The basketball hoops are folded up toward the ceiling, with silver disco balls and more of the crepe paper streamers stretched from them to the top of the bleachers. Blue, like the aqua of Lily’s dress.

  Bert narrows his eyes. “It’s...a theme?”