Crooked (27 page)

44

BIG SUIT

Amos was running.

After leaving the Tripps' apartment, he'd run down the gravel driveway, across the street, and through the Kensington District, planning a route over Bandy Ridge through the business section into Clara's neighborhood to Clara's house. He turned uphill and ran steadily, a boy in a big suit. He charted the shortcuts he could take, the alleys he would use, and all the while, he ran steadily, sucking in the cold night air, his heart close to bursting, but running steadily, slanting across streets and yards, pounding along sidewalks, sweat streaming down his face. And yet the distances seemed to stretch, each block seemed to grow longer, and the harder he tried to run, the slower he seemed to go, so that the growing fear that he might be too late felt more and more like a fact, the kind of hopeless fact that made him want to stop, just stop and catch his breath.

On Walnut, he cut across a corner lot and saw a large, familiar form on the sidewalk in front of him. It was Bruce.

“Hey,” Bruce said, stopping to let himself be approached.

Amos kept running. “Clara's,” he panted, and then, over his shoulder as Bruce turned to watch him pass: “Something's wrong at Clara's.”

“Everything's okay,” Bruce yelled after him. “I just saw her a half hour ago. Everything's fine.”

Amos knew in his bones this was wrong, but had no time to explain. His lungs ached for air, and his feet felt heavier and heavier. Each time they hit pavement, pain shot up through his calves. Threading across traffic on Albany, he glimpsed the Bank of Jemison clock tower: 11:37! Already 11:37 and he still had blocks and blocks to go. He was too late. He was way too late.

For one second, and then another, Amos slackened his pace, as if to slow to a walk and then just stop, but at that moment, a calm, steady, and familiar voice came into his ears. Amos knew whose voice it was. It was his father's. “Run, Amos,” he said. “You can do it. You just need to put one foot in front of the other, and run.”

And Amos, without quite realizing he'd begun, was running again.

45

IN CLARA'S ATTIC

It was dark, but as the two forms crawled up from the trapdoor and raised themselves to full height, one short and wiry, the other huge and hulking, a sudden terrible certainty came over Clara. It was the Tripps. She was certain it was Eddie and Charles Tripp. Eddie was one thing, but Charles... what was Charles doing here?

The small one—could it be anyone but Eddie?—switched on a flashlight and aimed it directly at Clara. She tried to stand, but sat back down, her back against her wooden hope chest. She wanted to cry, but nothing would come. She closed her eyes. She waited a long time and opened them again.

They were talking. One of them was talking. Charles was talking to her in a low, spooky, crooning voice. A question. “Didn't you want company? We thought you wanted company. That's why we're here. As an accommodation to you.”

Eddie said nothing.

“Isn't that why you told people your father was gone this weekend?” Charles said in his oversweet croon. “Because you wanted some company?”

No. Clara tried to say no, but what came out was something strangled and dry and not human.

This seemed to encourage Charles.

He took several steps forward. Eddie kept the beam of light trained on her. They were looking at her, trying to see what she looked like. She knew what she looked like. Like something without bones. Like a bag with loose things in it. With effort, she tried to straighten her back, to stare hard into the beam of light. “What're you doing here?” she said in a dry, cracking voice.

“We're here to see you,” Charles said. “We even brought you something. Show her, Eduardo. Show her what we brought.”

Eddie brought out a necklace from his coat pocket and shined his light on it. It was a gold-colored necklace. “Twenty-four karat,” Charles said in his sweet voice. “A token of our good intentions.”

Eddie extended the necklace toward Clara and again flashed the beam of light glintingly across it, but the light caught something else, too. A fine crosswise scar across the forearm.

“Why're you doing this, Eddie?” she said in a small voice.

Eddie flinched slightly, pulled back his extended gift.

“His name is Eduardo,” the big one said sweetly. “But if you like, you can call him crazy.”

“I'll call him Eddie,” Clara said in a sullen voice.

There was a long still moment, then Charles laughed. Eddie didn't. “Oh, Eduardo,” Charles crooned. “This is a rabbit with spunk. This is a rabbit worth catching.”

Clara breathed in and breathed out. “You're not supposed to be here,” she said. “What you're doing is illegal.”

Again Charles laughed, followed uneasily by Eddie. “The spunky rabbit has a sense of humor, Eduardo,” Charles said. “She dispenses free legal advice.”

“I know you,” Clara said. “I know who you are.”

Charles laughed casually. “Of course you do,” he said, exuding sweetness. “We're all well acquainted. You invited us. That's why we're here.”

Sullenly Clara said, “I didn't invite Eddie and I didn't invite you.”

Again Charles issued an amused laugh. “Oh,” he said in his calm, caressing voice, “that's what you can tell your father and your boyfriend Amos and maybe even yourself, but deep in your heart, you invited us. You wanted us to come. This is your own little dream. You made it up, and now we're here.”

Clara hated this person, hated him with all her heart. She turned to Eddie. She didn't know what to say. She said, “I trusted you, Eddie.”

This time Charles's laugh was harsher. “Trust? Trust is just another name for mental deficiency. Show me someone who trusts and I'll show you a village idiot.”

Clara didn't look at Charles when he said this. She kept her eyes fixed on Eddie. “I did trust you, though. You told me you didn't kill Amos's pigeon and I believed you.”

Again Charles's laugh was sharp. “He
didn't
kill the pigeon. He didn't have the
cojones
for that little task.” Charles grinned. “He did, however, point out the treasured bird.”

Clara's eyes were still on Eddie. “Is that right?”

Eddie didn't speak. In the dark, his face was just a dim, immobile mask.

“It was a simple matter of choices,” Charles said. He was using his sweet voice again. “I told him he could either point out the milkboy's personal fave or I'd just kill them all.”

Clara turned slowly to Charles. “How come you do this stuff?” she said. “How come you do all this stuff and make people hate you?”

“How come
who
does hateful stuff?” Charles said sweetly.

“You. You and Eddie. The Tripp brothers.”

Charles grinned. “This is some weird case of mistaken identity. We are not the Tripp brothers. My name is...Rico! Yes, Rico. And my compadre's name is Eduardo. But we have heard of the Tripp brothers.” He made a little laugh. “To be truthful, they scare us.”

Charles waited a moment or two. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “I understand you're one of the really, really smart kids, Clara,” he said in his crooning voice. “So let's have a review quiz. What is my name?”

Clara didn't answer. She felt her body going rubbery again.

In the same coaxing voice, Charles said, “What is my name, Clara?”

Again Clara said nothing. Her eyelids drooped. She didn't see Charles's hand fly out as much as feel it. But with sudden terrible quickness Charles was upon her, grabbing her shirt, jerking it tight around her throat.

“Hey!” Eddie said. “I thought you said—”

“Relax, Eduardo,” Charles said in his sweet voice. “Your little itch and me are just getting up close and personal.” He returned his gaze to Clara. “Okay, now. You understood the question, didn't you, Clara?” he said with exaggerated patience.

“Yes,” Clara said in a small, tired voice.

A moment passed. In the dark, as Charles held her shirt front, she could smell his sour breath and the too-rich smell of his Right Guard deodorant. Abruptly Charles released his grip and leaned back. He pulled something from an interior pocket, a metal case, from which, with a quick decisive click, a blade flashed open.

“Clara Wilson,” Charles crooned, “meet Mr. Persuasion.” Charles's voice was still gentle, lilting, full of compassion. “Mr. Persuasion's here to help you see things from a different point of view. Now, what is my name?”

It was quiet in the room. From somewhere outside, a dog barked, but it wasn't Ham's bark. Clara looked through the dimness toward Eddie. He wasn't going to help. He wasn't going to do anything. He was just a silhouette. A silhouette of a statue. Something collapsed within Clara. “Rico,” she said.

“Splendid!” Charles said with exaggerated pleasure. “And my compadre?”

“Eduardo.”

“Excellent,” Charles said, and he tilted his head down at the unsheathed blade, as if considering it. “Now, earlier in our lesson, we were talking about choices. Let's return to that. What I heard through the grapevine is that Eddie Tripp took you up to Lookout Surefire Getting Plenty Point.” Charles's head lifted toward Clara. “Is that true, Clara?”

“He took me somewhere. I don't know what it was called.”

“Oh, that's what it's called, all right. Lookout Surefire Getting Plenty Point.”

Clara said nothing.

“So?”

“So what?”

“Did you get any at Getting Plenty?” Charles asked soothingly, and then rolled out a low rumble of laughter that reminded Clara of distant thunder.

“I don't know what you mean,” she said.

Charles laughed again. “Oh, you can say that, Clara, but don't insult us by expecting us to believe it.” His shaved head turned. “Do you believe it, Eduardo?”

Eddie's head shook slowly:
no
.

After a moment or two, Charles said, “Okay. Back to our little lesson on choices. Now, when
I
take a gal up to Lookout Surefire Getting Plenty Point, I take the key out of the ignition and say, ‘You have two choices, and one is to run.'” Charles's low laugh rumbled more fully this time.

“Hey, c'mon,” Eddie said out of the dark in a low, pleading voice.

Suddenly Charles was leaning forward, and with a quick swiping motion, he cut first one button and then another from Amos's shirt. It happened so fast, Clara hardly knew what had happened, and then, as she peered down at the shirt, the knife sliced the other buttons free. She saw one hit the floor and roll into darkness. Was she about to be killed? The thought came to her that this was how murders occurred. One second you're talking to the killer, and the next second you're not.

In a low voice, Eddie said, “C'mon, you said no physical stuff.”

Charles laughed. “I said I wouldn't touch her. You got to pay more attention, Eduardo. I haven't touched her. Mr. Persuasion has.”

Charles tugged Clara's buttoned nightgown away from her chest and started cutting those buttons one by one. The tip of the blade nipped into her bare skin.
No,
she thought.
No, please, no.
And then she managed to say it: “No. Please, no.”

Charles laughed a deep rich greedy laugh, was still laughing this laugh when something strange happened.

From behind Charles, looming as if from the mouth of a dark cave, Eddie stepped forward and said, “No. No more. No freaking more.”

Charles's laughter roared louder. He could hardly contain himself. “Oh,
yes,”
he said, and the knife worked through the last flannel-covered button.

“No,” Eddie said, and laid a hand on Charles's shoulder, which made Charles recoil abruptly and swirl toward Eddie, flashing the knife now at his brother.

It took Clara a moment to understand she was free of Charles's grip. She clamped her nightgown together with both hands.

“Oh, Eduardo,” Charles was saying with exaggerated disappointment. “I'd had such hopes for us tonight. This, after all, was your little itch. But then a funny thing happened, Eduardo. I got an itch for her, too, and as it turns out, mine is the bigger itch.” Charles laughed, but there was something inside him lying in wait, Clara could feel it. “Now that I'm here and I see what I see, I begin to understand that I'm in one of my moods, and when I'm in the mood, Eduardo, I'm in the mood.” Charles waited. “Your little Clara is
very
fetching.”

All at once Eddie in wild rage charged into his giant brother. There were the heaves and grunts of furious contact, the sound of the flashlight pummeling flesh, and then something swift and silent, followed by a low, short
oof
ing sound. Eddie sat heavily down. He was gasping.

Charles was breathing normally. His voice held steadily to its exaggerated sweetness. “Sometimes you forget yourself, Eduardo.” He beamed the flashlight toward Eddie, who held his hand over his face as if expecting another blow.

“You're lucky I'm a nice guy, Eduardo. A nastier character would've used the knife.” Charles slid the point of the knife into Eddie's left nostril. “You understand, don't you, Eduardo?”

The only portion of Eddie's face that moved was his mouth. “Yeah,” he said.

“Good.” Charles's sweet voice had become reassuring, soothing, almost fatherlike. “I need you to go downstairs now, Eduardo. Don't worry about anything up here. Everything up here will be right as rain.”

Eddie pulled his face back from the knife. Then, without a glance toward Clara, he slunk away and disappeared through the trapdoor, which he pulled closed behind him.

46

THE APPOINTMENT

Amos's body seemed about to explode as he turned finally up Genesee. He drew short sharp breaths and with each exhalation heard the word
run
in his mind.
Run, run, run.
When he drew up in front of Clara's house, it looked abandoned. It was completely dark. Amos, gasping, circled the house, peering in windows, hearing nothing, seeing nothing but darkness. In the front yard, off toward the bushes, he heard quick heavy breathing. He moved toward the sound, toward a breathing mass on the ground. It was Ham, lying on his side, taking rapid, shallow breaths. His eyes were wide and white. He stood uncertainly, then sat back down. “It's okay, Ham,” Amos whispered, even though he didn't think it was.

As he was leaning over the dog, Amos heard a door open behind him. Into the dim light of the streetlamp walked Eddie Tripp.

Amos understood that this was the appointed time.

He stepped out of the shadow. “Where're you off to, Eddie?” he said, and was relieved his voice sounded steady and normal.

For a moment—because of Amos's suit?—Eddie seemed to think Amos was an adult, and looked ready to cut and run, but then, seeing who was actually wearing the suit, Eddie visibly relaxed. “Well, well. Our hero.”

Amos stepped closer. “What did you do to the dog?”

Eddie laughed. “Dog?” he said innocently. “What dog?”

“And what were you doing inside the house?”

This time Eddie merely grinned. “Wasn't. I was just knocking on the door, and nobody answered. There a new law against knocking on a door?”

Amos didn't like the way this was going. It was as if Eddie kept sliding into a position just beyond him.

“And how about my pigeon?”

A false cackling laugh erupted from Eddie. “And maybe you'd like to finger me for killing JFK? Or how about Roger Rabbit? You want to finger me for killing Roger Rabbit?”

“No,” Amos said, and a strange calmness came over him. “No, I'd just like to finger you for being such a lame human being.”

Eddie's smile evaporated. A hardness came over him, but then softened again.

He held his hands up, fingers splayed, in a universal gesture of surrender. “You take things a little too serious, Hero,” he said, and began moving toward Amos. “We don't have to agree on everything. In fact, we can agree to disagree. But we can do it with the mutual respect of warriors.”

Amos didn't know how to respond to this. He had the feeling that the appointment was over before it really started. That Eddie-the-enemy had vanished and been replaced by Eddie-the-not-so-bad-guy. Amos lifted his head, straightened his back, and had relaxed for just an instant when from Eddie's small muscular body, a leg shot up and his shoe swung sharply into Amos's crotch.

By no more than an inch, Eddie's foot missed its target and lost itself in the loose material of the baggy trousers. Amos grabbed the foot with both hands and gave it a violent clockwise twist that sent Eddie over onto his stomach. He began to push himself upright.

The three terra-cotta rabbits stood on their hind legs in the flower bed beside the walk. Amos grabbed one of them, lifted it overhead, and struck Eddie a glancing blow. The figurine shattered. Eddie fell back, stunned. When he touched his scalp, his hand came away with blood. “Jesus,” he said in a small voice.

Amos picked up another of the terra-cotta rabbits. “You want to go now, or you want to stay and keep chatting?”

Eddie got up unsteadily and, trying to keep his dignity, stopped rubbing his head. He tried to drill his eyes into Amos, but they had lost all influence over him. Still, Eddie kept talking. “You're a pretty sorry hero, Hero. I'm not Clara's real problem. Clara's
real problem
has got her cornered in the attic.”

Amos glanced quickly at the house, then back at Eddie. “Charles?”

Eddie stared at Amos evenly.

Amos moved toward the front door, but looked back at Eddie. “Wanna help?”

Eddie shrugged and made a small, strangely contorted smile that Amos would always remember as regretful. “I tried,” Eddie said. “Now it's your turn.”