Authors: Mark Arsenault
Loot the Moon (5 page)
Crazy, and now dead.
With a shudder, he pushed the letters back in the box, slammed and locked the door. Putting his old roommate out of his mind, he hummed some more on his way up two flights of stairs.
I'm singing in my brain â¦
Inside his apartment, Scratch flicked on the light, slapped his baseball cap over the head of his pet mannequin, then dumped the shopping bags on the table. He had scored six women's business suits, jackets and slacks. Each was navy blue, made from fine summer-weight wool. He had four suits of size 6 and two of size 4. Each had a security tag on it, of course. The tags were never much of a problem. He held a pair of slacks to the light and examined the deviceâa simple dye bomb, essentially a thin glass tube of permanent red dye, partially encased in plastic. The fragile glass was designed to break and ruin the garment with ink if anybody tried to remove it without a special machine. The dye bomb was pinned to
the pant leg with a heavy needle embedded in a hard plastic disc. Scratch had defeated plenty of similar security devices, but none of this specific brand.
the pant leg with a heavy needle embedded in a hard plastic disc. Scratch had defeated plenty of similar security devices, but none of this specific brand.
Let's try one.
He carried a pair of slacks down the hall, past the bathroom and the battered plaid sofa that had been his roommate's bed, which Scratch had unofficially inherited. The dresser clock in the bedroom said 1:37 a.m. He walked across his squishy bed to the window, eased it up, and climbed gracefully onto his balcony herb garden.
The match method of removing a dye bomb, his favorite tactic for this type of device, required lots of ventilation. He lit his cigarette lighter and held the bulbous side of the dye bomb in the heat. The plastic caught fire in a few seconds, and then burned with a low smear of flame that sent up a thread of deep black smoke, which gently waved in the still night air like the world's skinniest charmed snake. The gases were loaded with cancer-causing dioxins, and Scratch turned his head from the fire. He let it burn for thirty seconds or so. Then he blew out the flame and used a pottery shard to scrape away the softened plastic. That exposed the interior locking ring. A few jabs with a ballpoint pen dislodged a tiny BB under the ring, and the device fell apart, dye tube intact.
He laughed and tapped a few more dance steps, which sent happy vibrations down the fire escape. Freeing these garments from retail bondage would be easy.
Back in the kitchen, he made sure the slacks were undamaged, then left them on the table and went to the bathroom to scrub the soot from his hands.
He lost himself in the washing, thinking of profit. The retail tags on the suits said $575. Nobody ever paid retail; this kind of high-end garment was generally on sale for $499. He could unload them to a fence he knew, probably for no more than fifty bucks each. Or he could sell them himself, anonymously, over the Internet. Say he could
get $250 each, plus shipping â¦
Shit, I can't do math
. No matter. He said aloud to the mirror, “Whatever price I get will be the square root of a great scoreâsquared.” He blasted his own smile in the mirror with double-barreled finger guns, then cranked the water shut and half listened for the echo drip from the shower stall, a quirk of his inferior plumbing.
get $250 each, plus shipping â¦
Shit, I can't do math
. No matter. He said aloud to the mirror, “Whatever price I get will be the square root of a great scoreâsquared.” He blasted his own smile in the mirror with double-barreled finger guns, then cranked the water shut and half listened for the echo drip from the shower stall, a quirk of his inferior plumbing.
What's that?
Huh.
He turned the water back on, then off, and heard an odd crackling again, an unnatural noise in an apartment he would know in the dark.
Scratch turned toward the shower as the curtain scraped open, gloved fingers sweeping it away.
Impossible.
Imfucking possible
.
.
A chill paralysis spread through him like a voodoo drug.
I'm not seeing this. This is a movie I saw. I'm remembering this.
Then he saw a head encased in a plastic bag with just a slit for the eyes and a wrinkle of brow pressing heavily. The black pupils were swollen huge, encircled by a delicate gray ring of iris no thicker than a wedding band.
A man's eyes
, Scratch thought.
A man's eyes
, Scratch thought.
A water droplet raced down the plastic face, recoiled ever slightly at the chin, as if gathering itself for a leap, and then cast off.
The figure's right hand had been moving at him all this time, Scratch finally realized.
By instinct, Scratch's hips jerked to the side, to matador away from the clumsy thrust.
He would pretend the man was real, just until he figured out why he was seeing this.
As if in slow motion, he watched the stranger push a thin shankâ
Holy Christ, an ice pick
âthrough the empty space Scratch had just
abandoned. The man was out of the shower stall. He wore a black sweater, tight black pants. Momentum carried him across the tiny bathroom. He was growling.
Holy Christ, an ice pick
âthrough the empty space Scratch had just
abandoned. The man was out of the shower stall. He wore a black sweater, tight black pants. Momentum carried him across the tiny bathroom. He was growling.
This cannot be happening.
At the violent stab of the ice pick, the bottom half of the mirror shattered. For an instant as they dropped, each shard reflected a chaotic fragment of the scene in a tiny moving picture.
The crash of glass obliterated the hope this might be imagination. Scratch set his feet and drove his palm at the man's shoulder. A glancing blow.
He's real, all right. But why?
The attacker regrouped. Scratch turned his right side to him, to keep his heart as far from the shank as possible, as he had learned during a four-month bid in state prison. He had never been stabbed, but had once seen an inmate take a shank to the shoulder, wrestle it away, and jam it back from where it had come. His eyes locked on the pick, on the bright white point at the end of it, on which his twenty-six years of life, plus nine months in the womb, delicately balanced. His brain flooded his body with fight-or-flight chemicals, racing his heart, tightening his testicles, rerouting blood to the big muscles that could save him.
The figure swung the weapon in a wide arc. Scratch ducked, felt the drag of a forearm across his hair, and shot a frantic uppercut to the man's rib cage. Bang. Fist on ribs, but without much leverage. A grunt, nothing more. Scratch threw an off-balanced hand toward the bagged head, and missed.
The pick flashed up. Scratch shrank from it.
Suddenly from the left a fist crashed into Scratch's cheekbone. He knew instantly he was hurt, though he felt no pain, not yet. Just a high ringing in his ear.
With a guttural growl, like from a beast, the man lunged. Scratch
leapt blindly aside. He had a vision of his body spiked on the metal and abandoned in the bathroom, undiscovered, until the super came to collect the rent.
leapt blindly aside. He had a vision of his body spiked on the metal and abandoned in the bathroom, undiscovered, until the super came to collect the rent.
The pick pierced the pale inside of Scratch's left forearm, driving effortlessly through skin and fat cells and capillaries and muscle meat, sliding between the radius and the ulna, pushing a channel through flesh and fat on the other side, exiting the skin on the backside of his arm between little brown hairs standing on end, before stabbing the wall and burying into the wood.
There was no pain, just a shocking sense of invasion; a rape. He gasped. The attacker's body carried into him and knocked his head against the wall.
Scratch smelled the man's salty sweat.
The scene seemed to slow down again, as the man in the plastic hood pulled at the pick, growling in frustration.
The shank had stuck fast in the wall, pinning Scratch's outstretched arm through a tiny bull's eye of blood. Scratch shrieked at the sight, high and shrill, like a child surprised by a spider.
I'm crucified.
For a second, the man seemed to transfer his wrath to the ice pick that refused to budge. He fought it with a staccato roar, like a growl and a sob together.
Scratch drove his right forearm up, catching the man just under the chin. His head snapped back, though he kept his grip on the pick, and gave the weapon a fierce yank.
The tool's old wooden handle splintered and came off in his hand; he tumbled backward against the vanity. His shoes skidded on chips of broken mirror and he went down.
With no handle, the tool was just a spike, a long nail with no head. Scratch tore his arm from it, felt a hollow whoosh in his gut, and warm blood racing free. He tried to stomp the man's leg as he thundered over him, out of the room. A hand slapped his shoe and Scratch
staggered into the hall. He stumbled into the sofa, caught himself. The man was up, coming at him. Scratch lurched off toward the kitchen.
staggered into the hall. He stumbled into the sofa, caught himself. The man was up, coming at him. Scratch lurched off toward the kitchen.
The door, the goddamn blessed door, so close.
A fist clubbed his shoulder. He crashed into the refrigerator, heard bottles of Bass ale tumbling inside. His wound spattered red on the door. An arm wrapped around his neck from behind, catching him under the Adam's apple. The attacker's body pressed tight against him. Scratch leaned forward and lifted the man's feet from the floor. The attacker rode his back as they slowly spun in the center of the room. The bagged head pushed on Scratch's right shoulder. Swampy panting breath pulsed against the plastic. Scratch's mannequin stood frozen, a witness to nothing, its eyes just shallow indentations.
Was this bagged assassin really trying to suffocate a man of equal size and strength? With just his arm?
Where'd this guy learn to fight? The movies?
The attacker had surrendered leverage, the most valuable advantage in unarmed fighting. Scratch bent at the knees, tightened his midsection, reached back to grab two handfuls of sweater, and violently yanked the man over his head like he was whipping off a shirt. Now it was
this clown's
turn to smash into the fridge. He slammed into it with a moan and rolled.
Where'd this guy learn to fight? The movies?
The attacker had surrendered leverage, the most valuable advantage in unarmed fighting. Scratch bent at the knees, tightened his midsection, reached back to grab two handfuls of sweater, and violently yanked the man over his head like he was whipping off a shirt. Now it was
this clown's
turn to smash into the fridge. He slammed into it with a moan and rolled.
From his ankle-high boot, the man drew a steak knife serrated like piranha teeth.
Holy Jesus, gotta have a weapon. Anything!
Scratch yanked the loose arm off the mannequin. The crude club was surprisingly well balanced, like a fairway driver with a slight kink in the shaft at the elbow. He swung a mighty uppercut as the man tried to rise.
Fore!
The plastic arm whacked above the man's temple; he dropped like he had been shot. On the floor, he clutched his head and squirmed, still holding the knife.
For the slightest moment Scratch considered beating the man with the makeshift club. But the assassin was only stunned; Scratch was deeply wounded, and bleeding.
And the enemy was armed with a real weapon. Scratch was armed with an arm.
Instinct insisted:
Run away.
Run away.
He flung the arm, flew out the door, rumbled down the stairs, out into the night. He ran with one hand over the hole in his forearm. He didn't look back.
T
he breakfast buffet began with stove-boiled Autocrat java, inky black and infused with coffee grounds in what the old man liked to call “chunky style.” The chrome toaster on the table was forty years old, same age as Billy, but it delivered four perfect shingles at a time. Not one of the thirty flapjacks piled chaotically on a tin plate was round; despite Billy's best short-order cookery, the cakes had hardened into the shapes of Confederate states. On the table, arranged like a row of books, were four boxes of sugared cereal, a box of golden raisins, a half-gallon carton of skim milk, and a quart of orange juice. The bacon hardened on a greasy paper towel. The boy had arranged six triangles of seedy watermelon flat on a plate, like pizza slices. A butterscotch short-haired cat, with a potbelly and an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, relaxed sphinxlike on the table among the dishes with its front paws tucked invisibly beneath its bulk.
he breakfast buffet began with stove-boiled Autocrat java, inky black and infused with coffee grounds in what the old man liked to call “chunky style.” The chrome toaster on the table was forty years old, same age as Billy, but it delivered four perfect shingles at a time. Not one of the thirty flapjacks piled chaotically on a tin plate was round; despite Billy's best short-order cookery, the cakes had hardened into the shapes of Confederate states. On the table, arranged like a row of books, were four boxes of sugared cereal, a box of golden raisins, a half-gallon carton of skim milk, and a quart of orange juice. The bacon hardened on a greasy paper towel. The boy had arranged six triangles of seedy watermelon flat on a plate, like pizza slices. A butterscotch short-haired cat, with a potbelly and an overdeveloped sense of entitlement, relaxed sphinxlike on the table among the dishes with its front paws tucked invisibly beneath its bulk.
Surrounding this feast were three generations of males with the same name.
The eldest William R. Povich had parked his wheelchair at a short end of the rectangular table. In the late-morning sun, his startling
blue eyes looked like those of an optimist, maybe a poet or an adventurer, or like the eyes of a young bridegroom. But sunken into the head of a living corpse, among the scars of old age, the jagged creases and pockmarks littered with white whiskers, the eyes shone like stolen goods.
blue eyes looked like those of an optimist, maybe a poet or an adventurer, or like the eyes of a young bridegroom. But sunken into the head of a living corpse, among the scars of old age, the jagged creases and pockmarks littered with white whiskers, the eyes shone like stolen goods.
Across the table, boosted on two copies of the Providence Yellow Pages, sat the youngest William Povich, a second-grader with little white legs leopard-spotted with brown bruises. Bo hurt himself often because he rarely moved at less than full speed, and had not yet developed the grown-up pessimism that made people hesitate before they jumped off a shed with a pillowcase for a parachute, or tried to pilot a bicycle down a flight of stairs.
The stuffed Mr. Albert Einstein, which had become some sort of security anchor for the boy, leaned against the orange juice, silently contemplating space-time, light speed, and the twin paradox. Billy didn't understand what the kid saw in the doll, which the old man had bought for him over the Internet. The Einstein action figure did not talk or move. It did not use batteries; it lacked the kung fu grip. Did the kid even know Einstein had been a real person?
Bo tore open a paper sugar pack saved from Dunkin' Donuts and sprinkled the excess energy over his Frankenberries.
“Ziggs put his tail in the butter,” the boy said. He giggled.
“No one likes a tattletale,” the old man told Bo. The kid laughed and slapped a hand over his mouth. The old man shooed away the cat's tail, then used a knife to scrape hair off the stick of soft butter.
Billy laid a folder of documents on the table. His eyes dutifully passed over Adam Rackers's arrest record, but the distractions prevented the words from actually entering his brain. He sighed and glanced around to clear his head. The giant white range had left the kitchen too warm. The ten-year-old cat sat pensively on the table, buttered tail silently slapping the cherry red laminate. Outside the
window, cars lined the street for a service at Metts & Sons, the funeral parlor on the first floor of their old Victorian apartment house. Beyond the street, a parade field of green, broken up by paths and clumps of trees, stretched to the base of the old Cranston Street armory, a tremendous yellow-brick castle of gates and turrets.
window, cars lined the street for a service at Metts & Sons, the funeral parlor on the first floor of their old Victorian apartment house. Beyond the street, a parade field of green, broken up by paths and clumps of trees, stretched to the base of the old Cranston Street armory, a tremendous yellow-brick castle of gates and turrets.
“His tail would taste like popcorn,” the boy said. He stroked the cat's soft back.
“Maybe that's why he licks it sometimes,” said the old man.
“I'm working,” Billy said.
“We're eating,” sassed the old man. “This ain't the library.”
“Can't even chew gum at the library,” Bo said.
“Where's the horseradish?” the old man asked.
“Puts hair on your belly,” Bo said, parroting what the old man had taught him to say whenever somebody mentioned horseradish.
Organ music from the funeral home downstairs percolated up through the red-flecked black linoleum and vibrated into Billy's bare feet.
“Who's dead down there?” the old man asked.
Billy consulted an index card on the kitchen counter. “According to the schedule Mr. Metts sent up, this would be Mr. Crespie, of Eden Park. He was a foreman at the brewery.”
“You knew him?”
“I wrote the obituary.”
The old man wheezed. He tapped a knife on his plate four times, sounding impatient. He said, “I want to go out and sit in the park.”
“You know we can't use the stairs during a funeral. It's in the lease.”
He moaned, “Are they gonna be long down there?”
“How should I know?” Billy said. The cat slapped its tail back into the butter. Billy brushed the tail away and slid the butter dish out of range.
“You wrote the obit,” the old man grumbled. “What kind of life did this guy have? Was he worth mourning for the full hour? Did he do anything worth remembering?”
“He lived to ninety-two.”
“Whoop-tee-damn-doo,” the old man said. He reached a trembling knife to the soft butter, scraped off a smear, and spread it on toast. “The lucky fool walked between the falling pianos for ninety-two years before something finally crushed him. Maybe he was Mr. Magoo.”
“There's cat hair on your toast,” Billy said.
The old man took a huge, exaggerated bite. “Mmmmm,” he moaned. “Tasty!”
Bo giggled. “I want some cat, too!”
“Puts hair
in
your belly,” the old man said, mouth open, the toast circling inside a cage of tan teeth and blackened metal molars.
in
your belly,” the old man said, mouth open, the toast circling inside a cage of tan teeth and blackened metal molars.
“This guy Crespieâhis son flew fighter jets for the Air Force,” Billy said. “Won some medals.”
The old man swallowed with a little gag. He cleared his throat and then said, “Then I guess we're lucky it ain't the son's funeral, 'cause we'd be stuck in here
all day
.” Some emotion that Billy could not identify had cut the old man's voice ragged. He went on, “What the goddamn does it matter what the
son
did? Any idiot can be a father. Even monkeys hump by instinct.”
all day
.” Some emotion that Billy could not identify had cut the old man's voice ragged. He went on, “What the goddamn does it matter what the
son
did? Any idiot can be a father. Even monkeys hump by instinct.”
“Pa,” Billy pleaded, weakly.
“Why do you only write about dead people?” Bo asked.
“Because he's good at it,” the old man answered.
Billy's eyes widened at the compliment. When was the last time he had heard praise from the old man? “Because that's my job,” Billy told his son. “I don't do the investigating reporting I used to do. I'm an obituary writer. I write a lot of them.”
“Did you write Mom's?” Bo asked.
Billy felt a wave of internal heat, and an invisible hand around his throat. “Not that one,” he said. He couldn't look at the kid.
“Why not?”
After a beat of silence, the old man rescued Billy. “Meow!” he cried. Then he gasped. “Ohmigod! I think I
did
eat cat hair.” The boy laughed.
did
eat cat hair.” The boy laughed.
Billy seized the distraction. “I need to read these documents for the case I'm working for Martin.”
“Whatchu got there?” asked the old man.
Billy counted the sheets of computer printout in his hand. “I got the five-page arrest record of the guy who shot Judge Harmony.” He thumbed quickly through the pages. “Martin is right about this guyâAdam Rackers wasn't a regular street thug. He was a professional thief. Mostly B and E's in unoccupied homes. Some shoplifting.”
He flipped the page, then another.
“
Lots
of shoplifting. But other than getting involved in a couple of bar fightsâ”
Lots
of shoplifting. But other than getting involved in a couple of bar fightsâ”
“Which can happen to anyone,” the old man interrupted, with an evil smile.
“âthere's no violence on his record. Not a single weapons charge, either.”
Downstairs at the funeral, the gathering prayed aloud. Their muffled words bled through the floor in a mumble.
“Just because he was never
arrested
for shootin' somebody doesn't mean he never did it before,” the old man said.
arrested
for shootin' somebody doesn't mean he never did it before,” the old man said.
“Meow,” said Bo. The cat answered him with a little whine. The boy laughed and crunched an open mouthful of cereal at Ziggs.
“Still feels odd that this guy would suddenly shoot a judge,” Billy said. “Martin thinks he got paid to do it, and I'm beginning to think the same thing.”
“Maybe it was personal,” the old man said. Billy couldn't be sure if his father was trying to help, or just being argumentative. “Did this guy know the judge?”
“Never had a case in front of him.”
“Did he meet him in a bar? Did he sit behind him one day at McCoy Stadium? Did they have words over somebody's eyes on somebody else's wife? Did the judge threaten to have him arrested?”
The cat popped up from the table, stretched, then jumped to the floor. It walked away like a runway model, crossing its feet in front of each other over an invisible line down the middle of the hall.
This was an emergency for Bo. The kid slid off his seat, grabbed Einstein, and ran after the cat, calling urgently over his shoulder, “Ziggs wants to play!”
“Keep an eye on him,” Billy ordered.
“Don't let him slip on that buttered tail,” the old man added. To Billy, he said, “Maybe the judge was blackmailing this guy. Maybe they were in some crime ring together, and so he killed him.”
Billy squinted at his father a moment, and tried to remember the path of their argument. How the hell had they gotten
here
? “The judge was rich,” Billy said. “He made a fortune on the law books he wrote. If I had his money, I'd throw my money away.”
here
? “The judge was rich,” Billy said. “He made a fortune on the law books he wrote. If I had his money, I'd throw my money away.”
“Or gamble it away,” the old man cracked.
“And Gil Harmony was too honest ⦔ Billy flipped papers in the folder. “Look at all these commentaries the judge wrote for the paper. Here's one on juvenile justice. And this, on gang prevention. Here's something on constitutional law ⦠religion in politics. And he wrote about more than just the law. Judge Harmony rode the train twice a week for the past five years, to teach in Manhattan, and
this
essay is his plan to improve Amtrak service down the eastern seaboard. The guy was an expert on
everything
.” Billy stared at the paper, at the byline that read
Gilbert D. Harmony
. He said aloud to himself, “Martin was right, Judge Harmony was Mr. Perfect. He wasn't part of a crime ring.” Billy stopped, lightly slapped his own cheek, as if to wake himself. “Why am I even arguing something so ridiculous with you?”
this
essay is his plan to improve Amtrak service down the eastern seaboard. The guy was an expert on
everything
.” Billy stared at the paper, at the byline that read
Gilbert D. Harmony
. He said aloud to himself, “Martin was right, Judge Harmony was Mr. Perfect. He wasn't part of a crime ring.” Billy stopped, lightly slapped his own cheek, as if to wake himself. “Why am I even arguing something so ridiculous with you?”
The old man picked at the dangle of chicken skin under his chin.
He looked away. “When I croak pretty soon,” he asked, “will you write my obituary?”
He looked away. “When I croak pretty soon,” he asked, “will you write my obituary?”
“Popâ”
“Because that rag you work for don't have anybody else who can write a good one.” He looked at Billy. “You'll be honest, won't you?” The old man's stare sent a cold tickle down Billy's back, like a drip of ice water. “Because back in my youth, I walked around with lies stuffed in my pockets. Your mother could have told you that ⦠Probably did.” He looked at Billy for confirmation.
Billy did not flinch, did not even blink. He had accepted his father into his home after the old man's stroke, but Billy would not discuss his dead mother with the man who had abandoned her in Billy's youth.
The old man sounded guarded. “So when I go, I want to be carried out on the truth. The lies, the affairs, everythingâput it all in there. Okay?”
He seemed to get older before Billy's eyes. Not exactly like he was aging; more like he was beginning to decompose. Billy wasn't sure if he could speak. “I'll write it,” he heard himself say.
Organ music rumbled through the floor again. The song was supposed to be a hymn, but played painfully slow, it sounded like a death march. The old man dipped his head and flashed a canine tooth at Billy, like a little dagger in the devil's grin. “Long ago, people used to think that I was Mr. Perfect, too, just like your judge,” he said. “They all died disappointed.”
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