Lost (16 page)

The taxi slowed in front of a low building covered in tar-paper brick. Its name blinked in neon above a flat red door,
ALIBI BAR
&
GRILL
. Hanging in the one large window, signs glowed in the gathering dark: a fiery red dot, a delta of pale yellow, three intersecting rings, and the letters
LENMO
from the middle of the Glenmore Whiskey advertisement. “Okay,” the cabby said, turning back over the front seat. “I know this place don't look like much, but this guy's got the money. Runs a poker game in back sometimes. So … let's go. Let me see it.”

Sherman just looked at him.

“Hell's fire,” the cabbie said, and slapped the top of the seat. The Chinaman swung, snarling, toward the noise. “Look, I can see you're all pissed off. But you seem like a nice kid. I'm just tryin' to work things out. Hey, kid, come on. Really, now, I can't take all night.”

“We have to do it together,” Sherman said.

“But we are. We are doing this together. Here, I'll show you.” The cabbie turned off the motor, opened the door, and got out. He closed the front door and opened the back door next to Sherman. “This is the place,” the cabbie said, stooping to look in at them. “As you can see, it's a tavern. Now, you can't go in there for just one reason—you're not old enough. You know that, don't you? And they're sure as hell not gonna let a dog in there. Why don't you give me the money? I'll go in, break it, and come right back. I'm gonna leave you here in my cab. I don't never leave anybody in my cab. Nobody. You get it? This cab is my life. But because you're so het up, I'm gonna let you stay right out here, in my cab, till I get back. And—well, if that don't suit ya—if this ain't good enough for ya—well, then you can just take your mutt for a walk and we'll call it quits.” Underneath his controlled voice, the cabbie sounded mad as hell.

Sherman glared at him, his face burning, his voice short and clipped: “I thought you said you'd take us back downtown.”

“That's correct. Considering I was gonna make twenty, twenty-five bucks on this deal. Come on,” he said, his voice hard and just as short, “let's get this over with.” He snapped his fingers.

Rigid with indecision, Sherman realized he didn't trust him. As much as he wanted to, as much as he admired the cabbie's jaunty efficiency, when it came to handing over the money, the suddenness of it only intensified his misgivings. And yet it had to be done. Feeling as though he had no choice, Sherman dug the bill from his pocket and handed it over. He immediately felt stripped of power, immediately regretted it.

As he watched the cabbie entering the tavern, he grew more and more suspicious that something was wrong, but he couldn't untangle what it was. After all, he was sitting in the cab and the driver would have to come back to it sooner or later. The beer lights glowed on the steamy window glass above the sidewalk. Slowly the interior of the taxi chilled. The Chinaman sat beside Sherman, his eyes alert, scanning the night. But the driver didn't return.

Sherman began to lose control. Scarcely five minutes had passed before he thought he should go after the cabbie, find out what he was doing, and get his money back one way or the other; at the same time, he knew he shouldn't leave the cab. What could be taking so long? He sat back in the seat, swinging his foot, kicking the slack fabric of the seat in front of him. He considered leaving the Chinaman in the taxi and going into the tavern alone, but the dog would probably have a fit, tear something up inside the cab, and there'd be hell to pay. More time went by. Sherman remained in a frenzy of indecision until his head began to ache; then he grasped the dog's rope and got out of the cab.

Taking the Chinaman with him, he went to the tavern door and stepped inside. Near the door, a clump of customers straggled around three pinball machines. A jukebox blared in the corner. Deafening noise filled the air—a swirl of jukebox music, loud talk, laughter, pinball clatter, clinking glasses. The room was long and dim, with red light bulbs strung down the center of the ceiling. The only real light gleamed behind the bar. Smoke and the stench of sour beer hung in layers. Through the reddish darkness, indistinguishable shapes moved to and fro; eyes turned toward him as he edged forward searching for the cabdriver.

A pinball player whooped as Sherman passed by. It startled him and he jerked away. He moved down the long row of stools, men swiveling around, laughing, jeering, making fun. Somebody started making barking noises; somebody else yelled “Arf, arf!” The Chinaman struggled against Sherman's grip. A waitress came toward them with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a red outfit that laced up the front. She put her hands on her knees when she stooped toward Sherman. She had to talk loud. “Honey, you can't come in here.” When she bent over, somebody gave a shrill whistle. The Chinaman slung toward it.

“I'm looking for that taxicab driver that came in here,” Sherman said, above the din. “He's got something belongs to me.” His eyes continually roamed the room beyond her, seeking that one familiar face.

“Son, nobody's walked through that door in fifteen minutes.”

“He's the last one walked through it. I watched him.”

The men at the bar were still teasing the Chinaman; the dog wrenched under Sherman's grip to snap at them. One of them was trying to give the dog a drink of his beer. The waitress leaned closer. “Somebody come in to use the bathroom a little while ago, but they left. Now, come on. You can't be in here with that dog. I'll lose my license.”

“But nobody came outside. He didn't come out. I was watchin'.” Sherman had to strain to be heard. “He said he was gonna talk with the owner.”

“Sweetie, I'm the owner and nobody's talked to me about nothin'.”

“That guy that went to the bathroom, where'd he go?”

“I don't know. I wasn't payin' much attention. He could've gone out the back.”

His throat went dry. “You mean there's another door?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I go that way? Go look?”

“Sure,” she said. “You can look all you please. Come with me.” She led him back among piles of cardboard beer cases to a door that opened with a long metal bar. She pushed it down and held the door open for him. When he stepped out, drawing the Chinaman with him, the door swung shut and he noticed there was no outside latch. The sidewalk was dark and quiet and empty. Then he heard it. From the street in front, he heard a motor rev and the scratch of tires, saw leaves flutter on the sidewalk. He turned quickly, yelling “
Chinaman!
” as he ran for the front of the building.

The taxi was gone.
Gone
. His thousand dollars.
Gone
. In his head blood pummeled. That bastard. He spun toward the red tavern door, his eyes beginning to water from the dull, throbbing pain in the crown of his head. They were all in it together. Laughing now, having a good time. Every damned one of them. The guy had left by the back door and waited for Sherman to come looking for him, knowing that he would. Then he had taken off in the taxi. Sherman ran up the buckling sidewalk to its crest, but he couldn't tell which way the cab had gone. On the streets and sidewalks there was no one to be seen, no cars to speak of except some parked at the curb, no traffic—just old newspapers blowing in the street.

Sherman hated this goddammed dirty street in this god-dammed place in the middle of nowhere. He hated that trestle looming in the distance and the sound of the muddy river he could smell even when he couldn't see it, and he hated the dirty little pieces of spit snow that were beginning to fall.

He drifted back to the sidewalk in front of the tavern. The old rage was flowing now, and nothing could stop him from striking back. Cold wind whetted his eyes and the colored beer signs squirmed like inventions of the uncertain night and the radio tune kept playing in his thoughts,
So Halo, everybody, Halo
… Hello, sucker! That would be more like it. His mind whirled as he stomped back and forth in front of the bar, the dog turning with him. He was casting about for something to use, anything that would really hurt. He could see the shapeless crowd through the large window. He walked a few paces up the sidewalk and came back. Then he went away.

He was gone maybe fifteen minutes before he reappeared on the buckling rise of the sidewalk. He uncapped the square tin can of lawnmower gasoline he carried, tipped it over, and let it gurgle and pour down the sidewalk toward the tavern door. When it stopped running, he struck a match, dropped it at the top end of the dark streak, and watched the fire shoot and climb toward the door.
So Halo, you bastards, halo
. An ashtray came flying through the window of colored lights, glass shattering outward in dark, glittering shards. Someone was screaming, “Fire!” The hole in the glass looked like a black, ruined mouth. Inside, the place erupted in a roar, but he was hurrying away, ducking between parked cars, across yards, into the alley where he returned the gas can to the garage.

He hadn't the faintest inkling where he was.

It was morning before he got his bearings. Teeth chattering, aching from the cold, he called the dog from the wrecked car's dark interior where they'd slept. A frozen mist hung in the air. Crossing a withered lawn, he picked up a bundled morning newspaper and stuck it under his arm. They shivered back along the sidewalks to the all-night gas station where Sherman had stolen their supper—two bags of potato chips and a root-beer soda—the night before. The sun was just beginning to rise on the distant mountains as they entered the men's room at the rear and locked the door.

Drinking from the tarnished faucet, he took his morning pill and noticed that the bottle was more than half empty. He wiped his mouth on the neck of his sweatshirt and stood under the warm air duct until he could stop shaking. His bandaged hand prickled as it warmed. Quietly he told the dog to stop nosing around. Dissolving cakes of pink antiseptic in the toilets enriched the air. He unrolled the newspaper. In the bottom corner of the first page he saw the story about Mamie, but it was not the story he had expected to see.

KIDNAPPED GIRL SEEN WITH WOMAN

Gambria, Pa
. State police joined with county investigators here late last night to search for Mamie Abbott, the seven-year-old girl abducted from the Nathan County Memorial Hospital in upstate Graylie. The child was reported missing at 5 a.m. Wednesday by the hospital staff.

In his briefing, State Trooper James T. Whalen confirmed that a local service station owner has discovered new evidence regarding the child's whereabouts. For the safety of the child, the nature of this evidence has been withheld pending further investigation.

According to other witnesses, the girl left the service station area in the company of an unidentified woman. Officials now believe that they were last seen traveling in a 1948 or '49 black or dark blue Buick.

Sought by police in connection with the alleged kidnapping, the woman is described as approximately 35 years of age, 5'7” tall, medium weight, with auburn hair and brown eyes and wearing an expensive fur coat. Pictured above, the missing child is described as approximately 3'4” tall with blonde hair and green eyes. When last seen, she was wearing a white parka.

Persons with any information regarding the whereabouts of Mamie Abbott or the woman matching this description are asked to contact law enforcement officials immediately.

It's her, Sherman thought. I knew it. He struggled through the article again, reading the words he knew, shaping the others with his lips until he could utter them and grasp what the article said. It's her. It's that same woman. That's what she looks like. He glanced at the paper a third time, caught in a tide of urgency to leave right away. Gambria. He'd have to get a map. But he still needed some money he could use. He tore the article from the newspaper, folded it, and stuck it in his shirt.

He took one of the two remaining thousand-dollar bills from his pocket and examined it. What's wrong with this money? he thought. There must be something wrong with it, it's no good. Since the minute he'd taken the money, he'd had nothing but bad luck following him like a curse. It's no-good luck, he thought. That's what Mamie would've called it when she was little. I've gotta get rid of the damned thing. A sudden impulse struck him just to throw it away, but he knew that would be really stupid. He spoke to the dog and opened the door.

The sun was up, casting hard shadows. Traffic chrome flickered on the cold street. Sherman and the Chinaman hurried away, along sidewalks and alleys. He led the dog down a flight of stairs to a basement pool hall. The colored balls clacked across the green tables. A tough-looking guy racked the triangle of balls, laughed, and shook his head. “Kid,” he said, “you must be crazy.”

“Where else can I break it, then?”

“Try the pawnshop. They might carry that kind of dough.”

“Where's that at?” Sherman asked.

A block and a half farther south, Sherman and the Chinaman walked through the rat's nest of musical instruments and shelves of old jewelry, moldy books, typewriters, record players—a vast panoply of junk. The cigar-smoking pawnbroker examined the bill through a black-ringed glass stuck in his eye. “I'll give you five hundred.”

“But that's a thousand-dollar bill.”

The pawnbroker puffed four quick smoke rings into the air. The rings shimmied one after the other, widened, and were gone. “I can let you have five hundred,” he said, clearing his throat. “I don't know where this comes from. The police trace this bill back to me, who takes the heat? You? No. I lose my shirt. So I ask you no questions and you don't tell me no lies. Five hundred. No more.” He shrugged and slipped the bill back through the slot in the barred window.

“Okay,” Sherman said. “If you'll break it into little bills I can spend.”