The Mentor (19 page)

I slipped a
butt cheek on the car’s hood and scooted myself up.  Standing, with my
feet on the bumper, I took a step cautiously toward the Dumpster, directly
under the fire escape.  That always seemed like some sort of fire code
violation.  If there actually were a fire, they’d know the upstairs
resident got out because there would be one guy standing there in his gray
undies, smelling like two-day-old stromboli.

But, this
time, I was happy the Dumpster was there because it was the only way to get to
the retractable metal ladder.  

Leaning
forward, both of my hands nabbed the bottom rung of the iron ladder, and it
came down with a jerk and made far more
clackity
noise than I would have
liked.  Obviously, it had been far too loud for Pavan’s nerves because a
muffled ‘
DUDE’
floated up from the car below (muffled by both the car
and the mask, naturally).

In my
bedroom there is a small wooden paddle.  It has been the impetus of many
jokes over the years because I’ve alluded to late night spanking sessions with
various overnight visitors in the past.  In truth, while tubing down the
Chattahoochee River one day, it came into my possession after a poking around
on shore searching for somewhere to take a leak.  Had it ever since.

Now, just
because I say “little” as in child size, it shouldn’t be perceived as
light-weight.  It’s very, very sturdy.  Very heavy.

This fact
was once again impressed upon me because, at the top of the ladder, I slid my
window open slowly and poking my head between the bedroom curtains, the child
size wooden paddle cracked across the back of my skull, and it sounded like a
major league ball player had hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.

The world
turning black and purple with sparkly stars, I fell forward, tumbling inside.
As my shoulder blades slammed into the hardwood floor, a figure stepped over
me, the kiddie paddle cocked back for another whack.  Colors without color
swirled around me as my consciousness began to slip away.

When
finally a face materialized out of the darkness, a moment before passing out, I
said: “Hi, baby.”

BLINKING,
BEING PULLED BACK into the light, my fevered dreams had been about drowning.
 My breath was ragged, and rainbows of colors smeared across my brain as
light refracted through droplets of water… then after another splash onto my
face, I coughed away this latest assault, too.

“Hey, I’m
awake,” I said wiping the water from my eyes.

Laura was
sitting above me, on the edge of my bed, empty Big Gulp cup in her hand.
 Her features were lit by the glow of the light in the bedroom, and they
didn’t look very happy.

She still
had the heavy wooden paddle in her hand.

“Where the
hell were you?”

“Ah,” I
said, edging up to my elbows.  “That is a very long story.  Most of
which is boring but there are short bits in the middle that scared the ever
living hell out of me.”

“I heard
the car pull up.  Pavan’s still down there waiting, I think.”  A
sigh.  “Dex, what am I supposed to do about you?”

“What part?
 My financial instability?  You could throw a couple bucks at my rent
if you’re living here now.”

“I was
looking
for you, dipshit.”

I stood quickly,
too quickly, grabbed the edge of the windowsill and steadied myself.  Just
because Laura was armed and, frankly, quite good with a kiddie paddle (
hmm,
note to self for later
), it didn’t make me any more comfortable being in my
apartment again.  The Mentor wasn’t after her, he was after me.

“Anyone
come around while I was gone?  That new landlord, maybe?”

She threw
her weapon down on the bed and padded slowly into the living room.  All I
wanted to do was get a look at what might be under the sink, get some clothes
and be gone.  But, now, I had to answer to the warden.  No time.
 But, she deserved to hear some sort of explanation.  I felt I owed
her that, at least.

So, I lied.

“Listen,
baby, a couple guys… I owe them money.”

“Money?
 For what?”

Heading to
the fridge, I popped it open and saw the beers right where they’d been the
first time I got knocked out.  Pass.

Laura sat
in one of my wobbly kitchen chairs and put her Birkenstocks up on the other
one.  There was just the light patch of skin above her shoes to the cuff
of her leggings.  I could see that she hadn’t shaved there in, well,
never.

That really
never bothered me too much.  Not much of a leg man.  Nor am I a hairy
leg man.  I do like that part at the top where the legs meet, however.
 Hair’s not a big factor there unless it looks like the young lass is
wearing burlap panties.  However, this is
not
a deal-breaker, mind
you.

“I don’t
need this shit, Dex.”

“No, no,” I
said and edged toward the sink.  “You don’t.  I’m not going to drag
you into any of it.  I’m a big boy; I’ll deal with it all by myself.”

“Good.”

I popped
open the cabinet under the sink, half expecting some ill-tempered bridge troll
to pop out and clock me with a broken axe handle.

No troll.

No
listening device.  And no
hole-the-size-of-a-listening-device,
either.
 I had no idea what I was looking for.

“What are
we?”

Maybe it
was behind the pipes a bit.  

Too dark. 

I didn’t
have a flashlight, so I stood and looked for a bit of newspaper.

Laura asked
again: “What are we?”

The Mentor
had been in this very apartment.  He’d abducted me twice, and I nearly
died both times.  My hands were still raw, my thighs burnt, every muscle
still logging complaints at the front desk, and she wanted to talk about our
relationship.

Sure, I
couldn’t blame her.  I gave her nothing to go on.  She now saw me as
some sort of gambling addict or something.  My guess is she was leaning
heavily toward “or something.”

“I can’t
really answer that, Laura,” I said rummaging through the junk drawer.  I
came out with a brown paper lunch sack.  “Now’s just not a really good
time for me.”

“You think
it’s a good time for me?”

“Well, you
did get to hit me with the paddle,” I said turning the electric stove on.
 “So you got that going for you.”

“You were
gone for days, Dexter.”

“I know.”

“And you
never called me once to tell me where you were.”

This was
the smart part of my day where I
didn’t
tell her I couldn’t remember her
phone number.  Maybe not ‘smart.’  Could be pure survival instinct.

“I don’t
want you involved,” I said as the stove’s element began to glow red.  I
tore the bag into a couple long strips and took one, twisted it tight.
 “Trust me; you don’t want any part of this.”

“Dexter, I
don’t know if I want any part of
you
.”

The paper
bag came alight, and I knelt down in front of the sink.  “Oh, I know
there’s one part you want.”

“Be
serious,” she said, her head back, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling.
 “Not like I can’t get that anywhere I want.”

Hmm.
 Kinda didn’t like that notion.  Had she—
HOT HOT HOT
.

“Ow!”
 I said and dropped the flaming piece of paper bag.  Standing, I
stepped on it, leaving a dark, ashy smear on the dull wood floor.  

“Sorry, but
it’s the truth, babe,” she said, misunderstanding my exclamation of pain.
 “I haven’t… you know.  Not that there haven’t been offers.  I
just want to know if we’re a couple.  Do you want to be a couple, Dex?”

The second
strip of bag was lit, and I headed toward the darkness under the sink again.
 Just past the—

“Dex!”

Startled, I
dropped the paper onto a pile of old dishrags.  Afraid they might catch
fire, I had to put the bag out with an open palm.  Yes, it hurt.

She asked,
“What are you doing?”

Running out
of paper bag, I stood slowly, both knees making a popping noise.  

“That guy
who was in here, he wasn’t my new landlord,” I finally said grabbing the last
piece of bag, lighting it.  “I want to see if he put a listening device in
my kitchen.”

“Listening
device,” she said and stood up quickly.  “Why?”

“Well, I'm
not an expert in these things but, and this is just me taking a shot in the
dark, but if I were a bettin' man, I'd say it would be to
listen
to me
when I didn't know it”

She took a
couple tentative steps into my kitchen, bending at the knee and trying to see
past me under the sink.

“This about
those guys?  The guys you owe money?”

I shrugged.
 “This is about the trouble I’m in, yes.”

From behind
me, I heard: “What do you see?  See anything?”

“Not
really.  I just—“

“There,”
she said, hand jutting under my arm.  “Look at that part on the upper
left.”  I moved the bag over to where she was pointing and saw a black
circle.  It looked like the coupling a car cigarette lighter might fit
into, except smaller.

“That does
look weird.”

“Looks like
something plugged into it,” she said, her voice a whisper.

The paper
burnt out in my fingers, and I stood and tossed the embers into the dirty sink.
 Leaning against the cracked porcelain, I closed my eyes and tried to
envision the black and silver coupling in my head.  As I did, I made a
quick trip to the bedroom.

“What do
you—Dex?  Where’d you go the past couple days?”

When I came
back into the room, I had the kiddie paddle with me.  Getting down on one
knee, I pulled it back and drove into the drywall just below the strange
coupling.  It gave away easy after years of dampness.  A couple more
shots and the piece dangled free, and then fell to bottom of the cabinet under
the sink.

Picking it
up, I lifted it out and held it to the dim kitchen light.  I wasn’t sure
what it was, but it wasn’t much.  This looked like it could be just the
power supply to whatever fit into the mounting on the front.  Two bare
copper wires twisted into a plastic harness that now held a circuit of eight
fat and corroded D-cell batteries.  Like the ones used in flashlights that cops
can use to beat people with.

Whatever
was under my sink had needed a fair bit of power.  Or it had needed power
for a significant length of time.

And
whatever it was, it was gone now.

Chapter Ten

I woke up
because the sun was beginning to hurt my skin.  Not yet burning but even
the April sun in Atlanta can get palm-on-the-skillet hot in a matter of
minutes.  Incongruous to that feeling was the morning dampness that had
seeped all the way down through my clothes.

Looking
over at my friend, I could see what appeared to be two dragonflies humping in
his hair.

“Pavan,
wake up.”

The sun
seemed to notice me stirring and grew more intense, as if casting its curious
gaze toward some new, odd creature, and I shielded my eyes from it with a hand.
 

Now partly
shaded, all I had to contend with was the sunlight reflecting off several dozen
empty beer cans, so while the onset of a full blown migraine hadn’t stopped,
I'd at least let the air out of its tires a little.  

“Dude, you
got bugs in your hair,” I said.

Pavan
flopped over clumsily and fell out of the plastic chaise.  The clatter of
aluminum cans he’d tumbled into scared him to his feet and for a moment, he
just stood and wobbled a little in very small circles.

“What
happened to my house?”

I closed my
eyes, which felt ready to burst.  “We’re not at your house.  We’re in
your uncle’s backyard, man.”

“Uncle
Rolo?  I don’t remember any of last night, I don’t think.”

“Yep,” I
said and leaned over the edge of my own lounger, one knee on the ground.
 My hangover had called upon a marching band to perform in the base of my
skull.  “My place, your place.  Both not safe.”

“Okay.”

“Uncle
Rolo’s seemed safe as long as we didn’t actually go inside.”

“Okay.”
 Pavan shivered.  “Uncle is a nasty dude.  That was a very good
call.”

Pushing up
with the little energy afforded me that early, I stood, all my bones and joints
cracking and popping.  I needed a drink.  Surprisingly, water would
be the preferred choice, at that point.

I opened my
eyes and looked just past my friend’s shoulder.  I hadn’t noticed the huge
pile of trash in the backyard.  That would explain the bug bites.

“Your
uncle.  He a garbage man or something?  Taking a little work home?”

Pavan
wandered to the side of the house, thankfully, out of the punishment of the
sun.  He put his hand out to steady himself.  Leaning forward, he closed
his eyes, coughed and something awful came out.

“Rolo
doesn’t think you should pay for basic services.  He’s got this whole…
social welfare thing in his head on account he lived in Cuba for a while.”

“He lived
in Cuba?”

“Well, no.
 Close to Cuba.”

“Close.”

“Orlando.”

“Ah, sure.”
I said, pulling my shoulder blades together and losing count of the vertebrae
as they cracked.  “So he doesn’t pay for garbage pickup.  He piles it
in his backyard.”

Pavan
turned just slightly, cracking one eye open.  “That’s his pool.”

“I don’t
see a pool, man.”

“Under the
garbage, dude.”

I needed a
shower, but there was no way my tender morsels were going to be exposed at
Uncle Rolo’s.  Before getting too far into the case of beer last night,
Pavan and I had talked about heading back to his place to get cleaned up.
 The Mentor seemed to like the nightlife, he liked to boogie—it was
probably okay to venture into potentially dangerous territory when the sun was
up.

We’d both
had passed out in the lawn chairs on the back deck.  I was soaked with
dew—I prayed to God it was dew—and feeling really, really nasty, like I was
covered in a cold film.

“You ready
to pick up your ride, man?”

I smiled.
 On the day's agenda: go get “my” van.  

I didn’t
have any ownership papers or insurance or even a valid license.  Worst
case scenario, Pavan drives it over to some skeevie used car lot and we get a
couple bucks for it.

But,
frankly, the thought of having wheels again… it was starting to grow on me.
 Even if the thing was originally meant to be my coffin, this could be a
part of my restart at living again.  It could be symbolism.  Or
irony.  Whatever—it was a free vehicle and didn’t even have to go on Oprah
to get one.  

“You’re
getting that stupid look on your face,” Pavan said, breaking my spell.

“What
stupid look?”’

“Like
you’re really proud of some thought you have, and you’re gonna tell me about
it, but it’ll be some bullshit I don’t get.”

“I do
that?”

Pavan
nodded slowly.  “Enough for me to remember that look on your face.”

I shrugged.
 “Just gas.”

“Do that
out here then, not in my car,” Pavan said picking up his hoodie.  “My
little rearview mirror pine tree is sorta beat down by now, can’t fight that
stuff so good.”

IT WAS THE
SECOND time I’d been to a cop hive in a week.  It’s not that I don’t like
the police, but they always make me feel that any minute, they’re gonna look at
me sideways, then squirrel me away into a backroom somewhere, put my butt in a
metal folding chair with a naked bulb overhead, and hit me with a ton of
questions I couldn’t answer.

Watching
the sergeant on the phone, as he tapped at the oldest computer terminal in the
world, it occurred to me my hesitation
just
being there could have to do
with my father.  I have some faint memories of the man, but one that stands out
pretty clearly is his unwarranted fear of police.

My train of
thought was interrupted: Pavan kept elbowing me in the ribs because this
very hot woman, tapping away on her Blackberry, had sat down next to me in the
waiting area.  She had one of those electronic cell-phone roaches stuffed
in her ear, but I don’t think she was talking to anyone at the moment.  

I can’t
stand when people do that.  If you’re not using it, Uhura, take the bug
outta your ear.

Back to my
passed-down police willies: My father was always afraid he’d be busted by the
cops for a crime he didn’t commit.  Seriously, he'd vocalize this.
 His crippling phobia sounded like the plot line of some shitty, low-rent
cable TV movie.  

Which was
stupid to begin with.  My father never did anything, never went anywhere,
and didn’t have any shady friends who’d show up in the middle of the night with
a handgun wrapped in a bloody dishcloth.  Hands down, he was the most
boring man I’d ever known.

And, okay,
don't
think because I've just set that little tableau now I'm going to suddenly
reveal later he was some heretofore, yet unknown to me,
super-cop/spy-who-didn't-come-in-from-the-cold
and that--
huzzah!
-- explains why The Mentor was screwing with me
all this time, because mine was a family of super-assassins that
blah blah
blah f'ing blah
.

Nope. 
That's the whole thing.  He was a boring but paranoid dude.  End of story.

But I
wondered if his copbusted-phobia, maybe uttered aloud every so often as I hung
in the doorway hopping up and down in my favorite bouncy swing as an infant,
somehow had seeped into me.

“Dude, I
can see into her blouse when she turns,” Pavan whispered into my ear.

I nodded.
 The woman was wearing a charcoal gray blazer and skirt, bone white shirt,
and shiny, black heels the color of volcanic rock (a shade I’d only recently
become familiar with).  

The paper
stick of a lollipop poking through her red lips was a nice touch, if not trying
a little too hard.  But you can’t blame a girl for tryin’, and it was the
sexist thing I’d seen all day.  Not that waking up with Pavan next to a
ton and a half of garbage and a ride over in his junky car to the Fulton County
impound lot could compete with an attractive businesswoman enjoying a sucker.

“William
Sterrett,” the cop at the counter barked, not looking up.  A guy in his
twenties and already losing his hair, stood up from a seat on the far wall.
 Everyone was here to get their car out of impound, for whatever reason.

Young
Master Sterrett looked like he wasn’t the sort that ended up in the belly of a
police station.  Probably had something to do with a girl.  Or
someone like yours truly.  I haven’t been in trouble much myself but that
mostly because I have a sixth sense about clearing out before badges start
flashing.  Sterrett, obviously, did not possess this trait and it would
likely get him back within these walls at least one more time before he decided
“the edge” wasn’t exactly the place for him.

“She is
not
wearing a bra, man.”  Pavan’s mouth was way too close to my ear, and I
wiped the spittle away.  As he pulled back, I glanced over at her, then shoo,
my head.

He nodded,
insistently, but I shook my head again, this time adding a frown.

“Yes way,
man,” he said in a low growl.

At the counter,
the sweaty William Sterrett was signing papers.  Nearly done.  

After a
moment more, it was our turn.  The adrenaline in me pumped a little.

The thought
that maybe some answers to my crazy week might be that much closer if I could
simply poke around my former watery prison.  I was just moments from
getting the van.

“No way I
can give you that van,” the desk sergeant said, staring down a large bulbous
nose with pores large enough for June bugs to play hide-and-seek in.

I looked at
Pavan and he had his game face on.  Staring straight ahead.  This was
his showdown face.  He doesn’t win many arguments with it, as he adopts
the tactic of actually not
making
an argument—instead just staring at
his adversary.

Surprisingly,
it works more than you think.

Sizing up
Sponge-knob, however, I knew it wasn’t going to win him over.

“Says right
there, though,” I said leaning in and pointing at the screen.  “It belongs
to me.”

“You don’t
have a title.  You don’t have proof of insurance.  You don’t even
have a set of keys for the vehicle.”

“Left them
in the van.”

“After you
drove into the quarry?”

I shrugged.
 “Didn’t really need them.  Van being under a hundred yards
underwater and all.”  I had a thought.  “Um… is my house key on
there?  Any other—“

“No,” he
said reading the screen, happy to interrupt me.  “Key was in the ignition.
 No key chain—” he slammed a ledger closed in front of him— “NO other
keys.”

I turned to
Pavan, who was whittling away his opponent’s resistance with his stare of doom.
 

Frankly, my
heart wasn’t dead set on getting the vehicle, but it was the only link I had to
my part-time abductor.  I really doubted the VIN number would do us much
good but at least the van was
some
kind of link.  Maybe there was
something there.

“What do I
need to get my… van back?”

The
sergeant sighed.  Either because he felt sorry for me, the idiot, or
who
knows?
, maybe Pavan had really mad skills, he said, “You have insurance on
the vehicle, I hope.”

“Sure.
 Of course.”

“Bring the
card in.  You pay the fee, fill out a proper title, and the van is yours.”

“Fee?”

“Two
hundred fifty bucks,” he said.  “Maybe more because we had to drag it out
of the quarry.  They fished for your van for an hour before the diver
showed up.  You know how deep that quarry is?  Our guy's had to do down in
case there was somebody still in that shitty van of yours.”

“Sure do,”
I said and started to turn away.  “Can I at least get my Stones’ tape
back?”

“What?”

“It’s my
grandmother’s,” I said.  “Or was. She gave it to me.”

Sergeant
Spongy said, “I don’t have time for this.”

“Seriously,
it’s all I have of her,” I said.  “She knew the guys, you know.  It’s
a studio issue, Keith gave it to her.”

A shake of
the head, but he was listening.

“Grandma
was a looker, a groopie,” I said, trying to lock eyes onto the sergeant.
 “She was… um…
with
all the guys.  Except, Charlie the
drummer.  Not at first.”

“No
kidding,” he said, not excited.  I didn’t know if he was humoring me or if
he was so completely devoid of humor that he was actually incapable of it.

“No kidding. 
She said he frightened her… something about him not even needing a pedal for
that base drum of his, he could just swing—“

“ALL
right,” the desk sergeant barked at me.  Pulling a pen out, he scrawled
something on a pad.  “After being underwater, your tape’s gotta be
wrecked.”  He handed me a slip of paper.

“After
Charlie Watts, so was my nana,” I said and he pointed to a door that led to the
lot, his face looking as if he’d swallowed a bug.

I'D NABBED
A PENCIL in the waiting room and now handed it to Pavan.