"You really want to go that route?" Taylor asked.
No, I thought.
"What my nephew did isn't a crime." Myron moved a little closer to Chief Taylor. "You know what was a crime, though, Eddie?"
Chief Taylor--I guess his first name was Eddie--said nothing.
"That time you egged my house junior year," Myron said. "Remember that, Eddie? The cops picked you up, but they didn't haul your dumb ass into the station like this. They drove you home. Or that time Chief Davis caught you breaking beer bottles against the school. Big tough guy, breaking bottles, until Davis drove up. Remember how you cried like a baby--"
"Shut up!"
"--when he threatened to put you in the squad car?" Myron turned to me. "Mickey, did you cry?"
I shook my head.
"Well, Chief Taylor did. Like a three-year-old. Ah yes, I remember it like it was yesterday. You cried--"
Taylor was the red of a sports car. "Shut up!"
The other two cops were snickering.
"But even then Chief Davis just drove you home," Myron went on. "He didn't cuff you. He didn't drag you in because he had an old beef with your uncle, which, really, is such a cowardly thing to do."
Taylor caught his breath. "You think that's what this is?"
Myron stepped closer. "I know that's what this is."
"Take a step back, Myron."
"Or?"
"Do you want to make an enemy of the chief of police?"
"It seems," Myron said, maneuvering me around Taylor and starting us for the exit, "I already have."
We headed to the parking lot without speaking. When we got into the car, Myron said, "Did you do anything against the law?"
"No."
"You asked me about Bat Lady's house. Then you paid her a late-night visit."
I didn't reply.
"Anything you want to tell me about?" Myron asked.
I thought about it. "No, not right now."
Myron nodded. "Okay then."
That was all. He didn't ask more questions. He started up the car, and we drove home in silence that was, for a change, somewhat comfortable.
That night, when the dream starts, my father is still alive.
He has a basketball in his hand and he's smiling at me.
"Hey, Mickey."
"Dad?"
He nods.
I feel such happiness, such hope. I am nearly crying with joy. I rush over to him, but suddenly he isn't there anymore. He is behind me. I run after him again, and again he vanishes. I start to get it now. I start to get that this might be a dream and when I wake up, my father will be dead again. Panic takes hold. I move faster. I jump closer to him, and I manage to get my arms around him. I embrace him with everything I have, and for a moment, he feels so real that I think, no, wait, this is reality! He is alive! He never died!
But even as I think that, I can start to feel my grip slipping. Behind him, I see that paramedic with the sandy hair and the green eyes. He is giving me that same heavy look. I yell, "No," and hug my dad harder, dig my face right into his chest. I start to cry onto his favorite blue shirt. But my dad is fading away now. His smile is gone.
"No!" I shout again.
I close my eyes and hold on tighter, but it doesn't do any good. It's like trying to hold on to smoke. The dream is ending. I can see consciousness making its way in.
"Please don't leave me," I say out loud.
I woke up in Myron's basement, sweating and panting. I put my hand to my face and could still feel the tears there. I swallowed hard and got out of bed.
I took a shower and headed to school. Rachel and I worked on our project some more during Mrs. Friedman's class. At one point, Rachel asked, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Why?"
"That was like your fifth yawn."
"Sorry."
"A girl could get a complex," she said.
"It's not the company," I said. "Just a bad night's sleep."
She looked at me with those big blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. I wanted to reach out and touch her face. "Can I ask you something personal?" she asked.
I gave her a half nod.
"Why do you live with your uncle?"
"You mean, why don't I live with my parents?"
"Yes."
I kept my eyes on the desk, on a smug picture of Robespierre from early 1794. I wonder if the smug Robespierre had any inkling what the next few months would bring. "My mother is in rehab," I said. "My father is dead."
"Oh," she said, her hand coming up to her mouth. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude or . . ."
Her voice just sort of faded away. I lifted my head and managed a smile.
"It's okay," I said.
"Is that what you dreamed about? Your mom and dad?"
"My dad," I said, surprising myself.
"Can I ask how he died?"
"A car crash."
"Is that what you dreamed about?"
Enough, I thought. But then I said, "I was there."
"At the car crash?"
"Yes."
"You were in the car?"
I nodded.
"Were you hurt?"
I had broken ribs and spent three weeks in the hospital. But that pain was nothing compared to the vision of watching my father die. "A little," I said.
"What happened?"
I could still see it. The two of us in the car, laughing, the radio on, the sudden jar of the crash, the snap of the head, the blood, the sirens. I woke up trapped, unable to move. I could see the paramedic with the sandy blond hair working on my too-still father. I was trapped in the seat next to him, the fireman working to free me with the Jaws of Life, and then the sandy-haired paramedic looked up at me; and I remember his green eyes with the yellow circle around the pupil--and the eyes seemed to say that nothing would ever be the same.
"Hey, it's okay," Rachel said with the most gentle voice. "We're history partners--it doesn't mean you have to bare your soul. Okay?"
I nodded gratefully as the bell rang, chasing away that image of the sandy-haired paramedic with the green eyes. At lunch, Ema and I filled Spoon in on our late-night visit to Bat Lady's house. He looked hurt.
"You didn't invite me?"
"It was like two in the morning," I said. "We figured you'd be asleep."
"Me? I'm an up-all-night party animal."
"Right," Ema said. "By the way, do your jammies have feetsies?"
Spoon frowned. "Tell me that epitaph again."
Ema handed Spoon her phone. She had snapped a picture of it with her cell phone camera:
LET US LABOR TO MAKE THE HEART GROW LARGER,
AS WE BECOME OLDER,
AS SPREADING OAK GIVES MORE SHELTER.
Two minutes later, Spoon said, "It's a quote from Richard Jefferies, a nineteenth-century English nature writer noted for his depiction of English rural life in essays, books of natural history, and novels."
We looked at him.
"What? I just Googled the quote and read his bio on Wikipedia. There is nothing on that childhood lost for children quote, so I don't know what that's about, but I can do more research later."
"Good idea," I said.
"Why don't we all meet after school and go to the library?" Ema suggested. "We can see what we can find out about Bat Lady from the town archives too."
"I can't today," I said.
"Oh?"
"I have a basketball game," I said.
I didn't want to go into detail. I had a plan. I would go down on the bus to Newark like I did most days. I might even play a little with Tyrell and the gang. Then, with Ema and Spoon safe here in town, I would visit Antoine LeMaire at the address near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge.
So that was what I did. As soon as school ended, I walked to the bus stop on Northfield Avenue and hopped on the number 164. First, I took out my cell phone. I had one picture of Ashley, dressed in her prim sweater, her smile shy. I made it my default screen so if I needed to show it to anyone, I would have it at the read
y.
There was a light mist of rain, so we had fewer guys show up for pickup basketball. Tyrell wasn't there. One of the other guys told me that he was studying for some big test at school. We started playing, but the rain kicked in, so we called it off. I changed back into my school clothes, and using the directions I'd gotten online, I started to walk over to Antoine LeMaire's address.
The rain was coming down hard now. I didn't mind. I like rain. I was born in a small village in the Chiang Mai province in northern Thailand. My parents were helping out one of the hill tribes called the Lisu. The shaman--the sorcerer, medicine man, one who acts as a medium between the visible world and the spirit world--gave my father a list of things I must do during my lifetime. One was to "dance naked in the rain." I don't know why I've always liked that one, but I do. I've done it, though not recently, but ever since I was old enough to understand the list, I have always had a funny appreciation for the rain.
When I arrived at the address, I was surprised to see that it wasn't a residence near the Plan B Go-Go Lounge--it was the Plan B Go-Go Lounge. I looked for an apartment on the top, but there was only the lounge entrance. A huge black man stood in front of it. There was a frayed velvet rope and a big pink-once-red awning. On the awning was a silhouette of a voluptuous woman. The door was blacked-out glass with faded lettering. A sign read: 50 LIVE BEAUTIFUL GO-GO SHOWGIRLS--AND TWO UGLY DEAD ONES.
Funny.
The huge man--a bouncer--frowned at me and pointed to another weathered sign: NO ONE UNDER 21 PERMITTED.
I was going to ask the bouncer whether he knew Antoine LeMaire, but that seemed like the wrong move. I took out my wallet and produced the fake Robert Johnson ID saying I was twenty-one. He looked at it, looked at me, knew it was probably a fake, didn't much care. It was five P.M., but business was brisk. Men entered and left in drifts and waves. There were all kinds--jeans and flannel shirts, sneakers and work boots, suits and ties and shined shoes. Some fist-bumped the bouncer as they came and went.
"Thirty-dollar cover charge," the bouncer said to me.
Wow. "Thirty dollars just to enter?"
The big man nodded. "Includes buffet dinner. Tonight is Tex-Mex."
I made a face at the thought. He let me through. I pushed open the door and was greeted by darkness. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. A bikini-clad woman/girl who looked about my age stood by a cash register. I gave her thirty dollars. She handed me a plate, barely looking up at me. "For the buffet," she said by way of explanation. "That way." She pointed to the curtain on the right.
I looked at the plate. It was white with the same voluptuous silhouette as on the awning, plus the rather obvious slogan: Plan B--Where You Go When Plan A Doesn't Work Out.
My mouth felt dry. My step slowed. I will make a confession to you now. I was nervous, but I was also, well, I was curious. I had never been in a place like this. I realize I should be above that and be mature about it and all that, but a part of me felt pretty naughty and a part of me kind of liked that.
The music was loud with a driving beat. The first thing I passed was an ATM that let you get your cash in fives, tens, or twenties. This, I could see, was to tip the dancers. Men hung at a stage-bar, mostly drinking beer, while the women danced in stiletto heels so high they doubled as stilts. I tried not to stare. Some of the dancers were indeed beautiful. Some were not. I watched them work the men for tips. A sign read: YOUR STAY HERE IS TOUCH AND GO--TOUCH AND YOU GO. Despite that, the men jammed the paper money into G-strings with little hesitation.
Behind me was the buffet. I took a quick glance. The chips were Doritos. The ground beef was marinating in so much lard it looked as if it were encased in Jell-O. The whole place, even in the dark, felt more than looked dirty. I wasn't a germaphobe, but even without the warning, I didn't want to "touch" anything.
So now what?
I found an empty booth in a dark corner. Seconds after I sat down, two women approached me. The one with the plunging neckline and fire-engine-red dye job slid next to me. It was hard to tell her age. Could be a hard twenty-year-old or an okay thirty or a good forty. I bet on the youngest. The other woman was a waitress.
The fire-engine redhead who sat down smiled at me. She tried her best to make the smile real, but she couldn't hide the fact that it was an act, that it was like someone had just painted it on her face. None of it reached her wary eyes. It was a bright, wide smile and yet one of the saddest I had ever seen.
"I'm Candy," she said to me.
"I'm M--uh, Bob," I said. "I'm Bob."
"You sure?"
"Yep. Bob."
"You're adorable."
"Thanks," I said.
Even when I'm nervous, even in a place like this, I still know how to deliver the smooth lines.
Candy leaned forward a little, making sure to offer a peek. "Buy me a drink?"
I didn't quite get it, so I said, "Huh? I mean, I guess."
"This your first time here?"
"Yes," I said. "I just turned twenty-one."
"That's sweet. See, it's customary to buy a drink for yourself and one for me. We could just split a bottle of champagne."
"How much would that cost?"
The smile flickered when I asked that.
The waitress said, "Three hundred dollars plus tip."
I was in a booth, which was good--if I was in a chair, I would have fallen off it.
"Um, how about if we both have Diet Cokes?" I asked. "How much is that?"
Now the smile was all the way gone. Clearly I was no longer adorable.
"Twenty dollars plus tip."
That would pretty much clear me out, but I nodded. The waitress left me alone with Candy. She was studying me now. Then she asked, "Why are you here?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you had really just turned twenty-one, you'd be here with friends. You don't look like you really want to be here. So what's your deal?"
So much for working undercover, but maybe this was better anyway. "I'm looking for someone," I said.
"Aren't we all?" Candy replied.
"What?"
She shook her head. "Who you looking for, honey?"
"A man named Antoine LeMaire."
The color drained from her face.
"You know him?"
A look of pure terror came to her. "I have to go."
"Wait," I said, putting my hand on her arm. She pulled away fast and hard, and I remembered the Touch and Go sign. She hurried away. I sat there, not sure what to do. Unfortunately my mind was made up for me. The big bouncer from the entrance was hustling his way over to me. I took out my cell phone, prepared to call someone, anyone, so I'd have a witness, but I wasn't getting service. Terrific.
The big bouncer leaned over me like a lunar eclipse. "Let me see your ID again."
I dug into my pocket and handed it to him.
"You don't look twenty-one," he said.
"That's because it's dark in here. Outside, in the good light, you let me in, so I must have."
His whole being seemed to frown at me. "What are you here for?"
"A good time?" I tried.
"Come with me," he said.
There wasn't much point in arguing. Two other bruisers were lined up a few feet behind him and even on my best day, I couldn't take out all three. Or even one probably. So I stood on shaky legs and headed toward the exit. My visit had failed--or had it? Clearly Antoine LeMaire was around here. Clearly his name struck a chord. So now I could go home and regroup . . .
A giant hand fell on my shoulder as I reached the exit.
"Not so fast," the bouncer said. "This way."
Uh-oh.
Keeping his hand on my shoulder, he steered me down a long corridor. The two other bouncers followed us. I didn't like that. There were posters of "showgirls" on the walls. We passed the bathrooms and two more doors and made a left. There was another door at the end of the corridor. We stopped in front of it.
I didn't like this.
&nb
sp; "I'd like to leave," I said.
The bouncer didn't reply. He used a key and unlocked the door. He pushed me in and closed the door behind us. We were in an office of some kind. There was a desk and more photographs of girls on the wall.
"I'd like to leave," I said again.
"Maybe later," the bouncer said.
Maybe?
A door behind the desk opened, and a short, wiry man entered. His short-sleeved dress shirt was shiny and unbuttoned down to the navel, revealing a host of gold chains and, uh, bling. His arms were knotted, ropy muscle. Have you ever seen someone who gave you the chills just by entering a room? This guy had that. Even the big bouncer, who had to be a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than the short guy, took half a step back. A hush fell over us.
The short, wiry man had the narrow face of a ferret and what I can only describe as psycho eyes. I know that you are not supposed to judge people by their looks, but a blind man would be able to see that this guy was serious bad news.
"Hello there," he said to me. "My name is Buddy Ray. What's yours?" He had a faint lisp.
I swallowed. "Robert Johnson."
Buddy Ray's smile would make small children flee to their mamas. "Nice to meet you, Robert."
Buddy Ray--I didn't know if that was a double first name or a first and last name--looked me over as though I were a bite-size snack. Something was off with this guy--you could just see it. He kept licking his lips. I risked a glance back at the big bouncer. Even he looked jittery in Buddy Ray's presence.
As Buddy Ray approached, a pungent stench of cheap cologne failing to mask foul body odor wafted off him, the foul smell taking the lead like a Doberman he was walking. Buddy Ray stopped directly in front of me, maybe six inches away. I held my breath and stood my ground. I, too, had a foot on him. The bouncer took another step backward.
Buddy Ray craned his neck up at me and renewed the smile. Then, without warning, he punched me hard and deep in the stomach. I doubled over, the air whooshing out of me. I fell to my knees, gasping for air, but none would come. It felt as though a giant hand were holding my face underwater. I couldn't breathe. My entire body started craving oxygen, just one breath, but I couldn't get it. I dropped all the way to the floor, curled up in a fetal position.
Buddy Ray stood over me. The psycho eyes had lit up like something in a video game. His voice, when he spoke, was soft. "Tell me what you know about Antoine LeMaire."
I gulped but still no air would come. My lungs ached.
Buddy Ray kicked me in the ribs with the toe of his cowboy boot.
I rolled away, the pain from the kick barely registering because I still couldn't draw air. That was all I could think about. Breathing. Every cell in my body yearned for oxygen. I just needed time to gather one breath.