Crusader

  I said, "I know."

  At about one-forty-five, we were both surprised to see Nina in front of the window. She rapped on it once and shouted, "Come on. This show is over."

  Kristin and I looked at each other. By this time we had no audience at all. Kristin said, "Okay. Let's knock off. We can walk over to the office slowly. My feet are starting to hurt, anyway."

  We left our signs in the window, exited Slot #9, and followed Nina and the shoe guy around the corner. Betty was already standing by the wall, right before the glass window of the mall office. She said, "I don't know about this, you guys. We still have ten minutes."

  Nina fiddled with her watch. She announced, "Not anymore, we don't. I'm the timer. And my watch says two o'clock. The show's over."

  Kristin agreed. "That works for me."

  Nina told the guy, "Wait here with the shoes." She walked, in her black stockings, to the office door. The rest of us followed. As I passed him, I said to the guy, "You must be Carlos."

  He nodded.

  As we trooped through the door, Suzie looked up from her desk and called brightly, "Here they come. My supermodels. How was it?"

  Betty answered for us, "It was great. Can I get my money?"

  Suzie pointed to four envelopes that she had fanned out on the edge of her desk. "You sure can."

  Betty picked hers up, checked it, and started out. For some reason, she said to Nina, "So long, Nina. That was pretty cool."

  Nina seemed surprised. She just said, "Yeah," in return.

  Betty opened the door and added, "Maybe we'll do it again." She continued out and walked back past the window, toward the food court.

  Nina muttered, "Uh, yeah. We'll be doing a lot of stuff together. Right. Like if I ever need to polish my shoes in a hurry, maybe I can use your head."

  Suzie laughed. Kristin and I did not. We all picked up our pay envelopes and left.

  Carlos was waiting by the mall exit. Nina and Kristin turned right to go with him. I didn't know what to do, so I just stood there. Nina decided for me. "Roberta, we need to go get changed. You don't. So you stay here. We're going to my house."

  I said, "Okay," and walked to the food court. I peeked around the counter at the Chili Dog to see if Gene was working. But suddenly Betty tapped me on the shoulder.

  "Hey, so what did you think of that modeling?"

  "It was okay. I don't think I'd like to do it again. How about you?"

  "I really liked it." She narrowed her eyes at the Chili Dog. "It sure beats working there."

  "Yeah? What? You don't like it there?"

  Betty looked at me like I was crazy. "Come on. That place is an armpit. And it's bad karma. You know? I have to serve people food that is poison for them, all day long, every day. I'll have to pay for that somehow." Betty looked right into my eyes. "Did you mind being a Before?"

  "No. Did you?"

  "No. Because I don't think I was the Before. I think Nina was, only she didn't know it."

  I had to disagree. "I don't know. Nina's a real After, if you ask me."

  Betty shook her black hair with conviction. "No. Don't you see? She's only imitating others now. She dresses herself and paints herself to look like others. Like these fake women that she sees on TV. Not like her real self."

  "I don't know. Nina works real hard on her looks, all the time."

  "Maybe so. But she's never seen herself in the mirror. Not once. I guarantee it."

  I didn't know what to say to that. I don't like to say Whatever, so I muttered, "Maybe you're right."

  I headed over to Isabel's Hallmark. Mrs. Weiss saw me coming. I know she did, but she acted like she didn't. I must have stood in front of her at the register for half a minute. Then she finally said, without looking up, "I hope you got paid a lot of money for that stunt, Roberta."

  "Fifty dollars."

  "Yes? Whose idea was it to put that sign in front of you?"

  "Suzie's."

  She snorted. "Humph. Like I needed to ask."

  I said, "Anyway, it was only a show. I was an actress. I was playing a part."

  Mrs. Weiss said, "Fine. Do what you want. But be careful about the parts you agree to play. Roberta. You never know when one is going to stick."

  ***

  A strange quiet had settled over the mall, strange at least for a Saturday afternoon. No one came into Arcane; no one even walked by. Karl, Uncle Frank, and I stood by the counter, silent and motionless.

  Kristin returned from Nina's at four-fifteen. Her hair was still in the ringlets, but she had removed most of the makeup, and she now wore just jeans and a plain white blouse. Maybe I was imagining it, but she seemed to be avoiding me.

  Then Hawg showed up and stood outside SpecialTees, waiting for Ironman. Uncle Frank remarked to me, "Look at this. This is great. When the other loser gets here, we'll have six people to take care of zero customers."

  As if to prove him wrong, a family with two teenage girls walked in, followed by some younger boys clutching ten-dollar bills. Soon six of the twelve Arcane experiences were in use, and the time started to pass quickly.

  Hawg remained near the front, giving advice to the Head Louse and two pinheads about Mekong Massacre. If he was concerned about that gang of Xavier guys coming back, he certainly didn't act like it. I walked a customer back to Vampire's Feast, and I heard Hawg saying, "Could be trouble tonight. I may have to whomp on some preppy boys."

  The Xavier guys never did show up. Hawg did get his trouble, though, in an unlikely form.

  Sam arrived at about eight-thirty, looking as mad as I have ever seen him. He stood by the Sony monitor for a minute, staring down the mallway like he was waiting for someone. I said, "Hi, Sam."

  He looked right through me, like I was a stranger.

  Verna appeared at his side. "Sam, what are you doing here? I told you I would talk to him, and I will."

  Sam shook his head, indicating that wasn't good enough. He told her, "So go ahead and talk to him."

  Verna warned him, "You keep out of this."

  Sam turned toward Hawg's group, but Verna held him by the arm. She spoke with authority. "This is my job. Based on what I hear tonight, it may become the detective's job. But it is not your job. Do you understand?"

  Sam nodded quickly, like he understood. Then Verna walked over to the group and started talking very low to Hawg. Hawg listened, shaking his head back and forth. I could see his lips moving, saying "No. No."

  But Sam had no intention of keeping out of it. He walked up next to Verna and demanded of Hawg, "I have a question for you: Did you vandalize my car? And my store?"

  Verna held up a big hand. "Hold on, Sam. I'm talking to this man."

  "Right. Well, I'm talking to him, too." He suddenly exploded, "You did it! I know you did. The police know you did. And you're going to pay."

  Hawg turned so that he had his back to Verna and Sam. This enraged Sam further. Sam walked around the group until he stood right in front of him. Hawg finally looked up. He said matter-of-factly, "You want to fight me? Okay. But you got to get in line."

  Sam snarled at him. "No! I'm not going to fight you. I'm going to have you arrested, you ... you trailer trash, you redneck moron! So you had better be very careful what you say or do next. You got that?"

  Hawg answered him slowly and evenly, "I'll tell you what ... I don't think I need advice from no sand nigger."

  Sam's jaw opened involuntarily. "What did you call me?"

  "You heard me."

  Sam looked over at Verna. "Yeah. Yeah, I think we all heard you." Sam stood in his place, trying to decide what to do next. I think he might have gone after Hawg, even though Hawg is bigger than he is, but then Uncle Frank intervened. He took Sam by the arm and steered him out into the mallway, talking very earnestly to him.

  The Head Louse did the same sort of thing with Hawg, walking him out, too, but in the opposite direction.

  And that's how it ended.

  By now it was nearly closing time. The customers who
had been in the arcade had all stopped to watch the ruckus between Sam and Hawg. Once that was over, they all left.

  Kristin reappeared at the register. I called over to her, "Hand me the trash bag. I'll start the closing checklist."

  She reached down, pulled up the bag, and handed it to me, without saying a word. I hauled the bag into the back room and dumped the contents of Uncle Frank's trashcan into it. I unlocked the back door and started out with the trash, but as soon as I hit the humid air, I heard a sound, the sound of gushing water.

  I looked to the right, behind Slot #33, SpecialTees. Ironman was kneeling down, in the dark, with his back to me. He had his head under the outside faucet. He was completely soaking his hair, his shirt, and his pants. The gushing water puddled up around his knees and started running in a stream toward me. I watched it until it reached my feet.

  Ironman finally turned off the faucet. But he continued to kneel there, on all fours, shaking his head and squeezing his hair. I stepped over the little river of water and approached him. "Hey, are you okay?"

  Ironman turned and faced my way. With his hair wet, he looked even smaller, like some dogs do. I repeated, "Are you okay?"

  He pulled two handfuls of scraggly hair back until they were behind his ears. Then he squeezed some more water out of them. He managed about half of his nervous smile. "I guess so."

  "What happened?"

  "I got swirled."

  "What?"

  "Those guys? The one that Kristin kicked? And the others? They swirled me."

  "What's that mean?"

  Ironman looked surprised that I didn't know. He explained, "They grabbed me in the men's room, at the food court..." He stopped there, leaned forward, and blew some water out of his nose. "They held my head in a toilet and started flushing it."

  I screamed, "No!"

  Ironman looked alarmed. He shot a glance at the back door of SpecialTees, then at the back door of Arcane. I dropped the trash bag and said, "I'll go get Uncle Frank."

  Now it was Ironman's turn to scream, "No! No!" He struggled to his feet on the sloppy asphalt. "You don't get anybody! You don't tell anybody!" He slogged toward me as fast as he could. When he got close to me I could see real terror in his eyes. Terror and pain. He yelled, "And you can't ever tell Hawg! Ever! He's in enough trouble already. You gotta swear you will never tell him."

  I nodded my head rapidly. "Yeah, okay. I swear. I won't tell Hawg."

  "You won't tell anybody."

  "I won't tell anybody."

  "Not your uncle, or your father, or Kristin, or Karl."

  "I won't tell anybody."

  Ironman backed off a step. He tried to smile. "Anyway, it's no big deal. It's just a joke." He twisted his head to one side, trying to get water to drain from his ear.

  The door to SpecialTees opened, casting a rectangle of light onto the watery mess that Ironman had made. Mrs. Royce emerged with a trash bag, stepping carefully over the water. When she spotted us she stiffened in fright. But then she recognized us and said, "What are you doing out here?"

  I waited for Ironman to answer his mother, but he just stared at her dumbly. Mrs. Royce took a wary step toward him. "And why are you all wet? Look at you, you're soaked."

  I heard myself saying, "I did it, Mrs. Royce. I'm sorry. We were messing around with the hose, and I got him all wet."

  Mrs. Royce stared at me curiously. "That doesn't sound like you, Roberta. That sounds like something those boys would do, but not you. I thought you had more sense."

  "I'm sorry, Mrs. Royce."

  She pointed back toward the open door and told Ironman, "Get out of that wet shirt before you catch pneumonia. Take a shirt from the mistake pile."

  Ironman set off obediently, peeling off his black T-shirt. His mother caught his arm as he passed by. "And give me that filthy thing. That's going into the trash right now."

  He dropped the shirt onto her arm, without even looking, and shambled toward the lighted doorway. Mrs. Royce held it with two roly-poly fingers to put it into her trash bag, like it was a dead skunk. She looked at me. "You just got the one trash bag?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Well, let me have it. I'm going there anyway."

  "Thank you. I'm sorry again about the water."

  "That's all right." She looked at me sadly. "That's not the worst thing anybody's ever done to him. Good night, now."

  "Good night." I went back into the office. The bathroom door was cracked open slightly. I thought about it for a moment, then I slipped inside. I found myself staring into that mirror again.

  Suddenly I was startled by the sound of someone rushing in from the arcade. I leaned closer to the mirror, so that I could see out. It was Uncle Frank. I thought about clearing my throat or turning on the water, to alert him that I was there, but I didn't.

  Uncle Frank never even looked in my direction. His actions were very fast, almost frantic. He sat down hard in his chair. He poked at his desk lock with a key, got it in, and yanked the drawer open. Then he pulled out a clear glass bottle, opened it, and took a long drink. It looked like plain water, but why would he lock away a bottle of water? It had to be liquor. A clear liquor, like vodka.

  The door opened again. This time it was Kristin. Uncle Frank must have hidden the bottle under the desk, because she didn't say anything about it. He sat looking up at her, the drawer wide open, until she spoke.

  "Dad, do you know what Roberta tells people about her mother?"

  Uncle Frank answered her evenly, "What, Kitten?"

  "She tells them that her mother died of a heart attack."

  "Is that right?"

  "Yes. That's right. That's what she told Nina today."

  Uncle Frank shook his head, confused. "Okay. What about it?"

  "Well, isn't that a little sick?" Kristin shot a look toward the back. "Where is she now? At the trash trailer?"

  Kristin walked out of view. This gave Uncle Frank a chance to stash his bottle and relock the drawer. Then he told her, "Kitten, let's let Roberta handle it in her own way. She doesn't have to go into the gory details for everybody she meets. Does she? Let her say what she wants."

  Kristin reappeared. "Sure. She can say what she wants. I'm just worried that she actually believes it."

  The two of them exited together, leaving me alone. Leaving me motionless, like a mall model. Like a mannequin. I stared again at my face in the mirror. Whose face was it? Without the makeup, it was no longer Mom's. And how could it be? Mom was lying in Crypt #109E at Eternal Rest Cemetery.

  I wanted to feel something at that moment, but I couldn't. If I felt anything, it was stupidity. I felt like one of those lonely women on Angela Live, the ones who lived with the serial killers and didn't know it. And didn't want to know it. I was stupid and lonely enough to tell myself that Mom died of a heart attack. But I knew it wasn't true. I'd known it all along.

  I remembered the policewoman in our kitchen. And I remembered Dad. He was holding on to a kitchen chair like he might tumble over. He was crying so hard that he was slobbering. Stuff was coming out of his mouth and his nose and his eyes, all at the same time. He told me, "Roberta, your mommy's heart stopped beating."

  And we left it at that. We never talked about the facts of her death again. That was the one story I never investigated. But then, I didn't have to. I already knew the facts. They were right there in the newspaper. They were on the local TV news. My mother didn't die of a heart attack. My mother was murdered. She was stabbed to death during a robbery at the Family Arcade on the Strip.

  And her murderer was never caught.

  SEPTEMBER

  SUNDAY, THE 17TH

  I read the Sunday Atlantic Times from cover to cover. Then I locked up and headed out into the morning heat. I made it from our carport to the glass doors of the mall in fourteen minutes. That was a fast time, and I was really sweating because of it.

  I used my key to unlock the office door. Suzie had told me that the September newsletter would be sitting outside th
e mall office in its PIP Printing wrapper, and it was.

  The newsletter had a different look. Suzie had warned me about that. She said the old one was too depressing. The first thing I noticed was that the lead article was not written by me; it was written by Suzie. And it was not about the live models in the mall. It was about the rededication of the fountain. State senate candidate Ray Lyons was coming on September 25. He was to be the guest of honor, but there would be other special guests, too, including TV personality Angela del Fuego and West End Mall mascot Toby the Turtle. There would also be gigantic sales throughout the mall.

  I had written up our modeling adventure, just like I promised Nina. It had taken up two full newsletter columns. Suzie had hinted that she had to cut back the modeling story to make room for "some last-minute stuff," but this was ridiculous. She had butchered it, trimming it down to a boxed feature at the bottom of the right column. It was like a joke. Or a contest, to discover how little of an original story you could possibly use.

  I checked the back. My "People Pieces" feature had survived. The back page also had an article about Ray Lyons's "lifelong dedication to the environment." It said, "Not an environmental crazy, but a true nature lover, Ray Lyons grew up here, and he remembers how it was...." I read as much of that one as I could stand, then I picked up the newsletters and set off to deliver them.

  It was now eleven-forty-five, and employees were starting to arrive. I ran into Betty outside Candlewycke. She was staring through the window, looking for someone in the darkness. She said, "I'm looking for a new job. Are you guys hiring?"

  "Are you kidding?"

  Betty peered more intently into the gloom. "The only offer I have so far is from Devin, but this is where I started out two years ago, you know? I hate to go backward."

  "Two years ago? How old are you?"

  "Fifteen." Betty saw me calculating. She said, "I lied about my age. I still do."

  "Do you lie on your income-tax form?"

  "I don't pay taxes. I don't believe in them."

  "How do you get away with that?"