He gave a nod, and a flush of pink colored his cheeks. I suspected I wasn’t the only one to notice Mike’s Humphrey Bogart charm.
“I think somewhere deep down he wants to be redeemed,” I said. “But he needs someone better at redeeming than me. That’s why I thought of you.”
You should’ve seen it. I had him in the palm of my hand. He fanned out his fingers on his chest as if to say Me? He hadn’t taken a bite of his cinnamon roll, but he’d fully unwound it. The thing lay there on his plate like a snake.
“I think you should go to his house,” I said. “Talk to him. But don’t let on that you know about the butter. If he finds out I told anyone about that, he’ll skin me alive, and I bet he won’t talk to you anymore either. Make it seem like you’re just going around the neighborhood knocking on people’s doors to spread the Good News and talk about the church.”
“Yes.” His eyes shifted away from me and narrowed as he thought about it. “That’s probably the best approach.”
“But at the same time, be persistent. I really think with a little push, he’ll tell you everything.”
* * *
I kept watch all that afternoon through my bedroom window. Sure enough, at two o’clock on the dot, Ernest came marching up the Morettis’ front walk, his hair neatly combed, the excitement in his face visible even from that distance. I couldn’t see him once he got to the front door, but I kept an eye on the clock on my nightstand, and he didn’t reappear for a full five minutes, which meant at least Mike couldn’t have sent him away right off the bat.
The next day at the theater, I slid over to Mike’s office door again.
“What is it?” he said, giving me the same wary look he always did these days. I must’ve been making his life hell, showing up there every day with his girlfriend just a few feet away, but even though he was aware I had more to lose than he did if our little secret got out—which was true, by the way, because my parents really would kick me out—I guess he was just scared enough of me not to actually give me the boot.
“I know this is another really random question,” I said, “but you didn’t get a visit from a really enthusiastic Christian kid who wanted to convert you over the weekend, did you?”
He went stiff, just like he had when I’d asked him about the cop. “Why? Did you?”
“Yeah. I know him actually. Ernest Kimball. He goes to my church. He came by our house yesterday, and he specifically wanted to talk to me. I always thought he seemed a little odd, but yesterday he said something about the Lord telling him I needed help because I’d been victimized or something.”
He screwed up his face. “Victimized? What the hell was he talking about?”
“That’s just the thing. I don’t know. It was a really weird conversation, and of course I didn’t say a word about us, but . . .” I stood there wringing my hands.
“But what? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It just made me wonder. Like, if somehow he knows what we did.”
His face scrunched up even more. “How? You think the Lord was really talking to him? I thought you didn’t believe in that shit.”
“I don’t. But once he left yesterday, I watched him from my window, and I thought I saw him go over to your house. And after that weird police visit a few days ago, it made me wonder if they might be related. Mike, what if that cop was looking for something specific?”
His face hardened. In an equally hard voice, he said, “What do you think he would’ve been looking for, Cody?”
My hands continued to grab at each other. Ladies in noir movies did that all the time when they were anxious—or faking it. “Look, I should probably tell you something else. Last week after you got mad at me your first day here, I went to your office, but you were in the bathroom, and you’d left your phone on the desk—unlocked. So I went through it.”
“What?” he snapped.
“I was upset. I wanted to see who you else you were texting with. I found all those pictures of boys on your phone. And right after I got to the picture of me, I noticed Ernest Kimball standing at the door behind me. I thought he might’ve seen what I was looking at.”
It was almost the truth. That was the beauty of it. Maybe Mike even remembered hearing voices in the office that day while he was in the bathroom.
He smacked his hand down hard on the desk, making me jump. That I didn’t fake. “Get to the point, Cody.”
“So all those pictures of underage guys on your phone . . . Isn’t that possession of child porn? Technically, I mean? And isn’t that a felony?”
His eyes jumped to Rochelle behind the ticket counter, visible through his office door. He shot out of his desk chair, yanked me all the way into the office, and banged the door shut. “Is this some kind of threat?” he snarled. “Is that what this is? Are you trying to get back at me?”
He’d shoved me up against the big corkboard on his wall. Pushpins dug into my back in a dozen places. I shook my head. “It’s not. I swear. If the police find out what we did, it’ll be the end for me.”
“No, it won’t. It’ll be the end for me. I could go to prison if they catch me for something like that.”
“Look, all I’m saying is this isn’t a threat, okay? I’m scared too.”
He let me go and turned away, still breathing hard as he raked his fingers through his hair.
I didn’t say anything. I waited.
“That kid Ernest did come to see me,” Mike said. “He said the Lord told him to come. He said we all have sins, and he had a feeling I was ready to confess mine.”
I fluttered my hand to my throat. “Oh God.”
“But what makes you think that has something to do with the cop?”
“Because Ernest’s the president of the Teen Council on Moral Decency at our church. And I heard sometimes they work with the police, like when they think there’s something seriously bad going on in the community.”
Mike looked unsteady. His face had gone sweaty and greenish. “So you think he saw the pictures on my phone and told the police about them? And now they’re investigating?”
I nodded. “And maybe he’s doing his own investigation too. Maybe that’s why he asked you to confess your sins and why he’s always carrying around that pad and pen. He’s taking notes.”
Mike’s office chair creaked as he dropped into it. He pitched forward and clutched his head in his hands. “This can’t be happening.”
“Don’t freak out,” I said, leaning in, rubbing his shoulder, speaking in a soothing voice. “When the cop came to search your house, did he see the phone?”
He shook his head. “I’m pretty sure I had it in my pocket.”
“So that means they don’t have any concrete evidence.” I gave him a pat. “I think we’re all right. For now, at least.”
* * *
But Mike only got more freaked the next day, Tuesday. Ernest came in to see Samson again that afternoon. At some point during the screening, Mike’s secret phone went missing (thanks to a quick visit I paid to his office while he was using the bathroom again), and he just about started bleeding from his eye sockets he got so worked up. At first he wanted to go after Ernest and take the phone back by force, but I convinced him that would only make him look guilty. I told him we should keep cool and trail Ernest after the movie ended. Mike made some excuse to Rochelle, and together we piled into his piece of junk car and trundled after Ernest as he biked down the road.
He made straight for the police station.
We parked across the street, and Mike gripped the wheel with both hands and made soft whimpering noises while he watched Ernest lock up his bike and march inside, his yellow notepad sticking out of his tote bag.
“Oh God,” Mike panted, putting one hand to the back of his neck, like he could already feel the noose there slowly tightening.
“I still think we’re safe,” I said. “They don’t have your unlock code, and not even the police can access your phone without that. I mean, unless they pu
t their special police hackers on the case, and I’m sure those hackers have better things to do. Look, let’s lie low for a while. See what happens. Keep calm.”
Which was exactly what Mike couldn’t do. The last part at least. A few weeks passed. Ernest kept coming to the theater, even more often now that Mike had become his project, and every time he’d spot Mike in the lobby or pass by his office, Ernest would give him a serious, significant look. A couple times he even whispered to Mike—with me there to witness it—”Whenever you’re ready.” Meanwhile, Mike could barely do his job (and believe me, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to manage a movie theater). He kept pulling me into his office for frantic closed-door chats. I kept telling him to hold on.
August came. In a few days I’d leave with my family for Bible camp, and Mike would have to go back to school before we returned, which meant he’d be on his own with Ernest for the rest of the summer. The idea of that had him even more panicked.
Then one day I rushed into his office, shut the door, and said, “I talked to Ernest. He cornered me at church again. He kept digging and digging, trying to get something out of me, until finally I lost it. ‘Mike and I know the truth,’ I said. ‘We know you’re working with the police. That’s why you’ve been grilling us.’
“And he admitted it. He said he saw those pictures on your phone, just like we suspected, and he decided you needed to be stopped. I begged him to drop it. I said it would ruin your life, and mine too. I told him you’d never mess around with vulnerable underage kids again. Because you won’t, right?”
He shook his head hard. “No way.”
“I asked him what we could do to make this whole thing disappear.”
Mike’s fingers gripped the armrests of his office chair. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his upper lip, like a mustache to go with his billy-goat beard. “What did he say?”
“He said it’s not too late. The police haven’t unlocked your phone, so right now all they have is his word. He’d be willing to tell the police he made a mistake . . . on one condition. He wants you to make a contribution to our church. ‘As proof of your good faith and repentance,’ he said.”
“For how much?”
“Seven thousand dollars. He asked me how much cash we usually have in the safe, and I’m sorry, I mentioned you haven’t been making the bank drops lately.”
He clapped both his hands over his mouth and let out a muffled roar.
“It’ll be an anonymous donation,” I said. “You won’t be connected to it, and neither will he. That’s why it needs to be cash. He wants you to give the money to me, and then I’ll hand it off to him. He thinks a direct handoff would be too risky.”
Mike looked up at me, his eyes going narrow. “Wait a second. How do I know you’re not just going to take it for yourself? How do I know you’re not playing me?” He shook his head. Beads of sweat had broken out all over his face now. A few of them had burst into trickles and run all the way down to dampen his scraggly beard. “I’ll give the money directly to Ernest, but I’m not giving it to you.”
Don’t worry, though, I’d expected this. In fact, I was counting on it. “So you don’t trust me? Even after all we’ve been through?” I made my eyes gleam with hurt. “Fine. I’ll see Ernest this Sunday at church. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll try to convince him.”
* * *
I did see Ernest that Sunday during fellowship, and I did talk to him. “I think Mike’s finally ready,” I told him as he peeled open his croissant. “Your persistence is paying off. He’s gone back to using real butter in the popcorn.”
“I thought I could taste a difference this week!” Ernest exclaimed.
“Now he told me he wants to talk to you again. He wants to make a confession, and also a donation to our church. All the profits he made on his fake-butter scheme.”
Ernest gaped. He dropped the fully dissected croissant onto his plate. “Of course! I’ll make another visit to his house this after—”
I shook my head. “But he wants to do it in secret. He still doesn’t want his girlfriend or anyone else suspecting. He wants to meet you at the theater tonight, after closing, at midnight. And you’re not supposed to let anyone see you arrive.”
He blinked at me. I could tell the idea of a middle-of-the-night meeting scared him a little but excited him, too. “Midnight,” he said. “Tell him I’ll be there.”
* * *
I didn’t work on Sundays—my parents didn’t want me to—so I had to call Mike to tell him the news. That might’ve been for the best. By now I was so full of nervous excitement I didn’t know if I could keep the act going if I talked to him in person.
“Ernest’s agreed,” I told him. Even though Mike couldn’t see me, I still tried to hold myself like a femme fatale, sitting in my desk chair with my legs crossed, winding an imaginary phone cord slowly around my index finger. “I said he should rendezvous with you at the theater tonight at midnight. I told him you’d be waiting with the money behind the curtain in screening room one. I’ll meet him at the door and bring him to you.”
“Okay.” The fear made Mike’s voice crack and wobble. “Jesus, how am I going to explain all that missing money to my parents?”
“They’re gone for the whole summer, right? So you can make the money disappear in the books somehow, can’t you?”
“I guess. And Ernest swears he’s going to let this drop once I pay him? Like, forever? This’ll make it disappear?”
“Yes,” I said. “He swears.” I gazed at the photo of Lauren Bacall on the wall above my bed. Her face, beautiful but strong and angular. I’d torn the picture of Mike out from under it weeks ago. Crumpled it and thrown it into the trash. “And Mike,” I said, “if you really want to make this disappear, there’s one more thing I think you should do.”
* * *
That night I snuck out of the house at eleven fifteen and hurried to the theater by foot. Mike had just locked up for the night. On the floor of his office, we counted the money one more time and stuffed it into a black duffel bag. Then he stationed himself behind the red curtain in screening room one. Just like I’d advised, he wore a button-down shirt, unbuttoned halfway, and a splash of cologne. He’d put some product in his hair and in his billy-goat beard, too.
Before I left him, I said, “Tell me one thing, Mike. It wasn’t all bullshit with me, was it? You did like hanging out, didn’t you?”
He looked confused at first, but then his face eased into a smile. He gave me a wink, and for a second, he really did look like a young Humphrey Bogart. “Sure I did.”
“Thanks. I just needed to hear you say that.”
I went to the theater’s back entrance, the one that led directly to the parking lot, and let in Ernie, who was just as punctual as I knew he’d be. I led him into screening room one and all the way to the narrow backstage area between the curtain and the movie screen. Mike stood there smoking a cigarette with his shoulder leaned up against the wall. He looked just like he had that first night when he and I met back behind our houses. Except he was a lot more nervous now.
I didn’t stay. I had one more thing I needed to do. I went back to the theater lobby, and this time I headed for the front entrance, stuffing my paper hat on my head as I went.
Rochelle stood there, an eager grin on her face, along with even more makeup than usual. She wore a tight red dress, and her cotton-candy hair looked extra poufy. In her hand she clutched the “ticket” I’d printed and hand-delivered to the Morettis’ house earlier today. I’d told her Mike had sent me. It had been her day off, but Mike still had work to do. The ticket read: Good for one admission to a night at the movies you’ll never forget. Come to the theater tonight at midnight.
“This is so exciting!” she bubbled as I let her in and slid behind the snack counter.
“A Diet Coke,” I said. “Isn’t that your drink?”
“Uh-huh. And a box of Milk Duds, please.”
“An excellent choice.”
&
nbsp; I pushed her treats across the counter and walked her into screening room one. I sat her down in the middle of the middle row, in the very same seat where I’d sat during my date with Mike.
“He’ll be right here,” I whispered. “He’s just getting everything ready for the big show.”
I started to go, but Rochelle grabbed my hand and peered up at me through big, shiny eyes. “Thank you, Cody. I mean it. You’ve already made this evening so special.”
I felt a pang right then. I admit it, I did. Rochelle really was a sweet girl. At least a couple times a week she’d get us all a Burger Bucket at the Burger Barn for lunch. She’d always let me have as many burgers as I wanted and never let me pay her a dime. For that matter, Ernie was a good guy, too, in a judgy, hyper-Christian sort of way. I suppose I should’ve felt some solidarity with him, considering I was 99 percent sure he was a closet case just like me. But I couldn’t let any of that stop me. A femme fatale wouldn’t. To get what I wanted, I had to be ruthless. I was a chubby homo living with his Christian nutjob parents in goddamn motherfucking Hellville, West Virginia, and I had no other choice.
I made my way to the front of the theater, off to one side, and peeked behind the red curtain. I flicked a switch on the wall. The curtain hummed open, revealing Mike and Ernie with their mouths locked together, a desperate grimace on Mike’s face, Ernie’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, his arms thrown wide open and his fingers wiggling, like he was falling from a great height.
The picture only lasted a second. A scream cut through the room, and they lurched away from each other. Mike whirled around to squint at the house.
“R-Rochelle?” he sputtered. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She was already rushing down her row and up the aisle, her hands over her mouth. He jumped off the stage and sprinted after her. I’d pulled back into the shadows at the side of the room so he couldn’t see me.