The People Next Door Page 15

  ‘She doesn’t go to Fairview, that’s for sure,’ Ben said. ‘I know because I’ve jacked off to every page of the yearbook.’

  ‘Bogie in pursuit,’ Will said. ‘Twelve o’clock and closing.’

  She was headed right toward them, shifting beneath a thin, tight-fitting black thermal shirt and a pleated skirt of black and yellow plaid. Black canvas sneakers. In between, the cream white of her thighs. All of the guys and half of the girls were staring at her. She was fifteen feet away, ten, slipping out onto the patio, pausing, glancing around to scope it out. She stared at the pool, hypnotized by the wands of light roving around from someone’s dive.

  Kyle wondered when he had last showered. This morning? Last night? All at once he felt exactly like the sweaty, slightly pimpled, lanky and foppish-haired fifteen-year-old spaz he was. He looked down to see if there were any stains on his shirt. He was wearing his red Billabong button-down, brown skate shorts, black Vans chukkas. Everything was about as decent as it could be. He thumbed the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Two beers left,’ Ben called over Kyle’s shoulder. ‘Ladies first. Any takers?’

  She turned, looking at the three of them behind the beer tub.

  ‘Hey, darlin’,’ Ben said. ‘I saved you one.’

  Kyle wanted to ram the beer can into Ben’s eye socket, tell them he had seen her first, lay off. But of course it didn’t work that way either.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, and walked toward them as if approach ing a carnival attraction. She would play this game for a minute, but flee at the first sign of anything hinky.

  Kyle’s eyes darted to her and away and back every 1/32 of a second. He laughed abruptly for no reason, stopped.

  Ben handed her a can of Bud. ‘And I guess the last one’s mine. Cheers.’ He raised his can but she didn’t raise hers to meet him.

  ‘I’m Will,’ Will said. ‘This is Ben.’

  What about me, assholes? I’m invisible? Ben actually kicked his shoe under the table, trying to nudge him out of the picture.

  ‘Hi,’ she said to both of them. She hadn’t opened the beer. She was just holding it against her hip.

  ‘What’s your story?’ Ben said. ‘And does it have a happy ending?’

  ‘I doubt it.’ She looked over their heads, her smile barely tolerant.

  ‘Bummer,’ Will said. ‘So, what’s your name?’

  She opened her mouth to answer, halted, pivoted, and looked right into Kyle’s eyes. She aimed the can of beer at him, her slender pointer finger extending past the rim. Her nail was painted bright lemon yellow.

  ‘I’ve seen you. Who are you?’ Her tone was accusatory. For a moment Kyle couldn’t speak, and then his throat clicked loose.

  ‘In the park,’ he said. ‘You were standing next to Boulder Creek.’

  ‘No.’ That was it. Her voice dull but firm; he was lying.

  But he wasn’t lying. He was sure. ‘You were wearing a Sonic Youth shirt.’ Where was this confidence coming from? He didn’t know, but he plowed on. ‘The red one with the nurse, from the Rather Ripped tour.’

  After what seemed a long time, she smiled, her glossy lips revealing perfect white teeth and virgin gums the color of bubble gum.

  ‘That was you. You know Sonic Youth?’

  He hadn’t until that Thursday night, when he spent four hours searching megasites that sold rock T-shirts, using the keywords ‘red’ and ‘nurse’, spotted it, then checked out the band’s website and downloaded the album. He’d sort of fallen in love with the band, but he couldn’t tell if that was because he really liked their sound or because he imagined she did.

  ‘It’s one of their catchier albums,’ he said, hoping he sounded calmer than he felt. ‘And “Turquoise Boy” is pretty epic, some of Kim Gordon’s best vocals. But I like Dirty better. That record is just plain …’ What’s the word? That word for the Seattle sound his dad used to talk about? Grun—

  ‘Dirty,’ she finished for him, beaming. ‘Dirty guitars and fuzz and distortion. The sound is the record. Exactly.’ Her voice, Kyle decided right then, was the sound of peach-colored popsicles melting in the sun.

  ‘I’m June.’ She offered her hand.

  ‘I’m Kyle.’ He took her hand, heard his mother say like a gentleman, and held it so, raising and lowering it gently. Her palm was hot silk, her nails grazing his fingers as she withdrew. ‘Nice to meet you for the sort of second time.’

  ‘The sort of second time,’ she repeated with a sly smile. ‘That sounds like the title of song, Kyle.’

  Will let out a breath as if he had been punched.

  Ben stomped off, muttering obscenities.

  So far it was a miracle. This girl was easily sixteen, maybe seventeen, two inches taller than him, and perfect in every way. Her eyes were the lightest blue Kyle had ever seen, almost silver in the dark, and her nose and cheeks were dusted with tiny dark freckles. She smelled like warm bread and honey and … girl.

  ‘So, what’s the deal?’ She gestured at the tub. ‘Is this the end of it?’

  ‘Kyle was just on his way to get some more,’ Will said, dangling the keys in front of him. Kyle clasped them in his fist before he knew what he was doing.

  ‘You have a car?’ she said.

  ‘It’s mine, but he’s a big boy,’ Will said. Lucas and Ben would never back him up like this, but maybe Will understood something was happening here. Maybe Will figured Kyle deserved a shot. ‘Aren’t you, Kyle?’

  ‘Sure.’

  June said, ‘I’m starving actually. Mind if I tag along?’

  ‘Cool.’

  He could feel her moving behind him as he floated into the house, pushing the warm summer air at his back. Shaheen gave him a thumbs up. By the refrig erator, Michelle Harper froze, a jug of cranberry juice in her hand. Her mouth was set in an unflattering pucker.

  Swaying with newfound grandeur as he walked out the front door, Kyle Nash tallied it like this: I’m fifteen. I have no driver’s license. I have seven dollars to my name. And I’m on my way to steal a case of beer with the hottest girl in the State of Colorado. This is either going to be the most humiliating night of my life, or the greatest.

  But once they were in the car and she was smiling at him, her eyes shining almost as if they were filling with tears, her hands trembling just enough to let him know she was nervous too, he realized it didn’t matter. Whether he succeeded or failed epically, this was already the greatest night of his life.

  33

  ‘Look who’s back on his feet. How you feelin’, Aquaman?’

  Mick emerged from the Straw’s kitchen, where he had been berating Carlos about the size of the side salads they were wasting on entrees, as well as fuming over a lapse in paper goods inventory that had left the restaurant with no take-out containers, plastic forks, and paper cups until next Friday when Sysco delivered (if they delivered at all, his account being 127 days past due), and turned to find a short bald policeman built like a rubber foosball player sitting at the bar.

  At last, Sergeant Terrance Fielding of the Boulder PD. Terry was smiling, out of uniform, and Mick had done nothing wrong, but this did not prevent a cold blade of paranoia from slipping itself into him like a shiv.

  ‘Dry,’ Mick said. ‘Like it never happened. Get you a beer or some club soda?’ This was a sort of amateur code for, Are you here to interrogate me on official business or is this just a friendly visit because you’re so concerned about my health?

  ‘Just finished an iced tea, thanks. Was hoping to get with you on a couple things before you clocked out, though I figured you’d be laying low for a few weeks.’

  Mick shot himself a tumbler of club soda. ‘What am I gonna do at home, Terry? This place is going down the shitter. I want to enjoy my last few weeks as a businessman.’

  Fielding nodded without much sympathy. ‘How are the kids?’

  ‘Briela’s a brilliant but emotional mess. Kyle hasn’t landed in the back of your cruiser yet, so there’s hope for him.’

>   ‘That cut on his head healing up all right?’

  ‘Hasn’t slowed him down a bit.’

  ‘Tough kid.’

  Mick nodded.

  Fielding removed a cardboard Samuel Adams Light coaster from a neat stack Mick had set on the bar. He always stocked them in piles of a dozen, a little OCD habit that sustained the illusion of order amid the greater chaos. Like a Vegas dealer with house chips, Mick could count the stack on sight. Fielding held it between his first two fingers, fanned it like a playing card, and whizzed it sideways along the bar. Mick watched it twirl and slide up to the condiment tray, braking in a patch of maraschino cherry juice.

  Fielding said, ‘You have any problems around the restaurant lately? Anything weird after hours? Threats, bad customers, creeps lurking in the parking lot?’

  ‘No, unless by bad customers you mean not enough good ones. Why?’

  ‘Oh, could be nothing, could be something. You know Raul down at Casa Miguel’s?’

  Mick knew the Mexican restaurant off 30th. ‘Nice place. Amy likes their carnitas. But I don’t know Raul or the family. He the owner?’

  ‘Night manager, owner’s brother,’ Fielding said. ‘He got the hot tamales beat the shit right out of him ’bout three, four weeks ago. Closing time.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Mick said. ‘I think I read something about that in the paper.’

  ‘Yeah. Concussion, broken ribs, punctured lung. He’s going to be fine, but it was scary there for a while. Doctors thought maybe brain damage, but he’s coming around.’

  ‘You catch the guy?’

  ‘Guys. Three of them, we think. Just boys, really. Same kind of thing happened back in March, one of the bartenders down at Pasta Jay’s. Witness accounts weren’t worth a shit. You know how it is that time of night downtown. Everyone hammered off their balls. But two college girls leaving the West End said they saw three hot-shot assholes watching the back door about that time. Same routine as Raul had over there at Casa. Assault, then they go for keys or the safe. Robbery to fund drug habits, maybe a small-time ring or sizable onetime buy. Easier than robbing a convenience store at gunpoint, where you got the cameras. We think they hit Chez Thuy in April, but Mr Ngyuen’s not talking, so, yeah, looks like a pattern, possibly moving north.’

  ‘I’m next. That’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s just as likely they moved on. Boulder’s small. Stuff like this tends to stand out. They’d have to be pretty stupid to hit the same area more than a couple times. But you should keep an eye out, just to be safe. Alert your staff. Always have two people at closing. Maybe put a light up behind your building.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Terry. I appreciate the warning.’

  Fielding nodded and they studied each other a moment.

  ‘What the hell happened to Roger?’ Mick said. ‘He and Bonnie just up and vanished out there that day? I find that hard to believe.’

  The cop said nothing for a moment. Was he trying to make Mick squirm? He sighed. ‘I got Wisneski’s statement. Anything else shaken loose for you?’

  ‘No,’ Mick said, not sure if this was a lie.

  ‘Can you think of anything else strange on the boat? Kyle remember any other telling details?’

  Mick frowned, the memory of the darkened cabin coming back for the first time. He saw himself standing there, one hand on the chrome door handle, then the shadowed space, and then the white flash hitting him like a strobe. Then nothing, but something had been there in between. What the hell was it?

  A bloodbath, bodies slumped and sliced open, like a Manson Family Polaroid. Red lines trickling from their eyes and ears. Bonnie’s mouth like a clown’s, joker red, with clots in her hair, twisting her neck until her dilated black pupil regarded him with acute recognition and wild-horse fear.

  ‘You think of something?’ Terry prompted.

  Mick blinked, trying to focus. ‘No, not really. Just seemed weird that no one was on board. If Kyle saw what he saw, it couldn’t have been more than five minutes that passed before I came back. No one else saw anything?’

  Fielding shook his head. ‘Spoke with Roger’s ex-wife Gina, though. She says she hadn’t seen him since May of last year. He came back on Mother’s Day to get some things out of the garage. They had a blowout, he split. She thinks he’s got a fuckpad up in the mountains somewheres, but she wouldn’t elaborate.’

  Mick experienced some relief that Roger wasn’t confirmed dead. ‘So what does that make it? A missing persons thing?’

  ‘Gina’s not calling it that, but he could be dead for all we know.’

  ‘Are you considering that?’ Mick turned his back on the cop to stow a bottle of sweet-and-sour mix. He opened one of the refrigeration unit’s steel morgue doors and slid the bottle in by the neck. ‘That he might be dead?’

  Behind him, Fielding chuckled in a disturbing manner. ‘We’re considering everything, Mick. Every. Little. Thing.’

  Including me, Mick thought, while the sound of the policeman’s laughter chilled him to the bone. Mick remembered the baseball bat he kept under the bar. If it was where he had left it, it would be behind him and about three feet to his left.

  ‘Let me know how else I can help,’ Mick said, pretending to sort through the bottles of champagne. Don’t even think about it. Fielding’s carrying a gun and you’re being paranoid.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Fielding said, pulling a Columbo. ‘There is just one other thing I don’t understand …’

  Mick stood but paused, unable to turn around. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Why didn’t you take that second ambulance in? A scare like you had, I’d’ve made sure I got checked out by a doctor. You’re lucky to be alive, Mick.’

  ‘I felt okay,’ Mick said softly. ‘We just wanted to go home.’

  He waited for Fielding’s reply, frozen in a pocket of guilt. He hadn’t done anything wrong and yet he knew he was a suspect now. He closed his eyes and saw the lake, the blinding sun. For a moment he was not here, he was outside, in the heat, running down a beach, his bare feet flicking white sand. He was in a blind panic, running into the trees. He was lost without his family in a nightmare jungle …

  Mick blinked again, and it took him another minute to remember where he was. Okay, the Straw, behind the bar. Fielding still had not responded. The bar had gone completely silent. There were no customers. No dishes clinked from the kitchen and the dishwasher was silent. The music had been turned off. The air was pregnant with cold tension and for a moment Mick was sure that the policeman had slipped behind the bar and was standing right behind him, breathing on the back of his neck.

  Mick raised his head slowly. He looked into the wide saloon mirror set above the three tiers of spirits, his eyes darting side to side. The reflection belonging to Sergeant Terry Fielding of the Boulder Police Department was not there.

  Mick turned, his throat tight. The policeman was not on any of the fifteen stools. He was not in the dining room, the entryway, or outside on the walk.

  He checked the restrooms. The kitchen. The stockroom.

  The policeman was not in the restaurant. His entire staff had gone home. The place was empty and Mick was alone.

  He went to the bar to pour himself a drink. He held the spigot over a tumbler and froze with his thumb on the button. On the bar, in front of the seat Terry had occupied, the Samuel Adams coasters sat in a neat pile. The one the cop had flung like a playing card was not stuck beside the condiment tray. Mick eyeballed the stack.

  House chips, an even dozen.

  34

  Once they were in the store, she took the lead. He walked half a step behind, like her personal assistant, while she moved down the bulk-foods aisle, running her hand over the bins of yogurt-covered raisins, dried cranberries, banana chips, pausing to slip a fireball into her mouth. Only then did she ask him the big question.

  ‘You have ID or are we knocking?’

  ‘Knocking?’

  ‘Knocking off, snaking the beer, robbing the store.�
��

  ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ Kyle said. ‘Unless you’re not cool with that.’

  She stopped, filling a plastic bag with some kind of nut he didn’t recognize, twirled the bag around her fingers.

  ‘I’ll pay for this,’ she said. ‘You go to the cooler. When you get to the front, you’ll see me standing at register three. If it’s clear, I’ll give you the sign. Okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ Kyle swallowed. How could she be so calm? How many times had she done this? ‘Wait, what’s the sign?’

  ‘You’ll know it.’ She pushed his hip, turning him away with an electrical current that made his heart dance. ‘Go on.’

  Kyle hurried off, realized he was walking like an asshole, slowed. He walked across the back of the store until he reached the cooler on the far side. The store was so empty it frightened him, reminded him this was not rush hour. With no crowd to blend into, they would stand out like the thieves they were. He began to fidget, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

  A wall of beer. So many flavors, colors, brands, boxes of every size under bright white lights. The cold braced him. It was a cave filled with treasure, a technicolor display of desire, potions with the power to change the entire mood of the night, the summer, a life. They all wanted this. This made everything else possible. Until you had a good supply of this, everyone was hiding their real face. This opened the door, allowed you to get over yourself, made you funnier, more confident, louder, bigger, the you you wanted to be. The guy who arrived back at the party with this became the star, reaped the adoration of everyone else who was too afraid to make it happen.

  His knees felt like rubber bands. No way. He just couldn’t do it.

  But Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth, with her husky, oh so sensual croon, began singing in his head, and for a moment he was the Turquoise Boy and Kim Gordon was June whatever her last name was, and they were lying next to each other in Shaheen’s parents’ bed, heads on the same long pillow, cool cotton and warm breath, not kissing, but staring into each other’s eyes, and June was smiling at him. That’s all he wanted, to make her smile again. And then it was as simple as 2 + 2 = 4. He would be a man and take this, June would see him as the savior of the party, and some night in the near future, maybe not tonight, but some night this summer, he would lay his head on a pillow next to hers, and they would gaze into each other’s eyes while Kim Gordon sang to them and Thurston Moore used his guitar to express the longings emblazoned like golden notes across the sheet music of Kyle’s poor wanting heart.