Finders Keepers, page 2
***
"Make me understand," Mrs. Spanier said quietly. The bell had sounded; the other kids had all filed off to their next class. Only James Richard remained behind, standing in front of his teacher's desk, afraid to look at her face. "I want to understand," she added.
James Richard said nothing. A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he absentmindedly fingered the initials SRL stitched on the left breast pocket of his knit uniform shirt - short-hand for St. Rose of Lima. He swore he could hear the ticking of the big clock above the door, but maybe that was just his heart pounding.
"Look at me!" Mrs. Spanier shouted.
James Richard looked. Mrs. Spanier was not an attractive woman, certainly not as attractive as his mother. She always wore a pleasant expression though and her eyes twinkled in a way that made her students want to confide in her. Until now. Now her lips were a thin, straight line and her eyes were narrow slits that contained nothing but fury.
"What's going on with you, young man?"
"Nothing," James Richard answered too quickly.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," James Richard repeated, his voice rising. "I was cheating and you caught me. Now you can expel me or do whatever else you want."
Mrs. Spanier leaned forward, rubbing her hands together in a way that made James Richard think that she was the one who was afraid.
"This is not like you," she told him. "I know your record and I know you. You're a straight-A student. Last year you were named Student of the Quarter."
James Richard nodded. He would have received the honor twice except Lacey Mauer beat him out in the Spring.
"More important than that, you're a good kid."
James Richard didn't know what to say to that. He dropped his head and studied his feet.
"I want your parents to come in and see me tomorrow night," Mrs. Spanier said at last.
Fear pounded James Richard in the stomach.
"No," he said, shaking his head.
"I think so."
"No, you… You don't understand," the boy stammered.
"Understand what?"
"My mother…"
"Yes?"
"She… she works."
"At night?"
"Yes."
"Your father, then."
"No. He…"
"He what?"
"He doesn't live with us anymore."
Mrs. Spanier leaned back in her chair and sighed as if she was listening to a story she had heard many times before.
"He left us," James Richard added.
"I understand," Mrs. Spanier said.
***
It was because she understood that Mrs. Spanier insisted on meeting James Richard's mother the following evening at the school; his mother had to take an unpaid day off from work and she wasn't happy about it. James Richard sat on a chair outside the door to Mrs. Spanier's classroom while the two adults spoke privately. They spoke for a long time. Or maybe it only seemed like a long time to James Richard because they were talking about him.
He muttered a word he wouldn't have dared to speak in front of his mother, then looked up and down the hallway of the exclusive private school to make sure no one else had heard him either. When he was sure the corridor was deserted, he said the word again. It was a word James Richard's father had used many times.
***
When the end came, it came quickly. Just three days after his father smashed the silver music box against the wall, he punched James Richard's mother, knocking her against the same wall. The next day, while he was away at work, Sheila McNulty had all the locks in the house changed and contacted an attorney. Instead of being outraged as Sheila and James Richard predicted, Simon McNulty seemed amused. He said he'd be happy to give Sheila a divorce. He even smiled when he said it - the first time James Richard could remember seeing his father smile. He agreed to pay the alimony and child support that Sheila requested and to an equal division of their property. He even agreed to give his wife and son his share of the heavily mortgaged 13-room house they owned in the suburbs. Because of his cooperation, the divorce was settled within a month. Less than a week later, Sheila and James Richard discovered why Simon McNulty had been so generous - he had stolen most of their savings and fled the state. There would be no alimony payments. No child support. As far as Simon McNulty was concerned, his wife and son ceased to exist.
"To hell with him," James Richard said at the time.
His mother smiled weakly and stroked his cheek and said, "Don't curse, dear."
James Richard didn't miss his father. What was there to miss? The shouting? The insults? Simon McNulty had never been kind to him, even when he was a baby. He never played with him, never took him to baseball games or to the park - he was always too busy, even when busy meant doing nothing more than sitting in front of the TV. He never showed any interest in James Richard's grades, which were usually spectacular. In fact, it was because he and his son didn't get along that James Richard's grades were so good; the boy spent most of his time studying in his room or at the library so he could avoid his father.
Now, just six months after his father left, James Richard couldn't recall a single conversation they had together that lasted more than a minute. In most of those his father merely listed his expectations: "I expect you to cut the grass, I expect you to clean the garage, I expect you to take out the recyclables."
No, James Richard did not miss his father. But he sorely missed his mother whom he hardly saw now.
Sheila McNulty had told James Richard that everything would be fine following the divorce and he believed her; he was nearly giddy with joy when it was finally over. Only the pleasure he felt was soon replaced with a feeling of desperation. The problem was money.
Mrs. McNulty worked as an accountant for a company that owned a chain of restaurants. She made a good income, but not good enough to pay for their huge house in the suburbs all by herself. Or the new car she drove. Or expensive clothes. Or tickets to the opera and the ballet. Or the hefty tuition for St. Rose of Lima, the private elementary school James Richard attended. But Mrs. McNulty insisted that her son was going to have all the advantages he enjoyed before the divorce - when they were living on two incomes. To pay for it she took a second job. She became the night manager for one of the restaurants her company owned. As a result, James Richard never saw his mother accept on weekday mornings while she prepared for her daytime job and he readied himself for school. She was home on weekends, but most of that time was devoted to washing clothes, cleaning the house, shopping for groceries, or other household chores.
At first it had actually been fun; James Richard had never enjoyed such freedom. He came and went as he pleased, without telling anyone where he was going or when he'd be back. If he wanted a snack before dinner, he had a snack before dinner. If he wanted a snack for dinner, who was there to say no? He'd crank the volume on his music until the windows rattled and no one nagged that it was too loud. Bedtime was when his spirit moved him, which was usually late.
All that changed as the days turned to weeks and the weeks turned to months. James Richard became increasingly bored with his freedom. Because he could now do whatever he felt like, James Richard suddenly didn't feel like doing anything.
In the beginning, he spent a lot of time with Lacey Mauer, especially in the summer, walking or riding his bike four blocks down and three blocks over to her large brick house across from the nature preserve. Only she always wanted to play in the preserve or shoot baskets or access the new computer program she was into or talk about school or a book she had read and he didn't want to do any of those things. Nothing seemed to hold his interest for more than a few minutes at a time now. Certainly not his homework, which he did on the school bus or not at all.
More and more James Richard found himself home alone, sitting in the dark each night in his father's old chair, watching TV programs he was too young to see. Instead of becoming excited by it, the nightly phone call from his mother annoyed him. He no longer filled his mother's entire dinner hour with highlights from his day. Now when she asked, he was just "okay" and he was always doing "nothin'."
Now this.
James Richard knew that at St. Rose, the penalty for cheating was automatic and immediate expulsion and he had mixed feelings about that. On one hand, he was horrified. Leaving the school where he had done so well in the past, leaving his friends, leaving Lacey - the thought hit him so hard he nearly lost his breath. Plus, he worried what people would think of him. James Richard McNulty was not a cheat!
On the other hand, he would probably be forced to transfer to the public school. The free public school. Which meant his mother wouldn't need to work so hard to pay for his tuition, uniforms, books, computer fees. She could quit her night job and stay home with him!
At least, that was as far as James Richard's thinking took him before the door to the classroom clicked open and his mother stepped out.
***
"Thank you again," she said to Mrs. Spanier.
James Richard looked up from his chair as his mother closed the classroom door. She had always been a pretty woman, tall and slim, with corn-blonde hair and eyes the color of chocolate. Yet he didn't appreciate how pretty until one day last year following basketball practice when the college kid who coached the team stared at her in awe and gushed, "Wow, mothers sure have changed since I was a kid." Only lately she was looking old. Even her bright yellow hair seemed to have lost its shine. She seldom smiled.
Sheila McNulty knelt next to her son and with one hand, brushed the hair off his forehead. James Richard's eyes burned with tears, but he refused to let them fall.
"Mrs. Spanier is giving you an F on the test, but she's not reporting you for cheating," Mrs. McNulty told her son softly.
James Richard nodded. He didn't know what to say.
"If it happens again, they'll expel you."
He nodded again.
"Promise me…"
"I promise, Mom," James Richard said.
"I realize this is my fault…"
"No," Richard said abruptly.
"I need to spend more time…"
"No," Richard said again. "It's my fault. I've been lazy, I've been goofing off, I've been…"
Mrs. McNulty pressed two fingers against James Richard's lips and shook her head slowly.
"We'll both try to do better," she said.
"Yes," James Richard said. "Yes."
"Give me a hug," Mrs. McNulty told him.
"Why?" James Richard asked.
"Because we both need one," she told him.
James Richard wrapped his arms around his mother and squeezed tight. The tears finally fell, hot and wet, against his cheeks.
Back to TOC
CHAPTER TWO
Three men in their early twenties sat together in a booth and spoke in whispers, their heads almost touching as they leaned toward each other across the table. The bar was noisy. Country music blared from a jukebox and the laughter and shouts from a victorious bowling team added to the tumult. Still they were careful to keep their voices low and when the waitress brought beers to the table, they stopped speaking and sat back while she served them. As soon as she departed, they leaned forward again and were back at it.
"Are you sure, Sickler?"
"Yeah," said Sickler. "I'm sure. The man in Canada said he'd pay us seven hundred thousand dollars in cash."
"American money, right? Not Canadian?"
"American money," Sickler assured him with a contemptuous smile. What did Truax think, that he was as stupid as him?
"It's all set," Sickler continued. "We take the four hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars we stole from the armor truck and buy eighteen kilos of cocaine with it. We then take the eighteen kilos of cocaine to Canada and sell it for seven hundred thousand dollars."
"That's a profit of two hundred and thirty thousand dollars," the man named Worlie announced. "For each of us."
"Two hundred and thirty-three," Sickler corrected him.
Truax rubbed the palms of his hands together. "That's the kind of arithmetic I like."
"So do I," Worlie added.
"More important," said Sickler. "We can spend it. We won't need to be afraid the cops can trace it back to the armor truck job."
"Yeah," said Truax.
"Yeah," he repeated, pounding a drum roll on the table top with his fists.
"I'm tired of waiting," said Worlie. "It's been six months since we stole that money and I want to start spending it."
"You know the first thing I'm going to buy?" asked Truax. "I'm going to buy a sportscar. A Jaguar. I'm going to buy…"
"Shut-up about what you're going to buy," Sickler hissed. "Haven't you guys learned anything yet?"
"I was only saying…"
"I know what you were saying," said Sickler. "I don't want to hear it. Look, we robbed that truck six months ago and we've been sitting on that money ever since, not spending any of it. Why?"
No one answered.
"Why?" Sickler insisted.
"Because the money could have been marked," said Worlie, looking down at the table. "The cops might have been able to trace the money using serial numbers."
"That's right," Sickler agreed. "Now we have a chance to get out from under that. What do you think is going to happen though if we start throwing it around, huh? What do you think is going to happen if all of a sudden we start buying expensive sports cars and stuff? We have records, all three of us. We've all done time for armed robbery. If we start throwing around a lot of money, what do you think the cops are going to say?"
Again his partners hesitated to answer.
"What do you think they're going to say?" Sickler repeated.
"They're going to say we stole it," Worlie muttered.
"That's right," Sickler said. "Use your heads."
"Yeah?" said Worlie. "Were you using your head when you were about to shoot the guard?" Anger, like lightning, flashed across Sickler's face and his hands knotted into fists. "What about the kid at the bus stop? You were going to shoot him, too."
"I don't like people talking back to me." Sickler pointed a finger in Worlie's face. "That includes you."
The words sent a chill down Worlie's spine.
Sickler was smiling now as he reached for his beer. His smile held no warmth or humor and it frightened Worlie. In fact, everything about Sickler frightened him. The two men had met in prison. They had been confined to the same cell. Sickler was bigger than Worlie by half a foot and about thirty pounds. And there was a kind of hatred in his eyes; a hatred for all things life had to offer. Two minutes after he walked into the cell, Sickler had smiled the same joyless smile and told Worlie, "Let's get the rules straight."
"What rules?" Worlie had asked.
"Do what I tell ya or I'll kick your teeth in," Sickler had answered, still smiling.
"Oh, those rules," Worlie had said.
He attempted to put up a brave front, but in the end, Worlie did everything Sickler told him to do. He was afraid not to. Even when Sickler recruited him for the armored truck robbery, called him up and said, "I got a job for ya," Worlie was too frightened to say no.
Now he was involved in armed robbery.
How did this happen? Worlie wondered. How did he get mixed up with these low-life thieves? The answer came to him easily, and painfully, as he signaled for another beer. It was because he was a low-life thief.
"I'm just saying," Worlie said. "We all have to be smart."
"Yeah? Let's talk about smart," said Sickler. "Let's talk about that jewelry store. You pull on your mask, pull out your gun, walk in and make the salesclerk give you the cash. No jewels, just cash. How much? Twenty-five hundred?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Twenty-eight hundred bucks you get holding up that jewelry story, waving your gun around. When you're outside, the mask off, getting into your car, you see this old man standin' right there in front of you with his mouth hanging open, watching. You could've shot him right then. Put him away and you outta there clean, ain't nobody gonna catch you. But you don't shoot him. Why? Because you're a nice guy and there are things a nice guy won't do. So, what happens? The old man ID's your vehicle, picks you out of a line-up and you end up doing forty-six months in state prison. Is that smart?"
Worlie didn't answer.
"Not me pal," Sickler continued. "Listen to what I'm telling you. If there's a man standing in front of me, if it's between me going to prison or him getting killed, there's nothing to think about, man, I'm takin' him out."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Truax said. "You're a real tough guy. Tough as nails. I came here to talk business. We going to talk business or what?"
Lightning again flashed across Sickler's face. He had met Truax in prison, too. He was about Worlie's size - five-ten, one hundred and eighty pounds. Only, unlike Worlie, Truax didn't scare. Not one little bit. Worse, he had a big mouth, always telling people what to do, always trying to take over. Sickler hated Truax. Which was fine with Truax because he hated Sickler. The way Truax figured it, in a couple of days this entire affair would be safely over. Then he could rip off Sickler's ears and shove them down his throat, no problem.
"Your guy in Canada is all lined up?" Truax asked Sickler.
"All lined up," Sickler said. "We give 'em the junk, he gives us the money. If you want, we can divvy it up right there and then go our separate ways."
"Sounds good to me," Worlie said.
"If we can trust your guy," Sickler told Worlie.
"We can trust him," Worlie vowed. "We bring him the money Thursday night, the day after tomorrow, he gives us the cocaine. We can be halfway to Canada before dawn."
"If we can trust him," Sickler repeated, his voice low and harsh with lips curled up over his teeth like a wolf about to pounce.
I want this to be over, Worlie thought but didn't say.
Back to TOC
CHAPTER THREE
Lacey Mauer's father stirred the rich, red spaghetti sauce simmering in a pot on the front burner of the kitchen stove. He glanced at the digital clock on the microwave. It was four-forty-five Wednesday afternoon. Supper in an hour, he figured.
