It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 12
Cassie was having trouble following Cheyenne's argument. "This can't be about the manger. What do you think the man really wants?"
"Near as I can figure," suggested Cheyenne, "he wants to make Doah a God-fearing town again."
Cassie let out a whistle. "Can he do that?"
"I doubt it. But he can sure cause a lot of trouble if he tries."
"You give him too much credit, Chey," said Cassie. "He's just one man . . . isn't he?"
"They live off by themselves, deep in the cranberry bogs. Been there for generations, following their own religious beliefs, developing their own rituals, keeping to themselves, inbreeding, I suppose, living in the shadows. From what I've been reading, they used to think it was safer if they stayed hidden." Cheyenne stared past Cassie, focusing on a spot of dirt on the near wall. "But now they've decided to become active politically, to bring God front-and-center in the political debate. That's where Mr. Meriwether comes in. He's the polished public face of this odd religious cult. They call themselves The Chosen Community of God."
"The—grr—Chosen Community!" Greta, hustling back with their breakfast, stopped dead in her tracks, her central nervous system staging a wildcat strike, her arms flapping out of control, her face all atwitch. For an endless moment, everything grew quiet. No one moved. Conversation stopped. The lighting in the Eggery seemed to grow dimmer as, just for a moment, suspended in time, everything simply stopped. Everything, that is, except for Cassie's blueberry pancakes, which, obeying the immutable laws of inertial motion, continued along their forward trajectory, landing, with eerie accuracy in Cassie's half-open alligator purse.
The fresh blueberries, making all the right contacts inside the expensive purse, jump-started life in the dining room at the Eggery. Cassie didn't know whether to laugh or scream. Without even the pretense of an apology, Greta sat down at the table with Cheyenne and Cassie.
"You want to—grr—know about the Chosen Community? I will tell you all about them."
"How do you know about the Chosen Community of God?" Cheyenne's world narrowed its focus to the Eggery's twitching waitress.
"I—grr—grew up there."
The Eternal Battle Between Good and Evil
"Actually—grr—it was a lot worse when I was young. You noticed my twitch, yes? When I was younger, I couldn't control it at all. It would start in my feet and travel—grr—in a wave through my legs, building up pressure in my chest and arms until my brain would feel like it was being pressed flat inside my head, my whole body would be twitching, nerve endings rubbed raw, and suddenly—grr—I would be screaming, growling, cursing. It was horrible. I couldn't control it, like I can—grr—now.
"My parents were part of the Chosen Community of God. The Community didn't look kindly on my twitching and screaming, my growling and cursing. Somehow I made it through kindergarten and first grade at the church school.
"I was in second grade, I guess I was—grr—seven years old, the day the archbishop visited the school. Archbishop, hah. Looking back, he was just some poor Piney minister with a flock of maybe a hundred families, but he sure did like his title. Anyway—grr—the archbishop came for a school visit. I remember the day like it was—grr—yesterday. The archbishop walked into my class accompanied by several religious aides and by the headmaster and I—grr—started to twitch. I could tell it was going to be bad, but I couldn't do anything to stop it. The archbishop was introduced to our teacher, Miss Howell. Then he turned to us to—grr—say a few words. Just—grr—as he started to speak, the trembling got worse and I shouted, 'You're a cunt-licking, scum-sucking doodyhead!' Can you believe I called the archbishop a doodyhead? And then, as if—grr—that wasn't enough, I growled. Think about it. I growled at the archbishop.
"I think Miss Howell fainted as soon as she heard me say 'cunt.' The headmaster was apoplectic, sputtering and stammering, his face bright red and—grr—the veins in his neck bulging with disbelief. His mouth began to twitch, and for a moment I thought the headmaster was going to start screaming just like me.
"Meanwhile, the archbishop's aides sprang into action. One of them pushed the archbishop toward the door as if to protect him from my attack, while the second aide wrestled me to the ground.
"They told my parents I was possessed, that the devil was inside me. They ordered an exorcism, and my parents readily agreed. I was locked in my room for a week, until the exorcism could be arranged. It was the most horrible week of my life, locked in my bedroom, waiting to find out if the priests would be able to cast the devil from my seven-year-old body. The eternal battle between good and evil. On one side, the high priests and their attendants, the holy vestments, the chants, the prayers, the holy water, and on the other side, one small child with an uncontrollable twitch and an odd penchant to curse. The exorcism lasted for days, holy incantations and devilish imprecations, and ended unsuccessfully, when I yelled out something about the high priest's sainted mother.
"The Chosen Community of God gave my parents a choice—their daughter or their Lord. My father would not forsake his God. At the age of seven, I was prohibited from having contact with any members of the Chosen Community, with the exception of my mother, and I was banished to the barn behind my parents' house.
"I spent the next six years alone in the barn. By thirteen, I already had great titties. My hormones were running amok. I had no—grr—idea what was happening and no one to talk to. I became fascinated by energy and motion, and—grr—the physics of cause and effect. I spent all my time in the barn, building these fabulous contraptions. They would fill the barn, climbing—grr—along one wall, banking and dipping and setting off the most extraordinary chain reactions. I would sit for hours at a time, alone in the barn, surrounded by my machines, my panties around my ankles, waiting for my own chain reaction.
"By the time I turned fourteen, my situation came to the attention of child welfare. I still don't know for certain, but—grr—I've always suspected my mother called in the anonymous allegation. It destroyed her when I was moved to a foster home. I like to believe that my mother was giving me one last chance.
"It was at the foster home that I first learned about Tourette's. I wasn't—grr—possessed. I wasn't—grr—crazy. I had a neurological disorder. And it could be—grr—controlled with medication.
"It was also at the foster home that I first met Tommy." Greta had been so wrapped up telling her story, she nearly forgot about Cassie and Cheyenne. "But—grr—you wanted to know about the Chosen Community. That part of the story is—grr—finished."
Cheyenne would never look at the Eggery's twitching waitress the same way again. "Holy crap."
Eighteen Cents
Morris stared at the empty space in his garage where his car used to be. It was not an especially nice car; it was old, uncomfortable and in need of a paint job, but it was his car and he missed it. He was cash poor, deeply in debt, but he was not without assets. Morris knew it was ridiculous that he allowed a flat tire to cost him the title to his car. He had not been carless in more than two decades, and he did not like the feeling.
Morris called Deep's Quick Lube. His car was still on the service lot. When Morris inquired about buying back the car, Deep was not unsympathetic.
"Ah yes, my good sir. You will be missing your car. I understand."
Deep was polite, but firm. He set a price and showed no desire to come down from that number. For the price Deep was asking, Morris knew he would do better at a used car lot, but he wanted his aging Buick. He would not sleep well until that ugly green sedan was again taking up space in his garage. Morris agreed to Deep's price. Deep, in turn, agreed to hold the car until Morris could make arrangements to come to Woodbine with the cash. Morris hung up the phone without asking if Deep could bring the phone out to the lot so that Morris might say a few words to his Buick. Now all he had to do was come up with the cash.
In the last few years before Morris sold the magazine, the Knews had achieved a small but loyal cult following, including a few highly successful Jersey rockers. Morris's taste in music ran more to bebop and hard jazz than rock, but he counted the rockers among his friends. When he sold the magazine, he discovered that these celebrities were friends of the magazine, not his personal friends, an important distinction he had not previously recognized. Still, he was loathe to sell the autographed guitar. But he couldn't drive to the grocery store on an autographed Gibson twelve-string. He contacted a couple of reputable dealers, but, without a certificate of authenticity, let alone documented evidence he came by the Gibson legally, he was met by polite rejections or obscenely low-ball offers to buy. Morris worked his way through the phone book before he found himself talking to a pawnbroker in Woodbine.
The trip to Woodbine only reinforced Morris's decision to sell the guitar. A trip that would take him less than one hour by car, required by bus two transfers, took nearly two and a half hours, and he still had to walk the last mile or so. There was a grim smile on his face as he walked past Bhait's Motel heading for Louie's pawnshop on this cold December day.
Louie's pawnshop was a small storefront on a side road in Woodbine, the display window jammed with cheap wristwatches, battered trumpets, and nearly new handguns ("only used one time," the poster in the window promised). When Morris entered the shop, Louie was busy with a teenage boy. Morris couldn't tell if the boy was buying or selling. Louie looked up from the transaction. "I'll be with you in a minute."
When the boy left, Louie said, apparently speaking to Morris, "That's a good kid."
"Huh?" Morris had been looking at Louie's collection of instruments.
"The kid who just left. His father promised to bring me some stuff. Not a lot of stuff, but a deal's a deal. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah, sure." Morris wasn't really listening. He wanted to get the deal done and pick up his Buick.
"So anyway, the kid explains to me his father couldn't get down here today. The kid thumbs a ride, delivers the stuff for his dad. A good kid."
"I see what you mean."
Louie turned to the business at hand. He sized up Morris, standing in his pawnshop carrying a guitar case. "Are you the guy called me about the guitar?"
Morris grunted, "Yeah."
"Let's take a look."
Carefully, Morris took the collectible guitar from its padded case and handed it to Louie.
"Ooooh, that's a nice one." Louie strummed the guitar. "Good sound. How do I know the signature is real?"
"I'm an honest man."
Louie looked at Morris and smiled. "All of my clients are honest. I'm honest. I run an honest business here. But that doesn't answer the question. How do I know the signature is real?"
"I guess you can't really know." Morris heard the sound of a cash drawer closing.
Louie nibbled on a sesame seed bagel sitting on the counter. He made Morris an offer. It was enough to buy back his car, but considerably less than the autographed guitar was worth. "What about the price you quoted me over the phone?"
Louie nearly choked on a sesame seed. "Sorry. It's the best I can do."
"I don't know." Morris was beginning to have second thoughts. "The guitar was a personal gift. If I can get the autograph authenticated, would that make a difference?"
Louie knew his customers. He planned to sell the autographed guitar as authentic, with or without proof. Documentation would be convenient, but at the end of the day, he knew what the guitar would command. Still, convenience had some financial value to Louie, and he suggested that authentication was probably worth a couple of hundred.
Morris was in a bind. He didn't know if he could get the documentation, but he wanted to try. He needed the additional cash that authentication would attract. But he also needed immediate cash if he was going to drive home in his Buick.
As Morris weighed his options, Louie puttered behind the counter, wanting to appear disinterested in the transaction. Finally, he looked up at Morris. "Tell you what I'm gonna do," said Louie, "since we're both honest men here." Louie barely smiled. "I'm gonna give you nine hundred cash today for the guitar, without authentication. That's more than the guitar is worth." Louie tried not to grin. "If you're lying to me about the signature."
"I'm not," Morris said.
"I believe you. That's why I'm willing to give you the cash." That and the fact that Louie was confident he could find a buyer, regardless. "If you get me documentation in the next couple of days, I'll give you another three hundred."
It was still less than the guitar was worth, but it was the best deal he was going to get. Morris handed over the guitar. Louie counted out nine one-hundred dollar bills. Morris folded the cash in his pocket and walked out the door of the pawnshop.
Fifteen minutes later, Morris approached Deep's Quick Lube on foot, his pace quickening at the site of his aging Buick waiting patiently for him in the otherwise empty parking lot. Deep greeted him warmly.
"Ah, good sir. I am pleased to be welcoming you to Deep's Quick Lube. And how may I be of assistance this day?"
"I'm here for my car," said Morris, a note of annoyance creeping into his voice.
"Yes, yes. Would you be meaning the Buick?"
Morris looked around at the otherwise empty lot. "Yes. I would be meaning the Buick."
"Ah, yes. The Buick. It can be yours for only eight hundred and fifty dollars."
Morris was too tired to haggle. He took out the nine bills, pleased to be getting his car back plus fifty dollars change. He wasted no time completing the transaction. He climbed into the driver's seat. It felt odd. Deep had pulled the seat forward. Morris adjusted the seat and smiled. He rolled down the window to say good-bye to Deep forever. As he prepared to pull away, Deep reached out his hand.
"Please to drive carefully, good sir. The car does not have a spare."
Morris jumped out of the car. He was tired of being ripped off. It was time to stand up for himself, for his honor, for his Buick. "What do you mean it doesn't have a spare? This whole mess started with a flat tire."
"Yes. I am remembering that. You bought a tire." Deep pointed to the left rear tire. "And it is being there, good sir. On your car. But perhaps you will be wanting a spare?"
Morris looked at Deep and sighed. "You have one, I suppose?"
Deep headed for the back of the shop. "I will be checking for you, good sir." Deep returned five minutes later rolling a tire and smiling. "You are being in luck, good sir. Deep's Quick Lube is having a tire sale today. Only forty-seven dollars."
Morris handed Deep the fifty. Deep reached in his pocket, counting out eighteen cents. "Sales tax," he added, by way of explanation.
Morris accepted the eighteen cents change, not even enough for the parkway toll. He would have to drive home on the back roads. At least Deep hadn't changed his pre-sets. Morris turned on the radio, Joshua Redman on sax, Nicholas Payton on trumpet.
Dirty Laundry
After finishing her shift at the Eggery, her feet and head aching from a full day of waitressing, wanting nothing more than a rosewater bubble bath, Greta came home to a house full of chores, hers and Tommy Junior's.
"Grr—Tommy!" she yelled, but no one answered. "Tommy!" The house was empty, her son out with friends without completing his chores.
Tommy Junior was a good kid, but Greta knew he was at a dangerous age: fifteen, going on forty, staying out late, the surge of adolescent testosterone, at risk of making the big mistakes, the ones that you carry around for the rest of your miserable life. She just wanted to see Tommy Junior get through the next few years without doing anything irreversibly stupid.
She also wanted him to clean his room, to put his dirty dishes in the sink, his dirty clothes in the laundry basket, his dirty magazines back in their hiding place under his box spring, but that, she knew, was too much for a mother to ask of her fifteen year-old son.
Greta started in the kitchen, cleaning up after her son. She found an empty can of Spaghettios and tossed it in the trash. She found a bag of buffalo wings partially defrosted in the microwave and returned it to the freezer. She rinsed the plates and cups and put the cookies back in the cupboard.
Greta turned her attention to Tommy's dirty laundry. She gathered up the clothes scattered around his room and carried them to the closet that housed her compact washing machine. Out of habit, she checked the pockets in his shirts and jeans before throwing her son's clothes in the machine. Somehow, there was always something that Tommy Junior would leave in his pocket, sometimes his school I.D. card, sometimes a scribbled phone number, a note from his teacher, and this time, Greta found a dollar bill. She set the bill aside, making a mental note to lecture Tommy Junior one more time about checking his pockets. Tired and annoyed, it took Greta another moment to fully process what she'd seen. She retrieved the bill and looked at it again, not believing her own eyes. Greta wandered into the living room and stuffed the bill in her pocket, leaving the dirty laundry half in the machine, half in a pile on the floor. What was Tommy Junior doing with a hundred dollar bill?
Greta asked the question again, an hour later, when Tommy Junior wandered in the front door.
"Where'd you find it?" Tommy Junior glared at his mother.
"It was in the pocket of your jeans."
"Mom, you know I don't want you going through my things."
"Excuse—grr—me, young man, but you don't want to go there. Not unless you're prepared to start doing your own laundry."
"But the jeans weren't even dirty, Mom."
Greta was not going to have this argument. "Don't, Tommy. Just don't."
Mother and son stared at each other. When Greta was satisfied that Tommy got the message, she asked again, "Where did you get the hundred dollar bill?"
"It's kind of a funny story, Mom."
"That's—grr—good, Tommy, 'cause I could use a good laugh after such a long day."
