First to die, p.10
First to Die, page 10
“Boys like cars because they can understand them,” Mollie said. “They can’t understand women.”
“All the motorheads at school always try to impress girls with their cars,” Meredith said. “I couldn’t care less.”
“Some girls do,” Mollie said. “Angela Carbajal goes out with guys she doesn’t even like just so she can ride in their cars. It sounds sort of funny, though, coming from you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Mollie said, “we’re sitting here in a cool little red sports car that everybody at school is jealous of, and it sounds like you don’t even appreciate it. It just sounds funny to hear somebody with a nice car dissing other people with nice cars.”
“I’m not dissing anybody,” Meredith said. “I appreciate this car.” She rubbed the dashboard, as if not meaning to offend the automobile. “I just don’t see what it has to do with me. I didn’t build it, and I didn’t design it. I don’t know how to work on it, I don’t race it, and I certainly didn’t earn the money to buy it. My father only gave it to me because he wanted one and he knew my mother would have a fit if he bought another car for himself. He bought it for me instead so that he could drive it once in a while. What does any of that have to do with me? How does owning a car make anybody cool?”
“I don’t know,” Mollie said. “All I know is that when people see you pulling into the school parking lot with the top down and your hair blowing in the wind, you look really cool.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Meredith said. “There certainly are enough people who want to be your friend just so they can ride in your car. Sometimes you just want people to like you for yourself, and not for your car or your looks.”
“Well, just for the record, I think you’re ugly and your car sucks,” Mollie said. Meredith laughed out loud, a delightful giggle.
“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”
When Nick’s car was clean and shiny as a brand-new pair of Mary Janes, he continued north on Washington, east on Grove, then north on Hearst Boulevard until he was in North Bayside. When Mollie’s family first came out to the area to look for houses, the sight of North Bayside nearly brought her to tears. All the houses were the same: ticky-tacky pastel or white ranch houses with two or three junipers for landscaping, lawn sprinklers and rider mowers, lawn jockeys and nylon American flags, plastic eagles on the mailboxes, two-car garages with the mandatory basketball hoop and toys in the driveways—everything looked as if it were made out of Lego blocks. There was nothing of what made a neighborhood a neighborhood, no big old trees, no funky alleyways, no bridges to hang out under, no lakes or streams to contemplate, just a sea of homes with couples commuting to work and babies commuting to day care.
Nick stopped at a house on Harrison, a white split-level with two sick-looking poplar trees in the backyard. The grass was dry and brown. He pulled in the driveway, got out, and walked in the front door without knocking. Meredith’s car phone rang.
“Ten-four roger,” Sherman said. “What’s going on? Over.”
“We’re out here in North Bayside,” Mollie told him. “Nick went into a house at twelve-two-ninety Harrison. What are you guys up to?”
“We’re bored out of our minds,” Sherman said. “Benny’s at the track, and we’re sitting in the parking lot. Over.”
“It’s getting pretty interesting here,” Mollie said.
“Something is interesting in North Bayside?” Sherman said in mock astonishment. “Call the newspapers.”
“Maybe you guys should forget Benny and come join us,” Mollie said. “That way one of us can keep an eye on the house or whoever’s in it if Nick goes a separate way.”
“Ten-four roger wilco,” Sherman said. “Over.”
“Just say good-bye, Sherman,” Mollie said.
“I copy,” Sherman said. “Over and out.” Mollie hung up the phone.
“It is a good place to lay low,” Meredith said. “Who would think to look for anybody out here?”
“I bet the neighborhood is full of people participating in the government witness-protection program,” Mollie agreed.
Twenty minutes later Mollie saw Roberta’s maroon sedan pull over to the curb just down the block, the two cars facing each other. A silhouette moved in the house’s picture window, then a second silhouette. The car phone rang.
“Any luck?” Roberta asked.
“Nothing yet,” Mollie said. “Nick pulled the curtains, but he didn’t look out before pulling them, so I don’t think he knows we’re watching him.”
“What do we do?”
“We wait, I guess,” Mollie said.
“This is the part about police work my father hates,” Roberta said.
“My father plays the harmonica,” Mollie said. “In Iowa his partner had a ukulele, and they used to play songs together while they waited. They got so good, they’d perform at parties and sing in barbershop harmonies. It was completely humiliating.”
“My father can’t sing,” Roberta said. “He can’t dance either. He embarrasses the whole family when he tries.”
“Sometimes in the winter when my mom and dad are getting dressed on a real cold day, they put their long underwear on, and then they pretend they’re ballet dancers.” This was one of the things Mollie liked best about her parents, though it had been a while since they’d been goofy together.
“I don’t see why people live where there’s winter,” Roberta said.
“Wait a minute,” Mollie interrupted. “Nick’s coming out. Get down.” Ducked down below the dashboard, Mollie heard him start his car, revving the engine several times.
“What do we do?” Roberta asked.
“We’ll follow Nick,” Mollie said. “You watch the house.”
Nick headed south again and made a quick stop at the Hi-Seven liquor store. Whatever he bought fit into his coat pocket, because he wasn’t carrying anything when he came out. He stopped ten minutes later at a florist shop, emerging with a thin white paper bag in his hand, as well as a small bouquet of flowers. His third stop was a restaurant called Chez Blanc, where he sat at a table by the window. Mollie and Meredith had a clear view of him from where they were parked. He stayed long enough to finish a drink and write a note, chewing pensively on the end of his pen.
“Think he’s writing his mom?” Meredith wondered.
“Yeah,” Mollie said. “Dear Mom, I’m writing on behalf of The Insurance Shoppe. This month we’re featuring earthquake insurance, not because there’s any immediate threat, but because you can never be too protected from the unpredictable forces of nature.”
“Why does he keep touching his eyes?” Meredith asked.
“Smoke maybe?” Mollie said. “Wait a minute.” She watched as Nick hung his head. His shoulders heaved rhythmically. “You know what I think? I think he’s crying.” The waitress approached and touched Nick on the arm. Standing up, he dried his eyes on a napkin, appearing apologetic and embarrassed. He paid his tab, and the waitress walked him to the door. Once outside, he tossed the flowers into the bushes. As he got back into his car, Nick started laughing, a low, self-satisfied chuckle.
“What the heck was that all about?” Meredith said.
“I don’t know,” Mollie said. “But it’s a performance sure to be remembered when the Oscar nominations roll around.”
Nick headed south again, up the hill where Highland Avenue turned into Highland Drive—a tree-lined road that wound its way along Mt. Casey, a ridge affording great panoramic views of the city below. They drove through Bayside’s swankiest neighborhoods, past the mansions built in the last twenty years of the nineteenth century, when Bayside was booming. They passed Highland High School, where all the rich kids went. Highland was Bayside’s fiercest athletic rival. The Bayside Pirates and the Highland Fighting Scots—whom the people at Bayside called the Fighting Scot Tissues, a bunch of “you-know-what wipes.” Over the years Highland, with its fancy facilities and high-paid coaching staffs, usually won the inter-city games.
“I’m so glad I don’t go there,” Meredith said.
“Why don’t you?” Mollie asked.
“The arts programs are better at Bayside,” Meredith said. “I want to study either acting or art. Bayside’s a much better school for that.”
“I’m glad I don’t either,” Mollie said. “If we did, we’d be stuck-up jerks instead of the incredibly wonderful human beings we are today.”
Nick was passing the midpoint on Highland Drive, the San Macero Observatory, when Mollie saw Meredith looking in her rearview mirror.
“What is it?” Mollie asked.
“I’m not sure,” Meredith said. Mollie turned around to see only two bright headlights. The car behind them flashed its high beams, making it even harder to see what kind of car it was. Mollie guessed it was a low sports car.
“They don’t care if we know they’re following us,” Mollie said.
“What do I do?” Meredith asked. “If I speed up, I’ll pass Nick.”
“Just hold it steady.”
“Aaack!” Meredith screamed, as the car behind them pulled up and rode two feet off the Miata’s bumper. Meredith hit the accelerator. The convertible was quick, low, and hugged the road. Meredith steered into the curves with an expertise that told Mollie her friend had driven fast before.
“Any suggestions?” Meredith said, braking before overtaking the black Porsche.
“I’m thinking,” Mollie said. She looked behind her. Under a streetlamp, she saw that the car following them was white. “Maybe we should pull over and see what they want.”
“I don’t think so,” Meredith said.
“Maybe they just want to talk to us.”
“I have nothing to say,” Meredith said.
“Okay, pass Nick. We can find him later. I hope.”
Meredith swerved into the left-hand lane and passed the Porsche, while Mollie hid her face with her hand. The white car matched their moves, passing Nick at a dangerous curve in the road, nearly sideswiping an oncoming Volkswagen.
“Maybe Nick spotted us and called somebody on his car phone,” Meredith speculated. The way clear, she accelerated until the Miata’s speedometer read sixty, sixty-five, seventy, the road sweeping down off Mt. Casey to where it met Division, a half mile ahead. Mollie and Meredith had made nearly a full circle of town and found themselves approaching their high school.
“I didn’t see an antenna on his car anywhere,” Mollie said.
“I’m going to the police station,” Meredith said. “What am I talking about?” She handed Mollie the car phone. “Here, give them a call.”
“My dad doesn’t appreciate it when I get in high-speed chases,” Mollie said. The white car was gaining on them again. Meredith stepped on it. “Take a left on Division and slow down. I’ve got an idea.”
Meredith turned where Mollie suggested, Division, south of downtown, something of a strip where kids cruised up and down, looking for action.
“You wanna share it with me?” Meredith asked.
“Yeah,” Mollie said. “You remember those motorheads we were talking about earlier? They should be out in force. Up ahead,” she said, pointing to two pickup trucks parked side by side. “Slow down.” Mollie saw three boys in the nearest vehicle, a black truck with a rack of fog lights above the cab and tires usually found only on earth-moving equipment. Meredith started honking the horn.
“Hey boys—follow us—we’re wicked horny!” she shouted, leaning out the window.
She looked behind her and saw the black pickup turn its lights on.
“It worked,” Mollie said.
“Well, of course it worked,” Meredith said. “The sun will rise in the east tomorrow.”
“Slow down but don’t let the white car pass.”
Meredith decelerated. The white car began to pull alongside. Meredith veered left, cutting it off.
“I don’t like this,” she said, now doing thirty, twenty-five, twenty.…
“One more second,” Mollie said. “Okay, pull over to the curb.”
When Meredith slowed, the white car slowed with them. Suddenly the black truck cut in front of the white car, somebody’s arm waving a beer out the truck window. The white car moved over to the left-hand lane and drove on, as Mollie strained to catch a glimpse of whoever might be in it. Meredith panted to catch her breath, as they were descended upon by the boys from the black pickup truck.
“Hey, you scandalous chicks,” one with a baseball cap on backward said. “Let’s party.”
“Shut up, man—I caught ’em—I get to do the talking,” the driver said, pulling the boy with the backward cap aside roughly. Mollie recognized him. His name was Chucky Duva, and he was the school’s most repulsive juvenile delinquent, voted most likely to hit people for no reason. He was also Angela Carbajal’s boyfriend, at least when they weren’t busy cheating on each other. He leaned into the open window, looking from Meredith to Mollie and back again. “Bitchin’. Who said they were horny?”
“Leave us alone, Chucky,” Meredith said.
“You said …,” the third boy began.
“We weren’t talking to you,” Meredith told him.
“Excuse me,” Mollie interrupted. “What kind of truck do you drive?”
“It’s a Ford two-fifty,” Chucky said. “You want a ride?”
“A black Ford two-fifty,” Mollie said, turning so that Chucky could see she was speaking into the car phone. “We’re on Division, about a half mile from the high school. Here,” she said, handing the phone out the car window. “It’s the police; they want to talk with you. They’re on their way, but they want you to stay put.”
“Oh, man,” Chucky said, backing away. “You’re bluffing.”
“Try me,” Mollie said, shaking the phone at him.
“Come on, you guys,” Chucky said, leading his friends back to the truck. “They’re just a couple of teases anyway.”
“Whew,” Meredith said, once they were gone. “I don’t know what was worse, the guys in the white car or Chucky. Who was chasing us? Did you see?”
“I’m not sure,” Mollie said, “but I have a good guess.”
“You do? You saw them?”
“Briefly,” Mollie said. “Johnny and I saw them yesterday when we were looking through Nick’s apartment.”
CHAPTER 12
“They had guns?” Sherman said. “Guns? You had guns pointed at you and you didn’t tell us?”
They had met up at Artie’s, a teen hang at the southern end of Graceland. Graceland was an amusement park built at the turn of the century and, the joke went, painted faithfully every hundred years since then. It had a small, not terribly frightening, roller coaster, unless you took into account the maintenance men who worked on it; a haunted house that wasn’t; a fun house that wasn’t, either; an assortment of shake ‘n’ puke rides; and an old carousel with hand-carved and hand-painted horses. Artie’s was a pizza joint, Artois, but everybody called it Artie’s, just outside Graceland’s main gate. There was a picture on the wall inside Artie’s of the owner, Art Yeske, shaking hands with Elvis Presley, who’d visited back in the early fifties and who, it was rumored, had named his house in Memphis after the amusement park. The place was jamming. In the front corner booth Mollie saw Angela Carbajal, surrounded by all the girls who wanted to be like her and all the boys who wanted to be with her, or who wanted to be with the girls who wanted to be like her. Mollie thought it was an odd personality cult, though people who’d known Angela said it’d been like that since kindergarten.
“They didn’t exactly point them at us,” Mollie said. “They just held them, and then they put them away.”
“That’s so excellently cool,” Sherman said.
“And you think they were the ones in the car?” Roberta asked.
“I don’t know,” Mollie said. “I only saw them for a second, but I saw one thin, bald guy and one stockier guy with hair on top of his head. I mean, I think.”
“Maybe Janet was right,” Meredith said. “Maybe it is too dangerous. I mean, if people have guns …”
“What? Are you crazy?” Jaime said. “It’s just getting interesting.”
“I don’t see how they found us,” Mollie said. “Did you notice anybody following us when we left the house on Harrison?”
“I didn’t,” Roberta said. “But if they saw you, it wouldn’t be hard to figure out who you are. Maybe they followed you from Nick’s apartment. Maybe somebody’s been watching you all day.”
“That gives me a creepy feeling,” Mollie said.
“What are you talking about? We’ve been watching people all day, too,” Roberta said. “I believe in the Golden Rule: Do unto others what you wouldn’t mind them doing to you, so if you do it to them first, you got nothing to bitch about if they do it back.”
“But they were looking for Nick, too,” Mollie said. “I mean, I think they were, and we led them right to him. Why didn’t they ignore us and chase Nick?”
“It’s obvious,” Jaime said. “They don’t know what he looks like.”
“You’re probably right,” Mollie said.
“Well, we certainly have to be more careful from now on,” Meredith said.
“Don’t talk to Sherman and Jaime about being careful,” Roberta said.
“What do you mean?” Mollie inquired.
“They went inside,” Roberta said.
“They what?”
“At the house we were watching. They went inside. They got bored, so they decided to go see who lives in the house. I told them it was stupid, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“How’d you get in?” Mollie asked.
“We rang the doorbell,” Jaime said. “How else would we get in?”
“What’s the big deal?” Sherman asked.
“What’s the big deal?” Mollie asked Sherman. “What if Nick had come back and caught you there?”
“You would have called on the phone to warn us,” Sherman said. “Oh, that’s right. You lost him, didn’t you?”
“We didn’t lose him,” Mollie said. “I mean, okay, we lost him. Due to extenuating circumstances.”
