Twenty-Six

We didn’t bother to scream for the longest time, although Mahoney did make one spirited attempt to wiggle his chair over toward the desk and dial the phone with his tongue. When that didn’t work, we sat and waited. I screamed once, but that was only because I hadn’t gone to the bathroom before they taped us to the chairs. When he found out why I was screaming, Mahoney gave it a try, but neither of our hearts was in it.

Lucky for us, Barry Dutton checks his voice mail on Saturdays, and two Midland Heights cops (with two New Brunswick cops along for the ride) found us in the room about an hour and a half after Stephanie and Legs had left. I told them what had happened, but even Mason Abrams (who also checked his messages, and had called Barry in the interim) couldn’t get the Feds to Newark Airport before whatever flight they had taken was long gone.

The cops cut us loose. I told them about the money in my jacket, that it was a bribe meant to keep us quiet, and they took it for evidence. I made sure it all went into a plastic bag, and was counted before it was marked. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d taken a dime.

It did make me wonder about Gail Rayburn, though. Here, someone had asked me to compromise my values, and offered me a good deal of money to do it. I had given serious thought to keeping my mouth shut about it, and Mahoney would have backed me up.

Ten grand is a lot of money in my neighborhood. But the thought of having ten thousand of Legs Gibson’s dollars paying for my son’s summer camp just didn’t feel right.

We got home about five, and Abby made both Mahoney and me tell the whole story out of the kids’ earshot. This was easy, since Ethan was in his room playing video games and Leah was at Melissa’s house, handing over E-LIZ-abeth, whom she decided scared Warren too much. Warren had, in fact, refused to walk into Leah’s room, causing her much mental anguish. So the lizard went to live across the street, with another of its own kind. Those worms didn’t stand a chance.

“You two really are a pair of detectives,” she said with great sarcasm. “If Ms. Cleavage and her husband hadn’t decided to let you live, I’d be explaining to the kids how their Daddy would not be coming home anymore.” She actually got a little moist in the eye at that suggestion, and she clenched her teeth with anger at our foolhardy actions. Then, being a Jewish woman, she began cooking. She started water boiling for pasta.

“We had a backup plan,” I said. “I was going to be so witty and charming that she’d fall in love with me and ditch Legs.”

“But she liked me better,” boasted Mahoney.

“Nice plan,” said my wife.

“What can I tell you, Abby?” I said. “I relied on my feelings. I never really thought that we were in danger. They were much more intent on showing us how superior they were than in killing us. And they’ve gotten everything they wanted.”

She thought about that. “Yeah, you and your keen sense of human nature,” Abby snarled. “You kept insisting Stephanie did-n’t kill her husband.”

“Well, she didn’t.”

“So she killed her brother-in-law. That’s a minor distinction,” said my wife. The water was close to boiling, and she started creating an Alfredo sauce that would cause me to expand by a belt notch or two.

“Actually, we never really did establish which one of them killed Lester,” I pointed out. “They were both there. They both knew the plan. It could have been either one of them.”

Abby turned and gave me a “give me a break” look. “You know perfectly well that Louis wasn’t strong enough mentally to do that to his brother. You know that it was Stephanie’s plan from the beginning. You know, deep down in your heart, that she killed Lester Gibson without so much as a second thought.”

“I don’t know that at all,” I said. Off her look, I added, “I might suspect it. . .”

While Mahoney called his wife, Abby started the pasta in the water and finished the sauce. I sidled up to her while she was stirring something, and put my arm around her waist.

“You really do love me as much as I love you, don’t you?” I said.

She turned and studied my face. “Of course I do, you idiot,” she said, and we fell together into a very enjoyable embrace, which was spoiled by a lump digging into my left side. Abby looked at me strangely, until I removed the tape recorder from my inside jacket pocket.

“Did you have that on the whole time they were telling you about their evil scheme?” my wife asked, amazed at my deviousness.

“Naturally,” I said. “If I got shot, I wanted you to hear about how I wasn’t interested in sleeping with Stephanie.”

“You know,” she said, “while you were out, I finished reading your script.”

“No kidding.”

“No, no kidding,” said my wife.

“And?”

“And, it’s very good.” Ah, the moment I live for.

Mahoney didn’t want to stay for dinner, so I had twice as much fettuccine Alfredo as I should have, but that didn’t seem very important at the time. I spent most of dinner gazing at my wife and children, and wondering how I could have been stupid enough to put my life on the line for a measly ten grand.

That said, I still had the five thousand words to write on Legs and how he hadn’t actually been murdered, but had instead killed his brother and stolen his toupee, committing crimes against both society and good taste. After the kids went to bed, which was quite late, I started writing.

I won’t bore you with all five thousand words (and besides, you should pick up a copy of Snapdragon and read all about it), but it began:

By Aaron Tucker

Everyone was agreed on one thing: Louis Gibson was an asshole.

The problem is: the use of the word “was” in that last sentence is premature. The fact is, Louis Gibson is still an ass-hole, a living, breathing one, and he is in all likelihood enjoying himself immensely on an exclusive nude beach as you read this, spending some of the thirteen million dollars he stole from private citizens right before he killed his own brother and robbed him of his toupee.

See? He really is an asshole.

I went on to explain the whole sick, twisted tale, in the most journalistic of terms. Included were interviews with Stephanie and Legs, Cherie Braxton, Louise, Junior and Jason, Mason Abrams (although he was quoted as “police sources” only) and Madeline Crosby. I left out Estéban Suarez, because it occurred to me he’d think the whole piece was about him. I wrote well into the night, then emailed the whole piece to Lydia at Snapdragon and waited.

The next morning, which was Sunday, I slept in for a change. When I woke up, after ten, the house was in full swing. Abby had made waffles for the kids, as she does every Sunday morning, and the dog had already been walked, after the rug in my office was cleaned up of Warren’s nocturnal activities. Leah was already at Melissa’s house and Ethan was deep into the latest episode of Butt Ugly Martians, a cartoon show aimed directly between his eyes.

From behind, I embraced my wife, who was still at the stove, and she turned to kiss me, still happy that I wasn’t, in truth, dead. I looked at the stove, where she was making pancakes.

“Are those for me?” I asked.

Abby nodded. “I thought you might like a special breakfast after you worked so hard on this story.”

“I am hopelessly in love with you,” I said.

“Don’t be,” she answered. “Be hopefully in love with me.” I got myself a plate and she actually flipped two pancakes onto it for me. I got the syrup and what passes for butter in my house (some concoction made with yogurt, it doesn’t taste half bad) from the refrigerator, then sat down and took a bite.

“Mmmmm,” I appreciated. “You make a mean pancake, my love.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to make a kinder one next time.”

“Someday I must pay for you to take a course in receiving a compliment,” I suggested. “You know what I mean. These are terrific.”

“Thank you.”

“You have a secret ingredient, don’t you? There’s something in here even the International House of Pancakes hasn’t thought of yet, isn’t there?” “That, my friend, is none of your business.” Just to be funny, she said it “busy-ness.”

I stopped in mid-forkful. That was it. The way the word “business” was pronounced—I knew I’d heard it before. I stood up and kissed Abby again.

“What’s that all about?” she asked. “Sit down and eat before they get cold.”

I did, because they were really good pancakes. “I have to go out right after breakfast,” I said. “Do we need anything?”

“Milk,” she said.

“Perfect,” I answered.

A half hour later, I was walking through the front door of the Kwik ‘N EZ. I strode in, went directly to the refrigerated cases where the milk is kept, and sought out the no-growth-hormone one-percent. Knowing the way the Kwik ‘N EZ operates, I reached far back onto the shelf to get a newer gallon, and sure enough, came up with one whose expiration date was six days after the one at the front of the shelf.

Feeling chipper, I also picked up a Nestle Crunch bar for Leah, a package of Oreos for Ethan, and a copy of Rolling Stone for myself. Abigail couldn’t possibly want anything they sold at the Kwik ‘N EZ, so I got her a pack of Devil Dogs.

Mr. Rebinow was at the counter, but tried to pass me off to his associate, a younger man with blond highlights and a baseball cap bearing the logo of no team I’d ever encountered. I shook my head when he came over to take my order.

“No,” I said. “Only Mr. Rebinow can help me.” The young man looked confused, and turned to Mr. Rebinow. There was no one else in the store. Rebinow shrugged, and walked over to the cash register.

“Go check the stock on the Ring Dings,” he told the younger man. “I think we’re low.” The younger man seemed about to dispute that claim, but saw the look on his boss’ face, and decided to do exactly as he was told.

“I see you’ve given up on the stink bombs,” I said, pointing to the spot on the counter where the offending items used to dwell.

He decided to play indifferent. “Too many complaints from the parents,” he said. “My sales in milk and bread started suffering. It wasn’t worth it. Now, what do you want?”

“It was you,” I said. “You were the one who was making the phone calls, and you were the one who threw the rock through my front window.”

“You’re crazy.” But he was already sweating.

“No, I’m not. You said the same thing on the phone that you said that day in the store. Except in the store, you said, ‘that’s their bus-i-ness,’ three syllables, and on the phone you said, ‘it’s none of your bus-i-ness,’ the same way. I always remember things like that, and you’re the only person I know who pronounces the word like that.”

Mr. Rebinow stared at me for close to a half minute. In his eyes, you could see him consider any number of possible responses, and discard them all. Again, he decided that nonchalance was the way to go.

“So?” he asked. “You ruined my business for two days, and I broke a window. So what?”

“What I did falls into the area of a prank, and what you did falls into the area of terroristic threats, destruction of property and, if I want to get nasty, attempted assault. Another five feet to the left, and you’d have beaned me with that rock.”

“Oh, bullshit,” he said. “I waited for the lights to go out before I threw the rock.”

I pulled the tape recorder out of my jacket pocket, and he turned a little green. He didn’t know I hadn’t turned it on.

“Now I’ve got you on tape confessing to the act, Rebinow. So it’s time for us to start talking about how to solve this problem.”

Mr. Rebinow’s eyes darted back and forth a few times from the cassette recorder to my eyes, to the counter, to the front door, to the window. He had no idea how to respond, and being too cool for his own good wasn’t working. So he started to cry.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just. . . I was so mad when the cops wouldn’t do anything to you, and I just wanted to scare you. And then, when I was going to stop, you started coming in here again, and I thought you knew I’d been doing it.”

“We can work it out,” I said, inadvertently quoting the Beatles. “We can reach an agreement that satisfies everybody and we don’t have to involve the police at all.”

“How?” he asked, eyes wide.

“The first thing we’re going to do,” I said, “is get in touch with a sign painter.”