Nickel Plated

  NICKEL PLATED

  NICKEL PLATED

  ARIC DAVIS

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright ©2010 Aric Davis

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by AmazonEncore

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN: 978-1-935597-32-2

  Dedicated to Sara Dobbrastine, Julie Hatch, and

  Jonel Hoogterp—strong women taken before their time.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Song at the End of the Show

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  She said that she needed help. I told her that Facebook chat was not the way to contact someone like me. (It was a dummy account, but still.) I gave her my pager number. When it buzzed a few seconds later, I grabbed my phone and plugged in cord number six, the Trans’ line. They don’t mind me using their landline because they don’t know. I dialed as quickly as the rotary dial would allow, and she answered on the first ring.

  “Hello?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Is this…”

  “Yes. No names on the phone. You know where Riverside Park is?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Meet me there, one hour. There’s a playground by a bridge, and you’ll know you’re in the right spot because there will be a man on a different bench with gray hair and an eyepatch. I’m not him, and he will not talk to you. I’ll be on a green bench across from him, by the swings. Come alone and wear a red top.”

  I put the phone back on the receiver and headed to my bedroom for a costume change. The house is a pit. Someday when I have time, I’ll get around to cleaning it. I don’t anticipate that day coming anytime soon. The place is perfect for me, a two-bedroom with an attached garage and a finished basement. I have an office in the larger of the two bedrooms, and the other one is where I sleep. To say I could use some furniture would be an understatement.

  To live like I do for very long you have to look the part out in the world, and today I needed to blend as smooth as a KitchenAid. It was weird to just get a contact out of nowhere; I usually get some kind of a heads-up about what to expect and who made the referral. She was a kid, though, I could tell that from just the few minutes on the phone, and kids have a funny way of finding me. I’m pretty sure it’s just the world’s way of reminding me that I owe a debt for Dad. Whoever the girl was, she either needed help or was setting me up. I don’t know that anyone is after me, but I’ve run enough angles that I’m sure there are a few people who’d love to get a face-to-face. I’ll die before I go back to any kind of foster care, and I’m not ready to start dying just yet.

  Like I said, job one in avoiding that is to fit in. That day that meant Levi’s and a shirt from Aéropostale. Kids today have no fashion sense, and believe me, if the costume weren’t necessary, it’s about the last thing I’d be caught wearing. Orphaned, short for my age, and red-headed, life has been cruel enough already.

  In another minute I was on the street, just another twelve-year-old on a mountain bike. It looked ratty, but it was a five-thousand-dollar machine that had been fine-tuned to look like the crap you might buy at Wal-Mart and leave in the yard a few times a week. The park wasn’t far, but I wanted to be early.

  Riverside Park is two entirely different places. At night it’s a circle of hell close to the inferno. A couple of years ago, there were dead prostitutes turning up like old relatives at Christmas dinner, and you wouldn’t see anybody in there after dusk. Daytime though, whole other story. Moms and babies and unsupervised kids running around in a manner that made me wish for stricter leash laws. When they finally busted the guy doing in the hookers, it was during the day. Nobody even batted an eye.

  I parked my bike and wrapped a chain around the frame to make it look like it was locked up. If I needed to go, I didn’t want to mess with undoing a lock; if it got stolen, I’d buy another one. Business expense. The bench I sat at was different than the one I told the girl about. It was a little bit away from the playground, but I could see over there just fine. I could see Eyepatch and the swings and everything else. Today I saw a teenage girl wearing a red sweater and a pair of jeans. I walked over to her and said, “Hey.”

  “Go away.”

  “This is a public park.”

  She was prettier than she’d sounded on the phone. Strawberry blonde with violent red highlights, pretty nice set of cans from what I could tell through the sweater. Hey, I’m twelve, not blind. I smiled and she scowled back.

  “I don’t care what it is; leave me alone.”

  “I thought you needed help.”

  Her mouth formed an O. I really couldn’t blame her for being surprised.

  “You’re Nickel?”

  “Yep. And you’re about a dime.”

  She blushed. Girls are all the same. “You’re just a kid.”

  “So are you. You’re what, fourteen?”

  She eyed me and then walked past me and sat down hard on one of the swings. I sat on the one next to her, letting my Converses drag in the wood chips. (Shirt and pants are one thing—I pick the kicks I want to wear.)

  “You’re just a kid. I heard you could help. When I asked around, like really asked, they said to ask for Nickel. Are you like his younger brother or something?”

  “Babe, I’ve got a lot of stuff I could be doing right now, and that’s not your fault, but if you don’t tell me what you want, I’m going to get working on some of it.”

  She looked sad, and I tried to look like I cared.

  “It’s my sister.”

  “What about her?”

  They always think I’m a mind reader. I’m not, but I’ll admit I’d do a good impression if somebody asked.

  “She’s missing.”

  “Runaway?”

  “I don’t think so, but that’s what my mom and dad think.”

  “How long has she been gone?”

  “Three days.”

  “They file her as a missing person?”

  “I think so.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Her name is Shelby. She’s eleven, a
nd the last time anybody saw her she was riding her bike to the library. She has green eyes, hair the same color as mine, without the red, and she’s about five feet tall.”

  “She have any issues with anybody?”

  “No. Who would have any real issues with an eleven-year-old?”

  I grimaced. This was a conversation this chick would not want to have with me. There were a pile of kids that age and younger that I knew of who’d died because somebody had issues with them—usually an adult, sometimes a kid their age, sometimes a kid younger.

  “Any pervs in your neighborhood?”

  “No. We live in Four Oaks.”

  “So they’d be rich pervs. You do a search for any?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Kids today.

  “Go to Google and type in ‘search for Michigan sex offenders.’ There’s a whole database for the ones who have gotten caught, and believe me, these sickos are too stuck thinking about what’s in their pants to worry about how risky getting what they think they need can be. I’ll look for you; give me your address.”

  “1138 Oakway.” She looked at me expectantly and then said, “Aren’t you going to write it down?”

  “If I needed to, I would.” So maybe I showed off a little—sue me.

  “Do you have a phone number I can call you at?”

  “Nope, the pager works just fine. You won’t need to anyways—I’ll find you.”

  I walked two steps from her and then turned back. “I never caught your name.”

  “Arrow. Like bow and arrow.”

  “All right, Arrow, nice to meet you. Like I said, I’ll be in touch.”

  I walked away from her, and away from my bike. I gave Eyepatch a wave, but he didn’t wave back. He never does. That’s okay—he’s here to relax just like everybody else. Doesn’t mean I can’t extend the courtesy. I heard a rumor once that Eyepatch used to be a lawyer, a prosecutor who got sick of all the crap that comes along with that line of work, and now he spends time here, feeding the birds. Fair enough. He gives off absolutely no perv vibes, and that’s all I care about, especially for a guy spending his days gazing out across a playground. Whatever wheels are turning in there, they don’t look like crazy ones to me, so he gets a wave.

  I looped around the outside of the park and didn’t catch any scent of being followed. Saw one weirdo sitting on a bench enjoying a hearty game of pocket pool. At least he was by the jogger’s track and not the playground. In fifteen minutes I was on my bike and ghosted.

  Chapter 2

  When I first ran away from foster care, I was eight. I had no idea what I was doing or where I would go. When I was ten, after being passed around like a thick joint in a frat house, I ended up with the Richardsons. Sam and Kathy. Sweet deal at first—they were just as nice as could be. The other two kids, Eleanor and Nicholas, were quiet, reserved all the time. At first I thought they just didn’t like me, so I kept away and stuck to myself. Like I said, it was a good gig. Hot, home-cooked meals, the house wasn’t overcrowded, and I had my own room! Believe me, I’d put up with worse than two kids who think they’re better than me just because they’ve been somewhere longer. Sometimes a lot worse.

  After being there a few months, I was as high on the hog as I can remember being since Dad died. I should have been seeing warning signs going off all around me, but I was just too comfortable to care. Dad had taught me better than that, and I owed him sharper eyes and ears than I showed during that time. When it all fell apart, it fell apart fast.

  Nicky cornered me one afternoon and told me that I was getting a girlfriend. I laughed, probably told him that he was stupid or gay or something. He just looked at me with these cold eyes, and I thought about how I’d never seen his or Eleanor’s rooms before, and about how when I was busy with my stuff, there was never anyone else around.

  When I woke up the next morning, I learned a lot.

  I was watching TV with Nick and Eleanor; I’m pretty sure it was a Simpsons rerun. In any case, Sam came into the house with a little girl in tow. She was Guatemalan, he said, and she was named Annette. Kathy was right behind them, smiling. She said it was time for the six of us to go to the basement.

  I’d been told since day one that I was not to go in the basement. I’d never even wondered about it, or about how we were homeschooled and how I hadn’t left the house since I’d walked into it in the first place. All these questions popped into my head at once as Sam made me hold hands with Annette and follow him down the stairs. I could hear the rest of them stomping behind me as we went to the basement.

  The basement was like no room I’d ever seen. Every corner seemed to hold something different. All I could think of was that it was like how I’d always imagined a movie set would be. There were bits and pieces of little worlds hung on hooks and on shelves all over the basement. I could see parts of an Arabian-looking desert area with a painted background, a living room that was a miniature of the one upstairs, complete with matching, albeit smaller, furniture. Parts from an auto mechanic’s shop, the chalkboard from a schoolroom, a mattress and box spring that matched the one in my bedroom, and a few more I can’t remember. At the center of it all, there was a video camera on a tripod. I do remember Kathy leaning down and asking me in a voice I’d never heard before where I wanted Annette’s and my date to be. I didn’t say anything. Sam pulled Annette away from me and started stripping off her clothing. Kathy was walking around the basement lighting candles, and Eleanor and Nick just stood there looking miserable. I could see from looking at them that they knew all too well what was going on. I could see that they’d been on a few dates too.

  What happened next was a mess, but it left me alive and on the run. I try and think of Nick and Eleanor every day. NickEl. I wish Annette had lived long enough to help us escape.

  Chapter 3

  When I got home, I parked the bike in the garage and went out back to water the garden. It truly is amazing how well marijuana is disguised by corn. I’ve never smoked the stuff, my crop or anybody else’s, but from what I hear I do a pretty good job at growing it. I turned the faucet on and let the little sprinklers I’d staked out take care of the rest. I waited for five minutes and thought about what Arrow had said. Nothing was even close to coming up, so I shut off the water and went inside. I plugged my pager into its charger and took the steps downstairs.

  My basement is unfinished, and I plan to keep it that way. It’s where I dry all the dope, and believe me, the stink from that needs to be contained. When I first started, you could smell the skunky reek a few doors down. I reevaluated and sold the lot of it for cheap, did some work with dryer exhaust systems, and planted a ton of Thai basil around them in the yard. No problem with odor ever since. I had about nine pounds drying; it was a slow summer, and I had a little bit of a bug issue. I moved some of it around so that the fans would get all the sides and went back up after I shut off the lights.

  I was hungry, so I made a couple of peanut butter and jellies, finished them quickly, put my pager in my pocket, and went back to the garage to get my bike. It was already getting cold. I looked at my watch—almost five. I shut the garage door behind me with the clicker and left.

  The post office is only about five minutes away, and I like to try and go every day. Someday I’ll get a car and everything will be that convenient, but I have four years to wait on that, and the last thing I need before that happens is to get pulled over for something dumb. I’ll set up the legit fake when I’m sixteen, through the mail and with a different name. I parked my bike, stuck it in the rack, and did my thing with the chain. I left the bike and walked inside, the doors opening for me like I was royalty. I wasn’t, just some dumb kid who needed a shower, and maybe a hug. I knew I’d be getting one of them soon enough and that the other one was a fair shot away.

  There was a line stretching right to the door of civilians holding packages and looking bored. I watched in a way that would make it hard to tell that I was watching, and when I didn’t see anybody i
nterested in some random kid, I went to the side lobby where the PO boxes are. I checked the area and then moved to my box as fast as I could without running. I took another good look around before I stuck my key in, emptied the box, and blew out of there. Three envelopes, no return addresses. Looked like payday came early. I took the chain off my bike, stuck the envelopes in my pocket with my pager, and rode around aimlessly for a while—stupid kid stuff. Sometimes that’s the easiest thing to forget, how to be what I’m supposed to be.

  I walked in through the garage, but I waited until I was in the house to open the envelopes. Two cashier’s checks for a grand each and one for eight hundred. Messrs. Hotforlove, Boy-Friend, and LookingtoLurn had all paid up. Not surprisingly, none had left a return address. Oh well, if I needed their names or addresses, I had them. If these guys would just think, even a little bit, life would be infinitely more affordable for them, certainly easier than getting scammed by me or tossed in the can and thrown to the wolves in general population. In any case, I put the checks in my office and stripped down to my boxers, and then I put on some pajama pants. Tried not to think about how most kids my age had a parent pick out pajama pants, maybe still called them pj’s. Mine were camouflage; I bought them at the army surplus store, and I’m pretty sure they’re just comfortable, and not pajamas.