Tunnel Vision Page 4

  Betty took the flyer off the table and gave it another look. In addition to Old Croix Road there were a number of other smaller regional acts—Alkaline Trio, the Lawrence Arms, Mustard Plug, North Lincoln, Mixtapes, Hamilton, Walls of Jericho, Small Brown Bike, Smatch, and the Bounty Hunters were all listed as confirmed—but as Betty set the flyer down on the table she could already feel the excitement fading from her.

  There were more words at the top and bottom of the paper, but Betty was ignoring them. The only important information was that the concert was happening on May 15, one month to the day from then.

  “No way am I going to be able to go,” she lamented. “I’ll still be grounded, most likely, but even if I wasn’t, this is on a school night. Plus, even if your parents and the moms were cool, there’s still the matter of getting tickets. The Pyramid Scheme is small, June, and there’s no way a show like this won’t sell out instantly.”

  June shrugged and pulled two pink-and-white striped tickets from her pocket.

  “Maybe it will and maybe it won’t, and maybe we’ll have to sneak out and steal cars or rob a bank to go, but I’ve got fucking tickets!”

  “No.”

  June laid the proof on the table in front of her.

  “They went on sale today, Betty. Right when I got to the store. It’s basically a secret show, a benefit for some guy.” June pounded her hand on the table. “We have tickets, and we’re going, both of us. I don’t care if I’m grounded all of senior year, there’s no way I’m missing this, not for anything!”

  Ophelia and her rap music forgotten, both girls began to shriek and jump up and down in their seats. Betty could hear pounding on the stairs as Ophelia charged from her studio in the basement to discover the source of the disturbance, but she didn’t care. Somehow I’m going to this, even if June’s right and we are grounded for all of senior year. It would be a worthy sacrifice, and with luck, maybe even a bit of an adventure to boot.

  Ophelia rushing through the door to the basement didn’t ruin the moment, but it did temper the excitement. “Hello, June,” she said. “Betty, would you mind telling me why you have a guest when you’re grounded?”

  “It’s my fault, Mrs. Dranias,” said June perfectly and primly, and Betty could tell by the look on Ophelia’s face that she enjoyed the correct pronunciation of her oft-butchered name.

  “Fine,” said Ophelia. “You both can explain, then.”

  Betty and June shared a grin, and then got to talking.

  When they were done, Ophelia was frowning, and though they’d made a compelling argument, Betty knew that they’d failed. Even worse, they’d shown their hand; sneaking out would be impossible. Not only would her mothers be on alert that night, but they would also know exactly where to find her if she did leave.

  Telling Ophelia had been a mistake, but it had been an unavoidable one, and as painful as the situation was, Betty was glad that at least June could go.

  Betty and June watched as Ophelia snatched up the flyer, frowning at it with her perfectly sculpted face. As usual, she wasn’t wearing makeup, and not for the first time Betty wished that somehow she could have shared in some of that oh-so-fortunate DNA.

  As her mother pored over the flyer, Betty came to realize that it wasn’t the bands or the date that she was concentrating on, but something else, what appeared to be a name at the top of the flyer.

  “What does that say?” Betty asked the room, and while Ophelia stayed silent, June said, “It’s a benefit show for some guy named Duke Barnes. I guess he needs to be freed or something.”

  “June, you should go to this,” said Ophelia, “but I’m afraid that Betty will not be attending.”

  “Please, Mom? I’ll do anything,” said Betty.

  “Let it go, Betty,” said Ophelia. “This isn’t a fight to have, not right now.”

  SEVEN

  I walk into the park feeling like I own the place. I may as well—no one else does. Riverside is as much of a home as the place where I lay my head. I feel alive there. Maybe it’s the plants, or maybe it’s knowing where the bodies were planted. Hell, maybe it’s just Eyepatch. Riverside is his, too, ours in a way that only people who truly love a place can possess it. Four summers ago he was trading bullets while I ran with a scared and wounded little girl. I caught lead (that’s how these things can work), but so did the bad guys.

  I think about those days like they’re some faded flag, my personal mark of glory. I’ve done good things since then, but nothing like that, and all too often my hands come back bloody. I can deal with that, as long as I know that’s how it’s supposed to be, but at night when I’m alone, it can be tough to think about. Seriously, roll it over on your tongue: I’ve killed people. You’d think it would be easy, like it is on TV, but it’s not. Even killing bad people like Gary or Spider leaves a scar. Why do you think so many soldiers wind up jacked up? It’s not all black and white or singing songs around the old oak tree when there are bodies in your wake.

  The park is mostly empty. Kids are playing, and moms are on their phones ignoring them, the whole world aglow in the light of computers that can slip into a pocket. Hey, I’m not immune. I keep a phone, too, but I’m not married to it. I think we’re supposed to use them like tools, but instead they function more like a leash. When was the last time you saw someone leave a cell phone home on purpose and not make a big deal out of it? I know what I see when I watch a person with their nose in a phone while they drive a car or walk down the road: I see someone I can take advantage of. Not a civilian, but a pigeon, and usually a fat one that’s just waiting to be plucked.

  Today I’m meeting the woman I met on Twitter a few days back. I still have some reservations, but beggars can’t be choosers. All I want is a neck above water and a head below the radar. Fat chance of either one of those things happening, with the fire at the farm all over the news, and I’m just waiting to see cruisers pacing me on my bike.

  I see her as I cross in front of the playground equipment. She sounded older on the phone, and she looks rough, but I couldn’t care less. All I really care about is that she followed instructions, and unless there are two forty-year-old women walking Riverside Park wearing boots, a skirt, and a sweatshirt, it looks like she has.

  “How are you?” I ask as I walk up behind her, and she jumps. I honestly don’t make an effort to sneak up on people. It’s just that civilians are so oblivious. They think they’re safe no matter where they are, and then they wonder why bad things happen all the time. Watch your six, stay worried, and get ready to run. That’s how you stay safe. Leave the pistol work for the cowboys and the dudes in blue.

  “I’m fine, are you—”

  “Yeah, we talked on the phone. You’re Claire?” She nods, still looking a little shell-shocked over getting caught off guard, and I give her a little grin to help break the ice before we start the heavy lifting. “So what’s the trouble? I know you don’t want to talk to the law or we wouldn’t be here, so spill.”

  “I don’t want to talk to anyone about this,” says Claire, looking like she’s scared someone else is going to jump out at her on her blind side. It’s my fault. I got her blood pressure up, but still: she needs to learn to trust me if she wants me to work a job. After all, if there were someone coming, I’d be the first person to tell her to hit the deck.

  “I get that,” I say. “I hear it all the time, in fact. But telling me is like telling a priest or a doctor. My lips are sealed, and unlike a man of God, I get results.”

  “I’m worried about my daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “We . . . Our family has some skeletons in our closet, bad ones, and I’m terrified she’s going to get a look at them.”

  I nod, smile, and then lock eyes with her. “I need more than that.”

  She took a deep breath, then said, “There was a girl killed a few years ago,” the words coming out of her slower than cold toothpaste. “I don’t want my daughter to know anything about her.”

  “W
hat was her name?”

  “Mandy.”

  “Mandy Reasoner?” I ask, already shaking my head, and Claire nods in agreement, her words all spent for the moment.

  “Look, I’d love to help, Claire, but there’s a problem. I don’t know how Mandy Reasoner could have anything to do with your daughter, but no matter what, you’re asking me to handle something that already got handled, something in the past, and that’s not the way this world works. You don’t have the money to make me shut up everyone who might know about that case. There’s just no sense in trying to make the truth disappear.”

  “I know you can’t make what happened go away. I just don’t want her caught up in it.” Her eyes are glistening, and that soft part in my chest that I keep next to what’s left of my heart starts playing a little song.

  “Lady, I can do a lot, but I can’t put the paint back in the can. There’s always going to be a stain.” I shake my head. “I have to ask you, though. Why does it matter? What are you so worried she’s going to find out about Mandy Reasoner?”

  “They’re trying to get the man that killed her released, and I want my daughter to be safe.”

  “From the man who killed Mandy?”

  “From everybody.”

  None of it is making much sense, but we’ve at least drifted into an area where I can operate. “I can watch your daughter if you want,” I tell her. “Make sure she avoids trouble for the most part, but it’s going to be tricky. Duke might get released, and he might not, but even if he did, how would he even find her? And why would he even want to?”

  “Can you keep her safe, or not?”

  If people could just come out and tell me stuff, my job would be a lot easier. “I’m going to need to know what it is you think is going on, lady.”

  She closes her eyes for a few seconds, like I’m causing her physical pain, and then she opens them. “You’ve heard of her, so you must have heard about the people trying to set Duke free, right?”

  “Yeah, I know about that.”

  “What if they’re right? What if he really didn’t do it?”

  I’m beginning to wonder if it’s even possible for this woman to make sense. “Well, what if he didn’t? What’s that got to do with your daughter?” But before she can answer, something else occurs to me. “Claire, you need to be straight with me,” I say, leaning in close. “Do you know who killed Mandy?”

  “No. I’ve always assumed the court got it right, but now there are so many people saying he could still be out there—”

  I put up a hand, cutting her off. I need to just simplify this loopy job. “How many hours a day are we talking?”

  “My daughter is still in school, so not many,” says Claire. “Just enough to make sure she’s keeping her nose clean and stays safe. Whatever you can do to steer her away from this whole business, that’d be great. But it’s even more important to me that she stays safe.”

  I nod, try to look like I’m just considering taking the job, but I know the score even if she doesn’t. I need this job, I need the money, and I need to keep myself busy. Being lonely hurts, and most of the people I care about are never coming back.

  “I’ll do it,” I say, and she nods. She’s already opening her mouth, but then I tell her the terms and she stops nodding, starts frowning, but agrees to pay me. I’m getting a tenth of what I would have been paid even just a couple of years ago—I never would have guessed the economy would have crippled even a crook like me, but here we are—but she’s looking at me like I’m stealing from the church bowl. “I’ll need her name.”

  “Her name is June Derricks, and Mandy is her aunt,” says Claire and she hands over a picture of her daughter. All of a sudden, everything begins to make sense.

  “You know there’s no way you’ll be able to keep her from knowing about this forever, right?”

  “I just want her to be safe,” says Claire, and I nod.

  Secrets won’t stay buried forever, no matter how deep you make the hole. But safe? That’s something I can help with.

  EIGHT

  Betty spent her night buried behind a wall of studying and wondering. The paper was coming along swimmingly, but she couldn’t help but wonder what June’s mom would have to say about the show. Most likely just that June was allowed to go and little else.

  Betty wanted to ask Andrea about a possible reprieve when she got home, but the look on her mother’s face told her that Andrea was in no mood for hearing about a grounding violation, nor did she look like she wanted to discuss a punk rock show, even a really important one. Still, Betty did her best to maintain the goodwill that Ophelia had shown her, so she was talkative throughout the meal, ate her salad with gusto, and then cleared the table and did the dishes without being asked.

  Drying her hands with a kitchen towel as she returned to the dining room, Betty had been expecting some small amount of gratitude for the completion of the unrequested chores, but found the moms entirely focused on each other. Clearly they’d been talking, really talking. Instead of sticking around to hear if they were discussing her or one of the bleak tales that Andrea carried home from work, Betty scurried off to the safety of her room.

  Betty was buried deep in her homework when her phone rang around eight o’clock, the time of day where she tended to feel the most bruised by her school workload. Betty grabbed the iPhone and saw that it said “June Bug” across the caller ID.

  “What’s up?” Betty asked in the way of teenagers that don’t really care what’s up at all, but June’s voice surprised her. Unless Betty was mistaken, her friend was crying. “Hey, are you all right?” she asked, but hated the words as they came out of her mouth. If June was all right, she wouldn’t be crying, so why was she asking her best friend such a stupid question?

  “My mom is fucking crazy,” spat June. “I’m serious, Betty. Claire has officially flipped her shit.”

  “Calm down,” said Betty, “and try and talk more quietly. If Claire hears you calling her crazy, she’s going to go fucking nuts.”

  “No worries there,” said June. “Mother is at the bar, guaranteed. I showed her that flyer when I came home. At first she looked like she was going to pass out, and then she tore it up before I could even say anything.” June sniffled. “Thank God I didn’t show her the tickets. I mean, I get that my mom hates punk rock or whatever, but she’s always been cooler than this.”

  “Did you try and call your dad?”

  “Fuck him,” said June in response. “All he’d do is tell me that he was really busy, and that I should listen to my mother. My dad doesn’t care about me, Betty, he just cares about whatever piece of ass he’s chasing. That’s just how he is, and being mad about it is like getting angry at a dog for running after a car.” Another sniff. “It’s possible I stole that part from Claire.”

  “That’s OK,” said Betty, smiling at the small joke. She was jealous that June could be so tough, with all the bullshit she had to deal with, and blushed at the memory of her recent wish for some sort of struggle to deal with. She had it easy compared to June, really easy, and she was pretty sure being unable to appreciate it was making her a terrible person.

  “It’s not OK,” said June. “None of this is. I mean, no offense, Betty, but Ophelia saying no wasn’t even a surprise. I’m not in trouble—as far as Claire knows, I’ve been a little angel lately—so I just don’t get why this would make her freak out so badly. I mean, good lineup or not, it’s still just a dumb little punk show.”

  “I wouldn’t say it’s a little show,” said Betty, “but you’re right. Your mom flipping is really weird. She’s usually pretty cool about stuff like this. Like when she let you get your septum pierced. My moms would never go for that.”

  “You already have your nose pierced, septum isn’t any different,” said June. “Not like any of that even matters right now. Listen, Betty: I’m going to this show no matter what. Seriously. Senior year is less than six months away, I’ll be eighteen in less than a year, and the Pyramid Scheme
isn’t even in a bad part of town. There’s no reason that I can’t go to this stupid show, except for the fact that my mom is a crazy bitch.”

  “Maybe Claire just had a bad day at work,” Betty suggested. “Andrea looked like she got hit by a truck when she came home today. Sometimes with parents the timing is the problem, not the question.”

  “Seriously, Betty?” June asked, the sneer audible through the iPhone’s speaker. “I’m not a complete idiot, remember? Mom was in a fine mood until she saw that flyer, and—”

  “Wait. Remember what Ophy said? She was staring at that flyer like there was something wrong with it, but she wasn’t looking at the bands or the venue. She was looking at the name on it, remember? It said Duke something-or-other. Maybe there’s some weird shit with that guy that we just don’t know about.”

  “Maybe,” said June, “but it’s probably just my mom wanting me to be as miserable as she is.”

  “I don’t know. Ophy was superweird, remember? She knew something was up, guaranteed. If it had been Andrea, we’d already know—she’s not nearly the secret keeper Ophelia is.”

  “I think we just need to let this go,” said June. “I have to get back to my homework. No sense in getting grounded before I get in trouble for sneaking out.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” said Betty. “Hey, I had a question: Do you really think my situation with Jake makes me a bitch?”

  “Betty—”

  “I’m serious. I know you were joking around in gym, but I’m not talking about that. I’m asking for real. Am I a bitch for dating him when I know it’s going to turn out badly?”