TRIXIE TOLD ME THE LOCATION -Pluto’s, an Oakwood diner that featured neither delisted planets nor Disney characters in its décor-before I could voice my objections. By the time I was able to get the words “Trixie, there’s no way” out of my mouth, she’d hung up. I called back but she didn’t answer, so I left a message: “Trixie, I can’t meet you and this Benson guy. Maybe if you gave me some idea why this has freaked you out so, I could help you with some sort of alternative, but I can’t talk a fellow reporter out of-Oh fuck, just call me back.”
Paul had come back downstairs and was in the kitchen, looking in the fridge for something to snack on. “I heard you saying to Mom the other day that we swear too much. Like, look in the mirror, Dad.” He found a processed-cheese slice, peeled the cellophane wrapper off, folded it in half, downed it in two bites, walked out.
Trixie did not call back. Not during dinner, not that entire evening. I left two more messages asking her to call.
So I had to decide whether she’d gone out and wasn’t there to take my calls, or was ignoring me. She likely had caller ID, so I placed one call using Paul’s cell phone, which he’d left on the table by the front door, and still she didn’t answer, which convinced me that she wasn’t home. I only hoped Paul didn’t hit Redial and find himself connected with a dominatrix.
After dinner, while we were clearing the table, Sarah said, “So what, exactly, did Trixie want today? You said something at work about journalistic ethics?”
I shrugged, like it was no big deal, doing my best to cover the fact that Trixie’s actions were very much on my mind. “Oh, there’s some reporter, for the Suburban, wants to do a story on her, and she was asking my advice.”
“What kind of story? About what she does for a living?”
“I guess. Kink in the burbs, that kind of thing.”
“So what was she asking you? Whether to do it or not?”
“Yeah, sort of. I think she’s a bit uncomfortable with it.”
Sarah snorted. “Well, considering that what she does is, to the best of my knowledge, against the law, I can see that.”
“Anyway,” I said, wanting to move on, “it’s her decision. Whatever she wants to do, doesn’t matter to me.”
Sarah gave me a look. “She’s not dragging you into some sort of trouble, is she?”
“Trouble? Are you kidding? Do I look like someone who needs any more trouble? Haven’t I had enough trouble lately?”
“You haven’t forgotten your promise, have you?” Sarah said.
“Promise?”
“The one you made? Just a few days ago? When you got back from your dad’s place? That you weren’t going to get into any of these ridiculous messes again? Where you end up, Jesus Christ almighty, where you end up nearly getting yourself killed?”
I finished drying off a dish and threw the dish towel over my shoulder and turned and held Sarah by the shoulders. “The last thing in the world I want to do is get into any more situations where I, or anyone in this family, is put at risk. If anyone understands how unsuited I am to that sort of thing, to taking on the frickin’ forces of evil, believe me, it’s me.”
Sarah eyed me warily before slipping her arms around me. She rested her head on my chest. “Okay,” she said. Then, more softly, “Okay.”
I tried Trixie again in the morning, from my desk at the Metropolitan. She picked up.
“I tried to get you last night,” I said. “You weren’t answering.”
“I was out. And besides, if I can’t risk clients coming to the house, what’s the point of answering the phone? Why? Everything okay?”
“I can’t make it today. I can’t meet with you and Martin Benson.”
“But Zack, it’s already set up. How’s it going to look if you’re a no-show? Isn’t that going to make him even more suspicious?”
“You’ve told him I’m coming? That I, personally, am going to be there?”
“I sort of hinted that there might be a surprise guest,” Trixie said. I didn’t say anything for a moment, so Trixie continued, “Zack, I know I’m putting you in a bit of a bind here, no pun intended, but this is really important to me. Remember that night you came to me, with that ledger in hand, asking me to figure it out while those nutcases were hunting you down?”
“I remember,” I said.
“So I’m calling in a favor. Just talk to the guy. Look, Zack, there’s more at stake here than you realize.”
“I wish you’d tell me.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “I wish I could. Maybe, sometime, I can. But for now, I’m asking you to take this on faith.”
I swallowed. Shit. “I’ll be there,” I said, and hung up.
“You’ll be where?”
I looked over my shoulder. Sarah. “What?” I said.
“You got something on the go? Because I was just going to give you something.” She was standing there with a piece of paper in her hand.
“Sure, what is it?”
“But if you’ve got another story, I can hand this off to someone else.”
“No, no, let me have it.”
“Okay, well, it’s just some city hall budget thing. The bureau’s a bit short-staffed this week, so we’re helping out. It’s about the proposed Windsor Street bridge project over Mackenzie Creek. The way it is now, you have to go all the way down to Broad, or up to Milner, and the neighborhood has been asking for a bridge for years and every year when they prepare the budget the money gets put in but at the last minute gets taken out.”
“Yeah sure, I can do that.” I took the sheet from her that had some contact numbers on it and an earlier story someone at the city hall bureau had done.
“What’s the other thing you got?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, just someone calling about a Star Trek convention. There’s going to be one here, next spring, they wanted to send me some stuff on it, because of my books. That guy, the one who played Picard’s nemesis, Q? That guy? I think he’s coming, they want to know if we’re going to want to interview him.”
“Okay,” Sarah said. “You just better check with Entertainment. They find out you’re interviewing some TV star, they’re going to have a shit fit.” She glanced up at one of the many wall clocks, all set at different times depending on the world locale they were supposed to represent. It was midafternoon in London. It would be nice to be there, hanging out in some pub, right about now. “I’ve got to go to the morning meeting. You know how Magnuson is when you show up late at these things.”
“How’s the foreign editor thing going?”
“Interview’s in a couple of days,” Sarah said. “Tonight you can drill me on the difference between Shiites and Sunnis. I don’t think I understand it any better than Bush does.”
“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. I wasn’t a particularly good liar, and I was afraid she wouldn’t buy the Star Trek thing. But it helped that she had a lot on her mind.
I could make some calls on the bridge story, get the interviews done, I figured, before heading out to Oakwood.
A couple of hours later, I slipped out of the office, got in our Virtue, a hybrid car that I’d bought in a police auction a couple of years ago, and did the twenty-minute drive out of downtown to the suburbs of Oakwood. I headed south off the highway, toward the lake, and found a parking spot along the main street, just down from Pluto’s.
Pluto’s, while ignoring the solar system and animated characters, is done up with enough fifties-style kitsch on the walls that you’re supposed to think the place has been around the last forty years. The only problem with that is, in a suburban community like Oakwood, nothing’s that old. So you plaster the walls with Elvis movie posters, put in a jukebox that doesn’t actually work, and line the window ledges with antique Grape Nehi, and no one’s the wiser.
But I seemed to recall that they made a pretty decent breakfast of eggs and sausages, and a respectable turkey club at lunchtime, and by the time I arrived I was ready for something to eat.
The place wasn’t that busy, and I quickly scanned the tables. I didn’t see any sign of Trixie, but there was a guy sitting in a booth by the window who looked remotely like the logo shot that went with Martin Benson’s column in the Suburban, so I tentatively approached. He was probably in his early forties, balding, thirty or forty pounds overweight, wearing a sports jacket that was just slightly too small for him.
When I hesitated by his table, he looked at me, his face apprehensive, almost fearful.
“Martin Benson?” I said.
He nodded, attempted to stand, but he was caught under the table and could only manage to get halfway up. “Yeah,” he said, extending a hand. I shook it. It was damp.
“Zack Walker,” I said, letting go of his hand and sliding in across from him.
“Why does that name ring a bell?” he asked cautiously, settling back into the booth.
I smiled. “I, uh, I’ve written a few sci-fi books. And my byline runs occasionally in the Metropolitan. I write features, stuff like that, but not a column. I don’t get a head shot in the paper like you do.”
Benson nodded. “That’s where I’ve seen the name. In the paper. I don’t read science fiction. Mostly I read literary fiction.”
I just smiled.
“So,” he said. “Where’s Ms. Snelling?”
“I guess she’ll be here any time now,” I said. “Why don’t we get some coffee while we wait.” I signaled the waitress, asked for two coffees. “Have you had the turkey club here? It’s good, lots of real, roasted turkey, not that processed stuff.”
Benson nodded again. “I was worried you might be some sort of tough guy. You know, scare me into backing off my story.”
I laughed nervously. “If there’s anything I’m not, it’s a tough guy.”
“But you do want me to back off the story, right?” He leaned a little closer across the table. “That’s why you’re here.”
“No, no,” I protested as two porcelain mugs of coffee were placed in front of us. “Of course not.” I looked around, checking the front door of Pluto’s. “Where the hell is she?” I glanced at my watch. Trixie was seven minutes late. Why was she seven minutes late to her own meeting?
“So what’s your connection to Ms. Snelling, then?” Benson asked. “You a relative? She a friend? Or,” and he paused a moment here, “are you a client?”
I nearly spat out a mouthful of coffee. “No, gosh no, we’re just, we used to be, this was a couple of years ago, we were neighbors. We-that’s me and the family-lived a couple of doors down, but we’ve moved back downtown since then. You might have heard about what happened, there was a bit of a kerfuffle.”
“No,” said Benson. “I only got to the Suburban a year ago. Came here from Buffalo.”
“Oh yeah, wings,” I said. “Love those wings.”
Martin Benson stared, thrilled that his former home was reduced to an appetizer.
He said, “You do know what she does for a living.”
I hesitated. “What is it you think she does for a living?”
“I think she runs a sex business. I think she’s a hooker, a very high-end hooker that caters to very specific tastes.”
“I certainly wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Then why did you nearly choke on your coffee when I asked whether you were one of her clients?”
“Look, I, I’m pretty sure Ms. Snelling-where the hell is she, anyway?-is not a prostitute. She does not have sexual relations with her customers.”
“Where have I heard that phrase before?” Benson asked. “When I asked whether you were a relative or a friend or a client, I forgot one. Are you her pimp?”
I guess my jaw dropped, and I stared at him in openmouthed astonishment for a moment, before I had the sense to close it. Twice I started to say something, and each time, a chuckle got in the way. “You have no idea,” I said, “how totally ridiculous that comment is.”
“Is it? Then you tell me, why are you here?”
“First of all, let’s go back to this hooker thing. Far as I know, Trixie-Ms. Snelling-does not offer sexual services. But you know what, you’d be better asking her about that yourself once she gets here.”
The waitress had reappeared, notepad at the ready. “You gentlemen ready to order?” she asked.
“We’re still waiting for someone,” I said. She nodded and withdrew.
Now Benson was looking at his own watch. “Pretty late.”
“I’m sure she’ll be along any-” The cell phone in my jacket pocket rang and vibrated. “Hang on,” I said, taking out the phone and flipping it open. “Hello?”
“How’s it going?” Trixie asked.
“Where the hell are you?” I said. Benson’s eyebrows went up. “We’re here, in Pluto’s, waiting.”
“Yeah, I know. I watched you go in. I’m parked up the street, reading your newspaper.”
I couldn’t stop myself from looking out the window, which, of course, tipped Benson off to do the same.
“How long have you been there?” I asked.
“I don’t know, half hour maybe. Have you steered him off this thing yet?”
“Trixie, we were sort of waiting for you.”
“I won’t be able to make it,” she said. “You know what that fat fucker will do, soon as I walk in or sit down, he’s going to take my picture. Why do you think he showed up? He wants a nice shot to run with his story.”
I slid out of the booth, held up an index finger to Benson to indicate I’d be back in one minute, and moved a few booths away before I continued my conversation.
“He thinks I’m your fucking pimp,” I said.
Trixie laughed. “Now that’s rich.”
“Look, I came out here for a meeting, a meeting that I thought you were going to attend. You don’t show. Trixie, you’re my friend, but you’re fucking me around.”
“Okay, go back and tell him I’ll come in if he gives you his camera phone.”
“Jesus, what if he says he hasn’t got it on him? Do you want me to frisk him?” Trixie was quiet. Finally, I said, “I’ll see what I can do. Call me back in five.”
I slid back into the booth. “That was Ms. Snelling,” I said. “She’s, she’s afraid that if she comes in here, you’re going to take her picture.”
Benson said nothing.
“So. I think she’d be willing to come in if you let me hold on to your camera phone while she joins us.”
Benson ran his tongue over his lips. “So let me see if I understand this. You, a reporter for the Metropolitan, want to take from me, a reporter for the Suburban, my camera phone, in case I want to use it to do my job. Is that what’s going on?”
I had to admit that it sounded bad when he put it that way.
“You know what?” Benson said. “You fucking reporters, you work for these big fucking dailies, you have no respect for what a guy like me does for a smaller paper like the Suburban. You think we’re some kind of joke, don’t you? That we just exist to wrap around a bunch of advertising flyers, that we don’t care about journalism, that we don’t care about what we do.”
I said nothing.
“Well, I may work for a small neighborhood rag, Mr. Walker, but when I hear that a woman is running some sort of sex dungeon in the middle of our community, I think that’s a story, and I’m not going to let some smartass hot-shit city writer try to warn me off it.”
“What have I said?” I said. “Have I threatened you? Have I tried to get you off this story?”
“Here’s what I don’t get. Why aren’t you writing about Trixie Snelling? Any reporter worth his salt would be taking a run at this.”
“She’s a friend,” I said. “She-”
Benson pushed his coffee cup aside. “We’re done here,” he said, shifting his weight across the seat and getting out. “See ya later.”
My cell rang as he walked out the door. I reached into my pocket, flipped it open.
“Zack,” Trixie said, “I’m reading this story of yours in the paper, about these guys trying to get the cops to buy stun guns. Jesus Christ, Zack, do you have any idea who these guys are?”
“Trixie,” I said, “I don’t give a rat’s ass who they are. The meeting here is finished. Benson’s walked out. You set me up. Thanks a fuck of a lot.” I slapped the phone shut and went back downtown.
One day he went too far.
Miranda was in the kitchen, making an after-school snack. It hadn’t been a good day. The guidance counselor wanted a word with her. Brought her in for a meeting. He said he’d tried to reach her mother, to discuss her school performance, but wasn’t having any luck when he phoned the house.
Miranda thought, Good luck. Mom’s there, but she’s probably watching Family Feud and getting smashed.
“Then I tried calling your father at work,” he said.
Oh no, Miranda thought.
“And he was very helpful. Good to talk to. Says you just haven’t been pulling your weight. He knows you could do better if you just put in some effort. You stand to lose your year,” the guidance counselor told her. “You’re failing all of your subjects, with the exception of math. You’re a natural at math. Why can’t you bring that sort of effort to your other subjects, huh, Miranda? What’s the problem? Is it drugs? Are you getting into drugs, Miranda?”
No, she wanted to tell him. My mom’s a drunk and my dad wants to get into my pants. And you think I should give a flying fuck about how I’m doing at school?
Except for math. I like numbers, Miranda thought. At least there’s some order there. Some predictability. You don’t wake up someday and find out that somebody decided fuck it, we’re making two plus two equal five.
So she went home, dumped her backpack at the door, opened the cupboard and looked for something to eat. Her mother was sitting in the living room, a Camel in one hand and a scotch in the other, watching One Miserable Life to Live or As the Fucking World Turns. Didn’t say anything when Miranda came in the door. It was nothing short of a miracle that there was some peanut butter. The Wonder bread was probably a week old, but Miranda managed to find a slice or two without green spots on them, and dropped them into the toaster.
That’s when he came in the door. He was early. He didn’t usually get home from the plant until after six.
“Well, look who’s here,” he said. “I got a call about you today.”
Miranda ignored him, stared at the toaster, watched the tiny elements inside glow red as they browned her slices of stale, white bread.
“Your guidance counselor says you’re flunking everything except math. Here’s what I don’t get. Why do you even try at math? Why don’t you be a total fuckup, instead of a 95 percent fuckup? It’s like you can’t even get that right.”
No wonder he was angry. She’d been blocking her door with a chair every night for weeks. Sometimes, during the day, he’d take the chair out, and she’d have to find one and take it to her room right before bedtime.
“Hey,” he said, slapping her ass, but not too hard, so it was almost a pat. “I’m talking to you here.”
She didn’t know she was going to do it. It just happened. She doesn’t even know how she had the presence of mind to first yank the plug from the wall. But once she’d done that, she reached her fingers into the two slots of the toaster. Her fingers would have been burned worse than they were had the two slices of bread not been there. She jammed her fingers in, almost like it was a rectangular bowling ball, and came around swinging.
Swinging hard.
The toaster caught him just above the right eye, and the connection of metal against bone made a hell of a noise. The move was so unexpected, so out of the blue, he didn’t have time to bring his arms up, but he had them up when she came at him a second time. The toaster bounced off his arm, and Miranda was thrown slightly off balance, staggered up against the counter.
The blood was pouring out of her father’s head and through his fingers as he put his hand up to the wound.
“Jesus!” he shouted, staggering back himself. “Jesus!”
Miranda’s mother came into the room, looked at her husband, at the bloody toaster still in her daughter’s hand, and shouted, “He’s your father! How dare you! This man is your father!”
She ran out of the kitchen. She ran out of the house. She didn’t even have time to pack her things in a paper bag.