Devil's Plaything (12 page)

I
t takes a second to realize the flames are shooting up from a Porta Potti.

The street is empty. But it won't be for long. People will come to gather and talk. The fire department will be called, and the cops.

“We can't afford to get embroiled in this, Lane.”

No response.

What to make of this attack? It seems obvious the cops want to punish me for my story. But this also seems risky for them.

Regardless, I can't afford to pick a fight. Doing so might come at a serious cost. Adrianna admonished me not to go to the police; so did Chuck. He said that it was someone in the force who had called me anonymously.

“May I make a pun, Grandma?”

“I hate puns.”

“It's a warning shot across our bowels.”

“I'd like orange juice, Nathaniel.”

I look at Grandma. I can't risk that they'll separate us, or take her from me. But they can't catch me by phone.

From my wallet, I retrieve the business card and number for Officer Everly, the cop from the park. “Everly,” he answers.

“Idle.”

“Nat Idle?”

“You haven't called me back,” I say. “I'm wondering if you've got any more information about what happened in the park.”

“Where are you?”

“Respectfully, what difference does that make?”

“Your reception is bad.”

“Have you learned anything?”

“Want to come down to the station and talk about it? I'm at the Taravel branch. I'm here until seven tonight.”

“Prior commitment,” I say. “What have you got?”

“Some but not much. We found shell casings in the park. Automatic weapon, something nasty. We're looking for a match.”

Automatic weapon. I tell Everly about the drive-by shooting, but not about Chuck.

He asks me for a thorough recounting.

When I finish, he says: “Mr. Idle, you should come down so we can talk about it. Honestly, you're never safer than in a police station.”

“What do automatic shell casings look like?”

“Do you have some? Bring them to the station and we'll compare.”

“Rain check.”

“Would you prefer if I meet you somewhere?”

“Busy day. Can you call me if you make any progress on your end?”

He accedes to the idea. We hang up.

“Grandma?”

“That's my name. Don't wear it out.” She smiles.

“Want to hang out with people who most certainly won't threaten us in any way?”

“I'd like that.”

We're a few blocks from the Pastime Bar—and my confidants Samantha and Bullseye.

I'm particularly interested in getting Bullseye's technical expertise; can he help me access the encrypted file on the computer thumb drive I've been sent by Lulu Adrianna Pederson?

I pull a U-turn. My phone rings. It's Pauline.

“Thirsty?” she says.

“I usually begin with ‘hello,' ” I respond.

She laughs.

“I like to get right to the point,” she says.

“And the point is?”

“Martinis. Remember, we planned to drink together and solve the world's problems. And we can celebrate.”

“Celebrate?”

“Indictments in the Porta Potti case.”

She tells me that the Attorney General nailed a police lieutenant as the ringmaster.

The Case of the Flaming Potty, cracked.

“I'll write the blog post myself,” she says. “Or you write and I'll give you a backrub and edit your grammar from over your shoulder.”

Before I can tell Pauline I won't be able to make it, she reminds me that she's staying the night at her downtown loft. She's made appetizers.

“After a few drinks, you won't believe the view in this place. I'll have you swooning.”

“As I recall, the views are pretty nice sober.”

“So I'll see you soon—an hour?”

I look at Grandma.

“No can do. I'm babysitting.”

I hear a moment of silence.

“Whose baby?”

“My grandmother,” I say.

I explain that I've given Grandma a break from the home, and am taking care of her tonight.

“So,” Pauline says.

“So?”

“She doesn't like vodka?”

I laugh.

“Her bedtime is eight, and she's already starting to snooze.”

Pauline sighs.

“It would be nice to catch up,” she says.

“I'll drink you under a table soon.”

We hang up.

I pull up to the Pastime Bar.

“Harry, will you hand me a blanket?”

After a seasonably warm day, the weather is poised for its seasonable evening turn. And Lane thinks I'm Harry.

I turn on the car's iffy heat.

“What you need is a costume. I'm seeing you as Cat Woman, with a warm, flowing cape to go with your karate chops.”

“What?”

“It's Halloween tomorrow, Grandma Lane.”

No response.

“Good time for a fruit roll-up.” I reach into my backpack and pull out a cherry-flavored snack. I tear it in half and we share.

I'm struck by the challenging logistics of such a simple maneuver as going into the bar with Lane. I really need to talk to Sam and Bullseye and process, not caregive. She's doubtless tired of the action and wouldn't mind sitting quietly by herself. But I can't leave her. I don't want to leave her here; I want her in my sight and comfortable. Is this what it's like to have a baby?

I call Pauline.

“Do you have a comfortable couch?” I ask.

“I thought you were babysitting your grandmother.”

“The couch is for her. I'll take a bar stool. I'm thirsty.”

She's quiet for a moment.

“I can roll with that.”

“See you in an hour.”

We hang up.

Grandma opens her eyes.

I look at her, square.

“Are you flirting with someone?” she asks.

I feel my face redden. “Lane, it's time for you to see the Witch.”

The Pastime Bar, aptly named, keeps a jukebox in the corner that looks like it belongs in a 1950s diner and with music from the same era. Cracks line the red bar stools. The wooden tables and chairs, scarred with scuffs from beer mugs and the occasional knife etching, wouldn't sell on Craigslist, at any price.

As Lane and I walk in, the old jukebox rattles with a Buddy Holly song, skipping every few beats.

In the corner of the bar, right where they spend most of their nights, sit Bullseye and Samantha, an odder couple than if Felix had gotten a sex change and married Oscar.

Bullseye, so named because he once recklessly threw a dart and hit a waitress, is a master logician, a former Chevron gas station owner who made enough to retire early and spend his time with his avocations: math, puzzles, baseball statistics, and computers—and speaking as little as possible to make his point. His capacity to focus on facts and figures at the expense of social niceties probably borders on a neurological condition. He is most animated when he's behind the wheel of his meticulously restored '72 Cadillac, fins in the back, dice hanging from the front mirror, fully functional eight-track tape player, and polished red leather seats that make you not feel guilty about being in gas-guzzling American cars.

His wife, Samantha, my witch, his emotional polar opposite, sits next to him, dressed in an elaborate lion costume. Her face is painted with whiskers, and she wears a brilliant orange scarf for a mane.

“It's not as easy as you think to rule the Serengeti,” she says when she sees me. “It's not easy to always be feared.”

Every year before Halloween, Samantha spends time dressed up in a costume. She says she is trying to embody the spirit of the person, entity, or creature she is imitating.

“Have you got a Sherlock Holmes costume I could borrow?” I ask.

“Whoa, someone's chi is foul,” she says.

Bullseye glances at me, and he and I nod hello. Samantha takes in Grandma. “Lane,” she exclaims.

“It's the woman with the hot hands,” Grandma says to me. “She dressed up like an animal. I admire that.”

“You remember me,” Sam says to Grandma, then turns to me. “I gave her a shiatsu treatment a few months ago at the home. She remembers my touch.”

I nod, feeling surprised and happy that Grandma recognizes someone she's seen once before.

“Would you like some energy work?” Sam asks Grandma.

“I had an uncle who worked for the utility in Utah,” she responds.

“Not that kind of energy, darling,” Sam says. She looks at me. “You have a lot to tell us. Don't laugh when I say this: your energy is weird right now, like you're surrounded in yellow.”

“Reality is running amok. Is yellow the color if you're involved in some bizarre life-threatening conspiracy?”

Sam looks at me and tilts her head, not sure how seriously to take me, then puts her hands on Grandma's shoulders and rubs. Grandma closes her eyes and purrs. I tell the story of the last two days. Sam and Bullseye listen quietly but intently. In fact, when I come to the part about the encrypted computer thumb drive I received in the mail, Bullseye actually turns away from the television altogether. But he doesn't ask questions. Neither of them does, until I finish.

“Lane, can you tell me about the man in blue?” Sam asks.

Grandma opens her eyes. “I just call him that in my head,” she says.

I sit upright.

“Why do you call him that?” Sam asks.

“Who?”

“The man in blue? Why do you call him that?”

“He wears a mask,” she responds. She says it in a tone that suggests this answer should be obvious.

“Like a Halloween costume? Was he dressed all in blue? Like a . . .” I don't finish because I can't imagine who might be dressed all in blue.

“I don't understand your obsession with this topic,” she says. She seems defensive.

“Grandma, it's very important, very important to me, that we talk about this just a little more. Can you tell me where you saw the man in blue?”

She doesn't respond.

“Lane?” Sam says.

“More hot hands,” she responds. “Please.”

“Hygiene mask,” Bullseye says.

I turn and look at him. He's staring at the TV screen.

“Meaning?”

“Doctors, nurses, dentists—they wear blue masks, surgical gowns. Scrubs are blue.”

“Bullseye,” I say, then look at Lane. “Grandma, was the man in blue at the dentist's office? Did he wear a mask, like the kind doctors wear during surgery?”

Her eyes are closed, but she responds.

“The blue man put my head in the machine. He's absolutely right that it doesn't hurt one bit. I think people get worried things will hurt when they won't, and sometimes the fear of getting hurt makes the pain worse. It's like childbirth. It's painful, don't let anyone tell you otherwise—my God is it painful—but it's much worse if you're afraid of it. I had two sons, but you know all about that. Well, you know about most of it, anyways.”

I look at Sam, who has her hands on Grandma's neck. My look says: What torrent of madness and candor has your energy treatment unleashed? The Witch shrugs.

“Grandma? Did the blue man hurt you?”

“My head belongs to me. I don't like people tinkering around inside of it, even if . . .”

She doesn't finish her thought. We fall silent.

“Grandma Lane, what kind of machine did the blue man put your head inside?” I finally ask.

No response.

I turn to Bullseye. “Any other insights?”

“The Rockies need better relief pitching,” he says.

“Besides baseball.”

“Give me your thumb drive. Meantime, you should go to the police.”

At the same time, Sam and I say: “Really?”

It's not like Bullseye to trust anyone but himself. He doesn't dignify our question with a response; he's said his piece.

I pull the thumb drive from my backpack and, despite feeling a hitch of reticence in parting with this mysterious treasure, hand it over.

“It's time to go,” Grandma declares.

It's not clear if that's what she wants or if, childlike, she senses we've reached some apex in the conversation and are heading downward.

I'm still reeling from revelation. Grandma says the man in blue put her head in a machine. Is she imagining this? Is she speaking metaphorically? If not, what kind of machine?

Was the man in blue—or the blue man, as she's also called him—at the dental offices?

Sam interrupts my train of thought.

“Grandma needs rest, peaceful rest,” she says.

“You're right, Grandma,” I say to Lane. “It's time to go.”

I explain to Sam and Bullseye that I'm headed over to my boss's house for a drink. Pauline's a good thinker who can help me parse some ideas. And her loft is a good place to rest.

I thank Sam profusely for her magic hands and Bullseye for his savant-like insights and technical support. I ask him to call me if he turns something up.

“Be careful with Lane,” Sam says. Then she puts the palm of her hand on my cheek. She almost withdraws it, then holds it close again, her eyes opening wide.

“Be careful with Lane,” she repeats.

“You said that already?”

“Strange energy. Yellow, something brown,” she says, hand still on my cheek. The Witch, dressed as a lioness, looks concerned.

“Maybe I just need a shower,” I say.

“Doubt that'll help.” She smiles thinly. “Yellow, brown—I think it means that you know something bad is going to happen.”

N
ot much later, we stand in Pauline's spectacular digs. Her loft has three floors, each eclectically decorated by art, trinkets, collectibles, weavings, rugs, mirrors, and other fashionable items, including a harp and a stuffed bear. They cover every square inch of wall and floor, creating a veritable three-dimensional mural.

Pauline picks her art with a remarkable combination of whimsy and purpose. Same with her clothes.

She stands at the doorway wearing a black skirt short enough to show lovely knees and a snug T-shirt with Mickey Mouse on the front. She rubs her eyes and shakes her head.

“Cobwebs. So excited for your visit I fell asleep.”

I laugh.

“And you must be the infamous Grandma,” she says.

“I'm Lane Idle,” Grandma responds. Then she mutters something I can't quite make out. Pauline asks her to repeat.

“Pigeon,” Grandma says, quietly. “It's my identifying password.”

Pauline shoots me a quick glance. I shrug.

“I'm Pauline,” our host says. “Want to know my password?”

Grandma nods. Pauline approaches and whispers something to her. Grandma smiles.

“You are very beautiful,” Grandma says as we walk into the room, her eyes focused on our host.

“You're not so bad yourself.”

Grandma puts her hand over her mouth. It looks like fear. But then she joyfully exclaims: “Tansey!”

She points at a framed print of a painting hung over the fireplace. The print depicts a cow standing in a museum. Next to the cow, a museum curator pulls a white sheet to unveil a painting of two other cows.

“You like Mark Tansey?” Pauline asks.

“I'm not sure what the artist is getting at,” I say. “Were any cows harmed in the making of this painting?”

Grandma and Pauline simultaneously say: “Just enjoy it.”

Grandma breaks into a grin, takes Pauline's hand in hers, squeezes.

Pauline looks at me, shakes her head, bemused, then excuses herself. She returns a moment later and hands me a martini with a sunken green olive. I sip and feel its warmth.

“Does this house have a computer?” Grandma asks. “I like to play the game with the falling blocks.”

Pauline holds Lane's arm as she takes us down a metal staircase with a polished red wood railing to a floor with a wide-open living room. It's scattered with painstaking design with more eclectic art and furniture, including a statuesque grandfather clock but with Martian ears on its sides and an antenna, and a beanbag chair that looks like a wading pool.

I follow the pair of women to the far side of the room, where a doorway leads to a home office. This is relatively Spartan, a single multicolored weaving hanging on a wall behind and above a metallic desk. On the desk, a sleek Macintosh.

Pauline snags the mouse, bringing the monitor to life, makes a few clicks, and calls up Tetris. “Is this the game you like?”

“No,” Grandma says, looking intently at the screen. “No, no, no!”

Pauline looks at me.

“Where are all the messages?” Grandma asks.

“Messages?”

“I like that one,” Grandma says, more calmly. She is pointing at the screen's top right corner, where there's a logo for “super Tetris.”

Pauline clicks on it, prompting the program to appear on the full screen. Without a word, Grandma places herself on Pauline's ergonomic wonder of a black work chair, and practically pulls the mouse from our host's hand.

We watch as Grandma starts playing, sort of. The blocks are falling, and she's in a trance, watching, sometimes clicking.

“Is this fun?” I ask after a minute.

“I'm busy now,” Grandma responds.

“Yowza,” Pauline says to me. “Eerie.”

“Grandma, I'm going to go in the other room for a little while.”

In the living room, Pauline and I sit on a soft brown couch. I slug the remains of my martini and place it on the glass table or, rather, on a round coaster covered with green felt made to look like a putting green. My host refills it from a silver shaker.

I'm immediately buzzed. I find myself staring at an oil painting of a French café, where a young woman holds a poodle in one hand and a baguette in the other. I can't remember the last time I ate.

“So . . . the mysterious thumb drive. Tell me!” she says.

I want to tell her. I want to untangle the last few days. Does she advise going to the cops? Does she know anything about Biogen? Does she have sources who can help?

Can she tell me about Chuck? Can I trust him?

But I'm just locked up, beyond fatigued.

“Martini got your tongue?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“You're not speaking. It's like we're an old married couple that I never plan to become.”

“Well, we are babysitting—an eighty-five-year-old. So we've been married a long, long time.”

She's inched closer to me—now only a half a foot away. She curls a strand of hair behind her right ear. A silver chain hangs around her neck, holding a pendant that rests just above her cleavage.

“Polly,” she says.

“Pardon?”

“You have got to start calling me Polly. The only people who call me Pauline are my mother and the Internal Revenue Service.”

“Polly,” I say, “Who is in your locket?”

She fingers the silver jewelry.

“I'll make you a trade: You tell me about the thumb drive and I'll tell you about the locket.”

I clear my throat, trying not to sound defensive. “What's so interesting to you about the drive?”

“Easy. I won't Bogart your scoop. I'm just curious.”

“Just curious.”

“It's a habit of mine.”

I shake my head. My energy to discuss the topic feels sapped; and I'm feeling a remote sense of suspicion about her curiosity—without any basis that I can name.

“Dead end.”

“You're blinking a lot—quickly. Whenever I see that in negotiations, it means someone is holding something back.”

“Are we negotiating?”

She laughs. “You win.”

I haven't even told her all I've learned today. Chuck's visit, the drive-by shooting, the emptied dental office, Adrianna.

She runs a manicured finger along the locket's outer edge, then slips it open. Inside, a headshot of a handsome man with an angular face and closely cropped hair.

“My brother. Philip.”

“The one . . .”

“The addict who likes to steal from his sister.”

“Steal? Like what?”

“Stuff I leave out,” she says. “When he shows up out of the blue, I leave out cash or jewelry he can easily take and sell. Then I convince myself he's using it for food and shelter.”

The room has fallen so quiet that I can hear Grandma muttering to herself in the other room. I raise my near empty glass.

“People change on their own terms,” Pauline says.

“To recovery,” I say.

We touch martini glasses and I slug the remains of mine. She pours lemon-flavored seltzer water into a glass, brings it to her lips and sips.

“You're getting me drunk,” I say.

She bites the inside of her lip.

“You're flushed. Are you sick?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“What's stressing you, Polly? What aren't you telling me?”

“Bad patch at work.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Nathaniel, I'm not who you think I am.”

I shiver.

“This place isn't me,” she says.

“This house?”

“This role. My life. It's just an iteration of me. I grew up in Albuquerque, on rice and beans. We got our health care at a free clinic. My brother served in the National Guard to pay for college.”

“That's your confession?”

“I love to get invested in the world. I do it more easily than most, through various professional pursuits. I've made money to take care of myself and other people. But if all this stuff went away, if I lost this all, I'd be no different.”

She pauses.

“Polly?”

“Does my success intimidate you?”

“C'mon.” I'm surprised to feel a hint of defensiveness I hope I don't betray.

“Nathaniel, I know you can't buy real emotional connection at an auction.”

I can't tell if we're having a relationship conversation or something else.

“You're an adult and I'm treating you that way. I just want you to know all this stuff about me before you decide,” she says.

“Decide what?”

She looks at me at length, shakes her head. She stands and sashays away. She walks to a wooden cabinet sitting beside the enormous TV. She kneels, causing her skirt to inch above her thigh. She clicks buttons on the stereo, and Jamaican music fills the room. Sultry seaside drums.

She saunters back. She takes the napkin that is wrapping the base of her glass and dabs spilled liquid from the couch. Then she moves the napkin to my knee, where a droplet has begun to sink into my jeans. My neurons jerk awake, delivering me a sensation of craving.

Without withdrawing her hand, she looks up at me.

“My brother and I had the same genetics. He took one path and I another.”

Before I can ask what she means, she says: “We all have the power to choose.”

Cryptic, I think, or maybe I'm too drunk to follow. She leans forward—into me. I feel her breath getting closer. I open my mouth to greet her. And then we hear a violent crashing noise.

It has come from the home office.

Clumsily, hurriedly, I extricate myself from the couch. I hustle into the home office.

Grandma stands beside the metallic desk. The Macintosh computer lies on the ground beside the desk, as if it has been swept there.

“I lied,” Grandma says.

Alcohol is dimming my capacity to make sense of this. “Did the computer fall on you?” I ask. It's an inane question. Grandma has tossed the computer to the ground, or pushed it from the side of the desk.

“I lied. I lied. I lied. I lied.”

She's shaking. Now her head is hung. She's not looking at me.

“Grandma, what did you lie about?”

“I have two sons. You know that. That's the truth. My father drove a Chevrolet. Irving did not wear a uniform to our wedding. I know these things to be true.”

“Okay.”

I put my arms around her and she drops a head to my shoulder.

I feel Pauline standing behind me. “I'm sorry. I'll pay for the computer.”

“Don't be silly,” our host responds.

“We should go, Polly.”

She considers this. “You can't drive.”

She's right. I can't drive, or think, or make sense of Grandma's outburst.

“If you have a bed or couch Lane can lie down on, I'll take the floor. I need to be near her.”

“Sure.”

“We'll finish the conversation later,” I say.

She smiles thinly. “Maybe.”

She leads us to a guest room on the third floor. Grandma takes the bed, I curl up in a heavy blue comforter at her feet on the carpeted floor.

I wake up nine hours later to find that I've crawled onto the bed. And I'm cold. I've slept on the edge, uncovered by a blanket, while Grandma nestles next to the wall.

I wake to see Grandma looking at me. “Bugs in a rug,” she says.

“Peas in a pod.”

“Pigs in a blanket.”

“You're the only one with a blanket.”

We both laugh. She's always most lucid when she's rested.

I stand and stretch.

My cell phone buzzes. I extract it from my pocket, and discover two missed calls. One is from G.I. Chuck, asking me to call. He wonders if I'm okay and says he tried the phone I'd given him but I didn't answer.

A second voice mail is from Betty Lou.

“I have the file,” says Betty Lou, whispering her message. She tells me to meet her at the same time as yesterday in a park near the home.

“Is it the right time of day for pancakes?” Grandma asks.

“Exactly the right time.”

“Okay.”

“It's Halloween.”

“That's nice.”

“It sure is. Because we're going to wear costumes,” I say.

That's how we're going to sneak into Biogen.