Ribbons (16 page)

22

The house was quiet. Yesterday there had been a lot of shouting, door slamming, and creative insults, but today it was spooky silent. Christy had hurried Adam out the door early in the morning. Apparently, they were splurging on breakfast out somewhere before Adam had to be at school. Christy hadn’t come back yet.

The night before, Matt had tried to have a calm conversation with the girls. He wanted to explain what was going on. It was nothing personal; he
had
to sell. He was deep in debt, and he really had no choice. He might have even tried to explain how he’d gotten into debt in the first place, but nobody had wanted to listen.

Peggy had scheduled an open house for the next day, but she said there was a couple that was eager for a walk-through this afternoon. Matt figured there were a few things that couldn’t easily be explained away that he should take care of before they arrived. One of them was the glowing neon sign that said “Golden Delicious” in the front window. The couple probably wouldn’t believe that he was just a big fan of apples.

Matt unplugged the sign and then dragged a chair over to the window where it was displayed. He winced as he stepped up. His stomach still felt like he had spent all last week doing crunches. The fist-sized bruise right above his belly button looked too small to be causing so much pain. He didn’t know where Thug Guy had gone after his visit, but the crow he left on Uncle Quent’s desk freaked Matt out so much that he hadn’t been able to sleep until he’d locked it away in a drawer.

The sign came down easily enough. It usually hung from a chain that looped over two hooks above the window. It had obviously been set up so it could be taken down quickly if the need arose. The dust on the sign suggested that the precaution wasn’t needed very often. Matt carefully lowered it to the floor by the chain and then, just as carefully, lowered himself down. He took a deep breath and started hauling it toward the back door.

It was heavier than it looked and kind of awkward to carry. It kept banging into his shins as he walked down the hallway. He tried to minimize the damage by keeping his eyes on it and shuffling sideways. He would have missed the fact that the door to the VIP room was open if he hadn’t bumped against the wall and knocked the picture of the fan dancer off its hook. He reached out with one hand to try to catch it, which let the sign come down on his foot. The pain of his pinkie toe getting smashed made him suck in a quick breath, and the picture fell to the ground, shattering the glass in the frame.

“Fuck!” He said it with a hiss from the pain. Then he looked at the picture and said it again, drawn out with disappointment. “Fuuuck.”

“What the hell?” It sounded like Erica’s voice.

Matt looked through the door of the VIP room. Yep. It was Erica. She had a tape measure in one hand that gave a crack as the tape wound itself back into place.

“You scared the shit out of me,” she said.

At least he wasn’t the one being surprised to see somebody this time. Actually, he
was
kind of surprised.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “I thought I was being shunned.”

“I didn’t come here to see you,” she said. At her side was a mannequin wearing a black vinyl gimp suit. They both seemed to be glaring at him.

“Oh,” said Matt. “Are you working? Because the real estate agent is coming by soon.”

“No,” she said. There was a lot of contempt in those two letters.

“So, what are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m trying to figure out where I’m going to store a St. Andrew’s Cross when you sell this place.” She pointed her tape measure behind her at the large X-shaped piece of bondage furniture that dominated the room. “I’m sure Uncle Quent would have wanted me to have it. It has sentimental value.”

“That’s fine,” said Matt, “but they’re gonna be here soon. I was hoping to throw a sheet over
that
. Over this whole room actually.”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Good luck.”

Matt bent down to start picking up glass from the frame. “Hey, have you seen Christy?”

“Yes, she asked me to give you this.”

Matt looked up at Erica and found her free hand giving him the bird.

“That’s—” Matt started.

“Oh and here’s mine.” Erica clipped the tape measure to her pocket and then flipped him off with her other hand.

“—great,” he finished.

Matt went back to picking up glass, and Erica went back to measuring.

“Okay, okay. I get it,” said Matt. “I’m a dick. I admit it.”

Erica hooked the lip of the tape measure to the top of the cross. She had to stand on her tiptoes to do it. “That’s the first step to recovery.”

“It’s not like I have a choice,” grumbled Matt.

Erica carefully pulled down on the tape measure, holding the top in place as best she could. That thing had to be seven feet tall. “You were born that way?” she asked.

Matt piled his bits of glass on top of the picture, using it as a plate. “Well, I am from a long line of dicks and assholes, so yeah, I guess so.”

Erica glanced over her shoulder at him. “Uncle Quent managed to turn it around.”

“What was he like before that?” asked Matt.

She paused before replying. “He was a dick and an asshole.”

Matt left the sign leaning up against the wall in the hallway. He kept his eyes on the pile of glass he was carrying and slowly made his way toward the workbench in the VIP room. He set the shards down and looked up at all the tools of the trade on the pegboard. They were hung neat and orderly. It wouldn’t take him too long to throw them in a pillowcase and stash them in a closet or something. The gimp-suited mannequin might be more of a problem.

He turned back to Erica. “ Okay, look. I’m just trying not to get punched anymore this week.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re in luck. People usually have to pay me to punch them.”

Matt pointed at the mannequin. “So where can I stash this for now?”

“Your bedroom?” Erica suggested.

“There’s gonna be an open house,” he said. “All the rooms will be on display. There shouldn’t be gimps in any of them.”

Erica’s shrug seemed like another middle finger. “Well there’s that old shed out back. It’s full of shit. You should feel right at home.”

He didn’t ask her for help hauling it out.

* * *

By the time Peggy arrived, Matt had taken care of about half the things he’d wanted to. All the porn was gone from the party room, the VIP room was as empty as he could make it, and the parlor looked like Hugh Hefner’s eccentric dining room rather than Hugh Hefner’s private strip club. It was still pretty ridiculous, and Matt hoped Peggy was really good at her job.

The couple she’d brought with her seemed perfectly ordinary. They were introduced as Ted and Paula Baker when Peggy led them into the house. The foyer was pretty impressive and looked completely normal, and thankfully, Peggy took the opportunity to start her sales pitch there.

“Architecture like this is pretty rare in Las Vegas,” she said. “The city’s just too new. Most of the neighborhoods aren’t even fifty years old. I could find you a dozen houses that look like they were built for the Jetsons, but a Victorian is a real find.”

Ted Baker put on his poker face. “The neighborhood’s not the best, but the price got our attention.”

“You’ll get a lot for your money, too,” said Peggy. “It has lots of hidden amenities that just need a little polish.”

The Bakers seemed to agree, and they oohed and ahhed in all the right places as Peggy pointed out “vintage flourishes” and the “turn-of-the-century mezzanine.” She made a grand sweeping gesture as she led them through the double doors into the parlor, as if she were showing them some kind of secret inner sanctum. The effect worked for a second, and then Matt could see the questions starting to form in their expressions as they took in all the details. He quickly moved to stand in front of the bar to try to obscure the Golden Delicious logo etched into the mirror behind it.

Peggy must have seen their enthusiasm waver as she quickly added, “This would make an elegant dining room. Perfect for entertaining. The wet bar in the corner comes with a draft beer tap system and wine storage.”

Paula slowly turned and scanned the room. Then she paused and looked back at Matt. “You certainly do like red velvet, Mr. James.”

“I find it to be calming,” said Matt. It had been the first thing to pop into his mind.

She wasn’t buying it. “And is . . . is that a stage?”

Peggy gave a sideways glance at Matt. “Mr. James, didn’t you say you were in the entertainment industry?”

“I was,” Matt said. “Turns out I wasn’t very good at it.” Matt tried to turn it into a joke. “Stage fright.”

He got no laughs.

Matt took that as a sign that he should probably make himself scarce for the rest of the tour. Peggy seemed pretty good at conjuring up semiplausible explanations on the spot. That’s why she got a commission. Matt didn’t trust his own ability to maintain a web of half-truths for very long. Hell, he was on the run and he still used his real name most of the time.

“Please excuse me,” Matt said, “I’m just gonna run to the restroom.” That was actually true.

He left Peggy and the Bakers to discuss the dual-toned walls and the wooden molding that divided the colors. It was apparently called a chair rail for some reason, and Mr. Baker seemed very interested to know why.

Matt used the upstairs bathroom. He figured he had a few minutes while Peggy talked up each of the rooms below. He splashed some water on his face and reminded himself that it would all be over soon. In fact, the way he saw it, aside from the bruised ribs, this was actually a good thing. Selling the house would pay off his debt, and then he would be free to find some other town to hide in. He was thinking he might try the Pacific Northwest. It was kind of trendy now.

Then he heard Mr. Baker say something like, “What the hell?” from downstairs. It was muffled but loud enough that he must have been raising his voice.

Matt sighed at himself in the mirror and headed down. By the time he got to the foyer, Mr. and Mrs. Baker were already on their way out the front door. Mrs. Baker’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips were pinched together. She stared straight ahead and ignored Matt entirely. Mr. Baker looked like he’d just stepped in a pile of dog shit. He stopped when he saw Matt.

He started in a low voice but raised the volume with each word. “We are not buying a whorehouse!” He stormed off after his wife before Matt could reply.

Peggy followed on his heels. “The price is negotiable,” she said. “Imagine what the place could become.” And then she was out the front door, too.

Matt called out to her from the front door. “Did you tell them it was a mortuary first?”

Peggy tried to calm the couple down but it was clear that they weren’t coming back in. She gave Mr. Baker the price sheet and made hand motions that seemed to suggest that he should call her when they’d had some more time to think about it. Mr. Baker responded by handing the paper back and getting in his car. Peggy put the paper in her folder and turned toward the house. Her smile faltered for a second and then returned. When she got back to the front door, Matt stood aside for her to enter, but she remained where she was.

“Mr. James,” she said, “we have run into a bit of a snag.”

Matt nodded. “Did they look under the sheet? It’s hard to hide a big bondage cross like that. I’m surprised they knew what that thing was. They must watch some pretty obscure porn.”

“It wasn’t the St. Andrew’s Cross,” said Peggy.

“So you know what it is, too?” asked Matt.

Peggy answered that question with a glare. “We didn’t even get to that room. The tour ended in the kitchen. Where they met one of your employees. You may want to have a chat with her.”

“Oh,” said Matt.

“I’ll work on the Bakers,” said Peggy, “but I think it’s best if we concentrate on the open house at this point.”

“Sure,” said Matt.

“And it may be a good idea if you left that to me,” she said. “Alone.”

Matt apologized and thanked her, then apologized again. Peggy’s smile seemed forced, but she kept it up during the whole conversation.

As she got into her car, Matt wondered if the smile would come crashing down all at once or if it was stuck in place and would need to gradually melt away.

“Erica,” he muttered to himself as he headed for the kitchen.

She stood at the sink wearing rubber gloves. Not sexy nurse gloves. Thick, yellow, cleaning gloves. The sink was full of bubbles. She was even wearing an apron.

“Hey, Erica,” he said, trying to be cool. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“I had a few things to clean up,” she said.

“It sounds like you met Mr. and Mrs. Baker.”

“Sure. We had a little chat,” she said. “They seemed nice.”

“It was hard to tell,” he said . “They left so quickly.”