Number 8 (23 page)

I peep at Badman walking beside me. He looks stunned, too, as if he can't believe anything he's seeing.

“Should we make a run for it?” he whispers to me.

Suddenly he falls forward and nearly trips up the step.

“I said not one word, bug brain.” Rocky's breath comes in gusts against the back of our necks. I can smell spearmint.

We continue up the steps like sleepwalkers. At the top we stop. We can see our reflections for a moment in the big glass doors. Rocky looms behind us like a well kept gorilla. He runs a hand through his short hair.

“Good,” says Rocky. “Now turn to your right and walk until you come to some escalators. Turn the corner and you'll see a bar with fake palm trees. Pass that and stop at the elevators.”

We do as he says. First we pass a room that seems to go on forever, divided by row upon row of poker machines. Along the aisles men and women sit alone at the machines, cranking those handle things back and forth. The straight rows and repetitive movements remind me of a factory I saw once where they make car parts. If there wasn't that pop music blaring, you get the feeling there'd be total silence.

“Keep walking,” Rocky grunts behind us.

If ever I get out of this place alive, I'll never go gambling. Up close, this place is not nearly as glamorous as people make out. Jackson was right. It's spooky. Lonely as hell.

At the bar the leaves of the palm trees sway in a tropical breeze from the air conditioner. You can even smell coconut suntan oil. I wonder if they pump it out with the air.

“Can I have a drink?” asks Badman.

“Smart ass, aren't ya?”

“No,” stammers Badman, “I mean I'm really thirsty. Just water or something.”

“Suffer,” says Rocky.

We keep going until we see the elevators. When the doors open Rocky pushes us in. He presses B2. We're going down to the basement. As I watch the doors slide shut the reality of where we are crashes down on me. This is no nightmare. I'm not going to wake up. We'll never get out. We're trapped, at the mercy of these thugs like bugs in a jar.

Rocky leads us up a narrow corridor. There are no windows. But there is a red carpet, thick and soft under my feet. He
stops at a door with a gold plaque. Engraved deep into the gold is the name: TONY SERENO.

My heart starts to thud so hard it hurts.

Rocky knocks on the door. “It's me, boss.”

“Come in.”

I feel sudden pressure closing around my fingers. Badman is hanging on to me. I squeeze back. Right now, it's better to be with anyone than to be on my own.

Inside the room it is dim and shadowy. Only a desk lamp spreads a pool of yellow light across a stack of papers, a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses. I'm rubbing my eyes, trying to adjust to the gloom when Rocky gives us a prod. We stumble in, nearly bumping into the large square desk. The wood gleams, dark and expensive-looking. My eyes are smarting and I see, in the oval of lamp light, a plume of smoke curling up from a nearly dead cigar. The ashtray is an overflowing cemetery of wet, chewed butts.

Then something flickers at the back of the room. The shadows are thick but a sudden flame from a match highlights a man sitting in an armchair. The flame shows a hairy, ringed hand with a gold bracelet.

“Who are these children, Rocky?” The voice is light and almost welcoming as if he's asking after a friend's family. But in the silence that follows you can hear how thin the tone is, the warmth barely a smear over something cold and hard.

Suddenly the man flicks on another switch and the room bursts into light. The man gets up and strides toward us, Tony, the manager of the Blue Moon. He's tall and powerful-looking, his chest swelling out of his crisp blue shirt.

He stares down at us. He takes Badman's chin in his hand and thrusts it from side to side, studying his face. Then he looks at me. I try to look back but he's got the scariest
eyes I've ever seen. They're so black, you can't see where the pupil starts and finishes. They're so focused you feel like you'll burst into flame if he stares any longer. His dark brows draw together to make one angry line.

“I'll repeat the question for you, Rocky, and I'll go slow. WHO ARE THESE CHILDREN?”

Rocky starts to fidget with his collar. “I don't get what you mean, boss. This is what you asked me to do. Bring Val's kids here to you.”

“Kid, singular, means just
one
, Rocky. What we have here is a plural situation. I suppose we can be grateful you didn't look ‘kid' up in the dictionary and bring me a baby goat.”

Rocky looks puzzled as well as worried. Then his face clears and he shouts, “Ha ha! I get it! That's a good joke, boss.”

“Where did you find these children?” Tony's voice has the thin friendly tone again.

“Well they were in the yard, see, at the address you told me. Number seventy-three, right?”

“That's correct, Rocky. You got that bit right. But did I tell you the boy had a sister?”

“No.”

“Then why did you think he had?”

“Because he said so. Why would he say that if he didn't? And anyway, why else would she be there in her PJs?” Rocky is starting to sweat. His shirt collar is wilting.

“Hmm,” says Tony mildly. “And didn't you get a look at Valerie's son when you gave him that little fright the other morning?”

“Well, like, it all happened so quick and the sun was coming up, right in my eyes. All I saw was the bike—it was in the middle of the road! I wasn't expecting it.”

Tony examines the lapel of his suit and flicks off an invisible speck of dust. “All right, now if you can, Rocky, reach back into the vastness of your mind. Didn't I tell you the boy was skinny and wears his hair long?”

“Well, yeah, but I figured anyone can put on weight. Take my own case, for instance, if I don't work out every day, swim eighty laps, and lift—”

“I'm not interested in your case, Rocky. The amount of interest I have in your case would fill one side of a twenty-cent piece. No, what I'm interested in is what we are going to do now that you have gone and kidnapped the wrong children.”

“Wrong children?”

“Yes.”

“What's your name, boy?” Tony suddenly barks at Badman.

“Bruce Bradman.”

“And you?” He flicks his gaze at me as if I'm an insect on his lapel.

“Esmerelda Marx.”

Rocky's jaw drops open. “But they were at the right address! I figured, this girl here, well, maybe Val had another kid, see, one she might not have told you about. Val was scared of you all right. I thought you'd be pleased I found 'em both—”

Tony steps right up to Rocky then and I see with horror that his face is slowly turning crimson. “Valerie has been very stubborn. You know that. She refuses to do that one little thing we asked her, to show, how shall I put it, her continuing good faith. She might be scared, Rocky, but not terrified. We need her terrified.”

“Yeah, so I figured—”

“I DON'T PAY YOU TO
FIGURE
, ROCKY. I DON'T PAY YOU TO
THINK
!”

The cold threat at the bottom of his voice cracks like thunder. He's thumping one fist into the other, shouting right into Rocky's face. “You've got a brain the size of an
AMOEBA
. Do you know what an
amoeba
is, Rocky?”

Rocky takes a step back. Sweat is bubbling on his forehead. He clears his throat. “I do, Tony. And I'll have you know I take offense at that. An amoeba is one of the most primitive forms of life, a single-celled protozoa, a
parasite
. Well, I'm not like that, I
work
for my living—”

“Well, now you'll have to work very hard because you're going to have to find a way to correct your mistake.”

Badman and I look at each other. Badman is sweating almost as much as Rocky.

“How you do you mean?”

“I don't want these kids, you see, Rocky. These kids spell trouble. Big trouble.” He's talking to Rocky as if he's a mentally challenged four-year-old. “Their parents will call the police. The police will be out searching as soon as morning comes. They won't be like Valerie. They won't stay silent with a little pressure from us. It's not the same, Rocky.”

“Yeah, but, but,” Rocky is scratching his head, “but these parents, they won't think to come to the casino! Kids aren't even allowed in here! They'll just think their kids have run away or something.”

“Eventually Valerie will talk. That was the whole point of getting
her
kid. The whole point of those phone calls. To make sure she didn't. Do you understand that, Rocky?”

“Yes,” says Rocky slowly, “but I've got an idea. We could get rid of them piece by piece. That way there'll
be no bodies to find. I saw it in a movie once. The murderer chopped up his victims like cold cuts at the butcher's, and he buried all the bits in different places. No one ever found them.”

Something hot and wet is seeping under my foot. I curl my toes back and see a stain spreading down Badman's jean leg. The puddle is growing on the floor, the red swirling pattern of the rug darkening into a muddy mess.

“Oh, Christ, the boy's pissed himself!” Tony's staring in disbelief. “That's my Persian rug!” He turns to Rocky. “
Do
something, you big oaf! Get him off my rug!”

Badman's eyes are closed and he's swaying slightly. His face is white.

Rocky picks him up at arm's length and folds him away in a corner on the polished floorboards.

“Put your head between your knees,” I call over to him.

“You shut up,” snaps Rocky. “Go and sit over there with your wimpy friend.” He's lifting up the sopping rug, peeling it back from the wet spot. But I can't stop looking at the floor underneath. There's an indented line cut into the wood, and the grain of the wood inside the line is different. It's a kind of door, an opening.

I look up to see Tony staring at me and then back at the floor.

“That's it,” he says softly. “At least for now.” He bends down and mutters something to Rocky.

“How long for?” asks Rocky.

“Until we can figure out what to do. Maybe your cold cuts idea isn't so bad.”

Rocky grins with pride. “You can count on me, boss.” He peels back another foot of rug and lays bare a big lock. He
starts to fiddle with it then suddenly stops, twisting around to me. “I said go and stand over there with leaky legs.”

I inch away, over to the corner. From here I can't see much. But then I hear something click over and Rocky pulls back the door in the floor. He disappears down into the hole.

A minute later Rocky's head and shoulders pop up again. “Come on, you two,” he calls to us. He sounds cheerful, like we're going on a picnic. “You're coming down here.”

Badman looks up. “For how long?” he says softly.

Rocky shrugs.

I can hardly breathe. The unreal laughter is edging back up my throat. “Is there a night light down there? I don't like the dark. What about a bathroom? Or should I go on the rug too?”

“Witty girl, aren't you?” Tony marches up to us. He leans down and puts his face right in front of mine. His black eyes nail me to the floor. He's so close, but he gives nothing away.

“There's everything you could wish for in the cellar,” he tells me in that fake friendly voice. His face doesn't move as he speaks. It's like a mask—plastic. But you know something is boiling behind it. “Nice soundproof room, excellent Picasso on the wall, a luxury bathroom.” He turns to grin nastily at Badman's wet jeans. “
You
might need the bathroom, boy. It can get quite cold down there. Affects the bladder, you know.” And he stands up and goes to select a fresh cigar from a box on his desk.

I start to shake and I can't stop.

Mom and Mehmet are standing outside the glass doors of the pub.

Asim and I are already across the other side of the parking lot, leaning against Mom's Ford Escort. We're having a yawning competition. Mine goes for about nine seconds. I leave my mouth open for just a second longer to make it an even number.

“That was a huge yawn,” says Asim. “I even saw your uvula.”

“My what?”

“Uvula. The fleshy part that hangs down at the back of the throat.”

“Oh.” It's amazing how often Asim teaches me words in my own language.

I'm so tired I could fall asleep standing up. Asim is sneaking a look at his watch. It was a great night, but now, I want to tell Mom, it's over. I can see her leaning slightly forward as if she's hard of hearing, laughing too much and throwing her arms around. She looks like a little kid who's overexcited. I remember her telling me when I was little, “The game's finished now, Jackson. Jackson? Just calm down and get ready for bed.” Well, someone needs to tell her that. Valerie? Valerie!

But neither of us wants to call them. They probably wouldn't listen to us anyway. It's sort of nice watching them together, and painful. Maybe I could go to sleep standing up. But I think only horses can do that.

“Did you know that pythons can dislocate their jaws?” I say to pass the time.

“What, when they yawn?”

“No, so they can swallow their food. Like maybe when they've strangled a cow or something. Mom told me once she was scared I'd dislocate my jaw when I yawned.”

“You'll probably be good at kissing then.”

“Why?”

“Well, I saw a movie once where the boy did not know how to open his mouth when he kissed. The girl told him he had to open wide.”

“Yeah, well I'm sure you have to go easy at first. It's not like being at the dentist.”

“No.”

We stand there watching our parents. They're standing very close. But I don't think they're going to dislocate their jaws or anything. They're just getting to know each other.