Trapped (3 page)

and it’s nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, so he’s had it going

for five hours, on and off. A marvel of sustain. He loves the push

and pull of it, the way he makes the security guards all jumpy

and sweaty. Their eyes bugging when they see him approach-

ing the main entrance. Hurried yaps into their handheld radios,

looking for guidance, calling in the reinforcements. They’re

afraid of him and that makes it sweet, because he can savor their

fear and use it to organize his own thoughts.

Being in charge of his own thoughts is very important to

Ricky. That when he says jump, his thoughts say
how high?

Because his thoughts have been all over the place lately, bounc-

ing around in his skull like speeding pinballs. Each bounce

inside his head resonates all the way to the balls of his feet,

and makes him feel like he can leap buildings in a single bound.

As Ricky approaches the entrance, shrugging his big

shoulders like a linebacker, a size-large dude in a lime-green

blazer hurries out to intercept him.

“Am I a bird or a plane?” he asks before the guard can

speak. “You decide.”

The guard glances nervously at a charter bus unloading

senior citizens. All those soft, Q-tip heads bobbing slightly

as they head for the bingo halls and the slot machines.

“Sir, I told you, sir. You are not permitted access.”

“Bird or a plane?”

“Sir, you are not permitted access to the casino or the

casino grounds. You must exit the parking lot.”

Ricky grins, passes his hand through the thick bangs of

his Moe Howard hair. “Dude? I own this parking lot.”

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Chris Jordan

“I’m sorry, sir.” The guard is blocking his way, but not yet

willing to lay hands on him.

“I own the casino,” Ricky reminds him. “You get that?”

“I don’t know who actually owns the casino, sir. I only

know that you are not permitted to enter the premises.”

“That was my rule,” Ricky says, pretending to be reason-

able. “I made the rule, I can break it.”

The guard grimaces, eyes swiveling for the reinforce-

ments that haven’t yet arrived. Nobody likes dealing with

Ricky Lang, they’re slow-footing it.

“Tribal council makes the rules, sir,” the guard responds

rather plaintively. “Members of the tribe are not permitted in

the casino.”

Ricky doing a two-step dance with the man, trying to get

an angle on the entrance. “I
am
the tribe,” Ricky says. “I’m

the sachem, the chief, the boss. This casino exists because of

me.”

The guard reaches out, places a tentative hand on the

center of Ricky’s chest.

“Sir, please.”

Ricky looks down at the hand, amazed, and becomes

very still.

“I know who you are, Mr. Lang,” says the guard, as if des-

perate for him to understand. “Tribal council says you can’t

come in, you can’t come in.”

Ricky selects one of the guard’s fingers, breaks it with a

twitch of his fist. Before the man can fully react to the con-

vulsion of pain, Ricky rolls him across the pavement, where

he flops, moaning, at the feet of the seniors entering the casino.

“Help!” a Q-tip screams, an elderly woman, or maybe it’s

an old man, hard to tell when they get that age. “Indians!”

Ricky laughs all the way back to his BMW. Indians, what a

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25

riot. The old lady probably thought she was about to be scalped.

As sachem of the Nakosha, an elected office that made him both

chief and high priest, he could have explained that traditional

warriors did not take scalps. Never had. Scalps were taken by

white soldiers, as souvenirs and to collect bounties. Nakosha

warriors took noses—the nose was the seat of dignity—and

threaded them into battle necklaces. Some warriors used knives

to harvest the noses, others used their teeth.

If it ever comes to that, Ricky decides he’ll go with the knife.

4. The Sacred Rights Of Momhood

Okay, putting your ear to your daughter’s door doesn’t

look good, I’ll admit it. But Kelly is in her room for about

ten minutes—door locked, of course—when her latest ring-

tone starts blasting away. Something from Snow Patrol,

who are actually sort of cute. Anyway, I hear the cell go off,

my mom-antenna reminds me of the Seth problem. As in

who-is-Seth-and-how-did-he-get-in-Kelly’s-life without-

me-ever-hearing-his-name, let alone any sort of description

or explanation?

Very clever way my daughter has of not answering a sim-

ple question: she volunteers for punishment and then disap-

pears into her room, locking the door.

The mysterious Seth, the young man with the motorcycle,

that’s probably him on the phone right now. And since Kelly

has refused to give me any details, it’s within my rights, the

sacred rights of motherhood, to determine who this kid is—

all that stuff about how the boy really wanted her to wear a

helmet sounds bogus to me. Besides, he was the one driving

like a lunatic, right?

Try as I might, I can’t hear a thing. They must be whisper-

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Chris Jordan

ing to each other. What I want to know—is he in her class, is

he older, what? All I caught was a glimpse, but come to think

of it, the minimum age to legally carry a passenger in NewYork

is seventeen. So he’s at least a year ahead of Kelly, maybe more.

Finally I work up the courage and knock.

“Kel?” I ask through the closed door. “We have to talk. Who

is this boy? Does he go to your school? Do I know his parents?”

After a slight delay she calls out, “It’s late, Mom.”

I picture her hand cupped over the phone, her eyes rolling.

“It’s nine o’clock,” I remind her. “Since when is that late?”

“I’m really tired, Mom. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? I’ll tell

you all about it, honest.”

She’s so polite that it isn’t in me to argue. And once again

she’s right—by morning I’ll be thinking much more clearly. Not

only less freaked about the whole scene, but also less likely to

be manipulated into, say, letting her self-select her punishment.

Maybe grounded isn’t the right call. Maybe what Kelly

needs is a few months volunteering at an E.R. Let her see

what happens to kids who risk their lives on a dare, or for the

fun of it. Get her pushing wheelchairs, changing drool cups,

all that good stuff. I picture a light going off over her head,

an epiphany, how fragile life is. Kelly giving me a big hug,

saying,
Mom, you were right! I have to be careful!

The fantasies of parenthood. As Kelly herself would say,

there’s minus no chance of that. Minus no chance—in teen-

talk, that’s less than zero, with a sneer.

Most of the women I know watch Letterman or Leno or

Conan before they drop off. Tuning in to the mainstream can

be reassuring, I guess. It helps us relax, reminds us that we all

have our troubles, we’re all capable of Stupid Human Tricks.

I’m not averse to a little tube before bed, but the only way

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27

I can get my head ready for sleep is to make a list. Putting

the next day in order helps me feel less anxious about what’s

expected of me.

1. check fabrics, ECWW

2. place Tanner order

3. check on second fittings, Norbert & Spinelli wed-

dings

4. call Tracy

5. call Fred

6. lunch McQ

7. dry cleaners

8. grocery

ECWW is East Coast Wedding Wholesalers, where I

purchase ninety percent of the fabrics for my clients. The

satin, silk and lace people. The company is normally very

reliable, but they’ve got a new guy running the shipping

department and he’s been messing up my orders. I have to do

something about that. Last year my little one-woman com-

pany purchased over two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of

fabrics from East Coast—far from their biggest account but

not insignificant. Number two, Haley Tanner, I’ve mentioned

already. Norbert and Spinelli are upcoming weddings, nine

bridesmaids and two bridal gowns between them, both

slightly behind schedule because everything is slightly

behind—see the problems at East Coast. Number four on the

list, Tracy Gilardi, came on to assist with fittings three years

ago, but she turned out to be so competent I tend to let her

do her own thing—where I get excitable she always remains

calm, which can be very helpful in nervous-making situations

like weddings. Fred is Fred Grossman, my accountant. I want

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Chris Jordan

to check on quarterly tax payments. Alex McQuarrie is one

of the top wedding planners in the area; he throws me a bone

now and then, sets me up with a high-budget client. Or not.

Sometimes all he wants is a companion for lunch, a sympa-

thetic ear. We’ll see. Dry cleaners and grocery, self-explana-

tory.

Business and personal, all in order, every item checked off.

Lights out, time for bed.

Worrying always exhausts me. So I’m out cold moments

after my head sinks into the pillow. The only dream that

sticks is something about being at the beach. It’s night and

I’m a kid, my daughter’s age, looking for something along

the shore. Is it my keys? How will I get home if I can’t find

my keys? I search and search, sinking deeper and deeper into

the sand. And then my alarm sounds and it’s a new day.

Seven o’clock, lots of things to do, not least of which is a

very frank discussion with Kelly over breakfast. Or maybe

I’ll wait until we’re in the car. She’s got a job at Macy’s for

the summer—the cosmetics counter—and that will give us

twenty minutes or so to discuss the new boyfriend, see if I

can figure out how serious it is.

Kitchen or car, one way or the other we’ll sort it out.

In my bathrobe, hair still damp, I knock on Kelly’s door.

Part of my job, playing rooster.

The unlocked door swings open.

“Kel? Rise and shine.”

At first I can’t comprehend what I’m seeing. Her bed is

already made, throw pillows in place. Not possible, not at this

hour.

“Kelly?”

That’s when I see the note. A note prominently displayed

on her desk, held down by her
South Park
pencil holder. A

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29

note written in her usual florid felt tip, abbreviated as if it were

e-mail.

Don’t worry, Mom, it’s not what u think. Something

came up. Will call u 2morrow at high noon. Luv u ti-

gers and tons(really!),

K.

She’s gone. Run away.

5. Somebody Special

The way Roy Whittle figures, there’s white man crazy and

there’s Indian crazy. Both are bad, but Indian crazy is worse

’cause in his opinion Indians are all crazy to begin with.

Your average swamp injun is a few shy of a load for starters.

Add liquor and syphilis and crazy ain’t far behind.

“You figure Ricky’s lost it?” Roy asks his brother.

Dug is driving, bumping their brand-new Dodge Ram

over the rutted road that leads to the old airfield. He shoots

a puzzled look at his brother. “Huh?” Dug not being one to

jump into conversation without prodding.

“Acting weird,” Roy says. “The big chief. Ricky Lang.”

Dug shrugs. “Can’t say.”

They’re fraternal twins, but it’s always seemed to Roy that

he got all the words, the conversational ability and most of

the brains. You can’t say Dug is simple, exactly, not if you

don’t want him pounding you, but he’s not a man given to

speaking much, or expressing opinions. Or other normal stuff

like reading a little and planning ahead—Roy does that for

the both of them.

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Chris Jordan

“Ricky pays us,” Dug points out, nodding to himself in sat-

isfaction, having solved the question.

“Yep, he does.” Roy sighs. Might as well be talking to

himself. But he can’t let go of the idea that Ricky has been

acting peculiar. For instance his recent Superman talk.

Staring at Roy with his hard little eyes and saying he can see

into his head, he’s got X-ray vision. Like he can read Roy’s

mind. A scary thought indeed.

When the big man first approached them, Roy thought it

was strange, a Nakosha sachem wanting to hire a couple of

local white boys. But when he’d explained the situation with

his tribe, and what he intended to do about it, it sort of made

sense that he needed outside help. Any reservations Roy had

got erased by the offer of a new truck with a legal title, in-

surance paid for, the whole bit. Plus cash money in the very

near future. But the last few days he had occasion to wonder

if maybe Ricky wasn’t, when you got right down to it, bat-

shit crazy. At the very least he was totally unpredictable, and

that made him dangerous.

Roy vows to be extra damn careful with Ricky Lang, truck

or no truck, money or no money.

They come around the last snaky turn in the old logging

road. Ahead is the airfield, wide and clear. Not paved,

because paving would draw too much attention, but scraped