Res Judicata (8 page)

He screamed. (Surprise. Surprise.)

Sanderson was all horrified at what happened. Or he was for a while anyway, until he saw how white Dr. Reith's teeth had gotten all of a sudden.

Coffee that bleaches your teeth?

These guys were no fools. They knew right away they were sitting on a gold mine.

First, though, they had to get rid of that “lousy” taste, not to mention the tooth decay, bad breath and all the other lovely side effects that early versions of Gleamoccino caused. They even had to design a stronger coffee cup because Gleamoccino whitened a hole clear through the regular ones.

It took them years, but Sanderson and Reith finally invented a “flavor-free sea louse additive” that didn't maim, mutilate or make you smell funny. They were millionaires within a few years, billionaires before you could say, “Smile for the birdie!”

Unfortunately, Mike Reith died of a degenerative nerve disease and was unable to “enjoy the full success of Gleamoccino.” Ernest did his best to look really broken up when he said that—the camera even zoomed in on this one big tear just sort of glistening in his eye—but he pulled himself together enough to take viewers on a tour of his fabulous seventeen-bedroom oceanfront “cottage.”

The rest of the show was about the global impact of “the world's favorite coffee.” There were street shots of people drinking the stuff in front of the Eiffel Tower and Machu Picchu and the Great Wall of China and then this really depressing picture of all these white and silver cups littering the trail all the way up to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. (Yup. Gleamoccino sure has had a global impact.)

There was so much great stuff here. I started fantasizing about my little student documentary turning into
The Inconvenient Truth about Coffee
. I could just see myself up on the podium thanking Andy, Chuck and, of course, Mary Mulderry-MacIsaac for all her love and support. I'd invite Biff to the premiere, and Andy would be so happy and proud of me that she'd actually consent to talk to him, and of course, as soon as she did, they'd both realize their mistake and they'd make up and we'd live happily ever after again.

The sad thing is I'm not joking. I actually kind of believed that.

Victim Impact Statement
A written statement that describes the harm suffered
by the victim of an offence. It allows victims to
participate in the sentencing of the offender by
explaining how the crime has affected them.

The next day I made a rough cut of some of the old footage and brought it home to show Andy. I was pretty proud of it. It wasn't perfect or anything, but I figured it had to be a bit more interesting than most kids' projects. I mean, Erin Carroll was doing hers on “Advances in Carpet Cleaning: The Steam Revolution.” Next to that, my little video looked like the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

Andy, of course, thought it was fabulous, but I knew she would. She's not so great about the cooking/cleaning/acting normal part of parenthood, but for a social misfit she sure is supportive. Even if I'd been the one stuck with carpet cleaning and Erin got to do Gleamoccino, Andy would have liked my project better. Being biased isn't always such a bad thing.

She wanted to borrow the camera so she could show the video to Atula and Chuck (and, no doubt, Spielberg if she could reach him), but I said no way.

She was outraged. She was like, “How come?”

I said, “What do you think I am? Crazy? I'm not giving you my project a week before it's due! You'd lose it. You're always losing stuff.”

She went, “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

I rolled my eyes so far back in my head I could see my shoulder blades twitch. I went, “Please! In the last week or so, you've lost your keys, your jacket, your right boot, the Iqbal file, the groceries, your molar—I don't know how anybody can lose a tooth and not notice till they get home but, like, whatever—your earrings, your nose ring, your toothbrush, your—”

Andy sucked in her breath and punched herself in the forehead. “Oh,
beep
! That reminds me. I can't find the victim impact statement Chuck wrote. You're going to have to run over to his place and get another copy for me.”

I was like, aargh! There were so many things I could say. I could bring up the obvious: that this was irrefutable proof she loses stuff all the time.

I could argue about why I should be the one to run over and pick it up. I mean, come on!
She
was the one who lost it.

I could tell her I had work to do, and, believe me, I wouldn't be lying. My project was nowhere near finished.

But I didn't say anything. Andy had laughed at the Disco 'Stache guy in the video. That was the first time she'd laughed in weeks. For a second there, it almost seemed like she was back to her old self. I didn't want to go and blow it.

I sighed. I said, “Okay. But call Chuck and tell him I'm coming. I don't want to have to wait around while he goes looking for it.” I didn't really care if I had to wait around or not. I just didn't want to act too easy to get along with or Andy'd know right away I was just doing it to jolly her up. That would remind her of Biff and why she was sad in the first place. And that would make her even crankier than she was before.

Chuck lived in the basement apartment of a building even worse than ours. The carpet in the halls was the color of wet sidewalk except where it was flipping up at the edges and you could see that it had actually been pink once upon a time. People had scrawled stuff on the walls that Andy wouldn't even say to a rich guy in her worst mood. The whole place smelled like a cross between broccoli and a sick dog. I wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. It was the type of place that could sort of follow you home if you weren't careful.

There was no C. Dunkirk listed on the doorbells, but the security door was propped open, so I let myself in and went straight down to apartment 1B. I knocked. I could hear music, so I knew someone was there, but no one came to the door. I knocked again.

Chuck, like, barked out, “Who is it?” He didn't swear or anything, but you knew he was thinking of it. I mean, the guy sounded like one of the trolls under the bridge or something. Good thing I didn't bring my billy goat with me.

I went, “It's me—Cyril. I'm here to pick up your victim impact statement.”

Chuck pulled the door open an inch or two, but he left the chain on. It was like he didn't trust me or something. He looked out at me with one squinted-up eye.

He went, “What? I gave that to Andy already.”

I sighed. I should have known. “She can't find it. Didn't she call and tell you I was coming?”

I could tell he was pissed.

“She didn't.” That was all he said. No “Why don't you come in and make yourself comfortable while I look for my copy?” No “I'd be delighted. I've spent so much time at your
house, hogging the love seat and eating all the good food, it's the least I can do.” There was none of that.

He just stood there staring at me like I was personally responsible for the rise in youth violence or something.

I went, “She needs another copy.”

He went, “She needs it right now?”

“Yeah, right now,” I said. I didn't know if that was true or not but, hey, if I can hop out and get a “thoda” for him, he can hop out and get a victim impact statement for me.

I didn't move. He didn't move. It was the classic standoff. If he was hoping I'd succumb to the dying dog fumes, he was out of luck. He tugged at his beard. He licked his finger and pushed up his glasses. He cranked his head sideways and made his neck bones crack. He stared at me the whole time. Didn't matter. I wasn't going anywhere.

He finally caved. He made this noise in his throat. It wasn't a happy noise. If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he was having engine trouble. “Okay,” he went. “Stay there. I'll get it.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled. It's easy to smile when you've won.

He kept me waiting for a good five minutes. It was irritating, but it gave me a chance to snoop at his apartment. He'd left the door open a crack. I don't know if he just forgot to slam it in my face or if this was his way of being neighborly.

All I could think was: some janitor. I don't mind a bit of a mess, but his living room looked like a cross between the city dump and Andy's bedroom. There were pizza boxes all over the place, as if some kid just had a big birthday party. Newspapers and books and I don't know what else were stacked up everywhere—on the floor, on the couch, on the
windowsills. It looked like he just dropped his jacket on the floor as soon as he came in the door. (What was he? Fifteen or something?)

The thing that got me the most, though, was this big picture of Ernest Sanderson tacked on the wall. (It must have been taken before he got rich because he still looked old.) I couldn't help thinking that if I'd gone through what Chuck went through with that trial, I wouldn't want to see Sanderson's face ever again.

Chuck came out of the back room and caught me sort of peering through the door. He beetled right over and blocked my view. He handed me the victim impact statement. He must have had to write it all over again. I don't know why else it would have taken him so long. He shoved it at me.

“Here,” he said. “Make sure you tell your mother to call me before she sends you over again.”

I said, “Don't worry. I will,” but I doubt he heard. He'd already closed the door and clicked all the locks shut.

I felt weird the whole way home. Something was bugging me about my little visit with Chuck. It wasn't just that he was rude. Lots of adults are like that. They're all nice when your parents are around, then treat you like shower scum when they get you alone.

This was something else. Something didn't feel right. It was like one of those puzzles on the kiddy page where you have to spot “What's wrong with this picture?” Was it something about Chuck? Was it his gross apartment building? Was it that photo of Ernest Sanderson on the wall?

Or was it something else? I didn't know. Just thinking about it creeped me out. I suddenly got this feeling someone was following me. I kept turning around but no one was there.

Maybe it was something Chuck said.

I went through everything in my head. It didn't take me long. He hadn't said much and he hadn't said anything that stood out.

Then I thought maybe it wasn't
what
he said but
how
he said it.

I rewound the scene and played it in my head again. I pictured Chuck, staring at me through the door, licking his finger, pushing up his glasses, cracking his neck. “Stay there,” he said.

“Stay there.”

Ssssssssstay.

Sss.

It hit me. That was it.

Chuck Dunkirk had a full set of teeth.

Proof
The establishment of a fact by the use of evidence.
Anything that can make a person believe that
a fact or proposition is true or false.

Kendall was at his dad's that night, so I didn't see him until the next day. He didn't understand why I was so wound up. He acted like it was nothing. He didn't even get off his board.

“Yeah. Okay. So Chuck got a new set of teeth. Shouldn't you be happy? Think of it this way. At least he won't be spraying you with food anymore.”

I went, “Yeah but...” I stopped. The problem was, I didn't have a “but.” Not a real “but” anyway (or a real butt either, but that's a different story). Nothing I could put into words at least. Just this weird feeling that there was something funny about those teeth.

I got this flash of Chuck, standing at the door, clearing his throat, glaring at me. I couldn't help thinking he was up to something. It wasn't just the teeth. Why else wouldn't he let me in? Why did he immediately block my view like that? It was like he was hiding something...

Or maybe some
one...

Don't tell me the guy had a hot date there with him! I just had to shake that idea out of my head. My stomach
could only take so much. Frankly, I'd rather clean the compost bin.

It dawned on me—I hate it when this happens—that I might be nuts. Maybe Kendall was right. Maybe Chuck just got a new set of chompers.

And maybe he just didn't want me to come in because he was ashamed of the mess. Even I would have been sort of embarrassed, what with those greasy pizza boxes all over the place. I mean, that's how you get roaches. Even Andy and I don't leave food around. (Anymore, that is.)

And maybe he felt bad because he couldn't afford...

I stopped.

Pizza.

“No!” I went. I ran down into the center of the bowl and screamed at Kendall, “That's just it! The teeth aren't new. The guy had pizza boxes all over his place!”

Kendall whipped past me, did a pop shove-it and rolled back. “So? What does that prove?”

I threw up my hands. It was so obvious. “The guy can barely gum his way through mashed potatoes! How could he eat pizza with no teeth?
Railroader's
Pizza—'with its famous choo-choo-chewy crust'! Don't you watch the commercials? You practically have to be a raptor to get through one of those things.”

That wasn't convincing Kendall either, but at least it made him stop. “I don't know. Maybe Chuck doesn't eat the crust. Lots of people don't eat the crust. Or maybe he uses a knife and fork. You know, cuts it up into little bite-size pieces?”

“Yeah,” I went. “Or maybe he throws the whole thing in the blender and makes himself a nice little anchovy smoothie to start the day. I mean, he could. It's not impossible.”
I bugged out my eyes and gave this big sigh, but only because I knew everything Kendall said made sense and I just didn't want to admit it.

You can't really hate Kendall for being smart, because he doesn't make a big thing about it or anything, but I was coming sort of close. I was right. I knew it. There was something weird here. I didn't like how Kendall kept getting in the way of me figuring out what it was.