Skunk Hunt (22 page)

Carl regarded this fashion statement from one
of his protégés with narrowed eyes and puckered lips. After mulling
it over a moment, he offered up his own suggestion:

"Monique, shut up."

"But Babycakes—"

"When you sell out a friend, you keep your
yap shut about it." Carl shook his head. "People'll think you're
not just a snitch, but a cretin, too."

Monique put on her best stage pout and turned
in my direction. I was startled and/or nonplussed and/or aroused
when she gave me a muffled look of recognition. She had seen me
somewhere but couldn't quite place me. I briefly shot her a
come-hither invitation. Yeah, I was the stud you met in...where the
hell was that, again...? She batted her eyelashes with the
precision of an M-16 on automatic. I went down in flames.

"So now you're here, now what?" said my
grammatical sister.

"You act like you don't want to share after
all I've done for you." Carl pursed his lips in a remarkable
imitation of Monique's petulance. "Don't you think you should want
to pay me back for the facelift?"

"I've never had a facelift!" said Barbara,
outraged.

"I mean pay me back for the facelift you'll
need when Dog's finished with you," Carl elaborated.

"Oh."

You might be wondering what I was doing
throughout all of this. I figure the fact that I was still
breathing was accomplishment enough.

Jeremy was sizing up Dog. He had been
chumped by the runt and he wanted a rematch to prove his manhood,
or at least his sizehood. Dog seemed oblivious to his scrutiny. In
fact, Dog's gaze remained locked on Monique. I wondered if
she
was the dog biscuit.

"This isn't fair, Carl," Barbara said
cautiously, her best and only defense being a measly truism.

"What a disgusting society we live in," said
Carl. "For three or four generations we've been raised to indulge
our every whim. It's too late for reform; it's in our blood. I was
born and raised in America, weaned on Madison Avenue and
matriculated at Gimme University. Don't blame me if I want a share.
Blame our esteemed culture."

What a philosopher. What a poet. I bet his
tax returns were positively Ginsbergian.

"What kind of share did you have in mind?"
Jeremy asked after fighting a croak out of his voice.

"All of it, of course," Carl said blithely.
"That's the cost of saving you from prison."

I was put out by this broad interpretation of
'share'. It was like conquering the world for a square block of
Podunk. I said: "That's bullshit."

Dog looked my way and dismissed me after half
a glance. A little put out by his pet's indolence, Carl said, "Dog,
you want to bury this bone?"

Dog wasn't quite as slavish as I had thought.
He was mentally rotating Monique on a sharp file and pretended not
to hear. Monique felt the pointy edge of his vision and seemed
prepared to spring back into the truck.

"Enchanté suffers from a severe form
of
Heliobacter pylori
," said
Carl, going gastrointestinal on us. It took me a moment to
transpose 'Barbara' into her professional moniker. "This results in
a copious flow—"

"Carl..."

Seeing no real need to agitate Barbara more
than she already was, Carl sidestepped with a delicate: "Let's just
say there's a leak in the flask. Enchanté here is worth her
dehydrated weight in gold."

He had mentioned sickoes. None of us was
inclined to ask for details. Seeing his recital deflate, or fail to
inflate, Carl got down to business.

"It would be fiscally irresponsible of me to
harm Enchanté." Carl weighed Jeremy and me in the balance and found
the lesser chore. Turning to me, he said: "You, on the other hand,
I'm willing to grind into basic elements."

I was not reassured by Barbara's insouciant
shrug. Up to that instant I would have said, outside of being a
slut, my sister had some good qualities.

"It's in the house," I said.

I had saved myself from Dog. On the other
hand, it was quickly obvious I had placed my head on Jeremy's
chopping block.

"It's perfectly obvious the money's in
the house," said Carl, as mentally sharp as his gut was slack. "I
would like you to tell me
where
inside."

"You came before we could find it," I
said.

"As evidenced by your empty hands," Carl
sighed. "But weren't you told by your mysterious benefactor where
it is?"

"Ask him yourself," I said, making a show of
stepping aside and waving him to the door. "There's a camera setup
in the ceiling. He was going to tell us the hiding place, but then
you showed up."

"A
camera
...?" Carl took a step
backwards.

I knew it would drop him hard. A camera could
be attached to a recorder, a recorder to a computer, and a computer
to YouTube. He was in enough trouble with the authorities without
having his imbecility broadcasted around the world.

"A pretty primitive setting for hi-tech," he
observed cautiously.

"So was the Moon," I said.

"The lunar landings were cheap fakes," Carl
sneered.

Neil Armstrong took his famous stroll long
before I was born, so I had to bow to the authority of age. "Maybe
so, and maybe the Earth is flat, but I can guarantee you there's a
live camera inside this dump. All you have to do is look."

Jeremy finally realized there was method to
my cowardice (there always is) and unclinched his fists. He
understood that while Carl might not exactly be publicity-shy, some
forms of notoriety were...fiscally irresponsible.

"I long for the days of plain, simple
peepholes, where your eyeball could squat." Carl said this with
surprising conviction, but I was sure he must be more in tune with
the digital age than the McPherson clan. It was rumored that he
made interesting movies, that his pool-sized bed was surrounded by
a multitude of media inlets and outlets, that one of his mistresses
was a robot that spoke perfect French. "Who the hell would put a
camera in there?" he demanded.

"We don't know," I answered.

"I'm thinking it's Skunk," said Barbara
in a low voice. "And before you start making fun of me,
you
explain what we've seen and heard
these past few days."

"You explain the dead-as-a-doornail Skunk I
saw at the morgue, complete with toe tag," I countered. "You
explain seeing Skunk get shot on the security cams."

"Anything can be faked," said Barbara
glumly. "I mean, they faked the whole Moon thing, right? And I've
seen dead bodies before. They don't look
real
, if you know what I mean. Maybe you were
looking at a dummy."

"I'm looking at one right now." Not a very
nice thing to say, I admit. But by pasting QED on her forehead she
had opened herself up for the shot. I was feeling strangely
exhilarated. Feisty. Non-Mute. Danger has its uses, not least of
which its ability to hone your dialectical skills. It can also
reduce you to a jabbering mass, which is why I didn't follow up
with a more detailed critique of my sister's mental processes. Carl
had patiently allowed our spat to run its course. He was waiting
for us to draw enough rope to hang ourselves, but we had only
succeeded in knotting a ball of yarn. He would have to do the
hanging for us.

"Dog, smack this fool down," he ordered.

Seeing three fools before him, Dog gave his
master a blank look that I presumed was inquiry. Carl nodded at me
and I suffered an instant attack of gelatinous jabbering.

"I'll get it!" I began legging it towards the
house.

To my relief and dismay, no one stopped me.
Jeremy would have knuckled me under given the opportunity, but he
was still unsure of Dog. So far, my brother was the only one who
had drawn a weapon. We were acting on the assumption that Carl or
Dog or both were armed, and their guns weren't loaded with blanks.
But until we knew for certain, we should be putting up a better
fight than this. Jeremy could tackle Dog while I went after Carl
Tub-O'-Guts. But these appeared like just the sort of knuckleheads
who would play pin-the-tail with a high-powered rifle. Jeremy might
have swept the incident under his mental rug, but I couldn't shake
the sniper out of my mind. Dog's beady eyes seemed made for a
scope.

Weaving past the holes in the porch, I
reentered the house—and stopped dead. I didn't have a clue, but I
had to find the money fast, or else. 'Or else' was still open to
definition, but I couldn't think of anything pleasant. I wandered
through the front room. Realizing I could be seen clearly through
the busted windows, I tried to look purposeful. This meant no
ogling, no pensive pausing, no empty meandering—all habits to which
I was chronically addicted. To avoid any misunderstanding, I
circled around to the kitchen and stairs, out of sight of the front
yard. I just about rinsed my britches when a voice spoke:

"Welcome back, Mute."

I clambered over some railing that had rotted
off the stairs and craned my head up at the camera.

"I thought you were gone," I said.

"A prudent absence, but temporary," said the
voice. How could Barbara think it was Skunk? The word 'prudent' did
not exist in our father's vocabulary—either before or after
death.

"Who are those people?" the voice asked.

"Ever hear of Carl Ksnip?"

The voice pondered this for a moment. "You
mean the nightclub owner?"

"That's him, plus a goon." I turned away from
the red eye, as though that could hide my shame. "Sweet Tooth works
for him."

"Oh dear," said the voice. "And she brought
him here?"

"Not exactly, but yes." I grew worried.
"Maybe we should keep our voices down."

"Are they in the next room?"

"They're still outside. Carl's afraid you
might be taping this." I shuffled sideways a bit. "Are you?"

"I have the capability," said the voice.

"That's not an answer.

"Would it bother you if I was?" the voice
said. I waited for him to interpret my silence as a repeated
request for an answer. All I got was more silence.

"You still there?" I said lowly.

"Do you think they can hear us?"

"Maybe."

"Is Carl threatening you?" the voice said.
"You mentioned a 'goon'."

"I think you could say he plans to break our
necks if we don't give him the money."

"And you expect me to agree to this?" the
voice asked peevishly.

"We don't have much choice," I said. "Anyway,
does it matter to you what we do with it once we get it?"

"In fact, it matters a great deal."

"Put it this way: we'll be using it to save
our lives." On the cuff, I concocted a bit of Hollywood, raising my
arms in supplication. But the voice wasn't fooled. Theda Bara I'm
not.

"Save your theatrics for the critics," the
voice said. "Right now, you need to use your noodle."

"Why?" I asked, not seeing any reason to
think.

"I intended to use this opportunity to talk
to the three of you," said the voice. "Nothing else."

I caught my breath. "You mean the money's not
here?"

"Only whatever you have in your pocket."

There went my knees again, wobbling like
crushed jelly doughnuts. The few coins in my pocket wouldn't have
got me through the Downtown Expressway tollbooth. Was there
anything else we could offer? My lifetime earnings would have sent
Carl into a deathspin of laughter. Of course, there was Jeremy's
mystery fund. At least he could hock his Porsche. I suspected Carl
was already in possession of Barbara's kitty, so to speak. Wait—for
location, the house on Oregon Hill couldn't be beat. The city
assessor said it was worth $180,000, but that was a technical
crowbar to tax me out of the district.

"I could sign over my house," I said
dolefully.

"The family inheritance?" The voice sounded
genuinely affronted, as though he had a stake in the property.
"That would defeat the whole purpose of this exercise."

"What purpose?" I asked on hearing two words
I deeply loathed. "What exercise?"

"Never mind," the voice began, only to be
interrupted by a second voice in the background. A choppy staccato
followed, like someone cupping his hand over a microphone.

"Hey!" I said, "you still there? You're not
alone, are you?"

The voice returned:

"I've summoned assistance. Be prepared to
escape."

"What, you called the cops?"

But the red light once again blinked off.

The voice was seriously fretting my nerves.
First he had told me there was no money on the premises, which I
had been prepared to risk my neck to investigate, thank you very
much. Now he was asking me to walk outside empty-handed and tell
everyone to wait an undetermined amount of time for the cavalry to
arrive. I'm not a gambling man, but even if I was my life wasn't
something I was willing to stake. I was stuck. I couldn't go out
and I couldn't stay put.

My genetic inheritance on the Skunk side
ranged from a taste for cheap beer to a tendency to hardened
silences, with a fairly strong sixth sense sandwiched in between. I
had read somewhere that prisoners (or those who belonged in prison)
had overly-developed personal spaces, and could instinctively sense
any violation of those personal bubbles. Unless I did something
rash (like abscond with stolen money), I did not foresee myself
becoming a ward of the Department of Corrections. But whenever
someone was looking my way, I could usually sense their
presence—long-range snipers being a notable exception.

My skin tingled and I turned. Dog had circled
around to the back and was staring at me through one of the empty
window frames.

"Is 'Dog' your legal name?" I asked.