I fixed myself some microwave macaroni and cheese, popped open a soda, and watched a Cary Grant movie called People Will Talk that had one of those happy endings that leaves you with a lump in your throat. After that I washed the dishes, read the paper, then went to bed.
Yes, it’s a full life I lead.
4
“Where is it?”
Opening my eyes, I saw the digital clock on my bedside table.
4:42 a.m.
The voice from my dream was fading. I sighed, rolled onto my back, and started to drift off once more when a hand I could have sat in clamped around my neck and began to squeeze.
“Where is it?”
I opened my eyes and saw two bulky shadows leaning over my bed. One of them pressed down, increasing its grip around my neck. The pressure was enough to hurt me but not completely cut off my breathing.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” said this shadow, “and then we’re going to hurt you.”
I struggled against the grip but it did no good. “Where’s what?” I managed to get out.
“The map you stole from Road Mama’s apartment.”
Road Mama? Okay, I was still dreaming. Cool. Not quite so scared shitless now. “In the back pocket of my jeans. On the chair over in the corner.” “You shouldn’t have stolen it, you know.” Strange, how your conscience works on you. All day long I’d felt bad about taking that damned thing. One of the dream-shadows moved away from the bed. I heard some rustling, then: “Got it.”
The pressure was released from around my neck as the second shadow let go to remove something from its pocket. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” It leaned down once again, and I felt a short sting in my right arm, and then everything got warm and shiny and I rode the high back down into sleep.
* * *
When the alarm went off, I stumbled out of bed, dry-mouthed, groggy, arms and legs feeling like rubber, and grabbed my jeans from the chair in the corner.
The map was gone.
For several seconds, I was afraid to breathe.
Then I got angry, grabbing a baseball bat from the closet and stomping through the apartment in only my underwear, kicking open doors, ripping aside the shower curtain, shouting curses and promises of broken kneecaps.
Then I noticed that the deadbolt and security chain were still in place.
I made another macho-man sweep of the apartment, at one point opening the refrigerator door to make sure no one was hiding in there (yes, I know…), and finally deciding that I just wanted to get the hell out.
Check the other pocket, you idiot.
Back in the bedroom, I grabbed my jeans and checked all the pockets.
No map.
So if it wasn’t a dream, how in hell did they get in? (And, for that matter, how did they leave?)
Just to make certain, I checked the front door—locked; I checked all the windows—locked; the sliding glass doors that opened onto the patio in back—locked; the
refrigerator again—I needed to buy groceries.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, tapping the business end of the bat against the side of my leg and shaking.
Maybe it was a dream, I thought. Sure, a dream brought on by an overly-scrupulous conscience. Maybe you took the map out of your pocket and put it somewhere else and that’s why it isn’t in your jeans.
I went to the front door and stood there, facing the inside of the apartment. I hadn’t done all that much when I got home last night, so it would be easy to retrace my steps. Front door. Bathroom. Kitchen. Living room. Bedroom. Still no star-spackled map. I retraced my steps again. Nothing.
I tried it once more, this time checking between and under the couch cushions, then under the couch itself, then under the coffee table, under the bed, under the dresser, and—just for good measure—inside the refrigerator once again, where I discovered that no groceries had magically appeared, nor had the map.
“It fell out of your pocket before you got home,” I said aloud, hoping the sound of my own voice would calm me. “Yeah…it fell out of your pocket somewhere along the line after you left Miss Driscoll’s apartment. That’s all there is to it.”
I felt completely silly now.
I continued to feel silly all the way through coffee, my shower, and getting dressed. Driving to the Sparta, the feeling of silliness gave way to mild gaiety, and by the time I walked into the restaurant and located Barb’s table, I was dangerously close to whimsical.
That all came to a crashing halt when I sat down and Barb spoke.
5
“Did you give them the map?”
I felt the blood drain from my face. She couldn’t have said what I thought she’d said. I sat down and asked her to repeat the question. Leaning forward, she nailed me to the spot with her piercing green eyes and said: “Did you give them the map?” Shit, shit, shit. “Did I give who what map?” “Don’t be cute with me. Answer the question.” My heart pounded. “How did you know?” She sat back, sighed, and reached for her coffee. “The mayor told me.”
“The mayor? How the hell did he—”
“Did you give it to them?”
“First of all, if you know who ‘they’ are, could you let me in on it? We didn’t exchange many pleasantries so introductions were just sort of skipped over, and second, yes, I gave it to them—or, rather, they took it after I told them where it was. And by the way, one of them was choking me at the time, then he gave me a shot to knock me out. And for the record, Counselor, they somehow managed to get in and out of my apartment without breaking any locks or windows, which prompts me to ask: Jee-zus, Barb, what’s going on?” She opened the menu and began perusing the selections. “I’m not sure.” I stared. “You never could lie worth a damn.” She shrugged. “Have it your way.”
I reached over and pulled down the menu she was holding. “Is this what was so important? That stupid map? You could have asked about that in the message and had me call you back.”
“No, this isn’t just about the map—though that’s part of it. Don’t ask me how you managed to do it, Prince Charming, but you’ve gotten some very powerful people upset with you.”
“What powerful people?”
“Powerful enough that the both the mayor and chief of police are scared of them. Beyond that, I honestly don’t know, okay?” The waitress came to our table and poured coffee, took Barb’s order, then asked what I’d like to have. “I just have time for coffee,” I said, looking at my watch. Barb said, “You’ve got time for breakfast.” “I have to be at the coroner’s office by nine.”
She shook her head. “Not today, you don’t. Today, you have a new community service assignment. Now order some real food. I’m guessing your diet still consists of whatever pre-packaged trans-fatty caloric nightmare you can toss into a microwave. Hopefully some real cooking won’t send your system into cataleptic shock.”
I ordered my breakfast and the waitress left us with a bright smile.
“Why am I here, Barb?”
“The mayor didn’t call just me, he also called the coroner and Judge Banks. I spoke with Banks this morning before I came here.” She produced a thick envelope from her briefcase and tossed it on the table. “This would be for you.”
Inside was a Triple-A TripTik, a sheet of paper with street directions, an address, and a phone number written on it, as well as three hundred dollars in fifties and a cashier’s check made out to me in the sum of one thousand dollars.
“What gives? Is this check for real?”
Barb added some sugar to her coffee. “Yes, it’s for real—in fact, you can waltz your ass over to the Park National Bank right after breakfast and cash it—if you agree to the offer I’ve been authorized to make to you.”