Ernest tried to swing his left fist back at me, but human arms don’t bend that way. “I don’t want to kill anyone over a decrepit mommy-mobile or an oversized bugle,” he said, “but I’m not a fanatic. I’ve got live rounds handy. But I ain’t telling you where.”
“The glove box,” I said. “With the radio.”
Ernest grunted again. “Just let me up, genius.”
I chucked the .357 backward as far as I could, and I heard it hit the ground past the other cars. Then I felt along Ernest’s belt and found his handcuff holster. And after thirty seconds of struggle, I managed to get his wrists cuffed behind his back.
“I’m gonna tell you something in the interest of fairness,” Ernest said then. “If I find out who you are, you’re gonna have to run until you hit ocean. At which point you will want to start swimming for Cuba.”
The Chrysler was still idling. I sat up on Ernest’s lower legs, waved at the silhouettes on the dark porch, and threw the car into reverse without trying to close the open door. It would have hit Ernest’s feet.
I punched the gas, and the car lurched backward, switchbacking like a panicked squirrel, the open door flapping. When we were past Donny’s pickup, I cranked the wheel to the left, and the Chrysler bounced into the rough grass along the east side of the driveway. Ernest cussed as we hit bump after bump, and I finally stomped the brakes so that we came to rest about twenty yards off the driveway, near the eastern tree line. Then I killed the engine and threw the keys into the night.
“You have bashed up my brand-new car’s oil pan and exhaust system,” Ernest said. “So once you’ve swum to Cuba, you better keep doing the crawl all the way to the goddamn Canary Islands.”
I got out without answering, tucked Ernest’s feet inside, and closed the door. I felt bad about the damage, but none of it had been my fault. So I didn’t think it was fair of Ernest to blame it on me, especially since he had ruined my own evening.
I scuttled along the tree line back toward the crooked house. I had realized there was no more money here for me. But before I ran back across the driveway and made my way to my Toyota, I wanted to be sure Elizabeth and the band kids were all right. Screw the rest of them. They were all crooks, except for Garrett. And he was Elizabeth’s boyfriend, so screw him, too.
I was about halfway back when, up at the porch, the Plymouth minivan spun its tires. Then its lights came on, and it clattered up the driveway toward the road at high speed. There was a lot of yelling from the crooked house as this happened, and I assumed that Bobby Tone was cutting his losses and taking off with the tuba.
I paused to watch as the minivan sped past my position, and there was just enough light for me to see that once again, the Gronitz’s getaway driver was Marisa.
“Man,” I said aloud. “She really loves that tuba.”
The minivan reached the road and rattled away. And I was just about to turn back toward the crooked house when I heard a metallic click a few yards to my left.
It sounded a whole lot like a pistol being cocked.
13. Meet the Boyfriend
As I turned, a sudden flashlight beam caught me full in the face.
“Whoever you are,” David Garrett’s voice said, low and angry, “you have just created more problems than you could possibly—”
He stopped. The bright disc of the flashlight moved in closer.
Then Garrett spoke again.
“Are you seriously wearing blackface?” he asked.
I decided to fight fire with fire. “Are you seriously pointing a gun at me?”
He lowered the flashlight.
“I’m not pointing it,” he said. “I’m just holding it. I found it on the ground over there.”
I could see it now, in his left hand, pointing at the ground. But I had heard him cock it, so I knew he wasn’t “just” holding it. Or at least he didn’t think he was. If Ernest hadn’t lied to me, there weren’t any live rounds.
Garrett’s face became clearer as my eyes adjusted, and I could see that he was peering at me with a puzzled frown.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
I’d only seen Garrett at a distance at school, and I doubted that he’d noticed me at all. There was a chance he’d seen me in some of Elizabeth’s photos, but those were all more than six years old. So maybe aging, plus the full-face sports black and bad light, would keep him from recognizing me.
When I answered him this time, I used the same Churchill/Batman voice I’d used with Ernest.
“No,” I said. “But I’m on your side.”
His frown deepened. “What the hell side is that?”
“The side that gets your brass back and keeps everyone out of jail. Without getting anyone shot.”
“What’s any of that to you?” he asked.
“Let’s assume I’m a concerned parent.”
“One who runs around in the dark wearing blackface?”
“All right,” I said. “A concerned parent with a hobby.”
Garrett shook his head. “I get sent out here by a hick with a giant handgun, and I find a lurker dressed like a ninja. While I’m doing that, one of my students drives off in a stolen minivan to keep the hick from taking our tuba. My estranged brother has become a black-market sousaphone smuggler to get back at me for a crappy adolescence. My girlfriend doesn’t want her students in trouble with the law, so we’re making deals with the gang who couldn’t shoot straight instead of calling the sheriff. And now I have to go back and report that I’ve found a concerned parent in blackface, but that I still don’t have the money the hick is demanding for his time and trouble.” He sighed. “I moved to a rural school district because I wanted a simpler life. Jesus.”
“Where’d you teach before?” I asked.
“Chicago. Twelve years. Just came here two years ago.”
The universe was full of coincidences. “Never been to Chicago,” I lied. “But I hear it’s nice. Low sousaphone-theft rate.” I held up my hands. “I’m going to reach into my back pocket now. Don’t get excited.”
Garrett hefted the .357, but didn’t aim it at me. That was nice of him.
I pulled the stack of fourteen one-hundred-dollar bills from my back pocket. I unfolded it, took four bills off the top, and put them back in my pocket. Then I extended the other ten toward Garrett.
“If you give this to the gentleman on the porch,” I said, “he’ll go away. Although you might have to give him a ride. The rest of it—getting back your instruments, punishing larcenous students, resolving sibling rivalries, and all that horseshit—that’s your problem.”
Garrett stared at the cash. “You playing Robin Hood or something? How dirty’s this money, anyway?”
It annoyed me that he wouldn’t just shut up and take the dough. “It’s as clean as any you’re going to get. And this offer expires in about five seconds, bubba.”
He took it. “Okay. Thanks, I guess.”
I knew Elizabeth and the kids would be all right now. So I turned and started for the driveway.
“Hey!” Garrett said. “Hold it. Whoever you are, I think you’d better stay.”
I paused, glanced back, and saw that he had raised the .357.
I gave him a big smile, and I hoped the moonlight was strong enough for him to see my teeth.
“In the first place,” I said, “that pistol’s got nothing in it but brass. In the second place, you’re going to have to rescue the deputy sheriff I handcuffed in that Chrysler. Oh, and you’re going to want to blame everything that’s happened on the mysterious stranger who cuffed him. Maybe you can spread a little blame onto the boys who stole the instruments in the first place, if you’re careful about it. But if you tell the deputy about the hick, the hick will see to it that your brother and all the kids go to jail with him. I know the guy, so you can trust me on that. Got it?”
Garrett lowered the .357. “Got it.” He looked down at the pistol. “I thought this thing felt a little light. But I don’t know much about guns. I’m a schoolteacher. And a musician.”