14
UNCLUCKY SEVEN
When Chico Jones’s police car had rounded the corner and was out of sight, Meat sighed. Well, there was nothing to do now but go home and hear the bad news.
He looked up at the house, and his hand covered his back pocket. The wallet. He should have given it to Chico Jones. It was the only real evidence he had. But somehow he wasn’t ready to give it up. It was his excuse for asking questions, for solving the mystery.
As Meat watched, a face appeared in one of the upstairs windows. The face disappeared at once, as if someone had ducked out of sight.
Marcie Mullet? Meat thought. Could she have hidden from Chico Jones? That was everyone’s first instinct—to hide from a policeman. Well, she might not hide from him, Meat. After all, he had something that belonged to her.
He went quickly up the walkway to the house. He opened the front door, which wasn’t locked, and peered into the lobby. No one was there.
Slowly he mounted the stairs, taking them one by one. He felt as if he were doing something illegal, but, he told himself, he was just going up to see if Marcie Mullet was home because, see, he had her wallet and wanted to return it.
The door to apartment seven was open. Meat stuck his head inside.
“Marcie?” he called. “Miss Mullet?” That was better.
The man he and Herculeah had met last night said, “She’s gone. A policeman was just here and I opened the door for him. I have a key. And look at the place.”
The room was a mess—clothes everywhere. Meat took in the display in silence. He was genuinely shocked, not just at the tumble of clothing but at the size of the garments. There were bras capable of holding two melons, and skirts like collapsed tents. He forced himself to look away and up at the man.
“Did she always keep her room like this?” Meat asked.
“I wouldn’t know. This is the first time I’ve been inside.”
“But you know her?”
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Was she—” he glanced at the bra—“was she a ... large girl?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He glanced around the room again. “Maybe somebody broke in and was looking for something and tore the place up.”
“It’s possible.”
“Well, if you see her—”
“That’s not likely.”
“I know, but if you do, tell her I’ve got her wallet.”
“What’s your name?”
“Meat McMannis.”
The man pulled the door to, locked it, and paused. “I heard somebody in here last night—late. It didn’t sound like her—lots of fast movement. I thought maybe it was that boyfriend of hers—the funny one.”
“Funny how?” Meat asked. “I mean, funny ha-ha or funny weird?”
The man gave it some thought.
“Both,” he said.
After that, Meat went back down the steps and out into the sunlight. He didn’t want to go home, because there wasn’t anything to do there but hear the bad news from Herculeah.
He decided to walk past Funny Bonz. He wouldn’t go inside—just stroll past.
To reinforce the decision, he said to himself, “I will not go inside. No matter how tempted I am, I will not go inside.”
The first time he passed the building, he gave it a glancing look. It appeared empty. He walked to the corner and crossed the street. This time he paused to put his foot on a fire hydrant, check his shoelaces, and take a better look.
No lights were on. Nobody was there.
“It wouldn’t hurt,” he said to himself, “to just see if the alley door is locked.”
He crossed the street and went up the darkened alley. There was something about the alley that filled him with dread. “If I were Herculeah, my hair would be frizzling.”
He paused at the door. “I will not go inside. No matter how tempted I am, I will not go inside.”
As he spoke sternly to himself, his hand, moving as if on its own, reached out and turned the doorknob.