It was five-thirty in the morning. Sam Larkin had slept little. At four o’clock he had dozed for the last fitful time and awakened ten minutes later. After that, he lay in bed staring through the sliding glass doors, waiting for the first vestiges of morning to appear. They were slow in coming. It was a black night, no stars, no moon, as if the heaven’s electric service had been terminated. His mind would not close down and let his body go.
Uncertainties bounced around in his head like small flashes of white light. There was the death of Turner Lockett, which surely wasn’t over yet, and Karen Chaney. He allowed her into his life, without thinking, a risk he couldn’t afford and live as he had lived.
Now he wanted her out. Or so he felt at the moment. There were too many shady corners and puzzles to rationalize: her job, probing him with questions and checking him out at the boat dock, the hi-tech answering machine in her townhouse, the locked closet door. The woman brought out the paranoia in him.
The more he thought, the more his anger grew like the thrum of hornets at the first rattle of their nest. He sensed Karen Chaney as a threat to all he had done over the last six years. He could leave, but he wouldn’t. His life and his house were all he had, his only identity, and he’d be damned if he’d ever let anyone take that away from him.
There was no false dawn; the sky grayed into first light. Larkin got out of bed, put on his cotton running shorts, a tee shirt and went out on the deck to put on his shoes. Exercise and exhaustion were his bromides for anxiety. Let other people use Xanax, Valium and booze; sweat did it for him. Grey clouds, the color of warships moved lazily out to sea. He could feel rain in the air. The hot-dry bugs were silent. The smell of something dead penetrated through the odors of plough-mud and greening Spartina Grass. The air was heavy and moist.
Before he completed the first half-mile of his three-mile jaunt, the humidity and sweat drenched his light grey shirt to charcoal. In the second half-mile, the tightness in his legs, hips and shoulders began to loosen. His stride was no longer awkward and painful. He began to press harder. Cool perspiration formed on his arms and legs.
When he moved into the final sprint for home, blood was coursing through his arteries and his heart at a tremendous rate. He wondered at times like this if he might not fall forward and die as his heart exploded. When it didn’t happen, it was a step gained on immortality. He slowed and ran a couple of cool-down laps around his property, then settled in to free-weights, sit-ups and push-ups. The tightness in his head began to ease.
It was a close day—not the closeness created by humid air—but one where all parts of everything in this one place, including himself, his thoughts, his body and voice melded into one entity, the water and grass understanding him and the mysteries of him as well as he understood them. It was an exhilarating aura that surrounded him and this place, and the aura was silent.
He poured a cup of coffee and was moving toward the deck when the telephone rang. He considered not answering, but at the last moment picked up.
“Hello?”
“Sam?”
“Hi, Karen.” Before it began, he knew this was a conversation he didn’t want to have. Maybe her call was synergistic. He could end it, solve the problem.
“That doesn’t sound too chipper. I’m not calling to ream you out for not calling for the last few days.” She paused. “Am I disturbing you?” He had the urge to say “yes” but didn’t.
“No, I—”
“Good.” She cut him off. He heard determination in her voice. “How busy are you today?” she asked.
“I have a couple of things to do. Why?”
“Because we need to talk, to have a good down-to-earth conversation. You’ve been in my bed, and I know nothing about you. Now, on the face of it, that’s not very smart on my part or yours, and I don’t know how I let it happen. On the other hand, I have been in your bed, and you know nothing about me. Somehow I don’t think that’s standard operational procedure for you either. Come to think of it, I’m not sure whether you know anything about me or not. See? That’s how little I know about you; you might know everything about me, and I wouldn’t even know it.” She stopped. There was a silence.
“How long did you rehearse that?” he asked, a lightness creeping into his voice he didn’t intend. Karen Damn Chaney, he thought.
“Obviously not long enough.”
“Well, then, there, now,” he said.
“James Dean. Giant.”
“What?”
“James Dean said that line in Giant. ‘Well, then, there, now’,” she said.
“I really have no idea how to respond to that. Have you been drinking this morning?”
“No. There’s no need to say anything. Just wanted to impress you with my vast storehouse of useless knowledge.”
“You like James Dean, I take it.”
“Yes. Rebel Without a Cause, Giant, East of Eden, all of them. Loner, misunderstood, tries to do the right things, which always turn out wrong. Good guy who’s perceived as bad. Sound familiar?”
“Not in the least,” he said, having no idea where this part of the conversation was going, but wondering if Karen Chaney knew a lot more about him than he was aware of. “Karen, what is all this about?”
“You’re a puzzlement, Sam, and I can’t deal with that. Can we talk and decide if we have anything further to talk about?”
“Sounds kind of ominous, but, yes, I’ve got some time.” Maybe this was the best way to deal with it and get back to life as abnormal, he thought.
“My place or yours?”
“Why don’t you come for dinner?”
“What are you having?”
“Alligator.”
“My favorite,” she said and laughed. He liked her laugh.
“Six okay?”
“See ya, Larkin.”
He waited for her to hang up and then put his receiver back in its cradle more than firmly. “Damn!” he said out loud to the room. Why hadn’t he told her he wasn’t interested in talking, that he was happy with things the way they were, that if she needed to know things that were none of her business, she should find somebody else to pal around with, that he didn’t want to like her any more than he did because at nights sometimes, he still awoke thinking of Celine Aguillard, telling her to divorce him, to find a life for herself, knowing, even as he said it, that it wasn’t a noble act, as he tried to convince himself, but a selfish one to protect himself, and feeling guilty about it. Her tears and his wanting to cry at his own hopelessness. There was no place for any more hurt in his life. Dealing with anger was job enough, and, though it was a daily struggle, like an alcoholic getting through a day without a drink, he had managed to do that so far. Without people.
The rain had begun pelting the creek and marsh, creating a landscape etched in silver. There was no lightning, but for more than two hours the near-black sky had borne the sound of conflicting air, not unlike two armies cannonading each other with a vengeance. Marvon Jefferies and Bitta Smalls, two black youths, were hunkered down next to a live oak that gave them some umbrella protection from the rain. It made little difference; they had been there for two hours, and their cheap cotton shirts and wash-worn jeans clung to them like a second skin. Marvon Jefferies was thirteen-years-old, and Bitta Smalls was eleven.
“I say we go on in,” Bitta said, looking up at the older boy.
“I ain’ ready yet,” Marvon said.
“You ain’ never ready. You won’ ready yestaday, and you ain’ ready today. De mandone been dead mos’ a week, and ain’ nobody been out here. I think you scared.”
“I ain’ scared.”
“Man, they’s gots to be lotsa good stuff in there we can sell. Ain’ nobody never gone live there no more.”
“How you know dat?”
“I don’t, but dey sure ain’ gonna after we take the copper pipes out from under de sink and tear de wirin’ outta da walls. Dat’s what Bingo says he and his boys do when dey finds a empty trailer. Dat stuff worf money, an’ ain’ no tellin’ what else in there.” Bitta said.
“Shit. You b’lieve everything Bingo say. Where you gon’ sell it, Bitta?” They had had this same conversation, almost word for word, at least four times a day, in each of the four days they had been watching Turner Lockett’s trailer.
“Down to de Exxon station. I done tol’ you. Dey’s a junk man come by there ever mornin’ jes to buy any stuff like dat you got,” the younger boy said.
“You got de snips and pliers?”
“You know damn well I got ‘em, an’ I know you got de hammer and de hatchet. You jus’ scared.”
“Well, probly a good time. Ain’ nobody dumb enough to come out in dis mess anyway, ’cept us.” Marvon said. Neither of them moved.
“You right about dat.”
“You ready?” Marvon asked, hoping the younger boy would say “no” or “not yet”.
Bitta Smalls took a deep breath and stood up.
“Le’s do it,” he said like he had heard on TV.
They bent down and moved stealthily from tree to tree then made a run for Turner Lockett’s truck. When they got there, they waited and listened.
“Ain’ nobody out here,” Bitta said, stood up and brazenly headed around to the front of the trailer. He tried the latch, but it wouldn’t give. “Hit it with de hatchet, man,” he said, and the older boy followed his orders. The latch popped open on the third blow.
They eased the door open as if expecting to see a ghost, looked behind them and went inside, closing the door. Neither of them said anything, just looked at the dirt and disorder the dead man had lived with.
“Man, dis is awful,” Marvon said.
“Dat man white trash, sho’ nuff,” Bitta said. He looked at Marvon who wasn’t laughing. “Well, le’s do what we come fo’. You start pullin’ wire; I’ll work on de sink.”
“I don’ think Bingo knows shit. Why somebody gon’ buy wire done been pulled out of a wall. How’m I s’pose to pull it anyway?”
“Knock a hole in the wall, grab it an pull. Trevin say it easy.”
“S’pose I get ’lectrocuted?” Marvon asked. Bitta stopped what he was doing, thought a minute and went back outside. In less than two minutes he returned.
“Now you ain’ gon’ get ’lectrocuted. I turned off de switch outside. It jus’ like de one we got at my house.”
“You sho?”
“Turn on de lights. See if dey come on.” Marvon did as he was told. Nothing happened. “See? I done tol’ you I turned off de switch.”
“It dark in here. Cain’t hardly see to do anything.”
“Light enuff. Get busy. We ain’ got all day,” Bitta said, taking charge.
Bitta got down on his knees and opened the cabinet doors under the sink. What he saw made him sit back on his haunches.
“Shit! Ain’ no damn copper under here. Ain’ nothin’ but silver pipe. Probly lead. Ain’ worth shit,” he said. “Wonder if this sink be worth anything.?”
“I ain’ carryin’ no sink to de Exxon station. Look like a damn fool an’ get put in jail fo’ stealin’ it to boot.” The wire Marvon was pulling on was making the overhead light fixture send down a shower of dust.
“I think dis wire go up to dat light yonder, Bitta. Get up there and see if you can cut it wit’ dem snips. Ain’ no copper pipes leas’ we can sell de wire maybe.”
Bitta Smalls pulled a chair under the fixture, climbed up and tried to pull it from its anchorage, but it wouldn’t move.
“Hand me dat hatchet,” he said.
“You don’ need no hatchet. Jus’ turn it on ‘em screws, an it’ll come off, an you can cut de wires, an I’ll pull ‘em through.”
The younger boy grasped the fixture, twisted and it came loose, bringing a rain of dust and dead bugs with it. He pulled it down as far as he could and cut the wires, which freed them for Marvon to pull through the wall. He dropped the fixture on the floor, shattering the globe, stood on tiptoe and looked through the hole it left, checking to see if there might be any copper pipes in the ceiling.
“They’s somethin’ up here, Marvon.”
“A ghos’ in the ceilin’ maybe?” Marvon said and laughed.
“Naw. Somethin’ shiney. Maybe somethin’ we can sell, but I cain’ reach it,” he said, trying to extend his arm through the hole.
“Lemme see,” Bitta got down off the chair and Marvon climbed up.
“Where?” the older boy asked.
“To you lef’. You see it? Shiney?”
“Yeah, I see it.” He leaned away from the hole, extended his arm through it and turned his head aside to get maximum reach.
“I feel somethin’.” He went up on his toes. “Got it.”
“What is it?” Bitta asked.
“How’m I ’pose to know? Somethin’ wrapped in tinfoil,” Marvon said, inspecting the small package. He got down off the chair, went to the kitchen counter and began unwrapping it. As the foil came off, the boys’ eyes bulged, their mouths dropped open and they lost their breath.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!,” Marvon said. “Look, Bitta. Mus’ be a million dollars. Oh, Lawd, we gone die. I knew we shouldna come here. Holy shit!” The two boys stared at the neat stack of one hundred dollar bills. Neither of them could talk for several minutes. Marvon Jefferies kept turning away from the money as if he didn’t want to look at it and then kept coming back and touching it and turning away again. He was moving like the floor was hot under his feet.
“Wha’ we gon’ do wif it, Marvon?”
“I don’ know. It scares me.”
“Me, too. S’pose ’ere’s mo’ up there?”
“I don’ know. How would I know?” Marvon said impatiently. “Why would you axe me dat?”
“We oughtta see,” Bitta said, his eyes still wide. “Might be mo’.”
Marvon climbed back up on the chair and tried to look through the hole again, but he couldn’t spot anything.
“It be too dark in that hole to see anything. Hand me dat hatchet yonder,” he said. He took the hatchet and hooked it in the thin veneer.
“Wha’ you gone do, Marvon?”
“I’m gone jump and see if it pull de ceilin’ down wif me. You ready? Get out de way.”
Bitta Smalls moved back in the trailer, and Marvon Jefferies jumped off the chair. A large panel of the ceiling, dust, and dirt came with him. Also falling amidst the rubble were more tightly wrapped foil packages. They both stared at the pile of thin silver bricks scattered on the floor.
“Holy shit!” Marvon finally said. “Bitta, we in trouble. We better get outta here. Jus’ leave dis stuff where it lay. I ain’ got no truck wid dis. I ain’ gone touch it. Dis be somethin’ bad, Bitta.” The younger boy looked at him astounded.
“Leave it here? You crazy?”
“Wha’ we gon’ do wid it? Cain’ spend it. You gon’ go in de sto’ wif a hunert dollar bill? Shit! You be in jail so fas’.” Marvon shook his head hopelessly.
“Well, I ain’ leavin’ it here. I might get a whuppin’ when I gets home, but worse off happens, I gone tell daddy ’bout it, an’ axe him what to do.”
“You axe yo’ daddy what to do wif it, you be in jail fo’ sho’. I knows yo’ daddy. He ain’ gone put up wid dis shit.”
“Well, I ain’ leavin’ it. Get me a bag. Mus’ be one round here somewhere.” He looked around the room. “Dere’s one fulla papers. Dump ‘em and bring it over here.”
When all of the foil-wrapped packages were in the shopping bag, they picked up their tools, took a quick glance around, opened the door, looked in all directions and made a run for the woods. It was still pouring rain, and they had no idea what they would do with the cache of money. What they did know was that they were in trouble.