Crusader (22 page)

I told her, "This reminds me of the Zax, on the prairie of Prax."

"What? Is that a children's book?"

"You know, the Dr. Seuss story? There's nothing out in this prairie, then, all of a sudden, a big cloverleaf highway starts coming through, and they build it right over the Zax?"

Mrs. Roman said, "I remember that book. I used to read it to my grandson."

The Hollywood Cafeteria is only one exit south of us, down Route 75. We were there in less than ten minutes. It's an old people's restaurant, with an early-bird special, a blue-plate special, and an after-hours special, which is what we were in time for.

Somewhere near the end of our meal, we started talking about Mr. Lyons. Mrs. Roman said she liked him, because "He sticks up for the old people."

But Mrs. Weiss sneered, "Bah, he sticks up for anything that'll get him a vote. He'd be for shooting the old people if that got him votes. Believe me, he's an empty suit. He'll say anything."

"He's running against a man who left his wife when she had cancer. Do you believe that?"

"Of course I believe it. He probably kicked his dog, too."

I said, "Kicked his dog? Really?"

Mrs. Weiss and Mrs. Roman both laughed. Mrs. Weiss said, "Don't take things so literally, Roberta."

"What? Did he kick the dog or didn't he?"

"We'll never know. And it doesn't matter."

"Why doesn't it matter?"

"Listen: Let's say you and I are running for office. Nobody knows either one of us. Nobody really wants to know us, because they're sick to death of listening to politicians. So I let it be known that my opponent, Roberta Ritter, kicks her dog."

"But I don't own a dog."

"Doesn't matter. A lot of voters do own dogs, and they don't want to vote for anybody, like you, who kicks dogs."

"But it's not true! Can't I hold a press conference and say it's not true?"

"Yes. Of course you can. But that's exactly what a lying dog-kicker like you would do. Hold a big press conference and lie about it."

"Mrs. Weiss, how do you know all these things?"

Mrs. Weiss laughed. "I'm old. That's how."

"You're elderly," Mrs. Roman assured her.

"That's right, Roberta. And don't mess with the elderly. We know all the tricks. We know all the salesmen's tricks, and the doctors' tricks, and the politicians' tricks. Especially the politicians'. We're the only ones who have the time to go vote for the politicians. So if they fool with us, we, the old people, will get them."

They kept talking, on and off, about Ray Lyons all through dinner and all the way back in the car. When we pulled into Sawgrass Estates, however, my neighborhood once again had a silencing effect on Mrs. Roman. She didn't even say good night. Mrs. Weiss, of course, did. I got out and waved as they drove away.

I watched them cruise up the street; then I walked slowly up the driveway. It was a walk I had made hundreds of times in the dark. I was never afraid, but tonight something about it was spooky. I paused at the first pole of the carport, sensing someone's presence.

My sense was right.

The figure of a man stepped out between me and the door. He was a burly man, and he was so close that I could not run away. I felt my mouth opening slowly, but there was no way I could scream. The man came toward me, reaching into his pocket.

I just stood still and waited, with my head drooping forward, for him to close the final few feet between us. But he didn't. He stopped. And he said, in a voice that I did not know, "Roberta?"

I tried to regain control of my eyes, and my neck. I pulled my head backward until I could see who it was.

It was someone I knew. I had heard about that; a rapist is often someone you know. He was from Arcane. He was the guy with the long hair down his back and the stocky body.

He said again, "Roberta?"

The Head Louse. It was the Head Louse. Had he been having thoughts about me? Had he stalked me? And waited out here in the dark carport, when there would be no one to help me?

He spoke again. "Roberta, do you hear me?"

But something was odd. This wasn't the Head Louse's voice. It was an intelligent voice. "Roberta? Do you know who I am?"

I looked up at him. He pulled something black out of his pocket. A gun? A knife? He pointed it at me and snapped it. It fell open, showing a picture ID and a piece of gold metal. He took another step forward and held it out to me, so close that I could see it. He said, "Do you know what this is?"

Dimly, I could read a name:
Griffin.
I finally looked right at him. I heard myself say something really stupid. "A sheriff's star?"

He nodded, not smiling. "It's an Atlantic County Sheriff's Department badge. It's my identification. Can you read the name?"

I looked hard at the picture and read the name aloud, "Griffin."

"Right. I'm a detective. Do you understand that?" He waited patiently for an answer that did not come. He continued, "I've been working an undercover job at the mall. Do you understand?"

I did not. I whispered, "I thought you were that guy who came to Arcane."

"No. I'm not that guy. Not really. I thought maybe you had figured that out by now."

"No."

"I never was that guy." He pointed to the badge. "I'm this guy"

I started to get some control back over my brain. I asked him, "What do you want?"

"We need to talk. But first, I want you to do something for me. Go inside, pick up the phone, and call nine-one-one. Tell them it's not an emergency, but you need to talk to the platoon sergeant. Okay?

"Tell the sergeant who you are. Ask him if it's safe to let me in. If he says it is, then open the door and let me in. I have some questions I need to ask you."

I did exactly as I was told. I crossed in front of him, unlocked the door, and entered the kitchen. He did not follow. I stood with my hand on the Blockbuster Video bag, steadying myself as I dialed. I heard myself talking to a Sergeant Fisk. He told me that Detective Griffin was working a case and needed to speak to me about it. I listened quietly, and then I hung up. I opened the door and let Detective Griffin in.

He was upset, too. I could tell. He said, "I'm sorry about this. I know I scared you."

"No. That's okay."

"It's just that ... There's an element of secrecy to this case, so I have to talk to you without other people knowing. Again, I apologize for what happened out there on the driveway. If it's okay with you, I'll say what I have to say and be going."

"Okay."

We remained standing by the kitchen door. "I've been working a case for two months now. The state's attorney and ›
some other very important, very influential people are concerned about certain events at the West End Mall, events that fall under the state's hate crimes law. Someone at your mall has been the victim of racially motivated crimes."

I said, "Sam?"

"That's right. Sam. What do you know about them?"

"Nothing. I saw that his car got keyed."

"That's right. It did. But that's just the tip of it. He's been finding rebel flags, Nazi daggers, graffiti on a weekly basis. All of it seems to be because he's of Arab descent. That's what makes it a hate crime. Are you following me?"

I was gaining more control. "Yes."

"Sam has spent many nights, on his own time, hoping to catch somebody red-handed. That hasn't happened. But he and I have built up a strong circumstantial case against an employee of your arcade." He waited for me to respond, but that wasn't going to happen. He finally came out and asked, "Have you ever seen any racist actions or heard any racist statements from Hawg?"

I felt a moment of relief that it wasn't Karl. Then I felt bad for Hawg. I answered, "No."

He flipped open a small notebook. "Does anything like this sound familiar? He once told me this: 'Buncha niggers tried to mess with me in the cafeteria. I got up in the biggest one's face. I said, "You think I'm scared of you because you're black? Well, I ain't. Let's go, boy."'"

"No, I've never heard him say anything like that."

I don't think Detective Griffin believed me, but he did take a step back toward the door. He said, "Well, if he does, or if you think of anything that might help Sam out, or help me out, you can tell me in confidence. I won't reveal that you're my source. Until that time I'll leave you be. Again, I'm sorry that I startled you."

He let himself out and disappeared into the night. I locked the door behind him. Then I walked like a zombie to the couch and fell onto it.

I needed some time to think, but I didn't get it. The portable phone started ringing right next to my head. I picked it up heavily and croaked, "Hello?"

"Oh, my god, Roberta. Do you have it, too?"

"Kristin? Is that you?"

"Yes. Are you sick, too?"

"I ... I don't think so."

"Listen: We just got back from the doctor. That rash? It's not poison ivy. It's the chicken pox."

"Really? You never had the chicken pox?"

"No. Did you?"

"Yeah. I thought everybody did."

Kristin exhaled loudly. "No, Not everybody. I guess I don't need to warn you then."

"No."

"Okay. Good-bye."

"Good-bye." Kristin sounded mad. Like I hadn't given her any sympathy.

It was true. I hadn't. I had my own problems to worry about.

This afternoon I got off the school bus at Everglades Boulevard and crossed to catch the county bus on the other side of the road. The heat was painful. It was one of those days when you can't touch anything metal or you'll get a third-degree burn. I remembered that when I tried to unbuckle my backpack to pull out
The Muckrakers.

Two buses drove by before one pulled up. It said
CITY HALL CIRCLE
in electronic letters across the front. I'd been on plenty of school buses, and YMCA and church buses, but I had never before ridden a county bus. I climbed up the black stairs and asked the driver, "How much does it cost?"

He was a fat guy with thick tortoiseshell glasses. He told me, "Seventy-five cents."

I handed him a dollar. He pointed to a sticker attached to a metal-and-plastic change box. It said,
Driver does not make change.
I guess he thought I couldn't read, because he added, "I don't make change."

I reached into my pocket and felt around. I told him, "Well, I don't have any coins. What should I do?"

"You'll have to pay a dollar. Or you'll have to get off."

I stuffed the dollar into the box. I turned and walked down the aisle as he pulled away. I counted a dozen people on the bus—ten women and two little boys. Six of the women wore uniforms of various kinds, from either a hotel, a fast-food restaurant, or a theme park. Nobody was talking. But if they had talked, I had the feeling it wouldn't have been in English.

At least it was cool in the bus. The air-conditioning worked, and the windows were tinted. Everything we passed outside had a cool blue coloring. I watched as we drove past a blue sign for Seventy-second Street, the site of the cemetery. Then I settled back to read my book.

Before I knew it, we were driving past the Channel 57 Studios. I hopped up and hurried to the front. I told the driver, "I had to get off back there."

I expected him to say something mean, but he said, "Where?"

"The Channel Fifty-seven studios."

He pulled over in the middle of the block and opened the door. He said, "Let me know next time. I'll stop at the door."

I hopped off and walked back to the white studio building. I pushed open the door of the reception area. Then I followed the same path that I had taken on the class trip. I opened the door of the interior lobby and walked inside, where I heard Mrs. Knight's bubbly voice. "Roberta! You're here."

Mrs. Knight grabbed my elbow as she hurried by, pulling me along with her. She brought me up to Lori again, introduced me again, and told her again to train me on the video dubbing board. Then she disappeared. Lori said, "Do you remember what I showed you before?"

Sure.

"Why don't you go ahead and mess around with these tapes? You can get a feel for how to do it." She stood watching me for a minute, then she said, "I'm really sick of that machine. Believe me, the trick gets old."

"But are you sick of being a TV intern?"

"I'm not a TV intern. I'm a TV slave. I'm less-than-minimum-wage labor."

"Didn't you learn anything?"

"I learned that Bill is a jerk." Lori watched me for a while and commented, "You already run that thing better than I do."

I answered, "Thanks."

The door flew open and we both turned, expecting, I think, to see Bill. But instead we saw Mr. Herman. He looked awful—pale and pain filled, like he was about to cry. He froze in the doorway, as confused by the sight of me as I was by the sight of him.

Lori said, "I'm going to take off now, Roberta. Good luck."

I waved to her and then looked back at the doorway. "Are you okay, Mr. Herman?"

"Yes, of course, Roberta. I was just looking for Mrs. Knight."

"She was here a few minutes ago. She'll probably be back."

Mr. Herman was perspiring so much that it showed through his suit jacket. I said, "Can I get you a soda?"

"No. No, I'm quite all right." He breathed deeply and seemed to regain some of his composure. He asked me, "What are you doing here?"

"The internship. Remember? Today is my first day."

"Ah yes. Good for you."

I told him, "I'm reading
The Muckrakers.
"

"Good. Good." Neither of us spoke for a moment, then he asked, "So what do you think of them?"

"I think they're great. They really helped the poor people."

"Yes. It's curious, though. They were not poor people themselves, were they? They only wrote about them. They did not want to actually be poor ... Nor do I."

Mrs. Knight came up behind him. "So how did it go?"

Mr. Herman cast a nervous glance at me; then he answered, "They said I sounded good but I looked shiny. Now, what does that mean?"

"Shiny? Like, your nose? Or the top of your head?"

"I don't know. They didn't elaborate."