Blues for Zoey (21 page)

67

Haun
ted

On Sunday morning, I wrapped newspaper and blankets loosely around the rattler, fastening
it all with masking tape. When I had finished, it looked ve
ry much like I'd murdered a sca
recrow and was preparing to dump the body.

Mom was in her room,
which was good, but Nomi was lying in front
of the TV, watching the final episode of
Big
Daddy
. There was no way to sneak past
her, so I just went for it.

“Is that the thing for Mom?” she asked when I moved past the doorway.

I nodded and put a finger to my lips. “Don't tell her, but there's
a problem. One of the pieces? It's
broken. I'm just gonna take it across the street. Dave M
izra has tools and he said he could fix it.”

Nomi nodded slowly, like it all made sense but there was something she was missing. “Why's it all wrapped up?”

“I told you, because it's broken.”

“Can I see?”

“No. I'll be right back.”

It hadn't
rained since the storm, so the street was a
blizzard of summer dust. Sand and grit and strips of
paper collected in the gutter. It was five to twelve. I was right on time.

Across the street, Dave Mizra's shop was
closed. The poster of Shain Cope hung in the shado
ws of the back wall. He stared out at me
through spirals of cigarette smoke. I felt haunted.
It didn't help that I was about to
sell off what was possibly the man's most prized
possession. To escape the singer's gaze, I dragged the inst
rument into an alcove beside the shop.

Every time something red drove past, my heart
went crazy. It was always a taxi or a rusty minivan. Never a flashy
convertible. B
y twelve fifteen, I began to worry.
I called
Myers's number, but there was no answ
er. I tried again at twelve thirty, then
at one o'clock. That was when the door in the alcove behind me opened up.

“Kaz-o-matic!”
It was Dave Mizra, looking pretty hagga
rd. He was uncharacteristically dressed in a baggy gray track suit and worn sandals. Stubble sprouted in tufts all over his face. His hairdo was a bird
's nest. “What are you doing?” he asked. “Why are you blocking the entrance to my home?”

“I'm waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“Just somebody.”

This didn't seem to satisfy him. “On my doorstep?”

“On this corner, that's all.”

H
e blinked at the rattler in its morbid wrapping, propped against the wall. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Probably.”

“I haven't seen her in a while.” He seemed genuinely disappointed.

“Me neither,” I said.

Dave Mizra locked and bolted his door with several keys. “When you see her, tell her I miss her music.”

“Me too,” I whispered, once he was already halfway up the block. I kept waiting.

One fifteen.

One thirty.

Two o'clock
.

But Andrew Myers never showed up.

68

All Kinds
of People

I lost count of how many times I dialed his number before he finally answered.

“Yeah, Myers. What's up?”

“Mr. Myers! O
h, great! It's Kaz Barrett, I'
m sorry for calling so much, but … ” (Why the hell was I
apologizing
?) “But you wer
e supposed to meet me at noon today. Remember?”

“Are you the screenwriter who
keeps calling? I thought I told you I wasn't—”

“No, we met earlier this w
eek when you brought some suits in. For dry cleaning. It's a
place called the Sit 'n' Spin. When you came in to pick them up, you saw—”

“
Oh, shit, yeah! Sorry, kid. Was it
today we were meeting?”

“At twelve o'clock.”

“Listen … ” His voice fell as he said the word. It dropped down to that minor chord you use when yo
u're ashamed of something. Or when you're changing your mind.

“What is it?”

“Might be
best if you and your friend just sit on
that thing for now, okay?”

My chest tightened. I felt my
most important parts grinding together, the gears stripping. “You said you wanted to buy it. You still d
o.
Right?
”

“I did some checking around, and I got it on very good authority that there's
some people who might be trying to track the thing down.
”

“What people? The police?”

“I'm not sure, but no, probably not the police. It sounds like they know it's in town som
ewhere.”

“So, who? Like Shain Cope's family? Or someone else?
Who?!
” My voice was cracking into falsetto.

“Is it really true your friend was playing that thing in public?
On the street?
What is she, an idiot? Doesn't she know what it is?”

“No. I don't know. Maybe she doesn't—I mean,
didn't
. I don't know if I'm gonna see her.”

Myers sighed. “Okay, kid,
listen
. I don't want to scare you or
anything, but I'll tell you what I found
out. Cope ran around with some pretty crazy guys out in LA. Bikers, dealers—
all kinds
of people. What
I hear is that the Cope family have enlisted the help of some ve
ry heavy hitters.” He paused. “If you ask me, this shit's going fubar, so do yourself a favor and tell
your friend to
sit on it
. Don't
take it out on the street. Don't sho
w it to anybody. Just sit on it, okay?”

“
Wait
,” I said. Somewhere, I found a sliver of my regular voice. “I
need
that money, I really do. You told me—”

“We all need money, kid. It's what makes the world go round. But don't worry, I'll look you up when I'm in town again.”

“
Again?
You're leaving?”

“I told you, I was only here a couple days. I'm sure we'll get to do business when things cool down.”

“You can't. You promised!”

“I only said I was interested.”

“But—”

“Look, I'm already on my way to the airport.”

“No, wait! You don't understand, I wrote her a whole bunch of checks! I really need that—”

Money
, I thought.

I didn't say it out loud because there wasn't any point. Andrew Myers had hung up.

69

Seven Unanswered Texts
and One Long-Ass Phone Message

2:04
p.m.
Zoey, BIG mistake! Don't cash the checks.
OK?

2:07 p.m.
Did you get my message?

2:08 p.m.
I can't buy this thing. I need the $ back. k

2:13 p.m.
EMERGENCY. Please call me!

2:32
p.m.
Seriousl
y
.
W
e
could
both
b
in
DEEP
shit.
Both
of
us!
Just
call

2:49 p.m.
Zoey, wtf? ANSWER YOUR PHONE!

3:00 p.m.
OK ... the truth: I lied. I screwed up. I made
a mistake. Just call me. I need to tell you something.

I dialed Zoey
's number. “Zoey, it's Kaz. I really need to talk to you. I
know I said I was an honest person, but
the truth is I'm not. I mean, I am,
but I wasn't—not when it really mattered. So I
'm gonna tell you everything, okay? I'm gonna be honest, just like you
said. But first I have to say that I
know you weren't completely honest with me. I know you didn't build
that instrument yourself. I don't kn
ow how you ended up with it, and I don't care. Maybe
you found it, maybe someone gave it to you, but maybe what you don't know is that it once belonged to Shain Cope
… yes,
that
Shain Cope.
He made it
. I
know it sounds crazy, but it's
true. When you left it with me that time, this guy came into my work, this movie producer f
rom LA, and he knew it as soon
as he saw it. He offered me
a ton
of cash
to buy it and I should have
split it with you, but I guess I was mad because you never told me the truth. So I bought it
off you instead and I'm
so sorry
.
But now I'm in huge trouble. Maybe we both a
re. It turns out Shain Cope's family sent some very bad people—like bikers or something—to get his instrument back.
They may've been watching us, so please,
please
be
careful. The guy said it was too dangerous
for him to buy it right now. So, um, that's another reason I'm calling. Because I
need the money back. Because there's something
else I didn't tell you. That money I was saving
wasn't for school. My grades are shit.
I'll never get in anywhere. The real
truth is, that money was for my mom. Remember
how she acted when you met her? It's
cuz she has this disease. It's called somnitis and it
's super rare and it basically means she has these comas. They just happen, and someday she's just not gonna wake up. I was saving that money to
get her into a special clinic in New Yo
rk. So you see? I need it back. The money
I gave you. I
really
need it back. So please call me, okay?”

70

Memento Mori

I took an eastbound streetcar all the way across town. In the brightness of the afternoon, the unfinished apar
tments looked worse than I remembered.

I buzzed Zoey's apartment a million times (give or take). Eventually
, an old man came hobbling out of the building. When he opened the door, I slipped inside. I
bashed on Zoey's door, yelling for her to
open up. It wasn't long before
that same old man came back—this time with a security gu
y. I told them Zoey was my girlfriend, but neither
of them cared. The guard told me to get lost.

I sat on the
gravel out front and waited. But then
something occurred to me. Why hadn't I thought of
it before? There was another way to find he
r. So I hopped on the first streetcar
going back the other way.

Falconer College gets made fun of a lot in the
Chronicler
. The most common slur is to
call it one endless parking lot, and, walking across
the grounds, I had to agree the criticism
was apt. Everything there was the same shade of gray.

When I asked
the man at the reception desk, he said he had ne
ver heard of the Philosophy of Music Department.
“We don't have one of those.”

“What about just a philosophy department?”

“Are you a student?”

“I'm looking for someone.
I need to find Professor Zamani. He should be—”

“We
don't have ‘professors' at F
alconer. We have instructors.”

“Okay,
Instructor
Zamani.”

The guy typed the name and then shrugged. “Sorry, I don't have that name in the system.”

“Can you check by course? He teaches a course called Philosophy of Music.”

The guy squinted at his screen. “Oh, wait, sounds like one of the weird adult ed courses, which means he'll be a sessional.
So if he's anywhere, he's in
here.” He took out a big blue
binder and flipped through an index of names in the
opening section. “Here we go.
Paul Zamani
.” He tapped the page, shaking his head
in wonder. “No kidding. He teaches Philosophy
of Music and—” He snorted. “
Jazz Appreciation
. I can't believe
we do a course called Jazz Appreciation.”

“Is he here? Where can I find him?”

“Y
ou might be in luck. It says he keeps office hours this evening.”

I followed the directions to
another building. Paul Zamani's room didn't
have a name on it, just the number. When
I knocked, a voice said, “Yeah-yeah, come in.”

Zoey's father sat facing the door, reading a science fiction novel. His feet—in a pair of scuffed brogues, the left one half devoid of its sole—were propped up on his desk, which had nothing on it but a red pen.

He was thin like Z
oey, with her same sharp features. His dirty-blond hair was swept back
from his head, making him resemble a bird
of prey, an eagle or a falcon. A
tattoo of a robot wrestling a gorilla tumbled out
from under his rolled-up sleeves. Both his ears were punched full of metal, the most prominent bauble being that of a grinning silver skull.

Everything about Paul Zamani fit with my idea of Zoey, but not in the way I expected. He looked so
young
, more like someone Zoey would hang out with, not someone who would help her with her homework.

“Mr. Zamani?”

“Yeah? Can I help you with something?”

I didn't quite know h
ow to start. For a moment, I stared dumbly, mesmerized by the shining skull that dangled at his jawbone.

“Memento mori
,
”
he said.

“What?”

He put the book down and brought one hand to his ear. “It reminds me to
live a full life because no matter what we
do, one day we'll all end up like this.
” He cocked his head sideways, flicking the skull with a fingertip. “Y
ou in one of my classes?”

I shook my head. “I'm in high school. But I know your daughter. We've been
hanging out. I bought something off her. Her instrument, actually
, which I'm sure you know about, but it turns out I can't—”

“
Waaay-way-way-way-wait
. What did you say? My
daughter
?”

“Zoey.”

He yanked his feet off the desk and leaned forward, smiling like this was all a joke. “I don't even
know
anybody called Zoey.”

“Yeah, you do … she's … ”

Y
our daughter?

The words would
n't come out. They were stuck in all the
gaps in my head, gaps that were just
becoming clear as I stood there, gaps like the missing
pieces in an unfinished puzzle.

Paul Zamani shook his head. “You have
so
got the wrong guy.”

“But … wait … ”

“Do I
look
like somebody with a kid?”

“She told me she was your daughter.”

“
Who
did?” He was more serious now.

“Her name is Zoey.”

“And how do you know this girl? S
he go to your school?”

I shook my head. “You can't miss her, she's … she's … ” I didn't kn
ow how else to put it. “She's
beautiful
. Kinda goth, kinda punk, and bright blue eyes. And dreads, all dyed pink and pur—”

“Oh, wait. Zoey Jones!”

“
J
ones?
”

“That was
months
ago. She enrolled in my class last term, but she ne
ver paid her fees so after a couple weeks they
booted her out.” He looked down and nodded to himself. “But you're right. I know I
'm not supposed to say this sort of thing, but yeah, I agree. She was quite … striking.”

I nodded.

“She said I was
her father
?”

I nodded again.

“Why'd she tell you that? It's impossible. How old is she? Like,
twenty
?”

“Twenty? Really?” Could she be that old?

“Anyway, I am
definitely
not her dad.”

When he said the word
dad
, something tightened in my chest. It was
the biggest hole in the puzzle, and I'd found
the piece that fit.

“No,” I said. “You're not.”

“Well, that was easy.
What convinced you?”

“You can't be Zoey's father. Because I'v
e already met him.”