Crusader (18 page)

"You haven't had breakfast?"

"No."

Let's go.

As soon as they left I got back on the computer. Suzie had clicked out of her file, but she had not clicked out of Word. I pulled back up the last document. It was her résumé.

Suzie Quinn has worked for the Marriott hotel chain at three different hotels. She has been a banquet manager and a convention hostess, whatever that is. She left Marriott to become the assistant manager of a mall in Miami, a mall owned by the Lyons Corporation. Then she became the manager of a mall in West Palm Beach, also owned by Lyons. It seemed like she changed jobs every six months.

I logged off and left the office. I still had no inclination to go to work. Instead I detoured into the card shop. Mrs. Weiss was alone behind the register. She looked at me and said, "Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes, ma'am." I lied, "My dad bought me a Danish."

"A Danish? Bah. He may as well buy you a cupcake."

"Why are you sitting?"

"Why shouldn't I sit? It's my store." She sighed. "It's all mine; I don't have any help today. I don't even have anyone to cover for our cemetery trip."

"That's okay," I said.

"Why haven't you gone to work yet?"

"You noticed that?"

"I notice everything. Have you finally had enough? Have you stopped working for nothing?"

"No. I'm just feeling ... I don't know, like I don't want to go in yet."

"You
are
sick of it. Tell me, Roberta, what do people do over in that nuthouse? What does five dollars buy them?"

"Oh, you know. They put on the helmets, and they swing the wands. They have the different experiences."

"Experiences? Those aren't experiences. Experiences are real life. Those are TV shows."

"Well, it's just pretend."

"What? They pretend they're somebody else. Some big hero instead of some miserable little nobody."

I didn't know what to say to that. Mrs. Weiss was in a bad mood. When she gets like this, there's no talking to her.

I finally wandered into Arcane and stood next to Karl. Karl didn't even acknowledge me. We stood in silence until Kristin came out of the back. She wasn't much more talkative. All she had to say was, "I feel lousy. Weird-lousy."

I said, "What did you have for breakfast?"

"It's not my stomach. It's all over. Like I'm getting my period. But that can't be. I just had it."

"I can't help you there."

"Maybe I'll take some Motrin."

Karl suddenly said, "Couldn't hurt."

Kristin went into the back for the Motrin. I spent a minute watching Karl. He appeared to be reading a magazine, yet he never turned the page. His eyes weren't even focused on the page. Instead his head was rotating slowly and purposefully, like a radar dish. Karl was taking in everything around him—by sound, and feel, and smell.

His head snapped back, and mine did, too, when Nina burst in, shouting, "Hey, what's up, you losers! Where's my girl Kristin?"

I said, "She'll be out in a minute."

"A minute's too long. I got things to do. How you doing, big guy?"

Karl muttered, "I'm here."

"Yeah, you are that, Karl. You got that 'here' thing going for you."

Kristin came out, so Nina immediately forgot about Karl and me. "Hey, girl."

Kristin answered weakly, "Hey."

"I was just up at the food court. Did you see that chick from the Taco Stop? She's got some guy's name tattooed on her thigh."

Kristin perked up a little. "Really? What's his name?"

"I don't know. I couldn't bear to read it. She had a big glob of cellulite, like, right next to it. It grossed me out. That whole idea grosses me out."

Karl said, in what I guess he thought was a Cuban accent, "You're not gonna get a little C for Carlos? In some special place?"

Nina wasn't amused. "Back off, crazy man."

Kristin said, "Anybody who gets a tattoo is crazy. And if you get some guy's name tattooed on you, then you're crazy
and
you're stupid. What happens when he dumps you? What do you do then?"

Nina knew. "You go see Dr. Navarro. My dad used to remove tattoos all the time, for two hundred dollars a pop, back when he had an office on the Strip. He used to do a dynamite business. Guys and girls would break up, get back together, break up again. I told him he ought to have a tattoo parlor attached to the office. Then he'd get them coming and going."

I said, "Then he'd be like Sylvester McMonkey McBean."

"Huh?"

"From Dr. Seuss?
The Sneetches
? Sylvester McMonkey McBean put the star tattoos on the Sneetches, and then he took them off again. And he kept charging them more each time."

Nina rolled her eyes at Kristin. "We can always count on you to contribute to the conversation, Roberta."

Then Nina pointed into the mallway at some approaching teenage boys. "Oh, my god, look at these scuzzbags! What is this, some new promotion—Scuzzbag Sunday?"

Nina and Kristin turned their attention to the boys. I picked up an aerosol can, walked out onto the floor, and started to spray the helmets. When I finished I went into the back to see Uncle Frank. He was just sitting at his desk. He wasn't writing anything, or talking on the phone, or even thinking, as far as I could tell. I said, "Uncle Frank, did you hear that a tour bus is coming today?"

"No. What flavor?"

"Suzie said they're Asian. She didn't know which country."

"We'll be lucky if she got the continent right. Here. Take these and put them out." Uncle Frank reached down into his bottom drawer and pulled out three signs. They all said
OUT OF ORDER
. "Put one on Halls of Montezuma, one on Mekong Massacre, and one on Genghis Khan Rides!"

"Okay."

Before I could leave, Kristin came into the back, took Uncle Frank's hand, and placed it on her forehead. "Daddy, I feel warm."

Uncle Frank turned his complete attention to Kristin, as I went out into the arcade. Just as I had put up the third sign, I heard a loud thud over to my left. I went to check it out and saw Hawg sprawled on the ground next to Vampire's Feast. I crouched next to him. "Are you okay?"

"Sure thing, little lady. I just chopped so hard at that damn thing I fell right off. Whew! That was scary. Listen to that sound!"

Hawg held the helmet out toward me; I shrank back. "No. No, I don't do that."

"You don't do what?"

"I don't put those helmets on."

"You don't have to put it on. Just listen to that sound she makes." Hawg continued to hold the black helmet out. I could hear the sound, and it was horrible. It was a high-pitched shriek, like a woman scared beyond mortal terror, screaming like she wanted to rip out her vocal cords.

I stammered, "What is that?"

"That's the banshees of hell. They're comin' to get you, if you don't get them first."

"Is that what they all sound like?"

"No, just this one. I never had it turned so loud before. It scared me right off the damn platform."

I tried to shake the sound out of my head as I walked up to the front.

Suzie's tour bus never materialized, but customers came in and out all afternoon, so many that we took the
OUT OF ORDER
signs down to give them more choices. It was one of our busiest days in months. I finally took my break at three and ate a quick
combinacion
plate at the Taco Stop. I was only gone for about fifteen minutes, but after I dumped my tray and turned the corner, I beheld a very different scene. An ugly scene.

A tall guy in a dark blue turban had Karl pinned against the Crusader experience. Karl seemed stuck to the black ring, like a refrigerator magnet. The guy was stabbing Karl with his index finger, hard, like he was trying to hurt him. He was yelling, "You think this is funny? Do you?"

Karl's face was not smiling; it was zoned out. Maybe the
guy mistook that for smiling. At any rate, he yelled even louder, "This is not funny! This is racist! This is evil!"

Karl seemed to shrivel a little with each poke of the finger. He didn't look like he could take much more of it. I started toward him, but Hawg got there first.

He came up quickly from behind Crusader, thrusting himself between Karl and his attacker, forcing the turban guy backward. The guy aimed a big finger at Hawg, but before he could use it, Hawg took another belligerent step, forcing the guy out into the mallway. Hawg yelled back, "You got a problem here, Karl?"

Karl remained shriveled, stuck against the Crusader ring. The turban guy looked from Karl to Hawg. He sputtered out, "This is racist, and you are profiting from it. There is blood on your money." He made a spitting motion on the mallway, although I don't think anything came out, then he stomped angrily away.

I hurried over to Karl. Hawg and I each took an arm and pried him away from the black ring. Karl's elbow felt bony and surprisingly light, like a bird's. We walked him slowly into the back room. Karl stayed there for about an hour. When he finally came out, though, he was fine. He seemed to have forgotten all about it.

Near closing time Kristin got a call from the franchise guy. Dad never answers the store phone, in case it's the franchise guy. Now Uncle Frank is getting the same way. I guess the guy asked for Uncle Frank, because Kristin covered the receiver and pointed to him. "Daddy, it's a guy from Antioch, Illinois. From Arcane."

Uncle Frank shook his head. "Tell him I'm not here."

Kristin spoke into the phone. "He's not here right now." Her face hardened as she listened; then she hung up.

Uncle Frank asked, "What did he say?"

"He was rude. He implied that I was lying." Kristin looked him in the eye. "Of course, it's true. I was lying."

Uncle Frank said, "I'm sorry, Kitten. Don't pay any attention to him."

She muttered, "I won't," but it was clear from the way she banged the change drawer around that she did.

Dad dropped me off at home a little before ten. Suzie's car was right behind ours. Dad said, "We're going over to the beach. Want to come?"

"Do you want me to come?"

"Sure."

"Does Suzie?"

"Of course she does."

"How about if I ask her?"

Dad looked nervously at Suzie, idling in the Miata. "Sure, honey. If you want to come, just ask her."

I told him, "I don't want to come. I have school tomorrow."

"Oh yeah. Right. Well, you go ahead and beep me, for any reason. Good night."

I went inside and got a Fruit Roll-Up. Just as I stuffed it in my mouth, the phone rang. I had a quick thought that it might be Dad calling me from Suzie's car, but it wasn't. A deep, all-business voice demanded, "Is Robert Ritter there?"

"No."

"Is this his phone number?"

I called on a lifetime of training for dealing with strangers. I asked, "Who is this?"

After a pause, he answered stiffly, "This is Mr. Lewis. I am calling from Arcane Industries in Illinois. Mr. Ritter left this phone number on his franchise application. Is this his phone number?"

"I'm not allowed to give out that kind of information."

"I see. Do you know when I can possibly reach him at work?"

"No."

"How about Colonel Frank Ritter? He's the one I really need to speak to. Can you be of any help in putting me in touch with him? Either at home or at work?"

"No."

"How old are you, miss?"

"I'm eighteen."

"Then you are the person I will have to deliver this message to. Colonel Ritter must call me within the next twenty-four hours or I will begin reclamation proceedings against his franchise. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I'll tell my father to tell my uncle to call you." I already knew the answer, but I asked him, "Mr. Lewis, what are reclamation proceedings?"

I don't think he wanted to tell me, but he did. "It's a legal process. At the end of that process I send a truck down there and reclaim our equipment."

"I see. How far behind are we?"

"Your uncle has defaulted on two payments, August first and September first. That's six thousand dollars. Should that figure reach nine thousand I will pull your franchise so fast your head will spin. And the cost to me of doing that—the movers, the shipping, the cleanup—will eat up your collateral down payment in its entirety. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"And ask him one more thing for me. If he's a military man, what's he doing hiding behind teenage girls? That's who I get at the work number, and that's who I get at this number. Why won't he talk to me himself? Will you ask him that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." Mr. Lewis hung up. I punched in the number of Dad's beeper. I got a recording, punched in our home phone number, and waited.

I waited until bedtime, but he never called back.

Today was the day of the journalism field trip to Channel 57. It was a chance to see Mrs. Knight again, and I was very excited about that.

In the morning I waited outside Mr. Archer's office for Mr. Herman to arrive. There were no extra tapes to run or announcements to make, and that gave me time to ask, "Mr. Herman, did you get a chance to read the draft of my article?"

"Your article? What was it about?"

"It was about modeling. And shopping."

"Ah yes. Yes. A very amusing feature, Roberta. Even touching in parts. I nearly wept when the credit card didn't go through."

I held out a copy. "Here's what made it into the newsletter. Suzie chopped it down to nothing."

Mr. Herman raised one eyebrow and scanned the little boxed feature. "I really must meet Suzie someday. Someday, perhaps, when I have a very nasty, very contagious disease."

"Do you think it's a good article?"

"Yes. For a lightweight feature. It shows that you have range. Range is absolutely essential for a reporter. It shows that you can cover a bloody mass murder in an orphanage on one corner and a kitten rescue from a tree on the next."

"So you really think I can be a reporter?"

"How can you even ask me that, Roberta? Have you ever seen me waste a moment of my time on a child who lacks potential? Or ambition?" He stopped still and looked at me. He gestured toward my nose, and my eyes, and my ears. "Listen to me: You have a nose for news. You have an eye for detail. You have an ear for dialogue." He grasped the pointer finger of my hand. "You have a feel for the topic." He counted off on his own fingers: "Smell. See. Hear. Feel. All right. And when that Suzie creature got into in a snit over Toby the Turtle, you got a taste of what real journalism can do."