Jokers Club (9 page)

“You probably didn’t have any idea I knew what was going on. I know more than you think. I didn’t like the idea of you guys coming back here one bit. I haven’t forgotten all the trouble you and that stupid club of yours caused. Don’t think for one second that I have.” He chewed as he talked and a bit of drool poked out of one corner of his mouth. He wiped it away with the back of his hairy hand. “You’ve left some black scars on this town. You’ve never been nothing but trouble to me. And here it is years later, and you’re still at it.”

“You got a point?” Oliver asked.

Hooper looked at him. “I don’t like any of you, never have. And if I pin this on one of you, it’d make me very happy.”

“You don’t think –” Lonny began, but a look from the chief stopped him from finishing and caused him to play with his hair some more.

Hooper turned to me.

“You were the last one to see him?” His breath stunk of pepperoni.

“Yes.”

“What time?”

I shrugged. “I really don’t remember.”

“About?”

I thought real hard, but the whole night was blurry; I just couldn’t remember. I really didn’t remember even leaving him to go upstairs. I just had vague recollections of climbing the stairs to my room. Time was a total blank.

“I really don’t know. We had quite a bit to drink.”

He bowed his head and shook it slowly, then with hands on hips, looked up at the porch roof and wheezed a slow sigh. “And you were the last one up?”

Wait a minute, I thought. Lonny had still been out. He couldn’t sleep and had been out walking the streets. He would have come up later. He would have had to walk right by Dale.

“Yes,” I lied. “I was the last one up, except for Dale.”

“Why didn’t he go up?”

Why? If only he had this wouldn’t have happened. Everything would be all right. Why had I gone inside and not he? What had we been talking about? He had been telling me something. What was it? Why couldn’t I remember?

I looked over at the porch swing and the red streaks on its white paint, the splotch of red on the floorboards beneath it.

“I don’t know,” was all I could answer.

He huffed and another wave of pepperoni smacked me.

“I know Mr. Wolfe would prefer you all got out of his inn, but I’ll have a talk with him. I want you all around for a few days while we investigate this.”

“We have these rooms booked through Sunday night, chief,” Oliver said. “Unless you want to charge us with something, we are free to go as we please.”

“You’re still a wise-ass.” He scratched his fat belly. “Just remember. You’re not kids anymore.”

No, I thought. If only we were.

The chief started to walk away, and then turned back.

“I notice Mr. Woodman isn’t here.”

“He didn’t show,” I said.

“I guess I’ll have to look into that.”

*   *   *

After Hooper and the other cops left, we gathered in the inn’s den. We were all seated except for Lonny, who paced in front of the fireplace. Everyone was silent at first. I just shook my head, trying not to believe all this was happening. Dale was gone. His body was wrapped in plastic and on its way to some morgue where they’ll throw him on a cold steel slab to perform the autopsy. At least his body was already split open down the middle; that should make their work easier. They’ll rip out all his internal organs to get a sample and slice them up like vegetables for a salad.

This shouldn’t be happening.

I couldn’t stop thinking about his eyes, the way they were looking at me. I started thinking about when I first saw those eyes, when I turned around in class in second grade and saw the little blond-haired, gap-toothed kid looking back at me, smiling. The teacher introduced him as a new student in town.

At recess, while I played with some of my friends, I noticed him off by himself, watching us. He was still smiling, and I wanted to invite him to join in but was a little too shy to ask.

When school ended that day, I noticed him in line for the same bus as mine. He sat a few seats behind me and I kept wondering where he lived. Whenever I looked back, his eyes met mine and we both smiled. When I got to my stop and got off, so did he. As I headed down Maple Street, I watched as he went up Autumn Avenue and then turned down Elm. I raced all the way home to tell my mother there was a new boy in the neighborhood.

It was hard to believe that smiling seven-year-old boy carrying a lunch box and a pencil case would eventually end up having his abdomen sliced open with the serrated edge of a knife.

A strange thought occurred to me. This incident could give the story I wanted to write a new direction. This was like a natural progression of events. It was as if the story was starting to write itself. Maybe it’s why I came here. Maybe it’s whey we were all brought here.

Lonny broke the silence. “Why would anyone want to kill Dale?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Could be some maniac drifter,” Martin offered. “Just doing it for the thrill.”

“They’d have to be nuts,” Lonny said. “The way they butchered him.”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I think we should all realize that this may not be a random act.”

“What are you getting at?” I asked.

He stood up from his chair.

“Just, maybe he was killed for a reason. Maybe someone wanted him dead.”

“No,” Lonny exclaimed, as if it never occurred to him. “You think so?”

“But who?” Martin asked.

“And why?” I added.

“Why? I don’t know. But maybe the chief’s right, maybe it’s one of us.”

He almost smiled as he said this. We all looked at each other.

Yes, I thought. This would fit in with the story.

“You mean one of us wanted to get rid of him?” Lonny said. “Are you crazy?”

“Someone is.”

Something I had forgotten came to me. “Lonny, didn’t you see Dale on the porch when you came in last night?”

“That’s been really bugging me. I remember being down by the marina, drinking that bottle I had. I’m pretty sure I finished it, cause I remember chucking it into the lake.” He began to pace. “I was really drunk. I know I headed back to the inn.” He stared at the floor. “I came in the front door. I had trouble opening it for some reason. And I went up to my room.” He looked up at us. “But I don’t remember if I saw him or not. He could have been awake, maybe I even talked to him. I don’t recall. Maybe he was passed out.” His body trembled. “Or maybe he was already dead and I walked right by him without noticing.”

“Do you have any idea what time it was?” I asked.

“What are you getting at?” His voice rose. “Are you trying to say I did it?”

“I’m just asking –”

“Why would I want to kill him?”

“You’re the one desperate for money,” Oliver offered.

“He wasn’t robbed!” Lonny’s face turned red.

“No, but you begged me for money yesterday. Maybe this is some way of threatening me, scare me into paying you off?”

“You’re nuts! I always thought you were smart. You’re just an idiot!”

“If Dale was brought here to be killed,” Martin said to Oliver. “Remember, it was you who invited us to this reunion.”

He laughed. “Why would I need to kill anybody? I’ve got everything I want.”

“Maybe that’s it,” I said, leaning forward. “You’re the most successful one of us here. Maybe you’re afraid of exactly what you said about Lonny, that one of us will take advantage of your success and try to blackmail you. Maybe you brought us all here to get rid of us.”

“That’s ludicrous. Blackmail me with what?”

“A horrible wrong committed long ago.”

He approached me and leaned over. “I did nothing wrong.”

“You still believe that? Is that what you keep telling yourself?”

“I don’t even think about it anymore.”

“Don’t you?”

He turned and walked across the room.

“Besides, I may have sent the invitations, but this reunion wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh, whose then?”

He turned around. “It was Woody’s.”

“Woody’s?” I said, surprised.

“He wrote me awhile back, suggested that we all get together. I took it from there.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I don’t care if you do.”

“Do you think Woody’s here?” Lonny suggested.

I thought about it, about what Woody said to me when I last visited him.

“I suggest we all keep our eyes open,” Oliver said.

“It won’t matter,” I responded. “We can’t control our destiny in this thing. This whole thing is like a story. And we’re all just characters. We’ll just have to let the tale play out.”

“And just who might be writing this story, Thorn?” Oliver asked. “You, perhaps.”

“If only I was this creative.”

Lonny let out a deep breath and shook his head. “This certainly isn’t going to help my insomnia.”

“There’s one thing we haven’t considered,” I said.

“What?” Martin asked.

“Maybe this reunion is more complete than we thought.”

Oliver looked irritated. “What are you driving at?”

“Maybe Jason is here.”

“You’re not serious?” Lonny looked up, his voice half laughing, half quivering. “I mean, you really don’t think so? Do you?”

“Why not?”

“You’re a bigger fool than I thought you were,” Oliver grunted. “Jason Nightingale is dead.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” I said. “We’re the ones who killed him.”

Woody shone his flashlight out his dark bedroom window onto Geoff’s window at the house next door.

Come on
,
Geoff
, he thought.
Hurry
.

Finally, the shade lifted and Geoff stuck his head out.

“What are we going to do, Geoff?” His voice was loud enough to travel across the lawn separating their houses but quiet enough so his parents downstairs wouldn’t hear.

“I don’t know,” Geoff shrugged.

“We’ve got to do something. We can’t leave him out there all night.”

Geoff lowered his head, as if he were concentrating real hard.

“Meet me outside,” he finally said. “And bring your flashlight.”

Woody knew where they were going: back to the Tin Man’s house.

The house was mired at the end of Shadow Drive. Not to either side of the dead-end street, but directly at the end, so that if the road were to continue, it would go straight through the front door. It was a lonely old house, badly in need of repairs. A rusty gutter hung unevenly from the front edge of the roof, the left side dangling as if it would give way with the slightest accumulation of rain. Behind the dust-covered windowpanes on both floors were dark green shades pulled down, obstructing any view, in or out. The house hadn’t seen a paint job in years and not a flake remained of whatever color it had been.  There were only dingy gray clapboards cracked and calloused like the owner’s dried skin.

His name was Emeric Rust. He seemed a century old. He’d lived in the house forever, Woody had been told. His face was a mass of wrinkles, resembling a mountainous region on a topographical map. Round eyes appeared to bulge out of his head. His crown was topped with, surprising for his ancient years, thick white hair.

He rarely made an appearance outside the house, except for the occasions when he would chase members of the Jokers Club with a long-handled spade shovel, yelling, “Keep out of my yard!” The only other times Woody saw him was when one of the green shades would suddenly shoot up and his bulging eyeballs would peer out of the dusty windows, ping-ponging back and forth until, just as suddenly, the shade would jerk down.

His name was Emeric Rust, but to all the kids, he was the Tin Man.

His name originated from the condition of his back yard. Amidst the tangles of the overgrown lawn was an ever-expanding pile of junk. It had grown continuously over the years. It was now a mountainous mound coated with rust. Amid the heap were old tire rims, bicycle frames, an aged mailbox, electric fans (box and oscillating), toasters and other small kitchen appliances, rakes, hoes, the guts of a washing machine, tin cans, a television set with an exploded picture tube, a baby carriage, a lawn mower and the blades of a snow blower. Near the top was a box spring with the padding long worn away, leaving only the skeletal remains of springs and frame.

There were things that seemed to be growing out of the pile as if through some form of metallic gestation. Some stuff appeared to melt together to form one object, and other things were so dripping in rust as to be indecipherable. It seemed as if everything and anything had found its way onto the pile. At the very top there was even a kitchen sink.

Beside the junk pile there was also an old black junked car, resting on rusted rims, the trunk open, the hood missing (probably buried in the junk pile), a spider-web crack splattered across the windshield, the back window blown out completely, and the vinyl seats shredded and spilling out stuffing.

It was between the car and the junk pile that the seven boys had stood earlier that day. They were playing Relievo, a game of capture the enemy played between two teams. A cross between hide and seek and tag. One team pursued another. The goal was to elude the pursuers for an allotted time period. If members were captured, they were held in a designated “cell” and could not escape unless a member who hadn’t been caught was able to sneak up to the cell and tag a teammate yelling, “Relievo!” The prisoners would run free and the pursuit would continue. Only when all the members were captured could the pursuing team claim victory.

The Jokers Club members considered themselves experts at the game, and they accepted challenges from anyone who wanted to dethrone them. This time the challenge came from a group of kids from a neighborhood on the west side of the lake. As usual, Oliver had chosen the Jokers Club to be the ones pursued.

Jason Nightingale was with them. He had avoided them for the first couple of weeks after the clubhouse fire, but, living right down the street from them, it became difficult. Shortly after school let out for the summer, he came to them and apologized. He said his father had pressured him into telling the truth about the clubhouse fire.

They had all agreed not to have anything more to do with Jason Nightingale. All of them had gotten in deep trouble because of him and suffered a variety of punishments, though none as severe as Oliver’s.

Woody was stunned at first when Oliver decided to accept the apology. Eventually he realized something was up Oliver’s sleeve. He was biding his time till the right moment arose. He had no idea when or what, but he knew something would happen.

Five minutes before the Relievo game was to begin, the Jokers Club all looked to Oliver.

“What’s the plan?” they asked.

Oliver looked them over, and then glanced around.

“We need a shadow,” he finally said.

Woody saw the confusion on Jason’s face. They explained it to him. The shadow was a tactic they sometimes used in the game. One of the players would remain completely concealed in a hiding spot so even if the rest of the team was captured, he could remain hidden until the game was over. At one time or another they had all been the shadow, with the exception of Oliver.

“This time,” Oliver said, “it can be you, Nightingale.”

Jason started to utter a protest, but wisely halted.

“Where do I go?”

Woody looked at the trunk of the junk car. They had used it a few times, and he himself had lain in its darkness, being the shadow, being obscured by the dark. Oliver even took a step toward the car, but then spun on his heels and pointed.

“There!”

Woody turned and followed his outreached arm and extended index finger to a spot halfway up the south face of the junk pile.

There stood, embedded in the surround metal and tilted backwards, an old refrigerator. Its whiteness had dulled and there were blood-like splotches of orange as if it had been fired upon with rust bullets.

Jason looked at it, then at the others and finally at Oliver. “In there?”

“They’ll never find you.”

Jason hesitated momentarily, looking at the others as if for some clue as to how he could back out. No one said anything. He looked back at Oliver.

“We don’t have much time.”

The footing was tenuous to say the least. Some bits of metal scrap held more firmly than others, but Jason reluctantly picked his way up the hill of junk.

Woody looked at Geoff’s face, then the others. They just looked back. Nobody knew what Oliver was up to; nobody knew what to do.

Jason’s sneaker gave way on the side of an empty paint can and he lost his balance, his arms wind-milling like a cartoon character, but he reached out and grabbed a protruding piece of lead pipe and steadied himself. He looked down at the others.

“I don’t know about this, Oliver,” he said.

“Florence,” was the sneering response and that was enough to spur him on till he reached the refrigerator. With a tug he opened it.

From where Woody stood, he thought he saw something in the shadow of the inside of the refrigerator, something shifting. He wanted to call out, but knew it was only his imagination and he kept quiet.

“Not much time,” Oliver said.

Jason stepped into it and swung the door closed behind him with a thud that echoed in Woody’s ears.

Nobody moved for a moment, as if that thud had frozen them all. A muffled voice came from beyond the door.

“It don’t open from this side!”

“We’ll let you out when the time is up!” Oliver yelled.

He turned his back to the pile and stepped away from it.

“Is he gonna be okay in there?” Dale asked.

“Sure,” Oliver said, turning and facing them.

Woody could see the glint in his eyes.

“What are you up to?” Geoff asked.

“He’s gonna stay in there. All night.”

Lonny smiled. “Yeah.”

“How long?” Woody asked.

“We’ll let him out in the morning.”

Woody looked at the others, not knowing what to do.

“You gotta be with me on this,” Oliver yelled. “He ratted on us.” He looked from face to face. “We all got punished, now it’s his turn.” The tone of his voice elevated. “It’s his turn to be punished. Right guys?”

Woody thought about it. It was true. They had resented him when he squealed. No one in the club had ever done anything like that before. Jason deserved what he was going to get.

“But he is gonna be all right?” Woody asked.

“Sure. He spends the night, cries a lot, then we let him out in the morning and kick his ass out of the club.”

Woody thought about it for a moment, as he was sure the others did. Jason hadn’t been a part of the club for very long. It wasn’t like the two of them had made any special connection. Jason had always seemed more interested in Geoff and Dale. It could be easy not to be friends anymore. And he did deserve it.

Oliver took the silence as agreement and gave them one last order.

“Scatter.”

*   *   *

They had won the game of course, like always. Afterwards, Woody and the others stood silently in Oliver’s back yard, as if not sure what to do next.

“Are you really going to leave him there all night?” Geoff asked.

“You’re damn right,” Oliver replied.

“Hasn’t he had enough?”

“No!” Oliver’s face flushed. “He could never have enough.”

“We let him out first thing in the morning,” Dale assured.

“What if he tells his old man on us?” Woody asked.

Oliver went up to him and looked him in the face. “He wouldn’t dare!” He turned to look at the others. “We go home. Nobody says a word. Nobody lets him out till morning.”

Quietly, they all went to their own houses as night came on.

Woody thought about Jason in the refrigerator. He imagined time would be crawling slowly for him, wondering when they would come for him.
If
they would come. Panic would set in and it would dawn on him that he wouldn’t be getting out. He imagined Jason, trapped inside that white coffin, pounding on the door, screaming for help. But there would be no one to hear him. Or would there? Maybe the Tin Man would hear his calls and come for him. But once he let Jason out, what would he do to him then?

He felt sorry for Jason, but it was his own fault. No one in the club had ever squealed before. It just didn’t happen.

Unable to sleep, he had looked at the clock and saw it was just before midnight. Sleep was not going to come. That was when he grabbed his flashlight and signaled to Geoff’s window.

Now the two of them found themselves walking down the sidewalk on Shadow Drive. The night was hot and clear and eerily silent. No cars turned down Shadow Drive. No one was about in the neighborhood at this late hour. Stars spattered the black sky above, helping the moon to light darkened air. The shambling house at the end of the road moved closer toward them, as if it rested on wheels that were slowly rolling down the quiet street. The boys could almost imagine the sound of the tires squeaking, for indeed they would be old, worn and rusted rims like the rest of the house and like the junk pile in the back yard that was their destination.

As the house moved closer to them, the pace of their steps slowed. When they first left they had been running, as if urgency were their utmost concern. But now that their arrival at the Tin Man’s home was imminent, the need to hurry did not seem as important.

Before they knew it, the structure was upon them, seemingly leaning out over them like some lumbering beast, stretching its creaking timbers and beams. Geoff motioned for Woody to be quiet as they crept around the side of one wall with caution, as if the sound of sneakers on grass would be noise enough to wake the rotting hulk. Once out back they saw the junk pile, looking twice its size in the moonlight, one complete entity instead of being made of multitudes of organisms, like a giant beast rising up from the dark earth.

They stood beside each other in front of the pile, not speaking. Woody flicked the flashlight on and guided its beam up the sloping surface. Weird twisted shapes jumped out as the spotlight shone on them, like macabre performers on a ghastly stage. The junk seemed even more unrecognizable in the dimness of the interrupted dark.

It’s gone, Woody thought as he frantically played the beam over the pile searching for the refrigerator. Maybe the junk beast had swallowed it whole, Jason and all. But then he saw it, higher up than he remembered, and pinned his beam on the reflective surface.

At the end of the flashlight’s tunneled vision the refrigerator looked as if it were bobbing on an ocean wave. Its surface appeared gray and looked cold to the touch even in the hot summer night. There was an unnatural silence that surrounded the box that had become Jason’s prison.

Woody heard a gasp and it took him a moment to realize it came from himself. He forgot Geoff was even with him till he felt a hand grip his arm. He turned and looked into his friend’s face. He was met with nervous eyes and rapid breaths. They both looked back up, at the refrigerator.

“Jason,” Geoff whispered. There was no answer.

“Jason!” Woody yelled out loud. Geoff clamped a hand over his mouth. The name echoed around them in the darkness.

“Quiet. The Tin Man might hear you.” They turned and looked back at the house. The dark green shades were all drawn as usual.

They returned their gaze to the junk pile.

“Maybe the Tin Man already got him,” Woody said.

“Maybe. But he probably just fell asleep. He’s been in there a long time.”