Authors: Edward Lee
The House (19 page)
More corroboration.
Melvin couldn't have been more enthused.
This'll be great! Dirk'll love it!
Melvin couldn't have been more enthused.
This'll be great! Dirk'll love it!
Squirrelly clearly hadn't washed in a while; Melvin could smell musky B.O. and oil secretions from her hair. Her teeth were a mess, and she kept scratching her legs for no apparent reason. Crack bugs. Her lips were glossed from the grease in the Chinese food that she'd just about inhaled.
"I'm actually stayin' at a place just a little ways north of the Vinchetti house—"
"That compound?" He and Dad's fruity wife had seen it yesterday when they'd staked out the grounds. "The realtor said it was uninhabited."
"We shack up there sometimes," Squirrelly said, "'Cos no one bothers to run us off. Me and Chopper and some of the D's, in between their runs."
"You and...Chopper?"
"Yeah, he's my guy."
Melvin gulped. "You—you have a boyfriend named
Chopper?
"
Chopper?
"
"Well, yeah, sort of. I take care of him and his people when they're upstate. He and his boys run crack from Florida, bring it up here on their bikes. Never heard of the D's? It's a motorcycle gang. The St. Pete Decapitators."
Some of Melvin's zeal reclined.
Great. She's got a boyfriend named Chopper and he's in a motorcycle gang called the Decapitators.
Now he could
never
ask her out on a date! But at least she was staying nearby. The compound, in fact, was the only other dwelling within twenty miles of the Vinchetti house. Maybe he'd be able to interview her for the article.
Great. She's got a boyfriend named Chopper and he's in a motorcycle gang called the Decapitators.
Now he could
never
ask her out on a date! But at least she was staying nearby. The compound, in fact, was the only other dwelling within twenty miles of the Vinchetti house. Maybe he'd be able to interview her for the article.
"What exactly is that place?" he asked next. "This compound? It looked sort of like military barracks or something."
"Don't know," she said. "But it's a pretty creepy place itself. You could come down and look at it but... Well, you better not, not while Chopper's there. Sometimes he gets crazy from Milwaukee's Best and PCP. He might kill ya."
Melvin gulped again.
"One time we went into a hardware store to buy denatured alcohol 'cos sometimes the D's make kat, and there's, like, nobody in the store except the old man behind the counter, so the old man winks at me and makes some comment about how he likes my butt and, man, that was it for Chopper. He vised the old guy's head into the paint-shaker and turned it on high! Fucked him ALL up!"
No. Melvin would not be going to the compound again.
Around the next green, sweeping bend, the house loomed. He could see Gwyneth's Corvette parked out front, Gwyneth herself wandering around the sloping front yard. Melvin drove past the end of the driveway and pulled over on the shoulder about a mile down, near the compound, where he dropped Squirrelly off. "I like you! You're not a dick like most johns!" She gave him a big wet greasy kiss, said "Thanks, man!" and got out and skipped away toward the old fenced-in grounds. Melvin watched after her, smiling in sentiment.
My first kiss! My first handjob...sort of!
All she'd left in the bag was a single fortune cookie. Melvin crunched it down and read the tiny slip of paper.
PREPARE TO BE EMBRACED BY SOMETHING FROM THE PAST, it read.
He turned the HUM-V around.
And drove back up to the house.
(III)
Backtrack two days.
It went like this.
"It's a half hour or so past Pennellville on the county highway," said Dirk, the editor-in-chief, at lunch. "I want you to check it out. You're the only guy on my staff who does what I tell him. And I'll give you a bonus, in advance."
"How much?" Melvin asked.
Dirk busted out in his annoying belly-laugh. "How ever much that burger you're eating costs, tough guy!"
"Thanks, boss."
Dirk looked like a fat version of George Bush with long hair. He wasn't a very nice guy and he used people they way he was using the chicken wings: after he sucked the meat off, he discarded the rest, useless. "We need more funky stuff in this piece of shit we call a human-interest newspaper," Dirk said. "The big piece last week was about the rising price of bulk tomatoes and how it will affect Syracuse culinary culture. That's really stretching for something to write about."
"Yeah, but ghosts, haunted houses?" Melvin asked. "Isn't that contrived?"
Dirk's eyes narrowed. "What's that mean?"
"Isn't it kind of hokey, tabloidish?"
"Well, yeah, that's what I mean. The upscale yuppie punks in this city don't want to read news. And they don't want to read about tomatoes, either, or Vitamin E or the stolen wheelchair black market or cigarette additives. They want to read something scary and fun! So just fuckin' go to this fuckin' house and write a piece about it. We'll call it ‘The Most Haunted House in Upstate' or something like that. Stuff like this'll up our advertiser rates, you watch. Write the piece. I'll give you an extra twenty-five bucks."
Dirk was serious. Not that being paid piss-poor by the paper mattered.
Thank God for Dad,
Melvin thought.
I...don't think I'd do very well working in McDonald's.
But the conversation got some cogs turning. "The...
What's
the place called? The Vincent house?"
Thank God for Dad,
Melvin thought.
I...don't think I'd do very well working in McDonald's.
But the conversation got some cogs turning. "The...
What's
the place called? The Vincent house?"
"The Vinchetti house," Dirk corrected. "Used to be owned by Paul Vinchetti,
big
mob boss out of the Utica, Rome area. Made underground porn in the house, real ugly stuff. There were murders there in the late '70s. Some kid went caveman in the joint. Big time."
big
mob boss out of the Utica, Rome area. Made underground porn in the house, real ugly stuff. There were murders there in the late '70s. Some kid went caveman in the joint. Big time."
The most vague recognition began to flitter. Melvin pointed a french fry like an instructor's stick. "Oh, yes, I have heard of it. I remember some people talking about it in college. They'd go up there for beer parties during the breaks."
"Did you go?" Dirk cut in.
Melvin stammered. "Well, er, nuh-no." Then he said fast, "But these people swore it's
really
haunted." Another thought flashed, a conflict of sorts. "But I need to tell you, I might not be right for the piece. I don't believe in ghosts."
really
haunted." Another thought flashed, a conflict of sorts. "But I need to tell you, I might not be right for the piece. I don't believe in ghosts."
Dirk winced. "I don't give a fuck. Just write the piece. What are you, Bob Fuckin' Woodward?" His fingers were red from Buffalo wings. "Five, six years ago, before I hired your sorry ass, one of my writers did a piece on psychics and he interviewed this old dude named Alexander Nyvysk, an ex-priest. He died in Florida last year, I read. But, anyway, his gig was he'd travel across the country to investigate houses that were supposedly haunted. In the interview he said he couldn't stay in the Vinchetti house more than a couple hours. The place burned out his equipment the minute he plugged it in. And he took some other psychics with him, and one of them fucking died. Heart attack within five minutes after walking into the place. Nyvysk said the Vinchetti house is more haunted than any house he'd ever investigated, and he'd been doing it for over twenty years. It's the perfect house to do a write-up on. Nobody's going to pick up a free city paper if they know it ain't got nothing in it except political editorials and Greenpeace save the fucking whale hippie shit like that. And tomato prices. We need stuff that's got some kick, and I don't care if you...make stuff up along the way. You can't fucking walk and chew gum at the same time, Melvin, but you can write decent articles with some snap and style."
Melvin frowned. "Thanks. And I'll really be looking forward to that extra twenty-five dollars."
Now Dirk's chin was running red with wing sauce. "Yeah, yeah, so go up there for a week and write it."
"Dirk, I can't just walk into the house and live there for a week."
"Yes, you can. I already rented it for you. Go to the realtor's next door and pick up the key."
This sounded odd. "You rented it in advance, for a
week?
Dirk, you're the tightest cheapskate I've ever known. I can't see you renting a house for a week just for me to write an article."
week?
Dirk, you're the tightest cheapskate I've ever known. I can't see you renting a house for a week just for me to write an article."
"Let me put it this way, I got the place for the right price. That's how popular a rental this joint is."
Wow.
Melvin thought about it.
You know, this might be kind of fun.
"All right, I'll do it. I'll leave tomorrow."
Melvin thought about it.
You know, this might be kind of fun.
"All right, I'll do it. I'll leave tomorrow."
"Good man." Dirk ripped another big belly laugh loud enough for other patrons of the tavern to turn their heads and frown. He passed Melvin twenty-five dollars. "Your bonus, see? In advance, just so you know I'm serious. You're my
best
writer, Melvin."
best
writer, Melvin."
I know,
Melvin thought.
So why can't I get a job on a real newspaper?
Melvin thought.
So why can't I get a job on a real newspaper?
Melvin excused himself for the bathroom, and when he returned, he saw that Dirk had left, sticking Melvin with the tab for lunch. The tab came to just over twenty-five dollars.
(IV)
"How many people have rented this house?" Melvin was asking the realtor.
The man never introduced himself, scarcely even looked at Melvin when he'd come into the office, as though Melvin reminded him of someone he didn't like, or an unpleasant experience. "Well, none," the man answered, scribbling something on a lined pad. "When Paul Vinchetti Jr. went to prison, the state of New York seized all his assets. Any of his property was sold or taken over by the holding company that owns this office. Most of the land we sold off, but this house and a condo he had in Utica we rent...or
try
to rent, in this case." The bald realtor looked more like a pawn shop clerk; he wore one of those tacky wool sports jackets with patches; the jacket was flecked with cigarette ashes. Some indefinite resemblance occurred to Melvin but he couldn't identify it.
try
to rent, in this case." The bald realtor looked more like a pawn shop clerk; he wore one of those tacky wool sports jackets with patches; the jacket was flecked with cigarette ashes. Some indefinite resemblance occurred to Melvin but he couldn't identify it.
Then the man looked up at Melvin directly for the first time, with a glimmer of anticipation in his eye. "You want to buy the place? Five grand, and you get two acres."
"No, really," Melvin began.
"Like I said, four grand."
"I'm not interested in buying it," Melvin tried to make clear. "But why offer to rent it at all? It doesn't sound marketable." He eyed the feeble rental brochure. "It looks like a dump to me."
"It is, and, no, it isn't marketable." The realtor was back to scribbling. "We're just trying to get
something
out of the place. It's not worth the cost of knocking it down and trying to sell the land alone. Who wants to live way out there anyway? In the winter, way out there? You might as well be in the middle of Finland. They don't even send plows up that far when it snows. Why? No one lives past the southwest junction off the county highway. But we're thinking maybe this article you're writing will attract these ghost-hunter weirdos."
something
out of the place. It's not worth the cost of knocking it down and trying to sell the land alone. Who wants to live way out there anyway? In the winter, way out there? You might as well be in the middle of Finland. They don't even send plows up that far when it snows. Why? No one lives past the southwest junction off the county highway. But we're thinking maybe this article you're writing will attract these ghost-hunter weirdos."
"
We're
thinking?"
We're
thinking?"
"Yeah, Dirk. He's my brother."
Of course. Hence the indefinite resemblance.
Great. A bald, tackier version of my boss.
Melvin shook his head. "I get it. Then you split the rental fees with Dirk after it becomes a hot location for ghost-hunters."
I'm just a pawn in a scam for my boss to make money!
Melvin had never felt so used, so duped. "So it's all fabrication?"
Great. A bald, tackier version of my boss.
Melvin shook his head. "I get it. Then you split the rental fees with Dirk after it becomes a hot location for ghost-hunters."
I'm just a pawn in a scam for my boss to make money!
Melvin had never felt so used, so duped. "So it's all fabrication?"
"What? That it used to be a safe house for the mob? Hell no, that ain't no fabrication."
"I meant the part about it being haunted," Melvin elaborated. "
That's
fabrication, right?"
That's
fabrication, right?"
The realtor looked up, deadpan. "No." Then he looked back down again, to his scribbling.
Seems convincing,
Melvin thought.
But he's just a good actor. Like Dirk. A professional B.S. artist.
What else did Melvin have to do, though? Quit the paper on a personal ethics conflict?
And work at McDonald's?
he finished. Dad would kick him out if he didn't work. He tried to find some consolation.
I'll look at it as...a professional challenge. Write something fascinating and provocative—
Melvin thought.
But he's just a good actor. Like Dirk. A professional B.S. artist.
What else did Melvin have to do, though? Quit the paper on a personal ethics conflict?
And work at McDonald's?
he finished. Dad would kick him out if he didn't work. He tried to find some consolation.
I'll look at it as...a professional challenge. Write something fascinating and provocative—
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