Salamanders
by Pete Murphy
Chapter 12
Freddie
That morning I woke up on the bed staring at the bottom of a clay pot,
ivy hanging over its edges. It scared me a little, sanctuary in a new spot.
I wasn't cozy about the going outside part. I knew I wasn't in trouble.
Blue Suit wasn't after me, had no reason to know me. I didn't exist. I was just
trying to find Finn. He was in danger. Deep shit. It just seemed too big a leap
too soon, after so long away from it. That scared me too. It was not
comfortable.
But if y'gotta eat shit, don't nibble at it.
Jessie was still sleeping. We'd had a fair crowd late last night and I
tried not to disturb her as I got up.
I pulled on cut-offs and a tee-shirt and my deck shoes and looked at
myself in the mirror she'd put up to cover the closet door. My hair was...
well, hair. I looked shipwrecked.
I went down to the bar. It was raining like hell. The gray dawn
wriggled in fat streams on the smoky windows and painted the early morning
street in an opaque and Daliesque ripple of waking up. The lamp posts, the
hydrant, the bricklines and window ledges, the lone tree, seemed to be
unwitting parts of an old, creepy and empty and forgotten underwater kingdom,
swaying with no power of its own, controlled by an undertow it could not see.
The gaping vacant garage across the street seemed a foreboding black cave, its
sides uncertain, quivering in the decaying tiny submerged village. But the
lagoon was alive: A color floated somewhere in the cave, a movement that did
not answer to the current. I moved closer. That blue, that pink, should not be
there.
I stepped to the door, tried to focus between the thick torrents of
rainwater gushing from the dripcap. The rain got heavier. The March wind found
the street and blew into it, shoved the rain hard ahead of itself for an
instant, long enough to see a big man in a blue suit standing in the entrance
to the cave.
I backed away quickly, into the shadows of the bar, tripped on a
barstool, stared at the blurred figure.
A car passed. Another. A glistening raincoat, an orange striped
umbrella over it, darted into view, disappeared into the shelter of the cave
and emerged again at the opening, waiting. Another blurry form: Legs, red skirt
swaying. Another, the street waking up now. A truck passed. Red darted from the
cave. Orange stripe dipped itself into the rain and moved on. The Blue was
gone, the cave a black hole again.
I slammed my open hand hard onto the bar and winced.
"What's the matter?"
Jessie had come down the stairs. She was standing at the end of the bar
looking at me.
"I don't know. Something's happening to me."
"What is it?"
"Fear, maybe. Bad beer. Something about nibbling shit. Who knows?
I haven't been back into this long enough to know. Maybe I miss my closet
already."
The phone rang. Jessie picked it up. "Hello? Hi. Uh-huh." She
watched me. A pause. "No. I don't think he should. No. You can't."
"Who is that?"
She didn’t answer, just shook her head, listening. Then: "It's
Connie. But I don't think..."
I grabbed the phone. It scared her a little.
Connie was still talking. "...really scared. He needs Oliver. Said
he'll only talk to..."
"It's me. What is it?" I said, trying to get my shit
together, not doing too good.
"Freddie called me, Oliver. He's terrified. He wouldn't talk to
me. He said only you can help him."
"Where is he?"
Jessie shook her head at me. Her eyes started to tear up a little. Her
mouth moved. Nothing came out.
I hung up and looked at her, went to the door and glanced back again.
"I've got to." I said.
"Don't..."
"I've got to blow into this thing. I can't get rid of Billy."
I shut the door behind me and stepped into the rain. I couldn't see her
through the glass. In fifteen seconds I was soaking wet, running, turning the
corner, slipping clumsily between the early morning crowd of elbows and umbrellas,
looking behind me, seeing too damn much blue, darting among the traffic,
turning another corner, crossing, turning again, falling once, skinning my
knee. The wind blew hard at every corner. I stepped into a doorway and looked
back down the street, into the crowd, coughing, shivering.
I crossed and stepped into a luncheonette. The place was empty, just
one guy sitting close to the door. I ordered a cup of coffee and watched the
street.
"Christ, all this shit is different when you're a grownup."
"What?" The guy next to me looked like he'd hung around all
night waiting for somebody to talk to.
"Nothing", I said. "Just talking to myself."
I stared at the colors running in the rain.
"Sometimes it's better," said the all-nighter.
I couldn't see the Blue Suit out there.
He tapped me on the shoulder.
"What." I didn't look at him.
"Sometimes talkin' t'y'self is better. Sometimes y'talk to
strangers y'donno what t'xpeck. Sometimes y'get wrong answers. Talkin' t'y'self
is better. Sometimes..."
I was on the sidewalk again. I'd stolen his hat. It didn't fit, but
moving slower now with the rhythm of the crowd I felt a little safer: I had a
disguise. I'd faded into everybody. The run had done me good. Got to do more of
that. Maybe next month. I managed a grin and tipped my hat to an old woman with
a green umbrella. She scowled at me.
I felt safer and cut away from the crowd, through the can factory yard,
past a row of empty trailers and onto
Cinderblocks held the second floor fire door open. The hall was dark. I
made my way with both hands along the wall, shuffled carefully, felt the row of
empty office doorways as I went. The carpet stunk of age and urine. Gray light
floated through the broken windows of the main room at the end of the hall now
and I approached the doorway quietly, stayed in the darkness, looked around.
"Hello, Freddie."
He hadn't heard me coming. A brown bag slipped from his hand. A
sandwich spilled out. He knelt on the carpet to gather it up, check it for dirt,
then grabbed the long, brown bag and stood up.
"Stole somebody's lunch." He showed me.
"Uh-huh."
"Got an apple in here. You want it?"
"No. I don't think so, Freddie. You eat it."
"Yeah. I'll save it for later."
I moved away from the door, sat on a windowsill across the room. My
hands pressed into wet slivers of old glass.
"This's been all one big hell of a mess, Oliver, you know?"
He moved along the wall and shrugged, his arms stretched out on either side.
The paper bag, still gripped in his fist, swung against his arm ridiculously,
startling him. He'd forgotten it was there. He watched it dangle at the end of
his arm for a moment, leaned against the wall hard, slid to the floor and
started to cry. "It wasn't supposed to happen, Oliver."
"Tell me what happened."
He was sobbing really hard now, shaking.
"Freddie, we'll get out of this. Just tell me what we're in. I'm
here to help us, Freddie." I gritted my teeth, faked a grin.
He composed himself a little. "Finn called us from
"You and Billy?"
"Yeah. Me and Billy. Oh God, Oliver. It wasn't..."
"Go on."
"We were supposed to go to a fiber mill in
He slowed, catching his breath. I stood up, brushed the glass from my
hands. He jumped to his feet and glared at me. "You came to help me!"
"Yes. I did. Relax, Freddie. Eat your apple."
I moved to another window, looked out, tried to think. "What was
in the package?"
"A whole lotta fucking money, Oliver. We never saw so much. I
don't think Finn knew it was that much."
"Where did you go?"
"
It was getting harder for him, keeping it together.
"Where's the money?"
"In a locker at the train station."
"Where's the key?"
"I didn't know who to give it back to, Oliver."
"Freddie, just answer my fucking questions. Where's the key?"
"I mailed it to the Shuffler. I made a deal with him. I wasn't
thinking. I knew I could get it back from him when we figured something out and
it was safe."
"When?"
"What?" His lips quivered.
"When did you mail the key, Freddie?"
"Yesterday. Uh...last night. Oh, Oliver..."
"Where?"
"Where what?" He started to cry.
"Come on, Freddie! You know how to do this! You know what I
mean!"
"In a letter box down the street. He won't get it till Saturday.
Maybe Monday. You gonna take it back? The money? Make it right? It ain't too
late, is it?"
"Why didn't you call me?"
"I don't know. They said you were...you'd closed yourself up, shut
yourself in, hadn't been out in a long time."
"Okay, Freddie. I'm here now." I watched the carts roll along
the cobblestones, listened to the clatter of it, tried to figure something out.
The clatter filled my head. "Eat your apple. We'll get out of this."
"Where is Finn?"
His voice sounded changed now. A baby's voice.
"We don't know, yet. I think he's still alive. We'll find
him."
The old carpet stink crept into my nose. I stuck my head through the
broken glass to sniff and feel the rain.
"Where is Finn," he said again, but now an angry baby's cry.
I pulled my head back into the room and turned. The clean sharp smell
of bay rum slapped my nose: Blue Suit was in the doorway. He had Freddie by the
throat in both hands. Freddie's feet were off the ground.
"Where is Finn?" Blue
Suit said again and I screamed "No!" and started for him and stopped,
knew it was too late: Freddie was not moving anymore.
Blue Suit did not look at me. He shook Freddie and asked a third time,
"Where is Finn?"
Freddie's head wobbled on his neck.
"Put him down. Please put him down," I said, then realized I
was better off the other way, with Blue Suit's hands full of Freddie.
"He'll tell us," I said. "He'll tell us where Finn
is." I moved toward the doorway but he was blocking it all, looking at
Freddie's lifeless face, and I started to speak again but he knew at last
Freddie was dead and dropped him and turned to me too fast and I was too close
now and he grabbed me by my upper arms, lifted me, held me like an angry
scolding parent and brought his face so close to mine I could smell his breath,
see his lips, his teeth and tongue intoning:
"This will never do. This will never do."
#
...don’t nibble at it
The goddamn teeth wouldn't stop. The pulpy lips kept moving. The fat
baby flesh of the mouth kept opening and closing, but I could only see the
teeth. The eye-teeth grew to fangs, shrinking and shooting out again longer
still to tusks, then back to fangs as the flabby jaw worked and the tongue
flapped back into the wet hole of his mouth. His words spattered onto my face.
"Where is Finn!" You..t..know! You..n..tell
me..ss..now!"
The throaty noise jumped out in faltered spurts, the tongue
uncontrolled and jerking around the saliva pool behind the dam of teeth like a
flattened eel splashing in a tidepool of spit, my face too close to it.
"I DON'T KNOW!"
My mind raced. My lips quivered. I ground my teeth, tried not to lose
it all.
This ain't shit. Don't nibble at it.
The fangs moved up and down. I couldn't think. My feet were off the
floor and I was trying to kick with both legs at once now but they could only
flop weakly from the knees down and slap stupidly against his shins. My arms,
bent at the elbows, could barely reach his face. They ached. I tried to slap
him to death with the tips of my fingers. My face was the only thing close to
him. The fangs grew...
"Finn hath my money!"
The eel slipped out to catch the upper teeth to form the "th"
and the fangs grew...
I started to laugh. Too loud. My eyes watered as I laughed at the
stupidly inane terrifying silliness of it all: he had a slipping upper plate.
My laughing floored him. He stopped talking. His jaw kept working. His
upper plate bobbed. The flattened eel of a tongue slid out to push them up.
I jerked my head back once and threw my feet around the back of his
legs and shoved my face fast and hard forward into his, slammed my forehead
into his nose, then back again faster now a second time, this time past the
nose to find the cheek and bite down hard to find the blood.
He shrieked into my ear and threw me aside, grabbed at his face. He was
still blocking the doorway. I got to my feet and ran at him and ducked, threw
my whole body into his legs, hit him at the knees. He buckled. His own weight
brought him down into the hallway on his back. I stepped on his chest and made
it through the doorway. He grabbed for my feet, hit one. I threw myself forward
against his flailing arms, spit out the taste of blood and Bay Rum. I was
almost at the stairs before I heard him in the hall. I kicked the cinderblocks
away and the heavy door slammed shut. That's when I tripped over Sully sprawled
like a rag doll on the stairs...
I scrambled back up to Sully on all fours with Blue-Suit lumbering down
the hall. I shook Sully. He moaned. His eyes opened a little, tried to focus. I
smacked him. Blue suit was at the iron door. I slapped again.
"Sully! Wake up! It's your deal!"
He shook himself as the door swung open and I helped him to his feet.
In two long jumps down the stairs and three steps to the alley we'd gotten well
ahead, but still ran full-legged and stretching like sprinters past the row of
warehouse fronts and beyond until we'd turned a corner by a line of semis four
streets away and clambered up into one of the empty trailers.
We sat leaning against the walls, facing each other, gasping. Sully shook
his head slowly, his mouth moving, no words coming out at first.
"Man..." he managed after a while. "Man. I was dead.
Gone to hell. Big pile of money sitting on the table but the table too high.
Over my head. Couldn't see my fucking cards. Hell. Absolutely."
We stared at each other for a long time, still panting.
"We've got to get out of here," Sully said. "Go
someplace else. What's your closet like? Sound like a good spot?"
"To be sure." I said.
After a few minutes the tension left and I started to shake. The
trembling in my legs surged through my body and into my hands. I couldn't stop
it. The rain had quit but I was wet and cold. I didn't want to leave.
I couldn't stop the shaking.
#
The
Kids
Sully used to tell us stories about his parents and uncles and aunts
and cousins. No telling where he'd heard these things. Few of us knew our real
parents. We'd always listen anyway.
His father's name was Gregore. Maybe he'd heard the name somewhere
as a baby, before he got traded in for the lawn mower. Gregore was a "big
fisherman up in the north, where it was so cold you used to have to stand on
the embers of last night's fire to pee." He always caught the biggest
fish. All the other fisherman were jealous when they
heard of his catch at the end of the day. He'd roll the fish up to the house in
a wheelbarrow and weigh them on the scale he'd built - a basket and a hunk of
iron thing, and a needle from a weather vane that pointed to the weight - and
tell everybody come look, see the pounds today, and everybody would come out
and ooh and aah a bit and he'd settle in an old soft chair by the fire and
everybody'd listen to his stories and the other men would get jealous all over
again while the people cleaned his fish. Sully was born there, he said. His
mother (a gentle, very pretty woman) had been snowed in up there six weeks
before the baby came. Everybody was so proud. Gregore was the proudest. He
swooped Sully up to show everyone and marched outside to his scale and laid him
in the basket. And everybody oohed and aahed and shook Gregore's hand and the
women made a feast for the town because Gregore had such a strong and healthy
new son.
Sully was twenty eight pounds when he was born.
That's what he'd tell us.
#