in Champagne 's Folly. We'd get along okay, she liked to reassure me. I just shrugged, gouged on a smile. We'd get along okay, sure, I'll second that sentiment, Mom.
That was true until I sidled through the doorway the next Wednesday afternoon. Dangling from the high water pipe, Nella swayed and creaked in front of me like Poe's giant pendulum. Horror mangled up my guts as I stood there transfixed. The fecal and urine reek hit me like acid hurled into my face. As inventive as Bradford was, she'd rigged a nifty hangman's noose from her pantyhose, and the nylon held strong during her gravity check. The overturned kitchen chair had served as her trapdoor.
I clambered up a stepladder, hacked her down using a Ginsu knife, and phoned it in to the sheriff. Then I shrieked and writhed like a castrated barrow hog on the floor right beside her. The sheriff and his entourage flashed up, and they spiked me with a shot and wrestled me into bed. The sleeping dope triggered the terrible nightmares to boil in me.
The well-intentioned sheriff tried to lay it out for me. Plainly, Bradford had lost his battle with depression, and Nella, in a hellish instant, had followed his lead. Man-oh-man, that sort of dark, twisted shit did a number on your head. Ever since, Wednesday became the only day of the week I refused to work. Then I did myself a big favor and shut down my morbid recount of the events from those two days.
Mr. Ogg's dark suits weren't around, and the windows at Esquire's auto upholstery shop were opaque blots. My knocks rattled the door in its frame. The knob wouldn't turn. Where did Hermes and he live? Esquire had said they'd moved to a brick row house on a side street in South Arlington .
Arky's cell phone on the dashboard might give up their street address from the Web if I tried searching. Instead, nauseous from looking at the cell phone, I picked it up and flipped it out the window. How was that for an unreconstructed Luddite? Rita was the next person to pay a visit.
Our last phone chat had derailed, but maybe enough time had elapsed and filed off the edge to her scorn, and she'd hear me out. I wasn't Gwen's killer, nor the voodoo doll for Rita to stick with her poison-tipped needles. I tapped into my mental roster and knew of a public phone at a library branch no more than five minutes away.
Its parking lot was crammed full and after my taking one loop, a lady in a red blazer was backing out, and I pulled into her spot. The old saw that America was raising a generation of illiterates didn't fly from what I observed here. A trim, young lady with cornrows toted a fifteen-inch stack of picture books while her pre-schooler daughter lugged a smaller load of DVDs in her arms.
The mother had to read aloud to her daughter, and they burned through the books like my winter furnace did the heating oil. My sight landed on the despicable cell phone on the little daughter's belt, and seeing it broke my heart. For 50¢, the public phone by the library entrance scared up a dial tone, and this time I heard less stridency in Rita's greeting.
"Hi, Rita. This is Tommy Mack again."
"So it is. You're still alive and kicking, I hear."
"You bet your sweet bippy I am. I don't go down easy. Pass that fact on, if you like."
"I'll pass on the fact you're living on borrowed time."
"I didn't kill Gwen."
"Liar. I know who you are, Tommy Mack, and I know what you do since it's never been a closely guarded secret in the Ogg clan."
Anger incensed the flames reddening my neck and ears. "Just who do you think I am?"
"You're Uncle Watson's garbage man. When he runs into a disposal need, he keeps you on his payroll to go and tidy it up."
"What if I do? Neither of you ever refused to take his money."
"Why not? He can't seem to enjoy spending it."
"With Gwen gone, you'll get twice as much of it to spend."
She laughed, bitter. "There was already plenty enough for Gwen and me. Why did you call me, Tommy Mack?"
"For one thing, I've got a theory to
That was true until I sidled through the doorway the next Wednesday afternoon. Dangling from the high water pipe, Nella swayed and creaked in front of me like Poe's giant pendulum. Horror mangled up my guts as I stood there transfixed. The fecal and urine reek hit me like acid hurled into my face. As inventive as Bradford was, she'd rigged a nifty hangman's noose from her pantyhose, and the nylon held strong during her gravity check. The overturned kitchen chair had served as her trapdoor.
I clambered up a stepladder, hacked her down using a Ginsu knife, and phoned it in to the sheriff. Then I shrieked and writhed like a castrated barrow hog on the floor right beside her. The sheriff and his entourage flashed up, and they spiked me with a shot and wrestled me into bed. The sleeping dope triggered the terrible nightmares to boil in me.
The well-intentioned sheriff tried to lay it out for me. Plainly, Bradford had lost his battle with depression, and Nella, in a hellish instant, had followed his lead. Man-oh-man, that sort of dark, twisted shit did a number on your head. Ever since, Wednesday became the only day of the week I refused to work. Then I did myself a big favor and shut down my morbid recount of the events from those two days.
Mr. Ogg's dark suits weren't around, and the windows at Esquire's auto upholstery shop were opaque blots. My knocks rattled the door in its frame. The knob wouldn't turn. Where did Hermes and he live? Esquire had said they'd moved to a brick row house on a side street in South Arlington .
Arky's cell phone on the dashboard might give up their street address from the Web if I tried searching. Instead, nauseous from looking at the cell phone, I picked it up and flipped it out the window. How was that for an unreconstructed Luddite? Rita was the next person to pay a visit.
Our last phone chat had derailed, but maybe enough time had elapsed and filed off the edge to her scorn, and she'd hear me out. I wasn't Gwen's killer, nor the voodoo doll for Rita to stick with her poison-tipped needles. I tapped into my mental roster and knew of a public phone at a library branch no more than five minutes away.
Its parking lot was crammed full and after my taking one loop, a lady in a red blazer was backing out, and I pulled into her spot. The old saw that America was raising a generation of illiterates didn't fly from what I observed here. A trim, young lady with cornrows toted a fifteen-inch stack of picture books while her pre-schooler daughter lugged a smaller load of DVDs in her arms.
The mother had to read aloud to her daughter, and they burned through the books like my winter furnace did the heating oil. My sight landed on the despicable cell phone on the little daughter's belt, and seeing it broke my heart. For 50¢, the public phone by the library entrance scared up a dial tone, and this time I heard less stridency in Rita's greeting.
"Hi, Rita. This is Tommy Mack again."
"So it is. You're still alive and kicking, I hear."
"You bet your sweet bippy I am. I don't go down easy. Pass that fact on, if you like."
"I'll pass on the fact you're living on borrowed time."
"I didn't kill Gwen."
"Liar. I know who you are, Tommy Mack, and I know what you do since it's never been a closely guarded secret in the Ogg clan."
Anger incensed the flames reddening my neck and ears. "Just who do you think I am?"
"You're Uncle Watson's garbage man. When he runs into a disposal need, he keeps you on his payroll to go and tidy it up."
"What if I do? Neither of you ever refused to take his money."
"Why not? He can't seem to enjoy spending it."
"With Gwen gone, you'll get twice as much of it to spend."
She laughed, bitter. "There was already plenty enough for Gwen and me. Why did you call me, Tommy Mack?"
"For one thing, I've got a theory to
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In the City of Gold and Silver
Kenizé Mourad, Anne Mathai in collaboration with Marie-Louise Naville
