Dead Girl. Craig Nybo
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know that I am in danger. Some have died already, including my husband, Stan, and I think I might be next on the list.”
“And whose list would that be?”
“I can’t explain over the phone.” Oh, how I hated that sentence. All reporters hate that sentence. We live busy lives and like to have stories presented to us on platters. It’s best if a news release comes over the wire, you make a few copy adjustments then slap your byline on top and turn it into the editor. It’s a deep, dark secret, but many reporters work this way, just regurgitating releases as they come in, slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, now lets go out for martinis. I call it reporter autopilot and I’m not exempt from it. The next step up is actually engaging in a brief interview over the phone. This happens when something actually intrigues you as a reporter. You call back, get the gestalt view of the situation then pound down a few hundred words and you’re done. The stories that get especially annoying are the ones that genuinely intrigue, the ones that compel you to put in a little elbow grease. And when the contact says, “I can’t explain over the phone,” this means you actually have to go somewhere and spend time with people.
I sighed and went on. “Where are you? Can we meet?”
“I live in Bridgewater.”
I frowned. Bridgewater sat somewhere at least an hour north of Salt Lake City.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and looked up into the dark eyes of Mr. Manicure. They guy sneered, tipping his head slightly sideways and gestured with one hand for me to step along. I turned to see that I had lost track of the line. A six-foot gap had opened between me and a lady wearing salmon colored pantsuit ahead. I nodded cordially toward Mr. Manicure and took the four steps needed to close the gap.
“That’s a bit off my beaten track,” I said to DeeDee. Any chance you can meet me half way, say Mountain Green?”
“I thought you might listen to me because of your stories in The Star. I read that paper religiously. I enjoyed your latest piece, the one about the witches. You know, we have witches up here in Bridgewater too.”
My crackpot alarms whooped off in my head. “Look, DeeDee, you seem like a wonderful lady. But I’m on the deadline ropes right now. You gotta understand, I can’t just--”
“Can you give it a rest, sir?” Mr. Manicure said.
“Just a second,” I said to DeeDee and turned to the business-grade hipster. His brow looked almost apishly angry.
“Look, kid,” I said, covering the microphone on my cell phone. “I read you, man. You’re, what, about 30?”
Mr. Manicure’s eyes opened slightly in surprise. Most people, when they poke at you, don’t expect a poke back. They just expect an excuse or maybe a grumble. Me, I’m a poker. “You want to talk? That’s cool, I understand. Why don’t we talk about your car, probably a low end Audi because you can’t quite get the scratch together for a Lexus. What about your house, probably pretty sizeable and impressive; but whoa, that mortgage; I bet it hangs on your back, man? You probably can’t even breathe. Hell, you probably can’t even afford to change the tires on your Audi. I suppose we could talk about your divorce if you like. Tell me just what it is you want to talk about. I’m all ears, kid.”
Mr. Manicure looked both ways. I’m a reporter; I got a line on people. I can tell you at least two accurate things about any stranger you pick out of a crowd without breaking a sweat.
“I’m talking about your first wife, the sincere one, the one who put you through school before you met Mrs. High Maintenance.”
“I don’t need to take this from you,” Mr. Manicure pointed at me with one of his perfect nailed fingers. Others had stopped to watch the scene unfold, some on his side, some on mine.
“Then don’t. Because I’m just here for the chili, man.”
“Chili’s up, Block.” Morrie shouted from behind the counter. I turned away from Mr. Manicure and moved through the line with a series of excuse me’s and pardon me’s until I reached the counter. “Thanks, as usual, Morrie.”
“Any time.” Morrie shot me a smile. His eyes flicked away to Mr. Manicure and back at me. “You behave yourself out there, now.”
I gave him eight bucks for the chili even though it only cost five.
“DeeDee, you’ll have to pardon the interruption,” I said into my phone, “but I was just saying, I’m sure you’re a lovely lady and it would be a pleasure to sit down to tea with you, but I just--”
“You’ll read about it in the paper.”
“What will I read about in the paper?”
“My unexplained and untimely demise. It will be violent and gruesome, of that I’m certain.”
“And when will I be reading about this in the paper?” I asked.
“In precisely four days.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“There are some things that one knows with absolute certainty. When you hang up, I will try to call others. I will try to find someone who can help me, but they won’t believe me. They are not you, Mr. Vang.”
I paused, took a deep breath, and massaged my right temple. “Okay, I’ll be there tonight, but call me Block, please. Everybody calls me Block”
“Come at sixish. I’ll have dinner waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Corelis.”
I hung up as I walked to a bus bench where I could sit to eat Morrie’s unearthly chili. I guessed I wouldn’t be going to the movie tonight after all. Ernie Sanidoro would probably stuff another pink slip right up my ass when I saw him next. I thanked the god of Hollywood that the film was a Micheal Bay action joint. I could easily get away with writing the review without seeing picture. I intended to visit Bridgewater. I would have to act now and ask for forgiveness later. Of course, forgiveness could only be obtained if I slammed a bangin’ story on Ernie’s desk on the quick.
What I didn’t know was that DeeDee Corelis had just sold me a ticket onto the ride of my life.
Chapter 3
To my friends, both of them, who bust my chops about not upgrading my car stereo from the Neolithic cassette deck age, I always say the same thing: a classic car should have a classic sound system. My car, a 1974 Grand Fury, smokes like Groucho and throws a backfire that can turn a lion’s head. I plan to restore her to her original brilliance someday. With a little repair work--new panels to replace the rusted out fenders, body putty to cover the gouges and dings from the three times I have totaled her, and a good break bleeding--I could have her show worthy. Hell, I’ve even had a couple of passers-by offer me a large or two for her. But I don’t plan to sell.
I drove the twisting road through Sardine Canyon--some say one of the most beautiful places in the world. I didn’t pay any attention to the turning leaves in the dipping light of the waning day. I just wanted to get where I was going. I’m not an it’s in the journey type guy unless the journey is quick and uneventful--or, unless of course, I am listening to the classics. I snapped open a plastic case of cassette tapes. I own the entire Beach Boys discography along with many other classics. I chose Pet Sounds, the Beach Boys best album, and plugged it into the cassette player. The speakers blared out “Sloop John ‘B’.” I settled in for the drive.
I left the canyon road, hooked east, and eventually rolled into Bridgewater. The little town had been neglected since the Truman administration. I supposed the place could be perceived as quaint with its rustic buildings and jutting marquees but only until an earth tremor set at .8 or above on the Richter Scale rattled its bones and turned it to powder. Two traffic lights guarded Main Street, one of them brand new. Banks of adjoining buildings, mostly built from brown brick, stood like decaying teeth on either side of the road. The architecture suggested a quick boom in the 50’s then a good shellacking