Alex, Approximately
Page 36
Porter’s face goes as dark as the overcast sky. “Listen to me, Bailey. Does Davy know what your scooter looks like?”
“I . . .” It takes me a second to remember. “Yeah, at the posole truck. He saw me with it when I was with my dad and Wanda. Asked me if it had been restored.”
Porter’s head drops back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I know who stole your bike. Get in my van. He’s a couple of hours ahead of us, but I know where we can start looking.”
I’m too stunned to talk until we’re speeding away from the museum and headed south on Gold Avenue. I’ve never been this far on this side of town, and everything looks strange. That’s when it hits me that I should probably ask where we’re going.
“Is this the way to Davy’s house?”
“No.” Porter’s angry. Really angry. The muscles in his arms are flexing as he holds the steering wheel in a death grip. “He’ll try to sell it. He wants cash for drugs.”
“Oh my God. Why me? Why my scooter?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Because he’s pissed at me. Because he’s mad about the party going to shit last night. Because he knows it was his fault. Because deep down he knows he’s a screwup, but he hasn’t hit rock bottom yet, so he’s going to keep going until he’s either dead or in jail.”
I wait for several seconds, trying to figure exactly how to ask this, and then I just give up and come right out and say it. “What does any of that have to do with me and my bike?”
“Aghhh,” Porter says, almost a sigh, somewhere between exasperated and guilty. “Because I went over to see him before work today, and we got into a huge fight. Somehow he’s gotten it into his thick, stupid skull that you are . . .” He sighs now—a real sigh, low and long. “Okay, think of it like this. He’s got the mind of a toddler, and because he thinks that I have a shiny new toy, you being that toy—not that you are a toy! God, I knew this was a bad analogy.”
“Whoa, you are digging yourself in real deep, buddy.”
“Look, he thinks I like you, therefore he wants you. And today I told him if he harasses you again or brings a gun anywhere near you, I will burn his goddamn house down.”
Well. That’s not something you hear every day. A foreign, uneasy feeling ping-pongs inside my gut.
“And because he’s a brat, what he’s doing right now is retaliation. If he can’t have you, he’s going to do dumbass, destructive things—like steal your shit and sell it for money, so he can get wasted and forget he’s a total screwup. Because he’s a maniac, and that’s what he does.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he says in a softer voice, one that’s suddenly all out of rage. “So, basically, this is my fault, and I’m sorry, Bailey.”
I glance down at my feet and line up the toes of my flats with the floor mat. “Davy thinks you like me, or you really do like me?” Last night in the yard seems like a million years ago.
Porter gives me a sideways glance. There’s a wariness behind his eyes; he’s not sure if I’m teasing. But the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “Both?”
“Both,” I repeat softly, more than satisfied with that answer. “I think I understand now.”
“So . . . ,” he says, “I guess the real question is, how badly do you want to choke me right now for what’s happened? (A) A little, or (B) a lot?”
I shake my head, both dismissing his question and unable to answer. I’m not mad at him. How could I be? It’s not his fault that he’s got crappy friends.
“Hey, Bailey? I’m going to get your bike back,” he says, face turning stony and serious. “I meant what I said before. Davy will pay for this.”
God help me, but at this moment, there is nothing I want more.
After another mile, the van slows, and I see where we’re headed. On the left-hand side of the highway, just off the beach, a giant paved lot is banded by a sign that reads: MOTO PARADISE. There must be a hundred used scooters for sale here. Porter pulls up next to a fenced-in trailer that sits on the back of the lot and tells me to wait in the van. “This is the long shot, but it’s the closest to the museum, so let’s rule it out first. Just sit here and text if you see Davy. He drives a bright yellow pickup truck with blue lightning bolts airbrushed on the side.”
Of course he does.
Porter’s not even inside the trailer five minutes. My heart sinks. And it sinks again twice more, because we drive to other lots that look similar to this one, just farther out of town and smaller. Now I’m getting worried. What if it wasn’t Davy? What if it was one of those two Richie Rich punk kids who tried to steal the Maltese falcon statue? Maybe they stalked me at work and were trying to get revenge. But Porter doesn’t buy this. He says Davy has stolen stuff before, and that he never comes by the museum. It’s too coincidental. I guess he’s probably right, but I’m starting to freak out again, and I’m having a hard time thinking straight.
Porter is tapping the van’s steering wheel. He snaps his fingers, and then tugs his phone out of his pocket and looks something up. A couple of minutes later, he’s calling someone. That’s a bust, but he calls someone else, dropping his family name—I hear him say “Pennywise”—and then a third person. That’s the call that sticks, because he’s suddenly all relaxed and loose-limbed, one hand atop the wheel, as he tells the person he’s looking for Davy. After several grunts, he hangs up, and then five minutes later, someone calls him back.
“I think I may have a lead,” is all he says after it’s over.
So why doesn’t he sound more hopeful?
A soft rain begins to fall. Porter turns on his windshield wipers as we pass a sign telling us that we’re exiting Coronado Cove and another identifying some tiny township that has four thousand residents. Everything here seems to be about state parks and camping and hiking. Oh, and car repair—lots and lots of car repair. Auto body, auto detailing . . . auto restoration. There’s a small industry built up out here, people who are into muscle cars and racing, and I wonder if this is where my dad bought his car.
But Porter’s headed past the nicer places. He’s going down a dirt road into the woods, to a cinder-block garage with a number six spray-painted on a door to the left of three closed bays. Carcasses of rusted motorcycles lay in heaps near the building, discarded with other metal scraps. This is some kind of motorcycle chop shop, a place good bikes come to die. I’m suddenly very scared for Baby. A little scared for us, too.
Porter parks the van several yards away, under the fanning branches of some pines. “Stay in the van.”
“You must be kidding,” I say.
“If he’s inside, I don’t want you to see what might go down.”
He’s scaring me a little, but I don’t want him to know this. “No way. This area reminds me of Deliverance territory. We stick together.”
He snorts, hand on his door. “That takes place in the backwoods of Georgia, but I’m not even going to ask how you know about that movie, because we don’t have time. So just . . . come on.”
Rain dots the dirt road in front of our steps as we make our way to the door with the red six. It’s eerily quiet, no one leaving or coming, no signs that the place is even in business. But as we get closer, I hear the faint sounds of a radio and voices, and I get nervous.
“I . . .” It takes me a second to remember. “Yeah, at the posole truck. He saw me with it when I was with my dad and Wanda. Asked me if it had been restored.”
Porter’s head drops back. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I think I know who stole your bike. Get in my van. He’s a couple of hours ahead of us, but I know where we can start looking.”
I’m too stunned to talk until we’re speeding away from the museum and headed south on Gold Avenue. I’ve never been this far on this side of town, and everything looks strange. That’s when it hits me that I should probably ask where we’re going.
“Is this the way to Davy’s house?”
“No.” Porter’s angry. Really angry. The muscles in his arms are flexing as he holds the steering wheel in a death grip. “He’ll try to sell it. He wants cash for drugs.”
“Oh my God. Why me? Why my scooter?”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Because he’s pissed at me. Because he’s mad about the party going to shit last night. Because he knows it was his fault. Because deep down he knows he’s a screwup, but he hasn’t hit rock bottom yet, so he’s going to keep going until he’s either dead or in jail.”
I wait for several seconds, trying to figure exactly how to ask this, and then I just give up and come right out and say it. “What does any of that have to do with me and my bike?”
“Aghhh,” Porter says, almost a sigh, somewhere between exasperated and guilty. “Because I went over to see him before work today, and we got into a huge fight. Somehow he’s gotten it into his thick, stupid skull that you are . . .” He sighs now—a real sigh, low and long. “Okay, think of it like this. He’s got the mind of a toddler, and because he thinks that I have a shiny new toy, you being that toy—not that you are a toy! God, I knew this was a bad analogy.”
“Whoa, you are digging yourself in real deep, buddy.”
“Look, he thinks I like you, therefore he wants you. And today I told him if he harasses you again or brings a gun anywhere near you, I will burn his goddamn house down.”
Well. That’s not something you hear every day. A foreign, uneasy feeling ping-pongs inside my gut.
“And because he’s a brat, what he’s doing right now is retaliation. If he can’t have you, he’s going to do dumbass, destructive things—like steal your shit and sell it for money, so he can get wasted and forget he’s a total screwup. Because he’s a maniac, and that’s what he does.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah,” he says in a softer voice, one that’s suddenly all out of rage. “So, basically, this is my fault, and I’m sorry, Bailey.”
I glance down at my feet and line up the toes of my flats with the floor mat. “Davy thinks you like me, or you really do like me?” Last night in the yard seems like a million years ago.
Porter gives me a sideways glance. There’s a wariness behind his eyes; he’s not sure if I’m teasing. But the corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “Both?”
“Both,” I repeat softly, more than satisfied with that answer. “I think I understand now.”
“So . . . ,” he says, “I guess the real question is, how badly do you want to choke me right now for what’s happened? (A) A little, or (B) a lot?”
I shake my head, both dismissing his question and unable to answer. I’m not mad at him. How could I be? It’s not his fault that he’s got crappy friends.
“Hey, Bailey? I’m going to get your bike back,” he says, face turning stony and serious. “I meant what I said before. Davy will pay for this.”
God help me, but at this moment, there is nothing I want more.
After another mile, the van slows, and I see where we’re headed. On the left-hand side of the highway, just off the beach, a giant paved lot is banded by a sign that reads: MOTO PARADISE. There must be a hundred used scooters for sale here. Porter pulls up next to a fenced-in trailer that sits on the back of the lot and tells me to wait in the van. “This is the long shot, but it’s the closest to the museum, so let’s rule it out first. Just sit here and text if you see Davy. He drives a bright yellow pickup truck with blue lightning bolts airbrushed on the side.”
Of course he does.
Porter’s not even inside the trailer five minutes. My heart sinks. And it sinks again twice more, because we drive to other lots that look similar to this one, just farther out of town and smaller. Now I’m getting worried. What if it wasn’t Davy? What if it was one of those two Richie Rich punk kids who tried to steal the Maltese falcon statue? Maybe they stalked me at work and were trying to get revenge. But Porter doesn’t buy this. He says Davy has stolen stuff before, and that he never comes by the museum. It’s too coincidental. I guess he’s probably right, but I’m starting to freak out again, and I’m having a hard time thinking straight.
Porter is tapping the van’s steering wheel. He snaps his fingers, and then tugs his phone out of his pocket and looks something up. A couple of minutes later, he’s calling someone. That’s a bust, but he calls someone else, dropping his family name—I hear him say “Pennywise”—and then a third person. That’s the call that sticks, because he’s suddenly all relaxed and loose-limbed, one hand atop the wheel, as he tells the person he’s looking for Davy. After several grunts, he hangs up, and then five minutes later, someone calls him back.
“I think I may have a lead,” is all he says after it’s over.
So why doesn’t he sound more hopeful?
A soft rain begins to fall. Porter turns on his windshield wipers as we pass a sign telling us that we’re exiting Coronado Cove and another identifying some tiny township that has four thousand residents. Everything here seems to be about state parks and camping and hiking. Oh, and car repair—lots and lots of car repair. Auto body, auto detailing . . . auto restoration. There’s a small industry built up out here, people who are into muscle cars and racing, and I wonder if this is where my dad bought his car.
But Porter’s headed past the nicer places. He’s going down a dirt road into the woods, to a cinder-block garage with a number six spray-painted on a door to the left of three closed bays. Carcasses of rusted motorcycles lay in heaps near the building, discarded with other metal scraps. This is some kind of motorcycle chop shop, a place good bikes come to die. I’m suddenly very scared for Baby. A little scared for us, too.
Porter parks the van several yards away, under the fanning branches of some pines. “Stay in the van.”
“You must be kidding,” I say.
“If he’s inside, I don’t want you to see what might go down.”
He’s scaring me a little, but I don’t want him to know this. “No way. This area reminds me of Deliverance territory. We stick together.”
He snorts, hand on his door. “That takes place in the backwoods of Georgia, but I’m not even going to ask how you know about that movie, because we don’t have time. So just . . . come on.”
Rain dots the dirt road in front of our steps as we make our way to the door with the red six. It’s eerily quiet, no one leaving or coming, no signs that the place is even in business. But as we get closer, I hear the faint sounds of a radio and voices, and I get nervous.
