Robert Lopresti: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 56, No. 5, May 2011

“Forgot something,” the man called, holding the black hat above his head.

Willie waved him off. “Keep it as a souvenir,” he called back, his words swallowed by the traffic sounds. He did a little jig. Just one more thing to piss off Dix. Patting the money folded into the pocket of his vest, he barreled along the sidewalk. The shuttered storefronts, barred with iron grates and wrought-iron fencing, offered no shelter. Checking behind him once more for pursuit, Willie headed for Riverplace, a section of parkland dotted with benches, statues, and grassy areas that stretched along the Miami River from the downtown business district to the support pillars for the interstate that divided the city into east and west. The sloped ground beneath the concrete overpass offered safety and concealment, while the river running below sealed off the northern approach. He could sleep unmolested there. The bones, shy but cunning, clacked like a lobster’s claw as he stumbled forward.

Dixon nursed his third cup of coffee while Queenie spoke to the crew. He kept circling the problem in his mind. The loss of last week’s receipts and the pygmy skeleton meant the carnival, already teetering on the cliff of financial insolvency, couldn’t meet payroll or their promise to anchor the festival in Tennessee with a spectacular freak show. Queenie’s snakes alone wouldn’t draw enough interest to sell out. And the bank expected a payment at the end of the week or Ajedrez would move into receivership. Four days. That’s all they had. Dixon cursed Willie again.

“Dix!”

Queenie’s shout brought him back to the the task of finding Willie. She waved off the waitress, slid into the leather booth, and leaned across the table.

“Pull yourself together,” she said.

“How am I going to get the troupe to Nashville?” Dix scrubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the headache that pulsed at his temples.

“Relax,” Queenie said. She lifted one hand and stared at her nails, then wiggled them at Dixon. “I paid for the trip out of the emergency funds.”

“What emergency funds?” Dixon looked up and caught Queenie scowling at him.

“Need to know, Dix, need to know. And you don’t.” She slapped a piece of paper on the table and tapped it with one long crimson fingernail. “Your job is to find Willie.”

“What’s this?” Dixon set down his cup. A splash of undiluted joe slopped over the number Queenie had written on the paper.

“Police sergeant in charge of missing persons. Address and phone number. You’re going to file a complaint.” She brushed her fingers over her chest and waist, rearranging the scarlet brocade shawl that hugged her figure. “Tell the cops Willie suffers from blackouts. Tell them he’s your favorite cousin. Tell them you and the dwarf are lovers. Whatever works. Just do not tell them he stole anything.”

“What’re you going to do?” Dix asked.

“I’m coming with you.” Queenie paused, staring at the concave reflection of her pinched, painted face in a tarnished teaspoon. “Connelly’s on my shit list now.”

Dixon swallowed the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth. He picked at his napkin, avoiding Queenie’s eyes. “All right, but we’ll have to leave the camper here,” he said, already calculating time and distance and parking fees. He eyed his wife, her fingers tapping out a contingency plan on the cracked, red polyurethane surface, and sighed. “And, Queenie, no snakes.”

“Dix!” Queenie’s outburst caused the other patrons of the diner to swivel in their direction.

“No snakes, Queenie, none. Not even a little one.”

Pursing her lips, Queenie cut her eyes at Dix. She reached into her bag and rummaged among the contents, searching for her lipstick.

“You know,” Dix said, “I used to like that son of a bitch.”

“Yeah,” Queenie said, touching her temple with one ringed hand. “So did I.”

Willie stomped down the straggling bunches of thistle and crabgrass covering the sloping ground. He checked left and right. Only a few of the regular homeless had drifted into the shaded area, their blankets spread out at the opposite end from where Willie stood. Farther down the riverbank, he spotted a thin bald guy tracing figure eights on the lawn. The man’s voice gusted toward Willie, his curses and shouts interspersed with accusations of conspiracy. Shaking off a shiver of premonition, Willie scraped a shallow trench to mark off his space and settled in for the evening. He slid the denim bag under his shoulders, leaned back and closed his eyes. Beneath his head, the bones muttered. Mum-mum-de-mum-onakul.

The odor of urine woke him before the sickle moon had fled the sky. He checked the time on his cell phone. Two twenty-five. No message. Crapola! Willie shifted to a sitting position and scanned the collection of ragtag blankets and garbage bags. He listened for the snores of exhausted men and women, but the acrid smell overpowered his senses. Sniffing, he leaned to his right. The light reflecting from the highway above outlined the shape of a man urinating against the concrete support wall, barely three feet from Willie’s head.

“Hey, pisser,” he said, pitching his words too low for anyone but the intruder to hear. “Go pee somewhere else.”

The man stuffed himself together and turned toward Willie. “They’re coming,” he whispered. He pointed one bony arm in Willie’s direction and repeated his warning. “They’re gonna find you. And him.” Shuffling closer, the vagrant stared at the shadow behind Willie’s head. “He knows.”

Shoving the bones farther behind him, Willie stood up and clenched his fists. He stared at the dark figure wavering before him. The man knew nothing, yet his words shook Willie. Could Dixon find him? Would Queenie come? Shivering, Willie stepped toward the man.

“Get the hell out of here,” he said.

The man backpedaled a few feet, twisted his ankle on a slurry of small stones, and fell hard. Rolling several feet down the slope, he raised up on his hands and knees and crawled closer to Willie.

“Make him stop,” he begged, covering his ears with his hands. “I can’t take it anymore. Make him shut up.” He flung his arms toward the bag once more. Then, raising himself to a stand, he shuffled away.

Willie watched him go, afraid to turn his back, fearful of what might happen if he closed his eyes. The man paused every two steps to check over his shoulder and mutter, his curses a susurrus of fear sliding toward Willie along night’s dark street. When the man disappeared into shadow, Willie lay down again, juggling the man’s absurd pronouncements and the realization that Dixon and Queenie would indeed be looking for him. But he had control of the board, didn’t he? Willie’s sense of righteous anger flared. Instead of giving Willie a better job, Dix had let him go. Instead of sharing herself, Queenie had given him one night and then turned her back. And they’d both lied about wanting him to help run Ajedrez. Willie watched his expectations dissolve in a swirl of feints and false moves. Nothing left of hope but broken promises. If he gave the money and the bones back, they had to reciprocate, didn’t they? The questions circled his head like vultures. Uneasy and conflicted, Willie stayed awake long into the night. Just before dawn, he slept. When he startled awake around seven, the bones were gone.

Dixon and Queenie sat in the truck, rehearsing Dixon’s story. The parking meter posted a two-hour limit, but the meter flag had slipped closer to zero. Dix got out and slid two more quarters in the slot. That should buy them enough time.

“You sure, Queenie?” He leaned back in the seat and studied his wife’s hunched shoulders and exposed cleavage. “You think this’ll work?”