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

Queenie raised her head from the cell phone keypad. Her dark eyes glared at him, her full, red-limned mouth set in a taut line. “Just follow the plan, Dix, and don’t let on that you’re angry. Okay? I’m going to flush him out with an offer.”

She smiled but Dix didn’t think it would melt anyone’s heart. Her glance reminded him of that Australian reptile, the taipan she kept in a cage beside their bed. Sometimes in the night, he’d wake to the sound of her reading from the Gospel of Mark, They shall take up serpents, while the snakes shifted and hissed around her. Queenie’s Pentecostal roots served them well among the small hill towns of Appalachia, but Dix wasn’t certain how well they’d go over in the big city. He was tired of playing backwater fairs and rural carnivals. It was time to move up to bigger things, and Nashville could be the first step. He rested his hand on the back of her neck. “I just want what’s fair, babe.”

“Oh, you’ll get more than fair, Dixon, I promise.” The way she said it made Dixon’s stomach contract.

They watched the precinct shift change at three o’clock and waited until Queenie’s contact tipped his cap and hurried inside the building.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have fired him,” Queenie said, snapping the lid on the phone and tapping her foot.

“You think that’s as bad as what you did?” Dixon allowed only the merest trace of sarcasm to tinge his words. Queenie, enraged, was a beast he preferred not to confront. “You should have known he’d want more.”

Queenie allowed a smirk. “I just wanted to see what it’d be like is all. With a little guy.” She reached over to smooth Dixon’s collar. “You know there’s no one else but you in my heart.”

“I don’t care who’s in your heart, Queen, it’s your wallet that concerns me.” Dixon swallowed the lie and shot out of the car. Slamming the door, he circled the truck and took the steps two at a time. From the passenger side, Queenie watched him go, her dark eyes slitted, her rouged face a study of sly indifference.

The night people shuffled off around him, heading for coffee shops or that Daybreak place that handed out breakfast and false hope. Willie raced from one side of the underpass to the other, searching for the bag. It took him fifteen minutes. When he spotted the crazy pisser from last night standing at the river, he thought he’d hyperventilate. The man held his arms out over the water, making the sign of the cross at the bag that floated, bobbing and weaving, across the slow current. Willie decided against murder. Blood pounding in his ears, he raced up the pedestrian stairs and hurried across the footbridge. By the time he reached the other side, a boy holding a skateboard had lifted the bag out of the water.

“Hey!” Willie yelled, gasping as he used the handrail to pull himself along. “That’s mine.”

The boy looked up and shrugged. Clutching Kardu’s bones in one hand, he watched as Willie worked his way down the steps. He had almost reached the bottom when the boy flipped on a ball cap, dropped his board to the pavement, and shoved off. Willie bent over to catch his breath and started off again. His short legs and heavy torso refused to obey his command for more speed. He huffed his way to Monument Avenue, clutching at his aching thighs, until he spied a bus labeled Wayne-Wilmington. Struggling along the sidewalk, he reached the stop just as the bus doors closed. Willie used his fists to beat on the glass. The RTA driver, his expression one of pained effort, opened them and let Willie in.

Trying to balance his weight against the bob of the wheels, Willie threw coins in the collection box until the meter said paid and hurried to a side seat. Ahead, weaving in and out of lanes, the boy headed south. The bus lumbered forward, lurching to a stop at every second corner. They passed the Schuster Performing Arts Center and the old County Courthouse. Off to the right, Willie noticed a building with a police precinct sign and a familiar truck parked at the curb. He ducked below the wide bus window until they passed the station. Then he leaned his head against the glass and listened for the bones. They’d been talking to him all night. No reason to think they’d abandon him now.

The parking meter flag flipped to red. Queenie debated whether to feed it again. She had just opened the door when Dix burst out of the precinct and hurried toward her, his face aflame with anger and resentment.

“Get in,” he said, shoving her down and closing the door. He pulled away and searched for a pay lot. “Your guy’s going to call as soon as they hear anything.”

Queenie fumbled with the radio knob, seeking a country station. “What’s wrong, Dix?” she said.

Dixon knocked her hand off the dial.

“We find him, Queenie, I swear I’m going to kill him.” Dixon jammed his foot on the brake and faced her while the traffic signal flashed from yellow to red.

“Not the wisest move, Dixon,” Queenie said, running her fingers along the curve of his neck. She waited for his color to fade from fuschia to pink. “Let’s just concentrate on recovering our property. Willie, well, Willie will be on his own again, just like he was before we took him in.”

Dixon pulled into a lot with a sign reading special events parking $5.00. He held his palm open and waited for Queenie to pass him a bill. The attendant, looking strained and tired, nodded at the next to last space facing Ludlow. Dixon turned off the ignition and watched the theater-goers flooding out of their cars, heading for the Victoria and The Phantom of the Opera.

“How long we been together, Queenie?” Dixon removed his cap and patted his graying hair. “How long have I overlooked your adventures? But this time, you fixed us good.”

“So, we’re back to that?” Queenie scowled and slapped his shoulder again. “Get over it, Dix. You got twenty-five years on me. I have needs.” She studied her nails. “Promising Willie and me we could both help run the show wasn’t a smart move.”

Dixon punched the steering wheel. He slid his seat back, slouched down, and closed his eyes. When he heard the hissing, he opened one eye and glared at Queenie. “I told you. No snakes.”

“Hush, Dix,” Queenie said, cooing at the thick mesh wrap lying coiled and uneasy at the bottom of her purse, “I just want a little insurance.”

Dixon sat up and pushed at her chest. “Against what? Willie? Me? I swear—”

Queenie cut off his reply. Snapping her bag closed, she reached forward with both hands and pinned Dixon’s arms to his chest. Her fingernails dug against his skin.

“Swear what, Dix? What’s yours is mine? Willie’s a dead man? Puhlease.” Leaning her face closer, Queenie frowned at him. “Pardon me if I take my own precautions.”

Caught in her stare, with the specter of losing his life’s work hovering beyond her and the claws of jealousy tearing at his soul, Dixon clenched his jaw and nodded. I am going to kill him, he thought, and then, Queenie, I’m going to kill you. He tried not to think about her snakes.

Up Wayne Avenue Hill the bus swayed from lane to lane, dodging traffic and cyclists commuting from home to work. Although he could no longer see the boy, Willie could hear King Kardu humming, the notes a trail winding from the bag to Willie’s ears. Ha-haha-ha-hum. Willie got off at South Park.

The intersection of the once-thriving Victorian-era neighborhood had gone to seed, its signature triangle building on the northeast corner now boarded and mute. The gas station across from the bus stop could use a new sign. The old one, damaged by some random wind, hung crooked and sagging. On the west side where Willie stood, only a seedy tavern and an old grocery store remained. Down the block, the aging houses were claimed for mixed use by yuppies, baby boomers, crack dealers, and whores. Willie shaded his eyes from the sun. The boy had gone there, to the first large, white painted lady. Willie spotted the skateboard lying discarded in the small square of weedy lawn. He listened. The boy’s voice carried eastward like a sail.