Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

He popped an andro, and as he did saw another cubicle open behind him. A guy came out zipping up, a guy in a state trooper’s uniform. A fuckin’ statie, wearing the Smokey hat. You wear it in the crapper? Freedy came close to saying that aloud, probably would have if it hadn’t been for the way the statie was eyeing him in the mirror. What the fuck was that all about? Then he remembered the meth. What cubicle had he been tweaking in? Couldn’t have been the one next to the statie, could it? Hard to tell. Freedy turned on the tap, washed his hands. The statie broke off eye contact-his image stopped staring at Freedy’s was what really happened, as nice a bit of meth thinking as you could ask for, but the main point was that Freedy could stare anybody down, what with those eyes of his that resembled some British actor’s-and went out. “Ever heard of hygiene?” Freedy said; but not loud. He wasn’t afraid of some statie with bad personal habits, wasn’t afraid of any cop, for that matter, but this was no time for distractions. Idea, plan, stick, stick, stick.

Before he even got to his spyhole, Freedy knew they were there. That creepy music, coming down tunnel F: he didn’t like any music, but this kind was the worst. Wasn’t even in English, like the singer was rubbing your nose in it.

Freedy removed his drywall door, went into the little room, put his eye to the spyhole. Ka-boom: drop-dead, fuck-you, better than he’d remembered, one, the darker-haired, dressed all in black, the other, the blonde, in red. And that guy. Freedy had forgotten all about him, the college kid he could break in half.

They were lounging on couches, purple couches with gold fringe, drinking some golden liquid from sparkling glasses and talking, the whole room golden too, from the candlelight. The funny thing was that the blond one, hanging something silver around her neck, was saying exactly what she’d said the first time he’d seen her: “How do I look?”

Some weird time warp, like they’d been waiting for him to come back. But what a ridiculous fuckin’ question. How could she even ask? Drop-dead fuck-you is how she looked. The drop-dead fuck-you ones had to know they were drop-dead fuck-you, didn’t they? Otherwise nothing made sense. Freedy toyed with the idea of saying it, not loud, just cool and matter-of-fact, speaking right through the spyhole. Drop-dead fuck-you is how you look, babe. Then their heads would whip up, real quick, to where the sound came from, and he’d come crashing through the wall. Ka-boom. Toyed with the idea, but remained silent. He was good at silence when he wanted to be; right now, he couldn’t even hear his own breathing.

“Like a pirate,” said the darker-haired one. “Do you think Leo actually found it, or just bought it somewhere?”

“Who knows anything about Leo anymore?” said the blonde.

The darker-haired one thought that over. The college kid, so breakable in two, watched her do it like something special was happening. “Do you think Dad knew all this?” she said.

“Knew all what?” said the blond one.

“Brooklyn,” said the darker-haired one. “Mrs. Uzig.”

Mrs. Uzig? Leo? Bells rang. Maybe something special was happening.

“It would be just like him, wouldn’t it?” said the blond one. “To keep the good stuff to himself.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” said the darker-haired one.

The blonde shook her head. “Daddy’s little girl.”

Daddy’s little girl. What the fuck was this all about? Suddenly it hit him, another one of his amazing insights: they were sisters! And this other one, the college kid, was their brother! Three rich kids, fooling around down in the tunnels. It all made sense. Lucky for the college kid, that brother angle-might save him from being broken in two.

“What do you mean, daddy’s little girl?” said the darkerhaired one.

“You find that obscure?” said the blonde.

Totally obscure, but Freedy didn’t care: their bodies! Meanwhile they were exchanging some sort of look. The darker-haired one broke it first, just like the statie with him. Hey! Was this a fight? And were they a little drunk? Probably not-they weren’t behaving like fighters and drunks he knew: no snarling, for one thing; no punching, for another.

The music stopped. It got very quiet. Freedy pressed his forehead to the wall, his eye almost in the room. He could hear the candles burning. “More music?” said the college kid, getting up.

For fuck sake.

“How about the Caruso?” said the blonde.

“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the darker-haired one, real decisive for some reason.

“ ‘Caro Nome,’ ” said the blond one. “Aren’t you getting sick of it?” The darker-haired one didn’t answer. The blond one turned to the college kid. “Aren’t you getting sick of it, Nat?”

“Not yet,” said the college kid, Nat.

From his angle, Freedy had a good look at the blonde’s face when he said that. She was pissed. He had no idea why, but she was. The others didn’t see it: the one called Nat was winding up some old-fashioned record player-maybe an antique, maybe worth a bundle-and the darker-haired one, the little sister, was watching him.

More music. A female voice, the same hideous song that had been playing the first night. The big sister didn’t like it either; Freedy could see that. She got up right away and said: “I’m going to call him.”

“Who?” said the little sister.

“Daddy,” said the big sister, said it funny, like it was in quotes.

“Why?”

“See what he knows about Leo.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“Not in Manila.”

“How do you know he’s in Manila?”

Her voice took on an edge: “Or Singapore, Shanghai, what difference does it make? They’ll track him down.” She was walking toward the unlit room, the bedroom. “See you later,” she said.

“You’re leaving?”

“Bonsoir.”

Or some foreign shit; this was like another goddamn country.

Freedy’s angle was perfect for seeing what happened after that. The little sister and the Nat guy exchanged a look, like they didn’t know what the hell was going on. Join the club, thought Freedy. Meanwhile, big sister was climbing up the rope ladder in the bedroom. There was just enough spillover light from the candles in the big room to gleam on her blond head. Up and out of sight she went. Freedy heard something close like a lid.

The little sister and the Nat guy made eye contact again, different this time. The little sister got up and walked over toward the record player where the Nat guy was standing. Why did he keep calling her the little sister? She was just as tall as the big sister, with a body just as good in every way. In fact-another one of his insights was coming, he could feel it-they were identical, except for the hair. Except for the hair, they could have been twins.

And the Nat guy was not their brother, oh no, not unless something sicko was going on. Freedy knew that from the way she put her arms around him, the way they kissed, swaying to the music but not dreamy, much hotter than dreamy. Freedy was just settling into what might get pretty interesting when he saw something that actually scared him, scared him, Freedy; made his heart jump inside his chest. It wasn’t that first gleam, barely flickering in the unlit bedroom that did it; he didn’t make the connection. It was when that blond head materialized in the darkness, and big sister, her body hidden in shadow, took in the scene by the record player. Her face.

Actually scared him.

“I love this song, don’t you?” little sister was saying.

“Yes,” said the Nat guy.

“Do you understand the words?”

The Nat guy shook his head. “Is this before the kidnapping or after?”