Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Who was that?” he said, handing her the yogurt.

She put it on the floor. “Just some asshole.”

“Who?”

“Nobody you know.” She was silent as they pulled away. A state trooper zoomed by in the other direction. Greer sighed. “My landlord,” she said. “If it’s really that important.”

Wyatt felt some of the tension between them dissipate. He tore off one end of the sandwich wrapper with his teeth, took a bite, realizing at the first taste how hungry he was. “What’d he want?” he said, talking with his mouth full.

“What do landlords usually want?”

“Rent?”

She nodded.

“How much is it?” he said. “I should be contributing.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. Fine for money.” She reached for the yogurt. “Lemon, my favorite. Thanks.” She started eating, shifted back closer to him. The sun came out, or if it had been out the whole time, Wyatt finally noticed.

Both East Canton and Silver City were hilly towns on rivers. Millerville was flat and riverless; as they drove into it, Wyatt couldn’t imagine why anyone would have picked this spot for a town in the first place. They followed the main street past a doughnut shop, an auto supplies place, a going-out-of-business gift shop, a boarded-up building, the town hall. The town hall was solid-looking with a round tower on top; most of the windows in the tower were broken.

“What a pit,” Greer said. “We better stop and ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Directions for thirty-two Cain Street,” Greer said. “Shouldn’t we have a look at where all this went down? Or do you want to start at Pingree’s construction yard, assuming it still exists?”

Wyatt didn’t know, hadn’t thought much about the steps beyond just getting to Millerville. “How are we going to do this?”

“Look around,” said Greer. “Play it by ear. Isn’t that the way everyone ends up doing just about anything?”

Wyatt thought that over. People tried to organize the future-for example, Coach Bouchard had come up with the whole Bridger idea, trying to keep baseball in Wyatt’s future-but then things had gone wrong, at least partly because Mr. Mannion had been organizing Dub’s future at the same time-and since then, yes: Wyatt had pretty much been playing it by ear. Maybe Greer was right and it was the same even at the very highest levels-why else would the economy be like this, boarded up, going-out-of-business, bankrupt? Everyone, from the top right on down to him, here in this crappy flatland town, ended up playing it by ear.

“Okay,” he said, “how about thirty-two Cain Street to start?”

“Now you’re talking,” Greer said. “Pull over-here’s a likely citizen.”

He pulled over. The likely citizen was an old woman in a pink quilted jacket, tacking a notice to a telephone pole with a small hammer. Wyatt slid down his window.

The old woman glanced over, pausing in midstroke. “You seen Effie?” she said. “Effie’s my cat.”

“Sorry, no.”

“She’s missing. White with black feet.”

“Uh,” Wyatt said, “we’re looking for Cain Street.”

“Cain Street?” said the woman. “No way Effie’d make it that far, not with her arthritis.”

“Where is it?”

“Cain Street? To hell and gone.” She waved vaguely. “Know where the bus station used to be? Way past that.” She went back to tacking up the notice.

“Thanks,” Wyatt said, pulling away.

“I hate cats,” said Greer.

“What about dogs?”

“I’ve always wanted one.”

“Me, too.”

“Let’s get one.”

“Maybe sometime.”

Greer sat back, folded her arms across her chest. He had another crazy thought: she wanted this dog today. “We could name it Millerville,” he said. She laughed, and put her hand on his knee. He placed his hand over hers; it felt cold, and not quite steady. “Are you nervous about something?” he said.

“Always,” she said. “Didn’t you know?” She raised his hand and kissed it. “But not with you.”

They found the old bus station-now padlocked, with a bright orange notice on the door-and came to Cain Street a few blocks later.

“Right or left?” Wyatt said. Greer pointed to the right. Wyatt turned right. The houses on Cain Street were small and low, mostly aluminum sided, a few painted cinder block, plus one or two sagging trailers that looked like they’d never move again. The lawns were brown and weedy, littered with all kinds of things-bald tires, rusted machinery, a yellowed Christmas tree, tinsel fluttering in the wind. A mailbox went by, the number on it-757. No numbers on the next bunch of mailboxes, and then came 921.

“I’ve always been a bad guesser,” Greer said.

Wyatt U-turned, crossed back over the main drag, and continued to the other end of Cain Street. It grew more and more potholey, and finally the pavement petered out completely. Cain Street ended with no warning at a small stand of trees. The nearby lots were all blackened, as though the houses had burned down. The last one standing-a single-story house with two front windows, one big, one small, like mismatched eyes-had the number 32 on the door. Wyatt stopped the car.

They gazed at 32 Cain Street. The blinds were closed on both front windows. Flyers lay scattered outside the front door.

“This is where it happened,” Greer said. “Or where whatever happened happened is maybe the way to put it.”

Wyatt tried to imagine the scene. Had the blinds been closed that night, too? Probably, with drug dealers inside: Luis and Esteban Dominguez, plus Esteban’s girlfriend, Maria, who died, and their baby, Antonia, who got shot in the eye and ended up in foster care. Thirty-two Cain Street was a very small house to contain all that trouble.

“All set?” Greer said.

“For what?”

“Knocking on the door.”

“And then what?”

“Playing by ear.”

“Can’t we do better than that?”

“We could say we’re looking for the Dominguez brothers,” Greer said.

“Because we want drugs?” Wyatt said.

“Well?” Greer shrugged.

Greer and drugs: he shook his head.

She laughed. “Scared you, huh? How about we’re a couple of ambitious students doing a story on the case for the school paper?”

He thought that over.

“Or criminal justice students at the community college, working on a project?” she said.

“Yeah,” said Wyatt.

She opened her door. “What are we waiting for?”

Wyatt and Greer walked to the front door of 32 Cain Street, a white door, the paint peeling here and there, revealing black paint underneath. Greer pressed the buzzer. Wyatt listened, heard no buzzing sound from within, or anything else. Maybe nobody was home; maybe they’d gone for good. Greer tried the buzzer again, then knocked, hard knocks, one-two-three; Wyatt was surprised her fists, not very big or powerful-looking, could make noise like that.

A woman spoke on the other side of the door. Wyatt had heard no footsteps: she might have been standing there the whole time. “Who’s there?” she said.

“We’re from Foothills Community College,” Greer said, so natural and confident Wyatt could almost believe it himself. “We’ve got a few questions for our school project.”

Silence.

“Easy ones,” Greer said.

More silence, and then: “Are you here for the rent?”

“The rent?” said Greer. “No. We’re from the community college. We just need a minute or two of your time.”

“The car’s not here,” the woman said, “in case you want to repo it.”

“We don’t want your car. We just want your help.”

“My help?” The door opened. A woman stood there, blinking in the light. She was old, wore a threadbare robe, had bare feet, one with a big bunion, the other slender and nicely shaped. She looked at them, her expression puzzled and a little afraid. “What kind of help?”