William Lashner - Marked Man

“Go to the back, turn away from the crowd, and wait,” I said.

“But-”

“Just go, and keep your hands in front of you.”

Charlie swiveled his head, spotted something that spooked him, and charged inside. He banged into one of the panels, turned and banged into another, and then, with his hands in front of him, made his way through to the rear of the maze.

I ran toward the ramp until Fred spotted me. I did a little pump with my elbows and then charged away from him, past the Glass House without a glance, toward the rear stairs and down, right smack into Louie, who grabbed me by the belt and held me close.

“Hello, boysy,” he said.

I WON’T GO into a blow-by-blow description of our encounter after the two hoods dragged me outside the park. Fred asked the questions. I made snarky, nonresponsive comments. Louie drilled me in the stomach with his fists. I fell to my knees and dry-heaved. All rather unpleasant. And it might have gone far worse if a cop hadn’t turned the corner just as I was struggling back up to my feet for the second time. The cop was young, his hat was tilted low over his eyes.

“Oh, look,” I said, standing a little straighter. “A nice policeman. Why don’t you boys ask him to help you find Charlie?”

“Don’t even try,” said Fred.

Louie grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me down to his level. “Don’t even try, boysy.”

“Should I call the nice policeman over?”

Fred looked behind him, did a double take, then tapped Louie on the shoulder. Louie turned, went wide-eyed. Without taking his eyes off the cop, he let go of my collar and started smoothing it out with his hand.

As the cop approached, giving us a nod, Fred injected a false heartiness into his voice. “It was nice talking to you, Victor. What about your friend Charlie? We’d like to say hello to him, too.”

I thought about grabbing the cop as he passed by, but if I did, I’d have to tell him the story, and that meant telling him about Charlie, which might be as much trouble for Charlie as were these goons. So I let him pass with a nod and a smile and then said, “Really, guys, it was nice chatting, but I have to go.”

Yet even as I said it, I glanced at the giant Ferris wheel turning slowly in the middle of the park.

Fred caught my glance, followed its line to the high, spinning ride.

“We’re not finished with you yet,” he said, looking once more at the cop’s back before starting toward the Ferris wheel, nodding at Louie to follow. Fred took a few steps and then stopped, came back, leaned close so he was whispering in my ear.

“If we don’t find him, you should give Charlie this advice. Tell your pal to take the cash and run, or both of you are dead, understand?”

“What do you mean, take the cash?”

“You heard me,” he said. “Remember, our friend from Allentown has your picture too.” And then he was gone, along with Louie, headed for a ride on the Ferris wheel.

I waited a bit until they were out of my sight, and then I hurried back into the park, back to the right, and up the stairs to the Fun Deck. I expected to see a toddler-shaped figure shaking with fear in the rear of the Glass House, but there were only a couple of kids and a father comforting his daughter who had banged her head.

I looked around for Charlie: nothing. I went to the rear of the deck. There was a low fence surrounding the whole of the upper level and, on the ground below, a number of small spruce trees. One of the trees was strangely bent, its tip hanging limp. I looked at it for a moment and then turned my gaze to the street, following it south. In the distance I could see a squat figure in plaid shorts running, not moving very fast, but running, running away, running for his life.

He had been running for fifteen years. It was time for me to bring him home. But first I had to learn exactly what he was running from, and then I had to figure out why figures as disparate as the high-priced lawyer for the Randolph Trust and the two knuckleheads of Up with Hoods all seemed ever so determined to make sure that I failed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carl,but you’re not on the list.”

“What do you mean, I’m not on the list?” I said, my voice filled with a false indignation, false because in the whole of my life I have never been on the list. “Of course I’m on the list.”

“No, I’ve looked twice, and you’re not,” said the large, bald-headed guard at the reception desk. “As a general rule, we don’t allow visitors who are not on the list.”

And as a general rule, I thought, I don’t feel bound by general rules. “But he’s my Uncle Max. Of course he’ll want to see me. My sister’s in town for only a few days and she was always his favorite niece.”

The guard turned his stare toward Monica, standing behind me with her gas-station bouquet of flowers. His gaze swooned at the sight of her loose white shirt and tight black leather pants.

“I haven’t seen my dear Uncle Max in years,” said Monica in her little girl’s voice. “I doubt he’d even recognize me anymore.”

“But I’m sure she’d cheer him up, don’t you think?” I said.

Monica smiled, the guard’s eye twitched.

“Please,” she mouthed, without a sound coming through her lips.

“Well, seeing that there are no special restrictions on his sheet,” said the guard, “and seeing that you all are related-”

“On our mother’s side, twice removed,” I said.

“I don’t suppose there’d be any harm.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Monica. “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Thank you, Pete,” she said.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Let me see some ID, sign in, and I’ll take you guys to him personally.”

The Sheldon Himmelfarb Convalescent Home for the Aged was a cheerful little warehouse in the northern suburbs, not far from where I went to junior high school, so I was familiar with the landscape of its despair. There was a small lawn, a big parking lot, and a host of bright, processed smiles to go along with the processed hospital smell that was pumped out of the vents. We had never before actually met Uncle Max, who wasn’t actually our uncle, but word was that Uncle Max’s visitors weren’t strictly restricted, that he didn’t quite remember as much as he used to, and that he sure would appreciate the visit.

Pete stood in the doorway watching as I entered the room and spread my arms wide. “Uncle Max,” I said in a loud voice with a great deal of enthusiasm. The unshaven old man in the bed sat upright at my entrance, a puzzled expression on his long, grizzled face. “It’s me, Victor.”

“Victor?”

“I’m your second cousin Sandra’s son. You remember Sandra, don’t you?”

“Sandra?” he said, with a sadness that indicated there were many people now whom he was forgetting.

“Of course you remember Sandra. Big hips, small hands, and she made that great three-bean salad.”

“Three-bean salad?”

“Oh, Mom made the best three-bean salad. It was the waxed beans. She always used fresh, boiled in salt water. It made all the difference. And then a good wine vinegar and basil from our garden. Don’t you just love a good three-bean salad?”

“I don’t think I know a Sandra,” said Max.

“And, Uncle Max, you must remember my younger sister, Monica. You were always so close. She came, too.” I yanked Monica so that she stumbled forward until she regained her balance right in front of Max. “Say hello, Monica.”

“Hello, Uncle Max,” she cooed, leaning over the old man, flowers held out before her. “These are for you.”

Max’s jaw trembled for a moment at the sight of her. “Oh, yeah,” he said finally. “That Sandra. How is she?”