William Lashner - Marked Man

“I’ll take them. I got a camera. We can set up something in the basement, a few sheets for a background. Or” – he lifted up his hands – “if you want to take care of that, Victor, that’s fine.”

“What kind of pictures will I be taking?”

“Look, I’m not talking anything hard-core. Yet. Just show some ass, some tit, those long legs, pout a bit. Give the shirt a lift. It’s all just a come-on to get them to open up their wallets.”

“And you really want me to do this?” said Monica.

“We’re just talking about pictures,” he said. “And the money will be great, better than you’re making slaving for those asshole lawyers. Nothing you’re not comfortable with, Mon. And we can use a different name if you want.”

“Why don’t we call her Chantal?” I said.

He turned his head to me with a jerk, as if I had hit him smack across the face, and the enthusiasm visibly ebbed from his features.

“I mean, if we’re going to be consistent,” I said, “we might as well keep the name the same as the sister you sold out before.”

“What are you talking about? What’s he talking about, Mon?”

“We’re talking about Teddy,” I said. “We’re taking about how your special friend Teddy ended up with Chantal.”

“Monica?”

“I don’t blame you, Richard. You were as much a victim as she was. We just want to know what happened.”

“Nothing. I don’t know nothing. I told you that before. I told them all.”

“Nothing,” he said, but the quiver in his lip said something else.

“Oh, Richard, sweetie.” She left the bed and walked over to her brother and knelt before him, putting her head on his leg. “You’ve been holding it in all this time, and it’s been killing you.”

Richard tried to respond, but the shaking of his lower lip grew progressively worse and his eyes began to leak and all he could get out was a weak, tearful “Mon.”

“Look around, Richard,” she said. “Look at what has happened to you. Look at this room. You’re my big brother, my hero, but look at you. Keeping it in and staying like this can’t be worse than telling someone the truth about what happened.”

“What about the Web site?” he said.

“We don’t want to hear about the Web site,” I said. “We want to hear about Chantal.”

He was crying now, the tears falling in big droplets onto her cheek. “But I don’t know what happened,” he said through the sobs. “I don’t.”

She raised up on her knees, took his ugly wet face in her hands, hugged him close. She was crying now, too.

“Just tell us what you know, baby,” she said.

“No.”

“It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“It will be,” she said. “We’re going to find her. I know it, I can feel it, she has spoken to me. But we need your help.”

“I can’t.”

“Sweetie, yes, yes you can. Just tell us what you know.”

And then, through sobs and tears and the racking breaths of a ruined life, he did just that.

HE HAD been a wanderer, Ricky Adair, a loner who floated through the neighborhood, the streets, the back alleys, the narrow stretch of Disston Park running after the squirrels. In those days the neighborhood was safe, and mothers let their children off on their own. Go out and play. Go out and get some fresh air. And that was what he had done, roaming wild over a landscape that was rooted in both the urban reality and the fluid fantasy of his imagination. The haunted house on Ditman, the troll who terrorized Algard Street, the witch that flew with the bats in the dusky sky above Our Lady of Consolation on Tulip. And it was on one of his wanderings that he met the Halloween Man, who was sitting on the stoop of an alleyway smoking a cigarette.

“Hey, kid,” he called out to him as he spied Richard walking down the alley. “You live around here?”

“Not too far,” said Ricky, keeping his distance. He had never seen the man before.

“You want a cigarette? Of course you do.”

Ricky took a step back. Though his mother and father both smoked, no one had ever offered him a cigarette before, and the thought thrilled him. He was nine. “No thank you.”

“You sure?”

“I’m not allowed.”

“How about some gum?”

“Okay.”

“Come on over,” said the man, reaching into his pocket.

When Ricky approached, the man beckoned him closer and told him to reach out his hand. Ricky did as he said, and the man slapped his own hand down atop Ricky’s and held it for a moment, like he was doing a trick. When the man lifted his hand, there, in Richard’s palm, was a stick of gum, with its green-and-silver wrapper, and a cigarette.

“Keep it quiet,” said the man with a warm laugh. “This will be our secret.”

“Okay.”

“Come back tomorrow and I’ll pull a pack of matches out of your ear.”

“I’m not allowed matches either.”

“Don’t worry, kid. I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“Deal,” said Ricky before running off down the alley with his gum and his cigarette and his secret.

He came back the next day for the matches and a jawbreaker, huge and yellow, that took him all day to lick down to the spicy red center. The day after, the Halloween Man gave him a Hershey bar and a magic slide that could make a quarter disappear. He amazed Ricky twice with the trick before showing him how to do it. The day after that, he gave him a Three Musketeers bar and a whistle.

“Hey, kid,” said the Halloween Man. “You got any friends?”

“Not really,” which was a sad truth. Not an athlete, not a musician, not much of a conversationalist, not much of anything, Ricky had no friends. “But I got a sister.”

“Really, now? How old?”

“Six.”

The lopsided grin grew a little more lopsided. “Bring her along tomorrow and I’ll have something for her, too.”

The next day Ricky brought along his little sister, Chantal. He had thought it through, considered all the angles, and it had seemed like a sharp enough move at the time. Chantal agreed to give Ricky half of any candy bar she received from the nice man who acted like every day was Halloween. And Ricky was pretty certain there wasn’t any danger.

He could sense danger, that was his talent, like he had a special radar in the back of his head. A little too much interest from the weird, gray-haired man in the library or the quiet snarl of a dog waiting for Ricky to slip within the ambit of his chain. He could sense danger, and he sensed nothing from the Halloween Man. Each time Ricky came by, the man would be sitting on the step out back in the alley, sometimes alone and sometimes with his four friends, a huge guy with a giant’s jaw or a small black guy or a round, soft guy or a handsome guy in jeans. And when Ricky would show up, the men would stop talking, suddenly, like everything was a secret. The Halloween Man would say, “Hey, kid,” and pull out the candy, pat his head, and send him on his way. Nothing to it. Nothing to be worried about. Just free candy and free toys and that lopsided smile. And so one day he brought along Chantal to increase the haul. He took Chantal to the Halloween Man, and everything changed.

“Hey, kid,” said the Halloween Man, standing now, looking not at Ricky but at the little girl by his side. “So who is this?”

“My sister,” said Ricky. “Chantal.”

“What a pretty name.” The Halloween Man reached out his hand and bent forward. “Hello, Chantal. My name is Teddy, and it sure is nice to meet you. What do you like to do, Chantal?”

“I dance,” she said.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I’ve been on television.”

“How exciting is that?”

“Are you the man with the candy?” said Chantal.