Ashes (14 page)

Kyro helped him up off the ground and handed him a hundred-dollar bill.
 

“Thought you said I couldn't keep it. The toll, remember?” He was still trying to put air in his lungs.

“You're right,” Kyro said, taking back the hundred and handing Joel a twenty. “I should keep you around. Can't skate worth a crap, but you got a good memory.”

“Speaking of memory…”

“Look, I ain't seen her around here. That's legit.”

Joel got up close. “You little liar. You hustled me?”

Kyro's lips split into a grin. “I said maybe, or are you deaf? Look, I think
we were all
amused
by you
. So now you can leave. Unless you're a cop and you got a warrant to search this place, get lost!”

Joel held hatred in his eyes. The boy had truly hustled him to get what he wanted: a desperate man to prove himself in front of a crew of teenagers.
For amusement, for a show.
And they got it.

Joel's body was still reeling from the fall. Pain swam inside his bones. He coughed and started walking from the scene, the photograph of Emery blowing away in the wind.

After Joel had started his car and driven off, one of the kids went up to Kyro with a wallet. “Casper dropped it when he took the fall.”

“You take any?”

“Nah, man. He only had, like, forty-six bucks in there. Didn't touch
nothin',
I swear.”

“But you counted it, though.” Kyro said more with his expressions than with his words. He opened up the wallet and searched it. Credit cards, past receipts, and a bunch of other stuff he had no use for. Last, he checked the license. “Joel Phoenix,” he said. “East Hampton, Connecticut?”

“Connecticut?” Ricky said, finally through whining about the incessant throbbing in his head. “Wasn't your gramps buried there?”

“Don't talk about him, Ricky.”

“Just saying…”

“Yeah, well don't. Unless you want me to rearrange your face.”

Kyro was frozen.
Who are you, pops?
he
wondered, closing the wallet. “I'll catch you guys later.” In minutes he was another shadow in the city, chasing a man he had never met before tonight and the ghost of a grandfather he once loved. “Got me a body to follow.”

19

 

A HALF-LIFE SIGN, CHIPPING paint, and bumper stickers swallowed the glass-door entrance of the gas station. Flickering lights hung above the pumps, and a peculiar homeless man lay by the dumpster at the side of the building with a cigarette. Other than that, there wasn't a soul around for miles.

Joel wasn't sure how he wound up here, wherever here was. The last sign he had seen was for Cambridge. Maybe he'd taken a wrong turn. It was too dark to tell for sure, though the bridge—which should've been in plain sight from here—was nowhere.

He stepped out of the car and headed inside to pay for gas and round up some driving junk food. He could tell the store clerk, young as he was, and implanted with several piercings, knew he wasn't a local. And the way those eyes followed him as he went around selecting candies really got under his skin.
 
If there was anything to warrant mistrust, it was this store, that clerk, this whole city.

“Just roll with the punches,” he said in a hushed voice.

 
“Can I help you with anything?” the clerk said in a rough tone.

“I'm all right, thanks,” Joel returned, rolling his eyes. As he studied the small, cramped space, with walls of products the wrong person might need at the right time, he thought about how easy it'd be to just snag one of the candy bars, a bottle of soda, and split. Right as the thought came, though, he noticed two cameras watching the store. Someone could always see.
 

Joel grabbed a Twix and some sour snacks and glided toward the cooler. He wanted so badly to reach for a beer, something strong to numb the swarm of insects buzzing around in his head or to take his mind off looking for Emery, just for a second. His leg started to shiver, and the tension climbed his bones. He ached for strong drink, wished it would wash through his veins. Soon his hands turned clammy as he drove each nail into the fleshy surface of his palm.

With a deep breath, he opened the cooler and pulled out a root beer. The IBC bottle looked like beer, even felt like a bottle of Bud in his hands. The chilled glass felt right within his sweaty grip.

Joel brought his items to the counter, the cameras catching it all. The idea of being watched still bugged him, but he was almost out.

“So where you headed?” the clerk asked in a thick accent. All of a sudden, the guy was Irish.

“What?” Joel replied.

“You must be going somewhere.”

“Yeah, everybody's going somewhere.”

“That's not exactly what I meant, friend. I mean
,
you don't look like you're from around here. And I know these parts very
well-like
. Seen just about every face there is to see this side of Boston.” The guy licked his lips strangely. “Plus your plates kinda gave you away.”

Joel looked back at his car parked beside one of the four pumps the station had to offer. “I'm looking for someone,” Joel said in a somber way.

“Who might that be, friend?”

“I'm not your friend. Ring me up, please, and save the FBI routine. I didn't take anything from your store.”

“Never accused you. Besides, nice guy like you looks like he's been roughed up enough for the both of us. It'd be a royal inconvenience for me to reach behind this counter to get me bat and use it to split open your skull over a pack of sweets.” The clerk spit the threat out in such a calm, unsuspecting way that it threw Joel off balance. It was difficult to respond to a guy who laughed while he mentioned opening up your skull with a baseball bat. “My mum always said I was born for Fenway.”

Joel shrugged, the discomfort creeping into every facet of his being. He just wanted to pay for the items, fill up his tank, and disappear.

“So who'd you piss off, friend? Was it a guy or a skirt?” The accent was beginning to drive needles into Joel's brain.

“A couple of punk kids. Wasn't a
fight.
I skated for a little while and fell off…. Why am I explaining this to you?”

“Just making light conversation. No need to get hostile on me.
Nothing wrong with getting to know your patrons.
But if you don't want to chat, so be it.” After the clerk rang up the items, he took a long sip of his beer. “That'll be eight-fifty.”

“Are you allowed to drink while you're working?”

“My uncle owns the place, friend,” the clerk said, putting down the beer and leaning in close. Joel inhaled the stink of his breath, imagined the same flavor soaking into his own gums. “You know my uncle?”

Joel shook his head no.

The clerk lunged out, intimidating and angry, and Joel suddenly felt his skin jump back. “Then leave it alone. Now pay up and be on your way, yeah?”

Joel reached into his pocket, pulled out some lint and a dollar with some spare change. It wouldn't cover the amount. A halfhearted smirk sent him digging for his wallet, but it wasn't there.

“What's the holdup, friend?”

A long silence.
A lot of staring.

“Can't let you walk off with my nice uncle's merchandise, can I? What kind of nephew would I be?” He took another sip, and Joel let his mind linger there, eyeing his throat as the drink slipped down into the man's chest. It was then that he realized how dry his mouth was. “Pay up or hit the road. If you're lucky, maybe you'll find your daughter.”

Joel's ears pricked up. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said if you're lucky, maybe
you'll
make it a little farther. You know, you got that crazy look in your eye, like murder. I reckon you got some unfinished business.”

Joel settled back into his skin, rubbed his forehead. “Get a grip, Joel.
You're fine
,
you're fine
. Just tired and frustrated, that's all.” A deep breath dropped into his lungs as he continued to check his coat for cash. Empty. His hands moved to his jean pockets. Empty.

“Nothing left, huh? You lose your wallet in the fight too? Hope you at least gave the skirt a run for her money.” The clerk bellowed a sick laugh. It infuriated Joel how little respect he was getting from this pierced-up low-life.
Shut up
, he
kept wanting
to say.
Shut up!

“You want any gas or not, friend?” The clerk's voice dripped with sarcasm.

Joel just stood there, wanting to throw a punch, but knowing a bat would cut open his head if he tried. He swallowed, waiting for his wallet to miraculously appear. But it didn't. Obviously, he wasn't crazy, but he felt like he was losing it. How could he have been so stupid going to those kids? What was he thinking? He wasn't some teenager anymore.

Joel blinked, drowning in the mistake of losing something so valuable. His wallet had everything. “They must've stolen it,” he surmised.

“What's that you're saying?”

“Those little punks…they must've taken my wallet.”

From behind him came a voice. “I hate liars. I really do.”

Joel turned around and saw Kyro standing there, covered in sweat and heaving. “You? Were you following me?”

Kyro wiped a bead of sweat from his neck and flung it to the floor.

“You took my wallet. Give it back to me, you little thief!”

“I didn't take your wallet! It fell out your butt when
you
fell off the board, loser.”

“Them's fightin' words, boy,” came the clerk's voice. He seemed interested as to where this téte-a-téte would lead.

“Tell you what, Casper, say another lie and I'm gonna make you wish you never met me.”

“Is that a fact, Kyro?” the clerk said, leaning on the counter. To Joel, he said, “Is this the slugger that ripped you off?”

“You know him?” Joel said, surprised.

“Told ya, I know just about every creature in these parts.”

“You stay outta this!” Kyro said, shaping his finger like a gun. It was almost tough.

“You're still a motor-mouth, kid. But your friends aren't here to back you up this time,” Joel said, walking closer.

Kyro pulled out a blade. “Think twice, Casper.”

“My name's Joel, you little thief.”

“I know what your name is, stupid. Checked your wallet. Don't worry, I didn't take nothin'.”

“You best be putting down the blade, boy. No need for this to get nasty.” The clerk grabbed his bat and placed it gently on the countertop. It rolled back and forth along the crooked surface.

“Your last name's Phoenix, right? And you're from Connecticut?”

“And?” Joel said, standing still.

“You knew Abraham?”

“Who?”

“Don't lie to me! Don't play games. Did you know Abraham Finch?”

Joel searched his memory. “It sounds vaguely familiar. What does that have to do with me?”

“Abraham Finch died in Connecticut. The suits left him in some hospice unit to die.” Kyro's tongue slid over chapped lips. Short tears spilled down his cheek. “He died a few months ago. My aunt said the last thing he talked about was some little girl. Said her name was Phoenix. Emery Phoenix.”

Joel's heart leapt into his throat. Surprise and wonder filled his stare. For a second, he forgot how to breathe.

“Abe was my grandfather. Now I'm
gonna
ask you one more time, and don't you play me. Did you know him?”

“Not personally, no.”

Kyro cursed aloud.

“But my daughter knew him. My wife, she works at that hospital. This past summer, Emery volunteered for a few weeks. I wasn't father of the year then. I'm still not. But I remember that name, Finch. She told me about this strange, funny guy she met. I wish…” Joel's thoughts searched for direction. “I wish I listened more.”

“Emery, that's your girl?” Kyro asked. “Man, oh man.” Kyro pulled out a crumpled photograph from his shorts. “This is
her
? This is Emery?”

Joel nodded weakly.

“Those sick bastards!” Kyro began. “Abe would skin me alive if I let anything happen to her.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” the clerk said. “Man's gotta pay me first, 'fore you gents go searching for the
holy grail
.”

“Pay this chump,” Kyro said, putting away the knife and throwing Joel the wallet. The boy grabbed a Slim Jim before heading out to the car. “Put this on the tab. Then we
gotta
fly, you hear? I'm ridin' with you.” The boy spoke with an urgency Joel could not ignore.

A minute ago, he was swinging a blade, and now he spoke like they were old friends. Joel smirked; it was hard to believe any of it was actually happening.

“And I need twenty-five on pump three,” Joel said.

“Now we're talkin',
friend
,” the clerk returned with a dirty smile.