Matchstick Men: A Novel About Grifters With Issues (27 page)

A bang on the door. His fist pounding the wood in rapid succession.
“Frankie,” he calls, trying to will his voice through the wood. “Frankie, it’s me. Open up in there.” Roy looks down at the carpet, at the swirling pattern. Wonders if he can see a smudge down there. If it’s stained at all.

Another knock, another bang, Roy’s knuckles rapping hard. “C’mon, Frankie,” Roy yells, letting his voice carry. “Open the goddamned door if you’re in there.”

A tap on Roy’s shoulder. Images flash through his mind—Frankie, Angela, sure, but mostly it’s the police, on stakeout. Finding him here. Lucking out. Ready to take him away. It’s over.

Shoulders slumped, Roy turns. Expecting to see a boy in blue. Instead, there’s a little old man, four foot ten if he’s an inch. Blue leisure suit, belt too wide. Toupee that doesn’t quite match the remaining natural hair. “You looking for the guy who used to live there?”

“Yeah,” says Roy. “Yeah, I …” Wait a second. “Used to?”

“Moved out yesterday. Made a mess of the whole place. Dragging boxes through the carpet … I’ve got a mind to call him up in front of the homeowner’s board.”

Roy shakes his head. “Wait, wait—he moved out?”

“With that daughter of his. Pretty girl. Foul mouth.”

The daughter. Angela. Frankie must have sprung Angela from jail and gone into hiding. Good. This is good. “About fourteen,” Roy says, “longish hair?”

The man shrugs. “I don’t cotton much to the young girls anymore, but that sounds right.”

Roy is already halfway down the hall. Gaining speed, heading for the elevator. He’s got to find them, and he knows who will
know where they are. “Thanks,” he calls back to the old guy. “Thanks a lot.”

He’s not appeased. “You tell your friend he’s got a lot of explaining to do. You tell him he’ll have to explain himself when this is all over!”

The drive over to Dr. Klein’s office is a slow one. A traffic jam has snarled the city streets, and the cabbie won’t stop talking about his dream of owning an Orange Julius franchise. Roy sits in back. Thinking. Trying not to. Staring out the window, and trying to keep his mind blank.

By the time they get to Klein’s, it’s nearing five o’clock, and Roy is praying that the doctor is still in. Once again, he tells the cabbie to wait, promises an extra twenty. He’s running out of cash, but there’s still a bunch of bills left in the horse at home. If he can get back to his house after this, he can pay what he owes. If not, he’ll borrow or blow the guy off. Either way works.

Roy waits by the elevator for two minutes before realizing it’s out. Broken. He even sees the sign next to the call button. Hits the nearest stairwell and starts running. Four flights up, and by the third he’s panting hard. Has to take the last one at a slow walk, pushing his body up each step.

Klein’s office is at the end of the hall. Roy starts to pick up speed, staring at his watch. He’s just in time. Klein won’t be leaving for another fifteen minutes, at least. He’ll get this figured out soon enough.

Roy grabs the door handle and pushes, his body colliding with the door a moment later. Odd. He turns the handle hard,
pushes again, but the door refuses to open. Is it stuck? Throws his shoulder into it. No use.

Locked, then? Are they gone for the day? Roy pounds on the door, calls out to whoever might be inside, but there’s no answer. This doesn’t make sense.

He backs up a step, trying to figure this out. The door looks different. It’s the right office, but the door is … changed, somehow. Same as it was before, Roy thinks, but … bigger. Taller.

Roy figures it out. It’s not taller at all. There’s just no nameplate on the outside. No gold square with Dr. Klein’s name emblazoned on it. No gold there at all.

Instead, there’s just a single sheet of paper, taped to the door. White all around, with bright red lettering. He’s surprised he didn’t see it before. Didn’t want to see it before. Doesn’t want to see it now.

Office for Lease
, it reads.
See Building Manager
.

The street is quiet, nearly empty. A kid on a ten-speed rides by and shoots Roy a nasty look. He doesn’t even notice. He stands in the middle of the road, staring at the piece of paper in his hands. The letters and numbers blur in and out. Roy has had a lot to drink. On the piece of paper is an address, an address that matches the house in front of him. A smallish, yellow ranch home. Bars on the windows. But the lawn is kept up, the roof is solid.

Roy doesn’t want to ring the bell, but he has no choice. If he wants to find her, he has no choice. He knows what’s going to happen if he rings that bell. Once the door is answered. He
doesn’t want to recognize that fact. Not just yet. So he waits a little longer.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s still standing in the middle of the road, still staring down at that paper. Staring at the house. The door opens.

A woman walks out, dressed in a simple T-shirt and cotton pants. She’s thin, almost too thin, and her hair is up in a tight ponytail. It’s been nearly fifteen years since Roy has seen her, but he recognizes her right away. Thinks for a moment about running off, but stands his ground.

“You want something?” she calls out. Coming closer, but keeping a path open back to her house. In case the guy should jump. In case he’s a freak. “Or are you gonna stare at my house all day?”

“Hello,” says Roy. His voice is scratchy. Doesn’t sound like himself. He doesn’t think it will make a difference.

“Hello,” she says back.

“Hello, Heather.”

He knows her name. Heather takes another step closer, and recognition begins to seep in. “Roy? Jesus … Roy?”

He nods. Stares down at the paper again. “I got your address. You were in the phone book.” She’s right across from him now. Standing on the sidewalk. He’s still out in the street. “The whole time, you were in the phone book.”

“Sure,” she says. “Why not?”

He nods. “Why not.”

They stand there. Heather is about to invite him inside when he speaks again.

“Have you seen her today?”

“Who?”

“Angela.”

“Did I see … Roy, are you okay?”

“Something … bad happened. With Angela.”

She shakes her head and takes another step toward him. As if she’s going to take his arm. Lead him inside. “You want some coffee? I can make coffee.”

“Angela,” Roy repeats. “I think something happened to her, and I thought—I figured maybe she came here before … going off.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“Angela!” Roy spits, stumbling backward, shaking off Heather’s hand. “Our daughter. I’m talking about our daughter.” Why can’t she get this?

There’s a long pause. Roy is hoping that his ex-wife is gathering her wits. Preparing to talk rationally. “I don’t know what you’re on right now. And I don’t know why you’re doing this. If you want to come inside—”

“Heather, please,” Roy pleads. Near tears. First time in his life, and he’s near tears. “Don’t do this. We need to talk about our daughter—”

“We don’t have a daughter!” she yelps. The words loud in Roy’s ear. Piercing.

“ ’Course we do—Angela. She’s been coming to my place every few weeks, hanging out—”

“We don’t have a kid, Roy.” Heather’s growing angrier with every passing moment. Working up a head of steam. “You and me, we don’t have a daughter. Never did.”

Roy shakes his head. The street spins, that nice yellow house suddenly tilting on its axis. “You left, you were pregnant—”

“Stop—”

“—you had her without me. She’s our
daughter
—our Angela—”

“Stop it, Roy—”

“—she’s our little girl, and—”

“I had the abortion, okay, Roy? Is that why you show up here after fifteen years, to find out what happened? I had the goddamned abortion!”

Silence from Roy’s end. He stares blankly across the street. At the little yellow house. At the green lawn. At the solid roof.

“We never had a daughter,” Heather continues, her voice lower now, softer, as she heads back toward the house. “And we never will. Good-bye, Roy.” She pauses for a moment, then adds, “Don’t come by again.”

She steps into the house. Roy stands in the middle of the street. Looks at the numbers on his sheet of paper. They match the house in front of him. This is Heather’s house. This is where Angela is supposed to be.

An hour later, in his den. Back resting against the edge of what was once Angela’s bed. Phone in one hand, bottle of rum in the other. Cuts all along his feet, his legs. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t feel the pain. He stares out across the den. At the remains of the ceramic horse, smashed into a million pieces. Everything inside is gone. Staring at nothing. At the blank wall. Staring at the blank wall. This is where he wants to stay. This is how he wants to stay. How it should end. This is how it must have been planned from the start, from the first leg of the game. So easy to piece together. So hard to think about it.

He makes the final phone call, knowing what will happen. Knowing what the outcome is before he hears it. He’s played the game enough to know what’s gone on. He’s been a master trickster, and as a master trickster, he knows when he’s been tricked. But it’s too late. He knows it too late.

They answer at the Grand Cayman National Bank, and when they do, Roy gives them his account number. He gives them his password. He waits while they access his account. Waits while they give him the balance. Waits while they tell him there’s nothing left. Waits while they ask him if there’s anything else they can do for him today. Waits as they ask again, as they call out to him. As they ask him if everything is all right. If he’s still on the line. From far away, calling out to him, in the distance. Like he’s on a ship, sailing off, and the rest of the world is left at port. Drifting off, a solo cruise, nothing else surrounding him. On his way to nowhere, everything and everyone left behind. Just a raft and blue waters and endless ocean as it all fades over the horizon.

R
oy walks into the diner and takes a seat at the counter. He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s come here. Days, maybe. Weeks. The counter is filthy, grime coating the edges. He finds a seat that’s less dirty than the others. Sits down. Tries to make himself comfortable. There’s not much room up there, on that stool. Not much room to get situated.