Stone Cold Dead by James Ziskin (android e book reader txt) 📗

“They make us eat funny food and listen to stupid music,” he said as if no further explanation was required.

Joey Figlio warmed to me after that, as if confiding his murderous intentions had made us confederates. His JD, wise-guy veneer melted away, replaced by a sort of inflamed ardor, a sensitive yet volatile passion for everything he cared about, most of all Darleen. Like a fervid partisan or an artist who knows nothing of compromise or half measures, Joey Figlio screamed earnest zeal. But at the same time, you knew he was deeply disturbed. He leaned back in his chair and rocked slowly, staring at the floor as he chewed on the rough edge of a fingernail.

“You drive?” he asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“Not all girls know how to drive.”

“Maybe not, but I do.”

“Have you ever piloted a plane?”

“No, and I’ve never captained a ship either. Can we change the subject? I’m here to ask you about Darleen.”

He shrugged, as if resigned to being told what to do by everyone. “Okay,” he said. “Shoot.”

“How long have you known her?” I asked.

“About two years. Since seventh grade. We were in different schools before then.”

“Where did you meet?”

“I met her my first day of seventh grade and fell in love with her.”

“Isn’t that rather young?” I asked, thinking how sweet it was.

Joey didn’t answer. He just stared off into space, inscrutable, lost in some tender memory of his beloved or vengeful fantasy of murdering her killer. It could have been either one with this boy. Barely an adolescent, he was contending with painful adult emotions that he was ill-equipped to handle.

“But she wasn’t your steady back then, was she?”

He shook his head, perhaps ruing the lost months and the love they might have shared over a social studies or arithmetic book.

“Just since last May,” he said softly. “We flunked English together.”

“Mrs. Nolan’s class?” He seemed surprised that I knew. “Sophocles can be tough.”

He chuckled. “I wrote ‘Eddie Puss’ on my test, and Adelaide failed me. Old hag.”

“Poor woman,” I scolded, thinking he would have surely failed anyway. “She liked Darleen, though.”

Joey shrugged then demanded a cigarette. I asked if the students were allowed to smoke, and he nodded.

“At least until one of the guards catches us. They steal them and smoke them themselves.”

“Tell me about Darleen,” I said, offering my cigarette case; he grabbed several, stuffed all but one into his breast pocket, and slipped that one between his lips. I held out my lighter, hoping he’d give it back when he was done. He lit his cigarette, turned the lighter over in hand, examining it distractedly, then pushed it gently across the table to me.

“What was she like?” I asked, opting for the past tense.

“She was the coolest girl. We were going to run away together, take off for Florida. I was going to find a job, and we were going to get married.”

“How old are you, Joey?” I asked.

“Fifteen. Sixteen in May. I got held back in the third grade. How old are you, Ellie?”

Joey Figlio had no concept of propriety. He lacked discretion and placed no limitations on his speech. He would boldly ask you uncomfortable questions or bare his soul without invitation, no matter how personal or unwanted the information was. He was a naïf, a child—and perhaps a slow-witted one—fiercely proud of his high passions and unafraid to cut off his nose to spite his face, as my mother used to say. I couldn’t decide if he was retarded or wildly intelligent, but he had a flair for theatrics.

“I understand you write poetry,” I said. “Would you show me your poems about Darleen?”

“I asked you how old you are,” he repeated.

“Twenty-four,” I answered tentatively. “Now about your poetry. Would you show it to me?”

“No,” he said. “That’s private between me and Darleen.”

“I won’t tell anyone, promise. I love poetry. Maybe I could give you a critique.”

He just stared at me, his eyes almost dead, emotionless. He was truly odd.

“When did you last see Darleen?” I asked, changing gears.

“That’s two questions in a row,” he said.

“You can ask me one next. When did you last see Darleen?”

“The last time was about a month ago. They sent me up here on December fifth.”

I tried to look him in the eye, but he was focused on something else again.

“I heard you broke out of here the day before she disappeared. Did you see her then?”

“My turn. What kind of car do you drive?” he asked.

Okay, I knew the drill now.

“A Dodge Royal Lancer. Red and black,” I said. “Did you see Darleen during the two days you were on the lam?”

“Yeah, I saw her. I was lying to you. I hitchhiked to New Holland then took a bus over to the South Side and walked five miles to Darleen’s place. Hid out in her stepfather’s barn for two nights before that old crank caught me. But Darleen brought me some beef and macaroni before that. It sure was good, but not enough. They don’t give us beef here. How did you manage to get such a nice car? Is your dad rich or something?”

That took me by surprise. Just the mention of my father could still knock the wind out of me. I tried to bury it. “Company car,” I croaked. “Did you see her the day she disappeared?”

“Where do you live?”

“I’m not telling you that. You seem to be quite good at slipping your jailers here, and I don’t have any beef and macaroni to offer you. Besides, it’s my turn to ask the question. Did you see her the day she disappeared?”

He thought a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I saw her. She came to the barn and gave me some bread and butter and milk, then she said she had to go. She said she’d bring me some gum or something from Canajoharie. Of course, she never came back. Then her father caught me about eight o’clock that night and called the cops. They brought me back here. You