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

on my dead person with all his appendages, his mouth, and a stick. An impressive display of profanity, perversion, and vitriol from such a young thug. What a performance! I didn’t mind too much going along with his scheme, except that he was doing it in front of a crowd of at least sixty teenagers loitering outside Fiorello’s. My good name and respectability echoed off every house in the general vicinity. The violence and volume of his tantrum shocked me for real, even though he’d warned me, which only made the hysteria more believable for the bystanders. So many witnesses to my embarrassment, including Fadge and his crony, Tony Natale.

As Frank Olney prepared to slap a pair of handcuffs on the kid, Frankie flashed me a quick high sign and an impish smile. Once he’d cuffed him, the sheriff shoved Frankie into the backseat of his cruiser, deliberately bouncing his head off the doorframe as he did. Now it was Frank Olney’s turn to give me a smile.

The crowd dispersed slowly once the sheriff had driven off with Frankie. Mrs. Giannetti sidled up to me on the porch. She’d seen everything, but could manage no speech. Not one snide remark. Finally, after a few moments of awkward silence had passed, she reluctantly forfeited her chance to shame me and slipped back inside her door. Fadge approached to see if I was all right.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, joining me on the porch.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, shaking, and not from the cool air. “It was all an act.”

He stared at me for a long moment, trying to gauge the level of my upset. “You want me to close up and stick around for a while?”

I scoffed with a forced smile. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine. I just want to go to bed.”

He looked uncertain, but finally wished me good night and crossed the street to the store. I trudged up the stairs, damning myself for what I’d done with Ted Russell, author of love notes to fifteen-year-old girls. I wanted to be alone.

SUNDAY, JANUARY 8, 1961

I awoke Sunday to find one of the new fifths of whiskey I’d bought half empty. If that wasn’t enough, the original bottle—the one I’d been sure wouldn’t last the weekend—was dead in the trash can. Whiskey doesn’t give me headaches, but I still felt fuzzy-headed. And ashamed. Not so much for the liquor I’d consumed, but for the reason I’d drunk it. How could I have done such a thing? How had Ted Russell managed to fool me?

I spent hours in bed, the pillow over my eyes, sleeping off my regret. Slumber provided a temporary tonic for my self-reproach. As long as I was unconscious, I could dream of other things. I lowered the shades and closed the drapes, shrouding the bedroom in total darkness. I felt anonymous and invisible to the world outside, and I liked it. I imagined myself in a strange city, holed up for days in a nondescript hotel, selected so randomly no one would ever be able to find me. With doors bolted and curtains drawn, no one could possibly know where I was, what I was doing, or what I’d done, and that comforted me. I would still have to face myself and the truth once I finally got out of bed, but for now, I wallowed in the indulgence of escape and solitude.

The phone rang a few times throughout the afternoon, but I didn’t answer. It may have been Charlie Reese or Sheriff Olney, but it was probably Fadge, wanting to know if I was okay. I told myself I’d drop in at the store in the evening then rolled over and fell back asleep.

Around ten p.m., I showered and dressed in a black skirt and cotton blouse. I didn’t bother with lipstick, figuring I didn’t need to impress Fadge. The store was empty when I walked in a half hour later. Fadge was putting off the end-of-day sweep of the floor and was holding down a stool with his rear end and the edge of the counter with his fat elbow. We chatted for a few minutes about the sudden warm weather, then he asked about the previous night’s scene with Frankie. I really didn’t want to talk about it, but I had no excuse not to. At least until Frank Olney strolled into the store.

“Just the girl I wanted to see,” he said, taking the seat next to me at the counter. He nodded to Fadge, “Hi, Ron. How’s business?”

“I’ve got two customers, Sheriff, and neither one of them has ordered anything.”

“Do you want us to order something?” I asked. “That would mean you’d have to get up and do some work.”

He considered it a moment then waved us off. Frank jerked his head toward a booth, silently inviting me to join him for a private powwow. We settled into my usual booth at the back of the store.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. “So what’s up? You didn’t come here to buy me an ice-cream soda.”

“Tomorrow morning at nine, I’m going to the junior high to search Darleen Hicks’s locker. How’d you like to come along? It was your idea, after all.”

I sighed. “I’m not sure, Frank. It seems a waste of time,” I said, steeling myself to break the news that I’d been holding out on him. “I should tell you that I visited Irene Metzger and found some new information. Darleen had a bus ticket to Arizona. You were right all along. She just ran off to meet a fellow.”

Frank stared at me for a long time, breathing a little heavier with each moment that passed. At length, he fidgeted then began with great care: “I wish you’d told me sooner. But that doesn’t mean your story is finished. You’ve got a girl that’s run off.”

“Sure,” I said. “But this story is a dead end, Frank. I just want to forget it.”

“Something else is