And I make a tidy living to boot.
I'm now sitting at--yes--my computer, smarting from the loss of my White Castle. At the kitchen table. I type some more. Read the
results of my search. Type another request. Zip, zip, I get more answers. I like the sound the keys make. Satisfying. I've tried to describe it. Not a typewriter, not a light switch. Closest I can come is the sound of fat raindrops on a taut camping tent. Peter and I went camping a half-dozen times when we were kids, twice with our parents (not as much fun then; father listened to a game, mother smoked and turned magazine pages). Peter and I had fun, though, especially in the rain: I didn't have to be embarrassed going swimming. The girls, you know. And the boys in good shape.
Tap, tap, tap.
Funny how time seems to work to your advantage. I heard some people say, oh, wish I'd been born in this time or that time. Romans, Queen Victoria, the '30s, the '60s. But I'm lucky for the here and now. Microsoft, Apple, HTML, Wi-Fi, all the rest of it. I can sit in my room and put bread on my table and a woman in bed occasionally and a bone-cracking hammer in my hand. I can outfit the Toy Room with everything I need for my satisfaction.
Thank you, computers. Love your raindrop keyboards.
More typing.
So. Computers saved my life by giving me a business of my own, safe from the Shoppers out there.
And they'll save my life now.
Because I'm learning all I can about Red, Amelia Sachs, detective third-grade with the New York City Police Department.
I almost solved the problem of her earlier. Almost cracked her skull to splinters. I was following her near the White Castle, hand in my backpack, on the lovely hammer handle, smooth as a girl's ankle. Moving close. When some other man showed up, who knew her. A cop, I had a feeling, one who worked for her, it seemed. Little white boy, skinny as me, okay, not quite, and shorter but he looked like trouble. He would have a gun and radio, of course.
I settled for getting Red's license plate from that sexy car of hers.
All the helpful information I'm learning about her is pretty neat. Daughter of a cop, partner of a cop--well, former cop. Lincoln Rhyme, a famous guy. Disabled, which is what they call it, I've learned. In a wheelchair. So we have something in common. I'm not disabled exactly. But people look at me the way they look at him, I imagine.
Typing and typing hard. My fingers are long and big, my hands are strong. I break keyboards once every six months or more. And that's not even when I'm angry.
Type, read, jot notes.
More and more about Red. Cases she's closed. Shooting competitions she's won (I'm keeping that in mind, believe me).
Now I am growing angry... Yes, you can buy White Castle burgers at grocery stores. I will do that. But it's not the same as going into the place, the tile, the smell of grease and onions. I remember going to one near where we grew up. A cousin, Lindy, was visiting from Seattle. Middle schooler, like me. I'd never been out with girl before and I pretended she wasn't a relative and I imagined kissing her and her kissing me. Went to lunch at White Castle. Gave her a present, for her shiny blond hair, to keep it dry: a clear plastic rain scarf, all folded up tight like a road map in a little pouch, deep blue and embroidered in a Chinese design. Lindy laughed. Kissed my cheek.
A good day.
That was White Castle to me. And Red has taken it away.
Mad, mad...
I come to a decision. But then: It's not a decision if you don't decide. I have no choice in the matter. As if on cue, the door buzzer blares. I jump at the sound. Save the file on the computer, slip the hard copies away. I click the intercom.
"Vernon, it's me?" Alicia says/asks.
"Come on up."
"You're sure it's okay?"
My heart is slamming, at the prospect of what's coming. For some reason I glance back at the Toy Room door. I say into the intercom box, "Yes."
Two minutes, here she is, outside the door. I check the camera. She's alone (not brought here at gunpoint by Red, which I actually imagine happening). I let her in and close and lock the door. I think involuntarily of a stone closing onto a crypt.
No turning back.
"Are you hungry?" I ask.
"Not really."
I was, not any longer. Considering what's about to happen.