Small Steps - Louis Sachar [62]
He waited a moment to see if his little joke might bring her out, but when it didn’t, he headed to the door.
Kaira’s eyes were closed, but her hand felt around under the night table. Her fingers wrapped around an electrical cord. Using every last bit of strength she had left, she pulled the cord.
The lamp came down with a crash.
Armpit stopped. “You all right?”
There was no answer.
“You okay, Kaira?”
He walked quickly into the dining area, and then on into the bedroom. “Kaira?”
He saw Kaira’s stepfather just in time to raise one arm. The bat smashed against it, breaking the bone, and he collapsed to his knees.
El Genius swung again, but Armpit spun away, then pulled himself up with the help of a bedpost.
He saw Fred on the floor, and lots of blood. He didn’t see Kaira.
He took several deep breaths as he backed up against the TV cabinet and readied himself for the next attack. His right arm was broken, but he was left-handed.
Kaira’s stepfather stepped over Fred as he came at Armpit again, but just as he swung, Fred grabbed an ankle, and the bat smashed into the television set, which exploded in a green flash.
Armpit’s left fist was still gaining momentum as it connected just below El Genius’s nose, flooring him.
Armpit was all over him, hitting him first with his fist, and then with his elbow on the backswing, again and again, until Jerome Paisley lay motionless.
Kaira’s hairdresser, Rosemary, walked into the bedroom and screamed.
34
Amid the chaos of police, doctors, ambulance workers, TV news crew, Kaira’s hysterical mother, and other people from the tour all trying to figure out what was happening, Armpit managed to retrieve Kaira’s letter from the bar and toss it into the fireplace.
The last he saw of Kaira and Fred, they were being taken out on stretchers. Kaira was unconscious. She had passed out right after pulling over the lamp.
Too dizzy to walk, Kaira’s stepfather had to be held up by a couple of police officers as he was led out in handcuffs.
Fred was able to speak just enough to confirm Armpit’s innocence, although that really wasn’t much of an issue. Armpit would have thought that with him caught in the act of beating up Kaira’s stepfather, everyone would have assumed he was the attacker, but nobody doubted his story. Maybe it was his demeanor, or the latex gloves on Jerome Paisley’s hands, or the fact that he was the one who had shouted at Rosemary to call the police.
The next twelve hours were a whirling blur of confusion. There was nobody in charge. It was actually Duncan, the bass player, who finally called the Berkeley Auditorium and informed them that there’d be no concert. That wasn’t until after eight o’clock.
Twenty thousand people were stamping their feet and shouting, “We want Kaira!” when a man came out and mistakenly announced that Kaira DeLeon had just been murdered. Some people cried, while others were desperately looking for their ticket stubs.
Armpit was questioned four times by the police: first in Kaira’s suite, then on the way to the emergency room, where his broken arm was set, then twice more at the police station. He signed a ten-page statement.
He didn’t return to the hotel until well after midnight. In the morning he tried to find out if anyone knew anything about Kaira, but nobody did.
The people associated with the tour didn’t know what they were supposed to do or where they were supposed to go. Nobody knew who would pay the enormous hotel bill. Aileen, the woman who normally would have been in charge, couldn’t be found. She had flown ahead to Portland but never checked into the hotel.
Nancy Young suggested, only somewhat tongue-in-cheek, that Armpit might want to leave now, before he got stuck with the bill. He took a cab to the airport, where he was able to exchange his ticket for the next flight, but there were no first-class seats available. Not that he cared. He slept the whole way home, much to the dismay of the passenger sitting next to him, who kept having to nudge him awake.