The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [70]
“Do you mean the Staples?” Robert asked. “I thought he didn’t exist.”
“Yeah, well, he does. I need his real name, address, criminal record, and anything else you can dig up as soon as possible. Tonight, if you can.” I gave him a piece of paper with my phone number on it.
“All right, Mac. I’ll try. I’ll call you when I know more.”
“Thanks a lot, Robert, really.”
“No problem, Mac.”
I walked back up the hill toward my parents’ waiting car. I wished my plan felt more like a suicide squeeze than a Hail Mary. With the suicide squeeze you have the upper hand. The other side is on defense and always has to be wary of that guy on third base. The play is a thing of precision, timing, grace, beauty. It’s smooth and fast and sneaks up on the opponent like a dagger to the kidney. But my newest idea was much more like a Hail Mary: desperate, fleeting, clumsy, and chaotic. No thought, no timing, no synchronization; basically just chuck it up in the air and hope for the best. It’s more likely to lead to an interception than anything helpful. But it was all I had left.
Robert called me late that night.
“Tell me something good, Big Guy,” I said as I answered.
“I’ve got it, Mac. I’ve got it all.”
“Seriously?”
“Hey, when I owe somebody something, I like to deliver. Anyways, Staples’s real name is Barry Larsen and he lives at 1808 Academy Road South. At the Creek, just like you said. His rap sheet is a mile long. He’s been arrested for vandalism, burglary, racketeering, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, disturbing the peace; I could list them forever. He’s on probation and he’s got like two years of suspended sentences. Basically, if the cops catch wind that he’s up to something, he’s going away for a long time.”
The name Barry Larsen seemed familiar to me much in the same way that Staples himself had when I first saw him, but I still couldn’t quite figure out why. I was pretty sure I didn’t know anyone by that name. But it didn’t really matter—this was a huge discovery for me regardless of whether I recognized the name or not.
“Great work, Robert. I can’t begin to thank you enough,” I said.
“Mac, I already told you that I owed you, remember?” Robert said. “Don’t worry about it. Plus, you’re a good guy. You deserve it.”
We hung up and I celebrated just a little bit. It felt empty, though, without Vince. Also, to be fair, what I had in mind was still a long shot. And it was still incredibly dangerous. Like walking into the girls’ bathroom alone and unarmed.
Chapter 23
I got up early on Saturday. Earlier than I can remember getting up in a long time on a weekend. I had a lot to do, not unlike most weekends, but on most weekends I had a business partner to help me.
I rode my bike to Tyrell’s house. He didn’t live far from me, but I had only been to his place a few times and I almost rode right past it. His house was surrounded by several evergreen trees and a patch of bushes, and it had been painted to match the trees and bushes around it. You seriously almost had to do a double take even to see the house when riding past on a bike.
I walked up the sidewalk to where I thought there’d be a front door, but there wasn’t one. It was just solid wood siding like the rest of the front of the house. I would have laughed if I still had a reason left to laugh ever again.
I headed slowly around toward the back of the house, and that’s when a chunk of tree almost crashed down on top of me. I let out a yell and then composed myself when I realized I was still in one piece. But I have to admit I almost passed out when the chunk of tree talked to me.
“What’s up, Mac?” it said.
“Uh . . .” was all I managed to say back.
The large tree branch stood up, and I finally saw the two eyes and mouth behind all of the face paint and fake foliage. I shook my head and this time, and in spite of everything that had happened, I laughed.
“You