Here by Mistake Page 8

  A cooking show was on TV. Bored, but too lazy to get up and change the channel, Brandon put his head back on the couch and dozed. Suddenly banjo music was strumming his nerves, and his head snapped up. The Beverly Hillbillies was on again. “Aaarrrgh,” he moaned and tried to go back to sleep. The laugh track brought forth one comment from him: “Not funny.”

  “No sense of humor,” Sarah teased him.

  Brandon did not reply.

  Quint parked the Edsel on a side street off Terry Parkway in Gretna shortly before noon. He cut the engine, which went out with a backfire. Sarah jumped in her seat. “It does that sometimes,” Quint said absently. They got out and walked around the corner to the Salvation Army Thrift Store at 601 Terry Parkway. Brandon swung the door wide for his friends.

  “What’s that smell?” Sarah asked as they stepped inside.

  Quint inhaled deeply. “Musty. Prob’ly from Betsy.”

  “Betsy?”

  “The hurricane, couple months back. Flooded the city. Did y’all notice the water line ’round the outside of my buildin’? Glad I was on the second floor.”

  “Back home we get water in our basement sometimes,” Stephen said.

  “We don’t even have basements,” Quint said. “Unless we want indoor swimmin’ pools.” He stood on his toes and checked out the store. “Y’all come along.”

  He led the way to a table heaped high with old blue jeans. Brandon and Sarah looked them over and each picked out two pairs. The jeans smelled like the store, and Sarah grimaced when she held hers to her nose. Stephen pushed his way through the pile but came up empty-handed. “No Dockers,” he whispered to Brandon. Then he spotted khaki pants on the next table and selected two pairs.

  “Now, shirts,” Quint said.

  Sarah found the table. The shirts were mixed and tangled in a huge ball, and Brandon and Stephen had to pull them apart. Brandon plowed through the pile but found only one that he could stand. Stephen showed him a red-checkered shirt in his size, but it irked him for a reason he couldn’t think of. He tossed it aside and kept looking. Quint was drumming his fingers on the table.

  Stephen whispered to Brandon, “Just get the red one.” He did.

  They picked up socks and underwear at a table of clothes wrapped in plastic. Sarah squeezed her package of socks. “They’re new,” she murmured happily.

  The last display in the store was a rack of boxy navy-blue jackets. They were all the same and looked new, as if a store had donated them, knowing it couldn’t sell them.

  “It’ll be cold up north,” Quint said.

  I like it cold, Brandon thought as he approached the rack. He found a jacket marked his size and tried it on. It fit him around the middle, but the sleeves ended two inches past his elbows. He pulled it off.

  “Keep lookin’,” Quint said.

  After four tries Brandon found a jacket with sleeves the right length. He checked himself in a mirror and gasped at the enormous balloon around his middle. “I look like my head’s sticking out of a garbage bag.” He yanked it off and flung it at the rack. “No way.”

  “We’re takin’ it,” Quint said. He pointed to Stephen and Sarah and then to the rack. “Y’all pick out one, and be quick.”

  Five minutes later Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen brought their clothes to the checkout. Quint paid. They trooped out to the Edsel and dropped their bundles in the trunk.

  “Now, food,” Quint said.

  They drove to the Piggly Wiggly market on Lafayette Street. Quint grabbed a loose cart on their way inside. “We’re goin’ for prepackaged,” he said briskly. “And we’re not wastin’ time.” He rolled up and down the aisles, picking out items without stopping the cart. Spam, peanut butter, jelly, bread. Brandon brightened when four six-packs of Dr. Pepper made the cut.

  By the time they had reached the checkout, Brandon was in a silly mood. “The Walmart Supercenter back home has a barber and a McDonald’s,” he needled Quint. “Does the Piggie Wiggie have that?”

  “No,” Quint said. “No brain surgeon, either.”

  They carried the groceries out to the Edsel. When everyone was settled in the car, Quint turned the key—and nothing happened. He reached under the dashboard and slid his hand over to the fuses panel. He gave it two sharp hits with his fist and turned the key again. The engine started smoothly. “Don’t know why that works, but it does,” he said. They headed back to the city.

  “Couldn’t we leave tomorrow?” Brandon asked.

  “No, the fourteenth,” Quint said. “Tomorrow I’m dividin’ between doin’ books and packin’ at Faye’s. When I’m done we’ll have enough t’make it, if we stretch.”

  Twenty minutes later they arrived at 751 Decatur. Quint got out of the car and glanced up at his apartment—and froze. “Wait,” he told Brandon. He ran and bounded up the steps. He stopped on the balcony and gave the door a push. It swung forward, and he stepped inside. A second later Brandon, Sarah, and Stephen heard a roar of “Damn it!” from the apartment. They raced up the steps and through the door.

  Quint was standing in the middle of the living room. His face was purple. “Robbed!” he yelled. “Just look at this mess.”

  Sarah turned completely around. “What’s different?”

  Brandon noticed the TV was gone. Otherwise things looked the same to him.

  Quint rushed into the kitchen and opened the drawer next to the sink. “No!” he yelled, slamming it shut. He came back into the living room and collapsed on the couch. “The money’s gone.”

  Brandon took a seat on the couch next to him. Stephen and Sarah pulled up orange crates.

  “My fault,” Quint said. “I don’t always lock the door. I figure the place looks such a dump nobody’d bother t’rob it.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his face. “We . . . can’t make the trip. I can’t ask Faye for another advance. Even if I did it wouldn’t be enough.”

  “We’ll find work, Quint,” Brandon said. “We’ll earn it.”

  Quint shook his head. “We can’t; not in time. I need t’get back here in time t’drive Faye up there. Gettin’ her there on schedule’s got t’ happen. If we start messin’ with the things that happen in y’town, or changin’ when they happen, who the hell knows what y’all will find when y’finally get back t’2005?”

  Brandon couldn’t remember ever seeing his friend so low.

  “I’m sorry,” Quint said, scrunching his handkerchief. “I screwed this up for y’all.”

  Stephen spoke up. “We’d be in custody now if it weren’t for you, sir. The police or some agency would have us. I’m not complaining.”

  Brandon nodded.

  “Well, thanks, my man, but please don’t call me sir. It’s just not a fit—’specially now.”

  Stephen shrugged and found he was still wearing his backpack. He slipped it off and set it on the floor.

  Quint watched him. “Why do y’always walk ’round with that bag, anyhow?”

  “Just a habit.”

  Quint’s eyes rested on the backpack. His gaze gathered focus. “Wait a second. Hand me that book.”

  Stephen had his glasses off to wipe them. He squinted at Quint.

  “The book, the book,” Quint said excitedly. “Y’know, the . . . Digest.”

  Stephen took the Twentieth Century Digest out of his backpack and handed it to him. Quint frantically flipped the pages.

  “What is it?” Brandon asked.

  “I need something in sports,” Quint said, stopping at a page. “Something that happens fast, soon. Something . . .” He gasped and stood up with the book. “Something like this.” A cunning smile spread over his face as he read the entry. “What I could do with this book if I weren’t halfway honest,” he whispered.

  “What?” Brandon asked excitedly.

  Quint checked his watch. “Not yet, but he’ll be in tonight.” He sat down and drew his guests close. “We might make this happen yet, folks. Let’s get the groceries up here and eat early. I need t’see someone.”
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  “Who?” Brandon asked.

  “His name’s Gabriel. Y’all don’t know him.”

  “He’s your friend?”

  Quint gave him a sharp look, as if he’d been insulted. “No, but we’ve done some business. It’s time we did a little more.”

  Dinner was winding down, and Brandon was fuming.

  “I’m going,” he insisted.

  Quint dropped his fork on his plate and got in Brandon’s face. “D’they still teach English in school in 2005? The answer’s no. Do y’know what that means, B? No.”

  “I’ve got to help get us back.”

  “Y’all will help, but I’m seein’ Gabriel alone. And that’s it.” Quint pushed back his chair and got up. He strode into the bathroom and closed the door.

  Sarah reached over and smoothed Brandon’s hair into place. “Let it go, B.”

  “Right,” Stephen said. “He knows this Gabriel guy. He must have reasons for going by himself.”

  “I knew you’d both say that,” Brandon exclaimed, standing up. “‘Let it go, B. Listen to Quint, B.’ Both of you always say that.”

  Sarah almost came out of her chair, but she held herself.

  “Going for a walk,” Brandon said. He stamped out the door and down the steps.

  Sarah glared after him.

  “Easy.” Stephen smiled. “He’ll cool off.”

  Brandon paced around the backyard, determined to see Quint when he came down. Finally, he stopped next to the Edsel. An idea seized him. He looked up at the apartment to make sure no one was watching. Then he climbed into the backseat, got down on the floor, and pulled the blanket Quint used to cover the backseat over himself.

  A minute later the apartment door slammed. Brandon heard thumps on the steps and the swish of feet moving across grass. The driver’s door opened and Quint dropped behind the wheel. The key turned, the engine roared, and they were off.

  Light taps sounded on the roof before the Edsel was out of the service drive. The wipers squealed and Quint’s window creaked as he rolled it up. The taps grew to a roaring static, and rain poured into the car through the three open windows. The blanket grew heavy, and Brandon felt the wet cold on his hands and back. Soon he felt it on his legs, as his jeans soaked through. Half an hour passed. It felt like half a day.

  The Edsel stopped. Quint’s door creaked open over the rain. What to do? “Wait!” Brandon yelled from under the blanket.

  Silence. Brandon turned over on his back and pulled the blanket down from his face. It was now dark, but the Edsel was parked under a street lamp. By the ghostly light he saw Quint peering down at him.

  Quint pointed to the pavement. “Get out here.”

  Brandon flipped the blanket over the seat and clambered out of the car. He stood in the rain before Quint, who held an umbrella but made no move to share it.

  “I’m breakin’ my back to get y’all back home, and y’thank me by sneakin’ ’round like this!” Quint yelled. “Damn it, B, y’need t’listen. I said no for a purpose.” He jabbed Brandon’s chest with his finger as he spoke.

  At the third jab Brandon smacked his hand away. “Don’t poke me, Quint. I don’t like it. It’s you who won’t listen. I’ve got to be part of this; you can’t cut me out.”

  Quint muttered something Brandon didn’t catch, turned on his heel, and strode across the street. He stopped at the sidewalk and looked back. “Well? Y’comin’?”

  Brandon ran to him. They followed a muddy path to the door of a dilapidated house. Rain pelting the metal awning above them was making a racket like a machine gun. Quint closed his umbrella and changed places with Brandon. He banged the door four times, paused, and banged it three more times. The door opened an inch, and a beam of light hit Quint’s face. Brandon heard a grunt of “Okay” and the sound of someone tramping away within. Quint pushed the door open and they stepped inside.

  The door closed behind them, leaving them in complete darkness. Brandon hacked and gagged on an intense smell of rottenness in the air. Quint took his arm and guided him around several corners. Brandon struggled not to retch as the stench filled his nostrils and his shoes stuck to the floorboards with each step he took. He and Quint came to a doorway with light streaming out of it.

  “I’ll do the talkin’,” Quint whispered. He walked through the doorway.

  Brandon followed him. Two steps into the room he stepped on something squishy and shook it off his shoe. The something landed on a mountain of garbage—take-out cartons, half-eaten sandwiches, rotten fruit, moldy beignets—that rose from the floor to the ceiling and took up half the room. As Brandon was staring at the garbage, a cockroach zipped out of it directly in front of him. It ran straight to the opposite wall and disappeared into a crack in the baseboard.

  “Quint, been awhile.”

  The words came from a man slouched in a wing-back chair. He was dressed in frayed denim and appeared to be in his thirties, with a pasty white face and long, black hair gathered in the back. He regarded his visitors with cruel eyes and a mocking smile. Brandon recoiled at the sight of him.

  “Gabriel,” Quint said in a flat voice. “How’s business?”

  Gabriel shrugged and passed his hand over a table next to his chair. It was littered with matchbook-sized strips of paper, some bunched with rubber bands. “Not bad. As P. T. put it, there’s a sucker born every minute. Hell, you’re proof of that.” He broke into a harsh laugh and coughed deeply. After dropping a thick gob of phlegm into a wastebasket he turned his eyes on Brandon. “Picking up some change babysitting, Quint?”

  Brandon opened his mouth to answer; Quint hit his foot with the umbrella.

  “That’s right, Junior,” Gabriel sneered. “Keep still and let the grown-ups talk.”

  “Shut up, Gabriel,” Quint said. “B’s with me. Speakin’ of him, as y’can see he’s soppin’ wet. Get him some dry clothes t’change into. Clothes without bugs in ’em. I’ll return ’em when I come t’collect.”

  “Collect?”

  Quint smiled back at him. “Takin’ action on the Breedlove race on the fifteenth?”

  “Sure. How much?”

  “First get the clothes.”

  Gabriel moaned in a bored way and got up from his chair. He flipped open a beat-up steamer trunk next to the table and rummaged through it. Out came a pair of ripped-up jeans, which he threw at Brandon. “No shirts,” he mumbled. “Be back.” He tramped past Quint and disappeared into the darkness beyond the doorway.

  Brandon put the jeans to his nose and scowled. “I’ll stay wet,” he snapped, hurling them at the trunk.

  Quint went and scooped up the jeans. “B, I’ve had it with y’today. I’m not nursin’ y’through pneumonia. Put these damn jeans on or y’all can just go t’the police.” He flung them at Brandon.

  Gabriel returned with an old denim shirt and a bottle of bourbon. Brandon stood shirtless, drawing his belt tight over the folds of jeans much too big for him. Gabriel set the shirt on the table with the papers. He took two small glasses from his pocket and filled them with bourbon. He gave one to Quint and, smirking, raised the other to Brandon. “Drink?”

  Brandon said, “Yes,” and Quint said, “No,” at the same time.

  “Oh, let him, Quint,” Gabriel cackled. “It’ll put hair on his chest.”

  “No.” Quint snatched the shirt off the table and tossed it to Brandon. “Now, Gabriel, about Breedlove.”

  “Going for the land speed record. Might make it, might not. No big pay either way.”

  Quint took a ten-dollar bill from his shirt pocket and snapped it tight. “This says he’ll break the record and be clocked at 600.601 miles per hour.”

  Gabriel dropped his glass and fell into his chair, laughing. “Point six-zero-one? Hell, Quint, where’re your guts? Take it to the tenth decimal.”

  “No. If it’s .600 or .602, I lose. I say .601. What odds?”

  Gabriel stopped laughing. “What’s the deal?” he asked sharply. “Even if you knew Breedlove and worked
with him, you couldn’t pledge a speed to the thousandth.”

  “Don’t know him and don’t need to. I know what I’m doin’. What odds, sucker?”

  Gabriel looked at Brandon and back at Quint. “It’s crazy. You know you can’t win that.”

  “If that’s what y’think, shut up and bet me.”

  Gabriel leaned back in his chair. His eyes narrowed. “Ten-to-one. I don’t give better than that.”

  “Sounds like y’worried, my man. Only ten-to-one, when I’m on the hook for three decimal places?”

  “I don’t go better than that for a sure thing,” Gabriel shot back. “I don’t go better than that for something out of a history book.”

  Brandon coughed, drawing stares from both of them. He gathered the baggy shirt around him and crossed his arms. “Just cold,” he said.

  Gabriel was now angry. “Ten-to-one. That’s it.”

  Quint set his ten on the table. He knocked back his shot of bourbon and smacked the glass down on the bill. “Done. Write that down, now—600.601. See y’at six on the fifteenth. Have my hundred ready, and I’ll have B’s clothes.”

  Gabriel looked sourly at him, but he wrote out the slip.

  “Don’t get up.” Quint smiled, taking his copy. “We’ll see ourselves out.” He turned to Brandon and nodded at the door. Brandon picked up his wet clothes and followed him out.

  Quint opened his umbrella and closed it as they left the house. “Rain’s taperin’ off.”

  Brandon breathed deeply to get Gabriel’s air out of his lungs. He was glad to see the Edsel. In five minutes they were on the highway, heading back.

  Quint didn’t speak until they were halfway home. “Disappointed?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “Y’know what I mean.”

  Brandon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Well, I was wondering how you know that guy.”

  “Uh-huh. Not y’type.”

  “No.”

  Quint cleared his throat, although it didn’t sound to Brandon like he had to. “I’m a bettin’ man, B. I haven’t lately ’cause I was losin’ too much. I made bets with Gabriel.”

  Brandon looked at him. “What’d you bet on?”