Blvd. of Blood
Book 2, chapters 4–6
Continued from here. Table of contents for ease of navigation here.
(The story so far: In the village of Cottinend, NY, someone has been tweeting threats about a terrible massacre coming in three months. Bernie Feldstein is in on the massacre, and is excited because he wants revenge on his longtime nemesis, Alan Jancewicz. Patrolman John Oberman, concerned about the tweets, has decided to call the Sp!der…)
4.
Oberman didn’t want to call the Sp!der, or course. No one wanted to call the Sp!der. Sp!der was a long talker, and all the time he had spent in his mother’s basement, years and years now, with no one to talk to, had not curbed his garrulous tongue.
Sp!der’s life was a series of texts and emails and forum posts, and, with the exception of his irritating mother, he usually never got to talk to anyone at all. Many of his so-called friends communicated entirely with gifs of celebrity reaction shots, and they expected Sp!der to do the same. So if Sp!der was going to get on the phone for once, of course he was going to milk this chance: Oberman knew this; Sp!der knew that Overman knew this; which meant if Oberman was going to call him—especially in the wee hours of John Oberman’s morning, for there was two hours’ difference between Denver and Cottinend—he must have a good reason. Doubtless, Oberman wanted all this—no texts, no emails or he would have texted, he would have emailed—off the record. Doubtless, he was committing some crime.
“I will help you commit your crime,” Sp!der said, in between breathless hot takes on several recent TV shows. Of course Sp!der was awake at this hour. The Sp!der never slept, at least not while his mother was sleeping.
“I’m not committing a crime,” Oberman said. “I’m just looking for advice. Computer advice.”
Sp!der had known Oberman back in high school, at a time when Oberman had not had very many friends. He’d helped Oberman with his math homework. That was back before junior year, when Sp!der’s mother had left a messy family situation and taken young Sp!der, then known as Michael, to Colorado with her. They’d kept moderately in touch, John and Michael, as classmates will.
“You’ve come to the right place,” said Sp!der. “In fact—”
“It’s just Twitter. I’m trying to find who a guy is on Twitter.”
“For a case?”
“Yeah, for a case.”
“You’re a detective now?”
“Look, I’m allowed to do research on cases. Probably. It’s ambiguous some times. And the detectives think Twitter is some kind of video game. That’s why I’m calling.”
“And you don’t even ask how I am,” Sp!der sulked. But he was beaming. This was the most fun he’d had in weeks, and if he could make Oberman feel guilty about it, even better.
“Well, I—”
“You,” said Sp!der, putting his feet up on a desk littered with empty Mountain Dew bottles, “must tell me everything; but first I will tell you everything.”
5.
Alan Jancewicz was part of a program with the official initials SPS. It was pronounced Sips, although Miss Gerri said it should really be pronounced Spes, because spes was another word for hope. Alan always called it SPS, all three initials, because he thought Sips sounded babyish and he had never heard anyone use the word spes to mean hope. He didn’t believe spes was a real word.
His mother had signed him up. All the SPS participants went out to eat together on weekend afternoons, and once a month or so there’d be events—a circus, once, but mostly small events. A park, a dance recital.
This month they went to a marionette show. It was the story of Hansel and Gretel, a story Alan knew well; at least he had known it in his childhood. That was a long time ago! Alan had a hard time keeping his eyes on the stage, because he was fascinated by the way the marionettes hung, from wooden pegs, when they were not in use. He had once seen a cartoon of a man in a dungeon, hanging from manacles. The marionettes looked like that. Were they supposed to be alive or dead?
“Alan!” hissed Miss Gerri from behind him. “Pay attention!”
But he knew that he was in the middle of the row of seats. He knew Miss Gerri would not pull him out across everyone else to go yell at him in the lobby. The puppet show was dumb, anyway. Another moment of condescension in a life of condescension. The gingerbread house was for babies.
Alan was used to being treated like a baby. His mother would tell anyone who listened that he was prone to temper tantrums. When his father got angry it was just anger, or maybe rage; only Alan had “tantrums.” He still had to sleep with his door open. If he spent more then five minutes in the bathroom, his mother was banging on the door. If he rearranged the furniture in his room, his grumbling father pushed it back. He was not allowed to go on the internet unsupervised, even though the internet was full of cars. And other things.
There had been one incident on eBay with frogs, but that was seven years ago now. No need to hold it against him forever.
The only secrecies allowed in his life were the patterns of cars he saw out his window, or as he went for his daily drive. It was a secret because neither of his parents, nor even the neighbors that walked by smiling and waving, could understand these patterns. They could barely even recognize the relevant cars. Buses and trucks. Two door vs. four door. But Alan could see them all: Those optional tinted windows on the 2015 Nissan Altima. The slightly off-blink left turn signal of the 2008 Chevy Impala. One passed and then another passed, in a dance that was at once fairly predictable but continually surprising.
And this here one was only one extra secret among a thousand, a million: His old classmate, grinning in an ancient Zephyr. It meant nothing more or less than the van art on the vans, but some oddity made him think of it at off times. There was something about that grin.
Gretel was pushing the witch into the oven, but everyone could see that. Ignoring the clucking tongue of Miss Gerri, he stared at the tangled strings of the dangling woodcutter. The strings were not in fact tangled.
6.
Bernie got caught smoking in the delivery van. Mr. Prishtine took him out to Pizza King’s parking lot to yell at him, and since the parking lot was in front, every passing car got to see this small humiliation. If only Mr. Prishtine drove to work on Blande Boulevard! But Bernie had no idea where he lived.
Maybe he could find out. Maybe after he had already learned the ropes, Mr. Prishtine could be next on his list.
He had it out for Bernie, the old creep did, and really it was because Mr. Prishtine usually hired nothing but cute girls. His waitstaff all had giant boobs. Mr. Prishtine only put up with Bernie because Bernie did deliveries and was always out, where Mr. Prishtine didn’t have to look at him.
Bernie went out for another delivery, cigarette behind his ear. He wanted to smoke again and blame the smell on the previous incident, but he didn’t quite dare. What if he got fired and Mr. Theodore Anderson found out and the whole destiny plan got canceled? At a stoplight he pulled out his phone. Twitter app.
He typed: “pizza king sexist hat crime aganist ladie’s mr…” but then he stopped because he had no idea how to spell “Prishtine.” Then he worried if he posted it he’d get fired. Cars were honking. He drove with one hand and deleted the text with the other and wrote instead, “soon i will hav my regevne 1 by 1 u die” and didn’t it mean the same thing?
It meant: Soon.
(Continued next week)
