Stoner opened his door and fell to the ground. There was nowhere to go. He crawled underneath the Grand Marquis.
“Oh no,” a voice said, chiding, “no-no.”
Stoner felt hands close around his ankles.
“Cover this bitch!”
Stoner was dragged backward. His shirt bunched up under his armpits. He got a hand up to grab at the underside of the car, but whatever he managed to close his palm around immediately burned him, and he let go. He was in the open. They dropped his ankles. He tried to turn onto his back. Someone planted a boot between his shoulder blades.
“Got a wallet,” one of them called from the other side of the car. “Got ID.”
Someone patted Stoner down, put fingers in his back pocket. His wallet came out.
“Got his too.” The boot lifted off his back. “ID, got it.”
“Where’s the bag?”
They kicked him in the ribs. It took his breath away.
“It at his house, your house?”
“Mine,” Stoner managed to say.
Was there any chance they might not shoot if they thought he really was a cop? What had he said to Mitchell?
“I’m from Downriver,” he said, but this time it sounded like a plea.
“Fucking cracker,” the man said, and shot Stoner in the back of the head.
Our eyes couldn’t stop opening
by Megan Abbott
Alter Road
She always wanted to go and there was no stopping her once she got it in her head. Her voice was like a pressure in the car, Joni’s mother’s Buick, its spongy burgundy seats and the smell forever of L’Air du Temps.
Joni was game for it and I guess we all were, we liked Keri, you see, we admired her soft and dangerous ways. So lovely with her slippery brown hair lashed with bright highlights (all summer spent at the Woods Pool squeezing lemons into her scalp), so lovely with her darted skirts, ironed jeans, slick Goody barrettes. She was Harper Woods but, you see, she transcended that, so we let her slide, we let her hang with us, even let her lead us sometimes, times like this. Her mother put every dime of her Hutzel Hospital nurse’s salary into her daughter’s clothes, kept Keri looking Grosse Pointe and Keri could pass, pass well enough to snare with her pearl-pink nails, fingers spread, a prime tow-headed, lacrosse-playing Grosse Pointe South boy, Kirk Deegan, hair as blond as an Easter chick and crisp shirts with thin sherbet-colored stripes and slick loafers, ankles bare with the fuzz of downy boy hair. Oh my, did she hit the jackpot with him. Play her cards right, she could ride him anywhere she wanted to go.
None of us, not even anyone we knew, was supposed to cross Alter Road, even get near Alter Road, it was like dropping off the face of the earth. Worse even than that. The things that happened when you slipped across that burning strip of asphalt, the girl a few years older than us — someone’s cousin, you didn’t know her — who crossed over, ended up all the way over on Connor, they found her three days later in a field, gangbanged into a coma at some crack house and dumped for dead, no, no, it was three weeks later and someone saw her taking the pipe and turning tricks in Cass Corridor. No, no, it was worse, far worse … and then it’d go to whispers, awful whispering, what could be worse, you wondered, and you could always wonder something even worse.
But there Keri would be, nestled in the backseat, glossy lips shining in the dark car, fists on the back of the passenger seat, saying, Let’s go, let’s go. C’mon. What’s here, there’s nothing here. Let’s go.
How many nights, after all, could be spent sloshing long spoons in our peanut butter cup sundaes at Friendly’s, watching boys play hockey at Community Ice, huddling down in seats at Woods Theater, popcorn sticky on our fingers, lips, driving around trying to find parties, any parties, where new boys would be, boys we’d never met, but our boys, they all wore their letter jackets and all had the same slant in their hair, straight across the forehead, sharp as ice, and the same conversation and the same five words before your mouth around beer can begging for the chance to not talk, to let the full-mouthed rush of music flood out all the talk and let the beer do its work so this boy in front of you might seem everything he wasn’t and more — how many nights of that, I ask you?
So when Keri said, Let’s go, maybe we let ourselves unsnide our tones, let our tilted-neck looks loosen a bit, unroll our eyes, curl into her quiet urging and go, go, go.
When he was around, Joni’s brother, he’d buy us beer, wine coolers, and she’d hide them in the hedgerow underneath her bedroom window until we needed them. But he was at Hillsdale most of the time, trying to get credits enough to graduate and start working at Prudential for his dad. So there was Bronco’s, right off the Outer Drive exit, and you could buy anything you wanted there, long as you were willing to drop twelve dollars for a four-pack of big-mouth Mickey’s, or a tall 40 of Old Style, the tang of it lingering in your mouth all night.
Bronco’s, it was a kick, the street so empty and the fluorescent burst of its sign rising like a beacon, a shooting star as you came up the long slope on I-94. Sometimes it made your heart beat, stomach wiggle, vibrate, flip, like when the manager — a big-bellied white guy with a greasy lower lip — made Keri go in the back with him, behind the twitchy curtain. But he only wanted to turn her around, only wanted to run his fingers studded with fat gold over her chest and backside, and what did any of us care? It was worth the extra bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill he’d dropped in our paper bag. Hell, you always pay a price, don’t you? Like Keri said, from the dark of the backseat, how different was it from letting the Blue Devils football starters under your bra so you’d get into the seniors’ party on Lakeshore where the parents had laid out for six cases of champagne before heading to Aruba for the weekend? How different from that? Very different, we said, but we knew it wasn’t.
And it wasn’t only Bronco’s. Bronco’s was just how it started. Next, it was leaving a party on Windmill Pointe, hotted up on beer and cigarettes and feeling our legs bristling tight in our jeans and Keri saying, Let’s go that way, yes, that way, and before we knew it, we’d tripped the fence.
Goddamn, Alter Road a memory.
We pitched over the shortest curl of a bridge, over a sludgy canal not twelve feet across, and there we were. But it wasn’t like over by Bronco’s. It was just as deserted, but it didn’t look like a scarred patch of city at all. The smell of the water and trailers backed up onto the canal, abandoned trailers, one after another, rutted through with shimmering rust, quivering under streetlamps, narrow roads filled with rotting boats teetering on wheels, mobile homes with windows broken out, streets so narrow it was like being on the track of a funhouse ride and then, suddenly, all the tightness giving way to big, empty expanses of forlorn, overgrown fields, like some kind of prairie. Never saw anything like it, who of us had? And our breath going fast in the car because we’d found something we’d never seen before. And it was like our eyes couldn’t stop opening.
We’d let the gas pedal surge, vibrate, take us past sixty, seventy on the side streets, take the corners hard, let the tires skid, what did we care? There was no one here. There was no one on the streets. All you could see was shivering piles of trash, one-eyed cats darting. What did it matter? There was no one left. I tell you, it was ours.
But Keri, she kept finding new streets and her voice, soft and lulling, the Grosse Pointe drawl, bored-sounding even when excited, hot under the eyes, all that. She’d say — and who were we to decline? — she’d say, Turn left, turn left, Joni, there, Joni, there, and we’d find ourselves further in, further in, down the river, the slick brew of the canals long past now, and trembling houses cooing to us as the wind gasped through their swelling crevices, their glassless windows, their dark glory. That’s the thing Keri showed us. She showed us that.