Ignoring the little-brother challenge, I grab my middle paper.
“No, you’re absolutely right,” he continues. “The top one’s got cooties.” As the newspaper machine slams shut, he shakes his head.
“Let’s go,” I call out, rushing back down Sixth Street. As we walk, I open the paper and flip through the front section.
“Are we in there?” Charlie asks.
I keep flipping, scouring for any mention of yesterday’s events. No money; no embezzlement; no murder. To be honest, I’m not surprised. Lapidus is keeping this on lockdown from the press. Still, some things run every day. I stop on the side street and fold the paper back. Right at Obituaries.
“Lemme see,” Charlie says, stepping next to me.
Standing under a dried-out palm tree, I hold the left half of the page; Charlie holds the right. We both find it alphabetically. On most days, I read and he skims. Today it’s reverse. “Graves – Shepard… 37… of Brooklyn… Vice President of Security… Greene & Greene… survived by wife, Sherry… mother, Bonnie… sister, Claire… memorial service to be announced…”
“I didn’t know he was married,” Charlie says, already lost in Shep’s life. But the more he reads on… “Those revisionist bastards,” he blurts. “It doesn’t even say he was in the Service.”
“Charlie…”
“Don’t Charlie me! You didn’t know him, Ollie – that was his life!”
“I’m not saying it wasn’t – I’m just asking you to pay attention for once! This isn’t about his résumé… it’s about what’s missing from the picture.” Catching myself, I turn it down to a whisper. “Three hundred million gets lifted, and it doesn’t even make the gossip columns? A former Secret Service agent is shot in the chest and no one reports a word!? Don’t you see what they’re doing? For these guys, a fake obit is the easy part. Whatever they say, people believe it. And whatever really happened… it’s all being erased. That’s what they’re gonna do with us, Charlie. They shake the Etch-A-Sketch and the whole picture disappears. Then they write in whatever they want. Suspects found with millions – investigation points to murder. That’s the new reality, Charlie. And by the time they’re done scribbling, there’ll be no way for us to change it.”
I stare Charlie down and let it burrow into his brain. At the exact same moment, we both head toward Tenth Street. Duckworth’s only a few blocks away.
With three hundred million in his account and retirement on his mind, Marty Duckworth could’ve picked anything. I predicted Art Deco townhouse; Charlie said Mediterranean bungalow. We couldn’t be more wrong if it were a contest.
“I don’t believe it,” Charlie says, staring across the street at the one-story 1960s rambler. Beaten by weather and covered in peeling light pink paint, the building is clearly past its prime.
“It’s definitely the right address,” I confirm as I check it for the third and fourth time.
Charlie nods, but stays silent. After everything it took to get here – just the sight of it… this is finally it.
“Maybe we should come back later,” he suggests.
“Come back later? Charlie, this is the guy with all the answers. Now c’mon, all we have to do is ring the doorbell…” I step off the curb and cross the street. When Charlie doesn’t follow, I stop mid-step and look back over my shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” he says. But he still refuses to cross the street.
“You sure?”
This time, he takes slightly longer to answer. Charlie doesn’t like fear on me – and he hates it on himself. “I’m fine,” he insists. “Just ring the bell.”
Weaving past the overgrown shrubbery and around the classic blue Beetle that’s parked out front, I race up the front walk, open the humidity-rusted screen door, and jam an anxious finger at the doorbell.
No answer.
I ring it again, leaning against the open screen door and trying to look relaxed.
Still no answer.
Hiking myself up on my tiptoes, I crane my neck, struggling to peek through the diamond-shaped windowpane that’s set into the door.
“What’s in there?” Charlie asks.
I press my nose against the pollen on the glass, trying to get a better view… and then from inside… locks clunk open. The doorknob turns. I jump back. It’s already too late.
“Can I help you?” a young woman asks, opening the door. She’s got black ringlet hair, thin lips, and a tiny, pointed nose. My eyes go straight to her beat-up jeans and spaghetti-strap white tank top.
“I-I’m sorry,” I begin. “I wasn’t trying to… we were just looking for a friend…”
“We’re trying to find Marty Duckworth,” Charlie blurts.
I thank him for the save as the woman’s body language shifts – her brow unfurrows; her shoulders sag. “You’re friends of his?”
“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “Why?”
She pauses a moment, choosing the words carefully. “Marty Duckworth died six months ago.”
The statement floats in the air, and I stare up at it, mesmerized. It’s almost like I’m waiting for Duckworth himself to jump out and scream, “April Fool’s – I’m right here!” Needless to say, it never happens. I look around, but nothing’s in focus. I-It can’t be. Not after all this…
“So he’s really dead?” Charlie asks, already starting to panic.
“I’m sorry,” she offers, reading his expression. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You couldn’t have-”
“Did you know him?” I interrupt.
“Excuse me?”
“Duckworth – did you know him?”
“No,” she stammers. “But-”
“Then how do you know he’s dead?”
“I-I just remember his name from the deed,” she adds. “It was an estate sale.”
“What about a forwarding address? Is there somewhere we can contact him?”
Unsure of what to say, the woman shakes her head, clearly overwhelmed. I don’t care – we didn’t come this far to not get answers. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “There’s no forwarding address… he’s dead.”
The words don’t make sense. “It’s impossible,” I tell her as my voice cracks. “What abou-”
“He’s just upset,” Charlie says. He leans in and pinches the skin on my back. “We should get going,” he adds through gritted teeth. Fake-smiling at the woman, he gives her a quick wave. “Thanks again for all the help…”
“I’m really sorry,” she calls out as we walk away. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Yeah,” Charlie whispers as he shoves me up the block. “That makes three of us.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Charlie asks as we cut back through our courtyard. He steps over the sprawling hose and ducks past the rotating sprinkler that’s spraying everything in sight. Checking to see that no one’s around, he makes a quick beeline for our new apartment. “Why’d you go after her like that?”
“She might’ve known something.”
“Are you really that delusional?” Charlie asks, racing inside. He watches uncomfortably as I pace back and forth between the living room and kitchenette. “Didn’t you see her reaction, Ollie – she was floored. Newsflash at eleven: Duckworth’s dead. End of story.”
“It can’t be,” I insist. As I say the words, I hear my own voice stuttering.
Charlie hears it too. “Ollie, I know you’ve always had more to lose, but-”
“What if there’s something we’re missing?”
“What could we possibly miss? They told us he was dead in New York… we came down here to see for ourselves… and she tells us the same thing. Duckworth’s gone, bro. Show’s over – time to find a new drummer.”
Still pacing, I stare down at the ground. “Maybe we should go back and talk to her again…”
“Ollie…”