Joe turned beet red. He sputtered, "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't know."
Mr. Lyons laughed and quickly assured him. "We're just kidding around, Joe. It's not live."
He smiled nervously. Mr. Lyons told Angela, "Joe's only been with me for two days. He doesn't know when I'm kidding yet." Joe shrugged good-naturedly. Mr. Lyons continued. "I didn't even know Phil had hired him. I came out to the car yesterday morning, and I saw this guy standing there. I didn't think anything of it. I put my foot up on the bumper to tie my shoe, and he yelled at me, 'Hey! You can't do that. That's Mr. Lyons's car!'
"I yelled back, 'Hey! I am Mr. Lyons. I can do whatever the hell I like!'"
Everyone laughed at that one. Angela looked out the window just in time to see Knowlton. She whispered, "Here he comes," to the cameraman, who turned off the camera and started to stow it.
Knowlton entered and announced, "I'm giving Santa five more minutes. Then we go."
I asked Mrs. Knight, "Should I go help Bill now?"
She said, "If you want to."
I hurried out toward the rotunda. The crowd had changed from earlier. It was no longer a line. It was more of a blob, gathered around the dead center of the mall, where the fountain would soon spring to life. I spotted about a dozen Crescent Employees wearing SAVE THE MALL T-shirts. I also spotted two people with bright yellow shirts that said SAVE THE TURTLES.
As I got closer to Gene and the Santa seat, I understood why Suzie had been able to slip away. Betty was now at the red velvet rope. Betty even had the red elf hat stuck on top of her shoe-polish black hair. Only two mothers with children remained in line to see Gene. I got into line behind the last lady.
Betty looked nervous. She was even paler than usual.
Gene forgot he was playing Santa and yelled out, "Hey, I'm not kidding, Leo. This seat is really shaking."
Leo said, "It can't be. The finest plumbers in Florida have certified it to be perfectly safe."
"Come on, Leo. This is no joke."
The next-to-last woman stepped forward with a little boy, but instead of smiling or ho-ho-ho-ing, Gene told her sternly, "You better back off, ma'am. Something's wrong here."
The woman asked him, "What's wrong? What's that shaking?"
He answered, "I don't know, but get these kids back. It's getting stronger."
The little boy in front of me screamed, "Oh! Gross!" and covered his mouth and nose.
Then the smell hit me, too. It was like rotten eggs. Like a whole truckload of rotten eggs. We all backed away, including Betty and Leo, leaving Gene sitting alone on top of the Santa seat. I called to him, "Gene! Maybe you had better get off—" But I never finished that sentence.
Both Gene and the Santa seat started to levitate, like a magician in a magic chair. He leaned forward slightly, to look underneath it, and that was when the pipes exploded. The concussion from the explosion hurtled Gene forward like a swift kick in the pants. He landed on his face at the foot of the tripod. Then Gene and the camera equipment slid across the tiles for another five yards. The ornamental Santa seat flew straight up into the air, riding atop a thick brown geyser of putrid water. The seat balanced momentarily on the vertical stream, then it crashed back down. It half covered the hole, causing the water to squirt higher and wider, like when you put your finger over the end of a running hose.
Gene managed to stagger to his feet. His beard was half ripped from his face; his red pants were soaked with swampy water. Leo scrambled to save his camera equipment. People everywhere started screaming in panic. The smell quickly filled up the rotunda, and parents and children rushed desperately toward the exit. Chaos reigned. Some mothers hoisted up little kids and threw them over their shoulders, running with them like screaming sacks of potatoes. I spotted Ray Lyons running down the center of the mallway. His blue suit jacket was pulled up over his face, forcing him to run blind.
Suddenly I became aware of Philip Knowlton. He was scurrying around the rotunda, oblivious to the smell, screaming orders at everyone. He yelled at Suzie, "Get that Santa out a back door!" Then, "Angela, get your cameraman on Ray. I want shots of Ray helping kids to safety!"
Bill appeared from the truck. He screamed at me, "Grab an end!"
We picked up the soundboard and carried it toward the truck. The putrid water was still squirting high in the air; the kids were still screaming. I saw Suzie pushing Gene toward the Chili Dog, yelling, "Go in the back! Go in the back! You'll be okay."
Bill and I carried the soundboard swiftly and carefully up the three steps and into the truck. We laid it on a couch. Bill pointed to a small restroom in the back of the truck. "Grab me some paper towels." I did, and then stood there while he dabbed at the board, examining it for damage. I looked out through the wide glass windows. Uncle Frank was now standing next to the squirting stream of swamp water. Suzie ran over from the Chili Dog to the same spot.
Even from inside the truck, I could hear her bellowing hysterically at Uncle Frank, "Do something! Do something!" He reared back and kicked hard at the Santa seat, dislodging it and immediately reducing the ten-foot-high spray to a low, steady flow.
Then Leo reappeared holding a large wrench. He paused a moment to knowingly shake his head back and forth at Suzie. Then he bent over and thrust the wrench into the water.
I abandoned Bill and bounded down the truck stairs. By the time I crossed the rotunda, Leo had the stream turned off completely. Uncle Frank said, "Good going, Leo."
Suzie hesitated, then added, "Yeah, Leo."
He looked up at them. "Well, it's the best I can do. You should call that Ace Plumbing guy to really fix it up."
MONDAY EVENING
Just beyond the front entrance, about fifty kids and their parents had packed themselves into a circle. As I walked closer I could see the cameraman moving among them, filming everything. Ray Lyons stood in the center of the circle, listening to the people and looking really concerned. When the cameraman finished, he gave a thumbs-up sign toward the black limo. Philip Knowlton leaned his head out and called, "Okay, Ray! Ray, let's go."
Mr. Lyons shook hands with a few people in the crowd and then pushed through them and got into the car.
Five minutes later news trucks from two networks pulled into the parking lot, but Mr. Lyons and his limo were gone. An on-air news personality jumped out of each van and began interviewing people. I wanted to watch the reporters at work, so I mingled with the parents and kids. They were actually giving credit to Ray Lyons for "fast thinking." Had I missed something?
But then I spotted Griffin. He was leaning against the outside wall, to the left of the entrance. I walked over toward him and he asked me, "What in the world happened in there?"
"I'm not sure. I think it was a plumbing explosion."
The cameraman walked past us. Griffin said, "You see that guy? He was following Ray Lyons all around. By the time this thing makes the news, Lyons will be the hero. He will have snatched all these children from the jaws of certain death."
"Oh, brother."
"Did Lyons do anything in there at all?"
"I don't think so. He didn't make his speech. He didn't turn on the fountain."
"I don't suppose he really saved any kids' lives."
"No."
Griffin laughed ruefully. "He'll do anything to make the news, won't he? Saving small children. Prosecuting hate crimes. Whatever it takes."
I thought about his words for a moment. Then I asked, "Prosecuting hate crimes? What do you mean? Like Hawg's?"
"Yeah. Like Hawg's exactly. He's the very important person I told you about. Ray Lyons made the state's attorney go after Hawg so that he could have a campaign issue. It'll be something like this: Ray Lyons is against committing hate crimes; Ray Lyons is for saving small children."
I stood with him for another minute, watching the on-air news people do their remote broadcasts. Then I told him, "I don't think Hawg did it."
"No? Why?"
I didn't know why, but I came up with this answer: "Because I don't t
hink Hawg is capable of being sneaky. Whoever did it is very sneaky."
Two guys from Crescent, still wearing their SAVE THE MALL T-shirts, propped the entrance doors open with folding chairs. I walked back inside. In the distance I could see Leo setting up some big fans to blow the smell out. Mr. Lombardo, Mrs. Weiss, and at least ten other people held wide brooms and were pushing the remnants of the brown water toward the grate in the rotunda.
Everybody froze for a moment as the Channel 57 truck suddenly roared to life and started to move. I stood aside, by the mall office, and watched it roll toward me. Bill was again at the wheel.
The truck halted right next to me, and the cameraman reached out a long arm holding a videocassette. He said, "Here's the tape for Knowlton."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"I don't know. Angela said he has to preview everything we filmed. It's one of Knowlton's rules. Tell him to FedEx it to the studio when he's done."
"Sure. Okay." I took the tape, the door closed, and the truck rolled on. I went into the mall office and stashed the tape in the mall newsletter drawer.
Between the commotion outside and the lingering smell inside, there were zero customers left in the West End Mall. I walked back through the rotunda, past the blowing fans, trying to breathe only through my mouth.
Suzie positioned herself in the middle of the rotunda. She turned to the south and then to the north, yelling the same message down each line of the mallway. "Go ahead and close! No one is coming in here tonight."
I walked into Arcane to tell Uncle Frank what Suzie had said. I passed Hawg just as he was stepping into the Crusader circle. I said, "Do you want me to start it for you?"
"Nah. I got it." He picked up the helmet. But before he put it on he said to me, "You ever try this one, Roberta?"
"I've never tried any of them. You know that."
Hawg looked at me curiously. "No, I didn't know that. I figured you was just sick of em all. You know, with you growin' up in an arcade."
"No. I'm not sick of them all. That's not it."
Hawg shrugged and pulled on the helmet. "Well, if you ever get the notion to, I'd recommend this one. It's kick-ass."
"Okay." I left Hawg to his Arcane experience. I walked to the back and opened the office door. Uncle Frank wasn't in there. I heard a hose running, so I continued outside. I looked to the left and saw Uncle Frank rinsing out the bristles of a pushbroom. I called over, "Uncle Frank, Suzie says we should all close up. No one's coming in tonight."
He turned off the hose. "Suzie's right." He didn't say anything else, so I assumed that he meant for us to close. I went back inside and told Karl the news. He didn't seem to hear me, but a few seconds later, he put down his magazine and started the closing checklist.
Hawg was still inside the Crusader ring, hacking at imaginary Arabs. I stopped for a moment and watched him. Was he really hacking at Sam? His teeth were set and showing through his lips. The sides of his mouth, however, were curving upward—not in a snarl, but in a smile. A delighted smile.
Hawg finished the experience and pulled off the helmet. Karl yelled to him, "You'd better spray that helmet. You got lice."
Hawg joined Karl to help wheel in the Sony monitor. He said, "Back home, son, we call 'em cooties."
Griffin knows more about these hate crimes than I do. He has evidence, and his notes in his notebook. But he has also seen Hawg in moments like these, when he is just a big kid playing an arcade game. For me, that's evidence, too.
Karl and I stood together in the mallway watching Uncle Frank lock the sliding-glass doors. It was only eight-fifteen, but here we were, locking up. Uncle Frank turned and said, "Come on, Roberta, we'll give you a ride."
I lied. "No, thanks, Uncle Frank. I have a ride with Mrs. Weiss."
"Okay." He set off, all business, toward the entrance. Karl scrambled along behind him.
I walked over to Isabel's Hallmark and peered through the doorway. It was dark inside. Mrs. Weiss was already gone. I stood still for a moment and listened up and down the mallway. I listened for quiet. When I was sure no one was watching, I walked slowly to Slot #61, took out my master key, and opened the front door. La Boutique de Paris was even dustier than the last time I had been there, when Kristin and I were models. I slipped inside, sat in the window, and hid behind the mannequins' unclothed bodies.
Nothing stirred. I watched and listened for footsteps anywhere on the mallway. The place was completely deserted. That's why I was so startled when the sound came. It was a sharp click, followed by a door opening. Someone had just entered La Boutique de Paris from behind me, from the outside. I looked at the sliding-glass doors in panic. Was there time for me to get out?
The intruder moved quickly to the front of the store. He would have seen me no matter what I did, so what I did was stand up and face him.
It was Sam.
He hopped up onto the wooden platform quickly and confidently, like he thought he was alone. Then he skidded to a halt. He gasped at the sight of me, and his face drained of blood. We stood staring at each other until he croaked out, "Roberta? What are you doing here? How did you get in?"
"I got a key when I was modeling. How did you get in?"
"I got a key from Verna."
Sam sat down heavily against the wall, right where the mannequin once stood. My eyes opened wide. So, that was why the mannequin had moved. Sam had moved it.
I sat down, too. I explained, "Griffin told me what's going on."
Sam was cagey. "Griffin?"
"Yes. Detective Griffin."
"I see. What did he tell you?"
"He told me you've been the victim of hate crimes."
Sam stared into my eyes, but he didn't say anything.
"And that you've been trying to solve them yourself."
Sam looked off down the mallway. He didn't say anything else, so I settled into a comfortable position. I couldn't stand the silence for long, though. I whispered to him, "Why do you sit here and look? Why don't you just use a video camera to catch him?"
Sam answered sadly, "I have used a video camera. I've used every gadget at Crescent. I've had some kind of camera up and running every night this month. It hasn't caught anybody."
"Why?"
"Why? Because 'the alleged perpetrator,' as the detective calls him, knows it's there. He works here in the mall. He sees it sitting there."
"How do you know it's a he?"
Sam scoffed. "I know exactly who it is."
"Who?"
"You know who. The redneck."
"Hawg?"
"Exactly."
"Why are you so sure he did it? Couldn't it be someone else?"
Sam's eyes narrowed angrily, but he admitted, "For a while there, I thought it was someone else. I thought it was Devin. I got into a big hassle with him about the Nazi stuff in his store window. I told him I didn't want my customers walking past that. I told him I'd get his rent raised if he didn't move it. Anyway, I spent some nights in Slot Number Nine figuring I'd catch Devin with a paint can, but it didn't happen."
"So now you're sure it's Hawg?"
"Yeah. And this time it's not just me. It's Griffin and Verna, too. They've both seen him with the red paint, the same stuff that was on my window and my car. And they've heard him threaten me, more than once." Sam turned and asked, "Did you know he tried to flee the state?"
"Yes."
"That's because we finally have him."
We both heard a sound and froze. It was footsteps. In a moment, though, we saw Leo walking down the mallway with his camera equipment.
I realized that I had leaned closer to Sam. I also realized that I liked it.
We sat like that for two hours. Sam talked about a lot of things. He told me about the University of South Florida and the classes he was taking there. He told me a little about his family.
During one lull, I decided to talk some myself. I asked him, "What is your brother's name?"
He seemed surprised. He answered, "Sam
ir."
"Your brother is named Samir, too?"
"Yeah. We're Samir Abdul and Samir Ahmad."
"You even have the same middle initial?"
He laughed. "Yeah. I guess we do."
"Wow. That's like Too Many Daves. Do you know that story?"
"I don't think so."
I started to quote it. "Did I ever tell you that Mrs. McCave had twenty-three sons and she named them all Dave?"
"No, I guess not."
"Well then, do you know this one? It's from a Dr. Seuss story, too: That Sam-I-am. That Sam-I-am. I do not like that Sam-I-am!"
"Oh yeah. I do know that one. Green Eggs and Ham, right?"
"Right."
A silence followed that exchange. I started to feel really self-conscious. I figured Sam now thought I was an idiot. I figured he wanted to leave, but to my relief, he launched into a new topic. He asked me, "So what did you think of Mr. Ray Lyons?"
"He seemed nice."
Sam scoffed. "Yeah. And he saved all those kids' lives, too." Sam added bitterly, "Just like he's saving us."
"What do you mean 'saving us'? Do you mean with the recapitalization?"
"Listen: The recap is a fantasy. It's not going to happen. Ray Lyons doesn't want it to happen. Lyons will force us all into bankruptcy, and then young Richard, the golf pro, will get the property cheap. It's a done deal. The bulldozers will roll again, and we'll all be entombed." Sam looked at his watch. "Okay. That's it for me. It's eleven o'clock."
Sam got up to leave, so I did, too. He asked me, "How are you getting home?"
"I'll call home for a ride."
"Yeah? Somebody will come and get you?"
"Right. My dad."
Sam looked suspicious. "How about if I give you a ride?"
"No. He wouldn't like that. Thanks anyway."
Sam unlocked the back door to Slot #61, and we found ourselves in the front parking lot. Sam said, "I'll be here tomorrow, if you want to try again."
I said, "Yeah. I definitely do."
"Come to this door. It's less obvious."
I walked off toward the pay phones by the entrance. Sam said, "Would your father mind if I waited until he picked you up?"