Wildest Dreams

Five

When Blake pulled up to the trailer it didn’t look as though anything was amiss. When he went to knock on the door he could see the lock was broken and the door was closed but not latched. Still, he knocked.

Charlie opened the door. “Sorry, Blake. I guess I could’ve called Troy and Grace, but my mom, she worries a lot about people feeling sorry for her, especially people she works for. She’s the caregiver, y’know? She always has to be the strong one. The together one. I’m the only weakness in her life.”

“Don’t start that,” Blake said. “You’re her kid and she takes good care of you. That’s not a weakness.”

“All I’m saying is I’m the only thing that keeps her from going to work. Like if I get sick or something. And I know you offered us a place to stay overnight if we needed it so I thought...”

“You did the right thing. I’m glad I was able to take the call. Now what’s happening with your mom? You said she’s broken?”

“Look,” Charlie said, nodding toward the bedroom.

Blake could hear soft humming. He was a little perplexed, but he looked. Lin Su was kneeling on the bed, folding clothes, rocking and humming as she did so. He looked a little more closely—they were mostly Charlie’s clothes and it appeared some of them might have been damaged. He wasn’t sure if these were just clothes hard worn by a fourteen-year-old boy or if the vandals had done it.

“Was anything taken?” he asked Charlie.

“It’s kind of hard to tell, it’s all such a mess. A couple of things for sure, my mom’s winter coat—she hung it in the bathroom. She said it stayed fresh that way as there was no room in the closet and she wouldn’t keep it near the cooking. And her treasure box. It was little.” He demonstrated, using his hands. “It just had a few things in it—no jewelry or anything. There were two gold coins she said came from her grandfather, passed to her mother, passed to her. It was rumored he was an Army officer, but there’s no proof. She said keeping them safe in a refugee camp was a miracle. Our wristbands from when I was born—hers and mine. A crucifix and beads given to her by a Catholic sister at a hospital once when I was a patient. But the most important thing she had was a swatch—her mother embroidered some lotus flowers on a cloth and it was the only thing she had of her mother’s.”

“Have you talked to her? Is she in shock?”

“I think a little bit. She’s been talking in Vietnamese—she only knows a little. She was adopted when she was a real little girl, like two or three, so it’s amazing she remembered any. But she worked in a couple of manicure shops that were owned by Vietnamese and picked some up again. She was born in America. I think this Vietnamese stuff... I think it’s stress.”

“Okay,” Blake said, rubbing a big hand down his face. “What is it you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. We have to get out of here—the door won’t close. I wasn’t sure I could convince her...”

“Right,” he said. “Go try to make some sense of the mess in the living room and kitchen. Do a little straightening, figure out what’s missing if you can.”

“What if they come back?” Charlie said.

“That would make my day,” Blake said, eyes narrow, jaw clenched. “Those three dopers who chased you the other day?”

“Seems like. But you gotta wonder why they didn’t do it sooner. I mean, we’ve been here nine months.”

“Maybe we’ll figure it out later. Right now we have to get this place under control, pack up some things, leave. You work out here. Let me see to your mom.”

Blake went into the bedroom. He scooped up a pile of clothes off the floor, dumped it on the bed, knelt by Lin Su and began folding. There were jeans and board shorts and T-shirts and sweatshirts. Some looked as if they were stained with paint and he instinctively knew they hadn’t been like that before. Some were ripped. Slit. It looked as though a pocket knife could’ve done the damage. He tossed those in a pile. And some were all right, completely salvageable. Those he folded.

She didn’t speak; she just carefully folded clothes from her pile, then began taking clothes from his pile. They proceeded like that for a few minutes before she looked up. “Why are you here?”

“Charlie called me,” he said.

“He shouldn’t have called you. We can manage.”

“Either you’re a very messy housekeeper or you’re not managing that well. We should pack a few things.”

“I can take care of it,” she said.

“I don’t know you very well, Lin Su,” he said. He continued to fold. “But I know you like to do your work, pay your way, take care of your son and responsibilities. But sometimes you have to be humble. Sometimes when you have an opportunity, you have to be gracious and not stubborn. You are so stubborn.”

“Stubborn is strong,” she said.

“Stubborn is also pigheaded and counterproductive. Tomorrow is Charlie’s first day of school and you really shouldn’t stay here tonight—it’s obviously not safe.”

“There’s a motel...”

He put his big hand over her forearm, stopping her from her task. Was she talking about that shithole down the street? He couldn’t stand to even think about it. “Save that money—you’re going to have to buy a new winter coat. They ripped it off. And some of these clothes will have to be replaced.”

She stopped, holding a pair of jeans in her lap, looking at him suspiciously. “Why do you have a house with so many bedrooms and beds? Are you opening a brothel?”

A short burst of laughter escaped him. “Good idea!” he said. “I have a team and associates. I have a coach and trainer. I usually have a couple of people staying with me two weeks before a race. We travel together for the race and I always give myself a couple of days of training in either a different time zone or altitude. I train almost year-round but hit the training hard before a big race. I used to rent space for my team. I told you, this is my first house. The bedrooms, it turns out, will come in handy.”

“I can afford the motel,” she said. “I have savings.”

“You’re a mule,” he accused, but he grinned when he said it. “Let’s make sure Charlie is comfortable—tomorrow is a big day. Most of all, let’s lower his stress if we can—he’s very worried about you. And if you stay here or in a seedy motel tonight, he won’t sleep.”

“I am always there for Charlie. He can depend on me.”

“Awesome. I don’t suppose you have a suitcase?”

She glanced around. “I had a couple of large duffels—I don’t see them.”

“I have a couple of gym bags in the car. I’ll dump them out so you can borrow them.” He looked at her and just shook his head. “You know, I usually do well with the girls. I make them laugh. I’m charming.”

“Perhaps the problem is that I’m not a girl,” she said.

“Perhaps the problem is that you’re obstinate and inflexible,” he suggested.

“If you find me so thoroughly flawed, why offer all this assistance?” she asked. “It’s a little invasive, you know. I’ve been through worse. It’s a temporary setback, that’s all.”

“This is an emergency,” Blake said. “You’ll stay the night so Charlie can get some sleep and have a good first day of school. Then we’ll look at the options. Do you own this trailer? Can we move it to the property? Cooper has a hookup beside the bar. He has a trailer he brings out of storage for a guest room when family visits and we could put yours...”

She was shaking her head. “I rent it.”

“Then gather up as much as you can and we’ll put the padlock back on the outside. Maybe you’ll come back for more of your things when Winnie is resting. If you need help, I’ll help you. Let’s do this,” he said, getting off the bed.

He went to his car to dump out his duffels. He took a great deal of time on the easy project so that Lin Su could talk to Charlie if she was so inclined. While he was standing there he heard someone yell. It wasn’t a bad yell, more of a whoop, as if there’d been a touchdown on the TV. Then he heard bottles being dumped in the trash. He saw movement and caught the motion of a person skittering around the cinder-block building. He pulled out his wallet, slipped some bills into each pocket, then threw his wallet in the trunk.

He reached into the trunk for a tire iron and a large industrial-strength flashlight. It had been a very long time since he felt he could be in danger from a bad person. Fifteen years at least. Really, since he was thirteen or fourteen he hadn’t rubbed up against many scumbags who just flat-out enjoyed hurting people. In fact, in all his years, if he ever had anything that could pass for a weapon in his hands—a brick, a bat, a broken bottle—it was because he was in defensive mode, staying alive.

He slammed the trunk, turned on the flashlight and headed across the drive to that brick building. The smell of urine and feces was disgusting. Chances were good that it hadn’t been cleaned in years. For the first time he noticed a ramshackle trailer that had a small sign posted. Manager. M–F 10:00 a.m.–4:00 p.m. He’d check that out later.

He walked around the brick structure, shining his light, and came face-to-face with one of the thugs he’d seen the day Charlie was chased. The guy grinned. His teeth were black and he had a couple of sores on his face. Meth teeth, meth sores. It was the kind of leer that made Blake want to look behind him but he wasn’t falling for that one. The guy slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, gave a small flick, and the blade of a switchblade zinged into view.

Blake took a fast step closer to that knife, swung the tire iron and came down on the guy’s wrist. The meth head screamed, dropped the blade and grabbed his wrist. Before he could run or call for his backup, Blake had him up against the bricks, the tire iron against his throat. “Where is it?” he asked as threateningly as he could.

“Ach. What?”

“You know what. The box.”

“Let go and I’ll tell you.”

Now it was Blake’s turn to grin. “Not a chance in hell. Where?”

“Bruster’s got it!”

“Who’s Bruster?”

“You know. The manager.”

And probably the biggest dealer in here, he thought. Some things were as predictable as sunrise. It was always the one in charge, the one who seldom got his hands dirty. “And did it get you a hit?” he asked.

“Not even.” He choked and Blake stepped back a little. He was an addict; it could get messy.

“Let’s go get you a hit, loser.”

“You gonna roll me?”

“I’m gonna buy you a hit if I can get my box back.”

“You’d do that?”

“I want the box!”

Blake turned him around, twisted his arm up behind his back and counted his blessings. If this charged-up idiot decided to fight him, he might have a real problem on his hands. He’d seen three and four cops have trouble bringing down a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound meth addict when he was high. His flashlight was under his arm, light pointing forward, and the tire iron in his hand, ready.

“Let’s go get it,” Blake said, steering him in the direction of the manager’s trailer. When they stood outside the door, he saw a little trash on the ground right outside the trailer door.

“There it is,” the guy said, looking down.

He saw what looked like a small amount of smashed teak wood on the ground and a little unidentifiable trash—paper, cloth, picture, chain. “That’s my box?” Blake asked, incredulous.

“He wasn’t impressed.”

“What’s a hit go for in your neighborhood?”

“Twenty,” he said. “I mean, forty. Fifty.”

Blake felt himself smile. It had been a long time. He had forgotten how much drugs rotted the brain and what liars addicts were. “Here are your choices,” he said. “I can give you some money and you can run, get out of sight, or you can stay and talk to the manager with me. Or I can beat you stupid with this iron, but I think you already are stupid.”

“You kidding me? Give me fifty and I’m gone.”

Without turning the guy around, he pulled one bill out of his pocket. It was a twenty. He shoved the man away from him and he stumbled a few feet. Blake braced himself, wielding the tire iron in one hand and flashlight in the other. The twenty fluttered in the hand that held the iron. “Do you want to disappear with twenty or would you prefer to negotiate?”

As if by magic, his two compatriots stepped out of the darkness and they were a little bigger. But they were ratty and pale. They were vampires; they lived by night. He was one on three. Reasonably, his chances were zero and it was stupid to engage them. This was the time to run. They were high and strong; he was sober and his strength wouldn’t matter. So he smiled as though he had confidence, twisted the iron and flashlight, worked his shoulders a little bit and took a couple of wide swings with the tire iron.

The junkies separated, one left, one right, one head-on. One picked up a rock, one produced a knife, one held his pained wrist. Blake didn’t waste any time. He took out the knee of the guy with the rock on his left, then hit the arm holding the knife with the flashlight. He jammed the guy in the gut with the tire iron, then gave his ankle a hard whack before shoving the tire iron into the gut of his first boy. He whirled and caught one in the neck. There were a couple more whacks to legs with the iron, then higher. With any luck he’d injured a couple of ribs. Hurt leg joints and bruised ribs could really slow you down, provided you could feel pain. He hit one under the chin with the flashlight and the man sprawled, groaning. His first aggressor limped away while the other two were in the dirt.

He was surprised. He wasn’t much of a fighter anymore. He was lucky or they were impaired. And he was out of breath. He tried the manager’s trailer door but it was locked. So, tit for tat, he applied the flat end of the tire iron to the door and popped the lock. He peered inside.

Bruster appeared. He was fat and wore a wife-beater T-shirt. Why are they always fat? Blake asked himself. The biggest crook and dealer on the block was a lazy, fat blob. With a gun.

Blake put up his hands and backed away a little, though he still held the flashlight and the iron. “You can shoot me if you want but it’ll make your life miserable, I swear on the Virgin Mary. It’ll bring down the wrath of every Catholic cop in the state because I’m... I’m a priest. And all I want are the two gold coins and the other contents of that box.”

“Who the hell are you?” Bruster asked.

Blake straightened proudly. “Father Blake Smiley.”

The guy laughed. “Get outta here,” he said, reaching for the door.

Blake put the flashlight against it. “I want the stuff.”

“I don’t know about stuff. I found the coins. They’re not valuable,” Bruster said.

“Then I’ll make ’em valuable. I’ll buy ’em from you. I have to have them. They were blessed in Versailles. They’re holy. And your flunkies told me you have the coins. Now come on—let’s just deal.”

Bruster looked around Blake in time to see one guy limping away, one struggling to his feet and the third lying on the ground holding his knee and rocking side to side. “You did that? And you say you’re a priest? You’re no priest!”

“They send all priests to defensive tactics training now. You want a search warrant or do we deal for the coins? I told you, they’re holy!”

He didn’t put down the gun, but he did dig out two small gold coins from his pants pocket. “Now I’ve seen it all,” he muttered, holding the coins. “Two hundred bucks,” he said flatly.

“I don’t have two hundred bucks! I’m a priest!” Blake glanced over his shoulder, then slipped the flashlight under his arm and pulled forty dollars out of one pocket and another twenty out of the other. He tossed the money into the trailer. “Now, what are we gonna do? You stole them, after all. And I do still have a cell phone, if you don’t shoot me.”

“I wouldn’t mind shooting you,” he said. “Here.” He tossed the coins one at a time.

“I need a bag or something.”

“I don’t have a bag!” he shouted. “Get outta here!” He pulled the door closed.

Blake looked at the losers he’d just done battle with. They weren’t coming at him, but he had to keep an eye on them. That meant kneeling with his legs almost under the trailer and his weapons close at hand. He began scooping the remnants of the small teak box into his pockets along with the items on the ground, which may or may not have been the contents. He recognized the hospital wristbands and swatch, both very dirty. There was a cheap chain, perhaps once silver in color. A broken locket, a shred of paper, a cross. He shone his flashlight around for a rosary, but didn’t see it. He ran his hands through the dirt, coming up empty. There was some loose change—he scooped it up in case it had meaning. A hair clip, a flat silver ring, an old watchband. Finally satisfied that he’d looked enough, he went back to Lin Su’s trailer.

When he opened the door to go inside he was stopped by what he saw. Lin Su and Charlie were stuffing piles of clothes and other possessions in large trash bags. He had forgotten the duffels.

He started to tremble. He had a flashback and saw himself as a small boy, seven or eight years old, helping his mother stuff their meager belongings in plastic bags. That was how they moved from place to place and they moved all the time to keep ahead of dealers, pimps, junkies and social services. When he was thirteen and they came for him, removing him from his mother’s guardianship, he left with a bag of clothes. A small bag of clothes.

He shook himself. “Hey. We gotta get out of here fast. I mixed it up with a couple of your hoods and we gotta go. Now.”

Lin Su and Charlie looked at him. He knew what they saw. He was glistening with sweat even though the night was cold. He was panting a little—equal parts fatigue and nerves. He shook a little from some adrenaline and the flashback. He wondered if the flashbacks would ever go away. He held his flashlight and tire iron like weapons. He put them on the ground by the steps into the little trailer.

He stepped inside, grabbed a full bag and took it outside, throwing it in his car. He went back for another, then on his third trip Lin Su and Charlie each had a big bag to stuff in the backseat of her car.

“Charlie? Backpack and laptop?” he asked.

“In the car,” he said.

“I’m going to follow you, Lin Su. If you have any trouble, I’ll be right behind you.” He picked up his weapons and took them to the front seat of his car.

* * *

After Blake had pulled into the garage at his house, Lin Su backed into the drive for convenience’s sake. She wasn’t pulling four giant trash bags of clothing and miscellany into his house; she wasn’t planning to stay long. But she would move the bags he had into her trunk, leave the bags she and Charlie brought in the backseat, and they could pick through them for usable clothing. She was now very grateful for that last-minute shopping run for Charlie’s school supplies and jacket. She took her Target bags with her into the house.

Blake held the door for her to enter through the garage.

“Can you leave the garage door open for a little while? I have to get into some of those bags and find clothes for bed and the morning.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll leave my car keys on the kitchen counter so you can move your things from my car whenever you like. And you’re welcome to use the washer and dryer if necessary. There are clean linens in the loft bathroom and on the beds. The kitchen is all yours. There’s tea on the counter, drinks in the fridge, muffins, frozen yogurt, fruit. Have a snack. I’m going to get a shower but I’ll be awake awhile. It’s not very late—help yourself to the TV.”

“You won’t even know we’re here,” she said.

“I want to know you’re here,” he said. “I want to know you’re both here and no more of your belongings will be taken or destroyed or... Oh,” he said. He reached into the cupboard for a ceramic bowl and began emptying his pockets into it. The shards of teak and contents of the box were mixed with dirt. “The guy smashed it and I think most of the stuff was lost. The pieces of the box are too small to put it back together, but...”

She stepped closer. The dust from the dirt rose in a miniature cloud. She recognized the hospital wristbands, then heard the clink of two gold coins. She stepped closer. The swatch, filthy, joined the other detritus that comprised her treasures. She grabbed it, unfolding it, gently brushing it. It was going to take a miracle to restore its color, but it was whole.

She lifted her eyes to his. “This is what you were doing,” she said in a near whisper. “This is what got you in a fight.”

“Yeah. Well, I saw one of those guys, the ones that chased Charlie, and it pissed me off. I knew they’d done it.” He grunted and shook his head. “I’m psychic.”

“Mr. Smiley...”

“For the love of God!” he snapped. “Call me Blake!” He calmed himself. “Or Father Smiley. But no more Mr. Smiley!”

Her eyes were startled. “Father Smiley?” she asked.

“I told Bruster I was a priest so he’d give me back the coins. And not shoot me.”

“Awesome!” Charlie said from the back door. “He had a gun?”

“Yeah. I was pretty safe. He’s a dealer, you know. The head thug in the trailer park. He wasn’t going to shoot me—someone would call the police. If it had been anywhere else he might’ve, but not where he does business. Too risky for him.” He looked at Lin Su. “I probably didn’t get everything,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have risked it,” she said. “Thank you, it means the world to me, but you shouldn’t have risked it. What if something worse had happened to you?”

“Worse?” he said.

“You’re hurt. If you like, I could clean that up. You need an ice pack...”

“Nah,” he said, ducking away from her. “I’m fine. Get settled. Have tea. Eat something...”

Then he turned and went down the hall to his room.

* * *

Blake closed his door and turned on the shower, hot. He looked in the mirror and almost jumped back in surprise. His eye was swollen, his chin was cut, a lump was rising on his cheek and his nose had bled. It appeared he’d absently wiped it across his cheek. His shirt was torn in two places. And he’d never been aware of taking a single hit.

He’d blacked out. It had been a long time since that had happened.

It wasn’t that he didn’t remember anything. He could be so single-minded, so focused, the only important thing was his mission and survival. It had started when he was a kid—he could force himself to act without thinking. He’d be chased by some hood and he’d run and hide, then he’d catch his breath and realize he was two miles away. He could do that in a race—concentrate so hard on the task at hand he had no memory of the landscape. He’d know where each competitor was and what he had to do. It didn’t happen to him all the time, just when the stakes were high. He gave the credit to his discipline but it was probably more than that. One of his counselors when he was much younger said it was a form of PTSD. As long as he was functional, the therapist wasn’t too worried about it.

He stripped and got into the shower.

He’d been very stupid; he could’ve been hurt. He was always careful; he didn’t even ski. Triathlons were his career and he didn’t take unnecessary risks. But after seeing that destroyed little trailer, after hearing from Charlie what had been taken from Lin Su, after seeing that meth head ducking behind the building, he was utterly driven. He went after them, equal parts revenge and quest to get back that little box. He was incensed. Taking her useless little treasures had been so cruel. Men like them enjoyed being cruel.

Really, he didn’t think any of them had gotten off a shot at him, but his face bore the truth—he’d been hit at least three times. He’d been grabbed hard enough to tear his shirt. He was filthy as though he’d rolled around in the dirt. Maybe that came from scooping up the contents of that broken box? He’d never really know.

He put on a pair of sweats and a clean T-shirt and went into the kitchen. The bowl was gone and a dim light from the loft came down the stairs. There was a light over the stove left on. He checked the garage—the door was down.

He got ice for his swollen eye and turned on the TV. He put his feet up and did a little channel surfing, volume low. He hoped Charlie would hear and come downstairs. He’d like an update on how Lin Su was doing.

He didn’t see them again that night.