Chapter 10

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Earl and Jenny got back to his apartment without incident. Neither spoke the whole way. Earl noticed Jenny still had a slight limp. She didn’t complain once.

For his part, Earl was sore in all kinds of places. His fingers ached, his legs ached, his knees, his left side, his left arm—he was a mess. He was glad to get back home. If this is what happened when he got involved in other people’s business, let somebody else take care of it.

Earl just wanted to get back to his TV and his wrestling. So he could watch someone else get battered for a while.

Jenny carried the box the final few feet to the small, round dining room table and dropped it then went to the couch, plopped down, and let out an enormous sigh.

Earl looked out the door one more time then closed it and locked it. The apartment was dark. He rolled his chair backward from the door, slowly, just a few feet. Watching.

You’re being paranoid, Earl told himself. You got home fine. He turned on the lamp and put his hands on his wheels once more and was reminded how much his fingers ached. He needed to rest. This was more wear and tear than his body had seen in years. And years.

He looked over at the box of record albums on top of the table. In his present condition, he was momentarily content to just look at them from a few yards away.

“Thank you.” His voice cracked. “You’re a great sport.”

Still collapsed on the couch, still trying to catch her breath, Jenny waved in reply. She looked around the apartment. “By the way, have you found a new place to live yet?”

“One thing at a time.” Earl put his hands on his wheels and forced himself to roll toward the table. The box was too tall on the table for him to reach into from the top. He tried to work his fingers in to get at the thin cardboard sleeves but couldn’t seem to get one out.

“Wait.” Jenny flailed a second then got off the couch. “I’ll help.” She stumbled over to the table and took a chair. She pulled the end of the box around and delicately pulled at the jackets with her narrow fingers. She got several of them out and handed them to Earl. He gazed at the big square covers. Billy May & His Orchestra. Les Baxter & His Orchestra. She pulled some more out and stacked them—Percy Faith, Frank Sinatra, Doris Day, and more.

Earl looked at the Billy May record cover front and back and front again. “I don’t get it.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to get. I mean, I know we got all worked up, but maybe the guy was just chasing us because, oh, I don’t know, we stole something out of that apartment?”

Earl shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what in the world I expected. But I was so sure.” He slipped the black vinyl disc out of the cardboard jacket. He flipped on the overhead light and held the record up, letting the light reflect off it.

“What’s that?” Jenny pointed down at the floor around Earl’s feet.

Earl looked down. There was a folded sheet of paper. “Huh?”

“It dropped out when you got the record out of the cardboard.”

He set the vinyl on the table, reached down, and picked up the paper. Unfolding it he found a name, a series of words, and some numbers on it. “Huh.”

“What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” He set the paper on the table and grabbed the Les Baxter record. There was another folded paper tucked inside. Earl pointed to the pile of records Jenny had stacked on the table. “Look in those.”

When they finished, they found that a good four out of every five record jackets included a paper, each one revealing a scribbled name and a jumble of words and numbers. Twenty-eight different sheets in all.

Jenny made a pile, smoothing her hands over it to try and flatten it. “What do they mean?”

Earl stared at the page in his hand. “I don’t know.” A few of the listed names were familiar, including Anderson and Stanton. Looking at the entry for Anderson, Earl saw that the number next to his name did not seem to be a telephone number. And then there were other combinations of words that did not make sense to Earl at all—Sunday Best? Hello Mudder? Amber’s Diamond?

Jenny glanced at the list. “Some of those look like your wrestler names.”

“They aren’t any wrestlers I ever heard of.”

Jenny sat. “You know, this is private information. I think we should just give all of it back.”

Earl frowned. “Excuse me? Who came here complaining that her boyfriend lost his job?”

“He is not my boyfriend!” She tucked a curl of hair behind one ear. “Why, did he say anything about me?”

“And then there’s the question of the money.” As soon as he said it, he winced.

Jenny sat forward. “What money?”

Earl looked away a second. Finally he let out a heavy sigh. “Under the couch.”

Jenny looked at him. When he didn’t elaborate, she pushed herself up from the chair and went and looked at the couch. Then she looked at him again.

“There’s a metal box under there,” he said.

Down on one knee, she looked back at him again then reached under the couch. She came back to the table with the metal rectangular box. “What is it?”

“More than fifteen thousand dollars.”

Her eyes went wide. “Wow! How long’d it take you to save up that much?”

Earl shook his head. “I found it in Kent’s apartment last night.”

“You stole something out of his apartment last night, too?”

“Borrowed. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not sure the sheriff will see it that way.”

“At least I’ll get a chance to report what happened last night.”

“When you confess that you stole that money?”

Earl turned the chair and squinted at her. “When I tell them that something funny is going on around here.”

“And why should they believe you?”

“I was there.”

She leaned forward and squinted. “Yes, but why should they believe you?”

“I—I—” He was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it.” She waved a hand. “You’re just some old man in a wheelchair. At least, that’s what they’ll say.”

He slouched. “Maybe.”

“Of course they will. You have no witness, no evidence, no proof.”

Earl pointed at her. “We watched that man die!”

“People die all the time. That doesn’t mean—”

“What about your friend? He was there last night.”

“And he was fired for being a bad employee.”

“But I thought you felt—”

“I’m just saying what the police will say. If Grant is a disgruntled employee, why should they listen to him? You’re a lonely old man in a wheelchair; why should they listen to you? It’s your word against the director’s.” She held both hands out. “Whose word would you take?”

Earl opened his mouth to say something, shut it. Finally he waved a hand toward the table. “There’s all the money.”

She leaned forward, crossed her legs, put her hands on her top knee. “Which you stole.”

“But they couldn’t—” He stopped. His shoulders sagged again. “They couldn’t.”

“You know what I think?”

“You’ve made your thoughts perfectly clear. I’m some doddering old man who can’t be trusted to be left alone.”

“No—I think we need to pray about this.”

He squinted one eye at her. “You really think it’s that bad?”

“We don’t pray because things are bad. Well, I mean, we pray when things are bad, but we don’t pray just when things are bad. We pray for guidance.”

Earl locked his hands together, leaned forward, and asked in a low voice, “Do you really think He”—Earl rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and then back to her—“cares about this kind of stuff?”

“He cares about all of it, Mr. Walker.”

“He didn’t seem to care when I got shot in the leg.” Earl rubbed his knee.

“He always cares.”

“He shows it in a funny way.”

“Just because we can’t understand everything about God doesn’t mean He doesn’t understand everything about us. And He does speak to us. But we have to listen.” Jenny scooted her chair close. “I’m not saying we have to make a whole production out of it. But we really should take it to the Lord.”

Earl grunted. “Fine.” He shut his eyes and bowed his head. He assumed the girl did likewise, because she started to speak in a low voice. Earl wondered what to do with himself while she prayed. Every time his mind wandered, he had to rein it back in.

He thought about the bowling game at the recreation center. About the trip in the hall. About the party. About Kent in the rec center, in the hall, at the party.

Earl sneaked a peek at the girl. Her eyes shut tight, she was still in midprayer. She spoke softly but firmly. Asking for wisdom. For health. For strength. For her friend Earl. He needed guidance, he needed friends, and he needed a new home.

Earl closed his eyes and bowed his head again. He thought about Gloria. Tried to avoid that topic. He wasn’t ready.

He thought about the director, Ed Nelson. The man refused to acknowledge that an intruder had been in Kent’s apartment. He refused to call the sheriff. He had something to hide.

Earl opened his eyes and took a wrinkled sheet off the table. A scribbled name, some scribbled words, and a scribbled series of numbers. He looked at the money. “Blackmail.”

“—all our needs.” Jenny was praying. She stopped and opened one eye. “What?”

“George Kent was a blackmailer.”

They both stared at each other. Before Earl could think of the next thing to say, there was an insistent banging on the door. A voice cried, “Open up! Open up!”

Earl and Jenny exchanged glances. Earl said, “The sheriff.”

He looked at the table. “We’ve got to put it away. It’ll be easier to explain it before they see it.”

He grabbed the money, she grabbed the record albums, he stuffed the metal box, she refilled the cardboard box—bang, bang, bang—he closed the metal lid best he could, she stuck the notes down the side of the box, he picked up the box of money and looked around, she picked up the box of LPs and looked around—“I demand that you open this door!”—he wheeled for the couch, and she headed for the kitchenette.

There was a rattling of the doorknob. A brief silence, then the jangle of keys. A key in the lock.

Earl frowned and tilted his head. How did the sheriff get a key to his apartment?

The door slammed open. It was Ed Nelson. “Where is it?”

Earl and Jenny looked at each other. Earl looked back at the man. “Um—”

“You took something from Kent’s apartment.”

“Why would you think I did that?”

“Because the description was ‘an old geezer in a wheelchair’ ”—he glanced at Earl—“and ‘some chick.’  ” He smiled at Jenny. There was no friendliness in the expression.

Earl said weakly, “That could be anybody.”

“Let’s just say I had a hunch.” Nelson held out his hand. “Give it back. It doesn’t belong to you.”

Earl and Jenny exchanged looks again. Earl wondered what her God thought he should do now. He turned to Nelson, a smile creeping across his lips. “Call the sheriff. We could have an interesting discussion with him.”

Nelson hesitated. Then a Grinch-like smile curled his lips. “You know, I could make life very difficult for you.”

Jenny sat up. “Are you threatening him?”

“Who, me? Absolutely not.” Nelson raised his eyebrows. “All I’m pointing out is that life can be dangerous for an invalid. One simple filing error could result in medication being switched. One change in a person’s menu could bring disastrous consequences.” He narrowed his eyes. “Look what happened to Kent.” Nelson’s face went soft again, and he tsk-tsked. “Poor, poor man.” He looked at Earl. “Besides, who’s going to take your word over mine?”

Earl nodded, defeated. “You’re right,” he grumbled.

Nelson said, “Now give me that box, and I’ll be on my way.”

Jenny, shoulders slumped, went to the kitchenette and came back with the box of record albums. She set it down on the dining room table. “Here.”

Nelson saw the corner of a note sticking out, pulled it out, and looked at the scribbling. An expression almost crossed his face before he caught himself. He tilted his head toward Earl. “I bet you have the money, too.”

Earl’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. So he shut it. Turned the chair for the couch, tried to reach down, but found he couldn’t. He pointed. “Under there.”

Nelson shot a glance at Jenny then sidestepped over to the couch. Got on one knee, always keeping his eyes on Earl and Jenny. Without looking down, he leaned and felt under the couch. He jabbed his hand once, twice, then hit something. He smiled and looked down to drag the metal box out. He opened the lid. “It better all be here.”

"It is."

The man snatched the record albums, setting the metal box on top. At the door he stopped. “Mind your own business. You’ll be much safer.”

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