“My mom, dad, two brothers, and me live in one of them. We don’t even have running water.”
Alix didn’t know what to say, so she kept silent.
“We take turns hauling water from the faucet,” Mandy said. “I sleep on the couch. Last week we had egg sandwiches for supper four days.”
“Mandy, why are you telling me all this?”
“I just want you to know where I’m coming from.” The girl began to pace around the room the way she had at the launderette, examining things and humming a vaguely recognizable rock tune. The lyrics, Alix recalled, had something to do with wanting to “get it on all night.” At Mandy’s age she wouldn’t have even considered getting it on all night, much less sung about it. Mandy was obviously much more precocious; she had a tough, put-on assurance that might have been amusing if she hadn’t been so serious.
She said, “Suppose you tell me why you’re here.”
Mandy stopped pacing. “I wanted to talk. You’re from California, right? Someplace near San Francisco?”
“Yes.”
“Nice there.”
“Yes.”
“What do you think of Hilliard?”
Alix debated an answer, but took too long for Mandy’s liking; the girl answered her own question.
“Well, I hate it!”
The outburst cracked her tough-girl veneer. Alix took advantage of it and asked her, “Why, Mandy?”
“It’s ugly and cold, and everybody’s poor. There’s nothing to do but go to church or to the fucking Bingo games at the community center. I hate living in that trailer. We used to rent a house, but when my dad lost his boat we couldn’t even afford that. My mother used to have a dream that someday we’d own our own house, somewhere nice like Bandon or Coos Bay, but that’ll never happen. She doesn’t dream about anything anymore.”
“Don’t you have friends in the village? At school?”
“I dropped out this year.”
“Why?”
“Why not? Sitting in school wasn’t getting me anywhere and I had a chance to go to work at a boutique in Bandon. But that fell through. Besides, my dad’s got a high school diploma and look what it’s done for him.”
“What about your friend in the green Chevvy?”
“Him? He’s just my connection for dope. That’s about the only other thing there is to do around here-smoke dope. And get it on on weekends. But that doesn’t mean he’s my friend.” She met Alix’s eyes defiantly; the tough veneer had hardened again.
Alix kept her expression neutral. “Okay, now I know where you’re coming from. What do you want?”
“I’ve got a business proposition for you.”
“Oh? What sort of business proposition?”
“I want to get out of Hilliard. Go to California. L.A., maybe.”
“And do what? Try to get into the movies?”
“God, no! I may live in a hick town but that doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Nobody goes to Hollywood and gets rich and famous anymore; that’s a lot of shit. But I figure I could get by down there, and at least it’s sunny and warm.”
“How would you ‘get by’? By turning tricks?”
“What?”
“Prostitution, Mandy.”
“If I have to. That’s no big thing.”
Alix sighed.
“Anyway,” Mandy said, “I’ve got it figured out-the price of a bus ticket and enough money to keep me going until I can find a job or something. And what I’ve got to sell is worth just about what I’ll need.”
“Sell?”
“To you, Mrs. Ryerson.”
“Now what could you possibly have to sell to me?”
“Information. Something I heard.”
“What would that be?”
“Come on. If I told you, I wouldn’t have anything to sell.”
“Look, Mandy-”
“Five hundred dollars,” Mandy said. “Cash.”
“Five hundred-! That’s ridiculous!”
“You think so? Well, you’d better think twice, Mrs. Ryerson. What I heard could be important to you. Very important.”
The girl’s nerve was appalling. But Alix sensed a desperation underneath her hard demeanor; even though Mandy’s stance and tone of voice were aggressive, her fingers clenched and unclenched spasmodically. When she saw Alix looking at them she hid her hands in the folds of her poncho.
“Mandy,” Alix said, “do you know what the name for this sort of thing is?”
“Blackmail, so what?”
“Not blackmail. Extortion. You can be put in jail for it.”
“Don’t give me that. You’re not going to call the sheriff on me.”
“I could call your parents.”
The girl laughed. “Good luck. We’re so poor, we don’t even have a phone.”
“You just don’t realize what you’re doing to yourself, do you? In the first place, I’m not about to give you five hundred dollars, no matter what you think. In the second place, even if you did manage to get to Los Angeles, you’d probably live to regret it. There are men down there who prey on young girls like you-”
“Stop talking down to me! I know all about pimps and pushers, I know all I need to know. I’m not some stupid hick kid you can feel sorry for!”
Mandy’s face had reddened with this new outburst; for a moment Alix thought she was going to stamp her foot as she had in the launderette when her mother told her she couldn’t have a Coke. Instead, she spun away and stormed across the room to the door.
“Mandy-”
“No, you listen to me, Mrs. Ryerson. If you don’t get that money for me you’ll be sorry, you and your husband both. Real sorry.” And then she was gone, slamming the door behind her.
Alix went into the kitchen, stood uneasily watching the girl half-walk, half-run down to the gate. What could Mandy have heard that would lead her to hatch such a fantastic extortion scheme? What sort of “information” was worth five hundred dollars, even in her immature mind?
If you don’t get that money for me you’ll be sorry, you and your husband both. Real sorry.
What could she possibly know?
Jan
It was late Wednesday afternoon when he finally left Portland.
He had intended to leave much earlier, around two, but the garage where he’d taken the Ford to have the damage repaired had failed miserably in their promise to have the car ready by one; he’d spent most of the afternoon wandering through secondhand bookshops, looking for (and not finding) unfamiliar lighthouse material, and it was almost four by the time he finally ransomed the station wagon. Then he stopped at a place on S.E. 3rd that sold and serviced air compressors and picked up a tank for the one that operated the diaphone. It was rush hour by the time he finished there; it took him almost an hour to get out of the city and ten miles down Highway 5.
Freeway driving usually relaxed him, but not this evening. He felt tired, tense, grouchy, and the monotonous flow of miles did nothing to ease any of those feelings. He kept fiddling with the radio-not looking for anything but noise, yet not satisfied with call-in shows, news programs, or music of any kind. None of it kept him from
