Characters in Finders Keepers

… jumps out of his skin, but it’s only Andrea Kellogg, the woman who does Linda Saubers’s hair once a month. Pete gives her a thumbs-up and what he hopes is a sunny grin. At least she doesn’t want to play Frisbee, he thinks. And here is the Rec, a three-story …

“And since you’re such a fan, here’s a little treat for you. In the last book, Jimmy meets Andrea Stone again. How about that?” The wolf’s eyes widen. “Andrea? He does? How? What happens?”

… on 23 Sycamore Street were being paid by Anita Elaine Bellamy. I did a Google search for her name and came up with over fifty hits, she’s sort of a famous academic, but only one hit that matters. Her son was tried and convicted of aggravated rape late that same …

Annie Davis says you bring him up often in Creative Writing. Claims the Gold trilogy is your Bible.” Pete supposed this was true, but he hadn’t realized how blabby he’d been until now. He resolved to stop talking about Rothstein so much. It might be dangerous.

With four hundred dollars in each one. From Arnold Abel, my accountant in New York. Jeannie cashes the expense checks and brings back the cash envelopes and I put them in the safe. Only I have few expenses, because Arnold also pays the major bills from New York.

Then she turned her head, setting her wattles in motion, and yelled, “Bert! Bertie! It’s Morrie Bellamy!” From the living room came a triple grunt that might have been how ya doin. “Come in, Morrie! Come in! I’ll put on coffee! And guess what?”

“Hum it!” Billy Tighe shouts, cutting across the lawn. His brown hair bounces. “Hum it hard!” Pete does so, but waves Billy off when he goes to throw him another.

Billy Webber came rolling up on a gleaming ten-speed. “Hey, Saubers!” Like almost everyone else (Mr. Ricker was an exception), Billy pronounced it Sobbers instead of SOW-bers, but what the hell. It was sort of a dipshit name however you said it.

… pretty popular, but his only close friend was Bob Pearson, from down the block? And they moved to Denver last year.” “What about a girlfriend?” “He used to spend a lot of time with Gloria Moore, but they broke up after Christmas. Pete said she didn’t like to read, and …

Pete Huntley used to call Brenda Wiggins FedEx, because she always delivered on time. The Bald Beater is James Belson, whose picture should probably be next to white trash in the dictionary. He’s a resident of the city’s Edgemont Avenue district, sometimes referred to as Hillbilly Heaven.

This next one, Buy the Book, is Buddy Franklin’s shop. He’s also okay—by which I mean honest—but Buddy doesn’t have much interest in twentieth-century fiction. His big deal is selling old maps and seventeenth-century atlases to rich guys in Branson Park and Sugar Heights.

… of an auto mechanic and part-time thief named Charles Roberson, who had been in Waynesville for twenty-seven years. Roberson got his freedom; Morris got Roberson’s eternal gratitude and nothing else . . . unless you counted his own growing reputation, and that was far from nothing. It had been a …

“After Miss Cora Ann Hooper . . .” He took a sheet of paper from his briefcase and consulted it. “This was shortly after she left the diner where she works as a waitress. She was heading for a bus stop on Lower Marlborough.

The shrink’s name was Curtis Larsen. The boys called him Curd the Turd. Curd the Turd always ended their sessions by asking Morris the same question: “Whose fault is it that you’re in here, Morris?” Most boys, even the cataclysmically stupid ones, knew the right answer to that question.

… the blanket in the living room, forgot about Curtis Rogers puking his guts in the roses or zinnias or petunias or whatever was growing out back. Jimmy Gold! Headed west, in a boxcar! Rothstein hadn’t been done with him, after all! “These’re full,” he told Freddy. “Take them out. I’ll …

… repo’ing cars and looking for a bail-jumper named Dejohn Frasier, who is almost certainly staying with his stepmom or ex-wife. Also, I’ll watch the Indians and possibly go to a movie.” Holly lights up. “Can I go to the movies with you?” “If you like.” “Can I pick?” “Only if …

Begging for more did no good. The one time he’d offered Elkins, the commissary trustee, a blowjob for a dozen extra sheets, Elkins had punched him in the face.

… “You know Ellen lost her job, right?” “Jesus, no. I didn’t know that.” Pretending he didn’t see the fear in Todd’s face. Or the glimmering of moisture in his eyes. Possibly from the booze or the cold. Possibly not.

9 Ellen Bran (known as Bran Stoker by students who have taken the Northfield High English Department’s Fantasy and Horror class) is standing by the door of a schoolbus parked …

She had finally made a friend, a bucktoothed girl named Ellen Briggs, who lived on the corner of Sycamore and Elm. Pete thought Ellen had the brains of a hamster, but at least Tina wasn’t always moping around the house, missing her friends in the old neighborhood, and sometimes crying.

Ellis McFarland was a large black gentleman with a vast sloping gut and a shining bald head. Tonight he was dressed in an acre of bluejeans and a Harley-Davidson tee-shirt, size XXL. Beside him was a battered old knapsack.

“Then tell me who I’m speaking to.” “Elmer Cafferty, temporarily at your service. You’re going to be arraigned in . . .” He looked at his watch, a Timex even cheaper than his suit. “Thirty minutes. Judge Bukowski is very prompt.”

The brains that had conceived Jimmy Gold, Jimmy’s sister Emma, and Jimmy’s self-involved, semi-alcoholic parents—so much like Morris’s own—were now drying on the wallpaper.

He does it during a CBS news special about the Holocaust.” When Mr. Ricker returned their papers, a big A+ was scrawled on Pete’s cover, which was a computer-scanned photo of Rothstein as a young man, sitting in Sardi’s with Ernest Hemingway.

… February 19, 1953 My dear Flannery O’Connor, I am in receipt of your wonderful novel, Wise Blood, which you have so kindly inscribed to me. I can say wonderful because I purchased a copy as soon as it came out, and read it immediately.

Freddy Dow came out of the study with a loaded duffel bag over each shoulder. Curtis followed, head down and carrying nothing at all. All at once he sped up, hooked around Freddy, and bolted into the kitchen.

Behind her, his father raised his martini glass and dropped him a wink. It suggested that, even though George Bellamy mostly resided beneath his wife’s thumb and thin smile, he would also fight under certain circumstances.

(Pete’s girlfriend, Gloria Moore, called him Pastor Ricky, because he had a habit of waving his hands above his head when he got excited.) Hardly anyone cut Mr. Ricker’s classes, though.

He stuffed the bills back into the envelope—not an easy job, because now his hands were shaking worse than Grampa Fred’s in the last year or two of his …

… She had signed over the pink to Harold Fineman, which happened to be the name of Jimmy Gold’s best friend in The Runner. She had never seen Morris Bellamy, who knew enough to stay out of sight while that particular deal went down.

One had a clipboard and was shouting names. “Bellamy! Holloway! McGiver! Riley! Roosevelt! Titgarden! Step forward!” “That’s Teagarden, sir,” said the large black man in the box next to Morris’s. “I don’t give a shit if it’s John Q. Motherfucker. If you want to talk to your court-appointed, step forward.

Howard Ricker, his sophomore English teacher, had also been life-changing, even though many kids made fun of him, calling him Ricky the Hippie because of the flower-power shirts and bellbottoms he favored.

… Hodges arrived, James Belson was indeed beating on Howie. He was doing this work with a rake-handle, his bald head gleaming with sweat in the sunlight. Belson’s brother-in-law was lying in his weedy driveway by the rear bumper of the Acura, kicking ineffectually at Belson and trying to shield his …

Four more problems and he could go down to Howie’s house. See if Howie had any new comic books. Pete certainly had none to trade; his allowance had gone the way of the cable TV.

… He pulls the slip and sees Irving Yankovic, $750. He hands the book to Elmer with a smile. “I remember this one especially. Andy—I guess he prefers Drew these days—told me he’s only going to charge you five hundred.

The Bald Beater is James Belson, whose picture should probably be next to white trash in the dictionary. He’s a resident of the city’s Edgemont Avenue district, sometimes referred to as Hillbilly Heaven.

“Found it!” his old pal exclaims. “James Graham has one, very fine as new, for just three hundred dol—” He ceases speaking as the blade of the hatchet floats first into his peripheral vision, then front and center. He looks up, his face slack with shock.

From Arnold Abel, my accountant in New York. Jeannie cashes the expense checks and brings back the cash envelopes and I put them in the safe. Only I have few expenses, because Arnold also pays the major bills from New York.

A voice from the bus calls out, “Hey Saubers! D’ja get any?” “Shut up, Jeremy,” Ellen says without turning. Then, to Pete: “I should give you a week’s detention for this little stunt, but I’m going to cut you some slack.”

… little postwar tract home deep in the Tree Streets but wandering the streets of New York City with Jimmy Gold. Like a boy in a dream, Morris went to the kitchen, donned oven gloves, removed the congealed mass from the oven, tossed it in the trash, …

… had been on the cover of Time magazine: JOHN ROTHSTEIN, AMERICA’S RECLUSIVE GENIUS. Wake up, genius. “Get your breath,” Mr. Yellow said. He sounded solicitous, but Rothstein did not trust this. “Then we’ll go into the living room, where normal people have their discussions. Take your time. Get serene.” Rothstein …

John Tighe, who lives on the corner of Sycamore and Elm, is out mowing his lawn. His son Bill is tossing a Frisbee to the family dog. It sails over the dog’s head and lands in the wagon, coming to rest between the two boxes. “Hum it!”

Judge Bukowski, that cunt. Morris prayed to a God he did not believe in as the door of his holding cell snapped back. Assault, God, okay? Simple, not ag. Just not murder.

… it’s only Andrea Kellogg, the woman who does Linda Saubers’s hair once a month. Pete gives her a thumbs-up and what he hopes is a sunny grin. At least she doesn’t want to play Frisbee, he thinks. And here is the Rec, a three-story brick box with a sign out …

Margaret Brennan, the author’s first wife, had been interviewed in Paris not long after the killing. “Everyone talked about him in that provincial little town where he lived,” she said. “What else did they have to talk about? Cows? Some farmer’s new manure spreader?

One had a clipboard and was shouting names. “Bellamy! Holloway! McGiver! Riley! Roosevelt! Titgarden! Step forward!” “That’s Teagarden, sir,” said the large black man in the box next to Morris’s. “I don’t give a shit if it’s John Q. Motherfucker. If you want to talk to your court-appointed, step forward.

Fucking Michael Jarrett in KC is now driving a Porsche. Drew has seen it on his Facebook page. His thoughts turn to his second meeting with Peter Saubers. He wishes the kid hadn’t found out about the third mortgage; that had been a turning point. Maybe the turning point.

… Miss Todd—then about the age Morris would be when he and his cohorts broke into John Rothstein’s house—asked him to stay after class. Morris lounged splay-legged at his desk as the other kids went out, expecting Todd to write him a detention slip.

It’s Mr. Evans, who used to coach Little League when there was still a league on this side of town. Pete played for him when Mr. Evans coached the Zoney’s Go-Mart Zebras. “Hey, Centerfield!” He’s leaned over to roll down the passenger window. Shit, Pete thinks. Shit-shit-shit.

And yet! There had to be more money. Mr. Feldman, the guidance counselor, told him that getting a full-boat scholarship to an Ivy League school was “rather unlikely,” and Pete knew even that was an exaggeration.

Mr. Haggerty, the school’s head janitor, is just coming up the stairs. He sees her stagger backward from the steaming puddle of whoopsie and trots toward her, his toolbelt jingling. “Hey, girl, you okay?” Tina gropes for the wall with an arm that feels made of plastic.

Go get her and take her home. I’ll cover this, and Mr. Jablonski has already called a sub.” “You’re a saint.” Linda is gathering up her books and putting them into her briefcase. “It’s probably a stomach thing,” Peggy says, sliding into the seat Linda has just vacated.

Mr. Jacoby liked to say in history class that knowledge was power, and Pete supposed that was why he felt compelled to monitor his parents’ escalating war of words.

No human being is as real to Red Lips as Jimmy Gold, Andrea Stone, Mr. Meeker, Pierre Retonne (also known as The Car Salesman of Doom), and all the rest.

Pete is in period three Advanced Physics, and although his eyes are trained on Mr. Norton, who is rhapsodizing about the Higgs boson and the CERN Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, the mind behind those eyes is much closer to home.

… to the prescription counter at the back, where Mr. Pelkey throws him a friendly salute. “Yo, Pete. What can I get you today?” “Nothing, Mr. Pelkey, we’re all fine, but there are a couple of kids after me because I wouldn’t let them copy some answers from our take-home history …

He genuinely forgot the class officers’ retreat, and when Mrs. Gibson, the chaperone, reminded him of it yesterday, it shocked his brain into a higher gear.

… like a lump, and all at once, while Mrs. Sloan is performing “Annabel Lee” (Mrs. Sloan never just reads), that lump of undigested food starts to crawl up her throat and toward the exit. She raises her hand. It seems to weigh at least ten pounds, but she holds it …

He deserved a nap. That name, though—Jimmy Gold. Pete could swear he’d heard it before. In class, maybe? Mrs. Swidrowski giving them background on one of the authors they were reading? Maybe. She liked to do that. Maybe I’ll google it later on, Pete thought. I could do that.

Hodges recalls one of them, Paul Emerson. Good police, long retired. He’s wearing a suit. So is the other detective, but that one has draped his coat over Bellamy’s hands to hide the handcuffs he’s wearing.

His first priority was Pauline Muller. Most of the people on Sycamore Street were so wedded to their televisions once prime time started that they wouldn’t have noticed a UFO if one landed on their lawn, but that wasn’t true of Mrs. Muller; the Bellamys’ next-door neighbor had raised snooping …

… mid-morning activity period at Northfield Elementary School when Peggy Moran comes in and tells her that her daughter has been taken sick at Dorton Middle, some three miles away. “She’s in the nurse’s office,” Peggy says, keeping her voice low. “I understand she vomited and then sort of passed out …

This was a hulking senior football player named Pete Womack, who didn’t care for the way Morris was checking out his girlfriend one lunch period in the cafeteria. “What are you looking at, rat-face?” Womack enquired, as the tables around Morris’s solitary position grew silent. “Her,” Morris said.

I’m thinking that was your brother-in-law, Peter Jamieson, who was arrested early this morning in Fields, Virginia.” Madden blinks and recoils, as if Hodges has suddenly thrust a hand at his face. Jamieson really is Madden’s brother-in-law, but he hasn’t been arrested. At least not to Hodges’s knowledge.

… The boy then launched into a bullshit story Drew barely listened to, something about how his uncle Phil in Cleveland had died and willed his book collection to young James, and there had been six Moleskine notebooks packed in with the …

The Parole Board—now three men and three women—was convened in the conference room. Philip Downs, the Board’s legal counsel, made lucky seven. He read a letter from Cora Ann Hooper. It was an amazing letter. The bitch had cancer. That was good news, but what followed was even better.

When Officer Philip Ellenton hauled you off, you were still matriculating.” “Rape. Why would I . . .” Stupid question. Why had he spent three long hours tearing up that home in Sugar Heights, just taking a short break to piss on the Aubusson carpet?

No human being is as real to Red Lips as Jimmy Gold, Andrea Stone, Mr. Meeker, Pierre Retonne (also known as The Car Salesman of Doom), and all the rest.

After a full and fair exchange of views, Priscilla and I have agreed to break up. It’s a long story, and not very interesting. Anyway, I decided to drive home and get some of my ma’s cooking.” “Don’t call me Ma,” Tanya says. “It’s vulgar.”

One had a clipboard and was shouting names. “Bellamy! Holloway! McGiver! Riley! Roosevelt! Titgarden! Step forward!” “That’s Teagarden, sir,” said the large black man in the box next to Morris’s. “I don’t give a shit if it’s John Q. Motherfucker. If you want to talk to your court-appointed, step forward.

“How’s your son?” he asked Becky. “Hasn’t fallen out of any trees lately, I hope.” “No, Robby’s fine and dandy. Read today’s paper yet, Mr. Hodges?” “Haven’t even taken it out of the bag yet.”

Rolf Venziano, in the next cell, told Morris that Roy Allgood had been taken to the infirmary. When Allgood returned the next day, both his eyes were black and his nose had been splinted. He looked at Morris from his bunk, then rolled over and faced the wall.

One had a clipboard and was shouting names. “Bellamy! Holloway! McGiver! Riley! Roosevelt! Titgarden! Step forward!” “That’s Teagarden, sir,” said the large black man in the box next to Morris’s. “I don’t give a shit if it’s John Q. Motherfucker. If you want to talk to your court-appointed, step forward.

It was spring vacation, and his friend Rory invited him to go to Disney World with their family. That was a bad birthday, because I was so jealous he got to go and I . . .” She stops, looking first at Barbara, then at Hodges, finally at Holly, upon …

His cellmate, a convicted murderer named Roy Allgood, raped him for the first time forty-five minutes after lights-out. “Hold still and don’t you shit on my cock, young man,” he whispered in Morris’s ear. “If you do that, I’ll cut your nose.

Stew Logan looked the same, too.

Holloway! McGiver! Riley! Roosevelt! Titgarden! Step forward!” “That’s Teagarden, sir,” said the large black man in the box next to Morris’s. “I don’t give a shit if it’s John Q. Motherfucker. If you want to talk to your court-appointed, step forward. If you don’t, sit there and stack more time.”

… Books would have been your best bet when Teddy Grissom was still alive, but his son runs the shop now, and he’s a bit of a tightwad. Honest, but close with a buck. He’d say it’s the times, but it’s also his nature.” “Okay . . .” “I assume you’ve …

What my dad calls earnest money.” Mr. Ricker nodded. “That sounds about right. Teddy Junior would start you at eight hundred. You might get him up to a grand, but if you kept pushing, he’d get his back up and tell you to take a hike.

“Let’s start with your full name.” “Tina Annette Saubers.” Saubers. That tinkles a faint bell. Some old case? Maybe. “What’s troubling you, Tina?” “My brother stole some money.” Whispering it. Eyes welling again. “Maybe a lot of money. And he can’t give it back, because it’s gone.

It was little comfort to Linda that Tom’s best friend, Todd Paine, was in the same boat. She thought Todd was a dingbat. “Have you seen the weather forecast? I have. It’s going to be cold. Fog off the lake by morning, maybe even freezing drizzle. Freezing drizzle, Tom.” “Good.

“I’m Warren Duckworth. Most folks call me Duck.” “I’m Morris Bel—” “I know who you are. Write purty well, do you?” “Yes.” Morris spoke with no hesitation or false modesty. The way Roy Allgood had suddenly found another place to be wasn’t lost on him.

Drew has been in a little theater group for thirty years now (funny how time glides away . . . only not really), and he thinks William would make a perfectly adequate Romeo, always assuming he could act. And good waiters always can, a little.

On his money. At least Yolande, his second effort at marital bliss, was dead, thus putting an end to the alimony. Red Mask left the room, and now Rothstein heard rummaging in his study. Something fell over. Drawers were opened and closed. “Doing better?”