Mail Order Massacres. Hunter Shea

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СКАЧАТЬ a sheaf of papers in her trembling hands.

      David looked around, searching for some bags or a shopping cart.

      “I was wondering if you could post these signs for me. I tried, but I’m just not up to it. I’ll give you each a dollar.”

      Patrick said, “Sure, we’d be happy to help.”

      “Thank you so much. Here, you can use these.” She handed Patrick a box of thumbtacks.

      David looked at the top flier. It had a picture of a white Yorkie with the word MISSING printed above. The dog’s name was Reggie and it had gone missing two days ago. The flier listed a number to call if anyone found Reggie, along with the promise of a reward.

      There were tears in the old lady’s eyes.

      “I miss him so much, but my heart isn’t made for this kind of heat.”

      “I hope someone finds your dog,” Patrick said. She patted his head.

      “You keep your eyes out, too. You’re such nice boys. If I’m going to reward anyone, I hope it’s you.”

      She slowly tottered to her car, which was parked in the yellow loading zone, and drove off, the power steering screeching like a box of angry bats.

      David said, “We should put one on the bulletin board inside the store.”

      “And cool off for a minute.”

      They walked in the out door. The big corkboard was chock-full of papers.

      And most of them were notices of missing cats and dogs.

      Little Reggie was just one among many. The boys read the pleas to find people’s cherished pets until the manager shooed them away.

      “I don’t mind your little enterprise outside, boys, but I can’t have you clogging up the exit.”

      They left without protest, the heat smacking them in the face.

      “What, did someone go around stealing everyone’s pets?” Patrick asked.

      “I don’t know. Come on, let’s stick these on some poles.”

      For thirteen-year-olds, reality is what they make of their own little world. For David and Patrick, that reality revolved around comics, movies, baseball and swimming.

      Neither had been aware of the preponderance of missing cat and dog posters popping up all around town the past week. Desperate notices to find lost dogs had been stapled over sad stories of a little girl’s cat, Sabrina, that had gone out one day and never returned. It seemed as if there were more missing pets than ones actually safe at home.

      “This is crazy,” David said.

      “Way crazy.”

      True to their word, and because they wanted to earn that dollar, they found the few bare spots left to put up the missing Reggie fliers. It left them uneasy, at least until they got home and started talking about the Godzilla movies they were going to see the next day.

      “You smell that?” Patrick said as they turned the corner to their block.

      “Whoever smelt it, dealt it.”

      “If I beefed like that, call a doctor.”

      They saw the old jerk Ernie walking away from them, holding a can of something. Thank God he didn’t see them. He’d try to tell them he’d bought the sidewalk’s rights from the city again and order them off it.

      “Maybe Ernie finally cleaned out that garbage can,” David said.

      Patrick had forgotten that they’d hidden the sea serpent tank in his garbage. He hoped the smell made Ernie sick.

      He laughed. “Oh yeah. I bet that made his day.”

      They high-fived, agreeing to get Alan, Chris, Mike and Jimmy together for a post-dinner Wiffle ball tournament. They also decided to do a little searching for cats and dogs every day. The reward money paid a lot more than hauling bags outside Shopwell or cutting lawns. Everyone’s loss would definitely be their gain.

      Chapter Six

      “Welcome to Rome! And you know what they say when you’re there,” Robert Cort said to Bill and Annie Baxter. He held a wooden bowl in his hands. Bill dropped his car keys in the bowl, even though his car was still in the garage around the block.

      “You really went all out tonight,” Bill said, taking in the decorated yard. Torches lined the rectangular patch of property, casting a warm glow. Roman columns made of cardboard and expertly painted were tacked over the doorway to the house. Bowls of grapes and metal goblets of wine were everywhere. The partiers wore togas, and from what Bill could see when Robert’s wife Phyllis bent over to pick something up off the floor, little else. For a woman who’d had three kids, she still had an amazing ass.

      “No pressure when it’s your turn,” Robert said, putting the full bowl down.

      “We’ll just hire Phyllis to put it together,” Annie said. Phyllis ran a local theater, so she had the skills and access to a ton of props.

      “You know me,” Robert said, offering them some togas. “I don’t mind sharing.”

      Bill and Annie laughed.

      These key parties had been Robert’s idea two summers ago. Bill thought his neighbor had lost his mind, but when word got around after the first party about what a hit it had been, he’d convinced Annie to at least go to one. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do.

      That was two years and over a dozen parties ago. He and Annie were old pros by now. Sure, there was still a nervous edge when they walked in, but a little wine and a joint or two helped smooth things out.

      “Full house tonight,” Bill said. All of the regulars were there, including a new couple. They were younger than most, the wife with radiant red hair and an impressive chest, her hard nipples straining the fabric of the toga. Bill hoped he pulled her key tonight. He’d had everyone else at the party before. It would be nice to try someone new. Annie was eyeballing the husband, too. This could be a very good night, he thought.

      And the best part was the sex after the party. He and Annie boinked like teenagers for months after a key party. Each new encounter was a time release aphrodisiac.

      “I don’t see the Estradas,” Annie said.

      Robert put on an exaggerated frown. “They called and said they couldn’t make it. George has a stomach thing. Next time. Now, get changed and I’ll pour some wine.”

      They walked into the kitchen. There were more bottles of booze on the counter than a proper British tavern. Bill added a bottle of Wild Turkey to the collection. Well-versed with the process, they went to the spare bedroom off the kitchen, stripped down, folded their clothes neatly and placed them next to the other stacks of “regular” clothes.

      “Come here.”

      Bill pressed his body against Annie, his hands gravitating to her ass, СКАЧАТЬ