The Bubble Gum Thief Read online

  “It reminds me of your work, Mike.”

  Mike pointed to the young Mexican in the painting. “That’s a young Diego Rodriguez. It’s a self-portrait. He came over in ’81. Took the amnesty in ’86. He used to sell his stuff on Sunday mornings at Eastern Market. That’s where I met him. He taught me more than any professor ever did.”

  They walked around the rest of the exhibit. Together, Diego’s paintings seemed to tell a single story of Mexican immigrants pursuing the American Dream. Unlike most modern art, Diego’s was vibrant and alive and inspiring. It was like Mike’s, except that Mike’s was better. Mike’s work should be here, too, Dagny thought.

  CHAPTER 9

  February 15—Columbus, Ohio

  Melissa Ryder snipped the price tag off her pink lace Victoria’s Secret V-string underwear. She tossed the tag into the trash, dropped to her dorm room floor, and sighed. She didn’t want to go to the Black Out party at the Sigma Epsilon house, but Janet Hodges was her best friend, and Janet liked skinny white boys in OSU ball caps. That was pretty much everyone in Sigma Epsilon.

  It was never much fun to go to parties with Janet, even the cool parties with the introverted boys who liked jazz or read Kerouac. Janet was beautiful. Melissa was “cute enough.” Her mom had told her that in high school: “Don’t be silly, Melissa, you’re cute enough.” Standing next to Janet made her feel barely cute. Or barely there. When Janet was around, Melissa was the invisible woman, even to the geeks and outcasts.

  The Black Out party was an illegal party, a vile and filthy annual affair that had led to a yearlong suspension for the Sigma Epsilon house just three years ago. At Black Out parties, cardboard boxes were ripped apart and taped to the frat house windows, so at midnight, when the frat brothers killed the lights, it was pitch black inside. Under the cover of darkness, things happened that shouldn’t, and no one was quite sure with whom they happened. Melissa had heard that the boys would put on night-vision goggles and trade women back and forth without them knowing.

  This was not the reason the Sigma Epsilon house had been suspended.

  At the Black Out party, all of the men wore blackface. This was the reason the Sigma Epsilon house had been suspended.

  “But it’s different now,” Janet pleaded. It wasn’t any different, Melissa thought, as she walked past the two boys manning the door, slathering greasepaint on every guy who entered. Melissa noted that the racist routine had been updated. No longer were the white boys pantomiming slaves and servants; now they were decked out in wifebeaters and grills and bling, and grinding to Snoop, Childish Gambino, and 50 Cent, or “Fitty,” as they were wont to call him.

  Red lights pulsated to the beat of the music. People were dancing—or moving, anyway—shaking and swaying and stumbling. A girl in a short skirt with a bare midriff was giving a lap dance to a boy sitting on a couch. Two other girls were kissing, to the delight of a group of boys gathered around them. Everyone held plastic cups; none of the cups stayed full very long, and none of them stayed empty either. There was lots of beer but no food.

  A black man wearing blackface and a ball cap walked by Melissa. He was smiling and talking with some cute white girls. Wasn’t he offended by this? The women at the party were giggling, smiling, laughing, flirting, kissing, and grinding. Didn’t they know this was wrong? Didn’t they realize that by being here, they were condoning this behavior? Melissa paused for a moment. She was at this party, which meant she was condoning this behavior. When she turned to tell Janet that she wanted to leave, Janet was gone.

  Someone put a beer in Melissa’s hand; without Janet, she was visible again. Melissa decided to leave after she finished her beer. Then when she finished her cup, she decided to dance for just one song. But then they played the Jay-Z and Beyoncé hit she liked, and a Fat Joe song after that. While she danced, she thought about how much she hated these people, how mad she was at Janet for ditching her so quickly, and how she had to finish writing a paper for her journalism class. As the evening drew closer to midnight, Melissa noticed that men and women were pairing up and that she was going to be one of the leftovers, again.

  A tall man walked over. He seemed a lot older, but it was hard to tell behind the blackface. He wasn’t skinny like most of them; he was fit and built. Handing her a seventh beer, he whispered in her ear so she could hear over the noise. “This party sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He turned his ear to her mouth and she whispered back, “It’s awful. It’s racist and sexist and awful.”

  “I’m writing an article about it.”

  “What?”

  “I’m writing an article about it.”

  “You’re a reporter?”

  “Yes.”

  “And they let you in?”

  “The guys manning the door aren’t exactly at the top of their game.”

  He was right about that. One of the doormen was crouched on the floor, throwing up. The other was laughing hysterically, and then he fell to the floor as well.

  “Are you with the Dispatch?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Do you read it?”

  “Of course, I’m a journalism major.”

  “That’s great. Are you covering this party, too?”

  “I should be, but no. I came with a friend.”

  “Where is he?”

  “She.”

  “What?”

  “She!” Melissa yelled over the noise of the crowd.

  “Where’d she go?”

  Melissa shrugged.

  “She just abandoned you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Some friend.”

  “I know.”

  “What?”

  “I know!”

  “You want to go upstairs and find somewhere that we could actually have a conversation?” he suggested.

  “Very much.”

  Grabbing her hand, he led her up the stairs. He opened the first door at the top of the steps, looked in, then closed it quickly. “We don’t want to go in there.” They continued down the hallway to an empty room at the end. There were no posters on the wall. The shelves were bare. There was just a double bed, neatly made. “Must be a guest room,” she said softly. They sat on the bed.

  “Would you like some gum?” He handed her a pack of Chewey’s. It was already opened, and three pieces were gone.

  “Sure.” Was her breath bad? She grabbed a piece by its silver wrapper and slid it from the pack, then removed the gum and folded it into her mouth. He was older than she first thought, maybe even forty, but he was very handsome. “How long have you been at the Dispatch?”

  “I’ve been there a long time.”

  “What do you cover?”

  “I’m on the crime beat.”

  “Why are you here tonight? Is this a crime?” She giggled.

  “It will be. How are you feeling?”

  “What?” It was hard to follow him. “Will be?”

  “How are you feeling?”

  It was a strange question. “I feel fine. I just feel a little...”

  “A little?”

  “I just feel a little...” Was it dizzy? Was it tired?

  “Maybe you should lie down,” the man suggested. Melissa slid down on to the bed, and he lifted her feet up to the mattress. He walked over to the door and locked it. “Because of your father, Melissa.”

  His words were slurred. Or was it her hearing? “What?”

  “Your father.” It was the last thing she heard.

  Everything after that was hazy. She felt some jostling, some nausea, a heavy weight pushing down on her. After a couple of minutes, everything went black.

  When she woke a few hours later, she was certain something awful had happened. She tried to get out of bed but slipped to the floor. Her legs ached. She struggled to stand again, then hobbled to the bedroom door and down the steps. The few people she passed along the way were asleep. Outside, the cold winter air helped wake her as she stumbled across the campus, back to her dorm. She fished through her pocket and found
her card key, flashed it at the door, and entered the building. She climbed a staircase and turned right, passed seven doors, and found her own.

  She closed the door behind her and finally felt safe. Still, it took a few minutes before she realized that the loud wheezing sound she heard wasn’t a neighbor’s alarm clock; it was coming from her.

  Slumping to the floor, Melissa leaned against the wall and brought her knees to her chest. She tried to count the blocks in the wall, but they were shaking. She tried to count the beats of her heart, but they were too fast. She counted the passing seconds, as they tumbled into minutes and hours. And then a calm came, as the distant hum of a furnace filled her ears like the gentle crash of ocean waves, washing away her thoughts. It could have been a minute or an hour, but she held to it with all her might, even as she felt it slipping away. And when it was gone, the storm returned.

  Suddenly, her clothes were disgusting—they had to be removed, maybe destroyed. She jumped to her feet and tore off her shirt, shed her skirt, and ripped away her bra. When she kicked her shoes into the closet, she caught a glance in the mirror. Her underwear—her nice, new pair—was ruined. Stained by her blood. She tore them off and flung them into the garbage. Something was inside her. Reaching between her legs, she removed a blood-soaked piece of paper. She unfolded it and tried to make out the letters.

  THIS IS MY FOURTH CRIME.

  MY NEXT WILL BE BIGGER.

  Her thumb stuck to something on the other side of the card. It was a chewed piece of gum. She tossed the card into the trash, dropped to the floor, and sobbed.

  CHAPTER 10

  February 26—Alexandria, Virginia

  In Washington, DC, homes, restaurants, and schools are expensive, but you can sail on the cheap. The Sailing Club of Washington operates out of the Washington Sailing Marina on Daingerfield Island, next to Reagan National Airport, in Alexandria, Virginia. For seventy-five dollars, you can take a SCOW course. If you pass a test, you become a skipper. For an additional hundred dollars a year, a skipper can use any of SCOW’s four nineteen-foot Flying Scots.

  Dagny and Mike unclipped the blue tarp covering the Danschweida, placed it into a dry slip bag, and set it on the grass. They lifted the front of the trailer by the hitch, walked it across the lot toward the dock, and backed its wheels against a concrete parking block next to the water and a twenty-foot crane. Dagny rotated the crane until it was above the boat, then pushed a button to lower a thick steel hook and chain. Mike attached the hook to the boat’s hosting bridle, and they lowered the boat into the water. Dagny walked the boat halfway down the wood pier, where she cleated it. Then they returned the empty trailer to its original spot, next to the other boats.

  “I didn’t realize it’d be such a chore,” Mike said.

  “A lot more to do.”

  When they returned, the boat was bobbing in the water, tugging at the rope. Dagny leaped from the pier and landed on the deck, then stepped down into the eight-foot hull. Two molded-plastic benches ran along each side. She sat on the port side. The boom for the mainsail ran across the middle, resting on a crutch and dividing the hull. Dagny smiled over at Mike. He tossed her his backpack and then stared nervously at the boat’s deck while the boat thrashed up and down in the waves.

  “It’s like a three-foot jump, for crying out loud,” she teased.

  “More like six,” he said, “and it’s bobbing like crazy.”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  That worked. He jumped from pier to deck, then stepped to the starboard side of the hull. Dagny spent the next five minutes explaining how they’d lift the mainsail. Mike interrupted her before she could finish. “Why are my feet getting wet?”

  Dagny looked down and saw that water was starting to pool at the bottom of the hull. “We forgot to plug the boat,” she laughed.

  “We?” He shook his head and smiled. “This isn’t exactly inspiring confidence.”

  “I didn’t realize you were such a wimp about getting a little wet.”

  “I didn’t realize that I was supposed to bring a bucket.” They jumped off the Danschweida and walked it back to the crane, then lifted the boat into the air and drained the water from the hull. Dagny plugged the drain, and they lowered the boat back into the water and readied it for sailing once again.

  The sails caught wind, and they headed north, around the lighted jetty extending from the airport runway toward the Jefferson Memorial. When the wind died down, Mike reached into his backpack and retrieved a thermos. Hot chocolate. A hundred and thirteen molten calories, Dagny thought. But she needed every one of them, and it would keep her warm. She leaned back against Mike’s chest as they floated on the Potomac. He put his arm across her and kissed her cheek. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “It’s wonderful.”

  Aside from the roar of the occasional airplane, they drifted in a comfortable silence...until Dagny’s phone rang.

  Dagny looked at the screen. “Oh God.”

  “Who is it?”

  “My mother.” She had dodged her mother’s last three calls. It didn’t feel right to dodge a fourth.

  “You should take it.”

  Before she could decide what to do, Mike grabbed the phone, tapped the screen, and held it to her ear.

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ve been tied up.” Dagny pulled away from Mike and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m worried sick, that’s how. You know I worry when you don’t answer your phone. Is that why you took that job—so that I could worry all the time?”

  “Yes, Mom. That’s why I joined the FBI.” Mike smirked and she hit him again. “You know I just sit at a desk all day.” She had told this lie a thousand times.

  “Then why do you carry that gun?”

  “Because we all have to, Mom. It’s just the rules.”

  “I don’t like it one bit.”

  Her mother’s calls were always like this. “Why are you calling, Mom?”

  “Because I miss my daughter, that’s why. How’s that man you’re dating?”

  “Just fine, Mom.”

  “Is he treating you well?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Do you think he could be the one?”

  “I don’t even know what that means, Mom.”

  “Of course you do. Why do you have to be so difficult?”

  “Look, Mom—”

  “Dagny, just tell me if you’re falling in love with him.”

  “I can’t talk about that right now.”

  “Why not? Oh, wait a minute. Is he there right now?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I talked to Herb Roseman the other day. They need help in their litigation department.”

  “I’m done with law, Mom, and I’m not moving back to St. Louis.”

  “You’d make more money, Dagny. And you wouldn’t have to carry that awful gun.”

  “I’m happy doing what I’m doing, Mom.”

  “Are you eating?”

  “Yes, Mom. I am.”

  “I want to get one of those camera things so I can see if you’re eating.”

  “You don’t even have a computer.”

  “I want to get one. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “We’re not getting webcams.”

  “Well, we’ll talk about that later. But I—”

  “Can I call you back later?”

  “You promise you will?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Tell Mike I said hi.”

  “I will.”

  “No, I mean right now.”

  “Mom, I have to go.”

  “Call me later.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, Dagny.”

  “I love you, too.” Dagny hung up the phone, and then screamed.

  Mike wrapped his strong arms around her, pressing her back against his chest, and kissed her neck. “Desk job, hu
h?”

  “She worries enough already.”

  “I worry, too.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Dagny that Mike would worry about her. “I’m just in class now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

  “And when the course is over?”

  “Back to work.”

  “More gunfights in New York?”

  “That’s part of the package.”

  “I know,” he said. And then again, more softly, “I know.”

  Later that night, as Mike slept beside her, Dagny tossed and turned. She hadn’t given much thought to how her career might interfere with her future relationships when she joined the FBI. Being an agent meant strange hours, a lot of travel, and too much danger. Signing up for the Bureau had been an admittedly selfish choice she’d made as a single woman with no attachments. It wasn’t a great life for a wife, or a mother. Did she even want kids? A couple of months ago, she would have said no. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

  At one thirty, she got out of bed and descended the spiral staircase to the second floor. Mike had drawn a curtain across his studio space; he had told her he was working on a surprise. Dagny resisted the temptation to take a peek and continued down the next flight of stairs, through the living area and kitchen to Mike’s rendition of the van Eyck in the entry hall.

  She loved looking at the small details in the painting—the figure of a woman carved into the bedpost, the apple sitting on the windowsill, the leaves of the trees through the cracked window...the wedding ring on the wife’s finger, stuck at the middle joint, too small for her. After a few minutes, she walked upstairs and climbed back in bed. It must have been easier to think about the Arnolfinis than her future, because she drifted off quickly.

  She woke at four and tiptoed to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and climbed onto his scale. Three red numerals: 1-1-9. Glancing in the mirror, she saw Mike in the bathroom doorway, wearing his blue boxer shorts and leaning against the doorframe.