Some More Pulp Friday (PF 4)

I really, really do want to make a regularly scheduled time of this, but that's proving difficult. This next week should see an actual Friday of pulp. Now, on with the show...

Previously on Pulp Friday:

PF 1
PF 2
PF 3

"Well, goddammit if there wasn't a helluva lotta hollering by some guy and moaning by some woman the past 20, 30 minutes," Brian says. "My kid started screaming ten minutes ago and I started pounding on the ceiling, but you just made more noise. Sounded like you had three people up here having a wrestling match."

My downstairs neighbor Brian is chewing me out for making a racket above his apartment. My only contribution to the racket was getting clobbered by the three intruders in my apartment who are really responsible for Brian's screaming kid. Brian's kid is notoriously light sleeper, but Brian would say I'm a notoriously heavy walker. It's a neighborly mutual disagreement that we don't deal with too well in this building of creaking floors and thin ceilings. This time, I'm hoping the standard Brian tirade will help me figure out what three unknown people were doing in my apartment.

I say, "I haven't been yelling and I certainly haven't been talking about honeymoon plans, like you said I have, but I sure as hell have money problems. So I don't know where you're-"

"Well, someone was hollering and some woman was crying and mumbling about how she didn't do it and you were only making more noise-"

"How do you know it was my voice? You always chew on me for my heavy feet, not for my conversations."

"Well...okay, but who else could it be but you?" Brian says. "You're the only one who lives up here."

"Yes, and I never have company, and I'm at work until this time, so it wasn't me you heard yelling."

Brian's face goes bewildered. "That doesn't make sense."

"I know," I say, "so can you help me with that? What exactly did you hear?"

Brian's bewilder-face gets tighter. "I don't know, you can't hardly tell with noise from upstairs."

"Yes, but you mentioned something about a honeymoon and money."

"Yeah," Brian says, "You, or whoever, was saying that the honeymoon was supposed to be where you left something. That Maui was the spot and she failed and was going to be really sorry."

"Who failed?" I ask.

"I guess whoever that girl was who here. Ginny or something."

I take a beat. "Ginny?"

"Yeah, something like that," Brian says.

"Could it have been Jenny?"

Brian frowns and says, "I don't know, maybe. Why does it matter?"

"My ex-wife's name was Jenny."

"So?" Brian asks. "Pretty common name for women."

"We had our honeymoon in Maui."

"Oh." Brian takes a breath. "Still, that's nothing, I mean-"

"Did you hear anything about Kihei?"

"Key-HEY?" Brian says, "What the hell's-"

"Did you?"

Brian stares at me and says nothing, so I add, "It's a place in Maui. It's on the middle of the island, but still on the seashore."

A little something clicks and Brian says, "Oh, that was it. Okay. Yeah, now that makes sense. Yeah, I did hear that word a few times."

I say nothing because I hope this doesn't mean what I think it means.

Brian finally says, "You're not actually thinking your ex-wife was up here arguing with someone else, are you?"

"Couldn't be," I say, "She's dead."

"Huh?"

Just then, there's a huge crash from the landing below. It sounds like something big just plowed its way through the front door to the building. As the sound of the crash and tinkling glass end, there's a high wailing sound that fades away after a couple seconds. The sound could be from a car's tires or engine, but it could come from a person, too.

Brian and I run downstairs and see that four chained together cinder blocks have broken down the front door, causing quite a bit of damage. There's no one in sight outside.

"How the hell did that happen?" Brian asks. "That must weigh a few hundred pounds."

I'm not thinking about this because I'm staring at a large photo taped to the center of this cinder block missle that somehow came hurtling through our building. I want to look away, but I can't. It's a familiar photo, but there's something strange and different about it that I don't want to investigate.

Brian gapes at me and the cinder blocks, then finally removes himself from his transfixed state and tears the photo from the cinder blocks. He looks at it and then holds the photo to me.

"You know this girl?"

I do, but there's something very wrong with the picture.

My voice does something weird as I speak. "That's my wife."

"That's your dead wife?" Brain gawps. "Did she always look like that?"

"No," I say, "but I know that's her. I just have no idea how she got that way or where this picture came from."

The wind gusts through our smashed door pretty hard.

This will continue...

Next on Pulp Friday: PF 5
PF 6
PF 7
PF 8
PF 9