Nickel Plated

by Aric Davis

  Chapter 10

  I took her to a place I’d always wanted to go but never had, Graydon’s Crossing, a little English pub about equidistant from our houses. We’d stopped by her house to pick up her bike, and she chained hers the same way I did outside of the restaurant. Maybe I was coming off kind of cool. (A guy could hope.) I held the door to let her in and followed after her. I thought I’d made a mistake at first; it was more of a bar than a restaurant, and I thought we might get bounced before the door closed behind us. Instead, a waitress came and led us to a booth with high backs. Aside from the opening to get in, it was quite private. I ordered a water, and Arrow got a Diet Coke.

  The menu was thick like a book, and I settled on a rare rib eye and potatoes. I hadn’t had a steak in forever. I was okay on the little gas grill out back of the house, but I couldn’t cook steak to save my life. Arrow ordered the same. God bless a woman who loves red meat. We put the order in with the waitress and sat there, taking it all in. I couldn’t speak for her, but I didn’t feel like all that much of a kid for once in my life—I was a guy working a job for a dame. If that’s not a good feeling, then I don’t think I know what is.

  She said, “Have you been here before?”

  “No, but I’ve ridden past it about a million times and always wanted a reason to come here.”

  “I’m a reason?”

  She was smiling, and I said, “You’re a good reason.”

  She looked me in the eyes, and I could feel the fire in my cheeks before she even spoke.

  “Nickel, you’re not like any kid I ever met in my life.”

  I did my best to mentally chase the redness from my face. She was right, but I didn’t say anything. I might be young, small for my age, and way over my head with the girl across from me, but even I know not to argue with a compliment that awesome.

  “Do you go to school?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ever?”

  “I’ve gone enough to know that they can’t teach me anything I can’t learn on my own.”

  “You heard that in a movie.”

  I smiled. I probably had, I just couldn’t remember which one. I changed the subject. “How are your parents doing?”

  “Not good. My dad still has this idea in his head that she ran away and everything’s his fault. My mom just sits in her room and cries all day; I think she’s been drinking again. She used to when I was little, and I’ve always been scared she might start back up. Shelby went missing, and we’re falling apart without her.”

  “We need to find her.”

  She reached out and took my hand and rubbed my palm with her fingers; she had on lime green nail polish. “Thank you for helping me, Nickel.”

  She smiled, but her eyes were welling with tears. If there was a moment where we were more just than two kids looking for a lost girl, that was it. I was trying to think of something good to say when our food came. The steak looked good, but it was terrible timing. Arrow wiped her eyes with her napkin and took up her knife and fork. She said, “Let’s eat.”

  And that’s what we did. My steak was delicious, just the right amount of fat to keep the meat from drying out. The potatoes were good too, but I can make a potato at home. Arrow must have agreed with me because she was eating at the same pace as me and saying as much as I was about it.

  When I had eaten enough to make me feel like I might explode, I put my knife and fork down. Arrow didn’t. She cleaned that plate until the only thing left was ceramic, and then she wiped her face primly and said, “That was really good.”

  “Agreed.”

  “So what was it you had to ask me?”

  “I need a favor.”

  “You need a favor? I already told you I don’t have much money.”

  “It’s not that kind of favor. I’m working another job right now, and I could use some help.”

  “You think I could help you? How?”

  “I’m watching a kid for another client; she thinks he’s falling in with the wrong crowd. I got myself invited to a party tonight, and if I went with you, I wouldn’t look so out of place. I really just need to figure out what his kick is so his mom can sleep better at night.”

  “Alright.”

  “You’ll do it? That was easier than I thought.”

  “Sure, why not? Nickel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “How’d you get yourself invited to a party that you don’t know anyone at?”

  I told her about the Facebook hustle, and she smiled and laughed a little bit at the end.

  “In any case, the whole thing will go easier with a pretty girl around me. The guys won’t notice so quickly that I’m a foot and a half shorter than everybody else.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Are you kidding? Guys are knuckleheads.”

  She blushed. “Not that. About me being pretty.”

  I gave her my best tough guy look and said, “Arrow, I know so.”

  She smiled back at me, and if I had died right then it would’ve been just fine by me. The waitress dropped off our tab, and I took it before Arrow had even seen it was there to be taken. She gave me a look, and I gave her one back.

  “My idea, I pay.”

  She got a look like she knew that’s how it would be. I stuffed money in the little book they give you with a bill in decent restaurants and said, “Let’s go.”

  Back at our bikes, unwrapping the chains, Arrow asked, “What’s the plan?”

  “I’m going to go home and get ready. You go get yourself prepped—think party—and ride your bike to the gas station just outside of Four Oaks, the Mobil. I’ll pick you up from there at seven.”

  “You have a car?”

  “A cab.”

  “Oh, right.”

  She mounted her bike and I mounted mine, and we were off. It wasn’t a date, I had to tell myself over and over again, but it had been nice to have a real talk with someone, to take off that veneer and just be a kid. Deep down, I’m just a survivor, and that survivor has his own special set of rules. Sometimes, like tonight, that veneer slips a little, and I get to be normal. That little voice always wins, but tonight I got to have dinner with a pretty girl. If I’m smiling, it’s not part of the act.

  Chapter 11

  I put the bike in the garage and closed the door behind me with the button on the wall. Walked in the house and stripped down as I moved. Threw my shirt and pants in the hamper, and they both fell off and onto the floor. I really did need to do some laundry. Ignoring the mess as best I was able, I got to work on finding some new duds. A pair of ripped jeans for the legs and a Dickies T-shirt. Weather crossed my mind, and I grabbed a plain black hoodie. Once everything was assembled on the bed, I just stood there looking stupid for a few seconds, thinking. I had no idea what I was getting into, so I had to be ready for anything.

  I stuck my hand under the bed and pulled out my disaster box. It was really just an under-bed storage container, but what it held for me couldn’t have been much more important. That box could let me leave right now, no questions asked, if I had to. I never questioned whether or not I could do it; I needed to remember that if I had to, I would. I pulled the white top off of the black box and looked over my kit.

  I always keep ten grand in the box, nine thousand in hundreds and the last G in smaller denominations. The money has been ironed and is stored in moisture-proof sealed bags. I have a nine-hundred-thousand-volt taser that I bought illegally on eBay, two huge cans of mace labeled for Michigan as bear spray, and a K-Bar survival knife. In addition to the large cans of bear spray, I also have a pen that works correctly and also contains a few milliliters of mace if you depress the button just right. I’ve got a night vision monocular, a pair of high-end binoculars, and a spotting scope with a little tripod—pretty much everything for your long-distance observer.

  About a year or so ago I got hired to find a lost cat—not a big deal until I found out it had been consumed in a Chinese restaurant I won’t name. I got paid to burn
the joint down, and I did it with a smile on my face. Call me a hypocrite for wanting to eat meat but not liking to hear a cat got eaten, but that’s where I draw the line. I have a few boxes of those strike anywhere matches that you can only get in army surplus stores in my box as well. I usually keep a couple in my pocket; they’re nice to chew on. With the matches there are a couple of tins of butane and propane, handy little accelerants if the need arises.

  The last section of the box was the least savory. No one would mistake my K-Bar or taser for being a tool to say hello in some new way, but the rest of this stuff was just nasty. Handcuffs, leg cuffs, a ball gag. A weighted hat and gloves, a plastic knife that was as sharp as steel and could pass through any metal detector. A flare gun with an incendiary charge, two starter pistols, a wrist rocket that really would work at about five feet or so—it wasn’t the best arsenal, but it was all mine.

  The whole mess rounds off with a ghillie suit—it’s green and covered in loose strips of shaggy green, brown, and black camouflage, like a sniper would wear to really disappear—two strings of M-80s, a tin of gunpowder, a can of beer that will shoot white phosphorous if opened—it has a twin in the fridge—a pair of knuckle dusters made of polymer, custom-made steel toe-guards that hook into any pair of All-Stars. Last but not least, a hand grenade with about thirty rounds of .50 caliber machine gun ammo taped around it. I call that my “get out of jail free card.” A similar piece was built to fit in my bike’s frame and work by a ten-mile remote. I like it in the garage, fear it below my crotch, and don’t think it will ever get installed.

  I pulled the clothes on, laced my shoes up, and grabbed the mace pen, a starting pistol, and almost the night vision. I had a sidekick—no need to be on the outside. I might not be Amber Tease, but I can still play a role. I went down to the basement and grabbed a half ounce of pot. Rolling it just as well as I could, I spun up ten of the biggest joints this town is ever going to see. I dropped those in a scent-lock hunting bag and called Lou. He was there in ten minutes.

  We’re a good combo. I don’t want to talk, and neither does he.

  Lou asked where we were going, and I told him, putting the gas station first. If he had thoughts on the matter, he kept quiet. He’d never cared before, and this time was no different. We slid into that Mobil like the cab was slicked in Moly Grease. Arrow showed in the window, and I opened the door. She looked how I hoped she would, easy access and low morals. Short skirt, low top, all a parody of Arrow except the attitude. She let me get a peek, winked, and shook a finger, and then she zipped her sweatshirt. The girl wasn’t a tease, she was a blade. She got in the car and had the sense not to talk. Lou drove, we sat.

  Chapter 12

  We were to Knapp in no time. I made Lou drive us a quarter mile south and drop us off. I flipped him fifty—the ride was twenty, five was for the tip, and the rest was for next time. I paid for next time every time. Lou would drive me to Cali if I asked, no questions. I’m pretty sure I’ve already paid for the trip in full, too. We slipped out of the cab, and I said, “Two hours, right here.”

  Lou nodded, Arrow crooked out an elbow, and we walked to our party.

  You could hear it at the same time that light from the bonfires became visible. I could tell from the parked cars that there were a lot of people there, but the oppressive noise of the rap coming from the stereos made it tough to know how many people were actually attending. I let go of Arrow’s arm, which was about the last thing in the world I wanted to do, but unfortunately, the looks we would get as a couple would be dangerous. I was better off as a little brother or a neighbor she felt sorry for. I was just glad she was from a different school district. She might know a couple of people here, but she wouldn’t know many—all the better to stay under the radar.

  The music got louder the closer we got, and I could see the numbers. There were hundreds of kids here. I knew that it was going to be big, but this was a serious party. A very drunk high school kid walked past us as we approached and muttered something unintelligible. I’m pretty sure he said hello. The closer we got the more obvious it became that not only was there a party, but something more primal was going on; there was a great circle of them built around some event. We passed the kegs and a fresh pile of vomit and approached the circle. Space was made for us without our asking—thank goodness I brought Arrow. I didn’t know what to make of it. Whoever heard of a party where the kegs weren’t the stars of the show? The crowd screamed and made enough space around the circle for us to move in.

  It looked like the kegs weren’t going to be ignored all night. This part of the show was over. I could see a form lying still in what had been the center of the storm. Two other forms stood over the one lying there, and finally, after talking between themselves, they lifted him off of the ground. He stood on shaky legs, wobbled twice, and righted himself. They walked right past Arrow and me. The kid had taken a horrible beating. Blood came off of his face in a river that looked black in the firelight. Small bruises contorted his head. He looked more like a squash than a high school kid; I just hoped he wasn’t Jeff. We watched him disappear into the crowd, and Arrow and I did our best to assimilate into it as well.

  Guys were looking her up and down, and some of the girls were too, but it was working because they were ignoring the short kid who’d come with her. I reached into my pocket, wriggled for a second, and made a joint appear from the scent-lock bag. I passed it to Arrow from my fist to hers, and she gave me a look. She knew what it was, and that was a start. I just hoped she didn’t smoke the stuff. The last thing I needed was for her to forget why we were here. An older kid approached us—he wasn’t Jeff, that would have been way too convenient, but he was a monster. He had the rippling arms and tight chest of a weight lifter, and the chicken legs and thick waist to prove he didn’t know what he was doing in the gym. Arrow met his eyes with hers and said, “Hi.”

  “Hey girl, where you from?”

  “I live in Four Oaks, but my cousin goes to Forest Hills.”

  “That’s why I don’t recognize you.”

  His eyes scoped her up and down, making a show of it. “You look good.”

  “I know.”

  Arrow, girl of my dreams.

  “Who’s the kid?”

  “My little brother.”

  “Mom got out the ugly stick for him.”

  She rubbed my head. “He’s kind of cute. You smoke?”

  “You mean weed?”

  She rolled her eyes at him.

  “Of course.” Arrow produced the joint and rolled it between two fingers. I took a match from my pocket, lit it on my belt buckle, and held it for her cupped in my hands. She lit the thing, exhaled swiftly, and passed it to him. Our activity—well, and the fact that it involved Arrow smoking—was earning a small crowd. I slipped Arrow two more. We were getting good at that; we would have been perfect in a crooked card game. She made them disappear into the pocket of her hoodie. The joint came back, and Arrow faked hitting it, pulling the smoke into her mouth but then easing it out under her arm as she passed the J to an older high school girl who might have been beautiful if I wasn’t in love. The girl looked at Arrow and decided she was worth talking to. She said, “Thanks.”

  The word was followed by rough coughing. My hard work in the garden was paying off, now more than just in my wallet. The girl looked glazed already. Arrow turned to her and said, “Do you know Jeff?”

  The girl turned her head on a swivel that looked broken. I knew I grew good stuff, but I’d never actually seen somebody use it. It looked like about as much fun as riding my bike in the fog. She spoke, slow and deliberate, each word a sentence.

  “You mean Jeff Rogers?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s so cool. He’s fighting tonight.”

  “He’s going to be in a fight?”

  “Yeah, he’s got a fight against some big black dude from downtown. Jeff’s a total badass, but I heard the black guy is too.”

  “Is that what this is all about, f
ights?”

  “For sure, that and getting wasted.”

  I was learning a lot about Jeff already. My pot was working like truth serum. We were building up a crowd. Arrow produced the other joints, and I came up with a match. Flame met green, and eager faces lit up in the night with quality orthodontics. Arrow distributed the goods. I felt like some kind of weed messiah, a prophet whose followers had found him in the holy land. I made two more appear in Arrow’s hand. At least so far, this was going just as easy as could be. I watched the big kids smoke pot that the pretty girl they didn’t know passed around. If I’d been of a mind to, I could have poisoned the lot of them.

  The music since we’d walked up had been rap, thumping bass while feeble-minded individuals talked about living hard in million-dollar mansions. If they’d ever been real street, that grease had come off a long time ago. When the music changed, soulful now, old-school R&B, I knew it was starting. Pushed like surfers on a monster wave, we moved with the crowd. Arrow and I stayed at the front, the sweet smoke of my gardening project making the air seem tighter around us. The pit where they fought was sand; I hadn’t noticed that before, but I could see it now. Sand is hard to fight in; you can’t move your feet like in a ring or on solid ground.

  I saw him as he walked up. Had to be Jeff’s opponent. The kid was huge, with muscles in so many places that he looked like a caricature. He was flanked by two guys who could have been behemoths in their own right but looked small next to him. The crowd parted to let them pass, and when he reached the edge of the sand, he took his shirt off. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him that I could see. If Jeff wasn’t good, he was going to get himself killed. The kid paced the ring, looking like an African nightmare. He came back to where he’d entered and just stood there waiting. He flexed his hands, and I could hear the knuckles crack over the din of the music and the crowd. The music was quieter now, and I could hear a collective gasp. Their hero was coming.