TKO ddm-2

by Tom Schreck

  I met Billy in the aerobics room, and I was glad to see he made it on time, or, more accurately, his customary thirty minutes early. Today he had a zit on one ear lobe, which in some ways made him look a little hip, like he got it pierced or something. Billy was warming up by practicing his flying kicks, and each and every time he landed on his back. I decided to just not mention anything about Sofco.

  “Billy, what was up with the class president over at McDonough?” I asked.

  “Sir, he was a jerk-I mean, I’m sorry he’s dead, sort of, anyway, but he wasn’t real nice,” Billy said.

  “How so?”

  “He made fun of people a lot, sir.”

  “Did he make fun of you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Billy tried to put his energy into a technique, but I could see he was uncomfortable.

  “What did he say?”

  “Sir, he said it looked like my mom put out a fire on my face with my dad’s golf shoe… then, he once nominated me for some award just to tease me. He was a jerk, sir.”

  I guess the more things change the more things stay the same. Teenagers can be real a-holes. When I was Billy’s age, my pizza face had gotten me into my share of fights, which at the time led me to my share of getting my ass kicked. In turn that got me into karate and then ultimately into boxing.

  “Was he known to be into drugs?” I asked.

  “I didn’t hang with him but he was in the crowd that thinks they’re cool, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Are there a lot of drugs at McDonough?”

  “Yes, sir. I know I hear about the dealer ‘the Caretaker’ and the guys they call ‘the Caretaker’s men.’”

  “Have you ever seen this guy they call the Caretaker?”

  “No, sir. I’ve just heard about him.”

  “What about this fan club for the serial killer?”

  “They’re really weird and, if you ask me, sir, very disturbed.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s rumors about them torturing stray animals and doing things to little kids.”

  “Damn, Billy, high school has gotten pretty weird, hasn’t it?”

  “Compared to what, sir?” I didn’t have an answer for that, so I decided it was time for a workout.

  I put Billy through his paces, trying my best to disguise fundamental boxing technique as karate. It wasn’t easy; there isn’t anything complex or fancy about throwing good punches. You could spend a lifetime learning the nuances of the most fundamental techniques; it was simple and complex at the same time.

  I got to thinking of the Caretaker and his involvement at McDonough. I didn’t know a lot about him, but dealing at the high school didn’t seem like it was his game. The risk was too high, the penalties too great for a guy known for being in total control to take. It’s not that he necessarily had any honor, it was more like he just didn’t want to go to prison.

  I dropped Billy off and headed to the DJ store to get another audience with my new bleached-out friend. I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for, but I wanted to see if I could get some answers. There was a different kid up front, and his boom box was blasting an angry rap song that referred to my sister and my mother and a series of unnatural acts that the singer desired to do to them. It took a while to get the kid’s attention, but he made the call and motioned for me to go back.

  Mr. Caretaker was wearing a blue blazer, lightweight cuffed gray pants, and a red-striped shirt. He had his reddish hair awkwardly parted and he had on horn-rimmed glasses.

  “My pugilistic ami. Bonjour,” he said when I came through the curtain.

  “Hey, how you doing?” I said. With this cartoon character, having anything near a normal conversation seemed bizarre.

  “What are you in search for?”

  “Today, just some information.”

  He laughed, sat, and crossed his legs in that affected way that talk show guests do.

  “I don’t handle information,” he said.

  “Word is you’re dealing at McDonough High. That kid who OD’ed was yours,” I said.

  “Mr. Duffy, do not be a provocateur. You do not know me well enough.”

  “Then I am right?”

  “No.”

  “Who then?”

  “Why the fuck should I tell you?” For an instant he lost the preppy, Zen, Bond-villain facade. This was all street.

  “Kids are dying.”

  “Kids are always dying, my man.” He sat back and went back into his character.

  “If not you, why are you letting it be said that it is you?”

  “Hmmm… first of all I’m not letting anything. The microwaves from that have yet to hit my radar. Second, I choose to keep my profile low.”

  He rubbed his chin and looked at the ceiling. I let the silence happen.

  “Duffy, I am telling you the following not because you asked or because you intimidated me, but rather because it will serve my interests.” He had his fingertips lightly touching in front of his face. “It is my feeling that it is the Sky Pilot’s doing, and I am not at all pleased that he would bring my name into it.”

  “Who the hell is the Sky Pilot?” I said.

  “I never deal in surnames. Do your homework.” He stopped doing that thing with his fingertips and just stared at me. It wasn’t exactly an intimidating stare, it was more a stare of absence. It was like the Caretaker was there but not really. At least, not for me.

  I got out of the Caretaker’s storefront and headed around the corner to see if I could find Carlisle and the boys. It had started to drizzle a bit and that meant the guys would be under the pavilion in the park next to the basketball court. It was just four blocks, and as I walked up the street I could see the guys there.

  Carlisle was there with Chipper but his cousin wasn’t with them today. I exchanged pleasantries and before long they asked me what I was looking for. Being accepted in the ghetto wasn’t the same as being expected and we all knew I wasn’t just walking through Jefferson Hill because I enjoyed the scenery.

  “What you need, D?” Carlisle said. He didn’t look good-his skin was ashing and he had dried saliva on the corners of his mouth. The salt in crack has brutal drying effects on the skin.

  “You all right? You’re into that shit, aren’t you?” I said.

  His eyes got shifty and he started to stutter. Chipper put his head down.

  “No man, I-”

  “Carlisle, I’m not here to bust you. You know I ain’t about that, but that shit will kill you.”

  “I know, I know…” He got a sad look to his face. It happens when an addict knows he’s been called and his defenses drop. It doesn’t mean anything’s going to change, but it’s where anything starts.

  “Come see me at the clinic, will ya?”

  “Yeah Duff, I’ll try.” He looked sincere but the chances were slim he’d come by. It was time to change the subject for a couple of reasons.

  “Hey, Carlisle. I was talking to the Caretaker and-”

  “What you doing with the Caretaker?” He looked at me like I said I had just met with Jesus.

  “Long story. He said something about a ‘Sky Pilot.’ What’s he talking about?”

  “Shit-that funky-ass motherfucker could be talking ’bout any shit.”

  “C’mon, what could it mean?”

  “Yo, Duff, it ain’t like all us brothers pass around a dictionary to keep up with each other’s rap,” Chipper said.

  “No ideas?” I looked back and forth between the two of them.

  “I don’t know, it’s pretty old-school shit, but the Caretaker is all up funky into that shit.” Carlisle shook his head as he thought.

  “A guy I knew inside used to talk that same rap… Sky Pilot?

  … Hmmm… I think that’s what he used to call the chaplain. I guess a Sky Pilot is a preacher or some sort of man of God,” Carlisle said. “That sound right?”

  “Yeah, yeah it might,” I said.

  29

  Elvis rocked me over to
AJ’s with Glen Campbell’s “Gentle on My Mind.” There was never any use in trying to convince anyone that Elvis could make a goofy Glen Campbell cool, so I didn’t even bother. Besides, with the unfolding series of events running through my head, there wasn’t really anything being gentle on my mind.

  Thank God there was no bicycled ninja ready to confront me at AJ’s front door, but that didn’t mean I was going to be able to slip right into a bar stool next to Kelley to give him the lowdown. The brain trust was busy problem solving and I got sucked in.

  “I’m telling you, you can get high on nutmeg,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “So how come we don’t see guys in back alleys trying to smoke egg nog?” TC said.

  “I hate egg nog. I puked on egg nog once,” Jerry Number One said.

  “Actually, if you’re trying to get high on nutmeg, you’re likely to get sick to your stomach first,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Talk about your bad trips,” Jerry Number One said.

  “What about banana peels?” Rocco asked.

  “What about them? Cartoon guys are always slipping on them, and in my whole life I’ve never come across a banana peel that made me trip,” TC said.

  “You weren’t using them right,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “Huh?” TC said.

  “If you didn’t trip then you obviously weren’t doing them right,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “What the hell are you talking about? Why would I want to trip on a banana peel?” TC said.

  “To alter your consciousness,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “By banging my head? No thanks, I’ll stick to the B amp;B,” TC said.

  “Ask Duff. He works with dope fiends,” Rocco said.

  “Duff, can you trip on a banana peel or nutmeg and do they make you puke?” TC said.

  “In college I got drunk and tripped in a guy’s puke. It was disgusting,” Jerry Number Two said.

  “I think you can on nutmeg but not on banana peels,” I said.

  “There,” Rocco said.

  “There what?” TC said.

  Kelley was watching one of those strongman contests. Two guys were racing while carrying the engine block of a Ford van, and both of their huge heads looked like they were ready to explode.

  “Talk about altering consciousness…,” I said, nodding at the strongmen.

  “I’d have to smoke a lot of nutmeg before I tried something like that,” Kelley said.

  “Bananas. You eat the nutmeg, you smoke the bananas.”

  Kelley gave me a look and I decided that I didn’t need to explain any further.

  “Hey, you know what I heard?” I said.

  “What?”

  “That those karate guys down at the Y are dealing steroids.”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me. That shit’s all over.”

  “Do you guys ever go after steroid dealers?”

  “It’s a low priority. It doesn’t have the same ramifications of, say, crack.”

  “I think the shrink from work is on it. He works out with those guys.”

  “Could be. You’d be surprised how many people are on the juice.”

  Kelley finished off his Coors and slid the empty in front of him. AJ had a new one in front of him without a word.

  “I was talking to the Caretaker and-,” I said before Kelley interrupted.

  “You what? What are you doing with that scumbag?”

  “He was telling me that the guy dealing drugs at McDonough is a preacher or a priest or something.”

  Kelley just shook his head and watched the TV. The strong guys were now trying to bend perfectly good iron bars.

  “You have any idea who he’s talking about?” I asked.

  “You’re the private eye. You figure it out,” Kelley said without taking his eyes off the strongmen.

  That was my cue to change the subject or, in Kelley’s case, move on to no subject at all. We watched in silence as the strong guys put harnesses on and got prepared to try to move an eighteen-wheeler twenty feet before they herniated their nuts all over the pavement. I settled up with AJ before that happened and headed home.

  The next morning I took a ride over to the high school. I wasn’t sure why I was going or what I was trying to accomplish, but I thought if I immersed myself in the school atmosphere I might get a better feel for what’s going on. Call it wanting to feel the school spirit.

  I parked the Eldorado and walked around the block to the front of the school. There were cops on every corner scanning the playground and keeping an eye on everyone coming and going. I noticed there were far fewer kids mulling around and everything was much quieter than I had been accustomed to. I didn’t feel like being labeled a suspicious person of interest, so after a cop looked me up and down from a half block distance I decided not to try to talk to any kids or go in the school. Instead I just observed what was going on and tried to make sense of it.

  I was thinking back to when I went to McDonough and how being a teenager really sucked. Oh, you’ll hear people tell you it’s the best time of your life, but I think that’s a bunch of horseshit. I had a face like a pizza, I was terrified of girls, my armpits were soaked by nine fifteen every morning, and I went through the day with one boner after another. No wonder kids do drugs.

  I was almost back to the car when I saw a familiar SUV pull into the faculty lot. It took me a few seconds to place, but then I realized it was Dr. Abadon. Since the steroid thing, I wasn’t sure what to make of him. I mean, he was a clinical psychologist, an expert in human behavior, and a devout Christian, and he was into steroids-it didn’t fit. The fact that he even associated with the karate guys didn’t register with me either. There was no question that Mitchell and Harter were assholes, and for that matter not real bright, and I couldn’t understand why they would become friends. It seemed to me that Abadon’s education and religiosity should put him on a higher plane, but the more I thought about that the more I reasoned that there was no real reason that had to be true. Maybe it was something simpler-like he liked Mitchell and Harter’s workout equipment.

  Regardless, I had some work to do. The last time I saw the doctor I threw a cup of coffee at his head and that wasn’t right. Sure, I didn’t need to hear the shit about being knocked out, but my response was out of proportion.

  “Doctor, hey wait up,” I yelled. He froze for a second and then turned toward me. He looked braced for something.

  “Look, Doc, I want to apologize for the other day. I was way out of line.” I extended my hand.

  He looked down at my hand and half smiled. Then, he paused for what seemed like a long time.

  “The Lord tells us to forgive others as we will want to be forgiven,” he said, and he finally shook my hand. He smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes.

  “Yeah, well, like I said, I was out of line,” I said.

  “Yes.” He continued to smile with his mouth while his eyes looked through me.

  “What are you doing here, Doc?”

  “I do a weekly consultation and supervision with the social work staff. As you might imagine, there’s been more work to do lately.”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  There was an awkward silence while neither of us said anything.

  “How do you like working with teenagers?” I said for no other reason than to break the awkward silence.

  “Teenagers are in the midst of God’s development. It’s imperative that they get set in the right direction,” he said.

  “Yeah, I guess. Look, Doc, I gotta run.”

  Abadon just nodded. As I walked away, I noticed that he had the cross pin on his tweed suit coat.

  I’m not sure what I accomplished, but I know I didn’t feel right in that way that is tough to identify. It feels a little dirty, a little guilty, and a lot confused. I decided to do my best not to think at all and threw in Elvis. I headed back past the high school and thought how wrong it is that the police would have to guard a school to this degree. I thought about the fear th
e kids and the parents must be living with, and I thought something had to be done.

  Elvis was into the chorus of “One Night of Sin” when I made the left up Albany Street and headed toward 9R.

  30

  I called Rudy and had him meet me for lunch in the park. I sweetened the deal by promising him a Big Dom’s Double Special sub, which delivered on its ad-copy promise to “Bust any belly!” We met at a bench by a fenced-in area designated for dogs. I figured Al could use some quality time with his peers.

  Just outside the gate of the dog run there was a very well-put-together woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She wore a pink velour sweatsuit, the kind that isn’t really designed for sweating, and her shiny shoulder-length black hair formed a nice contrast against the powder pink. She was on a mat in the grass doing some sort of yoga-Pilates-who-knows-what routine, and it didn’t really matter because she was lying on her back scissoring her legs wide open before closing them. I did my best not to stare.

  “Excuse me,” I said in my softest nonthreatening-male voice. “Is it okay if my dog goes in with your dog?”

  “Sure.” She gave me a halfhearted smile and about a millisecond of eye contact.

  Her dog was a Corgi, one of those low, cute, and sissified dogs that are favored by British royalty and about the same height as a basset. She had a pink collar, the same color as the scissor kicker’s suit. I looked back over at her master who was now on all fours doing some sort of kickbacks, and I suddenly felt a little perverted at the imagery that popped onto my mental movie screen. The first reel was only slightly blurred by the glint bouncing off the ring on her finger that featured a stone bigger than any doorknob in the Moody Blue.

  “What’s your dog’s name?” I asked.

  “Matisse, after the artist,” she said, this time with zero eye contact.

  “I love Matisse,” I said. This failed to get a response. I loved Matisse without knowing him, as I love all of mankind.

  The dogs were done sniffing each other and Al had moved on in a different direction to do some olfactory forensic work on a pile of organic material left by a previous visitor. Thank God, that’s when Rudy showed up.