by John Grisham
This latest puncture, though, was no accident. Someone had deliberately stuck a sharp object into his tire.
He waited until his friends rode away, then began the humiliating journey downtown, pushing his bike along streets that now seemed much longer, wondering who would do such a thing to him, and trying to put this latest act of vandalism in the context of a day that had not gone well. The excitement of the trial had vanished; Omar Cheepe and Paco had followed him as he rode to school; Buck Baloney had almost hit him with a rock and then caught him the second time he dashed through his backyard; someone had vandalized his locker; and now this—a slashed bike tire that would cut deeply into his savings account.
Theo couldn’t help but take an occasional glance over his shoulder, certain that eyes were watching.
Gil’s bike shop was downtown, three blocks from the courthouse, on a narrow street lined with small mom-and-pop stores. There was a cleaners, a shoe shop, photo lab, bakery, a knife sharpener that owed Ike money for tax services, and a couple of delis. Theo took pride in knowing every owner. Gil was one of his favorites—a short, round man with an awesome belly that was always partially hidden by a thick work apron covered in dirt and grime. Gil sold bikes and he loved to repair them. His shop was jam-packed with models of every size and color, with the smaller ones hanging from large hooks in the ceiling and the fancier mountain bikes lined up in the front windows.
Theo rolled his through the front door, thoroughly defeated by the day. Gil was sitting on a stool by the back counter, drinking coffee. “Well, well,” he said. “Look who’s back.”
“Hey, Gil,” Theo said. “Another flat tire.”
“What happened?” Gil asked as he rolled himself off the stool and waddled over.
“Looks like sabotage.”
Gil lifted the handlebars, spun the front tire until he found the hole in it, and exhaled a soft whistle. “You make somebody mad?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Small penknife, I’d say. Certainly no accident. Can’t do anything with it. Theo, you gotta have a new one.”
“I was afraid of that. How much?”
“You should know the price better than me. Eighteen bucks. You want me to send the bill to your dad?”
“No, he’s fed up with me and my bike tires. I’ll pay for this one, but I can’t swing eighteen dollars today.”
“How much can you pay now?”
“I can give you ten tomorrow, and the rest in a couple of weeks. You have my word, Gil. I’ll even sign a promissory note.”
“I thought you were a lawyer, Theo.”
“Sort of.”
“Well, then, you need to do some more research. A person has to be eighteen years old before he can enter into a valid contract, including a promissory note.”
“Sure, sure, I know that.”
“Let’s just do an old-fashioned handshake deal. Ten bucks tomorrow, and the other eight bucks in two weeks.” Gil extended his dirty and chubby right hand, and Theo shook it.
Fifteen minutes later he was flying down Park Street, happy to be so mobile again, but still wondering if the day could get any worse. He was also debating about how much of his bad luck should be reported to his parents. The farther he got away from his vandalized locker, the less important it seemed. Theo could live with those losses, irritating as they were. The slashed tire was another story because it involved a weapon.
As he approached the law offices of Boone & Boone, Theo suddenly had a frightening thought. What if the same person had robbed his locker, then slashed his tire as well?
Chapter 4
Boone & Boone was a small law firm on a street full of other lawyers, accountants, and architects. All of the buildings along that section of Park Street had once been homes, long before Theo was born.
He carried his bike up the front steps and leaned it against the wall, near the door, its customary parking place. He glanced around, just to make sure no one was watching him, or his bike. Inside the front door, the reception area was the turf of Elsa Miller, the firm’s head secretary and sometimes its boss. She was a spry, hyperactive woman who was old enough to be Theo’s grandmother, and she often acted as though she was.
As always, she bounced from her chair behind her desk and assaulted Theo the moment she saw him. There was a fierce hug, a painful yank of the earlobe, a tussling of his hair, but, thankfully, no kissing. Elsa understood that thirteen-year-old boys did not want to be kissed by anyone. During this attack, and Theo considered it nothing less, she was talking nonstop. “Theo! How was your day? Are you hungry? Does that shirt match those pants? Have you finished your homework? Have you heard the news about Pete Duffy jumping off a bridge?”
“Jumping off a bridge?” Theo repeated, taking a step back and freeing himself from her embrace.
“Well, that’s just one theory, but, good gosh, there is so much gossip racing around this town right now.”
“I was in court this morning when he didn’t show,” Theo said proudly.
“You were?!”
“Yes.”
Elsa retreated as quickly as she had attacked, allowing Judge to come forth and say hello. Judge spent his days easing around the office, checking on everyone, sleeping in various places, and always looking for something to eat. He usually waited for Theo in one of two places—either Theo’s chair back in his office, or on a small bed at Elsa’s feet, supposedly providing protection for the firm but doing nothing of the sort.
“There are pecan brownies in the kitchen,” Elsa said.
“Who made them?” Theo asked. It was a fair question. Elsa’s pecan brownies were somewhat edible, if one were starving, but the wedges occasionally brought in by Dorothy, the real estate secretary, were not. They looked like brick mortar and tasted like mud, and not even Judge would give them a sniff.
“I made them, Theo, and they’re delicious.”
“Yours are perfect,” Theo said as he headed down the hall.
“Your mother is in court and your father is across town wrapping up a real estate deal,” Elsa said. An important part of her job was to keep track of everybody, especially Mr. and Mrs. Boone, and this was easy because she was in charge of their schedules. But Elsa, at any given moment, could give you the precise whereabouts of Dorothy, and of Vince, the paralegal who worked under Mrs. Boone. Add Judge and Theo to the list, and Elsa knew everyone’s appointments, lunch dates, coffee dates, doctors’ visits, depositions, loan closings, birthdays, vacations, anniversaries, even funerals. She once gave Dorothy a sympathy card after her father’s funeral—three years to the day after the old guy was buried.
According to the Boone master plan for daily living, Theo was expected to (1) arrive at the office each day after school, where he (2) checked in with Elsa and suffered through her rituals, then (3) stopped by his mother’s office for a quick hello, then (4) walked upstairs, with Judge close at his heels, where he gave his father a rundown of the day’s activities, then, (5) after a quick word with Dorothy, and (6) another one with Vince, he (7) went to his small office in the back of the building and cranked out his homework, which was to be done before dinner. Of course, if he had something else to do, like work on a merit badge or watch his classmates play soccer or basketball, he was excused from the office ritual. He was a kid, an only child, and his parents, strict as they were, understood the realities of raising a well-rounded thirteen-year-old.
Theo closed the door to his tiny office and pulled his laptop from his backpack. He checked the local news for an update on the search for Pete Duffy. There was not a single word about the man jumping off a bridge, and this did not surprise Theo. Elsa was known to exaggerate.
Theo found it difficult to concentrate, but after two hours the homework was complete, for the most part. Elsa was tidying up her desk and preparing to leave. Both Mr. and Mrs. Boone were still busy elsewhere. Theo checked his bike for further damage, and finding none, took off with Judge in hot pursuit.
Ike’s office was on t
he second floor of an old building owned by a Greek couple. The first floor was their small deli, and the office above it was always engulfed in the smell of lamb roasting in onions. To a visitor, it was a heavy shot to the nose, though not altogether unpleasant, but Ike, after many years there, seemed not to notice the aroma.
Ike was at his long, cluttered desk, sipping a bottle of beer, listening to a barely audible Bob Dylan on the stereo, when Theo walked in without knocking and fell into a dusty old chair. “How’s my favorite nephew,” Ike asked, the same opening question each week. Theo was Ike’s only nephew. Ha-ha.
“Great,” Theo replied. “Kinda bummed out about the trial.”
“Strange, indeed. I’ve been listening all day and have heard nothing.”
Since his dramatic fall from a prominent and well-respected lawyer to a disbarred and eccentric old hippie, Ike had lived on the fringes of the underworld in Strattenburg, and down there he heard plenty. In one poker club, he played cards with retired cops and lawyers. In another, he rubbed elbows with several ex-criminals like himself. Regardless of the raging story, Ike could usually track down a rumor and examine it closely before it made its wider rounds.
“So what’s your theory?” Ike asked.
Theo shrugged as if he knew precisely what happened. “It’s simple, Ike. Pete Duffy hopped on a bike sometime after midnight, rode it a couple miles down a gravel road, hooked up with his accomplice, tossed his bike in the trunk of a car or the back of a pickup, and away they went.” Theo delivered this quick narrative casually, as if he knew exactly how things had happened, and when he finished he offered a silent word of thanks to Mr. Mount.
Ike’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed this. His jaw dropped slightly as he thought about it. His forehead wrinkled as he analyzed it. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.
“Hear it? Nowhere. I think it’s obvious what happened. How else can you explain it?”
Ike scratched his beard and stared across the table. He was often impressed by the maturity and street savvy of his nephew, but this easy explanation of the Duffy mystery seemed a bit rehearsed. Theo decided to continue: “And I’ll bet they don’t find him. I’ll bet Pete Duffy planned this perfectly and is now somewhere far away, probably with plenty of cash and a new set of ID papers.”
“Oh really.”
“Sure, Ike. He had an eight-hour head start, and the police have no idea what kind of vehicle he’s in. So, what are they looking for? They don’t know.”
“You want something to drink?” Ike asked as he turned in his swivel chair. There was a small refrigerator under the credenza behind his desk and it was usually well stocked.
“No thanks,” Theo said.
Ike pulled out another bottle of beer, popped the top, and took a sip. Theo knew that he drank too much, which he had learned by listening carefully around the offices at Boone & Boone, and around the courthouse as well. Two or three times he had picked up on comments that suggested Ike Boone struggled with the bottle, and Theo assumed this was true. However, he had never witnessed it. Ike was divorced and far removed from his children and grandchildren. He lived alone, and was, in Theo’s opinion, a sad old man.
“Do you still have a B in Chemistry?” Ike asked.
“Come on, Ike. Do we have to discuss my grades all the time? They get enough attention from my parents. And it’s an A minus, not a B.”
“How are your parents?”
“They’re doing fine. I have a note from my mother reminding me to ask you to join us for dinner tonight at Robilio’s.”
“How nice of her.” Ike waved his hand over the files stacked haphazardly on his desk, then delivered the same, tired old line Theo heard almost daily from his own parents: “I have too much work.”
What a surprise, thought Theo. For reasons he would never understand, the relationship between his parents and Ike was complicated, and there was nothing he could do to simplify things. “It doesn’t take long to eat dinner,” he said.
“Tell Marcella I said thanks.”
“Will do.”
Theo often confided in Ike, and told him things he would not tell his own parents. He considered mentioning how bizarre his day had become after leaving the courtroom that morning, but decided to let it pass. He could always tell Ike later, and seek his advice.
They talked baseball and football, and after half an hour Theo and Judge said good-bye. His bike was right where he had left it, with two tires full of air, and he dashed away with Judge following. He found both of his parents back at the office and went through the routine of briefly describing his day.
Marcella Boone did not enjoy cooking and was often too busy to even attempt it. Woods Boone was a lousy cook, but a fine eater, and since Theo was a toddler the family enjoyed sampling the wonderful ethnic foods of Strattenburg. On Monday, they ate Italian at Robilio’s. Tuesday was soup and a sandwich in a homeless shelter, not exactly fine cuisine. They bounced back Wednesday with Chinese carryout from one of three restaurants they liked. On Thursday, Mr. Boone picked up the daily special at a Turkish deli. Friday dinner was always fish at Malouf’s, a rowdy Lebanese bistro. On Saturday, they rotated selections, with each of the three picking their preference without input from the other two. Finally, on Sunday, Mrs. Boone would assume command of her kitchen and try a new recipe for a roasted chicken. The results were not always spectacular.
Precisely at 7:00 p.m., the Boone family entered Robilio’s and were led to their favorite table.
Chapter 5
Tuesday morning. And not just any Tuesday, but the first Tuesday of the month, which meant Theo, and about fifty other Boy Scouts from Troop 1440, Old Bluff Council, wore their official scouting shirts and colorful neckerchiefs to school. The school board had decided that the wearing of a full uniform by a Boy Scout on school property would not be tolerated. There was a dress code that was vague, loosely enforced, and always causing trouble, and a full Scout uniform would not violate it. However, the school board was worried that if it allowed Boy Scout and Girl Scout uniforms on campus, even for just one specific day each month, then all types of uniforms might follow. Sports uniforms, karate uniforms, theatrical costumes, even religious garments like Buddhist robes and Muslim burkas. The entire issue had become complicated, and when a compromise was reached, Theo and the other Scouts felt lucky to get a partial uniform one day a month.
He showered quickly, brushed his teeth, which were covered in thick braces and virtually unseen, and put on his official khaki short-sleeved shirt adorned with the required council shoulder patch, blue-and-white troop numerals, patrol emblem, and Life Ranking Award. When the shirt was perfect and tucked into a pair of jeans, he carefully fitted the orange neckerchief around his neck and secured it with the official Scout slide. A full uniform would have allowed Theo to show off his merit badge sash, something he was proud of because he had just been awarded his twenty-second and twenty-third merit badges, for astronomy and golf. If all went according to plan, Theo would attain the rank of Eagle the summer before he entered the ninth grade. His goal, other than becoming an Eagle Scout, was to have at least thirty-five merit badges, all colorfully displayed and sewed on in perfect order by his mother.
Judge, who slept under Theo’s bed, had been awake for thirty minutes and was tired of waiting. He was whimpering and wanted to go downstairs, then outside. Theo adjusted his neckerchief again, approved of what he saw in the mirror, grabbed his backpack, and bounced down the stairs.
For the moment, he had forgotten about the Pete Duffy disappearance.
His mother, who was not an early morning go-getter, was sipping coffee at the kitchen table and reading the newspaper. “Good morning, Theo. Aren’t you cute?”
“Good morning,” Theo said as he kissed his mother on the forehead. He hated the word “cute” when she used it to describe him. He opened the door and Judge disappeared outside. Before his chair was the usual—a box of cereal, a carton of milk, a bowl, a spoon, and a glass of orange juice.
“No sign of Pete Duffy,” his mother said, her nose still stuck in the paper.
“They’re not going to find him,” Theo said, repeating what he had said numerous times over dinner.
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s hard to run away from the FBI these days, with all the technology they have.” Theo had heard this, too, over dinner. He fixed his bowl of cereal, then opened the door again so Judge could race in. Judge did not waste time in the mornings when breakfast was being served. Theo poured cereal and milk into the dog bowl, and Judge attacked it.
Without taking her eyes off the newspaper, Mrs. Boone said, “So you have scouting this afternoon, huh?”
No, Mom, it’s Halloween.
No, Mom, all of my other shirts are dirty.
No, Mom, this is an attempt to confuse you so that you’ll only think it’s the first Tuesday of the month, then maybe you’ll show up in the wrong courtroom.
Oh, all the things he wanted to say, but Theo, being a good Scout and respecting authority, and also being a good son and not wanting to anger his mother with a smart remark, said, “Sure.”
“When is the next camping trip?” she asked, slowly turning a page.
“A week from Friday, at Lake Marlo.” Troop 1440 spent at least one weekend per month in the woods, and the camping trips were Theo’s favorite adventures.
There was at least one clock in every room of the Boone home, a clear sign of organized people. The one in the kitchen gave the time at 7:55, and Theo finished breakfast every day at 8:00 a.m. When Judge slurped his last bit of breakfast, Theo rinsed both bowls in the sink, returned the milk and orange juice to the refrigerator, then raced up the stairs where he stomped around his room a few times to make some noise. Without brushing his teeth for a second time, he sprinted back to the kitchen where he pecked his mother on the cheek and said, “I’m off to school.”
“Lunch money?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Is your homework done?”
“It’s perfect, Mom. I’ll see you after school.”