“Teaching Pete how to cook?” Eli said, grinning. “About damned time someone did.”
Eli pushed Michael aside, bent over the plate, and took a deep whiff. “Are those herbs? Holy crap, it’s good to be alive.”
Ian entered the room silently. When Michael saw him, his shoulders tightened a little. The guy had a certain dark quality that he carried around with him, like a black cloud over his head that you could only see from the corner of your eye. He wore a black tank top that showed a layer of ropy muscle over his arms and low-quality tattoos he’d probably done himself. The designs were crude and hateful.
Michael remembered something Peter had told him the night before, during their walk to Blake’s office.
He’s the Overseer’s son, so don’t mess with him.
“What’s up,” Ian said. It was almost a grunt. He didn’t look at Michael as he came over, picked up a steak with two fingers, and chomped down on it before walking away.
“What do you think?” Eli asked Peter, indicating Michael. “New kitchen bitch?”
Peter glanced at the steaming plate of steaks. He nodded and smacked Michael on the back.
“Sounds good to me. You hear that, city rat? You’re the new kitchen bitch.”
They made their way to the dining room with the steaks, leaving Michael to stand with a fork in one hand and the frying pan in the other, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Bring those omelets out when they’re ready,” Peter called out. “And don’t let me catch you spitting on ’em.”
“Kitchen bitch,” Eli sang in his bellowing voice.
Michael sighed and buttered the pan.
“Figures,” he said.
Chapter 7
Louis Blake had given Michael instructions to show up at the town hall an hour after breakfast. As always, he offered no explanation. Michael would have to get used to the man’s standoffish nature.
He found Blake with Dominic and a black man wearing thick, rectangular glasses who looked to be in his seventies. Whoever this third man was, he didn’t look happy to see Michael.
“This won’t end well,” the man told Blake before glancing at Michael and saying, “Good morning to you.” He shuffled toward the entrance. A cool breeze entered as the door opened and was cut off immediately as the door shut with a bang.
“What was that all about?” Michael said.
“Don’t worry about him,” Blake said as Dominic slumped in a wooden chair. “Hey”—he snapped his fingers at Dominic—“look lively. You’re taking him on the grand tour.”
Dominic pushed himself off the chair with a groan.
“Come on,” he said, waving Michael along.
The first thing Dominic did was take Michael to a large gray building with fully-clothed mannequins in the windows. Dominic was silent during the walk, which added to Michael’s discomfort. He was sure the man didn’t like him at all.
“Have you ever gone shopping?” Dominic said as they came to a stop outside the building. “And I don’t mean for restaurant supplies.”
Michael tried to remember. “No, never. My clothes always came from my brother. The only clothing stores in my sector were state-run. You had to use coupons to buy anything there, and we never had any.”
Dominic scoffed in disapproval.
The store was called Sinatra’s. Michael recognized the name, and then he knew why: Frank Sinatra’s music was popular on the Eastland stations he’d had access to on his homemade radios.
The bell jingled above the door as they entered.
“IIIII’m dreeeeeeaaamin’ of a whiiiiiite Christmaaaaas…” the man’s voice sang from hidden speakers. Michael knew enough about the holiday to know this wasn’t the right time of year for it.
The store contained racks of men’s clothing that struck him as distinctly old-fashioned. There were V-neck sweaters made of cotton and wool, collared shirts, slacks, black and blue suits, and a wall displaying shiny leather shoes of many colors, including beige and sky blue.
“This place is a museum,” Michael said.
Dominic fingered one of the suits. “It’s about as classy as you’ll find out here.”
“Wait a second.” Michael turned to him. “Am I really going to wear this stuff?”
Footsteps rose in the back.
Someone was walking through the aisles toward them, taking slow, measured steps. Michael pictured a man in a three-piece suit holding a pistol, like one of those old-fashioned gangsters from before the war. He braced himself in case of danger.
“I want you to meet someone,” Dominic said. “He’ll help you improve your wardrobe. Your personality, on the other hand—that’s up to you.”
Michael frowned at the comment.
The man who emerged was very much what Michael would have expected the owner of this store to look like: a little shorter than average, solidly built without being muscular, with a square jaw and a full head of sandy blond hair that had been neatly combed to one side. Dressed in a pair of beige slacks, a collared shirt, and a light blue V-neck sweater, the man looked the part of the doting husband in one of those old prewar TV shows about life in the suburbs.
“By the gods,” the man said when he saw Dominic, and his mouth opened in a look of comical amazement.
What happened next caught Michael off guard, mainly because of how different these two men appeared to be from each other. Dominic was tall and rangy with greasy hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He wore a thin black jacket that made him look like a criminal, jeans torn at the kneecaps, and black boots—military style—that were dusty from walking outside. He could have been the rebellious teenage son of this other man.
Which was why Michael found it so strange when the owner of Sinatra’s took hold of Dominic’s head and planted a kiss on his lips.
“Hands off, damn it,” Dominic said, pulling back and wiping his mouth.
“I’m sorry,” the man said. “It’s just that—Dominic, I don’t believe it. You’re back. I feel like crying, or—or jumping up and down.”
“Christ. Why can’t you just man up?” Dominic said and sighed. “I brought someone you should meet. Mike, this is Reggie Smith.”
When he saw Michael, Reggie’s handsome face went tight, the smile disappearing completely.
“Isn’t he a little young for you?” Reggie said, crossing his arms.
“Oh, um”—Michael put up his hands and wagged them—“no, it’s not what you think—”
“Shut up, Mike,” Dominic said, and then he smirked at Reggie. “You look good. Been taking care of yourself, I see.”
“I’m a vegetarian now,” Reggie said, patting his flat belly. “Lost about twenty pounds since you last saw me.” He looked at Michael. “Can I get you something to wear, young man?”
Michael looked at himself in the mirror.
He was wearing a bright blue, short-sleeved shirt with a collar—a “boat-boy” shirt, Reggie called it. For pants, he wore a pair of brown slacks that looked clean and new. His shoes were brown leather, polished to a high sheen.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Michael said.
“I think he looks handsome,” Reggie told Dominic, who rolled his eyes.
The next outfit they chose for him was more appropriate to the Eastlands: a long-sleeved, beige shirt with no collar but three buttons below the neck that could be undone when it got hot. As for pants, they allowed Michael to choose what he wanted. He went with good old-fashioned jeans and a pair of rugged boots made for hiking. It wasn’t his usual style—he almost felt like a forest ranger, mostly because of the boots—but he looked good, and Reggie agreed.
“Are we done?” Michael said, giving Dominic a look of utter boredom. “It’s almost lunchtime, right?”
Dominic looked at his watch. “Not even close. It’s only ten-forty.”
“Damn,” Michael said, clutching his stomach.
“Forget about food,” Reggie said. A sly smile crossed his face that made Michael uneasy. “That’s not w
hy you were brought here.”
Michael tensed a little. There was something about Reggie and Dominic that struck him as odd. Why exactly had Dominic brought him here? And why had Reggie kissed Dominic like he thought the other man would accept such a thing?
Reggie put a hand on Michael’s shoulder, making him jump a little.
“You like guns, kid?”
Michael shrugged and waited to see what would happen next. Reggie led him across the room and into a dark storage area full of boxes piled shoulder high. They proceeded toward a door in the far back on which a sign read: “Caution Electric Shock Without Proper ID.”
It was a hidden door that customers weren’t supposed to find. Its gleaming surface looked heavy, apparently made of steel. But what was a steel door doing in the back of a clothing store?
“Here we go, boys,” Reggie said.
He pulled a glossy ID card out of his back pocket and held it against a small panel. A green light blinked three times, and Michael heard a bolt retract with a snap. Reggie turned the handle and opened it into a room that flickered into view as fluorescent strip lighting came on overhead.
There were guns everywhere, of all different makes and models. They rested on tables in the center of the room and racks lining the walls. A gun-cleaning station took up one corner. It was a desk covered in rags and bottles of cleaning solution, with rods and brushes of all different lengths standing in an aluminum canister.
“I’ll be damned,” Michael said, taking it all in. Each gun had been polished and lay gleaming under the lights as if fresh from the manufacturer. The room smelled of oil and concrete, exactly how Michael thought a gun locker should smell. “Why are you showing me this?”
Reggie turned on his heels with a gravelly scrape to face Michael.
“Boys here learn at a young age how to use rifles to hunt game and defend the town. So will you.”
“What about the pistols?” Michael said, raising his eyebrows. “What are those for?”
Reggie chuckled. “Those don’t exist. You never saw those, understand?”
Dominic clamped a hand on Michael’s shoulder and squeezed, harder than necessary.
“Yeah,” Michael said, wincing. “I got it.”
Dominic paid Reggie’s deeply discounted prices for the clothes, since Michael had no money of his own just yet. He made sure to tell Michael exactly how much he owed, down to the cent. His time in Gulch would be no easy ride, Dominic informed him, to which Michael grumbled, “Yeah, yeah.”
They stepped out into the gathering warmth of late morning. Michael had to squint against the sunlight bathing the mountains. When he became aware of the men standing in the road, he dropped the shopping bag containing his clothes.
The men chuckled at his reaction. Michael recognized them as the ones he’d seen in the Cold War Café the day before. One of the men had thinning hair, angular cheekbones, and looked emaciated. He flashed a cruel, lopsided grin at Michael like he meant it to be a challenge.
The apparent leader stepped forward, dressed in a plaid, long-sleeved shirt tucked into his jeans. The fading on his clothes and boots indicated years of reusing the same outfits, and his creased red face spoke of long days out in the sun.
“You girls have fun shopping?” he said in a voice thick with contempt. If he was amused, he wasn’t showing it.
Michael glanced at Dominic for help. Dominic stepped forward.
“Warren Jones. Glad to see me?”
Warren’s face was like a board of wood. Only his eyelids moved, and that was to narrow ever so slightly in disgust.
“You wish, you queer. What’s this”—his eyes flicked over to Michael—“your new boyfriend?”
Michael let out a quiet sigh. He was sick of all the insults. This place was started to remind him of home, where all the guys on his block had something to prove.
“You’re not getting a rise out of me today, boys,” Dominic said, approaching the group. The men visibly stiffened. “I’m on this new program, you see—ignorant rednecks like you can say whatever they want, and I don’t react. Want me to prove it?”
Warren’s nostrils flared. Not much else about his face changed, though it was clear he was holding in a tremendous amount of rage.
“Bulldangles,” he said, and Michael almost snickered in disbelief. Was this guy serious? “You should’ve stayed in New Sancta with all the other motherless commies and queers.”
“Unlike you,” Dominic said, “I knew my mother.”
“I knew your mother, too. I knew her standing up, lying down, and bent over the hood of my truck.”
His buddies chuckled. Dominic remained calm.
“Come on,” he said, walking toward Warren until they were only two feet apart. The other men braced themselves. “You can do better than that. You mean to tell me it’s been five years and you’re still using the same jokes.”
Warren’s upper lip rose, revealing yellow-brown teeth. “This is a waste of my time. I come here to tell you I’ll be watching you and your new friend. Any illegal ment training, and I’ll sniff it right out.”
“Go back to Meacham,” Dominic said. “I think his ass needs sniffing.”
Warren swung his fist at Dominic’s face. Dominic didn’t move. He didn’t even blink as the fist stopped an inch before his eyes.
Warren turned back to his friends.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s give these girls some privacy so they can change into their pretty new outfits.”
They swaggered on down the street, glancing over their shoulders now and then at Michael and Dominic. It wasn’t until they rounded the corner that Dominic began to speak.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s almost lunchtime.”
Michael stood in place.
“When do I start training?” he said, not looking at Dominic but down the road where the men had been a moment earlier.
(Open your throat, he had told Boyd, and Boyd had done it…)
“Take it easy, Mike.”
“When?”
“I’ll see what I can do. Now move your ass.”
Chapter 8
The drops sparkled in the sunlight as Arielle sprayed the boys with the hose.
She laughed as William and Aidan danced around the yard, their bare chests agleam with water. She jabbed her thumb into the tip to send the water knifing out. The boys screamed and lifted their arms into the air as if in celebration. William tried to jump as high as Aidan but couldn’t. His clubfoot, turned inward as though someone had folded it against his ankle, kept him mostly in place.
“Come on, jump, cripple,” Aidan said.
“Hey,” Arielle shouted. “What did you just say to him?”
Aidan, with his perfect feet and hands and his girlish mop of curls, stopped and smiled sweetly up at Arielle.
“Nothing, Ms. Casmas. We’re just boys being boys.”
“Friends don’t call each other names like that.” She pointed the hose at his face. “Understand?”
“But he’s not my friend. We’re just—”
A burst of water nailed him squarely in the eyes.
“Acckk!” Sputtering, Aidan tripped over his own feet and fell back against the grass.
William burst into laughter. “Now he knows what it feels like.”
“All right, boys,” Arielle said, walking over to the nozzle and cutting off the flow. “Let’s get ready for lunch.”
Some of the remaining water splashed against her bare feet. It was so cold, she didn’t know how the boys could bear to bathe in it. And yet part of her wanted to strip down and dance in it as they had done.
With a wistful sigh, she slipped her sandals back on. The boys had already pulled on their clothes and scurried off, William limping after Aidan as usual.
Behind her, a man let out a forceful grunt. Arielle spun to see Elkin Twomore standing before her, his angular cheekbones and skinny neck giving him the look of a starving bum. His hair was a thin, stringy mess, matted down with sweat.
He certainly needed one.
“Leave, Elkin. It’s not even lunchtime, yet.”
“Aw, come on, honey. Gimme a cold shower. Pweeease? I can be a six-year-old boy, too, if you want.”
Arielle threw down the hose and made for the back door of the café. Elkin moved to block her path. Up close, she could smell his lingering morning breath.
“You know, Arielle, I always thought you’d make a great mother. Too bad you don’t open your legs for nobody. I’d love me a taste of that—”
“The only thing you’re getting a taste of is an empty stomach,” she said. “Don’t even think you’re walking into my café talking like that.”
“Your café?” he said, taking a step toward her. “Only a matter of time before your little café becomes Meacham’s property. For the good of Gulch.”
Arielle remained silent.
“Say it,” he said. “I gots to make sure you’re being a good girl.”
She reached for the door handle. Elkin grabbed her arm.
“You have to say it,” he said, pouring his nasty breath all over her face.
“For the good of Gulch. Now let go of me.”
Once she was free, Arielle opened the back door and stepped into the cool, still air of the Cold War Café’s storage room. She immediately locked the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Spiteful jerk,” she said, kicking aside a box.
As soon as the boys were out of Arielle’s sight, any illusions of friendship or summer fun fell away, and Aidan once more became the bully William knew and loathed.
“Dumb little cripple,” he said, glaring at William. His eyes were still red from the splash Arielle had given him. Moving with surprising quickness, he lashed out his right arm and grabbed hold of William’s ear. William squealed and struggled as Aidan, who was much stronger and didn’t have a lump for a foot, twisted.
It was a common punishment. William didn’t like to be touched and everyone knew it. But that didn’t stop Aidan and some of the other boys from torturing him at every opportunity. They were just waiting for William to give in and tell his mother, a woman much feared by the boys of Gulch; Charlotte didn’t shy away from slapping and spanking other peoples’ children, and often her spankings were worse than any their own mothers might give. If only William would rat them out, then they’d have a real reason to hate him. Even he, at six years old, understood the twisted psychology behind their bullying.
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