Quietly, breathing through her mouth, she looked at him closely.
He was gray haired; his face was long and sallow; his suit was gray. Some blood vessels had been broken recently on his nose and upper lip. There was a large bump above one ear. Beneath his short hair, on the bump, there was a hairline, half-moon cut. His hands were folded in his lap, his fingers lightly laced.
Softly Christina tiptoed out of the lounge.
She went to the left along the corridor, having no idea in this underground world what time it was.
Fifty-Four
“Jeez. This is the coldest house afire I ever been in.”
Spike was lying on his back on the floor of The Burning House. He was soaking wet and shivering violently. The raging flames were turned off for the night, but everywhere there was the slightly oniony smell of gas.
After full darkness, they had crawled out of Ms. Lillyperson’s Cottage and worked their way down to the swamp and along the riverbank until they were just across from The Burning House Island. Looking across, they could even see in the moonlight the silhouettes of the Indian mannequins attacking the house.
“How deep is the river?” Spike asked. “You go first.”
“Not deep, I guess.”
“I’ve lost a whole lotta blood.”
“The river will wash out your cut.”
“‘Cut!’ Some cut. Some dude shot me!”
“Come on.”
Toby took off his clothes, made a bundle of them and stepped into the water, holding them over his head.
Clad, pantleg torn, leg bloody, Spike slipped into the river. He scraped his feet in their shoes along the river bottom. He felt for holes before taking each step.
“Come on, Spike.”
Toby was in the middle of the river. The water was up to his shoulders. He waited.
From downriver there was a noise. Something had moved in the water. A wet, black triangle appeared in the moonlight on the surface of the water.
There was a rushing noise, the sound of water rushing, the sound of some huge thing rushing through the water at them.
Spike saw the eyes. They were imbecile, gleaming, wet. He saw the jaws. He saw the massive white teeth separating.
“Oh, Jesus!”
Mouth open, head and body rolling, a shark rushed by him.
It knocked Spike over. His head went underwater.
A few meters beyond where Spike floundered, the shark suddenly stopped. It had come to the end of its track.
“Jesus!”
Spike regained his footing and stared at it. The shark was bubbling. After a moment, it sank. Spike could feel it moving slowly past him again, going backward underwater.
Through the dark, Toby said calmly, “You must have triggered something with your feet.”
“Jesus! Real! I thought it was a real shark!”
“Rivers don’t have sharks,” Toby said simply. “Except, of course, at Fantazyland.”
“Thanks, kid. ’Ppreciate that. Really ’ppreciate it.”
“Come on, Spike. Pick your feet up.”
By the time Spike reached the riverbank, Toby was nearly dressed in his still dry clothes.
Spike caused a commotion scrambling up the riverbank. A crocodile rose, turned its head toward him, appeared to reach for a bite.
Spike kicked it in the head with his soaked shoe. He slipped in the mud and found himself sitting.
“Good way to make your cut bleed again,” Toby commented.
Spike’s wound bled again. The blood on his leg was warmer than the river water.
In The Burning House, Toby worked the tourniquet again.
“Should work even better now,” Toby said, twisting. “Now that it’s wet. Leave it tight until I come back.”
“Where you goin’?”
“Outside. I saw a blanket.”
In the moonlight Toby walked up behind the mannequin Indian Chief and said, “Excuse me, sir. We need your blanket.” He gave it a tug. It snapped free from around the mannequin’s neck.
Spike was a dark form on the floor of the cabin. Toby could hear him shivering.
“Should have taken your clothes off, Spike.”
“You shoulda tol’ me.”
“Take ’em off now. Otherwise the blanket will get wet too.”
Without getting up, Spike struggled out of his clothes. He threw them on the floor and grabbed the blanket over him.
In a minute, Spike said, “Jeez. This is terrible, kid. They got ol’ Spike down. You know?”
Fifty-Five
“Spike?”
“Yeah, kid?”
Toby was sitting with his back against the inside wall of The Burning House. His arms were around his knees. To him, Spike was a long, dark bulk on the floor. Only Spike’s toes, nose and chin were discernible from Toby’s view.
“Am I kidnapped?”
“Yeah, kid…Toby. I guess you are.”
“And you’re the kidnapper?”
Shivering: “Yeah. Guess I am. Fac’ is….That all right? I mean, that all right with you, Toby?”
“Sure. Just wondering. You know?”
“Sure, kid. Toby. I know. Forget your las’ name.”
“What?”
“I forget your last name.”
“Rinaldi.”
“Yeah. Tha’s right. Don’t take it personal. You know what I mean, kid?”
“Sure.”
“I mean. You know. Everybody’s gotta make his way. In this world. In this real world out there.”
“It’s okay.”
“Well frankly…fac’ is…I’m not so sure.” He shivered again. “I’m not so sure no more.”
“…And my mother?”
“What about her?”
“She didn’t really break her ankle, did she?”
“Naw. How would I know? I never seen your old lady.”
“You said so. You said she broke her ankle.”
“Well. You see. Toby. Fac’ is…not everything I say is exactly the truth. You oughta know that.”
“How?”
“Well, see, I blow out a lotta air. It’s how I get by, if you can dig that. I mean, it’s how I do.”
“Do what?”
“Get by. If you know what I mean.”
“Those other stories, Spike…”
“What stories?”
“About rippin’ that guy’s stomach off. With a knife. With your hands. On the beach.”
“Ah, shit. I made that up. You were makin’ up stories. Tellin’ me stories about some super-creep flyin’ through the air in his drawers and a cape, someone stealin’ city buses. Whaddaya expect? I told you a story. I made that up. Tearin’ off a guy’s stomach. I used that story lotsa times. Makes me puke.”
“Made me puke.”
“Yeah, well, see? That was funny.”
“What about the cat?”
“What cat?”
“You ever set fire to a cat?”
“Jeez, no, kid. I never set fire to no cat. Spin her through the air like that by her tail. I’m no mean guy. Swingin’ a cat. When I was a kid in Newark—your age—there was this mean guy on the block, though. I seen him do it. Real mean guy. I hated him. Really hated him. He usta make me toss my cookies. Mean…His name was Spike, see?”
“‘Spike’? Then what’s your name?”
“It’s Spike, now.”
“What was your name? What’s your real name?”
“…Charles.”
“Oh. I know someone named Charles.”
“Sure you do. See, I hated this guy so much I took the name Spike when I went inta fightin’. Figured if anybody was gonna get his head beat in, better him ’n me. Make sense?”
“Not really.”
“See when I was in reformed school, they made me fight. Taught me a skill: getting’ beat up.” Shivering: “I was never any good. They paroled me right to this guy, name of Brian, big promoter he was, full of the manly sport of bleedin’. I spent months fightin’ down south.
They flew me right outa Newark Airport. Long ways south. Colombia, Venezuela, Bolivia—those places I tol’ you about, where they don’t speak English too good. Fightin’ two, three times a week. Fuckin’ face never got time to heal. Every time I fought they gave me twenty-five dollars. Then they’d change it for me into the local money, so I could have a beer, you know? Didn’t seem to make any difference whether I won or lost: twenty-five dollars. Always the same twenty-five dollars. I came to recognize the bills. I didn’t care. I knew they were poppin’ eyes down there. I heard enough about it round the gyms. Brian was always warnin’ me. Don’t let ’em pop your eye, Spike. I was scared shitless of that. Win or lose: I didn’t care. As long as no one popped one of my peepers.”
“What do you mean, Spike?”
“You know, during a fight, get a thumb in behind an eyeball. Pop it out.”
“Oh.”
“Takes a special kind of glove. Less than regulation, Brian called ’em.”
“Oh.”
“Sure. Fac’ is…it happened. The night came. Brian was very upset. Sent me home. Newark.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t hurt so much. Quick, you know? Some reason, less blood comes from the eye like that than usually comes from the nose alla time. Always bein’ afraid of its happenin’ was much worse. Losin’ an eye ’cause some mean guy really popped it out with his thumb on purpose to win a twenty-five dollar fight really rots. You know what I mean? I mean, it’s only a fight. Twenty-five dollars. How many beers is that? Jeez. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“That’s some kinda mean.”
“But, Spike, you have been in jail?”
“Yeah. Sure. Twice’t. Tol’ you about that.” Shivering: “When I was fourteen, borried a car, didn’t know how to drive, smacked it into another car, knocked myself silly. Tweet-tweet. Cops come—there I was, sleeping prince of a jerk. Second time was after I came back from Bolivia. I was starvin’, you know. I mean, havin’ trouble standin’ up I was so hungry. Waited outside a bar one night. Said to myself, next drunk out loses his wallet. Hamburger heaven, here I come! Next drunk out was a plainclothes cop. Bye-bye, Spike. Least the state of New Jersey plugged the hole in my head with a glass marble. For free, too. ’Ppreciated that. I’ve kept good care of it, too. Before that I had to wear a dollar patch. Like a old pair of pants.”
“You mean your glass eye?”
“Yeah. See, kid, in reformed school, you learn to say terrible things about yourself, what you done. Make up big stories, people back off. Stay outa your pants. Fac’ is, I’m mostly good at takin’ stories from the newspapers, then makin’ ’em up about myself. I make ’em real, know what I mean? What I do, see, see, is I stand around the bars in Newark, some of ’em, tellin’ stories. I guess I look like I should be believed. This face…People believe me, see? I scare ’em shitless. Then, every once’t in a while someone comes up to me, says, ‘Spike, there’s this guy needs his legs broken, his head beat in, his house torched, car kaboomed.’ And I say, ‘Sure, how much?’ real easy, just like that, as if I’m beatin’ up on so many people I have difficulty fittin’ one more into my busy schedule. I allus take half up front. Cash money. I’m no dope.”
“Then do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Beat up on somebody?”
“Shit, no. I move on to another bar. There’s lotsa bars in Newark.”
“Don’t they come after you? They gave you money. Why don’t they beat you up?”
“If they weren’t so chickenshit about beatin’ people up themselves, they wouldna hired me. Right? What money? Most I ever took, twenty dollars, fifty, once’t a C-note. Anyhow, they’re all too scared o’ me! Scared shitless. This face o’ mine…. If I ever saw ’em again, I’d say, ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot. Been busy. I’ll get to it next week.’ See? Like that. A little business.”
For a while they both sat in the dark, listening to Spike’s teeth chattering.
Then Toby asked, “So how come you kidnapped me?”
“Aw, that was nothing,” Spike said. “Just doin’ a friend a favor.”
“Nice friend,” Toby said. “Nice favor.”
“Aw, don’t go all snotty on me, kid. Don’t take it personal. Ain’t you never done a friend a favor?”
“Yes,” Toby said.
“Well, tha’s what I was doin’. I was doin’ a friend a favor. Name o’ Donny Dubrowski. Swell guy. You’d like him, kid. Knew him in prison, up in Attica. He was in for this and that. Only, he was smart, see? None of this fightin’ shit for him. He lifted weights. Worked out real hard. You know, developed his body? He got as strong as a horse. Two horses maybe. Body building is a smart sport. Nobody hits ya. Nobody pulls your eye out. Only, there you are lookin’ like you could beat up the whole world with one twitch of a deltoid.”
“What’s a deltoid?”
“Anyway, Donny got sprung seven, eight months ago. We saw each other sometimes. I didn’t exactly know what he was doin’, exactly, but fact is, he always had money in his jeans. He knew the stories I was tellin’ in the bars were full of shit. Jus’ my way of doin’ business. I’d tol’ the same kinda stories up in Attica. To keep guys off’n me.
“Then just the other day, like, last week, Donny come to me and ast me to do him a favor. One look at him…‘Aw, Donny,’ I said. ‘You got a snootful.’”
“What’s a snootful?”
“He’d climbed the ladder, kid.”
“What ladder?”
“He was flyin’ without wings. Seems someone gived him a job to do—kidnappin’ you—and Donny had temporarily messed up his head. He knew he could come down, though. Just take time.”
“I don’t understand you, Spike. What was wrong with your friend?”
Shivering: “He was sick, kid. Had the flu.”
“Oh.”
“So he ast me if I’d stand in for him while he got better. He said, ‘How’d you like a ride to California on an airplane?’ I said, ‘Sure.’ He said, ‘Pick up this kid at the airport’—that’s you, Toby—and he tol’ me how, and what to say, and give me this special jacket to wear, and he gived me two thousand bucks. Think of it! Two thousand of ’em, all in my pocket at the same time, me owin’ nobody.
“But I owed Donny I do this job for him. So I did it. And that’s a fac’. You saw me do it, dincha, Toby?”
“Yeah.”
“I did a good job kidnappin’ you, too, dinnin’ I?”
“Guess so.”
“Sure I did.”
“So what happened to your friend, Spike?”
“Tha’s the fac’ I dunno. See, I suppost to fly out here with you, lyin’ to you all the way, grab a car, drive you to that fancy Dan hotel, the Fairmont, then call Donny for further instructions, he said.”
“So what happened? What happened when you called him?”
“He wasn’t home.”
Toby ran his finger along the scratch on his forehead. He had discovered the cut after the men had shot at him and Spike. He figured his forehead had been grazed by a wood chip, or a bullet.
Spike shivered. “He never answered the phone. Fac’ is, he never answered the phone.”
“He must be real sick,” Toby said.
“Must be,” Spike agreed.
“Could your friend be dead of the flu, Spike?”
“I dunno, kid. Could be.”
Toby said, “Good night, Spike.”
He stretched out along the wall of The Burning House.
“Toby?”
“Yeah?”
“You want the blanket?”
“No, thanks. My clothes are dry.”
“Sorry that you ain’t got no pajamas. I know how you like ’em.”
“That’s okay,” Toby said. “I’m not in bed.”
Shivering: “Jeez, I thought that shark was real. Jus’ for a minute, there…”
Fifty-Six
“Wake up, Spike! Come on! Wake up! I found a whole world, with nobody
in it!”
Kneeling over him, Toby was shaking Spike’s shoulder.
Spike opened his eyes. His right eye focused on the door of The Burning House. It was just after dawn. There was a wind.
“Look!” Toby moved to the back corner of the cabin. There was a thin railing in a half circle. “Stairs. We didn’t see them last night. I’ve already been down, on an explore. There’s a big tunnel down there. I smelled food. Bread cooking. Come on!”
He returned and pulled the blanket off Spike.
“Sorry,” Toby said. “Forgot you’re naked.”
Spike sat up and looked at the floor near his leg. There was wet blood. “I been leakin’,” Spike said.
“Not much.”
“I feel bushed.”
“We’ll eat,” Toby said brightly.
“I need blood. God. I seen more of my own blood than any other dude alive.”
Toby picked up Spike’s trousers. “They’re still damp. Should have hung them up.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Let’s go.”
“No, I can’t move, kid. They’ve really got Spike down this time.”
Toby handed Spike his shirt. “Put it on.”
Spike said, “Not going anywhere.” He put on his clammy shirt.
Toby forced Spike’s sticky socks on his feet.
From the front of the cabin there was a single quiet pop. Suddenly, the front of the cabin, near the window and door, was a mass of shooting, licking, whooshing flames.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Asbestos,” Toby said. “Can’t burn, remember?”
“Like hell!” Spike was up, hopping around trying to pull on his trousers.
Toby’s head was visible at the top of the stairwell. “Must be an automatic pilot light,” he commented.
“Hot as hell!”
“Come on, then.”
Spike hobbled after Toby down the long, circular iron staircase. By the time he reached the bottom, Toby had opened the door to the tunnel.
Spike looked to his right and his left along the corridor lit dimly by the inset-base lights.
“I’ll be a goose’s rear end. So that’s how they run this place! What a basement!”
Toby let the door close. The sign on it said: Maintenance BURNING HOUSE Red Card Employees Only.
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