Crying Wolf

by Peter Abrahams

  The drumstick fell from Saul’s hand. “I hear you right?”

  Freedy put his drumstick tidily in the ashtray by Ronnie’s bed. “I mean Christ almighty, Saul, Mr. Medeiros, whatever. Is that what this is all about? Portagee shit? Were you getting a piece of Cheryl Ann too? Or-” It suddenly hit him. “-or is it the new one, the schoolgirl from Fitchville South?”

  Okay, maybe he wanted that last one back. But how did that work? How did you get things back? Besides, it was another one of his amazing insights. He could believe it, Saul and the sophomore, easy. So he said it. You had to be who you are, had to be who you are and make it work for you-right from the infomercials. Nothing wrong there. But jeez, that girl from Fitchville South: how could she do it with an old prick like that, hair on his nose? Freedy found himself smiling at the thought, shaking his head, maybe not the best time for that either.

  Ronnie made a little noise in his sleep, coma, whatever it was, a relaxed sound, almost happy.

  “Boys,” said Saul, not loud, almost a question.

  “Now, Mr. Medeiros?” said the smaller one, Freedy’s size, or maybe a bit bigger, Freedy realized.

  Saul stepped aside.

  The boys came into Ronnie’s bedroom, reaching inside their satin jackets. They pulled out tire irons. ’Course, you had a wrecking yard, you had tire irons.

  Freedy felt jacked right away, like he was full of andro, stoked on meth. Was he? He’d have to think about that later. Right now he had to deal with the boys. Just because you were big, just because you were strong, just because you dug beating the shit out of somebody, just because you weren’t afraid, none of that made you a fuckin’ leg breaker. What made you a fuckin’ leg breaker came from inside, and the boys didn’t have it.

  Ronnie’s bedroom wasn’t big. It could scarcely contain Freedy, the boys, Ronnie and his bed. But that was neither here nor there, whatever that might mean. What was here and there was the smaller of the two boys, the one just a bit bigger than Freedy, moving in on him first. No surprise there: you expected the smaller guy to be quicker. He was quick, had that tire iron swinging sideways at Freedy’s head-smart, much harder to block than a high-low-had the tire iron swinging at him quick. But not crow-quick, and even crow-quick might not have been quick enough. Freedy ducked: takes some nerve to just duck, but it works. Didn’t even duck a lot, only the two or three inches necessary. The tire iron actually clipped his ponytail, for a moment floating free of gravity before his ducking head pulled it down.

  The smaller big boy spun halfway around from the force of the missed blow. Freedy kicked him good and hard behind the knee; weak spot on most everybody. Freedy heard a cracking sound-that Thanksgiving sound, he felt like a kid again-and the smaller big boy went down.

  Bit of a surprise at that point. The bigger big boy turned out to be just as quick as the smaller one, maybe quicker. He actually connected with the tire iron, actually made Freedy feel pain, shoulder temporarily out of service, maybe the arm too. Someone shouted: might have been Freedy. Then the big boy was on him, like a house. Three hundred pounds or more, saliva slobbering down, some growling: disgusting. Three hundred pounds on top, Freedy on the bottom, one arm not in tip-top shape. Oh, yeah: and the tire iron raised up high, cocked back, now coming down at his head. But what was this? Freedy felt something funny under his hand-left hand, but that was the only one working at the moment-almost as though some angel had put it there. His fingers closed around it-the goddamn KFC chicken bone, dropped by Saul, pig that he was, and gnawed on a bit. One end could almost be called sharp. That was the end that Freedy jabbed up with, up and up with his kind of quick, right up the nose of the bigger big boy, way, way up. The bigger big boy stopped whatever he was doing at that moment, whatever he was doing consciously. The tire iron left his hand, flew across the room, crashed into something; the bigger big boy fell on Freedy, lay there still.

  The boys didn’t have it, not what it takes inside.

  Problem was, while Freedy struggled to get out from under all that weight, he forgot about the one other guy in the room besides him who did have it inside, who was a fuckin’ leg breaker, as he should have kept in mind the whole time. Just because a guy is old and scrawny and has that sickening hair growing on the top of his nose doesn’t mean he hasn’t got it.

  Saul Medeiros kicked him real hard in the balls. The look on his face when he did it was the genuine fuckin’ leg-breaker look. All the air left Freedy’s lungs, and there was no hope of getting more anytime soon. Uncle Saul reared back to give him another one. He wore filthy, oil-stained shit-kickers, what you’d expect down at the wreckers.

  But at that moment, when things didn’t look so good, Ronnie came through for him. He sat up, squinting, and said, “Can somebody close the goddamn shade?”

  Saul glanced at him, an expression on his face that might have amused Freedy at some other time. A glance that lasted for a second or less, but enough time for Freedy to dig down deep, start a sideways turn, lash out with his top leg. Not a hard lashing out, not hard for Freedy, but Saul was old and scrawny. He fell without any resistance Freedy could feel.

  Saul started scrambling to get up. Freedy, still needing that breath, a little sore here and there, started getting up too, but slow, like Superman exposed to whatever that stuff was, k — something. Slow for Freedy and scrambling for Saul turned out to be about the same. Saul had a sharp, shiny hooked thing in his hand, something from the yard Freedy didn’t even know the name of. Didn’t matter. That nose with the hair growing on top? Freedy flattened it with one punch, a left hand by necessity, flattened it flush into the rest of Saul’s mean little face.

  That left Saul and the bigger big boy motionless on Ronnie’s floor, the smaller big boy crawling on his belly toward the door making moaning sounds, Ronnie sitting up in bed, his room a mess.

  “Hold it right there,” Freedy said to the smaller big boy.

  “Don’t,” he said, and kept moving.

  Freedy went over to him, bent down.

  “Don’t,” said the smaller big boy.

  “What are you going to do about it?” said Freedy, and he tore that black satin jacket with the gold letters and the gold crest right off the smaller big boy’s back.

  Freedy walked over to the bedside, putting on the jacket, not easily because of his right arm. He looked down at Ronnie. Ronnie squinted up at him.

  “Freedy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Mind getting me a glass of water?”

  “Guess not.”

  Freedy stepped over the smaller big boy and went down the hall.

  “And maybe a couple aspirin,” Ronnie called after him. “In the drawer by the sink.”

  Freedy came back with water and two aspirin in his hand. Ronnie took the aspirin off his open palm, gulped them down.

  “Ronnie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call it even, right?”

  Ronnie nodded, winced, stopped nodding.

  Down in Ronnie’s basement, on his way out, Freedy had a moment of… not weakness, more like he was tired for a second, what with missing a night’s sleep and all. He sat down on the bench, the padded bench they used for presses, and swallowed an andro. What was this? Three left? As for the meth, he had enough for about that many hits in the Baggie in his pocket, the main supply stowed under his bed in the “Little Boy” room. The question: was this the time to go back and get it? Saul had said he hadn’t called the cops and Freedy believed him. You could say what you liked about Saul Medeiros, but he was true to his word. That meant it was some pot deal of his mother’s, nothing to do with him. So it was safe to go back and get it, right?

  Or wrong. Freedy couldn’t make up his mind, which was weird. Just fatigue, probably, and his right arm dangling like that. Good time for a tweak, in fact. What was he thinking of?

  Freedy used up a little of his meth, had an idea immediately. Why not call and find out? Ronnie’s cordless lay right there on the stereo. Freedy dialed the number.
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br />   “Hello?” said his mother.

  “Hi,” said Freedy.

  She lowered her voice. “What happened in California?”

  She’d mixed it all up. “Happened? I told you to say I’d gone back there, that’s all.”

  She spoke faster. “I did. But they’re saying they’ve got a war-”

  In the background a man said, “Who is that?”

  The line went dead.

  Something happened in California? Not that he was aware of. She’d mixed it all up: no surprise there, her head full of smoke, year after year. Still, probably not a pot thing in this case, so it wasn’t safe to go home yet. When would it be? What about the money she’d promised, the ten grand, plus travel expenses? She ruined everything. He pounded the bench, in his frustration forgetting and using his right hand. Made the shoulder, the arm feel a little better, actually.

  What now? He needed to sleep, to rest, to sort things out. Where? Only one place he could think of.

  Freedy popped up the vent hood behind the hockey rink. He heard sirens down in the flats. Not unusual. He glanced around; no one in sight, nothing to see but his own footprints, leading right to him across the snowy playing fields. What could he do about that? Nothing.

  But maybe he wouldn’t have to. As he watched, the sky, already dark for even a cloudy day, darkened more, and the first flakes started falling. The wind picked up. Snow and wind would take care of the footprints for him, like nature was on his side. Luck, on this lucky day, was still with him. One or two more breaks and he’d be golden.

  26

  “All my writings are fish-hooks… If nothing got caught I am not to blame. There were no fish.” With reference to Nietzsche’s critics, describe three major arguments of the fish that didn’t bite.

  — Final exam question 2, Philosophy 322

  The aquarium was missing. They were sitting in the twins’ room on the third floor of Lanark, Nat at one of the desks, Izzie on Grace’s bed. Outside, the sky, a morning sky but dark, darkened more, and a few flakes began falling, almost invisible in the weak light.

  “Where’s Lorenzo?” Nat said.

  “We took him down to the cave. She-Grace wanted company in case it was a long wait.”

  They fell silent, waited. After a while Izzie picked up a mirror, made a few adjustments to her hair. “I wish you wouldn’t be like this,” she said.

  “Like what?” Nat said.

  “Brooding, or whatever it is. What’s the point? It’s done.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Maybe not? The only way to undo it is to make us look like idiots.”

  Nat said nothing. There was an unfamiliar sharpness in her tone; he put it down to tension.

  “You know what your problem is?” she said.

  Tension, for sure. He’d never heard her on edge like this, not close. She wasn’t herself. Perhaps the girls had made a mistake: maybe Izzie should have waited in the cave while Grace handled things up here.

  “What’s my problem?” Nat said.

  “Fear of success,” Izzie told him. “Which I always took for psychobabble. Now I’m thinking it exists after all.”

  He felt that one, so close to ambition should be made of sterner stuff. It didn’t matter now. Someone with the money was on the way. Someone gave the money to Izzie. Izzie gave the money to no one. Grace emerged. A little hanky-panky, then back to normal life. It sounded simple, like a beginning case study in economics.

  She came over to the chair, stood behind him. “Let’s not fight,” she said, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Mmm,” she said. Her hands were cold.

  There was a knock at the door. Nat’s eyes met Izzie’s. Was her heart suddenly beating faster too? Probably not, from the casual way she said, “Come in.”

  The door opened: a UPS man in his brown uniform.

  “Izzie Zorn?” he said, reading the name from the package in his hand.

  “I’ll take it,” said Izzie, and laid the package on the other desk. The UPS man went away.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Nat said.

  Izzie opened the UPS package, unwrapped bubble wrapping, pulled out what was inside: a laptop. She looked puzzled for a moment, then laid it aside.

  “New computer?” Nat said.

  “The old one disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “Stolen, I guess.”

  “When was this?”

  “Not too long ago.”

  “You never mentioned it.”

  She shrugged.

  “Did you report it?”

  “Report what?”

  “The theft.”

  “To whom?”

  “Campus security.”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Maybe none,” Nat said. “But there was Wags’s TV, the TV from the lounge, now this.”

  “Probably Wags doing it himself,” Izzie said.

  That had never occurred to Nat. “Why would he?”

  “Why would he build a snowman in your room?”

  Nat realized he still had a headache, very faint. “I don’t think Wags-”

  Another knock on the door.

  “Was I supposed to sign?” Izzie said; and, as casually as before: “Come in.”

  The door was opened again, but not by UPS. Two men in suits came in, very nice suits-even Nat knew that. The first man, the smiling one-not Albert, not Anton-was Andy, who’d sat beside him in the limousine to the airport; behind him, not smiling, was Mr. Zorn.

  Someone coming with the money: why hadn’t he expected Mr. Zorn? Nat had no idea what to say or do; and felt transparent.

  Not Izzie. She leaped up, ran to her father, threw her arms around him, started crying. Actually shaking, wracked with sobs: Nat was amazed, would never have thought her capable of this. It was almost as though she were really afraid for Grace. Mr. Zorn watched him over her shoulder.

  The smiling man extended his hand. “Hi, Nat. Andy Ling. Met you over Christmas. More pleasant circumstances.”

  They shook hands. “Maybe I’d better go, Mr. Ling.”

  “Not necessary,” said Andy. He turned to Mr. Zorn, patting Izzie’s back, his eyes still on Nat. “Is it, Mr. Zorn?”

  “We’d appreciate your staying,” said Mr. Zorn.

  Nat nodded.

  “Good man,” said Andy. He opened a closet, peered inside, beckoned Nat over. Was Nat supposed to notice something? He noticed shoes; had never seen so many outside a shoe store. Andy Ling lowered his voice. “Why don’t we give them a moment or two?” Andy led Nat into Grace and Izzie’s bathroom, shared, because of their corner room, with no one.

  Andy closed the door. He glanced in the toilet, drew aside the shower curtain. “Scared, Nat?” he said.

  “Yes,” Nat said. It was true.

  Andy opened the medicine cabinet, closed it, ran his eyes over the bottles on the shelf above the sink: nail polish remover, body lotion, shampoo, conditioner, Clairol. “Scared of what, exactly?” said Andy.

  “This… this situation.”

  Andy turned to him, still smiling. He had one of the friendliest faces Nat had ever seen: asymmetrical, lumpy, cheerful. Nat tried to remember his job description. Albert was Mrs. Zorn’s personal assistant, Anton was her personal trainer, and Andy? He didn’t recall anyone ever telling him.

  “I don’t blame you,” Andy said. “Being scared.” He dumped the wastebasket on the floor, poked through the mess, poked through it with his gloved hands; not till that moment did Nat notice he’d kept his winter gloves on the whole time.

  The mess: tangled strings of dental floss, balled-up tissues, Q-tips, an empty bottle of Clairol, another bottle, also empty, that Nat recognized: Bidoit Paradis, Grande Champagne, 1880. Andy picked it up, sniffed at the opening, set it on the sink. “Don’t blame you one bit. Something happen to your nose?”

  “Just a bump.”

  Andy opened the bathroom door and reentered the bedroom. Nat checked himself in the mirror-the nose wasn�
��t bad, but there were other problems, hard to define-and followed.

  Izzie, no longer crying, sat on Grace’s bed, hugging her knees. Mr. Zorn stood by her, gazing out the window.

  “Imagine spending four years here,” said Mr. Zorn.

  “Doesn’t get any better,” said Andy.

  “You agree, Nat?” said Mr. Zorn.

  Nat couldn’t manage a reply of any kind.

  Mr. Zorn looked past him. “Anything?”

  “Nope,” said Andy.

  “What’s going on?” said Izzie.

  “You’re asking the right question,” said Mr. Zorn.

  Andy got down on his hands and knees, checked under the beds. Nat had a premonition of what was coming. Stop, he thought. Enough. He almost said it.

  “What are you doing?” Izzie said. “And where’s the briefcase?”

  “Briefcase?” said Mr. Zorn.

  “Or whatever you brought the money in.”

  Mr. Zorn sat down beside her. “Why don’t you tell us the whole story?”

  “But I already did,” said Izzie.

  In fact, Nat realized, it was Grace who had told the story, told them on the phone as though she were Izzie. How well did she herself remember it? Sequential, nondenominational, whatever it was, blah blah. How well had she listened in the first place?

  “Please tell it again,” Andy said, soft and gentle.

  Izzie shrugged. She told the story, second hearing for Mr. Zorn and Andy, first for Nat. She didn’t try to sell it at all, didn’t even look at anyone as she spoke, just sat there on Grace’s bed, still hugging her knees, spoke as though it was all unfolding again in her head. She told how Grace had risen in the night, complaining of an upset stomach; how Grace had gone down to the Coke machine in the Lanark basement; how she, Izzie, had fallen back asleep and been awakened by the kidnapper’s phone call. A male voice. Perhaps a slight Japanese accent. He’d put Grace on the line for a moment, to prove he had her. “I’m all right,” Grace had said. Grace had been Grace, poised and cool. But Izzie could tell she was just being brave; they’d have to take her word, the word of a twin, for that. Then the man came back on with the demand: one million dollars in nonsequential low-denomination bills. He would get in touch again to arrange the delivery. Click.