The Boxer and the Spy

by Robert B. Parker

  “They won’t say. This is kind of hot stuff, Terry. Guys don’t like to talk about it.”

  Terry nodded.

  “You ever try them?” he said.

  “Hell no,” Tank said.

  “I can see why,” Terry said. “You get any bigger you’ll have your own zip code.”

  Tank shrugged.

  “What are you gonna do?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” Terry said. “If you ever find out where the ‘roids came from that your friends take ...”

  “If I can,” Tank said. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I don’t know why I want to know,” Terry said. “I don’t know anything. I’m fishing.”

  “For what?” Tank said.

  “Anything that bites, I guess. I can’t seem to let go of it.”

  Tank laughed. The librarian glared at them from her desk in front.

  “I known you all my life,” Tank whispered. “You never let go of nothin‘.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I went on the Internet looking up steroids,” Terry said.

  “You learn anything?” Abby said.

  “I learned that some people think they’re poison, and some people think they’re not.”

  They were hanging on the Wall together, across the common from the town library. There was no one else on the Wall. I like being alone with her, Terry thought.

  “So we’re nowhere,” Abby said.

  We!

  “It’s like you can’t trust anything, you know?” Terry said. “You go to some anti-drug site and they preach to you about how bad it all is and talk like kids are morons and we don’t know what the hell we’re doing.”

  “No wonder we don’t trust them,” Abby said.

  “Adults?”

  “Yes,” Abby said. “They’re so know-it-all. And mostly they don’t have a clue.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean why can’t they say, you know, some people think steroids do this, and some people think they do that, and here are the known facts,” Abby said. “Why isn’t there anyplace like that to go to?”

  “I don’t know,” Terry said.

  Abby looked at him for a moment and smiled.

  “And you don’t care,” she said.

  Terry shrugged.

  “Well,” he said. “My mother’s not much like that. She’s pretty fair, you know. She doesn’t pretend to know everything.”

  “And your father?” Abby said.

  “He’s dead,” Terry said.

  “I know. I’m sorry. I meant was he like your mom when he was alive?”

  “He was okay,” Terry said. “He just started teaching me how to box.”

  “What did he die of?” Abby said.

  “Worked for the power company, got electrocuted on a job.”

  “Oh how awful,” Abby said.

  “Happened when I was twelve,” Terry said. “I’m kind of used to it now.”

  “Your mother works,” Abby said.

  “Yeah. She’s a bartender.”

  “Really?” Abby said. “Does she make enough? To live in this town?”

  “Power company was to blame, I guess, when my father died,” Terry said. “They gave her some money, and she paid off the mortgage and made some kind of trust fund for me to go to college. So yeah, we’re getting by.”

  “Funny, I’ve known you since we were three,” Abby said. “But I never knew how your father died.”

  “No reason you should. Hell, I don’t know anything about your parents, what they do, what their names are. I don’t know about anybody’s parents.”

  “They do seem kind of, like, they don’t have anything to do with this life.”

  “The one we have with each other?” Terry said.

  “Yes, you and me, and the other kids. It’s like adults don’t get it that this life is going to school, hanging on the Wall,” Abby said. “This is real life.”

  “You think a lot,” Terry said.

  “I guess so,” Abby said. “Don’t you?”

  “Not so much,” Terry said.

  “You’re thinking a lot about Jason Green,” Abby said.

  “That’s different,” Terry said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to find out what happened to him.”

  “So you think about problems and I think about how things are,” Abby said.

  “Actually,” Terry said. “I think about you a lot too.”

  SKYCAM III

  His father’s wake was in the funeral home, Terry remembered. His mother and father weren’t religious. He guessed he wasn’t either. His father’s casket was closed. The last time he had seen his father was when he’d put on his slicker and hard hat and left in a stormy night for a downed power line. Later there had been the phone call. And the rushing about in the night, and then everything became numb and he walked blankly through the rest of it, until here he was at the wake. He and his mother stood near the casket in the flat silence of the funeral parlor. There were some candles. His mother was very pale, he noticed. He wondered if he was. And all her movements seemed stiff. He felt kind of stiff too.

  Friends of his mother and father came and went, saying awkward things about sorrow mostly to his mother. Some of the men shook his hand; some of the women patted him on the shoulder. There were no kids. Kids didn’t go to wakes much. The people who worked in the funeral parlor were hovering around, guiding people to the guest book, looking sad. He hated them; they seemed phony to him. They didn’t even know his father.

  Then there was a kid, by himself, Jason Green, wearing a suit coat and tie. He walked past the funeral parlor man at the door, who looked at him as ifhe didn’t belong, and came straight up to Terry.

  “Hi, ” he said. “I wanted to tell you something. ”

  Terry said, “Thanks for coming, ” as he had already said two dozen times. It was what his mother had told him to say. He too had on a coat and tie. It seemed odd to him.

  “My father died when I was ten, ” Jason said. “After a while you won’t feel so bad as you do now. ”

  Terry nodded.

  “You ’ll get used to it, ” Jason said.

  Terry nodded again.

  “I just wanted you to know, ” Jason said.

  “Thank you, ” Terry said. “Thanks for coming.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Seated behind his desk in his office, Mr. Bullard looked even bigger than when he was walking around. Mr. Bullard nodded Terry to a seat across from him and sat silently looking at him. He had his suit coat off and his sleeves rolled and his arms folded across his chest. His forearms were huge.

  Like Popeye, Terry thought.

  “You wanted to see me?” Terry said.

  Bullard nodded silently. Terry waited.

  “You went to the nurse yesterday,” Bullard said after a time. “Without a slip.”

  Terry started to say yes sir, but stopped.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Do you know the school regulations?” Bullard said.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know that unauthorized visits to the school nurse are prohibited.”

  “I just wanted to ask her some questions,” Terry said.

  “About steroids,” Bullard said.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m just trying to figure out what happened to Jason,” Terry said.

  “Jason Green,” Bullard said.

  He remained motionless, sitting massively with his arms folded.

  Trying to intimidate, Terry thought.

  “Yes.”

  “And you are not happy with the official explanation?” Bullard said.

  “I don’t think Jason would take steroids,” Terry said.

  “There were traces in his system,” Bullard said.

  “But even if there were,” Terry said, “would it make him crazy enough to kill himself?”

  “Apparently,” Bullard said.

  Terry felt his stomach tighten. His th
roat felt tight. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “I don’t believe it,” Terry said.

  Bullard unfolded his arms and leaned forward in his chair and rested his thick hands on his desktop.

  “You don’t believe it,” Bullard said.

  “No.”

  “And you’re an expert in these matters,” Bullard said.

  Keep your feet under you, Terry said to himself. Keep your form.

  “I’m trying to learn,” Terry said.

  Bullard drummed softly on the desktop with his fingers. Terry waited.

  Okay, keep your jab working, he thought. Don’t let him swarm you.

  “Mr. Novak,” Bullard said.

  Terry waited.

  “Mr. Novak,” Bullard said again. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen,” Bullard said, and shook his head.

  Terry was quiet. Bullard drummed his fingertips some more.

  “I will not try to explain all of this to you,” Bullard said after a time. “There is too much that you don’t know Let me just say this is an adult problem being tended to by adults. I do not want you to have anything further to do with it.”

  “I liked Jason,” Terry said.

  “We all liked him,” Bullard said. “His death is tragic. And that is precisely why we do not wish to cause his mother more grief.”

  Terry didn’t know what to say to that. He was quiet.

  “I want you out of it,” Bullard said. “Do you understand?”

  Terry nodded.

  “I understand what you want,” Terry said.

  Bullard slammed the palm of one hand on the desktop.

  “And you’ll do it,” Bullard said. “You’ll stop poking your dumb fifteen-year-old nose into things you don’t understand, or you’ll have more trouble from me than you can imagine.”

  Jab, Terry thought. Fight smart. Jab and cover.

  “Yes sir,” he said.

  Bullard pointed a thick forefinger at Terry.

  “Behave yourself. I do not wish to have to take disciplinary steps.”

  “Yes sir,” Terry said.

  “You better believe it,” Bullard said.

  “Yes sir, I do,” Terry said.

  “All right,” Bullard said. “Now get out of here.”

  “Yes sir,” Terry said. “Thank you sir.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I guess you were Jason Green’s best friend,“ Terry said to Nancy Fortin. “Weren’t you?”

  She shrugged.

  “Tell me about him,” Terry said.

  “You knew him,” Nancy said. “What’s to tell?”

  Nancy was a square-built girl, strong looking, with short black hair. She was in the technical arts curriculum, where Jason had been.

  “I didn’t know him well,” Terry said. “He seemed like a nice kid.”

  “He was. Lot of people dumped on him, though. He didn’t play sports or anything.”

  “Lot of people thought he was gay,” Terry said.

  “You?”

  “Yeah, I guess I thought so.”

  “But you didn’t care.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t know if he was gay or not,” Nancy said. “He liked to draw and stuff. He was studying landscape design.”

  “He wanted to be a gardener, right?”

  “Not a gardener,” Nancy said. “A landscape designer. There’s a difference.”

  “Oh,” Terry said. “That why he’s in the tech arts curriculum?”

  “Yeah,” Nancy said. “I guess. Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Didn’t seem the type,” Terry said.

  “We’re not all stupid,” Nancy said.

  “I didn’t say you were,” Terry said. “I just figured Jason more for writing poetry and stuff.”

  “I guess you figured wrong,” Nancy said.

  “I do that a lot,” Terry said. “What are you studying?”

  “Culinary arts,” Nancy said.

  “Going to be a chef?”

  Nancy nodded.

  “Not a cook,” she said.

  Terry nodded.

  “You think Jason killed himself?”

  “I guess so,” Nancy said. “Everybody says he did.”

  “But would he?” Terry said. “I mean you knew him really well. Would he kill himself?”

  “How do I know?” Nancy said.

  Nancy always had a tough sound in her voice, Terry thought, like she was mad about something.

  “You were his best friend,” Terry said.

  She shrugged. Terry could tell she didn’t like talking about this.

  “His father’s dead,” Nancy said.

  “I know,” Terry said.

  “His mother was kind of a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “She got drunk all the time,” Nancy said.

  “Every day?” Terry said.

  “After his father died,” Nancy said. “Jason told me she would get drunk every night and pass out on the couch.”

  “That sucks,” Terry said.

  “Lot of things suck,” Nancy said.

  Terry decided not to ask about that.

  “You think he was on steroids?”

  “I don’t know why he would be,” Nancy said. “And, I mean I loved him, you know? But he sure didn’t look like he was taking steroids.”

  Terry smiled.

  “No he didn‘t,” Terry said.

  “He did take something for asthma,” Nancy said. “I think he told me once it was some kind of steroid. We joked about it.”

  “He had asthma?”

  “Sometimes,” Nancy said. “The stuff he took seemed to help.”

  “And the gardening didn’t bother it?”

  “I told you before he was into landscape design,” Nancy said.

  “And he joked about taking steroids?”

  “Yes, he thought it was funny, you know? How he wasn’t into all that macho stuff,” Nancy said. “But he was taking a steroid.... He didn’t even like sports, or fighting, or weight lifting. He liked to draw.”

  “And now he’s dead,” Terry said.

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Nancy said.

  “Yes,” Terry said. “It is.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I throw my right at you,” George said. ”You block it with your left, counter with your right.”

  Terry did it.

  “Or you block with your left,” George said. “And counter with your left.”

  Terry did it, pounding the punches into George’s big mitts.

  “Keep your right up when you counter with your left.”

  Terry did it over. He kept his right hand high.

  “Good,” George said. “But what if I come straight in on you?”

  He demonstrated with the big mitt.

  “So I inside your left and you can’t block me?” George said.

  “I get... a big fat ... lip,” Terry said.

  He was breathing very hard.

  “You might,” George said. “But if you check me, maybe you won’t.”

  “Check,” Terry said.

  “It’s a move they use a lot in martial arts,” George said.

  “I’m only... interested... in boxing,” Terry said.

  “Not so different,” George said. “Get your hands up. We’ll go through it slow motion. Stick your right hand at me, straight on.”

  Terry did, slowly. George diverted the punch slowly with his right hand, dropping his left at the same time.

  “Just move the punch away. Not far. Just make him miss ... and now, with your left you come up in a half circle and block him hard and get a nice shot at his head with your right. On the street you might use your elbow. It’s right there handy.”

  They practiced a few times. Terry kept forgetting to drop his left when he checked with his right. His arms would tangle.

  “Damn,” Terry said.

  “How many times you got to throw a punch,” George said, “‘fo
re it’s part of the muscle memory?”

  “Three, four thousand,” Terry said.

  “You done it seven times now,” George said.

  “Looks easier,” Terry said, “when you do it.”

  “It is easier when I do it,” George said. “I done it a million times.”

  Terry nodded. They worked some more on check-block. And at the end of the session, Terry sat on the chair and George took off the gloves for him. Terry unwrapped his hands and caught his breath.

  “How long we been doing this, George?” Terry said.

  “Five months,” George said.

  “I’m nowhere near a boxer yet,” Terry said.

  George shrugged.

  “And I don’t want to get into a fight with anybody in the school yard or something,” Terry said.

  George nodded.

  “But if I did, you know,” Terry said, “I’d have a plan. I might win or I might not, but I would sort of know what I wanted to do.”

  “Good to have a plan,” George said.

  They were quiet as Terry unwrapped the self-sticking tape from his hands and wrists.

  “It makes you feel, like, calm,” Terry said.

  “Calm is good,” George said.

  Terry balled the tape and dropped it into the wastebasket in the corner.

  “You ever scared, George,” Terry said, “when you were fighting?”

  “Every fight,” George said.

  “The whole fight?”

  “No,” George said. “Once you get into the first round, you sort of lose the fear thing. First round you figure out if you got a legitimate chance to beat this dude or if you pretty much gonna concentrate on surviving.”

  “You didn’t always think you’d win?”

  George smiled.

  “I could always hit,” George said. “So I always had a chance, but you know pretty quick whether you as good as he is.”

  “How about a street fight? Not when you were a bouncer, but just, you know, some guy gives you grief, and you pop him?”

  “You a professional fighter, Terry, you ain’t supposed to be popping people on the street. Law give you trouble on that,” George said. “Besides, most street fights be about proving something. You a fighter, you know what you can do. Ain’t no need to prove it.”

  Terry nodded. His hands were unwrapped. His breath was back to normal. The sweat had dried. Still he stayed in the chair.

  “You’d think it would be the other way,” Terry said. “But it’s like, the more you know about fighting, the less you fight.”