by Tod Goldberg
“He’s unhurt, at least physically,” Big Lumpy said.
“And there’s nothing there emotionally to tarnish, so I suspect he’s fine.”
“Nice of you to wrap him up for me,” I said. I watched as Big Lumpy was helped down the stairs by his manservant—I really needed to get one of those—and was struck by how difficult it was going to be to explain all of this to Sam and Fiona, when Big Lumpy stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked back up at me.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?” I said.
“Trusting me. No one trusts me.”
“I’m not sure that I do. You did threaten to kill my brother after all.”
“It’s just part of the odds. You know that.”
“I suppose I do. I just don’t want to take a bad beat like Henry Grayson.”
“You won’t,” he said. “We’ll speak tomorrow and in a few days all of this will be over and I’ll be dead or dying and your friend Brent will have a new life. Isn’t that nice?”
Big Lumpy didn’t wait for my reply. He and his assistant walked through the courtyard and out into the street, climbed into the white Escalade and were gone. I pulled the canvas bag off of Sugar’s head and saw that they’d also duct-taped his mouth and stuffed his ears with cotton. That they hadn’t just cut out his tongue was probably only due to Big Lumpy’s new world-view. I ripped the duct tape off of Sugar’s mouth and he immediately began apologizing, making threats and essentially babbling incoherently, so I put the tape back over his mouth, but pulled the cotton out of his ears.
“Sugar,” I said, “I want you to listen to me. You ever tell anyone who I am, where I live or even the color of my eyes again, and I’ll kill you myself. We clear?”
Sugar nodded his head. It was about all he could do, since he was still wrapped in plastic.
“All right,” I said. “Come on in and I’ll make you some yogurt.”
11
The first kamikazes, the first fighters willing to commit suicide in order to defeat their opponents, are generally thought to have been the Jewish Sicarii and the Islamic Assassins. Unlike modern-day suicide bombers, the Sicarii and the Assassins weren’t required to die in order to do their jobs, but if that was what happened, so be it. Undertaking a suicide mission requires a different psychological makeup than merely putting yourself in a position where you might die as a result of your actions.
With someone like Big Lumpy, however, where his death was already foretold, taking a risk like presenting himself to Yuri Drubich in order to defraud him was an entirely different beast. He could die in the process, but maybe it would be a less painful way to go than via whatever was eating him from the inside out. No matter how this all played out, Big Lumpy was a dead man. And in the end, if he went for it, Brent’s father’s debts would be gone, he’d be able to get the help he needed, and Brent would have choices about how to use his talents. Or at least he’d have the financial security to make choices. I couldn’t imagine what Big Lumpy’s provisos would be, as he said, but they’d hardly be enforceable with violence after he was dead.
“What sort of person goes by Big Lumpy?” my mother asked.
It was the next morning and I’d just finished explaining to Brent (and a befuddled Sugar . . . and my chain-smoking mother) the deal Big Lumpy was offering him, right down to the potential for millions of dollars. We were sitting at the same kitchen table where I’d had eight thousand conversations with my own mother and father about how crime doesn’t pay. The same table where Fiona and Sam—who were on their way over to take Brent to school—and I had planned more than one enterprise that might normally be considered criminal if we weren’t such good law-abiding citizens . . . or, well, at least Sam and I were, in any case.
I hadn’t mentioned to my mother that Nate was being threatened in all of this, figuring that all things being equal, she really didn’t need to know that Nate was also into a psychopath—or a former psychopath, as it were—for some marginal sum of money. Parents really don’t need to know everything about their children.
“It’s a nickname,” I said. “Because of his huge brain.”
“What about you, Sugar?” my mother asked. “Why do people call you that?”
“I’m sweet, Mrs. Westen,” he said.
“Isn’t that nice,” she said. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “Brent tells me you used to live under Michael’s place. Isn’t that a coincidence?”
“It’s a small world,” he said.
“So you’re the drug dealer, then, that he had to shoot?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know. We all got checkered pasts, right, Mike?”
“You don’t have a checkered past,” I said. “You have a checkered present. You really do need to consider another line of work, Sugar. Eventually someone is going to have better aim and will get you in the head.”
“I was thinking maybe I’d go back to school. Hit up twelfth grade again at night school and then just bounce once I get my paper. You know, but I gotta get mine until then. I’m going to get up out of that game when I can, Mike, on the real. Soon as I get a new ride.”
“I’m sorry,” my mother said, “but I have no idea what you just said. Could you interpret into English for me, Michael?”
The thing about my mother was that she could be lost and adrift and then she could just seem to be lost and adrift. It was a good defense mechanism and a good way of putting people like Sugar in their place. She would have made a good preschool teacher or Cossack.
“He’s going to quit dealing drugs just as soon as he gets his high school diploma and a new car,” I said, “but not in that order, I suspect.”
“And do you also call yourself Sugar because you sell cocaine?” she asked.
“Allegedly,” he said.
My mother turned to Brent. “If you’re smart,” she said, “you’ll get him out of your life as soon as possible.”
Brent shrugged. If he could figure out a way to convey the word “like” by using a repetitive body action, he’d have the basis of his entire emotional range covered.
“Anyway,” I said to my mother, “Big Lumpy is a genius. Geniuses get to call themselves whatever they want. Though my understanding is that he doesn’t actually care for the name, if it makes you feel any better, Ma.”
“He might be all smart and stuff,” Sugar said, “but he’s mean.”
“He let you live,” I said. “He didn’t need to do that.”
“Whatever,” he said. “He wrapped me in plastic wrap like I was a sandwich or some shit. That’s messed up, yo.”
Through all of this Brent was strangely silent. “So,” I said, “what do you think, Brent?”
“Why does he want to do this?” he asked.
“Honestly? I think he sees himself in you.”
“I’ve never met him,” Brent said.
“I don’t mean it literally,” I said. “But in your work. The Web site. The guts it took to stand up to him and to screw Yuri Drubich over. He thinks you’re smart, Brent. I think you’re smart, too. But I’m not offering you an opportunity to do . . . well, whatever he wants you to do.”
“What do you think that will be?”
“My guess is that he wants you to go down a better road than he went on,” I said. “At least eventually. My sense is that he thinks he can train you a bit. And then send you to work for people who could use you for the good of our country. What you did to Yuri, what you came up with, InterMacron, that technology you just made up out of the ether? He thinks it could work, Brent. That’s the biggest thing. He thinks your theories are sound.”
“I was just doing what I could to help my dad,” he said. “I did what anyone would do.”
I looked across the table at my mother. She was sitting beside Brent attempting to be as motherly as possible, which wasn’t easy, since she was always better at being vaguely distant and demanding, and I could tell she wanted to say something. She kept opening her mouth and t
hen closing it, like a fish.
“Go ahead, Ma,” I said, “say what you’re going to say.”
“Well, Michael,” she said, “I think Brent makes a very good point. Doing whatever he could do to take care of his parent. That’s a very kind, very wise, very sweet thing for a boy of just nineteen to do.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Princely.”
“At least he didn’t run off and become some . . . whatever you are.”
“A spy,” I said.
“Which is badass,” Sugar said.
“Totally,” Brent said.
Not the response my mother was looking for. “Anyway, Michael, I just think that maybe Brent needs a good, solid family surrounding him. What kind of life is he going to have doing whatever this Big Lucy wants him to do?”
“Lumpy,” I said. “Big Lumpy. And the truth is, Ma, that Brent can make his own choices of what he does. You want to work for the government, Brent?”
He shrugged. Of course. “I dunno. That sounds pretty cool.”
“Would he get to carry?” Sugar asked.
“Probably not,” I said.
“Whatever, bro,” Sugar said to Brent. “I could get you a piece.”
“He would need to get certain criminal elements away from him,” I said.
“What about my dad?” Brent asked.
I hadn’t told him yet about finding Henry. I wasn’t sure what might happen next, but I knew that if Yuri or perhaps Big Lumpy could use Henry as collateral, they would. It was best that Brent still be kept in the dark about his father’s whereabouts and mental condition, but I didn’t want him to be in constant fear about his possible death. I had to make a choice.
“He’s safe,” I said.
“You found him?” he said. “Where is he? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t,” I said. “And I can’t tell you where he is now, but understand that he’s in a place where no one can get to him.”
“When did you find him?”
“Yesterday,” I said.
“What?” Brent pushed back from the table and then stood up abruptly. “What? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m not a little kid, you know. I’m a full-grown man, you know. I’m, like, almost twenty.”
“Brent,” I said, “please sit down.”
“No,” he said. “No. I mean, like, I’m valuable and you’re just, like, pulling my strings and I’m not down with that.”
He stalked across the kitchen and into the living room and then back into the kitchen. His face was puffy and red and I realized he was near tears.
I don’t do well with tears. Especially not on men. Or boys. Or women. Crying animals aren’t my area of expertise, either.
“Uh, Ma,” I said, as quietly as possible, since I figured she might have more experience with this than I did.
“He’s right, Michael,” she said. “Nineteen is a full-grown man. I’ve heard that before.”
“Not helping,” I said.
Brent did another tour of the house, mumbling under his breath and stomping the entire time, before basically throwing himself down onto the sofa in the living room. “I need to go to school,” he said finally, as if we’d not spent the better part of an hour talking about the rest of his life. “I’ll be late if we don’t leave in, like, fifteen minutes.”
“Sam will take you as soon as he gets here,” I said.
“What about Fiona?” he said.
“That’s my boy,” Sugar said.
“Shut up, Sugar,” I said . . . at precisely the same moment my mother said it, too. There are things we agree on without condition.
“I’m just saying,” Sugar said, “Sam’s gonna stick out on campus like a narc. But Fiona, she can rock that grad student game. Put some horn-rimmed glasses on her, she’d make that shit work like 24-7.”
For once in Sugar’s life, he made a convincing argument. I didn’t think Fiona would go for the horn-rimmed glasses if she didn’t have to, but I suspected she would like the idea of being mistaken for being twenty-two. Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long to find out, as she and Sam rang my mother’s doorbell just a few minutes later.
Sam looked like he hadn’t yet slept, his hair freshly slicked down with water and yesterday’s hair gel, his Tommy Bahama shirt open too far down his chest, not because of any fashion sense but because he’d just put it on in the car. Fiona, however, was radiant as ever in a white sundress accented by black sunglasses and a turquoise handbag. She looked like Jackie O, if Jackie O were still alive and packing a nine in her purse. Not exactly dressed for school, but I’m sure she’d make do.
“How’s your head?” I asked.
“Better,” Fiona said. “Nothing a hot stone massage and an evening spent reading US Magazine and cleaning my knife collection couldn’t soothe.”
“My head is killing me,” Sam said. “What’s that bright orb in the eastern sky?”
“They call that the sun,” I said.
“What’s it doing over there on that side of the heavenly firmament?”
“That’s where it starts every day,” I said.
“So every morning at eight thirty, I can expect to see this same phenomenon?”
“Pretty much,” I said.
“Reason enough to sleep in or drink early,” Sam said.
Brent popped up from the couch, grabbed his satchel and announced, “I’m going to be late. Can we go?”
“Fiona,” I said, “I need you to take Brent to school.”
“I already refused to do that yesterday,” she said.
“Besides, Sam was looking forward to meeting some coeds.”
“I need Sam with me today,” I said. “We’re going to have some Yuri business and he can’t see you again, at least not until his wrist heals. What we don’t need is another combustible situation before we have Brent safely taken care of.”
Fiona pursed her lips and exhaled hard through her nose. It was actually sort of cute when it didn’t portend violence. “What classes do you have today, Brent?”
“Um, history, which is totally lame. And then I’ve got a game design class, which is badass, you know. And then I’ve got a three-hour seminar on women’s studies.”
“Lovely,” Fiona said.
“I assume Western civ and women’s studies are held in big lecture halls?” I said.
“Yeah. Like two hundred people are in those classes. But game design is just twelve of us, so it would be weird if Fiona was with me, but also sort of cool.”
“Tell it,” Sugar said. He was still in the kitchen, wisely keeping his distance from Sam, but he couldn’t stop being Sugar, no matter where he was.
“Oh,” Fiona said, “you’re still alive?”
“I’m cold-kicking it live, doll,” Sugar said and then he began reciting lyrics to some rap song.
“Don’t speak to me,” Fiona said to Sugar, which got him to stop speaking/rapping immediately. “So I’m to wait outside this other classroom? Is that the idea?”
“Yes,” I said. “If someone is coming for him, I suspect they’d come for him there.”
“Then why are we even going to school?” Fiona asked.
“Because I’ll fail if I miss any more classes,” Brent said.
“This is ludicrous, Michael. You realize that?” Fiona said.
Sometimes the most important thing in the world is to let a person think that what they care about most is, in fact, extremely vital to their long-term well-being. Having something he could control, like when and if he attended class, was giving Brent a locus of normalcy. And if that was what he needed, that was what we’d have to give him, dangerous or not.
“We’re living in odd times,” I said. “You have a gun with you?”
“One in my purse, a dozen in my car. I’m supposed to sell a few this afternoon. I guess I’ll cancel that.”
“Please,” I said. “And keep in touch during the day. Let me know if there are any problems.”
“Yes, sir,” Fiona said. “Come on, Brent. L
et’s go get you some book learning. And maybe, if you’re nice, I’ll let you pretend to be my boyfriend so that we can help you pick out a suitably slutty young woman for you to make mistakes with once you’re incredibly wealthy in a few days.”
“That sounds cool,” Brent said.
I walked Fi and Brent outside to Fi’s car, made sure he was buckled in safely and then pulled Fi aside ever so briefly. “Try not kill anyone today,” I said to her.
“What if I have to?”
“Try to just injure them,” I said. “Guns on college campuses are sort of frowned upon.”
“Hmm, yes, I seem to remember your government killing a bunch of kids on a college campus.”
“I’m thinking more of crazed gunmen in towers and in crowded classrooms, really,” I said.
“Ah, yes, your Second Amendment’s downside,” she said.
“Just be careful,” I said.
“I will be,” she said and then got in her car and was gone. When I turned around, Sam was standing on the front porch watching me. He had my cell phone in his hand.
“It’s always sad when they leave the nest,” he said.
“You’ve got a call.”
“Who is it?”
“He called himself Big Lumpy’s Manservant Monty.”
I took the phone from Sam. “This is Michael.”
“I am sorry to bother you,” Big Lumpy’s Manservant Monty said. “But Mr. McGregor asked me to phone in the event of any problems and address myself as Manservant Monty.”
“Mr. McGregor? That’s . . .”
“Big Lumpy, yes,” he said.
“Okay,” I said.
“Yes, sorry to say, he’s expired.”
“Pardon me?”
“He’s expired. In bed.”
“You’re telling me he’s dead?”
“He met his transition, yes.”
“That’s not good,” I said.
“On the contrary, it was very peaceful. He was very ill, as I’m sure you know, so this is a relief. He was very happy last night, you should know. As happy as I’ve seen him in years. He worked well into the early morning on your proposal, so I have it here for you. He instructed me that should there be any problems, as I noted before, all contracts remain enforced, so your brother, Nate, is still at risk here, so you should know.”