He’s frustrated and angry and for the first time he wonders just how tough this Kam really is. Before, when Kam wasted him, Willie was scared and crippled, but he doesn’t feel crippled anymore and now his cane isn’t just something to walk with; not since Sammy showed him all the things it can be used for in a pinch. He leaves the slogan on the walls for André and the rest of the school to see tomorrow. Hawk just might have feelings about some punks sneaking in to mess up “his place” and maybe the contacts to do something about it.
When André sees the Jo Boys’ handiwork on Monday morning, he immediately calls the police, with whom he has an intimate relationship, partly from the nature of the school itself and partly because one of the men assigned to patrol the area has two kids enrolled. Willie walks into the office in the middle of André’s conversation with him, a thick, quiet fireplug of a man named Maurice.
“…goes up into the prison system,” Maurice is saying, as André listens intently. “See, they recruit these gang kids as young as they can. Then if they want a felony done on the outside, they get one of them to do it because the law usually won’t do much more than put them away for a few months at most; particularly if they don’t have priors. And when I’m talking felony, I’m talking anything from assault to robbery to murder.” He leans forward. “I don’t want to make you nervous, André, but I’ve taken some awful big guns away from some awful little kids.”
André shakes his head in disbelief, but he’s lived in this town long enough to believe. “So what happens, we just let them run loose?”
“Not necessarily,” Maurice says. “They’re tough, but they’re still kids. Sometimes we can scare them. If they don’t have a beef with someone here—any reason for revenge—sometimes we can make it worth it for them to leave things alone. Roust ’em. Ship ’em off for a few days. Make deals.”
“Well, I don’t think they have a beef with anyone here,” André says. “I haven’t even heard them mentioned other than the time they beat up Willie here, but that was before he was a student. ’Course I don’t hear everything that goes down in drug deals.”
At Maurice’s request, Willie goes over the incident at the bus stop his first night in town, and Maurice is convinced it has nothing to do with the current problem. He gets up to leave. “Well, see what you can find out, but make sure your kids know not to escalate things. We’ll do what we can.”
“I’ll do what I can, too,” André says. “But I don’t know how much control I’ll have over some of my kids if they think they’re being held hostage by a bunch of punks. I’ve got some fighters here.”
Maurice says, “Don’t I know it,” as he disappears through the door.
“That’s all I need,” André says. “I can hear me telling a guy like Warren Hawkins I want him to lie low while these guys trash our place.”
Willie nods. He knows André’s like a rudder here; guiding from behind, watching which way the river’s going at all times; helping kids do their best in the direction they’re already headed because he knows too much has already gone on in their lives for him to be able to change the course of that river. He uses a heavy hand once in a while, but not often, and if this stuff with the Jo Boys blows up, André might not be able to stop it. Street law is street law.
Telephone Man slithers in the office door, hugging close to the wall, and drops a note on André’s desk. “From my mom,” he says in his deep bass voice. “Don’t read it till I leave.”
“Stay where you are,” André says, opening it. He frowns. “It says there’s a box of Bisquick missing from your kitchen,” and Telephone Man nods.
“So what about it?” André asks.
Telephone Man shrugs.
“Does she think you took it?”
Telephone Man shrugs again.
“Did you?”
Telephone Man hesitates, looking at the ground. He shakes his head. “No.”
“So why did your mom send me this note?” André asks.
Telephone Man shrugs again, palms up.
“Okay,” André says, “go to class. I’ll call your mom.”
Telephone Man disappears around the door jamb and is gone, Willie watching in wonder.
Willie looks up to André. “What was that?”
André laughs. “I don’t know. His parents aren’t without their strangeness either. Jack didn’t get that way on his own. Sometimes when they fight with him about something, they threaten to tell me and he straightens up. They don’t have much control over him. Hell, they don’t know what to control.” He shakes his head. “Listen, if you see him with a box of Bisquick any time today, let me know, okay?”
“Won’t let him out of my sight,” Willie teases.
In the English room, just before first period, Hawk holds court. “Them China boys come in here one more time, get me some silky black scalps,” he says. “I be seein’ that karate boy flippin’ his feet around like he some kinda hot shit, but he mess with the Hawk, I put him a-way.”
Mr. Sauer, the English teacher, enters and listens a few minutes, then says, “Why don’t we just wait and see what happens? No sense getting all dressed up if there’s no place to go.” André has obviously talked with the teachers and told them to downplay things as much as possible—avoid giving guys like Hawk a good reason to get cranked up.
“Oh,” Hawk says, “I wait an’ see, all right. But don’ be no punk China boys messin’ up my place. Get they heads fixed.”
“I didn’t realize you cared so much, Mr. Hawkins,” Mr. Sauer says. “I mean, judging by the number of holes you’ve put in things around here…”
Hawk looks down. “Ain’t done that in a while,” he says, almost apologetically. “‘Sides, it’s one thing when you mess up you own place; somethin’ else when someone else does it.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Mr. Sauer says. “At any rate, let’s develop a patient attitude, okay?”
As Hawk shrugs, Telephone Man enters the room, holding his stomach, and slides into his desk near the rear of the room, next to the door, unnoticed. Halfway through class he slips out again the same way he came.
Willie feels tremendous relief when the buzzer rings to end class. He knew he had to go to the bathroom a half-hour before class started, but kept putting it off for one reason or another and then class started and he had to wait. Stuffing his books carelessly into his pack, he heads to the rest room. He bursts through the door into a war zone. The walls and ceiling are spackled with a reddish-brown substance vaguely resembling cookie dough, but smelling of human waste and strawberries. Through the open door of one stall he sees the toilet stuffed with clothes; Telephone Man’s clothes; and huddled in the middle of the floor, stark raving naked, squats Telephone Man himself, rocking, shivering; staring straight ahead.
“Hey, Jack, man, you okay?”
Telephone Man doesn’t answer, but his lower lip quivers. Beside him, speckled with whatever it is that covers the rest of the room, sits his half-open book bag. Willie looks inside; reaches in to pull out an empty box of Bisquick. “This what your mom was looking for?” Willie asks.
Telephone Man nods, his lower lip quivering more. Willie digs deeper into the bag and comes out with an empty plastic bottle of strawberry-scented shampoo. The chemistry of what has happened flashes in his head, and Willie turns away, clamping his hand over his mouth to cut off a burst of laughter. At best, Telephone Man’s eating habits are horrid, and he can’t read. He must’ve eaten the Bisquick on the way to school, then found the shampoo in the restroom when he got here. It’s Willie’s; or it was. He keeps it here for times when he showers at school because his time is so short. Telephone Man must’ve thought he’d run into a big bottle of Smucker’s surprise.
“Hey, Jack, man, you really okay now?”
Telephone Man nods and wraps his arms tighter around his shoulders.
“It’s okay, man. Really,” Willie says. “Listen, you stay right here and I’ll go get you some clothes from Lost and Found. I’m gonna
lock the door, okay? So nobody will come in.”
Telephone Man nods, and starts to cry; a silent cry from deep, deep down inside. The cry of one more humiliation.
Willie squats down beside him and puts his hands on his shoulders. “Hey, come on,” he says. “No one’s gonna find out, okay? I’ll tell everyone the toilets are plugged and they can’t come in. They’ll just have to use the girls’ can. I’ll get you out of here as soon as class starts. No one will know. Really. Promise.” Willie shakes him gently. “Okay?”
Telephone Man is still crying, but he nods, and as Willie leaves he padlocks the ancient free-swinging door from the outside, scrawling OUT OF ORDER on a piece of notebook paper and sticking it to the door with a piece of gum. On his way down the hall, he says loudly, “Men’s can is out of order. You’d be real sorry if you went in there. Use the girls’ can.”
In the office, Willie almost splits a gut telling André. “You can’t tell anyone, though,” he says. “I promised.”
“Are you sure he’s okay? Physically, I mean?”
“I think so,” Willie says. “There couldn’t be any left in him. You’ll know what I mean when you see it.” He gets a sweatshirt and a pair of pants from Lost and Found as he hears the buzzer for second period.
“Tell him I’ll give him a ride home,” André says. “He doesn’t live very far.”
“Actually, I think I’ll point him toward the bus,” Willie says. “He really needs to think no one else knows.”
“Whatever you think. Just be sure he’s okay.”
Telephone Man is okay. By the time Willie’s back, he’s out of his crouched position and staring into the toilet where he stuffed his clothes. Willie knocks quietly, whispering, “It’s me,” through the door before unlocking the lock. “Here, put these on,” he says. “You can run home and change and be back before noon. I’ll keep it locked up until I can hose it out.” He looks over Telephone Man’s shoulder into the toilet. “How come you put them there?”
“Thought I could flush ’em down,” Telephone Man booms. “Got shit all over ’em. Chickenshit rip-off, if you ask me.”
Willie marvels at how fast he’s bounced back. “Looks like a chickenshit rip-off to me,” Willie says. Then, “You sure you’re feeling okay, now? Be able to go home and come back? I mean, you’re not still sick, are you?”
“I’m okay. You just don’t tell, okay? Promise you won’t tell.”
“I already promised, Jack. I won’t tell.”
Telephone Man looks him straight in the eye for a moment, seems satisfied, and nods his big nod. Willie sticks his head out the door into the hall, looks both ways to be sure it’s empty and gently nudges Telephone Man out. “Hustle back,” he says. “No one will even know you were gone if you hurry.”
Telephone Man slides along the wall to the door and is gone. Willie locks the door to the rest room and heads for Government class.
“They’ve got Telephone Man! They’re beating him up! Down by the stairs! Somebody better come quick! They’re hurting him bad!”
Hawk is out of his desk in a second, leaps over two more and flies into the hall past Yolanda Duke, the freshman girl delivering the message. Kato is close behind, and the room empties. Hawk shoots out the front gate and down the sidewalk toward the stairs before most of the rest clear the building. Willie turns the corner in time to see Hawk jump over Telephone Man lying on the ground next to the concrete bench and sprint down the stairs two and three at a time. At the bottom he is on Kam before Kam has time to turn and fight, slamming him down face first, grabbing a handful of hair; driving his face into the gravel next to the street.
“Done messed up this time, China boy,” Hawk hisses into his ear, then pushes harder.
Kam struggles and Hawk pulls his head back hard. Kam struggles again and Hawk’s knee rams into the back of his leg; Kam stifles a scream. “That how you China boys do you stuff?” Hawk asks. “Beatin’ on dummies? You better hope he ain’ hurt bad, or I gonna grind you face right off you head.”
“Hey, man,” Kam says. “We didn’t know who he was. We were just roughin’ him up a little for some bread, man. He’s not hurt.”
“You hope he ain’t, you mean.”
Hawk twists around to look back up the stairs and as he does Kam scrambles to get away. Hawk’s knee slams hard into the middle of Kam’s back as André runs down the stairs toward them.
Hawk puts his mouth close to Kam’s ear before André can get to them and says, “Tha’s my school. You stay away from my school. You don’ be puttin’ you shitty little China-boy writin’ all over it and you don’ be even lookin’ at nobody goes to school there. Understand? Are you compre-hend-ing what I sayin’?”
“Yeah,” Kam says through gritted teeth, “I understand.”
“I’m gettin’ up now,” Hawk says, loosening his hold slowly. “You try any that fancy foot shit, I’ll embarrass you, front of you friends. Then I’ll beat you up bad.” Hawk lets go of Kam’s hair and slowly removes his knee from the middle of his back.
André is there, but sees Hawk letting the kid up and stands back. At the top of the stairs, Willie and most of the rest of the class are checking out Telephone Man, who has a bloody lip and swollen eye but, other than that, is just dazed and scared. He isn’t talking, not even crying; just breathing very short and staring; shuddering. They pick him up and help him back to school.
At lunchtime, on the patio, Hawk approaches Willie. “China boys gonna be back,” he says.
Willie winces. “How do you know?”
“They think they a gang,” Hawk says. “That boy be embarrassed. They be back.”
Willie’s not sure why Hawk’s telling him this. “So what do we do? Why you telling me?”
“You got the keys to this place. We come up here tonight and wait for them. We sit in the dark and jus’ wait. They got to learn. We don’ teach ’em, they don’ learn. Can’t tell André. You can give me the keys or come up with us.”
The idea of spending the night in the school building isn’t appealing, but Willie immediately recognizes he’s in a pinch. If he tells André, he’s on Hawk’s list. If he gives up his keys and André finds out, he couldn’t face him.
“Didn’t you say them China boys done you bad at the bus stop?” Hawk asks, reading Willie’s mind.
Willie nods. “Yeah.”
“Well, what go ’round come ’round. This you chance to be a cowboy.”
Willie’s resigned. “What time?”
CHAPTER 19
Willie looks at his watch and moves uncomfortably on the old couch they brought down to the basement room from the student lounge. Hawk and Kato are more than an hour late. That makes no sense because Hawk was so pumped up Willie didn’t think he’d go home for dinner.
A bare sixty-watt bulb lights the room; Willie’s small transistor radio plays low on the floor in the corner, low enough not to be heard anywhere outside the room. His gym towel is stuffed in the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor; absolutely no light escapes. On his lap sits an open notebook: “Dear Mom and Dad.” So far, that’s it.
He doesn’t know if he can’t write the letter because he’s nervous about being here—waiting without backup to have his head kicked in by an infant Chinese gang—or because he just can’t think of what to say to his parents. Many times over this past year he’s tried to write them, but each time he gets about this far and jams up. He doesn’t know whether to talk about his own guilt for leaving without a trace or about how awful his life became with them after the accident. He wants to be honest but not unnecessarily hurtful. Above all, he wants to repair things. Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to write Johnny first because Johnny would understand better than anyone; but his parents would feel betrayed if he contacted anyone but them.
A bump out in the large basement room startles him and he silently lays the notebook on the floor, flips off the radio and jerks the chain on the light bulb to leave the room pitch black. He lies quietly, l
istening, not sure; maybe it was just the old building settling. He hears it again—still not clearly an unnatural sound, but he reaches down beside the couch and grips his cane, silently turning to put his feet on the floor, then rising to make his way to the door through the darkness. He touches the knob, holding his breath, straining to hear; mentally forcing his heart back down where it belongs. Nothing. He twists the knob, pulling the door open just a crack, then farther, with only the whisper of the towel scooting along the floor to break the dead silence of the building. Dim light shines in through the windows running along the top of the far wall, but the basement walls are dark and seem to swallow it up. Willie can see nothing; he feels watched. Moving along the wall toward the stairway, ears ringing from the fevered pitch of anticipation, he holds the cane lightly in his right hand, fingering the tip like a security blanket; ready in a second to blast some bad guy’s head over the center-field bleachers.
He hears the sound again, over by the far wall, still too soft to make out.
“Hawk?” he whispers.
No answer.
“That you, Hawk?”
Still nothing.
He squats quietly on the bottom step, still straining to hear, but only the pounding of his heart comes through. For what seems like an hour he crouches in silence, hearing only dead air from the other side of the room. Finally he stands, waits, and moves carefully back across the floor to the door of the smaller room, sliding inside. He closes it carefully, without a sound, and crouches to replace the towel in the crack. With his ear against the door, he stands a full two minutes in darkness, listening. Finally convinced the monster in the darkness is only a figment of his imagination, he pulls the chain on the light.
Choosing to leave the radio off so he can hear, Willie returns to the notebook; the letter home. He’d almost rather face Kam. Even with all that happened—the night in the racquetball court, the overheard conversation in his parents’ bedroom—part of him feels as if he betrayed them. He wants to apologize; beg them to give him another chance; but remembers André’s words when he initially brought up the idea of making contact. Don’t go back with your tail between your legs. Like it or not, parents have a contract to stick with their kids through bad times as well as good; your dad didn’t do that. That’s his responsibility, not yours.
The Crazy Horse Electric Game Page 16