Con Academy (15 page)

“He's hanging out with me, George,” Brandt says. “Thought I'd do him a favor.”

George doesn't say anything.

“I mean, hey,” Brandt says, “maybe he'd be better off at public school. Finishing his senior year with a bunch of middlebrow losers. What do you think?”

George keeps quiet and just looks at Carl, who glares back at his father, nothing but eighteen inches of flash-frozen silence suspended between them. Face-to-face, their chiseled profiles look like one of those optical illusions where you start to see the outline of some mysterious third shape appearing between them.

“Are you going somewhere?” George asks.

Carl squares his shoulders. “Why do you care?”

“It's a closed campus. There are rules.”

“Like
you've
ever cared about them,” Carl says, in a voice that's half snarl, half whisper.

“Listen, son . . .” George draws in a breath. He looks like he wants to say something but has no idea where to begin.

“Better move along, George,” Brandt says. “Wouldn't want to be late on your nightly routine. A guy in your position can't afford too many more strikes against him, am I right?”

George sighs but gets back into his truck and drives away, leaving the three of us alone in the moonlight.

“Your guy is late,” Brandt says.

Before I can answer, I see a pair of headlights coming toward us.

“Here he is now,” I say.

W
HEN
U
NCLE
R
OY'S
C
ADILLAC PULLS UP
, I
OPEN THE
back door and slide inside. Roy's behind the wheel, but he doesn't turn around or say anything until Carl starts to climb in next to Brandt.

“Hold on,” Roy growls, looking back over his shoulder. “Who's the gorilla?”

“Carl's with me,” Brandt says.

Roy shakes his head. “No deal.” He points to me with an index finger the size of a gun barrel. “Mr. McDonald said just your friend. Nobody else.” He turns to Carl. “Take a hike, Gargantua.”

Nobody says anything for a second, and Brandt shrugs. “Fine, whatever.” He points at Carl, still halfway on the sidewalk, like he's a pet dog. “Stay.”

Carl takes a step back, leaving me and Brandt in the back seat while Uncle Roy guns it through the main gates and back down the country road that leads us to the highway, heading south. There's not a lot of small talk. Brandt stretches his legs and gets out his phone, checking his messages, looking at something on Twitter, sending a few texts. He seems totally relaxed and in charge of the situation. Without glancing up from his phone, he says, “So the library freak stood you up, huh?”

I swallow hard. “We're just friends.”

“Dude, that's pathetic.”

“What?”

“I can't decide what's worse, you crushing on some troll who paints her nails with black Sharpie, or the fact that you couldn't even get her to show up at the dance.” Brandt turns to me, apparently serious. “You can't let yourself get humiliated like this. You're supposed to be a player.” He pronounces it “playa” in true white-boy hip-hop fashion. “You know what I mean?”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Trust me, it's for the best,” Brandt says, and leans forward to Uncle Roy. “Hey, driver. How much longer is this going to take?”

“We're almost there,” Uncle Roy says.

“Next time we're taking my helicopter.” Brandt cranes his head forward again. “How long have you been working for this guy McDonald, anyway?”

Uncle Roy doesn't answer.

“You know about his daughter?”

“I know she's a very nice girl,” Uncle Roy says. “And if you got anything more to say about it, you can feel free to hop out of this car anytime.” His eyes flash in the rearview mirror. “Or I can toss you out on your ear—it's all the same to me.”

Brandt smirks but doesn't say anything.

It's silent all the rest of the way to Lowell.

When Uncle Roy stops the car in the lot of the industrial park, Brandt sits in the back like he's waiting for somebody to jump out and open the door for him. When nobody does, he opens it himself, extends one lanky leg, and steps out, then follows Uncle Roy and me toward the rundown office building.

“This is his base of operations?” Brandt shakes his head. “What a dump.”

Uncle Roy doesn't say anything as we walk up the steps and into the second-floor lobby. I walk past the reception desk and enter the main workspace. Everything is in place, looking better than I could've hoped.

The guys that Uncle Roy brought up from Boston—Iron Mike, the Righteous Brothers, Lupo Reilly, Southie McLaren, Rudy Morales—are all sitting in front of computer workstations, guzzling energy drinks and talking on their phones. None of them even looks up at us as we walk by. Glancing down, I see lines and columns of code scrolling up the screens. Dad's girlfriend, Rhonda, walks by with a pot of coffee in one hand and a cell phone in the other. In other words, everything looks perfect.

“Where's Mr. McDonald?” Roy asks.

“In his office,” she says without breaking stride, and cocks her head at the closed door on the far side of the room before throwing a glance my way. “He's already pissed at you for not showing up earlier.”

I frown. “Who, me? I told him where I was going.”

Brandt snickers. “Sounds like you've got some brown nosing to do, Will. Good thing you've had a lot of practice.”

“Come on,” Roy says, waving us to the back of the room. “Let's hope he's in a good mood.”

The back office is brightly lit and cleaner than the rest of the property, with a halogen lamp in the corner and fresh paint on the walls. Dad's pacing behind the desk, talking on the phone. Next to an open laptop there's a framed picture of Moira McDonald—a nice touch that I thought of myself.

Dad sees us step in, scowls, and holds up one finger. Brandt gives him an eye roll that is the exclusive province of American entitlement, but he still manages to stand there while Dad finishes talking.

“Yeah, well, you tell him I said we need to shave the extra one-point-one by tomorrow morning, or he's cut off. Those exact words—that's right.” He clicks off and jabs a finger at me. “Where the hell were you?”

“Mr. McDonald—” I start.

“Valerie tells me that you've been out of the office all day.” Dad turns to Roy. “And nobody says a word to me about it?” Finally he pivots to unleash his glare on Brandt. “Who's this idiot?”

“Mr. McDonald,” I say, “meet Brandt Rush.”

Dad doesn't say anything. He just stares at Brandt with a glare that could cut diamonds. Brandt looks back at him, then saunters forward a half step and picks up the picture of Moira from on top of the desk, holding it up by two fingers and keeping it at arm's length.

“I've seen better pictures of her,” he says, and flicks his eyes up at Dad. “How's your daughter doing, anyway, Mr. McDonald?”

Dad's jaw tightens, and when he speaks, his voice is low and steady. “You want to put that down right now, my friend. Or you're gonna lose that hand.”

“Hey, no harm, no foul.” Brandt drops the picture onto the desk, where it hits the surface with a clatter. “I'm just a concerned citizen. Wish her well, that's all.”

“Moira finished her senior year at Andover,” Dad says, through clenched teeth. “She's fine. Graduated with honors.”

“Yeah?” Brandt gives a big, theatrical yawn. “That's too bad. Pretty mediocre school compared to Connaughton. Which means she probably fit right in, huh?”

“That's it.” Dad turns to Uncle Roy. “Louie, haul this worthless piece of garbage out of my sight. And see that he falls down the stairs a few times on the way.”

Roy gestures. “Come on, kid.”

“I'm worth half a billion dollars,” Brandt says, not budging. He gives Dad a half-lidded smirk. “If anything happens to me, I promise you, you're a dead man.”

“I'm all a-tremble,” Dad says, and nods to Roy. “You heard me—get him out.”

Uncle Roy reaches for Brandt's elbow, and Brandt yanks it away. Roy hauls back like he's about to swing at him, and that's when I step forward to play my part.

“Mr. McDonald,” I say, “just hold on. Brandt only wants to place a bet.”

“A bet?” Dad says. “I run an online operation, you moron—and you bring him here to the office?”

“He wants to do it in person.” I shrug. “He's old school that way, right, Brandt?”

Brandt doesn't say anything, just stands there with his hands in his pockets. For a second the only sound is the noise from the main workspace outside Dad's office.

Finally Dad sits down behind his desk and looks at Brandt without a trace of expression. I can tell that he's sober, which means he's handling this perfectly. I feel an odd thrill of admiration for him, even respect, an unexpected reminder of what he's actually capable of when he's bringing his A-game. His eyes remain on Brandt, and they are the cold, calculating eyes of a man with an operation to protect.

“How big a bet?” he says.

“Two grand,” I say. “He just wants to—”

“I'm not talking to you.” Dad is still staring at Brandt. “You know what my daughter said to me after you posted those pictures of her on Facebook, you degenerate piece of garbage? She said she wished she had never been born. That's a direct quote. You know what that kind of humiliation feels like?”

“Yeah, well.” Brandt grins. “The truth hurts, doesn't it? By the way . . .” He leans in, just a little, and lowers his voice slightly. “I've still got some copies of those pictures if you want 'em. Suitable for framing.”

Dad's fingers are gripping the desk so tightly that I can see his knuckles turning white. I can also see the veins in his head now. He's selling this so well that it's a little scary.

“Two grand, Mr. M.,” I say. “Cash. It'll be quick. Then we'll be out of here.”

Dad closes his eyes and opens them again. His pupils pop to Uncle Roy. “Get him a laptop.”

“I thought you said—”

“Just do it.”
Dad looks back at Brandt, his voice tight. “I'll take your money, kid. Every penny. And the sooner I do it, the sooner I can scour your stench from my office.”

Twenty minutes later, we're out of there as promised, Brandt following me into the back seat of the Caddy with an extra two thousand dollars in his pocket.

“Well, what do you think?” I say, just as Uncle Roy gets behind the wheel. “Smooth, right?”

Brandt doesn't say anything as Uncle Roy drives us back to Connaughton. He fidgets with his phone, then sits back and stares out the window. I try to imagine what he's thinking. He just won two grand in three hands of online poker, while “my associate”—really just Lupo Reilly in the main office—texted him how to bet. The system itself wasn't difficult to work out, and since Dad never seemed to notice Brandt checking his iPhone, Brandt must have assumed he got away with it. Which is exactly how we want to leave it.

Uncle Roy drops us off in front of the statue of Lancelot Connaughton. For a second we both just stand there, shivering. Then Brandt looks at me.

“When can we go back?” he asks.

I take my time before answering, making sure I get exactly the right expression on my face. “We should probably hang back a bit. If we come back too soon, it'll be obvious that—”

“Next Friday. I want to do another test run. Ten thousand this time.”

I shake my head. No doubt Uncle Roy has the cash to pay out a ten-thousand-dollar win, but I'm not sure he can get his hands on it that quickly. “You saw it work,” I say. “If we go back too many times—”

“One more test run,” Brandt says. “If it works, I'll front you the full two mill for the big score. I want to bring him down hard.” He glares at me. “You want to get this guy, right, Shea? For slapping your mom around?”

“Yeah, of course, but—”

“Then make it happen.”

And he leaves me standing there.

T
HE NEXT DAY IS THE
H
OMECOMING LACROSSE MATCH.
Tuesday's freak snowstorm is a distant memory, and the manicured field is green and dry. Even though I don't understand the game, I'm sitting in the stands with a fresh cup of coffee, watching Connaughton trounce the hopeless schmoes from St. Albans, who—even to my uneducated eye—seem to have forgotten which end of the stick to hold on to. The score is already 3–0. Around me the stands are full of parents and alumni dressed in the school colors, drinking their lattes and cheering every play. Six rows down, Brandt and Andrea are side by side, sharing a blanket. I'm not sure what canoodling is, but I'd be willing to bet they're doing it.

“Can I sit here?”

I look up and see Gatsby standing in front of me. She looks tired, her face pale in the morning light, her hands plunged deep in the pockets of her coat.

“Oh,” I say. “Hey.”

“Listen,” she says, “about last night . . .”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry.”

She just stands there. I'm waiting for more, some kind of explanation, but there isn't anything else. “It's cool.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you all right? I tried to call . . .”

“I'm fine,” she says.

“Was it some kind of Sigils thing?” I ask. “Like, another test or something? Because, I mean, if that's what it was . . .”

“No,” she says. “It wasn't anything like that.”

“Oh. Okay.”

There's a silence between us that seems to last forever. It's like there's this soundproof bubble around us, and the rest of the world is sealed away somewhere on the other side of it, going about its business, remote and unreal. Sometimes that kind of privacy can feel good—intimate, special. Not this time.