Leverage (32 page)

“Hold your horses,” Patti snaps down the stairs. Then to me she mutters, “Someone got distracted when they were raising that one.”

“Can we have that buh-buh-breakfast tuh-tuh-tomorrow?”

“You betcha. I got to keep the Knights' star and future captain fueled up,” Patti says, then lets me alone to get dressed. I sniff my jeans and T-shirt and they don't smell awful. I pull them on, pull a sweatshirt on next, then pull on a wool overcoat Patti got for me from the Salvation Army. I can't get my letter jacket until after the season finishes but it'd be too cold for it today, anyway. The overcoat's too tight in the chest and too short in the arms but it's the closest thing I have to something that fits. Going down the staircase, I lean hard on the handrail. My insteps ache. My thighs burn from overuse and blob-shaped bruises. My left calf pinches every time I take a step, reminding me how someone ground their cleat into it under cover of a gang pile. At the bottom of the stairs, Scott waits with both his arms spread out like he's expecting a sarcastic hug. His sling is gone.

“Hey, big man,” he greets me. “Hell of a game last night. We missed you at the party.”

“Yuh-your suh-suh-sling is gone.” I point with my chin.

“Sure is, Sherlock Holmes,” Scott says. “Not a moment too soon, either, before Warner starts thinking he actually had something to do with last night's win. Speaking of the win, there's a good chance you or Terrence might get prep athlete of the week. If you get it twice in a season Coach'll have to get a PO box for all your recruiting letters.”

That's a sweet little thought, and despite my groggy brain, aching body, and the fact that Scott Miller stands in Patti's living room like he's the landlord, I give up a half grin.

“A Cuh-cuh-cuh-Captains' Hunt?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “It's tradition. Cold out today, though. Good thing you got that coat ... but the bum you took it from might miss it.”

“I heard that,” Patti says, walking back into the living room with a glass of water and two aspirin. She narrows her eyes at Scott while handing me the pills. “Some people's children,” she mutters. This fails to stuff his smirk.

“Thanks.” I take the aspirin from Patti and swallow them with the glass of water.

“You need something to eat,” she says to me and me only. “Can't take aspirin on an empty stomach.”

“Wuh-wuh-we'll get duh-duh-drive-through.” Now that Coach's been giving me even more money, drive-through's my breakfast of choice on weekends and even a few days before school. It's cheap and fills me up.

“Let's go, superstar,” Scott says. “We need to get a move on.” He's already stepping through the front door, so he misses Patti shaking her head back and forth at him. I hold up both palms in apology.

Patti sheeshes. “Sure hope this Captains' Hunt is worth it.”

“Me tuh-tuh-tuh-too.”

“You be safe, Kurtis,” Patti tells me. “You guys won't actually be hunting, will you? Especially with that one?” Patti flips her chin to the doorway, meaning Scott.

I shrug my shoulders, not knowing the answer.

“I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him,” she says.

Good advice,
I think, and step out of her house, then get into the Camaro. Patti stays at the door, lighting a cigarette and retying her housecoat against the chill of the outside air.

“Your orphan-mom's a drag, huh?” Scott says once we're sealed inside his car. Soon as he backs out her driveway and turns around, Scott guns the engine and pops the clutch. The big tires squeal against the sleepy street, loud and sharp enough to scalp me.

“We'll make a quick stop for food and then you can settle in 'cause were driving about two hours north,” Scott says. “Tommy's granddad has some land up there we're going to use.”

“Fuh-fuh-for what?”

“You'll see.” Scott glances at me, giving no hint. “By the way, you ever hunted before?”

“No.”

“Well, there's a first for everything, right?”

“It's juh-juh-just us?”

“Whatsa matter, bro? I'm not good enough? I'm the benched quarterback and suddenly I'm chopped liver?” Scott asks in a voice that's mostly—but not completely—j oking.

“Yeah,” I answer back, mostly—but not completely—joking.

“Tommy's taking Pullman,” Scott says. “Mike's taking Wally Peters and I'm taking you. Just the six of us. Time to pass the torch to the future seniors. Of course, technically, you're way beyond junior, probably way beyond senior, but that's our secret, right?”

Scott says this like he knows I've been held back in school because of being tossed around group homes. Only way he could know any of it is through Tom's cop dad digging up dirt on Meadow's House. Or maybe Patti and Coach have more heart-to-heart conversations than I realize. Maybe Coach confides in his captains. I ignore the comment as best I can.

“Don't fuh-fuh-fuh-forget to suh-suh-suh-stop for fuh-fuh-fuh-food,” I stutter hard, and wipe quickly at the spit leaking down my lip. Scott takes his time watching me. I pull a twenty out of my pocket, part of the fifty Coach slipped me last night after the game.

“Son, you are the definition of a soldier,” Coach said, bringing me into his office after the victory, shaking my hand, crumpling the paper bills into my palm. “Missing our starting quarterback, getting no blocking from our line, and you let it roll off you like water off a duck. You treat yourself to a nice dinner, feed those muscles. You deserve it. Next week, we'll talk with Coach Stein about your supplements. The D-bol's good but there's better stuff, more potent weapons, for you if you're interested in staying a champion.”

Scott swings the Camaro into the drive-through lane. I order three pancake-and-egg breakfasts. Scott orders two Egg McMuffins. After we get our food, Scott smokes the drive-through, leaving a patch of rubber and a blue cloud fouling up the cashier's window. With his mouth open with raw laughter, the first bite of his Egg McMuffin lolls around his tongue.

As we drive, the distance between houses slowly grows until lawns turn into fields and finally give way to acres of fallow farmland. Rows of broken, brown cornstalks race along outside our windows, hypnotizing me.

“You got a big appetite,” Scott says. “It get that way from the 'roids or you always eat that much?”

Scott's question surprises me. “I always eat thuh-thuhthis way.”

“I eat lots but it picked up after I started popping.'Course it ain't like Mike or Tommy. They're always shoveling the food in but that's 'cause they're into the heavier stuff. They're shooting the shit in their asses, now. Once I saw the needles and syringes, I was like, no thanks, I'll keep my pills, you can have your AIDS and shit. I mean, I don't need it that bad. Besides, quarterback's a finesse position, that's what Rick used to say. Game's mostly brute force but a quarterback's the thinker. Quarterback's an artist, he'd say.”

“Who's Ruh-ruh-Rick?”

“Older brother. Never got to play quarterback. Coach made him a free safety. He owned that position, though. Got four interceptions one game, ran three of them back for touchdowns. No one'll touch that record.”

“Wuh-where's he puh-play now?”

“Now?” Scott repeats my question before answering. “Now he's dead. Got killed in Bumfuckistan. Dumbass signed up to fight the towel-heads even though he'd been offered a partial scholarship to the university. Said a partial ride was an insult. If that's the best they can do, he said, then screw 'em, he'd go with an organization that would pay his full ride. The army.”

I don't say anything back, just watch the rows of corn zip past our windshield.

“You know the best thing about seeing all those recruiting letters come in for me?” Scott asks. “It's getting the chance to remind them about Rick, remind them they didn't offer him a dime even though he was twice the athlete I am. Didn't touch the pills, either. Totally clean. Dumb fucking schools don't know shit.”

“Suh-suh-so you're ruh-ruh-rejecting all of them?”

“You think I'm an idiot?” Scott slaps the steering wheel. “Of course not. Just 'cause I don't like what they did to Rick doesn't mean I won't take their scholarship money. But it's fun making them squirm first when they call, acting like they're my best friend.” Scott stomps on the accelerator. The Camaro races down the two-lane highway for a few miles before either of us speaks.

“Dude,” Scott says, clearing his throat. “Where'd those scars come from?”

I finger the dashboard for a second, deciding what to reveal. Maybe it's because Scott tells me about his older brother, Rick, that I decide to do more than shrug. “Tuh-tuh-too young to ruh-ruh-remember,” I say, staring out at the rows of corn. “They tuh-tuh-tuh-told me a boiling puh-puh-pot landed on me.”

“Yeah, right.” Scott snorts. “After someone threw it at you.”

I close my eyes, recall shouts and crashing glass and then a hand clamping around my neck, lifting me up, carrying me into the kitchen, holding me over a glowing stove coil. My memory drops off at that point. Remnants surface when I'm real angry or scared and the world around me erupts into orange-red fire. After the stove coil, the next thing I can remember were these new voices, different voices, and friendly adults surrounding me. I guess I was two or three at the time.

“Yuh-yuh-you're right,” I answer.

“So you're saying your mom did that to you?”

“No.” I shake my head, refusing to think that. “Puh-puh-probably the guh-guh-guy she was with.”

“Your dad.”

“Naw, he wuh-wuh-wuh-wouldn't do that to me.”

“How do you know?”

I don't.

“Sounds like your old man and my old man would get along real good,” Scott says. “What about the long scar? It looks like you were in a knife fight or something.”

“That kuh-kuh-came later, at another puh-puh-place. The guh-guh-guy running it did it with a suh-suh-suhscissors one night.”

“No shit!”

“He tuh-tuh-told the doctors that my buh-buh-best friend did it to me and that I buh-buh-broke my fuh-fuhfriend's arm in a fuh-fuh-fight. They buh-buh-believed him. They always buh-buh-buh-believed him. Every time.”

“That's pretty hard-core, dude.”

“Yeah.”

The food starts settling in my stomach, making me drowsy. I shut my eyes for good as the aspirin helps my head. The ache over my eyes simmers down to an irritating buzz.

 

“All right, sleepyhead, wake up, we're almost there.” Scott jostles the sleeve of my coat. I open my eyes. We're still driving along a two-lane county road splitting patches of harvested corn, plowed dirt, and green grass. Grain silos sit off in the distance like fat missiles waiting to launch. Small herds of cows and sheep dot the green fields.

“In case you didn't know, shooting a cow while hunting deer or pheasant doesn't count,” Scott says. “And that ain't no joke. The farmers around here get real ornery about their property and their livestock.”

“Nuh-nuh-no cows. Got it.”

The green fields crack open into bramble brush and trees. The cracks widen into little forests that spread farther and farther. The few leaves still attached to the trees are the color of old pennies. Scott slows and turns off onto a dirt road that seems more like someone's private driveway. A big “No Trespassing” sign is posted on a pole about fifty feet down the road. I remember the same signs strung along the trees up at the quarry. Wish we were heading there instead.

We drive another mile or so until coming upon Studblatz's red pickup and Tom's blue Mustang pulled over to the side of the dirt road. White vapors wisp out of their tailpipes while their engines idle. As we slowly roll past, I see Wally Peters and Pullman in the passenger seats. Scott steers us half off the road and my side settles into the embankment as we park.

“All right. Let's do this,” Scott says. As I get out of the car, the brisk air slaps at my cheeks, picking at my scars. I button up the collar of my raggedy coat.

“You going to a funeral or something?” Jankowski asks me. “What kind of hunting coat is that?”

“Didn't know wuh-wuh-we were going hunting,” I say, never mind I don't own a hunting jacket.

“Hey, Kurt,” Wally Peters greets me. “My dad told me to tell you good game last night.” Wally seems pretty happy at the moment. He's holding a can of beer. So are Studblatz, Pullman, and Tom.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, man, you dismantled their secondary,” Pullman says, then slurps from his can.

I nod in reply since my stuttering seems to get worse around Studblatz and Jankowski and I'm not in the mood for their jokes. Scott opens his trunk and starts rummaging. Along with the spare tire squatting in the center, there's a Maglite, gas tank, sports bag, and a semi-deflated basketball. There are also two cases of beer wedged into the back corner and two long, skinny canvas bags, making an X across all the junk. Scott grabs the first canvas bag, silk-screened in camouflage green, and slides out a shotgun. He hands the heavy, cold thing to me. He grabs the other canvas bag, which is all black, and slides out his own shotgun. The only difference I notice between the two guns is the wood on his stock is a cherry red and mine is a plainer walnut brown.

“You boys ready?” Scott asks, resting his shotgun, barrel up, against the fender of his car. He reaches into the trunk to unwedge one of the beer cases when the barrel of his shotgun starts sliding along the Camaro's smooth molded fender. Scott stops it from tipping over with his foot, balancing on one leg himself. “Here ya go,” he says, pulling out two beers, handing one to me. I put the cold can up to my lips and swallow back a big mouthful, hoping to wash down the alarm growing in my gut. The thought of drinking so early doesn't make me nearly as sick as I imagined. At least I've already had breakfast.