Leverage (34 page)

Scott's face changes, doesn't look so smug as he weighs the possibility I'm not bluffing, then wonders how screwed he might be. Injecting that doubt and fear into Scott is worth spilling Danny's name; feels as powerful as casting a hex on Scott for how his lips pinch together and his cheeks turn white. “Duh-duh-Danny Meehan knows everything, suh-suh-saw everything. He'll tuh-tuh-tell the world. It's not thuh-thuh-three against one. It's luh-luh-luh-liars against truh-truh-truth. And I duh-duh-duh-did not kuh-kuh-kill Lamar. He's my buh-buh-buh-best friend.
Ever!
You duh-duh-don't know about that. Neither does Tuh-tuh-tuh-Tom's duh-duh-duh-dad.”

A ripple crosses Scott's brow while he digests this new information. By now I've closed within a barrel length from him. When he starts to raise his gun, I leap at him, wrapping my cold fingers around the long steel barrel, ripping it from his hands same time it goes off.

The barrel jerks in my grip as shot sprays off to my left. Eardrum feels blown and I can barely hear but I see Scott's eyes widen in fright. His empty hands rise to his shoulders like I'm sticking him up. His mouth opens and the sounds he makes are dull, muffled.

“Easy, Mr. Wolf,” he says. “I was about to hand it over.”

That name again! It's too much. I raise my own gun and aim it at the sky then pull the trigger. Nothing. I flip the safety switch and pull again. The hammer draws back and then clicks. Nothing happens. It's not even loaded.
Son of a bitch!
I'm such an idiot! They all know it, too! I throw my empty gun like a spear, hurling it as far as I can into the woods, aiming for a tree trunk, hoping to smash it. The gun misses, sailing harmlessly into the underbrush. I flip Scott's gun into my right hand and pull the trigger.

The thunder splits my head wide open. My trusty companion, pain, wraps me in its arms. I pull the trigger again, ready to pull it ten more times, but the gun clicks dead. Deafness helps cocoon me. I swing Scott's gun like a bat and let go, watching it fly end over end into the forest. I holler loud as I can, but my own voice sounds distant and cottony to my beaten ears. I search the forest for an answer or even a clue. Nothing comes out to greet me except high-pitched ringing.

“We're guh-guh-guh-going home,” I tell him.

“Shit. What about my guns?”

“Fuh-fuh-fuh-fuck your guns. You luh-luh-luh-lost them in an accident,” I tell him. “Accidents happen all the tuh-tuh-tuh-time out here, ruh-ruh-remember? Often as three kuh-kuh-captains kuh-kuh-killing a boy.”

Scott's mouth opens but nothing comes out. I drop his bag of beer.

“Let's. Go,” I say, shoving him in the chest. He stumbles but keeps his balance. We walk a fast pace back to his Camaro. I'm tired of guns and beer and threats and fearing my captains.

“Wuh-wuh-we're leaving,” I announce when we reach his car.

“But what about the other guys?”

“Duh-duh-duh-don't care.”

“I'm not leaving.”

“Then guh-guh-guh-give me your kuh-kuh-keys.”

Scott changes his mind, gets his keys, and we take off. He weaves on the road, so I keep my hand near the steering wheel, ready to correct him. Sometimes I bark orders at him just to watch his reaction. He flinches when I do this and it makes me feel powerful, having something over the homecoming king and star quarterback. Making our great leader wince feels good. He won't control me. I'll control him. Telling him about Danny was stupid, I admit that. But I can't help it. Watching all that doubt cloud Scott's perfect face feels good. Let him worry and fear like the rest of us, if only for a moment. This isn't over and I'll pay for it, later. So will Danny. But for the rest of the ride home in that golden Camaro, I hold all the power and that's worth something.

V
ikings game starts in less than two hours and I'm still raking the yard. I promised to have it finished by the time Dad gets home from his Sunday rounds at the hospital so we won't miss opening kickoff. The air is cold enough for my nose to run, but the blue-sky sun bakes my flannel shirt so I'm unbuttoning it and my hair is hot to the touch. It feels nice. Raking up the coffee-and-plum-colored leaves goes faster when I pretend I'm collecting sloughed-off dragon scales. Once the pile's big enough, and it's already pretty big, I plan on falling into the crinkly bed like it's a crash mat before bagging the whole thing for the compost drop-off.

I've cleared most the front lawn when an old beater pulls into our driveway. The rusted-out car grovels for a new muffler and a sooty cloud trails from its exhaust pipe. When it shuts off, the engine coughs a few times before finally giving up. Squinting, I lift a work-gloved hand to block out autumn's low sun hitting my eyes. I find Kurt stepping from the car. His visit is unexpected and sets off a mix of warmth and dread. My friend, my gut warns, is about to deliver bad news.

 

“You told him?!?!?” I shout and whine at the same time. “You told Scott I was there? That I saw what they did to Ronnie? Why? What were you thinking? Jesus, I'm dead. I'm dead. I can't believe this!”

“Cuh-cuh-calm duh-duh-down.”

“
You
calm down.
You're
the one that told them I saw the whole thing.”

“They're tuh-tuh-trying to buh-buh-blame me for it,” Kurt says, as if that's a good enough reason to give me up. “Suh-suh-Scott suh-suh-said they'll tuh-tuh-tell everyone I'm a muh-muh-murderer. You and Buh-buh-Bruce have to stop tuh-tuh-tagging.”

“Fine. We won't tag their lockers anymore. But you shouldn't have told them about me. I'm dead. They're gonna kill me.”

“No they wuh-wuh-won't.”

“Kurt, if they could get away with it, you know they would,” I say. “You saw what they did to Ronnie, the way they enjoyed it, enjoyed torturing him. People like me and Ronnie don't matter to them. We're just obstacles to them, not ... you know ... people.”

Kurt listens and then, after a long moment, nods his head. “Yeah,” he says, agreeing with me in a way that I don't want him to, in a way that sends a shiver along my neck and scalp. I slap the rake against our fence in frustration. Kurt just stands there, hands jammed into his pockets, not helping. Then his head jerks as if a thought's come over him. I'm waiting, expectant, ready to hear some brilliant plan that's occurred to him that will save me, make everything all right. Instead, he walks over to my pile of leaves and steps around the edges. He crouches down, pressing on the top of the pile with his hands, testing its firmness and cushion. Satisfied, he stands up and turns his back to the pile, concentrates for a few moments, and then springs. His hands crash through the leaves and his legs whip over into a clunky back handspring. While he won't win any style points, he does make it safely around, landing somewhere between his feet and knees. Despite my building fear at the news he brings, I can't help but be impressed by his trick. He's really learned how to do a back handspring. It's ugly, but it counts.

“Whip your legs over faster and don't let your elbows bend,” I say instinctively, not forgetting why he's come here but glad to distract myself for a moment. Kurt dusts off his hands. Leaf crumbs stick to his hair, pants, and shirt. He goes back to the edge and tries it again. This time he keeps his elbows locked like I instructed. He makes it all the way to his feet, finishing in a crouch. “Better,” I say. Kurt nods at me from his squat in the pile, like some sort of Baby Huey five-year-old. The big bastard has the start of a smile on his face and I can tell he's pretty satisfied with his improvement. He does one more, just as good as the earlier one.

“Maybe you should come out for our sport instead,” I say, leaning against my rake handle. Kurt wipes his hands along his jeans and shirt, then pulls stray leaves off his shoulders and knees. He steps out of the pile and walks up to me. He is still huge.

“Buh-buh-be buh-buh-brave, Danny,” he tells me.

“Easy for you to say. You're the Incredible Hulk and I'm, like ... Snoopy.”

“Muh-more like Suh-suh-Spider-Man.”

“I wish,” I say, though I like that Kurt thinks that about me.

“Yuh-yuh-you like Buh-buh-Batman?” he asks, reaching into his jeans pocket and pulling out his cell phone, flipping it open. Guess he'd rather keep the phone in his pocket when he does handsprings than risk leaving it behind again.

“He's all right. Kinda seems like a pussy, though, without his utility belt and all his gizmos. I mean, if he's naked, he ain't really worth crap.”

“We need a Buh-buh-Bat Signal,” Kurt says, then explains what he means. I drop my rake and go into the house to get my phone.

I
leave Danny's house, not sure if I've helped or hurt. Probably hurt. I got no excuse for giving up his name except that it felt real good to watch those shadows of doubt and fear cross Scott's face. But that makes me responsible for Danny, now. He needs to keep his eyes open, but I need to be there for him because what he said about those three's the truth. They'll do whatever's needed to keep us quiet.

Driving home in Patti's car, I'm still picking bits of leaves off my shirt. Waiting at a red light, I flip open my phone wondering if the Bat Signal idea will work. I guess we'll find out since it isn't a question of
if
Scott will try something, but
when
. When will he have an opportunity? How will he get Danny or Bruce alone? I don't have any answers yet, but if I try and think like Scott, maybe I'll see his plans ahead of time. Scott's closer to thinking like Crud Bucket than I want to admit, and that scares me. As for my own plan to stop him . . . well ... I can't really say I have one yet.

A scrap of leaf falls out of my hair and rests on my nose. I wipe it off, thinking back on my last handspring in the raked pile. It felt good, sparked the only decent idea I've had yet. Maybe I need to go back and practice that trick for a few more hours until I come up with an actual plan. Or maybe I need to hit the weight room to clear my head and give myself some more ideas. I can sneak through the janitor's entrance. I'd have the whole place to myself on a Sunday afternoon.

Red and blue lights start flashing just past the intersection, breaking my concentration. I'm holding out hope they're for someone else, but the siren lets out two short squawks and the cruiser slides up close enough to almost bump me.

This is bad. I still don't have my license. Patti's going to kill me. Gotta get out of here!

I stomp on the gas.

Patti's car doesn't like that idea one bit. Unlike Scott's Camaro, her car jerks and snorts and then sputters and there's no way I'm outrunning a cop car. I got no choice but to brake and pull over to the side of the road. As I turn off the car, I try thinking of a good excuse for why I don't have a license. I'm also trying to figure out why he's pulling me over. I didn't run the light. I wasn't speeding.

A sharp rap on the driver's window jolts me from my thoughts. The nightstick hits hard enough I expect the glass to spiderweb. I roll down the window, afraid to look at the officer. I keep my face aimed at the road and, in side glances, take in the blue uniform from chest to belt. No head. No knees. Mostly belly, badge, and the gun butt that one hand rests on while the other grips the nightstick.

“Kurt Brodsky,” the voice says. Not friendly, not mean, more like a vice principal taking roll in detention. Not sure how he knows my name.

“Step out of the car,” the officer tells me. He hasn't asked for my license yet. That's good. I think. I get out of the car, and as I straighten up, the squat officer with a bristly flattop and Oakley wraparound glasses prods my shoulder with the stick. “Go ahead and turn around, put your hands on the roof of the car and spread your legs.”

“Huh?”

“Do as you're told,” he says, assuming my confusion is defiance. Maybe I'd be better off if he did just ask for my license. I turn and put my hands on the rust-pocked car top. “Spread your legs. Wider.
Wider.
That's it.”

Over my shoulder, I hear cars slowing as they pass us, trying to take in my bust for ... what? I duck my head down, not wanting anyone to recognize me. The officer's hands quickly pat up the insides and outsides of my ankles, knees, thighs, and crotch then jump along my belly, armpits, and arms. I think he's done, so I take my hands off the car.

“Don't move, you hear me? Do
not
move. Hands back up on the car. Keep those legs spread.” This time the solid end of his baton pokes into my lower back and then the thing whacks the insides of my knees to spread them wider. I move my feet farther apart. The baton swings up between my legs, tags me in the 'nads, tags me hard enough that I instinctively jump from the sharp pain and my hands come down to cup my nuts protectively. The sharp bite flowers into nausea.

“I said, don't move. You deaf, too?” A hand shoves me up against the car.

What the
...

“Put your hands behind your back. Now!” I uncup myself. My chest is pressing against the roof of the car and I'm off balance. I offer him my hands behind my back, feel hard steel clasp first my right wrist and then my left wrist. The handcuffs click down until they're gnawing at my bone and that's when I break into a sweat.

“Whu-whu-what did I do?”

The officer doesn't answer, just grabs my right elbow and tugs backward so I'm no longer leaning chest-first against Patti's car. Still using my elbow to steer, he pivots me, then pokes his nightstick into my lower back, prodding me toward his cruiser.