Ironman (10 page)

FEBRUARY 4

Dear Larry,

Here's a true story you can use on the air some time for filler. My little brother, Jordan, has always thought Martin Luther King, Jr., wrote the “I Have a Dream” speech specifically for him, because they have the same birthday, and from Jordan's first, he'd toddle into the living room to the strains of King's passionate voice as presented on the “Today” show.

From the time Jordan could walk, at about ten months, both my folks had a terrible time getting him down for a nap. Mom gave up trying, so by the time he was one and a half he spent naptime at our house on his bed playing with his toys or babbling or screaming. Mom said there was no reason for him to sleep if he didn't want to, but Dad had this idea
that a nap was about the most important thing a kid could learn to take, so when Jordan stayed at his house, Dad put him down right after lunch to take the same goddamn nap Dad always took, the one I woke him up from when I slammed the door.

The freedom he enjoyed at our place wasn't easily relinquished at Dad's, and keeping him down for any length of time became a tougher and tougher challenge. And this kid did it right, Lar. He was noncompliant from day one, and he didn't scare. Dad couldn't admit his nap theory was full of holes, especially to my mother, but to save face and his blood pressure, he decided he had read somewhere that a kid needed forced daytime sleep only until his third birthday and he would back off immediately after that event, but not one day before. Mom knew he'd never read any such thing unless it was in a pre-Hitler German child-care manual, but it was almost Christmas when he said it, and she figured it wouldn't hurt Jordan to put up with this silliness for just another month. She kept telling Jordan it was like what the monkey said when they cut off his tail: “It won't be long now.”

Jordan didn't get the pun, of course, but he got pretty excited about his third birthday, and not only because both my parents spent the equivalent of Ross Perot's tax refund on gifts for his spoiled butt. He was about to become nap-
free. On the afternoon of that magnificent day, I pedaled him over to Dad's, where he bounded into the living room, onto the couch, spread his arms, and crowed, “Three at last! Three at last! Thank God Almighty, I'm three at last!”

Okay, I admit it, Lar. I coached him every day for three weeks leading up to his performance, but he pulled it off without a hitch. Much as I'd like to end his life in a slow and torturous way, I love that he's such a tenacious little hothead that he takes on Lucas Brewster in ways I never dreamed possible. The last time I plucked him out of his room at Dad's, he was sticking pins in a voodoo doll one of his buddies gave him at school and laughing like a maniac. He said, “
There's
one in your colon. Take that in your testes.” Jeez, the kid is in
kindergarten
, and here he is sending psychic penetrations deep into Dad's soft tissue and looking like Linda Blair getting ready to spin her head around while he's at it. I swear I wouldn't have been surprised to walk back into the living room to find Dad clutching at his vitals. Dad thinks he spoils Jordan—worries all the time that he'll grow up soft—but all he does, really, is give him about two more chances than he ever gave me before he sends him to his room. Jordan doesn't appear to be growing up soft. I mention it because I have taken to hauling him on some training runs on this special bike seat Shelly custom-made in metal shop for my birthday, which isn't till July. She
gave it to me early, along with some weighted webbed gloves for swimming and leaded innersoles for my running shoes to accompany the ankle weights, as an edge against my old enemy, gravity.
Use these day and night
, the card read,
right up to race day, and you'll feel so light you'll fly through Yukon Jack's
. When I step onto the scales in my street clothes these days, I've gained about ten pounds. But I'll tell you, if I swam with a bowling ball around my neck and a railroad tie across my shoulders, it couldn't approach the pain in the butt it is to have Jordan Brewster strapped onto his special seat on the back of my bike. “Will we be speeding up soon?” he queries on the really steep hills. “Don't you think we should hurry?” “When's dinner?” “This is no fun if you don't talk to me.”

Call me when you're doing a show on fratricide, Lar.

Short entry today. There will be more of these because my training schedule is heating up. Several weeks back Mr. S said now is the time to get in distances most people would only travel by car. The more miles I log into my body's computer now, the more invulnerable I'll be on race day.

I feel kind of guilty because I stopped working out with the CFU swimming team. I told Mr. S it's because I'm really backed up on homework, but I'm sure he knows my
study habits better than that—that it's because of what he told me about himself. It's costing me, because I've been swimming after work during open lap swim, and I can't push myself like I could when I thought Ian Wyrack might dismember me after every repeat. But I'll tell you, Lar, it's all I can do to face Mr. S in Journalism class. He knows it and gives me wide berth, I think. God, maybe I am a bigot. I miss him, and I want to make it right, but then I get so goddamn
angry
at him when I think of what he is. I know it's wrong, but I can't make myself fix it.

Outta here.

Your eyes and ears in the Northwest,
Bo

 

“Hey, Ironman.”

Bo glances up from his milk shake to see Ian Wyrack and three swimmers from CFU kicking snow off their boots at the entrance to Doc's Drive-Inn.

“Yeah?”

“Where you been?” He approaches unthreateningly. “Haven't seen you at morning workouts lately.”

“I've been working out in the evenings. Got behind at school. What do you care? I thought you didn't want my skin touching the same water as yours.”

Wyrack smiles. “Yeah, well, there is that, but to tell the truth, my times
were
getting better.”

Bo takes a slow drink of his shake, watching Wyrack's friends settle into the booth behind him. Ron Koch, the butterflier who stood up for Bo back in the early morning parking lot, smiles and gives a little wave. Bo looks back to Wyrack. “Man, were you put on earth just to mess with my head?”

Wyrack places his hands on the table and leans forward. “Don't get me wrong, Ironman. I don't like you any better than I ever did. You're
weak
, and I hate that, but competition at Nationals this year is going to be tough, and I could use the push. So if you want to come back, don't let me stop you.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel wanted, know that? What do you mean I'm weak?”

Wyrack sneers. “Well, your little dyke girlfriend does your heavy work—”

“Hey, that was—”

“You walked out on your high-school football team when they were counting on you, man. That's weak.”

Bo flares. “Hey, I quit football because—Wait a minute. How'd you know I quit football? You hotdog university jocks don't follow our football team.”

“Let's just say I've learned a lot about you since the
first day you showed up at the pool, Ironman. And everything I've learned points to weak.”

Bo wants to ask who Wyrack has been talking to, but he knows. “Yeah, well, how weak is touching you out on nineteen of twenty hundred-yard frees?”

“I didn't say you don't have some talent.” Wyrack points to his temple. “I said you were
weak
. I'm gonna love taking your money, schoolboy, I'm gonna love taking your money.”

 

Bo and Shelly move through the doorway into Nak's group. “Wyrack said something strange the other day.”

“There's a surprise. What did he say?”

“He said he was going to love taking my money.”

No response.

“I thought he was baiting me like he always does, but I don't have any idea what he meant. He's an asshole, but I don't think he's a stick-up man. Hell, look at the car he drives. His parents must be loaded.”

Shelly glances back toward the door. “I wonder where Mr. Nak is. He's almost never late. I—”

Bo grips her bicep.

“What?”

“You know something about this.”

“What are you talking about? Know something about what?”

“I say, ‘Wyrack's going to love taking my money,' and you look around for Mr. Nak. I haven't known you that long relative to all of world history, but I've known you long enough to know that means you're up to your overdeveloped gluteus in this.”

“Jeez, Brewster, are you paranoid or what? I've just never seen Mr. Nak be late before.”

Bo's eyes narrow. “Did you make a bet with him?”

“Mr. Nak?”

“Mr. Wyrack. How much?”

“What are you…?”

“Come on, Shelly, you bet him. How much?”

Shelly hesitates. “Five.”

“Five bucks? Shit, that's no big deal. The way Wyrack was talking I thought—”

“Five hundred.”

“What?”

Shelly draws a five and two zeros in the air. “Five hundred, Bo. I bet him five hundred dollars you'd beat him and his bozos in Yukon Jack's.”

“Shelly!” The heads of the group members turn as one to stare as Bo and Shelly drop into their seats. “What the hell were you thinking about?” he whis
pers loudly. “Where are you going to get five hundred dollars?”

“I'm not,” she says back. “They'll never take you. I watched you guys up at the pool a couple of weeks back. You beat Wyrack every race.”

The door clicks shut behind Mr. Nak, and Shuja says, “Looks like we got us a anger management situation developin' here, Mr. Nak. I think she's gonna take him out.”

“Swimming's my best part,” Bo says to her, ignoring all around him. “Lonnie Gerback is biking for them. As soon as swimming season's over, he'll be hammering out seventy miles a day. That guy wins
real
bike races.”

“Then you'll have to stay close and kill 'em on the run,” Shelly says. “Bo, you're training like a madman. There's no way they'll be ready for you.”

“But
why
would you bet him five hundred dollars?”

Shelly drops her gaze, obviously embarrassed. “I guess I need a little more anger management,” she says. “He baited me, then threatened to pull out of the race if it wasn't worth his time.”

“So you decided five hundred clams for a few hours' work would be about right?”

“Actually, he picked the amount.” Shelly looks up
and smiles. “But look, Bo, he'll have to cut it three ways. If you win, you'll only have to cut it two.”

Bo turns to face Mr. Nak. “I think I'm ready to graduate, Mr. Nak.”

“Is that right?” Nak says. “What makes you think so?”

“Because I'm not going to kill her right in front of you all.”

Nak smiles. “Even if you kill her in the privacy of your own home, or even jus' maim her good, you still need work.”

Elvis explodes. “How much longer we gotta put up with this punk? Shit, he don't need anger management. He's too much of a wuss to ever get good and pissed. So what the hell if he called Redmond an asshole? That's like callin' Shuja black, or Hudgie fucked up, or”—and he nods at Shelly—“Wonder Woman a dyke.”

Shelly says, “Up yours, Elvis. Mr. Nak, why don't you get rid of this creep? He's never going to have any more manners than he has right now.”

“That's right,” Elvis says, “stand up for your lover boy. I figured you out. You could be a dyke and still fall for this wuss because nobody knows if he's a boy or a girl. That how you're keeping your cover, Wonder Woman?”

Blood rushes to Bo's face and he turns his chair to face Elvis square on. “Tell you what, Rock 'n' Roll King, any time you want to find out, I'll be more than happy to settle this privately.” He wants the words back as soon as they are spent.

Elvis leaps to his feet. “Hell with privately! How 'bout right here! Right now!”

Bo is also up. “Fine with me!”

Almost without notice, Nak slips to the floor and glides between them. “You buckaroos are forgettin' somethin', ain't ya? On my ranch nobody's ass gets kicked.”

Shuja says, “Oooh. Come on, Mr. Nak. Let 'em go. Let's get some anger out here to manage.”

Elvis turns. “You want some of this, too, nigger?”

Now Shuja rises. He is fluid lean, muscular in the way of a thoroughbred. He points the index finger of his right hand at Elvis's chest and says, “Elvis, my man, you done made a big mistake.”

Nak moves between the two of them. “I'll say it one more time,” he says in low, even tones. “Ain't gonna be no ass kickin' here. It may help you boys to know that I got me a number of black belts in a number of disciplines, an' while I'd never hurt ya, if you keep this up, I'll embarrass you.”

“Hey, no white punk calls me a nigger,” Shuja says. “I
got
to hurt 'im.”

“Tell you what,” Nak says. “Let's sit down an' see if we can work this out. If not, you guys can set your place an' time an' do your binniss.”

Elvis and Shuja glare at each other over Nak's head, each refusing to make the first move in retreat. Bo has gratefully taken his seat.

Again in his low tone, Mr. Nak says, “Either way, it ain't gonna happen here.”

Shuja is the first to move. “We discuss this later, white boy.”

“I'll be there,” Elvis says, backing slowly toward his seat.

Nak takes a deep breath, and walks slowly toward the board. “Lotta damn name callin' goin' on in here. Seems like my earballs have been flooded with ‘nigger, Chinaman, dyke, white boy, white punk,' just in recent memory. ‘Asshole' is a staple in these parts. What's all this about, you think?”