MORTAL COILS (36 page)

Eliot
didn’t remember telling the man that Fiona was his sister. He looked back and
saw Fiona watching him . . . as she chewed something.

“She’s
just shy.”

The
man raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t we all?”

“You
look so . . . better.”

Eliot
couldn’t believe his lapse of grammar and talent for stating the obvious. He
knew so many words. Why did he have such a hard time speaking them sometimes?

“Better,
yes. Thanks to the miracle of a YMCA shower, soap, and a stiff brush.” The man
paused. “No, actually I only have you to thank, my young prodigy.”

“Me?”

“You
woke me. I am Lazarus.” He curled his hands into fists and raised them over his
head. “Christ arisen from the grave! Donald Trump refinanced!”

Maybe
Fiona had been right about the man’s mental state. Eliot took a step back,
glanced over his shoulder, and spotted his sister . . . which reassured him.
“Do you mean the music?”

“I
do.” The man turned to a shopping cart by the alley wall. “And such a
miraculous restoration deserves a reward.”

Eliot
took two steps closer and asked, “Another lesson?” He could feel the violin
under his fingertips: vibration and pressure, rhythm and crescendo.

The
man scoffed. “I would sooner whitewash the Mona Lisa.” He rummaged through the
cart, retrieved a battered and lidless red Macy’s box, and thrust it into
Eliot’s face.

Eliot
took the proffered box. The instant he felt the weight, he knew what it was . .
. but dared not believe it. The box was stuffed with plastic grocery bags. He
dug deeper, touched wood, and pulled out the man’s violin.

“The
only thing you now require,” he told Eliot, “is practice.”

Eliot
turned the instrument over and over, amazed. No one had ever given him anything
like this.

The
man handed him the violin’s bow. “Let us not forget this.”

Eliot’s
fingers rested on the strings. They seemed to resonate with a slight vibration
all their own.

He
wanted more than anything else to play, but he held back. Yesterday he’d almost
lost himself in song. Today he couldn’t. He had to focus on too many other
things: work, life-and-death trials, and a new family.

“I
don’t know what to say.”

“Say
nothing.” The man touched his index finger to his lips, making a shh gesture.
“The look on your face is enough. Besides, words are the tools of fops and
fools.”

“But
I can’t.”

That
was the last thing that Eliot wanted to say, but he had to. One of
Grandmother’s life philosophies was to never accept extravagant gifts. Too
generous presents come with strings, she had told him. They’ll spoil you. And
the never-repeated-often-enough Hard work is the cornerstone of character.

So
what if he got spoiled just this once? The violin felt like his already. And
just imagining breaking a rule . . . it made his blood race.

But
Grandmother’s ideals—like them or not—had been fused to Eliot’s character.

“I
can’t,” he whispered. And then, although it was the hardest thing he had ever
done, he handed the violin back to the man. “You’ll need it a lot more than I
will.”

All
animation drained from the man’s face, and even though neither of them had
moved, he now seemed to be looking down at Eliot.

“Will
I?” The man snatched the instrument and set it into the shopping cart. “On the
contrary, I am leaving these luxury accommodations and abandoning my misery.”
He stroked the violin. “Alas this has too many sad memories now to keep.”

“You’re
just going to leave it there?”

The
man’s eyes narrowed and glimmered with mischievousness. “Perhaps it will be
found by some homeless match girl and she will burn it to keep warm. Or an
insane street lady will use it like a ukulele. Or perhaps . . .” He set it in
the gutter in the center of the alley. “A delivery truck will crush it.” He
raised his foot.

Eliot
had never moved so fast—he grabbed the violin and cradled it to his chest.

“So
. . . you’ve changed your mind then?”

“Yes.”
Eliot felt his heartbeat reverberating through the wood and the strings. He
wasn’t sure how he was going to hide this from Grandmother, but he couldn’t let
it be smashed into splinters.

“I
will sleep better knowing she is in a master’s hands.” The man knelt and
touched the violin. “Look, I will show you a secret.” He scratched at the wood,
and tape peeled away. “I had to disguise her. Had any of my neighbors seen her
true nature . . . well, possession as they say, is all.”

Scabs
of Scotch tape dotted the body of the instrument. Each had been blacked with
marker, scratched, and dulled with grime. They camouflaged pristine lacquered
wood underneath that had the look of liquid gold and sparkling topaz.

Eliot
could see his face reflected in the grain. He felt as if he were melting into
the mirrored, smooth surface.

“It’s
beautiful.”

“She.
It is a she. And her name is Lady Dawn.” The man spread his hand over the
violin theatrically. “Crafted by Antonelli Moroni in the sixteenth century; all
others compared to her are mewling harpies. Treat her with the respect that she
demands.”28

Treat
her with respect? Eliot started to protest that the man had almost crushed the
violin under his heel.

But
the man held up a finger. “You will learn that musical instruments are not the
only things that can be played.”

He’d
meant for Eliot to take the violin the entire time. His face flushed.

The
man stood and brushed off his coat. “Now I must leave this golden palace of
open-air urinals and rodents and never return.”

He
held out his hand for Eliot.

Eliot
looked back out the alley. Fiona waited for him on the street and made a “hurry
up” gesture. Her warning that the man was crazy echoed in his thoughts, but
Eliot turned and reached out to shake his hand anyway. It seemed to be the only
polite thing to do.

It
was like when he shook Uncle Henry’s hand: the man’s skin was warm and firm.
But when Eliot squeezed, he found it unyielding like stone. The man could have
grabbed and crushed him like a soda can.

The
light faded . . . and although Eliot could not tear his gaze away from the man,
he saw in the periphery shadows on the walls: people crowding to get a better
look, and the silhouette of a large, sniffing dog.

The
man let go.

The
shadows vanished.

“A
fine grip. You will be stronger than I am when you grow up.”

“Thanks,”
Eliot said, looking at his small hands and doubting that very much.

“I’m
Eliot.”

“Louis.
Louis Piper. Nice to make your acquaintance. I hope we meet again under
different circumstances.”

“Yeah.”
Eliot glanced at Fiona waiting. Her arms had crossed her chest and she glared
at him. “I better go.”

But
the man had already turned and strolled halfway down the alley, whistling to
himself.

Eliot
went to his sister.

Fiona’s
eyes locked onto the violin. “What are you going to do with that?”

28.
Antonelli Moroni may be related to Anna Moroni, who married Alessandro
Stradivari. In 1644 they had a son, Antonio Stradivari, who became the world’s
most renowned violin maker.—Editor.

Eliot
unhitched his backpack, shuffled the contents, and slid Lady Dawn carefully
into a rubber wader. “There.”

“And
what about Grandmother?”

“I’ll
figure that out later. I had to take it.”

Fiona
sighed and shook her head. She looked flushed with exasperation as she turned
and walked away.

He
slung the pack and caught up to her. “You’re not going to tell, are you?”

She
halted. Her mouth dropped and she rested a hand on her heart—as if he’d stabbed
her.

Fiona
might have tried to drive him crazy, dreamed up the worst insults in the world
to throw at him, but she’d never in a million years have snitched on him. Not
that she had to snitch. Grandmother usually figured out everything they did
anyway.

“Sorry,”
he whispered.

Fiona
chewed on her lower lip. “Don’t worry. I’d never tell.”

They
stood a moment, both looking at the sidewalk, neither saying a thing.

Fiona
then started walking, slowly crossed Vine Street, and waited for him on the
steps to Ringo’s.

Eliot
followed. Only half as many cars were parked outside as yesterday.

Together,
he and his sister entered.

The
clock on the wall informed him that they were twenty-five minutes late. A new
record.

Mike
would have docked them a half day’s pay—threatened to fire them, too. Eliot
wondered how he was doing. When or if Mike was coming back. If he’d lost his
hand.

Julie
leaned on the cash register. She said nothing about their being late and just
gave them a little bored wave. She wore a fuzzy sky-blue sweater with a
plunging neckline and a lacy white skirt that fell to her knees.

“Party
room got used last night,” she informed Fiona.

Fiona
hung her head.

“But
I came in early and got it for you,” Julie said. “Would you wait tables later
today, honey? Linda has a dentist thing.”

“Thanks.”
Fiona blinked unbelievingly. “Uh, sure.”

Julie
moved from the counter and flashed a hundred-watt smile at Eliot.

“I’ve
got something to show you in back.”

Eliot
followed her through the dining room and into the kitchen, unable to tear his
gaze away from her liquid motions . . . and feeling embarrassed by this new
boldness.

Julie
waved hello at Johnny. Johnny waved back in between a pizza toss.

Eliot
spotted a new stainless steel cabinet next to his washing sink.

Julie
opened the thing. Inside were jet nozzles and metal racks half-filled with
dirty plates. It was a dishwasher.

“Your
new best friend,” Julie said. “It does sixty racks an hour—faster than you can
load it.”

“Does
this mean”—Eliot swallowed—“that I’m out of a job?”

Julie
giggled. It sounded like sleigh bells. “You dreamer. Every plate and pot still
needs to be scraped, loaded, unloaded, and racked, but it will make your job a
thousand times easier.”

“Wow—thanks.”

“You’ll
have some extra time, so I want you to help Johnny. He needs a new assistant.”

“Assistant
chef? Me?”

Eliot
had always wanted to cook. Cee had, however, shooed him out of the kitchen whenever
he tried to do more than gather ingredients for her to burn.

“The
new guy didn’t work out.” Julie looked around as if someone else might hear. “I
fired the cad.”