Sway (26 page)

“Great-grandfather,” I corrected him.

“Nobody asked you,” he shot back, but then turned on the charm to politely offer Emerald something to eat.

I had been halfway through the story of what happened at Pete's birthday dinner, giving Mr. D the background on Ken and Bridget, when Emerald rang the doorbell and interrupted the conversation. Mr. Dunkelman sat and listened attentively to my monologue, stoically enduring a raspberry vodka mixed with orange juice. “Does he wear skirts too?” Mr. D had asked when I explained to him that raspberry vodka was Pete's favorite.

“If his friendship is important to you, then you have to talk to him—you have to at least try to explain it to him,” said Emerald. I found her surprisingly naïve for a woman who took off her clothes in front of people for money.

“Explain what?” I asked. “That I accepted money in exchange for spying on his sister? That I shared her personal details with some loser Abercrombie model so he could get in her lady cave?”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Emerald said as she wrinkled her nose, “it does make it sound kind of bad.”

“I think you should tell Bridget the truth,” Mr. Dunkelman said. “Just explain to her that you're a little prick and you can't help yourself. I'm sure she'll be upset, but not nearly as upset as if she finds out on her own.”

“Pete has probably already told her,” I said, voicing what I had been thinking since I left the Putt 'n' Play.

“Maybe not,” Mr. D said. “At least she can hear your side of it.”

“Side? What side?” I asked. “This isn't a misunderstanding. I really did sell her personal information to a douche bag. Jesus, she probably lost her virginity to him because I played her like some fucked-up Cyrano de Bergerac. What else should I tell her? That the reason I decided to suddenly confess was because of some advice I got from a crazy old man who I paid to pretend he was my grandfather?”

“Crazy? Who are you calling crazy?” Mr. Dunkelman asked. “You can't keep telling lies to people, expect them to stay at arm's length. Either you're in the world and you have to learn to get along with the people who care about you, or you get out.”

“Yeah?” I asked, my voice raised. “Well, maybe I'll just get out, then.”

“Maybe you should,” shot back Mr. D as our argument quickly degenerated into a playground squabble between five-year-olds.

“Hey, guys,” Emerald said. “What are you getting so upset about?”

“I'm not upset,” I said, carefully leveling my voice. “Nobody's upset.”

My phone buzzed on the table and we all stopped to look at the lighted display. I could see without picking it up that it was a call from Pete.

It buzzed twice more before Mr. Dunkelman said, “Well, are you going to answer it?”

I picked up the phone and walked into the kitchen, away from their prying eyes and ears.

“Hello,” I said into the phone, as if I didn't know who was calling.

“I didn't tell her what happened,” Pete said without preamble. “She doesn't know what a dick you are.”

“What do you want me to say?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “There's nothing you can say to change the fact that you are a complete asshole. But I want to know the whole story. I want to hear it from you.”

“There's nothing to tell. Ken wanted to date your sister. I'm in the business of getting people things that they want.”

“So, you followed her? Spied on her? Pretended to be my friend so you could find out things about her?”

I thought about arguing with him, telling him that our friendship had nothing to do with it. My friendship with Pete had been completely accidental, an unintended side effect. Not that he would ever believe that.

I knew what I had to do, what was going to be best for everyone.

“That's right,” I said. “I got to know you both so I could give Ken the information he needed to get in with your sister.”

There was a long pause while he processed that, then said, “I don't believe you. I know you're all fucked up in the head, but there is no way any person could be that fucked up.”

“Yeah, well, life is full of surprises,” I said.

“So, that's it, then?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess, unless you want to call me an asshole one more time.”

“I trusted you,” he said in a raspy whisper. “But however horrible a person you are for treating me like this, it's unforgivable the way you treated Bridget. She loves you.”

“I have to go,” I said, cutting him off. “I have company. I'll see you around.” I cut the connection before he could respond and shut my phone off completely.

Mr. D and Emerald were waiting expectantly when I returned. “I told him we'd talk tomorrow,” I said by way of explaining the phone call. Mr. D knew I was lying but didn't call me out.

“Well, it's been real nice hanging with you guys but I've got to get to that bachelor party. You want me to drop you at home on my way, Mr. Dunkelman?” Emerald asked.

“If it's not out of your way,” Mr. D said as he shifted forward in his seat. Emerald offered him an arm to help him and he let her. I would have gotten my arm slapped for my trouble.

I slipped Emerald some folded bills and then watched from the door as they walked to the car, Mr. Dunkelman already starting in, complaining about his ungrateful kids. Maybe Emerald would be a more sympathetic listener than I was.

 

THIRTY-FIVE

I heard about Pete's surgery in a roundabout way that same week. Bridget had told Mr. D all about it on her weekly visit to Hell's Waiting Room. He relayed the message over a game of cards in the rec room. Pete's surgery was scheduled for Friday and he would be in the hospital for a few days.

“You going to call him?” Mr. D asked as he picked up a card from the stack.

I gave a noncommittal grunt in response and didn't look up from my cards.

“It's been a week. You're not even going to try to talk to him?” Mr. D asked.

“What for?”

“I don't know,” he said. “You could try apologizing.”

“Apologize for what?” I asked as I looked up at him with a scowl.

“For being an asshole,” he said impatiently. “That's not in dispute, is it? The part about you being an asshole?”

“Do you plan to discard sometime in the near future?” I asked with a meaningful glance at my watch. “Because you talk as much as a god-damn girl.”

He discarded a ten of hearts as he
harrumphed
and muttered curses at me.

“You could have played that on my hand,” I said as I scooped up the ten from the discard pile and lay it on the table in front of me. “You going senile on me?”

“Did you even hear what I said?” Mr. D asked. “He's having surgery.”

“I heard you,” I said.

“What's wrong with you?” he asked.

“I've got a lot on my mind. That okay with you? Christ,” I said as anger bubbled over and I threw my cards down with a satisfying smack on the table. “Like I don't have enough shit going on and I got some old fart and a cripple riding my ass every time I turn around.”

“You don't fool me, you little prick,” Mr. D said, jabbing his knobby finger at me like a weapon. “However much that boy may hate you right now, he'll never hate you as much as you hate yourself.”

I stood so suddenly, my chair tipped over with a crash and I shoved it away with the underside of my foot instead of righting it. “Mind your own fucking business,” I said as I snatched up my keys and phone and walked out.

My phone had been buzzing in my pocket all day long. Skinhead Rob and half a dozen other people were trying to get in touch with me. I ignored all of them.

I knew I would have to face the consequences with Rob but hadn't decided yet how best to handle the situation. Joey was right that I couldn't just put in a letter of resignation. And as long as Rob was pissed off at me, there was the real risk he would take it out on Joey. So far, every way I looked at it, the only way I could see to be rid of Rob completely was for one of us to die or go to prison. Neither was a simple proposition, and I was still working it out in my head.

*   *   *

That Saturday I went by the hospital to see Pete. I don't know why I went. It's not as if I expected him to speak to me, or if he did to say anything other than a string of angry profanities, which, I guess, was not much different from our normal relationship.

I hate the smell of hospitals—antiseptic misery and soiled socks. I made it through the lobby and waiting area okay and thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad, but once I got off the elevator and entered the corridors with patient rooms, I started to feel queasy. Pete's room was in the pediatric ward, where they had made the effort with colorful artwork and walls painted green and purple instead of institutional white, but the smell was the same.

Though it was still early, Pete's room was dark and he asleep. The television cast blue light across his bed and his legs looked like sticks under the thin blanket. He looked about twelve with his skinny frame and stupid Bieber haircut.

I left the care package on his bedside table where he would see it when he woke—a Japanese porn magazine and some MoonPies. He would know who it was from, so would probably throw them away. As I stood watching him sleep, I wondered what the hell I was doing there and turned to go.

The hospital parking lot was full of cars but devoid of people. I was almost to the T-Bird when I heard a car door open and I spared a glance over my shoulder at the sound. Rob and his henchman, Grim, were just climbing out of Rob's GTO. A gust of air left my lungs in a rush and for a second I thought I might piss myself.

Rob was in a black trench coat and Grim in a camouflage military-issue jacket. I watched them as they approached me, like watching something on film. Maybe I had time to run for my car, could get it started and out of the lot before they were on me, but I didn't try. Just stood where I was and waited for the savagery that was headed my way in slow motion.

Grim looked bored and Rob's smile was genuinely crazy, if not genuinely happy.

“Rob,” I said with a curt nod. “What are you doing here?” As if I didn't know.

“Does my presence offend you, Jew-boy?” Rob asked. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up as he parked one butt cheek on the edge of my car. Grim came to stand just behind me, arms crossed over his chest, while he waited for Rob to give him orders. This could end only one way and my gut felt hollow and light with air as I thought about the prospect of Grim pounding my face. I found myself wondering if he would kill me or just permanently disfigure me.

My life didn't flash before my eyes, but I imagined my broken, lifeless body being found by the security guard on the pavement later that evening. A sorry end.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I haven't seen you around in a few weeks,” Skinhead Rob said around his cigarette. “I was worried about you.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “Well, don't be. I'm fine.”

He laughed at that and gave Grim a chin thrust, a signal that Grim interpreted as instructions to laugh along with him. Rob pursed his rat face into a frown and gave a quick head shake.

Grim's laugh halted abruptly. “What?” he asked.

“Grab him,” Rob said, exasperated.

Grim grabbed the back of my jacket collar and twisted his grip until the collar was tight against my throat. It was work to move air through my windpipe, but I tried to keep my breath steady and slow, not panic. It would all be over before too long. They would lose interest once I was unconscious. Or dead. There are worse things than being dead.

“So,” Rob said as he studied the lit end of his cigarette, then blew on it to spark the ember, “you just decided you didn't want to work with me anymore? You hurt my feelings, Sway.”

“I didn't know you had feelings, Rob,” I gurgled through my constricted windpipe.

“I don't,” Rob said as he narrowed one eye at me. “What I do have is a problem. I placed orders with some people for a whole lot of party favors, counting on you to move them for me. I've got thousands of dollars tied up in your abilities, Sway. Now, I don't know what is going on with you. I know you've been a little weird ever since your mom chased a bottle of Xanax with a liter of booze. At least that was what they reported in the paper. That true?”

“Close enough,” I said as my head started to pound from lack of oxygen.

“Did she do it on purpose?” he asked. “Did she really hate you that much?”

He paused, as if he expected me to answer. The silence stretched on for a long minute while Rob smoked and Grim studied the fingernails on his hand that wasn't holding me by the neck.

“Like I said,” Rob continued when it became obvious I wasn't going to say anything, “I don't know what's going on with you, but I'll tell you what I do know—today Grim is just going to mess you up a little. Next time we have this conversation, your dad's going to be planning another funeral. We clear?”

“Crystal,” I wheezed, and Grim dropped his hold on my jacket. As I rubbed my throat, Rob flicked his cigarette in my direction, then stood and leaned casually against the grille of the T-Bird. His face was impassive while he watched Grim work me over. Grim mostly took body shots, punching me in the gut and kidney. Body shots hurt less than a blow to the face at the time of impact but hurt more later. I guess at least if you get punched in the face enough times, you get knocked unconscious. With body shots, there's no real hope of passing out.

Finally Grim did land a couple of punches on my cheekbone and mouth and then a nice coup de grâce right on my nose. He didn't break anything, but when I felt the pressure behind my eyelids I knew immediately I would end up with two black eyes. I windmilled my arms as I tried to keep my feet, my legs jelly and useless beneath me, and sank to the ground, hard on my ass, but I didn't feel it.