by Colin Meloy
“Wow, Charlie,” said Amir. “You are committed.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked Charlie. “I haven’t gone from playing center field to duking and binging by just sitting around on my hands.”
Amir smiled. “You’re an altogether different kid, Charlie. When I first met you, when I showed you the tips,” he said. “Do you remember all that?”
“The lawyers in front of the courthouse. The soldier and the ring. Of course I remember. Those were a couple amazing days.”
“Who would think that you would be here?”
“Not me, that’s for sure,” said Charlie.
“When I first met you, I had no idea . . .” He trailed off.
“No idea about what?”
Amir abruptly shifted his tone. “That day, when I stole your pen, and you shook the whiskers from me—you helped me.”
“Amir, we’ve been through all this. . . .”
“Listen, Charlie. Now I’m gonna help you.”
“And you did help me, Amir. You showed me the whiz. You gave me all this.” Here, Charlie waved his arm around the room as if to indicate his new life now. His renewed self.
“Nonsense,” said Amir.
“What do you mean?”
Amir looked at Charlie for what felt like a very long time before saying, “Think about it, Charlie. You had an amazing life before the whiz. You still have it. You don’t want to mess it up, yeah?”
“Oh, that’s rich,” said Charlie, suddenly feeling his hackles rising. “What do you know about my life?”
“I know you have a house that’s warm and a father who loves you. You have a man who teaches you music and books. You have a cook who makes food for you, a maid who cleans your room.”
“Maybe I don’t want all that stuff.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Charlie sputtered a laugh. “It’s awful easy, on the outside looking in, to say that kind of thing. You don’t know me. You don’t know my life. It’s my choice what I do with it.”
“Now, Charlie . . . ,” began Amir.
“Don’t ‘now, Charlie’ me. How come it’s okay for you to choose this, to go on the whiz, but I’m somehow not allowed? You think I’m too delicate a flower or something?”
Amir didn’t respond.
“That’s it, huh,” continued Charlie. “That’s what you ‘had no idea’ about. You didn’t think I could do it. That I could cut it as a tool. Oh, Charlie Fisher, the consul general’s son. He’s too sheltered. He’s too bourgeois. He’s not Whiz Mob material. Well, guess what, Amir? I am. I’ve been accepted. Jackie and Borra. Mouse and Michiko. The twins. Even Pluto, for God’s sake. They’ve all accepted me. They’re my friends, too, now.” Charlie peered at Amir, glaring. “What happened to you?”
“To me? Nothing has happened to me.”
“What about all that stuff you’ve said to me? That stuff about me being a natural, having the grift know and all. I mean, why even say that?”
Amir was silent; Charlie pressed him. “Why show me the ropes, take me under your wing, only to turn around and tell me that I’m not fit? Why do that, huh?”
Amir paused, before saying, “I was trying to make you feel better.”
The wind rattled at the window. Someone laughed downstairs. Charlie could feel the tears welling in his eyes. “Trying to make me feel better?”
“Yeah,” said Amir. “You were lost, had no friends. So I took pity on you, yeah?” His voice was rising, and the distinct tang of anger could be heard seeping in.
“Get out,” said Charlie.
“You’re no tool, Charlie. You’re just a chump. A sucker—an American sucker.”
“Get out!”
“Get off the whiz, Charlie, if you know what’s good for you!”
Charlie, having finally reached his limit, punched Amir once, hard, in the arm. Amir winced and grabbed at Charlie’s wrist. Charlie shook it free, dragging Amir forward. The two boys went tumbling to the ground, fists and feet flying. Before too much damage was done, Amir prized himself from Charlie’s clutches and staggered backward to the window. He wiped a spot of blood from his lip and, glaring at Charlie, threw the window open.
“Dig your own grave, Charlie,” said Amir. “I’m done with you. I came here to help you, but you can’t be helped.” He paused, glaring at Charlie. “I also came to give you this back.” He reached into his pocket to retrieve something, but his hand came out empty.
“This?” asked Charlie. He was holding the Sheaffer Imperial pen in his hand, binged handily from the pickpocket’s britch kick during the tussle. “Who’s the chump again, Amir?”
Amir smiled wanly. “Bye, Charlie. Nice knowing you.” With that, he straddled the windowsill and vaulted down the trellis.
Charlie woke the next morning still shaken by this altercation. The Sheaffer Imperial pen lay on his bedside table, reminding Charlie that it had not, after all, been some terrible dream. He pulled himself from bed, threw on his clothes, and shuffled downstairs. He greeted this Friday morning with all the deference of a funeral-goer; his father was already gone to work, and the servants were busily tucking into the docket of their daily responsibilities. Charlie satisfied himself with a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice.
He’d planned on heading to the scatter that morning—that was how he’d left it with the Whiz Mob the day before. They were going to drift that afternoon, and they’d all but insisted that Charlie come along. But now that Amir had so clearly spurned their friendship, would he still be welcome? Maybe Amir had only confronted Charlie out of a fit of pique, and that he’d be, again, waiting at a table in the Bar des 7 Coins with a bottle of Coke and an apology.
Knocking back the remainder of his orange juice, Charlie heard himself say, as if reciting a locker room pep speech, “I’m going to go.”
The way he saw it, he’d taken his stand against Amir. He’d held his ground. He’d shown that he could go toe-to-toe with any of the cannons in the Whiz Mob. Were he to retreat now and “declare out,” he would only further prove Amir’s dismissal of him. No, he would go to the scatter, and if Amir was there to confront him, so be it. Charlie’s allegiance was to the Whiz Mob. He would not be intimidated.
His heart was racing the entire tram ride to the Old Port; it sounded in each step as he hiked the cobbled streets of the Panier, those streets that had seemed so alien mere weeks ago, which he now walked with the confidence of a native.
The café was empty when he arrived. He pressed the button behind the Pernod bottle that activated the secret door behind the bar and walked the long stone corridor to the spiral staircase. When he arrived in the catacomb, the mob appeared to be just finishing a late breakfast and were getting ready for the day’s tip.
“Hey, Charlie,” said Molly. “Just in time.”
“You look like garbage, Charlie,” said Pluto.
“I didn’t sleep very well,” replied Charlie. He was looking around the catacomb for Amir, who was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, you better sharpen up, kiddo,” said Jackie as she walked to Pluto’s side. “We need you.”
“Need me?” asked Charlie.
“We’ve got a job, tomorrow night. We need another cannon.”
“It’s a Big Tip,” said Borra, who was seated at the table, inscribing something in the wood with a knife.
Charlie, surprised at the sudden invitation, said, “Really?”
“Really,” said Pluto. “We need you to work Amir’s position.”
“W-what . . . ,” stammered Charlie. “What happened to Amir?”
No one opted to answer the question for some moments before Molly piped up, “He declared himself out.”
“What?” asked Charlie, in disbelief.
Pluto nodded gravely. “Last night. Don’t know what’s got into him. He showed up here all bent out of shape. Couldn’t get him to see sense. Said he was done. Said he was declaring out, that he couldn’t do it no more.”
“Blowed his moxie,” said
Molly. “Didn’t see that coming at all.”
“Coward,” muttered Borra, from the table.
And suddenly, Charlie had won. There would be no final confrontation at the scatter between him and Amir. What’s more, he’d been explicitly invited to replace a proper Seven Bells cannon. He had finally proven himself, despite Amir’s attempts to sabotage his involvement, and yet he felt deeply conflicted, even sorrowful about it.
“Well?” asked Jackie, sensing Charlie’s hesitation.
“I’m in,” said Charlie.
Chapter
FIFTEEN
He would need a tuxedo. It happened that Charlie owned not one, but three of the uncomfortable getups, so that would not be a problem. He even offered to lend one to Pluto, who was his closest match, but they’d already managed monkey suits for all the Mobbies who needed one. The prat was to be some sort of gala function. It was to be held at the Palais du Pharo, that neoclassical edifice overlooking the south bank of the Old Port, and black-tie dress was required. Sembene and Fatour were going as part of the catering staff; Borra was connected with the local workforce of the building and would be going disguised as a coat-check boy. The rest of the mob would be coming as guests.
The job had required weeks of rigorous fanning on Pluto’s part: arranging appropriate outfits and credentials for everyone—but this was typical of a Big Tip.
“This is going to be the one, a real jug touch,” said Pluto. “The upper crust, flaunting their diamonds and pearls. Trying to out-flash each other. We’re going to be dripping in slum, boys.”
“And girls,” said Michiko.
“And girls,” said Pluto. “That was implied.”
“Whatever,” said Michiko, rolling her eyes.
Charlie would be running with Michiko, working the ballroom two-handed while Pluto and Jackie worked the tented outdoor gardens. Sembene and Fatour would be binging from the buffet line while Borra harvested the ripe pickings of the coat closet.
“Like shooting apples in barrel,” he said.
“That’s not quite right,” said Charlie. “But I get it.”
And Amir—well, Amir was gone.
To Charlie, it felt like watching some well-known play or picture with the main character somehow erased from the stage. All the components were there—the set dressings, the costumes, the music—but the ensemble was lacking its main character. He decided that this was a temporary hang-up, and that once he’d gotten used to Amir’s absence, all would feel perfectly normal again within the Whiz Mob. He would no longer feel like a boy invited to a party whose host has gone missing.
Perhaps Pluto had guessed his reservations when he cornered him that night, just as Charlie was getting ready to leave the scatter. The plan was to meet the following evening at a café some few blocks down the hill from the Palais; from there, the Whiz Mob would wage their assault on the gala. Everyone was advised to have a quiet night, to get some rest, and Charlie was heading home to do just that. Pluto stopped him at the bottom step of the spiral staircase.
“What’s up?” asked Charlie.
“I know it’s weird,” said Pluto, “Amir being gone. I know the two of you were tight.”
Charlie nodded. “It’s really no big deal. I’m not going to let it affect me.”
“Good,” said Pluto. “Because we need you tomorrow. We need cannon Charlie.”
This gave Charlie a small lift; he’d never heard Pluto refer to him as a cannon. “He’ll be there,” he replied, smiling.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Pluto.
Charlie turned to go, but paused again on the stair. “I saw him, you know,” he said. “Amir.” He hadn’t admitted this to anyone. Amir’s sudden dismissal of him still stung, and he was loath to inform anyone of it.
“You did?” asked Pluto. “Where?”
“At my house. He came by. Must’ve been around ten o’clock.”
“What did he say?” Pluto looked genuinely concerned.
“He said . . . He said I should get off the whiz.”
Pluto let out an exasperated noise. “That you should get off the whiz? That’s ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” said Charlie. “He seemed really agitated. It was so strange. I know he’s been kind of a pill lately, but I’d never seen him like that before. He was just really . . . mean.”
“Well,” said Pluto, “good riddance to him then. No one needs that. Between you and me, he was probably jealous. It’s not often you turn someone out and they show you up within weeks of being on the whiz. Can crush a guy’s confidence, you know. Promise me you won’t let it get to you. He was always a bit of a wild card. To be honest, I’m glad you’re taking his place.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Honest.”
Charlie smiled shyly. Pluto gave him a good-natured pat on the arm and said, “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
“Till tomorrow.”
Charlie arrived back at the Fisher residence in time for dinner. It was a rare quiet Friday evening, and two settings were laid out on the absurdly long table that commanded the center of the large dining room, two small cities shunted to one side of an uninhabitable desert. Charlie and his father sat perpendicular to each other, with Charles Sr. seated, as he always was, at the head of the table.
They sat in all but total silence through the first and second courses. Charlie found himself alternately consumed by thoughts of Amir and of the impending Big Tip the following evening. In his mind’s eye, he conjured spectral prats and walked himself through the motions of emptying them. He undid virtual tweezers and dipsies, he reefed imaginary kicks from stubborn pits. Every few moments, however, the scrubby face of Amir appeared before him, whispering some denigrating comment about his chump-ness, and Charlie’s calm composure was all but erased.
The cheese course came, and Charles Sr. took the liberty of selecting a few hunks for the table. It was only then that he spoke:
“André mentioned that you were having one of your tuxedos steamed and pressed,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve decided to join me for tomorrow night’s function.”
“What?” Charlie was lost to another reverie and had only caught the last few words.
“The queen of Lumiravia, in town for the weekend,” said his father. “I must’ve mentioned it to you. Don’t you remember? I supposed you were planning on joining me, considering you were having your suit readied.”
“Oh,” said Charlie, having to think fast. “No. There’s a party in Toulon. The Edelweisses. Someone’s birthday. I told them I’d go.”
“Toulon? That’s a bit of a drive.”
“Yes,” said Charlie. “I’ll be gone most of the afternoon. Probably won’t get back till late.”
Charles Sr. seemed genuinely crestfallen. “You’ve come a long way in recent months, Charlie. Don’t you suppose you’ve gotten over your shyness enough to participate in the consul’s social schedule? I have no doubt that you would find it highly edifying.” Charles paused to fork a bit of brie into his mouth. Once he’d finished chewing, he said, “What’s more, I would enjoy your company.”
“I will,” said Charlie. “I promise. Just not tomorrow night.”
“You could invite your friends, you know,” said Charles. “Have them over to the house one of these nights. Or perhaps they could join you at one of these functions.”
“Oh, no,” said Charlie, perhaps too quickly. For a moment, he imagined the Whiz Mob wandering the halls of the Fisher residence, stripping the house of every valuable bauble that could fit into their pockets. The thought made him choke on his gruyère. “I’ve asked them, but they’re always so busy. Maybe soon.”
“Very well,” said Charles. “I do wish to meet them. They sound a charming bunch. Particularly . . . what’s his name again . . . Clark Kent? The one who managed to survive three weeks alone in the jungles of Cameroon. Fascinating stories, I imagine.”
“I’ll mention that to him,” said Charlie, feeling himself blush. “You know, I s
hould really finish my Cicero before bed. I’ve got my Latin final Monday morning.” He pushed himself away from the table, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, and stood. “Good night, Father,” he said.
“Good night,” said Charles. “Sleep well. One last thing, Charlie. Have André check the fit of that tuxedo. We should perhaps have you measured for a new one. You have grown, my boy.”
“Very well, sir,” said Charlie. He gave a little bow and left the room.
That night, he did not work on his Cicero. His Latin verbs remained unconjugated. Instead, he assaulted poor Dennis, the practice dummy, by loading him up with cash and jewelry and robbing him of every piece, coin, and bill till his pockets were again empty. A body double had arrived for Dennis, a kind of spruced-up version of himself, wearing Charlie’s clean and pressed tuxedo. It stood beside its twin silently, enduring the other’s misfortune. It was past midnight when Charlie fell asleep at the foot of his bed while he was flipping his Sheaffer Imperial pen between his fingers with the dexterity of a spider spinning its web. He awoke with the pen lying in his lap.
Charlie arrived at the café at the appointed hour, dressed in his formal wear. He must’ve grown a few inches since he’d last worn the outfit. The hem of his pants hung so high over the tops of his shoes, it was as if his pants and footwear were mortal enemies and were making a concerted effort to keep a safe distance from each other. He’d expected that he would be the best put together of the Whiz Mob when he saw them at the rendezvous point, but he was wrong: the pickpockets looked as if they’d been torn straight from the Parisian society pages.
Pluto was wearing a sharp bespoke tux and his hair was pomaded and combed back neatly. Jackie sat next to him at their table, wearing a gorgeous red ball gown with a plunging neckline. Her lips matched the fiery red of the dress, and her intensely blue eyes, highlighted as they were with an imperious amount of eyeshadow and mascara, caught Charlie as he walked into the café like two ice-cold spotlights. Michiko was reclining against the bar in a sea-green sleeveless gown embossed with flowers. She wore black sunglasses and was sipping at a Coca-Cola bottle through a zebra-striped straw. Molly sat near her, at the bar, wearing a shiny yellow ball gown, draped to the floor. Even Sembene and Fatour, dressed as they were in white bow ties and black jackets—the de facto uniform of the Palais du Pharo waitstaff—outshone Charlie’s poorly fitting tuxedo.
