Reality Check

by Peter Abrahams

  “Don’t like it, stay away,” Len said. “No law says you have to bet.”

  The man laughed. “Then where would you be?”

  Len gave him that bright white smile. “Right here,” said Len. The man stopped laughing.

  Cody took another sip. Up on the big screen they were now showing highlights of big hits from last week’s games. Not all the kids liked the hitting in football, but Cody did: The hitting was what made the game so special. Like the way you play foot- ball, son. Ever been to Pennsylvania? Deep down—and this was something Cody would never say aloud, would really not even admit to himself—he had a dream of playing in the NFL, had still not abandoned it. Kind of crazy, since he wasn’t even on a team, and had this—maybe not a bad knee, but not as good as the other one. Would it ever be? He looked down at his left knee, straightened it, flexed it.

  “Like football?”

  Cody glanced up. Big Len was back.

  “Yeah,” Cody said.

  “Got a favorite team?”

  “Broncos,” Cody said.

  “Yeah?” said Len. “Don’t get too many Bronco fans around 262

  here.” He reached down— snap—and set another bottle in front of Cody, even though the first one was half full.

  “I didn’t—”

  “On the house,” said Len. “Always good to see a new face.”

  “Um, thanks.”

  “Name’s Len,” Len said. He had pale eyes—hard to say the exact color in the weak light of the bar—made all the paler by his black hair. “Len Boudreau.”

  “Cody,” Cody said.

  Len stuck out his hand. They shook. Len’s hand was big and strong—bigger and stronger than Ike’s—and he squeezed pretty hard, but just for a split second before letting go.

  “New in town?” he said.

  “I . . . no,” Cody said. “I’ve been around.”

  “Yeah?” said Len. He reached down, snapped open another Bud Light; but this one was for him. He tilted it to his mouth, took a big hit, almost half in one swallow. Len wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. “What the doctor ordered, right, Cody?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But beer sometimes needs a little pal.” He reached behind him, took a bottle off the shelf without looking, set it on the bar with two shot glasses. “How’s bourbon sound?” Len said. 263

  Cody had tried bourbon only once—a night out with some of Junior’s older cousins, all real big like Junior, even the girls—

  had ended up totally wasted, and the next morning had sworn off bourbon forever. “Uh, wouldn’t really—” he began.

  “Take that for a yes,” Len said. “Who turns down a free shot of JB? Only the limp-wristed types, right?” Cody didn’t answer. Len filled the shot glasses, clicked his against Cody’s.

  “Here’s to football,” he said, and raised his glass. Cody hesitated. Len made a little glass-raising gesture. Cody raised his glass. Len drained his shot in one swallow. Cody did the same. Len refilled the glasses. “Been around, huh?” He took another big hit of Bud Light, again wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Funny—don’t recall seeing you around.”

  “Well,” said Cody, “here I am.” Not a bad reply, just popping out at the right moment, perhaps slightly alcohol fueled. Len laughed, a loud laugh, quickly cut off. “Unless you’re a ghost,” he said. “Not a ghost, are you, Cody?”

  Cody felt a bit like he was in a football game. In football you got pushed and had to push back. “Don’t believe in ghosts,” he said.

  “Me neither,” said Len. “Or black cats or four-leaf clovers or any of that shit. You believe in any of that shit, Cody?”

  “No.”

  “Puts us in the minority,” Len said. “Tiny minority.” He raised his shot glass. “Here’s to minority rights.” Len downed 264

  this second shot just like the first, in one gulp. Cody did the same. Was there a choice? None that he could see. His throat burned for a second, and a little buzz started up in his head: pleasant, but this was not the time. He heard movement behind him, glanced around, and saw the old couple shuffling toward the door, leaning against each other. When he turned back, Len was watching him. “Good customers,” he said. “But not players. You a player, Cody?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aw, come on. You’re a bright young man. Don’t know what a player is? Somebody who likes a little wager from time to time, say on those Broncos of yours—that’s a player.”

  “I’m not into that,” Cody said.

  “They’re giving away three and a half this week,” said Len.

  “Might be a good time to start.”

  Cody shook his head.

  “Maybe you’re not as big a fan as you make out,” Len said. Cody shrugged.

  Len had another big swallow of Bud Light. “Drink up.”

  Cody took a sip.

  “Know any players?” Len said.

  “No.”

  “Hard to believe,” Len said. “Unless you don’t get around much.”

  “I get around.”

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  Len nodded. “Sure you do,” he said. “You been around and you get around.” He paused; silence, except for a crunching hit on the big screen. “So you must know some of the—don’t want to say kids, do I?—young people from around here.”

  “Yeah.” No other answer made sense.

  “Like?” said Len.

  “Just, you know, ordinary, um, kids.”

  “For example?”

  “You wouldn’t know them.”

  “Try me,” Len said. He leaned across the bar, his head above Cody’s, only a couple feet away. Their eyes met. Len smiled. “Go on—I don’t bite.”

  “Clea Weston,” Cody said.

  Big Len’s head snapped back. His smile vanished, just like that. He took a long look at Cody. “Some kind of humor on your part?” he said.

  “No,” said Cody.

  Big Len glanced down the bar; the men were bent over their mugs, in silence again. His gaze returned to Cody. Cody could feel Big Len’s mind working. He opened his mouth to say something. But at that moment the door opened, and in walked Deirdre, the Irish waitress from the Rev.

  She looked around, clutching an envelope in both hands; her face pale, her eyes like two black ovals. Deirdre saw Len 266

  and approached, but slowly, as though moving through some thick medium. If she recognized Cody—or even noticed him—

  she gave no sign.

  Len shifted a few steps away, laid a coaster on the bar.

  “Deirdre,” he said. “A sight for sore eyes. What’ll it be?”

  “If I could just—” Deirdre began, then stopped and tried again. “A moment of your time, please.” Cody saw she wasn’t wearing her eyebrow stud; because of that, or some other reason, she looked much younger, not much older than him.

  “Phil,” Len called down the bar. “Mind the store for a few minutes.” One of the men got up, walked around the bar, stood on the other side, opposite his stool. Len came around the other end, faced Deirdre. “My office suit your needs?” he said.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s—”

  “After you.” He touched the small of her back. She moved deeper into the bar, toward a door in the rear wall. Len glanced at Cody, his eyes narrowing. “Phil,” he said, “drinks on the house for this gentleman. Make sure he’s happy.” Phil nodded. Len followed Deirdre, through the door and out of sight. Phil, a fat guy with watery eyes and the silvery glints of a two-or three-day beard on his face, made his way over. “Get you something?”

  “I’m okay for now,” Cody said. “Where’s the men’s?”

  Phil pointed at a door in the back corner, near one of the 267

  smaller TVs, and returned to his place down the bar. Cody waited for a minute or so, then rose, crossed the floor, and went through the doorway in the back corner.

  He found himself in a dark, narrow corridor, lit only by a flickering overhead bulb. Three doors
: men’s, ladies’, and one unmarked. He went into the men’s, stood at a urinal, one of those urinals with framed reading material on the wall above it. Cody read:

  To: Len Boudreau

  From: North Dover Christmas Parade Committee

  Dear Len,

  Many, many thanks for your generous support of this year’s parade, the best ever in the opinion of just about everyone who participated—to say nothing about the numerous spectators! The committee is very grateful. An official charitable contribution receipt made out to your corporation will be sent under separate cover.

  Sincerely,

  [Illegible Signature]

  All at once Cody got the idea there was something important in that letter, important to him. He read it again; the important thing, if there at all, remained hidden. There was no 268

  glass on the frame, making removal of the letter a snap. Cody removed it and put it in his pocket.

  He left the men’s room, moved into the narrow corridor. Voices came through the wall, the low rumbling sound of a man, high vibrations of a woman, maybe a scared woman. Cody went silently to the unmarked door, put his ear to it, heard nothing. He turned the knob—slow and careful, not making a sound—and pushed the door open.

  The corridor continued on the other side. Cody followed it, past a door with an exit sign over it—a door with a round window, looking out to the parking lot—and to another door, closed and windowless. A thin door: Len’s voice came through, very clear.

  “Counted this money twice, sweetheart,” he said, “and I’m still coming up two grand short. And the thing is, math was always my best subject.”

  “Mi—Mick needs another week,” Deirdre said, her voice high, the words coming too fast. “Just seven days, maybe less. He’s just waiting for—”

  Len cut her off. “Know what pisses me off the most? He doesn’t even have the balls to come himself, hides behind a woman. What kind of man does that?”

  “He’s a good man,” Deirdre said. “It’s just that the other chef’s sick and—”

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  There was a loud thump, maybe Len pounding his fist on a desk. “Don’t want to hear it,” Len said. “He’s a fag, period.” Then came a long silence. “Maybe if I count one more time, it’ll end up different. What are the odds on that?” Deirdre said nothing. Len counted, in no hurry, “One hundred, two, three, four . . .” stopping at four thousand five hundred. “Nope,” he said. “Comes out the exact same. Damn.” Cody heard him take a deep breath, the exaggerated, regretful kind. “Know what happens now?”

  “Oh, please not,” said Deirdre.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Got to follow through—that’s just good business.”

  “Please don’t hurt him.”

  “Only hurts till they get him on the pain meds,” Len said.

  “From what I hear, anyway—the leg breaking, all that shit, I contract out.”

  “Just a week, Len. I’m begging you.”

  “Hey,” said Len. “Believe that’s the first time I’ve heard you say my name. Do it again.”

  A long silence. Cody backed away, opened the exit door, went into the parking lot. His hands were balled into fists, so hard and tight they hurt.

  Cody looked around the parking lot, saw the big black pickup with the Smith & Wesson sticker, plus six or seven cars, 270

  including a dark sedan at the back with the interior light on and a man behind the wheel. The light went off, and the man became invisible.

  Cody walked back to the Rev, where he’d left his car. He got in, drove toward the campus. The night was cold, the streets deserted. As Cody went by the village green, unlit and shadowy, headlights shone in the rearview mirror. He glanced up, thought he saw the outlines of a sedan. Cody sped up. Within seconds, the other car—yes, a sedan—was right behind him; right behind him and with a blue light flashing on the dashboard. Cody pulled over. 271

  THE BLUE LIGHTS STOPPED FLASHING. In his side mirror Cody watched a man get out of the sedan and come forward. He didn’t appear to be in uniform, wore a long winter coat with lapels—underneath Cody could make out a white shirt, a knotted tie. Not a particularly big man, but his head was big. And his face was round: Had Cody seen him before? Maybe at the Rev? He wasn’t sure.

  The man tapped on the window with his gloved hand. Cody hesitated; a blue light on the dash didn’t make you a cop. The man reached into his coat. A single thought—just a number, but it made sense, leaped into Cody’s mind: .38. His car was still running; he put his hand on the shift, ready to bang it in gear and hit the pedal. But no gun appeared. Instead the roundheaded man flashed a badge—didn’t flash it, really, more held it to the glass, giving Cody plenty of time to read. Above the badge was a state seal, showing lots of trees and a cow. Below that, a name: Ronald C. Brand, and an unsmiling photo of the round-headed man. And at the bottom: Special Agent, Office of the Vermont Attorney General, Public Corruption Unit. The man—Special Agent Ronald C. Brand—tapped on the window again, not hard. Cody slid it down.

  “License and registration,” said Agent Brand. He had a soft voice, not at all authoritative. Cody handed over his license and registration. “Sit tight,” Agent Brand said.

  Cody sat tight. Things were happening fast. He needed time to sort out all his confusion. Sitting in the car, waiting for Agent Brand to return, Cody didn’t know where to start. He remembered Clea talking about some amazing poem that began with a man losing his way in a dark forest. Beyond the village green, over the rooftops of North Dover, he could see a real, nonpoetic forest looming in the night.

  Tap tap on the window. Cody hadn’t seen Agent Brand coming. He slid it down again. “Cody Laredo?” said Brand.

  “Resident of Little Bend, Colorado?”

  Cody nodded.

  “This your car, Cody?”

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  He nodded again.

  “What I’ve got here is a Colorado registration. That correct?”

  Uh-oh. Problem on the way. All these systems, designed by adults, generations and generations of them, to trip you up: Cody was realizing how well they worked.

  “Yeah,” said Cody. “Correct.”

  Agent Brand nodded. “See the problem with that?” he said.

  “Vermont plates,” said Cody.

  Brand laughed; just a short, soft sound, maybe surprised.

  “Care to explain?”

  Cody took a good look at Agent Brand. He had a round face, didn’t seem threatening at all, looked honest, whatever that meant. Was there such a thing? For example, Ike didn’t look at all honest, but Cody had almost no doubt that he was. Hard to know who to trust. “Can I see that badge again?” he said.

  Without a word or the slightest sign of annoyance or anger, Brand took out his badge and handed it to Cody. Cody examined it again: a five-pointed gold star, probably gold-plated or even brass; but official looking, at least to his eyes.

  “If you think it’s a fake,” said Brand, passing a card through the window, “that’s the AG’s office line—he works late.”

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  “The attorney general?” Cody wasn’t one-hundred percent sure what the job was, but he knew it was important.

  “This is Vermont,” said Brand. “We don’t stand on ceremony.”

  Cody gave back the card and the badge, tried to make up his mind. Sergeant Orton had said to keep the mole arrangement just between the two of them, but how was that possible now? And what could be the harm in another law enforcement guy knowing? “Why don’t you call Sergeant Orton?” Cody said.

  “He can explain.”

  “Sergeant Orton?” said Brand.

  “Yeah. Ted, I think his name is. From the police. The North Dover police.” He gestured at the night. “Here.”

  “Heard of Orton,” Brand said. “Can’t say I really know him.”

  “Well, he, um . . .” Where to begin?

  “Happy to talk to him,” Brand said. “But why not hear your side of it first. Mind if I get in?”

&nbs
p; “Um.”

  “Or we could sit in my car,” Brand said. “It’s cold out here, son, being the point.”

  “Okay,” Cody said. Brand walked around the car, got in, removing a fast-food wrapper from the seat and dropping it on the floor.

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  “Nice wheels,” he said. “First car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Moment I got my first car,” Brand said, “I went for a spin, ended up driving all the way to Canada. Know that feeling, the open road?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Those were the days,” Brand said. He reached in his pocket, took out—what was this? Some kind of digital recorder? “Any objection to me taping this?”

  “Taping what?”

  “Our little chat.”

  “But why?” Cody said. “Why tape it?”

  “In the interest of justice,” Brand said. “Helps build a proper case.”

  “A case against who?” Cody said.

  Brand laughed again, that soft sound of surprise. “Excellent question. The answer is—too soon to say. But no reason it would be you.” He paused for a moment or two, then added:

  “Is there?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong,” Cody said.

  “Sounds good to me,” Brand said. “Walk me through it.”

  “Through what?”

  “This plate discrepancy,” said Brand. “Why we’re here.”

  Cody glanced at the digital recorder, and Brand’s round 276

  face, the face of . . . what? A teacher, maybe, the kind of teacher kids liked. “If I was the, um, target, then you’d have to read me my rights.”

  “Ever thought about law school?” Brand said.

  Of course not. Cody shook his head.

  “Yes, I’d have to read you your rights, if I was playing by the book. And, for many reasons, that’s the way I play.”

  “Give me one,” Cody said.

  “One what?”

  “Of the reasons why you play by the book.”

  “Because I like to win,” Brand said. “An honest case tends to hold together in front of a jury.”

  Cody nodded. “The plate thing was Sergeant Orton’s idea,”

  he said.

  “What was the purpose behind it?” Brand said.

  “You know about Clea Weston?” said Cody.

  “The missing girl.”