But they were having fun, cutting through the maze of streets around Stratten College, listening to loud music on the radio, eating dinner, and griping about how cheap the students were. When the last pizza was delivered, Tony raced back to Santo’s for another load. The restaurant was packed and the delivery phone rang nonstop. It was dinnertime and the students were hungry.
They squealed tires and took off again, with a rack of warm pizzas between them. Tuesdays were normally slow, but Santo’s was shrewdly offering a two-for-one special and business was brisk. For two hours, Tony and Woody wheeled around the western section of Strattenburg, delivering mostly to students but to some nicer homes as well. When things slowed around nine, Tony had collected twenty-seven dollars in tips and was proud of himself. He gave Woody a five-dollar bill and said he would give his mother a ten. But Woody doubted that.
They stopped for gas at a convenience store on the edge of town. Someone called Tony’s name, and a friend named Garth walked over as he left the store. Tony was pumping gas and Theo couldn’t hear all of their conversation, but he did hear Garth say, “Let’s go cruising. Got some beer and a tank full of gas.”
Garth drove a muscled-up green Mustang with wide wheels and loud mufflers, and he was known to speed around town. He wasn’t a bad kid, in fact he was quite popular and dated one of the cutest girls Woody had ever seen. But there was something about Garth that Woody didn’t like. He had the look of a guy who might break bad at any minute and do something stupid. He was eighteen, a year older than Tony but still too young to buy beer, and the fact that he had some was a bad sign. Tony finished pumping and parked the truck beside the store.
“You going with us?” he asked Woody.
“What am I supposed to do? Walk home?”
“Let’s go. We’ll just cruise around for a while and get home before Mom.”
The smart voice in Woody’s head said no. Do not get in the car with Garth and Tony and cruise around the college while drinking beer. Nothing good could happen. And the not-so-smart voice said, Oh, go ahead. It’s harmless fun. How many thirteen-year-olds get to hang out with the older guys?
“Are you coming with us?” Tony snapped at him, but it was more than a question. It was a challenge. What Tony was really asking was: Are you gonna chicken out and go home and wait for Mommy?
Woody didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming,” he said, and shrugged as if he could run with the big dudes any night of the week. He crawled into the back seat of the Mustang as Garth gunned the engine. The car roared and fishtailed out of the parking lot.
“Gimme a beer,” Garth said over his shoulder as he darted through traffic. Woody saw a six-pack of cans on the seat next to him. He pulled off two and handed them to Tony, who said, “You can have one.”
It was another challenge. Garth was watching in the rearview mirror and asked, “How old are you, Woody?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ever had a beer?”
“Sure.”
“We’ve had a few together,” Tony said. “Sneak them from the fridge when no one’s home.”
There was one massive, gigantic problem in the car with them. Woody could feel it, almost touch it as if it were seated next to him, and he came very close to simply blurting it out just to clear his conscience. Tony was on probation. Four months earlier he had been arrested for possession of pot, which was bad enough, but he had also been charged with intent to sell. He got an incredibly lucky break when the two narcotics officers who nailed him collapsed. One was fired for stealing drugs. The other fled town and had not been seen. The evidence disappeared along with the policemen, and for a few weeks Tony was the luckiest kid in Strattenburg. He agreed to plead guilty to a lesser charge of underage possession and got off light with six months’ probation. He spent only one night in jail and considered the entire episode a joke. It did not faze him, and he continued slipping through the cracks at school.
If he got caught with beer, it would be a violation of his probation and he would likely spend a few nights in the slammer. But Tony wasn’t worried about anything these days. He was seventeen, going to school when he pleased and enjoying the life of a future high school dropout.
“I had my first beer when I was ten years old,” Garth said proudly. “My crazy uncle gave it to me. He’s in prison, you know? Go ahead, Woody, help yourself.”
The truth was, Woody had tasted beer a few times, always in an effort to be cool in front of Tony, but he couldn’t stand the taste of it. After years of watching beer commercials in which young and beautiful and athletic people lived the good life with a cold beer in hand, he was shocked at how awful it tasted. He had mentioned this to Tony who promised him that with enough practice he would grow to enjoy it.
Garth, still glancing back, said, “Come on, kid, pop a top.”
Woody pulled off a beer, popped it, took a sip, and tried to look as if he really enjoyed it, but wanted to spit it out. He managed to choke it down without a frown, then gritted his teeth and took another swallow. Then another. The taste did not improve.
“I think he likes it,” Garth said between gulps.
If you only knew, Woody said to himself. Tony and Garth enjoyed their drinks far more than Woody and within minutes were tossing back their empties and demanding more. Woody handed them their seconds and took another sip. He began to get light-headed and this helped with the bad taste. He finally finished his first can and popped the top to his second.
“Attaboy,” Garth said without turning around. They turned into a parking lot around a large mall and circled it until they approached a Cineplex.
“There’s his car,” Tony said, as if he really didn’t want to meet whoever owned the car. It was parked with several others, all jacked-up muscle cars, all with tough guys leaning on the fenders and smoking cigarettes. Garth parked close by and turned off his ignition. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Stay here,” Tony said to Woody as he got out.
No problem, Woody thought. He watched Garth and Tony approach the other guys, say hello, shake hands in a variety of ways, and light up their own cigarettes. Nobody was holding a beer or a drink. A police car eased by not far away. The boys waved. The cops waved back. Everybody was behaving.
Woody kept low in the back seat, barely peeking through the window. The boys laughed and bantered back and forth, then the conversation grew serious. Both Garth and Tony reached into their pockets, took out money, and handed it over to a bearded guy who looked a few years older. He gave them nothing in return. Woody doubted that neither his brother nor Garth would be stupid enough to buy pot in such an open area that was patrolled by the police. There were probably cameras everywhere. Still, the transaction, whatever it was, had the look of something shady.
When they returned to the car, Woody asked, “Who was that guy with the beard?”
Garth started the car and began to ease away. Tony said nothing. Woody asked again, “Who was that guy with the beard?”
Tony said, “An old friend.” But it was obvious the guy was not an old friend, and Tony just wanted his little brother to shut up. No one spoke for a few minutes as Garth drove along Main Street, going nowhere in particular. Finally, he said, “I need some more beer.”
The six-pack was gone. Each had consumed two cans.
“I’m broke. You got any cash left?” Garth asked Tony.
“No. Gave it all to him.”
“What?” Woody asked. “How can you be broke? You had over twenty bucks a while ago.”
Tony turned around and glared at his little brother. “That guy back there is a friend of ours. He’s a bookie at the college, handles bets on football games. We owed him some money. No big deal. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. How about loaning me that five bucks I just gave you?”
“I don’t think so.” Woody wanted to say something about the gambling, which, of course, was also against the law and would be another violation of Tony’s probation.
“Forget
it,” Garth said. “We’re not taking money from a kid.”
He braked hard and pulled into a shopping center. All the stores were closed but a well-lit ATM machine was waiting. Garth parked, left the engine running, walked to the machine, looked around nervously as if robbing a bank, and began punching numbers. He punched and punched without success. He stomped away, returned to the car, said, “I guess my mom’s frozen my account again. I really want a beer.”
They sped away with the Mustang burning rubber.
The convenience store was on the edge of town, on a two-lane road with little traffic. The parking lot was gravel and the front windows were covered with thick bars. Two pumps offered gasoline but there were no other customers at that moment.
Garth parked and said, “I know this guy. Be right back.”
“What’s he doing?” Woody asked, almost in a whisper.
“Don’t worry about Garth. He knows everybody.”
They waited but not long. Garth soon appeared, making a quick exit and holding an entire case of canned beer. He yanked open his door, tossed the beer into Woody’s lap, jumped in, and shifted gears. The Mustang roared away from the store, spraying gravel all over the place.
“Beers please!” Garth said, obviously proud of himself. Woody pulled off two cans and handed them to the front. He was finished for the night.
“How’d you get the beer?” he asked when the store was out of sight.
“Just told the guy I was thirsty, needed to borrow some beer.” Garth popped a top and slugged his beer.
“Come on,” Tony said. “The guy gives you credit?”
Garth smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He reached into his left jeans pocket and pulled out something. It was a black pistol, shiny in the darkness. “This is instant credit all over town,” Garth said with a laugh. He turned around quickly, aimed it at Woody’s face, and pulled the trigger.
A blast of warm water hit Woody in the eyes. His heart had stopped in a split second and his mouth opened in horror. Garth roared with laughter as he turned his attention back to the highway.
Tony was not amused and yelled, “What are you doing? You robbed that guy?”
“No, of course not,” Garth said, still laughing. “You can’t rob someone with a water pistol. I just borrowed some beer, and some of his cash, and I’ll go back tomorrow and pay the guy.”
“You took cash?!” Tony yelled again in disbelief.
Woody was too stunned to think. Water was still dripping into his mouth, and he was in shock from being shot. But he quickly began to realize that the situation was a lot more serious than Garth was letting on.
“You’re crazy,” Tony said. “You can’t stick a gun in a guy’s face. I don’t care what kind of gun it is.”
“It’s not a gun. It’s a water pistol, and a very nice one at that. Just having a little fun.”
“How much cash did you take?”
“Not much. All he had. He emptied the drawer. I’d say a couple of hundred.”
“Look, Garth, we’re going home,” Tony said angrily. “Take us back to my truck. You got that? I’m on probation, remember? A stupid trick like that will bring in the cops and I’m headed to jail. I don’t care what kind of gun you used. Take us back to my truck.”
“What? We got some beer to drink, Tony. Don’t freak out on me.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Come on, Tony, don’t go chicken on me.”
“It’s not being chicken. It’s being stupid. I don’t want the beer and I’m telling you right now we’re getting out of here.”
“All right, all right.”
“You okay back there, Woody?” Tony asked.
“Sure,” Woody barely managed to say. He wanted to inform his older brother that he thought he was an idiot for getting in Garth’s car to begin with, but he bit his tongue and avoided more trouble.
They were back in the city, near the college, and the highway had widened into a boulevard. They stopped at a red light and a police car eased alongside them, to Garth’s left. His window was down.
From the back seat, Woody heard the words he would never forget. A cop said loudly, “Stop right there, kid.”
Suddenly, there were blue lights everywhere.
A thick cop kept growling, “Shut up, kid. Shut up, kid.” But Garth kept talking over his shoulder. He was on the hood of his car, facedown, hands cuffed behind him, feet off the ground. Tony was standing behind the Mustang, also handcuffed, quietly answering questions from two policemen. There seemed to be a dozen of them milling about, poking through Garth’s car, huddling with one another, listening to their phones. Radios squawked and a hundred blue lights lit up the intersection. Traffic was blocked in several lanes and a uniformed officer pointed this way and that. A crowd was gathering on a sidewalk, everyone curious to know what terrible crime had been committed by the three young hoodlums.
In the back seat of a patrol car, Woody sat alone and felt very small. His hands were cuffed behind his back. They were snug on his wrists and quite uncomfortable. But, at the moment, he figured that a little pain from the handcuffs was not his biggest problem.
The cops had yanked him out of the car and at first shoved him around, the usual routine, but when they realized he was just a kid, they relaxed and searched him. They took his cell phone, slapped the cuffs on him, and put him in the back seat where he had a decent view of the action. Garth wanted to resist and explain and make it all go away, but the more he talked the rougher the cops became. Tony seemed too frightened to argue with the police.
The crowd continued to gather and Woody tried to slide lower. He watched as Tony was led to another patrol car and placed in the rear seat. Then Garth was removed from the hood of his car and sort of dragged to yet another patrol car and shoved in, talking away the whole time. With the three suspects secured, the police waved over a tow truck with its yellow and orange lights blinking wildly.
To Woody, it seemed like a little too much muscle and manpower just for three stupid kids drinking beer. Still, he knew he was in trouble.
Two policemen got in the front seat and slammed the doors. “You okay, kid?” one asked.
“Yes, sir,” Woody answered quickly. Everything had been “yes, sir” and “no, sir” since the moment he’d seen the blue lights.
“We gotta take you to the police station, son,” the driver said as he drove away from the scene. The Mustang’s front tires were off the ground and the tow truck driver was pulling levers.
“Yes, sir,” Woody said. “I guess we should call my mom.”
“We’ll call her from the station. We got her number from your brother.”
“I don’t suppose you guys could just take me home could you?”
Both laughed. Short little humorous grunts that quickly passed.
“A comedian,” the driver said.
Woody said, “I mean, you know, it’s just a little beer.”
“A little beer?” the cop in the passenger seat repeated. He turned around, glared at Woody, and growled, “Son, we’re talking armed robbery.”
A sharp pain hit Woody deep in the gut. He tried to say something—he wasn’t sure what—but his throat suddenly clamped shut and his mouth was dry. He managed to breathe and felt sweat under his arms.
Was this a joke, he wanted to ask, but it was obvious that it was not. Were they really charging him with armed robbery? Surely not. He and Tony had never left the car at the convenience store. How can you pull an armed robbery with a water pistol? It was only a water pistol, right? Woody’s shirt was still wet! He had the proof!
He breathed deep and said, “It was only a water pistol.”
“That’s not what he told the guy at the store,” the driver said.
“My shirt is still wet,” Woody said, and he realized how stupid he sounded.
“Just shut up, kid,” the other cop said.
And he did. And he bit his lip to keep from crying.
At the police
station, Woody was led through a side door and into a large reception area where other cops and clerks stopped and gawked at him as if he’d committed a murder. There was no sign of either Tony or Garth. Woody was taken to a room where his handcuffs were removed. A gruff, angry sergeant in a tight uniform growled, “Stand over there, kid. This is your mug shot.” Woody backed against a wall, stared at a camera, and for a split second thought of all the bad mug shots of famous people he’d seen online. “Don’t smile, kid,” the cop said.
“I’m not smiling,” Woody said. He had not smiled in days.
“On three. One, two, three.” The camera clicked. The sergeant looked at a screen and said, “Beautiful. Make your mom proud. Sit over there.”
Woody went to a chair and did as he was told. The sergeant took a step over, looked down with a frown, and said, “So they say you’ve been drinking beer, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How much?”
“Two cans.”
“Gee, I’ve never heard that before. Every drunk who comes in here says he had just two drinks. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“I need to check your blood alcohol level. We use a machine called a Breathalyzer. Ever heard of it?”
“No, sir.”
“First I need you to agree to it, understand?”
“Not really.”
“You need to sign this consent form which allows us to use a Breathalyzer to measure how much alcohol is in your system. Follow me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sign right here.” The sergeant handed down a clipboard with a pen. Woody signed his name by a large X. His hand was shaking so wildly he couldn’t read his own name. “Should I ask my mom about this?” he asked as he handed the clipboard back.
“Your mum’s not here, is she?”
“No, and I’d like to call her but those other policemen took my phone.”
“Standard procedure,” the sergeant said as he rolled over a cart with the Breathalyzer. He flipped a switch, glanced at a small monitor, then shoved a small tube in Woody’s face. “Now, stick this in your mouth and blow as hard as you can.”
Theodore Boone - The Accomplice Page 2
