Spoonbenders

by Daryl Gregory

  The kid nodded. Frankie was pretty sure this made no sense to him. Then Matty said, “But isn’t it all data?”

  “What?”

  “You said they were digital phones, so the voice is digital, too, right?”

  “Smart boy! You got it.” Frankie handed him a screwdriver. “Okay, you wire up this RJ11 jack.”

  The kid gripped the screwdriver like an ice pick. Poor kid. He’d probably grown up without a single tool in the house. See what came of not having a father figure?

  “Uh-oh,” Hugo said. He stood up and looked at the end of his white cable, frowning.

  “What’s the matter?” Tim asked in a totally fake voice.

  “I’m out of dial tone,” Hugo said. “Matt, could you help me out?”

  Frankie gave Hugo a hard look.

  Hugo handed Matty a set of keys and said, “Run out to my van—it’s the one closest to the door—and bring me back a box of dial tone.”

  “What’s it look like?” Matty asked.

  “It’s on the shelf in the back of the van. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  The kid scampered off. Hugo and Tim held their laughter until he was out of the room. “Dial tone,” Tim said. “Never gets old.”

  “Guys,” Frankie said. “He’s a kid.”

  Hugo said, “Come on, Frankie—is he on the crew or not? You gotta break him in.”

  Matty came back in a few minutes later, looking flustered. Hugo and Tim had their serious faces on. “I’m sorry,” Matty said. “I just can’t find it.”

  “It’s in a cardboard box about yay big,” Hugo said.

  Tim nearly lost it. Matty glanced at him, frowned.

  “Let’s drop it,” Frankie said.

  “No,” Matty said. “Let me check again.” He ran out before Frankie could stop him.

  “At least he’s determined,” Hugo said.

  Matty came back two minutes later. “I think I found it.” He was holding a little cardboard box, one hand on the bottom. He walked over to Hugo and said, “Is this it?” Tilted the box toward him.

  Hugo spared a look at Frankie, not quite winking, then opened the box flaps. “Let me see if—” He burst into laughter. Tim came over, looked in, and then he cracked up, too.

  “All right, all right,” Frankie said. “What is it?”

  Matty walked over, his face still serious. Frankie leaned over the box. It was empty except for Matty’s hand, which he’d poked up through the bottom. His middle finger was extended. Frankie laughed, and Matty’s face relaxed into a grin.

  “I like this kid!” Hugo said.

  “See?” Frankie said. “You can’t fuck with a Telemachus.”

  After Lonnie banned him, Frankie stayed out of the rink, but not exactly away from it. He started riding by, watching for Lonnie’s Chevy Monza in the parking lot. Finally an afternoon came when Lonnie’s car wasn’t there. Frankie was supposed to be home babysitting Buddy, but he parked his bike at the side of the building—not chained to the rack, in case he needed to get away quick—and went inside. The usual guys were huddled in the coatroom.

  Then he saw it. The Royal Flush was gone.

  Frank pointed to the video game cabinet in its place. Some new game he’d never seen. “Where’s the Royal Flush?”

  Nobody spoke.

  “I said, where the fuck is the Royal Flush?”

  A freshman in glasses said, “Lonnie said it was broken.”

  Frankie wheeled on him. The kid put up his hands. “He said you broke it. Sent back the All-Star, too.”

  Frankie was speechless.

  He pushed through the throng of boys to the new video game. Shoved aside the kid playing. He stared at the screen—the color screen—and the stupid fucking joystick.

  “What the fuck is a Pac-Man?”

  Frankie wanted to punch the screen. He wanted to shake it apart with pure psychokinetic hate. (Not that it would have worked. Nothing happened when he was this flustered. Plus, he couldn’t do anything in front of these morons.)

  Frankie shoved his way out of the coatroom and headed for the door of the rink. He reached the parking lot just as Lonnie was climbing out of his car.

  “You took it,” Frankie said. His voice strangled.

  “What?” Lonnie said, confused. Then he got it. “The pinball machine?”

  Frankie took three steps toward him, his fists clenched.

  Lonnie kept his hand on the door. Standing behind it like a shield. “It was broken.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Frankie said. A dozen feet still between them.

  “Fuck you, you little punk,” Lonnie said. “You shouldn’t have broke it! You want to fucking fight me now?” He slammed the door shut and strode toward Frankie.

  In a year Frankie would get his growth spurt and add three inches. Later, in his twenties, he’d gain almost fifty pounds and turn burly. A couple of times strangers in bars would ask him if he used to wrestle, and he’d shrug and lie, “I did all right. Went to states.” But at that moment he was just a kid, a skinny-armed teenager.

  Lonnie stopped when he was a foot away. “You can’t damage the equipment and just walk back in here.” His breath fruity with alcohol. He shoved Frankie with both hands, sent him stumbling back. “You’re fucking banned.”

  Frankie yearned to take a swing. But he was terrified of what would happen a half second later. He could already feel the man’s fist hitting his jaw.

  Lonnie shoved him backward again, and Frankie put up his hands, turned his head to the side. “What’s the matter with you?” Lonnie shoved him again. Frankie bounced off the brick wall and Lonnie grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “You fucking cheater.”

  Lonnie’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, the syllables lost in a general roar. Frankie felt his body getting ready to do something, but he didn’t know what it was. Something terrible. He could feel it in his hands, like warm steel about to roll.

  Lonnie grunted in pain, stepped back. “What the fuck?” His voice garbled. He wiped at his mouth, and the back of his hand came away bloody. He stared at Frankie, frightened now. Frankie hadn’t moved his hands.

  A new voice yelled, “Get the hell away from him!”

  Irene, in her Burger King uniform, and behind her, twelve-year-old Buddy, face screwed up in an expression that looked to strangers like concentration but was actually intense worry. Frankie hadn’t seen the car pull up, hadn’t heard it.

  Irene stepped between Lonnie and Frankie. “What did you do?” Irene said to Frankie. Mad at him.

  “I’m calling the cops,” Lonnie said. Blood in the corner of his mouth.

  Irene wheeled on him. “No you’re not.”

  Lonnie straightened. “I’m calling ’em right now.”

  “You’re drunk,” Irene said.

  “No I’m not.”

  Frankie thought, You should never try to lie to Irene.

  She said, “It’s the middle of the day, you’re drunk, and you’re beating on a little kid. You just drove here, didn’t you?”

  Lonnie glanced back at his Monza. Confused now.

  “You want a DUI?” Irene said. “You fucking watch yourself.” She pointed at Frankie. “Get in the car. I’m late for work.”

  “Just go,” Frankie said quietly. Mortified. He knew without looking that all the guys were watching from the rink entrance. “I’ve got my bike.”

  “Get in the God damn car,” Irene said, sounding like Dad. “I told you you had to watch Buddy. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing out here.”

  She stalked back to the car, a big green Ford LTD with rusting door panels. She’d left the engine running. Frankie made for the passenger seat, but Buddy slipped in before him, so then it was three of them in the front seat.

  “How’d you find me?” he asked.

  “Buddy said you were here,” she said. Her voice softened. “He said you were about to do something terrible.”

  Buddy seemed not to hear. He stared out through
the windshield. Twelve years old, all elbows and knees. Then he leaned against Frankie’s arm, his cheek hot.

  During the second afternoon break, Frankie smoked a cigarette to settle his nerves while Matty watched. The cash simmered in his pocket. He’d told Mitzi that he’d deliver it at lunch. Instead he’d taken the kid to Steak-and-Shake.

  “You’re really fast,” Matty said. “Wiring jacks.”

  “I’ve been doing it awhile,” Frankie said. “You’ll learn.”

  “No, I mean compared to Hugo and Tim. They’ve done like three offices together, and you did four on your own. Even with the smoke breaks.”

  “Not alone. I had you, didn’t I?”

  The kid wasn’t buying it. They walked back toward the building and Matty said, “So is there really a cow?”

  “The cow! Right!” He took the kid down to the basement.

  One of the scientists sat back there, typing at a computer. She glanced up and said, “I told you, I’m not interested in goji berries.”

  “You’re making a mistake about that. Reputable studies have proven—” Suddenly he lost energy for the sale. “Never mind. Okay if I show my nephew her highness?”

  She eyed Matty. Seemed to decide he wasn’t a wild child. “Don’t touch. But you can look.”

  Frankie led the boy through a set of doors, down a ramp, and into a room that had probably been slated for a garage before someone decided what they really needed was a windowless, industrial barn: cement floors, big drains, and four steel-railed cattle stalls. The sole occupant, in the nearest stall, was two thousand pounds of Barzona cow named Princess Pauline.

  “Is she sick?” Matty asked. Wires connected her to a blue metal switchbox.

  “Naw, come closer.” Set into Princess Pauline’s side, near the front legs, was a foot-wide section of Plexiglas. Inside, meat throbbed. “See through that hole? That’s her heart.”

  “Holy cow.”

  “I know, it’s—hey! Funny.”

  Matty bent to get a better look between the slats. “Why did they do this?”

  “There’s an artificial heart in there. That’s what they build here.”

  “And they just want to…watch it?” The kid wasn’t grossed out, he was fascinated.

  Frankie put a hand on his shoulder. “Science, huh?”

  They spent a moment contemplating this miracle of animal experimentation. Princess Pauline paid them no mind.

  “Something happened to me,” Matty said in a small voice. “A couple weeks ago.” He squinted as if in pain. Frankie had seen that same worried look on Irene’s face all his life.

  “We’re partners,” Frankie said. “You can tell me anything.”

  “I know, but…”

  “Is it about girls?”

  The kid flushed—then seemed to get mad at himself for being embarrassed. “It’s girl related,” Matty said. “A couple weeks ago, I was…” That pained expression again.

  “Out with it.”

  “I was thinking about a girl. Not anyone you know. And something happened.”

  Behind the kid, the double doors swung open, and there was Dave, looking pissed. “Frank! I need you downstairs!”

  Frankie wanted to say, Shut up, Dave, this is important. But he needed this job.

  Down in the phone room, everybody had gathered around the Toshiba CPU. The laptop was wired to the diagnostics port. “What’s the matter?” Frankie asked.

  “Half the phones on the first floor are dead,” Hugo said. “The laptop won’t tell us what’s wrong.”

  “Maybe you need more dial tone,” Matty said.

  Dave looked at him. “What?”

  “Nothing,” Frankie said. “Did you check the cards?”

  “The laptop says they’re all working. Could you just do your thing?”

  The crew was all looking at him. “Fine.” He popped the lid off the CPU. He started checking the cards, making sure they were seated properly. All the indicator lights were on, but all that meant was that they were getting power; the circuit boards could still be malfunctioning.

  The first half a dozen cards he checked seemed okay. Then his fingertips brushed the edge of one of the cards at the bottom.

  He pulled the card from its slot. “This one,” he said.

  The guys knew better than to doubt him.

  By then it was time to wrap up. Frankie packed up his tools and he walked with Matty out to the parking lot. Before they reached the van, he gripped the boy by the shoulder.

  “So. This thing,” Frankie said, picking up their conversation from the cow room. He’d been rehearsing what to say. As a man marooned on an island of daughters, he wasn’t quite ready for this moment, but who else could Matty turn to? “The first thing you gotta know, it’s totally normal. The same thing happened to me when I was thirteen.”

  Matty opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

  “This isn’t something to worry about,” Frankie said. “This is something to celebrate. And I know just the place to go.” As if he just thought of it. As if he had any choice.

  —

  Mitzi’s Tavern was starting to fill up with the after-work crowd, if you could use the word “crowd” to describe the dozen wretches who huddled here for a beer and a bump before facing the wife. The décor was Late-Period Dump: ripped-vinyl booths, neon Old Style signs, veneer tabletops, black-speckled linoleum in which 80 percent of the specks weren’t. The kind of place that was vastly improved by dim lighting and alcoholic impairment. Frankie loved it.

  “Your grandpa used to bring me here,” Frankie said to Matty. “This is where real men drink. You ever start sitting around the bar at a Ruby Tuesday’s, I will kick your ass.” He pointed to an empty stool. Matty put the UltraLife box on the bar and hopped up.

  “No kids,” Barney said. He’d been the bartender since forever—came installed with the building. Frankie had never liked him. He was a big mother, over six feet tall. His head was 90 percent jowl, a face like a mudslide.

  “We’re only going to be here a minute,” Frankie said. “Barney, this is my nephew, Matthias. Can you get him a pop? It’s his birthday.”

  “How old are you?” Barney asked the kid.

  “Depends who you ask,” Matty said quietly.

  “Mitzi in the office?” Frankie asked. He scooped up the box from the bar and headed for the back of the room.

  “Knock first,” Barney called.

  Knock first. Jesus. How many years had he been coming here? Frankie rattled the knob of the office door. “Knock knock,” Frankie said.

  There was no answer, so he opened the door. Mitzi sat behind her desk, on the phone. She shook her head at him, but didn’t object when he sat down. He started unpacking the box.

  “You know the deal,” Mitzi said into the phone. “Friday, no ifs ands or buts.” She frowned at the growing number of white plastic bottles lining the front of her desk. Mitzi was older than Barney, but where the bartender seemed to ooze excess flesh from his forehead down, Mitzi was shrinking every year, drying out and hardening like beef jerky.

  Then to the phone: “Don’t disappoint me, Jimmy.” She hung up. “What’s all this?”

  Frankie smiled. “Last week you mentioned you had an upset stomach. This is the UltraLife Digestive Health Program. This one—” He picked up the tallest bottle. “This is aloe concentrate, original goji berry flavor, plus other natural additives. You just mix it with water, or Pepsi, whatever, it soothes your stomach. This is Ultra Philofiber, a mix of fiber and acidophilus, perfect for diarrhea or constipation.”

  “Both?” Mitzi said.

  “It works on the bacteria in your gut, so it straightens you both ways. And this—”

  “I’m not buying, Frankie.”

  “I’m not selling. This is a gift.”

  “Oh, Frankie, I don’t need gifts—I just need what you owe. Where you been? You said you’d be by at lunch.”

  “Sorry about that. My boss is an S.O.B.”

  “Are
you going to make good on what you owed me Friday?”

  It was highly unusual to allow a client to get an extra weekend. Letting Frankie come in on Monday was a favor, and he knew it. He set the cash on the desk. “I gotta tell you up front—it’s light.”

  Mitzi didn’t change expression. She picked up the money, dropped it into a desk drawer, and closed it. Behind her, on the floor, sat a black safe the size of a mini-fridge. After he was gone, she’d move the deposits there. She’d never opened it in his presence, but he spent a lot of time thinking about that safe.

  “You’re kinda falling behind here, Frankie.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “I don’t think you do. Counting today’s payment—which is how much?”

  “Two thousand nine hundred,” he said.

  “Puts you at thirty-eight thousand, five hundred seventy-five.” No hesitation, the number right there in her head. Every visit she gave him the new total, every week he fell a little further behind.

  “It’s about to turn around,” he said. “My UltraLife distributorship is bringing in a lot of income.”

  “Distributorship,” Mitzi said evenly. She shook her head. “I don’t want you to get in trouble, Frankie.”

  “I’m not. I won’t.”

  But of course he already was. He was in debt to the Outfit. Mitzi’s brother ran the northwest suburbs. There really wasn’t much worse it could get.

  “It would kill your dad,” she said. “How is he?”

  He forced a smile. “Not dead yet. Though he’s dressed for the funeral.”

  She laughed, a sound like wind through dry leaves. “God he had style. Nothing like the Cro-Magnons I grew up with. You give him my regards.”

  Frankie stood up. He felt shaky, like he’d been clocked in the head. Maybe that’s what relief felt like. He should have been happy. Another payment down, another week to turn this ship around.