Spoonbenders

by Daryl Gregory

  “Hey! I’m not gonna sit here and—”

  Smalls put two big hands on his shoulders and shoved him back into the seat. “Stay.”

  “I thought you were a skeptic,” Frankie said, almost spitting the word. In his family, there was nothing more despicable.

  “I certainly am,” Archibald said.

  “I’ve seen you on Johnny Carson. What you did to that channeler woman from Australia? Humiliating her like you did us? That was cruel.”

  “It didn’t seem to hurt her career. She went on to make a lot of money.”

  “And the thing with the faith healer, who knew what people’s ailments were! People believed in him, and you destroyed him.”

  “He was using a radio in his ear to receive diagnoses from God, who happened to sound an awful lot like his wife. He was a fake. A fraud. Are you a fake?”

  If I say yes, Frankie wondered, does that make me more guilty of attempted robbery, or less?

  Archibald didn’t wait for an answer. “I advise the government on using science, not blind faith, to separate the gifted wheat from the fraudulent chaff. Don’t you want to know whether you have your mother’s gift, Franklin?”

  “I don’t need you or your machines to tell me.”

  “Of course not. You believe in yourself! As your mother believed in you, transferring that faith to you in the manner of all family religions. However—” He leaned across a control panel festooned with gauges and dials. “—wouldn’t it be nice to have objective proof, scientific proof of your ability? A stamp of approval, if you will. A diploma to hang on your wall.”

  Oh, Frankie did want that. More than anything. He’d grown up feeling like a prince in exile, his entire family denied their rightful place because of skeptics, rule-bound scientists, and a shadow government afraid of their powers.

  “It won’t work,” Frankie said. The rubber thimbles were still attached to the fingers of his left hand, and he made no move to take them off. “The scientific method constrains our powers.”

  “You’re quoting your father,” Smalls said.

  “A skeptical mind-set is like a jammer. That’s how you got us to fail on The Mike Douglas Show.”

  “Is that what happened?” Archibald said. “Just me standing there onstage with you caused all your tricks to fail?”

  “They’re not tricks.”

  Archibald handed him another thimble. “Then let’s prove it. I want you to succeed, Franklin. Agent Smalls certainly wants you to succeed. Ever since 1974, when your mother died, your country has been without its greatest weapon.”

  Frankie stared at him. “It’s true?”

  Smalls moved around the table and crouched so that he was eye to eye with Frankie. “Listen to me. Maureen Telemachus was the most powerful espionage asset in the world.”

  All his life, Frankie trailed behind his father, picking up each of the clues he dropped about his mother’s government work: an oblique reference to the Cold War, a complaint about secret programs, a cryptic comment about submarines and psychonauts. Frankie assembled these scraps into a sci-fi spy movie that ran in his head. James Bond with a purse and mind powers, starring Maureen Telemachus. It thrilled him to think that even if his Amazing Family couldn’t be publicly famous, it was secretly powerful. Only as he grew older, and Irene pointed out that many of their father’s stories were not, in the strictest sense, true, had he allowed himself to wonder if Teddy might be exaggerating about their mother as well. Now he hated himself for doubting him.

  “I knew it,” Frankie said, his throat tight with emotion. “I knew she was great.”

  “But now she’s gone,” Smalls said. “And we need your help.”

  Did they not know that he had no talent for clairvoyance? He moved things around. Little things.

  Archibald said, “We’ve come a long way, and all we need is five minutes of cooperation.”

  Frankie nodded at the machinery, this torsion field detector. “Is that how you found me?”

  “Pardon?” Smalls asked.

  “Tracked me down tonight. I mean, you could have found me anytime in Chicago, but you showed up tonight, way out here, right after I—after the problem at the casino.” Which raised another question: How did they get here so fast? It was at least four hours’ drive from Chicago. “Did you come from St. Louis?” Frankie asked. That was only a forty-minute drive.

  Smalls and Archibald did not quite look at each other. “We’ve had our eyes on you for a long time,” Smalls said. Which was not an answer at all.

  “Come to think of it, how’d you show up at that exact dock in the middle of the night?”

  Archibald said, “Why don’t we do the test first, and then we can answer all your questions.”

  Headlights lit the drapes. Agent Smalls looked at the window, frowned. “Did you order the Chinese food yet?” he asked Archibald. The gnome shook his head.

  Smalls reached behind his back and his hand came up with a pistol.

  “Whoa now,” Frankie said, and stood up.

  “Stay,” Smalls said again. Frankie was feeling more and more like a dog. “And shut up.”

  Someone pounded on the door. “Open up, God damn it! I know you’re in there, Smalls!” It was Teddy.

  “He’s got a gun, Dad!” Frankie shouted.

  Teddy didn’t seem to hear him, because the pounding continued. Smalls opened the door, the gun at his side.

  “Teddy. How in the hell did you find this place?”

  “Out of the way, you God damn Kodiak. Is my boy here?” Teddy walked in, looking good despite the hour in a sharkskin suit and matching gray hat. When he saw the rest of the room, he stopped short. “Archibald? You’re working with Archibald?”

  Frankie hopped out of the seat and backed away from the table.

  The Astounding Archibald stood up, which made only a marginal difference in his height. “Good evening, Teddy.”

  “I expect this kind of crap from you,” Teddy said to the man. “But you, Smalls?” He wheeled on the big man. “You made a promise.”

  “I kept my promise,” the agent said. “She said don’t involve the children. But they’re not kids anymore. Frankie is a grown man who can make his own decisions.”

  Teddy pointed a finger at him. “That’s the most weaselly, self-serving, bullshit sentence I’ve ever heard come out of that Easter Island face of yours. You should be ashamed of yourself, Destin, because one thing’s for God damn sure—Maureen would be ashamed of you.”

  Smalls said nothing.

  “Get in the car, Frankie,” Teddy said. “We’re leaving.”

  “We’re not done testing,” Archibald said. “Frankie, don’t you want to know where you stand?”

  “Where he stands?” Teddy said, mocking. “Where he stands is with me. Let’s go.”

  Frankie followed his father out of the room. The morning sky glowed peach, but the sun was hiding behind the motel, waiting for the coast to clear. They walked to Teddy’s latest Buick, a turquoise Park Avenue. The passenger’s side door was locked.

  Teddy made no move to get into the car or unlock it.

  “What the hell were you doing with those bloodsuckers? In God damn southern Illinois?”

  Frankie hesitated. Did his father know about the casino or not? “I don’t know how they found me,” Frankie said truthfully. “Smalls arrested me, brought me here, and the next thing I know Archibald is putting wires on my fingers.”

  “There’s no such thing as a coincidence,” Teddy said. “What did you do?”

  “Wait, how did you find me?”

  Before Teddy could answer, a white taxi pulled into the parking lot and stopped just behind them. Buddy climbed out of the back, and the driver rolled down his window. Buddy reached into his pocket and withdrew a pile of casino chips. He put them in the driver’s hands. Then he reached into his other pocket and repeated the procedure. The taxi pulled away.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Frankie said.

  Buddy ambled toward
them wearing a sleepy smile. He stood next to the rear door of the Buick and waited patiently, hands in his now-empty pockets.

  “Jesus Christ,” Teddy said. “I am truly blessed.”

  The back room of the Laundromat smelled of perfumed detergent and bleach and motor oil. Nick Pusateri Senior stood behind a large wooden table, a mound of loose quarters in front of him, and a stack of filled coin sleeves off to the side. At first glance Frankie thought Nick must be bagging the coins, but it was just the opposite; he was ripping them open and dumping them into the pile. He gestured for Frankie to sit in a plastic chair, then said nothing as he broke open another tube. Finally he glanced at him and said, “You got heat stroke or something?”

  Frankie chuckled. It wasn’t a convincing laugh, but it was the best he could manage. Was he really that red-faced? He felt himself sweating through his shorts. How was he supposed to go through with the plan if his body kept betraying him?

  The plan was simple: delay, grovel, and charm. All he needed was for Nick to say he’d accept the money in four days. As long as he would agree to that, Frankie could abide all threats, consent to any punishment, acquiesce to any repayment terms, no matter how Shylockian—as long as they took effect after Monday. After Labor Day, Frankie’s labors would be over, and he’d pay back Nick with his own God damn money.

  “It’s nothing,” Frankie said. “Summer heat gets to me.”

  Nick snorted. “It’s the humidity.” He picked up another full coin sleeve, weighed it in his hands, and swore. He tore that one open, too, and dumped the quarters into the pile. “Chicago in August makes me want to move to God damn Iceland.” Nick’s pompadour was shot through with gray, but he was holding on to his Fonz look. He wore a robin’s egg–blue Tommy Bahama shirt open to expose a gold chain tangled in gray chest hair. His arms were ropy, and his knuckles seemed abnormally large. He frowned at another sleeve, then tore that one open, too.

  What the hell was up with the quarters?

  “Your dad, he could do things with coins,” Nick said. “Chips, too. Roll them over his hands, pull them out of the air. Hell of a man.”

  Frankie started to ask, Is there a problem with the coin bags? and then thought better of it. Delay, grovel, and above all, charm.

  Nick said, “I’m surprised you didn’t bring him with you.”

  “Who, my dad? Why would I bring him into this?”

  Nick looked up. “You two don’t talk much, do you?”

  “We talk,” Frankie said defensively. While another part of his brain loudly demanded, What did Teddy say? What does he know about this? “Just not about business. I don’t involve him in this stuff at all. He’s retired.”

  Nick nodded. “I hear he’s pretty frail these days.”

  “I guess he’s slowing down a bit,” Frankie said. He wouldn’t have described Teddy as frail, but hey: charm.

  “Time catches up to all of us,” Nick said. He picked up another sleeve, gripped it, then said, “Assholes!”

  “What’s the matter?” Frankie asked. He couldn’t stop himself.

  “These cheating motherfuckers,” Nick said. “You got to check every single roll. Sometimes they short it a quarter, or put a nickel in there, or some Canadian shit. If you want something you gotta do it yourself.”

  “But—”

  “But what?”

  Frankie was going to say, Was it really worth your time to check every single roll of quarters, then rebag them yourself? Instead, he said, “But what else are you going to do, right?”

  Nick stared at him. “Who would have thought little Frankie would be sitting here in that chair?” He wrapped his fingers around the roll.

  Hot bile rose from Frankie’s stomach to his throat. He clamped down, steadied himself. Delay, grovel, and charm. From the front of the shop came the hum of huge dryers. There were customers out there, customers who’d come running if Frankie started screaming. Or go running, out of the place. Either way, possible witnesses who could be tracked down by the police in case Frankie was murdered here.

  Finally he could take a breath. “I want to say, right off the bat, I meant no disrespect to you or your sister for failing to make my payments. I know that was wrong, and I sincerely wish to make amends. I also want to assure you that I can pay you, in full, on Monday.”

  Nick squinted at him. “Really?”

  Frankie nodded.

  “Well, that would be incredible news.” He set down the roll and ran his hands through the pile of quarters. “Where’s this money coming from, if not Teddy?”

  “I have friends.”

  “But do you have assets? That’s what I’m interested in. Tell me about those.”

  “Assets?”

  “That van you drove up in. I figure it’s worth fifteen thousand Blue Book. You own it?”

  “I owe sixteen on it.”

  “Ouch. Okay, but still. Inventory. How about the family car, what are you driving?”

  “A ninety-one Toyota Corolla.”

  “Good shape?”

  “It has a pretty big dent in the hood.”

  “I know a guy can do dents. Let’s call it five K. And the house?”

  Frankie tried to smile. “I don’t know why the house matters. I’ll have the money on Monday.”

  Nick made a hurry-up gesture. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

  “Uh, I don’t know.” He didn’t like where this was going. “We paid sixty-eight thousand six years ago. So maybe seventy? Seventy-five if we got lucky?”

  “How much do you owe on it?”

  “Mr. Pusateri—”

  “How much.”

  Frankie tried to think. A band had tightened around his chest, forcing open the pores across his body. He was full of holes, gushing like a lawn sprinkler. “Loretta’s parents loaned us twenty-five grand for a down payment, so—”

  “That’s family. How much to the bank?”

  “Thirty-five? Thirty-four, maybe.”

  “Well, there you go. Money just sitting around.” Nick walked to a metal desk in the corner, picked up a phone.

  Frankie tried to breathe. Abide all threats, he told himself. Four more days. After Monday, after Labor Day, none of this would matter.

  Nick was saying, “It’s me, Lily, let me talk to—no, Christ no, not Graciella. Put me through to Brett.” Frankie stared at the tubes of quarters. Each one twenty-five bucks. Was he really so paranoid that he had to check them all? Or maybe he just liked to run his hands through them, like Smaug or Scrooge McDuck.

  “Brett!” Nick said. “I need you to give me a ballpark figure.” He looked at Frankie. “What’s the address?” Frankie recited it, and Nick said into the phone, “Right, Norridge. Two-bedroom, basement. Frankie, is the basement finished?”

  Frankie shook his head.

  “Unfinished. One bath. I’m guessing ‘fair condition.’ Okay. Hurry it up, though.”

  Nick put the phone to his chest. To Frankie he said, “When my son first started the business, it was all in binders, but now they can look everything up in computers. My idea. Nick Junior, he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.”

  Frankie thought, So innovative he’s on trial for murder.

  Brett came back on the line. Nick listened for a minute, then said, “Ah, both of ’em are on the deed? Okay, still doable. So if we get it for sixty, spend as little as possible on carpets and painting…uh-huh. Right. Usual transfer fees. Got it.”

  Nick hung up. “I’ve got some good news and bad news,” he said. “You’ll be able to pay down thirty thousand of your debt. You still owe me twenty, but you get to keep your van and keep working—and keep paying me.”

  “You’re taking my house?”

  “No, I’m buying your house. And the Toyota. Now here’s the bad news.”

  A sound escaped from Frankie’s chest, part squeak, part hiccup. A noise he didn’t know his body could make.

  “You’re wife’s on the deed, so we’re going to have to go pick her up.”

/>   “Okay, okay,” Frankie said. He was having trouble breathing. “I can bring her by next week, and we can—”

  “No, Frankie. Now.”

  “Now? But Monday I can—”

  “Monday you can pay me the rest, when your friends come through with all their cash.”

  “Okay.” He took a breath. “Okay.”

  “Why are you looking at the door?”

  He was looking for Teddy. For Agent Smalls. For Irene. For anyone to arrive, in the nick of time, to pull his ass from the fire.

  THE PRECIPICE

  15

  Buddy

  He stares at the clock, waiting for the lozenges of light to reconfigure and signal the final countdown to the Zap. The LEDs form numbers—1, 1, 5, 9—that quiver with import.

  Nothing happens.

  What if he’s stuck in this moment? What if his consciousness, rebelling at last of its pendular existence, has decided to come to rest here, in this second, forever? It would not be the moment he would have picked—that would be September 1, 1991, at 11:32 p.m., almost exactly four years ago, as he lay in a hotel bed—but some part of him would be relieved to land anywhere. To not have to keep going, to abandon his preparations for the apocalypse. To stop caring. Because as soon as the clock ticks over into midnight, the Countdown to Nothing begins.

  Four days until the anniversary of his mother’s death. Four days until the Zap.

  He fights down the panic. He can’t stop caring, so he can’t afford to lose track of the now. There’s so much to do. Yet, and yet, the glowing red lights of the clock refuse to move. Is it still now? The LEDs make him think of electrons and electron holes and suddenly it’s November 14, 1983. He’s fifteen, hiding in a study carrel in the Elmhurst Public Library, reading an article in Scientific American about how light-emitting diodes work. The key step is when an electron is pushed into a gap in an atomic lattice, like one of Frankie’s pinballs dropping into a kickout hole. This sudden plunge releases not bonus points but energy in the form of photons.

  He flips a page, smiling to himself. Each drop is a quantum event. So beautiful—