Spoonbenders

by Daryl Gregory

  “Are you using your power on me, Reenie?”

  “I don’t know, are you Trebeking me?”

  He laughed. “Okay. Listen to me. I did not give your son marijuana. Do you hear that? Didn’t happen.”

  “I hear it.”

  “Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take in the night air.”

  He stepped onto the porch and nearly slipped on the tile, now slick with condensation. The night air, it turned out, was as moist and thick as swamp gas. “Jesus, this humidity,” he said. “It’s…what’s the word? Cloying.”

  “Like a Sally Struthers infomercial,” she said.

  “Exactly.” Irene, she always knew the clever thing to say.

  “I’m sorry about your house,” she said.

  “Temporary setback,” he said, and climbed into the van.

  —

  That Irene. Always the smart one. She was only a year older, but he always felt like she understood things he didn’t, spoke in a language he didn’t understand. The language of adults. Of women. When they were little, Irene and Mom would exchange a look and it was like they were beaming information at each other in some frequency available only to the females of the species. He’d grown up with two moms, and he’d been unable to please either of them.

  Not like Buddy. Buddy was an emotional wreck, yet somehow beloved. Mom and Buddy especially shared something inaccessible to him. Frankie would see them cuddling together, whispering to each other, and know there was no room for him there.

  He moved his attention to Dad. A tough nut to crack, but the man with the keys to all the locked rooms. Frankie didn’t want to be like his father, he wanted to be him. He wanted to dress in a fine suit, pull a fedora low over his eyes, and set a roll of cash on the table. Teddy Telemachus was the opposite of invisible. He drew your eyes, and at the same time directed your attention to whatever he wanted you to see—an empty hand, a diamond-encrusted watch, the brim of a hat—while he made his magic.

  Irene used to say that the only thing Dad cared about was the act. But that didn’t mean he didn’t care about the family. The family was the act and the act was the family. But back when they were touring, Frankie knew, deep down, that he was failing as a performer, and as a son. He couldn’t bend a paper clip. He couldn’t levitate a water glass. It shouldn’t have surprised anyone when the Astounding Archibald had revealed Frankie’s ability to be nothing more than Dad kicking the table to life. Dad had been doing all of Frankie’s tricks since they started performing. Irene needed no help; she had genuine ability. Buddy, when he wasn’t having a meltdown, could call every shot on the Wonder Wheel. And of course Mom was the best of them, a world-class talent in a second-rate vaudeville act.

  And Frankie? Frankie was the faker.

  It wasn’t until Mom’s funeral that he finally moved something, but even then he couldn’t take credit for it. The power seemed to come from outside himself, arriving of its own accord while he watched his mother being lowered into the ground. Then nothing, for years, until he found pinball, and again he felt like he wasn’t so much controlling the table as communing with it. The bond could break down at any time. His power was not something he possessed, but a skittish companion he had to woo to his side, and who’d vanish as soon as he showed fear.

  He would have spent his whole life chasing that feeling, if he hadn’t walked into that bar on Rush Street and met Loretta. She was the first person who thought he was special. The morning after they first made love, he started to pull on his pants and leave, but she grabbed him by the waistband and pulled him back into bed. “Maybe you don’t understand,” she’d told him. “You’re my man now.”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that. And she said, “You’ll come around.”

  He did come around. And stuck around. Loretta was ten years older than him, but by designating him as her man she’d promoted him to full adulthood. She wanted him to help raise her girl, and make more babies. She wanted her children to be Telemachus children. And when he told her he wanted to create his own business, she believed him. And when he said he wanted to do something great, she believed that, too. She fell for his con.

  That was her mistake. His was that he fell for it, too. Now the only way out of this predicament, this clusterfuck he’d created, was to make all the lies into truths.

  He had to do something great.

  —

  The paranoia that accompanied an act of greatness, however, was exhausting. Headlights seemed to be following him. On North Avenue he was certain a police car was on his tail, but then the vehicle passed him, and he saw it was just a sedan with a luggage rack. A luggage rack! How were those things legal?

  Frankie parked on the street, about fifty feet from the mouth of the alley that ran behind Mitzi’s Tavern. It was out of sight of any video cameras Mitzi might have up, yet within a hundred yards of the back door. Not far to run, even with a bag of money. His tool bag would do for that.

  The thought of video cameras reminded him of his disguise. He reached under his seat and pulled out the White Sox baseball cap he’d bought at Osco. Nobody would suspect it was Frankie Telemachus in a fucking Sox cap. He went through his mental checklist again. Disguise, tool bag…and what else? Right. The keys to the kingdom. He turned on his Bumblebee-issued Maglite and checked the slip of paper he’d been carrying with him. There were two sets of numbers on it: one for the door alarm, and one for the safe. Matty had provided them both.

  He addressed the area above the van. “You on overwatch, Matty?”

  There was no answer. And that, in a nutshell, was the major defect of remote viewing; it only worked one way. Somebody needed to invent a mobile phone for clairvoyants. You could call it—

  A 1960s Chevelle passed him, going slow, and turned at the next street.

  Too slow?

  No, he thought. The paranoia was messing with him. Making him procrastinate. And worse, the name of the clairvoyant phone service was gone. A really good pun had been right on the tip of his tongue, and he’d lost it. He sat for a moment, trying to recall it. It was a company name…

  Damn it! Procrastinating again.

  “Okay, Matty,” Frankie said to the ether. “I’m going in. If I get in trouble, do not call the cops! Go find Grandpa Teddy. If he won’t get up, find Uncle Buddy. Last resort, your mom.”

  He really should have said all this before he left. Stupid nosy Irene.

  He pulled the cap low across his eyes, grabbed his tool bag, and marched down the alley, flashlight off. The alley grew so dark that he was afraid he’d trip and impale himself on something. Finally he switched on the flashlight. So bright! Burglar bright. He hurried to the back door of the tavern and aimed the light at the lock.

  This was the diciest part of the plan, the step that gave him the terrors. He took a breath and gripped the doorknob.

  Stealing from Mitzi required three things: the alarm code, the combination of the safe, and a way past the back door lock. When Matty confided in him about what he could do, the first two pieces of the puzzle were solved. All Frankie had to do was get past the door.

  He spent weeks practicing in his garage, just like he had before the Alton Belle. He focused his mind on padlocks, concentrated on the innards of door locks, stared down doors of all kinds. He summoned every ounce of psychokinesis in his body.

  And failed. Every fucking time.

  Buddy Telemachus, in that one night in the casino, had destroyed his last shred of confidence. And without confidence, he was nothing. But if Buddy had taken that from him, at least Frankie could take one thing from Buddy.

  He opened the tool bag and brought out his brother’s gigantic drill. The drill bit looked like a World War II artillery shell. He pulled the trigger, got the metal spinning at maximum velocity, and jammed it into the lock.

  The shriek nearly made him let go of the drill and run, but he knew if he stopped now he’d never get another chance. He held the shaking device with both hands and bore down. With a c
lunk the drill bit punched through.

  Fuck yeah. If he couldn’t depend on his power, he could at least depend on Black & Decker.

  He reached into the hole with two fingers and pulled the remains of the lock bar free of the notch. Then he tugged the door toward him.

  The door didn’t move, until suddenly it did.

  And there was the alarm console. Two feet from the door, the keypad was lit up and beeping.

  He threw himself inside. The bar was dark, but he knew this hallway well. And the alarm code was simple, so simple he’d memorized it. Or thought he had.

  On the console a countdown was showing: 28, 27…

  Where the hell was the slip of paper? The paper was gone. It began with a four, he thought.

  Then he found the paper in his other pocket and held it under the flashlight. 4-4-4-2. Seeing it, he remembered.

  He punched in the numbers. The box considered his entry, then blinked twice. He aimed his flashlight at the LCD panel. The countdown continued: 18, 17…

  “Shit,” he said. He looked at the paper again. 4-4-4-2, just like he’d typed. He punched the number again, going slowly.

  He stared at the alarm console, panic blinding him. What the hell was wrong?

  “Jesus, Matty!” he said aloud. “Did you fuck this up? Did you fuck me?” The console showed 8, then 7. So many God damn numbers!

  Then he noticed the enter key.

  He pressed it.

  The countdown was replaced by the words READY TO ARM.

  He collapsed against the wall, breathing hard. Then he lifted his shirt and mopped the sweat from his face.

  “I’m in,” he said to Maybe-Matty. “I’m sorry about the swearing.”

  He needed to play it cool for Matty, but he knew in his heart that he could never do this again. Maybe real thieves got off on the danger. Maybe people like his dad could sit at a poker table and rob gangsters while looking them in the eye. But Frankie wasn’t that guy.

  If he left, this very second, he’d get away a free man. But then what? If he bailed out now, he’d never get his house back, and Loretta would never forgive him. He could lose everything: his marriage, the twins, and most definitely Mary Alice, who resented his presence. He wanted to be that presence. He wanted to be the guy who stuck around even when she wanted him to leave, because he wanted to be better than her deadbeat dad.

  No. The only way out of this was through it.

  He put the drill into the bag, then followed the light of his Maglite down the hallway to the main room. The Bud Light sign glowed in the window, casting a red smear across the surface of the bar. Did they keep beer taps on at night? He should at least take a bottle of scotch before he left.

  The door to Mitzi’s office was unlocked. He moved around the desk and pointed the light at the black safe.

  “Okay, Matty,” he said. “Here we go.” He crouched down beside the safe, and held the piece of paper up to the glow of the flashlight. The second set of numbers was the safe combination: 28-11-33. His ears were roaring.

  “I apologize in advance for any cursing,” he said.

  He spun the dial to clear it, then dialed each number, left, right, left. There was no indication that the combination was correct. He pushed down on the handle, and tugged.

  The door swung open.

  “Thank you fucking Jesus,” Frankie said. Happy curses were allowed, he decided. “And thank you, Matty.”

  Suddenly he remembered the name of the imaginary phone service: Astral Travel and Telephony. AT&T! Ha! He’d have to tell the kid that one.

  He aimed the flashlight inside the safe. He couldn’t quite process what he saw. He swung the light away, then back, then played it all around the interior, as if looking for false bottoms, for mirrors. From the back of his throat came a high whine, like air being squeezed from a balloon.

  The safe was empty. Or almost: a kid’s lunch box sat on the top shelf. It was too small to hold what he needed.

  The inside of his head clanged with the same three syllables, over and over: NOMONEY NOMONEY NOMONEY…

  He pulled out the lunch box, a soft-sided Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles model. Money? he asked the box. He yanked open the zipper. Inside was a plastic container holding the remains of some popcorn, or maybe white Chiclets.

  No money.

  Not even a fucking thermos.

  “God damn it!” he shouted. “Give me a fucking break! One fucking break!”

  —

  There was one thing he’d learned this summer while practicing breaking locks, and failing: if he got really, really frustrated, he had the strength to pick up a safe and hold it over his head. Of course, he’d also learned that if he lost his balance he might accidentally drop it on his wife’s car.

  This time when he picked up the safe—first hauling it to waist level, and then up to his chest—he picked his target. He tossed the thing onto Mitzi’s desk, and the explosive crack of wood was so satisfying it almost calmed him down.

  Then he thought: I should get out of here.

  He hurried down the hallway to the back door. Why would Mitzi move the money? It was already in a safe! That’s why they called it a safe. The stacks of money were supposed to be there, waiting for him. He was supposed to buy back the house—no, buy a new house, with two bathrooms, with AC installed. And a new car, too. He’d come home like a Greek hero in his Toyota chariot, and the twins would run to him. Even Mary Alice would smile. And Loretta—Loretta wouldn’t leave him.

  The back door wouldn’t lock, of course. He pulled it shut as best he could, then strode down the alley, still fuming. He had to talk to Matty. When had the Pusateris moved the cash, and why wasn’t the kid watching when they did it? Maybe he could spy around Nick’s house, find out where he kept the dough. No way was the mobster putting that much money into a bank.

  The wall beside him was suddenly lit by a swipe of headlights; even his silhouette looked surprised. The cops! For a long moment he was paralyzed, expecting strobe lights to erupt behind him, the whoop of a siren. But nothing, nothing except the clank of a car door opening. The sound unlocked his legs. He ran pell-mell for the street, the tool bag clanking at his side, and threw himself around the corner.

  He reached the driver’s side of the van and smashed his elbow against the big mirror trying to brace himself. He yanked open the door, threw the tool bag and the fucking lunch box inside. Where were the keys? He searched one pocket, found nothing. Did he drop them? Where was his flashlight? He pushed a hand into the other pocket.

  Keys!

  He started the van and checked his rearview mirrors. The driver’s-side mirror was knocked askew, but the passenger’s side showed the shadow of a giant walking out of the alley. He turned, and his arm raised. If he didn’t have a gun, it was a very convincing mime.

  Barney, Frankie thought. How the hell did Barney get here so fast? Why was he here, even?

  Frankie peeled out, his head clanging with the same three syllables, all the way home:

  No money.

  No money.

  No money.

  SEPTEMBER 4

  21

  BUDDY

  The World’s Most Powerful Psychic stands before the calendar with a crayon in his hand. Each numbered square, by convention, is a box to hold everything that will happen in those twenty-four hours. The boxes fill the page, but there’s no use looking back, or ahead. Not for him. The only square that means anything now is today’s.

  A purplish pink circle already surrounds that square. He made the mark months ago, with this very crayon.

  Zap.

  He feels dizzy, as if he’s standing at the edge of a swimming pool, blindfolded. The endless chain of days past is jostling behind him, nudging him forward. Is the pool full, or empty? When he falls (and he will fall, he knows that much), will he smash into cement, or be cushioned by water? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know and the not-knowing fills him with dread. This must be what it’s like for everyone else, every day, and he do
esn’t know how they stand it.

  It’s 6:30 in the morning, and he has so much to do before the future ends at 12:06 p.m. Some of these things he’s been thinking about for years. Images of the day’s events he’s saved like snapshots in a wallet. Some he drew years ago, at the kitchen table, while his mother encouraged him. But there are other events that are in shadow. He hasn’t looked too closely at them, because by remembering them clearly he’ll turn them from possibilities into certainties, and he doesn’t want everything locked down.

  But oh, those shadows are scary. The idea of ricochets haunts him.

  He lifts his hand, and isn’t surprised that it’s shaking. He steadies himself by focusing on the crayon. It’s his favorite color, a particular shade of pink. When his hand is steady again, he draws an X through the box that holds the day.

  “You’re up early,” Irene says.

  He puts the crayon away. Irene is still sleepy, still tired. Probably didn’t sleep well up in the attic room. She had to share the bed with Mary Alice. Irene puts a filter into the Mr. Coffee and reaches for the canister.

  “I was thinking we should have a picnic,” he says. “Right here. Hot dogs for the kids. Hamburgers and brats for the adults.”

  She looks over at him, a curious smile on her face. “Look at you, talking and all.”

  “I was thinking two packs of hot dogs,” he says. “Then three or four pounds of ground beef, but…I don’t know. I don’t know how much people will eat.” The picnic, if it happens at all, will occur on the other side of history.

  “Could you make Mom’s lamb sausage?” Irene asks. “You know, the ones with the feta and the mint?”

  “Oh.” He’d remembered making patties out of ground meat, but had assumed he’d been making hamburgers. Huh.

  “You don’t have to, if you’ve got your heart set on burgers,” Irene says.

  “No, that’s fine.” Mom had learned a few Greek recipes, mostly at Frankie’s urging, and Buddy had memorized them. It would be good to do this on the anniversary of her death. “Could you go to the grocery store for me?”