Spoonbenders

by Daryl Gregory

  He covered his face. She leaned into his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. Janelle thinks you’re just a natural born perv, ever since the night in the attic.” He was so glad she was keeping her voice down.

  “That was the first time,” he said.

  “The first time you jerked off?”

  He uncovered his face. “No!” Wait, did that make him sound more like a perv, or less? “The first time I left my body. And traveled.”

  “Really? And to think, I was there.”

  “Sometimes that’s the thing that gets me to travel,” he said. He couldn’t believe he was telling her this, but she was being so frank with him, so unfreaked out, that he wanted to tell her everything. “Certain emotions happen, and boom.”

  “Sexual emotions.”

  “Uh…yeah.”

  “So you’re like the Hulk, but with hard-ons.”

  “Oh God.”

  “Horny Hulk.”

  “Stop, please.”

  She grinned at him. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “You’re being so cool about this,” he said.

  “I just wanted to know what was going on,” she said. “All you have to do now is explain how Frankie helping you got us kicked out of our house.”

  And just like that, the trap snapped shut.

  “Spill it,” she said.

  TEDDY

  Give this to Destin Smalls: he was persistent. Even as Archibald and Cliff unplugged and disassembled equipment, he was arguing for a second test.

  “Not going to happen,” Teddy said. “Not today.”

  The doorbell rang. Graciella said to Teddy, “I think that’s for you.”

  “Then this week,” Smalls said. “You and the boy, come to my office. We need a score, Teddy, a proper tau rating. This time we’ll do it with an industrial electrical system.”

  “I promise you, we’ll come,” Teddy said.

  “You can trust him,” Graciella said. And oh, that warmed his heart. A woman defending his honor. She was a much better woman than his honor deserved.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Smalls said to her, “Don’t you remember how you met? He was conning you. This is Teddy the Greek. He took his name from the Greek deal, his specialty. He only changed his name when—”

  “Enough of that!” Teddy said. Smalls had never lost his urge to expose him, embarrass him. Well, Teddy got the girl, didn’t he? Everybody fell in love with Maureen, but he was the only one she loved back. That was a trump card Destin could never beat.

  Teddy opened the door, and the air in his chest turned to ice.

  It was Nick Pusateri Senior.

  He stood on the tile step, looking sweaty, eyes glittering like a crazy man. That toupee probably trapped heat like a World War II helmet. Behind him, Barney loomed unhappily.

  Teddy struggled to put on a smile. “What can I do for you, boys?” Only long training kept his voice from breaking.

  “Mind if we come in?” Nick asked.

  “I’d love to invite you in,” Teddy said, lying desperately. “But we’re having a family event.”

  “That’s who I’ve come for,” Nick said. “Family.” He shoved Teddy in the chest, palm out, and sent him stumbling. Teddy regained his balance and Nick said, “You’re moving a little better now, looks like.”

  Oh God, he was in the room. The devil had never gotten into the house before. Of all his failings over the years, Teddy had never allowed that to happen.

  Smalls and Graciella had gotten to their feet. Archibald was watching from beneath his big eyebrows. Barney was trying to count heads and count threats. Nick, though, was staring at Graciella.

  “What the fuck is she doing here?” Nick said. His voice was strangled by outrage. Teddy had never seen him this angry, this out of control.

  “She is standing right here,” Graciella said.

  “She’s my guest,” Teddy said. His mind raced. If Nick wasn’t here for his family, then he was after Teddy’s. “What do you want, Nick?”

  “I’m here to return something,” Nick said. He nodded to Barney. The big bartender lifted his hand, and Teddy tensed. But it wasn’t a gun; it was a large yellow flashlight with a bee logo stamped on the side. Nick said, “This looks familiar, don’t it? A lot like the fucking bee on little Frankie’s fucking van.”

  Teddy put a befuddled smile on his face. What had Frankie done? Did he go to the tavern and say something stupid? Threaten something stupid?

  “Well, I thank you for bringing it by. I didn’t know he’d lost it, but I’m sure he appreciates—”

  “You think I’m a fucking idiot?” Nick asked.

  Destin Smalls stepped forward. He was the only one in the room bigger than Nick or Barney, and Teddy was happy to have him there. Barney and the agent locked eyes like two steam engines on the same track.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Teddy said. “Honestly.”

  “You think you can fucking break into my bar and I won’t know it’s you? The fact that you sent your fuckup son doesn’t make a difference.”

  “I didn’t send Frankie anywhere. Calm down, Nick, let’s discuss this like—”

  “Fuck you, Teddy.”

  “—gentlemen.” The only problem being that Nick was no gentleman, he was a sociopath. With a gun. His shirt covered the bulk of some kind of pistol tucked into his waistband.

  “There are kids here,” Teddy said, lowering his voice. “Your grandsons among them.”

  “Give ’em back!” Nick shouted. His eyes were jumping, and his hand had moved to rest on that lump under his shirt. What was he thinking, showing up here in broad daylight, ready to blow? He was losing it. Maybe it was the stress of waiting for the feds to knock at his door. The threat of his business—no, his entire way of life—vanishing with the bang of a gavel. “Right fucking now!”

  “Give what back?” Teddy asked. “I’m being honest, here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The fucking teeth.”

  “Teeth?” Archibald said.

  “It’s a long story,” Graciella said. She walked up to Nick, and Teddy was proud of how calm she looked. She was terrified of the old man—she’d told him so—but you couldn’t tell.

  She opened her purse, and took out a plastic bag. “Here. The other half. Now you have them all—all the evidence. I just wanted my sons to be kept clear.”

  “Now the rest of them! Bring me my lunch box!”

  Teddy said, “That’s all of them. The ones we brought you, and those. That’s it.”

  “Frankie,” Nick said. “Bring his ass in here, now.”

  “I’m not going to do that,” Teddy said.

  Destin Smalls had moved around the edge of the coffee table. “It’s time for you to leave,” he said. “Now.”

  “Who the fuck is this guy?” Nick said.

  “Destin Smalls, federal agent,” Smalls said. “I repeat, it’s time—”

  “Shut up,” Nick said. He raised his arm, and the bang shook the walls. Smalls fell back onto the coffee table with a crash. Cliff shouted and Graciella screamed, though Teddy could hardly hear them over the ringing in his ears.

  “Fuck this,” Nick said. He did not put the pistol away. “I’ll get him myself.”

  IRENE

  “What the hell?” Irene said. Teddy’s yell had carried into the garage, followed by a loud pop. Now there were more angry shouts—from men whose voices she didn’t recognize.

  “And everything had been going so well,” Joshua said.

  It had been going well—very well—at least until Frankie and Loretta had interrupted them. Then suddenly it was the night back in high school, in the backseat of the Green Machine with Lev Petrovski, when the patrolman tapped on the window. Joshua, however, was magnitudes better at making love than Lev had ever been. After the interruption, they picked up where they’d left off—no sense stopping the race when they were that close to the finish line—but now this. It sounded like a figh
t had broken out.

  Of course there could be no such thing as a normal picnic with her family. Why expect sane behavior on the one day her boyfriend came to visit? Joshua would never want to get tangled up in this nonsense. He’d never want to expose Jun to these people. He’d leave Irene, no matter how good the car sex.

  “This changes nothing,” Irene said. She tugged on her shorts. Outside, Loretta screamed.

  “Of course not,” Joshua said. He managed to pull up his pants before she opened the garage side door.

  The yard was full of angry. Loretta was shouting at a couple of men whose backs were to Irene, and Frankie was trying to step between them. Then she realized who the men were.

  “Holy fuck,” Irene said. “That’s Nick Pusateri.” Before she could explain to Joshua who that was, the kitchen door burst open, and more people rushed out: first her father, then Graciella, and a moment later, G. Randall Archibald.

  There was something in Pusateri’s hand. Then he stepped forward and smashed Frankie in the face with it, and her brother went down.

  “He’s got a gun!” Joshua said to her.

  Oh God, she thought. Where were the kids? She needed to make sure none of the kids came out here.

  “Go around to the front of the house,” Irene said to Joshua. He started to object and she said, “Listen. Round up Jun and the girls. Shit, all the kids.”

  “Right,” he said. He ran for the gap between the garage and the house.

  Too late, she thought. And call 911!

  Nick Pusateri aimed the pistol at Frankie, who lay on his side, covering his bloody nose.

  “Hey!” Irene shouted. She marched across the lawn. “Pusateri! Look at me!”

  Nick glanced behind him. “Jesus, not you too.”

  “Just tell me what you want, and we’ll get it for you.”

  “I want what this motherfucker stole from me.” She kept walking toward him slowly. “Do that, and nobody gets hurt.”

  Nick Pusateri, to her complete lack of surprise, was lying again.

  FRANKIE

  It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of paint into his face, and the shade was named Blinding Pain. He’d read the term “pistol whip” in crime novels and never imagined precisely what that meant. He certainly never imagined it would happen to him.

  What stung even more than the blow was the unfairness of it. He didn’t have any of Nick’s money, so how could he pay him back? Frankie had stolen nothing, yet everything was going to be taken from him. He was back in the parking lot of the White Elm, after the Royal Flush had been yanked away from him. Nick and Barney were just like Lonnie. Bullies.

  But worse, this time his humiliation would be witnessed not just by his sister and brother, but by the woman he loved. He only hoped that the girls weren’t seeing this, too.

  Loretta crouched and put her arms around Frankie. Irene and Nick Senior were yelling at each other, something about teeth. It made no sense.

  Nick yelled, “Shut up!” at Irene, then shook the gun at Frankie with renewed vigor. “Where is it?”

  “Where’s what?” Frankie said. His voice was muffled by blood and damaged cartilage, but he tried to sound sincere—because he sincerely had no idea what Nick was talking about.

  “My fucking lunch box!”

  An idea dawned. “Lunch box?” It came out lun bod, but Nick got the idea.

  “What did I just fucking say?”

  “Put down the gun,” another voice said. It was Archibald. He’d drawn his own pistol.

  Nick blinked at it. “What the fuck is that, a toy?” He looked at Barney to make sure he was seeing it, too. “Some kinda Buck Rogers shit?”

  “I assure you, it’s no toy,” Archibald said. “This, my friend, is a micro-lepton gun.”

  Nick said, “What the fuck is a lepton?”

  “The micro-lepton gun,” Archibald said, in a calm, teacherly voice, “disrupts torsion fields, the medium by which psychic energies propagate. When targeted at a psionic individual, it permanently destroys their ability to generate such fields. But when aimed at a non-psionic, it causes instant stroke and paralysis.”

  Nick stared at him. “You guys are fucking nuts.”

  Frankie couldn’t disagree with that. “Look, I don’t want the lunch box,” he said to Nick. “You can have it. It’s in my van.” At least, that was where he last remembered seeing it. He was pretty distraught last night.

  “I’ll get it,” Buddy said. He’d stepped out from behind the tree. Frankie didn’t even know he was there.

  “Do it,” Nick Pusateri said. To Frankie he said, “But not you. You stay put. Anything happens, you get shot first, you prick.”

  That’s when Loretta started screaming at the mob captain of the western suburbs.

  23

  BUDDY

  He hurries past the van. He told Nick Pusateri Senior that he was going to the vehicle to get the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles lunch box, but that’s a lie. In the driveway is a yellow Super Soaker. He picks it up, and it’s as full of water as he remembered. Thank goodness.

  He didn’t think the end would be this hard. Mostly because he didn’t try to think about it all. A gift of his final moments being so hectic, so crammed full of detail, was that it made it impossible to ruminate. To brood. Even now, there are so many things he has to do, he barely has room in his head for thoughts of the Zap.

  But it’s there. He can hear the noise, and it’s the last thing he remembers before the future goes black. His heart shrivels in despair. The world is going to go on without him.

  He checks his watch. 11:55. Eleven minutes to go, or maybe less. He can only remember the position of the minute hand. Why didn’t he pay more attention in that final moment? It would be really really useful to know the exact second that history stopped.

  At the front door he aims the Super Soaker at the tile and starts squeezing the trigger. Empties the whole tank onto the tile until it’s gleaming. The water doesn’t run off. He’d laid the tile slightly concave, just enough to hold a shallow pool.

  He tiptoes over the water and goes into the living room. Clifford Turner is crouched over Destin Smalls, pressing his wadded-up jacket against the man’s shoulder. Smalls is moaning in pain. Buddy feels terrible about Smalls. But he could see no way around that—it was a fact of the day that was impossible to change.

  He goes back to the kitchen wall phone and dials. Before anyone picks up, Joshua Lee runs into the room. He’s sprinted all the way around the house, come in through the front door. “The kids!” he says, nearly out of breath. “Where are the kids?”

  “Safe,” Buddy says, then holds up a finger for silence. The operator, a woman, says, “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

  He wants to say, The future is dying. He wants to tell her, I’m about to be erased.

  Instead, he repeats what he remembers saying: “There’s been a shooting. The gunman’s still here. Please send the police.”

  Joshua says, “Where’s Jun? Where are the children?”

  “Downstairs,” Buddy says. In fact, he can hear one of them banging on the basement door. He hands the phone to him. “Tell the operator whatever she needs to know.”

  He walks out to the backyard, circling around the clump of angry people without looking at them. Nick Pusateri says, “Hey! Where the hell is the bag?”

  Buddy marches toward the tree, ignoring him. His heart thuds in his chest. Finally he reaches the spot he remembers, beside the air compressor. He’s part of a special triangle. On one vertex stands a septuagenarian mobster holding a .45 automatic. On the other, a retired stage magician aiming a psi-based beam weapon. And at the third point of the triangle, the World’s Most Powerful Psychic, and a tank of air.

  In the middle of this triangle stand Irene, Frankie, and Loretta. Loretta is threatening to cut off the balls of the mob boss of the western suburbs.

  Buddy flips open the metal guard to the pressure switch, exposing the button, and checks his watch. It’s 11:57
, and the second hand is swooping down the right side of the dial.

  MATTY

  “It won’t open,” Julian said. “What’s the matter with this place?”

  “Shut up, Julian,” Malice said. She was at the window, her ear pressed to the metal shades. They’d all heard the bang from upstairs. Matty had told the older kids that it was Archibald’s equipment blowing up again, but now he wasn’t sure. Malice said, “There’s a bunch of people yelling, and I can’t tell what it’s about.”

  “Don’t scare the kids,” Matty said. But he didn’t have to worry about them. All five of the younger kids were fascinated by Mr. Banks—and the puppy was fascinated right back. It stood on Luke’s chest, aggressively licking his face, which made Adrian and the girls fall out with laughter. Cassie and Polly seemed especially giddy, bordering on the manic. A Beanie Baby come to life! It was a Labor Day miracle.

  Matty twisted the door handle and pulled, but the door didn’t budge. “That’s weird,” he said.

  “Told you,” Julian said. He pushed Matty aside and tried again.

  Malice said, “We’ve got to get out there.” She looked worried. He’d never seen Malice like this. Her default mode, except when she was with her friends, was Profound Disinterest.

  “I’m sure somebody will hear us eventually,” he said.

  “Fuck that.” She pushed him into the laundry room and closed the door behind them. “You need to go look. Out there.”

  Then he realized what she meant. “I can’t just go,” he said. “It takes…preparation.”

  “They’re hurting my dad!”

  “Okay, okay. Do you have some pot?”

  “We don’t have time for that,” she said. “Give me your hand.” She took his palm and jammed it against her left boob.

  “Whoa!” he exclaimed.

  “How’s that?” she asked. Pretty great, he thought. But that wasn’t what she was asking.

  She studied his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll hold you up.”