by Matt Witten
"Tony!" I called out. "Tony, are you in there?"
There was no answer, just more click click clicking. Then the wind picked up again and I couldn't hear it anymore. I stood there straining my ears, so cold my teeth started chattering.
When they chattered, they made a sound. Click click click.
I shouted Tony's name some more. Then I circled the wall again and found a corner where the stones were a tad rougher and the masonry work a tad sloppier. I scrambled upward, squirming, clawing, scraping my palms raw, and falling flat on my ass five times. But eventually, somehow, I hoisted myself to the top of the wall. I looked down.
Tony Martinelli lay on the ground beneath me, sleeping.
I jumped ten feet down and bent over him. All he had was a sweatshirt and a thin cotton blanket. His teeth were playing a cha-cha. I touched his hand. Ice-cold.
With sleeping conditions like these, no wonder the kid had a perpetual runny nose. I sighed and did the noble thing, taking off my jacket and setting it on top of him. Then I lay down beside him, as much for my own warmth as for his.
Tony's eyes opened. He saw me, and turned wide awake in about a hundredth of a second. He sat up.
"Mr. Burns! How'd you find me?"
"Your mom told me."
At the mention of his mother, Tony's face darkened. Then he turned away from me and started picking his nose. In the pre-dawn light I could see that most of his bruises were gone. But the discoloration from that black eye remained.
"Tony," I said softly, "I saw you that night. I saw you running away from the house."
He took his finger from his nostril and examined it. "I know." He sounded very far away. "When you looked at me in the courtroom, I could tell."
"Tony ..." I took his hand. "What happened that night?"
"I'm cold."
I covered him up with the blanket. It was torn and full of holes. I put my jacket back over him too, then put my arms around him. His body stiffened. I rubbed his back.
He gazed up at me. "Do you want to put your thing in me?"
I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. "What?"
"You can put your thing in me if you want."
Oh, Lord.
What unspeakable horrors had this boy been subjected to in his nine years of life? No doubt they made my two days in jail look like a springtime walk in the park.
"No, Tony, I don't want to put my thing in you."
His body relaxed. I gave him a hug. He started to cry, then he sneezed, and pretty soon his face was full of snot and tears. He wiped them with the blanket.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Burns." He begged me for forgiveness through moist brown eyes. "I'm so, so—"
"It's okay—"
"No, it's not!" he blurted out vehemently. "I know you didn't kill him! You went to jail because of me!"
You went to jail because of me. Was Tony about to confess to murder?
I felt joy and terror at the same time—joy for my sake, terror for his. My voice shook. "Tony, what happened that night?"
He blew his nose into the blanket.
"You need to tell me. I promise I won't hurt you."
Like hell I wouldn't. If he confessed, I'd rat him out to the cops. I'd pay for his lawyer and visit him every week—but I'd turn him in, no question.
This was incredibly screwed up.
"Okay, Mr. Burns," Tony said gravely, "I'll tell you."
Tony, watch out, I'm your enemy! part of me screamed. But silently, of course.
"What happened, I went to that house next door to you to buy some . . . some ..." In the thin gray light, the boy's face flushed with shame. "Some crack. For my mom." His words poured out in a torrent. "Look, I know it's bad, I know drugs are terrible and everything, but you don't know how she gets. She runs around screaming like some kind of animal, and I'm scared she'll kill herself, or maybe me! She'd do it, too! I have to buy the drugs! I have to!"
"It's okay, Tony, I understand." Sure, I understand, now spill your guts to me, kid. I felt like an utter slimeball.
"See, my mom doesn't like to buy the crack herself 'cause she's embarrassed. And she gets, like, afraid to leave the house. So I do it for her."
I nodded, as if that sounded like the most sensible arrangement in the world. His face held something I couldn't decipher at first, then realized it was pride. Pride that he was taking good care of his mom. That he was being such a good son.
"So that night I went over to Dale's apartment. . . Do you know how him and Zapper work it?" I shook my head, so Tony proceeded to enlighten me. He looked proud again, this time of his knowledge. He might not be too hot when it came to reading and writing, but at least he was getting a solid education in drug dealing. "On odd days, like the first or third of the month, you go to Dale's apartment and give him five dollars. Then he goes over to Zapper's apartment and gets the rock and brings it back to you. On even days it's the opposite—you go to Zapper's place, and he gets the rock from Dale. I guess keeping the money in a different place from the drugs is better somehow, if the cops come and try to arrest them."
Some other time I might be interested in the inner workings of the street-level drug economy, but not now. "So you went to Dale's place?" I prodded.
"Yeah. I gave him four bucks, and promised to give him the other dollar tomorrow from empty cans and stuff. He gave me a hard time but then he said okay. So he went over to Zapper's place for the rock, and he was gonna give it to me. But then we got in a fight."
He shuddered and pulled the blanket around him. "Dale said he'd forget about the extra dollar if I . . . if I would . . ."
"If you would what?" I asked, then immediately regretted it. After that business about putting my thing in him, I was pretty sure I knew the answer, and I didn't really want to hear it.
But Tony stunned me by answering: "If I would rob your house."
Then the torrent of words started flowing again, as he gazed at me earnestly. "But I'd never do that to you, Mr. Burns. I mean, I know I've stolen from people, but not for, like, years"—yeah, sure, I thought to myself, but I didn't stop him—"and besides, I never robbed from people I knew. All it was, see, I was just trying to talk big. Telling him how you and me are friends, and you're a rich famous movie writer and everything, and I got all carried away. I didn't mean to tell him you have a safe with lots of money in it—"
"What?"
"—and I know where you keep the combination—"
"Tony, are you nuts? I don't have any safe!"
"I know, I made it up! And I kept telling him I made it up, only he didn't believe me, he thought I was just too scared to rob you. See, he was really lifted—"
"Lifted?"
"You know, stoned. And he kept saying over and over how if he had enough money he could buy enough dope to move down to Schenectady and be a big shot, and he'd take me with him. And when I said no, he got crazy pissed off and he said he wouldn't give my mom any rock until I told him where the combination to your safe was. Then he closed the door and wouldn't let me leave and he started punching me in the face, and it really hurt and I was running away from him, and then all of a sudden we heard someone screaming. And then the gunshot. I didn't know who was screaming or who got shot and I was real scared but Dale just laughed. He said no one would ever hurt him because he had his own gun, and if I didn't do what he wanted he'd shoot my puny little ass full of holes and throw my body in the cemetery. And he opened up a drawer to get his gun and turned his back on me for, like, half a second, so I grabbed the rock, opened the door, and ran outside. And that's when I saw you running toward the body. So I know you didn't do it, because if you did, why would you run toward the body instead of away from it? Right?"
I nodded, reeling from the onslaught of his words.
So little Tony didn't do it after all. I was relieved—and disappointed as hell. There would be no simple, tidy solution to my legal problems.
Meanwhile he was saying, "I wanted to go over there, when you were standing by the body, but then that
cop came. And I had the drugs on me, so I had to wait real quiet until he wasn't looking and then I ran away. Only I felt real bad about you getting arrested and everything, so that's why I went to court the next day, but I kept my mouth shut because my mom would get in trouble if I told about the crack and she'd get super mad at me, and she gets real scary when she's mad, but I know I did the wrong thing and if you want me to tell the cops I will. I really want to."
He finally stopped for breath, and to hear my answer. I wanted to hear my answer, too. Should I ask Tony to tell the cops? It couldn't hurt.
But would it help?
Would the cops pay any attention to this pipsqueak? Not only was he a known thief and a drug middleman, but even worse, he was a friend of mine. Maybe if he had actually seen the murder, and could name the murderer, the cops would listen. But as it was . . .
If Tony told the cops, probably all that would happen was his mom would beat the tar out of him.
His teeth were click-click-clicking again. Dawn was breaking but it wasn't getting any warmer.
"Let's go get something to eat," I said.
Tony's face brightened instantly. "Okay."
I looked up at the stone wall. "Oh phooey, now we have to climb this thing all over again."
"No, we don't," he announced cheerfully. From behind old Gideon's tombstone, he produced a long rope with a noose at one end. He threw it way up to the top of the gate, and on his very first try the noose settled around a spike at the top. Then he scampered up the rope, swung onto the wall, and jumped down to the ground on the other side. "Come on, Mr. Burns," he called out triumphantly, "it's a piece of cake!"
As I began the slow ascent up the rope—not the quick scamper that Tony had managed—I thought to myself: This kid's a resilient little bastard. A survivor.
At least I hoped so.
12
At that time of day—six a.m.—the only place where you can chow down in Saratoga is the Spa City Diner, on Route 9 next to the Greyhound station. Not exactly a four-star joint, but what the heck. We went back to my house, looking around to make sure no cop cars or TV vans were lurking. Then I grabbed my car and we zoomed on out.
I ordered pancakes, and so did Tony. Then we ordered some French toast for good measure. After we finished all that, we scarfed down a couple of jelly doughnuts. Hanging out in cold, dark cemeteries is a great way to build up an appetite.
By the time the jelly doughnuts had met their destiny, Tony and I were feeling warm and cheery, the world seemed like a happy place, and best of all, we had come up with A Plan.
Actually, two plans. One of our plans was a sneaky little hustle that we'd try to pull off tonight, if possible. The other, more immediate plan was to find Tony a temporary safe haven where he wouldn't have to live in fear of his mother's crack-induced mood swings. Or her boyfriends' sexual perversions, I thought to myself, remembering his comment in the cemetery.
Since it was already seven when we left the diner, I called Andrea. I figured the kids would be up already, and they'd be wondering where I was. And I was right. When Andrea picked up the phone with a tense "Hello," I could hear Babe Ruth and Gretzky—Leonardo and Raphael—bawling in the background. The kids had come into our bed at six-thirty, and when I wasn't there they decided I must be in jail again. They'd been freaking out for thirty minutes straight.
Andrea, her own voice edged with hysteria, yelled at me—totally justifiably, I knew—for not leaving a note saying where I was going. I said "I'm sorry" several times, in several different ways. But I still didn't tell her about Tony and the investigating I was doing. I figured that would just rile her up even more.
Then Andrea put our four year old on the phone. "Hi, Raphael," I said.
His frantic crying stopped, replaced by heavy breathing. Then I heard a gulp, then more heavy breathing, as he tried desperately to make himself relax.
"Sweetiepie," I told him, "I'm not in jail. I'm in a restaurant having breakfast. I'll be home just as soon as I finish eating."
Another gulp came over the phone, then Raphael said, "Daddy?"
"Yes, honey?"
"Do you think God made me love Ninja Turtles?"
What? If men are from Mars, and women are from Venus, then children are from some other galaxy entirely. "I don't know, kiddo. What do you think?"
"I think first God made me love dinosaurs, and then robots, and now Ninja Turtles. Because he has a magic invisible hand that makes you love things. And I think I'm going to love Ninja Turtles forever."
I had no idea what to say to that. But as so often happens when you don't know what to say, I ended up saying the exact perfect thing. "I love you forever, Raphael."
His breathing changed, and I could feel him turning calm. "And I love you forever, Daddy."
After Raphael and I got that squared away, and Leonardo got on the phone and asked me to bring him back a cinnamon doughnut, I took Tony to his new temporary home—Dennis O'Keefe's house.
Besides running the Arcturus youth group, Dennis also ran an emergency shelter for kids out of his home, a few blocks away from us on the West Side. He had two extra bedrooms for that purpose. I felt funny ringing his doorbell at seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, but hey, what are friends for?
When Dennis finally answered the door, he gave me a perplexed look. He scratched his beer belly—or given his years on the wagon, maybe I should say coffee belly—and declared, "Jacob Burns, I thought you were in jail." Tired though he must have been, his voice was startlingly loud in the early morning quiet. His T-shirt was loud too, with the old 60s slogan challenge authority written in canary yellow on a magenta background.
"No, they let me out on bail. This is my friend Tony—"
"Hey, Tony, what's up?" Dennis greeted him heartily, then turned back to me. "Jake, I want to be up front with you. The cops came around asking me questions, and I had to tell them the whole thing."
Now it was my turn to be perplexed. "What whole thing?"
"You know, how you came around with the petition, and you were saying Pop was criminal and ought to be shot—"
"What are you talking about?! I never said that!" Dennis just gave me a sad look. "If I did, I didn't mean it!"
"Hey, I had to tell them the truth—"
"For God's sake, Dennis—"
"My sobriety is dependent on it!" he announced firmly. I stared at him, exasperated. Sometimes I can't stand twelve-steppers—they get so sanctimonious. Dennis switched into earnest lecture mode, like I was an AA newcomer he was proselytizing. "If I start being deceitful and telling lies to people, then my mind gets all twisted and messed up. Pretty soon I'll be back to a pint of bourbon and a line of coke every morning when I wake up!"
I stepped forward into his face. "Dennis, screw you, and screw your sobriety."
I was so steamed up, I'd already begun walking away before I even remembered about Tony. "You got room for a kid?" I asked Dennis through gritted teeth. "Abuse, drugs, family in crisis, the whole megillah."
To his credit, Dennis was able to shift gears immediately. He stooped down to Tony's level. "Pretty bad, huh?" he asked the kid.
Tony nodded, his lower lip quivering. Dennis patted his shoulder. "Yeah, I got room. Come on in, Tony."
Then he opened the door for Tony and me to enter. "No, I'm going home," I told him.
"No hard feelings, Jake." He stuck out his hand. I didn't take it, but he seemed oblivious. "So what's the story anyway?" he asked. "Did Pop pull you out of bed and start popping you or something?" I just stood there, incredulous, and Dennis nodded to himself, as if my silence was confirming what he had just said. "Yeah, I figured it had to be something like that. Even with all the stuff you said to me about Pop, I knew you wouldn't just murder the guy in cold blood."
"Thanks for your confidence," I said dryly.
My sarcasm didn't seem to register. "No problem. Listen, buddy, if you want me to testify at the trial about what a nasty, violent sonufabitch he was, I'll be more than glad to. You
gonna try for manslaughter?"
I searched my mind for an incredibly snappy retort, but my internal hard drive crashed on me. Fortunately Tony stepped in. "Mr. Burns didn't kill Pop. He didn't."
"Thanks, kid," I rubbed his head. "I'm glad somebody believes me."
"I'll see you later," Tony said, anxious about my leaving.
I bent down and hugged him good-bye. "Don't worry, little guy, Dennis will take good care of you. He may have his head up his ass—but at least his heart's in the right place."
It wasn't a bad line to leave on. So I left.
I'm not a big fan of Wal-Mart. In fact, I hate everything about Wal-Mart—their ubiquitousness, their union busting, their bright fluorescent lights, their inanely smiling robotic employees.
So why is it that at least twice a month I find myself shopping there?
Today I had no choice. I mean, where else can you buy a video camera in small town, U.S.A., first thing on a Sunday morning?
To inflame my Wal-Mart fear and loathing even further, when I came in that day the store robots were in the middle of their morning cheer. From inside the manager's office, I heard the master robot call out, "Give me a W!" A chorus of perfectly synchronized robot voices shouted as one, "W!" Then the master called out, "Give me an A!" And the cheer continued until everyone yelled "WAL-MART!" in one wild robotic orgasm.
I bought the cheapest Taiwanese piece of junk I could find, since all I needed it for was tonight, for the sneaky hustle that Tony and I had concocted back at the Spa City Diner. An elderly woman robot showed me how to work the thing. "Will you be using it to videotape your children?" she asked, with an approving robot smile.
Just to knock her out of automaton mode, I told her the truth. "No, I'll be using it to blackmail my next door neighbor."
She didn't even blink. "How nice," she said. "Well, I'm sure you'll be happy with it. Is there anything else you'd like to purchase today?"
