by John Avery
Chapter 7
Creek Side Park
Michael St. John sat hunched over his computer, notes, papers, and books stacked high around him. His writing studio (defined by large bookcases stuffed with research materials) occupied one small corner of an enormous, luxury loft apartment that consumed the entire 4,000 sq ft top floor of a converted four-story Brownstone. After writing his first short story at the age of six, he discovered that he not only loved writing, but according to his first-grade teacher he had a talent for it as well. Now, thirty years later, he was considered a very successful novelist.
It was an arduous task for Michael to reach the depths of concentration necessary to coax his muse out of her robe and slippers, and today was one of those days when it just wasn't going to happen. He scrolled through his manuscript one last time, trying to get flowing again, but his muse simply laughed at him and put another log on the fire.
Frustrated, he highlighted the entire page of manuscript and hit DELETE. Then he stood up from his desk, closed his computer, and walked out the door.
– Michael exited his building through the underground garage, walking the steep driveway up to the street. He braced himself against a strong wind and bitter cold and thought about going back for a heavier coat, but he was afraid he'd end up back at the computer, so instead he just pulled up his collar and toughed it out.
As he crossed the street to Creek Side Park (a quaint inner-city park with a year-round stream that was showing signs of icing over), Michael could see the owner of his favorite hot dog and pretzel cart struggling with the cart's umbrella — its red, yellow, and green stripes a muddy blur and the whole thing in danger of helicoptering away in the wind. Michael trotted over and helped him tie the umbrella down, and the grateful man bought him a pretzel.
Michael took a seat on a nearby stone bench, brushed some of the salt from his pretzel, squeezed on a packet of mustard, and took a generous bite.
– A rustle in the bushes startled him. He stood and turned toward the sound, swallowing his mouthful whole. Unnerved, he pushed some leaves aside and was surprised to see a boy kneeling in the dirt.
Aaron was still in shock; he wasn't sure where he was or what he was doing there. He tried to crawl away, but a granite wall blocked his escape. Michael caught him by the arm, easily overpowering him.
"Easy there, cowboy," Michael said, lifting Aaron to his feet. "Aren't we a little old for hide-and-seek?"
Aaron was unable to find the humor in that. His mouth and chin were caked with blood, as were the strings of brown hair falling over his eyes. His sweatshirt and jeans were filthy and torn, revealing numerous cuts and bruises. He glanced around wildly, breathing rapidly through his nostrils. A thread of blood flowed from a purple gash across his left cheek bone, and he was very cold.
Michael eased his grip slightly. He could smell sweat, and fear. "What in God's name happened to you?" he said. "You're a mess
… your cheek, it's — "
Aaron turned away and winced in pain as he wiped his face on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, leaving a dark red streak on the gray fabric.
Michael was genuinely concerned for the boy. "Here," he said, gesturing toward the bench. "Sit down for a minute… It's okay."
Aaron looked around, nervous and frightened, shivering in the icy wind.
Michael saw him glance at his pretzel and said, "You must be starving. Let me get you something to eat. You want a hot dog?"
Aaron didn't answer, but his face said I'd die for a hot dog.
Michael helped him to the bench, then removed his jacket and draped it over the boy's shoulders. "Stay right here and don't move," he said. "I'll be back in a flash."
Aaron pulled Michael's jacket in close around him. The bizarre incident in the cannery occurred to him now as a strange, aching nightmare, but in his gut he knew there really was someone after him. He continued to scan the perimeter of the park as he sat alone on the cold, stone bench.
– Michael returned carrying a steaming hot dog that overflowed with ketchup, mustard and pickle relish. He took a seat next to Aaron and handed it to him.
"My name's Michael," he said, extending his hand.
Aaron cleared his throat and managed a response. "I'm Aaron," he said, feeling as if someone else had spoken for him. He shook Michael's hand with a grip that was limp and clammy.
Like a cold, dead fish, Michael thought, discreetly wiping his palm on his pants. It was obvious that the boy had been seriously traumatized.
"I know you're in some kind of trouble, Aaron," he said. "We should give your parents a call."
" No! " Aaron said quickly. He wasn't ready for that yet, and besides, Tom might be the one to answer. "My stepdad and I had a fight, okay? And they're not my parents. I mean my mother is — but my real dad died."
Michael knew there was a lot more to the story, but he took Aaron's hint and changed the subject.
"You live around here?" he asked.
Aaron thought for a moment then said honestly, "I'm not sure." Then he picked up the hot dog and bit off as big a bite as the pain in his face would allow, sending the classic American condiments squishing out from the corners of his mouth.
Michael looked over toward his apartment building. At street level, assorted signs identified small businesses that really had no business being in business. One of them had a small, green neon sign that read SALLY'S DINER.
"See that diner over there?" he asked, pointing.
Aaron followed his gaze and nodded.
"I live at the top of that building," Michael said. "Have you ever eaten there? At Sally's, I mean?"
Aaron shook his head and made a face that said Why would anyone want to? It looks disgusting.
Michael was amused by his reaction. "If you think Sally's looks bad," he said, "wait till you see the cook."
Aaron laughed a little, and it felt good. Michael felt better, too, having succeeded in lightening the mood.
"He's actually a nice guy," Michael explained, "and his food is surprisingly good. I say, if you don't get some greasy food in you once in a while — you know, to build your immunity — you'll probably die when you eat some by mistake."
Aaron laughed at the offbeat logic. "I believe that," he said, nodding.
Michael went on. "I work from home, so I end up down at Sally's a lot. Sometimes I go to eat… sometimes just to relax and get away from my work."
Michael had grown fond of the little diner over the years and to him its faults were its charms. And besides, he couldn't beat the convenience: a two minute walk from his loft — including the elevator ride.
"I'm surprised you don't weigh 600 pounds," Aaron said candidly, picturing a huge version of Michael bulging over a stool at the counter.
Michael laughed then smiled to himself as the boy opened up even more. "Lucky for me my metabolism is still cranked," he said. "I hear that once I hit forty, things will slow down, and Sally and I may have to part company."
Aaron smiled then finished the last few bites of his food with enthusiasm.
Michael tossed their wrappers in a nearby container and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Listen," he said. "I know I'm just a stranger, and this may sound a bit weird, but what kind of person would I be if I just sent you off into the night? I have the makings for hot chocolate upstairs and I thought you might be thirsty — and I guarantee it will warm you up."
Aaron thought the hot chocolate idea sounded pretty good. But it was kinda weird. It was bad enough to talk to strangers, but to go home with one? "Thank you," he said, "but I don't think that's a good idea."
Michael had anticipated Aaron's negative response. "Look," he said, "You have every right to be nervous. But it's okay. I could take a look at those cuts… and I have an arcade — or we could shoot some pool. Do you like pool?"
Aaron perked at that. He had always wanted to play pool. His real dad had promised to take him to play at the officer's club when he was old enough.
Look
at your choices, he thought, glancing around again. You can sit here on this bench in this park, exposed to the weather, or a shot in the head; or you can go somewhere warm and drink hot chocolate
… and play pool.
Michael sensed a shift. "A quick drink to warm you up, some first aid — maybe a game of pool, and you're on your way." He put his hands on his knees and sat up expectantly. "What do you say?"
Aaron's only other option was to go home and face Tom, and he considered it for a moment. But he decided his bones were bruised enough already and said, "I guess maybe one game wouldn't hurt."
– The white van was parked near Sally's Diner, across the street from Creek Side Park. Needles and Beeks watched in silence as Michael walked Aaron across the street on their way to his loft.
Chapter 8
The Perfect Gentleman
Willy Abbott jumped off his bike and bounded up the steps to Aaron's apartment — leaving his beach cruiser to ghost down the block a few yards, where it bounced off a bus bench and crashed to the sidewalk.
Fortunately for Willy, Tom had long since passed out, and Aaron's mom answered the doorbell. Willy did a double take — he hadn't seen Aaron's mom in a while and had forgotten how pretty she was. He noticed a bruise below her right eye that she'd obviously tried to cover with makeup.
"Hello, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "Aaron's not home by any chance, is he?"
"Oh — hi, Willy," she said, looking past him into the street. "I was hoping he was with you. He left on his bike during dinner and hasn't come home."
She checked her watch. 9:45 p.m.
"I'm starting to worry," she said, and then her heart was lifted by an idea. "What about your grandparents? Maybe they've heard from him."
Willy shook his head sadly. "Sorry, Mrs. Quinn," he said. "They wouldn't know it if Aaron walked in the house and sat on the couch with them."
Ashley cringed. "I'm sorry, Willy," she said. "Aaron never tells me anything."
Willy wasn't surprised — Aaron never told him anything either.
"I'd better go," he said. "I'm sure he'll show up." He was fibbing about the last part, but he hoped like everything it was true. He turned and trotted down the steps.
I hope you're right, Ashley said to herself, watching him leave. She liked Willy — he was always the perfect little gentleman. She called after him. "If you see him, send him home right away, okay?"
"Will do," Willy said, then with a little wave, "Good night, Mrs. Quinn."
Chapter 9
Gran Cavallo
The ancient, cage-style freight-elevator rattled its way toward the top floor of Michael's apartment building. Aaron grinned as pipes and cables rushed past his face, giving him an exhilarating sense of speed.
"This old elevator sold me on the property," Michael said. "My dad had one in the mill where he worked, and he'd let me ride it whenever I visited."
The cage jerked to a stop. Michael pulled on an oiled leather strap, raising the wooden gate that served as a door.
The elevator opened onto a spacious rooftop garden and a long, brick walkway canopied by a yachting-blue awning hung on heavy, polished-brass arches. The walkway was flanked by stone benches and large pots full of fresh flowers and lead to an exquisite pair of huge, hand-tooled copper doors.
Aaron stopped to check them out. The doors depicted a magnificent horse.
"That's Leonardo Da Vinci's Gran Cavallo," Michael explained, "the magnificent, twenty-four foot high clay equestrian model he completed in 1492. I found the doors in Milan and had them shipped back here by boat."
"I can't believe I've never heard of that," Aaron said, running his fingers over the highly detailed copper relief. He had read many accounts of Da Vinci's life, but none had mentioned this.
"It's an amazing story," Michael said. "The Gran Cavallo was one of Da Vinci's greatest and most unknown masterpieces. Seventy tons of bronze were set aside for the casting of that horse, but before De Vinci could use it, the precious bronze was sent off and used to make cannons. Then, in 1499, during France's invasion of Italy, French archers used Leonardo's beautiful clay model for target practice, dashing Da Vinci's hope of ever having it cast in bronze, and breaking his heart in the process."
He keyed in the entry alarm code and invited Aaron into his loft with a chivalrous bow and wave of his arm.
"That's an unbelievable story," Aaron said as he stepped through the doors. "To have something that is such a huge part of your life destroyed like that. It's sad."
Michael could relate. "It's very sad," he agreed.
Chapter 10
The Loft
Aaron's eyes went wide; never in his wildest dreams had he imagined living anywhere as cool as Michael's outrageous loft apartment. He stood in the entry area craning up at the high ceilings and admiring the eclectic blend of fine original artwork mixed with movie and exotic-car posters.
Next to him, from high in the rafters, a broad sheet of clear water flowed down the face of a polished travertine wall before disappearing into the floor. He poked his finger into the silvery fluid, creating a tiny arcing wave.
The loft was heated to a comfortable temperature. Michael carefully lifted his jacket from Aaron's shoulders and laid it over a chair.
"Take a look around," he said. "The hardwood floors and ceilings are original to the building, but the rest is mine. Oh, and if you need to use the restroom, there are three to choose from." He indicated the doors, each in a separate corner of the loft, then walked over to the kitchen to start a kettle of water.
Aaron didn't know where to begin. In one corner of the enormous space was a classic arcade with pinball machines, console video games, a bowling machine, a dartboard, a chessboard, candy and drink vending machines, and in honor of 21st century technology, a replica 1950s era jukebox with 10 °CD capacity, iPod jack, and surround-sound speakers.
Another area was outfitted as a gym, with a basketball hoop (with regulation key), a full-size trampoline, a weight machine, a treadmill, a stationary-bike, and a weight-bench surrounded by free-weights.
In a far corner, Michael had set up a music studio equipped with a dozen vintage guitars and amps, a pro drum kit, and an array of keyboards. The digital recording console had an immense, automated mixing board and was fitted with a pair of the biggest display monitors Aaron had ever seen.
"Your loft… it's incredible!" he said.
Michael smiled and nodded — he was proud of his success.
He washed and dried his hands then removed a first aid kit from a drawer, opened it, and laid a few items out on the large granite island. "Come on over and sit down for a second," he said. "But wash your hands first."
As Aaron washed up, he found scratches on the backs of his hands that he hadn't noticed under all of the grime. Damn dog, he thought, as a brief, frightening image of the manic animal jumped in and out of his mind. Then he took a seat on a stool by the island.
Michael cleaned Aaron's cuts and abrasions and applied antiseptic, gauze and tape. "That should do the trick," he said.
Aaron stood, feeling renewed. He smiled at Michael, grateful for the man's kindness.
– While Michael straightened up his mess, Aaron walked across the loft to a wall of glass that provided a spectacular view of the city. He could see Creek Side Park and the post lanterns sparkling off the icy water flowing in the stream. In the distance he could see the Community Plaza Bank building and the lights in his middle-school parking lot.
Michael walked over to a cozy sitting area carrying a tray with two cups of hot chocolate. "Have a seat and help yourself," he said, gesturing toward the sofa. He set the tray on the large ottoman and returned to the kitchen.
Aaron sank into the glove-soft leather, then laid his head back and closed his eyes for a moment. The day's disturbing events simmered in his skull like beef stew over an open fire, blending together into a thick broth, no single event standing out from the rest. He opened his eyes and leaned forward to hook his finger into a cup of c
hocolate, then took a cautious sip of the steaming beverage.
Michael returned with some brownies and napkins and sat down in an overstuffed chair. "I'm sorry to hear about your father," he said.
Aaron nodded politely. "I was nine when he died," he said. "He was killed while serving in Afghanistan." He couldn't help but recall that dreadful night four years earlier when the doorbell rang: It was around midnight, and he and his mother had both been asleep. He'd been too young to understand why she held his hand so tightly as they walked down the stairs to answer the door. He remembered the look on her face when she saw the notifying officer and the medic. The despair in her eyes. The loneliness. The terror. She had known why they had come.
"I'm very sorry," Michael said.
Aaron took a bite of brownie and grinned, revealing a row of chocolate teeth. "These brownies are amazing," he mumbled.
"You can thank the bakery counter," Michael said.
Aaron chuckled and took another bite.
"Are you ready to shoot some eight-ball?" Michael asked. He stood and walked over to his custom-made, tournament-size table. "I always say, if you want to feel normal, do something normal."
"Okay," Aaron said, wiping his mouth and hands with a napkin. "What's eight-ball?"
"Don't tell me you've never played pool before," Michael said as he filled the rack with balls.
Aaron didn't say anything.
"Well, it's time you learned," Michael said.
Aaron came over and picked up the glossy cue ball, then rolled it across the table's smooth blood-red baize. It careened off three cushions and came to rest inches from his hand. He marveled at the mysterious physics at work and thought of the pioneering mathematicians who wrote the first theorems defining it.
Suddenly a different image popped into Aaron's head.
"Shit," he said — a word meant for himself, but accidentally spoken out loud.
