The Counterfeit Father: A Tony Pandy Mystery (Book 1)

The Counterfeit Father: A Tony Pandy Mystery (Book 1) Page 5

by PV Lundqvist

  #$%#!

  “Hawes back…seriously?” Tony asked.

  “One condition. His. He said he has to hear the right things from you first.”

  (He can hear all the left things, too!)

  “When’s he coming?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Tony would have to prepare. What would he say? What did Hawes want to hear? Could he help Tony figure out the fake trust?

  So much to do. No time to lounge around in bed.

  “Angelita!”

  - 7 -

  From the front gate to the front door, the estate’s cameras followed Hawes’ progress on his black motorcycle. Once the health aide was out front, dropping his kickstand, Tony spotted the road rash on the muffler.

  Hawes had mentioned the scrapes before, saying they were the result of dumping the bike.

  (That didn’t sound safe.)

  Whether by him or a previous owner was never mentioned. The bike certainly didn’t look new. Neither did the helmet Hawes hung from the handlebars by the chinstrap. Stenciled over one ear flap were the words BRAIN BUCKET.

  Like he’d done it himself.

  Tony wheeled himself back to his computer and refreshed the screen. This was the last little bit of preparation he had for his meeting with Hawes.

  (The blackmail.)

  Whenever Tony wanted to find out incriminating information about people, his go-to website was Dirt Diggers Unlimited. Learned that trick from his dad.

  As long as you clicked a box saying that you had permission (wink, wink), you could investigate criminal records on anybody. And Dirt Diggers didn’t have to know his check-writing father wasn’t check writing anymore.

  He had to wonder if his mom knew about this site. She hired Hawes the same day as the interview—so probably not. Maybe Dad was her henchman that way? Doing the dirty work.

  Not that Tony wasn’t otherwise prepared. He had found out many things about Hawes since last night, such as where his caregiver was from.

  (West Virginia.)

  Whether Hawes was his first name or last name.

  (Last.)

  School he graduated from.

  (Upton College.)

  What he studied.

  (Physical therapy with a minor in counseling).

  There were mentions of him in local newspapers. A paper drive. Selling candy for a no kill shelter.

  (Boy scouts would kill for his rep.)

  Lettering in track in high school.

  (OF COURSE HE DID.)

  He also had profiles on Facebook and Therapy Connect.

  But no dirt.

  And not having anything to hold over Hawes meant that Tony didn’t have the upper hand. Hawes could walk away whereas he needed him. And vulnerability made Tony very, very cranky.

  He refreshed the screen again. Still no report.

  The front door camera activated and followed Hawes up the porch stairs.

  Until Hawes noticed, that is.

  Staring at the camera, he took two steps back. Two forward. Ducked. Weaved. Then he framed his face with both hands and said, “Cheese”— and raced to the front door.

  The doorbell rang out the theme to GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS!

  Tony buzzed him in, and soon there was the heavy stomp of boots running up stairs.

  (Rubbing it in.)

  A moment later there was a knock on Tony’s bedroom door.

  “Come in.”

  Hawes made a show of checking out the ceiling. “Making sure no cameras.” He smiled and snapped his gum.

  (Always with the gum.)

  “Mom said you were back.”

  “Yes! Well, maybe. We need to talk first.”

  Tony mimicked his mother. “You have to ‘hear the right things.’”

  “Yeah.” His smile faded away.

  “For instance?”

  “Like you promising not to lie to me again.”

  Tony paced with his wheelchair. “Like you’ve never lied.”

  “You don’t have to be a saint on stained glass to call someone out on their vices, Tony.”

  “Manipulating people is the Pandy way!”

  “There you go again,” Hawes said, hands on his hips, “acting like it’s something to be proud of.”

  “Don’t you want to know why my mother wants to hire you back?”

  “She told me you weren’t doing so hot.”

  “I’d say.” Tony stopped pacing. “Since you’ve been gone, I’ve found out my mother doesn’t own the socks she’s wearing, and a lawyer is threatening to kick me out of my own home.”

  Hawes dropped himself into the leather side chair. “No foolin’?”

  “My question, exactly. Help me find out.”

  Hawes pointed over at Bony. “I’m not working for someone who treats me worse than their pet monkey.”

  “Why would you then?”

  “Why would I then? Are you for real?”

  “Yes.” Tony was genuinely not understanding what Hawes was getting at. “What’s it going to take?”

  “You act like there isn’t a reason for me to be here besides whatever carrot or stick you can dream up.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Why is it so hard to imagine you might be worth my time?”

  Tony felt his lower lip jut out.

  Quiver even.

  This meeting was NOT going like he had planned.

  “Well?” Hawes asked, in a softer tone.

  The words came out before Tony could take them back. “I’m defective.”

  “Tony—”

  “It’s true.” Anger flashed over him. He couldn’t hold the words back if he tried. “My body’s turned against me. My mother can’t bear to see her failure—”

  “Tony!”

  His eyes stung. “Why WOULD anyone want to be with me?”

  “Lots of reasons. You’re smart, funny—”

  Tony pounded on his armrest. “Quit buttering me up!”

  “On the other hand, you’re insensitive, rude, and amazingly arrogant.”

  The turnabout made Tony laugh. “I prefer the term supercilious.”

  “And use words I didn’t know exist. But decent underneath.”

  Tony backed his wheelchair away. “I’ve fooled you.”

  “No, you fooled me about having your mother’s permission. But I know you in your heart.”

  Tony’s eyes fell back on his computer screen. Block letters blinked back at him: RESULTS FOUND.

  Results meant a finding.

  A finding meant something bad about Hawes.

  Tony fidgeted his wheelchair back and forth. One click of the retinal mouse and he would know.

  “So what’s it going to be, Tony? Trust me or keep lying to me?”

  A pop up window displayed the words VIEW REPORT?

  Then again, it could be something harmless. A missed credit card payment. Someone with a similar name.

  The chances of that?

  The same as getting Bonaparte to deliver a soda.

  (If I look, I’ll use it.)

  The same way he did with Tu. Now Tony couldn’t get the Asian groundskeeper to look at him without sneering.

  “What’s it going to be, Tony?”

  Hawes wanted to hear the right things. That’s what his mother had said. Worse, he wanted Tony to believe those things.

  Tony flipped up his retinal mouse. “I trust you.”

  “Good.” Hawes chewed on his gum. “You know, for a start.”

  The pop up window refreshed. There were multiple reports.

  Tony put his eyes back on Hawes. “Um—”

  Hawes held up a hand. “I’ve got more. You have to agree to my treatment plan, with the exercise and dietary requirements.”

  “Are you serious?” Tony was back to feeling vulnerable.

  Hawes folded his arms. “Those are my terms.”

  Hawes, who runs up stairs.

  Hawes, who rides a motorcycle.

  Hawes, who can do most anything. />
  (I’ll show him.)

  Tony flipped down his retinal mouse and locked on to the computer screen. One blink, and the reports would be his.

  Hesitated.

  (Decent underneath.)

  That’s what Hawes said about him.

  Attempting to blackmail Hawes into helping didn’t feel very ‘decent underneath.’

  Tony looked back at his health aide. Hawes was still chewing his gum. Waiting.

  It’s the Pandy way, he thought.

  (Shut up.)

  Tony closed the pop-up window. All that research now just bits and bytes lost on the Internet.

  “Well?” Hawes asked.

  “I accept your terms.”

  “Okay!” Hawes clapped his hands together. “I mean, okay.”

  “Surprised?”

  “To be honest with you—”

  “If you must.”

  “Your mother warned me you never, ever give in.”

  “We don’t have to tell her,” Tony replied, finding himself smiling. “She hates to be proven wrong.”

  “Runs in the family.”

  “Not at all. I LOVE to be proven wrong.” Tony fluffed up his mohawk. “It’s just that I so seldom get that pleasure.”

  Hawes horse-snorted. He caught his gum before it landed on his pants. Stuck the wad under the sideboard.

  “Hey!” Tony complained.

  “It’s for laters.” Hawes grinned. “So what do we have to do to get this lawyer to back off?”

  “Show him I’m functional.”

  “I can do that. First—”

  “First, help me prove whether the trust is real.”

  - 8 -

  Hawes pushed the side chair over to Tony’s computer. He hunched forward, pecking out letters on the keyboard like he had never seen one before. “Why am I doing the typing?”

  “Faster than me and my retinal mouse.”

  Although that was becoming debatable. Hawes was still working on his second word, and it was a preposition.

  “Didn’t you have papers to type in school?” Tony asked.

  “Thumbed them on my phone, and sent it over to URsecretary dot com to make it all grammary.”

  Tony made a mocking face. “I can’t BELIEVE I put you in charge of my collegiate experience.” He read what Hawes had typed. “And you’re wasting your time. I’ve done a thousand searches with those exact same keywords.”

  “Okay.” Hawes took his hands off the keyboard. “Let’s think about this. What do we know? Mr. and Mrs. Tedward Pandy don’t own the estate. Right?”

  “That’s what the lawyer says.”

  “And you think he could be lying?”

  “Like a mattress.”

  Hawes sighed. “And every bit of information we have comes from the lawyer. So we got nothing.” He idly tapped on the keyboard. nnnnn appeared on the screen. “Okay, let’s look at it another way. Start with the idea that this trust is real.”

  Tony leaned forward. “Which leads us to?”

  “Why not just go along with the lawyer’s directions? If it’s a goof, it won’t hurt, and if real, will save your home.”

  “Like Pascal’s wager,” Tony said.

  “Pasquale?”

  “Pascal. A philosopher. He said something similar about the belief in God. If He exists and you don’t believe in Him, you’re barbeque for all eternity. But if you do believe, you have nothing to lose. Pascal reasoned you might as well pretend to believe.”

  Hawes tapped the ‘n’ some more. “I don’t know, Tony. I think God would know if you’re bluffing.”

  “Says you,” Tony wisecracked. “Even if I believed the trust was real, and I don’t, the lawyer has every reason to find me non-functional. Mom turned down his request for more money, and he’s been a Sasquatch ever since.”

  “Sounds like your excuse for not trying.”

  Tony made a face. “You have a better excuse for not trying?”

  “No, because I think you should. Have you read his letters?“

  “Emails. Not a one.”

  “You’re blowing off the one guy who controls your inheritance?”

  “Who says he controls my inheritance. Big difference.”

  Hawes turned to the computer screen. “Back to finding out whether this trust is real, then.” He hunted and pecked amongst the keys. Hit RETURN.

  “Ha, you misspelled it,” Tony said.

  “Dangit!”

  “Two ‘f’s in Hofflove.”

  “You sure?”

  Images started showing up based on the original search.

  (Couldn’t be.)

  “Hawes? Click on that girl in the bikini.”

  “Is this really the time for girly pics?”

  “Just do it.”

  She looked so much like…

  “Mom!” Tony’s hand went to his mouth.

  Hawes disagreed. “Tag says ‘Gwendolyn.’”

  “Remove the ‘G’ and add twenty years, and that’s my mother.”

  Tony looked over at the intercom. The activation light was off.

  (Mom’s not listening.)

  ”What does the caption say about her?” Tony asked.

  Hawes shook his head. “This might not be a good idea.”

  “Read it.”

  Hawes sighed. “‘Well-known groupie to the stars—”

  “What’s a groupie?”

  “A really, really big fan. Someone so into a band or celebrity they might want to meet them.” Hawes moused over some images, looking around. “Was Hoflove—with one ‘f’, by the way—your mother’s maiden name?”

  Tony shook his head. “Nilstrom. Never heard of Hoflove.”

  Hawes clicked on a picture of a banner hanging from an interstate overpass. It read, HOUSTON LOVES HO LOVE!

  “Huh,” Hawes said. “Now with no ‘f’.’”

  “Kinda sounds dirty.”

  Hawes typed HO LOVE into the search box. “No such luck. It was a nickname of a band.” He zoomed in on an entry on RockToday’s website and pointed to the first word. “HostagesOfLove, often shortened to HoLove or HofLove.”

  “Wiki them.”

  Hawes typed in his search. Pictures of band members and album covers appeared. The one that caught Tony’s eye was a black and white photo of a long haired guy with the word MISSING printed diagonally across his face.

  “Who is that?”

  Hawes straightened up. “Let’s stop for a second, here.”

  “Why?”

  “We might find out something that you might regret knowing.”

  (Like criminal records?)

  But Tony didn’t share that thought.

  “All I’m saying is,” Hawes said, “what’s hidden in the sock drawer might be best stayin’ there.”

  “I’m unafraid of socks. Tell me.”

  Hawes sighed again. “Says here, name’s Dallas Merullo. Singer, songwriter.” Snapped his fingers. “Now I remember. He killed himself or something.”

  There was a list of songs by the band: ‘Cyber Angel’, ‘Number’s Up’, ‘Tears of Frankenstein,’ ‘Wendy’.

  “Wendy,” Tony said. “That’s my mom’s name.”

  Hawes scrolled some more. “I don’t know how to break it to you, but he wrote songs for other girls too. There’s a song called Marianna Trench.”

  Tony did his best to not laugh out loud. “That’s the name of an undersea canyon.”

  “Oh…I knew that.”

  “You so did not.”

  Hawes ignored Tony and read from the wiki. “‘His estate was called Seahome.’ Isn’t that what’s written—”

  “On the front gate of this property. Yes.”

  The reveals were stringing together as quickly as Tony’s life story was unraveling. “Why did he choose that name, I wonder?”

  “Now you’re curious.” Hawes searched the web. “Shoulda guessed. It was also the name of Lord Byron’s ancestral home, once upon a time. Rom rockers loved their Byron.”

  A thou
ght was slowly forming in Tony’s head. Hawes looked uncomfortable as well.

  “I suppose…” Tony began.

  “Could mean nothing.”

  “But why would a defunct band…”

  “Form a trust…”

  “And give their ex-groupie…”

  “But not really give it to her…”

  “Does that mean…?” Tony didn’t dare say it.

  “Let’s not go full-on crazy yet.”

  “That would explain why Tedward didn’t give me anything in his will. Why would a fake dad give his fake son anything?”

  “Orrr,” Hawes said, while waving his hand around indicating the estate, “he could have thought you were already well provided for.”

  “Either way, if Tedward isn’t my real father that means…he lied to me.”

  Hawes shot his eyebrows up and down. “I’m tempted to say something really mean right here.”

  “Like we’re a family of liars, so why should I be surprised?”

  “Something like that, yeah.” Hawes typed some more. “Hurts, don’t it?”

  (So would a two hundred pound wheelchair running over your foot.) But Tony didn’t say anything.

  Hawes indicated the screen full of weblinks. “Maybe we’ll catch a clue if we find out more about Merullo.”

  “Pick any video. I have to know if there’s a resemblance.”

  Hawes moused over a clip. “Here’s an interview.” He sped past the intro.

  “What’s up with his hair?” Tony asked.

  “I dunno. Scissor fight?”

  Hawes pressed PLAY at about the middle of clip. The lead singer of the HostagesOfLove was speaking. “I consider myself a poet. The music is just the vessel that carries my words to the people.”

  “Hit pause.” Tony back and forthed his wheelchair. “He CAN’T be my father. What a self-important—”

  Hawes laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, really. Whaaat?”

  “You’re right—nothing of him in you.” Snicker, snort.

  “Pick another video.”

  “Here’s a clip in concert.”

  The video was blurry, and the stage lights gave the scene an eerie glow.

  “What’s he doing?” Tony asked. “Jumping? Spazzing?”

  “I think it’s supposed to be dancing.”

  Tony leaned in to the speakers to hear the lyrics. “Is he singing, ‘I want to wear you like a MAS-OO-RATI?’”

  “Yup,” Hawes confirmed. “You try grooving to that at a junior high dance without getting suspended.”

  “Ugh, vulgar pop star. No way he’s my dad.” Tony looked up at his poster of deGrasse Tyson, pointing to Saturn. “How could I come from that, Neil?”

  “Maybe he had smarter songs.” Hawes indicated a list down the left side of screen. “He had three albums.”

  Tony read out the titles: “Bleeding Hearts Ew. Tears of Frankenstein—’”

  “Bunch of hits on that one,” Hawes said.

  “And Apocalyptical Ouroboros,”

  “’Apocalyptical means ‘end of the world,’” Hawes said. “That one I know. But what’s an ouroboros?”

  “A snake eating its own tail. Symbol of eternity, or self destruction. Take your pick.”

  Hawes laughed to himself. “Using words nobody else understands. Check.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Tony ignored the teasing. “Pick a song from that one.”

  “H’okay.”

  The video played. They heard Dallas sing, “Cyber angel, your path is clear…” Freaky organ music and some sort of synthesized drum, and like a thousand violins joining in on the chorus.

  “Where is he?” Tony asked. “I see the rest of the band but not—”

  “There.”

  Hawes paused the video on a blurry image of a man in a top hat with brim turned upwards.

  That wasn’t what Tony noticed. “He’s leaning on a cane.”

  Hawes looked Tony’s wheelchair up and down. “You thinking he had the same thing you got? Maybe. Or it could be because of a skiing accident or—knowing rom rockers—that’s where he keeps his sword hidden.”

  Tony put his finger on the screen. “Click on that artwork.”

  “Back cover? Sure.”

  Set in an oval, the picture was only of instruments—no people. And a cane leaning up against a speaker.

  “What ended up happening to Merullo?” Tony asked.

  “Said he went ‘missing.’”

  Tony waved his hands around. “There has to be more!”

  Hawes searched around. “The Newbridgeport Gazette has a story. Says he—”

  “Zoom it.” Tony wanted to read it for himself.

  (Local) At 8am it was reported to town police that Dallas Merullo had failed to return from an overnight sail.

  “Boat was called the Giovanni,” Hawes said. “Mean anything to you?”

  “There’s Don Giovanni.”

  “Someone you know?”

  “Not exactly. It’s the name of an opera by Mozart.”

  “And you think the same guy who wrote ‘I want to wear you like a Maserati’ is into fat ladies singing in Viking helmets?”

  Tony rolled his eyes. “Mozart’s the same time period as Lord Byron. It fits that a rom rocker would be into that.”

  Hawes twitched his mouth around. “What’s the opera about?”

  “This jerk who ends up fooling around with a bunch of girls, killing a guy, and getting dragged down to Hell.”

  “Sounds interesting, actually. I might check it out.”

  “It’s all in Italian.”

  “Dangit!”

  Tony read further. HostagesOfLove had just come off a concert tour to benefit war-torn refugees in Liongo, Africa. Some people had criticized Merullo’s participation as support for that country’s president, Paix Zimbolist.

  (Paix.)

  Where had Tony heard that name before?

  The computer technician, Kwame. His middle name. But that has to be coincidence. The Serengeti could be full of Paixs.

  “Never heard of the country of Liongo,” Hawes said.

  “That’s because it doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Invaded by a neighbor, I think. Before I was born.”

  Hawes went back to the wiki entry about the rock star and read aloud: “After seven years, Dallas Merullo was declared dead. The Giovanni was never recovered.” He straightened up and stretched out his arms. “That solves one mystery.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Remember, running around the estate on the first day? Dock, but no boat. Hangar, but no plane—”

  “Wheelchair, but no ramp. So what?”

  “That’s because this estate wasn’t built for your parents. It was for Dallas Merullo. He must have had those things.”

  Tony adjusted his cannula. The inside of his nose was irritated. “I never should have looked in the sock drawer.”

  “I done told you.”

  “Then again,” Tony added, turning whimsical, “everyone knows how unreliable the Internet can be.”

  “Oh, yeah.” Hawes played along. “Could be totally off. Called your mother a groupie!”

  “Yeah.”

  The silence grew awkward.

  (Mom’s got some explaining to do.)

  “Does it say if he had any children?” Tony asked.

  Click. Scroll. Tap. “Unknown.”

  “I wonder if something of his could still be here. On grounds.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “This is where he lived. Created his music. Where he cast off with the Giovanni.” Never to return.

  (Attic, maybe?)

  Tony had never been up there. Cellar? An outbuilding? It’s not like Tony had been over every inch of the property. Tu’s hut? Tony had never been there, ever. He always assumed that it was a glorified tool shed with a bed. And
then there was the hangar. Supposed to be empty, but was it really? The old barn…the list was endless.

  “If he is my real dad—”

  “As opposed to—”

  “Fake dad.”

  “Can we stop with these unhelpful labels, please?”

  “I don’t care. I’ve spent my whole life making fun of people for believing nonsense. And here I am, the biggest fool of them all.”

  “There’s no shame in being lied to.”

  “‘Hurts, don’t it.’ Said it yourself.” Tony moved on to his original thought. “If Merullo did start this trust, he must have thought about this moment.”

  “That moment being?”

  “Me, figuring it out.”

  “What do you expect to find? A letter? ‘Dear Tony, I always knew you’d find this by the loose paving stone by the old well?’”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  Though that was pretty close to what he thought, to be honest.

  Hawes stood up. “Merullo may have anticipated this moment, sure, but ran out of time. Didn’t plan on his boat springing a leak.”

  Tony whirred his chair in a circle. “I don’t know who I am. Who am I?”

  “What kind of question is that? The same guy you ever were.”

  “How possibly?” Tony let out a sigh.

  “Or why possibly,” Hawes asked, pointing to the bank of surveillance monitors, “is that red light blinking?”

  That was the motion detector for the front gate.

  Tony got out his tablet and used it to access the gate camera.

  There was the lawyer, Dorchester Foulke, and some sort of policeman with a star pinned on his chest instead of a shield.

  The officer was carrying a piece of paper with a seal and took a dramatic step forward like he was trying to stamp down some turf on the outside of the estate’s gates.

  “You might want to read those emails, Tony.”

  - 9 -

  FROM: Dorchester Foulke, Esq.

  TO: Wendolyn Pandy

  CC: Anthony Pandy

  SUBJECT: Outrageous Behavior

  Dear Sir/Madam:

  All correspondence from this office has been rebuffed. That includes email, certified mail, and private courier.

  (So glad I took control of the front gate.)

  In fact, not a single reply of any sort has been received by me or any of my associates.

  Reading along, Hawes began to sputter. “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.”

  The original deadline for compliance with the HofLove Trust was Anthony Pandy’s date of birth, the 30th of April. This office no longer believes honoring this deadline would be salutary.

  “Salutary?” Hawes asked.

  “Worthwhile.”

  Therefore, because of other pressing matters, I will be advancing the deadline to—

  “That’s today!” Hawes’ eyes bugged out.

  Being that no permanent trustee has thus far been named, this change of date is within my purview.

  “Purview?”

  “He gets to.”

  If the trust’s stipulations have not been met by that date, eviction will proceed immediately.

  D Foulke

  “He writes like a spambot,” Tony said.

  Hawes rubbed at his face. “Perfect. Pick on the goober for only wanting you to return a gosh-darn email.”

  “Demanded.”

  “So what? He controls your everything, Tony!”

  “I didn’t know that then.”

  Tony activated the gate camera and turned the microphone on. Zeroed in on Dorchester Foulke.

  Tony said through the gate speaker, “We’re closed for the day, but please feel free to visit our gift shop. ‘Seahome, for all your sea needs.’”

  Foulke frowned. “We’re not here for juvenile levity.” He flicked a finger at the uniformed man beside him. “Sheriff Donaldson? Proceed.”

  The lawman stepped forward and read from a document. “You are hereby informed of notice of eviction, and notice to vacate the premises immediately.” Stepped back.

  It took Tony only a few seconds to find the right sound effect on his computer.

  RUNNING WATER.

  “I’m in the shower!” Tony yelled. “Can you come back in July?”

  The sheriff put a hand to his mouth. Hiding a grin, or outrage, it was hard to tell.

  Hawes turned off the microphone. “This is serious, Tony.” He turned it back on so Foulke could hear him. “Hawes, here. I have a question. Don’t you have to, like, give us thirty days or something?”

  The lawyer spoke. “That’s for rental property. The owner of this property does not recognize you as anything other than trespassers.” He shared a look with the sheriff. “Besides, it’s been thirty days since the trust made its requirements known. And, Master Pandy, not one bit of progress has been made, has it?”

  Tony began to speak, but Hawes cut the mic. “Tony, unless you want those guys dragging you out the front door, you better think of something better than smart alecky.”

  Tony jerked his wheelchair back and forth, thinking.

  (This situation is like some sick joke.)

  What do you give a boy in a wheelchair with a terminal illness for his birthday?

  Homelessness.

  Hawes turned the microphone back on. “Mr. Foulke, could you explain why you’re advancing the deadline by two days?”

  Foulke briefly looked down at the tassels of his shoes as if the answer might be written there. “Pressing matters.”

  “What could be more pressing than this?”

  “Ahh, of a personal nature.”

  That annoyed Hawes. “Surely there has to be someone else who can be here on Saturday?”

  “The trust mandates that I handle this matter personally. And I will be out of the country on the actual date.”

  “Doing what?” Tony asked, with a side order of attitude.

  “It’s my thirtieth wedding anniversary, if you must know. The wife and I will be taking a non-refundable cruise to the Bahamas.”

  The sheriff laughed out loud. Foulke’s laser-stare melted him where he stood.

  “Well,” Tony began, “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience that. Let me pack up my hobo stick and quit bothering you.”

  Foulke had a face on him like he was expecting that morning’s breakfast to make a return trip. “Nonsense. If you had read my emails, you would understand that a hospital bed has been secured for you at a hospice…”

  (Great, where people go to die.)

  “…therefore, you will have a place to go.”

  Tony looked up at Hawes. “Any ideas?”

  Hawes nodded and spoke into the microphone. “As Tony’s appointed treatment professional…”

  (Go, Hawes, go!)

  “I say this is…not cool.”

  (No, Hawes, no.)

  Tony tried his own gambit. “You still have to measure my functionality, correct?”

  “And that day is today,” Foulke said with annoyance.

  “Which means what, specifically?”

  “Ahh, the ability to travel through your TOTAL environment. To this counsel’s satisfaction.”

  Tony turned off the microphone. Spoke to Hawes. “When can you have the stairlift put in?”

  “Got all the parts downstairs. But, Tony, I was going to have a craftsman put that in—”

  Tony waved off that sentence. “What about getting me around outside the estate?”

  “Handivan arrives tomorrow.”

  Tony flicked the microphone back on. “I’m going to hold you to the original deadline. Two days from now.”

  Hawes whispered, “He said ‘no’ to that already.”

  Tony had the Science of Deal Making on the high shelf with his other books. Ask for more than what you want to get what you need.

  Dorchester screwed one eye closed and took aim at the camera with the other. “Twenty-four hours. No more.”

  “Deal.”

  Tony high fived Hawes.r />
  Foulke wasn’t done talking, however. “At that time there will be a live demonstration of your functionality. Either the eviction takes place or the trust’s conditions will have been met. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Tony said. He began to back up his wheelchair.

  Hawes’s tapped him on the shoulder. “What are they doing now?”

  The camera showed the sheriff unrolling thick yellow tape from one pillar of the front gate to the other. It read, POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS.

  “What’s that for?” Tony asked into the microphone.

  The sheriff answered. “Nobody will be allowed to enter these premises until the notice is lifted.”

  Hawes asked the next question. “What about leave?”

  “Oh, you can leave,” Foulke answered. “Just never to return.”

  Tony turned off the surveillance cameras.

  The screens went black. And with them, the audio.

  There was only the sound of Bony scurrying around in his cage.

  Hawes spoke first. “No craftsman, that means.”

  “No handivan, that means.”

  “We’re skunked, that means.”

  Bony chittered in agreement. Or it could have been because his food bowl was empty. Take your pick.

  “Do we have any other vehicle on hand?” Tony asked with an uncommon tone to his voice.

  Wishful.

  Hawes shook his head. “Nothing but my bike and Tu’s Honda.”

  “Tu could loan us his car.”

  Hawes shook his head. “It’s in the garage. He asked me for a ride from there, this morning.”

  Fantasies of handmade go-carts went through Tony’s head.

  “How far would a vehicle need to be able to take me?”

  “Credibly? At least get from the estate to, say, the nearest town.”

  (So, no go-carts.)

  “Back to skunked.”

  “So frustrating,” Hawes said. “You’re sitting on, what? Millions of dollars? A hangar without a plane, a dock without a boat—”

  A grin spread across Tony’s face. “A barn without a cow.”

  “What of it?”

  “Yet full of cars.”

  Hawes was pushing Tony in his wheelchair, up hill, on the road leading to the barn.

  He was breathing hard.

  “Had to. Come. Didn’t you?”

  Tony banged out a beat on his armrest like he was setting the pace. “We’ve only got till tomorrow!”

  Hawes took a big breath. “I coulda called you or spoke to you from one of those camera-thingies all around here.”

  “This is my life. I won’t sit back and watch it on television.”

  Once past the pond, Hawes left the road and picked a path through the high grass. Soon they were at the barn’s sliding double doors.

  Tony pointed to the sagging roof. “That doesn’t look good.”

  “And daylight between the boards,” Hawes added. “Whatever’s in here has been exposed to the elements.”

  Hawes unlatched the metal hasp. A screechy sound came off the runners as he pushed open the sliding doors. There were whiffs of oil and gasoline, and tarps were hiding a dozen mounds of the unknown.

  “You’ll never get my wheelchair in there.”

  Hawes nodded in agreement.

  The barn was dark, even with all the daylight coming through.

  “Dangit,” Hawes said. “Forgot a flashlight.”

  Tony handed him his tablet. “Try this.”

  Hawes waded inside the barn using the tablet as a light.

  After a minute or so, Tony heard Hawes say, “Hellooo, what’s this?” There was the sound of fabric against metal, as if a tarp was removed. “Looks like a ‘67 Corvette…”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “Up on blocks, though. No tires.”

  Tony unleashed a sigh. “See what else you can find.”

  The tablet’s screen lit up the ceiling.

  “The heck?” Hawes asked.

  What looked like a glider with ribbed wings, complete with leather straps and metal buckles, hung from a cross beam. Like something Leonardo da Vinci would have dreamed up.

  “I’m not flying out of here, Hawes.”

  “Hey, this was your idea. Weren’t you the one who told me your father—”

  “Fake father.”

  Hawes ignored him. “…never completed a one of those?”

  Tony shrugged. “If you don’t have a bale, you grasp at straws.”

  “I’m grasping, I’m grasping. And what’s with the farming metaphors?”

  “You’re the one from Virginia,” Tony said, bluffing.

  “West Virg—Dangit! You got it out of me.”

  Little by little, Tony hoped to get Hawes to give up information about himself. That way he wouldn’t accidentally reveal his snooping.

  How Tony could get Hawes to blurt out the dirtier details, he had no idea.

  Hawes sidestepped past a work bench and a rack of tools. Stopped short.

  He whistled—one long, one short.

  “What?” Tony was too far to see.

  “A genuine 1947—no ‘48—Indian Chief.”

  “A squatter?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  A tarp went flying. Heavy objects got shoved and heaved. Finally, Hawes walked this ‘Indian Chief’ out the barn door.

  What might have once been cherry-red and cream with chrome trim was now pitted and faded.

  “A motorcycle,” Hawes said, in case Tony couldn’t figure it out.

  “A motorcycle,” Tony echoed, not hiding his disappointment.

  Hawes spun the bike around on flat tires for the reveal.

  “With sidecar.”

  And by sidecar he meant what looked like a short kayak welded to the bike frame.

  “You want me to ride in that?”

  “Welcome to your straw, Tony.” The health aide’s eyes lit back on the motorcycle. “Oh, hey—Lookit! It’s got a suicide shift.”

  “That doesn’t sound safe.”

  “Kinda isn’t,” Hawes admitted. “You have to take a hand off the handle bars to shift gears. This’ll be an adventure to ride.”

  “Mom will never allow it.”

  “Since when did you start listening to your mother?”

  “Since whenever it suits my purposes.”

  (Duh.)

  “Then you have a decision to make, Tony.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Either this, or safely homeless. Your choice.” Hawes turned back to the antique motorcycle. “Not that I’m saying this’ll work.”

  “Of course it won’t work. 1948? That’s ancient.” Then Tony though about his go-cart idea. How this wasn’t so different. “Why wouldn’t it work?”

  “For starters, tires are flat. Gasoline is bound to have turned to jelly in the gas tank. Gears gunked up. Spark plug problems, battery dead. I could go on and on.”

  The sidecar had a rounded windshield with its own tire. Tony began imagining himself out on the open road, riding in it. “Why do you think it could?”

  Hawes went back to the motorcycle and gave it another look. “All the parts seem to be here. Rust is cosmetic, not structural.” Sighed. “Missing some bolts. Probably could raid the toolbox for some.”

  “Long shot?”

  “A hundred things will have to go right.”

  - 10 -

  Hawes called Tu for some help. And he said yes.

  The groundskeeper showed up with a gas can in one hand and a bag of auto supplies in the other. Whatever he must have had on hand, at a guess. Tu did, however, ask the obvious question.

  “I don’t know why I help you, Tony Pandy.”

  Tony had an answer. “Because if the estate gets taken away, you’re out of a home just like me.”

  Tu grumped up his face in reply. “Only change is permanent.”

  “I’m not sure I know what that means,” Hawes said.

  But Tony did. The groundskeeper was a Buddhis
t; for him, everything was a natural cycle between good and bad. But before Tony could announce to the world that he had the answer, Tu’s face brightened up with a new thought.

  “Maybe new owner like me?”

  Tony stepped on that quick. “Who wouldn’t like a man known as Mr. Good Bribe throughout Asia? Which, I will have you know, is the largest continent on Earth.”

  Before Tu could fight back, Hawes stepped between them and took the gas can out of the Asian man’s hand. “Shame to waste all this effort, wouldn’t it, Tu?” As Hawes walked by Tony, he hissed, “He’s only looking for a reason to help your ungrateful butt.”

  Tu went back home for his battery-powered compressor. When he returned Hawes shared with everyone a piece of good news. The motorcycle had been drained of all fluids before being stored.

  “So?” Tony asked.

  “Nothing to get old and gunked up,” Hawes answered.

  Whatever his motivations, Mr. Ngu was right up to his elbows helping prepare the motorcycle for riding. And, from where Tony sat, Hawes was clearly in charge. He did ALL the pointing.

  After an hour of watching, Tony couldn’t contain himself. “Can you make it go?” He had that seldom-used tone in his voice.

  Hopefulness.

  “There’s nothing I can’t fix,” Hawes replied.

  “What are we going to do when it gets dark?” Tony asked.

  “I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”

  Tony realized more questions would probably delay the motorcycle putting-together further, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “What’s hanging from the fenders?”

  “They used to call them skirts, back-in-the-day. Some people didn’t want young boys looking at naked tires lest they get ideas.”

  While Tony was trying to puzzle out why boys would be getting ‘ideas’ from exposed rubber, Hawes was using the compressor to inflate the tires, one after another.

  “We’re in luck, Tony,” Hawes said. “Tires are holding the pressure. But I wouldn’t want to take this bike cross country.”

  “It only has to last a few minutes. To convince Foulke.”

  Tu made a face at the bike and shook his head. “Junk.”

  “Hey, watch the negative attitude,” Hawes said, as he wiped his oily hands with a rag. “The motorcycle gods may hear you.”

  “Bah.”

  Tony couldn’t resist. “I happen to know ‘bah’ is Vietnamese for ‘hooray.”

  The Asian groundskeeper waved his hand at Tony. “Bah.”

  Hawes screwed the gas cap back on. “Okay. Done.”

  Full dark had set in.

  “Both of you say a prayer okay?” Hawes stepped on the kick-starter—this foot-powered lever used to ignite the engine.

  ARRUGAHGAHGAH. But the engine didn’t catch.

  “Bikes never start on the first try,” Hawes explained, sounding more like a pep talk to himself than anything else.

  Tu stepped back and put a hand over his mouth like he was trying to hold in all the negativity he could.

  Hawes again stepped down hard on the kick-starter.

  ARRRUGAHGAHGAH. Nothing.

  Tony didn’t believe in any gods. It was all superstition to him. But now, here—he believed. He believed HARD.

  Hawes stepped on the kick-starter, again and again. Nothing.

  Tony believed HARDER.

  Tu walked away a few steps. Shoulders slumped.

  “Boy Jesus!” Hawes fiddled with the engine. “I forgot the gas switch.”

  ARRUGAHGAHGAH.

  The front headlight lit up. Hawes flicked his wrist and gunned the engine. BROMUMUM.

  “Where’s the love?” Hawes shouted over the engine sound.

  “Woo-hoo!” That was Tony.

  Gunned it louder. “CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

  “WOO-HOO!”

  Tony couldn’t believe it: this was actually going to work.

  Even Tu clapped his hands together—until he stopped.

  Frowned.

  Pointed down to the health aide’s leg.

  Hawes hopped off the bike and killed the engine. He pushed his jeans off like they were biting him. “Ow, ow, ow!”

  The inside of his thigh was red and raw.

  “What just happened?” Tony asked.

  Hawes showed him the dark stain on his pants. “Oil leak.”

  “That’s not supposed to happen,” Tony said.

  Hawes nodded in agreement. “Gasket’s blown.”

  “What is ‘gasket?’” Tu asked.

  “How do I explain?” Hawes asked himself as he sat in the dirt. “It seals the seam between two pieces of metal.”

  “Can that be fixed?” Tony asked.

  “Yeah, sure.” Hawes said, balling up his ruined jeans. “First, build a time machine. Second, go back to 1948 to get a new gasket.”

  - 11 -

  One hundred things had to go right; only ninety-nine did.

  Back at the house, Hawes settled Tony into his motorized wheelchair on the second floor. From there, Tony whirred his way back to his room.

  Defeated.

  “There’s got to be something else we can try,” Hawes said.

  “Time machine. Don’t have.”

  Tony parked himself alongside his bed. Sleep was looking like the only option he had left.

  “Wait a minute.” Hawes threw both hands up in the air. “I’m such an idiot.”

  “Does agreeing with you get me into bed any faster?”

  “Hold up. My dad had this old pickup, okay? And it’d break down all the time. And it’s not like you could go to the local auto supply store for parts for a fifty-year-old Ford F1.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “New Old Stock, they called it. Meaning somebody, somewhere, had a warehouse full of outdated parts.”

  “I need it now, Hawes.”

  “By tomorrow, Tony. You’re still a millionaire. You could overnight that sucker with a drone made out of platinum.”

  Tony sighed. All he wanted to do was go to bed and pretend, for a few hours anyway, that the world really wasn’t going to end. “And what if we did? Who would install it?”

  Hawes pinched his lower lip between two fingers. “Need a manual. Then a master mechanic—”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I’ve replaced that type of gasket before. Okay, once. Different bike, but the principle is the same.”

  Tony didn’t believe this would work for a second. “A quick check on the web, then we call it quits. Agreed?”

  The search revealed one thing right away—hundreds of people were looking for parts for a 1948 Indian Chief. And they all seemed to be named either Chuck or Bob.

  “Check out that forum,” Hawes said, pointing to the screen at a site named Chief’s Corner. Tony used his retinal mouse to click on the link from across the room.

  There were pages of discussion posts. Some about how hard parts were to come by. About going to junk yards. Ebay. Getting ripped off. One poster mentioned a site called Partsgod.com.

  Hawes opened a new tab on the browser and typed in that URL. On the webpage was booming, fear-of-god music. Lightning flashes. And, tucked in a corner, a video of a napping dog named Blu.

  (Weirder and weirder.)

  Partsgod.com stated that it was the place for hard-to-find Indian motorcycle parts. There were thumbnail-sized pictures of bits and pieces of bikes running down the center of the page. Down the column on the left were price listings for those who wanted to make parts on their own and just needed the specifications.

  (Oh look, an update post.)

  Hawes typed into the website’s search box: 1948 Indian gaskets. Hit RETURN.

  “Hawes?”

  “Dangit! None in stock, but he can fabricate one to order…”

  “Hawes?”

  Sigh. “…‘Please allow 4 to 6 weeks for delivery.’”

  “And the owner of the website is dead,” Tony added. “Says so in the update.”

  Hawes lay down on t
he floor with his knees bent. “That’ll add to the wait time.”

  With his good hand, Tony untucked his bed sheet and blanket. “Put me to bed.”

  “You giving up?!”

  “YES!”

  Tony didn’t realize how emotional he was until that word came out of his mouth.

  It trembled.

  It bellowed.

  It was giving up.

  “You can’t lay down now and quit,” Hawes said.

  “Says the man lying down.”

  Hawes rolled into a crouch and stood up. “Ta-da! I unquit.”

  “What do you propose, never-give-up guy?”

  “I don’t know. Something. Maybe the motorcycle isn’t the answer. Maybe there’s something else at the barn—”

  “Let it go.”

  “No.”

  “Why does this matter to you? You’ll get another job, Hawes.”

  “I still have an obligation—”

  “I’m releasing you from your obligation. Now take me to the bathroom and dress me for bed.” Tony said that like the petulant child he felt like right now.

  Hawes grabbed the armrests of Tony’s wheelchair. “The problem is, I won’t release me.”

  Tony backed himself away from Hawes’ grasp. “Tell me ALL about it in the morning. Breakfast at 8am. Packing by 9.”

  Hawes returned to the computer. “Maybe we can make a gasket.”

  “Out of what?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out.”

  Despite himself, Tony looked over Hawes’ shoulder at the search results. He recognized a word on the screen. “Plastic polymer.”

  Hawes looked over at Tony, but he was lost in thought. Until—

  “We’re going to need coffee,” Tony said. “Lots of it.”

  “Because?”

  “Because downstairs my father has a whole workshop full of plastic polymer.”

  At Partsgod.com, they discovered that Mrs. PG had uploaded the files for making one’s own seals, gaskets, hoses, you name it—all on the webpage. For free.

  ‘With many thanks, Indian Heads. Bob loved helping you guys!’

  After downloading the information they needed onto a thumb drive, Hawes carried Tony downstairs and seated him in his traveling wheelchair.

  That also put him back on portable oxygen.

  (Blech.)

  Once inside the workshop, Tony reached for the light switch and turned it on. Nothing. “Hawes?”

  “I’m on it.” Hawes searched in the near darkness for the circuit panel on the far wall, stumbling as he went.

  Seconds later Tony heard the snapping ON of circuit breakers. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and electronic life began to stir around him.

  Hawes walked back between the aisles of workstations and 3D printers until he got to one that looked like a small metal oven. “What’s this one do?”

  “Metal fabrication.”

  “What can you do with that?”

  “Make anything from a custom door knocker, a samurai sword, or, or—”

  “Cam shaft, perhaps?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Hawes embraced the machine. “I want this!”

  “Dad would have loved to hear that.” Tony wheeled himself over, which was hard to do with one arm so much weaker than the other. “He was going to sell these machines as a home manufacturing kit for anything you might need in plastic, metal, or organic.”

  “Organic?”

  “Imagine popping in a cartridge and having the Pandy printer produce Fettuccini Alfredo.”

  “Holy Star Trek.” Hawes spun around. “But, more important, which one is going to make me a new gasket?”

  “This one.”

  Tony parked himself in front of a transparent box with spray jets attached to metal rails.

  Hawes rubbed his palms together. “What now, boss?”

  In three words, that was the problem.

  Tony didn’t know his ABS plastic from PLA. A degree in inorganic chemistry would come in real handy right about now. What he did have was his memories from helping his father and his tablet to scour the Internet for what he didn’t know.

  “First,” Tony directed, “scoop out a cup of material from each of those three bins. Then pour them into separate beakers.”

  The operating system for the fabricating unit booted up, and PANDY MRS VERSION 1.02 flashed on the screen. The interface appeared, orange boxes on black screen with a square blinking cursor. The plan was to prettify the software later for retail sale. Themes and everything.

  (What mighta been.)

  Tony uploaded the file he got from Partsgod to the 3D printer. The green START button lit up.

  This was the same machine that had given him his last bobblehead—James Randi, his favorite debunker—and the last time he had seen his father showing off his dream.

  Stretch for it, Tony!

  But before Tony could think much further about that, Hawes plunked three beakers in front of him within easy reach.

  “We mix them now, or what?” Hawes asked.

  “I don’t know.” Tony was annoyed to admit it.

  “You’re not sure?"

  “I need to experiment.”

  There was panic in Hawes’ voice. “Do we have time for that?”

  “Not really.”

  Hawes jammed his hands inside his jeans pockets. Nodded vigorously. “This’ll work,” he said.

  “What makes you think so?”

  Tony was hoping to hear something from Hawes that would give him the same level of confidence.

  “Because it has to.”

  (Wrong answer.)

  “That implies destiny,” Tony said. “And destiny is not graphable.”

  Tony poured the first beaker full of material into the chute. Watched it slide down into the machine.

  As it turned out, the one thing that fix-anything Hawes could not handle was waiting. After pacing the rows between workstations for a few minutes, he began to jog around the machinery while the 3D printer spit out a gasket, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.

  “Don’t you have a stairlift to install?” Tony asked.

  Jog, jog. “We really need a master craftsman for that.”

  “Like we really need a master mechanic for the bike?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Tony tapped his fingers on the armrest. “If you don’t install it, I might as well go back to bed.”

  Hawes skidded to a stop.

  “Am I going to bed anytime soon, Hawes?”

  “No sir.”

  The machine played a little tune when finished.

  It was past midnight. With no electricity out at the barn, there wouldn’t be enough light to work on the bike until dawn.

  Tony could hear Hawes drilling and banging in the stairwell past the closed workshop door. Time well spent, considering.

  Tony decided to go forward with manufacturing two additional gaskets. He poured the contents of the second beaker into the material chute and set up the 3D printer for another go. The printer arm jerked into place and began extruding compound.

  Nothing to do but wait.

  Or was there?

  Tony unlocked his tablet. He would send a quick message to Juniper. Since the Dino Cogs forum, he hadn’t heard from her. Mad at him, maybe? He did close his browser on her.

  Tony cleared his throat. He would try to dictate the message with a voice interpreter app.

  “Hey Juni…”

  HAY JUNE appeared on the tablet screen.

  “No, no…”

  NO NO

  Tony stopped talking and gathered his thoughts. This app was an autocorrect monster.

  “To Juni…”

  TO JUNI

  “On Monday, Hawes and I…”

  ON MONKEYS, AWE AND I

  (Monkeys? Seriously?)

  “Delete.”

  DELETE MESSAGE

  “No, no, no!”

  Then again, why bother? The girl really didn’t
know him, the real Tony—why would she care about his problems?

  He closed the app.

  Instead, to pass the hours, Tony surfed the web. He was becoming preoccupied with—

  The little tune played. The second gasket was done.

  He checked his watch. 3 am.

  Tony removed the production tray and slid the finished gasket next to the first one. He poured the third beaker-full of plastic polymer into the machine. Set the computer.

  The spray nozzle glided to a new position before extruding compound. It really did sound like a printer, spraying plastic instead of ink.

  BA DINK.

  “Tony?” It was Mom over the intercom, sounding scared.

  “What are you doing awake?”

  “Can’t sleep. You know, tomorrow.”

  “I’m trying to fix tomorrow.”

  “Is that why you’re in the workshop?”

  Tony nodded, although the gesture was lost on the intercom. He wanted to tell her not to worry and to get some sleep. But this was the first time he had a chance to speak with her since finding out about HofLove.

  “You know what’s funny about this whole situation, mom?”

  “No, what possibly?”

  “To stay in the house, I have to first prove I can leave it.”

  “That is funny,” she said, without any humor. Then a big in-draw of breath. “Remember the people who saw me?”

  “Who, mom?”

  “The people with the clipboards. They came into my house”—her voice squeaked—“and saw me.”

  Tony didn’t know why that mattered so much. All he knew was that it mattered to her.

  “Please, Tony. I don’t want that to ever happen again.”

  “It won’t, Mom.”

  He didn’t want to ask this next question. Now was not the time.

  But he knew she never answered calls on the intercom. Or the phone. And it’s not like he could go over there and knock on her front door. Tomorrow could be the end of everything, and he didn’t want to lose his chance.

  Tony looked at the light on the intercom before speaking.

  “Is Dallas Merullo my real father?”

  - 12 -

  The intercom clicked off.

  Tony was alone in the workshop with only the sound of squirting plastic and blinking lights to keep him company.

  (Story of my life.)

  Mom, behind a bathroom door. Not answering his calls. Sending over Tedward instead of coming over herself.

  He had questions, she had answers.

  Mom wouldn’t have had to be spotted by strangers, or anything.

  (Then again…)

  What if she had answered?

  (Hm?)

  It’s not like he could trust her. Manipulating the truth was practically the family motto. And then there’s—

  BA DINK. The intercom again.

  Silence.

  “Mom?”

  More silence.

  (Did I imagine it?)

  His mother’s voice. “I don’t want to talk about Dallas Merullo.”

  (So why’d she call back?)

  Tony tapped on his armrest. He decided to draw her out with some questions. “Did you know him?”

  “As if anyone ever could.”

  (That’s a yes.)

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Tony, I don’t—”

  “One thing. Please.” He hated the begging in his voice.

  “Dal was…self-absorbed.”

  “That’s it, three words?”

  “You want more? You asked for it. Dallas was ALWAYS about Dallas. His career. His hobbies—”

  “Like boating,” Tony interrupted. “Off our dock.” Daring her to deny it.

  “He loved that boat more than me, Tony—let me tell you. But less than the plane. Now that’s what I thought would kill him.”

  Tony thought back to his recurring dream. A gleaming metal body streaking across the ground, ending up where the dock should have been. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t know where to start.”

  Tony pushed himself over to the intercom; it made him feel closer to her somehow. “Try something nobody else would know.” Merullo was known by millions. Tony wanted to know something that Wikipedia would not.

  “He was always testing me. That’s what I thought his disappearance was at first. A test. I keep expecting him to show up, all mad that I moved on and made a life with Ted.”

  “Is that when you stopped leaving your house?”

  She paused. “Yes.”

  “But why?”

  “Tony—”

  “Explain why you are this way, Mom. I want to understand.”

  Silence.

  Yet the intercom light stayed on. Didn’t click off.

  When she spoke, her voice trembled. “I felt if I could control things, you know, keep everything the same, the people that I loved would stay safe. The world is too big for me, Tony. But in here, my house, it’s like a snow globe. Small enough. Never changing.”

  Tony never wanted to leave his house again after falling near the pond, so many years before. Could he be more like his shut-in mother than he realized?

  “Where was Merullo going when he died?”

  “No idea. And that’s the truth.”

  Tony would rather have to put a nail through his own hand than ask this next question.

  (Have to know.)

  “And Dad? Tedward? Did he know he wasn’t my real father?”

  “I never kept anything from him.”

  (Another yes.)

  And now, the question that mattered the most to Tony. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  Sigh. “He wanted to. Always wanted to.”

  “You wouldn’t let him.” What Tony suspected.

  “Wasn’t hard to convince him. You never met his other children. Reggie and Ron. What a rotten pair. They would have nothing to do with Tedward. Didn’t even go to the funeral.” She took a breath. “You were the son he was going to get right.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Long sigh. “It was what I wished…was.”

  The tightness that had been building in his chest relaxed. No need to check his oxygen—he knew what this was from.

  Relief.

  Her answer was understandable, even if screwed up. He could relate to that as well.

  VRRR went the 3D printer, still making the gasket. There were two hours left on the timer and then dawn.

  “Don’t hate me,” she said.

  “I don’t hate you.”

  “Really?”

  “How could I?” Tony stretched to reach the OFF button on the intercom. “I’m made of you.”

  Tony tried to open the workshop door, which was not at all easy to do while seated. The door kept catching on his wheelchair’s frame. And if the chair was far enough away to clear the door, he couldn’t reach the knob anymore.

  There the door remained—stubbornly ajar but not open.

  And no way was he calling Hawes for help. The emotional suck of the last few weeks was behind him. If Tony could manage opening the door himself, he would. But how?

  This situation reminded him a lot of Bony and the refrigerator. Maybe Tony could wedge the door open?

  (The foot rest!)

  Jerking one wheel forward and the other back, he used the foot rest to swing open the door.

  That Capuchin was one smart mammal.

  Now in the hall, Tony could hear the sound of an electrical motor. He slowly wheeled himself around the stairway in time to see Hawes taking a trip on the new stairlift.

  Standing.

  “Hawes!”

  The health aide pointed to the ceiling. “It really, really goes UP.”

  “This is no time for playing around.”

  “Best part?” Hawes flicked a switch. “Really, really goes DOWN.” When the lift came to a stop, he stepped off the platform. “Amazing what you can accomplish when not wasting time sleeping. “

  “Wh
at were you thinking? What if it came off the wall?”

  “Pshaw. You’re embarrassing me with all your caring.”

  Tony folded his arms. “Almost adequate help is hard to find.”

  “I had to test the stairlift, Tony. What was I supposed to do? Send the monkey up first? Ask NASA how that all worked out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I did a book report in sixth grade about the space program. Chiild, I’ll never get over what happened to Albert the first, Albert the second, and Albert the fourth.”

  Tony decided to move on. “Where’s the seat?”

  “No need. Just drive on and go. No more swapping wheelchairs.” Hawes looked nervous when asking this next question. “Are you finished with the gaskets?”

  (How to answer?)

  “Was Napoleon tall?”

  “Um, no?”

  “Yes, he was, and yes, I’m done.”

  “Did I just enter a game show by accident, here?”

  “I’m obsessing about lies of history,” Tony admitted. “Like my mom saying Tedward was my real father, but really wasn’t. Even my name is a historical untruth. I should be Tony Merullo.”

  “You must have had a lot of downtime in that workshop.”

  “Like centuries.” Tony nodded. “Which sounds better: Tony MERullo? Or MeRULLO?”

  “All sounds like Pandy to me.”

  Tony fluttered his lips.

  Hawes went back to the tall question. “Wasn’t Napoleon’s nickname ‘The Little Corporal?’”

  “Yes. But he was average height for a Frenchman in the 19th century. He was called ‘Lil C’ because he wasn’t high born.”

  “Like being lower class doesn’t mean you live in a basement.”

  “Exactly.”

  Hawes cocked an eyebrow. “So how come everybody thinks he’s so mini?”

  “For one, compared to us he was. Two centuries of better nutrition really helps. But my guess? A good story beats fact every time.”

  “How so?”

  “Think about it: Shorty McFrencherson conquers most of Europe. Everybody loves an underdog story.”

  Like what his mom had said: The story that people wished was.

  “What’s next, boss?”

  “Hate to admit it, but I need your help.”

  Hawes snorted out a laugh. “I like that sound of that.” He wheeled Tony back into the workshop and was instructed to bring the three finished gaskets over to a device labeled the COMPRESSION TESTING MACHINE.

  “According to Partsgod,” Tony said, “a good gasket has to compress to fit the space between the metal joints yet still maintain its shape under very hot temperatures.”

  ”I got a question,” Hawes said. “Why bother testing?”

  “A quick test now, versus…“ Pointing to Hawes’s pant leg.

  “Oiled up jeans. I get it.”

  “Put the first gasket in the module there and shut the gate.” Tony turned the machine on. It hummed with power. He set the parameters on the control panel and pressed the start button.

  The machine’s hydraulics whined and compressed the gasket. Then applied heat and side-to-side force.

  Stopped.

  Sounds of internal machinery retracting.

  Hawes opened the gate to the module. All that was left was shredded poly plastic bits. “That would leak, I reckon.”

  “Get the next one.”

  Hawes placed the second gasket in the module. The compression machine began stressing the flat plastic polymer like the first one.

  Tony counted breaths: eleven, twelve, thirteen—

  Stopped.

  Hawes opened the gate. The gasket was split in two.

  “I wish I knew more chemistry,” Tony said. “Make my own compounds. Dad had these lying around, but I don’t know if they are any good for this purpose.”

  Hawes agreed. “Your father wasn’t exactly in the auto supply business.” He placed the third gasket in the module.

  The last one.

  Hawes closed the gate, and the loud hum gave way to the mechanical whine of hydraulics.

  The wait began.

  A minute.

  Two.

  “It’s holding,” Tony said.

  “Great,” Hawes said. “Give me a couple of hours and—”

  Stopped.

  - 13 -

  The stairlift motored Tony and his travel wheelchair up to the second floor. He raised his good hand to shade his eyes from the early morning sun coming in through the foyer window.

  (Sunglasses would help.)

  Hawes had gotten him a pair for their in-room beach party. God only knows where they ended up. Then again, by this time tomorrow, sunglasses might not matter.

  Hospice wasn’t exactly known for being fun in the sun.

  Hawes matched the speed of the lift as he climbed the stairs beside Tony. “Shame all this work has to go to waste.”

  “You say that like we have any other choice.”

  “We do.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  They reached the top of the stairs, and Hawes transferred Tony to his motorized chair. “You said it yourself, all the motorcycle has to do is hold up for a few minutes—”

  Tony switched to Hawes’ southern drawl, “’That would leak, I reckon.’ You could end up scalded with hot oil, blow a rod—”

  “That’s throw a rod. Yeah, yeah. Life’s an adventure.”

  “Says the man who got a minor drunk.”

  Tony engaged his wheelchair’s motor and rolled down the hall to his bedroom.

  “Nah-uh,” Hawes replied. “What you drank was near beer.”

  “What?” Tony stopped the chair.

  “That’s right, alcohol free. Shows you, if you believe in something hard enough—”

  “No it doesn’t.” Tony started moving again.

  Hawes followed him into his bedroom and transferred Tony to his bed. “You sure acted wasted, just saying.”

  “Placebo effect. The mind convinces the body that the fake medicine is real.” Tony paused and looked up at Hawes. “Why did you do it?”

  “Loosen you up so you’d finally call that girl, you goober.”

  “How very Pandy of you.”

  Hawes threw up his hands. “I did it for your own good.”

  “I’m sure my mother would say the exact same thing.”

  “There’s a difference between what I did and what she did.”

  “Keep telling yourself that.” Tony pulled his blanket up over himself. “I’m going to sleep now. Wake me for the apocalypse.”

  Hawes was halfway out the door before he stopped and turned back around. “Listen…” he began.

  Tony propped himself up on his pillow.

  “…I’m going to install that gasket.”

  “Can’t. There isn’t one left.”

  “I saw what you did. What buttons you pushed. I can make another one.”

  “Or you could go home.” Tony searched Hawes’ face. There was so much he didn’t know about the West Virginian.

  Hawes shook his head. “Can’t. Scavenged parts off of my bike to make the Indian drivable.” He paused before continuing. “You be alright while I’m down at the barn?”

  “I have Bony here.”

  He horse-snorted. “You couldn’t get that monkey to spit on you if you were on fire.”

  Bonaparte chattered out what sounded like a laugh.

  “You can be replaced with a machine,” Tony told the monkey.

  “Then whose feelings would you step on?” Hawes asked.

  Hours later.

  The Indian motorcycle lay in pieces on the dirt outside of the barn, arranged like a 3D diagram of how-to-put-it-back-together. Hawes ran his finger over the cylinder block’s edges.

  (Smooth.)

  A good sign for the new gasket holding.

  Hawes was ratcheting the cylinder head back into place when a black Bentley pulled up. The door opened.

  Dorchester Foulke used a
rocking motion to heave himself out of his car. On the third try he succeeded.

  “Salutations,” the lawyer said.

  “Is that hello?”

  “Indeed it is.”

  Hawes wiped grease on his pants before extending a hand, but Foulke left him hanging. Whether from wanting to avoid staining his hands or avoiding Hawes’ touch, he couldn’t tell.

  “You’re the one who takes care of the boy,” Foulke stated, as if for the record. “I’m here to judge your progress.”

  “I thought we had till two o’clock?”

  “Ahh, right you are. I came by early in the off-chance you might be ready.”

  “We’re not.”

  Hawes palmed the ratchet wrench and took up where he left off.

  “Looks like you have quite the project going on.” Foulke lifted the unattached exhaust with the tip of his loafer. “What a puzzle.”

  “Tony’s handicapped-accessible ve-hicle.” Hawes’ southern twang was showing.

  “Quite a lot of effort on your part.” The lawyer grunted. “Seems you’ve taken a liking to the boy. Lord only knows why.”

  Does this guy ever stop jawing? Hawes was having trouble concentrating.

  “Such a shame Tedward died. He knew the value of money. He also knew how to protect the boy and his family from people who would—how shall I say it?—leech off their money.”

  “Is there a point here, lawyer man? I have work to do.”

  And just where did he put those stabilizing bolts? Hawes stood up to look for them.

  “I see myself as taking on that role from Mr. Pandy.” Foulke looked Hawes up and down. “I’ve done some digging into your past. What occurs in West Virginia does not stay necessarily stay there.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I wonder how Master Pandy would react to the news.”

  “Who’s going to tell him?” Hawes spat on the ground close enough to tasseled loafers to send a message.

  Foulke didn’t flinch. “You can’t tell me that boy has any loyalty to you? Ha! Based on what? Friendship?”

  Tony was always telling him he was an employee. Only.

  (He doesn’t mean it.)

  But that was just a feeling. Not a fact.

  Foulke continued. “And what if he did have genuine, good feelings towards you? He can’t be expected to live much longer. What—a year, tops?”

  Hawes went back to putting the bike together. No time to calibrate the timing of the pistons, he thought. Guesstimated instead.

  Foulke took a few steps closer. “If it matters to you, the boy will be taken care of. I swear it. And the estate will be put to much better use…”

  Was it first the cambox, then the tensioner?

  “And, ahh, I could set you up with a new job. Some parting cash for your troubles…”

  The wrench fumbled from Hawes’ hand, landing in the dirt.

  “…However, if you fail, all you’ll have is a dark past and a most uncertain future.”

  (A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have to go right. A hundred things have—)

  Foulke picked up the wrench, holding it away from Hawes.

  “We could end all this worry and fuss today. Take the deal. That’s a smart boy.”

  - 14 -

  Trust.

  Tedward Pandy always said, ‘Trust the money.’ People are loyal to their interests. And yet here Tony was waiting for someone who had every reason to ditch him.

  (But it’s Hawes.)

  On the other hand…

  (Smarten up, Pandy.)

  Why would Hawes come back for him? Tony knew what a jerk he could be, and the motorcycle was worth more to a collector than Hawes could possibly make in a year. A smart man would ride that antique out the front gates, never to return.

  It didn’t help his troubled mood that Tony was outside in the unpredictable world of wind, rain, snow, and sun. Which, Tony could tell you, could easily become tornadoes, typhoons, blizzards, and skin cancer.

  Not to mention the animals out here. The predators. Probably using veins as dental floss, this very minute. Not that he had ever seen a wild animal larger than a badger on the estate, but he could imagine the heck out of them.

  And he was stranded. The wheelchair had run out of power between the front door of his house and the ramp.

  (Great.)

  If only neighborhood kids would come by and throw rocks at him, his day would be complete.

  Was that an engine he heard? Didn’t see a vehicle. It sounded pretty good though. Smooth, powerful. Yesterday, the 1948 motorcycle sounded like a broken lawn mower. Hawes must have worked a miracle because today it was—

  (God, no.)

  A black Bentley. Coming his way.

  Dorchester Foulke had better luck getting out of his car this time—only one rocking motion and a heave with his arms. He must have considered that enough exercise for the day because he declined to go up the three steps to where Tony was marooned.

  “It’s time, Master Pandy.”

  Tony leaned forward. “Master Merullo.”

  Foulke shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “You found out about that, huh?”

  “You’re early.”

  The lawyer made a show of looking at his wristwatch. “Five minutes till two. Another 300 seconds won’t make a bit of difference.”

  Tony banged on the armrest. “What do you have against me?”

  “This isn’t personal. I’m here to carry out the will of a legal entity—”

  “My dead father—”

  “And determine your functionality.” Foulke withdrew a flip notepad from the inside pocket of his suit coat and clicked a pen. “How were you transported from the second floor to the first?”

  “Stairlift.”

  “By yourself?”

  “The aide helped me into the chair, but after that, yeah, me.”

  “What’s that there?” Pointing to the device in Tony’s lap.

  “Portable air supply. Supposed to be a backpack, but this is how I wear it.”

  “Uh-huh.” Foulke seemed to consider this bit of evidence. Then shook his head no. “Today is about more than getting down the stairs. Unless you propose to propel yourself on the roadways in your wheelchair?”

  Tony ignored the sarcasm.

  (Where’s Hawes?)

  He really hadn’t abandoned him, had he?

  Foulke filled the silence. “I had a little conversation with your caregiver there.”

  Tony felt tightness in his chest. He checked the air tube for kinks—no. This was genuine panic he was feeling.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing that wasn’t already on his mind, I’m sure.”

  Tony’s lower lip trembled. He wanted to ask if Hawes was coming, but didn’t want to give the lawyer the satisfaction.

  “Ahh, believe me, I take no joy in my duty. I should never have agreed to be a party to this eccentric trust in the first place.”

  “But you’ll do it anyway.”

  “But I’ll do it anyway—is right.” Foulke crossed a line off his notepad. “Did you know Mr. Hawes has a criminal record?”

  Tony flicked the joystick back and forth, forgetting momentarily that the battery was dead. “What has that got to do with my functionality?”

  “Good judgment is also a part of functionality.”

  “Are you making this up as you go along?”

  “According to my instructions, I can ‘make up’ what I choose.” Foulke flipped the notepad closed. “Don’t you think it a poor decision to employ a man convicted of—”

  “Uh-uh! Counselor, you must know it’s against the law to divulge court records without permission.” Tony should know, he had lied on enough Dirt Digger request forms.

  “My, aren’t we just the little litigator?”

  Tony looked around.

  Still no motorcycle. No loud pipes in the distance either.

  No Hawes.

&
nbsp; Foulke tapped on his watch. “Time’s up. Agree to the placement at Mother Mary Hospital and, perhaps, certain arrangements could be made to smooth your transition.”

  “Such as?”

  “A place, off estate, for your mother to live.”

  (Mom. Taken care of.)

  Tony could feel his defiance weakening.

  Foulke picked lint off his striped suit like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Why was the lawyer sweetening the deal this late? He had won, right? This made no sense, unless—

  “I’ll wait,” Tony said.

  Foulke pointed a finger at him. “What makes you so sure your man is coming?”

  “You did.”

  Foulke dropped eye contact. “You’ve both run out of time.”

  He got back into his car and began driving out to the long, winding loop that would eventually lead to the front gate.

  PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA.

  (What the heck was that?)

  Around the bend, just escaping the line of trees, was a red and cream motorcycle, complete with a rack holding Tony’s travel wheelchair. Mr. BRAIN BUCKET was wrestling with the handlebars as he drew near the ramp, cutting the wheel just in time to avoid hitting the ramp.

  Hawes yelled over the engine noise. “Not used to three wheels, but I’ll get the hang of it.” He waved for Tony to come down.

  Tony gave him the no-can-do sign.

  “Where’s old Dorchester?” Hawes hollered.

  “Heading for the gate.”

  Hawes walked the vibrating motorcycle back.

  (Oh no he won’t.)

  Revved the engine.

  (Oh yes he will!)

  Right up the ramp and onto the porch, inches from the wheelchair.

  Then the engine quit.

  “Dangit, stalled again.”

  (Again?)

  Hawes transferred him from the wheelchair to the sidecar.

  “I didn’t think you were coming.” Tony hated how weak sounding these words were.

  “Seriously?” Hawes asked, buckling him in. “I guess there’s some things you can’t graph, amirite?”

  Tony tried to hide the smile.

  Failed.

  That’s the ironic thing about skeptics, Tony thought. Disbelievers who want to believe.

  In something.

  Or someone.

  (Never admit, though.)

  Hawes handed over a worn leather helmet and goggles to match.

  “This doesn’t look safe,” Tony said.

  “Sure it is.”

  Tony sniffed at the helmet before putting it on. “Where did you find it?”

  “Out at the barn. Vintage. Might be your dad’s.”

  Hawes pushed down on Tony’s helmet, squashing the mohawk.

  “Why did you come back for me?” Tony asked.

  “I’d look funny riding this tricycle without a passenger.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  “Tony, you’ve got a need bucket sooo big,”—Hawes pointed to himself—“this shovel can’t resist.”

  Hawes fiddled with what he called the choke and kick-started the engine. He walked the vibrating motorcycle over to the ramp.

  “You sure you can drive this thing?” Tony was thinking about the road rash on Hawes’ own motorcycle.

  “YOLO,” he answered.

  (You Only Live Once.)

  “That’s what stupid people say…”

  Hawes twisted the throttle on the handlebar. BROMUMUM.

  “…right before they do something stupid!”

  Tony left his stomach on the porch as the rest of him skied down the ramp. Perhaps not very fast but, having not gone faster than a walking pace for most of his life, this felt like light speed.

  They accelerated as they exited the circular drive, and the wheel to Tony’s sidecar left the ground.

  (Gah!)

  Landed back with a thump.

  The Bentley was entering the wide arc around his mother’s house, headed for the straightaway to the exit.

  Hawes yelled, “We’ll never catch him.”

  Tony thought about that.

  (Nah, too risky.)

  Or was it?

  Tony pointed to the yard behind his mother’s bungalow. “Short cut!”

  “Through the hedges?”

  Tony nodded.

  Hawes swung the motorcycle in that direction. “Your mother is going to haaaate meeeee!”

  They crashed through the line of bushes, and the bike began to spit chunks of lawn all over the place.

  PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA.

  “What’s that sound?” Tony asked.

  “Pistons misfiring.”

  That did not sound safe.

  Hawes shifted gears with his right hand, then threw a thumb behind him.

  Tony saw blue smoke coming out of the exhaust.

  Not safe at all.

  Tony braced himself for the second row of hedges on the other side of the lawn. The sidecar caught a branch and the motorcycle spun around and stopped.

  Engine cut out.

  Hawes tried to kick-start the Indian back to life.

  ARRAGAHGAH.

  ARRAGAHGAH.

  Nothing.

  Tony looked out his goggles. The Bentley was at the front gate.

  “Hawes!”

  ARRAGAHGAH.

  POOW!

  Smoke exploded out of the exhaust pipe. Enveloped them.

  The engine was back on.

  Hawes put the bike into gear, revved the throttle on the handlebar, and PUKKAPUKKAPUKKA they went.

  Tony fumbled with his computer tablet, cradling it with his weaker arm.

  “Tony, is now the time to be playing GRASSHOPPERS HATE ANTS?”

  “I’m accessing the estate’s automation,” he yelled back.

  “What good will that do?”

  “I’m telling the gate to power down.”

  “You can do that?”

  Hawes put them back on the road.

  Three hundred feet left to go.

  At the gate, Foulke was pulling while the sheriff was pushing.

  One hundred.

  The gate swung out

  (No!)

  and bumped right up against the front tire of the Indian Chief as it rolled to a stop.

  The sheriff looked at the lawyer as if waiting for instructions. Foulke hitched up his pants and walked over to the two on the motorcycle.

  Would he argue with them?

  Order them to move?

  Give in?

  “Nobody is going to make me late for my cruise with the Mrs.” Foulke looked down at them. “Nobody.”

  - 15 -

  “I did what you asked,” Tony yelled back, still in the sidecar next to Hawes. “I’m mobile and functional.”

  Foulke puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Not good enough.”

  There it was.

  The wall no amount of scrabbling could seem to get over: Foulke’s belief that Tony should be in a hospital.

  Tony appealed to the sheriff. “Can’t you do something?”

  “I’m here to enforce the eviction,” Donaldson said. His mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes.

  “And is that why you went to police school—”

  “Academy.”

  “—to turn crippled kids out of their homes?” Tony hated playing the disability card. But he had so few cards left.

  The sheriff took a big sniff out of the air but said nothing.

  “I have a suggestion, Mr. Foulke,” Hawes said. “If you leave us be, you’ll be on that big boat putting little umbrellas in fruity drinks in no time.”

  As if thinking that over, the lawyer looked over at the long line of moving vans idling outside of the gate.

  It was Tony’s turn to try something. “Are you seriously going to kick me out, all because my mother refused to pay you more?”

  “My time is valuable!” Foulke seemed to instantly regret agreeing with Tony’s point.

  The sheriff spoke for the
first time without being asked. “Kid does seem to get around pretty good.”

  Foulke gave Donaldson the laser eye. Set to liquefy.

  If only Tony could think of some way to convince Foulke. His appeal to emotion hadn’t worked. Hell, he’d run over those tasseled loafers if—

  (Hey…)

  Maybe he had gone about this all wrong. He had to think like Foulke thinks. What would a lawyer do in this situation?

  Appeal to a higher authority.

  “Counselor,” Tony began, “what would your client, my father, want you to do?”

  Foulke took a few steps away and turned his back. His fists rested on his hips, trembling with rage.

  Hawes made an ‘uh-oh’ face.

  Foulke turned back around and started pumping his finger at Tony. “You have NO idea what your father intended. None! And I am prohibited by the ethics of my profession to divulge this.”

  Tony wasn’t backing down. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “And I have no intention of doing so.”

  Foulke waved Hawes away.

  Reluctantly, the health aide walked the motorcycle backward.

  (No!)

  The gate finished swinging open, wide enough for the Bentley to get through.

  Foulke addressed the sheriff, his voice full of anger. “You go tell those movers…”

  Then he did a really weird thing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Like he was taking a mental vacation.

  He spoke again.

  Softer this time.

  “Go tell the movers to go home.”

  Tony pumped a fist in the air.

  Foulke got into his Bentley, and, through the open car window, kept talking. “This isn’t over, Pandy. Not by a long shot.”

  Tony opened his mouth, and Hawes covered it with his gloved hand, muffling what he said.

  “Mmmrf, mmmrfmmmmfer.”

  “Expect a trustee to be appointed in the next couple of days,” Foulke said. “But you are not free of me. No sir. I will still be the judge of whether conditions are being met.” He started his car. “You’ll be notified about future requirements of the trust. I’d read them, if I were you.”

  Tony pushed Hawes’ hand away. “What about my mother?”

  “She’ll remain your representative payee.”

  “Does that mean she can stay?”

  Foulke put his car in gear. “For the present, yes.”

  They watched him drive away.

  No goodbye. No nothing.

  The sheriff took off his sunglasses and gave a hint of a smile. He walked over to the open window of the lead moving van and gave the driver the news.

  Tony looked on from the sidecar. He asked Hawes, “Do you think they seriously would have kicked me out?”

  “Don’t even think it,” was the answer.

  The moving vans, one after another, did a three-point turn and headed back the way they came.

  “Now what, Tony?” Hawes asked.

  He shrugged.

  “We could go back to your room,” Hawes suggested, “make fun of some people on the Internet.”

  “Did that already. Changed sides three times.”

  “Maybe watch the monkey not get you your sodas.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Or, maybe…”

  “Yes?”

  “We could go somewhere.”

  Tony lowered his goggles back over his eyes. “Can you manage to keep all three wheels on the ground this time?”

  “Complain, complain.”

  Hawes pushed Tony down the row of grave markers, the wheelchair crunching on the crushed stone walkway.

  “Which one is his?” Tony asked.

  “The one with the dirt mound in front.”

  At the other end of the grave was a tall pillar with inscription:

  THEODORE EDWARD ANTHONY PANDY

  INVENTOR AND PROGRAMMER

  BELOVED BY FAMILY

  The marker included his birth and death dates.

  “I didn’t realize how old your father was.” Hawes counted on his fingers. “74.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your mom isn’t near that old. Just saying.”

  Tony looked down at the base of the granite tombstone, at the bent and brown flowers. Hawes coughed in his fist and began to walk away.

  Tony’s question called him back. “What does one do at a funeral?”

  “You’ve never—?”

  “Assume I’m a Martian and explain the humans to me. In fact, always assume that.”

  “Well, it is customary to say a few things. Nice things, mind you. Start with that.”

  Tony missed his motorized wheelchair just then. Being able to wiggle the joystick back and forth as he thought about what he had to say.

  “Hey, Dad. Thanks for the remote-controlled car you got me. For my tenth birthday, I think. Really enjoyed it. Until it jumped into the pond.”

  Hawes coughed again into his hand. “Nice things.”

  “Then again, you waded in and got it back. Ruined your pants.”

  Hawes tapped Tony on the shoulder. “Usually, it’s more from the heart than that.”

  Tony took a deep breath from his portable oxygen unit. “Thanks for being my dad. Even thought you really weren’t.”

  “Not every dad would care for his disabled son like Tedward did.”

  Tony looked down at the mound. “Thanks for that, too.”

  His breaths became ragged. A quick check of the air supply unit showed it was working fine. Which must mean—

  (Oh, God no.)

  “It’s okay to cry, Tony.”

  “For you it would be.”

  “You’re right. For human beings, I mean.”

  Tony stared up at the sky. For what he had to say, it was too hard to look down where his stepfather was lying.

  “Dad, I don’t know why you didn’t tell me about not being my real father. I wish you had.”

  Tony chose to believe that Tedward didn’t really lie to him. Instead he told the story he wished was.

  “But you were a good dad. Reginald and Ronald seriously missed out on someone special.”

  Tony looked back down to the mound.

  There was one more thing.

  “I want you to know I’m not letting those stupid creditors sell your 3D printers. I’m keeping them.”

  “Hot dog,” Hawes added. “I’m going to make myself a new exhaust pipe when we get back.”

  (What’s left to say? Except…)

  “Goodbye.” Tony tapped on the wheels to his chair. Looked up at Hawes. “I’m ready to go home.”

  Hawes pushed the chair back through the loose gravel, and the two fell into silence as they passed the rows of tombstones. They turned back onto the paved way that led to the parking lot.

  “Hawes?”

  “Yes, Tony?”

  “My father wasn’t right about only trusting the money.”

  “That a fact?”

  “I mean, usually that’s right. But not always.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Such as when a guy should have taken whatever deal the lawyer gave him, but instead kept his word.”

  “You’re welcome, Tony.”

  The wind rustled the leaves in the trees. Fast moving clouds.

  “Looks like a spring shower, Mr. Merullo.”

  “I’m sticking with Pandy.”

  “Good choice,” Hawes said. “So, how are you feeling?”

  Tony checked his gut and came up empty. “How am I supposed to feel? How did you feel when your father died?”

  “Sad, a little lonely. Nostalgic.”

  “Yeah, all of that. Only more so.”

  Hawes stopped the wheelchair. “How’s that?”

  “I lost two fathers. Top that.”

  Hawes resumed the pushing. “That you did.”

  They got to the motorcycle, still stinking of burnt oil and gasoline. Rear tire looking awfully low.

  “Shouldn’t this antique
be in a museum?” Tony asked.

  “Or with some guy named Chuck who would clean it with those little baby wipes every Sunday afternoon.”

  “Now that I’m a gazillionaire again,” Tony said, “couldn’t we get something a little bit more this century?”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that…”

  - 16 -

  “Can we stop this torture?”

  Tony was pushing one hand against the other like he was arm wrestling with himself. What Hawes sadistically called ‘exercise.’

  “Two more,” Hawes said. “But good ones this time.”

  “It’s my birthday!”

  “Improving yourself is especially good on your birthday.”

  Tony’s hands shook as they pushed against one another. He could feel his face grimacing.

  “Just wait till I add free weights,” Hawes said. “Then you’ll really have something to complain about.”

  Tony dropped his hands, exhausted. “Name your price.”

  “Haven’t we established nobody can buy me off?”

  Hawes put Tony’s hands back into the correct hold.

  “Can’t I watch videos about exercise instead?”

  “Physical conditioning will allow you to live longer. And to put it in a way you can relate to: When you’re dead, there’s no trolling on the Internet, like, forever.”

  Bony chittered from his perch on the high shelf.

  “I’m thirsty,” Tony said. “Make Bonaparte get me a soda.”

  Hawes horse-snorted a laugh. “Okay, I’ll give it a try. Fair warning, though, I’ve been getting tips from Tu.”

  He took the laser pointer and spotted it on the refrigerator door.

  The Capuchin jumped down to the desk, followed quickly by the floor. He wobble-walked to the fridge and opened it.

  Tony was not impressed. “I’ve gotten him this far.”

  “Just watch.”

  Hawes red-dotted the soda, and Bony rolled it on to the floor.

  “It’s going be all fizzy!”

  “Hush,” Hawes said. “Let the critter do his business.”

  Bonaparte up-ended the soda and carried it over, legs trembling with the weight.

  Tony reached down,

  the monkey lifted the can up, and

  Tony SNATCHED it away.

  “I win!” he crowed.

  “Now give him a treat,” Hawes said.

  Cradling the soda between his legs, Tony popped the tab on the can with his good hand. “No way.”

  “No way? There’s no ‘no way’ here. You promised Bony a grape.”

  “I don’t remember signing anything.” Tony slurped from the can.

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