Leverage

by Joshua C. Cohen

  . . . “breathe a word and you’ll disappear,” Crud Bucket grunts on top of Lamar. “People applaud when garbage disappears. You hear me? You hear me? Answer with a ‘sir’ this time or I’ll go longer. Cops’ll thank me if you and that bastard vanish. Give me a medal . . .” “Huff, huff, huff, huff . . .”

  That sound. Coming from ...

  “. . . stop ... please ... stop . . .”

  . . . behind those ...

  The giant doors are cracked open the smallest bit. As I draw closer I no longer hear a ghost’s voice. I hear Scott’s voice. Then Studblatz’s speaking in bursts like he’s bench-pressing, ripping out his sets. Blasting his pecs with each rep. “How. You. Like. Me. Now?”

  Except he ain’t bench-pressing.

  No.

  He’s dealing out Crud Bucket’s “secret punishment” on a boy, the special torture that used to be just for Lamar.

  None of them notice me push open the door at first. The little gymnast takes all their attention. Barely bigger than Lamar, his naked legs so skinny and pale it hurts just to glimpse as a trickle of blood stains the back of his left thigh. As I enter the storage room, a vacuum sucks out my insides. All I want is to run fast and forever away as my fingers close into a fist.

  Studblatz, glancing my direction, noticing me, lifts his big, ugly self from the boy. Scott yanks the mop handle out of the boy’s mouth and his eyes bug at being caught until he sees it’s only me. Then a smile worms over his face like he understands me, understands what I want. He acts pleased that I’ve arrived. Ronnie, gagging, collapses backward to his knees while his arms and head slump against the foam block.

  “You want a shot, Mr. Wolf?” Scott asks me, as if Ronnie is his to offer. Studblatz zips himself up and turns to watch me, gauging my reaction.

  “You going to say som—” Jankowski, off to my left, starts talking but his voice and all sound die in a wall of flame. Gasoline races through my veins, ignites at my scars, and detonates every cell in my body. Unable to scream or breathe, unable to think, I will burn up unless I extinguish the pain. Unless I destroy them.

  My fist cocks and finds the side of Jankowski’s thick head. My foot bombs Studblatz’s gut. My elbow blasts a chunk of Miller’s shoulder. They come at me now. Like Crud Bucket did. Fists and feet pummel me. I return fire. I rock them. I inflict, bruising something, cracking something else. I heave a lifetime of damage and pain at them, teach them they can’t do this. They can’t do this!

  They swarm me but I am no longer small.

  Scott runs out. Studblatz headlocks me and Tom punches my sides until I stop him with a mule kick to his chest. Still collared by Studblatz’s headlock, I scoop him up in my arms and ram the both of us forward into the cinder-block wall like I’m driving against a whole defense for just six inches. I back up and drive into the wall again, back up and repeat. And repeat. My head pounds but it’s okay, it’s just fine. Hurt is good as long as he feels it, too. I can endure a world of hurt. So could Lamar. One thing Crud Bucket taught us real good was how to absorb hurt. I dive the both of us into the cement floor; smashing my forehead and Studblatz at the same time, feeling Studblatz finally release me. I’m getting ready to make him real sorry when something heavy—a foot, maybe—smashes into my head, smashes me good, and things stop.

  23

  DANNY

  Kurt Brodsky goes ape shit.

  I mean, he whales on his captains, his shots thumping their bodies in deep, satisfying bass notes. Scott, his arm half punched off, crumbles into the shadows and roach-scuttles out of the room. Battered by Kurt’s hammer blows, Tom and Mike try double-teaming their fullback but still can’t break him. Strangling in Mike’s headlock, Kurt blasts Jankowski with his foot, then scoops Studblatz up easy as lifting a child. He rams straight into the wall—once, twice, three times—before diving headfirst into the floor, smashing himself and Studblatz into the cement. Kurt is winning the battle until Tom goal-kicks him in the ear. After that, Kurt just lies there, eyes open but still. Studblatz and Jankowski limp off like wounded demons without uttering a single word.

  Ronnie yanks up his sweats during the fight and curls into an armadillo ball, never budging. Even after Jankowski and Studblatz abandon Kurt on the floor, Ronnie stays put. He doesn’t try to run out or crawl away or nothing. Just stays folded up, rocking a little, his lips moving but no sound coming out. And me? I stay hidden, hugging the edges of the thick mat, my fingers digging into the vinyl-webbed foam, my knees clamping together and my jaw aching from the jackhammer in my head. My teeth chatter uncontrollably. Are those guys really gone? Or are they coming back? Are they bringing reinforcements? Too useless and weak to help anybody, I hug the blue mat tight to my body, ready to stay hidden for a long, long time.

  A moan, an awful moan like death itself, rears up from the floor of that cold crypt. Kurt’s mouth releases the sound, opening up, giving his soul an exit. His eyes stare up at the ceiling but nothing is behind them. Then he starts to vibrate. His big body twitches, then grows rigid, then arches off the floor. The twitching turns to thrashing. I know from my dad’s hospital stories that it’s a seizure. Kurt needs help, needs to be restrained so he doesn’t hurt himself. That prods me out of the dark corner. Casting an eye on the door, expecting them to come back any second, I squeeze out from between the wall and mat and jump on Kurt’s chest, trying to pin down his big arms, making sure they don’t lash out at the cement walls or steel-pronged parallel bar stand. It feels like wrestling a crocodile. His eyelids flutter and only white shows underneath them. I am locked in a struggle, making sure his soul stays put. It’s the only fight I have even the slightest chance of winning.

  Come on, come on, Kurt. Come on.

  I grasp at arms big around as my legs while his belly bucks up, nearly throwing me. I glance over, needing help, but Ronnie’s in another world, murmuring to himself. Kurt’s chest pogos up and drops. His head conks against the cement floor like a bowling ball. I let go of one arm and reach for a two-inch mat near my feet, yank it over both of us, and slip it under his skull. He broncos one last time, trying to throw me again, but I’m not having it.

  “Come on,” I beg through gritted teeth.

  Slowly Kurt fizzles. He lies still, again, eyes closed. I shift off him and put my ear to his chest, listen for his heart and breathing, and it’s all there.

  Thank you.

  “Mmmmm . . . nuh-uh . . . no ... Lamar . . . I’m not . . . wait ... ,” is all he says. Then his eyes slowly open—pupils big as marbles—and gaze around and I see that his brain is trying to work again, trying to put the pieces back together. He lifts his head up off the thin mat and winces. He notices Ronnie in a ball six feet away, and he squints while bringing up his right hand to massage his temple.

  “Kurt?” I test. His eyes slowly come around to meet mine. “You back? You gonna be okay?”

  “I . . . ,” he starts, then stops. I can tell his head is killing him by the way he cradles it, like a fragile crystal ball, between both hands. He steals another glance at Ronnie while balancing his face in his fingertips, then rolls over onto his knees and elbows. “I tried, Lamar,” he whispers to the floor. “I tried . . .” And then he gags, still clutching at his skull, spilling his stomach up onto the cement and part of the two-inch mat. I back up, pretty certain Kurt will live.

  That leaves Bruce.

  I scramble out of the storage room and race around a gymnasium full of hiding places. Mats drape almost everything : the ring stand, the high bar, the two sets of parallel bars, the tumbling mats, the mini-trampoline, the vault and runway, and the two pommel horses. Nothing catches my attention.

  “Bruce!” I shout, panicking that those guys’ll return. What they did to Ronnie means they could do anything. “Bruce!” Freaking out, I’m bounding around the gym without direction when I notice the broken seam between the four-foot-thick vaulting mats. One rises higher than the other. I grab the bottom corner of the elevated mat with both hands. Adrenaline shocks my muscles int
o heaving the car-size chunk up onto its side in a single pull.

  Bruce lies underneath, sprawled on his belly, ankles taped together, wrists taped behind his back, wadded-up tube socks stuffed into his mouth. He rolls a quarter way and his eyes are wide open and bloodshot, his nostrils flaring for air. His face glows red where his hair isn’t pressed to his sweaty skin. I rip the sock out of his mouth.

  “Goddammit!!!!”

  He rolls to his butt and sits up with his legs stretched out in front of him. His wrists are wrapped good behind his back, so I go down to his ankles, find a loose strand, and unwind the tape. As soon as his legs are free, Bruce gets his knees under him and stands before I have a chance to help him up.

  “Hold on,” I tell him. “Let me undo your wrists.”

  Bruce ignores me and instinctively walks toward the storage room. I trail behind, working on his bound wrists, tied together with about a half roll of white athletic tape. Rolls and rolls of it lie all around our gym.

  “You okay?” he asks me, tossing the question behind him as he moves.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’s Ronnie?” he asks, but seems to already know the answer from the direction he’s heading.

  “In the storage room,” I say, still trying to undo his wrists. They used so much tape that it’s formed a thick rope that can’t be peeled away. I leave him and fetch a Swiss Army knife out of my gym bag. By the time I scamper back, Bruce stands inside the storage room, not moving, taking it all in, trying to understand the crime scene. The acid stench of Kurt’s vomit rises up in warning. I go back to work on Bruce’s handcuffs. The Swiss Army knife’s miniscissor is no match for the gummy strands and Bruce loses patience. Still cuffed, he kneels beside Ronnie, while my puny scissors gnaw frantically at his gluey bindings. The mop handle rests only a foot away, its tip stained dark. The smell of crap and copper and vinegar mix over the sour fumes of puke. Ronnie’s sweats aren’t pulled up all the way. The elastic of his underwear bunches above the drawstring.

  Kurt groans. Bruce casts an eye at him but stays with our downed teammate. “Hey, Ronnie? Ronnie? Hey, man . . . you okay?” Bruce coos. Then he snarls at me. “Goddammit ! Danny, get this shit off!” I finally snip through the last strands and Bruce’s arms snap forward and grab Ronnie’s shoulders and try to sit him up. Ronnie’s somewhere between living and dead. His white skin now superwhite. His purplish lips barely move as they recite something—a prayer, maybe—too soft to hear. He shudders for a moment and Bruce pounds his back like maybe he’s choking. He’s not choking.

  “What happened?” Bruce asks, locking me in a stare, accusing me of all this. I feel my mouth go dry, unable to speak a word of what I witnessed. I shake my head and glance toward Kurt, now slowly dragging himself up to his feet, using the wall for balance, as if he holds the explanation.

  “I’m suh-suh-sorry,” Kurt whispers. “I’m suh-suh-suh . . . I . . . I guh-guh-gotta go. I gotta get the car buh-buh-back. Patti wuh-wuh-won’t let me . . . I’m suh-suh-sorry,” Kurt keeps repeating. He places a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, then wobbles out of the storage room.

  “Wait!” I shout. I leave Bruce and Ronnie and follow Kurt, circling him like a toy terrier does a bulldog. “You sure you’ll be okay? You don’t look so good. I can drive you. I got my license.”

  “I’m fuh-fuh-fuh-fine,” he says, then trips over the edge of a mat but manages to stay on his feet. He keeps his right hand cupped to the side of his head where Tom kicked him. His left hand juts forward as if feeling its way in the dark. His eyes are half shut and half watching his footsteps.

  “But . . . but what about what happened?” I ask. “What do we do?”

  “Got to guh-guh-get the kuh-kuh-car back,” he repeats, zombie-plodding into the locker room, leaving me stranded with the nightmare back in the gym. When I return, Bruce has one of Ronnie’s arms slung over his shoulder while he holds him up around the waist, walking through the gym, trying to collect both their bags and shoes. Dark stains bleed through the seat and back left leg of Ronnie’s gray sweatpants. I feel sick and gross for even noticing.

  “Ronnie, man, you’re going to be fine. Just fine. We get you home, you’ll be fine,” Bruce semi-yells while propping Ronnie over his shoulders, pacing him across the floor, like he’s only drunk and all he needs is some coffee and time to sober up. “You’ll be fine. Those guys are gone. It’s over, man. Over. You take a long, hot shower and you’ll be right as rain.”

  Ronnie’s glassy eyes tell me only one of them is hearing Bruce’s words.

  “Danny!” Bruce calls to me.

  “Yeah.”

  “Do me a favor and wipe up Kurt’s mess. Use paper towels and, hey, go ahead and use my towel if it’s easier. Just throw it all away. Then lock up, all right? Keys are by the door. My towel is by the rings. We’ll be up at the car waiting for you. Do it quick, all right? Real quick. I wanna get Ronnie back home. Let him shower. Forget this ever happened.” Bruce’s version of a reassuring voice is to talk real loud and not bother waiting for a response.

  Ronnie isn’t doing much of anything but letting himself be led around on his feet. His head droops, and he continues muttering words impossible to make out. It scares me how lost he seems. I grab the gym keys out of Bruce’s bag and speed back into the locker room, then pull out a brick of paper towels from the steel dispenser. I soak half of them under the sink faucet, whiffing the odor they give off when wet, like the paper company mixes garbage with mouse poop to create them. I run back into the gym and grab Bruce’s towel off the ring frame and head into the storage room.

  Kurt’s vomit is mostly clear spit-up, but it reeks. I drop Bruce’s towel on it and push it around with my foot to soak it up. I follow that with the wet paper towels and then finish with the dry towels. Good enough. The cube-mat squats in the storage room like a trunk bomb. A white flash—Studblatz lying on top of Ronnie—burns behind my eyelids, won’t be blinked away. I approach the cube-mat like it might go off, wondering if what just happened really happened, if evil can just blow up like that, out of nothing, out of a day that starts so good. As I stand over the block, taking in the mess they’ve left on it, my legs begin to shake. I back out of the room and then shut the big storage door, holding both Bruce’s towel and the paper towels as far from my body as possible. I chuck them into the wastebasket in the locker room, then return for my bag and lock up the gym.

  Ronnie sits in the front passenger seat of Bruce’s old beater Volvo when I dash across the parking lot. His forehead presses against the passenger window while he chews on a fingernail. With the engine already running, I open the back door and drop into the seat.

  We pull up into Ronnie’s driveway and jerk to a stop as Bruce throws the Volvo in park before braking completely. He doesn’t turn off the ignition. Ronnie’s house is a brown L-shaped ranch almost identical to mine.

  “You want me to come in?” Bruce asks Ronnie. The way he’s leaving the car running, he doesn’t want Ronnie to say yes. Neither do I. The key, right now, right this second, is to get as far away from here as possible, get home, and maybe help my dad mow the lawn or rake leaves or put up a new porch or reshingle the roof or walk the neighbor’s dog or just about anything else in the world that takes place outside in clean air. The key is to do anything but sit next to Ronnie, thinking about what he went through this afternoon.

  From the backseat, I will Ronnie’s head to stop leaning against the window and for him to get out of the car.

  “Ronnie?” Bruce tries again.

  “No,” Ronnie finally answers, his voice barely a whisper. “Thanks.” He stays put, though, making no move.

  Leave, leave, leave, leave, leave, get out, get out, get out, getoutgetoutgetout.

  But he just sits there. He sits for a long time and no one says anything until Bruce speaks up again.

  “Ronnie, take a long, hot shower,” Bruce says. “Tomorrow’s a new day.”

  “Yeah,” Ronnie answers. The sound of his voice makes
me want to tear off my ears. I’m sure, now, I can smell him, smell what they did to him. I have to get away from him.

  I’m about ready to bolt from the car when Ronnie finally opens his door and gets out like he has a date with the electric chair. He never bothers looking back at us. Going up the two stairs to his front door seems to exhaust him. He just stands there in front of his house.

  We waste no time waiting for Ronnie to finally go inside. I stay in the back, not wanting to delay our escape by taking over the prized shotgun seat. Bruce jams the gear into reverse, backing his car up, then gunning the Volvo until it screams and lurches as he slams the gear back into drive. I roll my window down, trying to get the wind through my hair. When Bruce swings into my driveway I already have the door cracked open. My right foot plants on the pavement before we’ve completely stopped.

  “Danny?” Bruce calls.

  I get completely out of the car, unable to sit for even a second longer. Only then do I turn around and lean in through the back window, forcing Bruce to twist around, his right arm wrapped around the back of the passenger seat, his seat belt stretching out to contain him.

  “What, exactly, happened?”

  The question makes me shift my feet, makes me want to hurl my bag out into the street and never go back in that gym—or the school, for that matter—ever again. How am I supposed to walk the halls knowing those three are roaming them?

  “You saw his pants? The stains?” I ask, unable to explain it and not wanting to. “They did all of that to him. Laughing the whole time.”

  Bruce only blinks at me. I push away from the car door without saying good-bye. The old Volvo backs out. Its tires give a weak screech as Bruce leaves.

  24

  KURT

  I return Patti’s car keys to the glass candy dish stationed beside her Great Lanes Bowling ashtray on the kitchen counter. Upstairs in the bathroom, I open the bare medicine cabinet and then search under the sink cupboard for aspirin or anything else to help my headache. I find a packet of powdered flu medicine that says it treats aches and chills. Close enough. I rip it open and tip it into my mouth, then cup water under the faucet into my hand. I gulp back the lemony grit.