The Fourth Stall Part III

by Chris Rylander

  “Calm down, JJ,” I said, “you’re going to hurt somebody.”

  “Right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I need your help.”

  “I’m retired; you know that by now, right?”

  “I know, Mac, but you gotta help me!”

  His eyes were wide and panicked and had a crazy look to them like the kind I imagined mine would have if, say, Vince ever went missing. I thought for sure I might see JJ grind his teeth down to the gums right in front of me.

  “Okay, I probably can’t help you, but at least tell me what’s wrong,” I said, knowing I should have stayed stronger. I just couldn’t help it: after years of always being there, it just wasn’t that easy to walk away cold turkey.

  “It’s Justin Johnson. He ripped me off!”

  “Figures,” I said.

  Justin was always up to no good. Stealing stuff from kids, fighting, vandalizing the boys’ bathrooms, crop dusting the hallway, etc., etc. At one point last year he was in charge of Staples’s business dealings at our school. So I’d had my fair share of run-ins with him.

  “He followed me home after school yesterday, and once I was like a block from the school, he jumped me!” JJ said. “He stole my mint-condition, autographed, 1955 Topps Roberto Clemente rookie card!”

  I shook my head. That was some card. Roberto was one of the few non-Cub players who I really loved and respected. I knew that card was pretty valuable: in mint condition (which is pretty rare for a card so old), it could be worth anywhere from $1500 to $5000 or more without his signature. But an autographed version? The sky was the limit.

  JJ nodded. “It’s my prized possession. He’s the best baseball player ever to come from my parents’ country, you know?”

  “Yeah, I know . . . but the thing is—” I started, but JJ didn’t let me finish.

  “Please, Mac, can you help me get it back? That card was a gift from my father; it was his when he was a kid. I’ll never be able to afford another one,” he said. “Plus, there aren’t that many that exist that are autographed.”

  He was actually fighting tears now. JJ was a pretty tough kid, so it must have hurt pretty bad to lose that card if he was this close to crying in a school classroom. I mean, any time after second grade, crying in school was social suicide.

  “Look, I wish I could help. I really, really do,” I said. “But I just can’t get involved. The Suits are all over me the way it is. If I try anything, I’ll get expelled or suspended before I could help anyway. Have you thought about going to the Suits yourself? I mean, they could probably do something for you.”

  It made me feel violently ill to suggest to somebody to go to the Suits for help with a problem. But what else was I supposed to do? I felt so bad for JJ, but there was nothing I could do to help. I was retired. And I was being watched closely. Where did that leave me? I had no choice, right? Right?

  JJ nodded slowly. But his head stayed low. He avoided looking at me or Vince again, and then without saying anything else, he slowly turned around in his desk and flopped his head down onto the hard surface.

  As I watched JJ Molina cry quietly at his desk, all I could think was: What have I become?

  “It was the right thing to do,” Vince whispered, practically reading my mind like he sometimes seemed like he could.

  “I know; it’s just hard to say no. I mean, who else is going to help him? Or Eeyore, or any of them?”

  Vince shrugged. “It’s like my grandma says, ‘When you need help, just start screaming as loud as you can and people will come running . . . just don’t let them steal your scrambled eggs. You must always guard your eggs at all costs.’”

  I laughed in spite of the fact that I was serious about what I’d said. I really did wonder how the kids at our school were going to handle suddenly having no one to help them with their problems. It’s like they say in cheesy movies: sometimes you don’t know what you really have until it’s gone.

  The third kid who tracked us down that day, the one who had an offer for us, found us during lunchtime. Or, well, I guess he didn’t find us so much as he had us found.

  Vince and I were hanging out near the west goal post of the practice football field, waiting for kids to finish their lunches so we could get a short football game going before the start of fifth-hour classes.

  “Remember that time we tried to pull a Rookie of the Year?” Vince asked as we played catch with the football.

  I laughed as I remembered that incident. We had been in fourth grade; it was the beginning of the baseball season. Vince and I had watched this old movie called Rookie of the Year because it was about the Cubs. We watched everything we could find that mentioned the Cubs. Anyways, in this movie this kid hurts his arm and it heals weirdly and gives him a cannon for a throwing arm. So naturally he joins the Chicago Cubs baseball team to help save their season and end the curse. And because it’s a movie, and not real, it works out in the end. This thirteen-year-old kid ends the Cubs curse and they win the World Series. Overall the movie was just okay, but it gave Vince and me an idea. Probably the best idea we’d ever had up to that point.

  I mean, Vince was already a good pitcher, right? So really we thought our plan was pretty genius. And maybe it could have worked if he had separated his throwing shoulder in the fall instead of his other shoulder. But I guess having Vince jump off the roof of the school wasn’t really that good of a plan in the first place. We had never really considered that he wouldn’t be able to control entirely what body part he landed on. But it’s hard to blame us; we were only fourth graders, after all. And being a Cubs fan can kind of blind you to logic sometimes. We were just that desperate to somehow break the curse.

  Of course I can’t even begin to explain why even after the first failed attempt we still thought the plan could work and tried again. The second time we had Vince jump off a Jet Ski going at full speed and try to land as awkwardly on his throwing arm as possible. After that fracture finally healed and he couldn’t throw any harder than before, we finally decided to let the idea go.

  “That was pretty awesome,” I said.

  Vince faked being upset. “Yeah, for you maybe. You’re not the one who had to suffer through two arm injuries!”

  “It’s not like you didn’t love all the attention you got from girls because of that sling. They were just lining up to do your homework for you and help carry your books and stuff.”

  Vince grinned and shrugged. “Whatever. It still wasn’t as much fun as it would have been to pitch for the Cubs.”

  “Speaking of the Cubs,” I said, “I bet I’ve got you.”

  “You wish.”

  “Who was the last Cub to be inducted into the Hall of Fame?”

  Vince scoffed. “Well, sorry, but I’m not an idiot and thus know that the answer is in fact Ron Santo.”

  “Yeah, I know that was an easy one. I just thought I would honor the fact that those morons finally let him in like he deserved to be.”

  Vince nodded, and we shared a few seconds of silence in honor of good old Ron.

  Then suddenly two hands came out of nowhere, grabbed my arms, and pinned them to my sides. I saw Vince hit the ground as someone pushed him.

  “Hey!” I said.

  My assailant let me go, and I turned around as Vince climbed to his feet next to me. He seemed unhurt—thankfully we were on grass and not gravel or pavement. We’d been ambushed, basically. Had we still been in practice, we might have seen it coming, but with the simple life of not having a business came less paranoia. My head wasn’t always on a swivel like it used to be.

  “What gives?” Vince said.

  “Jimmy needs to talk to you,” one of our attackers said, pointing at me.

  It was Mitch. One of Staples’s former lackeys, a guy who had plenty of reason to dislike Vince and me. The other kid was this brutish eighth grader named Lloyd Ahler, a real gorilla of a kid who I didn’t know much about since he had been new here last year. I had been too busy last year to get to know most of the n
ew kids.

  Mitch wasn’t too big and tough, but he did have a year on us. And Lloyd looked like he could have driven Vince into the ground with a single overhanded swing of his giant mallet of a hand. I figured fighting back or running wouldn’t end well, especially since they didn’t seem to be here to fight.

  “Jimmy who?” I asked. “Jimmy ‘the Dutch Axe’ Pierson?”

  “No, not Jimmy ‘the Dutch Axe,’ you idiot,” Mitch scoffed.

  I didn’t see how me not knowing who he meant made me an idiot since there were like seven Jimmys at this school. But I didn’t argue the point. I just stared at him.

  “Jimmy who, then?” Vince asked.

  “Jimmy Two-Tone, duh,” Mitch said.

  “Look, I don’t know a Jimmy Two-Tone,” I said, and started to turn away.

  Lloyd “Gorilla” Ahler grabbed my arm with what I could only assume was a robot hand since it squeezed so hard.

  “Yeah, well, he knows you, apparently,” Mitch said. “And he has requested a meeting with you.”

  “Me? Why?” I asked, even though I knew better. Clearly it was just another kid in need of help. A kid so desperate that he’d hired two eighth-grade goons to come and make me hear his request.

  “I’ll ask the questions here, okay?” Mitch said.

  I shrugged and nodded. Then a long silence followed. It was kind of uncomfortable.

  “Well, are you going to ask me a question, then?” I said finally.

  “Oh, well, I guess . . .” Mitch started. “I guess I don’t have any questions, exactly. Look, stop messing around. I said Jimmy wants to talk to you!”

  I looked at Vince, who merely shrugged.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay, then,” said Mitch, clearly not quite used to this sort of thing. There was a definite difference between recreational bullying and bullying for pay, being a strongman, and he hadn’t quite worked out the subtleties just yet.

  Lloyd was holding my arm a little harder than was necessary considering I’d agreed to come with willingly, but I wasn’t about to insult this walking lump of hair and muscle that called itself a kid named Lloyd. And so we started back toward the school in silence.

  Lloyd and Mitch escorted Vince and me to the cafeteria. Vince and I normally avoided the place, even now that we didn’t have a business to tend to during the lunch period. For one thing the lunchroom smelled like rotten potatoes and cheap grandma perfume. Also, the lunchroom was like a bully’s playground. Operating my business had gotten me on the bad sides of a lot of bullies over the years, due to the number of kids who came to me for protection or payback. So it was usually just safer for Vince and me to avoid the lunchroom altogether unless it was necessary, like last year when we had to come down here to investigate a case for Jonah the health freak.

  Mitch and Lloyd led us toward a lone table wedged in the back corner of the lunchroom by the row of long windows. There was only one kid at the table, and he sat there with a plate full of something fluorescent purple in front of him. He gazed out the window while taking a bite of the purple stuff that looked to be more radioactive than edible.

  We all stopped in front of him. He was a mostly normal-looking kid. Maybe sixth grade or so. I didn’t recognize him, which meant he was likely new. At the start of every school year there were at least four or five new kids that came along with it.

  Lloyd let go of my arm and nudged me forward. I rubbed the spot where his cyborglike paw had been clamped.

  “What’s this, guy?” Jimmy Two-Tone said. “Did you rough them up?”

  Lloyd shrugged and then grinned. Mitch smirked.

  Jimmy scowled at them.

  “What gives, dudes?” Jimmy said. “I didn’t say to do that! They’re my guests. Apologize to them. Now.”

  “That’s all right. It’s not a big deal . . . ,” I said.

  “No, no, no, friend, it is a big deal. That’s no way for someone of your reputation to be treated. No way at all,” Jimmy said. “So what are you waiting for, morons? Apologize!”

  Lloyd rubbed his neck and then muttered, “Sorry.”

  “Yeah, man,” Mitch said.

  “To both of them,” Jimmy said.

  They repeated their sorrowless apologies to Vince, and then Jimmy waved his hand and they both sulked off to a nearby table.

  “Sorry about that, buddies,” Jimmy said with a smile. “Have a seat.”

  He shoveled another spoonful of bright purple chunks into his mouth as we sat. He must have seen me looking at the plate trying to figure out what it was.

  “Oh, I’m being rude. Want some pickled beets?” he slid the tray toward us.

  I shook my head without trying to make a face at the horrible vinegar smell wafting toward me.

  “No thanks,” Vince said.

  Now that I was closer, I saw why his nickname was Jimmy Two-Tone. He had two different-colored eyes. One was light blue, so light it was almost white, and the other eye was dark brown. It made him look about as creepy as any kid I’d ever seen.

  “So, you, uh, wanted to see me?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said before swallowing another huge bite of beets. “Jimmy heard about what you did for this school, guy. Pretty good stuff, pal.”

  “Yeah?” I said, feeling pretty impressed that he’d heard of me.

  “That’s right, dude. Jimmy heard that you guys ran the best business this side of the Missouri. That you helped out lots of kids. Jimmy also been hearing stuff about you retiring now. Is that right, friends?”

  Was he referring to himself by his own name instead of saying “I” and “me” like a normal person? What gives with this kid? Either way, though, he seemed nice enough. Besides, it’s not like he was the only weirdo going to school here. This place was packed with oddball characters. It’s part of why I loved it so much.

  “You heard right,” I said.

  Jimmy grinned then nodded. “Why? Why you guys retiring? I mean, lots of profits still to be made here, right, bros?”

  I nodded. Today had shown me that much, maybe more so than any other day so far this school year. There were still plenty of kids with plenty of problems to be solved. Which meant there was a lot of money still sitting on the table.

  “Well, if you heard all the rumors about us, then you must know why,” Vince said.

  Jimmy grinned again and shrugged. “Well, yeah, sure Jimmy hears stuff. But he’d rather hear it from the goat’s mouth himself before he believes it. I mean, you dudes gotta know you can’t believe everything you hear, right, guy?”

  Goat’s mouth? I glanced at Vince and we exchanged a brief look. I tried to figure out if Jimmy was eccentrically brilliant or just another regular old weirdo.

  “After a series of events last year, the heat was on. We didn’t have any choice, not if we didn’t want to be expelled. The Suits are still on us.” I nodded my head back and to the left.

  Principal Dickerson was standing against the far wall pretending not to be staring at us. He’d followed us here. He kept an eye on Vince and me almost every lunch period.

  “Yeah, that’s quite some problem you got there, friend,” Jimmy said. “So the Suits are watching you, making sure that you aren’t up to any funny business. But that means they can’t be paying as much attention to the rest of us, right? It’s a simple numbers game. There are more of us to monitor than they have the manpower for.”

  “Numbers don’t lie,” Vince agreed. I think he suddenly felt way more comfortable knowing we were sitting across from another numbers guy. Jimmy was strange, yeah, but he was also clearly pretty sharp.

  “What are you getting at?” I asked.

  “What about if someone new came along? Someone who the Suits would have no reason to suspect of wrongdoing. Someone with pretty good business savvy and a squeaky clean record. Someone who could step in and fill the void, solve kids’ problems, fix everything that got broken last year. What would you say to that, friends?” Jimmy took his last bite of beets and then leaned back a
nd stared at us as he chewed, his multicolored eyes seeming to play tricks on my brain.

  I looked at Vince. He looked back. Neither of us knew what to make of it. I don’t think either of us had ever considered handing off the reins of our business to someone else. Especially not to a new kid who we had just met.

  I think Jimmy could read what I was thinking because suddenly he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice.

  “Okay, Jimmy doesn’t think he’s going to come in and replace you, just like that. Mac and Vince probably can’t ever be replaced, right, bros? But Jimmy also don’t need you to show him the ropes or anything, because he knows that would be too risky with Dickerson on your tail the way he is. The thing is Jimmy ran a pretty similar operation back at his old school, so he knows what he’s doing.”

  I nodded for him to continue.

  “Right, well, what Jimmy is suggesting is that he runs your business for you. Jimmy will take over that sweet office I heard you had and maybe some of your old contacts could become Jimmy’s contacts, right? I mean, kids still got problems they need solved. And you can’t help them anymore. But that doesn’t mean that Jimmy can’t help them. And here’s the best part, guy: Jimmy will cut you in. It’s your operation; after all, you did the hard part already. It’s like a bike: it’s a lot harder to build a bike than it is to ride one. So Jimmy cuts you in for ten percent of the profits, and if any trouble shows up from the Suits, Jimmy will be the one taking the heat. It’s win-win-win. Kids still get their help, you still get paid, and it’s risk free.”

  “But why cut us in at all? You could have just come in and started your own business either way,” I said.

  Jimmy looked offended. “Come on, guy! Don’t be like that. Jimmy would never undercut another businessman on his own turf. What you take Jimmy for, some two-bit hood? It’s the right thing to do, friends. Jimmy needs your blessings.”

  “Can we have a few minutes to talk about it?” I asked.

  “Of course, dudes,” Jimmy said, and then slid his chair loudly over to the table where Lloyd and Mitch were playing some sort of game that involved them repeatedly smacking each others’ wrists.