Shaker: A Novel

by Scott Frank

  “But these were African Americans?”

  “I’m talking generally,” he said. “About gangs in general. Black, Latino, Vietnamese. They’re all punks.”

  “Where was Councilman Peres at this point?”

  “Mr. Peres goes running by and this punk comes up, points a gun at him—you know right here.” The Mexican pointed to his balls.

  As Alonzo Zarate went on to describe how they started to push the councilman around, Roy tried to move to the bathroom, see if they put his clothes in there. He hopped over to the door, grabbed hold of the knob, then fell on his ass as it opened backward.

  He felt something rip in his chest.

  “You called the police at this point?”

  “I was about to, when the other guy showed up.”

  “Roy Cooper?”

  “He was just walking by, stopped when he saw what was going down.”

  “He stopped?” the reporter said.

  “Yeah. He was gonna help out when one of the gangbangers snuck up behind him, put a gun to his head.”

  “He was trying to help?”

  “He stopped, yeah.”

  The reporter asked, “And that’s when you called the police?”

  “That’s when I went, got my phone.”

  Roy grabbed the door handle and pulled himself up to his feet.

  “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t just my word against theirs, the way it usually is.”

  The pain in his knee was so great, it made Roy’s eyes water. And now a big red stain was spreading across the front of his hospital gown above the wound in his chest.

  “I come back to the window, I see they got a gun on this other guy…”

  “Mr. Cooper.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s telling the kid to take his money and go, leave Mr. Peres alone. And then…”

  “And then?”

  “He slapped the kid. Right in the face. It was awesome. That’s balls, man. Bravest thing I ever saw.”

  “Why did you wait so long to call the police?”

  Roy forced himself to get up and walk to the door. He had to get out of there. He would just push past the cop standing guard and make a run for it. The pain in his body was so great now that he felt numb all over anyway.

  On the TV, Roy saw that the lawyer was now guiding the Mexican away from the reporter, saying, “Mr. Zarate has no further comment.”

  But the Mexican was saying over his shoulder, “That guy, Roy Cooper, he’s a hero.”

  Roy stopped in the middle of the room and stared at the set. Beneath the gown, his body was slick with the blood that now flowed from his torn skin. He felt dizzy and was looking for something to steady himself with when the door opened and the big nurse reappeared carrying a huge arrangement of flowers.

  She said, “These are from the mayor’s office,” before she saw Roy standing there, swaying in the center of the room, and screamed, “Mr. Cooper! What are you doing?”

  Roy pitched forward, knocking the flowers from her arms and forcing her back against the wall. The young cop was in the room now, too, trying to keep Roy from falling on top of her.

  The nurse screamed, “Get Dr. Ravi!”

  Then all at once, Roy lost his breath. He swallowed and found himself looking up at the fluorescent lights, the nurse’s planet-sized face hovering over him, leaning down like she was going to kiss him. Roy thought she was kissing him when all at once he felt his lungs expand with hot, peanut-butter-scented air.

  As he stared stupidly into her brown eyes, he could hear Harvey’s voice saying over and over, They’re gonna kill you now for sure.

  Science could not believe his fucking eyes.

  It was happening all over again, not in the alley, but in his fucking living room.

  He had gotten up around ten, came out of his bedroom to find his mom asleep on the couch in her underwear and a Clippers T-shirt.

  As he walked through the yellow living room to the kitchen, he saw that the Today show was on and some good-looking lady—even though she had to be close to forty—was showing the white guy with the buzz cut how to make his own ice cream.

  The place was a fucking mess. His mother had come home, fixed herself a can of turkey chili, and left it cooking on the stove. Now, the shit was splattered all over the walls. Looked like someone got shot.

  Science put the scorched pot in the sink and filled it with soapy water to soak. He then grabbed a box of Frosted Flakes and was carrying it back into the living room, pulling a handful of cereal out of the box, when he saw it.

  They played the entire thing start to finish three times.

  They showed pictures of the old Herb at some meeting.

  The newsman saying now that he was the fucking mayor. Or was gonna be or some such bullshit.

  Science didn’t have time to think much about it as the next image was a replay of Mr. Freeze slapping him in the face. For the fourth time in five minutes, Science watched himself stumble back like he was just another street twink.

  Then the image froze. It enlarged and someone drew a circle around Science’s head the way they do during football games, they wanna show you how the defense or whatever works.

  Even so, you still couldn’t recognize Science or any of them really. The camera was too high and in the dark to get any kind of read on anybody except maybe L, who sat closer to the light than the rest of them. Science knew he was cool—no way anyone could say that was him.

  He could hear his brother, Cole, rolling up the ramp outside in his chair.

  “Did you see that shit?” he said as he rolled into the room. “Me and Gene been laughing at it all morning.”

  Cole put himself right in front of the television, leaning forward on his dead legs as he watched the image of Mr. Freeze slapping Science and shook his head. “Fool got his ass played.”

  “Fo’ sure,” Science said. “You know who that is?”

  “Gene says it’s a Paca, li’l homie named Romeo.”

  Science nodded.

  If his own brother didn’t even recognize him…

  Cole grabbed the remote and turned up the volume and pointed at the set. “Mothafucka supposed to be mayor.”

  Science watched a shot of Frank Peres from a week or so earlier, walking through the neighborhood shaking hands.

  “Tell you one thing,” Cole said. “They gonna be a lotta dead niggas behind that shit.”

  Science said, “Fuck the Locos.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ about the damn Locos, fool. It’s the pigs—they gonna fuckin’ invade this ’hood.”

  Science just nodded as Cole tossed him the remote and said, “Stay up, little brother.”

  “All day.”

  Cole rolled out of the room.

  Science looked at his mom a minute, out cold through all of this, wondering what she’d think about this latest development. What will anyone think? Sooner or later, one of his boys, Shake or L for sure, will say something. Truck would wait for Science to make it right. But for how long?

  And how does he make it right? That slap might as well have been a nuclear bomb for what it would do to Noel Bennett’s life should the truth ever come out. The Science Man and all his plans obliterated in an instant.

  Science stared at the set. Some lady with a microphone was now standing in front of the hospital, three blocks away. He thought about the strap with the hair trigger that was still under his pillow. He thought about the way the guy they were calling Roy Cooper looked at him. Whoever he was, Science could see him walking up the ramp out front and knocking on the door.

  The dude wanting his gun back.

  So this was the position he found himself in. If the truth didn’t kill him, sooner or later Mr. Freeze would.

  But if he killed the man who, according to the TV, was currently lying tubed up in bed a mere three blocks away, the truth wouldn’t matter.

  Science knew that the mere mention of this plan would instantly put him in a better light with Truck. Together, th
ey would go over to Valley Presbyterian and take care of business. Science would rather be on death row than let somebody do him like that. Slap him in front of the whole fucking world.

  But there was another, much simpler reason why the guy had to get got: self-defense. All morning long, Science had heard a voice inside his head repeat the same warning over and over:

  Kill him before he kills you.

  “She’s a beautiful woman,” Mike Martin was saying. “Only natural for a man to be jealous of her now and again.”

  Roy looked at Mike from behind his soda and guessed his age at around thirty, same as Roy’s mother, but maybe ten years younger than Roy’s father and a lot bigger. Officer Mike—what he urged Roy to call him—went well over six feet with broad shoulders and weightlifter biceps that looked permanently flexed as he sat there with his arms crossed, resting on the table in front of him. He watched Roy with navy blue eyes that seemed to exactly match his uniform. Roy knew that his mother was a sucker for blue eyes. She had said that to Roy often enough, her hand on the back of Roy’s neck, as she bent to kiss him on the forehead.

  They were just about the only people inside the Denny’s except for a man a few tables back, eating a plate of eggs and bacon at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  Roy watched the man fold back a page of his newspaper, some ketchup smeared in a bottom corner, then took a sip of his Coke and said, “Being jealous isn’t a crime.”

  “No. Nothing illegal about that.” Officer Mike leaned back to adjust the dark Ray-Ban Aviators that sat atop his blond head. Roy thought he looked more like a male model or a famous quarterback than a Kansas City police officer.

  “It’s the other things he does I’m worried about.” He gave Roy his best concerned friend look and waited for Roy to respond.

  Roy let him wait.

  “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  Roy looked out the window, two boys a couple of years older stood across the street, both in hiking boots and flannel shirts. The bigger one had a faded filthy green JOHN DEERE baseball cap on his head. Roy watched as he covered one nostril with a finger, blew a load of snot out of the other one into the gutter.

  “It’s the burns on her arms. The broken blood vessels in her eye. The clumps of hair he tears out of her head.”

  Roy kept on looking out the window. He saw his own reflection and thought he looked scared, the brown and orange decor of the restaurant framing his startled face.

  “It’s the fact,” Officer Mike went on, “that she’s been to the emergency room in Raytown four times in the last seven months. Once with two broken ribs.” He tapped the table three quick times with his index finger. “It’s these things that worry me.” And then, after a dramatic pause, “And they should worry you, too.”

  Officer Mike looked at Roy another moment, then smiled at a passing waitress and said, “Another Coke for my partner here.”

  Roy didn’t like the way he said partner, something about the policeman’s tone made him feel small. Smaller than he already felt. Roy was the smallest kid in the sixth grade. Dave Spicer was closest to him, and he had at least a full inch on Roy.

  “Your next-door neighbor,” Mike said. “Mrs. Talbott? She says one night last month she’s looking out her window and she sees your mother in the backyard, in the rain, banging on the back door for your father to let her into the house.” Mike sat back in his chair and crossed his big arms. Roy thought he might wiggle his biceps the way his dad did sometimes, make him laugh.

  “She says your mother didn’t have all her clothes on.”

  “I don’t recall that.”

  “Huh. That’s funny, because Mrs. Talbott also told me that you were the one let your mother back inside.”

  For a moment, Roy saw her from his bedroom window, standing down there on the porch in black panties, her bare breasts small and still, even as she hammered on the door with her fists. He felt ashamed by the memory. He knew that he might have stood there and watched her all night if she hadn’t suddenly looked up and seen him in the window.

  Roy sat back as the waitress set down another Coke and smiled at him. Roy smiled back, didn’t want her to think that he was here with Officer Mike because he was in trouble.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.”

  Mike winked at her, then leaned once more on the table, all serious again. “That took a lot of guts,” he was now saying, “do something like that.”

  “Something like what?”

  “Go downstairs when your dad’s in a rage like that, let your mom back in the family home.”

  “He wasn’t in a rage.”

  “What do you call it, then?”

  “It’s not his fault,” Roy said. “It’s the headaches that make him do it.”

  “The headaches?”

  “He gets them right before he does something bad. All the other times he’s fine.”

  “Your mother didn’t say anything about any headaches.”

  “She thinks he gets them just because he forgets to wear his glasses, but the doctor says he gets them from working around the gas fumes all day.”

  “Maybe your father should quit his job.”

  “He could never do that.”

  “Why not? I mean, if it’s making him sick.”

  “He loves being around the airplanes.”

  For some reason this made the policeman smile and nod like he really knew the man.

  Roy leaned his head against the window. It felt cool against his skin. The two older boys were still over there in front of the gas station, but now they were sitting on the curb, eating from one bag of potato chips. They were both looking at Roy. The one in the hat licking his fingers. And now Roy could feel Mike looking at him, too. He was stuck. He didn’t want to sit here anymore. But he didn’t want to go outside either. Though he knew that sooner or later he’d have to.

  “Your mother is suffering, Roy. She needs your help.”

  “What can I do?”

  “You can call me the next time your father gets a headache.”

  Roy turned away from the window and watched as Mike took a card from his wallet and slid it across the table. He looked down at the card, but didn’t pick it up. It had Mike’s name and badge number on it as well as the phone number for the stationhouse. His home phone was written in ink just below it.

  Roy thought Officer Mike’s handwriting looked worse than his own. He was still staring at the card as he said, “I think he’s suffering, too.”

  Mike just nodded like he understood, then tapped the card with his index finger. “Call me anytime, day or night. Okay?”

  Roy picked up the card and quickly tucked it into his shirt pocket. He turned and looked back out the window. And now Mike looked, too.

  After a moment, he said, “I know those two.” He turned to Roy. “You need a lift home?”

  Roy shook his head, slightly humiliated that Officer Mike had possibly seen how afraid he was.

  “They don’t bother me.”

  “All right, then.”

  Mike got up and left him there.

  Outside, the two boys watched as the cop walked out of the restaurant and over to the handicapped spot where he’d parked his patrol car. Mike opened his door and then leaned on it a moment while he said something to them, something Roy couldn’t make out. They called back to the young cop from across the street. Mike laughed and then got into the car.

  Roy couldn’t believe what he just saw. He laughed. Why would he do that? Now he knew for sure that the man wasn’t on his side.

  Not that he had any doubts before.

  Roy sat in the booth for maybe five more minutes while he finished the soda. And then sat for another five while he chewed up all of the ice in the bottom of the glass. He was thinking about buying one more soda when he realized he didn’t have any money.

  He took a breath and slid out of the booth, careful not to look out the window.

  “Say,
miss? Miss? Can we have a word with you?”

  Roy didn’t turn around, just kept walking at the same pace. The trouble was, his normal walk made him look scared. Everything Roy did made him look scared. He stumbled on the uneven sidewalk and found himself jogging the next few steps.

  “Please. Don’t run, miss!”

  They were right behind him. His breath was short and his heart felt like it might tear from his chest. He was shaking, he told himself, from the caffeine in the soda. He knew that he couldn’t outrun them. They’d never let him do that. So he simply stopped walking and faced the two of them. Whatever happened, happened. He had lived through it before.

  The bigger one was sweating, out of breath. Roy could see some crusted jam in the corners of the kid’s mouth. His name was Jim McDonald and he was a year older than Roy. The other one, the one in the hat, Brent Garland, was two years older. There were streaks of grease fixed into his jeans, a smear of it on his forehead. Angry red acne ran off his face and down his neck where it disappeared under a stained yellow tank top. Roy thought about the engine he was always rebuilding. The old car he would drive when he turned sixteen. A Nova. Light green with gray primer bruises all over it. As Roy pictured the car in their backyard, it got him thinking about the shed back there, and about Brent’s sister. The stories he’d heard about the two of them.

  Brent took a step closer and Roy could smell tobacco. “You narc on us to that cop, miss?”

  “He already knew about you.”

  “So you talked about us?”

  Jim McDonald spat on the sidewalk a few feet from Roy. He stared at the little puddle of foam and said to no one, “Missed.”

  With that, Roy turned and resumed walking.

  “Hey, girl! I’m talking to you!”

  Jim spit in his hair, Roy could feel it, but he kept on walking. Roy felt a hand on his shoulder and started running. He didn’t bother to look back. He turned up the first street he came to, the little houses breezing by in a blur. Raytown now in the dead of fall, the yards and sidewalks blanketed in yellow paper birch leaves.

  Roy could still hear the two of them panting behind him as he turned onto Amapola Street, crossed at a sprint in front of a car just starting to pull away from a stop sign, someone now yelling at the group to, Goddammit, be more careful as Roy ran along the sidewalk, tripped over a downed branch, hidden in the leaves, but somehow managed to keep himself upright.