“I fell into a hole,” said Byrne.
“Be more careful next time.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“There’s always a next time. Go on to the gazebo. We’ll talk there.”
Robert followed the boy as he limped toward the river. Byrne was taking small steps and was bent at a strange angle, as if his ribs had been savaged. Someone had done a job on him already, which was good. There wouldn’t be any question of Byrne fighting back when things turned nasty. Robert gave his gun a caress as they entered the gazebo. The structure smelled furry and sickly at the same time, as if wet diabetic rodents had pissed on its walls. The din of the river hurtling over the dam grew loud enough to swallow a shot. If a body flipped over the dam, at this time of night it might not be found until it floated by the navy yard at the southern tip of the city.
“Do you have my file?” he said.
“No,” said Byrne.
“But you found it, right?” said Robert as he slowly pulled the gun from his pocket.
“No.”
“No?” He felt a slap of disappointment and a surge of relief all at once. He slipped the gun back into his pocket. “Then why did you call?”
“To talk to you.”
“I said I’d talk only if you found my file.”
“I’m not finding your damn file,” said Byrne.
“But you looked.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My father’s law office. The office of his shady real-estate partner.”
“What about his home? He was supposed to have taken a file cabinet to his home.”
“I checked out his widow’s house, although you got there before me. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t at any of those places. But in the process of searching, I’ve been arrested, insulted, beaten, and I’ve accomplished nothing except adding a dose of blood to my urine. I’m done.”
“You’re not done. We’re never done.”
“Maybe, but I’m not looking anymore. I’m giving up. That’s what I wanted to tell you. I can’t find the file.”
“I’m disappointed,” he said, and part of him truly was, as he fully released his grip on the gun. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and rubbed it over his mouth, catching a faint whiff of its sweet perfume, oil and cordite. “Really disappointed. But I suppose there is nothing more to be done.”
“But there is. You said you knew my father.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I want to hear about him.”
“I thought I made myself clear. I would only do that in exchange for my file.”
“But it’s not your file,” said Byrne.
Robert coolly slipped his hand back into his pocket and around the butt of the gun. “It’s not?”
“And O’Malley’s not your name. And I’m sick of being lied to and pushed around and kicked in the gut. I don’t care who you are or what kind of money you can make with the damn file. All I care about is trying to put together the pieces of my past. You said you had something to tell me about my father. I want to hear it.”
Robert Spangler felt the pimpled grip of the gun as he stared at the boy in the gazebo, and something broke in him, releasing a sweet line of emotion that dissolved the spurt of fear he had been feeling. This Byrne was just a kid, missing his father, doing whatever he could to get back a piece of him. Robert understood, Robert could feel what the boy felt, Robert empathized. Empathy. This was the one remaining gift of the child within him, the Wonder bread boy, rallying over the dark part of his soul twisted into monstrous form by her will.
“How many years has it been since your father died?” said Robert, his voice suddenly soft, even paternal.
“Fourteen,” said Byrne.
“That’s a long time.”
“More than half my life.”
“And you yearn for him.”
“I guess.”
“It’s understandable. Family cuts deep. And whatever comfort it actually provides for us, we want more and more and always more. But know this, young Byrne. In the end it can only lead to disappointment.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Take my advice, you’d be better off forgetting about your father.”
“I just want to know the truth.”
“Ahh, the truth. What the hell is that, boy?”
“I don’t know, but you told me you have some of it.”
“You don’t want to hear what I have to say. You only want me to say what you want to hear. But trust me when I tell you that you won’t ever get all you want. You’ll just grow frustrated and bitter, and you’ll end up doing things that will kill the best part of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m merely giving you some friendly advice. Be careful what you yearn for, because that which you desire most will either complete you or destroy you, and you don’t get to choose.”
The boy stared at him for a moment, still in shadow so Robert couldn’t see what emotions were playing out on the boy’s face. But Robert had done his best to warn him away from a search that could only lead him back into danger. And in the process of reaching out to help a child whose uneasy place in the world was much like his own, Robert had done something good, and he felt good about it, as if he had turned some sort of corner and was freeing himself from her pernicious influence. He was wondering where else this unfamiliar impulse to do good might lead. He was imagining homeless shelters in the city, squalid villages in sub-Saharan Africa in desperate need of wells. His mind was taking flight on wings of selflessness when the boy finally spoke.
“Fuck off,” said Kyle Byrne.
“What did you say?”
“I don’t need your stinking advice. I’m sick to death of advice. It seems to come from every corner now. Winos I pass on the street shout it out. ‘Get your life together.’ I’ve had enough. I thought you had something to say, but it’s clear you don’t. All you have are your lies and your crappy advice, and I don’t want either of them.”
“Watch yourself, boy.”
“I’m done watching,” Byrne said as he started to hobble away. “Go to hell, Mr. O’Malley.”
The name was spoken with an overtone of derision, and just like that the wheel turned inside Robert Spangler and the Wonder bread boy was upended. Now on top and in control was the dark part, perhaps the truer part, formed from love and devotion and obeisance to her iron will. And this part of him, Bobby dear, saw not a flailing boy searching for answers, a boy whose troubles he could relate to and empathize with, but instead opportunity to savor the taste of acid one more time, if the prodding was right.