I remembered it from the notebook; it was the other place guarded by Nunzio’s rats. “Fine. Where is it?”
“Come on, kid, I ain’t got time for this. You know where it is.”
“Right. Of course,” I said, making a mental note to read up on it.
We talked details a while longer-what I wanted him to do tomorrow, and whom to do it to, when the meeting with Strozzini would occur-and then Knuckles held out a catcher’s mitt and showed me those teeth again. “So we got a deal?” he said.
“Deal,” I said.
I shook a hand that had busted many bones over the decades.
Those bones were smaller pieces of shattered lives.
I had just agreed to be a part of that sick process, and it broke my heart.
19
Everyone has a talent, even the most seemingly untalented person, even if it’s something that other people wouldn’t consider particularly entertaining or useful, like performing an entire opera on a kazoo or flipping an omelet blindfolded.
My sometimes-friend Gina’s talent is gossip.
The time had come to deploy the full power of her awesome gift.
I’d asked Doug to wait twenty-four hours until he did anything crazy like hurting himself, and the time was almost up. When the bell rang at the end of first period, I was out the classroom door and down the hallway before it filled with slow-moving loud-talkers, waiting at Gina’s locker. I’d made sure to conceal my bruises beneath makeup so her full attention was on what I was about to tell her. Gina’s place in the Fep Prep firmament-Gossip Queen-makes her the be-all, end-all of the buzz, dish, and dirt, and I had a juicy morsel now that was (literally) custom made for her.
When she saw me, her incredible gossip ESP kicked in and she said, “Let me guess. Max is going to fight Billy Shniper.”
I looked around carefully and then stared at her. “No,” I said. “Doug is.”
There are few things as sweet as seeing surprise register on Gina’s face. Watching her process unexpected information is like watching a great chef experience a new flavor. “When? Where?” she said hungrily. “More importantly. . how?”
“Don’t fool yourself,” I said. “Doug has moves.”
“Yeah, one toward a bag of Munchitos, the other toward a remote control. Seriously, Sara Jane, is this really going to happen?”
I looked around again, and said, “I swear. Today, right after school. Under the El tracks, behind Bump ‘N’ Grind. And Gina?”
“Yeah?”
“Doug’s a friend of mine, so don’t tell anyone, okay? He said that after he breaks Billy’s nose. .”
“He said that?”
“And after he makes Billy get down on his knees and apologize like the little bitch that he is. .”
“Doug said that?”
“Then he just wants to put this whole silly thing behind him and get back to concentrating on his girlfriend. The model. Who lives in Canada.” There, I thought, looking at Gina’s O-mouth, that should do it.
It did it all right.
By last period, the tidbit had spread from kid to kid like flu in a preschool.
Everyone seemed to know about it except Doug, who never talked to anyone.
When the last bell rang, the entire student body flooded out the doors and headed for the grassy patch beneath the El. I’d made a plan with Doug to get an espresso at Bump ‘N’ Grind after school, and he was waiting for me on the sidewalk, confused at the back pats and “good lucks” being showered on him by kids he didn’t know and had never spoken to. “What’s that all about?” he said.
“Maybe they just like you,” I said as we started walking.
“No one likes me.”
“Doug. .”
“I know, I know,” he said, shifting his laptop from one arm to the other. “You do. But I’ve been thinking about it-I can’t stop thinking about it-and it’s not enough to. .”
“Hey! Doug!”
I looked up at Max waiting across the street, hands on hips, angry and concerned, and I realized I’d forgotten to factor him into the plan. “Crap,” I mumbled.
“Crap what?” Doug said as we crossed the street. The mosh pit of kids crowding behind Bump ‘N’ Grind was impossible to miss. “What’s going on here?” he said.
“What the hell are you doing?” Max said, stepping in front of Doug.
“Just getting an espresso,” he said, taken aback. “Maybe a scone.”
“You’re going to fight Billy Shniper?” Max said.
“What?” Doug said, turning bright pink.
“You are?” I said innocently.
“No. No. . I would never. .”
“Hey, chunky!” Billy shouted. Apparently he’d been waiting behind Bump ‘N’ Grind doing calisthenics or something, warming up for the takedown, and now he came around the corner with his idiot crew in tow. A throng of kids followed, and then it was Billy and his friends on one side and Doug, me, and Max on the other. Billy strutted like a muscle-bound peacock, saying, “Bad-ass versus fat-ass! This is gonna be awesome!”
Doug said, “I don’t understand what’s happening, but I won’t fight you.”
Billy shrugged. “You don’t have to. Just stand there and I’ll beat your ass.”
Doug looked around at the crowd, processing it, and then back at Billy. “Aim for the head. It’ll save me from buying rat poison.”
“Huh?” Billy said.
“You’re gonna kill me, kill me. Get it over with,” Doug said calmly. “What are you, scared? I’m not.”
Billy’s smile drooped, he looked around at his guys, who were as confused as he was, and turned back to Doug. “What is this, like, some kind of mind game?”
“Hit me!” Doug roared, making Billy and his guys step back. “You effing loser! You effing freak!”
“Doug,” I hissed, grabbing his arm, “stop talking. Just. . wait.”
“Wait for what?” he bellowed, and turned on Billy. “Hit me! Kill me! Do it now, you. . you effing retard!”
Billy’s face fell when he heard that word. He made a hard red fist and said, “My pleasure,” through clenched teeth, but was interrupted by the gentle toot of a car horn. The crowd turned to the curb, where a Fiat older and smaller than my mom’s creaked to a halt. It was a tiny Italian car with a tiny Italianate man emerging from it. He was in black from head to toe-black suit, black shoes and shirt-except for his tie, which was white. His black-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes like two dark marbles and were worn beneath an impressive head of white hair. The tune he whistled was carefree and so was he, strolling toward the mosh pit with his tiny hands in his tiny pockets. Watching him approach, I thought, If this is Knuckles’s scariest guy, Doug is dead. He stopped a few feet away, took his time surveying the crowd, then raised his black eyebrows and grinned with a mouthful of white Chiclet teeth.
“Yo, Dougy,” he said with a dip of his head.
The crowd was silent, a train rumbled overhead, and Doug said, “Me?”
“How’s it hanging, buddy boy?”
“Uh. . fine, I suppose,” Doug said, confused. “Listen, I’m not. .”
The tiny man moved closer and looked up at Billy, inspecting him like he were in a petri dish. “Who’s this jag?” he said. “President of the Hitler Youth Club?”
“Something like that. Pardon me, but who are. .?”
He shook a box, popped a Tic-Tac, and said, “Listen up, everybody, and get the wax outta your ears. Dougy here is my man, my very best chum, amico mio numero uno, you get me? Anyone”-he paused, smiling at Billy-“and by anyone I mean you, Adolf Junior, bullies, teases, touches, taunts, screws with, or looks askance at him, you’re gonna have to deal with me.”
An empty plastic bag scratched past like a tumbleweed.
Someone coughed quietly.
Far away a siren moaned.
The tiny man raised his arms like a preacher. “Are we square?”
Billy snuffled stupidly and said, “I don’t know what that means, but I know it’s gonna take a lot more than some old midget to back me off of fatty-pants here. Hell, I’m just getting started!”