Other than being hot as the inside of a kiln, there was nothing different about the house that afternoon. I knew it was pointless being there. Dumb too – like riding around on a bicycle so small that your knees keep hitting the handlebars.
We went in through the basement and worked our way up the back stairs to the kitchen. McCabe kept pointing to pipes running parallel to the floorboards. He'd say only "Copper" in a firm professional voice, as if he was giving us a guided tour of untold treasure. We were unimpressed. We wanted girls in orange bikinis, free tickets to the Yankees game, a great party to look forward to that night. Copper tubing didn't do it.
Al "Green Light" Salvato was there. After Frannie said "Copper" for the hundredth annoying time, Salvato picked up on it. Pointing to everything – his shoes, the floor, Frannie's ass – he said "Copper" in the same serious, informed tone of voice. McCabe pretended not to hear and continued to lead the way.
Through the kitchen into a large pantry the color of burned toast. We climbed a servants' staircase to the first floor because our boss wanted to have a look at the bathrooms. We scouted one out and sure enough, a copper bonanza was in there. But by then Frannie knew we didn't give a shit, the house was hot, and none of this was going to come to anything in the end.
His way of admitting defeat was, on catching Salvato mimicking him, shooting Green Light a savage knee in the balls that put the other on the ground in the shape of a comma.
"You guys don't like my plan, fuuuuuck you!" He stomped out of the room, leaving us with guilty smiles and our hands in our pockets. We were too old for this nonsense. Too old to be traipsing around empty houses looking for anything to do. Too old to be hanging around, too old to be biding time when we knew out there in the real world every other teenager on earth was having parties and getting laid. They were living lives that didn't depend on copper tubing, the whims of Frannie McCabe, or luck. Of course we were wrong and in the intervening years we learned that every kid believes life is happening where he ain't. But that knowledge wouldn't have helped back then because we wouldn't have believed it.
I was glad my parents had had enough of my bad behavior and sullenness to be sending me away to a school where there would be new faces and experiences. Looking for copper pipe in an old house couldn't have been a better reminder that anywhere had to be better than this nowhere.
We helped Salvato off the floor and left the bathroom. Right outside the door, McCabe came rushing back up. He put a finger to his lips and beckoned us to follow.
He moved along in a semicrouch, the way Groucho Marx walked in his films. Salvato copied him, but only because he was afraid McCabe would give him another nut-knocker if he didn't follow the leader step-for-step.
"What're you doin', Fran? Practicing deep knee bends?" Ron Levao asked. McCabe shook his head and waved us to follow. He duckwalked down the hall till he came to the top of the main staircase. We caught up and saw for the first time what was on his mind.
Down below in the strewn chaos of the living room, Club Soda Johnny Petangles was sitting on a decrepit once-pink couch, singing to himself. Lying across his lap was my dog, Jack the Wonder Boy. The two sat there unmoving, completely at peace.
I had never heard Johnny sing and was surprised at his sweet, frail voice. My dog lay panting from the heat, eyes closed. His small red tongue hung out one side of his mouth. From his long daily walks I assumed Jack knew every inch of the town, but since when had he and Petangles become friends? Had the dog been lured into the Tyndall house, or did the two of them roam around together while the rest of Crane's View went about its business?
Someone behind me snickered, "That's your dog, hah, Bayer?"
I nodded but didn't turn around.
McCabe looked at me and hissed, "What's that retard doing with your little dog, Sam?"
"Singing, looks like."
He slapped my head. "I see that. But I wouldn't let no fuckin' retard touch my dog! How do you know he's not feeling him up or something?"
"You're sick. McCabe! People don't feel up dogs."
"Maybe retards do."
We squatted there and watched the simple man sing to the dog. The two looked blissful together. Johnny was crooning the Four Seasons' "Sherry" in a high falsetto that was a decent imitation of lead singer Frankie Valli. Jack was panting so hard it looked like he was smiling. Maybe he was.
"You gonna let him get away with that?"
"Get away with what, Salvato? The guy's singing!"
Green Light looked eagerly at Frannie. "I think Petangles is a 'mo. I think he's a dog fag."
I looked at him and shook my head.
But McCabe thought it over, then nodded sagely. "Could be. You never know with retards."
"Fuckin'-a right, Frannie! I think he's doing something to that dog. We just can't see it from up here."
I hissed, "Salvato, you're full of shit! Come on, let's get outta here. It's hot."
McCabe called the shots – all of them. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe I'd come to the end of the line with these guys and this life. Maybe McCabe sensed that and wanted to throw one last uppercut. Whatever it was, just being there with him and those other knotheads made me want to go home and wait for fall when I would leave Crane's View.
I started to get up but Frannie shoved me hard in the chest with both hands. I fell back down. We looked at each other and I felt sure he knew everything I was thinking about him and the situation. It frightened me.
Everyone tensed. In a second, it felt like the heat had risen ten degrees. At a moment like this, McCabe was friends with no one; he'd bash whoever he felt like. No one was exempt. All of us had been his target at one time or another. If you wanted to hang around the guy, the unspoken rule was do whatever you could to stay on his good side – or else. We always knew when someone had crossed his line, but not what Frannie would do about it, and that made it even more alarming. Sometimes he would laugh, pat you on the back or offer you a cigarette. Sometimes he'd beat you until you bled.
Joe O'Brien had brought a six-pack of beer. Frannie snapped his fingers for one. Joe quickly opened a bottle and handed it over. McCabe threw his head back and drank it down in one go. When he was finished he dropped it on the floor and walked over to the staircase. He looked down, then back at us – at me. He smirked and unzipped his fly. "Come on, guys. I think Johnny's hot down there. It's time for a little rain shower."
Salvato was the first one up, the little ass kisser. Then my supposed best friend Joe O'Brien, Levao . . . they all rose and undid their zippers. I stayed seated and stared at McCabe. I hated him, hated what he was about to do for no reason in the world except boredom and pure meanness.
"Don't do it, Frannie. It's not right. They're not bothering you."
He had both hands in front of his jeans. He looked at me over his shoulder and his expression changed – something new had come to him. "Okay! Hold your fire, boys! I'll tell you what, Sam. If you piss on them, we won't. How's that? Fair?" Delighted, the other guys looked back and forth between us. No matter how this one turned out, they were off the hook. Now they could relish Frannie's threats and not worry about him destroying their day.