Bright Lights, Dark Nights (2 page)

Nate dove into the fight headfirst and pulled Bob back in by the sleeve of his shirt. Nate wasn't saving Bob from Beardsley. He was putting on a show, and everyone was fair game. Beardsley threw a flurry of punches into Nate's skinny ribs. I could barely watch. I didn't want to see Nate get hurt over something so dumb. I had to admit, though: it was entertaining. Bob's shirt collar had already been stretched to twice its original size. Nate caught a stray elbow and his nose started to bleed. The red on his shirt would be a badge of honor by sixth period.

“Nate's changing lives,” I said. “Anything for the people.”

It wouldn't have been the end of the world for me to get in there, even the score, get those two kids off Nate. That would be the code; that would be the appropriate friend move. With Nate there, we could put Beardsley down, not that there was anything we could do that wouldn't result in his picking on someone else the next day. Still. I might even get some respect from it. I didn't want to get hit, though.

“I'm gonna knock off a liquor store after school and see if I can claim a Nobel Prize,” I said.

“See? Now you get it,” Kate said.

Nate put Beardsley in a headlock, holding on tight like he was riding a bull. “That's my problem,” I said. “I really don't get it at all.”

“It's not too complicated,” Kate said. Her nose ring caught a sparkle of sun. “People fight because it's what they do.” They fight and they break up. Kate held a gaze on me for a second before she broke out laughing. “The way you're holding that cigarette—it just looks weird. Here, give it to me.”

I gave her the cigarette.

“Don't ever smoke,” she said, shaking her head. “You don't have to do what he says.”

“I don't mind. It's not a big deal,” I said.

“Fighting is dumb—you're absolutely right,” Kate said. She looked up at me and smiled. “You're gonna make some girl really happy someday, Walter.” The wind was blowing her clumpy brown hair in her face. I used to have a crush on Kate in middle school. She was my first real female friend. But once she and Nate got together, their relationship made so much sense that me and her seemed like a ridiculous thought in retrospect.

“Thanks,” I said.

While Kate smoked the cigarette, Nate tossed Beardsley and Bob around like a lanky professional wrestler. Nate pumped his fists up again to more applause before Beardsley dove back into him. Lunch was almost done, and this would be a stalemate. Bob's best scenario involved Beardsley forgetting this ever happened and finding someone else to pick on. Maybe it'd be Nate, for interfering in his fight. That thought gave me some relief that I'd stayed put on the sidelines.

*   *   *

I got back around five, judging by the dimness of the hallway, and climbed two flights of stairs to home, sweet home. My dad and I had lived there since my parents divorced, so a few years now. When I opened the door, I saw a soda cup on the coffee table and an empty fast-food bag. Cheeseburger wrappers.
Judge Mathis
was on TV.

“Dad, I could have cooked,” I said, dropping off my book bag and coat on a chair in the corner.

“I wasn't sure when you were getting home,” Dad said, sitting up on the couch and adjusting his shirt. He looked tired. I got my expressive eyes from Dad, but lately his just seemed worn and heavy. The apartment was a mess, but that wasn't anything new, and I couldn't blame it solely on Dad.

“I can still make something,” I said.

“Nah, don't.” Dad leaned forward and muted the TV. He smiled so those prominent dimples came forward, warming up his face. “Look, no offense, Walter, but you're no Rachael Ray.”

“Or Ronald McDonald,” I said. “You're not supposed to eat that stuff.” I picked up the empty bag and wrappers and took them to the garbage in the kitchen.

“It's fine. Don't worry about it,” Dad said. “It's just for today.” He found out he had diabetes last year, but he hated doctors and he hated hospitals, so there was no telling how long he'd actually had it.
I'm fine when I eat better
, he'd say, the problem being he never actually ate better.

When I sat down and looked at the TV, Dad pulled a heavy wrapped gift from beside the couch and placed it on my lap.

“What's this?” I asked.

“It's a Christmas present,” Dad said. “What do you think it is? It's your birthday, isn't it?”

“Can I open it?” I asked.

“You've got a lot of dumb questions. Open it,” Dad said with a nudge.

I tore the paper and found an oversize hardcover book on old noir movies, full of artsy black-and-white frames. All the movies we watched when we first moved here.
The Asphalt Jungle
,
The Big Sleep
. Movies where the good guys are kinda the bad guys and things usually end short of happy.

“I was at the little bookstore down the street today and thought you'd like it.” Dad leaned back a bit on the couch, getting more comfortable. “Caught a punk kid running out of there. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Stand downtown and pay attention for an hour and you'll see a few things.”

We lived in the Basement of the city; at least that's what they called it around here. It wasn't the brightest, safest section to live in, but Dad says when it gets too safe, he's out of work. It was what we could afford, these days.

“This kid comes barreling toward me like he's running from a mad dog or something,” Dad said, leaning forward and using his hands to tell the story. “I'm expecting drugs or weapons to come falling out of his coat, but these Harry Potter books go flying all over the place, like the kid's some kind of book junkie. Any cop worth his salt would have picked him out even before the mad dash from the store. Big, long coat, almost seventy degrees out, middle of October. Had, like, a hundred bucks' worth of books on him. Maybe they'll give me some real work now at the station. Who knows?”

Things in general got worse after Mom left. Dad gained weight—a lot of weight—slowed down a lot. Aged faster, if that was possible. Nothing helpful in a cop's line of work, so they stopped giving him much to do. He was always complaining about the kids they hired who got all the good jobs.

It wasn't all “
These kids today
,” though. There was another side to Dad. He was kind of a legend in the city:
Officer Wilcox
. When he was working and in his uniform, out on the streets, he knew everyone, he was well-liked. He'd had people laughing while they were getting handcuffed. They could pull all the good jobs, but they couldn't take his good name.

I thumbed through the large glossy pages of the book. Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade in
The Maltese Falcon
, about to punch out Peter Lorre. Bringing in the noir era in fine fashion.

“They didn't waste a shot back then,” Dad said. “Every frame was a work of art. They could paint a whole room with light placement. You got this, too.” Dad placed an envelope with Mom's handwriting on it on the book. “I don't wanna know.”

I thought of saving it for later, but I went ahead and opened it. There was a card and a check for five hundred dollars. Five hundred bucks. That was something she could do now. She could give me five hundred bucks for my birthday because Mom still lives in a big house in the suburbs. But Mom moved in with her boyfriend almost immediately after the divorce and I went with Dad, and years later, he's supporting us both on one salary.

I could give the money away. I could visit Kate's weed guy. Develop a habit.
You're gonna make some girl really happy someday.

The card said,
Happy birthday, honey! Love, Mom.
I put it in the back of the book.

“Happy birthday,” Dad said, and unmuted the TV. The news was on now.

“Dad, thanks,” I said, and leaned over to give him a hug. Dad got up slowly, like he was carrying another person, and turned the living room light on, then settled back onto the couch. I opened the noir book and turned the page. Orson Welles in
Touch of Evil
, bloated, drunk, and crooked. Considered the last of the film noirs.

 

Chapter Two

 

Wednesdays meant new comics and meeting up with Jason Mills at Shadows, our local comic-book store, after school.

“Okay, I got one,” Jason said, playing lyrics over in his head. “Okay. This might be an easy one.
I know it's been a while, sweetheart. We hardly talk. I was doing my thang. I know it was foul, baby. Ay, babe, lately you been all on my brain.
”

“Kanye,” I said. That was an easy one. “‘Flashing Lights.' Come on, I used to play that on repeat. Give me a hard one, something deeper.”

“All right, all right, let me think,” Jason said as I browsed the new releases. This section was basically a whole wall. How did that many new comics come out every week? “My concentration is off,” Jason said. “Romero's girl is here today.”

Jason had a crush on the cashier's girlfriend. Romero was here pretty much every day. The only other worker was Big Dave on weekends and some nights. Romero's girlfriend hung out at the store maybe once every week or two. The only other people there at the moment were one middle-aged customer in the indie section and a couple teens I didn't recognize.