Bullet Point (8 page)

BACK IN HIS ROOM
at Aunt Hildy’s, Wyatt counted the money. Ten twenty-dollar bills = $200. They were all crisp, like they’d just come from a brand-new stack at a bank teller’s window. He was holding one up to the light, seeing nothing obviously fake except Andrew Jackson’s hair—could it possibly have looked like that in real life, so Hollywood?—when Aunt Hildy knocked on his door.

“How does Chinese food sound?”

“Great.” Wyatt stuck the money under his pillow. Real money: kind of paranoid to think it might be fake. He didn’t want this money, but no good plan for getting rid of it came to mind. He couldn’t just throw money away, or burn it, or anything like that. Returning the $200 to where it came from seemed best. Could you mail money into the prison? Or—or maybe Greer could take it inside on one of her visits. But Greer was out of the picture. She’d said go, and he was going—back to East Canton and soon. Period, finito, end of story—except that at that moment nothing would have pleased him more than the sight of her walking through the door.

East Canton had no Chinese restaurants; Silver City had two. “This is my favorite,” said Aunt Hildy as a waiter led her, Dub, and Wyatt to a corner table at the Red Pagoda, although they could have had just about any table, the place being pretty much empty. “I love the fish tank.”

The fish tank stood nearby, a tall glass cube with coral fans and rocks at the bottom and three fish drifting through the water at different levels.

“Which one are you having?” Dub said.

“Very funny,” said Aunt Hildy.

“Like in the Depression,” Dub said. He had a reddish band across his forehead, pressed into the skin from wearing the catcher’s mask. “Didn’t people get so hungry they ate live goldfish?”

“You’re thinking of the Roaring Twenties,” Aunt Hildy said. “And those were prep school kids and Ivy Leaguers, not the poor.” The waiter came. Aunt Hildy ordered a gin and tonic; the boys had soda. “My first husband,” Aunt Hildy said, taking a sip, “was an Ivy Leaguer. Princeton, to be precise. He had a ratty old black-and-gold-striped robe. He was wearing it pretty much twenty-four/seven by the time I threw him out.”

Wyatt and Dub looked at each other. Aunt Hildy took another sip, this one longer. “Go, Tigers,” she said.

“How do you get into a place like that?” Wyatt said.

“Princeton?” said Aunt Hildy, making a dismissive wave. “It’s overrated. They all are. He had beautiful manners, hubby numero uno, but no spine. Nothing beats spine, boys, and they don’t teach that in college. How about we start with the Peking ribs?”

They had Peking ribs, moo shu pork, orange chicken, crispy duck, another round of Peking ribs, plus rice, egg rolls, fried wontons. Aunt Hildy ordered another gin and tonic. She described a trip to Cancún, where she’d met husband numero dos, who turned out to have had neither manners nor spine, though at first she’d been fooled on both counts. She also taught the boys how to use chopsticks, which Wyatt picked up right away and Dub had trouble with, actually splintering one by mistake. Wyatt was having a great time, just with all this great food, and being with Aunt Hildy, who turned out to be pretty funny, and totally forgetting his problems.

The check came. Wyatt dug out some money, his own, the $200 left under the pillow. “None of that, young man,” said Aunt Hildy. “My treat, and besides, this is kind of a farewell dinner, now that you’re going home and all. I spoke to your mom today—she’s so excited.”

“So it’s for sure?” said Dub.

Wyatt nodded. “Leaving tomorrow.”

“But what about baseball?” Dub said. “Next year, I’m talking about.”

“Maybe the economy’ll pick up and we’ll have it again in East Canton,” Wyatt said.

“Think that’s possible?” Dub said.

“Anything can happen,” Aunt Hildy said. “And if not, Wyatt can always come back.”

She paid the check. They rose and headed toward the door. Some men in navy-blue uniforms were on the way in. The two groups met by the fish tank. One of the men turned.

“Hey, Hildy,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“No complaints,” said Aunt Hildy. “Yourself?”

“Not bad at all,” said the man.

“I’d like you to meet my nephew, Dub,” Aunt Hildy said. “And his friend Wyatt. Boys, say hi to Freddie Helms.”

They shook hands with Freddie Helms. “Hey, guys,” he said. “Did you check out those ribs?” Freddie Helms was a handsome guy with a strong grip; handsome except for one side of his face. It gleamed in the light of the fish tank like glass, a sheet of glass that had been broken and then melted roughly back together.

“Did they ever,” said Aunt Hildy. “Take care.”

“See you, Hildy. Nice meeting you, guys.”

They went outside. Wyatt took a deep breath. All of a sudden he didn’t feel so good, as though the meal wanted to come back up.

“What happened to him?” Dub said.

“Freddie?” said Aunt Hildy, answering Dub but looking at Wyatt. “He’s the firefighter that got hurt when the amusement center burned down. Bert Torrance’s place. Freddie thought he heard someone trapped inside and went in, but it turned out to be voices on one of the video games, something about a pulse through the wiring just before it melted.”

“Is there anything they can do about it?” Dub said.

“Oh, Freddie’s had a bunch of treatments,” Aunt Hildy said, eyes still on Wyatt. “He looks much better now.”

They got into Aunt Hildy’s car, Wyatt in back.

“This was that arson thing?” Dub said.

“That’s right,” said Aunt Hildy, driving out of the parking lot.

“The father of, um…?” Dub said.

Aunt Hildy nodded. They drove back to her place. Dub burped a few times but there was no more talk.

Not long after that, Wyatt was in his room, packing for the trip home, when his phone rang.

“Hello, Wyatt.”

This time he recognized the voice right away. “Hi.”

“Calling at a bad time?”

“No,” Wyatt said, pausing over his open duffel bag, baseball glove in hand.

“Had supper yet?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Chinese.”

“You went out?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice. Yangtze Palace or Red Pagoda?”

“Red Pagoda.”

“I hear it’s pretty good, the Peking ribs especially.”

Hear from where? How? Wyatt didn’t ask those questions, just said, “Yeah.”

“Eat one for me next time.”

“Eat one for you?”

“Or not. Just a suggestion. Kind of like having a thought for someone.”

Wyatt didn’t know what to say to that.

“Reason I’m calling—I wanted to make sure you got the package.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And even though I’d trust old Bob with my life—well, wouldn’t go that far—it’s always prudent to verify, right? Can’t imagine Bob would skim, but there’s so much skimming in this society in one form or another—maybe how we got to where we are—that I’d just like to hear the figure from you.”

“Two hundred, but—”

“Perfect.”

“But I don’t want it.”

“Don’t want money?”

“Not, um—you must need it yourself.”

“I’m fine, and that’s not your worry in any case. Why not call it an early Christmas present, or a late one? Word is you’ve got a fine set of wheels, and know how to handle them, too. Car like that sucks up money, in my experience.”

“Word from Greer Torrance?”

“That’s right.”

“Does she know about this? The money?”

“No. But that’s a funny question. Mind if I ask what’s behind it?”

“Nothing.”

There was a pause at the other end. Then: “She’s an impressive young lady. Self-confident, if you know what I mean. A doer.”

“A doer of what?” That popped out, irretrievably in the open before Wyatt could do anything about it.

Another pause. “Not sure I understand your question.”

Wyatt plunged ahead. “The arson—was that her? Did
she have anything to do with it?”

“Don’t know, but I can find out, if it’s important.”

Wyatt didn’t say anything. This was going too far, too fast. What was the best way to—

“I get the feeling it is important. Call you back in half an hour.”

“No, that’s not—”

Click.

Wyatt dropped his glove into the duffel bag, picked up a T-shirt, couldn’t decide whether it was clean or dirty, sniffed at it, still couldn’t decide. The T-shirt slipped from his hands. He sat down at the computer, searched for the arson story. He got only one small hit, a few lines reporting Bert Torrance’s conviction. But when he clicked on Images, he came upon a photo of Freddie Helms, a preburn photo. Freddie was wearing a firefighter’s helmet, a coil of hose over his strong shoulder, a big smile on his undamaged face. Wyatt was still gazing at that picture when the phone rang.

“No involvement.”

“Greer?”

“Exactly. She had nothing to do with it, had no foreknowledge, not even a hint. It was Bert by himself, start to finish. Sometimes a guy gets into a position, throws it all into the pot at once. Out of desperation, in Bert’s case, and not too many men do their best thinking when they’re desperate. Maybe not as true for women. But that’s by the by. Also by the by, just a reminder that arson for the insurance score is not for amateurs—the prime suspect is usually pretty obvious.”

“Why would I need a reminder on that?” Wyatt said.

Sonny laughed, a rich, joyful laugh, the kind that was sometimes contagious. “You’re so right,” Sonny said. “Whew. That’s funny. The point is the girl had no involvement.”

“You’re sure?”

“Bert wouldn’t lie to me, not to my face. I’m sure, one hundred percent. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay,” Wyatt said. And then: “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

Click.

Wyatt had a strange feeling, completely new to him, a kind of lessening of pressure inside, or the force of gravity seeming to weaken a little. Hard to describe: perhaps a feeling that came with receiving fatherly advice.

Wyatt finished packing and went to bed. He’d always been the type to fall asleep quickly, but not this night. A toilet flushed upstairs, water ran through the pipes—and was that a burp he heard?—and then the house was quiet. He rolled over, tried different positions, willed his mind to go blank. But his mind wouldn’t go blank. Instead it occupied itself with thoughts of Greer. At the very least, didn’t he owe her an apology? Wyatt went back and forth on that, finally felt for his cell phone on the bedside table and called her number.

She answered on the first ring. “Hey, there.”

“Hi,” Wyatt said. “Did I wake you?”

“Only if I’m sleepwalking.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Meaning I’m walking across your yard as we speak,”
Greer said. Wyatt sat up fast. Then came a tap-tap-tap at his window.

Wyatt jumped out of bed, opened the window, smelled her. She smelled great. Greer climbed in. There was lots of moonlight, enough to see she still looked tired and drawn, and also wasn’t wearing the eyebrow ring.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice low.

“Had to say I’m sorry,” she said. “The kind of thing you do in person.”

Had she been crying? Wyatt thought he saw a tear track on her cheek. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said.

“You? What did you do?”

He’d doubted her, doubted his first intimate love; yes, these feelings he had for her had to be a form of love, might as well face that. “You had nothing to do with the fire,” he said. “I should have known.”

She gave him a long look. “You’re the best,” she said. Then she put her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth.

Soon they were in bed. She got on top of him, sat up, her head thrown back in the moonlight, maybe making a little too much noise, but Wyatt didn’t care. The money got pushed out from under the pillow, scattering everywhere.

After, she slumped down on him, her damp hair against his chest; and was still in that position when the door burst open. The lights flashed on, and there was Aunt Hildy.

NO ONE, EXCEPT MAYBE DUB,
was at their best in the next few minutes. Aunt Hildy used the word
whore
once or twice, Greer fired back a bad word of her own, Wyatt shouted at both of them to stop shouting, and finally Dub appeared in the doorway, his hair sticking up in strange clumps and rubbing his eyes. “Something wrong?” he said.

Wyatt and Greer left together, not through the window but out the front door, which slammed behind them. Wyatt, already packed, took his things.

Wyatt spent the rest of the night at Greer’s. When he woke up, lying on his back, she was on her side, watching him. “You look so great when you’re sleeping,” she said. “I’ve never been this happy in my whole life.”

“You look pretty good yourself,” Wyatt said. And she did. The pallor, the circles under her eyes, the drawn expression: all gone. Her skin glowed, her eyes shone, the whites pure white, no hint of yellow, not a blood vessel showing. And again, no eyebrow ring, just the tiny hole, the surrounding
skin healthy and unbruised. He considered asking why she wasn’t wearing the eyebrow ring, couldn’t come up with a cool approach. Did it even matter?

“No,” she said. “My face is all wrong. But thanks anyway.”

“Wrong? What’s wrong with it?”

“Everything,” she said. She pushed her face this way and that. “Here. Here. Here.” Had he ever seen anything more beautiful? And right next to him, so close.

Some time later, while he was in a fuzzy state between sleeping and waking, Greer’s lips brushed his ear, and she spoke. “Know what we should do today?”

Wyatt opened his eyes. She was smiling; and had been up to brush her teeth—he smelled mint. What they were going to have to do today was say good-bye. No going back to Aunt Hildy’s, and besides, his mom expected him. “Well,” he said, starting off in a way he knew was pretty lame, “the thing is I have nowhere to stay now, and—”

“Huh? You’re staying here. I assumed that. You’re a high school student, duly enrolled at Bridger High. Don’t you want to make something of yourself? Am I missing something?”

Maybe he was the one doing the missing. Hadn’t the situation changed? Yes, he’d decided to return to East Canton, but that was with Greer out of the picture. Now she was back.

“You’re being a gentleman, right?” she said. “One of those guys with manners, too polite to ask? Don’t have to be polite with me, pal. You can stay here, no thank-you notes necessary.”

He laughed.

“That’s settled,” Greer said. “Now here’s the plan. I think we should go see Morrie Wertz.”

“Who’s Morrie Wertz?”

“I looked him up. It’s a matter of public record.”

“What is?”

“Morrie Wertz was your—was Sonny Racine’s lawyer. It turns out he’s one of the oldsters. You know—at Hillside Breeze.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hillside Breeze—my other job, the old folks’ home, where I read for fifteen bucks an hour. It turns out that Morrie Wertz has been in there the whole time, kind of like fate.”

“Fate?”

“Waiting to happen. I haven’t run across him yet—just about all the ones I read to are women. That’s mostly what’s in there. Men die younger. The crazy thing is a lot of these old biddies still want a guy, and any of the guys who’s not drooling—and maybe even if he is—has his pick.”

“But,” said Wyatt, “how come you know all this?”

“I’ve got eyes.”

“I meant about him being the lawyer, and in the old folks’ home.”

“Take a guess.”

“Your dad told you.”

“Bzzz,” Greer said. “You win the prize. Claim it at any time. First, you’ve got to move your butt.” She ripped off the covers.

“Hey!”

“Can’t be late for school.”

“School?”

“It’s a school day. Accusations of screwing up your academic life—I’m taking them off the table.”

Wyatt drove to school, calling his mom on the way. “Mom? The thing is the school here’s a lot better, and all this changing back and—”

“Wyatt? Where are you?” In the background he heard Cammy asking for more sugar.

“In Silver City. I—”

“When are you leaving? The weather’s supposed to turn nasty this afternoon.”

“That’s what I’m calling about, Mom. I’ve decided to stay a bit longer.”

“But we’ve been through this. Rusty left last night. I called the office at the high school and told them you’d be back tomorrow.”

“Sorry.”

“Wyatt? What’s going on?”

“I just think it’s best for now.”

“I don’t understand. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I’ll call later. Everything’s all right. Bye, Mom.”

Wyatt parked in the student lot at Bridger High, got one of the last spaces. He grabbed his books and hurried to the door, was almost there when his phone rang. He checked the number: home.

“Wyatt?” his mom said. “I just had a very disturbing conversation with Hildy.”

“Look, Mom, I can’t—”

“It’s not clear to me that she’d even let you come back to stay there, if half of what she says is true. What were you thinking?”

Through the big glass door, a teacher was tapping his watch and motioning Wyatt to come inside. “C’mon, Mom. I’ve got, you know, a girlfriend. So what?”

“So what? You were a guest in Hildy’s house. And from what I hear about this girlfriend—” His mom swallowed whatever was next. At the same time, the door opened and the teacher came out.

“Don’t want to have to write you up,” the teacher was saying, “but if you’re not inside this building in—”

Wyatt missed the time element, because his mom was speaking again. “I want you home today,” she said.

“No,” Wyatt said.

“No?” said the teacher. “You’re telling me no?”

“Mom? I’ll call you later.”

“But—”

Wyatt shut off his phone, went inside.

“Who,” said Ms. Grenville, “do you think is the smartest person in the play?”

“Shakespeare,” said the funny guy at the back.

“We can’t really say Shakespeare is in the play, now can we?”

“He made up all the others, so he has to be the smartest. I read his IQ was 203.”

“Where did you read that?”

“I didn’t read it, exactly. Omar texted me.”

“Who’s Omar?”

“This kid in India. Don’t know his last name.”

Ms. Grenville sat down, a bit heavily, as though her legs had gotten weak. She adjusted her neckerchief. Anna raised her hand. Ms. Grenville looked relieved. “Yes?”

“Hamlet,” Anna said. “He’s the smartest. Isn’t that the whole point? Sometimes he’s so smart he overthinks.”

“Can you give an example?”

Anna gave a bunch of examples.

“Anyone want to argue the case for another character being the smartest?” said Ms. Grenville.

No one did. For a moment, Wyatt thought of the grave-digger—he’d skimmed ahead, read that scene, not really understood it, maybe until now. And maybe not. He kept his mouth shut.

Anna’s hand was up again. “But his smartness serves him well, too. He figures out a test to establish Claudius’s guilt once and for all.”

“The play within the play,” said Ms. Grenville. “Act Three—that’s our reading for tomorrow.” The bell rang. “Please be prepared for a quiz on—” But the subject of the quiz was drowned out in the end-of-class din.

After school, Wyatt picked up Greer at the bowling alley. She was waiting outside, hands in the pockets of her short leather jacket. A sign on the front door read:
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. CONTACT PRESIDIO BANK AND TRUST, SAN FRANCISCO
. “They changed the goddamn locks,” Greer said, getting into
the car. “No notice, no call, nothing.”

“Is there anything inside you need?”

Greer turned to him, looked angry for a moment, then smiled. “Guess not. I was going to try to sell the popcorn machine.”

“What’s it worth?”

“I don’t know.” Greer sat back, reached for his hand without looking, held on.

Wyatt drove to Hillside Breeze, the old folks’ home. It was an old brick building behind the hospital, also an old brick building but taller—in fact, the tallest building in Silver City—so Hillside Breeze stood in its shadow.

Inside, Hillside Breeze smelled like the bathroom at home after Wyatt’s mom had cleaned it. The phone was ringing at the desk in the small, poorly lit lobby, but no one was there. Greer went behind the desk, studied a chart—looking at it upside down, Wyatt saw rows of numbered squares with names inside—and motioned toward the stairs.

They went up. The carpet was musty. The smells in general were now more like the bathroom at home just before the cleaning. At the top they turned right, passing some rooms and a lounge where old women were sitting in front of a television, a few with their eyes closed, to a door at the end. The name strip read
WERTZ/COFFEE
. Greer knocked. No answer. She opened the door.

There were two beds in the room. A bearded man slept on his back in the nearest one, toothless mouth open. The other bed was empty. A second man sat in a chair, back to the room, facing the window. An oxygen tank stood beside him.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said in a half whisper.

No answer.

She went closer and called the name again, louder this time.

“If you’re selling, I’m not buying,” the man said, not turning.

Wyatt and Greer approached him, stood on either side. He glanced at one, then the other, but with no interest. One of his eyes was droopy and teared at the corner. He had an oxygen tube under his nose, liver spots on his face, and breath Wyatt could smell from where he was standing.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said again.

“I told you—the money supply is cut off.”

“We don’t want money, Mr. Wertz,” Greer said.

“No? What makes you so special?”

“It’s not that,” Greer said. “We just want to talk to you. If you are Mr. Wertz, that is.”

Mr. Wertz turned to her again, this time looked longer. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to talk to me?”

“I’d like you to meet my friend, Wyatt.”

Mr. Wertz turned to Wyatt. “What kind of friend?” he said.

“Boyfriend.”

“Some people have all the luck,” said Mr. Wertz. “Nothing beats luck and don’t let anyone tell you different. If I’d had just the smallest bit of goddamn—” Then came a strange sound in his throat, like a gulp, and he just sat there. Wyatt could hear the hiss of the oxygen.

Greer squatted down beside Mr. Wertz, one hand on
the arm of his chair. “Wyatt here’s father is Sonny Racine. Remember him?”

Oxygen hissed. Mr. Wertz closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, “I’m drowning.”

“You’re drowning?” Greer said.

“That’s what it feels like. Didn’t anybody ever put a pillow over your head, try to suffocate you?”

“No. Never.” Greer shrank back a little.

“I defended guys who did that, got them off, more than one,” Mr. Wertz said. “This was in my former life.”

“You were a lawyer,” Greer said.

“Top-notch,” said Mr. Wertz. “Till the booze got me. Now I’m off it, can’t stomach a drop, literal truth. Haven’t got more than an inch or two of stomach left, if you’re interested in stats.” His eyes darted from Greer to Wyatt and back. The good one looked angry; with the other it was impossible to tell.

“Do you remember defending Sonny Racine?” Greer said.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“What’s your name?”

“Greer. And this is Wyatt, Sonny Racine’s son.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Just who we are,” Greer said.

“There was no son. I don’t remember a son.”

“I—I wasn’t born till later,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grabbed Wyatt’s wrist, his skin icy cold and papery. “Come here,” he said, “here where I can see you.”
Wyatt moved around the front of the chair, closer to Greer, wrenched his hand free. “Only one good eye,” Mr. Wertz said. “Why no one around here can get that straight is beyond me.” He gazed at Wyatt. “You’re just a kid.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Christ.” Mr. Wertz went silent. The man in the other bed started snoring. “Knock it off, you son of a bitch,” Mr. Wertz yelled, startling Wyatt. The man kept snoring. Mr. Wertz gestured out the window. “And where are all the birds?”

“They’ll be back,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grew calmer. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Wyatt.

Mr. Wertz gazed out the window. “By then, the period in question, I was on the sauce pretty good,” he said. “Somewhat reduced, if you know what I mean. Fired from North and Mulgrew, if you don’t. Working as a PD.”

“What’s that?” Wyatt said.

“Public defender,” said Mr. Wertz. He looked at Greer. “Doesn’t he know the lingo?” Greer didn’t answer. “I’ll tell you both something, since you’re two nice kids. Fresh faced. When they say the jails are full of innocent people, they’re blowing smoke. Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the guys inside deserve it, hell, deserve much worse. Then there’s that teeny-weeny exception, irrelevant, if you’re interested in stats. Sonny Racine was in that category.”