Rich and Famous (17 page)

“Fine,” I said. “I mean I think it did. The photographer said it was okay.”

“Glad to hear it. Now what about those tapes I gave you last night—did they get delivered all right?”

I could feel myself go hot and the sweat start to drip down my side under my shirt. “I guess so,” I said. “The guy wasn't there, but I left them outside his door. I figured nobody would steal a box of tapes.”

“You sure you left them there, George?” I scratched my head.

“Sure I am,” I said.

“You sure you didn't take them home with you?” That scared me.

“No, honest, Superman.” He took his hands down from behind his head and leaned forward, staring into my face. “It surprises me to hear you say that, Boy Next Door,” he said in a kind of soft, scary voice, “because when I picked the lock on your old man's door last night and broke into your apartment, I found the tapes on the dining table.”

I sat bolt still, I couldn't move my mouth to answer, I couldn't even think.

“And the reason why I happened to do that, Boy Next Door, was because not long after you left my place with those boxes the guy you were supposed to deliver them to got busted.”

“I didn't know that,” I sort of whispered. “Nobody answered the door so I figured I'd better take them home.”

“And then what happened, Boy Next Door?”

“Nothing,” I whispered. “We went out to the movies and when we came back the package was gone.”

“Too many coincidences there.” He shook his head. “Nope, Boy Next Door. You got to look at it my way. I give you some boxes to deliver and fifteen minutes later the guy you're supposed to deliver them to gets busted. Kind of funny, isn't it? And what I want to know is what you did right after you left my apartment.”

“Honest, Superman, I didn't do anything, I just went to the address.”

“Oh, come on, Boy Next Door.”

“I swear I didn't do anything,” I blurted out. “I didn't even know there was cocaine in them until—” I stopped, because I knew I'd maybe got myself killed with this mistake.

He
sat there at his desk staring at me with his big egg-eyes. He didn't say anything for a long time, he just stared at me. And then he said in that soft voice, “How did you
know
what was in those boxes?”

“I wanted to listen to my tapes,” I whispered. I felt cold and frozen so I couldn't move.

He stared at me some more. Then he said, “Nope, Boy Next Door. About three minutes after you left my place you called the police and gave them the address from the package, and they went down there and busted that guy. Now I want to know the whole story. And if I don't get it, Boy Next Door, it will not be well with you.”

I just stared at him. What could I say? It didn't much matter anymore whether he believed me. Now he knew that I had seen the cocaine. The one thing about Superman was that he couldn't run: if you could get away from him he couldn't catch you. And the thing was, could I leap out of the chair and make a dash for the door? Why not? Of course he might have a gun in his desk—there was no way of knowing. A big executive like Superman would always have some excuse for having a gun; that he had to carry around a lot of money all the time or that people were always trying to steal his recording secrets. So there was a danger in that. But then I remembered that Superman had been in jail. It seemed to me that somebody who had been in jail wasn't allowed to get a gun permit. Of course to somebody like Superman, having a gun permit wouldn't matter very much, if he decided to get one. But still, it seemed to me worth the chance to make a dash for the door.

“Come on, Boy Next Door. Let's have it.”

“It's the truth,” I said. Feeling so frozen and scared the way I was, I wasn't sure that I could even get moving. I began count to three to myself. He leaned back in his chair. I got to three. I just stood up and swiveled out of the chair and raced for the door. It seemed to be miles away, like in one of those dreams when you keep running and running and can't seem to get anywhere. Then I was there, lunging for the door handle. I twisted it. It didn't turn. The door was locked.

“Turn around, Boy Next Door.”

I turned around. Superman was still sitting at his desk, but he was holding out in front of him a metal contraption that at first I didn't recognize. Then I saw what it was—one of his crutches. Except that something was different about it. The rubber tip was gone from the end; instead, there was a sharp point, sharp as a spear.

“
Interesting looking thing, isn't it, Boy Next Door,” he said. He turned it a bit sideways, so I could see it better. “You see how it works? That leg part of the crutch looks solid, but it isn't. Inside of it there's a spring and this lovely looking piece of aluminum rod with a nice, sharp point on it. All I have to do is touch this tiny lever here to release the spring, and zing—out shoots the rod at a pretty good clip.” He patted it admiringly. “My own invention. Oh, I don't want to make too much out of it. It isn't terribly accurate beyond fifty feet. But usually that's close enough.”

I just stared at him. I remembered about the man Damon had told me about, who'd got murdered the time Superman had got busted. He'd been killed with some sort of spear thing, Damon had said.

“All right, Boy Next Door. Come and sit down again. We haven't finished talking.”

I went back to the chair and sat down again. Slowly he pushed the spear gun crutch across the desk, until the point of it was touching my shirt.

“I didn't do anything, Superman.” I reached my hand in my pocket to feel for my teddy bear key chain. It wasn't there. I tried the other pocket—and then I remembered that it had been sitting on my knee when Superman had come into the reception room. It must have fallen onto the floor when I stood up. That made me feel more scared. I wished I had it.

“Boy Next Door,” he said softly, “if you so much as wiggle I'll run this through you.”

I nodded again. I was too scared even to talk.

“Okay, Boy Next Door. It's truth and consequences time.”

I nodded again. I still couldn't speak. I just sat there, stiff and rigid.

“I'm going to ask a few questions,” he said. “And if I don't get the truth, you get the consequences. Each time I don't like your answer I'm going to make a little hole in you. And if I were you, Boy Next Door, I'd be careful how I answered, because if you get too many little holes in you, the blood will all leak out. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Answer.”

“I understand,” I whispered.

“Okay, Boy Next Door. How'd you find out I was dealing coke?”

I couldn't speak. I was too scared.

He gave the spear gun a little push, so that the point pricked my skin.

“
I didn't know. Honest.”

“Come off it, Boy Next Door.”

“Honest, Superman,” I whispered. “I didn't know anything about it. I didn't tell the cops.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” he said.

“Please, Superman, I didn't know anything. I just wanted to hear my tapes.”

“That's why you took them home?”

“No, I took them down to where the address said. I really did. I rang the bell six times, but nobody answered.”

He grunted.

“It's true.”

“Nobody answered the bell, that much I know is true,” he said, “because he was on his way to the station house.” He sat and thought about it for a minute. “But I don't get the rest of it. How did you know I was dealing?”

“I didn't know,” I croaked.

“Cut the crap,” he snarled. He gave the crutch another little shove, pricking my skin again, but a little deeper this time. “Truth or consequences, Boy Next Door.”

I wondered if anybody would hear me if I screamed. The sound would have to go through two doors and down a hall. Being a record company, everything was pretty sound-proof. Suppose I screamed, what could Superman do? Would he kill me right then and there? What would happen if somebody came? If I went on screaming Superman would probably bash me on the head. There was a window open, though. I wondered if anybody down on the street would hear me if I screamed. Maybe if there were some windows open on the floor below somebody might hear me. I wondered if I could get to the open window.

“Boy Next Door,” Superman said softly, “I want to
know
what the police know.” He gave another push on the spear, and I wriggled.

“Superman, it's the honest truth, I swear. I never called the police. I was going to, but I never did, and then when the cocaine was gone I decided not to. The police wouldn't believe me anyway.”

He stared at me for a minute. “Boy Next Door, you almost convince me. But not quite. How the hell did the police happen to bust that guy so quick after you got the package with his
address
on it?”

The sweat was pouring down my face. “It must have been a coincidence. I swear I didn't tell anybody anything.”

He went on staring at me. I knew he wouldn't want to kill me until he found out what the police knew. The thing was if I could only get the spear away from him.

“It's a hell of a funny coincidence,” he said.

If I could suddenly swivel sideways somehow, I figured I could grab the crutch spear gun and push it to one side. If I jerked probably it would go off, and then I could grab the spear before Superman got it. “It's the truth,” I said.

He didn't know whether to believe me or not. He leaned back his chair, and pulled the spear gun back so that it was a foot away from my chest. He held it sort of loosely, and went on staring at me. He wasn't in a hurry about anything. He was taking his time. “You know, I almost believe you. The one part I can't figure out is how you could have found out about the coke.” He was almost talking to himself. “The only way that it makes any sense is if somebody around here got suspicious and went to the cops. But why bring you into it, Boy Next Door? What did they need to involve a kid for? It doesn't make sense.”

„I swear, Superman, it was just a coincidence.” He stared at me, and then he sort of rubbed his chin and looked up at the ceiling. I took a deep breath. Then I leaped out of the chair. His free hand shot back to the spear gun. I grabbed the end and pushed it away from me. At the same moment he pulled the trigger. There was a kind of whooshing noise. I felt my side burn. Then there was a kind of heavy smacking sound as the spear slammed into the door and stuck, quivering rapidly back and forth. “Damn you,” Superman shouted. He began to heave himself up out of his chair. I turned, raced for the door, and grabbed onto the spear. It was pretty stuck. I gave it a good jerk. The point squeaked in the wood. I jerked it again and it came loose. Then I swung around. Superman was hobbling across the floor on his crutches. The spear gun one was about six inches shorter than the other one, and it made it hard for him to move along. He was heading right for me. I let him get up to about five feet from me, then I skipped off to one side and raced back across the room. As long as I could keep away from him I was okay, but if he managed to get the spear back, I was in trouble. He turned and stood staring at me. Then he began to move forward again, this time going slowly, a step at a time, and watching me like a cat watching a bird, his big egg-eyes fastened on me like clamps. He was going to try to close in on
me
slowly, and corner me somewhere. I figured he'd probably try to hit me with one of his crutches if he could. With arms as strong as his, he'd be able to hurt me pretty bad if he hit me. I stood there, watching. Slowly he closed in. I felt a little breeze behind me, blowing in through the window. It reminded me that it was open. I turned and shouted out, “Help, he's trying to kill me.” Little car noises floated up from below—faint horn honkings and the sound of a bus starting up from the curb. The sun was gone and it was night, but down in the cavern between the buildings there was a kind of sea of light, which got fainter as it came up. It was a long way down. I turned toward Superman. He was closing in, about ten feet away. I was still holding the spear in my hands. I stuck it out in front of me toward him. He started to grab for it, and quickly I realized that was a mistake and I jerked it back. With those strong arms he could easily pull it out of my hands once he got hold of the end. And the minute he had the spear back I was done for. I pressed back against the window. He hitched forward on his crutches. Now he was only five feet away. There was no place for me to go, except out the window. I turned to face it. What I wanted to do was fling the spear out the window, but I didn't dare, because it would probably kill somebody down on the street below. At that height it would be going like a rocket by the time it hit the ground.

I turned back. Superman was closer. He raised up one crutch, sort of balancing himself on the other, and started to swing it around. I jumped up on the window sill. Then I swung out the window and around the edge so I was standing on the ledge, with my face pressed up against the side of the Camelot Building, with the spear still in my hand. The only thing I had to hold onto was the edge of the window. I looked down. I could see the street straight down below me, just past my shoes—all those yellow taxies and buses and cars going up and down the streets in that hazy light. I began to feel dizzy and trembly, and I stopped looking down.

Superman was standing by the window, looking up at me and grinning. “Where are you going to now, Boy Next Door? It couldn't have worked out better, could it? All I do is reach out the window, give your leg a pull, and down you go. I'll tell the newspapers that it was a tragic accident—so talented a boy to die by accidentally falling out a window.” He reached for my leg. I kicked at his hand and he pulled it back. Then he reached again. I kicked, but he caught it and held it. I tried to jerk loose, but I couldn't kick around too much without losing my balance. He started to twist my foot around. I could feel my whole body being forced to turn away from the window and out toward the street.