The Winter of the Robots (8 page)

“Buy me a Prius while you’re at it.”

“No prob.”

The porch was crowded with boxes of mysterious engine parts and car trim. We navigated through them to rap on the front door. The silent ten-year-old answered the door, giving us one look before wandering off again, leaving the door open so we could come in. A cartoon blared on the TV. Alexei stood watching it, rocking from foot to foot.

“Hey.” Dmitri limped downstairs, dressed in jeans and a Packers sweatshirt. One pants cuff was rolled up, giving him a lopsided look. He hadn’t shaved his head, so he had a peach-fuzz layer of hair on his scalp. He seemed smaller and more normal without his tough-guy boots.

“Hey, how are you?” I asked. I had to shout to be heard over the TV.

“Better,” he said. He showed us a bandaged hand. “I get to keep my fingertips.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“They’re still numb,” he said. He shouted into the living room. “Turn it down, Alex!”

The boy found the remote and lowered the volume a notch, his eyes still glued to the screen. A parrot was on the screen jabbering in Spanish. The set was high-definition, good enough to see the pixels from the computer-generated animation.

“He loves this show,” Dmitri said. “He doesn’t understand a word. Come on. Masha made tea.” We followed him into the kitchen—heaps of onions and turnips and beets in bowls on the counters—very homey. Malasha was there. We traded hellos, and she went to the living room to watch Spanish-speaking parrots with Alex.

“Want some?” Dmitri filled a china cup—a dainty one, with flowers, that looked odd in his bear paw of a hand. “It’s good.”

“Something hot would be nice,” said Rocky.

“Sure,” I said.

Dmitri filled two more of the china cups and passed them to us. The tea smelled of oranges and cloves. It felt Christmassy, somehow.

“Tea is a big part of Russian culture,” said Dmitri. He sounded like a social studies lesson. He realized it and grinned. “Well, it is. Cheers.” He tipped his cup at us, and we tipped ours back at him and drank. It was good. I drained the cup and waited while Dmitri and Rocky sipped theirs.

Through the window I could see two cars covered with tarp. Dmitri saw me looking.

“Serge restores and resells cars,” he explained. “He also does some repair jobs. You into cars, too?”

“He loves cars,” said Rocky. “He’s all Escalade this, RX that.”

“You have expensive taste,” Dmitri said.

“Hey, a guy can dream.” I wasn’t that much into cars, but I went with it.

“You should see Serge’s ’69 Mustang,” he said. “He restored it using all original parts and trim. Come on, let’s go look at it.”

“Will he mind?”

“Oh, he’d flip, but he doesn’t have to know,” said Dmitri. He saw our faces. “I’m kidding, mostly.”

His boots were by the back door, and when he slipped them on I realized why he looked lopsided. One of his legs was a bit shorter than the other. Hence the rolled-up pants
cuff. Hence stepping on people’s feet—he was off balance. The boots hid it well—one had a thicker heel.

“Serge made these,” he said. “He said my ortho shoes made me look ‘retarded.’ ” He winced at the word. “Even with Alex being who he is, Serge says that. But he did good with the boots. Come on.”

“What does he mean about Alex being who he is?” Rocky whispered.

“I don’t know,” I whispered back. “I just know he never talks.” There was more to it than that—the wide-eyed way he looked at the world, the way he seemed detached from everything.

We went down the steps into the backyard. There were more boxes of engine parts, car doors, and hoods leaning against the house. The whole house was like a repair shop. Dmitri peeled back the tarp on one of the cars.

“This is the Mustang. She’s nearly done.” The car was bright red with a blue stripe running down the middle. It looked amazing. It could have been driven straight from the lot in late 1968 and into the Volkovs’ backyard.

“How long did it take Sergei to do this?” I asked.

“Since he got back from—since he got his job at the repair shop,” said Dmitri. “He puts every penny he earns into this thing. All he has left is the interior.” He pulled the tarp back down.

“Amazing work,” I said.

“He’ll make a nice profit, too,” said Dmitri. “If he can bring himself to sell it. He loves this car.”

He headed toward the back door, Rocky right behind him. I lingered, looking at the other covered car. The shape seemed familiar, and I had a feeling about it. I went over and lifted the front of the tarp.

“Hey, leave that one alone!” Dmitri shouted. It was too late. I had the tarp up enough to see the grille, a white hood, and the four trademark circles of an Audi.

“Sorry.” I dropped the tarp. “Just curious.”

“It’s not Serge’s car,” said Dmitri. “He does work for people on the side.” He stood at the back door, holding it open, until I went back inside.

Malasha and Alexei were still watching cartoons, so we sat in the kitchen, draining the teapot. I managed to keep a poker face while Dmitri and Rocky talked about school, sports, and music, but all I could think about was that car in the yard. It was the same make, model, and color as Peter’s stolen car.

Maybe Sergei was a car thief. He knew all about cars and could probably hot-wire one—if car thieves still did that. He’d admitted he’d been in trouble before. On the other hand, he was mad at Dmitri for stealing, so that didn’t make sense. It also didn’t make sense for me to get him in trouble when he was going to get
me
out of trouble, especially if he was innocent.

Rocky was nudging me. “… since this guy bailed on me,” she was saying.

“Huh?” I’d missed whatever they were talking about.

“We could do something together,” said Dmitri. It took me a moment to realize they were talking about the science-fair project.

“Sure,” said Rocky. “What do you want to do?”

“I still want to build a robot,” he said. “Oliver got me interested in the idea. I’d like to try it, but I can’t handle tools right now.” He held up his scarred hand.

“No problem,” said Rocky. “Dad made me learn a bunch of guy stuff. I’ve used power saws, welding torches, you name it.”

“We need a hypothesis,” said Dmitri.

“I have one,” said Rocky, her eyes shifting toward me. “Our hypothesis is that our robot can beat up Oliver and Jim’s robot.”

In science class on Friday we spent most of the period working on our projects. Oliver worked on graph paper, sketching elaborate plans for robots. His lines were sharp and clean. He rambled while he talked about infrared detectors and weighted cudgels. I kept glancing back to see Dmitri and Rocky chatting. It seemed everything he said made her laugh.

Dmitri had been the center of attention all week, swarmed by kids with questions. He must have liked the attention, because I’d even seen him smile a couple of times.

Oliver was explaining about cudgels—that was what he called the robot’s fists—and anchoring the robot so it could pack a punch. Mentally I traced the chain of events: An ultrasound sensor would tell the robot an enemy was at hand. It would send a signal to the controller, and the controller would trigger the actuator.

“How does it know where to punch?” I asked. Ultrasound told it something was near, but would the robot just flail randomly? Could it be strategic? Could it go for the gut?

“Good question,” said Oliver. “We can use infrared cameras to give the robot an image of the combatant.”

“You can do that?”

“Yeah, some of the newer sensors are amazing.”

I sneaked another peek at Rocky. She was still giggling. Since when had Dmitri been so funny? I wondered. Oliver noticed I was looking.

“What kind of robot do you think they’ll build?” he asked.

“Some kind of vehicle,” I guessed. “Dmitri is into cars.”

“Like an armored tank with a brain?” he said. He sketched one while he talked, barely aware he was doing it. “We’ll strategize around that. See if you can find out more.”

“Find out how?”

“Talk to Rocky,” he said. “Make like it’s just friendly talk.”

“Of course.” I’d been promoted from arts and crafts to being a spy.

Usually Dad meets customers on their own turf, but once in a while a client comes to our house. There was one on Friday: Dad had the case out and was discussing the various makes and models of security cameras. I had an instant panic attack and almost didn’t notice who he was talking to.

“Hello, Jim!” he said.

“Peter. Hey.” I noticed that the table was piled high with boxes. Every one had a picture of a camera on the outside. The end was nigh. “Sorry about your car,” I muttered.

“It’s insured.” He waved it off. “But the incident has raised my concerns about the state of the neighborhood.” He turned to Dad. “No offense.”

“None taken,” said Dad with a nod.

“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to bolster the security. It’s not about my car; it’s about Ellen and Oliver. They’re practically family.”

“I know,” I said.

“Are you and Ellen—” Dad started.

“We’re very old friends,” Peter interrupted. He removed a checkbook from the inside pocket of his corduroy jacket. “How much will all of these be?”

“Do you want all eight?” Dad asked, barely able to mask his excitement. It was a big sale.

“Sure,” said Peter. “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”

Dad started jotting numbers down on an order form. My mind raced. When Peter realized some of the boxes were empty, he could accuse Dad of ripping him off. I had to say something. I just wished I didn’t have to do it in front of Peter.

I blurted out my confession. “Some of the cameras are missing.”

Dad looked like I’d just hit him in the face with a frying pan.

“What?”

“I borrowed a couple—a few of the cameras, and I, uh, I lost them.”

“You
borrowed
some?” Dad asked. “And
lost
them?” He was just short of exploding, I knew, and would have if there hadn’t been a customer sitting there and a big sale on the table.

“It was for a school project,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know it was stupid.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Penny cried from the top of
the stairs. She ran down, her eyes flooding with tears. “Jim is trying to cover for me, but it was my idea. I took the cameras to play a joke on Maggie and it didn’t work and I lost the cameras and I told Jim because I was scared to tell you!”

Dad rubbed his temples and took a deep breath. His eyes went from me to Penny, back to me.

Peter smiled awkwardly and took control. “Well, why don’t we see which boxes have the cameras?” He opened a box and peered inside. “This one’s good.” He set it aside and reached for another.

“Why don’t you do that, and I’ll go see if I have any more in the shed,” said Dad.

“Go right ahead,” said Peter, reaching for a third box. He peered inside. “So far so good.”

“Jim?” said Dad. He got up and headed toward the back.

“Yeah. I’m coming.” I followed him. The sun was setting over the roofs across the alley, blinding us both.

“You better have a damned good explanation,” he snapped. “Whether you’re telling the truth or covering for your sister.”

“I don’t, but I can tell you what happened.”

“Well, it’ll have to wait.” He unlocked the door. “It’s bad enough to steal, but to humiliate me in front of a customer?” He opened the door, entered the security code, and quickly sorted through the boxes. There were no more of the 3G cameras here, which he probably knew. He just wanted a
moment to yell at me. He slammed the door, closed and locked it.

“Come on. Let’s see what the damage is.” He strode back toward the house. I paused a second, feeling the icy wind cut me to the bone.

When we got back inside, the boxes were lined up neatly on the table.