Эйс Аткинс - Kickback

I crossed the street, leaned against my SUV, and waited. The cop was a young, thin guy with the high-and-tight haircut of ex-military. If he hadn’t been in the Army, he needed a refund from the barber. He wore wraparound sunglasses and one of those satiny blue cop jackets with a Sherpa collar. His prowl car idled, throwing out a lot of exhaust in the cold. When he finished writing down what he needed, he turned to spit.

I didn’t offer to shake hands.

“Sir, were you at Blackburn High School this morning?” he said.

“Yep.”

“Why was that?”

“Signing up for Glee Club,” I said.

“A little old for that,” he said. “Aren’t you?” He stared at me with the black bug lenses of his sunglasses.

I smiled back and said, “I do a mean Lady Gaga.”

“Vice Principal Waters said you were found roaming the halls,” he said. “We take school security very seriously in Blackburn. Now, you want to tell me what you were doing?”

“I met with Officer Lorenzo about a legal matter. Why don’t you call him?”

“That’s not what we heard from Mr. Waters.”

“Maybe Luke Waters is still sore after his encounter with the VCR.”

The young cop changed up his stance a little, called into dispatch from a mic he wore on his heavy jacket. The dispatcher came back with a rundown of my vehicle registration. I hoped my parking ticket collection didn’t show up. I hadn’t paid a ticket since the Flynn administration. The cop stared at me as he listened to dispatch.

“We could get you for trespassing,” he said. “But I let you off with a warning.”

“Terrific,” I said. “Thanks so much.”

“You think I’m kidding, sir?” he said, giving me his best hard look.

“No,” I said. “But someone’s giving you some bum information.”

He turned his head and spit again. He held the notebook in his hand and just stared at me. The patrol car continued to idle. I smiled at him. “I’d stay clear of Blackburn, sir,” he said. “Just please go on back to Boston.”

“I’m just a rambling boy who won’t settle down,” I said. “This just ain’t my kind of town.”

The young cop didn’t react, only turned and walked back to his prowlie, flipped it into drive, and drove off. I watched his taillights disappear over the hill.

Blackburn was going to be more fun than I thought.

4

When I got back to Boston, Susan met me at my apartment, standing in the doorway and holding an empty dog leash.

“Well, that looks interesting,” I said. “Please be gentle.”

“Get your running shoes on, Fido,” she said. “We’ve been waiting.”

Ten minutes later, we’d crossed Storrow Drive and were walking at a brisk pace along the Charles River. The river was frozen and covered in snowdrifts, looking barren. Few were so foolish as to be out exercising. But I was protected in my cold-weather gear, thermal underwear under navy sweatpants and a sweatshirt cut to the elbows with a watch cap. Susan wore black yoga pants and a gray Harvard sweatshirt under a ski jacket.

Pearl pulled Susan along, and we both strained to keep up. When it came to knee rehab, Susan made Henry Cimoli look like Florence Nightingale. But the knee had improved, the limp all but gone.

We followed the river, went over the Harvard Bridge, and took the path by the MIT boathouse and then went back to the river. The Longfellow Bridge was still under renovation, tall wooden panels and chain-link fencing closing off the work. We cut through Beacon Hill and made our way down Charles and into the Public Garden, most of the green space hidden in mounds of snow.

“I miss the tulips,” she said. “And anything green.”

“I miss the swan boats,” I said, “baseball, and short skirts. Not necessarily in that order.”

Pearl’s tongue lolled from her mouth. I tried to keep my tongue in place. I found it more dignified.

The night was full on, streetlamps blooming yellow light over snowbanks and skeletal trees. We made our way across Arlington, down Marlborough, and finally back up to my apartment. Once upstairs and inside, I opened the refrigerator and found a six-pack of Abita Turbodog. Susan and Pearl drank water.

“How’d it go in Blackburn, kiddo?” she said, leaning her fanny against my kitchen counter. She removed her hooded sweatshirt to reveal a snug-fitting black exercise top. As always, I felt a familiar surge zap through my chest. She noticed the staring and smiled, her teeth very even and white, her delicate face flushed from the cold wind.

“I was greeted with open arms,” I said. “Everyone couldn’t be more helpful. I pointed out the error of their ways and all charges against the kid were dismissed.”

“Uh-huh,” Susan said. “They ran you out of town on a rail.”

“Not yet,” I said. “But I heard they’re prepping the rail.”

“Administrators seldom see the error of their ways,” she said. “Why do you think I ditched the guidance-counselor gig?”

“Because you longed to be a shrink with a fancy Ph.D.?”

“I liked the kids,” she said. “The administrators mostly sucked.”

I sat on a bar stool and stretched out my leg, pulling up the sweatpants to examine the new scar. “I won’t get much help,” I said. “This judge who sentenced the kid is pretty popular among the yokels. They think he’s keeping down the juvie crime.”

“Is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he’s just an asshole?”

“That would be my guess.”

“You can’t overturn a decision based on the guy being a jerk,” Susan said. “I’ve worked with a lot of kids in that system. The judges have a free hand. You just hope they’re fair.”

“My client believes there’s something hinkier than just the judge being an a-hole,” I said. “She thinks there’s a conspiracy up there.”

“About what?”

“She doesn’t know,” I said. “She just knows a lot of kids are being railroaded through this system.”

“Are you being paid on this?”

I took a deep breath. “My fee hasn’t been discussed.”

“You did recently get a nice paycheck from Kinjo Heywood,” she said. “You can afford to do one off the books.”

I stood and filled a pot with water to boil. I’d had red beans with andouille sausage simmering in a Crock-Pot all day. I added rice to the water when it boiled, then I started to chop green peppers and onions. My chopping was quick but masterly. I placed a baguette from the Flour Bakery in the oven.

I opened a second bottle of Abita, interspersing sips of beer with a glass of water. I pulled out some plates and opened a bottle of sauvignon blanc for Susan. I put an old Louis Jordan album on the turntable.

“While you slave over the stove, I’ll freshen up,” she said.

“A truly modern relationship.”

“Would you rather me cook?”

“We each have our talents.”

Pearl trotted into the kitchen. “And the baby’s?” she said.

I tossed a hunk of baguette into the air. Pearl caught it.

“Kitchen detail,” I said.

“And mine?” Susan said.

“Besides helping the depressed, the neurotic, and the true wackos of Boston and Cambridge?”

“Yes.”

“How graphic would you like me to get?” I set down the knife, walked up close, and wrapped my arms around her small waist. Susan whispered things into my ear that would have made a fleet of sailors blush. I held her tighter.

We kissed as the rice simmered, and until I felt a buzzing in my pants. Susan laughed.

It buzzed again. Susan stepped back as I reached for my cell. She disappeared into my bedroom. I read through a text message and set the phone down.

“First day of school and I’m a big hit,” I said, yelling to the bedroom. “Young girls already texting me.”