Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

“That’s where I grew up.” Did his voice sound a little angry? He softened it and said, “The pool business I learned in California.”

“Naturally.”

What was natural about it? He could have done other things in California, sold cars or tried Rollerblading. Something impressive occurred to him. “The demand curve for pools,” he said. “Up and up.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Uzig.

Demand curve. How sharp was that? Freedy thought of a selling point, remembered someone saying it, really, but it was a good one just the same. “Kids love ’em.”

“I don’t have kids,” said Uzig.

Silence. They looked at each other. Freedy got a very weird feeling: like he was seeing into his own eyes. Reverb, reverb, reverb. That was the feeling. His own eyes resembled the eyes of some British actor, according to his mother. He tried to remember British actor names, came up with only one, the James Bond guy. Were his eyes like the James Bond guy’s? Were Uzig’s? Freedy didn’t know. Still, it couldn’t be bad. The James Bond guy was a big star.

“No kids,” said Freedy. “That’s a shame.” Just toying now. Toying, which proved he was as smart as, maybe smarter than, a college professor. Came by it honestly. That was a good one. “But you know what would be even more of a shame?” he said. “Even more of a shame than having no kids?”

Uzig watched him. His face was still, hard to read. Hard to read if that reverb thing hadn’t been going on. But it was, so Freedy knew him through and through. It was sweet, knowing everything about the other guy when he knew nothing about you; especially when it was a father-son deal. How about that for a mindblower?

“What would be even more of a shame?” Uzig said at last.

“Not to have a pool in a space like this.” Space was the word you used-Freedy’d watched an architect use it over and over on a woman in Palos Verdes. “A crying shame. That’s what it would be.”

“What do you propose?”

Freedy liked that. It made him want to clap Uzig on the back and say, I get the feeling this is the start of something good. It made him want to, so he did; even the clap-on-the-back part, maybe a little harder than he’d meant, but still well within the boundary of two guys hanging out, father-and-son style. “I propose to build you a pool you’ll never forget,” Freedy said. He held out his hand. After a second or two, Uzig extended his. They shook. The old man didn’t have much of a grip, and Freedy did his best to back off on the squeezing part. “How about I throw some specs together and get back to you?” he said.

“As you wish,” said Uzig.

Which Freedy took for yes. He tried to think of something else to say, some way to extend the conversation. Or maybe Uzig would say something. But he didn’t, so Freedy finally said, “Get back to you then. Real soon.” Plenty of opportunity for conversation in the future. He walked home, down College Hill, across the tracks, into the flats, jazzed all the way.

She was on the kitchen phone when he went in, up early for her. Saw him, said something quick and low into the phone, hung up.

“Freedy,” she said.

“The one and only.”

“I’m… glad you’re home. We should have a little talk.”

Fine with him. He had lots to tell her. Should he hit her with the whole thing at once, or But she spoke first. “I-we’ve had some good news, Freedy.”

“Yeah?”

“The fact is…” She bit her lip. “Maybe artists shouldn’t even have children at all.”

Stoned again. Out of her goddamn mind. He would have pushed past her, gone into his room, except for that good-news part. He waited instead.

“Do you know that song, Freedy, ‘Last Thing on My Mind’?” She started singing, in a little-girl voice that irritated him even more than normal singing: “ ‘Could have loved you better, didn’t mean to be unkind, you know that was the last…’ ”. Her voice trailed off.

Pathetic. He could see Leo Uzig as his father, especially after the reverb thing. What didn’t add up was her as the mother.

“But now maybe I can make it up to you,” she said. “The fact is, I’ve come into a little money.”

“How much?”

“Some. I know you don’t like it here.”

“Who said that?”

“You, Freedy. What with the cold and the lack of opportunity. Maybe I could help… set you up. In a warmer place, if you had some idea.”

“What kind of idea?”

“About what you’d like to do.”

Yes, a lucky day. What was it all about? Choice. He heard that all the time. Bill Gates, all the others, they had choices, they chose from different possibilities. Malibu, Miami, Mediterranean: choice. “I’ve got some ideas,” Freedy said. “How much are we talking about?”

“Some,” she said again.

“Can’t start a pool-” Whoa, don’t give anything away. “ Some won’t cut it in the business world.”

“What… what would be a likely amount?”

“Depends what’s available.”

Her eyes went to the phone. What was she going to do, call the bank? Had to be a dope deal, although he couldn’t imagine her making a big score.

“How would ten thousand do?”

Meaning there had to be four or five times that. Freedy was impressed. “Be a start,” he said.

She nodded, like it wasn’t out of the question, like it could happen.

“There’ll be some travel expenses too,” Freedy said.

“To where?”

“Florida.” Said it out loud. It was real, a real choice. “Let’s call it another two.”

“Two?”

“G’s.”

She nodded again. Should have said three, four, even five.

“When can I have it?”

She glanced at the phone again, opened her mouth to reply. Freedy heard a car door close.

He went to the window. A state police cruiser was parked on the street, a statie coming up the walk, but slow because she hadn’t shoveled. Freedy’s first thought: there goes the dope deal. Then he got a good look at the statie’s face: the same statie who’d eyed him in the men’s room of the stripper bar. He backed away from the window.

Didn’t make sense. Ronnie had filed a complaint? What was wrong with him? Did he want to get seriously hurt? That wasn’t Ronnie. But if not Ronnie, what?

No time to figure it out now. He turned to her; her mouth was still open. “I’ve gone back to California,” Freedy said.

“Not Florida?”

“That’s just what to tell him, for fuck sake. Address unknown.”

“Tell who, Freedy?”

There was a knock on the door. Freedy could move. He moved: down the hall to his bedroom, out the window, into the backyard, through some trees, angling toward the river; heading for Ronnie’s. Nothing to it; but he was pissed. This was supposed to be a lucky day.

But as for getting away clean, that was never in doubt. Freedy had only one bad moment, when a helicopter suddenly appeared. What was this? LA? It swept low over the river, passed above him at treetop level, close enough for him to see it had no police markings; no markings at all, except a big black Z.

That Ronnie.

Just when things were getting promising, just when Freedy’s hard work was starting to pay off, who fucks it all up but Ronnie? Calling the cops? Calling the cops because he was too clumsy to avoid bumping his head on a laptop? This wasn’t like the hairy thing under Ronnie’s lower lip, or the girl from Fitchville South, both a bit funny in a pathetic way. There was nothing funny about this. Calling the cops about a private matter crossed the line-everyone in the flats knew that, and no one would blame Freedy, whatever he did. Ronnie was a disgrace.