Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

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.