Peter Abrahams - Bullet Point

“Hamlet,” Anna said. “He’s the smartest. Isn’t that the whole point? Sometimes he’s so smart he overthinks.”

“Can you give an example?”

Anna gave a bunch of examples.

“Anyone want to argue the case for another character being the smartest?” said Ms. Grenville.

No one did. For a moment, Wyatt thought of the grave-digger-he’d skimmed ahead, read that scene, not really understood it, maybe until now. And maybe not. He kept his mouth shut.

Anna’s hand was up again. “But his smartness serves him well, too. He figures out a test to establish Claudius’s guilt once and for all.”

“The play within the play,” said Ms. Grenville. “Act Three-that’s our reading for tomorrow.” The bell rang. “Please be prepared for a quiz on-” But the subject of the quiz was drowned out in the end-of-class din.

After school, Wyatt picked up Greer at the bowling alley. She was waiting outside, hands in the pockets of her short leather jacket. A sign on the front door read: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE. CONTACT PRESIDIO BANK AND TRUST, SAN FRANCISCO. “They changed the goddamn locks,” Greer said, getting into the car. “No notice, no call, nothing.”

“Is there anything inside you need?”

Greer turned to him, looked angry for a moment, then smiled. “Guess not. I was going to try to sell the popcorn machine.”

“What’s it worth?”

“I don’t know.” Greer sat back, reached for his hand without looking, held on.

Wyatt drove to Hillside Breeze, the old folks’ home. It was an old brick building behind the hospital, also an old brick building but taller-in fact, the tallest building in Silver City-so Hillside Breeze stood in its shadow.

Inside, Hillside Breeze smelled like the bathroom at home after Wyatt’s mom had cleaned it. The phone was ringing at the desk in the small, poorly lit lobby, but no one was there. Greer went behind the desk, studied a chart-looking at it upside down, Wyatt saw rows of numbered squares with names inside-and motioned toward the stairs.

They went up. The carpet was musty. The smells in general were now more like the bathroom at home just before the cleaning. At the top they turned right, passing some rooms and a lounge where old women were sitting in front of a television, a few with their eyes closed, to a door at the end. The name strip read WERTZ/COFFEE. Greer knocked. No answer. She opened the door.

There were two beds in the room. A bearded man slept on his back in the nearest one, toothless mouth open. The other bed was empty. A second man sat in a chair, back to the room, facing the window. An oxygen tank stood beside him.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said in a half whisper.

No answer.

She went closer and called the name again, louder this time.

“If you’re selling, I’m not buying,” the man said, not turning.

Wyatt and Greer approached him, stood on either side. He glanced at one, then the other, but with no interest. One of his eyes was droopy and teared at the corner. He had an oxygen tube under his nose, liver spots on his face, and breath Wyatt could smell from where he was standing.

“Mr. Wertz?” Greer said again.

“I told you-the money supply is cut off.”

“We don’t want money, Mr. Wertz,” Greer said.

“No? What makes you so special?”

“It’s not that,” Greer said. “We just want to talk to you. If you are Mr. Wertz, that is.”

Mr. Wertz turned to her again, this time looked longer. “Why would a pretty girl like you want to talk to me?”

“I’d like you to meet my friend, Wyatt.”

Mr. Wertz turned to Wyatt. “What kind of friend?” he said.

“Boyfriend.”

“Some people have all the luck,” said Mr. Wertz. “Nothing beats luck and don’t let anyone tell you different. If I’d had just the smallest bit of goddamn-” Then came a strange sound in his throat, like a gulp, and he just sat there. Wyatt could hear the hiss of the oxygen.

Greer squatted down beside Mr. Wertz, one hand on the arm of his chair. “Wyatt here’s father is Sonny Racine. Remember him?”

Oxygen hissed. Mr. Wertz closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and said, “I’m drowning.”

“You’re drowning?” Greer said.

“That’s what it feels like. Didn’t anybody ever put a pillow over your head, try to suffocate you?”

“No. Never.” Greer shrank back a little.

“I defended guys who did that, got them off, more than one,” Mr. Wertz said. “This was in my former life.”

“You were a lawyer,” Greer said.

“Top-notch,” said Mr. Wertz. “Till the booze got me. Now I’m off it, can’t stomach a drop, literal truth. Haven’t got more than an inch or two of stomach left, if you’re interested in stats.” His eyes darted from Greer to Wyatt and back. The good one looked angry; with the other it was impossible to tell.

“Do you remember defending Sonny Racine?” Greer said.

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.”

“What’s your name?”

“Greer. And this is Wyatt, Sonny Racine’s son.”

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Just who we are,” Greer said.

“There was no son. I don’t remember a son.”

“I–I wasn’t born till later,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grabbed Wyatt’s wrist, his skin icy cold and papery. “Come here,” he said, “here where I can see you.” Wyatt moved around the front of the chair, closer to Greer, wrenched his hand free. “Only one good eye,” Mr. Wertz said. “Why no one around here can get that straight is beyond me.” He gazed at Wyatt. “You’re just a kid.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“Christ.” Mr. Wertz went silent. The man in the other bed started snoring. “Knock it off, you son of a bitch,” Mr. Wertz yelled, startling Wyatt. The man kept snoring. Mr. Wertz gestured out the window. “And where are all the birds?”

“They’ll be back,” Wyatt said.

Mr. Wertz grew calmer. “Sorry, kid,” he said.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” said Wyatt.

Mr. Wertz gazed out the window. “By then, the period in question, I was on the sauce pretty good,” he said. “Somewhat reduced, if you know what I mean. Fired from North and Mulgrew, if you don’t. Working as a PD.”

“What’s that?” Wyatt said.

“Public defender,” said Mr. Wertz. He looked at Greer. “Doesn’t he know the lingo?” Greer didn’t answer. “I’ll tell you both something, since you’re two nice kids. Fresh faced. When they say the jails are full of innocent people, they’re blowing smoke. Ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the guys inside deserve it, hell, deserve much worse. Then there’s that teeny-weeny exception, irrelevant, if you’re interested in stats. Sonny Racine was in that category.”

“Are you saying he was innocent?” Greer said.

“Wouldn’t go that far.” A tear rolled out of Morrie Wertz’s droopy eye, but he didn’t look sad, more annoyed, if anything. “No one’s innocent-not even a newborn babe, don’t fool yourselves. I’m talking about-” He made that gulping sound and went silent. His good eye got a faraway look; the bad one closed up even more. Oxygen hissed. Somewhere in Hillside Breeze a beep-beep-beep started up.

Wyatt and Greer crouched in front of Wertz’s chair. “Maybe we should call somebody,” Wyatt said.

Greer shook her head. “They’re like this,” she said.

Wertz gulped again. His bad eye quivered open a bit. “Reasonable doubt-that’s all I’m talking about. Understand the concept of reasonable doubt?” He looked at Greer. “You do, but what about Mister Handsome over here?” He turned his head, glared at Wyatt. “How come my goddamn legs hurt so much if I can’t even use them?”