Tod Goldberg - The Bad Beat

“Where are we going?”

“A place where if ten Russian gangsters show up, your friends and classmates won’t end up murdered. That sound like a good plan?”

“Oh,” he said, which I took to mean he understood that the playing field had changed, that dangerous things were afoot, that he needed to listen to me and, finally, that he needed to get moving. But then he threw the covers over his head and moaned.

“Brent,” I said, “you need to come out from under the covers.”

“Does this mean something bad happened today?”

“It does,” I said.

“Oh, oh,” he said and this time-well, this time he actually got up out of bed and got busy getting the hell out of his dorm.

If you want to learn how to fight, don’t take a course in self-defense. The best thing a self-defense course will teach you is how to lose with dignity. They are designed for those being attacked, not for those who are about to go on the offensive. The result is that the fighting skills most people possess are reactionary: What do you do when someone hits you in the face? What do you do if someone grabs you from behind? How do you fend off someone who is trying to abduct you?

Learn a martial art as a kid and it will be drilled into your head that you should use your skill only when you’re being attacked. This is done for a simple reason: Children aren’t smart enough not to go around jump-kicking everyone who angers them and thus they must be wired for passivity. The result is a generation of Americans who curl up in a ball and let bullies steal their lunch.

Americans like Brent Grayson, who, after arriving at my loft, immediately lay facedown on my bed and began his moaning again. I’d had a feeling he’d be like this-that he’d opted to sleep through Sugar’s confrontation that afternoon told me he wasn’t going to be a real take-charge kind of kid-which is why I made sure Fiona was at my loft by the time we arrived. I had Sam drive Sugar home so he could break the news to him about his car. I figured Sam got himself into this mess, he could be the one in charge of listening to Sugar cry. Meanwhile, Sugar’s problem kept emitting this low wail that reminded me of a wounded bear. It also made me want to put him out of his misery.

“What is his issue?” Fiona asked. We were in the kitchen, which is only a few feet from my bed, but with the amount of moaning and woe-is-me-ing Brent was doing, we both felt fairly comfortable speaking in our normal voices.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Fi,” I said, “he’s curled up on my bed like a five-year-old. You know I have a hard time talking to kids.”

“What about in the car ride over?”

“It was enough for me to keep Sugar from speaking,” I said. “I might have killed them both.”

“So, what, you want me to coo him into telling you why the big mean bad guys blew up his daddy’s office?”

“Yes.”

“And then what? We both read him a story and put him to bed?”

“Fi,” I said, “he just needs a sweet voice in his ear right now. I’m afraid I might shake him to death if he continues to whine.”

“Fine,” she said. She walked over and sat down on the foot of the bed. “Brent, honey,” she said, “turn over. Let’s talk.”

“Oh,” he said, but didn’t move.

Fiona leaned over and rested her hand gently on the back of his neck. “Sweetheart,” she said, “we’re here to help you. Do you want our help?” She stroked his neck lightly. I know it was wise to bring her over.

“I guess,” he said.

“Then either turn over and stop babbling,” she said-and then I saw her squeeze his neck with a bit more force than a cougar does its young-“or I will break your neck. Okay, sweetie?”

Brent flipped over and stopped making noise.

“There,” Fiona said to me. “He’s all yours.”

“Thanks, Fiona,” I said. Sometimes I forget that Fiona isn’t really like other women, particularly as it relates to the care and concern of wounded animals and such.

I pulled a chair next to the bed and looked at Brent. He had brown hair that hung loosely over his eyes, a complexion that could use a bit of exfoliation but was otherwise fine and teeth that had benefited from what was probably very expensive orthodonture. His clothes were brand name and he didn’t have any obvious track marks on his arms and wasn’t constantly wiping the cocaine from his nose. So how was it he was mixed up with such bad people?

“Can I get you something to eat?” I asked.

“No, I’m fine. I ate, like, last night.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind a Yoo-hoo. Do you have any Yoo-hoo?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” I said. “How about water?”

“Water would be fine.”

“Fiona,” I said, “would you kindly get our young guest a glass of water?”

“I’d be happy to,” she said and got up.

“Is she going to hurt me anymore?” Brent asked.

“Probably not,” I said.

Fiona came back with a bottle of water, which Brent drank down quickly. He looked back and forth at me and Fi as if trying to determine who was in charge. He settled on me. “I guess things got bad today.”

“That would be correct,” I said. “Your father’s office was blown up.”

“Like with dynamite?”

“More likely with C-4,” I said. “But the result was the same.”

“What if Sugar had still been there?” he said.

“That’s a good question, Brent,” I said. “It’s why you’re now in my loft and not in your cozy bed on campus. Would you care to explain why you’ve got the Russian Mafia blowing up your father’s place of business?”

“How do I know I can trust you?” he asked.

“You don’t,” Fiona said.

This didn’t seem to reassure Brent much. “But you’re not, like, criminals, right?”

“I’m not, no,” I said.

He looked at Fiona, who said nothing.

“Why do you want to help me?” he asked.

“Because you’re in over your head,” I said. “If you didn’t know that before, you should now. And Sugar can’t help you. Trust me on that. He’s a good friend, but you don’t need friends right now. You need tactical support.” I let Brent process that bit of information for a moment. “Sugar told me that your father has a gambling problem and has disappeared. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Brent said.

“But those guys today-” I said. “That wasn’t about that, was it?”

“No,” he said. “No, that’s my problem.” Brent flopped back onto the bed and covered his face with a pillow. “I’m, like, so stupid.”

“No argument from me,” Fiona said.

“Not helping,” I said to her. I pulled the pillow off of Brent’s face. “Listen to me, Brent. You need to start at the beginning, don’t skip any details and try not to say the word ‘like’ in the process. And you need to do all of this while sitting upright or I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop Fiona from squeezing your neck again.”

Brent rubbed his forearm across his eyes, sniffled once and then ran his hands through his hair. My entire life I’ve tried to avoid crying in all its forms-crying women, crying children, crying animals-and now I had a teenage boy in my loft who couldn’t complete a sentence without spilling tears onto my comforter.

“So, okay,” Brent began. “I had this class project, okay? We were supposed to design realistic Web sites to go along with our game projects-like fully integrated sites that look like actual companies, you know?”

I told him I did. It was something the U.S. government had been doing for years. If you’re a covert operative working under a second identity in a foreign land as, say, the president of a tissue paper company, you need to have the same online corporate presence as any other tissue company might. The CIA was also especially fond of selecting people just like Brent Grayson to design them.