Gregg Hurwitz - Prodigal Son

Matías called over. “I need to know what the hell is going on.”

She ignored him, and Evan followed her lead.

Evan asked, “Why should I help him?”

“You just need to. Go. You’ll see.” She reached to shake his hand. He felt something pressed between their palms—a scrap of paper. “This is a starting point. He’s somewhere in Los Angeles.”

That struck Evan as a hell of a coincidence.

He glanced down at the paper, saw an address scrawled in a feminine hand, and slid the scrap into his pocket.

“After this little fiasco, I’d imagine that airport security will be a problem,” she said. “Get down to Saladillo Airport, Paramount Jets. I have a private charter standing by. It’s a Bombardier Global 6000, but you’ll make do.”

“And you?”

“There’s a bit to untangle here after all this, so I’ll be coming a few days behind you. I have a gentleman friend with an estate in Bel Air.”

“Another gentleman friend,” Evan said, in a tone he did not recognize. “Is he as much of an asshole as Chancellor Matías?”

“Of course.” She blinked once, indulgently. “No one wants to have polite sex, darling.” She took in his reaction, amused. “What?”

“I’m trying to figure out what to say that won’t make everything worse.”

“And?”

“I can’t think of any good options.”

She leaned forward, perched on her toes, and kissed him on the cheek. He pulled away, the lipstick imprint of her lips cool on his skin, the scent of lilac lingering.

Matías was storming over, brow twisted, face red. She turned calmly to receive him as he came at her with pride-bruised grievances.

Evan took two steps back, vanishing into the haze.

13A Test

The handball court and the dark sedan lurch into view as Evan rounds the corner, sprinting, feeling much younger than his twelve years. The Mystery Man jerks around from his languid pose by the fence.

“Listen, listen—” Evan stops, panting, leaning over. “I know you want Van Sciver, but there’s stuff about him that’s … that’s…” He shakes his head, agitated.

The Mystery Man walks toward him, annoyed. “What’s this about? What’s wrong with Charles?”

Van Sciver is currently doubled over on his bed, clutching his gut. Late last night Evan emptied two bottles of Papa Z’s Ex-Lax onto the kitchen counter, crushed the pills, and mixed the residue into Van Sciver’s protein powder. The cramping set in a half hour after Charles downed his morning shake, and he’d since alternated between toilet and bedroom, awash in a cold sweat.

“This some jealousy thing, kid? Believe me, you don’t want to fuck with me. I told you. You’re not good enough. You’re not strong enough. You’re not gonna surprise m—”

As the Mystery Man nears, Evan sinks to his haunches, pivots, and kicks the back of the guy’s lead ankle with as much force as he can, sweeping the leg. Mystery Man goes horizontal and lands hard, cigarette ash scattering across his face as his head audibly strikes the asphalt.

Evan pulls himself up, all five feet and three inches, and drops the blue bandanna on the Mystery Man’s chest. “You surprised now?”

In a flash the Mystery Man is on his feet, fist twisted in Evan’s collar, knuckles grinding Evan’s chin. His other hand draws back, blotting out the sun, and Evan realizes for the first time just how much he is willing to be hurt.

To the side the dark sedan’s headlights flare. Just once.

But it’s enough to freeze that fist in midair. The Ray-Bans are off kilter from the fall, dangling off one ear, and Evan sees now why the man wears them day and night—he has a lazy eye. The left pupil, slightly misaligned, peers past Evan’s shoulder even as the right lasers a hole through his forehead.

The Mystery Man shoves Evan away, adjusts his shades, and walks over to the sedan. The driver’s window eases down with an electric purr, but Evan can see nothing and hear nothing from inside. He stares at the tinted windshield as if it might magically turn transparent.

“But he’s too small.” The Mystery Man is doing his best to keep his voice hushed. He rubs the back of his head gingerly, notices Evan watching, and lowers his hand. “You want to waste two years waiting on him to grow? I can get you dozens who are better than him. Why’s this one worth it?” A pause, and then he draws his head back sharply. “Maybe he did, but I still would’ve beat the shit out of him after.” He listens intently for a moment, then shrugs. “It’s your life.”

The Mystery Man walks over, passing Evan without slowing. “Well,” he says, without looking behind him. “You coming?”

Evan keeps at his heels across the handball courts.

“You wanna go home, say good-bye to your friends, your Papa Z?”

Evan pictures Van Sciver dragging himself along the wall to the bathroom, his hands balled into fists. “Nah,” he says.

“You got stuff?”

“Nuthin’ I need.”

A few blocks away, they reach a beige Crown Victoria, and the Mystery Man says, “Get in.”

Evan obeys. The heavy door shuts behind him. He reminds himself to keep breathing.

The engine shudders to life, and they loop back through the neighborhood, passing Mr. Wong’s dry cleaner that has the dish of Tootsie Pops the boys plunder with regularity. Mystery Man cuts around the corner, and Evan realizes with a stab of fear that they’re going to pass right by Pride House and its big front window. And sure enough there they are, crowding against the pane just as Evan himself has done so many times.

Even though they are partially lost in the reflection, Evan identifies them by posture and silhouette. Ramón looming tall like a stick figure, bony arms poking out from his knockoff Timberland shirt. Tyrell stooped in that way of his, eyes lowered, hand swiping the wisps on his chin. Andre’s head craning as he watches the Crown Vic coast by, looking lost, left behind, as far from those “California Dreamin’” roller-skating girls as ever.

Evan slumps down in his seat. The Mystery Man looks over with a sadistic smile, eases his foot off the gas a bit more to prolong the torture.

Evan risks one last glance before the row house slides out of view, just in time for him to make out Charles Van Sciver staggering to the glass, elbowing the others aside. He looks pale and sickly, his Redskins jersey askew, as if he’d pulled it on hastily. While Evan stares back in horror, Charles slams his palm against the window hard enough to make Evan wince inside the air-conditioned sedan.

At last the Crown Victoria drifts away. Charles’s face, twisted in anger, remains like an imprint on the backs of Evan’s eyelids.

His lips pursed with contentment, the Mystery Man focuses on the business of steering. They drive out of the city, heading north, passing drab concrete overpasses and interstate exits Evan has never seen. His excitement morphs into terror and then back again. The line between opportunity and ruin seems wafer thin.

They pull off the interstate. Evan can no longer hold his mouth. “Where are we going?”

The Mystery Man earns his moniker. He keeps his fist atop the wheel, a cigarette protruding from his knuckles, an endless ribbon of smoke sucked out the crack of the window.

They pull in to a gas station, but rather than head toward the pumps the Mystery Man idles behind the convenience mart near the air hoses. Evan eyes the meter, notes that the tank is still three-quarters full.