Cold Fury

But. . but. .

VILE LORD BILLY

Butt-face, you fat load! You fat effing loser! Why don’t you go watch another movie and eat another bag of Munchitos and then eat a bag of rat poison, you fat prick!

GOOD KING DOUG

You. . you. . are right, my lord. I’m. . I’m. .

I watched the words drift off and then resume not as dialogue but as disjointed thoughts that bumped into one another, crowding for space.

“. . I’m better off dead, I’m better off dead, because Billy is right, I’ve always known he was right, I’m a fat piece of shit, I’m a fat effing loser, I can’t and won’t do anything, not even defend myself, not even stand up for myself, all I do is watch, I sit on my fat butt-face and watch life go by, I deserve to die, I stare at movie after movie because I’m useless and unequipped and scared of real life, so I’d rather not live, I’d rather die, and that’s what I’m going to do, I’m going to do it, I’m going to eat a bag of rat poison, and at least I will have done that. .”

“What are you doing?”

I looked at Doug standing in the doorway. This was no time to act as if I hadn’t seen what I’d seen, and said, “Don’t do it, Doug.”

He walked quickly to the table and slammed down the laptop, mumbling, “That screenplay is private property.”

“It’s not a screenplay,” I said. “It’s a suicide note.”

“No, it isn’t,” he said bitterly. “The word note implies that someone will actually read it. I don’t have anyone who would care enough to do that.”

“You have me,” I said, feeling my throat tighten. There were gray rings beneath his eyes and he seemed looser and a size smaller, as if part of him had deflated.

He avoided my gaze, saying, “Who the hell are you? My little movie friend?”

“Not movie friend,” I said. “Friend, with nothing attached.”

“Except sympathy for the fat kid with a brain crammed full of stories about other people’s lives,” Doug said. “Well, save it for some other loser. I won’t need it anymore, and you and everyone else will be better off without me.”

“You’re wrong,” I said, shaking my head.

“No, you’re wrong!” he screamed, and it was the most life I’d ever heard come roaring out of him. “My parents are divorced, my pothead dad’s long gone, and my mom, who lowers a vodka bottle only long enough to tell me what a disappointment I am, is married to some asshole lawyer who hates my fat guts! I have no siblings or friends-nothing except movies, don’t you see? I have nothing, and you have everything!”

“No,” I said.

“You have great parents!”

“No.”

“A brother, a whole family!”

“No!”

“A home where everyone loves you!”

“No, damn it! I don’t!” I shouted, and broke into a crying jag that was like a tsunami in its force. It drew Doug back to the surface and he was silent. I wiped my face in my hands, pushed my hair behind my ears, and repeated myself. “Don’t do it, Doug.”

Quietly, with what sounded like real curiosity, he said, “Why not?”

“Because,” I said. “I can’t lose another person I care about.”

“Who else have you lost?”

“That’s my business, Doug,” I said, pushing away a stray tear. “That’s my life, not yours.”

He nodded slowly, studying the floor, and then looked me in the eyes. “You know why I loved that screenplay? The sincerity of the language. It might not be the greatest movie ever made, but Charlie Huckleman believed every word he wrote about nonviolence. There’s power in sincerity, Sara Jane. There’s real power in words.”

He was right-the words I’d read about my family had changed me forever. I said, “What do you want, Doug? If you could have anything, what would it be?”

“I want a life. I want a. . purpose. Fep Prep used to be my refuge. .”

“I understand. Really, I do.”

“And I want to be left alone so I can figure out what that purpose is. I just want Billy to stop harassing me forever.”

Staring at Doug’s sallow face, the edges of his mouth drawn down, I realized that I could help him-I could confront Bully the Kid, let my cold fury flicker and burn, and do what I was born to do. The problem was that I still didn’t know if I could summon it, or if cold fury just sort of happened. There was also the issue of Fep Prep-did I want to bring that part of my life here, inside my refuge?

And then a familiar lightbulb flickered and buzzed.

I remembered the notebook, my own personal Outfit instruction manual.

It was a loaded weapon, custom made for a situation just like this one.

All I had to do was make a phone call-I remembered one unlisted number in particular-but paused, wondering exactly what kind of force I’d be unleashing. The notebook made it crystal clear that there were no good guys in the Outfit, no thugs with hearts of gold. There were only enforcers who used car batteries and pliers on mopes, and killers who used knives, guns, and Lake Michigan on victims. On the other hand, the notebook’s instructions were precise, obviously designed to control its own power and reduce collateral damage. I’d made the decision to use it if necessary, and I couldn’t think a situation as dire as this one.

“Will you do me a favor?” I said. “Will you do nothing? For twenty-four hours, don’t do a thing.”

“What difference will a day make?” Doug said without a trace of hope.

“Exactly,” I said. “It’s just one more day. Promise me? As a friend?”

He was looking at the ground, pursing his lips, and when his head began to nod, I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him. He didn’t cry, just put his head on my shoulder, and I felt his magnetic, overdue need to be embraced.

I was wrong about a hug.

It’s not commonplace or benign.

It sounds like a silly bumper sticker, but a hug can keep a person alive.

18

The phone call was awkward, phlegmy, and weird, but at least it was short.

After school I headed south on Lake Shore Drive, past the museums, past Soldier Field, doubling back in case I was being followed, and I left sunshine behind as I slid down the ramp to Lower Wacker Drive. It’s a subterranean boulevard following the same route as Upper Wacker Drive-in effect, a double-decker street designed decades ago to help regulate traffic. There’s a third level that goes even deeper underground (my dad refers to it as “Lowest Wacker Drive”) but today I stayed on the second level. Lower Wacker is punctuated with nooks and crannies, abandoned loading docks and forgotten turnarounds, while the Chicago River meanders past only a dozen feet away. A car can pull into one of those shadowy spots and disappear not only from traffic but daylight itself. I found a dark little corner, eased the Lincoln to a stop, and got out. The river inched by on the other side of a low chain-link fence-the perfect place to make a call without a chance of being seen or overheard-and I dialed the number from the notebook. It started with someone hacking on the other end, really working something out from the back of his throat, and then a voice like wet gravel said, “BabyLand.”

I rechecked the number-it was correct-and then read the password. “Uh. . Saint Valentine is a friend of mine?”

There was a pause and the voice said, “Be at the Green Mill in an hour.”

“Where’s the Green Mill?”