Later, if a student's parents complained, the standard school response was that it was just a form of play, akin to football or murderball, and that such play was essential to instill ‘manliness’ in boys, the highest of all the moral virtues implanted by a 'Hayes education.'
'So what's your point?' Mark asks when I remind him of ‘bagging.’
'Isn't it obvious?'
He stares into my eyes. 'Are you accusing me, David?'
'Do I have reason to?'
'Of course not!'
'Okay, I take you at your word. So, what's Robin up to these days?'
He shakes his head. 'That's a sad story. What happened was terrible for us both. Still I managed to get through it. Robin didn't. You wouldn't recognize him. He takes drugs, shaves his head, wears earrings and tattoos, lives in a ratty house on the edge of Gunktown. Never bothered to fix it up… and believe me, he can afford to. He owns two million shares of FSI.'
I look at him. 'Maybe it was him who ambushed me last night.'
'Is this why you're here?'
'I'm here because I thought it was you.'
'That's not how I'd have handled it. I wouldn't have pulled my punches.'
I laugh. Sure doesn't take much to skim the gloss off of him, I think, ‘that old Eastern polish,’ or whatever the hell he calls it. Apply a little stress and the old money varnish comes right off.
Maybe he realizes how ridiculous he appears or perhaps he wants to regain his self-respect. Whatever the reason, he meets my stare, then suddenly breaks into a grin.
'Really had me going there, didn't you?'
'I'll tell you, Mark, I don't like being bagged and pushed around, reminds me of days I'd just as soon forget. I particularly don't like being threatened with having my hands broken. I make my living with my hands.'
'It won't happen again.'
'That's a guarantee?'
He nods.
'Not good enough, Mark. Fist I want to make sure it was Robin. Second, I want to set him straight. By assuring me it won't happen again, you implicate yourself. So where do I find the little fucker?'
A pause. He looks away. 'I'll take you to him,' he says.
We don't talk much in the limo. Even here in his plush car, Mark appears smaller to me than in his office. Perhaps it's the lack of props, the corporate art collection assembled to glorify the divine might of steel, or maybe it's because of all the obscene Fulraine family secrets I learned from Dad's case study.
Gunktown's an ugly name for a district that was once one of the glories of Calista, the place you'd automatically think to go if you needed something built by hand. Say you invented a device and needed a prototype to show people how it worked, you'd take your drawings and go to one of the machine shops in Gunktown and they'd make it up for you fast and for a fair price. Machinists there could make anything, people said.
They called it Gunktown because of the oil and grease that coated everything and stank up the air. The name stuck even when the machine shop days were past. Then, when blacks moved in, the word took on a cruel twist. Gunktown came to mean the people who lived there, ‘gunks,’ people of color, and though it seemed shameful for white folks to even say the word, black leaders flung it about with pride: 'Down in Gunktown we don't think much of your honky justice!' Or: 'Don't come around Gunktown with your phony liberal bullshit!'
Our limo pulls up in front of a decaying Victorian house set forty or so feet back behind a grill fence. It looks strange beside its neighbors, which are all built flush to the street. The wood siding was once bright gray; now the peeling paint's the color of dirty steel. And what was once a small front yard is now a patch of brown strewn with discarded rusty machinery and weeds. There's a BEWARE FEROCIOUS DOG sign on the gate beside a profile of a dog's head displaying gnashing jaws. The main part of the house is two stories high surmounted by an off-center turret. The effect is lugubrious, like one of those weird old houses in Charles Adams cartoons.
Mark turns to me. 'Let me talk to him first.'
I watch him as he makes his way through the labyrinth of junk to the front stoop. He pauses at the door, then enters. Unwilling to sit in the car, I start a drawing of the house. Ten minutes later, as I'm finishing work on the turret, Mark steps back into the car.
'Yeah, it was Robin with a couple of his buddies. This is by way of apology.' He hands me a check.
I look at it. It's signed by Robin, made out to me for five thousand dollars. I hand it back.
'I don't want this. I want a real apology.'
He seems surprised. 'He's very ashamed, David.'
'So now he's trying to buy his way out. Is that how he thinks the world works?'
'He's not the most stable individual-'
'He sounded pretty stable when he threatened me last night. I want to see him. With you or without you, I'm going in.'
Mark studies me. He's embarrassed. I meet his eyes and show him I'm serious. Then, to clinch the matter, I tell him that no matter how well meant, Robin's check could be construed as a bribe.
'To do what?'
'Stop me from filing an assault charge. Maybe get me to stop looking into the Flamingo killings, too.'
'Just can't leave that alone, can you?'
'No, sorry, Mark – I can't.'
Together we enter the gate. There are piles of dried dog crap scattered about, and the way the old machinery is cast makes it look like someone emptied one of the old Gunktown shop in the middle of the yard.
Ascending to the stoop, I'm hit by an odor of uncollected garbage. Mark doesn't ring or knock, just walks straight in. Standing in the center of the front hall, he call upstairs.
'David's here, Robin. He wants to talk to you. Come on down, okay?'
After a few moments, I hear the scurrying of animals and then the clump of human feet on the second floor.
'What's the deal?' Robin yells. 'I told you I didn't want to see him.'
'He won't take your check. He wants to talk. He's pretty offended by what you did.'
'Offended, huh?' Robin appears at the top of the stairs along with a pair of mangy black mongrels. He's barefoot, wears baggy sweatpants and a soiled gray T-shirt. He sports an earring on his left ear and his hair's shaved down to his scalp.
'Hey, Dave!' he speaks shyly.
'Hey Robin! I'd say ‘long time no see,’ but last night wasn't that long ago.'
'Real sorry about that, Dave. Something weird got into me.'
'David not Dave.'
'Sorry.'
'Seemed pretty well planned to me, Robin. Also like you wanted me to know you or Mark was doing it.'
'That wasn't my intention.'
'I think it was.'
'He doesn't know what he's doing half the time,' Mark whispers.
'Come down, Robin. Let's talk.'
'I'd rather talk from up here, okay?'
'Okay. Who told you I was ‘nosing around’?'
Robin's eyes moved to Mark. 'Just something we heard.'
I look over at Mark. 'We?'
Mark looks away. 'A friend mentioned it at a dinner party. He heard it from Spencer Deval.'
Him again!
I gaze into Mark's eyes. 'So last night Robin wasn't acting on his own. You were both involved.'
'That's about it,' Robin confirms.
