Bad Guys

“Maybe it’s got nothing to do with you. Maybe I just don’t want to go on the retreat.”

“Sure you do. No matter how bad it is, you’re out of the office for a couple of days, and that’s got to be worth something. Plus, there’ll be snacks.”

“That’s true,” she said quietly. “They will have to feed us.”

We were down in the kitchen as the sun came up. I heard the morning’s Metropolitan hit the front door and saw our delivery man working his way down the street when I stooped over to pick it up.

“The thing is,” I said, scanning the front page as I wandered back into the kitchen, “if no one heard those shots being fired at the mall last night, and there’s no police report, there’s no sense writing anything about it now. In fact, if I did, it would give things away to whoever those guys in the Annihilator are. Assuming, of course, that they subscribe to The Metropolitan. They’d know who, exactly, had been watching them, and then they’d never come back.”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?” Sarah asked.

“Now, that’s my wife talking, not my editor. Of course we want them to come back. We want this story to have some sort of ending, a resolution.”

“Here’s your coffee,” she said, handing me a mug. “I’ll talk to Magnuson. This is the sort of thing you have to let the managing editor know about. If a member of his newsroom is engaging in shootouts, even if he’s not the one actually pulling the trigger, well, he might want to have some input. I think he likes his reporters to maintain some distance.”

“Magnuson,” I said, shaking my head. Bertrand Magnuson, a fixture in the newsroom for thirty years, a veteran of every major world combat and scandal through the sixties and seventies, was a fierce, take-no- prisoners kind of editor. He had these black eyes that you could almost feel boring right through you. “So you’ll talk to him on my behalf?”

Sarah glared. “If Magnuson wants to talk to you, he won’t settle for talking to anyone else, believe me.”

I sat down at the kitchen table, leafed through the first section of The Metropolitan, and my eyes landed on a car ad. “Oh. Nearly forgot.” I told her Lawrence and I still intended to attend a government auction later in the day where it might be possible to pick up a car for a song. He was going to pick me up from the house before lunch.

“We had this discussion yesterday,” Sarah said, putting in some toast. “We don’t have money for a new car. And I don’t want us to throw money away on some old clunker. That doesn’t make any sense.”

“If we absolutely had to get one, what could we afford?”

“I don’t know. Seven, eight thousand, maybe? But there’s no point in even having this conversation.”

Paul, strolling into the kitchen, had evidently heard at least some of what we’d been talking about. “A government auction?” he said. “I’ve heard you can get cars for like nothing at those. Get a Beemer.”

Paul had his learner’s permit. I didn’t even want to think of the damage he could do to an expensive German sports car. “And get a standard. Only pussies drive automatics.”

I didn’t see any need to get dragged into a debate over transmissions for a car that I was not even going to buy. I put my nose back into the paper, my eye catching a headline next to the car ad. It was an Associated Press item, out of California, about a teenage boy who’d shot several of his classmates, supposedly his friends, at a neighborhood park.

“Color’s not important,” Paul said. “Unless it’s like some bright yellow or something, but I don’t think BMW makes cars in bright yellow. Their little convertibles, maybe, but not the 5 series or 3 series. You get something too bright, the cops are just going to pull you over all the time for speeding tickets. If they’re auctioning off cars that belonged to drug dealers, there should be lots of Beemers. Drug dealers love Beemers.”

It said in the story that this boy, who was seventeen, spent most of his time parked in front of a computer in his bedroom, hacking into places he shouldn’t be sticking his nose into, checking out websites that told you how to make your own bomb, how to kill people with nothing but a pencil, that kind of thing.

“We’re not getting a Beemer,” Sarah said. “We’re not even getting a car. We can’t afford another car.”

“What if Dad’s last book gets made into a movie?” Paul asked.

Sarah made a dismissive noise. “Your father’s book did not do well enough to get made into a movie, Paul.”

I glanced up from my paper, decided to let it go. Angie wandered into the kitchen, dressed, but her hair wrapped in a towel.

“What’s this about a car?” she asked.

Paul brought her up to speed.

“Get a Hummer,” Angie advised. In my head, I could see the headlights of the Annihilator, like eyes on a dragon, filling the Buick with cold, cold light.

“If there’s one thing I won’t be getting, ever,” I said, “it’s a Hummer, or a Suburban, or an Annihilator. They run over other people’s cars, pollute the atmosphere, get a mile to the gallon, you can’t see around the damn things, they-”

“Okay, Dad, we hear ya,” said Paul. “SUVs, bad. Little cars, good.”

According to the AP story, this boy in California was pretty reclusive. A loner. Obsessed with counterculture, not particularly good at making friends. Liked to take pictures of people without their knowing it, post them on a website. He’d had a crush on some girl, but she’d rebuffed him, and something snapped. He finds his dad’s revolver in a drawer, takes it to the park one night where he knew his classmates went to make out, drink underage, and smoke a few joints, and shoots three kids from his class.

Everyone interviewed had said that yeah, he was kind of weird, they weren’t totally surprised by what he’d done, but no one had reported his behavior to anyone. No one thought it worth mentioning. Not until after he’d killed three of them.

I said, interrupting the conversation at whatever point it happened to be in, “Has this Trevor guy called you anymore?”

Angie glanced over at me, deciding, I guess, whether she was speaking to me these days, other than to tell me not to answer the phone. The Pool Boy incident was several weeks old now.

“A couple times. Five times last night my cell rang in one hour. I was hanging out at Deb’s? And it’s going off in my purse every ten minutes. And I have to check it every time, because it might be-”

She stopped herself.

“Might be who?” Sarah asked.

“Just anybody. It could be somebody I actually want to talk to, and not him. But he’s got this thing, so his number doesn’t show, so I don’t answer any calls unless I see an actual number. So I guess he figures this out, and he goes to a pay phone, I don’t know, and calls me, and this time I see an actual number, so I answered.”

“I hope you weren’t mean to him,” I said, scanning the rest of the story.

Angie sighed. “I was… pleasant. So he asks me where I am, and before I can think up a good story, I tell him I’m at Deb’s house, and he says Deb Chenoweth? And I go yeah, and he goes, oh I know her, have we been friends a long time? That kind of thing. So, I tell him I have to go, and Deb and I decide to go over to Jennifer’s, and we go outside and there’s Trevor walking along the street.”

She paused and we all waited.

“You don’t get it?” she said. “Deb’s place is like, nowhere near here, or where he lives, but it’s only been a minute since he hung up, so he had to know that I was already there. He must have followed me. Deb lives just around the corner from the 7-Eleven, where there’s a pay phone, and we figure he must have called from there.”

Paul said, ever so casually, “He’s psycho.” He shrugged. “I heard he boiled a live rabbit once, like that woman in the movie?”

“That’s bullshit,” Angie said. “You made that up.”

“Okay, maybe. But I bet he’s the kind of guy who would boil a rabbit. Did you ever see that movie? Where Michael Douglas does that woman, right in the kitchen?”

Sarah shot our son a glance. It was just as well that Norman Rockwell was no longer with us. He would never have done this family’s portrait.

Paul continued, “But he is strange. Maybe that’s why he likes you.”