The wind was blowing off the river, driving the snowfall in waves that seemed to bound through the air. Tracks, back and forth between Ronnie Medeiros’s house and the street, were disappearing fast. Nat ignored the buzzer dangling loose on its wires, knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again, louder. They listened, heard the wind, the snow hissing through bare trees, a plow grinding along some nearby street. Izzie turned the knob. The door opened.
They went into a living room that had space for a big TV and not much else. On the TV sat a framed photograph of a referee posing with a girls’ basketball team.
“Hello?” Nat said.
No answer.
They went into a hall, opened a door. A bedroom: in no way like their cave rooms under the campus except that it too was a shambles. Only the bed was undamaged. The basketball referee was sleeping in it. Nat knocked on the doorjamb.
The sleeper’s eyes opened.
“Ronnie Medeiros?” Nat said.
“Who’dja expect in my bed, for Christ sake?” His eyes went to Izzie, back to Nat. “You the guys Saul sent?” he said.
They didn’t answer.
He got impatient. “To help me clean up. My fuckin’-my freakin’ head is killing me.”
“What happened here?” Nat said.
“Saul didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Just a little party, you could call it. Got out of hand. He promised me that if I kept my-that he’d send someone to clean it up.”
“You’re talking about Saul of Saul’s Collision?” Nat said.
“Huh?”
Nat held up the bowling jacket.
“Where’d you get that?” He sat up with a groan. “Lemme see.” Nat handed him the jacket. He ran his hands over it, as though it bore a message in Braille, then squinted up at Nat. “You cops?” He lowered his head gently to the pillow. “Fuckin’ A. That was quick. I told him there’s no way to keep something like this a…” He paused, his eyes again shifting to Izzie and back. “You don’t look like cops,” he said. “Least not cops from around here.” His gaze went to Izzie. “Unless you’re FBI,” he said. “There’s girl FBI agents on TV and they always look like you.” His eyes narrowed. “I get it now-that fuckin’ Freedy.”
“Freedy?” Nat said.
“Sure. Crossing state lines.”
“Who’s Freedy?” Nat said.
“Think I’m stupid? Not sayin’ another word till I speak to my lawyer. That’s my right, and no one ever accused Ronnie Medeiros of not sticking up for his rights.”
“We’re not from the FBI,” Nat said, “not police at all.”
“Expect me to believe that?”
“Whose jacket is this?” Nat said.
Ronnie clamped his mouth shut, sucked both lips into his mouth like a child, raising the little growth of hair under his lower lip into prominence. Izzie made a disgusted sound and left the room.
“Is it yours?” Nat said.
Ronnie, mouth still clamped shut, shook his head.
“How do you spell million? ” Nat said.
Ronnie looked interested. His mouth relaxed. “Million?” he said.
“Spell it.”
“M-i-l-l-i-o-n.”
“Are you sure?”
“ ’Course I’m sure. I graduated high school. And billion ’s the same, just with a b.”
Izzie came back. She had a laptop in her hands. “The laptop,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“It’s not working, but…” Izzie flipped open the protective flap at the back. Nat read the label inside: Property of Zorn Telecommunications.
She stood over Ronnie, about to do almost anything. “Where did you get this?”
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“I already been clobbered with that thing once.”
“By who?” Nat said.
Ronnie looked at him, at Izzie, at the laptop. He licked his lips. “I’m ready to make a deal,” he said.
“Let’s hear it,” Nat said; he felt Izzie’s glance.
“First I want immunity. Not the bullshit kind, the other one.”
“You got it,” Nat said.
“Guaranteed?”
“Guaranteed.”
Ronnie nodded. “The thing you gotta understand, I didn’t have nothin’ to do with any stealing. All I did was tell Freedy about my Uncle Saul. Whatever happened after that was all them.”
“What happened after that?”
“The stuff Freedy… acquired, must have got bought by Uncle Saul.”
“So Uncle Saul is a fence and Freedy’s a thief.”
“If you want to put it that way.”
“Describe Freedy.”
“Describe him?”
“What he looks like.”
“He’s a fuckin’ animal.” Ronnie Medeiros glanced around the room. “Big, like. Buff. Works out like you wouldn’t believe. Has this scary smile.” He shrugged. “That’s about it.”
“You left out the ponytail,” Nat said.
Ronnie gazed at him. “For a minute there I thought maybe you looked a bit too young to be FBI. Just goes to show.”
“Where is he?”
“Who?”
“Freedy.”
“Haven’t got a clue.”
“Where does he live?”
“That I can tell you,” said Ronnie.
30
The true Nietzschean teacher values his own worth only in relation to his students. True or false?
Freshmen couldn’t have cars. Following Ronnie Medeiros’s directions, Nat and Izzie walked the mile to the house where Freedy lived. A plow passed them, spraying sand out the sides, sand covered almost at once by blowing snow; the streetlights came on, triggered by the growing darkness although it was still long before night. Nat thought of a poem, not a poem he had read, but for the first time a poem he might write. Why now? Almost
