Men from Boys Read online

  ‘Maybe you were stalling.’

  ‘Stalling? Telling you the one thing to delay telling you the other? No, I don’t think so. That would have been a reason for small talk, but I wasn’t making small talk.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And it’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. Would my life had been different if I’d told Harold thanks but no thanks.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been wondering. I did something that wasn’t honest, and I kept it a secret. How did that affect the choices I made in life?’

  ‘Maybe it didn’t.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Richard Parmalee said, ‘but I’ll never know, will I? The road not taken. Maybe it’s made a difference, and maybe it hasn’t.’

  ‘Phil Carrigan called me in two, three weeks ago,’ the son said. ‘I’d knocked myself out for him, and he wanted to let me know how much he appreciated it. “Listen,” he said, “I owe you a big one. And Lisa, I want to make it up to her for the extra hours you put in. Here’s what you do, Kevin. Take the lovely lady to Lutéce. You can bill the client.”’

  ‘That’s perfect.’

  ‘Isn’t it? His eyes, he was being magnanimous. Giving me something to show his appreciation of what I did for him. So I had his permission to stick it to the client for a couple of hundred dollars. That’s his idea of a grand gesture and he really thought he was being generous. And maybe he was, because he could just as easily have taken his wife to Lutéce at the client’s expense.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I’m not sure it fits with what we were talking about, but I’m not sure it doesn’t either. How was the meal?’

  ‘It was terrific, but I’m just as happy with a steak and salad, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘You’re like your old man. And it’s time your old man headed home.’

  He raised his hand for the check. ‘I wish you’d let me get this,’ the son said.

  ‘Not a chance. I told you, you got the tickets.’

  ‘And I told you they didn’t cost me a cent.’

  ‘And neither will dinner,’ Richard Parmalee said. ‘The hell, I’ll bill it to a client.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Kevin Parmalee said. ‘That’s just what you’ll do.’

  AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Michael Connelly

  He hated the job but loved the drive home at night. The streets were always empty and a lot of the time shiny from rain. Steam would rise like intrigue off the asphalt. Just like in the movies, the old black and whites his father liked to watch on the tube. It seemed as though the city did not even begin to cool off until this time, until after midnight. Cruising along the beach with the windows down he would always encounter stragglers. Girls older than he but still just girls, making their way home or to last call at the last bar on the circuit. Some would flag him down, ask for a ride. Sometimes he would stop and oblige, the thrill of being with a stranger smelling of beer and suntan oil in the dark overcoming the potential of danger – and embarrassment. They were always surprised at how young he was. How young he looked. Some of them even laughed, thought he was thirteen years old and out joyriding in a stolen car.

  At the end of the beach cruise he would turn inland and head over the drawbridge and toward home. Toward a shower and bed, maybe a talk with the old man if he was still awake and sober.

  It was coming over the drawbridge and heading home one night when he encountered the running man. The boy had worked a double shift that day and was tired. It was a night for no riders. He had cruised the beach quickly and was heading west on Sunrise Boulevard. Close to home. He had just cleared the bridge but caught the traffic light by the closed gas station. He stopped at the deserted intersection and waited for the green. He knew no one would know the difference if he ran it but he waited for the green anyway. His father had taught him that the rules were in place whether anybody else was there to watch or not.

  And that was when he saw him. A man running. A big man with a big beard and long hair. He cut across the dark parking lot behind the gas station. He came right out of the darkness and headed for the bridge. He was no jogger. He wasn’t running for sport or fitness. The boy could tell that. The man was fully clothed – open lumberjack shirt over a T-shirt, jeans, work boots. No, he wasn’t just running. He was running to something or away from something.

  The boy studied the darkness from which the man had come. His eyes peered into the parking lot behind the gas station. Nothing moved there. Nothing was recognisable. Farther down the street he could see the dim glow of the Kwik Mart, but nothing else.

  The traffic light turned green. Ready to dismiss what he had seen – maybe the guy was just trying to make last call at one of the beach bars – the boy turned to take a final glance at the running man. He immediately noticed that the man no longer wore the outer shirt. He had removed it while running. And at the moment the boy glanced back he also saw the running man slow his pace just long enough to shove the red lumberjack shirt into the hedge that lined the sidewalk before the bridge. He then kept going.

  The light was still green. But the boy sat there in his beat-up Volkswagen and thought about what he had just seen. He had a decision to make. Pop the clutch, press the gas pedal and move on toward home. Or turn the car around and check it out. Why had the running man stuffed his shirt into that hedge?

  The boy was on the edge of manhood. Not in physical size or development – he had always been small and was stopped regularly by police who thought him to be too young to be driving. But inside, in thinking about his life and his options and in the way he studied the girls that walked the beach road at night. Inside, where it counted. His father kept the chorus going, all the time chiding him for his mistakes. It’s time to be a man.

  The light turned yellow. As if he was out of time and desperate, the boy hit the gas and dragged the bug into a squealing U-turn. He drove back toward the bridge. The running man was gone now, having gone up and over the bridge, dropping down past the span toward the beach. The boy stopped at the curb near the hedge. He left the car running and got out. He went to the hedge and saw the spot where the branches had been freshly disturbed. He reached in for the shirt, the interior branches scratching at his arm.

  As he pulled his arm back he felt something hard and heavy buried in the shirt. Slowly he unwrapped it and looked down at its contents. A blue steel revolver as shiny as the wet streets was in his hand. He felt a little thrill go through him, coming all the way up from his testicles.

  A gun. The boy had never held one before, had never even seen one this close. His father had a rule, no guns. He picked it up with his hand and hefted its weight. It felt warm to him. He put his nose to the barrel and sniffed. A sharp, bitter odor invaded his nostrils. Was that gunpowder? Was the gun warm because it had been fired?

  He quickly wrapped the gun in the shirt again and took it back to the car. He stuffed the shirt and gun into the glove box and closed it. He then pulled away from the curb and drove back over the bridge. It only took him a minute to catch up to the running man. He watched as the man stopped before he got to the beach and turned right into the street behind the big white hotel. The boy drove by, turned right on the beach road and then took the next right. He came to the same street the running man was on but a block further down. The boy dropped the clutch and slowed. He saw the running man was now walking. He finally came to a stop and then calmly stepped through the front door of a bar called The Pirate. It was a place the boy knew about from the outside. A rough place. Motorcycles always parked out front in a line. He knew that the men that came out of that bar had a habit of coming out mean.

  The boy picked up speed and kept his car moving. He made his way back to Sunrise and once again headed west to the bridge and home.

  But as he crested the bridge his eyes were greeted by all of the lights. Blue and red and yellow. Police lights, seemingly everywhere. A spotlight from a helicopter cutting through the parking lot behind the gas station. The traffic signal was r
ed again. He slowed to a stop and looked back at the spot in the hedge. He could still make out the place where the manicured wall of leaves had been disturbed. He knew he had another choice to make.

  A car pulled up next to him. A police car. Just as the boy turned to look the bright beam of a flashlight hit him full in the face. He could see nothing. A voice sounded from behind the light. ‘Hey, kid, are you old enough to drive?’

  ‘I’m sixteen,’ he responded. ‘I have a license.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Home from work.’

  ‘Pull into the gas station when the light changes.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He turned away but was still blind. He tried to focus on the traffic signal. When he finally could see it, it was green. He pulled forward and then turned left into the closed station. The patrol car followed him.

  There were two of them. They got out simultaneously. One of them put his flashlight on the boy’s face again.

  ‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ he heard one say.

  He knew they were talking about his size. Barely five-four and a skinny frame. Barely a hundred pounds. He felt his face burning red in the bright beam of their scrutiny. ‘I have a license,’ he said again.

  ‘Then let’s see it,’ said the one behind the beam.

  The boy unsnapped a pocket and brought out his thin wallet. He took out the license and held it out. He noticed that his hand was shaking. The one with the light took the license and thankfully lowered his beam to look at it. He turned it over and studied the edge as if to check for counterfeiting. Other cops who had stopped him had done the same thing.

  ‘Where are you coming from?’ asked the other cop.

  ‘Work. I’m a dishwasher at Bahia Mar. The banquet center.’

  ‘Working late.’

  ‘Yes. We had two banquets.’

  ‘Busy night. You own this car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He suddenly realised the registration was in the glove compartment. Along with the gun. ‘What is everybody looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘Not what, who,’ he said. ‘We’re looking for a scumbag. An armed robber.’

  The boy thought about the gun in his glove box again. A tremor of fear went through his chest. He had touched the gun. He’d held it. Fingerprints. He knew about fingerprints from movies and TV. He and his father watched Kojak together every Sunday night.

  ‘Does anybody know what he looks like?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Why, you seen somebody?’

  The beam suddenly came back up to his face, blinding him again.

  ‘Did you, kid? What did you see?’

  The boy almost said not what, who. But he didn’t think that would be received so well. The two policemen had tensed. They were keyed up about something. He thought about the gun again – remembered that it had been warm to his touch – and realised he could be in trouble. He chided himself for taking the gun. How stupid!

  ‘Hey, kid, you still there?’

  ‘Yes. I was just thinking. I saw a man running. Down near the beach.’

  ‘Running? What did he look like?’

  ‘I noticed because he was fully dressed but he was, you know, running.’

  ‘Give us a description.’

  ‘He was big. He –’

  ‘You mean compared to you?’

  ‘No, compared to anybody. He was tall. He had a beard and his hair was long.’

  ‘White, black, brown?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Okay, what else? What about the clothes?’

  The clothes. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Describe the man before or after he’d taken off the red shirt? He decided if there had been a robbery, the victim would have seen the red shirt.

  ‘He had on blue jeans and a white T-shirt. And he had on a red lumberjack shirt – you know, like with a pattern.’

  ‘If he had that on how do you know about the T-shirt?’

  ‘The red shirt was open. Unbuttoned. I could see the T-shirt.’

  The one without the flashlight peeled away and started talking into a radio mike attached to the shoulder of his uniform. He could hear him putting out the description and he wondered why they didn’t already have it.

  ‘That’s a pretty good description, kid,’ said the one with the flashlight. ‘What were you doing that you saw this guy so well?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I saw him running. I thought it was strange because he was fully dressed. I saw where he went, too. He went into a bar. The Pirate.’

  ‘Mendez, you hear this?’

  ‘Let’s go,’ his partner answered.

  ‘Okay, kid, let’s get in the car.’

  The boy was put in the back seat and then they took off for the bridge. The cop in the passenger seat announced their destination on the radio and asked for back-up. A minute later they were in front of The Pirate. Half a minute later the back-up car was there. And a third car was not long behind. By radio it was directed to the back of the bar.

  The driver of the first car, the one called Mendez, turned round to look at the boy. ‘You are going to stay here. We’re going in. We’re going to look for the guy. What we’ll do is bring anybody we want to talk to outside. You watch through the window. If you see the guy, you give the nod. Okay?’

  ‘I nod if I see him?’

  ‘Right. Now sit tight.’

  The cops got out and made their way around the line of motorcycles. They met the two uniformed men from the back-up car. The boy watched them talk for a few moments and then one opened the bar’s door and they went in. The boy saw that the last cop to go in was holding his baton down at the side of his leg.

  He waited for what seemed like an hour but was only a few minutes. When the bar’s door opened next, it wasn’t a cop who came out. It was a customer. A man with a white T-shirt and a black leather vest. He quickly moved to one of the motorcycles and carefully pushed it out into the street between the two patrol cars. He saddled it, kick-started the engine and took off. He never saw the boy watching and the boy wondered if he had snuck out of the bar or had been allowed to leave.

  As he considered this the door to the bar opened again and the two officers from the back-up car escorted two men out. Both had beards and long hair, but neither was the running man the boy had seen. Then the other two cops came out with two more men. The boy now recognised the running man. They had him.

  The cops instructed the four bearded men to face the front wall of the bar and put their hands against it. The men complied slowly, with the worn acquiescence of men who faced this sort of intrusion on a daily basis.

  Mendez stood back while the other officers checked the men leaning against the wall for weapons. He turned and looked at the boy in the patrol car. The boy nodded and Mendez nodded back. He then surreptitiously pointed a finger at the first man in line and the boy shook his head. They repeated this until Mendez pointed at the third man in line and the boy nodded.

  But just as he nodded, the third man turned his face from the wall and looked directly at the boy. Whether he understood or not that an identification was being made didn’t matter. The boy was frozen to the bone. The man said something – just a couple of words – but the boy could not hear it because the windows of the car were up. Their eyes locked and held until Mendez barked a command at the man and he turned back to the wall. Mendez then came up behind the man and pulled his arms off the wall and cuffed them behind the man’s back. The man did not struggle as he did this. Again there was a casual acquiescence, as if what was being done to him had been done before. As if it was expected.

  The officers told the other three men they could return to the bar. Mendez then pushed the running man toward the two officers from the back-up car and they walked him to their car. As they were pushing him into the back seat the man began to struggle for the first time. Not to get away but just to keep his head up. He looked over at the boy again and said the words again, this time exaggerating the movements of
his mouth because he probably understood that the boy could not hear. He then relented and let them push his head down and then into the back of the car. The car took off quickly and the boy watched its blue light go on as it sped away.

  Mendez stood on the street and spoke at length over his radio mike before he and his partner returned to the car in which the boy sat. Mendez got behind the wheel but turned to look back at the boy before turning the ignition. ‘We got him, kid. Good job.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything but we don’t need him to say anything. With your ID we’ve got him. The detectives are heading over here to search the joint for the gun. They find that and its bye-bye dirtbag. You did good.’

  ‘What about the robbery? The victim. You need him to say he did it.’

  ‘Actually, there are two victims. But we’re not very likely to get that from either one.’

  ‘They’re afraid?’

  ‘No, both got shot. During the robbery. One’s dead and, last we heard, the other wasn’t going to make it either.’

  The boy felt the air go out of his lungs. Not because of what Mendez said, though that certainly put a different inflection on things. But because he had suddenly realised what the running man had said before being put into the patrol car.

  ‘He said, “You’re dead.” When he saw me. He said, “You’re dead,” didn’t he?’

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s bullshit. He was trying to intimidate you but he was too late. He’s going to be in lock-up until you’re an old man. He can’t get to you.’

  ‘What about his friends? Is he in a motorcycle gang or something?’

  ‘Not hardly. He doesn’t even have a bike. Why do you think he was running when you saw him?’

  Mendez turned round and started the car.

  ‘Let’s go downtown now and see the detectives.’