Mike grinned back, and though his smile looked happy there was just a trace of a wince there. Crow thought about he’d like to take a quick road trip over to Vic Wingate’s place and beat him to within an inch of his miserable life. No jury would touch me, he thought.
“How are you feelin’, Crow?” Mike asked, taking Crow’s proffered hand.
“Like dookey. How ’bout you?”
“Good.” It had been pretty clear to Crow that even walking across the floor had caused Mike some pain. Riding that bike must have been a bitch.
“Which falls under my personal definition of ‘bullshit,’” he said.
“No, really.”
“Bing! Bing! Bing! We’re hitting a solid eight on the bullshit meter.”
“Crow…don’t, okay?” Mike eyes slid away from Crow’s and his smile leaked away. In profile and with the bruises, Mike looked like an old man instead of a kid. Old and sick. Crow leaned on the counter that separated them and forced eye contact with the boy. “Look, kid, I’m not hideously stupid. If you’re in pain, you’re allowed to say, ‘Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete sumbitch.’ This is an acceptable response to inquiries about your current state of well-being.”
It was clear that Mike couldn’t decide whether to laugh or flee. His eyes had a shifty, uncertain look. Even so, he said, “Gosh, Crow, I hurt like a complete son of a bitch.”
“‘Sumbitch,’ son. This is a hick town, the correct term is ‘sumbitch.’”
“I hurt like a complete sumbitch.”
“Good. Now watch your language, you juvenile delinquent.”
This time Mike did laugh. A bit. “How’s your…uh, I mean, Val?”
“My ‘uh, I mean Val’ is doing pretty good; and fiancée is the word you’re fumbling for. She’s home sleeping right now, and Sarah Wolfe is keeping her company. You know her? The mayor’s wife?”
“I deliver their paper,” Mike said, nodding. “Well…did. I guess I’m going to quit now that I’m working here.”
“Val sends her best, by the way. She said that you’re a sweetheart for helping me out here.”
Mike flushed red.
“But enough of this banter, today we’re going to explore the exciting world of retail sales. First step—inventory.” He gave a stage wink. “Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. I’m like…tingling.”
For the next two hours Crow took Mike through the steps of checking the shelves against what was stored in the tiny stockroom and then filling out order sheets. Crow let Mike make the next ten calls while Crow tried not to backseat drive; by the fifth call it was easier to block the urge. They worked together to stock the shelves—a job Crow had left half finished when Terry Wolfe had talked him into going out to shut down the Haunted Hayride a few days ago, though it seemed like months to Crow. As they worked, Crow saw the boy try to disguise his many winces as he bent and stretched to fill the bins of costumes, baskets of rubber severed hands and other body parts, trays of goggly eyeballs, racks of Gummi centipedes and faux Cockroach Clusters, and tables filled with everything from smoking cauldrons to marked-down Freddy Krueger gloves (because, as Crow explained it Mike, Nightmare on Elm Street was soooo five minutes ago). At one point Mike was stretching his arm up to hang a half dozen Aslan the Lion costumes on a high peg when he gave a small sudden cry and dropped them. He pressed a hand to his ribs for a moment and stood there, wincing and making hissing-pipe noises.
“How’s that rib treatin’ you?” Crow asked with fake disaffection.
“Hurts,” Mike said tightly, then added, “like a sumbitch.”
“All of this happened when you fell off your bike, right? That your story?”
The pain gradually left his face, and Mike took in a breath and slowly exhaled. He did not face Crow but instead appeared to be looking for an answer in the foamy packing materials of a box of plastic cockroaches. “Yeah. Bike.”
“If I keep asking, am I always going to get the same story?”
“Probably,” Mike said, fiddling with the label on the carton, peeling it with a thumbnail.
“Mike?” The boy did not look up.
“Mike,” Crow said more firmly, “look at me for a sec.” After a moment’s hesitation, Mike did. His eyes rose to meet Crow’s, fell away self-consciously, and then rose again. “Mike,” Crow said softly, “I won’t ask again. It’s up to you to decide if you want to talk about it.”
“I don’t want to talk about it. I fell off my bike.”
“Uh huh. Well, do me this favor, will you? Instead of feeding me a line of bullshit, just tell me to mind my own business. I’d rather you trusted me enough to just tell me to shut up than feel you have to lie to me.” It took Mike quite a while to think that through, but eventually he nodded. Crow smiled. “Good,” he said, then decided to step a little further out onto the limb. “Besides…you’re not the only one who’s ever been knocked around by an asshole of a parent. Not even the only one in this room.”
This time Mike did look at him, and though his eyes glistened wetly and his face burned a furious red, he kept that eye contact for a long thirty seconds in which volumes were spoken. Crow broke the silence by saying, “Let’s finish up this stuff and then I’m heading back to the farm. For the rest of the day you’ll be on your own. Think you can handle it without pieces of rib puncturing your lung? ’Cause you’re not on the health plan yet and the paperwork would be a bitch.”
“I guess.”
Crow started to turn away, stopped. “Listen, kiddo, whether you want to talk about it or not, I pretty much know the score. I know about Vic and how he treats you. Maybe not the specifics, but in general because it’s probably pretty damn close to what I went through when I was a kid. My dad was a hitter and I was always getting my ass kicked and spent half my life making excuses for why I limped or why I had a black eye. Vic’s not all that different from my dad—both of them are world-class assholes.” He paused. “Am I right?” The kid shrugged. “So, starting today we’re going to have a set of rules that we’re both going to work with. Call ’em Crow’s Rules for a Better Life, and Rule Number One is we don’t let the assholes win.”
Mike said nothing, but he was clearly listening.
“The assholes might score some hard points, but the rule is that we don’t let the assholes win. You want to repeat that?”
Nothing.
“Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
Mike mumbled something.
“Kid, you’re pissing me off. What is the number-one rule?”
“We don’t let the assholes win, okay?” Mike snapped angrily, his fists balled at his sides.
Crow grinned at him. “Spoken like a champ. Which reminds me—aside from the low pay and nonexistent benefits package, there’s another incentive to work here. I’m going to teach you to fight.”
“You already showed me some stuff last spring. Me and Tyler Carby.”
“That was just horsing-around stuff, I wasn’t being serious and neither were you. You guys ever practice the stuff?”
“We goofed around in the schoolyard. Tyler wasn’t interested, and it’s no fun practicing alone.” What he didn’t tell Crow was that everyone in school thought Mike was still practicing martial arts, a lie he encouraged because it always gave him a reason to explain away the bruises. “What’s it matter anyway? A few jujutsu moves ain’t going to change things.”
“That depends on the moves, and how you use them.” He folded his arms. “When I offered you this job it was more than just because I needed an Igor to do the heavy lifting. I wasn’t going to tell you this because I was going to be real subtle like and kind of sneak it on you from left field—but here’s the bottom line, Mike. I respect you too much to blindside you, even if it’s something that’s for your own good.”