“I didn’t do anything!” Frankie said. Behind him the ball dropped into the drain with a clunk, ending his magic run.
“You rigged it, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frankie said.
“Get the hell out,” Lonnie said. “You’re banned.”
“What?”
“Out! Now!”
“You can’t do that.”
Lonnie loomed over him. He was skinny, but tall, a foot taller than Frankie.
Frankie refused to run. He walked out, back straight, neck cold, like a man who knows there’s a gun aimed at his head. Got onto his bike and rode away. When he got home, he put his forehead to the wall of the house. He felt nauseated, naked. He’d never let anyone see him move things. Not since Mom died.
The job site was a three-story building just north of Sixty-Third Street, a medical research company. Two other Bumblebee vans in the parking lot. “Wait till I show you the cow,” Frankie said.
“There’s a cow?” Matty said.
“You won’t fucking believe it.”
Frankie picked up his tool bag, gave the kid a stack of Goji Go! boxes to carry. The receptionist buzzed the door behind her to let him into the building proper, but he ignored it.
Embrace life, he told himself. He launched toward her desk with a smile. “Lois, this is my nephew, Matthias. He’s helping me out today. Matty, put the boxes down a sec.” Frankie opened one of the boxes, took out two sixty-four-ounce canisters. “This is the stuff I was telling you about.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” Lois said. “You don’t have to—oh.” He pushed the canisters in front of her. She was in her fifties, friendly and round-faced.
“I drink this stuff every morning, Lois. One scoop for every eight ounces of water. The scoop’s right inside the bottle. Some people are addicted to coffee, but goji berries are a super-fruit, loaded with antioxidants. Did I tell you about Li Qing Yuen?”
“The one who lived so long,” Lois said.
“Two hundred and fifty-six, Lois. He holds the record, it’s documented. Lived off of goji berries, ate nothing but. You can’t believe what it does for your skin.”
“I don’t know, I don’t really—”
“Usually these are thirty dollars per canister. That sounds like a lot, but you can make a hundred and twenty shakes out of one canister. Did I mention you can mix this with milk, too?”
“I don’t have cash,” she said.
He suppressed a grimace. “Not a problem,” he said. “I trust you. Just make the check out to me. You spell Telemachus like ‘telephone,’ then ‘m-a-c-h-u-s.’ ”
All this work for thirty fucking bucks. Jesus Christ.
Finally he led Matty downstairs to the phone room. Dave, his boss, crouched in front of the patch panel, punching down new cable. The cutover was tomorrow, and they were behind.
“Where you been?” Dave asked him, already cranky.
“Come on, you know you just started,” Frankie said. “Matty, stack those boxes in the corner. Dave, this is my nephew, Matty. He’s my apprentice for the summer.”
“You poor kid,” Dave said, but with a smile. Shook Matty’s hand. He was a decent guy that way. “How old are you, Matty?”
“He’s thirteen,” Frankie said. “But really mature for his age.”
“Fourteen,” Matty said.
“You want me to do the CPU stuff?” Frankie asked.
“I got it,” Dave said. “Hugo and Tim are on the first floor. You can help them.”
Typical. Dave wouldn’t surrender his position in the phone room to wire jacks. On their way upstairs, the kid said, “Could you call me Matt?”
“What?” Geez, he looked so serious. “Okay. Matt it is. But you have to call me Frank. Not Uncle Frankie. Deal?”
Frankie found the guys wiring up a big conference room. “Boys, this is my nephew, Matt. Matt, this ugly fucker here is Tim. The Mexican is Hugo. Don’t lend him any money.”
Matty looked like he was in shock. Hugo held out his hand to the kid. “This son of a bitch is your uncle? I hope to God you’re adopted.”
“Seriously, we need to talk,” Tim said to Matty. “Genes like those…”
“Fuck you,” Frankie said to both of them. They turned away, laughing.
Frankie led the boy to the other side of the room. Matty whispered, “Is everything okay?”
“What, those guys? They’re fine. You’re on the job now. They give you shit, you gotta give it right back. Now take a look at this.” Two cables jutted through the access hole, their open ends sprouting colored wire. “The white cable’s voice, blue’s data.” He picked up the end of the white cable. “See how there’s four pairs of wires inside? Analog used to use three or four pair, but these new digital phones only use two. We run ’em all, though, in case you want to add more jacks, you don’t have to run more cable.”
The kid nodded. Frankie was pretty sure this made no sense to him. Then Matty said, “But isn’t it all data?”
“What?”
“You said they were digital phones, so the voice is digital, too, right?”
“Smart boy! You got it.” Frankie handed him a screwdriver. “Okay, you wire up this RJ11 jack.”
The kid gripped the screwdriver like an ice pick. Poor kid. He’d probably grown up without a single tool in the house. See what came of not having a father figure?
“Uh-oh,” Hugo said. He stood up and looked at the end of his white cable, frowning.
“What’s the matter?” Tim asked in a totally fake voice.
“I’m out of dial tone,” Hugo said. “Matt, could you help me out?”
Frankie gave Hugo a hard look.
Hugo handed Matty a set of keys and said, “Run out to my van—it’s the one closest to the door—and bring me back a box of dial tone.”
“What’s it look like?” Matty asked.
“It’s on the shelf in the back of the van. You’ll know it when you see it.”
The kid scampered off. Hugo and Tim held their laughter until he was out of the room. “Dial tone,” Tim said. “Never gets old.”
“Guys,” Frankie said. “He’s a kid.”
Hugo said, “Come on, Frankie—is he on the crew or not? You gotta break him in.”
Matty came back in a few minutes later, looking flustered. Hugo and Tim had their serious faces on. “I’m sorry,” Matty said. “I just can’t find it.”
“It’s in a cardboard box about yay big,” Hugo said.
Tim nearly lost it. Matty glanced at him, frowned.
“Let’s drop it,” Frankie said.
“No,” Matty said. “Let me check again.” He ran out before Frankie could stop him.
“At least he’s determined,” Hugo said.
Matty came back two minutes later. “I think I found it.” He was holding a little cardboard box, one hand on the bottom. He walked over to Hugo and said, “Is this it?” Tilted the box toward him.
Hugo spared a look at Frankie, not quite winking, then opened the box flaps. “Let me see if—” He burst into laughter. Tim came over, looked in, and then he cracked up, too.
“All right, all right,” Frankie said. “What is it?”
Matty walked over, his face still serious. Frankie leaned over the box. It was empty except for Matty’s hand, which he’d poked up through the bottom. His middle finger was extended. Frankie laughed, and Matty’s face relaxed into a grin.
“I like this kid!” Hugo said.
“See?” Frankie said. “You can’t fuck with a Telemachus.”
After Lonnie banned him, Frankie stayed out of the rink, but not exactly away from it. He started riding by, watching for Lonnie’s Chevy Monza in the parking lot. Finally an afternoon came when Lonnie’s car wasn’t there. Frankie was supposed to be home babysitting Buddy, but he parked his bike at the side of the building—not chained to the rack, in case he needed to get away quick—and went inside. The usual guys were huddled in the coatroom.