Being Henry David Read online

  Simon cuts bloodshot eyes at me. “Stay out of this.” He holds up the baggie and throws it onto Jack’s chest. “My money. Now.”

  The baggie bounces off Jack’s chest and lands at my feet.

  “I swear, Simon, Magpie said it was pure,” Jack says.

  Leaning hard against the Dumpster, he pulls himself to his feet. “He never cuts, you know that. And I didn’t do anything to it.”

  I pick up the baggie, open it, and peer at the white powder inside, not sure what I’m looking at.

  “Do it,” Simon says to me.

  “Do what?”

  “Taste it.”

  Taste it? The guy is staring at me with his crazy hollow eyes, and it’s freaking me out. So I wet my finger, dip it into the powder, and touch it to the end of my tongue.

  “It’s sweet,” I say, surprised. “Like—” I search my memory banks for the thing that reminds me of this taste and consistency. “Powdered sugar or something.” And there’s another taste too, sharp and bitter.

  “Exactly,” says Simon, all triumphant. “You cut it with powdered sugar. A lot of it.”

  “But you tried it,” Jack says, desperate. Even his dirty blond hair is trembling. “You said it was fine.”

  “I was wrong.”

  “I think you did it,” somebody says to Simon. And I realize that someone was me. “You cut the stuff so you could sell it and make more profit. And you’re trying to blame it on Jack.”

  Both Simon and Jack stare at me. Simon’s left eye twitches. “You’re fucking crazy,” he says.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Simon hesitates. Then he grins at me with those gray-black nubs that used to be teeth. He reaches under his shirt and pulls something out of the back of his belt. A knife. The blade is slender and long, with a black handle. The metal gleams in a shaft of morning light.

  “You don’t want to do that,” I say.

  “Actually,” says Simon, “I do.” He lunges at me, poking the knife at my gut. I dodge and try to kick the knife out of his hand, an unsuccessful karate move. Better just try and pound the crap out of him. I clench my fists and Simon thrusts the knife at me again. This time the blade catches the side of my sweatshirt. There’s a ripping sound and I feel a sharp pain in my side. The knife, when Simon pulls it back, is streaked with blood.

  Before I can respond, I hear a growl from somewhere behind Simon, and then Jack is jumping on the guy piggyback, wrapping his skinny arms tight around Simon’s neck. Simon bellows, tries to shake Jack off, slices the air with the knife. He manages to break Jack’s hold on him, flings him off onto his back, knocking the breath out of him.

  From somewhere outside my peripheral vision, I hear Nessa scream Jack’s name. Simon looms over him with a lunatic grin, hand fisted on the knife handle, the blade with my blood still on it glimmering and I’m thinking, my God, he’s gonna do it, he’s gonna kill Jack. There’s a brick on the ground. I snatch it up without thinking, lift my arms, and crack it on the back of Simon’s skull. He turns to me, eyes wide, shocked surprise, aiming his knife at my face. So I hit him again, brick against forehead. His mouth moves like a beached trout, but there are no words. Blood comes oozing through his hair. He growls in the back of his throat and falls forward.

  Jack and I take two steps back and stare at the fallen body of Simon, both of us struggling to catch our breaths.

  “Is he dead?” Jack’s entire face is white, even his lips.

  Dead. The word echoes in some chamber of my brain and my whole body seizes up like I’m paralyzed.

  “I don’t know,” I say in a whisper, unable to take my eyes off Simon’s motionless body. “I just wanted him to leave us alone.”

  Nessa stands with us, staring down in horror at Simon. As we watch, his right hand twitches and he takes a deep, shuddering breath, like his soul had started slithering away then decided to return to his pathetic body after all. He moans. I didn’t kill him. Thank God. I messed him up bad, but I did not kill him.

  “We need to bolt, Nessa,” Jack says, still not taking his eyes off Simon. “Get our stuff. We’ll find a new place.”

  Nessa nods and ducks into the shack. She comes back out with a stuffed backpack slung over her skinny shoulders. The last thing she grabs is the colored plastic bead necklace decorating the front of the shack.

  “Hank,” she says then in a quivery voice. “You’re bleeding.”

  A circle of red darkens the side of my sweatshirt. I lift it up and look at my stomach, to the right of my belly button, below my ribs. A trickle of blood slides down my side and into the waistband of my pants.

  “He just nicked me. I’m okay,” I tell her, but everything is getting blurry around the edges. Blood. So much blood.

  From somewhere up above there’s a clanking sound and the muffled voices of men shouting to each other.

  “The construction guys are showing up for work,” Jack says in a panic. “Let’s get out of here.” But first he kneels down and reaches shaking fingers into Simon’s pockets. Simon groans, but doesn’t struggle. Jack pulls out a thin wallet and opens it to see a small wad of cash and a couple cards. He stuffs the wallet into his back pocket.

  “Hey, what are you kids doing down there?”

  Jack, Nessa, and I freeze. A man in a yellow hard hat leans out of a second floor window. I imagine the scene he sees below: Simon crumpled on the ground by the Dumpster, head oozing blood, Jack rifling through his pockets while Nessa and I stand there and watch. Accomplices. Immediately the three of us scatter, almost tripping over our feet to escape that reeking alley and the dark nameless thing that happened here.

  The worker shouts something else, but we don’t stop running until we’ve hit one of the main avenues where morning people crowd the sidewalk, hoping we can blend in. We make ourselves slow down, calm down, walk in rhythm with the stream of anonymous, innocent city people.

  “Where we going, Jack?” I ask, pushing back the panic rising in my throat. There’s a spatter of blood on Jack’s ear, more on the front of his T-shirt. Simon’s blood. I press my right arm hard against my side to hide the growing circle of my own blood, so dizzy I can’t see straight.

  “Somewhere safe,” Jack says through clenched teeth. “Don’t pass out on me now, Hank. We’re almost there.”

  People, buildings, dogs, telephone poles, mailboxes pass in a blur, colors and blending shapes. I concentrate on moving one foot, then the other. Just keep moving. Jack and Nessa lead me to a side street, then down a set of stairs leading to a below-street-level apartment. My knees almost buckle as I scramble down the stairs behind them. I scan the street for anyone who might be chasing us, as Jack pounds on a graffiti-covered black door.

  “Magpie, let me in,” he shouts at the door. “It’s Jack.”

  The sound of sirens rises from a short distance away, getting louder. Jack pounds harder on the door. “Magpie, we’re in trouble. You gotta let us in.”

  Slowly the black door opens, and the three of us fall inside. The lights are dim in the apartment, which smells of rancid garbage, cigarette smoke, and aftershave. The weird combination of smells makes me gag. The apartment is a mess, piled nearly to the ceiling with stacks of books and newspapers and trash.

  Sirens grow louder until they pass in front of the apartment. We stand motionless and silent as the wailing sound fades.

  “This better be good,” says the tall man standing beside the door. He has an English accent and is wearing a blue satin robe. With his beak nose and slicked black hair, Magpie resembles his name. “Talk to me.”

  So Jack tells Magpie everything. By the time he gets to the part about Simon and the brick, and the construction worker seeing us, my legs won’t hold me up for one more second. I slump to the floor, remembering the blood, remembering the bitterness mixed with powdered sugar on my tongue. A black, heavy wave sweeps up behind my eyes.

  Just before the wave crashes over my head, I hear Magpie curse at Jack, followed by a sickening smack and a cry of p
ain. Then I am gone.

  4

  The cabin is tucked under the pine trees, just up the embankment from the lake. It’s small, just one room, no Bigger than a walk-in closet with windows and a fireplace. But everything is right where I need it. Just enough space and no more. There’s a narrow bed with a rough wool blanket. A small green table and work desk. Three chairs. A fireplace for warmth and cooking.

  A large bird with a sleek black head and long blue tail feathers is perched outside on the windowsill. He pecks against the glass, like he wants to get in. I lie still on the bed, try to ignore him. Inside the cabin with doors and windows shut tight, I believe I am safe.

  But the bird pecks harder, faster, like a jackhammer against the glass, his head a black blur. Finally, the window can’t hold up. It cracks, jagged fault lines pointing fingers of lightning. Then the window breaks into a million pieces, shatters in on the bed, on me, and the big black bird swoops into the cabin, wingspans large it fills the room, and he comes at my face.

  Flailing, I fight off the bird, push his black wings away, throw fists at his sleek black head.

  “Young man, stop. I’m trying to help you.” Man’s voice, English accent.

  My eyes fly open, and there is the guy with the beak nose, holding my arms down on the floor, his black beady eyes shining with irritation. Behind him are Jack and Nessa, white-faced, concern creasing their foreheads. Jack’s eye looks red and swollen and there’s a fresh bruise on his cheek. I sit up too quickly and my heartbeat swishes loud in my ears.

  “Tell me, do you always faint at the sight of blood?” Magpie asks. “Clearly, you have quite the delicate constitution.” He rises to his feet, throwing a red-stained dishtowel over one shoulder. “You have a wound, but you were very lucky. It’s not too deep. We stopped the bleeding and patched you up.”

  Lifting up my torn sweatshirt, I see a square of gauze taped onto my skin with a stain of blood in the center. “Thank you,” I murmur.

  Jack and Nessa help me stand. “What happened to your face?” I ask Jack. He glances at Magpie, at his straight back as he walks past a chaos of cardboard boxes and plastic bags into an adjoining room. Jack shakes his head at me. Nessa just looks terrified.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Magpie says. “I’ll make breakfast and we can have ourselves a nice little chat.”

  Unlike the rest of his disgusting apartment, Magpie’s kitchen is as neat and tidy as he is, or at least as he appears to be. Countertops are clean, silver appliances glimmer. There’s actually a vase of white flowers on the table. Somehow, this guy is a neat freak and a total hoarding slob at the same time.

  He makes us pancakes and sausage links, and even though I don’t have any appetite at all, I take a few bites so I won’t insult him. While we try to eat the food he cooked, Magpie calmly discusses our future options with us.

  “In short, you are completely screwed,” he says, sounding ridiculously formal with his British accent. “So what are we to do with you? The cops will likely be searching for the three of you together, so the first thing you need to do is split up.” He dunks a tea bag into a flowered teacup. “Jack, go to Port Authority and look up Ginger and Watchdog. They’ll know what to do with you.” Jack slumps slightly but doesn’t say a word. “Miss Vanessa, I’ve called my connections uptown and they’re prepared to give you a makeover within the hour. I think blond hair would suit you.” Nessa pokes at a sausage with her fork.

  Magpie’s glance reaches me, and his eyes sweep me from head to toe, as if I’m some racehorse he might consider buying. “Thank you, Jack, for bringing Henry to me, although obviously, I would’ve preferred less dire circumstances.”

  What does he mean by “bringing” me to him? I slide narrowed eyes at Jack, but he won’t look at me.

  “Now, what shall we do with you, Henry?” Magpie taps a shiny fingernail against his china teacup.

  I glance at Jack’s bruised face and the black eye that’s turning purple, then at Magpie. His fancy robe gaps open at the chest and I glimpse what looks like a grayish T-shirt underneath. I bet he sits around in his dirty underwear all day and only covers himself with that classy-looking robe when someone comes to the door.

  Not waiting for me to respond, Magpie blows on his steaming cup of tea and takes a sip. “I believe it’s fair to say you work for me now.” He sets his cup back down on the polished wood table. “Understand?”

  Magpie sits all formal and proper at his table, but I sense sharp talons, a razor-sharp beak, black wings beating at my face. I know I should pretend to agree with him, but instead I shake my head and whisper, “No.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the desperate, warning glances I’m getting from Jack and Nessa, but I ignore them.

  Magpie smiles and tilts his head to the side, like maybe he’s really fond of me. He stands and gets something out of a drawer next to the sink. There’s a flash of metal and before I can react, the barrel of a gun jams into my cheek so hard I swear it almost knocks out a molar. There’s a loud click as Magpie cocks back the hammer.

  “Maybe you woke up yesterday morning on your own, but things are different now. You know the kind of business I do, or at least you have an idea. You assaulted one of my clients in that alley. And now you know where I live. We are in this together, Henry. Do we understand each other?” Cold metal invades my face. Slowly, I nod.

  Magpie grins at me and removes the gun from my cheek. “Good boy. Welcome to the family.” He smacks me on the back like a kind uncle. “Now first off, you need to bathe and put on some different clothes. I think you’d clean up quite nicely, given half a chance.” He looks me up and down. “Yes, indeed. You’ll do just fine.” He turns toward the sink and places the gun back in its drawer. “Vanessa, darling, do the dishes, won’t you? Jack, get Henry cleaned up. I think you’ll find something just about his size in the bedroom closet.”

  Without a word, Jack leads me into another room, presumably Magpie’s bedroom. Except for a fancy fourposter bed in the corner covered with a shiny smoothed-down purple bedspread, every surface of the room is buried in more junk. There is broken furniture and piles of old clothes, cardboard boxes overflowing with empty wine bottles and fast food wrappers. And strangest of all, clusters of moldy-looking teddy bears and a broken baby crib.

  Magpie is as much a neat freak in his bathroom as his kitchen, and when I step into a sparkling shower stall, I have my choice of shampoos, conditioners, and scented soaps. I choose the least girly-smelling products, and wince as they come into contact with the cut on my side. I pull off the soaked bandage, and it doesn’t look good. It’s deeper than Magpie led me to believe and it’s starting to bleed again. After I get out of the shower, I see a fresh bandage laid out on top of a dry towel. Magpie—or at least the neat-freak organized part of him—thought of everything. I dry off, put the new bandage on my cut, and tuck the towel around my waist.

  Even if I’m forced for the moment to play nice with Magpie and his gun, I know one thing for sure: as soon as I get the hell out of this apartment, I will run and run and never look back.

  Jack leads me into an enormous walk-in closet attached to the bathroom. On one side of the room are men’s clothes and shoes. Pressed dress shirts are lined up by color. On the other side of the room are shelves with neatly folded pants and sweaters. A freestanding full length mirror fills one corner. I wonder when Magpie last wore any of these clothes or wore anything besides old underwear and his fancy blue robe.

  “Here, Hank. I think this is what Magpie was thinking.” He pulls out a pair of jeans, folded neatly over a hanger. Then he chooses a white collared shirt and a green sweater and hands them both to me. Without making eye contact, he disappears and I hear the shower running.

  I put on the clothes, which are a little loose but fit okay, then I brush the last of the dried mud off my sneakers into a wastebasket and put them back on. Standing in front of the mirror, I take in my new look.

  And to be honest, I look nice. Kinda preppy for m
y taste, but it’ll do.

  “I knew you’d shine up like a brand new penny.”

  I swing around, and see Magpie standing at the door of the closet, smiling at me, friendly and creepy at the same time.

  “I’ll probably have to burn these other clothes of yours, but you won’t be needing them anymore.” He holds up a plastic trash bag. When he brought in the bandage, he must have grabbed my clothes from where I’d left them on the floor. Along with my book.

  Panic prickles my scalp. “My book—”

  Magpie smiles again. “Ah, a youngster after my own heart, a true lover of fine literature. I would never get between a man and his copy of Walden.”

  He reaches into the bag and holds out my book. I snatch it out of his hand. “Uh. Thank you,” I say to soften my rudeness.

  Magpie cocks his head to the side and chuckles. “I, too, am an avid student of the transcendentalists,” he announces, loving the sound of his own voice. “Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman. Certainly they are the best of your American writers.”

  Whatever. Being alone with this guy makes me want to take another hot shower and scrub my skin raw. I’m relieved when Jack finishes his shower and joins us.

  After Jack, Nessa, and I are clean and dressed, Magpie lines us up and takes a good look at us.

  “All right,” he says. “You know what to do now.” He smiles, and for a moment I think he’s genuinely pleased with all of us. But then his face turns cold and stiff as a mask. “Now the three of you get the hell out of my house. And don’t be so careless again, you stupid little shits.”

  He waves a hand at us. Dismissed.

  Out on the street, Nessa presses her forehead against Jack’s before they say good-bye. He whispers something to her, and she nods. Her eyes are full of tears. Then she comes over to me. Those big eyes without makeup are so damn pretty, blue like the sky before twilight. I just want to hold her, imagine her heart beating fast against my chest.