Quid Pro Quo Page 3

  He kept yammering on. “Great little service the War Amputees provides, eh? You buy a tag from them for your key chain. You lose your keys. Somebody finds them, throws them into any old mailbox and the War Amps send them back to you! You get your keys and some poor guy without an arm or a leg gets some help. Pretty amazing, eh?”

  I shook my head and snorted to show what a jerk he was. “Ever think of doing a commercial for them?” I said, all sarcastic. “You’d make a great spokesmodel.”

  He laughed at that. “Matter of fact, I have,” he said. “I haven’t introduced myself. Byron Cuvelier.”

  He stuck his right hand out at me to shake.

  That’s when I realized he didn’t have a right hand.

  chapter

  nine

  “Alias”(Latin)

  A false name

  All he had was this kind of lumpy, purplish stump that ended where his wrist should have started. I could see all the scars where they stitched it up. I felt like a complete nosehole. As bad as when I made fun of Toby.

  Byron, on the other hand—if you’ll pardon the pun—was having a great time. “Oh, sorry,” he went. “I guess I left my hand in my other jacket.” Then he kind of jabbed the stump at me, and I jumped back. That killed him. “Worried I was going to pinch you or something?” Ha ha. “I don’t pinch too good since I lost my fingers.”

  I sort of smiled and went heh-heh. I figured I had to be nice since I’d been such a jerk about that spokesmodel thing. He said, “Is Squeaky in?”

  Squeaky?

  “No,” I said. “You got the wrong place.” Thank God.

  “Don’t think I do,” he said and gave me a big Entertainment Tonight smile. Is there anything more pathetic than some guy in his thirties who thinks he’s a rock star?

  “Ah … sorry,” I said. “Only me and my mother live here.”

  “I know,” he said, “and I want to talk to her. So be a good boy …”

  Did I hate this guy or what?

  “… and go get Squeaky for me.”

  By this time, I wasn’t feeling bad about the spokesmodel line anymore. I just wanted to get rid of this piece of garbage.

  “Trust me,” I said. “There’s no Squeaky here. See?”

  I turned around and yelled, “Squeaky! Hey, Squeeeeak-y! You have a gentleman caller!” I looked at Byron and laughed. I was just dying to see what Andy would do to him.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Andy came flying down the hall and grabbed me with both arms. She squashed my face into her neck. I could feel her shaking.

  She whispered, “How’d you find me, Cuvelier?”

  chapter

  ten

  Intimidation

  Using violence or threats

  to make a person do—or not do—something

  W here there’s a will, Brown Eyes, there’s a way.” Oh, barf. Byron was really turning on the charm. It was gross—and it wasn’t working, either.

  “DON’T CALL ME BROWN EYES!” Andy screamed, and a bit of spit splattered on his cheesy, fake leather jacket.

  “Okay, Squeaky.”

  “DON’T CALL ME SQUEAKY.”

  Byron shrugged as if he was only trying his best to please her.

  “I’m not sure what to call you anymore, darlin’. Ann? Angela? Andrea? MacKenzie? MacLeod? MacIntyre? What’s your pleasure?”She blew up. “My pleasure is that you get your beeping beep out of here and stay the beep away from me and my beeping kid. If I ever see that beeping ugly face of yours again, I’m going to call the beeping cops.”

  Byron wasn’t going anywhere. He just looked down at his shoes for a second and came up laughing. “Well, now, I wouldn’t do that if I was you. You never know what the police might think about a parent talking that way in front of a young child—specially a parent with your, ahhh, history …”

  Andy went maroon. I was just waiting for her to blow up again. She didn’t say anything for a really long time. Then she looked at me and said, “Cyril, go to your room, turn the radio up high and shut the door.”

  I was wild. I wanted to stay and find out what happened next. “Oh, come on!” I said, but she screamed, “Now!” and I knew I’d better just shut up and do what I was told.

  I tried to hear what they were talking about, but I couldn’t, not when they were whispering and I had to keep the music up so loud. I tried to record their voices with that pathetic little spy recorder I got for my eleventh birthday, but the batteries were dead. I tried to sneak out into the hall, but she caught me and, honest to God, I thought she was going to kill me right there.

  So even now I don’t know exactly what they said to each other. All I know is that, twenty minutes later, Byron had moved into my room, and I was sleeping on the couch.

  chapter

  eleven

  Harassment

  Unsolicited words or conduct meant to

  annoy, alarm or abuse another person

  T hings kind of tanked after that. Grade eight started for me a couple of weeks later. Byron never left the house.

  And Andy was in a rotten mood all the time. She’d never say a thing to Byron when I was around, but she stayed up late every night hissing at him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that it wasn’t good.

  Her diet and her smoking were getting worse too. Maybe it was the stress, but I think it’s more likely she was just doing it to bug Byron. And if that was her plan, I was one hundred percent behind her. What a guy. He, like, moves in with us, kicks me out of my room—and then starts complaining about secondhand smoke and our unhealthy eating habits.

  Like we wanted him there.

  Like we cared what he thought.

  Like we could afford to eat better with him scrounging off us.

  So Andy smoked in his face all the time just to make her point—i.e., “you can leave any time.” Of course, she would have made the point a whole lot better if she stopped paying for his take-out organic salads every night, but would she listen to me?

  On top of that, Andy was screwing up at Atula’s too. I figured it was because of all those late nights arguing, but she wouldn’t tell me much about it. I’d just catch bits and pieces when I’d meet her at her office after work. One night—it was two or three weeks after Byron parked his carcass in my room—I was coming to get Andy to go to McDonald’s and I heard Atula really laying into her. I guess Andy rolled her eyes at a judge in court that day—not something you do if you’re actually hoping to win your case—and Atula was ripping. She was going on about this being the last straw, about Andy’s bad attitude lately, about being tired of having to cover for all her sloppy mistakes, etc. etc. etc. I had the feeling Atula was just getting started, but I’ll never know. She saw me at the top of the stairs and stopped talking immediately.

  That was bad.

  I knew Atula. She wasn’t usually scared to say things in front of me. All I could think was that Andy must be in really big trouble for her to shut up like that.

  Atula fiddled with that scarf she always wears and then said something like, “You two must be hungry. Why don’t you toddle off for dinner, and we can discuss this at another time?”

  Andy sat on the curb outside McDonald’s, sucking on her, like, twenty-third cigarette, while I went inside and grabbed two Big Mac combos. We headed home. She wouldn’t eat, and she wouldn’t talk. She wouldn’t even say “None of your business” like she usually did when I tried to find out what the deal was with Byron. She wouldn’t say anything.

  We got back to the apartment, and Byron was his usual charming self, asking about school and work like he was a regular Mr. Mom. That took guts. Andy looked at him like he was one of those slimy hair-boogers that clog up the shower drain. He said, “Anyone ever tell you how gorgeous you are when you’re mad?” She went into the kitchen and slammed the door.

  That meant that I was stuck with Byron. There was no way I was going to go into the kitchen with Andy looking the way she did. (Byron was the o
ne who pissed her off, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take it out on me.) I couldn’t go into my bedroom because it was Byron’s bedroom now, and he wasn’t leaving the living room. I thought for a minute of going out and finding Kendall, but I couldn’t do that either. I mean, I wouldn’t feel good about leaving Andy all alone with Stumpy, the One-armed Nosehole. So I sat as far away from him as I could on our one and only couch and tried to watch TV.

  Just my luck, Byron was feeling chatty. He looked at me like we were finally getting a chance to have a little man-to-man talk.

  As if either of us qualified.

  I ignored him. I just stared at the screen while he yakked away.

  For a guy who thinks he’s so smooth, he always managed to say the wrong thing. I was starting to think it wasn’t an accident.

  “What grade are you in?”

  I shouldn’t have answered him. I knew I shouldn’t have answered him.

  He went, “Graa-aa-ade eight?!? I thought you were like eleven!”

  Yeah, and I thought you were like human, but only for a minute there.

  “Or even ten. Lord liftin’! You’re some puny for grade eight! I keep telling your mother she should feed you better.”

  I wish your mother hadn’t fed you at all.

  “Hey, what’s that look for?…Gee, didn’t mean to offend you or nothin’… I bet all the girls think you’re pretty cute actually. Girls love the little guys. You’re like bunnies or kittens or something to them. Must bring out their maternal instincts, I guess.”

  Yeah, and you bring out my killer instinct.

  “Not much of a talker, are you? … “Maybe you’re more the physical type … Wanna arm-wrestle then?”

  No, I don’t want to arm-wrestle. Because that would mean I’d have to touch you, and call me a wuss, but slimy reptiles have always kind of given me the creeps … No offence.

  “C’mon! You’re not scared, are ya?”

  Yeah, right. Me? Scared of a fingerless stump? I don’t think so. Grossed out? Yes. Sick of seeing it waving around in my face? Absolutely. But scared? Think again. I’ll even prove it.

  “Sure,” I finally said. “I’ll arm-wrestle you.”

  Byron took off that cheesy jacket he always wore, and I wished I’d just kept my big mouth shut. He actually looked pretty strong. One of those lean-mean-fighting-machine types. Even the arm without a hand was all pumped.

  He saw me looking and said, “Hundred and fifty push-ups a day is all it takes. Pretty good, eh, for an amputee?” He grabbed his wrist and made his muscles pop.

  I pretended it was nothing special. I said, “Oh, please. I was just looking at your tattoos. Maybe if you hadn’t wasted so much money on them, you wouldn’t have to be mooching meals off a single mother.”

  He laughed and said, “You sure are smart for a little fella,” and I knew I had to beat him. He put his right elbow on the old packing crate we use as a coffee table, and I grabbed the stump with my hand. There was a squishy bit on the top that was really gross. He had one ounce of fat on his entire body, and it just so happened to be the part I had to grab on to.

  He said, “One, two, three, go” and the match was over. Byron flattened me. It was pathetic.

  He said, “Sorry,” which he wasn’t, then, “What say we even things up here a bit? You try her with both arms this time.”

  I was going to say something like “bite me,” but I knew it was the only chance I had. I said, “Whatever” and grabbed the stump with both hands. He said, “One, two, three, go.” I saw the big dove tattoo on his biceps twitch, and then he slammed my arms against the packing crate. My head hit the edge of the couch, and I saw stars.

  Really.

  For about thirty seconds, there were these little white twinkly things dancing around in front of me. I used to think they were only in cartoons.

  Byron was smoothing down that armpitty little beard of his so I wouldn’t see him laughing. I pretended I didn’t notice and said, “Those are the ugliest tattoos I’ve ever seen.” It was true, though that’s not why I said it. His arms were covered with peace signs and that hippie black-and-white circle thing and hearts with initials in them and then the worst—this big red rose with “Yours for all time” written over it.

  “You’re a regular love machine,” I said and made this face like I was going to barf.

  “Yeah, well, some people know what’s important in life and some people don’t,” he said. “Okay, Mr. Schwarzenegger, try it with my bad arm now.” He put his left elbow on the table, and I saw that there was this big red blistery thing above his wrist. He saw me looking.

  “See what happens? Jessica, my old girlfriend, didn’t know what was important, and I had to get her tattoo burnt right off.”

  “Gee, that must have broken her heart,” I said and grabbed his hand with both of mine.

  This time I had a chance. I started pulling with all my might and I saw the “C.C.” tattoo on the inside of his arm bulge. He tried to keep yammering away as if this was nothing, but he was straining. He. Talked. Like. This. He said, “I remember. When your mother. Knew what was important.” I got up on one foot and pushed as hard as I could.

  He went, “Her and me. Used to have some times. Back then.” I was standing right up now and using all my body weight against him, and I didn’t care that it was cheating. He was starting to pant. He said, “Once. When she was about. Sixteen, we …”

  That was the last I heard. Andy came tearing out of the kitchen, screeching at him to “shut the beep up.”

  Ooh, that made me mad. I’d almost won. And I’d almost found out what was going on. But Andy wasn’t going to let that happen. She screamed at Byron. And then she screamed at me to brush my teeth and go to bed.

  I didn’t argue. I knew by the color of her face that it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I told her I needed to get a T-shirt from my dresser and left her giving Byron the evil eye. I went into my old room, grabbed my spy recorder from under the bed and wrapped it in a clean T-shirt. I went into the bathroom and locked the door. I brushed my teeth with that battery-operated toothbrush the dentist thought might help with my cavities. Then I sat on the toilet and peed. I needed to sit so I could take the batteries out of the toothbrush and put them in the spy recorder. If I took too long in the bathroom, Andy would be suspicious. I put on the T-shirt, threw my jeans in the laundry hamper and hid the spy recorder inside my boxers. Then I took my jeans out of the hamper again and left them on the floor. Be too neat and Andy would be suspicious about that too.

  I went into the kitchen and hid the recorder on the table behind a pile of advertising flyers, school bulletins, junk like that. Andy screamed at me from the living room, “What are you doing in there, Cyril? I told you, it’s time for bed!”

  I screamed back, “Can’t a guy have a drink of water? Geez!” I turned on the tap and made a big deal about clanking around in the cupboard for a glass. I drank a bit, left the half-empty glass on the counter and went into the living room.

  “How can I go to bed with you guys in here?” I said, like I was really p.o.ed. “Do you think you could carry on this discussion in the kitchen perhaps—or would that be too much to ask?”

  Byron said, “I can’t believe you let him mouth off to you like that,” which, of course, was the only reason Andy did. She said, “Don’t tell me how to raise my kid.” She banged her face into my forehead, which I suppose was a kiss goodnight. Then they went into the kitchen and shut the door.

  I couldn’t hear anything they said, but that didn’t bother me. I’d pick up the spy recorder the next day after Andy went to work. I could usually count on Byron to spend at least half an hour in the shower, especially if I acted like I needed to pee.

  I went to sleep thinking I was a genius. A regular James Bond.

  chapter

  twelve

  Interception

  Anyone who, by means of any electromagnetic,

  acoustic, mechanical or other device, willfully

  inter
cepts a private communication is guilty of an

  indictable offence and liable to imprisonment

  for a term not exceeding five years

  A DOOR SLAMS. A CHAIR SQUEAKS ACROSS THE FLOOR. FINGERS TAP ON THE TABLE. PAPERS RUSTLE. SOMEONE PACES BACK AND FORTH.

  BYRON (SINGING): Love. Love will keep us together. Dee da doodoo da dee doo.

  A PLATE SMASHES. THEN ANOTHER ONE. FOOTSTEPS FOLLOW.

  BYRON: Ooh. Temper, temper!

  SOMETHING THUMPS THE TABLE. GLASSES RATTLE.

  ANDY: What the beep do you think you’re doing?

  BYRON: Singin’. You used to like my voice.

  ANDY: Don’t get smart with me! You know what I mean. What were you saying to Cyril?

  BYRON: Nothin’. I was just reminiscin’!

  ANDY: Well, don’t.

  BYRON: Oh, come on. He was gettin’ right into it! … ANDY: Beep … BYRON: Seems there’s a lot about his mother and me he don’t know.

  ANDY: Yeah. And I want to keep it that way.

  BYRON: Well, this is what I’ve been tryin’ to tell you all along, darlin’! That can be arranged. All I’m asking for is a little quid pro quo. You know: you scratch my back— I’ll scratch yours.

  ANDY: “Quid. Pro. Quo.” (LAUGH) Well, aren’t you the beeping legal scholar.

  BYRON: Yup. Jail time will do that to you.

  A LOUD NOISE—POSSIBLY SOMEONE KICKING THE WALL—IS FOLLOWED BY A LONG PAUSE.

  ANDY: You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?

  BYRON: Hey, somebody’s got to keep you humble. Big-city lawyer … Too good for her old friends… ANDY: Shut up! SHUT UP! Look. I was a kid. I made a mistake, a huge beeping mistake! And I am sorry!

  BYRON: Well, here’s your chance to do something about it.

  ANDY: HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU? I can’t! Even if I believed you, there’s nothing I can do.

  BYRON: Yes, there is. I got everything you need to take him down.

  ANDY: So you do it then.

  BYRON: Yeah, right. You’re just tryin’ to get rid of me.