Minion Page 11

  “The Romanos keep us safe, Michael. They keep the cops out of our business. They help put the food on the table.” He gestures to the quagmires of oily noodle slush sitting in front of us. “He’s not the sort of man you simply say no to.”

  No. Of course not. We all have responsibilities. We all owe somebody. I owe Dad. Dad owes Tony. The transitive property of New Liberty. I have to go. But a meeting with Mickey “Six Fingers” Maloney sounds about as much fun as rubbing lemon juice in your eyes.

  “Tony has promised me that you won’t get hurt,” Dad says.

  Of course. But I doubt Mickey Maloney made the same promise. I know what the Maloney crew does to people. I get the gritty details from Zach, that prickly little snitch. I picture myself floating at the bottom of a river. Except instead of a box, I’ve got rocks tied to my ankles. Or is it cinder blocks?

  “What time is he coming?” I ask, looking at the clock above the stove.

  “They will be here to pick you up in twenty minutes,” Dad says glumly. “They said not to bring anything.

  “But they asked me if you had a suit.”

  I wore a suit only once in my life. When I was seven years old, some wrinkly philanthropist held a benefit on behalf of St. Mary’s School for Wayward Boys, and the whole gang was invited. He even rented tuxedos for all of us to wear, the whole lot of delinquents decked out in black and white to match the nuns and priests who accompanied us, ambling through the ballroom like puffins on parade. The benefit was a smashing success. People who were rich enough to raise twenty children apiece but had none of their own watched as the boys of St. Mary’s put on a talent show over glazed chicken and limp asparagus. Several boys played the piano or sang something from the hymnal. One boy tap-danced. I remember Davey Plimpton reciting the Gettysburg Address.

  I was just discovering my real talent at that point. I hadn’t quite gotten it down, or I might have done a little hypnotism onstage. Maybe gotten Father Gabriel to squawk like a chicken or one of the nuns to do a suggestive dance on the buffet table. Instead I performed one of the card tricks I had just started to learn. I screwed it up twice, but the crowd applauded anyway. Nobody booed, even though I was terrible. They were much too polite.

  I learned two things that night. One: rich people give to charity to feel better about all the money they waste on themselves. And two: most people would rather lie right along with the crowd than tell the truth on their own.

  Except for criminals. Say what you want about them, at least they are honest with themselves. They know what they want and aren’t afraid to take it.

  Tony Romano wanted my power, if only for one night to convince Mickey Maloney of something. I owed it to him to try. He was a part of our family, for better or worse. And you don’t say no to family.

  SIX FINGERS AND A HELPING HAND

  It all starts with a favor.

  My dad. Son of a bomb maker. Son of a son of a coffin maker. Son of a son of a son of a flea-bitten magician in the back alleys of London who should have stopped with grand finale number ninety-seven.

  Or maybe he shouldn’t have gotten started to begin with. After all, he had to know it couldn’t last forever. Eventually the bottom would drop. Or in my great-grandfather’s case, it wouldn’t. You can’t escape from the box forever. Death can be cheated only so many times.

  It’s a question I’ve asked myself before. When to stop once you’ve started. It’s not as if you can take it all back. Not in this world, anyway. I know a thing or two about absolution, saying penance, sitting in confession, the giant erasers we use to wipe the slate clean. St. Mary’s taught me that it all catches up to you eventually. Maybe one or two times you can get away with something. Get a free pass. Be excused. But at some point, there really is no turning back, and the only question becomes how to quit while you’re ahead.

  The first time it was a favor. Someone had heard about my father’s work in college with nanotechnology and applied microparticle physics and wondered if he might be able to construct a little something. Not a weapon, exactly. More like a shield. For a client who had a dangerous occupation and needed some additional protection. Of course such technology already existed, but it was cumbersome and unwieldy—designed for missile defense systems and the like. This person needed something small. Something that could repel bullets and resist fire and even explosives, but that could fit into your pocket. A kind of personal force field. My father said it was possible. With enough time, resources, hard work, and ingenuity, anything was possible. This man, Ogden Black, provided the resources. My father provided the rest.

  It took him six months to build. It was the first black box he ever sold, and he was paid a hundred grand for it as a return favor. It was a spectacular success—a personal deflector shield in a five-inch cube, worthy of the cover of Scientific American or at least Guns & Ammo.

  Instead it found its way onto the cover of Newsweek, under the bold red letters proclaiming a SUPERVILLAIN RAMPAGE.

  For a hundred thousand dollars, Ogden Black, small-time bank robber, became Mr. Impenetrable, one of the most successful villains in New Liberty history. He used my father’s invention to go on a crime spree that netted him millions, laughing as the bullets disintegrated before they could reach him, taunting the Diamond Dame as her focused light beams simply bounced right off. Then he retired on some unmapped island where no one could find him, shielded by a fortune stolen from others.

  A year after Mr. Impenetrable’s disappearance, my father got a postcard in the mail. It said, Happiness is seventeen million dollars and a little black box. Thanks. O.M.B.

  My father tried to keep it a secret, of course, but word spread about the force field and the genius who made it. More requests were made. A device that could project a lifelike replica of its user. A machine that could send out a magnetic pulse that disabled all electronics in a three-mile radius. A box that could harness the power of marvelantium, concentrating it into a beam. The money was nice, but it was secondary. Every request was a challenge. A chance to prove himself. To show his father and his father’s father what a box maker could really do.

  Benjamin Edson had found his calling. He was a genius. A criminal genius, but a genius nonetheless. But, like so many geniuses, he was lonely. He wanted somebody to share his genius with. Someone to follow in his footsteps, to keep the line of box makers going. A desire, I guess, that brought him to the steps of St. Mary’s.

  He says he knew. The moment he first saw me, he knew that I was the one.

  It’s nice being the one.

  The black SUV appears in my driveway ten minutes later; both of our bowls of soup sit in front of us, untouched, congealed into a thick paste that could be used for spackling. I watch the lights come up the street and shine briefly in our window. I hear the motor purr and it makes me queasy. I’ve seen this car a dozen times before, stopping for a pickup or delivery. I’ve just never been the thing being picked up.

  Dad looks at the window and mumbles, “Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Awesome. Very comforting.”

  He looks at me, face full of concern. “Sorry. Emily Dickinson. Just the black car. You know, reminded me. Terrible quote. You’ll be fine. Tony can handle Mickey Maloney.”

  Yes, I think, but that doesn’t mean he can handle everybody. As if reading my thoughts, Dad glances back out the window and up at the stars. The driver of the SUV honks twice.

  I leave the star-chart printout on the table and am through the front door without even saying good-bye, ignoring the hand that reaches out to me. It’s partly my own fault, I know. I’m the one who told Zach, spilling my one good secret against my father’s wishes. But he’s still my dad, and he should take some responsibility for ruining what was, to that point, one of the best days of my life. The back door to the SUV opens. The first face I see is Zach’s.

  “You,” I say.

  “I know,” he says.

  “You jerk-faced, back-stabbing,
squealing little pig.”

  “I know, all right? I get it. You’re upset. I’m sorry. But we need you, so just get in the car.”

  “I trusted you,” I tell him.

  “Okay. I’m guilty. I’m dog crap. But this is serious.” He nods to the empty seat next to him. “Get in the car.”

  I scan the SUV. Zach is sitting beside another member of Tony Romano’s posse. Two more sit up front. I notice everyone but me is dressed in brown leather trench coats. I look at my cargo shorts and green T-shirt imploring everyone to DO THE DEW.

  “Oh, snap,” I say. “My trench coat’s at the cleaners.”

  “There’s a suit in the back,” Zach says, the note of apology suddenly gone from his voice. “You can change when we get there.”

  Before I can protest further, I’m pulled inside and the SUV shoots back out of the driveway. I look through the tinted windows to see my father standing in the doorway, fading fast. I should have said something, but it’s too late. Maybe when I get back.

  When, not if.

  “You said you could keep a secret,” I whisper in Zach’s ear, the slight tickle of my breath enough to make three spikes jut from his lobe.

  “Mike. This is Tony Romano we are talking about. He’s practically my father. And you don’t keep secrets from your father. Especially not with what’s going on now. Besides,” Zach adds, “you’re in good hands. We are going to take care of you.”

  I turn and look at my car mates. None of them looks like a man I would want to meet in a dark alley. None of them even looks like a man I’d want to run into on Main Street in Disney World in broad daylight. But they are Tony’s men, which means they are at least on my side. Or vice versa. Zach introduces me, starting with the skinny kid wedged beside me. “This is Blades McCoy,” he says. We shake hands. He looks older than me or Zach, though the eye patch probably adds a few years.

  “Blades, huh? Is that your god-given name or just what your friends call you?”

  The young man smiles and opens one flap of his coat to reveal at least a dozen throwing knives of various lengths and designs. There are more attached to his belt and at least two in each boot that I can see. He probably has another one tucked in his underwear. If he tripped and fell down the stairs, he’d decapitate himself. At least it goes a long way toward explaining the eye patch.

  Zach points to the driver. “That’s Mario Andretti.”

  The gray-haired man behind the wheel doesn’t bother to look up, but he raises a gloved hand.

  “Like, the Mario Andre—” I start to ask, but Zach shakes his head quickly, whispering, “Best not to talk about it.” Then he points to the very large black man riding shotgun.

  “And that’s Indiana Jones.”

  I can’t help myself. “Because he’s also an archaeologist?” I ask.

  Indiana Jones turns to me. When he speaks, it sounds like a hundred bass drums thrumming inside a cave. “’Member in that first movie when he’s bein’ chased by that giant freakin’ boulder?” I nod meekly. Indiana Jones points to himself with both thumbs. “I’m the boulder.”

  I swallow hard. “Then why not call yourself Avalanche or Rockman or something?”

  The giant scowls at me. I can see he is missing several teeth. “Because I’m Indiana freakin’ Jones. You got a problem with that?”

  I definitely do not have a problem with that. I slink back in my seat and decide I should try to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the drive. There will be more time to yell at Zach later, when he’s not so tense. When I’m not surrounded by knives and giant freakin’ boulders.

  “So tonight is pretty simple,” Zach says, rubbing his hands together. “Tony’s been trying to strike a deal with Mickey Six Fingers for years now, but neither could ever agree to terms. However, recent events—”

  “You mean the Comet,” I say.

  “Recent . . . unexpected incidents,” Zach repeats guardedly, “have convinced Mr. Romano to expand his list of allies. He thinks Mickey’s just as concerned and needs a little extra push to join forces. He doesn’t want to muscle him into it, though, which is where you come in. I told him about you, and he thought it was worth a shot.”

  “And if Mickey Six Fingers still says no?” I prompt, wondering what happens to me if I can’t live up to my billing . . . if, like at the charity dinner, it takes me three tries to get the trick right.

  “If he says no again, then we have to do it the old-fashioned way,” Blades says with a sharp grin.

  We drive in silence for what seems like an hour, long enough for the sun to set, before pulling up to a warehouse in a neighborhood I’ve never been to before, certainly nothing like the one I wandered through this afternoon. There’s a line of three more black SUVs waiting for us, and everyone but me gets out. I hear the rear door open and close, and then Zach hands me a black suit still covered in dry cleaners’ plastic.

  “It’s used. Sorry,” he says. “But I think they got most of the blood out.”

  I peel off the plastic and inspect the contents. Pants. Socks. Shirt. Coat. Everything but the shoes. It all looks just like new, save for matching holes in both the suit and the shirt, just below where you pledge allegiance. Both holes have been expertly stitched closed with black thread. Barely noticeable.

  “Fantastic,” I whisper, though there’s nobody in the car to hear me.

  Five minutes later I’m dressed in my new suit—a little big—complete with my now glaringly white fifty-dollar sneakers and my no-longer stylishly unbrushed hair. Another SUV arrives behind us, and four more men step out. One of them is Tony Romano.

  I’ve seen him before. On TV, all over the news, once through a rolled-down window as he waited in our driveway. He never comes into the house. Whether that’s Dad’s rule or Tony’s I’ve never been sure, but even his henchmen just stand and wait at the door, arms crossed, chins tucked into their chests. Tony is like the crazy uncle who lives in Arizona and sends you postcards every now and then, except instead of postcards, Uncle Tony sends manila envelopes filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  He looks just like you’d expect: Italian sumo meets Mr. Clean. What’s left of his hair is combed over, a thin veil to keep the moonlight from reflecting too brightly from his crown. He’s dressed similar to me in a black suit and black shirt, save his suit would fit three of me and he has much better shoes. He carries no weapons, unless you count the cane that he could beat you with, or the ten or so guys who surround him. He puts out a hand for me to shake; it feels like a dead salmon.

  “Michael,” he says with an accent that sounds a little backwoods. I expected Marlon Brando. I get country and western. “A pleasure to finally meet you in person. Sorry it hasn’t happened before now, but your father’s very protective. And understandably so.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “I’ve known your father for quite a while now,” Tony says. “He’s a genius. Knows how to keep a secret. I appreciate that.”

  That’s a relief, at least. It’s nagged me the whole car trip over, the thought that Tony might be mad that Dad never told him about me. After all, the Romanos have a habit of recruiting people with powers. I steal a glance at Zach, who kind of slinks back into the shadows. Tony reaches out and draws me closer to him, smacking his lips like he’s going to swallow me whole. I can smell onions, and it makes my stomach roll. He speaks in a low whisper, making this suddenly a conversation for two.

  “You understand, though, how a man in my position could benefit by having someone with your abilities,” he says.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, keeping my voice even with his whisper.

  “Though I really only have his word. Your father’s talent comes packaged in a nice little black box . . . you’ll excuse me if I’m a little skeptical with regard to yours.”

  I can see where this is headed.

  “I understand,” I say.

  “So do me a favor,” Tony Romano continues to whisper, flicking his eyes at an angle. “See that big stack of bricks
behind me?” I look, hoping it doesn’t look like I’m looking. “His name is Rudy.”

  Rudy doesn’t look like a Rudy. He looks like a cement wall with steel beams for limbs and a misshapen cinder block for a head. Like with Indiana Jones, I can’t help but feel Rudy’s been misnamed, that he should be called Behemoth or Ogre or something. Then again, I have four names and none of them are really mine. Half of them are girls’ names.

  “I want you to make Rudy hit himself as hard as he can,” Tony says.

  I take another look at Rudy. I don’t want to see him hit anything.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Just make him sock himself, right in that big red cherry schnoz of his. Just so I know, so I can see for myself. You don’t want me to look like a fool in front of Mr. Maloney, do you?”

  I shake my head, and Tony backs away, smiling. I stare at Rudy’s nose, a big, dark-pink fleshy thing, like the bulb of a bicycle horn. Unlike Indiana Jones, Rudy has most of his teeth, but they are all capped silver, making for one scary-looking clown face. I study my shoes, even more glaring compared to the black dress pants I’m wearing, take a deep breath, then look back up at him. I bore as deep into his murky blue eyes as I can. “Your name is Rudy, right?”

  The behemoth nods. Stands oak-tree still.

  “Rudy. My name is Michael.” I see his pupils circle wider, mouth slacken. I try to keep my hands from shaking. “Rudy . . . I want you to hit yourself as hard as you can.”

  There is a moment when I think I’ve lost him. Where I can feel my own confidence waver and he just stands there, that same stupid, lost-puppy look on his face. Then, suddenly, his right arm whips around like a snapped rubber band, planting his fist so far up his nose that I’m afraid it might get lodged in his skull. There is a sickening sound, like smashing a rotten watermelon, and a squirt of blood, and then Rudy goes down hard on the street.

  One of Tony’s other thugs whistles. Indiana Jones says, “Aw, hell no.” Zach shakes his head.

  Tony Romano smiles and snaps his fingers, and two other men bend down and help Rudy to his feet. The bodyguard’s hands are cupped to his mouth and nose, but I can see the red oozing. The look he gives me makes me wish I could turn invisible, but only superheroes get to do cool stuff like that.