Spoonbenders

He pushed through the throng of boys to the new video game. Shoved aside the kid playing. He stared at the screen—the color screen—and the stupid fucking joystick.

“What the fuck is a Pac-Man?”

Frankie wanted to punch the screen. He wanted to shake it apart with pure psychokinetic hate. (Not that it would have worked. Nothing happened when he was this flustered. Plus, he couldn’t do anything in front of these morons.)

Frankie shoved his way out of the coatroom and headed for the door of the rink. He reached the parking lot just as Lonnie was climbing out of his car.

“You took it,” Frankie said. His voice strangled.

“What?” Lonnie said, confused. Then he got it. “The pinball machine?”

Frankie took three steps toward him, his fists clenched.

Lonnie kept his hand on the door. Standing behind it like a shield. “It was broken.”

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Frankie said. A dozen feet still between them.

“Fuck you, you little punk,” Lonnie said. “You shouldn’t have broke it! You want to fucking fight me now?” He slammed the door shut and strode toward Frankie.

In a year Frankie would get his growth spurt and add three inches. Later, in his twenties, he’d gain almost fifty pounds and turn burly. A couple of times strangers in bars would ask him if he used to wrestle, and he’d shrug and lie, “I did all right. Went to states.” But at that moment he was just a kid, a skinny-armed teenager.

Lonnie stopped when he was a foot away. “You can’t damage the equipment and just walk back in here.” His breath fruity with alcohol. He shoved Frankie with both hands, sent him stumbling back. “You’re fucking banned.”

Frankie yearned to take a swing. But he was terrified of what would happen a half second later. He could already feel the man’s fist hitting his jaw.

Lonnie shoved him backward again, and Frankie put up his hands, turned his head to the side. “What’s the matter with you?” Lonnie shoved him again. Frankie bounced off the brick wall and Lonnie grabbed him by the collar of his jacket. “You fucking cheater.”

Lonnie’s voice seemed to be coming from far away, the syllables lost in a general roar. Frankie felt his body getting ready to do something, but he didn’t know what it was. Something terrible. He could feel it in his hands, like warm steel about to roll.

Lonnie grunted in pain, stepped back. “What the fuck?” His voice garbled. He wiped at his mouth, and the back of his hand came away bloody. He stared at Frankie, frightened now. Frankie hadn’t moved his hands.

A new voice yelled, “Get the hell away from him!”

Irene, in her Burger King uniform, and behind her, twelve-year-old Buddy, face screwed up in an expression that looked to strangers like concentration but was actually intense worry. Frankie hadn’t seen the car pull up, hadn’t heard it.

Irene stepped between Lonnie and Frankie. “What did you do?” Irene said to Frankie. Mad at him.

“I’m calling the cops,” Lonnie said. Blood in the corner of his mouth.

Irene wheeled on him. “No you’re not.”

Lonnie straightened. “I’m calling ’em right now.”

“You’re drunk,” Irene said.

“No I’m not.”

Frankie thought, You should never try to lie to Irene.

She said, “It’s the middle of the day, you’re drunk, and you’re beating on a little kid. You just drove here, didn’t you?”

Lonnie glanced back at his Monza. Confused now.

“You want a DUI?” Irene said. “You fucking watch yourself.” She pointed at Frankie. “Get in the car. I’m late for work.”

“Just go,” Frankie said quietly. Mortified. He knew without looking that all the guys were watching from the rink entrance. “I’ve got my bike.”

“Get in the God damn car,” Irene said, sounding like Dad. “I told you you had to watch Buddy. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing out here.”

She stalked back to the car, a big green Ford LTD with rusting door panels. She’d left the engine running. Frankie made for the passenger seat, but Buddy slipped in before him, so then it was three of them in the front seat.

“How’d you find me?” he asked.

“Buddy said you were here,” she said. Her voice softened. “He said you were about to do something terrible.”

Buddy seemed not to hear. He stared out through the windshield. Twelve years old, all elbows and knees. Then he leaned against Frankie’s arm, his cheek hot.

During the second afternoon break, Frankie smoked a cigarette to settle his nerves while Matty watched. The cash simmered in his pocket. He’d told Mitzi that he’d deliver it at lunch. Instead he’d taken the kid to Steak-and-Shake.

“You’re really fast,” Matty said. “Wiring jacks.”

“I’ve been doing it awhile,” Frankie said. “You’ll learn.”

“No, I mean compared to Hugo and Tim. They’ve done like three offices together, and you did four on your own. Even with the smoke breaks.”

“Not alone. I had you, didn’t I?”

The kid wasn’t buying it. They walked back toward the building and Matty said, “So is there really a cow?”

“The cow! Right!” He took the kid down to the basement.