Spoonbenders

One of the scientists sat back there, typing at a computer. She glanced up and said, “I told you, I’m not interested in goji berries.”

“You’re making a mistake about that. Reputable studies have proven—” Suddenly he lost energy for the sale. “Never mind. Okay if I show my nephew her highness?”

She eyed Matty. Seemed to decide he wasn’t a wild child. “Don’t touch. But you can look.”

Frankie led the boy through a set of doors, down a ramp, and into a room that had probably been slated for a garage before someone decided what they really needed was a windowless, industrial barn: cement floors, big drains, and four steel-railed cattle stalls. The sole occupant, in the nearest stall, was two thousand pounds of Barzona cow named Princess Pauline.

“Is she sick?” Matty asked. Wires connected her to a blue metal switchbox.

“Naw, come closer.” Set into Princess Pauline’s side, near the front legs, was a foot-wide section of Plexiglas. Inside, meat throbbed. “See through that hole? That’s her heart.”

“Holy cow.”

“I know, it’s—hey! Funny.”

Matty bent to get a better look between the slats. “Why did they do this?”

“There’s an artificial heart in there. That’s what they build here.”

“And they just want to…watch it?” The kid wasn’t grossed out, he was fascinated.

Frankie put a hand on his shoulder. “Science, huh?”

They spent a moment contemplating this miracle of animal experimentation. Princess Pauline paid them no mind.

“Something happened to me,” Matty said in a small voice. “A couple weeks ago.” He squinted as if in pain. Frankie had seen that same worried look on Irene’s face all his life.

“We’re partners,” Frankie said. “You can tell me anything.”

“I know, but…”

“Is it about girls?”

The kid flushed—then seemed to get mad at himself for being embarrassed. “It’s girl related,” Matty said. “A couple weeks ago, I was…” That pained expression again.

“Out with it.”

“I was thinking about a girl. Not anyone you know. And something happened.”

Behind the kid, the double doors swung open, and there was Dave, looking pissed. “Frank! I need you downstairs!”

Frankie wanted to say, Shut up, Dave, this is important. But he needed this job.

Down in the phone room, everybody had gathered around the Toshiba CPU. The laptop was wired to the diagnostics port. “What’s the matter?” Frankie asked.

“Half the phones on the first floor are dead,” Hugo said. “The laptop won’t tell us what’s wrong.”

“Maybe you need more dial tone,” Matty said.

Dave looked at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Frankie said. “Did you check the cards?”

“The laptop says they’re all working. Could you just do your thing?”

The crew was all looking at him. “Fine.” He popped the lid off the CPU. He started checking the cards, making sure they were seated properly. All the indicator lights were on, but all that meant was that they were getting power; the circuit boards could still be malfunctioning.

The first half a dozen cards he checked seemed okay. Then his fingertips brushed the edge of one of the cards at the bottom.

He pulled the card from its slot. “This one,” he said.

The guys knew better than to doubt him.

By then it was time to wrap up. Frankie packed up his tools and he walked with Matty out to the parking lot. Before they reached the van, he gripped the boy by the shoulder.

“So. This thing,” Frankie said, picking up their conversation from the cow room. He’d been rehearsing what to say. As a man marooned on an island of daughters, he wasn’t quite ready for this moment, but who else could Matty turn to? “The first thing you gotta know, it’s totally normal. The same thing happened to me when I was thirteen.”

Matty opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

“This isn’t something to worry about,” Frankie said. “This is something to celebrate. And I know just the place to go.” As if he just thought of it. As if he had any choice.

—

Mitzi’s Tavern was starting to fill up with the after-work crowd, if you could use the word “crowd” to describe the dozen wretches who huddled here for a beer and a bump before facing the wife. The décor was Late-Period Dump: ripped-vinyl booths, neon Old Style signs, veneer tabletops, black-speckled linoleum in which 80 percent of the specks weren’t. The kind of place that was vastly improved by dim lighting and alcoholic impairment. Frankie loved it.

“Your grandpa used to bring me here,” Frankie said to Matty. “This is where real men drink. You ever start sitting around the bar at a Ruby Tuesday’s, I will kick your ass.” He pointed to an empty stool. Matty put the UltraLife box on the bar and hopped up.

“No kids,” Barney said. He’d been the bartender since forever—came installed with the building. Frankie had never liked him. He was a big mother, over six feet tall. His head was 90 percent jowl, a face like a mudslide.

“We’re only going to be here a minute,” Frankie said. “Barney, this is my nephew, Matthias. Can you get him a pop? It’s his birthday.”

“How old are you?” Barney asked the kid.

“Depends who you ask,” Matty said quietly.