Mr. F invested his earnings in real estate, just like in the game Monopoly, buying big pieces of cheap property, like Baltic and Oriental Avenues, building warehouses on them. Then he moved on to houses and hotels and office buildings. He said he’d figured out the way to make
real
money was not by selling, but by developing and holding on.
But Mr. F’s favorite was his FrankFairs. He’d started buying up tracts of land in West Texas, especially near dead-ass little towns, put up these big stores on ’em, giant versions of his Aunt Gracie’s store. He sold almost everything you could think of. And sold it cheap. He insisted his FrankFairs have
big
cheap toy departments. They gave each kid a prize for just walking through the door. Mr. F figured soon every kid in America’d be whining for his parents to take him to FrankFair. And he was right.
One of Mr. F’s favorite things was to play dress-up, wear disguises, show up in FrankFairs unannounced and take a serious look around. Incognito, he called it—one of Wayne’s very favorite words.
Mr. F’d been on one of those unannounced incognito visits two years ago to a store in Cherry Hill, not too far from Philly, when he’d found Wayne.
It was on his way to the FrankFair, actually. Mr. F was riding his bike. That’s what he’d do, sometimes. Ride the train till he got to a town, then take his bike out of the baggage car, pedal along incognito, pretending he was just another guy down on his luck, couldn’t afford even a beat-to-crap Plymouth, going to do his shopping—nickels and dimes squirreled away in one of those little red plastic cases that looked like a mouth opening when you squeezed it.
There was Wayne, up in his tree house in a good stand of oak, watching this dude, pedaling away in his jeans and blue work shirt, watching on the monitor that fed in from the camera he’d planted down at the south end of this little road. He had one at the north end too. Wayne fed the power out of lines, carefully camouflaged, that he’d run from that shed over there where a man named Huckaby played with his woodworking tools when Miz Huckaby got on his nerves. Wayne knew that because he’d bugged their house, just for the practice. There was nothing much interesting going on there. Though their niece had been coming to visit the next week, and he’d thought that might be worth another little camera—in the bathroom. In the meantime, Wayne was just riding high, living off the fat of the land and what he stole from the Grand Union, Radio Shack, and the FrankFair.
He was happy as a clam to be out of that halfway house. Halfway between what and what, he used to ask. Old Miz Mizery—that’s what he called her, the woman who ran the place, didn’t have the sense God gave a duck, just knew how to cash those government checks—she didn’t have any answers.
Wayne did. Wayne knew the answer to most problems in his world was to walk away. People didn’t want to deal with love, pain, need, dreams—the things that cut too close to the bone. It was easier to scram. Nobody gave a crap, not really, not about another crazy, which is what Wayne, most days, knew he was.
Of course Miz Mizery did like to keep up the head count, keep those checks rolling. But like his friend Thelma Thirty, that’s what they called her because she had that many fingers and toes, used to say, They care so much about us, how come they cut us loose? Threw us out of the crazy houses that used to at least give us three squares and a cot, keep us out of the rain and snow, Christmas party every year with the do-gooders singing songs, bringing green punch and cookies with red sprinkles?
Wayne had walked away lots of times. Then he’d let himself get picked up, shipped back to some kind of shelter or halfway house every once in a while, when he was sick or just needed to rest up.
But this hadn’t been one of those times, this day that he saw what turned out to be Mr. F pedaling down the road. It was early May, the weather getting to be real nice, and Wayne was feeling good. He hadn’t had any flashbacks in quite a while from those bad Mexican drugs that had nearly fried his brain. And the electric shocks, well, there were those blank spots, but you could get used to anything, Wayne had learned. So there Wayne was, having a good time living up in his tree house, practicing what he’d learned about electronics and surveillance courtesy of the United States Army—a class A outfit until you wanted out.
Then you had to walk away from that too. And if somebody got in your way, somebody
had
gotten in Wayne’s way, you might have to close them down.
With that thought Wayne had zeroed in through the telescopic sight of his rifle on the bicycle man pedaling down the road, thinking about zapping
him.
But why? Why not? Why? Why not?
The bicycle man was getting closer now; Wayne could see he was blond and round-faced like John Denver. He was wheeling along, whistling something out of tune. Whatever it was it reminded Wayne of when he was a little kid, sharing a crib with brother John. Now,
that
made him nuts.
The very thought of John made him think he might decide to zap this bicycle sucker anyway, when all of a sudden the bicycle man, hidden down there somewhere under the spring-green foliage, Wayne couldn’t see a thing, hollered: You gonna blow me six ways to Sunday or you just fooling around?
Next thing you know, Wayne never did
know
exactly how it happened, the bicycle man’s up the tree with him—
that’s
when Wayne first saw he was missing his right arm,
how
could he climb—watching both ends of the road on the monitors, listening in to Miz Huckaby in the house talking to her dog. The man’s bright blue eyes were all lit up like Christmas. He said, I think I’ve got a use for you, my good man, in my stores. Of course, Wayne thought, here’s another member of the club. Another crazy. What was a one-armed bicycle man talking about, My stores?
As it turned out, he was talking about one hell of a lot.
The man owned half the world.
Furthermore,
he immediately recognized Wayne’s innate worth.
Mr. Tru Franken told him all about that, about how valuable each and every human being was. From little acorns great oaks grow. (Wayne thought, yeah, except my brother John, but he didn’t tell Mr. Tru Franken that.) He
understood
about Wayne wanting to live in a tree house, be left alone to play with his electronic toys.
He said, Wayne, the world’s your oyster, you can live anywhere you want, and I’ll give you a super-duper bunch of gadgets. And Mr. F had always been as good as his word. He’d worked Wayne in surveillance in FrankFairs for a good long time, then moved him here to the Monopoly—which Mr. F had up and bought one day, the way other people might buy a new TV.
Of course, a man like that wasn’t happy when people didn’t return the favor.
Just like late this afternoon when Mr. F had called him in and said he’d reviewed the tape Wayne had thought he would find interesting, Thank you very much, Wayne. Mr. F was always very polite. You did great, he added.
That made Wayne
feel
great. So there he was, ready and waiting, standing on his tippytoes, to see if there was anything else Mr. F wanted him to do.
Especially since Dougie had showed up from Wharton, the same business school as Donald Trump, Wayne had felt like he really had to hustle his butt to prove to Mr. F he was the truest, bluest, most loyal human being he’d ever saved, with probably the most innate worth—stuff you couldn’t learn in some fancy business school. He was hoping against hope Mr. F didn’t lay a lot of store in blood being thicker in water.
If he did—well.
Mr. F pushed the remote control in his left, and only, hand and rolled the tape. When he got to what he wanted to show Wayne, yep, it was the part he thought Mr. F’d want to see, he did a freeze frame. Then he backed it up and played the audio again.
“You hear what this man’s saying?”
Yep. That’s why he’d brought it to Mr. F’s attention.
“That’s the kind of behavior we have to guard against,” said Mr. F, his blue eyes very serious behind his glasses. Then Mr. F walked up to the monitor and put his left, and only, forefinger on the screen. “I’m going to have to think about this. This is good, Wayne.”
“Anything else you’d like me to do, Mr. F?” Wayne touched the bill of his black Monopoly Special Staff cap, the one Mr. F had given
him
and nobody else.
Just about then, Dougie had walked in the door. Waltzed in, actually, big as you please, without even knocking. Took a seat. Poured himself a glass of the orange pop Mr. F was partial to. Mr. F always kept a few bottles on a silver tray, along with an ice bucket, crystal glasses, Mr. F being a gentleman of class and distinction. Dougie didn’t say a word, but he had that smirky look on his face like, What’s happening, scumbag? You could feel that he thought he was Mr. F’s only begotten heir, being Mr. F’s only sister Vivian’s only son. Which meant his name ought not to be Franken, unless he was illegitimate, which wouldn’t surprise Wayne one bit, but when he’d asked Dougie about it, Dougie had just given him a look: Like that’s for me to know and you to find out, sucker.
Mr. F turned, and Dougie started talking with him about something—market share, recession, numbers of players down, same thing in Vegas—Wayne didn’t understand. It made Wayne feel stupid. So he hadn’t wanted to ask Mr. F the question again, What did he want him to do, if anything? Though not in front of Dougie.
But Mr. F, God bless him, had picked up on his hesitation, and he’d said one word to Wayne.
Just one.
Erase.
So Wayne did.
He did exactly what Mr. F told him to do. And now, at the end of the day, he was feeling just great. He was going to close up here, go home, and sleep like a baby.
*
On the other hand, Big Gloria was wide awake, pacing the floor. She’d come home after working her extra shift, about as bone tired as a person could be.
And what did she find?
Nothing, that’s what. An empty house. Junior long gone. She’d laid a hand on his favorite chair. It wasn’t even warm.
Oh, Lord. She’d thrown herself down in that chair and eased off her shoes. In a few minutes she’d get up and go run a pan of hot water with some Epsom salts in it and give her dogs a soak, but first she had to sit there for a few minutes.
Sometimes she wished the Good Lord hadn’t made women so strong. She’d sure like to lay some of her burden down. But He knew she could carry it.
Otherwise, how’d you explain a day like today? She was late to work in the first place, having to go visit Aunt Baby in the hospital, then that crazy Wayne Ward busting that handsome Harry’s lip, the one who’d given her the money. Now,
that
was a bright spot. Not the lip, but Lord knows the money was. Then that white lady, the Kewpie doll, trying to sneak into a room. For all Gloria knew, she was a burglar. Gloria probably ought to have reported her.
But then, that wasn’t the least of what she should have reported.
Thinking about that was when she got up and started pacing the floor, forgetting all about the hot water and Epsom salts.
Gloria, she said to herself, have you lost your mind? Clothilde called you into that Kurt Roberts’s room, the one who tried to drown your Junior, room was tore up six ways to Sunday. What’d you do? Did you call security?
No.
Did you know you ought to?
Uh-huh.
So why didn’t you?
Well, his bags were gone—all his stuff. I thought the man was just a slob, like the rest of them. You think I don’t see lots of messy rooms? You wouldn’t believe how people behave, paying one night’s rent.
But had he torn his sheets all up and bloodied some of them ’cause his mama didn’t teach him any better?
Or, it could have been that old man with the limp who came by earlier came back again. Slipped me a phone number to call if I saw Roberts, said he’d make it worth my time. I think he used to be a friend of Nickie Scarfo, you know who I mean? He could’ve have found Roberts, beat him up, cut off all his fingers and toes. They do things like that.
Old man, huh? With a limp? How many times you seen
The Godfather Part III,
Gloria?
Well, I know who that old man is, and furthermore, I didn’t
care
what happened to any Mr. Kurt Roberts, you want to know the truth. He’s the one who tried to
kill
Junior.
So you thought, whatever, he deserved it? No matter that he was a pageant judge, it seemed kind of strange he’d be leaving right in the middle under his own steam, you weren’t gonna worry your head about it.
Something like that.
What else, Bee Gee?
Nothing.
No? You sure?
Uh-huh.
He didn’t leave not one little thing in the room that you might have ought to have turned in?
Who’re you? The Good Fairy?
Gloria Sturdivant, your own mama’d be turning in her grave if she could see what you’ve come to.
Yeah? Well, I bet she wouldn’t. I bet she’d do the same thing.
She’d take a man’s tickets on a horse race—someplace down in Florida is what the man said when she cashed them in, someplace called Exacta, or something like that—and
keep
the five grand?