The Fourth Stall Part III (2 page)

S
taples still looked like Staples in that he still looked like he'd just gotten back from eating a nice leisurely lunch that had consisted of sick kids' puppies. But he also looked pretty different in some ways, too. For instance, instead of a shaved head, Staples now had short dark hair that was neatly combed. And instead of his usual tank top or T-shirt, he was wearing an untucked dress shirt and a skinny necktie and dark jeans. He looked like any other normal kid. Well, except for the evil smile and the dark eyes so black that even nighttime was afraid of them, that is.

In case you're not aware of who Staples is, which is unlikely considering he was a legend around these parts, he used to run a business kind of like mine. The only difference was that his business was dirty. He fixed things in his favor and rarely ever showed kids mercy. He'd beat you to death with your own arm if it somehow benefited him. And last year I'd gotten involved in an all-out war against him and his cronies. In the end, with help from my friends, we'd managed to take down his whole empire. Not long after that, we got word that he'd skipped town. And I had truly believed I would never see him again.

But I had been wrong.

Standing there now inside his impossibly large shadow, I tried to stand my ground. That's what I've learned about predators from the Discovery channel since my first run-in with Staples: Don't ever show your fear. Predators prey on the weak.

But he could see right through it, of course.

“Relax, Mac,” he said. “If I was here to get revenge, you'd already be bleeding.”

I managed to blurt out an awkward chuckle that only made Staples smile wider.

“And besides, I don't really want to get any of your blood on my shirt.”

I took a deep breath and used every ounce of seventh grader I had to finally say something.

“So . . . what, um, do you want, then?”

Great job of not sounding weak and afraid.

“Well, I'm trying to turn my life around. ‘Fly straight,' as my nerdy counselor likes to say,” Staples said.

“Counselor?”

“Yeah, I've got this court-appointed counselor I go see once a week. You know, to help get me on my feet. I am eighteen with no legal guardian anymore, you know. I have to take care of myself.”

“Court-appointed?” I asked lamely, not knowing what else to say.

“Yeah, I did a stint in juvie shortly after our, uh,
run-in
last year. Part of the deal my lawyer copped with the judge for me was that upon my release I'd have to start seeing this counselor. You know, to help make sure I don't ever find my way into real prison. But I don't even need him for that. I realized the error of my ways on my own.”

I really had no idea what to say to this so I merely nodded. I thought if I even tried to speak I might accidentally yell, “Liar!” And then kick him in the shin and run. But that probably wouldn't play out to my advantage in the end, so I stayed quiet. Which was fine because Staples just kept talking.

“Yeah, anyway, he's a real dork, my counselor. But I guess he's trying to help me or whatever, so I try to stomach him and his dumb motivational sayings. You know what he actually says to me basically every time I see him?”

I shook my head.

“He says, ‘Barry,
perception is reality
.' Can you believe that? He even says it all profoundly just like that. Like it's the most genius thing anyone has ever said. How lame is that?”

I had absolutely no idea what Staples was talking about now, so I just nodded dumbly.
Perception is reality?
What did that even mean?

Staples was still Staples after all, so of course he could read me like a book. Which meant he saw right through my pretending to understand what he was talking about. He laughed at me.

“Mac, just trust me when I say that if anyone ever uses that phrase, they're either an idiot or a liar. Or both. Because reality is what is real. Intent and actions are real. Perception is just that: a different and individual awareness of the reality that exists; that's why there are two separate words for it. And don't even get me started on the quantum physics angle, because then that phrase has a totally different meaning altogether, scientifically speaking, and last time I checked, my counselor definitely wasn't a quantum physicist.”

“Umm . . .”

Staples laughed at my embarrassingly obvious lack of comprehension. I felt uncomfortable thinking about just how smart he might actually be. I had always known he was smart, but his ferocity and criminal intent had perhaps always hidden the true extent of his intelligence.

“So what exactly do you need help with?” I asked, anxious to get away from this new intellectual version of Staples. Somehow, seeing him act even remotely nice and civil made me more nervous than when he was just a flat-out psychopath.

“I was getting to that,” he said. “So I'm still trying to get custody of my sister. Right now she's living with foster parents and, according to what I've seen and read, some foster kids grow up to be just like my dad: drug-addicted, jobless, hairy, and for some reason they also always seem to collect weird crap, like used paper plates or hippopotamus figurines or, in my dad's case, orange highlighters.”

“That's great,” I said. “Well, I mean the part about you trying to do something good, not that foster kids sometimes end up like your dad. But, anyways, what could I even do to help you?”

Staples furrowed his mean eyebrows.

“What gives, man? Isn't that supposed to be your
thing
?” he practically shouted.

It was the first real glimpse he'd shown of what I knew he really was deep down. And I took a step back, deciding whether or not to either book it now or see if I couldn't distract him somehow first and then make my getaway.

“Well, yeah, but no, I mean, not anymore. I told you, I'm retired.”

Staples grabbed the front of his forehead like he had a headache. I could tell he was trying to stay under control. It dawned on me how close I probably was to getting my left eye punched out the back of my head by this monster.

“Besides,” I added quickly, “she doesn't even go to my school, does she? I mean, I kind of specialized in stuff at my school itself.”

“No, she doesn't go to your school,” he said flatly. “But I didn't either, did I? Yet you still somehow managed that problem okay, didn't you?”

He had a point. And it was pretty awkward to stand there listening to him talk about how I had taken him down the year before. I'd crumbled his independent empire and now here I was saying that I wasn't really capable of doing such things.

“Well, that's kind of why I'm retired—every time I get involved, it only seems to make things worse. It always ends badly for
someone
.”

“Didn't I hear that you just saved your school recently? That doesn't sound like it ended badly to me,” Staples said. “Sounds like you won, as usual.”

“It's not about ‘winning,' Staples; it was about solving problems and making money. And I was creating more problems than I was solving at the end, and also spending more money than I was making. Besides, I'm kind of in the same boat as you: I need to keep my nose clean. The Suits are kind of watching me, you know?”

As I said this, I nodded my head toward a car that was parked just down the street from us. Staples turned and looked. The plain gray sedan that had been parked there since Staples and I had started talking suddenly pulled out and peeled past us and down the street before turning a corner and heading out of sight.

As the car had driven past, the gleam off Mr. Dickerson's bald head had shined like a sniper's scope reflecting the sunlight.

Staples gave me a look.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “it's insane. He's been following me every day after school. I mean, they're really paranoid. But it's hard to blame them. I've found out the hard way that businesses like mine usually lead only to trouble in the end. That's why I'm out.”

Staples looked like he was about to protest, but in the end he just nodded.

“Don't you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke?” he asked.

“Yeah, I offered to help you get back on your feet . . . but that was a year ago. Things have changed.”

“I guess they have,” he said, sounding defeated. “Well, I suppose there's no point in me even telling you what exactly I wanted help with then, even though it was something that would have been right up your alley.”

I was surprised at how easily he was giving up. I mean, he really could have forced me to help him if he'd wanted to. And now that he was giving up, I was kind of curious as to what exactly he thought I could do to help out his situation with his sister. But I knew better: if I started asking questions, then that'd be it; I'd be sucked right back into the life I was trying to avoid.

“I really am sorry, Staples. But you saw Dickerson. . . . The Suits are on me like glue stuck to the teeth of a second grader right now.”

Staples didn't say anything else. He just nodded and turned to leave. And then without looking back, just like that, my old nightmare was gone. And I was still in one piece, which was why it was weird that I suddenly felt so horrible, guilty almost.

I know I said before that me getting pulled back into the Business all started with the visit from Staples. So okay, I admit it. Maybe Staples didn't exactly pull me back into my business directly, at least not that day, but the whole incident should have been the first sign that something was off.

If I'd seen the warning lights right then, maybe I could have avoided some of the insanity that followed. Stuff like swimming pools full of blood, guts, and body parts, and crazy third-grade Japanese assassins with precise, near-deadly hit man skills. The sort of stuff that happens only in terrible made-for-TV movies on Disney starring whatever teen pop-star happens to be popular that month. If I'd known what was going to happen, maybe I would have stolen a car, swung by Vince's place, and gotten us both the heck out of town before it could.

But I hadn't seen Staples's visit as that kind of sign. So instead I just walked home.

I
called Vince the minute I walked in the door.

“Guess who paid me a visit today?” I said.

“Joe Blanton's mom?”

“Come on, Vince, I'm being serious.”

“Me, too! I mean, I would pay you a visit, too, if you mailed me a bunch of snake skins stapled to a picture of my son.”

I laughed in spite of myself. Of course I hadn't mailed Joe Blanton's mom anything, especially not a bunch of snake skins stapled to a picture of Joe Blanton. Last week I'd made a Joe Blanton joke so harsh that Vince had been joking about it ever since, about how I'd basically just desecrated the Blanton family name or something.

“Whatever, Vince. I'm kind of over Joe Blanton.”

“How could you?” he nearly screeched. Joe Blanton was this pitcher we'd been cracking jokes about for the past year.

“Well, he only used to drive me crazy because he would dominate the Cubs even though he stinks, but I've come to terms with the fact that pretty much all pitchers dominate the Cubs. Even triple-A pitchers look like aces against them. I bet even Bobby Lovelace would no-hit them. It's not a Joe Blanton thing; it's a Cubs thing.”

Bobby Lovelace was this kid who had pitched on our Little League team three years ago. He was epically bad. He's the only pitcher in history (at any level of baseball) never to record a single out in six starts. Why our coach ran him out there to start six games that season will forever be a mystery. Even Bobby himself didn't want to start any games after that first one, in which he allowed an unbelievable fourteen earned runs before finally getting the hook. All totaled he gave up sixty-three earned runs in six starts without getting an out. And, seriously, right now even he could probably dominate the Cubs' lineup.

Vince was quiet on the other end. It had been a particularly rough season for us this year. The Cubs were 57–81 so far, pretty much the laughingstock of the league, being that they had one of the top five highest payrolls. And just when we thought the curse couldn't get much worse, too.

“Yeah,” Vince finally said, and left it at that.

“So, want to guess who it really was who asked me for help today?” I asked.

“Well, if I asked my grandma, she'd probably say it was Don Pablo, the little pirate monkey who likes to throw fish heads at birds down at the pier.”

I gave him a moment to laugh at this (it
was
pretty funny) and then I dropped it on him.

“Staples.”

There was a long silence. Vince usually processed information quickly, but I guessed this had really surprised him.

“That Staples?” he said after a while.

“How many kids named Staples do you know?”

“What did he want? How are you even still alive?”

I went over the exchange I'd had with Staples just thirty minutes before.

“Maybe you should have at least found out what specifically he wanted,” Vince said at the end.

“I know, but if I got that far into it, then the next thing you know, we'd have found ourselves in the middle of another mess involving rabid wolves, zombie classmates, and a nuclear bomb with a faulty fuse. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess you're right,” Vince said. “When exactly did this business get so dangerous? I mean, remember the days when the hardest part was figuring out how to get kids answer keys to quizzes?”

“Right, I know,” I said. “That's what has kept me so motivated to stay out, even with kids harassing me daily for help.”

“Well, either way, I guess I'm glad you're still alive after running into Staples . . . even though it's so weird that he let it all go so easily. But at least now I get to stump you and crown myself champion of the Cubs universe once and for all.”

“Bring it on,” I said. Sometimes, a Cubs trivia challenge is the only thing that can take our minds off things like Staples returning to town.

“In honor of their miserable season this year, what are the most games the Cubs have ever lost in one season in franchise history?”

“Why would I want to sit around thinking about the worst seasons they've ever had? There are too many to count!”

“Exactly,” Vince said smugly.

“But asking this means you've been thinking about it.”

“Well, yeah,” he said, sounding like he was starting to realize how depressing it was.

“The truth is,” I said, “I've been wondering that, too, since they might beat that record this year. The answer is one hundred three losses, and they did it twice in the sixties.”

“They suck,” Vince said.

Then we both laughed. Of course we acted negatively and said stuff like that, but we both also knew that, come Spring Training next season, we'd naively believe, like we did every year, that they had a real shot to finally end the curse that season.

“You still coming over later to play video games?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, and then we hung up.