Killer of Giants Page 5

tipping over the edge. An empty bottle of bourbon sat on the floor next to him. He’d been wearing the same sweat-stained shirt and boxers for as long as it’d taken him to grow a wiry beard.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder, the stink of liquor and sweat digging into the back of my eyes. “Quarter past eight. In the morning.”

  He lifted the empty bottle to his lips and let the last drop roll into his mouth. “Don’ be late for school.”

  Last night I’d taken a twenty from his wallet while he was out cold. He’d only drink it anyway, and it was the least he could do for forgetting my birthday.

  I opened the front door and let out a deep breath, blowing a cloud of mist into the air. All around, a gray fog blanketed the morning, a fog so cold and thick you almost needed a chainsaw to get through it. Traffic lights less than a hundred yards away were hardly visible. The thought of meeting up with Kyle and his crew had my stomach in free fall. I stopped at the gate and scanned both ends of the street, weighing the need to cut class for self-preservation against getting to talk to Allie in first-period math. I pulled up my jacket collar and started toward school.

  Weeds grew through cracks in the sidewalk, and potholes plagued the street like a spreading disease. Graffiti covered every wall, and trash piled up on the curb. Most families in West Side had one or both parents out of a job. Several years ago, the stores lining the sidewalks were full of life, but now they were abandoned and rundown. And whoever used to clean it didn’t anymore. You couldn’t sell real estate in this neighborhood – nobody wanted it.

  Ahead, a figure emerged from the fog, and then ran several steps and kicked a glass bottle, sending it clanking into the curb. Had to be Raj. He clutched his bag strap and looked at me. “Did you hear what happened to Gordie?”

  My stomach sank. “He didn’t respond to my messages.”

  “You haven’t even been on Facebook, have you? You’re so antisocial. Ricardo Alvarez said Gordie was on the floor with Kyle kicking him in the head. Lots of blood. Just when he couldn’t take it anymore, Kyle bent his ring finger back and snapped it like a twig. Wentworth eventually broke it up, but Gordie’s hurt bad, and not just his finger.”

  I’d puke if I thought enough about his finger being snapped. I should have done something, but I wasn’t even able to help myself. Cannondale was out of control and something had to give. “Did someone call the cops?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but they refused to lay charges. Insufficient evidence.”

  “What about Ricardo? Didn’t he see it happen?”

  “Do you really think they’re going to charge Chief Swindon’s son?”

  A garbage truck rumbled past, its brakes squealing as the smell of week-old garbage filled the air.

  Raj stomped on an empty beer can. “Kyle was looking for you, but he found Gordie.”

  Out of habit, I glanced over both shoulders and scanned the street.

  Raj continued, “Gordie didn’t respond to my messages either, but Ricardo said he was in bad shape. All I know is Wentworth took him to sick bay and nobody saw him after that.”

  “Maybe they’ll send Kyle to juvie this time.” I gripped my bag strap.

  Raj shook his head. “My mom went to a PTA meeting a while back. The counselor said Kyle gets special consideration for his emotional problems, like having his own little deranged get-out-of-jail free card.”

  “I think I know what that’s about. His old man won’t be winning any father of the year awards.”

  “The counselor also said Gordie and Kyle have to go to counseling together.”

  “Gordie was beat up so he has to go too?” I asked. “What happened to just locking up the thugs?”

  Raj lifted his shoulders. “Principal Grendelmeier said it takes two to tango, and Gordie has to accept responsibility too.”

  “For what? Getting his ass kicked? Grendelmeier’s too pathetic to put Kyle in his place.”

  Raj gazed at the pavement as he walked. “I like Gordie as much as the next guy, but he’s been nothing but trouble since he got here.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  Raj lifted his phone from his pocket. “Check this out.” The screen lit up with the Twitter logo and “Adam Dwyer – 13h: Kyle’s looking for Chris. It’s a great day not to be Chris.”

  My skin prickled.

  We continued along the sidewalk, dodging icy mud puddles and taking in the gloom of the empty streets. The gate to the sprawling Meadowvale Mall parking lot blocked our way on the left. Fifteen years ago it opened as a shopping mecca, but now the storefronts were empty. Old tires, clothing, and mattresses littered the parking lot. A “For Sale” sign hung at an angle, and the walls and broken windows were thick with black-marker gang tags. My old man told me Detroit had nearly two million people in the 1950s, but now less than a third remained. The rats were fleeing this bankrupt ship.

  As we approached the corner of Gates and Weston, the faint outline of a figure appeared in the fog: Gordie sitting at the curb, hunched with his knees against his chest, gazing at his shoes. Small clouds of breath rose from his mouth.

  Raj grinned and called out, “Gordie, we heard you nearly took out Kyle yesterday. Way to go, Muhammad Ali.” The grin wore off his face as we approached.

  Grazes and scabs covered the side of Gordie’s face, and a piece of tape held his glasses together in the middle. He leaned on his bag and pushed off the curb, wincing. On his right hand, he wore what looked like a blue fingerless glove with his ring finger extended out straight and taped to a splint. He wobbled on one leg as he slung his bag over his shoulder and limped along the sidewalk. It was brutal, revenge beatings always were. He’d have been better off if I’d let Bundy at him in the cafeteria. And what’s worse, if they did this to Gordie, what were they planning for me?

  “Hey, take it easy, Gordo.” Raj ran to catch up with him. “You okay?”

  Neither of us knew Gordie well, but he wasn’t okay. He gazed into the distance as he limped along the sidewalk.

  I ran up alongside Gordie to get a better look at his face. The skin around his left eye was multiple shades of green-purple and his bottom lip was split and swollen like bad plastic surgery. I’d seen the results of over a hundred high school beatings, and this wasn’t the worst, but it’d be hard to stomach if you’d lived most of your life in a Notre Dame bubble. “Shit. He got you pretty good. What did the doctor say about your finger?”

  Without slowing his pace, Gordie’s vacant stare shifted to me and then fell back to the sidewalk.

  Raj patted his back. “I’ve heard when a bone breaks you can feel it snap like a twig. Is that what it felt like?” Every guy has his limit on the emotional support he’s willing to show his friends, but Raj’s limit was about as shallow as it got.

  Gordie’s expression remained empty.

  We crossed a driveway to an empty lot, and Raj said, “We should pay someone to give Kyle a beating.”

  “Who could even beat him in a fight?” I asked.

  He ran ahead several steps and turned. “Maybe we should learn Muay Thai like Kyle.” He let fly with a lopsided air kick, stumbled back, and fell on his ass.

  Gordie’s gaze didn’t leave the sidewalk.

  At the end of the block, the Cannondale High building loomed up out of the fog as we crossed onto Evermore Avenue. You’d mistake it for a redbrick apartment block if it weren’t for the tall cast-iron fence around the asphalt schoolyard. A concrete path led from the gate to the front door. Behind the school, a smaller yard could only be reached by going through the building or using the rear gate on Grayson Street.

  I dug my hands into my pockets. “What do you guys think of Allie Brookes?”

  “She’s out of your league,” Raj said.

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  Raj nudged Gordie’s arm. “What he needs is some of your Gordo magic to work on her, right?” The only magic Gordo had was a curse that stopped him from talking to girls.

  Gordie’s slow limp cam
e to a stop and he froze, his breath shallow. I followed his distant gaze.

  At first it didn’t register, or maybe I didn’t want it to, but a moment later it sank in and my stomach tightened. Half a block ahead, Kyle and Fink stood in front of the school gate, facing each other with fists raised like boxers, and cigarettes hanging from their mouths. They circled each other, coming together and separating, eyes locked. Several feet away, Bundy stood motionless, unnaturally still, his nose bandaged and one nostril packed with blood-encrusted cotton. He clapped his hands twice. Fink swung at Kyle, landing a right hook on his shoulder, and stepped back with a smug grin.

  Kyle crouched into a fighting stance and approached him. Fink’s palms went up in surrender and he opened his mouth to speak. Before he could make a sound, Kyle delivered two blistering kicks to his ribs, another to his shin, and followed up with a hard uppercut to his jaw. The cigarette flew from Fink’s lips as he collapsed onto the concrete. He clutched his face with one hand and his shin with the other, curling up in a ball. Bundy grabbed Kyle’s wrist and raised his arm high.

  There were times when keeping your head down and disappearing into the crowd could save you from a beating. This wasn’t one of them. Raj glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s head ‘round the back way.”

  With no sudden movements, we turned and started back the way we came. After three steps, I looked back to see Gordie’s feet still firmly planted on the sidewalk. I walked back and grabbed his arm. “C’mon.