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A high school student finds a grimoire that shows how to make magical disguises. |
Previously: "The Coming of Gary Chen"  "Chen turns a profit of about forty-six hundred a month," you tell Caleb, and his jaw falls. "Yeah, but when Dwayne set him up," you continue, "he arranged for Chen to get the start-up money from a loan shark so he could start paying Dwayne for his supply. Can you believe that? Chen was fifteen and in hock to a fucking loan shark." You shake your head. "So four thousand of what he makes goes to paying off the debt. He's worked fucking hard to keep ahead of what he owes, but he's still--" You trail off. "And he doesn't keep what's left for himself, either. His grandfather lives with the family, and everything that's left goes to helping with the medical bills." Caleb staggers back a step. "His parents are okay with their kid dealing drugs?" Your hand shoots toward his throat, but you pull it back with a jerk. "They don't know that's where it comes from, okay? They think it comes from his job as a fucking dishwasher over at the country club, same place Gardinhire works as a waiter." "I didn't know that." "Shut up. Anyway, Chen tells his parents that the extra cash he's bringing in is part of his share of wait-staff tips. He throws it into the family account along with all of his real salary, gets a tiny-ass allowance from his dad because it's all they can afford to give him." "Jesus," Caleb drawls after a pause. "So Chen's this sweet little Chinaboy who does all this to help out his pawpaw?" Maybe in speaking all these facts aloud you have somehow claimed them as your own, and come to identify with them. But now you don't stop yourself. You advance on Caleb, and with a hard knuckle to his breastbone push him back into the same corner where you'd slugged him before. "We can skim maybe a couple of hundred bucks from him," you hiss. "Enough to pay back your mom and maybe for some of the supplies we'll need for more spells in the book. But that's all." "Gimme a break, Will. With that kind of-- Gauuggghhhh!" You punch him in the exact same spot as before—it should still be real tender—and as before you keep him on his feet by grabbing the hair at the top of his head. "Don't. Fuck with me. Johansson," you hiss in his ear. "I'm the one who made the fucking call to get inside Chen, and I'm the one who's got to take fucking responsibility for him until we figure out a way to sort things out. You said you couldn't picture me playing Chen. Well, I can, and I am, and this is me telling you to not--" You gut punch him again. "Get in my way, and don't second-guess me." Now you release him, and again he slides to the floor. "I gotta start getting this shit out to the people who want it," you tell him, ignoring his distress. "If I don't talk to you at school tomorrow, meet me here at four. I'll give you something so you can pay your mom back, and we'll talk about what comes next. Oh, and speaking of which--" You scoop up the grimoire. "I'll take the book and give it a look-through, see how much we need to skim to unlock the next spell." "What are you going to do about Matthias? I mean, the real Chen?" Caleb asks weakly, pausing every few words to gulp down some air. "Ignore him. You can ignore him too, since he doesn't have any idea you're mixed up in this." * * * * * You drive back to the Westside, and are glad to note that Dane's car is gone. You try imagining what Chen will be doing--you've got his brain inside you--but the magical-sci-fi idea that someone might force a body-swap on him is so outrageous that you can't find any instincts that could even grapple with it. He might try going back to his real house; he might try looking for some of his friends. But he couldn't convince anyone of who he is, right? They'd just think he was wacky Dane being extra wacky. They might even think the drugs had finally blown Matthias's mind all to hell. You seek out one of the back doors of the school--the one Chen knows how to jimmy open--and glide through the darkened halls to his locker. So much easier this way, you think as you quickly twirl the combination lock open. No guesswork about where my shit is, or what to do with it, or where to go. You pull out a backpack and take it into a nearby bathroom; from it you draw a set of electronic scales and some plastic baggies, and set them next to the briefcase with this month's bales. You start by weighing the latter: Yes, Dwayne shipped what he was supposed to, down to the tenth of a gram. Next you weigh out and bag Gardinhire's portion: fifteen ounces. Then for the university: Chen had already budgeted amounts for Harper and Keating and Whitmore and Ragland, based on a rolling average of their last six monthly purchases and incorporating an adjustment based on a trend-line. (Math class is far from wasted on him.) So you just have to measure out four baggies for them, totaling about thirty-six ounces. The remainder you leave as is for now: that's where the hard work will be, and you've got people who can help you out. You take out your phone. First person you call is Dwayne. "You talk to your cousin today?" you ask. The reply is negative. "Whatever. Point is I did and I got his shit straightened out. Got my shit, too. He says he forgot about the new place where he put the, uh, baking powder. He showed it to me and I got a new mix going. It's all good." "How hard did you hit him?" "I dunno, man. He can walk. He was acting kind of goofy when I left him, though, so maybe his brain isn't working as good as it should be. But who knows with him. Oh, and he busted the case, so you're gonna have to get a new one. I think he was trying to get into it, that's probably why he was pretending like he lost it." "Yeah, I can get a new one, but the cost is coming out of your account." "The fuck? It's your cousin who--" "If it happened at the school, it's your responsibility." "I don't know where he busted it, chances are he busted it at his place, and then it's your responsibility." "Fine, I'll split the cost with you." Every muscle in your body tightens. "You'll pick up the whole bill, fuckface! He's your cousin, and it was your fucking brilliant idea that he play the mule. Don't fuck with me today, Macauly," you interrupt him. "After this week's fuck up-- Listen, when I sell this shit I'll have twenty thousand large. If I want, I can pay off Mathis and be out of this shit for good, and then how are you gonna make yer lunch money in Westside? You'd have to set up a new guy, and how are you gonna do that from where you're sitting? So you pay for a new motherfucking box yourself, motherfucker, if you don't want it costing you fifteen big ones a month." "The things are only about fifty bucks," he grumbles. "Why are you being such a hardass about it?" "It's the fucking principle, that's what it is. I'll give you back this busted one, but you replace it on your own dime." He gets the message and stops haggling. You're breathless, nauseated, and exhilarated when you hang up, for you can't believe that, even with Chen's native psychology to guide and support you, you managed to browbeat Dwayne Macauly into paying for the damaged briefcase. So you're in a fine mood when you call Tanner Evans next. "I'm heading over to your place. Your mom gone?" "Yeah, but what's the--" "I got homework we need to work on." "What kind of homework," the idiot asks. "What's nine cut seventy-two ways, you fucking pustule? That's the kind of homework. Clear a space on your bed and lay some spray around, last time I was there it smelled like your jerk-off sock." You hang up. You pack everything away, and though you'd like to swagger out of the building, you keep it cautious, and skulk through the halls and back out that the door you came in by. * * * * * Tanner Evans's head is square and flat on top and puts you in mind of a shoebox. He has dull, heavy-lidded eyes under beetle brows, and splotchy brown freckles that look like he got spattered with paint and couldn't get the stains off. He smells funny, too. You instinctively hate the sight of him, because he's one of the assholes who hangs around with Kirkham and Chen, and tries to act like he's as tough as them by being tough on you and your friends. So you're suppressing a smile when he lets you in: His lips twitch nervously between pale cheeks, and he can't look you in the eye. "I thought you said this month was off," he says as he leads you into the back. "I said there was a problem. It got sorted out. Here we are, and we got three days to make up. You got everything set up?" Set up means that he's got his own set of scales out, along with the packages of tiny self-sealing bags suitable for holding and passing eighths of hay. You spread out on the floor and get quickly to work. It's both tedious and exacting, but you don't talk or put on any music, because you want to be able to hear if someone returns. You're almost done and are packing the seventy-two cuts into twelve bigger baggies when Evans speaks. He swallows first, though. "Uh, I think I wanna skip this month." Next: "Where the Money Comes From" |
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