Bad Haircut

“I thought you said it was foolproof,” I snapped.

“Christ, Buddy. I didn't know he had a fucking accountant.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I can't go home,” he said. “Paul's gonna kill me.”

He spent the night in Burnsy's car. The next morning Burnsy drove him to Seaside, where Kevin figured he could stay with his brother until Paul had a chance to cool off. But when they finally located the house where Jack was supposed to be staying, they found out that he had split for Florida with this chick he'd picked up on the beach.

“So where's Kevin now?” I asked Burnsy later that night.

“Come on,” Burnsy said. “I'll show you.”

He parked his car on Center Street and led me into Indian Park. At the edge of the bike path, he stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The signal was returned from inside the woods.

“Go in about a hundred yards and take the left fork,” he told me.

“Aren't you coming?” I asked.

Burnsy shook his head. “I'm going back to Seaside. They said I could have Jack's room.” He kicked some gravel and told me to take it easy.

Kevin was waiting for me on the main path, his blond hair and white T-shirt radiating a ghostly light, seeming to float disembodied on the darkness.

“Boy,” he said. “Am I glad to see you.”

He had a pup tent set up in a small clearing, its fluorescent orange fabric camouflaged by a web of tree branches and uprooted weeds. We sat together on a half-rotten log and made plans for Kevin's new life as a fugitive. I promised to keep him well-stocked with food, to deliver messages to Angela, and not to reveal his hiding place even if Paul tried to torture me for the information, which Kevin claimed was a definite possibility. Everything was okay as long as we kept talking. But as soon as our conversation died out, the woods turned spooky. A million insects hummed together; small animals darted through the underbrush.

Kevin slapped his leg. “Damn! I wish I had some bug spray.”

“I'll get you some tomorrow,” I said, standing up from the log.

His fingers wrapped around my ankle. “Hey,” he said, “why don't you go home and tell your parents that you're sleeping over at my house. Then you can get your sleeping bag and come back here. It'll be like that camping trip.”

“Not tonight, Kev. I have to fold my papers.”

His grip tightened. “Please, Buddy. Just this once?”

I shook my leg free. “I can't.”

There was a long pause. The insects turned up the volume. I was glad I couldn't see Kevin's face.

“Thanks a lot, Buddy. After everything I've given you, you can't even do me this one little favor.”

“Hey,” I said, “no one told you to rip off your own family.”

I went home and folded my papers on the living room floor. My parents sat behind me on the couch, laughing along with the canned laughter on television.

“Happy birthday!”

My mother woke me the next morning with a lipsticky kiss on the cheek. It was August 8,1974, and I was officially thirteen years old. It was something I'd been waiting for for a long time.

“Don't make any plans for tonight,” she said. “We have a surprise for you.”

After she left for work, I wolfed down a bowl of cereal and hopped, still half asleep, onto my bike. I wanted to finish my paper route as quickly as possible so I could spend the afternoon with Kevin. I hoped he wasn't mad at me.

Around eleven o'clock a brown tow truck turned the corner and began tailgating me down Maple Street. I veered up a driveway to give it room, but the truck didn't accelerate to pass. Then I saw why: “PAUL'S AMOCO EMERGENCY SERVICE” was written in yellow letters on the side door. Paul himself was scowling at me from the driver's seat, jabbing his finger like a cop pulling over a speeding car. I stepped on the brakes and so did he. The truck's passenger door swung open on a creaky hinge.

“Get in,” he commanded.

“What about my bike?”

“Just leave it.”

I dropped my bike on someone's lawn and climbed into the cab, which smelled pleasantly of gasoline. Paul sat beside me, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. The skin on his knuckles was cracked, the crevices caked with grease. He took his hand away from his face and looked at me.

“Where's Kevin?”

“Isn't he home?” I tried to sound casual, but I could feel my blood abruptly reverse itself, rushing into my face as though I were doing a headstand.

Paul gave me a disgusted look and shifted into gear. I wondered vaguely if I was being kidnapped.

“It's not the money that bugs me,” he said. “It's really not. But if he needed it, why didn't he just ask?”

I didn't answer. How could I explain that Kevin didn't need the money, that we were just having fun?

“Tell me the truth,” Paul said. “Is he doing drugs?”

I shook my head. It gradually became clear to me that I wasn't being kidnapped. We were just orbiting the streets of Darwin, cruising up one and down another. I began to relax and enjoy the ride, my first ever in a tow truck. The heavy chains swayed and clanked behind us; our bodies vibrated along with the powerful engine. The parked cars we passed looked small and vulnerable. If Paul and I had felt like it, we could have just hoisted one up and dragged it away.

“How come he hates me?” Paul asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

He took a couple of quick turns, and pretty soon we were back on Maple. I was almost disappointed that nothing more exciting had happened, that Paul hadn't tried to make me talk. I had one leg out the door when he grabbed my arm.

“You tell Kevin to come home. He's not going to get punished. We just want him back. You tell him his mother's worried sick.”

“Okay,” I said.

I got out, walked over to my bike, and slung the heavy canvas bag over my shoulder. The tow truck didn't move. Paul was slumped forward in the driver's seat, his forehead resting on the wheel.

That afternoon I told Kevin about my encounter with Paul. He was only half finished with the sandwich I'd brought him, but he got mad and whipped it at a tree.

“He's a liar! The second I walk through the door he's gonna kill me.”

“I bet he won't.”

“You don't know him.”