The Indestructible Man (6 page)

Bobby cut him off. “I want you to get in the van and drive away. I’ll say I was the only one involved. Don’t argue.”

“All right,” Brooks said. “If you’re sure.” He patted Bobby’s shoulder and slowly wheeled him toward the front doors.

Once inside Bobby peeked over the bar and spotted Jackson Wayne, dead-center in the dining room with Romulus and Abigail, arms folded over his enormous barrel chest. The hostess was busy seating a large group, leaving their view unobstructed, but a couple of customers on their way to the restroom raised eyebrows at them. Compared to the other diners they were a bit underdressed, Bobby in his black sweatshirt and vest, Brooks in leather and frayed jeans.

“Oh, come on,” Bobby whispered as a young man in a brown dinner jacket approached Romulus, shook his hand, and passed him a palm-sized spiral notepad, which Romulus quickly signed. He huddled behind the bar and quietly cocked the shotgun’s first hammer in the duffel bag to muffle the sound. He had never actually fired a gun, but Brooks had coached him beforehand with this simple one, so in theory he knew what he was doing.

With Brooks close behind, Bobby zigzagged around occupied tables to avoid notice. He allowed himself momentary glances at Romulus, the Colonel, and Abigail; none looked up from their salads. When he was within five or six feet, his will gave out and his eyes fell on Abigail. She had taken off her coat, revealing a tight, long-sleeved peach top with a dipping neckline. Her hair had grown longer since that night in the theater and glistened in the restaurant’s soft light. He gazed at the gentle curves of her breasts, her elegant neck and shoulders that bounced when she laughed. He was about to look away when she raised her head and saw him.

For a few seconds he could not move or speak. She squinted at him, then her lips parted in a wide smile. “Bobby!” She got up, and before he could back away she hugged him. “What a small world! It’s good to see you again.”

Romulus raised his head, and Bobby found himself looking into the eyes of the man he had despised for over half his life.

Romulus stood. “Bobby Mercer?” He smiled wide and extended his hand; Bobby was too shocked to do anything but shake it.

“I’m sorry we missed you after the Rockford show,” Abigail said. “What are you doing out here?”

Before he could answer two teenage boys from a nearby table approached Romulus, each carrying a bright green Marley’s napkin, asking for his autograph.

Romulus’ smile seemed strained, as if he’d been bothered once too often. Before he signed the boys’ napkins, he glanced at Bobby. “Stick around if you’ve got a minute,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a long time, and I’m not letting you get away.”

With the attention off Bobby, Brooks walked up behind Jackson Wayne and tapped his shoulder. “Hey man, is that your Buick out there? I just backed into it.”

“
Dammit
,” the Colonel said, and followed him toward the door.

Romulus was signing the second napkin when Bobby drew the shotgun from the duffel bag and pulled a trigger.

The recoil was far stronger than he’d expected, almost knocking him out of his wheelchair. Romulus toppled backward and hit the floor with a gratifying thud, loud enough to hear over Abigail’s high-pitched shriek. The two boys screamed and ran toward the kitchen. Other screams echoed in the dining room as people dove for cover under their tables.

Romulus rolled onto his side, the wind knocked out of him. Bobby wheeled closer and cocked the second hammer. As Romulus staggered to his feet, tiny holes and powder burns dotting his blue dress shirt, Bobby fired another round into his left shoulder; Romulus spun once and flopped across an empty table, knocking the place settings and centerpiece to the floor.

Bobby slipped another shell into the shotgun, intending to blast Romulus once more, right between the eyes. It would do no more damage than the first two shots, but it would be still satisfying. But Abigail grabbed his arm and tried to point the shotgun away from Romulus.

“Bobby!” she screamed. “Stop it!”

“Let me go!” Bobby said through bared teeth, shoving her to the floor. For an instant he pointed the gun at Abigail; she shrieked once, turned her head and shielded her eyes. This was not part of the plan; married or not, he had never imagined her putting herself in harm’s way. His finger loosened around the trigger and he tilted the gun away from her. He remained frozen until he heard a loud crash behind him. Brooks was lying under an overturned bussing cart near the exit, in a soggy mess of spilled wine, leftover French fries, and steak gristle, the Colonel marching angrily across the dining room. Before Bobby could roll away Romulus snatched the shotgun by the barrel, twisting it out of his grasp with surprising strength. Bobby turned his head just as Romulus Wayne’s fist collided with his temple, so hard he tipped over in his wheelchair.

He lay on his side, head throbbing, wanting to vomit. Gradually he rolled onto his belly and crawled free of his overturned chair, dragging his useless legs through soggy lettuce and broken glass. He looked up at Abigail, locked in Romulus’ arms. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, he never meant her any harm, but her face was pressed into Romulus’ powder-burned chest.

It was Romulus who stared back. Bobby expected anger, maybe even a little fear—either would have made the whole thing worthwhile. But Romulus only shook his head and went on comforting Abigail. Bobby closed his eyes amid the screams and angry shouts, trying to block it all out until the police arrived.

He spent that night
and most of the next day in the city lock-up. Though Brooks was locked up with him—having refused to run as Bobby had instructed—they did not speak. Brooks lay on the bottom bunk, rapping his knuckles against the yellow plaster wall; Bobby sat in the corner for hours without moving, staring at his sneakered feet. His temple was bruised and swollen; the pain and nausea made it difficult to move. Perhaps to torture them, the on-duty officer left the portable black-and-white on the shopping channel,
Muzak
tunes echoing dully through the cell block as a cadaverous silver-haired old woman modeled costume jewelry.

He had been in jail once before, for a few hours, after a drunken game of chicken with First Avenue traffic. Though they were furious, his parents came to bail him out without comment, his father nodding his approval as the judge chided him and imposed the heavy fines. But this was
real
trouble. Bobby tried to call home twice, but hung up before anyone answered; he considered waiving his right to a phone call, waiting in his cell until the police decided what to do with him. Finally his mother, having heard the news on TV, drove to the station. She hadn’t any time to put on make-up, and her face was deathly-white.

“Bobby?”

He wished he could hide his head like a turtle. “I got nothing to say, Mom.”

“Your father and I talked to a lawyer.” She wrapped her fingers around the bars. “He thinks he might be able to get your sentence reduced. Mitigating circumstances—you knew you couldn’t hurt him.”

“Thanks,” Bobby said.

“Should I ask why?”

“No.”

She nodded. “All right. We’ll talk again when it’s taken care of.” She hesitated, then pursed her lips tightly and let the guard escort her out.

“Tough break, man,” Brooks said when she had gone.

“Not a word.”

At shift rotation
, a fat officer carrying a pair of hoagies in a plastic bag sat down behind the desk. He flipped through all the channels twice, said “Fuck it,” and settled on the news.

At first Bobby took no interest in the program. He was just drifting off when Brooks snapped him awake.

“Hey,” Brooks said. “Better look.”

On the screen, dressed in a leather blazer and tie, Romulus Wayne was surrounded by a dozen microphones. He was pale, dark circles around his eyes, and his hair stood straight up in front. “Hey,” Bobby said to the guard. “Can you turn that up a notch?” The officer leaned forward and nudged the volume slightly. The sound was muffled, but Bobby could make out a woman’s shrill voice, shouting to be heard above the others.

—
Mr. Wayne, if you really are indestructible, shouldn’t you be using your abilities for the good of society?

—
I… I don’t know,
Romulus said.
I guess I never thought of it that way.

—
And how many people may already have died because you ‘never thought of it that way?’
       
—
I don’t know. Nobody, I hope
.

—What do you have to say about the two young boys in Florida who were seriously injured trying to imitate your stunts?

—I have to go now. I’m sorry, I really am.

“Ah, who cares?” the guard said, and changed the channel.

“Ha!” Brooks said. “You hear that?”

But Bobby was too excited to hear him; despite everything, he managed a smile.

7

Bobby’s trial
began a week before Christmas. As his mother predicted, the lawyer easily convinced the jury that Bobby knew Romulus was impervious to harm. Though the prosecutor wanted to lock him up for attempted murder, in the end he was convicted of assault, public discharge of a firearm, and disturbing the peace. He spent three months in the county jail and, during the five years of probation that would follow, was forbidden to come within one hundred yards of Romulus Wayne or Abigail Wheat. Brooks was given thirty days as Bobby’s accomplice; the prosecutor made no mention of the bombing incident.

He was released
on the first day of spring. The Villa had reclaimed his flat, and he was broke after the fines and court costs, so his only option was to move back in with his parents. When they brought him home his father pushed him up the ramp to the front door, his mother lagging behind, her face thin and gray, eyes fixed on the ground. Neither spoke more than a few words to him for several days; he knew they had taken him in out of charity.

Bobby spent his days drinking his father’s tasteless beer and watching TV in his bedroom. Every few days he caught news clips on Romulus Wayne’s legal troubles, giggling as Romulus squirmed in front of the cameras. The airwaves were free of All-American Insurance commercials for the first time in months; angry parents’ groups had boycotted All-American into firing Romulus, and the company president apologized for the ‘provocative and inappropriate images’ which caused the two boys to be injured. The two had rigged cinder blocks to drop on their heads after watching one of Romulus’ commercials; one had a serious concussion and a cracked skull, the other permanent brain damage. Best of all, their parents were about to sue Romulus and All-American Insurance for millions in damages, and would likely suck dry whatever fortune he had earned. Bobby spun joyfully in his wheelchair when he heard the news.

 
One day in early April, in the middle of watching the sports report, he was startled by a knock on his door. “Bobby,” his mother said. “You’ve got a visitor.”

“Send him in, Mom,” he said, expecting Brooks. But instead Cindy appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” she said. “Can I come in?”

“Um, yeah,” he said. Embarrassed that he was still in his pajamas, he pulled a blanket from the bed to cover himself.

“That’s okay,” she said.

He turned down the TV volume. Cindy sat at the foot of the bed, nervously tapping the bedspread. “I heard what happened,” she said. “Kind of hard not to, I guess. So you really did it.”

“Yeah.”

“I really didn’t think you’d go through with it,” she said, helping him spread the blanket back over the bed. “I heard you got a little roughed up.”