The Tutor (22 page)

“Coming up,” said the bartender.

“Highland Park?” said Gudukas. “Haven’t heard of that one.”

“It doesn’t have Glen in it,” said Julian. “That’s what appeals.”

“Huh?”

A simple grunt, placing Gudukas several notches down from Scott on the evolutionary scale. How low did it go?

The bartender brought his drink. Julian took a sip.

“Is it good?” said Gudukas.

“And one for this gentleman,” Julian told the waiter, adding, “on me,” taking nothing for granted now on Gudukas’s part.

“Hey,” said Gudukas, probably expressing thanks, and “Not bad,” after he’d had a taste. “Cheers,” after that. They clinked glasses. “What line of work you in, stays busy in this shitbox economy?”

“Venture capital.”

“Yeah?” Greed expressed itself in the contraction of specific facial muscles, possibly hardwired, certainly so in Gudukas’s case. “What outfit?”

“I’m retained by several.”

“As what?”

“A technical consultant.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“The VC firms have their own people to evaluate the financial side of companies they’re interested in, but sometimes they need help on technical and scientific issues. That’s me.”

Gudukas eyed him with care; it gave Julian that peculiar feeling when one of the zoo animals gazes back. “You don’t look like a techie,” Gudukas said.

“I’m not,” said Julian. “I’m a mathematician.”

“Yeah?” said Gudukas. “Never met one of them before.”

“It’s really no different from any other job,” Julian said. “You search for patterns.”

“Search for patterns,” said Gudukas. He went still. For a moment, Julian wondered whether some medical emergency was in the offing. Then Gudukas spoke. “I like that.” He actually wrote it down—
search for patterns—
on a napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he downed his single malt in one gulp, taking another look at Julian over the rim of the glass. “Working on anything interesting lately?”

“Naturally I can’t discuss specifics,” Julian said. “I’ve just been checking out a company in California.”

“Who shall remain nameless, right?”

Julian smiled. “Those are the rules.” Although not those of grammar.

“What kind of company, you know, in general?”

“Software design.”

“That’s kind of broad.”

Good for you, Mickey;
Julian was pleasantly surprised. “Too broad, in this case,” he said.

“How do you mean?”

“I could answer that,” said Julian, “but you’d have to know about number theory in general and Mordell’s conjecture in particular.”

“I’ll pass,” said Gudukas. He was back on the blue drink. “But your point is you found some screwup in this company.”

“Broadly speaking, yes.”

“And now what? You tell the VC boys to stay clear?”

“Or unload.”

“Unload? So they’re going to dump their shares?”

“I really can’t answer that,” Julian said.

“Gotcha,” said Gudukas. “So did you lay the news on these Silicon Valley guys?”

“I never mentioned Silicon Valley,” Julian said. “And my job is simply to file my report.”

“And pick up your check, right?”

Julian smiled. “What field are you in, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Sales,” said Gudukas. “Pretty dull in comparison.”

Julian made some conciliatory remark. Sales. True in a sense, but was there a stockbroker alive who would have given that answer to a prosperous-looking stranger in a bar, who wouldn’t have handed out his business card? Everything was set.

Julian waited till the bartender left to hook up a new keg in the cellar, then excused himself and went to the bathroom, leaving Gudukas alone at one end of the bar, folder in reach. When he returned it was exactly where he’d left it, and Gudukas was turned the other way, gazing with what looked like great interest at a Depends commercial on TV.

Julian sat down. Gudukas finished his drink, pushed back his stool. Would he check his watch too? Yes. “Well,” he said, “Nice talking to you. And thanks for the drink.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. . . .”

“Mike,” said Mickey Gudukas. “Be seeing you.” He couldn’t wait to get out of there, leaving no trace.

Julian finished his Scotch, paid his bill, left about ten minutes later, taking the folder. Inside was the rough draft of a memo outlining Codexco’s bleak prospects, based on the failure of Gail’s friend’s nephew’s project. Beneath the memo lay pages and pages of mathematical equations Julian had copied at the library. He dropped the whole thing in the first Dumpster he saw. Good things happened fast. He owed Linda one.

22

“I
can’t believe how big your house is,” said Trish Almeida.

“Yeah?” said Brandon. They lay on Brandon’s bed, music playing soft, TV on, mute button pushed. He’d been in big houses—his cousin Sam’s in Old Mill, for example—and knew this wasn’t big. He stretched out, relaxed but not at all sleepy in his boxers; Trish wore her bra and nothing else. Another hard-on would be along soon. They’d left school a little early, both having last-period spares with a sub in charge this week, and the sub-spare combo lowered the chances of getting a cut sent up to the office to almost zero. And if they did get cuts, so what? He was only at level two and Trish hadn’t had a single infraction all year. But even at level nine hundred and ninety-nine, Brandon knew he would have done the same thing. Come on, school or this? Besides, he kind of liked Trish, admitted that to himself, even if she wasn’t one of the cool kids, didn’t dress right, rode the bus.

“I think the chief is stirring,” she said.

That was what she called his dick, something about a resemblance to one of those fireman’s helmets. They’d gone beyond oral sex—Trish had decided she was ready for real sex now—and it was good, but in a way Brandon preferred the old days of the oral kind. This way they were face to face, and sometimes their eyes opened simultaneously, like right now, and he had to look into hers. She had nice eyes, beautiful, actually, and looking into them wasn’t bad, exactly, just too much, like whatever went on inside her was way too intense. It made him feel he should protect her, like some knight, a crazy idea she probably would have hated. Still, he was always surprised when she could talk normally right after.

“Know what I’d like?” she said.

He guessed it was going to be some kind of snack, but wasn’t sure and kept his mouth shut.

“I’d like to go down to that bar in Soho.”

“Yeah?”

“Now, Brandon. I’d like to jump in the car and go right now.”

“What car?”

“Maybe we could get my mom’s.”

“What are you talking about? You’re fifteen.”

“You could drive.”

“I’ve only got a permit. And my second lesson is next week.” Other than a few informal lessons with Dad, not good. “ ‘Hey, Mrs. Almeida, can I take your car down to New York? I’ll be getting my license pretty soon.’ ”

“You just don’t want to go.”

“Fuck I don’t,” said Brandon. “I’ll talk to Dewey.”

“I don’t want to go with Dewey.”

“Then who?”

“You.”

He looked in Trish’s eyes. They were normal, almost. “This isn’t working out,” he said.

“What isn’t?”

“Me being the mature one.”

Trish laughed. “You’re so funny,” she said. “The chief is funny too. Aren’t you, chiefy?” She gave the chief a little shake.

There was a knock at the door. Trish went still.

“Bran?” Ruby called through the door. “You in there?”

“What is it?” Brandon said. Trish was tugging silently at the sheet, hopelessly tangled beneath them.

“Phone.”

“Tell them to call back on my line.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“It’s Julian.”

“Shit. What does he want?”

“To talk to you. That’s what it means when someone calls you on the phone.”

“Jesus Christ, I’ll be right down.”

“I’ve got the portable.” The doorknob started to turn.

“I said I’ll fucking be right down.”

It stopped turning. Brandon thought he heard footsteps retreating.

“Your sister?” Trish whispered in his ear.

“The biggest pain,” he said in a normal voice.

“What was that?” said Ruby, from not far off at all.

“Get the hell away.”

“You talking to yourself now, Bran?”

“I mean it.”

There was no sign of her when he left the room, wearing only his jeans. He closed the door behind him and went downstairs.

R
uby, standing in the linen closet with the door opened just a crack—really one of her best ideas—watched Brandon go by. Hair gelled again. Also a funny kind of scratch on his back. She waited till the coast was clear, stepped out of the closet and boom—Brandon’s door opened. Out came a girl, a teenage girl, very pretty, slipping a rubber band on her ponytail.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” said Ruby.

“You’re Brandon’s sister?”

“Among other things,” said Ruby.

“Gotcha,” said the girl. “I’m Trish. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too,” Ruby said. “But he should lose the gel.”

“You tell him.”

“P
retty good, Julian. How’re you?”

“Could be worse,” said Julian. “I’m just calling about the new schedule. Did your mother mention I’d be coming more often?”

“Something about it.”

“Ghastly turn of events, right?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Julian laughed. “You know that some of these visits won’t be strictly academic in nature.”

“Yeah.”

“Your mother said something about visiting museums.”

“Yeah.”

“But if you could come up with any ideas of your own, I’m sure they’d be considered.”

“What kind of ideas?”

“Cultural, I suppose, but in the broadest sense.”

“Like trips?” Brandon said.

“Depending on their nature.”

“To see culture.”

“Yes.”

“Like how far?”

“How far?”

“How far a trip?”

“Up to your parents, of course. But I’m sure it’s negotiable. To a point. Indian casinos would be stretching the cultural definition.”

Indian casinos! What a great idea! “When’s the next lesson?”

“Tomorrow,” Julian said. “Geometry again.”

“Maybe we can talk more about it then.” An idea was taking shape in his head.

“Why not?” said Julian.

Trish and Ruby entered, in the middle of some conversation. “I could whip up a batch of hot dogs,” Ruby was saying.

“Sounds great,” said Trish.

Then they both looked at him funny. “What?” Brandon said. “What?”

M
s. Freleng had a thing about Cortès, but Pizarro, forget it. He was even worse, what he did to the Incas. Ruby kept waiting for Ms. Freleng to say something about the adventure part of the whole story, how it must have been amazing from that point of view, but Ms. Freleng never did. Tonight’s assignment was to make a diorama of Machu Picchu before the Spanish came, showing the Incas at work and play. The first thing Ruby did was crayon in a couple of sailing ships on the right-hand side, just to add a little tension to the scene. She included big red crosses on the sails and black cannons on the deck. Why not fire one of them? She was testing various oranges for the flame—Ruby had the Wizard’s Giant 120 Crayola box—when she half remembered that maybe Pizarro hadn’t come by ship. But the ships were too good to lose. If Ms. Freleng objected, Ruby could say the ships were a vision of the Inca shaman. Unable to choose between Atomic Tangerine and Neon Carrot, she ended up firing two cannons.

Ruby got bored when the ships were done, took a break. She practiced her Oscar acceptance speech in front of the mirror on her closet door. “Wow,” she said, holding up one of Brandon’s tennis trophies. She had none of her own: archery was the only sport she was good enough to win trophies in, and Jeanette didn’t give them. “Wow.” Ruby panted; a long run from her plush seat to the stage. “I don’t believe this. Amazing. I want to thank just everybody, everybody on the whole planet Earth.” She giggled. Waves of adoration swept over her. “I love you all. Thanks to the folks at Disney, you know who you are. But especially my mom and dad, my brother Brandon, and his new girlfriend—what does she see in him?” Pause for laughter. “And Adam? This is for you.” Then she hurried offstage, keeping it short and sweet.

Back at her desk, Ruby began making an Inca temple out of toothpicks. The boredom was intense, maybe like building a real temple. Did the Incas get excited when they first saw the ships, thinking something was going to happen at last? She decided to have one tiny Inca spotting the ships and breaking out in a big grin. After that, her mind wandered to other stupid school projects, then to her pretend project that had fooled Manny down at the Shell station. And then: inspiration. Just like that, she thought of a way to hear the 911 tape, to solve The Mystery of the Anonymous Caller.

Why not a school project? Kind of one night in the life of the guy taking the 911 calls. She’d go into the police station, interview the 911 guy, then ask to hear some 911 calls. It had to be a specific night, of course, a specific Saturday night, because . . . because the class was doing a portrait of West Mill on that particular night, and her assignment was the 911 calls. Wow. It was perfect.

Ruby checked the time: 7:15. Not too late. Why not do it tonight? No getting lost this time. She went to MapQuest, typed
37 Robin Road
in the
from
box and
West Mill police station
in the
to
box. Up came the directions; not even far, 2.1 miles. She printed them out, went downstairs—no one around—put on her blue jacket with the yellow trim, opened the kitchen door to the garage. No cars, Mom and Dad not home yet. And no bike either. No bike? For a moment, she thought it had been stolen. Then she realized Jeanette hadn’t brought it back yet.

The 911 project would have to wait. She went back into the house, hung her jacket on the peg next to Brandon’s. Then she fought the temptation to check the pockets of the varsity jacket. Checking the pockets was wrong. Would she want someone checking her pockets? No. Were there rights in this country? There were. Was checking someone’s pockets as bad as reading their mail? Yes. Was there anything positive to be said for checking someone’s pockets? No.

Ruby checked Brandon’s pockets. In one she found a crumpled geometry quiz.
17/20,
it said,
nice improvement, Brandon
. In the other pocket was nothing but a stick of Bubblicious gum. Innocent as the baby Jesus. Check out these all-American pockets, Sergeant D’Amario, and back off. Of course, they didn’t have crack in the baby Jesus’ day. Probably another boring time, like the Incas, until he came along, or He, depending, shaking things up a little like Pizarro and Cortès and the rest of the Conquistadors, but a much nicer guy.

The next thing she knew, the gum was in her mouth. Bubblicious was one of Ruby’s favorites. Chewing gum helped you think, no doubt about that. Did Einstein and that crowd chew gum? Probably, and if not they would have done better if they had, like maybe explaining everything so people could understand.

Ruby stood in the mudroom, chewing gum. She could see Zippy lying under the kitchen table. He opened an eye, saw her too, raised his tail sideways, let it flop back down to the floor. Why so affectionate all of a sudden? Was there a mess waiting in some hidden corner of the house?

She entered a kind of bubblegum trance. Her mind left Einstein and Zippy behind, settled on her cases. There were two: The Mystery of the Varsity Jacket and The Mystery of the Anonymous Caller, in order of when they’d happened. Funny thing: at the moment, she was working on case two, the anonymous caller, work that involved checking the pockets of the very jacket that was the subject of case one. Whoa, right there. Did that mean the two cases were connected? What did
connected
mean? Did it mean that the anonymous caller himself—or herself (some girl jealous of Trish?)—was involved in the strange disappearance and reappearance of the jacket? Had to be; even elementary, my dear Ruby.
When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Perhaps that thought didn’t quite apply yet to the linking of the two cases, but Ruby felt its might behind her just the same.

And linking! Here we go.
To thoroughly understand one link in the chain:
there were two chains, the varsity jacket chain and the anonymous caller chain, and the link she’d got hold of was special, the one that joined the two chains together.

“Wow.”

Zippy opened his eye again, raised his tail, let it fall. A puff of dust rose off it under the table. The dust filled with light that came through the crack where the two halves of the table joined together. Ruby was gazing at this sight when the side door opened and Dad came in.

“Hi, Dad.”

Dad was talking on his cell, didn’t see or hear her. He kept going toward the living room.

“L
ightning strikes twice,” Mickey Gudukas said.

“How do you mean?” said Scott.

“I mean this is your lucky day, again. You’re not going to let this one slide by too, are you, Scotty? Most people don’t even get one lucky day.”

Scott tried to convey his displeasure with that in his tone. “This another stock tip?”

“More like investment advice,” Gudukas said. “I think of Symptomatica and opportunities of that magnitude as having a classier nature than just a tip.” He said something else, lost in cell phone breakup, that ended in “. . . short.”

“Didn’t get all of that,” Scott said.

“Christ,” said Gudukas, “do you want to make a shitload of money or don’t you?”

Scott stood beside the Tin Man sculpture,
Untitled—19
. Linda and Deborah had taken an interest in the artist, back in the days when the four of them had done things together, like trips to New York. The artist’s career hadn’t gone anywhere, but Scott liked the Tin Man, although he couldn’t have begun to explain what it meant. He’d given it to Linda for Christmas, then had to fight to make her keep it. She loved the sculpture, thought it was the best thing the guy had done, but the price: two grand, more than a stretch in those days, and still significant. When wouldn’t it be? How nice not to have to even think about two grand here or there, or even twenty. To spread out a little, breathe deeper, do something interesting with his life, maybe open a restaurant one day—call it Untitled 19 and stick the sculpture on the bar. The kids and all their friends would have summer jobs, guaranteed. He could picture Ruby in a chef’s hat.

“Because there are people who don’t want to make a shitload of money,” Gudukas said. “Strange as it may seem. They’re content to be comfortable, whatever the hell that means.”