Kiss and Tell 3 (2 page)

“What’s that supposed to mean?” London asked. His anger had overtaken his curiosity, and he looked like a force with which one should be reckoned.

“Look around you, London,” I said, leaning over my knees. “Look where you are… You asked Anthony for $250,000. How far do you think that’s going to get you?”

London looked at me, dumbfounded.

Now it was my turn to make sense out of this conversation.

“You have one year left of school,” I said, “and, I’d imagine you want to finish it.” I looked to London for an answer, but he looked back at me as if he’d never even contemplated the question. Eventually, he nodded his head in the affirmative, however, and I proceeded with my analysis.

“You want $250,000?” I asked again, emphasizing each number in the sequence. “You’ll blow through half of that in a year, on school-related things alone—and, that’s just considering legitimate expenses, like your tuition, books, rent, food, and household items. If you toss in your beer, pot, and other partying, that’s even more, not to mention clothes and cars. You’d be lucky if $250,000 last you three years at the rate you live life.

“What kind of a cushion is that?”

London obviously hadn’t done the math, and, as I went over the figures, he seemed to be working them in his head. From the look on his face, he was not pleased with the results.

“At least it’s something,” he said, which was the best he could say. I mean, think about it, what I said was spot-on. There was no way $250,000 would get London very far. It was a foolish sum to ask for. Like when Dr. Evil, from the Austen Powers movies, asks for a billion dollars in to 60s and a million in the 90s.

I knew that London was surprised by the figures, and I was surprised that he hadn’t thought them through. But, then again, I guess it wasn’t really that shocking. Rich kids like us were used to getting whatever we wanted without paying attention to the price tags. How were we supposed to know what it took to maintain our habits and standards of living?

“Yeah,” I replied, refereeing the thoughts that were racing in my head. “It’s something. But, look at what it’s cost you. You screwed over a friend so that you could live securely for two or three years.”

“Come on, Kirby,” London said. That crooked grin was back. “It’s not like we were
really
friends anyway. For years, we’ve done nothing but torture each other. We never spent any quality time together or bonded over anything. We could barely tolerate talking to 'each other until a few weeks ago, and, even then, it was only for our own selfish reasons… What type of a friendship is
that
? I’ll tell you this much—it isn’t something it hurts to ‘lose.’ It’s a small price to pay for my freedom.”

Just then, thunderbolts of sympathy shot through me, but I was grounded back from them by a knock at the pool house door. I jumped up in my seat a little, alarmed and curious as to why Anthony would observe such a formality.

London rushed to the door and peered out of a cut-out in the frosted glass window at its center, much like a bad guy would do in a movie. A moment later, he opened the door, and greeted the man who stood before him.

“I need to get into the main house,” Luke said. “I need to use the stationary tub in your basement… I called your dad, and he said you could show me in.”

I’d nearly forgotten about the hired man who was outside tending to the Gallaghers’ pool, and London certainly hadn’t expected him to come calling.

London looked at me, then looked at Luke; Luke looked at London, then looked at me; and I looked at Luke, then looked at London. There was a lot of looking back and forth.

“Look, Luke,” London said, which seemed obvious and was a tongue-twister, “I’m kinda busy right now. I’ll just give you the key, and you let yourself in, okay? The basement’s not that hard to find—just below the kitchen.”

We exchanged another set of looks, though they were quicker this time.

“Alright,” Luke said, nodding his head.

London let the door sway open a bit and walked toward the kitchenette, where he picked his keys up off of the counter. As he was walking back to the door, another man appeared on the outside.

My heart skipped a beat. I’d recognize that salt-and-pepper hair and those piercing blue eyes anywhere.

Anthony walked into the pool house as if he was both expected and invited. He just waltzed in as if it was no big deal, and Luke looked at him strangely when he did. After all, Anthony was an older suit-and-tie business man walking into a 20-something-year-old guy’s pool house in the middle of the afternoon. He wasn’t carrying a set of encyclopedias or pamphlets of finding God, and he didn’t have a box of pizza. So, whyever he was there, it had to be for some uncanny purpose. Perhaps to buy drugs, pay for sex, or maybe even settle up on some blackmail.

London walked right past Anthony to Luke, treating Anthony’s presence on the scene as nonchalantly as he had. He handed Luke the keys, smiled, and shut the door. Luke kept looking in, suspiciously, as he did.

There was something so weird, but so smooth, about the way it all happened, and it all happened so quickly. The next thing I knew, London was beside Anthony, and the two men were standing face to face with each other—and, it was a strange sight, if I do say so.

On one side, you had a thick, cut young man who looked like he could take on a lion; and, on the other, you had an older man who was just s broad, only rounder, who looked like he’d already taken on a lion and been both empowered and humbled by it.

“So you want my money?” Anthony asked, staring down his opponent.

“Yes,” London answered.

“Well, you can’t have it,” Anthony replied.

“If you don’t give it to me, I’ll go public,” London said. “I’ll tell Kirby’s parents, and I’ll leak it out to the media, and online.”

“You don’t have any media connections,” Anthony laughed. “And, you don’t have any evidence. All you have is a rumor, no proof… and no credibility.”

“You might be right about some of that,” London said. His crooked grin was now more crooked than ever. “But, I do have
one
of those things you mentioned.”

“Which one’s that?” Anthony asked snidely.

“Proof,” London said as he looked toward his television stand. I noticed the video game console—the one he’d been toying with when I got there—and saw a bright green light glowing on it.

Anthony remained silent for a moment. I didn’t say a word either, and even London didn’t speak. It was another weird moment, but it wasn’t smooth at all.

“You’re recording this?” Anthony finally asked. Of course, I’d been wondering the same thing, though I didn’t have the balls to ask it. I was still staring at the game console. I thought London had turned it off when I arrived, and here he’d activated it. I should have been more observant.

“Yes,” London replied, matter-of-factly. “I’ve been recording ever since your little cupcake got here. She gave me a pretty juicy recording of what went down—so to speak—at your office this morning.”

Anthony looked over at me, and I nodded. Then, he looked at London again.

“That should be proof enough, shouldn’t it?” London asked. “I’m sure her parents would believe it coming from her own voice. And it’d make a hell of a video to post all over the place online, don’t you think?”

“You’re recording this?” Anthony asked again. He said it more sternly this time, as if he really meant business.

“Yes,” London repeated.

I felt something stirring inside of me. I hadn’t had the balls to speak earlier, but now I was sprouting a pair.

“That’s not all you recorded though,” I said.

Both me—the young one and the older one—looked at me.

“He also told me why he did it,” I explained, directing my words mostly at Anthony. “So, his recording is as much as confession as it is proof.”

“And, it can be used against
him
the same way it can be used against us,” Anthony added.

London seemed bewildered. “Whatever,” he said, trying to act tough. “Big deal. I’ll just delete anything that incriminates me.”

“Go ahead,” Anthony said. “Really, kid, do whatever you’d like… You’ve already messed up so much here, it doesn’t matter what you do at this point.”

London and I both arched our necks, intrigued to hear more.

“The only piece of ‘evidence’ you have to blackmail us,” Anthony went on, “can be used against you to show that you blackmailed us. Blackmail is a crime, you know—and, you’ve already signed your own warrant.

“First of all, I found out it was
you
who was blackmailing me because you paid for the courier service with your parents’ credit card. Second of all, apparently, you confessed, everything to Kirby earlier… And, let’s not forget about that nice fellow whose working on your pool outside.

“You can try your damnedest to get money out of me, but you won’t—and, even if you did, you’d go down for the way you got it. This is absolutely ridiculous, and I’m not going to waste my time with you or your shit anymore.”

Anthony stepped forward and walked toward the television, with his sights set on the game console. He reached out his hand and started bending over, obviously trying to interfere with London’s recording. But, before he could do so, London lunged at him and socked him in the face, square in the nose.

“What the fuck was that?” Anthony exclaimed. He seemed more caught off guard than injured, but blood was squirting from his nose like water from a popped fire hydrant in a sweltering ghetto.

London was flexing his fist and staring at his knuckles. I could tell that he was shocked by his own behavior and that, in many ways, he could tell that his goose had been cooked. Brawn or no brawn, he was no match for his competition.

“Wait,” Anthony said a moment later, squeezing his finger and thumb over the bridge in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “I’ll tell you what you that was… I’ll tell you what you just did.

“You signed another warrant.”

Anthony fiddled around in his pocket with his other hand. He must have been looking for a tissue, or something else to absorb the blood he was oozing.

“This time, it’s for assault,” he clarified, withdrawing his hand from his pocket. It was empty, but he raised it to his face anyway. “You just keep digging this hole deeper and deeper.”

London recoiled a little bit, like a child who had been scolded.

Relentlessly, Anthony went on. “You’ve made
so
many mistakes—and, the sad part is, they were all because of your own stupidity. They weren’t oversights or accidents. They were complete miscalculations, or completely wrong decisions.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” London said. He was rubbing his fist with his other hand. The impact of it against Anthony’s face must have hurt him. Perhaps my white knight was made of steel.

“I
do
know what I’m talking about,” Anthony corrected. “But, you have no idea what you’re doing.” His tone was a little louder and more aggressive than before, and his bloody red face was turning even redder with anger. He wasn’t losing his cool, but he definitely looked heated.

“You’ve got to be one of the stupidest people I’ve ever met,” he said, “and, that’s really saying something, because I’ve met
a lot
of people.”

Sooo, that takes us right back to where we started… And, if you think that what led up to this point was interesting, you won’t believe what happened next. Some of it really surprised me, and I still can’t get over it.

“Are you going to just keep insulting me?” London asked. “What’s your point? You’re not gonna pay me?”

London was grasping at straws. Anthony didn’t have to make a point. He’d already made many.

“You’ve got
that
right,” Anthony replied quickly. “I’m
not
going to pay you… So you can just forget about that.” He slowed down his pace, kept his tone firm but lightened it a bit, and continued, “But, consider this your lucky day, because I am going to give you something.”

London looked at Anthony expectedly, and I too gazed on with piqued interest.

“This is your ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card,” Anthony said. “I’m going to ignore all of this, and I’m going to forget all about it… and, so are you. None of this ever happened.”

“Fat chance,” London snorted. Loathsome as he was, at least he was committed. He wasn’t going to jump ship, even though it was sinking.

“Listen, son,” Anthony said, sounding somewhat endearing, “you’re too young to have something like this on your record. You will go down for what you’ve done—from the blackmail to the assault, and whatever else the police and my top-dollar attorney can come up with. Save yourself the trouble. If I can let go of this, you can too.”

“But—” London started to say before Anthony cut him off.

“There are no buts here,” Anthony said.

There was something very tender going on at that moment. Tender. There was no other word to describe it. When Anthony called London “son,” it was as if he actually meant it, and, what he went on to say, he said in an effort to help London, when, by all measures, he had good reason, and good evidence, to throw the book at him.

“I just need something,” London said. That tenderness was there in London’s voice too. When he spoke, it was with resignation, but there was something sweet about it. It was apparent that he’d given up, but, at the same time, he was mourning his loss, lamenting it sadly, while clinging to it, like a child reluctantly surrendering a dangerous toy to his father.

“Whatever’s got you so desperate for money has got to be pretty bad,” Anthony said with a kindness that the situation didn’t call for. “But, it can’t be that bad. Whatever it is, you don’t have to resort to crime to resolve it.”

Anthony sounded a little like a public service announcement, but he had a point, and London was starting to see it.

“I don’t know what else to do,” London said,

“Then of all the things you could have done,” Anthony posed, “why do something so stupid?” This time it was clear that he wasn’t being insulting, but was pointing out the obvious.

London bowed his head, and, as he did, I couldn’t help but feel my own head spinning a little. I was still trying to catch up with what was going on. In a matter of minutes, the situation had gone from a tense argument to a didactic moment. The blackmail garbage was over, and something else was happening… But
what
?

“Get your life together,” Anthony followed up. “Build yourself up; don’t tear other people down.”

Where was I—a pep rally?

“If you need something, ask for it, don’t just try to take it,” Anthony went on. “Think about what you want to do with the rest of your life—what you really want to do—and come talk to me next week. Call my office. I’ll have my secretary fit you in. Come tell me what you’re going through, and let’s figure out what we can do about it.

“Understand, this is not me giving in to your blackmail demands. This is me making my own offer. I’m offering to help you. I’ll help you find a job—in my organization, or another. That way you can earn the money you need to take care of whatever mess you’re in, rather than trying to extort it from someone… Just come talk to me. I’ll help you get through this.”

Two employment invitations in one day? What would Parker & Swift’s HR department think?!? One of their head honchos had extended not one, but
two
“come work for me” offers to unqualified nobodies today… And what foundations would their salaries have sprung from?

He’d offered one (me) a job to try and appease her, and the other (London) a job to try and assist him. One was out of weakness, and one was out of nobility, but neither were valid reasons for a hire. What the hell did Mr. Swift do—pass out job offers like Halloween candy?

“Really?” London asked. From the look on his face, you could tell that he hadn’t forgotten that Anthony had just called him “stupid.”

But, apparently, Anthony had.

“Yes, really,” Anthony said.

I didn’t know about London, but
I
couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

London slowly walked to the kitchenette, to the counter, where he dipped his hand into the sink and pulled out an already-wet dish towel. He turned on the faucet and ran the towel under the water for a moment (judging from how long the faucet was on, the water was probably lukewarm), then he wrung it tightly, wincing a little. His knuckles must’ve still stung from punching Anthony, the man who’d just thrown him the lifeline he needed.

He walked over to Anthony, held out the moist towel (which probably also contained trace elements of food, beer, and, possibly, semen), and looked his elder in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he said, “for punching you. I was really out of line for doing that.”

“I forgive you,” Anthony said. He reached out and took the dish towel from London and patted it against his bruised face, ignoring how noticeably filthy it was. He smiled at London, and London smiled back—and, this time, it was a real smile, not that ugly crooked grin I now hated.