Live Wire
Page 30
Myron went for something simpler and again, kiddies, if you’re not professionally trained and physically gifted, don’t try this at home. With his dominant hand, Myron snatched the gun away. Just like that. Like he was taking a toy from a bratty kid. Using his superior strength, athletic skill, knowledge, leverage, and element of surprise, he snapped out his hand and took away the weapon. As he pulled the weapon free, he lifted his elbow and struck Fishman flush on the face, sending him sprawling back in the chair.
Myron leapt across the desk, knocking the chair back. Fishman landed hard on his back. He tried to snake-crawl off the chair. Myron leapt on him, straddling his chest. He even pinned Fishman’s arms to the floor with his knees, like a big brother picking on a little one. Old-school.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Myron asked.
No reply. Myron boxed Fishman’s ears hard. Fishman squealed in terror and tried to cover up, cowering, helpless. Myron flashed to the video with Kitty, the satisfied smirk, and he punched Fishman hard in the face.
“The gun’s not loaded!” Fishman yelled. “Check! Please.”
Still pinning down the man’s wiggling arms, Myron checked. Fishman was telling the truth. There were no bullets. Myron tossed the gun across the room. Myron cocked his fist to deliver another blow. But Fishman was sobbing now. Not just crying or cringing or scared. He was sobbing in a way you rarely saw in an adult. Myron rolled off him, still at the ready—two could play at the sudden, surprise attack.
Fishman curled himself into a little ball. He made fists, jammed them into his eyes, and kept sobbing. Myron just waited.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Fishman managed between sobs. “I’m such a mess. I’m really, really sorry.”
“You pulled a gun on me.”
“I’m a mess,” he said again. “You don’t understand. I’m so screwed.”
“Joel?”
He kept sniffling.
“Joel?” Myron slid another photograph across the floor to him. “See the woman in that picture?”
He still had his eyes covered.
Myron made his voice firm. “Look, Joel.”
Fishman slowly put his hands down. His face was slick from tears and probably phlegm. Crush, the tough Manhattan drug dealer, wiped his face with his sleeve. Myron tried to wait him out, but he just stared.
“A few nights ago, you were at Three Downing with that woman,” Myron said. “If you start telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about, I will take off my shoe and beat you with it. Do you understand me?”
Fishman nodded.
“You remember her, right?”
He closed his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t care about any of that. Do you know her name?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“My shoe, Joel. I could just beat it out of you.”
Fishman wiped his face, shook his head. “That doesn’t seem your style.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I just don’t think you’ll hit me anymore.”
In the past, Myron thought, I would have in a Big Apple second. But right now, yeah, Fishman was right. He wouldn’t.
Seeing Myron hesitate, Fishman said, “Do you know anything about addiction?”
Oh boy. Where was this headed? “Yes, Joel, I do.”
“From personal experience?”
“No. Are you going to tell me you’re a drug addict, Joel?”
“No. I mean, well, sure, I use. But that’s not really what this is about.” He tilted his head, suddenly the inquisitive teacher. “Do you know when addicts finally go for help?”
“When they have to.”
He grinned as though pleased. Myron Bolitar, prize pupil. “Precisely. When they hit rock bottom. That’s what just happened here. I get it now. I get that I have a problem, and I’m going to get help.”
Myron was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself. When a guy you wanted info from was talking, it was best to keep him that way. “That sounds like a productive move,” Myron said, trying not to gag.
“I have two kids. I have a wonderful wife. Here, take a look.”
As Fishman started reaching into his pocket, Myron jumped closer. Fishman nodded, moved slower, took out a set of keys. He handed Myron one of those photo key chains. It was a family shot taken, according to the background, at Six Flags Great Adventure. A costumed Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird stood left and right of the Fishman family. Mrs. Fishman was heartbreakingly lovely. Joel was kneeling. On his right was a girl, maybe five or six with blond hair and the kind of wide smile that’s so damn contagious Myron realized that the corner of his own lips were curling upward. On the other side of Joel was a boy, maybe two years younger than the girl. The boy was shy, half hiding his face in his father’s shoulder.
He handed the key chain back. “Beautiful kids.”
“Thank you.”
Myron remembered something his father once told him: People have an amazing capacity to mess up their own lives.
Out loud, Myron said, “You’re a dumb-ass, Joel.”
“I’m sick,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. I want to get better though.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Start showing that you’re ready to change by telling me about the woman you were with three nights ago.”
“How do I know you don’t mean her harm?”
“The same way you know I won’t take off my shoe and beat you.”
Joel Fishman looked at the key chain and started to cry again.
“Joel?”
“I honestly want to move past this.”
“I know you do.”
“And I will. I swear to God. I’ll get help. I will be the best father and husband in the world. I just need a chance. You get that, right?”
Myron wanted to vomit. “I do.”
“It’s just . . . Don’t get me wrong. I love my life. I love my family and my kids. But for eighteen years I’ve woken up and come to this school and taught middle schoolers French. They hate it. They never pay attention. When I started, I had this vision of what it was going to be like—me teaching them this beautiful language that I love so much. But it’s nothing like that. They just want to get As and move on. That’s it. Every class, year after year. We go through this dance. Amy and I are always struggling to make ends meet. It’s just the same, you know. Every day. Year after year. The same drudgery. And what will tomorrow be like? The same. Every day the same, until, well, until I die.”
Myron leapt across the desk, knocking the chair back. Fishman landed hard on his back. He tried to snake-crawl off the chair. Myron leapt on him, straddling his chest. He even pinned Fishman’s arms to the floor with his knees, like a big brother picking on a little one. Old-school.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Myron asked.
No reply. Myron boxed Fishman’s ears hard. Fishman squealed in terror and tried to cover up, cowering, helpless. Myron flashed to the video with Kitty, the satisfied smirk, and he punched Fishman hard in the face.
“The gun’s not loaded!” Fishman yelled. “Check! Please.”
Still pinning down the man’s wiggling arms, Myron checked. Fishman was telling the truth. There were no bullets. Myron tossed the gun across the room. Myron cocked his fist to deliver another blow. But Fishman was sobbing now. Not just crying or cringing or scared. He was sobbing in a way you rarely saw in an adult. Myron rolled off him, still at the ready—two could play at the sudden, surprise attack.
Fishman curled himself into a little ball. He made fists, jammed them into his eyes, and kept sobbing. Myron just waited.
“I’m so sorry, man,” Fishman managed between sobs. “I’m such a mess. I’m really, really sorry.”
“You pulled a gun on me.”
“I’m a mess,” he said again. “You don’t understand. I’m so screwed.”
“Joel?”
He kept sniffling.
“Joel?” Myron slid another photograph across the floor to him. “See the woman in that picture?”
He still had his eyes covered.
Myron made his voice firm. “Look, Joel.”
Fishman slowly put his hands down. His face was slick from tears and probably phlegm. Crush, the tough Manhattan drug dealer, wiped his face with his sleeve. Myron tried to wait him out, but he just stared.
“A few nights ago, you were at Three Downing with that woman,” Myron said. “If you start telling me you don’t know what I’m talking about, I will take off my shoe and beat you with it. Do you understand me?”
Fishman nodded.
“You remember her, right?”
He closed his eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
“I don’t care about any of that. Do you know her name?”
“I’m not sure I should tell you.”
“My shoe, Joel. I could just beat it out of you.”
Fishman wiped his face, shook his head. “That doesn’t seem your style.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. I just don’t think you’ll hit me anymore.”
In the past, Myron thought, I would have in a Big Apple second. But right now, yeah, Fishman was right. He wouldn’t.
Seeing Myron hesitate, Fishman said, “Do you know anything about addiction?”
Oh boy. Where was this headed? “Yes, Joel, I do.”
“From personal experience?”
“No. Are you going to tell me you’re a drug addict, Joel?”
“No. I mean, well, sure, I use. But that’s not really what this is about.” He tilted his head, suddenly the inquisitive teacher. “Do you know when addicts finally go for help?”
“When they have to.”
He grinned as though pleased. Myron Bolitar, prize pupil. “Precisely. When they hit rock bottom. That’s what just happened here. I get it now. I get that I have a problem, and I’m going to get help.”
Myron was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself. When a guy you wanted info from was talking, it was best to keep him that way. “That sounds like a productive move,” Myron said, trying not to gag.
“I have two kids. I have a wonderful wife. Here, take a look.”
As Fishman started reaching into his pocket, Myron jumped closer. Fishman nodded, moved slower, took out a set of keys. He handed Myron one of those photo key chains. It was a family shot taken, according to the background, at Six Flags Great Adventure. A costumed Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird stood left and right of the Fishman family. Mrs. Fishman was heartbreakingly lovely. Joel was kneeling. On his right was a girl, maybe five or six with blond hair and the kind of wide smile that’s so damn contagious Myron realized that the corner of his own lips were curling upward. On the other side of Joel was a boy, maybe two years younger than the girl. The boy was shy, half hiding his face in his father’s shoulder.
He handed the key chain back. “Beautiful kids.”
“Thank you.”
Myron remembered something his father once told him: People have an amazing capacity to mess up their own lives.
Out loud, Myron said, “You’re a dumb-ass, Joel.”
“I’m sick,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. I want to get better though.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Start showing that you’re ready to change by telling me about the woman you were with three nights ago.”
“How do I know you don’t mean her harm?”
“The same way you know I won’t take off my shoe and beat you.”
Joel Fishman looked at the key chain and started to cry again.
“Joel?”
“I honestly want to move past this.”
“I know you do.”
“And I will. I swear to God. I’ll get help. I will be the best father and husband in the world. I just need a chance. You get that, right?”
Myron wanted to vomit. “I do.”
“It’s just . . . Don’t get me wrong. I love my life. I love my family and my kids. But for eighteen years I’ve woken up and come to this school and taught middle schoolers French. They hate it. They never pay attention. When I started, I had this vision of what it was going to be like—me teaching them this beautiful language that I love so much. But it’s nothing like that. They just want to get As and move on. That’s it. Every class, year after year. We go through this dance. Amy and I are always struggling to make ends meet. It’s just the same, you know. Every day. Year after year. The same drudgery. And what will tomorrow be like? The same. Every day the same, until, well, until I die.”
