• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

"A specific reason," Tigue said. The two Ryans hadn't spoken yet. In the movies these guys would have been the muscle, except they were too trim and they kept their hands in their pockets instead of menacingly smacking their fists into their palms.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Tell him about Africa," Tigue said.

"Shut up," Morgan said, and I had the definite impression that he would have smacked Tigue upside the head if they'd been a little closer in the V. But Morgan didn't smack Tigue upside the head. He drew himself taller, as if to make a rehearsed speech. "In the past," he said, "men like us, men of a certain means and of a certain age, if we'd gotten bored or dissatisfied or restless, if we needed to get our blood pumping, take a big, life-affirming risk and so on, we would have gone to Africa, on safari. We would have hired native guides. We would have hunted lions or gazelles; we would have come back with some animal horns or tusks of some kind. We might even have written a book about it after we'd returned. We can't do that anymore."

"Why not?" I asked.

"They're protected," Morgan said. "Lions, rhinos, okapi ― you can't touch them anymore."

"The veldt is closed, man," G-off said.

"We've even tried bungee jumping," Tigue said. "We thought it might be risky enough."

"You tie a big rubber band around your legs," Morgan said. "You jump. You hang there and wait until someone cuts you down. That's it."

"That's it," Tigue repeated.

"It's humiliating," G-off said, "hanging there like that."

"Hey, listen," I said. "Do you want to come inside, have a drink or something?" I was starting to get nervous, the six of us standing on the porch the way we were. In Camelot no one would have paid any attention, but my parents' neighborhood was different, and there were always people out in their front yards, mulching their mums and tiger lilies, and listening to National Public Radio on their transistor radios while they mulched, and looking around to make sure everyone was listening to the same station. I didn't want to draw any attention to myself; I didn't even want them to know that the guy who'd burned down the you-know-what had moved back into the neighborhood.

"Forget the drinks," Morgan said. "We want you to tell us how to burn down houses like the one you burned down. And after we do, we can write a book about it."

"An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England," G-off said. "We've already come up with the title."

"Why do you even need to be an arsonist to write the book?" I asked. "You could always just pretend to have burned down the houses and write the book anyway."

"Ouch," Morgan said. "I deserved that."

"Come on," Tigue said. "Be a pal."

"That has to be some rush," G-off said. "The fire, the smoke, the heat." G-off looked at his hands as if they might tell him what to say next. "The fire," he said again.

"You always seemed so happy," Morgan said. "Happy in a simple way, like a child, only bigger."

"Your jolly red face," Tigue said.

"Elemental," Morgan said. "Primal. Just like the fire you set. Please, we just need a little instruction."

"A little push," G-off said. "Your expertise and know-how."

"But I told you all about it in prison," I said.

"Yeah, yeah," Morgan said. "But then there's that fire you set yesterday."

"Two days ago," G-off said.

"The Belmont House," Morgan said.

"The Bellamy House," G-off corrected.

"Shut up," Morgan said. And then, to me: "The Bellamy House."

"Guys. . . ," I said.

"Sam, buddy, we're in a rut, a big, scary one," Morgan said. "We're scared. There, I said it."

I believed him. They were in serious need, I could tell, because the two mute Ryans actually parted their lips as if preparing to speak. I even felt sorry for them, which was a switch because in prison I always admired them. Now they seemed pathetic and desperate, and I couldn't be mad at them, not even Morgan. No, I couldn't stay angry with them, but I knew they'd be angry with me once I told them what I was going to tell them.

"I'm sorry, guys," I said, "but it wasn't me who set fire