The Fourth Stall - Chris Rylander [12]
“Please, Mac, don’t hurt me. I’m sorry, Mac,” he said.
“What was that all about?” I asked, trying not to yell too harshly. He was still generally a good guy and a frequent employee, after all.
“I don’t know, I’m sorry,” he said between gasps for air.
I studied him as we all took a few moments to catch our breaths. His ears looked as huge as ever. But other than that, he was a mess. His eyes were droopy and puffy and his hair, tangled and greasy. If he was old enough to grow facial hair, he’d probably have had a mountain-man beard so huge that there’d be birds nested in it.
“What’s going on, Ears? You look terrible,” I said.
He shook his head and avoided my stare.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Staples, Ears? Huh?”
He just looked at his feet.
“You’re really in that deep? I don’t believe it,” I said.
He scratched his neck and grimaced. I could tell he felt horrible.
“Look, Mac, you see, the thing is . . . well, I happen to owe Staples a ton of money and . . . well, he said that he was going to kill my cat, Mac. And I really love little Nevernude. He’s the best cat ever, and the only way to get Staples to wipe clean my debt was . . . well . . .”
I sighed.
“Sorry, Mac. I promised Staples I wouldn’t help you anymore. I just can’t. I knew I never should have placed those bets,” he said, and then looked at the sky and shook his head.
“What else, Ears? You wouldn’t have run like that just because you agreed not to help me. You’re in even deeper, aren’t you?” I said.
Ears continued to avoid my stare. After a long pause he finally said, “I’m sorry, Mac. He asked me a bunch of questions about your business.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Just basic stuff, I guess. Like who works for you and where your office is, and I can’t . . . I shouldn’t even be telling you this much, Mac. He’ll kill Nevernude! I didn’t even want to help him, I swear, but . . . my cat. Haven’t you heard about some of the things he’s done? I heard a few years ago that he once kidnapped two cops and then made them eat three whole cases of doughnuts and two gallons of coffee and now they both have diabetes and no feet! What would you do if you were me?”
I shook my head. Kids can be so gullible. I mean, I was sure that some of the legends about Staples were true, but how could any kid believe that one?
“Whatever, Ears.” I said, and nodded at Vince. He released his grip on Ears’s jacket and stood next to me.
I shook my head and turned to leave.
“I’m sorry, Mac,” I heard Ears call out as we walked away.
I just waved my hand without stopping or looking back.
“We’re going to have to find out who the top guy is some other way,” I said as we headed back up the hill.
Vince sighed and took out his baseball and tossed it in the air.
“Any ideas?” I asked. “Still sure you don’t want to hire Tyrell for this one?”
Vince shook his head. “No, Mac. We just can’t be tossing around money like that. I think we should just go after Jacky Boy. If we put a little pressure on him, I bet he’d squeal. He’s kind of a little weasel.”
I nodded. Jacky Boy was a slimy little kid. But I couldn’t complain too much, because he was one of my best sources for getting test answers and copies of homework assignments and stuff like that. At the same time, it didn’t surprise me at all that he would become a bookie. That kid would do anything for money. Once he ate a pear covered in barbecue sauce for a dime. He’d probably eat his dog’s poop for a fiver.
“I got one for you,” Vince said as we reached the top of the hill.
“Now?”
“Sure, why not? Whose numbers are on the flags flying above the left and right field foul poles at Wrigley?” Vince asked.
Vince and I were always challenging each other with Cubs trivia. We each claimed to be the bigger fan, so we were always trying to prove it. The trick was to pop questions at the weirdest times, to catch each other off guard. The only rule was that you had to know the answer to any question you asked without having to look it up.
“Oh, come on. Billy Williams, Ron Santo, Ryne Sandberg, Greg Maddux, Fergie Jenkins, and Ernie