Lawn Boy Page 4

  “What?” I asked.

  “He's a force of nature….”“It was something!”

  “A big storm sweeping down to clean all things away.”

  “I think it was more like an earthquake….” Itrailed off, thinking. “Joseph, do you have a boxing name? Like a catchy title?”

  “My name is Joseph Powdermilk, so I use that when I box.”

  “I think we need something with a little more excitement to it. How about if we call you Earthquake?”

  “Earthquake?”

  “Right. We'll call you Earthquake Powdermilk the next time you box. How does that sound?”

  “It sounds like it's not my name.”

  “Oh. Well, okay. Sure.”

  “Wait!”

  I jumped back from the percussion of his bellow.

  “Joey Pow,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Joey Pow,” he said. “It's catchy and it's my name.”

  “Joey Pow.” I looked over at Pasqual, who was smiling at Joey. “I like it.”

  And just like that, I was the sponsor of a boxer, I had security for the business, and my fighter had a cool nickname. I love it when things work out like that.

  It was still raining softly that afternoon as I pedaled home from Arnold's, but the sun was coming out and I knew we'd be able to work the next day.

  I'd told Arnold what happened with Rock. He nodded. “As you become more successful you'll attract more attention. Good and bad. It's a fact of business. It was good that Mr. Powdermilk showed up. With our unique situation, it might be difficult to call the authorities.”

  “Are we breaking the law?”

  “Not at all, not at all. But it might be difficult to explain how all this could happen without your parents knowing.”

  I watched as Joey Pow waved, got in his station wagon and drove away.

  “I'm going to tell them. I'm just waiting for the right time.”

  “Soon. The right time should be soon.”

  I nodded. “Maybe tonight.”

  And just for the record, I tried.

  Mom came home around four o'clock from her summer job, Dad came out of his lab in the basement, I helped in the kitchen and we had a proper sit-down meal.

  After the meal Dad read the paper and I helped Mom with the dishes and then we went into the living room to watch television. Just after Dad put the paper down and Mom turned the set on there was a moment.

  “Mom, Dad …”

  They both looked at me.

  “I've been mowing lawns….”

  Seemed lame.

  Try again.

  “I mean, I know how hard you work….”

  Still lame.

  Hmmm. All right. Shoot the moon.

  “Mom, Dad. If you could have anything you wanted, anything, what would it be?”

  Mom looked at me. “Is this a game?”

  “No. Seriously. Anything you wanted—what would it be?”

  She frowned, thinking. “Well, I would hope that you have a happy and fulfilled life.”

  “I mean stuff. Is there any kind of stuff you want?” I looked at Dad. “Same for you—anything.”

  “I'd agree with your mother and hope that you had a good life.”

  I have a good life, I thought. And I have over fifty thousand dollars. “Thanks, both of you. But, hey, like I said, I mean stuff. For yourselves. Isn't there anything you would want?”

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Not a thing,” Mom said.

  “Me either.”

  “Oh, come on. I mean, think about it, anything, no matter the cost.”

  There was a silence. Then my mom laughed. “Oh, I know what you're doing. You've saved up some money from your lawn-mowing business and you want to help out. Isn't that it?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  “Ohhhh.” She smiled that soft mother smile. “That's very sweet, dear, but we … Who on earth is that?”

  She had been sitting facing the front window, which looks out across the lawn—which by this time, what with Pasqual's efforts, was starting to look pretty good. He'd been so horrified by the condition of what he called “the boss's lawn” that he'd come by to recondition it. The change was a complete mystery to my parents, who made jokes about the lawn fairies who work on the grass when everybody is asleep. My parents were spending a lot of time relaxing in the evenings after work, admiring their miraculous lawn.

  My mother stood and walked to the window. “My goodness.”

  I looked and was stunned to see the old station wagon with Joey Pow sitting in the front seat, his head down, dozing.

  “Look at the size of the man. Why, he barely fits in the car.”

  Dad stood and went to the window. “Hmmm … the car looks kind of beat-up. I wonder if he's all right?”

  “He's all right, believe me.” It slipped out before I could stop it.

  “You know him?”

  Think fast. But I couldn't figure out how to explain how I had come to own the prizefighter in front of our house without a whole lot of details and I also didn't want to lie to my folks. “Well, sort of. I know him from the lawn jobs I've been doing. He's a good guy. I'll go out and see what he's doing here.”

  I was out the door before they could say anything.

  “Joey …”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I'd spend the night here to make sure Rock's people don't find you.”

  “Well, gosh! Thanks. A lot. But Rock doesn't know my name or where I live…. Speaking of that, how did you find me?”

  “I followed you on your bicycle.”

  “Oh. Well, look, I don't need any help right now. But thanks again. Besides, shouldn't you be getting sleep for training? When's your next fight?”

  “Six days. Next Saturday night. It's on the list they send sponsors.”

  “I left the list at Arnold's. Oh, Joey, my parents don't know … what I do at Arnold's, and that I'm sponsoring you. Not yet, that is. I'll tell them, of course, but I haven't gotten around to it yet. I can't figure out a good way to tell them how everything happened and they might not understand my involvement in, well, the fight game.”

  “Don't you want to be my sponsor?”

  “Oh no, that's not it; I'm glad that … um, we're working together. Especially after today—and thank you again for that.”

  “No problem.”

  “Is your fight next Saturday on television?”

  “I think so. Can't you come to the arena, though? The sponsor should watch the fight in person.”

  “It would be hard for me to get there. But I'll watch it on television. I really will. I'm rooting for you, Joey. I know you're gonna win; I just feel it. Now go home and get some rest and concentrate on your training. You only have six days to get ready.”

  “I still worry about Rock.”

  “I'll be fine. Really. And thanks for everything.”

  He looked at me.

  “I'll be fine.”

  He nodded.

  And as I watched him drive away, I really be lieved it.

  The next day started out normal.

  Or as normal as anything had been this summer.

  The rain had stopped and the grass dried. I rode my little mower over to Arnold's to check the notebooks to see where the jobs were. By now the whole thing pretty much took care of itself. Everybody knew where to go, what to do.

  “Well.” I sighed. “Another day …”

  Arnold nodded. “It's a good crew—they know what to do. It's the best kind of business. Everybody is happy, everybody makes money and the lawns get good care. Speaking of knowing what to do—did you talk to your parents last night?”

  “I tried, Arnold. I really did. But then Joey showed up and the opportunity was gone.”

  “Joey showed up? What do you mean?”

  So I told him about Joey following me home and how difficult it became to talk to my parents about all the
money things. “I couldn't see just how to break it to them by explaining that I ‘own’ a heavyweight prizefighter, so I figured I would maybe wait until tonight. Or this afternoon. It's Monday and they both get off work today at noon.”

  Arnold nodded. “All right, then. But for sure today. I'm really getting uncomfortable about keeping secrets from them. And I want your parents to set up a proper account for you.”

  “Today. For sure.”

  “What are you going to do now?”

  “The Beckwith lawn. I might as well take my mower over there. Keep my hand in.”

  I worked for two solid hours and only had half the lawn done before I needed to refuel. I'd started to put gas in the mower when I remembered my cell phone. Arnold had bought a bunch of phones and given one to each of the crews and to me so that we could keep in touch throughout the day. It bothered me that I had the thing in a belt holster while messing with gas after I'd seen something on television about how cell phones might spark and blow things up, so I took it out of the belt holster and was just setting it on the ground when it went off. I had it set on vibrate so I could feel it because with that old mower there was no way I could hear it. The vibration scared me so much I dropped it. I grabbed it. The call was from Arnold.

  “Hi. What's up?”

  “It might be best for you to head home right now.” His voice sounded clipped and unnatural.

  “What?”

  “Home. It would be good for you to head home.”

  “You mean your place or my home?”

  “Yes. Right. Head for home now…. Unnhhh!”

  And then nothing.

  I looked around, half expecting to see something that would explain what I'd just heard. Nothing, of course. I went over Arnold's words again, trying to remember. I dialed his number. It rang and rang.

  “This is Arnold. Please leave a message.”

  I started to leave one, then decided not to. Something was very definitely wrong. He had said “head for home.” I looked at my watch. Nobody would be there for an hour. Why head home? Why not go to his house? And why had he cut off so abruptly?

  Rock.

  It must have something to do with him, but Joey Pow had pretty much taken care of that. Maybe not. Maybe Rock had come back and followed some of the men to Arnold's house and figured out that Arnold kind of ran the show.

  And then they came this morning.

  And what?

  I had to go see. But carefully. I parked the mower and ran the four long blocks to Arnold's. I stopped across the street in back of the Jamisons' hedge and studied Arnold's house.

  His Toyota was there as usual. Things seemed normal. Nothing was moving on the porch or in any of the windows that I could see. I watched for what seemed like an hour but it was probably only fifteen minutes or so. I tried to slow my breathing down from the run over and I clenched my hands into fists to stop the shaking.

  I finally decided to walk up to the house and check it out and had started to creep out of the hedge when I saw it. Behind the curtain on the living room window, a man's head appeared. Just for a second the curtain shifted and I saw him. I moved back behind the hedge.

  Rock. Either him or his identical twin.

  So.

  Rock was there. Probably with some of his men. And they must have Arnold.

  So.

  Now what? They had Arnold and they wanted … what? They wanted money. More money than before. For sure. But what else? They wanted me? Wanted me to get the money?

  With a jolt I realized there was nothing I could do. Pasqual turned his cell off during the day so he could sleep, and even if I could get to some of the sites and get the men they might not be able to help.

  I could call the police! I had a cell. Three numbers. Nine-one-one.

  But I didn't.

  Would anyone believe me? A twelve-year-old kid calls the police and says he's running a huge business and somebody has taken over the house of his stockbroker?

  No problem. We'll be right over. We just have to pick up the tooth fairy and Superman and we'll get right on it.

  My heart sank even further when it hit me that I had no way to get in touch with Joey, either, who would have been my best ally. All the paperwork about him was still in Arnold's house. I didn't know his address or phone number or even where the fight was going to be on Saturday. Everything was in the house.

  Where Rock was, either alone with Arnold or with more of his men.

  I needed help. Now. I needed somebody smart who could think outside the box and help me figure out what to do about Rock and Arnold. Somebody with a good brain who would truly want to help me.

  I needed my parents.

  I ran the whole way home and saw the car in the driveway.

  I burst into the house. They were in the kitchen with Grandma.

  “Oh, hi, pumpkin,” Mom said. “Would you like some lunch?”

  On the run over I had decided I would tell them everything.

  “Mom, Dad, Grandma, please sit down on the couch.”

  “How about lunch first?” Dad held up a knife covered with mayo.

  “No time, no time. Please. Now.”

  Mom said, “You've been acting so strange lately.”

  “It's puberty,” Grandma said. “He's becoming a man. Men act strange from time to time, and I am worried about what the hole in the ozone layer is doing to the plants in the rain forest.”

  “You know that guy who was sitting in the car yesterday?” I shook off the image Grandma had put in my mind and refocused on the situation at hand.

  “The big guy?”

  “Yeah, that's him. His name is Joseph Powdermilk. He's a professional boxer, a prizefighter. His next fight is Saturday night and if he wins I get half his winnings.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Mom asked.

  “Why do you get half his earnings?” Dad frowned. “Why should he give you anything?”

  “Because I bought his contract and I sponsor him.”

  They sat down.

  “I mean, Arnold, my stockbroker, bought the contract for me.

  “Arnold?” Dad asked.

  “You have a stockbroker?” Mom whispered.

  “His own boxer!” Grandma beamed.

  So I told them the whole story. Fast.

  They nodded, sometimes shook their heads, then nodded more. Listening, always listening, and I kept going, explaining Joey Pow and finally Rock and his gang. When I'd finished I took a deep breath. “And I think they're in Arnold's house now holding him prisoner. No, I know they're in there because I saw them and I don't know what to do.”

  Dad stood. “Call the police.”

  “At first I thought of that. But nobody would believe me anyway, even if I could call them.”

  “But with your parents with you, they would listen…. What do you mean at first and why couldn't you call them?”

  “He means,” my mother chimed in, “that it's difficult to go to the police because some of his employees are poor people who really need the money and if the authorities come into it, perhaps they'll find the workers aren't all documented the way they should be. Is that it, pumpkin?”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Mom. I know we should call the police, but I was hoping there might be some other way—that you guys might be able to think up a way to solve this….” I let it hang there. Theywere the smartest people I knew. If they couldn't come up with something nobody could.

  Dad said, “We go to your strength.”

  “I don't think I have one.”

  “Sure you do! Literally. You know a prizefighter.”

  “But I don't know how to find him.”

  “Now,” Mom said, “the thinking comes in.”

  It took her just three minutes on the Internet and two phone calls before I heard Joey's voice on the other end of the line. Meanwhile, I was shaking Grandma off because she wanted to say hello to him.

  “Joey, it's me.”

  “The sponsor.”

  “Ye
s. Rock and his men are at Arnold's house, holding him prisoner, I think for money, and I can't call the police because a lot of the workers will get in trouble—”

  I heard the phone click and Joey was gone before I finished speaking. I hung up and turned to my parents.

  “Let's get over there.”

  “I call shotgun,” Grandma said as we scrambled to the car.

  At Arnold's we parked behind Joey's station wagon just as he was stepping out of the driver's side.

  “Shouldn't we help in some way?” Mom asked, until she saw him standing. “On second thought, Joey can handle it. But we're going with him.”

  I got out of the car. No matter what happened, Arnold might need help either during or after. I started walking toward the house, Mom and Dad with me. Grandma brought up the rear.

  I knew, or thought I knew, what was coming.

  Joey had gone into the porch slowly, closing the screen door quietly behind him. By that time we were close to the house. If the front door was locked it didn't slow him down. He hit it with his shoulder, took it off its hinges, and was out of sight.

  There was a muffled, thumping sound. Oh no! Rock or his men might have a gun! Later I found it was just the sound of one of the men having his head jammed into a dishwasher. Without opening the door on the washer.

  After the thumping, there was a second or two of silence, followed by a scream, and one of the men was thrown out the front door so hard he took the porch screen off its hinges and was propelled into the yard riding the screen on his hands and knees like it was a body board.

  Until he hit the elm next to the walkway. The elm was probably a hundred years old, very big, and didn't give a millimeter when the man plowed into it facefirst.

  A few seconds later, Joey came out with Rock in his right hand and another man in his left, carrying them like cats by the backs of their necks. The first man was still in the kitchen jammed into the dishwasher.

  Later I found out that Rock and three others had been in the kitchen with Arnold tied to a chair. They thought Arnold had told me to come to his place, and they'd been planning to force me to give them money when I came.

  “I told you,” Joey said, “to leave the sponsor alone or I would pinch your head.”