Cheater (20 page)

“Young lady,” Mr. Upchurch says benevolently, “we’re just here to visit Karl. We’re not sinisterly plotting anything.”

She leans in close—so close that Karl can smell her mint toothpaste—and murmurs, “What’s going on, Karl? Tell me so I can rescue you!”

“Nothing’s going on, they’re just visiting.”

“Okay, people,” Lizette announces, “here’s what we’re going to do. We’re gonna take turns. Everybody will get to see Karl, one by one, okay? No mob scenes, just nice, private conversations. You’ll all get your turn. Eenie-meenie-minie-mo—you first,” and she points at Mr. Upchurch. “The rest of us’ll wait outside—there’s a bench at the end of the hall. Let’s go. Come on, before visiting hours are over.”

She steers Samantha out the door with a hand on her shoulder, and gives Mr. Klimchock’s suit sleeve a tug as well. Karl’s heart fills with admiration and gratitude.

“That’s one macho young lady,” Upchurch comments. “I assume she’s not your girlfriend.”

“Not exactly. Not yet. Maybe, sort of.”

The unexpected answer amuses Upchurch, but only briefly. Taking his time, he peeks out the doorway, just as his son did. Karl waits for him to come closer before coaxing the words from him—but Mr. Upchurch never gets near him.

“I supposed Klimmy’s here for the same reason I am,” he says, pacing the room. “He wants you to take the SAT and bring up the school’s average. Am I right?”

“Probably.”

“Good to know he and I are on the same page. Listen, I really can’t stay—there’s a campaign fund-raiser over at Chez Shea—but this shouldn’t take long. You’re obviously a very smart young man. I think Phillip must have gotten off on the wrong foot with you. He still has a lot to learn about people skills.”

An odd movement in the hall catches Karl’s eye. It’s Lizette, outside the doorway, hiding from Upchurch, wiggling her thumb at Karl, sliding it horizontally, over and over, above her head. What could this mean? It looks like she wants him to set his hair on fire with a cigarette lighter.

The switch! He turned the mike off to save battery power and forgot to turn it back on.

“Excuse me a second,” he tells Mr. Upchurch, and hurries with his IV pole into the bathroom, where he flushes the toilet, slides the switch, and readjusts his hair in the mirror.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, and climbs back into the bed.

Mr. Upchurch turns his back to Karl. “You know why I’m here. Let’s be frank.”

“What? I can’t hear you, my ears are a little clogged. Could you come closer?”

Karl is sweating all over, including his scalp. Will he electrocute himself? Not really: a nine-volt battery can’t deliver a fatal shock. But he learned long ago in the garage that it can give you a painful burn—painful enough so he would have to tear the microphone off his scalp—which gives him all the more reason to sweat.

“Let’s get down to it, Karl,” Mr. Upchurch says, but—can’t he understand English?—he’s still facing the door, making sure no one else walks in.

“Hold on, wait, I wanted to ask you first“—
can’t you just turn around?!
—“how do you know Mr. Klimchock? How come he got so upset when he saw you?”

Mr. Upchurch snorts to himself. “That’s a long story. But I suppose it might help to share it with you.” He paces the room as he speaks. “Klimmy and I went through school together, just like you and Phillip. Believe it or not, we had some things in common: good singing voices, and a strong interest in Felicia Maniscalco. His interest was more romantic, mine was purely physical. Our senior year, the class musical was
The King and I.
Everyone knew Felicia would play Anna—no one else could compare. That’s why Klimmy and I both wanted to play the king: to get close to her. But, while Klimmy assumed his talent would win him the part—and he really did have a terrific voice, much better than mine—I wanted it more. I made an arrangement with the kid who was playing the piano during auditions. In exchange for an outrageous fee, he messed up while playing for Klimmy. Your Mr. Klimchock was a high-strung young man; the fumbling piano threw him completely off. He had a fit, right there on the auditorium stage, in front of Felicia and everyone else. It was sad to see.” Upchurch smirks, still tickled by the memory. “So, I played the king, and he ended up playing Tuptim’s secret boyfriend—the monk. I’ll tell you something: bouncing around the stage with Felicia, singing ‘Shall We Dance?’ under the lights, that’s still one of the best memories of my life.”

An incredible thought distracts Karl: he sympathizes with Mr. Klimchock!

“Did you end up marrying her?” he asks.

“Are you joking? She was an airhead. Her talents were all anatomical.”

At this moment, Karl’s main concern is getting Upchurch to turn around and face the mike. But he’s afraid of being too obvious. “I’m not sure I get the point of the story.”

“I’ll be blunt, then. I’m still the same guy, Karl. When I want something, I get it. That includes winning the mayoral race, and getting my son into Harvard.”

Some inner instinct tells Karl that it might help to taunt Upchurch. Maybe then he’ll get mad and spell out his demands without wasting more time.

“Why do you want to be mayor so badly? Are you a megalomaniac?”

Upchurch raises one eyebrow, surprised but not impressed. “No, it’s not about power for power’s sake. It’s about what you can do with it. There are opportunities in this town that have gone to waste.”

“Such as?”

“I can’t go into specifics. But I’ll say this much: after I’m elected, there’ll be a lot more than ducks in Swivel Brook Park.”

This is getting way off the subject, but—
Upchurch wants to build houses in the prettiest park in town?!

“I see you’re surprised. Don’t worry, it’ll be very tastefully done. How do you like the name Brookside?”

Nurse Francesca interrupts them with a cheerful “Hi, Karl.” She’s pushing a haggard man with a mustache in a wheelchair. The man’s foot is thickly wrapped in bandages. “Say hello to your new roommate, Mister Prell. Or, excuse me,
Officer
Prell. He stopped a robbery at the TCBY today.”

“It wasn’t a robbery, it was a drunk waving a gun around,” says Officer Prell unhappily. “I just wish I had bulletproof shoes.”

As Nurse Francesca sets the policeman up in Mr. Hydine’s old bed, Karl and his visitor share a scowl. They have important things to say, private things. How can they talk now?
(You had to blab about your real estate projects!)

Karl’s plan is ruined. He’s stopped—defeated—destroyed.

Randall Upchurch, however, won’t let a mere wounded cop foil his scheme. “Excuse us,” he tells the nurse and her patient, “Karl wanted to tell me something in private.”

He draws the curtain all the way around the bed and comes within six inches of Karl’s nose. (Bless you, Nurse Francesca!) “No time for chitchat now,” he whispers. “You’re going to take the SAT Saturday. You’ll transmit the answers to Phillip and the others. He told me about the scheme with the pencil—it’s brilliant. I’ll make it worth your while. Let’s say, five thousand dollars cash, in two installments, one after the test and one after the scores come back.”

“But what if I say no?”

“Then a pack of hungry dogs will enter your home while you sleep and leave nothing but three sets of bones.”

“Um—literally or figuratively?” Karl asks.

Mr. Upchurch gives Karl a long, hard, contemptuous glare—an especially scary experience because of the microphone in his hair. A fresh torrent of sweat pours from him. The tension is too much. He twitches, and that sudden movement undoes the rubber cement’s grip. He can feel the little black box slip a quarter-inch to the side.

“Hey, Karl,” Nurse Francesca calls through the curtain, “in case I don’t see you before you go home, good luck in school and everything.”

“Thanks,” he tells the curtain. “Am I going home soon?”

“Any time now.”

Her footsteps fade away. They’re going to discharge him before he gets Klimchock on tape. But it doesn’t really matter, because Randall Upchurch will murder him when he sees the microphone fall off his head.

“I would take a shower first thing, if I were you,” Upchurch tells him. “You sweat like a pig.”

“Mm-hm,” Karl replies.

“You won’t let us down, right?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good man. And just to make sure, I’ll be listening from my car across the street.”

That’s it—he’s gone. Karl has escaped the first of the swinging axes, but there’s no time for celebration. He grabs the mike and speaks straight into it, whispering. “Lizette! Come! Emergency!”

“You’re soaked!” she observes as she slips inside the curtain. “What’d he do, hose you down?”

He holds up the little mike. “The glue lost its grip. And they’re going to send me home any minute now. I don’t know what to do!”

Her father didn’t leave the rubber cement, and even if he had, there’s not enough time for it to dry.

Drowning in a sea of despair, banging his bones against the rocks of hysteria, Karl shakes his head and lets out a thin, high squeak.

“Stop it,” Lizette commands. “Just calm down.”

Since he can’t stop shaking his head, she takes drastic action, grabbing him by the shoulders and
really
shaking him. His head flies around like a bobble-head doll’s.

She keeps her grip on his shoulders even after she stops shaking him. For a moment or three, it looks as if she may crash through the invisible wall and kiss him—but then she lets go and takes the microphone from him. “Let’s just get this done,” she says.

Taking the Orbit gum out of her mouth, she flattens it against the dried rubber cement on the bottom of the microphone and sets it back on Karl’s head, pushing painfully hard. Then she fluffs his damp hair around it. “You’ve looked better,” she says, and hurries out.

She doesn’t get far, though. “Excuse me,” says a friendly old lady, just outside the curtain. “I’m looking for Karl Petrofsky. I have his discharge papers.”

“I just saw him run into the toilet to throw up,” Lizette replies. “He said something about the food here.”

“Oh,” says the pleasant lady.

“Maybe you should come back in a half hour or so,” Lizette suggests.

“I’ll do that. Could you tell him to have someone with him who can take him home?”

“I’ll let him know. Soon as he stops heaving.”

“Thank you.”

Before Karl can fully comprehend his debt to Lizette, a hand yanks the curtain open.

“What was
he
doing here?” Mr. Klimchock whispers, red-faced.

“He? Nothing. Why?”

Klimchock goes to the doorway and checks the hall, then returns to Karl’s bedside. “I’ll ask again. What was
HE
doing here?”

The wormy vein appears on his forehead again.

“He just came to visit. He’s a friend of my family—my mother. They know each other from work.”

Klimchock regards Karl with distrust and distaste. “You’re lying. Why would Randall Upchurch come visit you?”

His eyes move right and left, the outward signs of fevered thinking. He takes a whistling, inward breath.

“Phillip is in this with you! Isn’t he?”

Klimchock’s face lights up with glee. If he were a miser, there would be dollar signs on his eyeballs.

“It’s too good to be true. Phillip Upchurch! Glory, glory, hallelujah!”

Karl has never seen the assistant principal this happy. Possibly, no one has. A small but heavy weight sits on his scalp, reminding him of his mission.

“What exactly do you want me to do, Mr. Klimchock?”

“I’ve already told you. This doesn’t change the plan—it just means the prize will be bigger than I ever hoped.”

“Could you just remind me of the details? I’ve been sick, I can’t remember what you said.”

Klimchock gazes at Karl questioningly. He pauses and listens through the curtain as visitors approach the doorway and pass. Then he comes closer, just as Upchurch did.

Unlike Randall Upchurch, though, Klimchock gropes Karl’s chest through the flimsy blue hospital gown. His fingers probe every inch of flesh and bone.

“Hey!” Karl protests. “Stop that!”

“Are you wearing a wire, Karl? Is that it? Are you and Upchurch setting a trap?”

With the hidden microphone held in place only by a soft, malleable wad of gum, Karl states emphatically, “No! And get your hands off me—that’s totally inappropriate.”

Klimchock backs away. “Apologies. I suppose I’m overly suspicious.”

While Klimchock blushes, a wave of confusion and discomfort breaks over Karl.
What am I doing?—
he can hear the question asked in his own voice, internally but loudly. Observing himself from above, he doesn’t like what he sees. It’s just . . .
sleazy
, trapping these two men. Nasty and merciless as they are, he doesn’t want to be the sort of person who lies and schemes to destroy others. Yes, they deserve to be exposed, to be stopped—but look how devious he’s being. The whole thing nauseates him.

Keeping his voice to a murmur, Klimchock begins again. “Can we finish our business now?”

A clamor interrupts him. “There he is!” “How’s it going, Hopalong?” “What did the doctors say, will you ever tap-dance again?” “He needed this like he needs a hole in the foot.”

The boisterous off-duty cops keep teasing Officer Prell— and as they do, Samantha comes storming into the room, rips open the curtain, and says, “I know what’s going on! It’s a conspiracy! You want Phillip to be the valedictorian! You’re pressuring Karl to mess up on purpose, aren’t you?
Aren’t you?!”

Before Mr. Klimchock can even process this accusation, Lizette is there, pulling on Samantha’s arm. “You’re crazy! Let them be.”

“You’re in cahoots with them!” Samantha accuses her.

“What kind of person are you? Nobody says
cahoots.”

“You’re trying to shift the spotlight, but it won’t work.”