Spoonbenders

“Let’s see how we’re doing,” he said. He began rubbing the closed fist, which let him pass the key back into his right palm. He allowed the tip of the key to appear between thumb and index finger.

“You say it now,” Teddy said. “Bend.”

“Bend,” Maureen said.

“Please bend,” he said.

“Please bend,” she said.

He slowly pushed the key up, between thumb and index finger, letting more and more of it appear, exposing the bend.

“Oh no,” Maureen said.

“What’s the matter?”

“I might have trouble getting back into the house.”

“It’s your key?”

“I thought you realized—”

“I thought it was his! You gave that kid your only house key to play with?”

“I didn’t think he could actually do anything,” she said.

This seemed hilarious to both of them. They were laughing when Russell Trago returned to the room, looking wounded. Maureen covered her mouth. Trago seemed to sense he was the target of their laughter.

“They said they wanted Maureen,” he said. Looking at Teddy.

“Oh,” Teddy said. “Sorry. My mistake.”

Maureen slid out from her desk, then held out her hand. He pressed the warped key into her palm.

“What happened?” Trago said. His eyes widened. “Did I bend it?”

Teddy saluted her as she walked away. “Knock ’em dead, Maureen McKinnon.”

She’d left behind the pen and paper. She’d folded it over, hiding it from Trago maybe when he sat beside her. Teddy unfolded it. There were three drawings:

Pyramid.

Airplane.

Mickey Mouse.

“Holy Christ on a stick!” Teddy exclaimed.

He ticked through the usual methods, then ruled them out one by one. Yes, he’d told her about the first drawing, but not the other two. The distance to Dr. Eldon’s office made eavesdropping impossible. Plus, Trago had been in the room with her during most of Teddy’s interview, trying to bend her God damn house key, with Clifford Turner as witness. There was no method that Teddy knew of to see those drawings, from this far away.

There was only one explanation. Maureen McKinnon, nineteen years old, was the best damn scam artist he’d ever met.

Teddy drove home from the diner thinking about amazing coincidences. He didn’t believe in them unless he engineered them himself. But how to account for meeting Graciella, the most interesting woman he’d talked to in years, on the same day that Destin Smalls strolled back into his life? Like Graciella, he smelled a setup, but it wasn’t Smalls who set it up. Not his style. The agent moved in straight lines like a righteous ox.

Teddy parked his Buick in the garage, went out the side door, and stopped dead. A hole had appeared in the backyard, and Buddy was in it, thigh deep, and shoveling deeper.

“Buddy!”

His son looked up at him, curious. Naked from the waist up, which only made him look fatter.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Buddy looked down at the hole, then back at Teddy.

“It’s a God damn hole in the middle of the yard!”

Buddy didn’t say anything. Of course. Buddy had decided he was Marcel Marceau.

“Put it back.” He waved at the mounds of dirt all round him. “Put it back now.”

Buddy looked away. Jesus Christ. The kid used to be so talented. Could have made them all rich, just by sitting around writing numbers with his crayons. Now he’d turned into a God damn golden retriever, digging holes in the lawn.

Teddy threw up his hands, marched into the house. There were dishes in the kitchen sink, but at least all the appliances were still in one piece. In the front room, Matty sat cross-legged on the couch, swami-style, his eyes closed.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Matty’s eyes snapped open. “What? Nothing!” Then: “Thinking.”

“You’re doing a hell of a job.” Teddy placed the Borsalino atop the rack. “Why aren’t you at school?”

The kid hopped up. “School’s over.”

“What?”

“Half day for the last day of school. It’s summer vacation.” He was chubby, pale like Maureen’s side of the family, short like Teddy’s. Poor bastard. Literally. His mom was broke, and his dad had abandoned the family years ago.

“And now what?” Teddy asked.

Matty blinked up at him.

“You’re going to be around here all the time?”

“Uh…”

How had he lost all control of his house? Home is a castle my ass. More like a refugee camp. He picked up the pile of mail on the front table, started shuffling through the envelopes. Bill, bill, junk mail. Another one of those computer disks. America Online. Got one every damn day, sometimes two in the same day.

“Why don’t you clean up the kitchen,” Teddy said. “We’ll start cooking when your mom comes home.” That was the best thing about having Irene back in the house. When it was just Teddy and Buddy, it was Chinese takeout three nights a week. Takeout or omelets.

Matty moved past him, and Teddy put out a hand, a five-dollar bill between his fingers. “Say, kid. You got change for a five?”

Matty put his hands in his pockets. Too early and too obviously, but they could work on that. “I don’t know, mister. Let me check.” A little telltale smile. They’d have to work on that, too. “Yeah, I think so.” Plucked the fiver from Teddy’s fingers, started folding it.