Date: Sat, 19 Nov 2005 20:12:41 +0000 (GMT)
From: Ben Erikson <ben_erikson23@yahoo.co.uk>
Subject: The Bergman Files Nr 4 - The Boys from Benny's

The Bergman Files Nr 4: The Boys from Benny's

A story by Ben Erikson
ben_erikson23@yahoo.co.uk


A glimpse of yellow hair beneath the hood. That would have been
enough. Enough in itself; each time he turned his head, a glimpse. Or the
way he dipped his left shoulder slightly every third stride. Enough if you
were good; were trained in this kind of thing. Someone trained could keep
it up all night on nothing more; a turn, a dip, the secret signals that
could lead you though a maze and back. A hidden choreography. The hoodie
was a bonus. Bright red with yellow flashes on the sleeves. A dip, the
letter S, a turn, the word NOT. Yellow letters too. Fuck the glimpse of
yellow hair - he might as well have been carrying a tracking device.

Even so, I played it fairly tight. Held myself back and kept the crowd
between us, late shoppers mostly, good cover with their bags and raincoats
and umbrellas, looking down, averting eyes, colliding with each other,
stepping elaborately round the bums on Maple Avenue, hailing taxis. Girls
on roller skates handing out flyers for some new club downtown. No one
buying. Going home time on a wet, wet Friday afternoon. The traffic
crawling.

A glimpse again. Three paces and a dip. The yellow hair.

I'd picked him up from right outside the apartment, right on cue. I'll give
him that, he was a good time keeper and now he kept his head up in this sea
of bowed heads, averted eyes and quickened his pace. So he had a purpose
then, some deadline to meet. A date? A secret rendezvous? I made a point of
lowering mine a fraction just to keep in role; a Friday shopper with one
last stop to make. I swung my prop, a Gucci shopping bag. In any case, he
might just want to catch an early movie, let's not run away with ourselves
now. I mean, we know where that can lead, don't we?

Right from the off I'd treated this whole exercise with a respect I was
still not convinced it deserved, had trailed him the same way I would have
any suspect. Had taken all precautions, hence the holding back, the little
variations I put in - closing up to a few yards then letting him get ahead
while I looked at some cheap shit in a jeweller's store, kept his
reflection in view in the window as it strode on. Gone through the standard
comedy routines when he'd hit the subway trains. Three paces. Dip. Five
paces. Turn. A glimpse. Move now. Take cover now; cover behind a trio of
elegant Europeans, tourists from Milan or Rome, the labels to prove
it. Dip. The letter S. Move now.

You know? I was getting to like this. Was getting to like the target as
well. Bobby.

Don't get me wrong, I know all about the psychology of identification with
the mark. Had been through all that crap at Detective School and then
graduated on the streets of New York. No, I wasn't about to spill my beans
all over him just to get his take on how shitty this life was, how much we
had in common out here on the streets; the two of us alone amongst a city
crowd, elaborately engaging in a secret pas-de-deux against chaotic chorus
lines of men and cars and rain and LA downtown craziness.

Still I liked what I knew and I liked what I saw; the slim, rather slight
figure, slight for his age, the engaging walk. I'd seen his smile too in
photographs and that was cute as hell in cutie boots. He'd freckles then
which always did it for me but that must have been an old picture. He was
thirteen now, no doubt the freckles gone; booted out by hormones, tufts of
pubic hair and zits.

Lorraine had insisted. And boy, could she insist when she wanted to. It was
worth getting in her debt every now and then just to watch her pull the
power switch and motor into overdrive, insisting that I help her out this
once, just this one time, goddamn it. Apparently, if I was half the man I
thought I was I'd be out there already on the case. No wonder she was so
good at her job. I reckoned she'd have begged if I'd let it come to
that. There was certainly a catch, a little sob of relief in her voice when
I finally agreed; could see no other way than saying yes, OK, I'll follow
the brat, see what he's up to. After all I owed her big time. For countless
interventions, countless times she'd helped me out, had not asked questions
- Eddie, Tito, Joe. The rest.

She'd sat in my office and shown me the photo. Freckles, yellow
hair. Bobby. Her son.

"And don't think I don't know what they'd say downtown Mike! Single mother?
High level professional in the County Child Protection Department? Can't
look after her own kid? Gets hysterical over...over...nothing...as some
kind of "anger displacement" 'cause she can't handle the real issues which
are the kids out there on the streets who really are in trouble! Oh, Mike,
it's not like that. I just know there's something wrong!"

I smiled.

"First of all I doubt very much that that's what they'd say. They might
think it but no-one would say it. Come on Lorrie, you know LAPD brass are
just as politically correct as your people. It wouldn't come back on you
-you'd probably get some kind of...I don't know...Good Citizen Award."

I'd suggested she talk to a local cop - she knew enough of them; let one of
them talk to Bobby.

She smiled.

"I ought to kick you right in the balls, mister. That's nearly harassment
where I come from!"

"You're really worried aren't you?"

"Mike, I swear it's just not like him. Not Bobby. I don't know where he
goes but it's not where he's saying and he won't talk to me. I mean he
simply won't. It's like he's forgotten how to speak English. I get the
occasional grunt now and then in the morning but that's about it. I tried
following him once."

"And?"

"Well...I lost him. I kind of got my heel caught in a grate and..."

"You tried following him in heels?"

"No...well, yes. It was a spur of the moment thing. I was getting ready to
go out and when I heard the door slam I just decided there and then to go
after him...see what I could find out...where he went...well, I got a far
as the street corner. He went south."

"He went south? That's the only clue I get?"

"You're the detective, Sherlock, you work it out!"

He'd gone south again tonight and here I was working it out. A dip, a
glance, the way he swayed his ass. And then we were there.

********************************************************

I was right behind him now. "Slipknot" in yellow letters on the red. His
hoodie; hood down suddenly and fuck the rain. And shit, he still had
freckles too. Then he was gone inside.  I gave him two minutes and followed
down the steps to the basement entrance, the stuttering neon sign going
epileptic like the exercise was too much, which was kind of ironic.

"Benny's Gym" it said, tried to say. A short covered entranceway led onto
double doors. So this was the secret, the rendezvous he didn't want his mom
to know about. Skinny Bob, the class geek getting toned up on the
sly. Maybe there was a girl somewhere he wanted to impress. Maybe he just
needed to look after himself. Maybe a boy? I considered what could possibly
be a danger to him behind those doors. Drugs? Was always a chance when
people started taking their bodies seriously. Steroids were big, big
business in this trade. Speed too and once you start on that you're into
all kinds of shit, each little pill a slight adjustment to the damage done
before, requiring in its turn, adjustment. You could get adjusted out of
your skull in no time at all. But Bobby? I didn't think so. I held back,
unwilling to pursue this further without any evidence. I thought of
Lorraine sitting at home now wondering where we were, what I'd be bringing
home to her tonight. Shit. I stuffed the Gucci shopping bag into my
raincoat pocket best I could and headed through the double doors.

They had all the gear, the treadmills, weight machines, all that and quite
a busy trade. An Aerosmith track blasted out of a couple of dilapidated
speakers on the wall. No Bobby though. There were doors along the sides
which could lead to changing rooms although he'd brought no kit that I
could see. A short counter, a short guy in a vest and jogging pants leaning
his gorilla arms over the side, a toothpick working out inside his mouth.

He didn't even look at me.

"Yeah?" he said. Now he raised his face, his eyebrows one long ridge of
hair below a receding forehead.

"I'd like to join" I said.

"Fill inna form"

He nodded at a pile of photocopies on the counter.

"How much is it?"

"$65. You get a personal assessment of your personal fitness and a personal
regime to suit your personal needs."

"Can I just look around first?"

"Nope"

"Sorry?"

"No. As in no, you can't look around. You've gotta be a member."

"OK. I'll fill in the form, pay my $65 and then look around, OK?"

He looked at me again through his eyebrows, wiggled his toothpick some
more.

"$65 dollars gives you Associate Membership. You're not a member till you
get your personal fitness assessment. Read the smallprint."

"Well, I'm fairly fit."

"So whadya wanna join for?" The toothpick went into some complicated dance
routine, looked like a Rhumba.

"Are you Benny?"

No answer.

"Can I talk to Benny?"

"Benny's dead."

"Oh, sorry to hear that."

"You're sorry? Jesus! Anyways he died a long time ago - like hanging upside
down from a lampost, capice?"

I watched the toothpick slow to a halt, do a few last twirls, swinging in
the air.

"You mean, this gym is named after Benito Mussolini?" I asked.

"I'm not saying it is, not saying it isn't. But knowing Her...knowing the
owner...who knows?"

At that moment a small group of men in suits and ties slid out of one door
to my left and moved quickly to the adjoining door. A glimpse of yellow
hair, of red hoodie before they shut the door quickly; something else too,
some kind of uniform. Something didn't add up but I was no nearer knowing
what.

Toothpick was looking at me.

"You gonna fill in that form?"

I was thinking quick, how to stretch this out, maybe bullshit my way into
whatever it was was going on. Find out enough to re-assure Lorraine - he
goes to gym and no, he's not into steroids.

"Actually" I improvised. "I was hoping to meet a friend of mine here"

"He a member?" Maybe Toothpick got a bonus every time he got someone to
join.

"Er...no. He's thinking about it. I was going to meet him here."

"Yeah, you said."

"I think he might be here already."

"What's his name?"

"Montana. Barry Montana." My old partner back on the job, why did I think
of him?

Toothpick snorted noisily, worked up another routine with the pick.

"I think he may be in that room over there." I was going out on a limb now.

"Are you supposed to be with him?"

"Yeah"

"Who invited you?"

"Well, he did"

"Who invited him?"

"He didn't say. Wouldn't say."

Toothpick paused to take this in. For the first time he really looked me
over. He reached out his gorilla paw and picked up a phone.

"Hey, Herb, I've got somewhere here who...er...might want to join us. No, I
already said to fill inna form. I mean join us...you know? Yeah. Fuck, I
don't know! Could be." he paused, listening.

"Are you Otto?" he asked, relaying the question.

"Yes." I said.

"Yes." Toothpick listened again.

"About six two, 40-ish, blond hair, blue eyes^Åyeah, I guess so." he
laughed mirthlessly into the receiver, caught the end of his pick and
almost choked. He put the phone down.

Two kids had wandered in looking lost and uncertain. Sixteen years old,
tired looking, worn and wearied before their time. Toothpick was onto them
in a second.

"Hey you!" he barked. He did his gorilla walk over to them and they huddled
down listening. He looked back at me.

"Stay there" he said and ushered the kids towards the door I'd seen the
suits go in. I didn't catch anything this time as the door opened and
closed.

"Otto?" A short, fat man with a short, fat voice. He strode towards me
holding out his hand.

"Otto. Herbert Perle, I'm so glad you decided to come. It's an honour and a
pleasure. I'm sorry I couldn't greet you personally but I had some
paperwork to complete but you know all about that, of course you do. How
was the flight?"

"Er...fine. Thankyou Herbert."

We shook hands about six times, up and down and up and down. He too was
balding and he too had the eyebrows, matched in his case by a thick,
slightly grey moustache.

"Hubert took good care of you then?"

"Hubert?"

"My brother. You must have met him. He ..er ..described you on the phone."

"Oh yeah. Hubert." We disengaged and stood apart. Fuck knows what I was
getting myself into here.

"He^Åer...he means well, it's just he's not the best brain we have here
even if he is my younger brother...I, er...don't really tell him anything,
you understand. You needn't worry on that count. Security-wise. He knows
nothing...I'm the only one who knows about you. I so hoped you'd
come. Didn't think you would, mind. We're pretty small fish after what you
must be used to but...out of little ones, eh? Acorns, oaks. Big fish..." he
was growing more incoherent by the minute as he ushered me reverentially
towards the door.

Toothpick stepped out as we approached and gave me a hard look.

"Thankyou, Hubert" I said. "It's all sorted."

Herbert waved his brother to one side with a swish of his own gorilla
paw. And suddenly we were through the door.

********************************************************

All eyes turned to me and Herbert Perle. All rose as we strode past and all
stayed standing. In front of wooden benches, eight or nine young boys now
stood at various degrees of attention. Bobby had his head jutted forward,
his jaw clenched. He sure was making an effort. The others didn't seem
quite so sure, their heads hung down, one or two with arms folded across
their chests, had still not taken off their jackets. Bobby was holding
his. They ranged in age from about 12 to 17 or so. Across from them stood
two older boys, young men, bodybuilders I would say. Blond, athletic,
arrogant, the clear outline of muscled torsos given full display beneath
their uniforms. These were the uniforms I'd glimpsed before, a beige and
brown affair with golden neckerchief and blue breast pocket badge. If the
Scouting Movement had a paramilitary wing, this is what it would look
like. One of them was pockmarked down his neck and I noted it as steroid
use gone out of whack.

The room itself was a regular locker room like any other except this one
had a wooden table set awkwardly in the middle. The only other feature was
a large US flag which covered most of one whole wall. In its centre, 'midst
the stripes, a stitched-on patch of cloth in blue and gold and
unmistakable; a swastika.

Further back, the men in suits who had first caught my attention, watched
me with detached curiosity.

"Gentlemen" Herbert began. "Be seated."

There was a shuffling of feet, a cosying back down onto benches. All sat
except the two boy scouts, Steroid Boy and his swivel-eyed, gum chewing
companion.

"Before we begin. Before I introduce my special guest, there is one little
issue it is my duty to address."

He turned to me.

"You'll have to excuse us but there's a bit of business I need to sort
out. I thought you might like to witness it...to see how things are done
here. Yes?"

I nodded briefly which, it turned out was the right thing to do, the
expected thing. I had to bite my tongue and stop myself from clicking my
heels together.

"Kevin Curran!"

Herbert's voice suddenly had an edge to it.

All eyes now moved from me towards a kid of about 15, even slighter if
anything than Bobby. Thin, dark haired and evidently scared. He stood up
and faced Herbert, one leg visibly shaking.

"Kevin. I'm very disappointed in you. Everyone here knows that the very
life blood of our organisation is our brotherhood. We are all your brothers
here, your comrades. We would all die for you Kevin and maybe some here
will, who knows, in the great battles that lie ahead. The unending fight we
face against the Zionists and their Communist paymasters!"

He paused.

"I mean...the Communists and their Zionist paymasters. And the liberal
media. And their paymasters in the...in the...liberal media. And...the
others in the Federal Conspiracy who threaten our sacred way of life. The
unending fight will be...unending. Until the day it ends...and we seize
victory and write our names in blood in the great book of patriotic
hero-dom ...um...hero-hood...-ism...or die in the attempt. Which is why we
have rules Kevin. And the number one rule is...never...never...ever....go
against your brothers in the Order."

Herbert, having roused himself into a boiling crescendo, now let a moment's
silence take effect. He nodded briefly to one of the suited men to the side
and he disappeared discreetly through another door.

"For those of you who are not yet aware, our brother Kevin has been seen,
photographed even, fraternising with a known enemy of this organisation,
namely that no-good damned whore, Victoria Wallinger. At the behest of her
Jew controllers on that sordid little TV show of hers that...bitch is
..is...trying to destroy me...I mean us. I am...we all are...on the path of
righteousness and patriotic duty and I 'aint gonna let no damn kike whore
pull me off! And I'm damned if I'm going to stand by and watch her pull you
off!"

"Kevin you know the penalty. Accept if from your brothers and learn your
lesson. We are only strong together. There can only be strength in
union-icity...in... er...in unionship...together. As
one. Strong. Unafraid. And, most of all - free of the parasitic influence
of quasi-communistic, queer-loving, godless atheism that waits for you
beyond these walls."

He nodded vigorously to bring his point home and Steroid Boy and Swivel-Eye
moved forward, taking Kevin's arms in theirs and dragging him to the table
in the centre of the room. The suit had edged back in and handed a long,
thickish cane to Herbert Perle.  The gleam in his eye from his own oration
now centred on the boy thrust forward over the table, his jeans and boxer
shorts pulled roughly down, his arms pinned back by the two goons in
uniform.

Perle took two quick strides towards him and brought the cane down hard
right across the centre of the boy's buttocks. Kevin let out an agonised
cry and jerked his head upwards, uselessly, finding no release, the grip on
his arms tight, a hand pressing down now on each shoulder. A long, red mark
appeared instantly, colouring the thin, bony, ghost-white orbs of his
exposed backside. Two more strokes, a gasp of pain and hard, quick
breaths. Perle stood back again and observed his handiwork. He altered his
line of approach and charged in once more, brought the stick down
hard. Then again, a sharp crack of a blow that made Kevin cry out with
greater intensity, an incoherent begging for the end, knowing that no end
was yet in sight, except his own, and knowing now that all he had to do
tonight was suffer and endure.

I almost put a stop to it. I could have done, of course. Could have called
a halt to this charade, revealed myself and told them all to go to hell;
could have grabbed Bobby, got him out of there and given Perle a slap or
two before I left. I watched as Perle advanced on Kevin yet again, the
target now a bruising mess of reds. Another stroke. Three. Another, quicker
now. One more, one more, one more. The sound of wood appealing to young
flesh, contesting it and arguing its case. Ramming home the argument.

Kevin wept. We all heard that. I glanced along the lines and saw each boy's
reaction; some looked down embarrassed, insecure; some watched Perle with
bitter hatred, mixed with fear and awe and some kind of fucked-up, street
respect. The Big Brother they had all been searching for in dreams, in
subways, down behind the South Main Street arcade. The brother-daddy they
had never had who offered them salvation now in barking, spit-flecked,
White Supremo crap so long as they bent over on demand.

Only Bobby had a different kind of look. His jaw clamped tight, held
forward like a soldier on parade, he didn't take his eyes off Kevin
once. He forced himself, the effort clearly showing in the strain around
his mouth. And in his eyes, a wetness, a brimming.

Like I say, I could have put a stop to this.

I didn't move. I was in this now for good or bad; whatever it was, would
follow it right through. Sorry Kevin, not much help to you, I know. Maybe
you'll make me howl one day, will get revenge. Revenge on us all. I'll let
you, son. I'll not put up a fight. I owe you that much just for this one
act, this failure to act.  I may have watched compelled but what compelled
me? Curiosity? No, I don't think so, either. Just don't think I'm getting
off on it. Sometimes it's best just not to think. Just not to think at all.

The boy was released and left to shuffle back towards the others on the
benches, holding up his pants for dignity, as if there was any to be
had. His hair was slicked back with sweat and he was red-faced and
panting. No one looked at him but no-one failed to see. The suits were
energised to a man, bouncing on their toes, their eyes afire. Only Perle
seemed unimpressed. The chore complete, it was as if he realised that there
was little else to keep him now and he felt vaguely cheated.

"Let that be a lesson to us all." he muttered briefly, almost to
himself. Then he remembered me and brightened visibly.

"Ah, Otto. Mr Lenz. I hope you were not too bored by our
little...scene. Young Kevin is a good member, a good brother and he will
learn from this. Won't you Kevin?"

He looked over expectantly to his errant acolyte.

"Fuck you, you prick." muttered Kevin to the floor. Instantly, the muscle
moved on in on him, Steroid Boy and Swivel-Eye. But Herbert shook his head
to call them off and let it go.  Frankly, I don't think anyone much
remembered anything else about that night. There was some more bullshit
from Herbert about the Zionist conspiracy in the schools, how it was piped
at us through the TV. How "his" boys were better off on the streets than in
a school environment and homes where such vile propaganda fed their
minds. At least they had their Brothers, had the Order, had the True,
Patriotic Way and shit they were better off anyway being born white and
straight and Christian!

At one point he wanted me to speak, as guest of honour. I managed some
suitably ridiculous platitudes in a style which was a definite pastiche of
his own, only slightly more over the top. I couldn't believe they'd take it
seriously. He had introduced me as "a big shot in the movement back East."
One of the boys had shouted: "You mean Hymietown or Chinatown?", which got
an appreciative chuckle. Even raised a wry smile from Kevin. Only Bobby
looked glum and stiff and controlled. Boy, his jaw must have ached with all
that manly jutting shit he was putting himself through. I hadn't worked him
out and that bothered me. And not just my vanity, my being an ex-cop,
ex-shit-hot detective, Private Eye and all round smartypants. And not just
because I didn't know what the hell I'd say to Lorraine. But something
wasn't right here. Bobby didn't fit in this and yet here he was, bursting a
ball to fit right in. Be seen to fit. Be noticed fitting. Bursting both his
little balls.

***************************************************************************

I'd waited till they were a block from the apartment before I made my
move. It had been even easier keeping tag on the return leg. For one, I
knew the destination; if I had lost them I could have picked it up again,
no sweat. For two, they were together - two of them to keep my eyes on. Two
asses swaying up ahead, a flash of yellow, then a flash of black - Kevin's
hair. I had all the return journey to think about this, what it meant, the
two of them together and to plan my move.

I came alongside, stepped off the sidewalk and spoke fast, low and urgent,
making good eye contact where they'd let me. They were kind of shocked, of
course and cagey as hell. I don't blame them for not trusting me, they must
have reckoned on my being sent by Perle to test them out.

"Hey, Bobby. I need you to listen to me. You too Kevin. I'm not who you
think. Don't look like that, kid, I'm a friend of your mom's. She sent me
to the gym to make sure you weren't popping pills or shit like that. Let's
go tell her the good news."

They stopped and stared at me, mouths agape.

"She knows? About the gym?"

"Not exactly, son. But whatever's going on there...well, why don't we just
go inside?"

They looked at each other briefly.

"Mr Lenz. I really admired what you said back there. I know I fucked up
tonight but if you don't mind I just wanna go home now." Kevin backing
away.

"I'm not Lenz."

They looked at each other again, desperate, confused, torn.

"Sure. Whatever."

"What d'you mean you're a friend of my mom? She'd kill me if she thought I
even knew someone like you!"

"Thanks, kid" I said "But you got me wrong. I'm not Lenz. I just made that
up to get invited in."

"Prove it!" Kevin coming on tough and strong.

"OK. Let's go on up. Apartment 207, right Bobby? C'mon, kid,
Lorraine...your mom will be worried if your late again. Like last
week...and the week before that..."

"I'm going home" Kevin, suddenly decisive.

"No!" said Bobby. "No, your not. You're staying here tonight. Like I said."

It was strange how cute, freckle faced little Bobby had such command over
older, rat-faced Kevin.

"OK." he said with a show, a show only, of reluctance. He turned to me.

"You...whoever you are...Lenz or whoever. If you're cool we can talk - if
you're not, you can go fuck yourself!"

"OK" I said. It sounded fair enough if anatomically unlikely.

"Just...just don't say about...you know."

The noise the cane made through the air, the stripes it made appear, his
helplessness, his fear, his shame.

"I understand" I said. I hesitated. "Kevin...I'm so sorry. I should
have..."

"Fuck you!" he looked at me angrily and then at Bobby.  "Do you trust this
jerk?" he asked.

Bobby shrugged.

"Come on" I said. "You've a lot of explaining to do, both of you. Let's do
it inside, yeah?"

They looked at each other; decision time. Bobby bit his lip then nodded
briefly once and we were on our way upstairs.

It was nearly 1.00am before we had the full story or as full a story as we
were likely to get out of them. I sat back watching Lorraine, gauging her
reaction. She gazed wearily at her son with a misty look that held a
tenderness and pride and sorrow, fear and puzzlement all mixed in; a look I
could not straighten out myself, not all the way; a mother-son thing only
they could understand in full. But Bobby was talking to her again, opening
up and sharing his thoughts in a way he hadn't for a long, long time.

As I slowly pieced it together, it all began with ugly boasts from kids at
school. They'd joined this group, a secret gang, were looking out for
members, come along. Lonely Kevin went to check it out and found a home he
never had before, a brotherhood of strength and joy and purpose in a life
of pointless urban, teenage angst. He then got Bobby, his one real friend
to join in too; the greatest gang in town, the Master Race. Smarter Bobby
saw right through the fraud and did his best to lever Kevin out of
Herbert's grip and save his soul, although I don't think it was just
Kevin's soul that Bobby had a crush on. In effect he declared a secret war
on Perle and on the Order. The prize was Kevin. This wasn't how they put
it, of course, but this was what it came down to; how I thought of it. And
Lorrie was no dumb blonde either when it came to working these things
out. That misty look spoke volumes; said it all, but in a strange and
secret language only they two shared.

Around that time in the story, the walking bomb, that tool of Zionist
expansionism in Herbert's fevered fantasy, Victoria Wallinger herself,
entered Bobby's life. A local celeb risen through the ranks of low budget
cable TV shows, Vicky Wallinger could make a gay man cream his pants at 50
paces. No wonder these two teenage boys could not resist. She'd fronted a
much publicised "TV Journalism Workshop" at their school, even though the
closest she had ever been to a real journalist was when she sucked off the
producer who gave her her first break. Bobby came away fired with ambition
and, advised by Ms Wallinger to concentrate on something from his own
experience, some real life story close to his heart that merited
investigation, he teamed up with Kevin and decided to dig some dirt on
Perle and his gang of crazies.

"Mom, did you really hire a private detective to follow me? That's so
uncool!"

"Luckily, I didn't have to hire him. You have no idea what Mr Bergman
charges, sweetheart!"

Kevin was snoring lightly on the sofa, Bobby sitting on the floor, leaning
back, exhausted after his long confessional storytelling. He hadn't really
paid me much attention up till now.

"Have you ever been undercover?" he asked suddenly.

I smiled. I'd spent more than half my life undercover, one kind or another.

"It's always a dangerous move. You only have so much time...first rule of
undercover work. Your cover will get blown. Bet on it. In fact, best carry
on as if your blown already."

"Have you ever been blown?"

We looked at each other for a second, our eyes locked, a slow ticking down
to that moment when you know, just know what the other person is thinking;
the awful intimacy of naked communication, cell to cell, nerve to nerve, a
knowledge and pre-knowledge both at once. A second ticked again and we
burst out laughing. Lorraine joined in with a fit of the giggles that made
Bobby laugh even louder. We managed to wake up poor Kevin. It was a good
release of tension.

"What's so funny?" Kevin, sounding dopey and bemused.

"We were talking about being blown!"  Bobby.

"What?"

"Your cover!" Lorraine added quickly. "and before we go any further, I
think it's high time you boys were getting your heads down."

This elicited another wave of giggles from Bobby although Kevin didn't seem
to find anything funny there either.

Before they went next door to Bobby's room, he turned to his mother with a
serious expression.

"Mom, I'm not finished yet. I want to be a journalist now and this is just
the best story. If I can break this one...I might make the LA Times or
something!"

"Darling, you're 13 years old. There are stories still waiting to make it
into the LA Times that are older than you are!"

"We're not quitting. We're undercover, mom! Mr Bergman said it...we don't
have a lot of time. Another two weeks, that's all. Two more meetings. I
know we can get enough evidence!"

"Bobby I don't know. I just don't like the idea of you hanging round those
creeps. I think you've done enough already, don't you?"

"But mom! That's just it. We haven't done shit!"

"Language Bobby, we've got guests."

"Please mom. Just once more, next week's meeting - please. Mr Bergman can
come again if you're worried - he'll look after us!"

All eyes turned on me.

"Now wait a minute." I protested. "I didn't agree to anything like
this. All I said, Lorrie, was that I'd...oh, shit!"

She had that look on her face again.

"Mike! Not in front of the boys, please! Boys! Off you go to bed, it's way
late. And don't you worry about Mr Bergman here. I'll work on him for you."

Her "insisting" look. The one I never could refuse.

Shit!!

********************************************************

The suits were lined up by the far wall as before. One or two of them
nodded. They still kept a cool, reserved distance from me. Steroid Boy and
Swivel-Eye in uniform again eyeballed me with knowing, eager smirks and my
own advice to Bobby flashed briefly in my mind: the first rule of
undercover work. Your cover will get blown. Bet on it. He didn't know it
but I'd followed Bobby all the way. Just to keep an eye on him. Honest. Did
I detect some kind of up-beat swing to the way he moved his ass tonight or
was I thinking too much? Kevin and Bobby. Bobby and Kevin. And Mike? Where
did Mike fit in in all of this?

They were both here again as arranged. Kevin on the far side, keeping his
head down this week. Having learnt his lesson. Bobby had kept his coat on
and sat slightly on his own trying to do the jutting thing with his chin
but not convincingly. He seemed nervous, spooked and fidgety; kept his
hands in his coat pockets like he was playing with himself underneath. Was
playing with something anyway. I watched the smirking uniforms give me the
once over. I stared them down which didn't take much and they both looked
away at the same time, finding things of sudden interest in the light
fittings, the scuff marks on the floor, the way one of the older boys was
nodding insolently to the hip-hop scazz downloaded on his iPod. The way
that blond brat sat there fingering his dick, the geek. There he is again;
can't leave himself alone. Thinks we don't know what he's up to.

Bobby. Jerking off behind his coat, playing pop the champagne cork,
moistening his mullet.

"Hey you! Blondie!" Steroid Boy getting uptight. Why was that? Wasn't he
getting any? Probably couldn't get it up for pills, the pocket pool a slap
across his ego-pockmarked face.  They sauntered over.

"Want to get it out and show us all?"

"Yeah, go on, you prick. Shower room's right over there, you shoot off in
your pants!"

Bobby looked mortified.

"Hold on. What is that you got there? Take it out!"

Swivel-Eye was sharp-eyed too; had caught something in this scene that
didn't fit and called it. Bobby sat still, his face white as the two kids
grabbed his arms and pulled them out of his pockets. In his hand, a brand
new minidisc recorder, red light on. His statement to his mom the week
before: "I know we can get enough evidence."

They'd held him there, pale and shaken whilst one of the suits hurried out
with the gadget still running, came back a minute later with Herbert Perle
in tow, looking worried, angry and perplexed.

"You?!" he exclaimed on seeing it was Bobby. Then he turned to me and
changed personality instantly.

"Otto. Greetings. Good to see you again. I'm so happy you could extend your
stay in LA"

He eyed me, calculating. I wondered again how sure they were. Sure that I
wasn't who I claimed to be. I had been in similar situations many times,
where all that counts is playing the psychological games. How much did they
suspect? Maybe nothing - paranoia on my part was natural and I knew enough
not to be too swayed by it. And paranoia on their part was natural
too. Suspicion was the lifeblood of this conspiracy, the same it was for
any other. He'd play the game to see if I got fucked on my next move and I
was damn sure I would play the game for all it's worth until I knew for
sure my cover had been blown.

"I'm afraid my little friend here presents me with a rather embarrassing
dilemma." he gestured to Bobby.

"You can explain this?" he asked.

Bobby said nothing.

"He said it was because he wanted to record you. To listen to you later on
- in bed."

This got a titter from the boys sat on the bench behind us and hadn't been
quite how the words were meant but it is what Bobby had said to his two
guards. Pretty good improv for this kind of on-the-spot,
shitting-yourself-with-fear kind of situation.

Herbert chose to ignore this.

"Well?" he mused dramatically. "Say I believe you. You know it's strictly
against the rules and you know the penalty for breaking the rules, don't
you. Donald? Can you arrange the table from next door...and if you could
lay your hand on my rod for me, I would be grateful."

Another titter from behind. What planet was this guy on?

Two of the suits disappeared briefly, returned carrying the same table used
the week before. Donald handed the cane to Perle, his "rod". All eyes on
our small group, a deathly hush. Even the iPod boy had tapped the volume
down to catch the moment.

Perle turned to me suddenly.

"Otto. You've seen how we handle these situations here. I'm sure you
approve. Perhaps, you would care to do the honours, my friend?"

A test. A definite test. How far would I go to protect my own cover? If I
was really who I said I was, I wouldn't hesitate, would do it well, even
get a kick from it. Would let them see the kick I got, would share it
round. A test, for sure.

I take the cane from Perle.

I was still not committed but at least it was out of his gorilla paw. I
turn to look at Bobby. Pale, shivering, defiant. Lorrie's son. My new
friend. My ward. The boy I'm here to protect. What the hell am I thinking
of?

We look at each other for a second, our eyes locked, a slow ticking down to
that moment when you know, just know what the other person is thinking; the
awful intimacy of naked communication, cell to cell, nerve to nerve, a
knowledge and pre-knowledge both at once.

A second ticks again.

His eyes say "Hurt me, make it look good."  His eyes say "Don't hurt me - I
can't take it, not like that."  His eyes say "Blow me - anything but this."
His eyes say "Don't blow me - my cover's all I got."

Another second. Am I who I say I am or am I not?

We almost put a stop to it. We could have done, of course. Could have
called a halt to this charade, revealed ourselves and told them all to go
to hell.

But then the final look that said it all, finally: "Don't you dare betray
me now, you fuck."

I nod briefly to the grinning goons in uniform and they know what to
do. They have Bobby now, bent over, pants and boxers pulled right down, his
pale ass rising like a smile, a frown.

I raise the cane to thrash the boy and find my muscles ache in rebellion,
holding back against my will. I bring it down half -heartedly, still enough
to raise a broad, red mark.  Another swish of cane through air, a lower
stroke but still half-strength. Bobby twists around and catches my eye, a
spark, a threat, a warning and a plea; a misty look that held a tenderness
and pride and sorrow, fear and puzzlement all mixed in. And suddenly I
understand and know again; sometimes it's best just not to think. Just not
to think at all.

The next blow brought a cry of pain, a sudden twist of anguish. The beating
had begun in earnest and everyone in the room knew it right away. Now I
shift automatically to change the angles, lay the red mark on the white in
stripes, in crossed lines, uprights almost some of them. I move in close,
hang back, bring down the cane full force across a line already red and
raised. Forgive me, Lorrie; I know what I'm doing and that's what so fucked
up.  Bobby yelps and chokes against his tears. Another stroke, the swish,
the thud of wood on bare boy flesh, the cry, the taking in of
breathe. Another. This time he cries out louder, bucks against restraining
arms and kicks a leg up, missing me but only just. He shudders, helplessly
exposed over the table. I raise my arm once more.

"Hey, Herb!"

Hubert, the brother.

All eyes turned to the source of this interruption, the two men burst
through the door, one short and distressed, the other tall, aloof and
taking it all in.

Herbert gave his brother an angry stare.

"Not now, you idiot!" he spat out. "How many times do I have to tell you,
you cretin. Don't ever interrupt me here!"

"Mr Perle?" The second man. "My name's Otto Lenz and I want to know what's
going on here."

The room froze and all eyes swivelled onto me. Cover blown.

I looked at Lenz, six foot, blond and blue eyed. Aryan through and
through. I let the cane fall from out my hand.

"Otto Lenz?" I said. "You Nazi twat!"

I landed a right cross, connecting with his jaw. Not the kind of shot I'd
teach my Wing Chun students but effective all the same. He crumpled in a
heap and didn't get up. Who needs Kung Fu? Steroid Boy and Swivel-Eye
immediately let go of Bobby, made to make a move on me. I gave them a very
straight look and they hesitated, glanced nervously at each other and sat
down quickly on the nearest bench. I noticed that the suits had already
tiptoed it out of there through the connecting door.

Perle stared at me, incandescent with rage.

"Who the hell are you?" he stuttered.

I ignored his question.

"It's all over, Perle. Time to crawl back into whatever hole you came
from. Bobby, pull your pants up. We're outta here. You too Kevin."

I turned to the other boys, sitting shell-shocked along the benches.

"Any of you boys want to stay here with this creep I guess that's up to you
but now's a good time to get out. Anyone who wants to leave right now just
go. You're not in any trouble, not from me."

They rose, more or less as one and headed for the door.

"Wait boys!" Herbert's last stand. "Brothers, my fellow patriots...you
can't be swayed by this...this communistic display. He's been sent to
infiltrate us...it's a conspiracy, don't you see? The Jew cabal will always
try to..."

Hubert turned to Herbert, a look of disgust, of long suppressed anger and
hurt on his face.

"For God's sake, Herb, just blow it out your ass!"

He shook his head, more in sorrow than anything else. "I should have done
this forty years ago" he said.

Taking one quick stride, he landed his gorilla paw full flush on Herbert's
nose. Perle toppled back and over, his hands reaching up too late, finding
only broken bone and spurting blood. Hubert stomped out, slammed the door
behind. Bobby, Kevin and I followed him out, leaving the two goons cooing
over their erstwhile Fuhrer.

"Mr Perle, you OK? Mr Lenz...wake up!"

********************************************************

I treated us to a cab; fuck that walking shit.

Bobby was silent all the way, we all were really; only Kevin spoke, giving
his friend the occasional muttered reassurance, his arm, at one point round
his shoulder, squeezing in sympathy, in understanding; in love.

The story never made it to the Times or anywhere else and Lorrie didn't ask
too many questions, not of me anyway. She sensed the changed mood in her
son, realised he'd somehow stepped, however briefly, into a world of vaster
possibilities, of endless variation and novelty, had seen beyond his
thirteen years and needed time now to make the necessary adjustments to his
everyday life.

"That's it" he said.

"What's that?" I asked. "The end of your career in journalism?"

He raised his eyebrows theatrically, made his freckles dance.

"Duurrr. Stupid!" he said.

"Bobby! Don't be rude!" His mom.

"It's OK. I can call Mike what I like now...can't I Mike?"

I smiled at him.

"Up to a point, kid." I said. "I guess you earned that right. Up to a
point."

Our eyes locked, smiled.

"No way I'm stopping now. When I grow up that's what I'm going to do. I'm
going undercover. Me and Kevin. We're going to be investigative reporters."

"Like Woodward and Bernstein?"

"Who?"

"Never mind, son."

"I like it" added Kevin. "Curran and Hester! A joint byline."

"Hester and Curran, you dope!"

"No way...no way am I going to let some thirteen year old have his name in
front of mine..."

"I won't be thirteen then...I'll be...I don't know...twenty-three or
something...I'll be old..."

"I'll still be older, Bobby!"

"Fuck you...sorry mom, it just slipped out..."

I left them arguing happily. I said goodnight to Lorraine and stepped back
into the night, thinking hard, making plans; who to call? Who best to touch
for such a specialised piece of work?

                   ********************************

Three days later a fire at Benny's Gym destroyed the premises with no loss
of life or much damage beyond the four walls. The Fire Officer on the scene
just couldn't figure it out. He put it down to an electrical fault but had,
himself, passed the place as clean just weeks before. But shit, it was only
some crappy boy's club gym. Plenty of those in LA. Plenty more.

The traffic sped by South Main Street, slowing here and there. A knot of
boys who lingered by the arcade watched it pass, dreaming of a future.

THE END