“No,” Harry screamed as loud as he could.
“He’s a fucking psycho,” said Steve.
“He is not,” Annie said. “He’s a visiting high school student.”
“He tried to kill me. He’s crazy.”
“He isn’t, he didn’t.” Annie started to cry. He’d made a girl cry. And he couldn’t stop ticcing. His head did the violent sideways tic and smashed against the floor.
“Calm down now, son. It’s a serious offense to hit a cop. Show’s over, everyone.” The cop leaned into Harry’s ear. “You’re coming with me.” His breath was rank with stale coffee; his body stank of sweat and cheap cologne. Harry nearly gagged.
Handcuffs clicked.
He was hauled to his feet. Everyone stared as if he were naked. He was used to people staring, but not like this, not like this. Voices blurred and the world turned slowly—images at the end of a kaleidoscope. He tried to open his mouth, tried to say, I have Tourette syndrome. Where were those cards he’d made up for the plane? His feet didn’t want to move. His legs gave way.
Again he was hauled up. The cop’s arm kept him upright. Without it, he would’ve fallen over. Tumbled to the floor like a piece of trash. Unwanted, thrown away. All he could think about was his bag. Dad had said not to leave things behind.
“My b-bag,” he stuttered.
“You might want to be quiet now. Let’s just get you out of here, and everyone can calm down.”
Annie picked up his backpack.
“What’s in the bag?” A second cop? Where did he come from?
Harry tried to speak, but it was too hard. Woozy, so woozy . . .
“I’m pressing charges,” Steve called out.
“Steve, please let it go.”
“Let me handle this, babe. He’s a fucking psycho.”
“No,” Annie said. “I’m a witness. It was an accident.”
“Why don’t we take this somewhere quiet?” the cop said.
He was being hustled out. Max! Max was there in front of the Starbucks.
“What the fuck?” Max ran over. “What are you doing with my friend?”
“He assaulted a student and a cop.”
“He has Tourette syndrome. He sometimes lashes out involuntarily.”
“First time I’ve heard that one,” the cop said.
Legs felt all wobbly. Turned back to Max. “Get Dad.” The wall behind him was painted lime green. Bilious lime green . . .
“I feel—” Vomit spewed. Over the cop. Splat! Onto the brick floor. Splat! So much vomit. Like he was losing his insides.
“What the hell?” the cop said, jumping back.
And Harry went down.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Felix rifled through the mounds of papers on his desk, temper rising. Curt had been in here. The file he needed for his meeting with Robert was missing, and someone had rearranged his papers. This was not acceptable. No one touched his desk—including the complete wanker who was supposedly taking over his job. In the last week, he had discovered that Curt’s ambition did not match his ability. He had no patience for the details of a deal; he was not partnership material. Staying with the company would mean fixing Curt’s screwups seven days a week.
His mobile started ringing. Not a number he recognized.
“Felix Fitzwilliam,” he snapped and, balancing the phone between his head and shoulder, sifted through another pile of papers.
“Mr. FW, it’s me. Max. I got your number from Harry’s cell phone.”
“Max?” Felix stopped moving. “Is there a problem?”
“Harry’s on his way to the hospital with a concussion.”
“What!”
“Some fuckbag thought Harry’s tic was a punch, and some rent-a-cop came on heavy and he bashed his head—Harry, I mean, Harry bashed his head, and—” Max gulped. “He was out cold, Mr. FW. He’s in an ambulance and they won’t let me ride with him, but the other campus cop, the nice one, said he’d drive me over and that Harry probably has a concussion and he’ll be fine, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do, I—”
“Max. Take a deep breath. Is Harry conscious?”