Adrian was no dummy. He knew how to work being in someone’s debt.
The first day, when Frank sent him to the 7-Eleven for cigarettes and a twelve-pack of Budweiser, he wasn’t carded. The bored man working the counter never gave him a glance, never questioned him about his age, just rang up the beer and smokes and tossed them in a bag. Adrian saw an opportunity. He was already big, six-four and two-twenty at the tender age of sixteen, a year younger than the rest of the kids in his class. His build worked to his favor when he decided to pick up his own party accoutrements. He and Doug would take the nasty cheap beer he bought to the top floor of the parking deck of the Bennigan’s restaurant in Tyson’s Corner, where the servers hung out after their shift. They’d share the beer and get hammered with them. The servers were mostly freshman and sophomores at George Mason University and Northern Virginia Community College, older and more sophisticated and certainly felt it wasn’t cool to befriend high schoolers. But they tolerated the younger boys because they could score the beer.
He’d party hearty, then drive home, weaving along the back roads, pass out for a few hours before he had to get up at dawn to drive his beat-up pickup over to the build site. A couple of hours in the sun sweated out his hangover, and by noon, when they were all a sweaty, nasty mess and Frank sent him for lunch, Adrian would go willingly, grateful to let the breeze from the open truck windows cool him off as he drove toward town.
He didn’t have a care in the world until the day Frank approached him for a favor. Adrian was up on the roof, straddling a beam, nailing together the edges of the truss they’d just laid. The pa-pap of the air gun slamming nails into the wood was rhythmic and smooth. He had a bad hangover, but he’d found if he timed the pressurized blast to coincide with his heartbeats, it was more like a drum tattoo and much less offensive to his aching head—bump, hiss, da-bump, hiss, da-bump, hiss, da-bump.
He was annoyed when a shadow loomed over him, interrupting his rhythm. He shielded his eyes and looked up. Frank, actually up on the roof, sunglasses on, bald head covered in a red bandanna, sweat streaming down his cheeks, looking like he had at least three sticks of gum wedged into his cheek.
“Kid. I need you after work. Meet me here at 10:00 p.m. Leave your truck at 7-Eleven.”
“I have plans.”
“Yeah, you do, dick weed. With me. Don’t be late, or I’ll fuck you up.”
“What are we doing?”
“Do I pay you to ask questions?” He leaned over, the gum wad going full speed, little flecks of spit launching from his mouth onto Adrian.
Adrian wiped his face and shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good. 10:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”
After work, Adrian showered, drank a beer with Doug, made an excuse about not feeling good, dropped his truck at 7-Eleven as instructed. He smoked a cigarette on the corner of Spring Hill and Old Dominion, then walked to the building site. He tried not to be curious about what Frank wanted with him after dark. Tried to be cool.
The half-built houses looked different at night. There was a sliver of moon, a thin half crescent giving off a feeble light. Frank was sitting on a pylon, waiting for him. He was edgy, jumpy, his thick hands clenching in and out of fists.
“Finally. Thought you might * out on me.”
“You told me to come, so here I am. What are we doing?”
“In a few minutes, a car’s gonna drive up with a dude in it who owes me some money. I need to get a point across. You ever been in a fight?”
Adrian snickered. He’d been in plenty of fights, especially when he was younger. The collective pack, finding their appropriate places. Even as he got bigger, boys liked to test him, to see what he was capable of. He liked fighting, but he kept that under wraps, because his dad went ballistic every time he came home with a busted lip or a black eye.
“Good. If I ask you to hit him, do it. No hesitation, just pop him one. If I decide I want to pump him up myself, you hold him. Got it?”
“Why do you need me for this?”
Frank looked at him like he was an absolute idiot. “You see anyone else on the crew your size? Size matters, kid. Don’t let the girls tell you different.” He guffawed and spit out his wad of gum, tossed it in the bushes. Adrian wanted to tell him not to, that birds would eat it and get sick, like when they ate wedding rice and their bellies blew up, but he held his tongue. Something was weird about Frank tonight. He didn’t want the negative attention focused on him. And he kind of liked being singled out to back up his boss in a fight.
Frank flexed his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “Besides, I’m betting you can keep a secret. Am I right?”
Adrian didn’t see the harm in telling the truth. “Yeah.”