1
Fortune’s Fool
Bronson gets in a fight. His family plans a trip. Duncan packs his trunk. A stranger works on the family car.
Concrete isn’t a good material for a bed. It makes great roads, swimming pools, and nuclear power plants, but it doesn’t make a good bed. Somebody forgot to tell Bronson Black. He laid flat on his back in the middle of an outdoor basketball court staring up at Arthur Tillman. Arthur was taller than Bronson. He was stronger. Most importantly he was older and meaner.
“So you can’t handle a little defense?” asked Arthur. He dribbled a beat up basketball near Bronson’s head.
“Don’t be a jerk. I’ll go home.”
“Aw, you hear your mommy calling you for nub-nubs?”
Arthur circled Bronson. He bounced the ball to the right of Bronson’s head. THUMP. Then to the left. THUMP. Bronson jumped up and backed away from the boy.
Bronson stood still. He could feel Arthur moving behind him. Maybe I should turn around.
Arthur flicked the back of Bronson’s ear. Okay, guess we’re doing this. Bronson turned around to face Arthur.
Arthur’s fist met Bronson’s head on the way around. Bronson’s legs went limp and he fell down on the concrete for a second time. He didn’t want to let on how much it hurt, and he did his best not to cry.
Arthur leaned down and brought his face a few inches from Bronson’s. His breath smelled like old potato chips and bubble gum.
“Didn’t see that coming?” Arthur asked. “Aw, the little baby better not cry. Don’t cry little baby. Does little baby need his mommy?”
“Is that what you want? Yes, then. Yes, I need my mommy,” said Bronson.
Arthur chuckled.
“Sure, I’ll bet she has a bottle all warmed up for you.” Arthur dribbled his ball back across the court and took a shot.
Bronson was thirteen, practically an adult in kid years, but he was old enough to know that losing a fight meant his life was over at school. He whimpered on the couch while his mother cleaned him up. She took some gauze and poured some alcohol on top. Bronson’s father was working at the dining room table. He used a dirty handkerchief to polish a crystal ball.
“I wasn’t doing nothing,” Bronson said. ‘I didn’t even look at him. I’ve got rotten luck.”
Bronson’s father pulled his reading glasses down and looked Bronson in the eyes.
“Son,” he said, “what do I always tell you?”
Bronson knew his father wouldn’t let that one slide. He sat up, sniffled, and parroted back the familiar words.
“We… we make our own luck.”
Bronson’s father smiled as he came and sat down beside him.
“That’s right. We make our own luck, both good and bad.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“I know, buddy,” his father said, “and it’s not your fault. You need to remember that bad luck didn’t have anything to do with it. People’s decisions caused this. You decided to go there, and he decided to act like a jackass.”
“Duncan Oliver Black… watch your language,” Bronson’s mother said. His dad chuckled.
“Luck is an excuse, and when you start making excuses you stop looking for solutions. We make our own luck, Bron. Never forget it.”
“Yes, Dad,” Bronson said. He sat up and cleaned the tears off his cheek with his sleeve. “Can I go to my room? I want to forget this whole crummy day.”
Duncan put his crystal ball back in the leather trunk where he kept all of his magic gizmos. It was covered in stickers with the names of exotic locales like Jakarta, Amsterdam, and Poughkeepsie. He closed the lid and locked the rusty padlock.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “I’m on the road so much… we haven’t had a family day out in months.”
“A family day out? Like to where?” Bronson asked.
“Well, I guess that’s up to you.”
“Within reason,” Mom said.
“Within reason,” Duncan repeated.
Bronson considered the options. They could see a movie. He’d always wanted to visit the Native American reservation and learn how to do a rain dance. Then it hit him. He knew what he wanted to do.
“We can go up to Colta City. I can practice my skating in Dixon Park and we can get some hot dogs at a street cart and then we can visit Uncle Randolph.” Bronson had never been to Colta City, and he’d never met his Uncle Randolph. When he thought about his uncle he pictured a guy who had tons of crazy city adventures at coffee shops and delis.
“No,” Duncan said, “I don’t know if your Uncle Randolph is up for visitors on such short notice. He has a tiny apartment. It isn’t set up for thirteen-year-olds. Anyway from what I hear Colta City isn’t the safest place these days. They have a lot of problems with street crime up there.”
“Aw, Dad,” Bronson said, “I’m old enough. Kevin goes up every weekend.”
Duncan placed his hand on Bronson’s shoulder. Bronson felt a little static shock. Duncan’s gaze fixed on the wall like he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. A few seconds passed then he jerked his hand back.
“Are you okay?” asked Mom.
“I’m… I’m fine. Look, Bron, I’m sure you’ll make it up to the city someday soon. I know you will. Tomorrow isn’t that day.”
Bronson was disappointed, but he could tell it wasn’t up for discussion.
“There’s the Blue Tip Festival up in Davidson County tomorrow. I guess that would be okay.”
“Sounds fine,” said Duncan. “We’ll head out early. Why don’t you help your mom get dinner ready? I’ve got to pack my trunk for Monday. I’ll be upstairs if anybody needs me.”
“Hey,” Mom said, “you’re sure you’re okay?”
Duncan picked up his trunk.
“I told you I’m fine. I just need to make sure I’m packed before we head out on our big day.”
Duncan dropped the trunk on the floor of the attic. He took out his wallet and produced a small silver key with the initials D.B. carved in it, although the letters were so worn they were almost flush with the key’s surface. He unlocked the trunk and took out the dangerous things: fuel for fire eating, throwing knifes, and explosive charges among them.
Duncan took a knife with him to the other end of the attic. He pulled a blanket off a pile of boxes then moved them one by one until he uncovered the floorboards. He jammed his knife between two planks and jiggled it until the left one popped out. There was a large hat box below the floor tied shut with a piece of twine. A word was scrawled on the side of the box: Willowwood.
Duncan cut the twine and put it aside. He brushed off the dust and took off the lid. There were mementos inside it… echoes of the past. He pulled a square paper package out. He opened the package and made sure everything was there.
He put the package in the trunk, along with all the throwing knives. He locked up the trunk and shoved the key back in his wallet. He felt prepared now and went downstairs to have a good meal with his wife and son.
That night a man sat in a cheap rental car across the street from Bronson’s house. He munched on some stale pretzels that he’d opened earlier that day. On the passenger’s seat there was a satchel with several compartments. It held a copy of that morning’s Colta City Gazette. The headline read “THIEVES TERRORIZE CITY—BUT WHO IS PULLING THEIR STRINGS?”
The windows in Bronson’s house went dark. The man grabbed the satchel, dumped the remaining salt from the bag into his mouth, then got out. He closed the door, lifting the handle so the latch wouldn’t make much noise. He wasn’t used to operating in a nice area, but he knew well enough to stay under the radar of the Neighborhood Watch.
The man skulked down to the end of the block to cross the street, keeping a calm pace at first. As his excitement built he moved faster. He was almost running by the time he reached Bronson’s driveway. Sloppy, he thought.
He stopped at the top of the driveway, dropped to his belly, then did an army crawl to the driver’s side of the car. He sat up against the door to check the area. The house next door was a concern, but the three-foot brick wall obscured him well enough. He put the satchel under the car then lay down and rolled after it.
He took out a small digital timer with three colored wires hanging off it then used some gaffer’s tape to attach the timer to the car. He unscrewed the lid off a small glass jar and pulled out a hunk of what looked to be gray clay. He molded it around the brake line then pressed it together until it was secure.
The man took the red and blue wires and pressed them into the clay then took a little more goop from the jar and placed it over the wires. He fed the blue wire up through the engine, taped it in place, then shut his bag and got out from under the car.
He tried the handle on the car door. It clicked open. Feeling pretty darn lucky he opened the door then felt under the dash for the hood release. He found the handle and gave it a pull—
The trunk popped open.
Add something else to the list, he thought. He felt around until he found a small circular button. He hit the button. The hood clicked open a quarter inch.
He went to the front of the car. A little blue wire poked out from the engine block. He pulled it over to the row of spark plugs. The wire had to be close enough to catch a spark when the engine started but not so close that it would fry out after the car ran a few minutes. Satisfied it was properly positioned he secured it with some gaffer’s tape.
He lowered the hood until it rested on the car then pressed down on the hood with his body weight until he heard the click of the latch—
“Gah!”
Slicing pain shot up his spine. He reached behind his back and felt a fuzzy texture. He grabbed the mystery animal then flung it across the car. It hit the trunk with a THUD and let out a screeching “MRRROOWWWW!”
“Stupid filthy cat,” the man muttered under his breath. The noise might be a problem, but the trunk was closed. He picked up his satchel and made his way down then across the street. As he made it back to his rental car he heard a familiar voice call out from Bronson’s house.
“Who’s out there?” Duncan said from his bedroom window.
The man hit the ground. At this point he refused to get caught. He’d already done everything he came to do. There were three separate escape routes but none of them were accessible from his current position. He decided to wait it out.
“Me-ow,” said the cat.
“Shoo,” Duncan said. “Go away.”
The cat darted away to wherever cats disappear to when confronted by strange humans. Duncan sighed and closed the window.
The man counted to fifty before poking his head up to check the area. The street was as silent as when he got there. He got in the car then played with the radio until he found a soft, soothing female voice to accompany him on his ride back to the train station. He sang along as he drove away.
Doooo doooo doooo, ah ah ah. Doooo doooo dooo, ahhhhhhhh.
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