Free Untouchable by Scott O'Connor Page A

what’s the worst they can do.”
    “I know what they can do.”
    “Get on the horn to their parents. Call their fathers. A phone call to the father yields fearsome results.”
    “He won’t say who’s doing it.”
    “Find out. Get a name and make a call. I’m telling you. These little kids can be fucking animals.” Bob tossed his napkin on top of his empty plate, let out a rolling belch.
    A waitress came by with the check, set it on the table. Bob slid the check toward Darby.
    “This is yours.”
    “How do you figure?”
    “The job took four hours this morning,” Bob said. “You bet dinner on three.”
    The sleigh bells over the door jangled. Two young Mexican girls came inside, selling tissue paper flowers from an emptied coffee can. Bob signaled to them, dug into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet.
    “I’ll get one for Rhoda,” he said. “A souvenir from the outside world.”
    He accepted a flower from the smaller of the girls, passed her a dollar bill, smiled.
    “ Gracias, mijita ,” he said.
    Darby picked The Kid up at the Crumps’ and they drove home in silence. At the house, they pulled the trash and recycle bins out to the curb. Garbage night. Something caught Darby’s eye out on the sidewalk, some movement under the twin holes set into the manhole cover. A trick of the streetlight maybe, something reflected. He saw it again, called The Kid over. The Kid crouched down next to the cover, looked into the holes. Put his ear to the metal, listening. Stood up and shook his head. He didn’t notice anything.
    Darby still had remnants of the feeling from the job site that morning, the headache, the nagging tug. While The Kid got ready for bed, he sat on the living room couch with his eyes closed, pressing the heels of his hands to his temples.
    The Kid came back downstairs in his Dodger pajamas. He stood in the kitchen for a moment, head down, taking deep breaths, composing his thoughts. Darby never knew if The Kid was nervous before he started, before he stepped through the threshold into the living room. Didn’t know if The Kid’s imaginary audience caused actual stage fright.
    The Kid hosted a nightly talk show called It’s That Kid! He’d done this for a couple of years running. It was a highly successful show. It lasted about ten minutes—fifteen if The Kid had a particularly intriguing guest. He’d come up with the show as something to cheer Lucy up during the baseball off-season. Every night before bed, back when he was talking, he’d burst from the kitchen with a full-face smile and launch into his opening monologue, a few bits cribbed from the taped real-life shows he’d watched that morning before school, jokes he’d heard around the neighborhood, some real groaners from his book of knock-knock gags. Then he’d give a little intro where he told the audience about that night’s guest, their history and accomplishments. His guests were usually celebrities, sports figures, world leaders, people The Kid had seen on TV or heard about in school. Sometimes they were long dead; sometimes they were fictional. Past presidents were recurring guests, superheroes from his favorite comics, members of Dodger teams Lucy had told him about, men who played long before The Kid was born. The guest would come out and The Kid would stand politely while they waved to the audience, basking in the applause. Thank you, no, please, no, this is too much. The Kid sat on the other end of the couch from Lucy. His imaginary guest sat in the empty armchair a few feet away. The Kid asked questions about the guest’s current projects and past accomplishments, then answered in the closest thing he could approximate to the guest’s voice. The voice never sounded anything like the guest’s actual voice, but The Kid didn’t bill himself as an impressionist. He’d ask a question and alternate between his impression of the guest’s response and his reactions as host. When the guest told a joke, The Kid would