"Why did you take me there?" TJ asked.
They'd been driving in silence for a few minutes. Randall was halfway through another cigarette, puffing periodically on it.
"To give you a sense of perspective," he replied, rolling his car to a smooth halt as a light turned red. They came to another intersection he didn't recognize. "I also thought, I dunno, maybe you might get a kick out of seeing where your bullies ended up."
"They weren't really my bullies," TJ said quietly. "I didn't really get bullied. I mean, not compared to some of the shit you see nowadays in the news on and YouTube. God, the 'pranks' asshole teens pull on each other..."
"Yeah," Randall said, and TJ glanced over, detecting a note of genuine bitterness creeping into the man's voice. He was biting down on his cigarette, clenching the steering wheel. TJ knew that he had gone through his own share of hell during his formative years. He remembered trying to help him more than once, even going so far as to pull him away from being a lapdog for Finster. God, what had happened to her? He almost asked but didn't. She was getting on in her years even back in elementary school.
Good chance she was dead.
In the end, Randall had gone back to her, because TJ had figured out, they both had figured out, that being popular, fitting in, all that cliched garbage, it really wasn't worth a whole lot in comparison to a real, genuine friend. Someone who got you, someone who cared about you, someone you just gelled with.
And, weirdly enough, for Randall J. Weems, that someone was Miss Finster.
But it worked, and he didn't really question it anymore after that. Just because he couldn't imagine what a kid could possibly see in that role didn't mean he had to tear it down. You didn't have to understand someone to respect them and their choices.
"It's no goddamned wonder kids are blowing their brains out nowadays," Randall said grimly. "Every other day I hear about a suicide. I swear, it's all the media puts out now. Yeah, I think we had it easy, comparatively. Sure, getting made of fun of, even getting beaten up every now and then is bad, but it's nothing compared to what these little assholes can do nowadays with the miracle of social media and a high-rez HD camera in your pocket." He shook his head, killed off his cigarette in one hard pull, stubbed it out and got a new one going. The red light finally turned green again and they kept moving.
"I swear, where the media is going...it's nowhere good," he muttered.
"What do you mean?" TJ asked. Personally, he didn't put much stock in the news anymore. NBC, Fox, CBS, it all seemed like they were getting harder to trust.
Though really, he wasn't sure he'd ever truly trusted them. Even as a child.
"All they put out there is the bad crap and the pointless crap. The news is a business. People don't realize that, I think. And when you run something like a business, you will inevitably head down a dark path if it's something that's moral or ethical, something people actually rely on. It's why we're so screwed up. Our news and our hospitals are run like businesses. God, can you imagine if we ran the fire department like we run hospitals? Or the police? 'Sorry ma'am, we can't help you, you still haven't paid off your bill from that time we stopped a home invasion.' But the media, it's becoming more and more about views and clicks, and ad revenue."
"I'm not sure I follow," TJ said, but he thought he might, and he didn't like it. Talking with Randall was an exercise in contradictions. The more they talked, the more afraid and anxious he got. And yet, he was compelled to keep going.
"How do you suppose news outlets make their money?"
"Ads. Commercials," he replied.
"Exactly. Now, companies pay them to run those ads. How much they pay tends to be tied to what kind of viewership the channel can pull in. More eyeballs on the screen, more people reached, more money shelled out. Obviously, this incentivizes the news corporations to get more people watching. And what gets people watching more than tragedy? Than gossip? Goddamned celebrity worship? Football for God's sake. It's all they talk about. And the tragedies are the worst. Someone goes nuts and shoots a place up, a natural disaster hits, a building collapses, and they're all over it, feeding you as much as they can, so that people will watch those commercials between the segments, so that they can earn more money. It's exploitative and disgusting. Makes me sick."
"Really? You?" he asked.
Randall glanced over at him. "I know I'm screwed up, but I'm not a monster, TJ."
He didn't know what to say to that, suddenly feeling bad about saying it.
"Anyway, the path this leads down is a bad one. News outlets are only going to get shadier. Worse, a lot of them are owned by like a handful of billionaires. And if the rich, old, white asshole who runs three different mega-news outlets is a racist bigot, then you best believe those news stations are going to run certain stories in certain ways to reflect his views. It's becoming binary. It's becoming us-versus-them. People listen to Fox News, for example, because they're conservative, religious, or Republican, and because Fox News will tell them what they want to hear. How long before Fox starts abusing that? They are already, I'm sure. And it's just as bad on the liberal, Democrat side. And it's only going to get worse, and faster, too. All those huge corporations that've been around for fifty or sixty years are going to get very desperate with the rise of the internet and digital media. They won't adapt, they won't be able to. They're too old, too stubborn, and too stupid to change."
TJ remained silent through all of this, digesting this information. It sounded crazy, in a way, but...it also made a lot of sense.
"Where are we going?" he asked finally, wanting to think about anything else but this.
"A bar," Randall replied. "Spinelli works there as a bartender."
TJ considered that as Randall suddenly pulled off the main road. Spinelli as a bartender? He supposed he could see it. He glanced at the dashboard-mounted clock embedded in Randall's expensive, high-tech sound system. It was pushing seven o'clock. Had he really been here for that long? It didn't feel like several hours had passed. TJ checked his phone as Randall killed the engine and got out.
Still nothing. No calls, no texts.
He sighed and got out too, shutting his door and hurrying across the lot. Hot neon burned out of the rainy gloom at him, buzzing loudly and proclaiming Rudy's. He couldn't remember ever seeing the bar before, even though it looked old. Then again, he'd left this place long before he'd hit the drinking age.
Randall pushed the door open and went in. TJ trailed after him. Immediately, he was hit by that miasma of beer, cigarette smoke, and piss that seemed to infest most bars that had that cheap, rundown look. And Rudy's sure as hell did. An old tiled floor covered in a million stains and cracks, a pair of pool tables that were scratched to hell and back, tables and booths populated by regulars. The lights were made dim by a haze of cigarette smoke. He scanned the first, starting up at the bar, hoping to see Spinelli there.
It'd make sense that she wouldn't answer her phone, maybe even turn it off or be forced to let it die if it was low on power, if she was at work. But he didn't see her. Maybe she was in the back. Randall was heading through the blue haze towards the bar. TJ shuffled uncomfortably after him. He felt really out of place here. Old bars just weren't really his thing. He preferred newer, better-lit, more active bars.
These places were just...morose.
Depressing.
It was really the kind of place you came to drink when you were in a shit marriage with someone you didn't love, working a job you hated to support kids you didn't want who were growing up to be entitled assholes.
"You seen Spin around?" Randall asked one of the bartenders.
The guy shook his head. He sport a long mustache and a ponytail and looked somehow greasy. "Nope. She took the past few days off, then did a no call, no show today. You see her, tell her she's in trouble. She can't keep doing shit like this and expect to have a job," the man replied gruffly. He paused. "You want anything?"
"I'm good. TJ?"
"Uh...no, nothing."
"Then why are you here?" he grumbled.
"Pick, relax," Randall replied, and something in his voice made the bartender back off. TJ suddenly wondered what kind of deals Randall ran in places like this, what kind of contacts he had, favors he was owed.
He was the kind of guy who had a lot of angles worked out.
"Now what?" TJ asked.
"I'm thinking, but for now...there's someone you should see. Come on. He might have some intel on Spinelli," Randall replied, nodding to a corner booth where a small group of people had gathered. The one the middle, TJ immediately recognized as Francis, aka Hustler Kid. Although he was really Hustler Man now. He looked...not all that different, really. He had a mess of short brown hair, done up in a style that somehow seemed to suggest both, well, style, and having just gotten out of bed. TJ assumed gel of some kind was involved.
He had on a black t-shirt with a big white grinning skull across the front, wore a necklace with a dogtag hanging from end. There was a lot of stuff on the table in front of him. Cigarettes, food, booze, lots of bills, (TJ spied several hundreds), paper, other random items. Two men and two women occupied the booth as well, the men sitting on the outside while the women sat on either side of Francis.
"Randall!" he called as the two approached his table. "Nah, nah, it's fine, Max," he added when one of the two guys, a huge guy wearing a frown and a tanktop stretched over his musculature and a black beanie, stood up, grunting.
The man eyed them both, then sat back down.
"And...holy shit, is that TJ Detweiler?" Francis asked.
"Guilty as charged," TJ replied awkward.
"Holy God, man. It's been forever. What the hell are you two doing here? I never thought I'd see you two standing together in the same room."
"I was hoping we could have some words," Randall replied.
Francis frowned briefly, sitting up straighter. He seemed to consider something for a scant few seconds, then nodded. "Ladies, gentlemen, I need some time alone," he said.
The women complained but left with the two silent tough guys, who TJ figured had to be bodyguards. Jeez, what was Francis into that required bodyguards? And they didn't go all that far away, either. The two of them slid into the booth as soon as there was room. "So what's happening, you two? Catch me up. It's been a million years, Teej."
"Not a whole lot to say," he replied awkwardly. "I graduated from college with a business degree, got an apartment with Guru Kid and now I'm an office drone."
"Guru Kid? Huh. What's he do now?"
"Same as me."
"No freaking way...man, that's nuts."
"Why don't you tell him what you do, Francis?" Randall asked.
He sighed heavily. "It's Bootleg, now. Come on, Weems, you know this." He shifted his attention to TJ. "I basically do what I've been doing my whole life: hustling. I get people things. You would be simply shocked at how much money there is in the simple facilitation of getting people things. It's crazy, man."
"What kind of things?" TJ asked, not sure he wanted to know.
Francis shrugged easily, took a drink from his beer. "All sorts of things, really. A lot of it is, uh, medication, if you take my meaning. I loan out money, too. Hey, you need some money? I'd give a real fair interest rate."
"I'm fine," TJ replied.
"Don't hustle him, Francis," Randall said.
Francis sighed again. "You're in a real mood tonight, huh? Me and Randall, we got an understanding. We trade info, usually."
"I'm kind of surprised you're still in town," TJ said.
"What's not to love about this town? And I'm not always here. Travel between here and head up to Worthington every now and then. Got an apartment up there and a nice lady friend. Got an import-expert business up there, too. Man, I can get you anything...so what exactly is it you're looking for? Cause you've got that look about you. The one that tells me the only thing I really wanna hear: 'I'm looking for something'."
"I was wondering if you had any information on Spinelli," TJ replied.
"Oh, her. Hmm...not a whole lot, really. I figured Randall here would know more than I do, the way he obsesses over all of us." He fell silent for a moment, rubbing his stubble-stained jaw, mulling it over. "Yeah, okay. I saw her last week. She was picking up work stripping over at that club, what is it...Seduction. No idea if she's there or not, or if she even works there anymore. She seems to bounce between jobs, what I remember."
TJ glanced at Randall, who nodded to him, as though confirming the truth of Francis's words. "All right, thanks, Fran-uh, Hustler K...Bootleg," he murmured.
"Francis is fine when it's you. You were always good to me, TJ. Way I recall it, you were always good to everyone, it seemed. Even your enemies. You're nuts, you know that?"
"Maybe," he replied uncertainly.
Francis leaned in suddenly. "A lot of us never left the town, you know." He nodded over to the bar. "Look there. See that big guy? In the oil-stained red shirt? You recognize him?"
TJ turned and looked. He had a rough side view of an enormous man with a huge beer gut and thinning dark hair. He was indeed wearing an oil-stained red shirt, complete with work boots and old overalls. He looked familiar, actually…
"...Gelman?" he asked uncertainly.
"Nail on the head," Francis replied. "Good ol' Gelman."
"What's he up to nowadays? He looks...miserable," TJ murmured, staring at what had once been the terror of Third Street Elementary. How many kids had he bullied? How many had he abused? God, there was that time he'd beaten the living crap out of Gus. Not a pretty memory. Although he seemed to get a grip after that. He wasn't a saint, but he seemed to be less violent when Gus caused everyone to stand up to him.
"He is miserable," Randall said. "He's got a wife and two kids that he can't stand. Works at a garage. He comes in here more and more."
"Jesus," TJ whispered. "What a nightmare."
"Yep. In a deep contrast to this sad sack, look at the two guys at the other end of the bar," Francis said, nodding again.
TJ squinted, studying the two men through the haze of blue smoke. They did indeed look familiar. Perhaps not in their physical appearances, as he didn't quite recognize the decently buff, bronzed men in t-shirts and jeans, but more in their mannerisms. The way they talked at each other, gestured at each other. He could even just barely pick up their conversation, and although he couldn't make out the words, he could hear their tone of voice, the cadence of their words, and they struck him as deeply familiar too.
"I give up, who are they?" he asked finally, frustrated at not being able to place them.
"Sam and Dave," Randall replied. "The diggers."
"Holy crap, it is...what do they do now? Work construction? They sure as hell look like they do," TJ said.
"Technically, they do. They own their own construction company," Randall replied. "Took a crazy huge risk and a giant loan from questionable sources straight outta high school. Except they knew exactly what they were doing. Digging, building, it's all they want to do, so they figured it out early on. They're worth a fair amount nowadays. One of the rare real success stories out of Third Street Elementary."
"That's crazy," TJ murmured. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly desperate to be gone, to keep moving. "Can we get out of here?" he asked.
"Sure," Randall replied, getting up.
"What you want with Spinelli, anyway?" Francis asked.
"Not sure. She asked me for help," TJ replied.
"Huh. Well, I'll keep my ear to the ground, let you know if anything pops up. Good to see you, TJ," Francis replied.
"You too," TJ said.
He and Randall headed back outside.