Life Among Giants by Bill Roorbach Page A

wasn’t going anyplace.
    Freddy strolled up the lawn, the picture of nonchalance. “ Th e paintings,” he said. “I just want to get in your house, here, have a look around.”
    Suddenly, I thought I knew what was going on. “It was a gift, ” I said. “ Th e butler brought it over. I’m happy to let you see it. I’m happy to return it, even, no big deal. I never even wanted it.”
    Confused, Freddy ran a hand back through his already smooth hair, said, “ Th e butler? You mean our houseman? Desmond? A gift? A painting?”
    â€œA picture.”
    â€œI’d better have a look.”
    It took a good deal of pounding and yelling at the back door, but my father eventually appeared. “No guns,” he said, muffled.
    Freddy yanked a big .45 out of his shirt and just dropped it on the glass patio table with a clank.
    Dad raised the locking bar, slid the big glass door open.
    â€œYou leave your kid outside to fend for himself?” Freddy said.
    â€œMy kid’s no kid,” Dad said.
    In my closet, I kicked Dabney’s album cover out of view, and pants by shirt by sweater I unburied the huge photo of Dabney Stryker-Stewart mugging with JFK.
    â€œWhat the hell, Son,” my father said. I dug a little more and pulled out Sylphide’s thank-you note, showed Freddy, showed Pop.
    â€œSo there it is,” Dad said almost gleefully.
    â€œ Th ere nothing is,” Freddy said. And then he searched the house, Dad and I tagging after him, a half hour or more of his poking under our beds and behind our dressers, looking in every drawer, opening every suitcase and trunk in the attic, inspecting every closet and cabinet. He moved old furniture out of the way in the basement, opened every box down there. He made a slow circuit of the detached garage, even checked inside the car. And then he looked again—living room, bathrooms, dining room, back in the kitchen—no sign of whatever it was he wanted.
    â€œ Th at lady’s a fruitcake,” my father said.
    â€œShe’s no fruitcake, Nick,” Freddy said. “She’s a distinguished person, and she is understandably upset.” Th en, sharp and sudden and precise, one quick hand, he grabbed my father’s collar and pinched it tight. Warning me off with the other hand, he pulled Dad’s face toward his till they were nose to nose. “Nick,” he said, “If you can help me here, you best. You’re hearing me? Paintings. Th ree. Stolen from the Stryker-Stewart collection. Not your son’s beautiful photograph up there, and you fucking well know it. Th e lady is beside herself.”
    â€œWhat about us?” Dad said, half-heartedly pulling against Freddy’s grip. “We’re not beside ourself?”
    â€œWhy doesn’t she just call the police?” I said helpfully. I reached and took Freddy’s hand off Dad’s collar, separated the two of them.
    Freddy didn’t protest. His point had been made.
    We all stepped outside. Th e big goon was standing down by the Butt picking thorns from his face while the bloodied Chinese guy impassively looked on. Freddy turned his icy gaze upon me: “Lizard, young man, here’s a little advice you’ll want to hold on to as you and your dad here proceed through life: Th e police aren’t always up to the job.”
    I returned the cold stare, an advantage in height of half a foot or more, felt no particular threat, looked down on him till he turned away. And that minuscule triumph is the thing I still hold on to: I had become my father’s protector.
    Freddy picked up his gun, aimed it vaguely at Dad. “Your shoes,” he said.
    â€œOh, come on,” my father said.
    But there was the gun—no one was kidding—and so my father sat in one of the patio chairs, his whole frame shaking. He wouldn’t cooperate beyond that, and so with my own hands I unlaced his heavy work boots,